Let's Move On

by Pa Rock
Angry Democrat

The bitter remarks posted here several hours ago regarding the tacky show put on by Billary's people at the DNC Rules Panel meeting in Washington DC have been removed. Commenting on their behavior does not merit the use of available cyber space.

Boone Says Thanks!

Dear Pa Rock,

How are you doing? I have been doing fine. I wanted to thank you for the Christmas present. I like the books you sent me. They are really cool. I think I like the magic one best. Where did you buy them at? They'll help me with my next year's science project. They could last until the 8th grade. They have a lot of science projects in them. Thank you for them.

Sincerely,
Boone

Dear Boone,

I'm glad that you liked the books. They were for your birthday (May 6th) and not Christmas (December 25th). I guess that when you are a happy nine-year-old everyday is like Christmas!

I found the books at Amazon.com. It is a bookstore on the Internet. Your dad can show you how to find it, and any time you come across a book that you really want, just let me know. Pa Rock is a big fan of books - just ask your dad and Uncle Tim!

I know that you had a very clever science fair project last year with the study of how long it took different types of cheeses to mold. I hope that the books I sent can give you some good ideas for next year.

I will be at Pa Garland's July 11th through July 14th. Aunt Molly and Sebastian will be there with me. I hope that we get to see you then.

I love you, buddy.

Pa Rock

Rusty Pails #39 The Ruby Bee Caper (Part 2)

by Rocky Macy

After scribbling down the details for where to mail our movie, we adjourned to the kitchen to plan our small-time crime (and to be closer to the ice chest!). Heck and the Judge each took seats at the ends of my kitchen table thinking that would highlight their leadership of this adventure. I sat on one side, and directed Truman to the side nearest the back door in case he had a catastrophic eruption.

Heck called the meeting to order, and he promptly announced that he would be the director of this film. Judge Redbone almost knocked his root beer and mine off of the table as he shot straight up out of his chair and thundered, in a magisterial voice, “Sez who?”

“Sez me!” Heck shot back. “I’ve been to more movies than anyone here. Why, I have a reserved space on the back row at the Beau Jacks Drive-In!”

“Playing kissie-face with some bored waitress ain’t exactly like going to film school,” I pointed out.

“Rusty Pails, my waitresses ain’t never bored!” It seemed that I had inadvertently bruised Heck’s dignity.

The Judge was still standing, like a Roman candle waiting to shoot off another round. “It’s my camera, so I’m the director – and the producer – and the cameraman!”

“Then I’m the star,” Heck said.

“What qualifies you to be the star of our movie?” I asked, quite innocently.

“That should be obvious. I have the best hair.”

“You bought that hair out of a catalogue!”

“Doesn’t make any difference where it came from,” Heck snapped. “It’s still the best hair at this table!”

Judge Redbone opened two more root beers and sat down. He pushed one over to me. It was going to be a long night!

I took a slow sip out of the fresh bottle. “Okay, so you’re the star. Just remember, this has to be about small-time crime, so you’ll be the star criminal!” Then, anticipating the star’s next demand, I added, “And we split the ten grand equally – four ways!” It looked like I had become the gang’s business manager.

The next order of business was to plan the crime. Truman was in favor of the four of us streaking through the next meeting of the Sprung Hinge Sewing Circle and Bucket Brigade. "No can do,” said Judge Redbone, vetoing the plan. “The cameraman can’t be running around naked while he’s filming.” (Unspoken was the group’s suspicion that the Judge maintained his boyish physique with the aid of a girdle!)

“And what if we got caught?” Heck asked. “Would any of us really want to be strapped to the top of Gladys Clench’s Nash Rambler and hauled out of town like a trophy deer? Nekked?”

The Judge thought that particular ending would have great cinematic appeal, but I thought it was just plain terrifying!

We should have stopped right there, but the idea of focusing our mayhem on Gladys Clench had entered our collective psyche, and we were too weak to fight it off. Not surprisingly, along about the time the last round of root beer had been served, one fella mumbled, quite innocently and almost inaudibly, “Maybe we should kidnap Ruby Bee.”

Heck Frye jumped up and raised his bottle high. “I second Rusty’s motion!” Before I could clear my throat to withdraw my semi-coherent mumbling, Judge Redbone and Truman were also standing with their bottles saluting their host’s stupidity!

It was going to be a very long night indeed!

McBush's Pickpocket

by Pa Rock
Citizen Journalist

Dear Leader swooped into Phoenix's Sky Harbor Airport yesterday aboard his luxurious public transport. He was here to raise money for Arizona's favorite political miscreant, John McBush. The big fundraiser had been planned for the convention center, but it had to be moved when the McBush staff realized that a public setting would allow their candidate to be seen (and photographed) with the President - an image that the Straight Talk Express wanted to avoid at all costs. The event was hastily moved to a private home so that the press could be kept at bay.

Then, inexplicably, the McBushes showed up at Sky Harbor in the evening to see their visiting dignitary off. What followed was a comic ballet of the two hacks shuffling back and forth trying to avoid being captured in the same image. It was really funny stuff!

I have a serious question, though, regarding all of this political silliness. If John McBush is so loved in Arizona in general, and by rich Arizonans in particular, why was it necessary to fly in a professional pickpocket to relieve the suckers of their cash?

The Dying Western

by Pa Rock
Proud Papa

Anyone who brags on one of my kids, especially in writing, automatically lands in Pa Rock's Ramble - whether they want to be there or not! The following email arrived this morning:

Hi -

I saw your blog entry on the movie that was made from The Brass Teapot. I certainly think that your son is a talented writer.

My son, Wes, is one of the core team now working on The Dying Western(http://www.thedyingwestern.com). He's doing the editing now for the screening on June 8th at Ohio University. I wish we could be there, but Athens, Ohio is quite a ways from Colorado.

It's a very talented group of guys and I have high hopes for the new film. Wes says he's pleased with the quality. Let's hope the film gets some notice.

Bob Cronk

Godspeed to Wes and his colleagues at Ohio University. I hope that their film is a blockbuster!

Indy Rides Again!

by Pa Rock
Movie Critic

The hat! The whip! The fear of snakes! It's all in the new adventure, and it's all fun! Harrison Ford is reunited with Karen Allen, his love interest from Raiders of the Lost Ark, and their chemistry from the first movie is still sizzles and pops like a pound of cheap bacon. And then there's Shia LaBeouf, their adult love child who looks suspiciously like he will inherit that hat and whip someday, the sinister Cate Blanchett who personifies the Red Menace of the 1950's, and the brilliant John Hurt at his quirky best as an addled archaeologist who leads the group onward through his semi-coherent ramblings.

This is a movie that needs to be seen on the big screen to be fully appreciated. It is a constant explosion of special effects and stunts woven into a grand ballet of cliff-hugging, ant-feeding, and blow dart-dodging terror. But most of all, it is fun!

Welcome back, Indy. Hail fellow, well met!

Rusty Pails #38: The Ruby Bee Caper (Part 1)

by Rocky Macy

I hate being in jail, especially when I didn’t have control of the events that brought me here. As per usual, I am the victim of my friends and their harebrained schemes.

It began last night when I had Heck and Truman over to my place for beanie weenies – and root beer – lots of root beer! I was busy doing the dishes, Truman was on his third or fourth trip to the bathroom, and Heck was asleep in front of some shoot-em-up on television when Baker set to howling. She’s my doorbell. I made it through the front room and pulled the door open just as Judge Rufus T. Redbone was preparing to knock.

“Rusty, I’ve come to show you what the Missus got me for my birthday!” He said as he pushed his way past me and followed his nose through the front room and into the kitchen.

I made my way back to the sink, resisting the urge to ask the scalawag “Whose Missus?” As I concentrated on the dishes I heard the Judge dishing up some beanie weenies. “So,” I finally asked, “What did she get you for your birthday.”

“Look at me,” he ordered. I turned and found the political fool pointing a small, black gadget in my direction. “Smile, and say something profound.”

“So which is it,” I asked. “A tape recorder or a camera?”

“Both,” he shouted almost gleefully. “It’s a video recorder. A movie camera!”

Fat chance. It was smaller than my Brownie Hawkeye! “Put that toy up and eat your beanie weenies so I can finish the dishes. There’s root beer in the ice chest.”

Heck was beginning to stir by the time we finished up in the kitchen. The Judge plopped his behind down in my recliner before I could get to it, so I dragged a kitchen chair in for my behind. The Judge was in the middle of a long dissertation on what his amazing movie camera could do when Truman came walking back from the john. (Truman can’t handle beanies or weenies, and the root beer just aggravated his brewing dyspepsia beyond human tolerance! We all knew to keep him away from open flames when he was in this state!)

Truman parked his skinny behind down in my only other comfortable chair (besides the sofa and the recliner) and the television channel immediately changed. As Truman reached down in under himself to fish out the remote, we were all treated to some toothy, slicked-up announcer telling us that we too could win $10,000 and a trip to Hollywood, California, for a family of four just for making a wacky home movie. This week’s theme, he grinned, had to be small-time crime.

The plug had hit the water and four suckers were fixing to bite!

How to Make a Newspaper Column Successful

by Rocky Macy

(Note: This was published by me in thirteen Ozark newspapers in August of 1989. It was the commemoration of the 100th issue of my genealogy column, Rootbound in the Hills. This particular issue offers a road map, or sorts, on how to promote and grow a newspaper column. --- RM)

This week's column is special - a milestone of sorts - because it is Rootbound's one hundredth issue. That's right! For almost two years Rootbound in the Hills has been helping folks track their ancestors across these old Ozarks...and what a trip it has been!

Getting started wasn't easy. Those early columns, the ones before people started writing to Rootbound, were often conglomerations of hints on how to climb family trees, lists of surnames taken from old public records, and queries about my own ancestors. It took some time for Rootbound to develop more substance and a loyal cadre of readers. The idea of a query-based genealogy column was, after all, fairly new to the Ozarks.

Yet despite the shortcomings of the first few columns, interest did begin to build. A list of surnames of Civil War pensioners from this area in issue number two caught the attention of a tourist who was just passing through. He spotted a familiar name on that list, contacted Rootbound, and discovered that the veteran in question was actually his great-grandfather! A small piece of family history that had been brought to light and preserved. It was a start, but if Rootbound was to succeed, more people had to become involved.

