Nine months worth of musings.....

  It's been a longer, and somehow shorter time since I last posted anything on this poor old thought repository. No real reason for the lapse other than simple human failing. The months have been some of the most hurried, yet excruciatingly slow in passing on their way than hardly any since I was a very young man. That too was a period of disease, uncertainty, sudden death, loss of friends, gaining of experiences best not to ever have. Those days passed eventually, although they've been duplicated in part on many occasions over the years, but none so intently since those early days until the past three quarter year.
   Within days of posting my last, my beloved Shirley was diagnosed with a fast growing aggressive type cancer for the third time in as many years. This time was worse than the previous two and after much testing an intrusive and intense form of treatment was decided upon that would require nearly two months of daily trips down out of the hills and mountains to the city. As I can no longer drive and she would be unable, we finally settled on using rides from a group set aside by the state to provide drivers for such things and, as I'm not up to the daily trips, our tenant and sometimes personal assistant agreed to accompany her to wheel her from the Radiation Treatment Labs to the Chemotherapy Center. He's in his fifties and somewhat learning disabled. He's become our extra hands and eyes and we've become almost an older brother and sister to him and we ensure he lives comfortably and safely here in our building.
  The trips finally drew to a close after some extra unscheduled extra tests, treatments, and evaluations made necessary by Shirley's reaction to both treatments. Here it is all these months later and now there's a difference of medical professionals on how to proceed. One wants to hold fast at this point and monitor the now very tiny growth; the others want surgery to remove the remainder. The big difference being positioning and whether additional surgeries will do more harm than possible good. It looks now as if we may be resorting to going to the next nearest specialist in this type cancer in Boston, which is about 4 hours drive away. We'll know next week what happens.
   Around the same time as Shirley was diagnosed in December, we lost our sweet little Sooty cat who was only five. She and Slippers contracted an unknown problem about the same time, Slippy is much bigger and I managed to give him antibiotics and he eventually recovered. Sooty was a secretive and quiet little girl and by the time I realized she was ill as well she was very weak and, after three months of nursing, she passed in Shirley's arms. She lay by my feet all night and when Shirley held her to feed her she just purred a tiny sound, then rattled breathing, and was gone. I honestly think she knew the end was near and waited for Shirley, who was so shocked she came rushing to me with Sooty and said something was wrong.
  For any with pets, I think I've finally figured out what it might have been that sickened one and killed the other, even my friend the Veterinarian supports the theory. I was suddenly taken ill the day we were to leave for our son's wedding in Southern Maine and stayed home. The second day I noticed someone had tracked moth repellent chips into our hallway. I confined them to a small area, but I think some may have been tracked in by tenants paying their rent. That may have resulted in some getting into their food or maybe just on them and them licking it off. Our other cat tends to stay up off the floor more and may have avoided the stuff. That would explain the sudden onset and unfamiliar symptoms. The Dr thought perhaps poisoning, but couldn't identify a treatment. He later said that she was likely too sick when I discovered her to help.
   So, she joined the rest of the beloved furry family members in the little cemetery out by the woods. On a brighter note, an old tenant returned and her cat had kittens from an unexpected encounter with her daughter-in-law's cat. She was unable to keep them all, so we took two and she kept one and the other found a home. They're cute, clever, innocent looking, and total little furry demons. We love them to death. Another pair spared a trip to the shelter. Got a big soft spot for furry people.
   Didn't mean this to be a year in review, just happened I guess. Maybe a grandchild will read this one day. we just had a visit in July from Calgary daughter, grandson, and brand new baby girl. Then, this October we have a little boy due here in Maine. Didn't realize the scope of it all until writing to a friend how one granddaughter is soon off to college, another soon to complete high school, two actually. Then ranging all the way to the currently pregnant daughter-in-law. Amazing how all the little pieces eventually make a whole tapestry of our lives before we realize it's happened. Another big change may or may not happen in that we may let go of this old apartment building and move ourselves, cats, and our helper tenant into a different place that would more easily facilitate my getting out and about. Getting to the point of being nearly home-bound now. Still a good life, but a little restricted. Finding the right place and leaving our little pet cemetery are stumbling blocks right now. Time will tell, maybe later on, maybe not. Hard to leave after nearly twenty years, it being the longest I've ever lived in one place in my 66+ years. Ah well, mayhaps change is good.  

  So, all in all, I guess I should move my year-end review up a few months from autumn to now, as I don't really see how much more can fit in, other than grandson, changing seasons, changing life, and all constant as it has been forever. Life is still sweet. Take care.

Elise.....

