An Exercise in Practicality

Like many of you my loyal readers know that I am a fairly frugal person. I look at something hard and make a final decision based in part on cost and on how practical this is. Buying a car is no different. 

Before I had my present car I bought a PT Cruiser that was reliable and gave me great driving pleasure. The Charger I had was also a very solid running car with good performance for a six-cylinder engine. 

This past week I was looking at a couple cars—looking mind you. I found a car and at first I thought it was a typo. A 2023 Dodge Charger with only 3,000 miles on the odometer. It’s a purple GT with a V-6, like my silver tone Charger that I bought used in 2019. I had to investigate further. 

The cost of course was a bit out of my price range. If I got the approval I wanted some of my credit card debt brought down. I decided to do the preapproval application and to my surprise had approval. The dealership invited me over for a test drive and I went there yesterday after work. 

At any rate I haggled with them until I got what I felt was a decent and fair deal for both the dealer and me. I informed my son-in-law what I was up to, and he surprised me by his feeling that I was rushing into something I might regret later. 

I texted him back that it was a great deal, and the terms were solid and fair. I honestly believed that I was being practical because my present car was over twelve years old and over 140,000 miles, abet mostly highway miles on its odometer. The car I planned on buying is two years old and is 3,000 miles plus the deal includes a forever warranty. 

I now am the proud owner of a nice ride that will last me at least eight years. I couldn’t be happier. 

Life is Short 

Earlier this week, I discovered my Uncle Hal was losing his kidney function. He is in hospice right now, declining dialysis treatment and awaiting the moment Our Lord and Savior carries him home. 

This morning there was an incident at work. I don’t know exactly what happened, but first an ambulance arrived andd then tribal police showed up. Later that afternoon, a chaplain from the Spokane County Sheriff’s Office showed and we were told someone, a coworker had passed. 

We are on this planet a very short time. Some shorter than others. The Book of Life and Death isn’t in our hands to read, but in God’s. My uncle if he lives to February 14th will be 91 years old. He’s lived a very good life and will be deeply missed by all who love him. We all will shed tears of sorrow for him. 

I’ve known many who have reached the mountain top, opened their arms out and taken the leap to Heaven to meet their maker. It is after all what we are in this animal and plant klingdom: mortal. Only most recently have we become more sanitizewd about how we deal with death. There was a time when our ancestors were buried in shallow graves or crypts or cremated on pyres. Now, unless otherwised documented we are buried in graves with cement vaults, heavily embalmed or cremated in an oven and placed in urns inside mausoluleums. 

“Life is short,” as one of my co-workers stated this afternoon. “So, enjoy every moment while you can.” Omar Khayyam, had a similar quote from his Rubayat, “A Book of Verses underneath the Bough, 

A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread—and Thou 

Beside me singing in the Wilderness— 

Oh, Wilderness were Paradise now!” 

A Family Tree

I finally received my DNA results the other day and I was more than a bit surprised by the results plus my own family tree is a bit suspect to say the least. It makes one wonder sometimes about the scruples our ancestors have because one entry is very odd to say the least. 

Anyway the results are a wonderful blend of mostly English, Scottish and Irish, plus some Danish and Swedish. I only have 24 percent German in me. Most of my ancestors came to the Carolinas and Virginia, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, Tennessee, and deep south. They all eventually moved westward to Oklahoma, Texas, Arkansas, and Oregon. Then there is the surprise that threw me for a loop. There is no evidence of Native American in me, but one percent came from Ghana and/or Ivory Coast in West Africa. 

For as long as I remembered we were told that our great grandmother was half Cherokee, and no talk of a oops with regard to an ancestor being naughty with a young girl from Africa. 

I’m continuing working on this tree. It is like my writing, a process. What surprised me most was two items I discovered today that has given me pause. I will need to investigate further but my great-great grandfather Samuel married the love of his life at age twelve. He sired six children until his death at age fifty. I thought children, even in the mid-1800s couldn’t marry at such a tender age. 

The other is my great grandmother Elizabeth Catherine. Last name Schultz. She had children before she was even born in 1921. She had no parents of record and came to America from England in 1893. My conclusion is that she more than likely was a mail order bride for my great grandfather who lived in Oregon at the time. Obviously, she had no birth certificate and most likely had to have some identification in order to file taxes. A birth certificate was more than likely made out on December 7, 1921, and the bureaucrat who made this out mistakenly placed her date of birth as that. 