Assistance came from several quarters. Local librarians and courthouse clerks began telling researchers about Rootbound, and the column was plugged in some important publications including The Genealogical Helper and the genealogy columns of The Daily Oklahoman and The Dallas Morning News. Genealogy groups in the area were also cooperative. The Delaware and Ottawa County genealogical societies of Oklahoma each hosted a program about Rootbound in the Hills, as did the Genealogy Friends of the Library in Neosho and the Northwest Arkansas Genealogical Society. The column was becoming known.

The trickle of mail soon hit flood stage. The first one hundred columns have carried queries and other information from two hundred and eight correspondents in thirty-three states. The surnames gleaned from those queries have been sorted into a card file box that now has over thirteen hundred entries. That file, The Ozark Root Box, allows for quick cross-referencing to connect researchers who are working the same surnames.

As Rootbound has matured in style and substance, so too has it grown in circulation and readership. Originally with only one newspaper, the column has gradually found its way into thirteen newspapers in three states. And the mail keeps coming, a good sign that Rootbound is doing more than just taking up space on the printed page.

Writing anything on a regular basis can be a chore, but this particular endeavor is laced with rewards. Highlights of the past ninety-nine issues include winning an award from the Council of Genealogy Columnists (my peers), having the opportunity to pen special remembrances of two of my grandparents on what would have been their one-hundredth birthdays, helping an enthusiastic researcher in Tennessee find the grave of a grand-aunt and contact a cousin that she never knew, and assisting in reuniting a near-centenarian in Joplin with a memory book from her youth. Great moments, all! And there were many little victories as well!

But the highest reward has been meeting so many wonderful people through the mail. Each reader who has taken the time to submit or answer a query, offer assistance, or send a note of thanks, has helped to make this experience worthwhile and so very special!

Thank you, Good Readers, for nurturing Rootbound in the Hills through its formative phase. It couldn't have happened without you. Now let's all put our shoulders to the wheel and get started on the next one hundred columns.

Happy trails!

The "A" Word

by Pa Rock
Opinionator

Hillary Clinton is old. She is older than me and she has led a very full life. And she is tired. It should come as no surprise to anyone, therefore, when she suddenly jams both feet in her mouth as she did yesterday in Sioux Falls. She's old, and she's tired, and she has been relentlessly beating a dead horse for a very long time.

Obama supporters share a common fear. It isn't a fear that he will lose the nomination and slip quietly back into the Senate never to be heard from again. Even if he didn't already have the nomination locked up, which he does, he has brought hope back into the election system and presented us with real and meaningful challenges. He has inspired legions of young people to enter the process with the promise that their participation can mean something great for America and for the world. He has shown them that America can be a much better place, and that she can once again become a beacon of inspiration for the rest of the world. Barack Obama will continue to inspire regardless of his job title.

The fear that Obama supporters share is that he will be killed, that his dream, and ours, will be cut short by an angry fool with a gun.

I watched in near terror last Tuesday night as this young man and his beautiful wife weaved their way through a large and boisterous crowd in Des Moines just as night was falling. People were pressing in from all directions, and the two secret service agents who were in sight would have had a very hard time doing anything to stop somebody from rushing forward with a gun. It was terrifying. "Move," I thought. "Move, move, move!"

Hillary, while prattling on incessantly about sexism, has become the poster girl for the disaffected racist whites. Exit polling in Kentucky showed that two of ten Clinton voters said that they would never vote for Obama because of his race. If two of ten had the cahones to say it out loud, what was the actual percentage? Last week she highlighted her new constituency by making a statement about her supporters being "hard working Americans, white Americans." (Unfortunately for her, McCain will capture the cracker vote in November.)

But what was she thinking yesterday? Why did she think it necessary after stating that Big Bill hadn't sewn up the Democratic nomination in 1992 until the California primary in June, to add as a post script that Bobby Kennedy had not been assassinated until June? Has the wiring between her brain and her mouth been severed?

Hillary and her minions have often said and implied that anything can happen - a la Reverend Wright - that could put her back in contention. But to float an implication that her opponent could be assassinated is well beyond the pale of proper political conduct, at least in America!

I hope that wasn't what she was implying. I hope that she wasn't sending some sort of signal to the crazies that it is time to take matters into their own hands. I truly hope that it was fatigue and old age that allowed that awful word to slip out of her mouth an onto America.

And then to frost the cake, Hillary's apology (of sorts) was lame and ineffectual, and did not even express the courtesy of addressing Barack Obama directly. Poor form, indeed.

Hillary, it is time to pack it in. You are old and you are tired - and you are becoming mentally incontinent or very, very mean!

No Such Thing as a Bad Day

by Pa Rock
Obituariest

Hamilton Jordan, the very young man who crafted the electoral plan that put Jimmy Carter in the White House, battled three different types of cancer over the past twenty years. During that time he worked tirelessly to provide moral support and encouragement to others struggling to overcome the dreaded disease. Jordan liked to tell the story about a visit that he made to a juvenile cancer ward. At one point he stepped to the bedside of a young boy and said, "Hey, kid. Having a bad day?" The boy looked him clearly in the eyes and said, "Mister, there's no such thing as a bad day."

That young man's inspirational rejoinder to Jordan affected him so much that he titled his book about living with cancer No Such Thing as a Bad Day.

Hamilton Jordan lost his two-decade battle with cancer yesterday. His body is dead, but his spirit will live on through the lives of those he touched with love and encouragement to fight for every day.

But It's a Dry Heat!

by Pa Rock
Itinerant Weatherman

Yesterday, the 19th of May in the year 2008, the temperature in Goodyear, Arizona, reached 113 degrees! In Phoenix proper the high was a more modest 110 degrees. The record high temperature in Phoenix for the 19th of May had been 105 degrees - and that mark was set last year! Today, in the early afternoon, it was 105 degrees here, and getting hotter! Dear Leader may say there is no such thing as global warming, but he has Crawford crap oozing out of his jug ears. Global warming is the real deal!

Yes, I knew when I moved to the desert that it would be hot. I expected to spend a couple of months each year suffering under the unrelenting sun. Those months that I expected to suffer were July and August. Nobody told me that I would be able to fry steak and eggs on the sidewalk in the middle of spring!

When God, in Her infinite wisdom, made the Valley of the Sun, I think She saw it strictly as being a playground for scorpions and Gila monsters. Surely She could have had no inkling that Man would be so masochistic (or dumb) as to try and live in the foyer of Hell.

I'd bitch some more, but it's too damned hot!

The Stolen Submarine

by Pa Rock
Seeker of Truth

Nine years ago while visiting Russia with a group of social workers, our tour bus pulled up next to a beautiful modern building that was very out-of-place in the gray, monotonous architecture of Moscow. I asked our tour guide, Cornelius from Great Britain, about that building. "That's the headquarters of Yukos," he explained, "the largest oil company in Russia." He said that Yukos had been owned by the state during the socialist years, but now it was independently owned. "How had that happened?" I asked. He explained that after the fall of the Soviet government, many state assets had simply been appropriated by the people who had been charged with running them for the government. Moscow today, not surprisingly, has the largest per capita population of billionaires on earth.

(Things may be changing. Last year Yukos was seized by the Putin government who had political issues with its "owner." It was later sold at auction to Gazprom, an oil conglomerate that is controlled by the government.)

My friend, Andy Cleeton, had been with me on that trip to Russia, and last week she was with me again when we visited San Diego. One of the attractions that we took in during the California trip was the Maritime Museum (actually several vessels) at the harbor in San Diego. One of the vessels was a Soviet B-39 Attack Submarine, much like the one that was featured in the movie "The Russians are Coming! The Russians are Coming!" As we worked our way through the length of the submarine, I remarked to Andy that I was sure the submarine was stolen.

Back on shore, I had a visit with the lady who was running the souvenir shop for the Maritime Museum. "Hey," I inquired innocently, "Where did you get that sub?"

"We bought it from Vancouver." She replied without blinking.

"Where did Vancouver get it?" I prodded.

"I believe they bought it from Seattle." She was starting to get a little edgy.

"And where did Seattle get it?"

"Well," she replied with some finality, "It obviously came from Russia."

"Yes, it's a Russian sub. I'm sure that it came from Russia. My question is this: how did Russia lose control of it?

And then she blinked. "Well, I don't know exactly, but I've heard that a Russian Naval officer may have sold it after the fall of the Soviet Union."

You bet your sweet bippy he did!

Aunt Mary and Her Girls

by Pa Rock
Poor Relation

When I called my Aunt Mary a few weeks ago to tell her that I was driving out to San Diego, almost the first words out of her mouth were, "You have to see the girls while you are here." The "girls," my cousins Janet and Linda, are native Californians that I hadn't seen in half a century.

The last time that I was in San Diego was in June of 1958. I can remember the month because Janet celebrated her 10th birthday while were were there. I remember our combined families going to a pizza parlor (pizza was new to me at the time) where we watched pizza artisans toss and twirl their dough in the air. Janet and I were getting ready to go into 5th grade, and Linda, I believe, was probably in junior high or starting to high school. Their father, my Uncle Wayne Macy, had died of leukemia the previous year.

That trip was the last time that I had seen Linda. She had gone on to become a very successful teacher with daughters and grandchildren. Janet came to Noel the following summer, 1959, and I had not seen her since then. So my trip to San Diego was going to allow for some major catching up!

We planned on meeting at a certain restaurant in Old Town on the Saturday preceding Mother's Day. I got there early and staked out the restaurant that was unfortunately closed for remodeling. Linda was the first of her group to arrive. I had planned on being with my friend Andy, but she had gone off with some of her friends on another adventure, so I was a single for the day. Linda and I walked past each other a couple of times. I had an inkling that she might be one of my cousins, but wasn't forward enough to ask. She, of course, was looking for a couple.

Then I watched as this blond lady joined several others near the restaurant, and immediately recognized Aunt Mary, whom I have seen several times over the years. She was accompanied by Janet and Janet's husband, Michael. They were a warm and happy group - just what you would expect with family!