.....arrived one winter day in March of my 11th year. It was a Saturday and my Uncle 'F' and his wife had gone to the small city on an 'errand'. Rather an unusual occurrence in winter, especially on the sketchy backwoods roads of Maine in the 1950s. Around two in the afternoon I heard his old Studebaker straining and spinning its way up into Uncle 'Rs' barnyard. Going out to see why he'd come here rather than his farm across the road, I saw a tall (to me) willowy slip of a young lady climb from the back seat.
   Being of the tender prepubescent age of eleven, I was immediately fascinated by this slender, but well shaped young woman. Breaking my through hypnotic reverie, F's wife was introducing this vision of wonder to me, me! I managed to awake from my stupor in time to hear that her name was Elise Cote and she was F's wife's cousin from France. The reason for her coming wasn't revealed then and I actually learned the details later from my aunt E. In those times you were thought, and rightly so, to be rude to inquire after such personal information. In many ways I miss things being that way, but in many other ways I relish the openness that has forced 'family problems' into the open. If you read the first few posts of this blog you'll find my reason for feeling so strongly about this issue.
    As the winter morphed into a gorgeous spring, I learned a deal more about our quiet guest. She spoke English with a smooth and lilting French accent, made all the more sensuous to my young self by the mellow, soft tones of her voice. She was nineteen and would be twenty in mid-summer, she read every chance she got. Aunt 'E' placed her in the room at the top of the rear stairs beside the 'dry' bathroom with the lime toilet. She decorated her room strangely in my opinion, simply a collection of mismatched dolls, stuffed animals, crinkled photos of groups of children, and other odd mementos of things from her past.
   As summer burst forth she and my, quite smitten, young self started to venture for walks in late afternoon before supper and evening chores. Our steps seemed to always draw us to a spot beside where the small brook emptied into our farm pond. There was a large flat rock and we'd just lie there in mutual silence watching clouds or sit observing the fish in the clear pond water. I didn't dare ask many questions, like why she always wore a headscarf that covered her face starting just behind her beautiful blue eyes. The scarves invariably were worn in the same manner and she never was seen (by me) without one on. Her features were near perfection and her hair was very dark brown and slightly wavy. She helped around the house and taking care of the elderly folks in residence at the time during the day and evening. Then she'd retreat to her room where I'd have been dispatched several times carrying buckets of hot water. I wondered if she bathed herself with the scarf on. One of life's mysteries.
    Another mystery was why a doctor from Canada came to visit her once a month and always entrusted my aunt E with a package when he departed. As a former nurse she kept a locked medicine cabinet where the packages invariably were deposited. Elise also seemed to shy away from fireplaces, stoves, direct sunlight, etc. At our rock she'd always remark how nice it was that somebody planted a huge oak tree so it allowed a great view of the sky while shading us from the sun's rays. Some days she'd even wade into the pond in pants and blouse, but never allowing her head to get wet. Another thing that worried me was that she'd often awaken screaming at night, but only my aunt had the key to her room. Sometimes she'd go down to her sewing room and come back with little packets, sometimes I could hear only E's voice calming her back to sleep. I knew something wasn't quite right, but also knew enough to refrain from watching and prying.
   Elise stayed through the next winter and into the summer. That summer she was noticeably paler and distracted. Toward the end of the summer she started to go to our rock earlier and I'd find here there after my chores were done. One afternoon was so different that it turned my world upside down for months and still remains in my memory as though it were yesterday.
    Elise had gone off earlier than usual according to aunt E, and she noticed she'd seemed especially troubled. That was also the only time she'd ever told me to leave my chores for others and go to check on our young guest. I hurried down to the rock and was relieved to see Elise laying in her usual manner, but when I drew closer I noticed something was amiss. It was too quiet, no happy greeting. I climbed to her side and my world shattered. She was cold to the touch and her eyes were staring into the skies unseeing. I don't recall running back to the house, but I do remember not being able to tell my aunt what was wrong, just took her hand and half-dragged her to the rock and Elise. As she got closer, she bent over and scooped up a tin that I recognized as medicine for the horses, especially the oldest workhorse who was lame.
    In the next few days my aunt paid special attention to me as I did little but grieve for my friend. Finally, she took me into the parlor where Elise lay and pulled back the colorful scarf for me to see. After I settled back down, I could understand the scarves. Her left ear was gone, as was much of the hair on that side of her head. In their place were terrible scars from deep burns. Her upper arms and back were badly scarred as well. My aunt explained that the Dr that came each month was a burn specialist and the packets were morphine vials and syringes so E could administer the drug when needed. Elise also suffered from horrible nightmares, what today would be known as PTSD. 
    On graduating from school at sixteen, Elise had gone to work at an orphanage where she mostly cared for the younger children. One night the place was hit by lightning in the barn area attached at the back. By the time the fire was discovered it'd spread throughout the rear upper level where the young children and Elise slept. Elise had carried children from the burning rooms by twos and threes and led older ones. After many trips she was overcome by smoke and exhaustion and collapsed just inside the rear area. A fireman found her there and carried her out to safety. After several operations and recovering some of her lung function, they could do no more. Today they'd be able to do far more, but things weren't advanced as much in 1954.
     The nightmares were filled with the screams of the frightened children and pain was mainly from nerve endings that had become heat sensitive or scar tissue that pulled the tissue too much. Aunt E explained what I'd already figured out, the pain and memories had become too much for Elise to bear and she'd taken the animal pain medications to end her suffering at a place she loved. Uncles R and F and the local minister buried her between the oak and the rock where the sun shone through in bright speckled dances.
     Later a man from the big city came and created a smooth spot on the rock above her head and inscribed: 
                                     Elise Cote
                                     1936-1957
                              Her pain is gone and 
                             the screams are stilled.
                              She joined those she
                                  could not save. 
   Not a sad memory for me, she gave me two magical summers of afternoons learning how to lay on a rock and quietly enjoy life's many treasures. I only wish it had been the 1990s or later so she could have found the relief she needed. At least a little of it. Until next time, take care and be well.  

A Fishing Tale

                                     A Short Tale of Man & Boat

  It's been awhile, but hoping it won't be so long between posts again. This is just a short story told to me by a friend when discussing the stuff tourists and visiting sportsmen do when here.

