Grandpa's Toiletries Kit From The '60s

I recently ran across Grandpa's old toiletries kit from the '60s. I think he got it that time he took the plane trip. It brings back a lot of indistinct memories for me. I remember he went up in the clouds, like Elton John's "Daniel," then after a while he came back. It could be, like in the Family Circus, that Grandpas spend time together up in the nether regions, that way (pointing up).

Ever since he died, of course he's had a lot of time to exist up on the clouds in a Phantom Zone, transparent, black and white, thin lines around the edges, form. That's Paradise for you, an eternity without the toiletries items you left behind on Earth. Certainly if he could've taken them with him, he would've.

It's actually nice for me, in an esoteric way, of finding old physical items like this from Grandpa's past. It gives me a living connection to the old bird himself. And the other reason is a lot more esoteric, that physical things somehow manage to maintain their form years after you last saw them. I haven't quite given up my childhood thoughts that things turn to vapor and disappear if you don't see them frequently enough. That happens with rubber, and I think that's where I got the idea. Whether it's rubber's propensity inexplicably to rot away, or lose softness, or to fail to maintain air pressure, there's something to the whole theory of entropy and stemming it by periodically checking on your possessions. Anyone else ever noticed that? A monitored balloon lasts a lot longer than one abandoned?

Which brings us to the toiletries kit. There it is again, just the way I remember it. Although the molecular qualities of the contents might be different by now. I wouldn't be too sure about the Aqua Velva and toothpaste at this point, or the deodorant. So we either should've used it years ago (Grandpa) or gotten rid of it in the meantime, donating it to a toiletries pantry somewhere for the poor. By now, since this is nearly 50 years later, it's obviously too late.

The comb still looks good enough.

In case anyone's interested, I did a major thing, a big thing for me ... I threw away Grandpa's toiletries kit from the '60s. I really didn't want to do it. I was thinking I might make a few bucks off it on eBay or craigslist, but you never can tell what irresponsible person out there you might sell it to. Then they try to use it, and something in the bottles makes their skin fall off and they end up suing you. So I thought it'd be better just to throw it away, get temptation out of my way, and go on with my life.

Sorry, Grandpa, up in the Heaven, your toiletries kit ... is also dead.

The Gold Standard

I keep driving by places that have signs saying they'll buy gold. And I wonder how that would go, since I still have a tooth-thing, a bridge (I guess it's called), out of Grandpa's mouth. He had to have some other dental work and they took this gold thing out. Now that he's long dead, it'd be OK to part with it.

I keep thinking I maybe should take it in and see what I could get for it. Because isn't gold something like $1,300 an ounce. Whether this is an ounce or not, at least it's something. And it might be an ounce, since a thick letter is an ounce. I could probably put it on the mail scale.

OK, that's one temptation, take it in and sell it. But I'm reluctant for a couple reasons. 1) I don't want these gold dealers to be scoundrels just out to cheat an ignorant public out of their gold. They might fast talk me and next thing you know I'd be walking out of there with 10 bucks. "This is an inferior grade of gold commonly called fool's gold," etc., etc. And, 2) If I sell it now, I won't have it for later if the survivalists are all right and paper money suddenly becomes worthless. This one gold bridge might keep me in groceries for a couple days 20 years from now.

How exactly, though, we're supposed to buy stuff with gold is something I really can't figure out. If I had a big bar of gold bullion -- What? -- am I supposed to carry it around and have chunks sliced off every time I want to buy something? That's no good. How would they give me my change? A few little specks of gold powder? I don't know how it's supposed to work.

Then someday there I am in the store with Grandpa's gold tooth, and they're telling me it's too bad he chewed on it so much because now it's just about worthless. Or there's some other problem. Everyone else is rushing through the speed lane with their piles of gold and I'm standing there with complications. They might even complain there's still little bits of petrified food stuck in the grooves and that taints the purity. No one wants to get that in their change, a piece of 35 year old pork chop.

It's Deceased Pets Week

In the spirit of Facebook status updates having to do with loved ones in heaven -- dear old Dad, dear old Mom, dear old Grandma, dear old Aunt Betty, and Uncle Clarence -- it's time we remembered our dearest friends, our deceased pets.

If you agree, please post this as your Facebook status for the next hour:

It is Deceased Pets Week, honoring the memory of our dearest friends, the pets of childhood and later years. I have the conviction that not one of them is really dead, but all of them are alive and well, waiting for us in Heaven. They were there for us when no one else was. They walked us to school and were the first to welcome us home. They never wanted much, just our love, and that's what they gave us as well. If you have a pet (or more than one) waiting for you in Heaven, post this as your FB status for the next hour. (Pit bull owners, please think it over before you post.)

As for me, I'm thinking back. There's family pictures of me as a baby and toddler and there's dogs and geese in the pictures I don't remember. The dogs we're playing with, holding, being friendly with, so those were good pets even though their names aren't known now. The geese, I'm sure we never named them. Obviously they're all deceased, since one sure thing in life has always been, Animals in black and white pictures are always dead.

The first dog that was really mine was Eggard. He's up in Heaven of course since he died when I was around 5, 6, or 7. I remember burying him about ½ mile from Grandpa's half acre here, and I've thought about him being dust all these years. No box, no nothing, maybe a cloth.

Then there was Poohie, the mother of lots of dogs, a collie. She was the mother of Friskie, who was a great dog of my cousins. They're all in Heaven, probably looking forward to giving us all a great welcome when we get up there. I wish I could remember what they died of, so I could see if modern science could've kept them alive had it been around at the time. Friskie was well known for killing a number of squinnies (ground squirrels).

Dogs were mostly what we had growing up. No cats. Beyond Poohie and her dynasty, there were Peanuts, Bozo, and Spoochie. P and B were beagles and S was a collie. Peanuts was gotten when Grandpa saw him trapped in a culvert. Grandpa went to some real trouble getting Peanuts out of there. It was ironic, all the years that followed, that Peanuts always hated Grandpa and would bark anytime he was around. I told some people that a couple weeks ago and they did what people do these days when you tell them something ironic, they shrugged their shoulders and didn't answer. Truly pearls before swine!

I mentioned Bozo. I had seen an ad in the paper for a beagle that was lost and there was a reward. The ad said the dog answered to the name of Bubbles, so I called for him, "Here, Bubbles!" and he came to me. Then when we called Bubbles' owner, this wasn't him. So we kept him for quite a few years, renaming him Bozo. That seems like it'd be weird. You're a full grown dog and someone switches names on you midstream. But we didn't know his original moniker, and, like the Bubbles thing proved, he answered to anything.

Spoochie. The biggest thing I remember about Spoochie is she got the mange and lost the back half of her hair. So I'm hoping, when I see her come running to greet me in Heaven ... you know, that somehow her back half has grown back or has been magically blinked back into place. A dog's tail sticking up amid an unnatural bald spot is a terrible sight to see.

Other dogs have come and gone. Run over by cars. There's no cure for that. Then there have been some cats, good ones and evil ones. I'm not going to mention them all by name. Then lots of fish, which no one cares about at all. If you're looking to make friends, don't make the mistake of being born a fish. What else? I've never had a pet of my own in a cage, no rabbits, anything like that. We always went rabbit hunting, so the idea of having rabbits as pets to me is ridiculous.