We had a very nice lunch at another Mexican restaurant and compressed fifty years into a couple of hours. I talked about my children and passed around a few pictures, and learned about their families. Michael has been a professional musician, and he and Janet are talking seriously about moving to the Ozarks at some future time and living in the Branson vicinity.

My lasting impression of that brief meeting was that Aunt Mary had raised two wonderful girls. Although I only knew my Uncle Wayne briefly, I know that he would have been very proud to see how well they turned out. Now that I know my California relatives better, I plan on visiting again. You can't do better than family!

The Roses and Surfers of I.B.

by Pa Rock
Cultural Explorer

I got off the bus at what I assumed to be roughly the center of Imperial Beach. When I asked the bus driver for directions to the beach, he pointed out the door and said, "Seven or eight blocks that-a-way." So off I marched, that-a-way.

The residential area that I was traversing was about what I expected. Small homes, some neat and some not. Several residences had rusting vehicles or boats parked in the yard, while adjacent homes would be very well maintained. One thing was certain, though, the value of these houses was minuscule compared to property prices just up the road in Coronado. Mrs. John McCain might own two multi-million dollar condos within hiking distance, but I was willing to bet that she had never parked her pretty pumps on the sidewalks of I.B. It was a whole different world.

I was heading down 9th Street when I came upon an Hispanic lady pruning the roses in her yard. Her house was modest, but her abundant rose bushes were in full, intoxicating bloom. "Your roses are beautiful!" I told her as I walked by. "Thank you," she replied. Before I could get past her yard, she stood up and started to engage me in conversation.

It was Sunday, Mother's Day. She told me that she had gone to Guadalajara (Mexico) yesterday to see her mother, because Saturday was Mother's Day in Mexico. She started showing me her roses, and naming them. They were growing all over the yard, and several were in large pots on the porch. There was also a gigantic amaryllis in a pot on the porch that had four gigantic blooms. She told me that she just put the bulb in the pot and gave it plenty of fertilizer. Anyone could do it - in the southernmost coastal city in California! The rose lady told me that she had two sons, and that she had told them she wanted twenty dollars from each of them for Mother's Day so that she could buy more roses.

I made an off-hand comment that I loved the scent of roses - those that haven't had the scent bred out of them. She rushed to a corner of the yard and clipped a fragrant bloom that she then handed to me. "Wait here," she then instructed as she rushed through the gate and into the back yard. She returned with another fragrant bloom from a different rose variety. She named the kinds that I held, and also started naming the others that were close-at-hand. "I have a book," she said, "that tells me all about roses."

Eventually she went back to her pruning, and I walked on that-a-way taking deep whiffs of my roses. The next time I am in I.B. I will be bringing a rose bush to the lady who loves roses.

*********

Along about block seven I still had not even felt a hint of the ocean. I saw a man sitting at a bus stop across the four lanes of 9th Street. "Hey," I yelled, "is that where I can catch the 901 back to Coronado?" "Yes," he yelled back, and then he started walking across the street with a bus schedule in his hand. I walked out and met him in the middle where he gave me the schedule and told me when to expect the bus. When I asked for directions to the beach, he pointed to the upcoming intersection, told me to go right there, and it would be about a mile. (Lying bus driver!)

Well, I had come this far, so I took the right turn and started hiking off the next mile. I passed the fire station, library, and Mar Vista High School and not too long thereafter, spotted the seaside motels.

The beach was almost empty except for a few hardy surfers riding the waves close to the pier. One couple sat in a big hole in the sand and appeared to be playing some version of lick and tickle. The beach itself was covered with patches of seaweed and was nothing like it's highly groomed cousin behind the Hotel Del Coronado. Clearly I.B. lacked the ready resources of Coronado. I watched the surfers for awhile and then headed back.

I had been to I.B., walked its streets, and felt its pulse. The lost-in-time beach community was populated with real people. It had a beat, perhaps a rhythm, and it was much more real than its posh neighbor to the north. I left feeling that HBO had gotten it right.

Sugar

by Pa Rock
Confidence Man

Last week while I was in San Diego I decided to spend a day exploring the seamier end of Coronado Island. The northern end of the "island" (actually a peninsula) is home to the beautiful Del Coronado Hotel, thirty-some retired Naval Admirals (including Jim Morrison's dad), two condos with ocean views owned by Mrs. John McCain, thousands of other parcels of very pricey real estate, and a large naval installation. Four miles to the south at the tip of the "island" is the other economic extreme: Imperial Beach (referred to by the locals as "I.B.").

Last year HBO aired a series about a family of worn-out surfers and their weird, druggie friends who inhabited I.B. The show, John from Cincinnati, bit the dust after just one season, leaving me and the other dozen or so regular viewers feeling devalued and betrayed by corporate America. Ratings trump quality every time!

That morning I stopped by a neighborhood Subway for breakfast before heading south. There was an old Hispanic lady (probably about my age) with dyed red hair and grey roots leaning over the sandwich ingredients and rattling on (en Espanol) about each ingredient to the server. I stood behind her patiently for five minutes or so while she carefully ruled out each option. When she finally left, sans a sub, I placed my order and then asked the server about where to catch the public bus to I.B. The bus stop, he told me, was just around the corner and it ran every half-hour on weekends. The fare was $2.25. "No, no!" his assistant interrupted, "tell them you are a senior and it is only one dollar. I do that all the time!" Gracias, senora. I paid for the subwich and headed out the door to catch the bus.

There was a three-person bench at the bus stop. The red-headed sandwich critic was in the seat nearest to the street, the middle seat was empty, and a beautiful young Weimaraner dog was tied to the railing of the third seat. I considered my options and sat down in the seat to which the Weimaraner was tied. Then the young girls began to descend on the dog like so many Hitchcock birds. "Your dog is beautiful!" they chirped and tweeted. "Thank you." I replied proudly.

Old Red looked at me dumbstruck and asked, in perfect English, "Is that your dog?" "No," I told her honestly. And she began to laugh, and the laughs turned into guffaws! I was suddenly funnier than Leno!

The next flock of girls swooped in and began petting the Weimaraner. "She's wonderful!" They twittered. "What's her name?" "Sugar," I replied politely. "Oh," they cawed merrily, "that's so sweet!"

When the crowd finally flew on by, Sugar and I were able to finish my sandwich in relative peace. Old Red struggled for breath for awhile, but finally got it together without wetting herself. She and I hopped on the bus to I.B., and Sugar was left behind to pleasure the tourists on the classier end of the "island".

Coming Soon: The Roses and Surfers of I.B.

Siss Sreaves

by Rocky Macy
Grandson

(What follows is a tribute to my maternal grandmother that was published in my newspaper genealogy column, Rootbound in the Hills, nineteen years ago in May of 1989. It is dedicated to my children, with love.)

One of the rewarding aspects of writing this column is having the opportunity to occasionally digress through my own family history. It is a pleasure and a privilege to be able to highlight the lives of my forebears who did so much, often in quiet ways, for their friends and neighbors and family.

Last October Rootbound carried a special remembrance of my maternal grandfather, Dan SREAVES, on what would have been his one hundredth birthday. Now, a scant six months later, comes another family milestone - for it was a century ago this week that "Siss", Dan's wife and the center of his life, came into this world.

Nancy Jane "Siss" ROARK was born to Samuel James and Nancy Anthaline (SCARBROUGH) ROARK in McDonald County, MO, on 18 May 1889, the middle child in a family of nine. Though probably sharing the same dreams that many children have of travel and adventure, she and most of her brothers and sisters were destined to spend their entire lives in the Missouri Ozarks.

Siss met Dan sometime in the early part of the twentieth century. The couple married in McDonald County on 12 Mar 1913, and settled down to the quiet rigors of farm life on a place just south of the Newton County line. Their married life was happy, lasting nearly forty years and producing seven fine children.

Although life on the farm was agreeable with Siss, early on she showed a preference for indoor work. Embroidery was one of her specialities, as was cooking. Siss prepared a big country breakfast and dinner (lunch) each day. In fact, the first two meals of the day were generally so large that there were sufficient leftovers to take care of supper.

When Siss did work outside, she could often be found in her garden, an attractive mixture of flowers and vegetables. She was proud of her dahlias and equally pleased with the fact that much of the family's food supply was homegrown. And Siss had definite ideas on how and where to plant. The seeds needed to go in the ground on specific days, regardless of the weather or her husband's friendly advice to the contrary.

Siss SREAVES was a very religious woman and a good neighbor. She served as a midwife, helping to ensure that that her friends' children entered the world as safely as possible. The SREAVES table was always available to others, especially after church on Sunday when the children took it for granted that their parents would bring home guests for the noon meal.

It was on a Sunday after church in the late 1930s when Siss organized one of the biggest parties that the folks on Swars Prairie had ever witnessed. She and her daughters had picked blackberries that spring to earn money for a very special gift for Dan's birthday. They took their secret "pin money" and used it to have an enlargement made of a small photograph of Dan's mother.

When Dan's birthday rolled around that October, Siss and the kids were ready! Using some false pretense, she kept Dan at church after Sunday morning services were over, allowing everyone in the community time to gather at the SREAVES home. And gather they did! There are still some people around who relate with amazement stories of the many neighbors that were assembled to celebrate Dan's birthday. The feasting and good times lasted well into the evening.

Siss started suffering mild strokes in the 1930s soon after her last child was born. But being the tenacious farm woman that she was Siss held on to life for another twenty years. Though often ill, she was able to see each of her children through to maturity, and she had the opportunity to know many of her grandchildren.

I was just shy of being five-years-old when Siss SREAVES passed away in 1953. Although my memories of the time preceding her death are few and faded, I can still see my grandmother, quiet and caring, sitting down at a family gathering to share a piece of pie with her little grandson. We ate with our hands (perhaps the table service had already been packed away), and shared a moment - a moment that has stayed with me as a subtle and enduring reminder of a gentle woman who spent a lifetime caring for others.

It is a legacy that I treasure.