    About 3 years ago a friend who runs a fish camp beyond the roads here told me about a NYC client. seems the guy had 2 big problems, very impatient and demanding, carried an automatic 9mm as he was afraid of bear??? Anyway, the guy and his buddy went off fishing in a camp canoe at daybreak and still hadn't returned at dusk. Getting worried, Emile got up in his float plane to look for them, no luck. Rather than try to find them at night they waited until first light.

   Finally, about 10AM they spotted them way the Hell up a stream with loadsa 'must portage' spots. They were about 7 portages up away from the place the stream emptied into the lake paddling downstream. Emile stayed over them as they kept waving at him and radioed for the air-boat to come get them. The NYC guy was offered a radio but said they wouldn't need it as he was familiar with the woods & streams etc since he came here often as a boy.

    Emile said he noticed something strange, they were beside the canoe and it was under water about halfway. When his son got to them in the air-boat he found out the problem. Seems they were about 9 portages up and he slipped and the canoe hit his knee and really hurt him. That wasn't why they were late though. Seems he got so pissed that he took out the 9mm and emptied 2 clips into the bottom of the canoe. That resulted in a hole about a foot across opening up when they re-floated it & got in. Obviously it didn't work well, so they decided to wait until daylight to finish going back so they'd have time to make a camp for the night. 

  End of story, almost.....forgot to say that he was so upset at shooting the boat that he flung his pistol into the brush, then to add insult to injury, Emile informed him that it was a 1926 Old Town moosehide canoe and rough estimate for repairing it that he got over the radio was $850 not counting pick up and delivery. Emile says the guy cancelled his reservations for the next summer. Seems it was too costly to fish here. 

    Until next time, be well and stay safe.

What The F.......

   Ahhhhhh. After too much time away, finally able to get blogging in earnest again, or probably for the first time. I've been trying for some time to get back to it, but the old grey cells have failed to find the writing rhythm needed. Tonight, the Blogging Muses took a bit of pity on me and at the same time reminded me of the signs often seen in non-English speaking countries. the fun ones to look for are the ones we called 'Minglish' or 'Booklish'. 
   Minglish is English mingled with the local lingo usually spelled phonetically. Booklish is when a non-English speaker looks up translated phrases or words to say the same thing as in their own language. Often you can get the drift of the sign, but generally it's still funny. It seems the practice has progressed through being used when writing assembly instructions and safety labels to the present incarnation, SPAM!!
   The following was posted to this blog today and is just too screwy to keep to myself. Normally I just go to the 'moderate' page and mark them as SPAM. I just wonder how long the writer spent on literally translating the thing, word by word. I almost called the number it gives just to find out how the phone would be answered, but stopped when I realized they might put my number in their call computer and dial it every day. Arrrrrgggghhhh! HELL NO!! At any rate, here it is, I hope you have a chuckle trying to figure it out.
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Gotta admit, the person was ambitious and also offered a way for me to start writing anew, although that wasn't their intention. Until next we meet, stay safe and take care.

Burning bridges, moving on

  Sometimes, during the course of our lives, occur events which force us to move on. A change of jobs, location, economic or cultural differences for various reasons, retirement, etc. My adult life while I was working required I move about pretty regularly, much of it overseas, and often meant having to involuntarily cut ties with folks I'd come to cherish as friends. Often this was due to shifts in political stances of our respective nations over which we had slight control. Most of the overseas time meant further travel for me while my family remained behind in the 'country of record' at the time.
   Even though we'd try to keep in touch, the travel time, required permits and visas, phone expense, and poor mail services still conspired to defeat us. Of course, this was before the Internet that we now take for granted unless our computers crash, was available & even telegrams were iffy. Many of the places I went were so-called third world nations with poor infrastructure in all respects. Even many of the more industrialized nations were pretty crude in regard to communications.
   There was HAM radio of course, but many countries took a dim view of personal ownership of hi-powered radio transmission equipment, thus rendering it useless at times. I was reminded abruptly of this twice this week when our Internet/Phone service provider first caused all our computers that were on at the time, which was ALL of them, to crash requiring technician assistance and deleting everything not backed up. Of course, this happened on the very morning of the day I'd already decided to devote to backing them all up, but before I'd had a chance to do so.
 The second time was today, when the same service(?) provider developed a problem with our land-line phone, although the PCs still work online? My attempts to contact the repair section of the company, basically the ONLY provider in this rural area, were thwarted when I tried to report by cell phone. All that accomplished was the ticking off of minutes on my cell account, which is a very low usage pay per month deal, while awaiting an answer to my call which the nice recorded lady kept telling me was VERY important to them. I then looked them up online which gave me a site, which led me on a long trail to the statement that said I'd have to call first to set up a user name and password. Hmmm? I tried a neighbor, but he was in the same boat. Finally,after locating someone with a phone I could use, I got through, only to be told they needed the business office open to access my line routing??? I should have known, since this company still hasn't got a working pay online function, even though they ARE the online service provider and have been over three years now. Verizon, the former provider, sold our lines because the 'customer per mile numbers were too low'.
   Anyway, back to old friends. I've been slowly trying to reconnect with those who now have Internet as well as those in places where the Internet is now allowed due to changes in government and, in some places, country names. I figure I've been successful in about a third of the attempts I've made over the past decade or so. Earlier this week I came across this old song, long a favorite, that prompted me to renew my efforts to fix 'singed' bridges. Hoping I'll live long enough to reconnect with most of my old mates. Some have even found me and said it was much more difficult than they realized it would be. A lot of that is my own doing in this age of far too much information sharing by various entities.
   Hope you like the music. Until next time, stay well, stay safe, and stay in touch with all those you can in life.