They're all in heaven, my deceased pets. And yours!

As Good As I'm Ever Going To Be (1000)

Yes! I have finally achieved something that's always eluded the rest of my family, 1000 posts on my blog!

Isn't that great? But, you know what? I'm still going to put my pants on one leg at a time, I'm still going to empty the mousetrap by myself, and I'm still going to have breakfast like a normal person; I won't be hiring a cook.

I said this achievement was something that eluded my family, and that's true. As much as Grandpa did in his life -- serving in World War I, guiding his family through the Great Depression, sending off three sons to World War II -- he didn't even have a blog, let alone hack out 1000 posts. He died in the late 1970s.

And it's the same story for the others. Either they died before everyone got computers, or they were too old and begrizzled and already in nursing homes, or they weren't cognizant for some other reason of the value of sharing their opinions with a vast audience of complete strangers. Whatever the reason -- and it could be that I have cousins out there with assumed aliases writing up a storm, I just don't know -- they held back, leaving the field open to me. Then I flew under the radar with quite a bit of stealth, and here I am today!

But we all know, blogging isn't just something you do so you can brag about it as it somehow relates to your dead relatives from bygone generations. That's of course a big part of it, but it's not the whole story. If you're like me, whatever generation you're living in, you have a compulsion. Even if I were living in the days of the cavemen, and computers were hard to come by, I'd still be blogging by whatever name it went by. Like in the Flintstones. I'd have a typewriter with a couple of big birds pecking out the letters on a huge slab of rock. We'd set them by the side of the road, and passersby would stop and say, "Look, he's got 1000 rocks ... It's prehistoric!"

You get a compulsion, a few ideas, and you do it, that's all. If I'd've been in the world wars, I can see myself dissing the Axis powers in my posts. I might've shamed Hitler into surrender. Or if it was some other period in history -- just name one -- I can see myself, maybe with a big quill pen (a feather two foot long) and a bottle of ink, scribbling out something. Being around bottles of ink would be messy, of course. Remember hearing about Martin Luther throwing a bottle of ink at the devil? But if that's all you had, you wouldn't know any difference. (What I really miss from childhood are those little plastic ink cartridges we put in our pens. That was some smooth writing, although, again, they were messy.)

The problem with 1000 -- and I've been thinking about this for a couple weeks, so forgive me if I get a little teary-eyed -- is that it could be my best years are behind me. And the past has stretched out so far that it's not prologue anymore. It seems natural, doesn't it? Eventually the past isn't going to be prologue, eventually it's going to be epilogue. I might be bumping up against my natural ceiling here, folks. This might be about it. Maybe I was crackin' good at one time -- when I was young and hepped up on hormones. But now, it could be I'm getting too old to cut the mustard, as Grandma always said.

When you're old, of course you can still do a few things in life, at least go through the motions. I know I go through the motions quite a bit and it seems like the frequency's picking up. You get a mental block that stays around a little too long. You're dawdling on the sidewalk, even tottering, and all the neighborhood kids pass you by with their happy games. You find yourself window-shopping for caskets and checking out the sales. Triple X entertainment doesn't hold any thrills anymore. I'll be sitting there with a cup of coffee, lose myself in a revery, and 'wake up' and my coffee's cold. That's a terrible feeling -- Where was I? But it makes me feel a little better knowing cold coffee's now in style.

I'm going to try to continue on. It seems like if I'm conscious of the idea that this is as good as I'm ever going to be, that's still a positive enough mindset to work with. If somehow I can turn that into actual optimism, without being blind to the facts, then somehow I'll be able to keep going. Maybe someday they'll make a "Pluggers" cartoon about me, if I ever start dressing in heavy flannel and one of those dorky hats.

If This Couch Could Talk

If this old couch could talk, I wonder what all it'd say. I'm sure there'd be lots on its mind, if somehow we could evince its presently mute testimony.

It's been setting there for quite a while, decades. That much we know for sure. The various parts that make it up, the legs, the arm rests, the cushions, the back, haven't forgotten what they're for. They're still in place, cohering together despite the passing of so much time.

That old couch has had a lot of people sitting on, a lot of people ... The years have been kind to it, as one after the other has plopped down on it and taken a load off. Of course I've sat there many times, maybe more time than anyone! I pretty much take it for granted, except on a day like this when I'm feeling overly sentimental.

How often do we go by a chair, a bed, or a couch without giving thought to its burdens? I know I'm not one all that faithful to express my thanks for a job well done, at least to inanimate objects. But then, you know, the years do pass by, and you look down and see it still setting there, and you suddenly realize, Good God, haven't we been through a lot together?

Perhaps I'll never know what the couch actually would say if it could talk. But I can give voice, at least in my own mind, to the speechless. I truly believe that's a worthwhile exercise.

If the couch could talk, I'm sure it'd remember well the day Grandma and Grandpa brought it home from the couch store. I wasn't there, but I'm sure Grandpa probably sat on several difference couches before he settled on this one. And maybe Grandma razzed him a bit for being indecisive, but, hey, if you're going to be sitting on a couch for years at a time, it pays to scrutinize your options. As it turned out, the couch outlived Grandpa, even though it's not technically alive and he was.

I know for a fact, if the couch could talk, it'd say something about us kids. We'd be up on it tussling, smacking each other. Or we'd be in the other room tussling and smacking each other, and they'd put us on the couch for punishment. And they'd have us lined up on it for pictures. I was looking through the family albums and that's what I found. Never a picture of just the couch by itself, but always with someone sitting on it.

A big moment for the couch, and a good memory if it could talk, was always Christmas. We were lined up on it again, but this time with all the joy of anticipation, practically peeing our pants with joy that Santa brought us a little sack of candy. I remember getting my candy cane and that was a big deal. I could take five or six licks a day and make it last till May.

And I know the couch would have a few memories of sick kids, home from school, sleeping on it, or tossing and turning on it, or just laying there watching TV from it. Somebody would get sick all over it once in a while, and Grandma would have to come and lovingly wash it clean again. There's been a lot of spots on the couch over the years. And maybe, just say you could slice it in pieces, you might still find evidence subcutaneously of those spots. But from the surface, with so much cleaning and so many other activities taking place on it, you don't see anything. It's self-cleaning.

I know something the couch would probably say, Hey, give me back that quarter, from all the times I've reached my hand down it looking for change. I've also found pens, dirty pills, receipts, little toys, and all manner of whatnot in its cushions. You never know what it's going to yield next.

Then there have been all those times of passing. And we've had loved ones over, sitting on the couch, sad as they could be that someone beloved in the family had died. That's the way it was for Grandpa. His place on the couch was suddenly empty, and the cushion in that section got quite a break, until someone else finally decided it was OK to sit there.

There's a lot of memories in that old couch. And somehow, if it were possible, I'd love to talk over old times with it. Maybe it heard some gossip I missed out on, including, who knows, something about me.