The Del Coronado

by Pa Rock
Eternal Tourist

My friend from Missouri, Andrea Cleeton, and I were in San Diego last week where we stayed at the nation's premier seaside resort, the Del Coronado Hotel. The one hundred-and-twenty-year-old hotel is grand in every sense of the word: beautiful architecture, lavish interiors, world class views, and all of the amenities that the idle rich would expect to encounter. I have made house payments that were considerably less than our per-night room rate, and the Mother's Day brunch was a breath-taking $72 each for adults and $36 per child. But when it comes to wallowing in decadence, who worries about money?

The Del has hosted numerous Presidents starting with Benjamin Harrison who first stayed there in 1891. It has served as the backdrop for movies, the most famous of which was "Some Like It Hot" with Marilyn Monroe, Jack Lemmon, and Tony Curtis in 1958. L. Frank Baum was a frequent guest and supposedly got the idea for the "yellow brick road" in his book, The Wizard of Oz, from a yellow brick sidewalk at the Del. It is a very historic and glamorous place.

Our worst experience was free. Andy is mortally afraid of birds, and to her horror, a mama bird who must have had a nest in the bush that was right outside of our door, would dive bomb each of us as we walked by her abode. Andy finally took to using the sliding glass door that led to the beach for all of her entrances and exits.

And did I mention that the Pacific Ocean rolls up onto a beautiful beach just behind the Del? It's all there: the white sands, the surf, the history, and the glitz. It was a happy extravagance!

The High Cost of Life

by Pa Rock
Kibbitzer

I just returned from a mini-vacation to San Diego. The last time that I was there, I was ten-years-old. It's still a beautiful place, but the times they are a changin'!

The price of a first class stamp went to 42 cents today. The last time that I was in San Diego, the cost of mailing a first class letter had just jumped from three cents to four cents, and people were talking about what an outrage that was!

Also, fifty years ago you could buy gasoline any place for 29 cents a gallon - or less. Today it is selling for over four dollars a gallon in San Diego. I managed to hold my breath and coast into Arizona this afternoon where the gas was a steal at only $3.75 a gallon! I was able to fill my tank for a mere $50.75! When I bought that little car it would barely hold $20.00!

I realized during this short trip that the price of gas is having a major impact on travel and tourism. I make that statement based on the lack of recreational vehicles that were in evidence on the roads that I travelled. My round trip to the coast was approximately 700 miles along a major interstate highway. During all of those miles, I saw less than a dozen RV's! I predict that the high cost of gasoline is going to make the sub prime mortgage racket look like small potatoes by the time it filters out across our already ravaged economy.

Wouldn't it be wonderful if we could find another oil man to serve as President!

Obama '08!

Happy Birthday, Boone!

So, Boone, you're nine,
And doing fine,
You're quite a clever boy!

And I'm so happy
To be your Grandpappy,
My heart is full of joy!

Stay happy, Boone,
I'll see you in June!

Much Love,

Pa Rock

Another Weekend - Big Deal!

by Pa Rock
Chronic Whiner

I'm old enough that the days seem to fly by. I manage to stay very busy at my job, and like the rest of America, I live for the weekends. Unfortunately, the weekends also seem to fly by.

As mentioned in an earlier blog, I am busy retyping my old newspaper genealogy column, Rootbound in the Hills, into a blog format that I will then carefully index six ways from Sunday. There are two-hundred-and-forty-two individual columns in the set, and each is loaded with specific dates, unusual surnames, and strange place locations from the last century that all require careful transcribing and proof-reading. I am also copying from the original clippings, which were banged out by newspaper workers in small towns who didn't have the luxury of working slowly - so I am encountering many spelling mistakes and obvious errors. It is not a chore for the faint-of-heart.

In order to get this project done in my lifetime, I have set a rigorous schedule and am trying very hard to stick to it. I retype one column every weekday evening, and three each Saturday and Sunday. That comes to eleven a week. This morning I just finished number seventy-five, and should be through number seventy-seven by the time I collapse into bed tonight.

The day will also include weekly grocery shopping, a trip to the gym, and a sojourn to Best Buy so they can fix a mess that I made while trying to load a software program onto my new computer. Sunday will be much the same, but the shopping will be replaced with household chores such as doing the laundry and any necessary cleaning. I don't have people or pets to pick up after, but I do have a couple of dozen plants that require regular nurturance and occasional bit of light conversation. If I have letters to write, that usually happens on Sunday also. And then I also try to post to this Ramble most days.

I have considered having a nervous breakdown, but there just isn't time!

Rusty Pails #37: The Hornet's Nest

by Rocky Macy

On those rare occasions when I need any of my tools, I head straight over to Heck Frye’s place to “re-borrow” them. It rained last night, and now that I knew where the new leaks in my roof were, I felt obligated to fix them. My ladder, of course, was at Heck’s.

Heck has been painting his barn for about three years, and it is nearly half-finished. I ain’t saying that he’s lazy, because saying that would demean the word “lazy.” Heck just works at his own pace, which most days is just a tad north of dead!

“It’s out behind the barn, Rusty.” He said as we headed out through the weeds toward is multi-colored barn. Somehow I knew that my expensive, twenty-four foot, solid aluminum, extension ladder would be outside in the weather.

I was watching the ground, looking for snakes of other earth-bound varmints in the weeds, as we stepped around to the backside of the barn. He must have been focused on his feet as well, because neither of us had the sense to look up.

As we reached the ladder, Heck grabbed it and tried to lower the extension. “It’s stuck. Give me a hand here, Rusty.” I grabbed onto the ladder to help, but just as I did a little
panicky voice in my head asked why a perfectly good ladder should be stuck to the barn.

Heck and I looked up at the same time. There, fifteen feet or so directly above our heads, was a two-gallon hornet’s nest cementing the top of the ladder to the barn. We could see dozens of mad hornets launching out of the nest and heading straight toward us!

“Run, fool!” We yelled in unison. I headed right, Heck fled left, and we collided in front of the barn. The hornets were still bombing us!

“The house!” Heck Screamed.

“My truck’s closer!” I screamed back.

We flung ourselves into the cab of my old pickup, the Rust Bucket, and took stock of our situation. I had taken on hit on the arm, and a know that a rattlesnake bite would have been less painful! Heck had been stung on the arm and the lip. His lip was already beginning to swell. He wouldn’t be doing much romancing for a while!

I started up the truck and headed off toward town. As we passed my place, Heck finally asked where we were headed.

“Hardware store!” I snapped angrily. “I’ve gotta get me a ladder!”

“Rusty, you’ve got a perfectly good ladder at my place. Don’t you think that buying a new one is kind of an extravagance?”

“I’m not buying it, buddy. You are!”

Heck had the good sense not to argue – probably because he could see that I was madder than a hornet!

No Calls - Or Else!

When the national "No Call" list was first initiated, I got my name on it the first day. No calls, no problems, it worked wonderfully! I tried in vain to get my Dad to put his name on the list, but he's old and he gets some enjoyment listening to people prattle on about things he has no intention of buying. (I think he also reads his junk mail!) Good for him, but I have more important things on which to waste my time.

I never renewed by "No Call" registration after leaving Noel a few years ago, and until I got to Arizona, it was never a problem. Out here, however, telephone solicitations are a savage business. And what are they selling? Condos. Mondo condos! Every evening I get one or two calls from some chirpy young person who gives their first name, and then follows up with "How are you doing tonight?" And I tell them. Boy howdy, do I tell them! If they can ruin my supper, or television, or sleep, I want the satisfaction of knowing that my sadistic, blood-drenched response, always personalized with the use of the cretin's name, may weave its way into his or her dreams late some night when its very, very dark.

This week I finally relented and signed up for the "No Call" list at: www.nocall.gov. It will take 30 days to kick into effect. Until then, sleep well my lovely telemarketers! I'm coming for you - and I have a chainsaw!

Lee Nida

One of my best friends during my wild and wayward youth was an old man (probably about the age that I am now!) named Lee Nida (pronounced “Ni-dee”) who lived in a ramshackle cabin on the side of a hill in my home town of Noel, Missouri. Lee was a town character that I had known most of my life.

I spent a couple of summers working for the city of Noel when I was in high school and college. On most days Lee and I were the entire work crew. Our supervisor, a really old rascal named Jim Woody, would drive up and check on us at various times during the day to make sure we weren’t goofing off. Lee could lean on his shovel or rake for hours smoking and philosophizing, but he had an uncanny sense of when Woody was about to make an appearance. I would be enthralled with one of his outrageous tales, when he would suddenly stop and say that it was time to get back to work. Sure enough, Woody would soon come puttering along to ensure that we were busy.

Lee had a couple of fingers missing on his right hand, possibly due to frostbite because he lived very primitively, so he had to roll his cigarettes with his left hand only. That skill alone earned the respect of many teens in the 1960’s, and, try as we might, my friends and I had to struggle to roll a decent smoke with two good hands!

Lee also liked cold beer. He would make a purchase for any teen who would transport him out of town to the liquor store and buy Lee a six pack for his trouble. Most small towns had a guy or two like that back then, and most parents knew what was going on. The activity was tolerated, and any parent who was forced to comment on the situation would reply with something like: “Kids will be kids.” Or, “At least he’s not doing drugs.”

After I hit the magic age of twenty-one, one of my favorite activities when I was home from college was to go out and buy a twelve-pack or two and drive up to Lee’s cabin to spend the afternoon. Lee had electricity to run his radio and refrigerator, but those were his only modern conveniences. He had no water, and a trip to the bathroom meant a trip out behind the cabin so as to be out of view of the highway below. He kept an old barrel under the eve of the cabin to collect rain water for bathing. The less it rained, the riper Lee became!

The cabin, a one-room affair, was dirty – greasy, grimy dirty – but I could sit at his old kitchen table for hours and listen to Lee’s unique take on life. He was a strong Republican and would go on and on about how no wars had ever been started by a Republican. One of the city fathers, who was dead by the time that Lee and I became friends, had been Lee’s employer for menial jobs over the years. Any time an election came along, this small town plutocrat would gather up all of his employees and take them to the polls and tell them to vote Republican. Lee couldn’t read or write, but he knew an elephant when he saw one! After all of his workers had voted, the city father would take them to the tavern as a reward. Chicago politics didn’t have a thing over the Noel machine!