It’s obviously a work in progress, and I’m very curious how that glaring error wasn’t caught until now. Plus the omission of my Native American lineage, replaced by African American. But what is really amazing, is how in my own writings, the characters’ names that I seemingly pull out of thin air are the names of long, dead ancestors, There are still some that aren’t there, which will eventually makes its way to more stories in the future.

Solitude

I just got done going to a church service today.

The theme was spiritual solitude, where one required decompressing and being alone from the noise.

Noise is harmful to our collective health and like many, I become more agitated and stressed by noise, even ambient white noise that we all too readily tune out, thinking we are in a quiet place. As I have gotten older, I come to realize I don’t need that noise in my life anymore.

I’m a natural introvert, always was since I was born and being the first born. My younger sisters weren’t like me. They required something or someone to interact with. Me? I was perfectly happy playing in my room, by myself.

After I learned to read, I read books or stories in my room. I was content, and after I was tasked as a young boy take our dogs for their daily walks, I took great pleasure being out with nature hearing the sounds nature created, inhaling the air, smelling the odors, and seeing all the sights God blessed me to see. I often sat and wondered, trying to hear His voice. Maybe, through a breeze or a sparrow’s or lark’s whistle it was Him speaking to me.

In Kings 19:8-9, Solitude is about being face to face with God. Solitude is where we all must be to get away from the distractions that make our lives complicated. In Luke 5:16, “Jesus often went away to other places to be alone so that he could pray.”

When I’m writing or reading, I have nothing that distracts me from what I want to do. I can concentrate better when I’m in a cloistered environment and away from people who unknowingly cause distractions. I turn off the devices that takes away my concentration and I focus on the task before me. It is very amazing how I can do this without effort, quietly ruminate and seek solace with myself and my God, listening intently to what He is telling me.

Yoga is a form of solitude that emphasizes that “thinking becomes clear, intellect becomes purified…the mind becomes even more harmonious.” Though yoga is often done among a group of people it is most desired when alone with just you, your body, and your mind, breathing deeply and focusing on your spirituality.

The reverend told us her own self isolation and solitude. She knows of a small mountain stream fed by a glacier, its waters aqua-marine and clear and iced cold. She told us that she and family often go there as a place for reflection and meditation. I too had gone to certain places where I could lose myself in the quiet, solitude and reflect upon me, what do I want, what does God want of me and where do I go from here.

My Writing Progress

My loyal readers, Merry Christmas to you all. I had in mind to send to you one of my past blogs that I knew would give you a heart-warming, feel-good vibe to celebrate this time of year. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find that story. I asked my web master and apparently also couldn’t find it in his folders. So instead, I will update you on my writing progress since the last time I did an update. 

I have a new beta reader doing the readings on my old manuscripts that haven’t been published yet. She hasn’t given me a review yet, but hopefully by the next week she may let me know. She assured me what she had read she liked. 

Nate Turner, Negro Cowboy, is nearly finished. I’m down to the last two chapters and this vacation I’m now taking is a perfect time for me to finish this first draft. I’m trying to make this a morality tale of good versus evil. I hope in the end, or by the end of this story it will come out this way. Admittedly I’m taking some liberties with regard to this chapter I’m presently working on and might disillusion some of my readers. 

I already mentioned my last failed attempt from someone trying to swindle me. I don’t know if I have a sign over my head saying, “I’m an easy mark, scam me,” but it seems every year someone is coming to me telling me what a masterpiece of writing I have and how this amount of money they could make me rich. I hope I don’t get any more of these people, but fear that I will. What is sad is that there are legitimate marketing companies out there wanting me to invest with them, but their voices are being increasingly drowned out by these scammers. 

I’m happy that many of you found my blogs I wrote this year so insightful or inciteful, depending on my theme, and entertaining. I received more likes this year than ever before. I thank you all for your support. It means a lot to me, considering I’m not the most popular writer out there, with the exception of the before mentioned scammers from the previous paragraph. 

What are my plans after Nate Turner? I have a story that I put aside when I was talked into doing this project over a year ago. I’m going to combine that story with another that dealt with the Matthew Perry tragedy over a year ago. 

So, I leave you with happy thoughts and thanks again for your loyal support. 