EVOCATIVE UPDATE -- The more I think of it, the more there is to say. What of the babies being changed? Or the toddlers who sat here when bad, the bigger kids rasslin' around, a few who lay there and kicked the arms (attached well enough to endure it.) Then there was Grandpa rocking back and forth when laughing. And all those times he'd dose off for a catnap. Or Grandma sewing a doily ... sitting right there. And all the boys and the girls they brought home. And the girls and the boys they brought home. Surely someone did some hanky panky on this old couch, and if the couch could talk, we'd find out about it!

Industrialism And Lost Innocence

The thing about innocence is that you were always more innocent yesterday. Am I right?

What do I mean by this? I mean several things, but to state it another way, you're always innocent of whatever's going to arise tomorrow, as long as you don't know about it. That's one thing. And, two, because of experience, which always goes along with innocence, if you haven't had particular experiences then you're innocent of what those experiences would be and participation in them.

We see this all the time with society, being on a larger scale than the individual. In the '60s we looked back to the "innocence of the '50s," then in the '70s the "innocence of the '60s," and so forth. Right up to today, where we're always looking back to the innocence of the '90s or the pre-9/11 days or what have you. But as we all realize, I hope, the times we had weren't so innocent at the time!

The solution is just to stop time and never experience anything, never advance or regress. I've done that to a certain extent, so I'm a relatively innocent person. Right out of high school, like other boys, I figured I'd go to college, get a fancy job, get married, get my own place, have kids, etc. But none of that happened. Instead, I moved in with Grandma and Grandpa (who since has died, 1978), and here I am, now an adult caretaker of my aged grandmother.

There are advantages and disadvantages. The wife I would have had, she and I have never had any arguments nor has divorce been threatened or carried out. The children we would have had, they never get sick, don't need new shoes, video games, or a car. They never need school supplies, permission slips, or lunch tickets. They don't bring home unruly friends. They don't get pregnant or impregnate others. We've never had a fight. The house I would have had never burns down. I never get in trouble at the job I would have had. They've never loaded me up with paperwork. And I've never had the joy of college loans. The disadvantages might be ... here I am, more or less all by myself.

I'm as innocent as they come, and that has to count for something!

All this applies to industrialism in the same way. With industrialism -- as great as it is, in particular with the Residential Industrial Movement (RIM) -- we have the ability to own the means of production, to produce endlessly, to make a lot of money, and to keep prices dirt cheap. There's nothing we can't have if we want it. And I think that's wonderful. From my closest neighbors, anytime I want I can go and buy wheels for hospital beds, disposable diapers, and industrial vats. Just to name a few. And they can come to me and buy a few of my tires or contract with me for electricity. It all works together.

But how innocent are we? Once upon a time, our yards were just yards, with fountains, flower beds, squirrels feeding at the bird feeder, and rabbits enjoying our gardens. Children would run through the neighborhood, flying a kite or shooting firecrackers. You'd see neighbors fanning themselves on the porch, taking it easy, or sitting in a lawn chair out on an actual lawn. Now it's just factories and industrial complexes everywhere, and warehouses. And occasionally someone will throw a rock through a window in one of the warehouses, making a mess.

As great as the RIM has been -- and the full story of its future glories is still to be told -- one can't help but, just occasionally, shedding maybe a tear now and then, like if something gets in our eye from one of the spare parts, for whatever innocence there may be that we've lost.

I'm not trying to be a downer. Industrialism really is great, so let's work together! There's still plenty of innocence ahead, which we won't lose till more time has passed.

The Industrialists Aren't So Big

I'm a creature of perspective, like most of us. If something is right in front of me, it's size can overwhelm me. But if I'm a hundred miles away, of course it's very small, if you could see it at all.

One thing that is critical for our perception of size -- and this is an important teaching that I believe it is necessary for everyone to get -- is our proximity to the thing in question. Just to give an example. If you have an apple pie on the table, then you stand across the room, it looks very small. But if you hold it up to your face, so close that you block out other things including your peripheral vision, and all you can see is apple pie, it looks very big.

I use this principle all the time. My mind is like a computer, or a calculator. It's able somehow, perhaps in unconscious ways, to discern whether a building is far or near. Like a lot of kids my age at the time, when I was around nine, I used to lay on Grandma and Grandpa's bed and look across the way at the school. I could clearly see the school had some size; it had to have. But being the better part of a mile away, I could fit the whole thing in their small window. That would be a small school, one that wouldn't hold even one student, if it could fit in that small window! Yet if you drove by it, being closer at this point, it was quite a bit bigger than a car window, which was about the same size as the window at the house!

I haven't forgotten the lessons of those days. I use the same truths I discerned back then today, recognizing size and distance. For me, this is something that is invaluable, like when I'm driving, so I'm not slamming on the brakes for something that's still a mile up the road. On the other hand, I don't want there to be a cow on the road 50 feet in front of me and think it's a mouse a mile away! A lot of this has to be handled by the brain right on the spot, with there being very little time to cipher it out with a calculator, a protractor, and a pair of binoculars.

My eyes, I'm happy to say, are pretty accurate. Since I've field-tested them many times, I know they're generally accurate up to a mile away. And it's not such a stretch to say they're more or less accurate for as far as I can see.

Having said all that, though, even I can be depressed by what I see, as to its size and distance away. I've been taking on industry and the industrial powers. But sometimes I lose my perspective, then I start seeing it all as bigger than it really is. A factory the size of several football fields, with big huge trains dwarfed next to it, can appear pretty big and depressing. But a lot of that, obviously, depends on how close you are to it. If you're a hundred miles away, again, you can't even see it, so that's definitely small!

Notice what I said there! I said "big huge trains dwarfed next to it [the factory]." How can something be big and huge and yet be dwarfed? Again, size in relation to something else, in this case a larger factory. But put the same train next to, say, a bag of peanuts, and you've got yourself a big huge train indeed!

These are truths that are a lot of fun to play around with, the way we perceive and judge distances, size, and relations. I might put together a show about it and visit the State Fair. I know there's a lot of little kids (themselves big compared to an ant) who could afford to learn some life lessons.

When it comes to the industrial powers, it depresses me how big, looming, and hulking they are. But if I just back up -- physically or mentally -- it all takes a different perspective, and I can see ... they're not so big ... things aren't that bad!

The Industrial Powers Can Take An Old Cold Tater And Wait

Grandpa used to always say, "Take an old cold tater and wait," one of his many quaint sayings that he must've heard on the radio when he was a young man.

He always told me that back then they treated the radio kind of like we treat a TV, except it just had a big round lighted dial that they sat there and looked at, he said. He heard a lot of programs back then, and he remembered the names of some of them with a lot of fondness.

Eventually, though, video killed the radio star, all the radio stars gave up the ghost, and all the radio dials went dark. You can still see a few in antique stores. I always thought it'd be cool to turn on an old radio from Grandpa's day and have it play an old show ... but they probably pick up whatever's in the air, the latest thing, of course.

The radios we have today are made in the industrial section of a town somewhere, which is a strike against them. But I think "back in the day," when they made Grandpa's radio, they did it lovingly in a little shop. You had a tinker and the tinker's son, with their cute little hammers and curl-toed shoes, and they'd lovingly put all the pieces together. The tinker's son would blow some hot air on the inside of the dial and wipe out any dust and fingerprints, because they knew their customers would be staring at that dial for a good long time.