Adventures in Bunnies

Oryctotagus cuniculus

(domestic rabbit)

  Once upon a time, in a land very near where I now sit, there lived two young boys. The boys were close friends and shared many good times. One such time, or rather, series of good times, was the annual outing to the nearest Agricultural Fair. In our case, this was the State Agricultural Fair as our county was actually too rural to support such an undertaking as an Agricultural County Fair. It was at one of those yearly farm get-togethers when my friend Johnny, who has since passed on, saw something that had him all excited and eagerly yanking me to one of the animal display barns. 

  As we entered the hay-perfumed sweetness of barn dwellers, I finally managed to get him to stop long enough to enable me to take several deep breaths of that wonderful smell that many farm kids learn to savor like a rose gardener smells her roses. Then, at a somewhat more sedate pace, he pushed me ahead of him through the thick crowds that always appeared on Saturdays. After passing through the length of the building, he stopped pushing me and excitedly asked what I thought. 

   I immediately began to tell him in no uncertain terms what I thought of his current mental state, however, I never got but one sentence out before he yelled over my voice, "No, no, no! There, there, there! We could do that!!" As I looked to where his extended finger was shakily pointing I saw stacks of neat, roomy, cages. On closer inspection it was clear there were plump, furry, animals inside in pairs. "RABBITS!", he shouted excitedly. Then he went on to recite a rather longish spiel that he must have gotten from the little blond girl tending to the bunnies.

   Before long it became clear that he had in his mind to enlist me into a partnership as farmers of rabbits. To say I was reluctant would be a gross understatement. Still, he persisted, rambling on  for several minutes between deep gulps of air until, seemingly spent, he went toward the little girl. I mean little as smaller physically than our brawny 12 year old boyish frames. At least that's how we thought of ourselves as compared to the townies due mostly to healthy appetites supplemented by hours of farm work daily. She looked up at his approach and he went all quiet like & she got a pinkish glow. Not surprisingly, years later they wed and together raised two fine sons who now work in the airline industry as cargo pilots and Dot still lives in their North Carolina 'retirement cottage'.

   Before long, they came over to me and Johnny introduced her as Dot, from a town not too far from ours, but not easily accessible from our town without driving along a long dog-leg shaped route. Seemingly suddenly struck dumb, he nudged her gently and nodded, whereupon she started telling me all the ins and outs of her rabbit raising business and how her father marketed them in the city when he delivered hogs to the meat packing company there. Although I was hesitant, Johnny was completely taken by the idea, very likely as a result of 12-year-old male hormones reacting to Dot's smile.

   Telling him I'd think on it while trying to figure out a way to get his mind off the possibility of rabbity riches and good times ahead, I led back toward the rides on the midway. But he had plans, plans far too important to be put aside just for carnival rides. Seems he'd even discussed it with his dad, who told him if he could raise the money he'd give him the use of the old goat shed attached to his barn. Now I saw my part in the plan! He knew full well that I'd been saving up to purchase a transistor radio to listen to at night. We had no electricity on the farms and my Uncle R was usually occupied listening to the Red Sox games on the old battery powered unit we had. Transistor radios were fairly new then and had seemed to me a perfect way to have access to the stories played out each evening on the local station in the little city nearby. John's plan was to join forces with him providing place, cages, and food and I'd be the purchaser of the bunnies. I resisted until Sunday, when he finally convinced me to use some of my radio money to buy three females and a male from his newly found blonde friend.

   Move forward in time about eight months, our operation was doing really well. We had loads of critters and were breeding as fast as the market would absorb. I had my money back and all looked rosy. Until, that is, came word from Johnny's dad that he was stopping all meat raising operations and most of the dairy too as he'd been offered a job at the local saw mill. The money was more than farming, the work steady, and the pay as sawyer was good. Still, we persevered, thinking up various ways to get the critters to the packing house. The local meat shop took some, but we were breeding far more than he could handle. Then the cold hand of reality hit as we realized that without the various feeds from his dad we'd have to buy our own. This, plus the cost of having another farmer cart our goods to market, sounded the death knell for our profit margin. 

   Well, we kept on wishing and hoping for awhile, until we realized that rabbits were really, really, really good at multiplying. Even our efforts to segregate the males fell to ill fortune. One little fella had himself a grand old time until we caught on to the fact our gals were expecting again. Disaster! As the population rapidly started to fill the place we decided action was sorely needed. 

   Being boys and somewhat too clever for our own good, we hatched a plan. Not having buyers for our brood, we decided killing them was unnecessary and crude. Our brilliant(?) plan? In the lake abutting the farms to the south was a mid-sized island with nothing on it but grass, brush, and a smattering of trees. That became the destination for our boatloads of caged rabbits until all were safely deposited on the island. To our way of thinking, we were happy, bunnies were happy, all was right in the world again.