I have No Idea

I have some great news to share with my loyal readers! Well, maybe it’s not so great. You see I received this offer the other day informing me that my Book, I Albert Peabody: Confessions of a Serial Killer was interested in acquiring 8000 copies and distributing them throughout the bookstores around United Kingdom. 

I could see the dollar signs dancing merrily in my head as I responded to this email that I assumed was from a reputable source: the general manager or buyer him or herself that I was extremely interested in signing an encouraging offer. 

Yesterday morning I received the call from said manager calling from London. His voice though sounded distinctly American. I’m sure there are Americans abroad who work in Europe, so I didn’t pay that a never mind. 

The offer was straight forward enough: 8,000 copies and I would receive a ten-dollar royalty per book minus ten percent from my literary agent. I was ready to sign the deal when he put up this caveat.  

He explained this to me very straight forward that there were unscrupulous people out there who would tell this bookstore that the work was theirs and unless I put up an insurance of $17,000 up front, the deal was a no go. 

I know about scammers and how they rope one in to get a fast buck off their marks. To me it smells, tastes and looks very much like that. I’ve received phone calls back from him this morning apparently wanting to know what my decision is. I guess he apparently assumes I’m not very smart or extremely gullible—besides the obvious fact that I don’t have anywhere near that kind of money just laying around.  

I often wonder if people like that are that desperate to try to tarnish my credibility by doing something like this. I have no idea what to expect next. I do know this agent is as useless as wings on a pig if she was this naïve to agree to do this knowing this individual for what he was. In her defense, she didn’t mention this $17,000 retainer or whatever it is. So, I’m guessing he thought this up by himself without her knowledge. 

The bonus to this is I’m not out $17,000 to a con artist. 

Imagine 

He looked from the third-floor window of the YMCA he was staying at. His black hair and piercing brown eyes looked down at the people below. He called himself John, though his friends and parents called him Mark.  

He planned to correct that within the next couple of days though. That other person was an imposter. He stole his name. That man must pay, he told himself many times. 

The December day felt cold and dreary. Overcast clouds blanketed the New York City skyline.  

He shivered, not just from the humid cold that affected everyone and everything, but also at the excitement of what he had planned. His wife, Yoko would understand and leave that imposter for him once he was finished, once that imposter was gone, she would go to him.  

But first, he still needed to purchase the gun that would take him out finally. His fingers trembled with anticipation. He even signed out his real name when he quit his security guard job two days ago. 

His boss didn’t notice, but then again, his boss rarely noticed anything he ever did. Just up the street was Dakota, where he was supposed to live, but that imposter stole that from him too. He listened to the recordings of his songs from the early days with Paul and George and Ringo, to his later cuts with his true love Yoko. “Soon,” he promised as he listened to ‘Imagine,’ “I will win you back and we can make music together again. 

He listened to his music through headphones and his Walkman as he walked to the gun store nearby and went inside. The middle aged, balding man behind the display case where many small and medium caliber handguns exhibited themselves shiny and begging to be held and admired by someone like him. He eyed the young man with a cautious weariness, as though measuring whether he was a true law abiding American or someone up to no good. 

He looked at the store owner and smiled bashfully. “I’d like a .38 revolver. I don’t care which brand,” he told the owner. 

“Well Smith and Wesson are a good solid gun. We also carry forty-five Colts too. They have better knock down power. Did you serve?” 

“No, I was a security guard, and I like thirty-eights. “That one there will do nicely,” he stated calmly to the gun store owner. 

“I’ll need you to fill out this here form and then if everything checks out, that gun is yours.” 

The gun buyer smiled and grabbed the pen and form. He knew he had use his real name to buy the gun. A name he has hated since he could remember. He liked John much better than Mark. He pulled out his driver’s license and his concealed permit from Virginia and handed both to the gun owner after he signed the form. 

He rang up the charge and told the buyer “That will be $599.00 please. The governor also wants his cut,” he chuckled while the young man pulled out his wallet and laid down $600 in cash. 

The register rang and the dollar in change was handed back to him. “Thank you very much. My wife and I will greatly appreciate this.”  

“Have a good day Mr. Chapman.” 

He walked deliberately to the apartment building. He asked the doorman on duty, “What time are the Lennons coming home?” 

“Another one! Okay, for the fiftieth time, probably not until after ten or eleven. They are doing a recording session and don’t come home until later. Damn autograph hounds anyway.” 