Lee died while I was in the army serving on Okinawa, so it was sometime during 1972 or 1973. My mother wrote and said that he had been found in his cabin several days after his death. I didn’t know how old he was, and I am fairly certain that he didn’t know either. He had spent his entire life never traveling more that a few miles from Noel. He had never married and claimed no children. Lee did have a sister and nephew in Noel that he didn’t claim, but as far as I know there was no other family.

There weren’t many around to mourn the death of Lee Nida, but I did. He was my friend.

Patriotism

I didn't really need a new computer, but the devil led me into Best Buy anyway last Saturday evening and marched me straight to the back of the store where the shiny new laptops were on display and blinking seductively. A young man wearing the company shirt approached and asked if he might be of service. I told him that I wanted to look at the laptops, but that I definitely would not be buying during this visit. The young man, his name was Matt, assured me that he did not work on commission and that he would be glad to take the time to answer my questions.

Matt asked about my computer needs, and I carefully outlined the massive databases of useless information that I have compiled, along with my new-found love of blogging. I told him that I wanted a computer that I could take anywhere and connect to the Internet upon getting there. We looked at everything, with Matt carefully stating the pros and cons of each machine. Eventually the selection narrowed to one in the mid-price range that could definitely kick some cyber-butt.

It was sometime later as we were discussing software that Matt asked me what I did for a living. After stating that I was a social worker at Luke AFB, he looked surprised and said that he was in the Air Force and stationed at Luke - Best Buy was his part-time, second job. As I thought about this young airman (actually he was a staff sergeant) serving his country full-time and then moonlighting to get ahead, I realized that I was dealing with a true patriot. I told him that he had made a sale.

Patriotism isn't about guns, or religion, or lapel pins, or even Old Glory. Patriotism is about what you do for others. John F. Kennedy had it right about not asking what your country could do for you, but rather what you could do for your country. How did we lose that spark of idealism? How did we go from the grandeur of JFK to the smallness of Bush and his cronies?

America has gone off the tracks in recent years. We are now focused on getting instead of giving, greed instead of Christian charity, cynicism instead of hope...and we are poorer for it.

Another Road Movie

Road movies have been a staple in the Hollywood plot formulary since Bob and Bing perfected the concept in the 1940's and 1950's. Two guys travelling to exotic locales and having comic misadventures along the way. Films like The Road to Morocco, The Road to Zanzibar, and The Road to Bali were funny and easy to enjoy. And, they were films that the whole family could watch.

And then there was Ishtar...

This weekend I watched the 21st century version of a road movie: Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo. The movie begins on the morning after the conclusion of their last cinematic adventure, Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle. In the first film the boys, righteously stoned, spend the entire night driving around New Jersey trying to get to a White Castle while encountering all kinds of obstacles to their quest: a college party, having their car stolen by Neil Patrick Harris (Doogie Houser), going to jail, breaking out of jail, and hang gliding. Harold is also suffering from an unrequited love for a beautiful girl who lives in their apartment building. As the film ends, she is flying off to Amsterdam for three weeks.

The second movie begins the next day with Harold and Kumar preparing to follow their neighbor to Amsterdam. Unfortunately, they are pegged as terrorists during the flight, given a summary butt-chewing by a room full of Homeland Security types, and shipped off to Guantanamo where they manage to promptly escape. The remainder of the film focuses on their trek across the southern United States in search of a person who can "fix" their situation with the government. They again encounter Neil Patrick Harris who leads them into misadventures in a Texas whorehouse, and they manage to stay stoned for the majority of the film.

This, of course, isn't a film for children or uptight adults. But for anyone who ever wondered what it would be like to sit around the ranch at Crawford and smoke weed with the President (and who hasn't?), this movie, like the first, is a lot of fun!

Sebastian Update

My daughter, Molly, included the following paragraph in an email that she sent to me yesterday:

Sebastian's top two teeth are really coming in. We met Scott at the mall for lunch today. After Scott went back to work Sebastian and I strolled the mall. There was a lady in the Gymboree store that upset him by trying to play peek-a-boo with him. He started crying and screaming.. and staring her down. Everywhere she went in the store his eyes followed. When their eyes met he would start screaming and crying again. We had to leave the store! After that he was fine. I was holding him and he put his hand out in the air.. waving at everyone that walked by.. and laughing. People thought it was funny.

Little Sebastian will be one-year-old on July 5th. I really miss Molly and her wonderful family.

Pa Rock

Rusty Pails #36: Queenie Finds a Home

by Rocky Macy

Living in the country ain’t all sunshine and roses. There’s plenty thorns in the greenery, and I usually manage to find most of them! One thing about country life that particularly galls me is the propensity of stray critters that come ambling down my lane. It seems that when people get tired of their pets, they dump them out in the country so they can lead idyllic lives in some sylvan dell.

I’ve had more than my fair share of strays show up on my doorstep. Generally I feed them and then try to find them a home. Sometimes I wind up taking them to the local animal shelter and pay the fees that their original owners avoided by bringing them to me. Baker, who was in labor when she arrived at my back door, was already part of my family by the time her thirteen puppies were ready for new homes, so she stayed. I also kept Shadetree Mike’s calf, Annie, because he had the courtesy to ask if he could dump her on me – and also because Baker took a shine to her.

But no more! I have taken a vow that I will no longer care for other people’s castoffs. Old Rusty is done with being a welcome mat! Well, at least I was until yesterday afternoon.

It was getting late, and I had fallen asleep in my lawn chair while watering my small garden. My old hose has developed a few leaks over the years, probably because I keep forgetting to take it in during the winter. At the time that I nodded off, a couple of those leaks began to fill a big depression in my driveway.

I was dreaming about making the world’s most delicious Rustwich when a drumming sound began to weave itself into my dream. Knowing that it was about time to go in and start supper, I lazily propped open an eye to see who was beating the tom-tom. There, staring back at me at eye level, were two soft brown eyes and a big beak.

I was suddenly wide awake staring at a monster bird who was plopped down and lounging lazily in the lake that my leaky hose had made. As I struggled to get out of my chair, I fell over backwards. Then fighting my way out of the chair, I managed to trip the trigger on the hose and wound up giving myself a good soaking!

I ran toward the barn with the lawn chair in one hand and the hose in the other. When I thought that I might be safely out of reach, I glanced over my shoulder and saw that the big bird was still enjoying her bath.

Baker showed up about that time, better late than never, and quickly assessed the situation. She ambled over to the monster bird as though it was the most normal thing in the world to find bathing in your driveway. After taking a leisurely stroll around our visitor, Baker decided to gather more information by sticking her nose where most dogs do when they want to strike up a friendship.

That did it! The bird, all six feet of her, jumped up and looked way down on the bothersome dog. I could tell that one swift kick from those mighty legs would send poor Baker flying over the house. The bird really cranked up her noisy chest thumping, Baker began a low growl, and Old Rusty backed up even further. The stand-off was broken when Baker began barking. The bird turned and let Baker direct her toward the gate to the pasture. When she stopped to scoop up a couple of my cherry tomatoes, I rushed over and opened the gate. After a little more direction from Baker, our visitor lumbered into the pasture and I closed the gate behind her.

Today I learned that my new freeloader is an emu. Several years ago people were going to get rich by raising emus, but when that didn’t happen, some turned theirs loose. And, like every other neglected soul in these parts, this one found her way to my house!

I’m calling her Queenie, but the next time the vet is out this way I’ll find out if I need to change the name to King. She is very gentle and likes to be sprayed with the hose, and she has already cleaned out all of the cherry tomatoes within a neck’s reach of the pasture fence. But the best part is that Queenie is quickly bonding with Annie and Baker. If old Rusty can have his friends, I reckon other critters should be able to have theirs!

Young at Heart

Every now and then when I get to feeling down, or worse yet, old, something will come along to lift my spirits. Tonight, after slogging away at retyping another installment of my old genealogy column - featured on my other blog - I plopped down in front of the television to veg awhile. And there, as if ordered from some cosmic menu for spiritual rejuvenation, was a double dose of Jay and Silent Bob: Dogma and Clerks II! I am revived and made well! (Just in time, too, because Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo opens in theatres this weekend.) You're only as old as the movies you watch!

Speaking of Harold and Kumar, there is a petition on the Internet to bring a White Castle to Phoenix. There are only eleven signatures. I tried to sign, but couldn't get it to accept me. But I remain serene and smiling, though, because I am headed to the movies this weekend!

Bring on that mind-numbing typing!

The Exiles

Thomas Macy, one of the original settlers of Nantucket Island, was my ancestor, though surprisingly not through my paternal Macy line, but instead through my maternal Sreaves line. His move to the island is recounted below by Quaker poet, John Greenleaf Whittier.

The Exiles
by
John Greenleaf Whittier

The goodman sat beside his door
One sultry afternoon,
With his young wife singing at his side
An old and goodly tune.

A glimmer of heat was in the air,--
The dark green woods were still;
And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud
Hung over the western hill.

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud
Above the wilderness,
As some dark world from upper air
Were stooping over this.

At times the solemn thunder pealed,
And all was still again,
Save a low murmur in the air
Of coming wind and rain.

Just as the first big rain-drop fell,
A weary stranger came,
And stood before the farmer's door,
With travel soiled and lame.

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope
Was in his quiet glance,
And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed
His tranquil countenance,--

A look, like that his Master wore
In Pilate's council-hall:
It told of wrongs, but of a love
Meekly forgiving all.

"Friend! wilt thou give me shelter here?"
The stranger meekly said;
And, leaning on his oaken staff,
The goodman's features read.

"My life is hunted,--evil men
Are following in my track;
The traces of the torturer's whip
Are on my aged back;

"And much, I fear, 't will peril thee
Within thy doors to take
A hunted seeker of the Truth,
Oppressed for conscience' sake."

Oh, kindly spoke the goodman's wife,
"Come in, old man!" quoth she,
"We will not leave thee to the storm,
Whoever thou mayst be."

Then came the aged wanderer in,
And silent sat him down;
While all within grew dark as night
Beneath the storm-cloud's frown.