   Until, one late summer afternoon a game warden and a Fish & Wildlife Department truck with two men in it pulled into our yard. Seems they were stuck with a problem concerning the overpopulation of the island with rabbits and needed F's road for easier access. For some reason, this rabbit crowd was unacceptable to them. Well, my Uncles suggested a way to solve the problem. Put foxes and/or coyotes on the island to eat the bunny excess. And so the island, by now called 'Rabbit Island' by everyone around, got a fresh injection of fox and coyotes. Problem solved.

   Except, it seems that both predators aren't shy about swimming to the place once the island inhabitants somehow alerted them of the bountiful bunny supply. By spring, the State Wildlife folks were back, but no longer taking suggestions. Seems they no longer had a bunny problem, but a canine problem as apparently a rabid animal had gotten to the island before developing the fear of water. Now the worry was that the disease would spread ashore as eagles, owls, & hawks were now present in high numbers, having spotted rabbits, fox, and coyote snacks for the grabbing.

   Finally, somebody at the headquarters of the Warden Service made the blanket decision that all island critters must be either trapped or shot and destroyed to prevent a rabies epidemic. This apparently was a costly undertaking if the local gossip was to be believed. John and I kept a very low profile during all this and let the F & W guys think all the trouble was begun by a few rabbits that 'must have crossed over the ice' and infested the place. That explanation was fine with us. We were a bit sad how it ended, but even today few know why the place is referred to as 'Rabbit Island' since there aren't any rabbits there. Just a few birds. 

   Seems we young lads had made a lasting impression after all. Until next we meet, be well and take care.

So cute too! 

And now, the rest of the story......

I don't mean this to be taken as a mean-spirited, sour grapes, type post. It's just that history is written by the victorious, which means it often gets distorted far from the factual accounts of what happened. This has been, and continues to be, one of the great failings of schools the world over. The result is even greater misunderstandings between different groups about the true history as told by those of ALL sides who lived it.

The Final Insult?(no, just one of many)        


 The Real Thanksgiving Story(and related information about the Settlers)

(As quoted from: The Hidden History of Massachusetts)
Much of America's understanding of the early relationship between the Indian and the European is conveyed through the story of Thanksgiving. Proclaimed a holiday in 1863 by Abraham Lincoln, this fairy tale of a feast was allowed to exist in the American imagination pretty much untouched until 1970, the 350th anniversary of the landing of the Pilgrims. That is when Frank B. James, president of the Federated Eastern Indian League, prepared a speech for a Plymouth banquet that exposed the Pilgrims for having committed, among other crimes, the robbery of the graves of the Wampanoags. He wrote:

"We welcomed you, the white man, with open arms, little knowing that it was the beginning of the end; that before 50 years were to pass, the Wampanoag would no longer be a free people."

But white Massachusetts officials told him he could not deliver such a speech and offered to write him another. Instead, James declined to speak, and on Thanksgiving Day hundreds of Indians from around the country came to protest. It was the first National Day of Mourning, a day to mark the losses Native Americans suffered as the early settlers prospered. This true story of "Thanksgiving" is what whites did not want Mr. James to tell.

What Really Happened in Plymouth in 1621? According to a single-paragraph account in the writings of one Pilgrim, a harvest feast did take place in Plymouth in 1621, probably in mid-October, but the Indians who attended were not even invited. Though it later became known as "Thanksgiving," the Pilgrims never called it that. And amidst the imagery of a picnic of interracial harmony is some of the most terrifying bloodshed in New World history.

The Pilgrim crop had failed miserably that year, but the agricultural expertise of the Indians had produced twenty acres of corn, without which the Pilgrims would have surely perished. The Indians often brought food to the Pilgrims, who came from England ridiculously unprepared to survive and hence relied almost exclusively on handouts from the overly generous Indians-thus making the Pilgrims the western hemisphere's first class of welfare recipients. The Pilgrims invited the Indian sachem Massasoit to their feast, and it was Massasoit, engaging in the tribal tradition of equal sharing, who then invited ninety or more of his Indian brothers and sisters-to the annoyance of the 50 or so ungrateful Europeans. No turkey, cranberry sauce or pumpkin pie was served; they likely ate duck or geese and the venison from the 5 deer brought by Massasoit. In fact, most, if notall, of the food was most likely brought and prepared by the Indians, whose 10,000-year familiarity with the cuisine of the region had kept the whites alive up to that point.

The Pilgrims wore no black hats or buckled shoes-these were the silly inventions of artists hundreds of years since that time. These lower-class Englishmen wore brightly colored clothing, with one of their church leaders recording among his possessions "1 paire of greene drawers." Contrary to the fabricated lore of storytellers generations since, no Pilgrims prayed at the meal, and the supposed good cheer and fellowship must have dissipated quickly once the Pilgrims brandished their weaponry in a primitive display of intimidation. What's more, the Pilgrims consumed a good deal of home brew. In fact, each Pilgrim drank at least a half gallon of beer a day, which they preferred even to water. This daily inebriation led their governor, William Bradford, to comment on his people's "notorious sin," which included their "drunkenness and uncleanliness" and rampant "sodomy"...

The Pilgrims of Plymouth, The Original Scalpers.
Contrary to popular mythology the Pilgrims were no friends to the local Indians. They were engaged in a ruthless war of extermination against their hosts, even as they falsely posed as friends. Just days before the alleged Thanksgiving love-fest, a company of Pilgrims led by Myles Standish actively sought to chop off the head of a local chief. They deliberately caused a rivalry between two friendly Indians, pitting one against the other in an attempt to obtain "better intelligence and make them both more diligent." An 11-foot-high wall was erected around the entire settlement for the purpose of keeping the Indians out.