Mr. Chapman smiled and walked into a multitude of autograph seekers and fans of the great John Lennon. He could have told them that he was the one but knew, deep down inside, that they wouldn’t believe him. 

Cold wind came on them from the east, swirling about and blustery. He commiserated, thinking only about how he would explain to Yoko how terribly things got messed up; he drugged him and took his place, though he couldn’t remember if it was 1969 or 1970. But after tonight that imposter would not profit from his true calling anymore. 

The wait felt endless when a cab pulled up and a rush of fans streamed toward the car. The driver got out of the car and opened the back seat. Mark saw the petite middle-aged woman with distinctive oriental features emerge first followed by the taller urbane personage of John Lennon with wired frame glasses and long thin Grecian nose, waving and smiling at his adoring fans. 

Mark went up to him holding paper with a pen. John just saw him as another adoring fan. He took the sheet and pen and began signing his autograph. Mark’s right hand was now freed, and he pulled the gun from his coat pocket. He fired into John’s stomach. Screams were heard. 

“I’ve been shot!” John gasped as he fell to the concrete sidewalk to the horror and distress of Yoko who kneeled down and over protectively her dying husband. 

Mark ran from Dakota and down the street. His job was complete. He sat on the curb, hearing numerous sirens wail in the distance, coming closer. Mark David Chapman sat and waited. 

I Beg Your Pardon? 

I knew in the back of my mind this would happen, regardless of what Joe Biden promised. I’m not angry at him for doing what he did, pardon his son of gun and tax evasion charges that he pled guilty to and was scheduled for sentencing later this month. I’m angry that we in this country have caste justice system where those with the money and power can seemingly get away with murder, while those with little or no means, have to pay for our crimes. 

Rather than relishing his election victory and naming loyalist cronies to his new cabinet, Trump should already be in prison for the slap on the wrist hush money case against Stormy Daniels. He is getting off Scott free because as he admitted in a speech in 2016 that he could get away with killing someone on Broadway in the middle of the day because he’s Donald Trump.  

The standard goes here too with Joe Biden, fearing the consequences of retribution from Trump, made his decision to pardon Hunter. To me, it’s asinine. It reminds me again of Chappaquiddick and Ted Kennedy when he drove his car into a canal and Mary Jo Kopechne drowned. He later admitted to drinking heavily that night and regretted what happened, yet because of his name and fame, nothing happened. 

How many people do you know who have been wrongly arrested, found guilty and went to jail just for being a nobody caught in the wrong lace at the wrong time? It’s an ongoing issue that the political system isn’t the only thing broken in this country, the justice system is also broken and needs fixing. 

Bob’s Thanksgiving

On every Thanksgiving since he became sober and accepted Jesus and God into his life Bob has donated his time every Thanksgiving feeding the homeless, dispossessed, and the poor. He does this to honor the family that in their own way, literally saved his life and offered him hope. He offers them hope, a warm meal and new socks or wool caps to help keep them warm. He feels his heart warm from the Holy Spirit. 

Thanksgiving night 2002 

Bob awoke at four in the afternoon in a back ally by a dumpster. The darkening Seattle sky appeared as bleak as his surroundings of discarded refuge. No one was around as he ventured out onto First Street and wondered north near Pike Place. His needs became apparent as his jones showed its ugly face. He scratched his left arm where the last syringe entered his vein four hours before. His sunken eyes looked longingly at the quiet street. No one was about. 

He walked slowly uptown away from the heart of the city and ended up in the University District. Traffic was sparce and what few cars travelled, appeared to be families going to see their families or friends for a dinner he could only dream of having. He felt hunger pangs attack his stomach, but not so bad as the pangs that affected his need for a good fix.  

He stumbled to the familiar apartment where his buddy lived. He made Bob feel good and temporarily abate the pain inside his heart. He pounded on the door, hearing laughter and comradery from inside. “Who is it?” Bob heard his friend’s voice ask with suspicion. Bob’s sixth sense told him he was probably packing his magnum. 

“It’s Bob. I need a favor. Can you help?” 

The door opened a crack, a single brown eye stared at Bob a moment. “Fifteen, you got?” 

“No, man I’m short. Look I can pay you tomorrow I promise.” 

He stared at Bob with both disgust and mistrust I that single brown eye. “Wait one minute.” The door slammed shut. He heard him declare to his friends, “It’s a fucking beggar wanting to fix his jones!” 