But while the sudden lightning's blaze
Filled every cottage nook,
And with the jarring thunder-roll
The loosened casements shook,

A heavy tramp of horses' feet
Came sounding up the lane,
And half a score of horse, or more,
Came plunging through the rain.

"Now, Goodman Macy, ope thy door,--
We would not be house-breakers;
A rueful deed thou'st done this day,
In harboring banished Quakers."

Out looked the cautious goodman then,
With much of fear and awe,
For there, with broad wig drenched with rain
The parish priest he saw.

Open thy door, thou wicked man,
And let thy pastor in,
And give God thanks, if forty stripes
Repay thy deadly sin."

"What seek ye?" quoth the goodman;
"The stranger is my guest;
He is worn with toil and grievous wrong,--
Pray let the old man rest."

"Now, out upon thee, canting knave!"
And strong hands shook the door.
"Believe me, Macy," quoth the priest,
"Thou 'lt rue thy conduct sore."

Then kindled Macy's eye of fire
"No priest who walks the earth,
Shall pluck away the stranger-guest
Made welcome to my hearth."

Down from his cottage wall he caught
The matchlock, hotly tried
At Preston-pans and Marston-moor,
By fiery Ireton's side;

Where Puritan, and Cavalier,
With shout and psalm contended;
And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer,
With battle-thunder blended.

Up rose the ancient stranger then
"My spirit is not free
To bring the wrath and violence
Of evil men on thee;

"And for thyself, I pray forbear,
Bethink thee of thy Lord,
Who healed again the smitten ear,
And sheathed His follower's sword.

"I go, as to the slaughter led.
Friends of the poor, farewell!"
Beneath his hand the oaken door
Back on its hinges fell.

"Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay,"
The reckless scoffers cried,
As to a horseman's saddle-bow
The old man's arms were tied.

And of his bondage hard and long
In Boston's crowded jail,
Where suffering woman's prayer was heard,
With sickening childhood's wail,

It suits not with our tale to tell;
Those scenes have passed away;
Let the dim shadows of the past
Brood o'er that evil day.

"Ho, sheriff!" quoth the ardent priest,
"Take Goodman Macy too;
The sin of this day's heresy
His back or purse shall rue."

"Now, goodwife, haste thee!" Macy cried.
She caught his manly arm;
Behind, the parson urged pursuit,
With outcry and alarm.

Ho! speed the Macys, neck or naught,--
The river-course was near;
The plashing on its pebbled shore
Was music to their ear.

A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch,
Above the waters hung,
And at its base, with every wave,
A small light wherry swung.

A leap--they gain the boat--and there
The goodman wields his oar;
"Ill luck betide them all," he cried,
"The laggards on the shore."

Down through the crashing underwood,
The burly sheriff came:--
"Stand, Goodman Macy, yield thyself;
Yield in the King's own name."

"Now out upon thy hangman's face!"
Bold Macy answered then,--
"Whip women, on the village green,
But meddle not with men."

The priest came panting to the shore,
His grave cocked hat was gone;
Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung
His wig upon a thorn.

"Come back,--come back!" the parson cried,
"The church's curse beware."
"Curse, an' thou wilt," said Macy, "but
Thy blessing prithee spare."

"Vile scoffer!" cried the baffled priest,
"Thou 'lt yet the gallows see."
"Who's born to be hanged will not be drowned,"
Quoth Macy, merrily;

"And so, sir sheriff and priest, good-by!"
He bent him to his oar,
And the small boat glided quietly
From the twain upon the shore.

Now in the west, the heavy clouds
Scattered and fell asunder,
While feebler came the rush of rain,
And fainter growled the thunder.

And through the broken clouds, the sun
Looked out serene and warm,
Painting its holy symbol-light
Upon the passing storm.

Oh, beautiful! that rainbow span,
O'er dim Crane-neck was bended;
One bright foot touched the eastern hills,
And one with ocean blended.

By green Pentucket's southern'slope
The small boat glided fast;
The watchers of the Block-house saw
The strangers as they passed.

That night a stalwart garrison
Sat shaking in their shoes,
To hear the dip of Indian oars,
The glide of birch canoes.

The fisher-wives of Salisbury--
The men were all away--
Looked out to see the stranger oar
Upon their waters play.

Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw
Their sunset-shadows o'er them,
And Newbury's spire and weathercock
Peered o'er the pines before them.

Around the Black Rocks, on their left,
The marsh lay broad and green;
And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned,
Plum Island's hills were seen.

With skilful hand and wary eye
The harbor-bar was crossed;
A plaything of the restless wave,
The boat on ocean tossed.

The glory of the sunset heaven
On land and water lay;
On the steep hills of Agawam,
On cape, and bluff, and bay.

They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann,
And Gloucester's harbor-bar;
The watch-fire of the garrison
Shone like a setting star.

How brightly broke the morning
On Massachusetts Bay!
Blue wave, and bright green island,
Rejoicing in the day.

On passed the bark in safety
Round isle and headland steep;
No tempest broke above them,
No fog-cloud veiled the deep.

Far round the bleak and stormy Cape
The venturous Macy passed,
And on Nantucket's naked isle
Drew up his boat at last.

And how, in log-built cabin,
They braved the rough sea-weather;
And there, in peace and quietness,
Went down life's vale together;

How others drew around them,
And how their fishing sped,
Until to every wind of heaven
Nantucket's sails were spread;

How pale Want alternated
With Plenty's golden smile;
Behold, is it not written
In the annals of the isle?

And yet that isle remaineth
A refuge of the free,
As when true-hearted Macy
Beheld it from the sea.

Free as the winds that winnow
Her shrubless hills of sand,
Free as the waves that batter
Along her yielding land.

Than hers, at duty's summons,
No loftier spirit stirs,
Nor falls o'er human suffering
A readier tear then hers.

God bless the sea-beat island!
And grant forevermore,
That charity and freedom dwell
As now upon her shore!

Rusty Pails #35 The Pearl Jam

by Rocky Macy

Every spring Esther Pearl drafts me to run her junk shop while she hightails it off to her family reunion – the Pearl Jam. This year was no exception. Her cousin-fueled catastrophes generally run from Friday through Sunday, and by the time they are over, Esther and I are both ready for a break.

I arrived on Friday morning just in time to help Esther stow her last suitcase into the big trunk of her Edsel. I couldn’t help but notice that there were two other suitcases of equal heft already in the trunk.

“Esther,” I laughed. “I wouldn’t wear that many clothes in a year!”

“A girl’s got to be prepared, Rusty. Besides, you ain’t got that many clothes.”

Well, she had me there. I could put my whole wardrobe in a grocery bag and still have room for a six pack of root beer!

Esther turned to give me marching orders as she was about to drive off. “Rusty,” she said, starting the engine. “Don’t rearrange stuff like you did last year. Junk ain’t supposed to be alphabetical.”

“That was Heck’s doing,” I protested.”

“And no loafers. This here’s a business.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, snapping a salute. If Shadetree Mike and the boys wanted to move the domino game over here, they wouldn’t technically be loafing. “Anything else?” Stupid question!

“And no more bartering! I darned near never got rid of that pair of goats that you traded for last year.”

“They were worth more than that old sofa.”

“Maybe,” she conceded. “But that sofa never ate my best rosebushes or head-butted the mailman.”

“No more goats. Check. Is that it?” I was spitting out stupid questions faster than Judge Redbone could kiss babies!

“Nope,” Esther replied. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee and a bucket of chili simmering on the stove – for you and all of the loafers that ain’t gonna be here.”

“And root beer?”

“A case for every day that I’ll be gone. What type of hostess do you take me for, anyway?”

“The best, Esther. The very best!”

Auction Tip: Examine every item before the bidding starts. Bargains aren’t accidents.

Army Life (2)

Ft. Eustis, Virginia, is located on the James River about five miles from historic Williamsburg. It is close to Yorktown, Jamestown, Ft. Monroe, Ft. Lee, Newport News, Norfolk, and Virginia Beach. I had been a history major in college, and being assigned to a post in historic Virginia was a stroke of luck. As I arrived at Ft. Eustis in April of 1971, I was determined to make the most of being thrust into the highly historical area.

I was going to Ft. Eustis to complete the Army's 9-week basic Transportation Corps Officer's course. I lived in a BOQ (Bachelor's Officer Quarters) that was something like a glorified college dorm, only there weren't as many restrictions. The other guys in my class all lived in that same BOQ. Those who were married left their wives at home during the training.

I rembember that I had two good friends in that class, Ron (?) from Cannonapolis, NC (where they made Cannon towels) and Joe Spagna who was from Delaware or Rhode Island or one of the smaller northeastern states. The three of us found a roadside dive that had really good food, and we would drive out there most nights and chow down on the house special. The spaghetti was a particular favorite of ours. We also did a few weekend trips to Virginia Beach.

The Officer's Club was a new experience for me. We would sit around one of the bars on weekends and drink beer and watch TV. I remember sitting in that bar with a group of friends watching the Tricia Nixon and Edward Cox get married on the White House lawn. That wedding had a lot of history in attendance: Alice Roosevelt Longworth, Teddy's daughter, was there, as was Martha Mitchell who was soon to be famous during the Watergate Era. Mrs. Mitchell, the wife of Attorney General John Mitchell, had an alcohol issue that eventually was a factor in ending the presidency of Richard Nixon. She showed up in a flamboyant dress and hat (orange, if memory serves) that one TV announcer jokingly said made her a frontrunner for best costume.

The queen of the Officer's Club was an oriental lady named Peaches. She ran the place, and was always there to commisserate with any young man who wanted to share his troubles.

Ft. Eustis was, and still is, the Army's transportation center. It is located on the James River. The 558th Transportation Company (of which I would become executive officer three years later) has a floating machine shop whose mission was to make marine repairs on the water. The post also had its own small railroad called the MGB (Main Gate and Back). Our classes also had a strong emphasis on map reading, convoys, and truck transportation - skills that would serve me well at my first actual duty station.