Any Indian who came within the vicinity of the Pilgrim settlement was subject to robbery, enslavement, or even murder. The Pilgrims further advertised their evil intentions and white racial hostility, when they mounted five cannons on a hill around their settlement, constructed a platform for artillery, and then organized their soldiers into four companies-all in preparation for the military destruction of their friends the Indians.

Pilgrim Myles Standish eventually got his bloody prize. He went to the Indians, pretended to be a trader, then beheaded an Indian man named Wituwamat. He brought the head to Plymouth, where it was displayed on a wooden spike for many years, according to Gary B. Nash, "as a symbol of white power." Standish had the Indian man's young brother hanged from the rafters for good measure. From that time on, the whites were known to the Indians of Massachusetts by the name "Wotowquenange," which in their tongue meant cutthroats and stabbers.

Who Were the "Savages"?
The myth of the fierce, ruthless Indian savage lusting after the blood of innocent Europeans must be vigorously dispelled at this point. In actuality, the historical record shows that the very opposite was true.

Once the European settlements stabilized, the whites turned on their hosts in a brutal way. The once amicable relationship was breeched again and again by the whites, who lusted over the riches of Indian land. A combination of the Pilgrims' demonization of the Indians, the concocted mythology of Eurocentric historians, and standard Hollywood propaganda has served to paint the gentle Indian as a tomahawk-swinging savage endlessly on the warpath, lusting for the blood of the God-fearing whites.

But the Pilgrims' own testimony obliterates that fallacy. The Indians engaged each other in military contests from time to time, but the causes of "war," the methods, and the resulting damage differed profoundly from the European variety:
> Indian "wars" were largely symbolic and were about honor, not about territory or extermination.
>"Wars" were fought as domestic correction for a specific act and were ended when correction was achieved. Such action might better be described as internal policing. The conquest or destruction of whole territories was a European concept.
> Indian "wars" were often engaged in by family groups, not by whole tribal groups, and would involve only the family members.
> A lengthy negotiation was engaged in between the aggrieved parties before escalation to physical confrontation would be sanctioned. Surprise attacks were unknown to the Indians.
> It was regarded as evidence of bravery for a man to go into "battle" carrying no weapon that would do any harm at a distance-not even bows and arrows. The bravest act in war in some Indian cultures was to touch their adversary and escape before he could do physical harm.
> The targeting of non-combatants like women, children, and the elderly was never contemplated. Indians expressed shock and repugnance when the Europeans told, and then showed, them that they considered women and children fair game in their style of warfare.
> A major Indian "war" might end with less than a dozen casualties on both sides. Often, when the arrows had been expended the "war" would be halted. The European practice of wiping out whole nations in bloody massacres was incomprehensible to the Indian.

According to one scholar, "The most notable feature of Indian warfare was its relative innocuity." European observers of Indian wars often expressed surprise at how little harm they actually inflicted. "Their wars are far less bloody and devouring than the cruel wars of Europe," commented settler Roger Williams in 1643. Even Puritan warmonger and professional soldier Capt. John Mason scoffed at Indian warfare: "[Their] feeble manner...did hardly deserve the name of fighting." Fellow warmonger John Underhill spoke of the Narragansetts, after having spent a day "burning and spoiling" their country: "no Indians would come near us, but run from us, as the deer from the dogs." He concluded that the Indians might fight seven years and not kill seven men. Their fighting style, he wrote, "is more for pastime, than to conquer and subdue enemies."

All this describes a people for whom war is a deeply regrettable last resort. An agrarian people, the American Indians had devised a civilization that provided dozens of options all designed to avoid conflict--the very opposite of Europeans, for whom all-out war, a ferocious bloodlust, and systematic genocide are their apparent life force. Thomas Jefferson--who himself advocated the physical extermination of the American Indian--said of Europe, "They [Europeans] are nations of eternal war. All their energies are expended in the destruction of labor, property and lives of their people."

By the mid 1630s, a new group of 700 even holier Europeans calling themselves Puritans had arrived on 11 ships and settled in Boston-which only served to accelerate the brutality against the Indians.

In one incident around 1637, a force of whites trapped some seven hundred Pequot Indians, mostly women, children, and the elderly, near the mouth of the Mystic River. Englishman John Mason attacked the Indian camp with "fire, sword, blunderbuss, and tomahawk." Only a handful escaped and few prisoners were taken-to the apparent delight of the Europeans:

To see them frying in the fire, and the streams of their blood quenching the same, and the stench was horrible; but the victory seemed a sweet sacrifice, and they gave praise thereof to God.

This event marked the first actual Thanksgiving. In just 10 years 12,000 whites had invaded New England, and as their numbers grew they pressed for all-out extermination of the Indian. Euro-diseases had reduced the population of the Massachusett nation from over 24,000 to less than 750; meanwhile, the number of European settlers in Massachusetts rose to more than 20,000 by 1646.

By 1675, the Massachusetts Englishmen were in a full-scale war with the great Indian chief of the Wampanoags, Metacomet. Renamed "King Philip" by the white man, Metacomet watched the steady erosion of the lifestyle and culture of his people as European-imposed laws and values engulfed them.