Then they'd hook up the magical insides of the radio, including an antenna that was a box on a rotating pivot, upper and lower pivots, and it was these insides that would make the radio magically play all those beloved shows that provoked all the staring. They had tubes back then and you had wait for them to get orange. There wasn't any instant on.

We had some interesting things about the TV when I was a kid, that I could regale today's kids with, if any of them would come around and listen. I used to listen to Grandpa, but no one listens anymore. All the kids are busy driving by in their convertibles, which they father paid for, and which they're probably going to wreck, because all of them are drunk. They haven't got time to listen to me tell about what happened when you turned off an old fashioned TV, how there was a diminishing dot in the middle that lingered maybe 40 seconds after the TV was powered off. Yet it's a darned good story!

OK, I must move on ... All that to say that Grandpa probably heard the phrase, "Take an old cold tater and wait" on the radio. It's definitely a phrase that stuck with him and one he swore by. He was comfortable saying it, anytime there was any waiting to be done. He probably thought of it mentally without saying it aloud anytime the subject of waiting came up.

Well, this is my day, and what I'm saying in my day is the same thing they said back in Grandpa's day, "Take an old cold tater and wait!" I'm saying that to the industrial powers, who are demanding an apology out of me. I've sworn it once and I'll swear it again, there will be no apology, not now, not ever.

What was my big offense, really? That I dared speak up as an American citizen with an opinion? Saying that the industrial section of the town is defiled and evil? That their pollution is such that they block out the sunlight on a daily basis? And that their trucks speed by and suck the grass and weeds down into the mud? It happens! It's unsanitary!

But because I said all that -- and posted a few pictures of tires piled up, etc. -- they've been seriously on my case for the last couple of weeks. Get off my case! You want an apology? Here's an apology: I'm sorry, but there's no apology coming! Heh, heh, that's a good one.

I don't feel sorry, not in the least. With all the machinations these blasted industrialists have put me through in the last couple of weeks, in fact I'm more intransigent and dug in than I was before! Maybe they could've wheedled something out of me a couple weeks ago, had they acted nicely. But fireballs shot over the roof of my house and industrial vandalism to my internet hook-up, and so forth, has only hardened me in my position. I'm completely dug in now.

So you want an apology? Grandpa said it best, and I can only repeat it, "Take an old cold tater and wait!" Heh, heh, that'll hold 'em. Let 'em wait!

Vernon Hoff -- Female Impersonator

Whatever happened to Vernon Hoff, female impersonator?

 

  

  

  

  

(These graphics are from the Billboard magazine, various issues found on Google search, 1947-49.)

Vernon Hoff doesn't sound like a made-up stage name. He could've called himself something sexy like Tawny Hide, but instead he was Vernon Hoff. So we're looking for an actual Vernon Hoff who matches the basic age there. Not that I would really bother Vernon, were he still to be alive. Because I wouldn't.

The first ad I discovered on this list of graphics was the "WANT FEMALE IMPERSONATOR" ad for the Ring Cafe, which is from Billboard, 9-27-47, p. 42. I was thinking, Why do ads have to go out of date? I could print the page, take it to the Ring Cafe (assuming it might've existed this long), and say, "What's this all about? What kind of act are you looking for?"

Grandma's got some reasonably good clothes I could probably fit in. And she definitely has some things from the '40s, among her newer stuff. It's all a matter of whether I want to go as a scrub woman or a grange matron. But I can swing both ways.

A lot of Grandma's old clothes have grass stains from picking dandelion greens over the years. And of course the grandkids getting sick, urping after being fed. Anyway, I get there, and because I can't get the stains out of the clothes, I incorporate them into the act, which is of a hard working middle-aged gal, '30s-'40s vintage, recalling no one in particular, going about her daily routine of drudgery. It's sexy, in an esoteric, working class, 'we're all living in a two room house and still having five kids' kind of way. It worked for Grandpa!

The guy at the Ring Cafe says that was an ad printed by the grandfather of the former owner in 1947 and that they're not looking for anyone in that line of entertainment at this present time. But he offers to take my information and promises he'll get back to me if they are ever looking for someone.

Yeah, right! "We'll get back to you..." I've heard that before! But I need to eat today!

The Way They Were -- Sometimes We

 

I got these pictures the other day at a thrift store. It must've been a deal where someone in their family (or families) didn't know who they were anymore -- there's no identification given -- so they got rid of them.

Being a kindhearted soul, and knowing that adopted pictures don't eat much, I took them in, with an adoption fee of 50 cents apiece being paid to the attendant.

I think one of them is pretty cute, and I'm not saying which. I don't want to hurt the other's feelings. But the other one has a distinguished look and has nothing to be ashamed of. When I'm that age I hope I look as good!

But however good I think they both look, you can't deny that they look old fashioned. You see the pictures and immediately you think, That was the olden days sometime. Which must have been uncomfortable for them at the time. Walking around with everyone saying, Why the old fashioned look, sister?

I'm just kidding, of course, because back then they all looked like that. They had an old fashioned look because that was the fashion back then before we junked it and did something different. Elvis launched the sexual revolution and we never looked back.

I've got some old timey pictures of me as a kid. There's a picture of me I see almost everyday of me standing by one of Grandpa's Chevys, either a '56 or '57. It's awesome that Grandpa had a '56 Chevy, without him ever dreaming or knowing what they bring at antique car shows now. We'd ride in it without knowing we were riding in a classic.

Another old timey picture -- three different ones, actually -- show me in a baby swimming pool. My parents and I lived right here on Grandma and Grandpa's half acre in a tiny house over by the well. When I say a tiny house I mean it was as small as a house can be and still be a house with people in it. When they took it away it sat on the back of a truck and didn't need a "Wide Load" sign. So that little house is in the background of these pictures of me in the baby pool. And they were taken at just a slightly varying angle, each one, meaning that you can see a stereo image of the house if you hold them side by side and let your eyes drift them together. That thrills me. A stereo image of a house that's not there. It might not be anywhere anymore. Although as an adult, maybe 30-35 years ago, I went to it in the town where the truck took it. It was small. But somehow I didn't take any pictures. Dumb.

The pictures of Grandma and Grandpa taken in olden times show a normal young couple, not knowing what would happen to them in the future. But they looked confident enough to keep living, as indeed they did. One of my favorite pictures of Grandma is of her playing in the snow with a friend. She must be a teenager. She's seen in the picture from the back, like she's darting away from a snowball. It's very vivid. She's in motion, a kid at play. It's the best picture I've ever seen of people where you can't see anyone's face.

Advice to everyone: Mark your pictures. Put your name on there lightly on the back. Otherwise someone will throw them away. Then a guy like me will buy them. And they'll end up on his blog about the olden days.

Downgrading Grandpa's Age

Grandpa and Grandma were six years apart in their age. Today would've been Grandpa's birthday, and had he lived, which he didn't, he would've been 113 today.

But on this blog, Grandma is perpetually 104. She doesn't age, much like what you see in the Peanuts comic strip or the Family Circus. The kids in the Family Circus have birthdays and Christmas every year but they stay the same year to year.

So since Grandma is always 104 and Grandpa was six years older, that means he has to be 110 (he would've been if he had lived. But he died in 1978, so obviously he's now deceased.)