Daniel Alexander Sreaves

by Rocky Macy

This piece was written for my newspaper genealogy column, Rootbound in the Hills, to commerate the 100th anniversary of my grandfather, Dan Sreaves. It has now been nearly 120 years since his birth. Of Dan's seven children, only my Uncle Floyd is still with us.

This week's column is dedicated to the memory of my grandfather, Dan SREAVES, one of the finest people I've ever known. Special thanks are extended to three of his children (Ruth MARBLE, Christine DOBBS, and Floyd SREAVES) for sharing their memories and reflections about Granddad.

Daniel Alexander SREAVES: 28 Oct 1888 - 29 Sep 1970

The Ozarks were ablaze in their flaming fall glory, much as they are today. Grover CLEVELAND was in the White House, but within a couple of weeks he would be defeated for reelection by Benjamin HARRISON. Folks in the cities were discussing the tariff and the huge U.S. Treasury surplus of cash, while their country cousins were more concerned with practical matters, like whether to expect a repeat of the past winter's awful blizzard.

It was near Huntsville, Arkansas, a century ago this week that Alex and Mary Jane SREAVES welcomed their first child into the world. The boy, Dan, would spend twelve years in the hills of Madison County playing, going to school, working on the farm, and developing the self-reliance and strong characted needed to stand him well over the rough trails of life.

Family legend has it that Alex SREAVES had a violent argument with an unstable neighbor in 1901. Whatever the case, Alex did gather his family into two covered wagons and head for Missouri that year. Mary Jane's brother, Tommy ELLIS, drove the second wagon. The small group of adventurers walked, rode, and camped out for three days and nights enroute to their new home in Anderson, Missouri. Before long, however, the family again pulled up stakes and went to an area between Goodman and Seneca, MO, known as Swars Prairie. It was on this prairie that Dan SREAVES spent most of the rest of his life.

Dan married Nancy Jane "Sis" ROARK on 13 March 1912 in McDonald County. This union brought forth seven children: Harold Dean, Mary Ruth (Mrs. Fred MARBLE), Ned Roark (married Gwendolyn WALLACE), Ruby Florine (Mrs. Garland MACY), Virgie Christine (Mrs. A.G. "Bob" DOBBS), Betty Lou (Mrs. Dalton MACY), and Floyd Edgar (married Shirley MEANS). Dan and Sis also raised her nephew, Ivan ROARK.

The SREAVES family attended church and Sunday School regularly. Dan always tithed, even during times when it seem as though the money just wasn't there, and for years he was instrumental in providing the necessary financial support to keep the doors open at the small Swars Prairie Methodist Church. (My mother, Florine, told me on several occasions that there were so many SREAVES in that small church that the hymn Bringing in the Sheeves would often be sung as Bringing in the SREAVES!) Throughout his life, Dan sought counsel in the Bible before making important decisions.

Dan SREAVES was a farmer, and at times he supplemented the modest farm income by hauling milk and driving a school bus. He and his brother, Jess, were also sorghum producers. Dan had a special filtration process that used local red clay to ultimately render a clear, bitterless sorghum. He would load the sorghum into his old Model-T Ford and take it to stores in Joplin and the surrounding area. People always knew that the SREAVES name of sorghum meant quality.

The devotion that Dan SREAVES had toward his wife never wavered. Sis died in 1953, leaving her husband to endure a period of grief and loneliness. But Dan was not destined to live out the remainder of his life in solitude. He eventually married a widow, Martha THOMPSON ROARK, who had been his childhood sweetheart. There are still people in Seneca who remember Dan pushing Martha down the street in a wheelbarrow on their wedding day!

Dan SREAVES made two significant pilgrimages during his later years. Both were life-long dreams. In the early 1960s his daughter, Christine, and her family took him back to Huntsville. It was the only time that he ever returned to his birthplace. After much searching he found his old schoolhouse well hidden in an overgrowth of Arkansas brambles. The little building was being used to store hay. He also was able to locate a childhood friend while on this trip. Dan and his buddy from yesteryear visited in the man's yard until well after dark.

The other important trek was to California. During hard times the family would often say, perhaps only half-jokingly, that they might just sell out and move to California. They never made the move, but in the summer of 1970 Dan, Martha, and his granddaughter, Sharon SREAVES, did fly to Los Angeles to visit his daughter, Ruth, and her family. And what a wonderful time they had! Dan kicked off his shoes to wade in the Pacific Ocean, and he even rode the rides at Disneyland!

Dan SREAVES passed away quietly just a few weeks after returning from the west coast. The crowd that gathered at the little church on Swars Prairie for the services was so immense that loudspeakers had to be set up outside for the ones who were unable to find seating inside. With the same minister who had buried Sis officiating, and grandsons serving as pallbearers, the funeral was a fond and emotional farewell to a wonderful man. It was as if the many kindnesses that Dan had shown to others throughout his lifetime had been summoned forth as mourners.

The SREAVES name still meant quality!

Army Life (1)

I entered the U.S. Army thirty-seven years ago today. My first duty station was Ft. Eustis, Virginia. I had left my hometown of Noel, Missouri, two days earlier. I remember pulling into Don Davis's Phillips 66 station and filling up as I was leaving town. Don was an institution in Noel, and his wife, Boonetta, had been my fifth grade teacher. He had served in World War II in Europe and had been personally decorated by Charles DeGaulle, yet that was an achievement that he never bragged, or even talked, about. When I told Don that I was leaving for the Army, he pulled me aside and told me how proud he was of me. He said that I would make friends in the Army that I would know for the rest of my life.

During the following four years I would be stationed on three continents, get married and become a father, and meet people from all over the United States and the world. And, yes, I still have good friends that I met while serving in the Army.

Rusty Pails #34 Shadetree Mike's Grand Plan

by Rocky Macy

When Shadetree Mike works up a sweat, it’s usually from exercising his imagination.

Last week the domino discourse at the Pump and Git was interrupted by Mike’s sudden pronouncement that he was making plans for his retirement. (Ermine, as she raised one of Mike’s feet to make a pass with her mop, responded that if Mike gets any more “retired,” she’s sending for the undertaker.) Mike ignored his Bread-and-Butter with a skill that can only come with decades of practice, and proceeded to tell the group about a business venture that he was considering for his golden years.

“The future,” declared Mike to everyone except his Missus, “ain’t in the stock market, it’s in the flea market.”

Mike’s sort of like a pet volcano, liable to pop off at any time and spew most anything. The folks at the domino table are so used to his surprises that this latest blast barely caused a ripple in the conversation.

Mike persisted. “I’ve been thinking about what this country needs, really needs, and I’ve decided flea markets are the answer!”

“Why’s that, Mike?” Some fool asked.

“Because, Rusty, they’re fun places to shop.” Mike leisurely dominoed as he continued. “The people that go to flea markets don’t know what they’re looking for, and they usually buy plenty of it.

“Granted. But Sprung Hinge already has three flea markets and Esther’s Pearls and Swine.” Despite knowing better, my interest was starting to percolate. “What’s yours going to have that the others don’t?”

“You’re thinking too ordinary, Rusty. I’m not talking about just one flea market. I’m fixing to open a chain. We’ll clean out every yard sale and auction in the country and stock our shelves with America’s finest seconds.”

I couldn’t help noticing that the venture had expanded subtly from “I” to “we”. “What’s my part in this operation going to be, Mike?”

“Why, Rusty Pails, you’ll be our chief buyer. Our stores will be filled with the treasures that you drag in from the sales.

“And what will we call our chain?”

“Flea Mart!”

I knew that he wasn’t serious all along. Where would Ermine find time to run a chain store? And me? I’m just going to walk my old trails and leave chain stores to the folks who haven’t learned to do the sales!

Auction tip: If you’re planning on paying for auction purchases by check, let the cashier know before you do any bidding. Taking a few minutes to learn the rules of payment might save a big embarrassment later in the day.

Rusty Pails #33 The Brunt of the Storm

by Rocky Macy

Heck Frye’s got a lot of good qualities - leastways, two or three – but dependability ain’t one of them. Just look at the catastrophe he nearly caused by driving me to the auction last Saturday.

The fact that it was fixing to storm caught everyone by surprise. As people were scurrying to pay off their purchases and hit the road, I noticed with a sudden panic that Heck was nowhere to be seen. To make matters worse, I spied Gladys Clench smiling across the crowd in my direction and waving her car keys!

I cautiously circled the group that remained, attempting to keep Gladys in my sights and at a safe distance. Try as I might, I couldn’t find nary a one of my cronies! Heck had probably slipped back into Sprung Hinge to entertain the new waitress at the “Spit and Whittle,” but that didn’t excuse the rest of the gang from not being there when on of the troops was in imminent danger! Hope was fading fast, when, all at once, Fate rolled into the picture.

“Now here’s a classic! The auctioneer bragged as he wheeled out a bicycle that could have been used by Gramma Pinkins when she started school. “Who will start the bidding at five dollars?”

“Ten!” I yelled.

Gladys Clench ain’t the smartest person in town, but even she could figure out what I was up to.

“Fifteen,” she chirped merrily.

“Twenty!” I shot back.

Gladys, with her innocent smile pasted firmly in place, tried to pound me into submission. “Fifty dollars!”

The few people who were left had taken root as they watch the insane bidding duel. “Seventy-five,” I thundered. “I need that bike!”

“One hundred,” she answered. “So do I!”

Reaching down into my overalls, I pulled out my wallet and took inventory of my finances. Seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents coupled with four grocery coupons was the best I could muster, and I was saving those coupons for Truman. Under normal circumstances, that stake would have bought at least two bicycles like the one that was on the block, but not today. It was time to start walking.

As I turned to leave I was almost run down by Heck Frye and his wandering truck. “Get in, pal,” he yelled. It’s fixing to storm!”

“I know,” I laughed, looking back at an angry Gladys who was counting out her money to the sale clerk, “but we’ve got plenty of time. The brunt of the storm’s riding in on a bicycle!”

Auction tip: If you can’t use it, you don’t need it.

The Sad Ballad of Randy Leach

by Rocky Macy

Twenty years ago yesterday, April 15th 1988, a young high school senior in Kansas told his parents goodnight and headed out for a pre-graduation party at a friend's house. That was the last they ever saw of him.