“Oh my God!” A woman exclaimed, perhaps too loud for Bob’s liking. “Don’t they even know it’s a holiday? What a loser!” 

The door opened and his buddy slipped him a cellophane packet. It was half an eight ball. “Happy Thanksgiving, Bob. Now get lost.” The door slammed shut resoundingly. 

Bob retreated away from the apartment going down the icy staircase and out on the cold and dark street where his hope in life generally was gone. “I am a loser!” He shuffled his way to the back of a convenience store where he could make the medicine. He cooked up the concoction over a spoon and Bic lighter. He had a stolen bottle of water stashed inside his pack. He poured that and watched it bubble as he mixed it and then used his syringe to suck up the heroin. He wrapped the tubing around his arm, trying to locate a vein. But he couldn’t see that well in the dark. The mercury vapor lamp that was normally on, was out. 

“God dammit!” He got up from behind the dumpster and went around the corner and back out onto the street in front of the convenience store. He found the vein and was ready to make this his last injection, ever, when a van pulled up, Christian inspirational music echoing out onto the outside of this Dodge Caravan. A group of young men and women, perhaps his age piled out from the van and smiled sweetly at him. 

“YOU ARE LOVED!” They all exclaimed. The leader, who he assumed was a minister, then asked him, “Brother, Are you hungry? We have food. Turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy! Come eat and be blessed by the Holy Spirit.” 

“Brother,” a young woman went up to him. “You look cold. Here are socks, a cap and a blanket to warm you. Please take as a gift from the Holy Spirit!” 

Bob felt a weight of his despair was lifted as he went to the opened van and he began eating the meal given to him, warmed by the blanket, and later from the woolen socks and the cap that he fitted on his head. 

The preacher then pulled out from his coat the Holy Bible and he recited, “Jeremiah 29:11: For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” 

“Amen,” the group rejoiced. They pulled into an unbroken circle and prayed over him, touching his shoulders and his head. 

The preacher prayed aloud, as he heard the others praying with him, “Bless this man dear Lord so that he will prosper and spread your word of hope and faith to all others like him. In Jesus name we pray, Amen.” 

Bob felt this overwhelming urge to hug them, and he thanked the preacher and then they all piled back inside the van. Then they were gone. “They must’ve been angels to save me. I guess it’s not my time yet.” 

The Present Day 

He recalls that day with his church to everyone who wants to hear his testimonial. He’s been there and knows what these people feel. Bob doesn’t just talk about giving money to those homeless, dispossessed and broken, Bob puts himself back in the fold and gives them hope and faith for a tomorrow without despair, drugs and destitution. 

It’s My Fault 

I’m still at a loss as to how my candidate for President lost and lost so bad. 

It’s not like Trump was well liked; most people thought him crude, crass and arrogant, a typical asshole who you would never invite to your boss’ dinner party.  

Where did me and most democrats get it so wrong? 

Granted, the economy wasn’t great but was turning itself around for the better. Trump kept hammering about immigration, but the borders are closed now. 

As I have said before, I am a firm believer in the good nature of mankind. That people like Donald Trump are the exception and that we are better than his words or those who listen to him. 

But I had blinders on these past four years and did not see what those that were unhappy saw or appeared more affected by the economy or the immigration issue. I chose to see the bills that Biden wished passed: infrastructure and economic recovery into laws that all was good and would be wonderful. 

On paper, it appeared I was right, but once again I failed to see what the vast majority apparently experienced and apparently other Democrats fell into that same demise including Biden and Harris. 

I also failed to see the weathervane of change that seem more directed right than center or left. I had always believed in the change that progressive policies would help all people get ahead in life. The right in my view were a cynical crowd, brainwashed by the elitists Republicans pounding into them that anything that would benefit them was bad for all. I never ever went as far as to accuse these people that they were either uneducated or misinformed, but they definitely preferred Trump’s ideal of the American dream rather than what I envisioned. 

So, what does this new America want? What change do they prefer? I cannot assume anything anymore. I live in an area that is predominantly Republican. There are Trump banners and flags flying proudly on poles, red MAGA hats cover men’s heads at the casino I work at, and I feel like an alien from another land. 

The best that I can hope for is that someday, the beliefs I hold will eventually rub off on my Republican brethren and they too will see the optimism of progressive change as a good thing, not something will cost them unnecessary taxes.