I believe on his birthday last year I mentioned how old he was (or would've been), which was 112. So now that he's been downgraded to a permanent 110, he's younger this year than he was last! The ravages of time are very terrible.

But at least here, from now on, every time it's his birthday he will still be 110.

Happy 110th birthday again, Grandpa!

UPDATE: Amazon.com sells 100th birthday supplies but not for the 110th. So if there's any enterprising entrepreneurs out there, there's a niche market for you to exploit. I keep hearing that with modern medicine and the various modern procedures living to a ripe old age -- which I would define as anything over 109 -- is going to be more and more common. So maybe by this time a 100 years from now, Amazon will be selling 200th birthday supplies. Of course they'll have to update everything. The "over the hill" stuff will be moved from the 50th birthday to the 90th. And so forth. By then 50 will be the new 15. A guy like me, in my upper 50s, will no longer be a broken down wreck. It'll be a beautiful new age, living longer and spending your children's inheritance in more profligate ways.

The God Of The Fishes

Time to feed the fish. You ever notice how tough it is when you go out to fish? You throw the line out and the bait hits the water and immediately sinks out of sight. Then it's down there, taking it easy. Not a fish in sight.

I've done that lots of times. Waiting, waiting, waiting, and nothing shows up. At times that's the way it is. So you're sitting there, praying to the God of the fishes that a fish will come along stupid enough to take the bait. But maybe that's why they call him the God of the fishes, because he's on the fishes' side. So nothing.

I used to go out with Grandpa, who was a masterful fisherman. I don't know where he got it. It had to be his nature, that's all. He grew up in the wild, in a tiny speck of a town in Missouri, with a big river in his back yard. So he was probably down there like Huck Finn, communing with the fish, and well acquainted with the God of the fishes. Somehow he got fishing and the success at it in his blood.

By the time I was born, then grew up enough to know what fishing was, he was in his late '50s and early '60s. He had all those years of being a master, and he tried to pass it on to me. Which happened a little bit -- especially when he was with me. He had the idea that farting on your bait was a good thing. I think I mentioned that before.

That of course would make an objective difference to the bait. Unlike other things that would be more in the realm of the superstitious. Like sitting in a particular way, pretending you're ignoring your pole, or praying to the God of the fishes. And it is a well known truth that some fish like "stink bait," so I don't know -- it'd be nice if a present day Grandpa would weigh in on this subject. Mine's dead, but I know that was one of his opinions.

I was checking out the fish in the aquarium. Just passing by. And they're so used to getting fed that they're clustering over by the glass all the time when someone gets near. Especially at feeding time. So they're creatures of habit. And know enough to know when it's feeding time. They're not like they are in the wild, going somewhere else to eat.

Of course they haven't got much choice about what to eat. It's some kind of flaky stuff that lasts forever. Sprinkled out of a can. I think it's dried and flaked worms or some other ex-living creature, plankton maybe. No telling if farting on it would make them like it better. They don't seem to need any additional incentive to take the bait.

That reminds me. And this is a cruel, terrible story. I knew a guy who raised catfish in his pond. He went down there with a bucket of whatever ... to feed them in the morning and maybe in the evening. They came swooping up to the surface and got just like the domestic fish in the tank. It was a sight to see, the swarming. And these were big fish, as big as a newspaper lengthwise.

The cruel part is that whenever he wanted a fish or two to eat, whatever he threw in had a hook in it, and up they came. Never knowing what happened. The God of the fishes in that case must've been on the guy's side. Or the fish themselves had failed their God, not depending on him for their sense, but going off on their own path.

Whatever it is, fish have to eat. Just make sure there isn't a hook in there somewhere. Like fish in the wild do.

I Was Trained To Be A Wallflower

I know it sounds like something out of the "True Confessions" magazine. But this has been the story of my life, and I never knew why. Now I know what happened: I was trained to be a wallflower!

And it goes way back. But let me hasten to add, Grandma and Grandpa always had my best interests at heart. They were looking out for my very survival. And now, in addition to gratitude, I'm also flattered by what they were saying about me in the process. Because they really had to work to keep me alive, they knew I was a hunk, had virility, and was a lady killer.

But that's exactly what you can't be in our area. Being a lady killer is exactly what will get a young man killed in our neighborhood!

We were what you would call grange people. Our place being on the outskirts of town, we were as much country folk as town folk. We could swing both ways ... and did. But if you do, you're oftentimes hated by both sides. So we kept some town connections -- shopping, supplies, amusements -- but our main socializing was in the country, the grange. The town stuff wasn't smiled upon.

But so far so good. This is what I remember from the file (now in grange hands). I remember it from my actual experience not as much. I was mostly off having a good time with the other kids, including, now that I look back on it, a generation of farmers' daughters who still hadn't blossomed to the point that the leaders could use them as weapons. We were innocent kids ... but it wasn't to stay that way!

A little bit of hair puffs out here, some extra bulging there, and the girls get bulbous in places, spilling out over their midsection so badly they have to wear a support garment just to keep everything up! It can lead to things best left unspoken ... none good. Like death!

Now I realize, because I was an outskirts kid, the nucleus of the grange people were determined to put me to the same test as young men from the town. I would be tested and I would fail. I would've been kicked to death when I was 13, 14, 15, 16, etc., as sure as anything ... except ... God bless them ... they kept me alive ... my blessed grandparents raised me and trained me to be a wallflower.

Of course I had the same hormones as every other kid, but they were always channeling me away from having high expectations about relationships. I'd be wanting to go out on a date and they'd get me a new frog or ant farm, anything to replace my urges. It went on like that, to the point that we did very little socializing at all. Must dress drably, must avoid perfumes and fragrances, must line the bed with cold water bags. The binding of hands, wearing blinders at the beach, etc. And anytime there was a possible activity with mixed company -- like someone invited me out -- it was time instead to go clean out the crawdad tub. Got to get ready for fishing in the morning! Even though no one said anything about fishing earlier on.

And that's the reason -- that has to be it -- why Grandma and Grandpa dropped out of the grange all together, much to their discredit with that society. To save my life.

As for the grange, and some of the circumstances behind all this, according to the file, everything seemed normal till the leader of the grange was killed by a jealous husband, then the leader's wife took over on a sympathy vote. From then on, women took on a more important role in the organization, as the aggrieved wife appointed them. Whether from revenge for that one man's adultery, or some other psychological quirk, the new leader and those under her took a hard-line stance against sex and men in general, leading to all these terrible tests.

That was when the mysterious deaths of young men and boys started up. They had only one horse for the job in those days, "Honest Maude," who must've been everything her name implies. And from then on it was just a matter of inbreeding and skewed horse training to bring us what we have today, Lemuel's proud team of assassin horses.

It was around 1962 when my family dropped out. And the same year I was baptized. Because they must have known I would try something -- reach for my zipper -- and perhaps be killed. So better to be safe than sorry.

We had problems over the years, which I should leave out. The relations between town and country hardened. The radicals' scheme was to turn the town into country and the country into town, or to adopt its better aspects, something like that. And they influenced town women over the years, infiltrating the Mode-a-Day dress shop, making radicals of them, etc.