In 1671, the white man had ordered Metacomet to come to Plymouth to enforce upon him a new treaty, which included the humiliating rule that he could no longer sell his own land without prior approval from whites. They also demanded that he turn in his community's firearms. Marked for extermination by the merciless power of a distant king and his ruthless subjects, Metacomet retaliated in 1675 with raids on several isolated frontier towns. Eventually, the Indians attacked 52 of the 90 New England towns, destroying 13 of them. The Englishmen ultimately regrouped, and after much bloodletting defeated the great Indian nation, just half a century after their arrival on Massachusetts soil. Historian Douglas Edward Leach describes the bitter end:

The ruthless executions, the cruel sentences...were all aimed at the same goal-unchallengeable white supremacy in southern New England. That the program succeeded is convincingly demonstrated by the almost complete docility of the local native ever since.

When Captain Benjamin Church tracked down and murdered Metacomet in 1676, his body was quartered and parts were "left for the wolves." The great Indian chief's hands were cut off and sent to Boston and his head went to Plymouth, where it was set upon a pole on the real first "day of public Thanksgiving for the beginning of revenge upon the enemy." Metacomet's nine-year-old son was destined for execution because, the whites reasoned, the offspring of the devil must pay for the sins of their father. The child was instead shipped to the Caribbean to spend his life in slavery.

As the Holocaust continued, several official Thanksgiving Days were proclaimed. Governor Joseph Dudley declared in 1704 a "General Thanksgiving"-not in celebration of the brotherhood of man-but for [God's] infinite Goodness to extend His Favors...In defeating and disappointing... the Expeditions of the Enemy [Indians] against us, And the good Success given us against them, by delivering so many of them into our hands...

Just two years later one could reap a ££50 reward in Massachusetts for the scalp of an Indian-demonstrating that the practice of scalping was a European tradition. According to one scholar, "Hunting redskins became...a popular sport in New England, especially since prisoners were worth good money..."

Until next we meet, take care, stay well, and seek peace.

Reflecting on the Year Gone By

                                                    T. Remington photo
  Well Folks, it seems I've survived another year aboard the Big Blue Marble we call Earth. The photo above was taken near our home and the chair overlooks the area in general facing west toward New Hampshire. The views in the area all seem to call out demanding to be photographed, although the views will outlast most images of them.
  The year has been interesting. Lost a good friend in the opening days with the passing of 'Brother Tim' O'Donnell, and surprisingly few after that, a condition I hope lasts until at least year's end. Illness seemed to be a constant companion this year, although we've survived them all so far in fairly good shape. At least we're more or less intact.
   Last winter was mild, so this will likely be wild, at least that's what my Uncle 'R' used to tell me growing up on the farm. If the old place wasn't gone back to forest and a few new homes & cottages, we'd be laying in winter food in the pantries & ice cellar. Hunting season meant cows & horses sporting white paint if they were brown or tan, nice hand painted signs on their sides identifying them as cow, horse, mule, etc for the enlightenment of the city hunters from 'away' who shot whatever moved at times. Time to roll out the snow fences and pack the hay in the barns neatly for easy access. Other repairs as needed. Much easier these days, having far less winterizing to do. Still, always plenty needed to allow us to co-exist with Nature here.
  I'm really hoping the next year sees much less rancor and far more progress in many areas. Politics, GLBT issues, racial tolerance & acceptance of ALL beings we share the Marble with. If they dropped all cable 'News & Commentary' and brought back more newspapers and news magazines I'd be happier. Even if the 'Net' stays as it is. A bit too outrageous to expect, up there with the 'Great Pumpkin'.
   Made a few new friends & lost very few old ones, got a new-old vehicle, a 'power chair' so I can function more effectively about the house. Lost one more of our furry family members to old age. She was one of the two we first took in in 1993 and we lost her sister in spring the previous year. Down to three, the eldest being almost fifteen years old.
    Well, as seems to me, it was a pretty good, pretty peaceful year all things considered. If the folks at Yahoo ever get my main address for e-mail to reappear it'll be a slight improvement to a good year. I also found a new friend via the 'Blogosphere' at http://missgmb.blogspot.com/  who wrote this little poem that struck me as very nice.

Something Old

My mind on what is to come

Visions of the seasons i'm leaving

All the hard work that i've done

All that's ahead is dreaming

As I recall people and memories

The want and need to get away

Now free to float on any breeze

Somehow I choose to stay 

   

    Until next we meet, stay safe, stay well, hug all you can, and love as much as possible, and live as large as you can.

A Sparkly Bundle of Happiness

My good friends George & Linda Allen of Spokane, WA belong to a Walleye Club that holds an event called C.A.S.T. where they take disadvantaged kids fishing for a day.

This year it seems they were blessed to have with them this little bundle of perky sunshine in pink. Her name is Kenadie Hansberry, age 2, of Spokane.

It seems that at that early age she's already developed her own sense of style. She also carries it off with an air of confidence that belies her young years. Apparently even the sunglasses appeared magically as they got underway, to complete the look.

Where's the red carpet?

A girl's gotta look good in the photos.

Well, let's go.

Maybe a coy smile for the paparazzi before we cast off.

Stylin'

Discussing group photo arrangement.

The supporting cast.

Three hours of perseverance pays off!

Can we take her home?

One last shot for my fan club.