That young man, Randy Leach, was an only child, and, by all accounts a fairly normal kid. He had attended school in Linwood, KS, from kindergarten through high school, and most of his friends had gone to that same small school for all those years also. Randy was part of a close family in a very close community. He played basketball, did well in school, and worked hard. His dad had just bought him a new John Deere lawn tractor, and Randy had spent his final afternoon at home mowing a neighbor's yard. He was excited about the new mower and the income opportunity that it provided. He was also excited about the used Mustang that his parents had purchased as a gift for his high school graduation. The Mustang was being refurbished in a local body shop.

Randy Leach was a good kid living in a good community.

But changes were happening in rural Kansas, and much of rural America, in the late 1980's. Drugs were becoming commonplace in small towns like Linwood, and rougher elements were heading out of the inner cities and into the suburbs and beyond. At that particular time, there was also a lot of talk about cults and Satanism having an impact on youth.

A new girl enrolled in Randy's school during his junior year. It was her mother who hosted the pre-graduation party the night of his disappearance. Everyone who was anyone at Linwood High, and from neighboring towns, went to that party. The girl, who had moved to Linwood from Kansas City, also invited several of her urban friends to join in the fun. The result was a large crowd of probably over a hundred young people, drinking, and probably some drugging, around a large bonfire.

People who saw Randy at the party said that he appeared to be very impaired. He was last seen in the girl's house around two a.m. waiting to use the bathroom. Friends were supposed to drive him home, but reportedly couldn't find him when it came time to leave.

Harold and Alberta Leach began the search for their son at six a.m. the next morning when they realized that he had not returned home. In the ensuing twenty years, they have heard lots of gossip and theories, and chased down hundreds of false leads, but they have learned nothing of what became of their only child. They have talked to psychics, argued with lawmakers, prodded law enforcement officials, made public appeals, offered rewards, and opened their homes and hearts to hundreds of strangers in the desperate hope that somehow a breakthrough would occur. But there has been no breakthrough.

My youngest son, Tim, and I met the Leaches two years ago when Tim wrote a play about Randy's disappearance for his master's thesis at the University of Kansas. That play, "Leaves of Words," was performed to packed houses for three performances in Lawrence in October of 2006. It stirred lots of comments and controversy, and put the Leaches back in contact with some of Randy's high school friends, but it never solved the mystery.

Harold and Alberta Leach are wonderful people, but they have a hole in their lives that cannot heal. Their son and the car he was driving disappeared twenty years ago without a trace. Some people believe that he witnessed something that he shouldn't have seen, maybe a drug deal, and was silenced. Others think that he fell victim to Satanists who were talked about frequently in news reports of that time. Some believe he may have tried to drive himself home and accidently veered off into a lake or river. Or maybe he overdosed and died, and scared friends found a way to get rid of the car and the body to cover up drug activity. Lots of theories, no results.

What an awful thing for any parent to ever endure. The answer is out there, and somebody needs to do the decent thing and let Harold and Alberta know what happened to their son. The Leaches need the peace of mind that comes with knowing Randy's fate, and somebody needs the peace of mind that would come with getting an awful secret off of his conscience.

Rusty Pails #32 More Work for Ermine

by Rocky Macy

“These days everything’s a bargain,” according to Shadetree Mike, “because by the time you get it home the price has gone up.” As always, the Dean of Dominoes is right on the mark…prices generally don’t go down.

That’s why Mike and I both make our major purchases on the used market. Seconds cost less than new merchandise, and if you shop shrewdly, used will appreciate.

I watched Mike in operation at a sale this past weekend. Mike stood quietly by as the auctioneer commenced working his way up and over the mountain of musty memories. Esther Pearl snagged the curtains, hand towels, and yarn. After she pulled her plunder, I found a postcard album that promised a full afternoon of quiet enjoyment. As other members of Sprung Hinge’s smart shopping cadre picked off their prizes, I began to wonder just what it was that Shadetree Mike was after.

It wasn’t long until I had my answer. There, buried beneath one last box of National Geographics and six or eight coats of different colored paints, sat a remarkably sturdy oak kitchen table. Not top of the line material, but a piece that could be restored with a small investment of stripper, glue, and elbow grease.

Truman Treetopper, who likes bidding but avoids buying, bid seventy-five cents and hurried on to the next pile. Esther and I smiled and stayed quiet. (After all, Shadetree Mike hadn’t bid up our purchases.) Some of the others sense a bargain, but Mike still managed to walk away with his gem-in-the-rough at a very reasonable price.

Somewhere today, probably out behind the Pump and Git, Ermine is busy restoring an oak table that will support elbows and dominoes for years to come. And the next time that old table surfaces at a sale, it will wear an expensive label like “antique” or “primitive” … and Mike will have proved his point!

Auction Tip: When something that you were interested in gets sold in a group of several items, step up and the winning bidder if he will sell you what you wanted. The other bidder may have been after something entirely different.

Poisonous

I submitted the following to a blog on the Anderson Cooper 360 website today:

"Billary is absolutely poisonous. Her aim isn't to take this nomination away from Senator Obama, but to ensure that he can't beat McBush in the fall. She hopes to rise from the ashes of the party that she destroyed and become the nominee in 2012. She may well do it, but it will be without my vote.

While Senator Obama stays positive and is occasionally too honest, Billary is all about lying, manipulation, and race-baiting.

I heard a comment a few days ago lamenting that Billary was the only woman "in the pipeline" to become President, and if she didn't do it now, it might be generations before another woman stood a chance. It sounds to me as though the pipeline in need of a good flushing! I submit that any of the following would be more electable and would make a far more honest and reliable Chief Executive for our country than the junior senator from New York: Gov. Kathleen Sebelius, Gov. Janet Napolitano, Senator Mary Landrieu, Senator Blanche Lincoln, and even Senator Barbara Boxer.

The curtain needs to fall on the Clinton drama. No third term!"

Sometimes it helps just to spew!

Rusty Pails #31 The Invitation

by Rocky Macy

The Ladies of the Sprung Hinge Sewing Circle and Bucket Brigade have done it again! Just when I think I’ve fought the final battle in defense of my bachelorhood, some “Desperate Dora” rides out from the ranch and tries to rope old Rusty into the tight, unrelenting, bonds of matrimony.

I was at a four-family yard sale a few days back checking out the pre-owned overalls. After picking out a pair that was in better repair than myself, I turned to pay for my purchase and came nose-to-nose with Hazel Harness. Hazel, a matronly type who always smells suspiciously of hot, home-baked bread, seized the initiative and my wrist in one swift motion.

“Rusty,” she gushed, “you’ve saved me a stamp.”

I stepped back quickly, but she managed to get an envelope in my hand with the skill and speed of a veteran process server.

“You’ll speak to our group next week, wont you?” A response was futile because Hazel was on the march. “Of course you will. Any topic, Rusty. Just anything!”

I tried to stammer out polite regrets, but my speech sailed into a sandstorm of dizzying chatter borne on bakery breezes.

“And after your fine talk, you’ll be our guest for an afternoon dessert. Most of us cook as well as we sew. You’ll be surprised!”

Nothing surprises me – especially in Sprung Hinge. I thanked Miss Hazel for the invitation and promised to do my best.

I think my “best” will be getting laryngitis and asking Judge Rufus T. Redbone to pinch-hit for me. (All politicians ought to be good for something – and besides, the Judge loves to hear himself talk!) The Sprung Hinge Sewing Circle and Bucket Brigade will get the surprise, and old Rusty will be free to roam the range and do the sales!

Auction Tip: I’ve known people who carry a general merchandise catalogue to sales to use as a price reference. Paying more for something used that it costs new can take the shine off of your apple!

Meeting David Wilson

MSNBC presented a major event last night, a film that every person in America who has the capacity for rational thought needs to see. It was called Meeting David Wilson. David A. Wilson is a 28-year-old black man from New Jersey with a passion for exploring and understanding his culture, to include illuminating his family's life in America. Through careful research he was able to locate the plantation where his family, then slaves, had acquired the surname Wilson from their masters. Further research lead him to find a contemporary descendant of his family's white masters, David B. Wilson, a 62-year-old restaurateur in North Carolina. The two David Wilsons joined together to explore their past and to talk extensively on the subject of race in America.

This film was amazingly well done. The two Davids met at the old North Carolina plantation house which had been abandoned since the 1950's. Later David A. Wilson fought his way through brush and brambles and succeeded in locating one slave cabin that was still standing. As he explored the barely standing shanty, it was unclear whether David was absorbing his ancestors, or they were absorbing him. It was beautifully done.

There was an engrossing segment where David A. Wilson's extended family of one hundred plus members met David B. Wilson's wife, children, and grandchildren. They spent a day picnicking and getting acquainted, and attended a church service together where the two Davids sat next to each other while taking communion.

David A. Wilson had his DNA tested as a part of this project to see if he was related by blood to the white Wilsons (he wasn't) and to learn where in Africa his family had originated. He learned from that test that his roots were in Ghana. He traveled to Ghana and saw firsthand the prison where his ancestors were kept before being sent in shackles to America. In one of the most moving segments of the film, David told the ghosts of his ancestors in that prison that he was there to let them know that their prayers had been answered and their descendants had finally achieved freedom and dignity.

This film premiered to a packed house at Howard University in Washington, DC. Howard University is a predominately black institution of higher learning that produces more black doctoral degrees than any other university in America. There was a raucous standing ovation for the film as it concluded, followed by ninety minutes of a panel discussion among prominent individuals who discussed the film and its implications. The panel was hosted by NBC news anchor Brian Williams and included a wide range of individuals, both black and white.

The panelist whose words touched me the most was Malaaka Compton-Rock, the wife of comedian Chris Rock. She is a social activist in a poor section of Brooklyn. When the topic of reparations for slavery came up, she commandeered the conversation and lobbied hard for allocating more money toward educating black youth and providing libraries and computer labs equivalent to those that most white youth take for granted.

Every child needs access to good libraries, and all libraries (and schools, and churches) need to have a copy of Meeting David Wilson. If we are truly to understand one another, the process must begin in childhood - and this film is a good place to start the conversation.