The women made it into a totalitarian organization, with extensive black lists, poisoning of animals, etc. It was about 1963 that our shed was burned down and my dog died. So Grandma and Grandpa no doubt took all that as a warning.

A whole generation has passed since then. So why are they still doing all this stuff? The killing of young men by horses. The radical strain is still there. And there aren't enough caring, loving parents or grandparents thinking ahead and making their sons wallflowers to save their lives.

The Grange File -- Well, Hush My Mouth

First, if I am assassinated before getting this posted, you will not be reading this sentence until something happens. If worse comes to worse, I need to make a final request to whoever comes into my house and finds my body: If my computer is still running, you must finish paraphrasing the contents of this file at my right hand. But if the ones who assassinate me have taken the file, there will be nothing at my right hand. In that case I will need you to push the "Publish Post" button on the screen.

But let's say the assassins have also damaged my computer. You will have to open my Blogger account on a different computer and find my list of posts. The one you will look for is called "The Grange File -- Well, Hush My Mouth." (Blogger is saving drafts for me.) You will need to open it and see how far I've gotten. If it's anything beyond these paragraphs of instructions and perhaps the next introductory paragraph, then please see that it is finally posted on my blog. And please cover my body with a sheet so Grandma isn't traumatized, should she wake up.

Then call the police. I believe we can assume the police will know what to do when they find a body at a crime scene. But if they seem to be ignorant on the subject, I think the procedure is that they should rope off the scene of the crime, draw an outline of my body in the chair, and call the county coroner, who will pronounce me dead. Then you can expect a pack of rabid funeral home wolves to arrive, fighting and clawing each other to see who will ultimately make money off my funeral. Please do not let them take me through the north door. I hate the north door!

I spent the better part of an hour going through Grandpa's "Grange File" and I will summarize the contents of everything that is relevant to our present day concerns. Wait! There was a shot! About scared me to death! Someone literally just second ago shot through the window! Glass is shattered all over the place. I'm on the floor behind the big chair, with just my keyboard stretched out. Terror! Terror! (Kind of dirty back here. Hope I didn't tear my pants on the chair lever.)

OK, it's been quiet for 10 minutes. Back up. Definitely going to skip summarizing this stack of recipes for grange meals. Also the more benign grange board meeting notes. Although it is interesting that in '56 they changed from giving out 50 year pins to the more expensive gold watch. Were the Eisenhower years that prosperous? Must press on... Another shot! Oh crap! And from the north side, that one could've taken me out! There's a hole the size of a walnut in the wall just above me! This is getting dicey. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Run spell check on that.

There are sirens in the distance, so I might be OK. I had my back up against the wall for a while. There's a big delay. I'd hate to die without getting this done. I don't want an asterisk next to my name at the graveyard, meaning you died less than honorably with unfinished business.

I just saw some headlights coming up the hill, then suddenly go out. Someone's pulling in the drive. I might need to finish this tomorrow, if I make it through the night. I've got a towel over the monitor. It's not completely dark but close enough. There's a wicked breeze coming through the shot out windows.

Oh my God! A brick just managed to get itself heaved, presumably by someone doing the heaving, right through my bedroom window! Is this the end of the world? Is this how it ends? No! The sirens are getting closer! I could see all kinds of shadowy motions through the broken glass. There's limited escape for anyone up this hill. The car's gone. It was some big old lumbering '50s model, the kind the grange people like. My heart's pumping wildly, like the motor on an antique washing machine.

I ran to the north side and looked across the way toward the school. The police are on the way! Meaning this file is going to have to wait. I don't know what to do with it. OK, I stuck it in the freezer under some old pork chops. Need to get those out. Looks like some freezer burn. Need to start marking the meat packs with dates. That's a good tip for any food buffs out there. Use your meat in the order you freeze it, going in chronological order. You can save a lot of money by buying it on sale and freezing it. But your savings will not be as great if it's spoiled by freezer burn.

The police are pulling into the drive, like Gangbusters, parked all cattywampus, their headlights slicing through the gun smoke at weird angles. Meaning I need to hit "Publish Post" now in case they turn out to be some corrupt cops and kill me at the door. I hate it when cops go bad. But that's another opinion for another day.

Pray for me ... and check the meat in your freezer. It's always later than you think.

In The Cellar You Can Set Your Mind At Ease

Who among us hasn't yearned for a nice basement drain to lay in, curled up naked, enjoying the coolness that cellars always have? There are places perhaps more romantic, more exotic, and sunnier, but there's nothing quite so refreshing that's usually so close at hand. If you're without air conditioning upstairs, you do have it downstairs, on the floor, on the lowest part of the floor.

There are things about the cellar that I don't like that much. I associate it with storms, because we'd always grab the first aid kit and a radio and head to the cellar. And the bugs. There are strange crawling things in the cellar. Bugs with two heads. Bugs with 100 legs. Bugs with pinchers, stingers, hooks, offensive stink emissions, poison. It's a wonder bugs get along as well together as they do, with the vast offensive and defensive equipment they're always packing.

And there are things about the cellar, besides the coolness of a low drain, that I like. Such as the shelves of food we used to have down there. Grandpa would be bringing in baskets of stuff from the garden, and Grandma would be boiling it and putting it all in jars. This is what they used to do. They had some interesting stories of keeping food on hand back in the old days. Meat buried in hardened lard. The iceman putting ice through a hole in the wall. The milkman bringing his cow to the door.

I started off OK last night in bed. But I soon became very restless, tossing and turning. I couldn't sleep, so worried, so conflicted, so stewed up about everything going on in my life. Vast and terrible scenarios were playing out in my mind like a war. So I got up and went to the cellar. It's been cool lately so I didn't take off my pajamas. But I did lay there on the floor for a while -- I left the light on and looked at it dangling up there till my eyes got fuzzy and I slept. It does seems like when you're as low as you can go it puts your mind at ease more easily.

I woke up a little earlier because of the discomfort and stretched. There's some pain from being on a concrete floor. But I stretched and that made it better. I brushed off a couple of two headed 100 legged poison-pinching bugs and decided to sit at the chair and little table. I pulled out that box of books, from the same place down there where I found the Sex and the Single Girl book last year. I was picking through it. It's all musty.

Suddenly my eyes perked up. Down in the bottom was a folder and some papers having to do with the grange. The past comes calling!

Looking around the cellar, I came to one unmistakable conclusion. The cement floor, the drain, the light bulb, the furnace, the table, the chair, the boxes, the books, the shelves, and everything else my eyes beheld ... Other people have been here! I do not know when, I do not know who ... Maybe it was just Grandma and Grandpa and our family. But over the years, at some time, whether in building the house, which seems certain, or since the house has been built, which equally seems logical, Someone has been here!

Sex and the Single Peruvian

It's been over a year since I was poking around in the cellar and found the book Sex and the Single Girl by Helen Gurley Brown. "The unmarried woman's guide to men," it said.

Back then I was almost willing to exclude Grandma from the likely suspects who could've owned this book. But the dates, the fact that my aunt and mom were both out of the house well before 1963, led me to one inescapable conclusion: Grandma was a lech. Or at the very least, scientifically interested in affairs of the heart.