To see and be around her you'd never know she has a serious allergy problem that affects her esophagus and requires her to be fed from a small bag attached to her chest and connected to a 'g-tube' which permits the nourishment to bypass her esophagus. She can eat only sugar by mouth & carries a bag of marshmallows to nibble on.

Needless to say, her indomitable spirit and extreme cuteness won the day and it seems there were many who wanted to take her home.

The pretty lady with her is her mom.

Until next we meet, if you're a bit down, think of Kenadie and follow her lead.

The PugiLESSON

   At one time, I was actually a pretty rugged young man. Somewhat lacking in 'altitude', but endowed with an overabundance of 'attitude'. In those days, when I was freshly moved off the farms, I was up for just about anything, especially so if monetary gain was involved. At that time, in the little city near my hometown, every Friday & Saturday night had entertainment in the form of boxing matches in the National Guard Armory.

   The participants in these bouts were a pairing of local talent versus guys from the 'Job Training Center' in the big city 100 miles away. Most of these guys were street smart, brawling, very fit city fellows, some of who were actually semi-pro boxers at one time. There was a 'promoter' who would rent the armory and pay a group of these 'job trainees' to engage in fisticuffs with the local challengers.

   For the challengers, the motivation was simple. Last 3 two-minute rounds and take home $50, a princely sum in those days. If you went out earlier than 3 rounds you still got $10 for trying. To a young pup like me, more endowed with solid muscle than brain, this was too good to pass up.

   The first few times I tried I lasted easily and even tried a couple times in one night on occasion. Finally came a day when I was paired with the 'trainee' light-heavyweight champion. I was way short on reach and height, but weighed solidly into this class. As fate would have it, the guy was very susceptible to an opponent who could get 'inside' his reach and pummel him with short, hard body blows.
   As this fit my style perfectly, I easily lasted the three rounds. At that time the 'promoter' came to my corner and told me I'd get $25 for each additional round. Whoa! Christmas in the summer! I gladly accepted and lasted 15 full rounds and lost on points. Still, I was ecstatic, and $350 richer for the effort.

   Well, this went on with different opponents for a few weeks, with me lasting the entire 15 rounds at times. To make it even better, the 'bonus' money was raised to $40 per round. Of course, unbeknown to my dumb young self, that was a mere pittance compared to the dough the 'promoter' was making by running illegal betting action on the side.

   After a lucrative summer, it all came crashing down one night when my opponent turned out to be a tall, extremely well muscled, young black man with incredibly long arms. Oh well, I'd faced worse, or so I thought. The bell rang and we were off, until he sent his first punch my way. Damn that hurt. It was soon followed by a seemingly leisurely string of similar punches, each as painful as the first. I'd yet to land a single punch as he continually danced away, coming in only to land another painful assault on my battered face.

   Finally, after one and a half rounds of him pounding on me at will, my brain kicked in and when the next solid hit arrived I went down like a lead balloon. I lay there listening to the world around me and doing my best NOT to revive, even when smelling salts were tried. I merely snorted, turned away, and continued to be 'out'. 

  This went on to the roaring of the crowd until a friend and another man came with a stretcher and orders to 'take him to the hospital'. As they were loading my 'unconscious' body, I foolishly opened one eye a bit to look around, an action caught by my pal who immediately and loudly declared, "He's not out!"; to which I responded, "Shut up and get me out of here!" in as loud a voice as I dared.

   Sadly for me, it wasn't quiet enough and the 'promoter' heard me. This made him VERY irate for some reason. He not only refused to pay me the consolation money, he banned me from future participation. Seems he was rather confident my hard head and stubborn streak would last at least the three rounds and had bet heavily on me at long odds. Apparently this was detrimental to his bankroll, and him thinking I took a 'dive' didn't help. I didn't really take a 'dive', he actually knocked me down. I merely declined to get up and face his 'fists of death' any longer. Thus ended my short, but lucrative, boxing career. 

   Until next we meet, take care & be safe.

'Herbie' the Yarmouth Elm (Maine)

Some old trees don't disappear, they get transformed.

Yarmouth was home to New England’s largest American Elm tree – affectionately known since the 1950s as “Herbie” – that used to reign over the corner of Yankee Drive and East Main Street. Like so many American Elms, Herbie finally succumbing to Dutch Elm Disease, an introduced fungus that is spread by bark beetles. After decades of diligent effort by Yarmouth’s volunteer Tree Wardens Frank Knight and Debbie Hopkins and 217 years of life, Herbie was removed in January of 2010. Yarmouth has lost nearly 800 American Elms to this disease in the past fifty years, although none as grand as Herbie. In honor of Herbie’s legacy, the Town of Yarmouth seeks to replace this majestic tree and others lost in previous years with new, disease-resistant elms and other types of trees. In order to do this, Yarmouth is creating a Tree Trust.

What is a Tree Trust?


A Tree Trust is an investment in Yarmouth’s quality of place. The large, broad-leaved trees lining the streets of Yarmouth need care and eventual replacement. The cost associated with these activities is considerable, but the benefits of street trees more than justify the expense.


The Town of Yarmouth is asking for donations from citizens, businesses and friends of Herbie to help fund Herbie’s removal and replacement but especially to create a Yarmouth Tree Trust. Your contribution will ensure our town will remain green and beautiful for our children and grandchildren’s future.


If you're interested in 'Herbie' products, please click here to visit project site home page.

Below is a video clip from the 'Herbie' site. To see more click here




Until next we meet, stay safe and be well.