A Conundrum

Notice the "Do Not Turn Left" traffic sign.



Do you always obey the law?

A Music Lesson from Uncle Carl

On Facebook, I posted this status:

Stephen T Wilson just enjoyed playing all kinds of songs as waltzes in 3/4 time.

Uncle Carl, an accomplished dummer, quipped, "Try them in 5/4!" (You who know Carl Glackin can totally hear him saying this.)

Something about Carl is, he'll challenge you to something that he, himself, can readily do. So, it must be possible. Not easy, but possible.

I tried, and this was my practice in reply: (6/8, then 4/4, then 5/4)



I was smug for a few hours. Until he wrote, "How about a swing feel in 7/8?"

This time, he offered advice: "Practice up on some swing stuff and you'll get the feel for the odd times. Listen to some Dave Brubeck!"

Here's Brubeck, 9/8 time with 2+2+2+3/3+3+3 phrasing:



I didn't make it to the piano to try. Not yet. Instead, I wondered off onto Carl's Youtube channel, and watched this at least twice. Enjoy:

It's a Small Reminder

Over the years, dentists smoothed and repaired my chipped front tooth. Nevertheless, after a year or so, a new filling falls out every time.



I ultimately decided to leave the tooth alone and let it serve me as a reminder of racism. It was racial tension that broke my tooth in the first place.

On the school bus in about sixth grade, another kid, a black boy, was in the seat in front of me. I don't remember the exchange, but it resulted in him pulling my head into the seat rail between us. Whatever was said, it shut me up with a mouthful of tooth dust.

I don't blame him now, though I probably did then. He had good reason to be angry, good reason to resent my clean-cut neatly-dressed example of white privilege. Kids, including me, on this school bus were indeed cruel.

Eenea, meenea, mina, mo,
Catch a [n-word] by the toe;
If he hollers let him go,
Eenee, Meenee. Mainee, Mo

The house where this boy lived was a shanty in comparison to mine. Nothing he had, in possession, education, health care, or looks offered him any kind of opportunity or afforded him any hope of fairness on this school bus or in life. Where we lived, it was almost entirely white. And no doubt, this boy would continue in life to be disrespected and distrusted in any job, in any place, anywhere. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out he’s in jail now, never having been able to get along in the society that judged and denigrated him so.

I don’t blame him. I know how impulsively I’ve acted out, even recently, when I felt disrespected. And, the reasons for my anger are always so trivial compared to the life of disparagement this man has suffered. No, now that I know a little better, and I know some words are never forgotten; I’ll remember this ongoing sin of mine, my racist tendencies, whenever I notice my chipped tooth.

Singles are Important Too

Though their parters had not returned for more than a month, something told me to keep the dejected socks.



I had foot surgery this month. Singles are important too.

Raccoons, Please Enter Here

At my camp, there are sleeping quarters and a commissary.



Though the commissary was within earshot of my tent, security was minimal.  Groceries were kept in plastic containers, and the tent was zipped.

Plus, at night, I sleep VERY soundly.

The first night at camp, I did awake to the sound of sniffing and heavy breathing outside.  Yet, it was not enough to rouse me.  Back to sleep.

The second morning, guess what.  Trash was strewn everywhere.  Darn if raccoons didn't break into the commissary and steal my hamburger buns and generally make a mess.

The devils didn't open the zipper either.  They used an endowed seam ripper for more convenient access.



The third night, heightened security was in effect - weight on the grocery lid.



It was no match for the smart buggers.  They scored two bananas AND another bag of buns.

The fourth night, top security:



The ruckus of the chain woke me this time.  The persistent little turds had a bag of pretzels halfway pulled out of the container scattered everywhere.  They scurried off, scared by my illuminated nakedness.

After three or more rounds of "get the hell outta here", and back in the sack, raccoons wanted the rest of the pretzels and ended the retreat.



They growled at me; and six feet away, I threw shoes at them.

Finally, I employed chemical warfare spraying so much bug spray around the commissary everyone was sorry.  The sun rose about an hour later.  It was the last night at camp.

Now that the tent is repaired, I have but one request should it ever happen again:

Squatter's Rights

The real property in contention is my gas grill.  I've not used it for at least a week.

In bird years, seven days constitutes abandonment.



I tried to ignore the consequence of evicting the adverse possessors; but seeing the clutch of eggs, it wasn't easy.



A notion to put the eggs under a light bulb teased my imagination.  (I used to incubate chicken and duck eggs on a little farm I once owned.)  The thought left me when I realized eventual constant trips between the yard and the nest to fetch insects for five little beaks would make me feel ridiculous.  Never mind managing the cat.

Birds contested; still there is no bird law.  So, shamefully I removed the nest and sanitized the grill.



It's still tragic.  Confused birds return to the deck squawking anger and despair.



Hardened heart that I have, I grilled a steak and went dancing to forget it all.

Pondering Why Life Isn't Fair

The ape skipped lunch at the Omaha Zoo yesterday.



Right before the murder, two fancy ducks landed above my head in the rain forest.  Then as I looked into the otter exhibit, they splashed down before us.  The wake hardly settled as a long shiny otter streaked across the exhibit and slipped underwater.   Like a torpedo, it shot toward the ducks.

In a splash-fest, one duck flew, the other disappeared.   The otter held the unfortunate duck underwater and towed it to the cover of a shrub where it chowed down on its flopping corpse.

We were involuntary witnesses of the whole ordeal.

Upon hearing the news, the ape sat down to consider his sadness.

A Sign of Springtime in South Dakota

...is when snowpeople become irritable and sick of one another.

Saint Valentine's Day Hat Trick

No, not an ice hockey hat trick - it was a Valentine's day hat trick. Like in hot air ballooning, geocaching. It'll make sense. Read on.

Here's Jennifer pretending not to be cold. (She's so very polite.) Notice the lovely knit hat.



Reading this, you are comfy warm. Jenny is standing next to a fan blowing 20°F cold air into the bottom of what's about to become a HOT air balloon.



Despite the cold, it was a lovely way to start this special day.



Can you notice what's different about Jenny now? She's not warmer...



She lost the beautiful knit hat.

It was like slow motion. Jenn looked up toward the top of the balloon, and as her head went back, off and overboard went the hat. We leaned over the rail helplessly and watched it fall away like a very expensive leaf. Unfortunately, it disappeared into a line of trees. There was no way to land or find it.

Jenny went into this pathetic story of how the hat meant so much to her because it was hand knitted by an eighty-two-year-old dear friend explained losing the hat wasn't a big deal because the balloon flight was so special to her.

The wondrous flight continued to the traditional Champaign toast. It was a nice day.

That night, I got to thinking about geocaching. Geocaching is an emerging hobby where people hunt for things using a GPS. I thought I could make my own geocache hunt. I'd use Google Earth to remember where Jenny's hat fell, locate the spot and program those coordinates into my GPS.



This would be my first geocache adventure! I could hardly wait for morning.





The coordinates - calculated and converted for the GPS turned out to be only 8 feet off! And THAT eight feet, I tell you, can be accounted for by the height the hat was in the tree! MY calculations were perfect! PERFECT!



Jenny poses near the Controlled Hunter Access Point, nearby where the hat was found.



The hat truly was special, fashioned especially for Jenn by eighty-two-year-old Dorothy.



The landowners came home to find us popping another bottle of Champaign in their driveway. Fortunately, they welcomed the intrusion and joined us in the happy toast.

Anna's Animal Collection

The kids were visiting this weekend and met Kitcha for the first time. Anna added to her collection of stuffed animals.

Funny thing is, Kitcha has been so well-behaved lately. Something about all the stuffed animals has her thinking...