The "True Confessions," "True Stories," "Secrets" magazines that were always around the house also factored in as a clue.

I put it out of my mind, that book, since Grandma and Grandpa had been married forever, so why would she want or need an "unmarried woman's guide to men"? Unless, unless, you see the pieces are falling into place. The whole thing with the Grange Brotherhood or Sisterhood (more likely at this point), the sex games designed to ensnare and kill foolish young men, the Peruvian queens, a dynasty the extent of which I haven't begun to discern. These things can't be merely coincidental.

And both my grandparents were in with the grange people all those years ago. Until whatever it was that separated them and put them in disfavor or semi-disfavor with the group. Then it was hardly ever mentioned. Except I knew we avoided the countryside like the cooties. And I remember Grandpa oftentimes had a cold shudder go up his spine that even people unfamiliar with him could feel across town. I could feel it. That's why they kept me out of kindergarten till the following spring. I had some kind of rare, congenital frostbite.

Anyway, if the Grange Sisterhood is trying to keep all this hidden from me, they're not going about it in a very good way. It's more likely, since I was invited into Lemuel's home and was present when Peru and Lemaperu were dressed in full royal garb, that I'm meant to be in on it. For whatever reason. Breeding purposes, I'm thinking. Possibly recruiting. Or taking over the horses. I just don't know. Maybe no real reason. Maybe they just want to rub my face in it because they can.

But Grandma sleeps on. There's no way she's in on this at this point. Unless she's-- No, that's crazy talk. Able to separate from her body? That's total nonsense. But what keeps her alive? And how come I never see bedsores? What's she made of, linoleum?

The Mule Stands Alone

From my post yesterday, one sentence stands out and has been screaming in my mind ever since I hit the ENTER button:

So the mule exists by itself and dies alone after its servitude.

That's right, the mule stands alone. Which is what Lemuel is in his own home. I'm not big on names but look at his name, "Lemuel," which could be easily split as "Le muel." Then it's just a matter of flipping the EL and you got the exact animal. Hush my mouth.

And I like to think more highly of myself. But what do Peru and Lemaperu think of me? What do they see when they look at me? I'm unmarried, middle aged, no prospects, living with a widowed grandmother. I'll tell you. They see a mule in servitude, existing by itself and prepared to die alone.

Now -- go with me here -- what if the entire Grange Brotherhood is just a proud facade? What if the brothers are simply a barren of serving mules, keeping some level of pride by running around the countryside spying from every tree, when in actual fact there's a Grange Sisterhood pulling the strings?

Well, the answer is, I'd say, What is is. If that's what's going on, the rest of us would have to adapt, assuming they've fought it out over the years and are considering the matter for the most part resolved. Maybe this is why Grandpa dropped out, too much testosterone to stand it. And yet, and yet...

I'm racking my childhood memories and not coming up with much. He died first. Grandma lives on in a kind of perpetual existence. He worked hard and brought home the bacon. That's what a mule does. He took care of a lot of the heavy maintenance stuff around the house. Like a mule. In fact, now that I look back, every chore that you'd give over to a mule, if mules could do chores, seems like it was Grandpa's to do! Then he finally died ... after this dumb servitude.

Excuse me a minute. ... I creeped over by Grandma's room to make sure she wasn't up and talking on a radio. Everything seemed normal. She's sleeping. At 104 there's no way she's doing a whole spy thing on me. Surely not. The Sisterhood can't be depending on her for information.

So where does all this leave me? I think things are pretty much the same. I need to just go with the flow. It does knock down the whole idea of the glory of one day being the head of the Grange Brotherhood, which might still be a decent, honorary thing to do. But if the Sisterhood has a place for me in their service, there could be something good in that too. One thing they still need us for, I hope, is our service in reproduction. Which, I understand, brings with it some rewards.

But as for Lemaperu and sweeping her off her feet and romancing her, all those dreams I had -- she's a big gal, she'll probably sweep me off my feet. And as for romance, if she's as hardhearted as I'm starting to think, she'll have a whole biology lab with her. Checking my temperature, her temperature, charting our cycles, when you plant things by the light of the moon, sex almanacs, various horse manuals extrapolated for use among our own species, etc.

Then at just the right moment, by the light of the full moon, my head silhouetted against the moon, I'll let out a bray of victory, several sisters will appear, throw a bucket of cold water on me, and I'll be immediately kicked out of the room.

But an actual mule doesn't care. As long as he has something to chew on, some hay, and a warm barn to bed down in. They just go with the flow.

And Then...Silence

I'm sitting here in rank silence.

The swirl of events that was the grange dance, the lead-up to it, getting there, being tested to the absolute max by a bevy of grange matrons on full display in the grove, being sustained against the hooves of assassin horses, then actually enjoying the dance and my time, is all so fresh in my mind that I am silenced.

I feel like I'm torn, to be honest, between competing, insistent impulses. Having passed the test, assuming there aren't others yet to come, I could very well be on my way to becoming a member of the Grange Brotherhood, if that's what I wanted. That would be a big step, because at that point I'd be a part of something vast, with underground connections, the long reach of organizational tentacles, and access to the mechanics of testing others. At this time next year I might be dressed like Spy vs. Spy and sitting in a tree with binoculars, flashing signals up the road.

Or I could withdraw from the whole thing -- which is what I believe Grandpa did -- and let them more or less forget me, melting back into city life, refusing to go back to the country. While the Brotherhood no doubt never forgets, even they are surely not forever rustling through their files looking for people to provoke. It has to be the same with them as with the rest of us, that in the course of time old grudges are pushed to the back burner. I know for me personally, something will seem crucially important one week, but then two weeks later it's forgotten completely, or at least the minor details.

With the Brotherhood, they are of course subject to mortality as are we all. Generations rise up and fall, and even many of their own sons leave. You'd think that'd give them some pause to reflect on pursuing others who may have lapsed, if they can't even keep the screws tight on their own children. I'm convinced of it. Maybe a grange master was very hard nosed in the '30s or '40s, back in Grandpa's heyday, when, they say, his reluctance to go to the country began, although I wasn't yet born and can't say much about it.

But grange masters come and go. I don't know who they've all been or even who the current master is. But they don't start out masters. So I assume they take on some of the same tone, perhaps unwillingly, of the society as a whole. In this day it'd be Live and Let Live, or aspects of that. It could be the grange master likes to keep up appearances only but is himself a very cool guy. The normal rough and tumble when he's acting officially, but laid back at home. I just don't know.

So I could join with the Brotherhood, or I could withdraw silently and forever shun the country.

The third option is obviously the one most fraught with peril, and that is to take on the Grange Brotherhood head on. After all, why should I have been subject to their terrible testing? Just because I went into the country? Just because I wanted the pleasure of a dance and perhaps a relationship that would lead to matrimony and child bearing? Who gave these guys the right to decide who lives and dies? Maybe I've been marked all along. It would explain a lot of the disappointments of my life. Let's say they had it in for Grandpa because of something that he did in the '40s. And so they've been following me, making my life miserable.

These are not the ways of an organization that have people's best interests at heart. These instead are the ways of an organization that is acting out of paranoia, the lust or will for power, and it's very reactionary. There's no legitimate reason why I should've been threatened with death a couple nights ago! I'm a man, not target practice for a horse.

What I will do ... is something for me to contemplate ... in the counsel of my own heart ... with the light and dark alternately rising and descending ... in personal silence and stewing ...

An Open Letter To The Grange Brotherhood

I would like to share with you some thoughts in the hopes of smoothing things over and tamping down any tensions that may have inadvertently arisen between us. I hope this letter finds you -- all of you -- in good health and in good spirits. May the good Lord mightily bless you as you go forth with all your efforts in making the rural areas of this great country safe for yourselves, travelers, and others.

I address you today, dear friends, as one whose family has shared in the grange heritage. My grandparents, whose names were recorded in the Grange Book of Life a long time ago, probably the 1920s, '30s, '40s, or '50s -- in there somewhere -- had many a fine time participating in grange activities. And while I don't know everything that went down back then, of course, I always heard them speak in the highest terms of the grange lifestyle and even of your own Brotherhood by name.

What I can personally recall of the Grange Brotherhood is very vivid in my imagination from the time I was a child. To me the Brotherhood was like something from story books. I heard the tales of masked Brothers riding through the night so many times that it all became mashed together with other adventure stories, like Zorro and the Legend of the Headless Horseman. I remember waking up many a night in a cold sweat after one terrible recurring dream of one of the Grangers with a sword point at my throat, laughing maniacally, his face alternating, as things in dreams do, between a normal man's face and the face of a devil.

There would be plenty of times as a child that I was afraid to go to the country. I used to tremble when I realized the world wasn't a vast city but instead had all these wild places where Grangers could be hiding, waiting to waylay a horse thief, a city slicker, an educated interloper, or a child ripe for sacrifice. With the stories I heard, and I can still see Grandpa's face lit up by a flashlight under his chin, I couldn't believe anyone could be a horse thief. Because so many of his tales involved your training and sending forth of horses for assassinations and worse. It was all quite notorious. To this day I'm convinced that we have more people in the city than there are in the country simply because people are afraid of horses.

I hope you will forgive the wild fantasies of a child. How many times I prayed that the Grange Brotherhood would be swallowed up by quicksand! Or that the Cavalry would free the country from what I perceived to be your death grip. I would guess that little children in Afghanistan or Pakistan today have the same feelings about terrorists there. My heart goes out to them because I know the feeling very well!

But now I am a man, all grown up. And I am responsible for my own thoughts, with stories and hearsay to be set aside. Now it's up to me to make my own evaluations and to guide myself accordingly. This week, if there's been any tensions between me and the Brotherhood, I will say I believe a lot of it has come about because I've brought forward with me so many of those opinions from childhood. But with serious reflection, as I've engaged in as well, I'm starting to remember less dramatic stories of great benevolence on the part of the Grange Brotherhood as well. Stories of bringing in the crops, shingling barns, taffy pulls for crippled children, advocating for horses suffering from saddle sores, and the like.

As you may know, especially from this week and the things I've said on this blog, and other things you have perhaps gleaned from the efforts of your vast network of informants, I am something of a group dynamics expert. Being such, I'm able to piece things together of social organizations, whether through objective, empirical evidence or intuitive leaps. So I know that your purposes center in on maintaining your way of life, keeping the old ways alive, letting tradition keep its place of pride.

Perhaps you remember the slogan of the electronics firm, Zenith, which was, "The quality goes in before the name goes on." That is so true and I think applicable today. And while I haven't seen a Zenith appliance outside a Goodwill store for at least 25 years, a quick Google search reveals they're still in business, the lone surviving Zenith brother feverishly making spare parts for these antiques so that indeed their 'name will go on.' That's tradition for you, the right kind of pride!

I've gone on longer than I expected. So I must close.

Let me assure you, dear Brotherhood, that I hope whatever tensions have arisen this week are now eased. And that any relations we have from this point on will be pleasant and mutually profitable. I don't want or expect any trouble from you. And I say this in spite of your reputation. People can change when a sincere hand of friendship is truly extended, as mine is.

Tonight is the grange dance. I expect to be there. And I hope to share with you the warm fellowship that is only fitting between those with your rich integrity and someone like myself, whose family was always proud of our connection to the grange and the Grange Brotherhood itself.

Sincerely yours, Your Faithful Servant, &c.

Tiptoe Through The Hiatus

Shhh, be very very quiet. We're treading lightly today, soft shoeing it, tiptoeing, maintaining a new level of stillness throughout the house.

I'm typing this very slowly, so old what's his face will sleep on. And as he sleeps, the big hope is that he will continue to shrink. No wakesy, no need for attention. No attention, being ignored, he'll shrink to nothing and go away.

Just saying it like that, though, is a mistake on my part -- but what's said is said. I'll state the quandary in general terms: Any attention, just giving attention to [a problem, let's say], creates a vibe that has a ripple effect. It's tough too to mitigate the effect by speaking of opposites, since reality knows the intimate connections between opposites and their principals. And you ultimately can't fool Mother Reality.

On the other hand it's important for my own understanding and peace of mind -- as well as my desire to communicate these key issues to a broader readership, if for no other reason than to satisfy their morbid curiosity -- that some description be made of the actual circumstances of my situation. So there's a delicate balance, a gentle dance underway.

This tiptoeing is part of the dance. Because tiptoeing around itself calls attention to the circumstances of why you're tiptoeing. You might think there's no winning, but that's where you'd be wrong. Because [an unnamed party] is also under the thumb of Mother Reality; [unnamed party] doesn't get a free pass either.

So the sleeping, the extreme lethargy I'm noting on the part of [the unnamed party] is likely a payback for his inflationary moves as of late. It seems that not even [the unnamed party] can hold full sway. And with me actively, if not mentally, ignoring him, it's piling on. I'm expecting the weapons eventually to appear. Then I will be able to hack to death [an unnamed party].

I tiptoed around the house, squeezing by-- through some wider areas, suddenly passable. I was unable to discern any other being in this house awake except myself. Grandma sleeps on. I wonder what she dreams about. Maybe heaven. She always used to clip out the "Family Circus" cartoons, which would portray heaven. Heaven to Bil Keane was a place on the clouds where the grandfather and everyone else were transparent, black and white outlines of their former selves. Someday Grandma will be up there -- I'm sure she pictures it that way -- with Grandpa. He's up there, transparent, maybe with one of his signature flannel shirts and a couple of wings jutting out his back. Flitting hither, thither, and yon. Fishing up there maybe if they have fish. Fish who were killed on earth went to heaven and are caught all over again. But what happens to a fish that's killed in heaven? I could guess it goes to the second heaven, then the third, as many as they are. Then eventually it retires.

Anyway, I went all through the house, and I noticed some widening of the rooms, more room than I've seen for some time. But I want to keep quiet, keep to myself, sit here in my room and just act like nothing's going on. Then, let's say eventually the weapons do appear, I can go on a bloody rampage and literally hack and hew [this unnamed party] to a terrible death. Then [an unnamed party] can go to heaven as well. [An unnamed party] won't know what happened. [An unnamed party] will be sitting transparent on a cloud scratching its ectoplasm, or whatever you call that sticky, jelly, blob hide it has.

That'll teach [an unnamed party] not to mess with me.