Writing for Sanity's Sake

I’ve known some honorable people in my life, but not as many as one might think.

Many people have some honor, but not many have great honor.

When an honorable person speaks, they speak the truth, even when what they say is not popular. They do this while trying to be kind.

An honorable person is also loyal, even when they are tempted by money or other types of personal rewards, to be disloyal. Honor trumps dishonesty.

An honorable person has empathy for others, even if they are an opponent, or someone with whom they have little in common. No one with true honor thinks that anyone is beneath them because of any physical, cultural, financial, or religious differences.

A person with honor will give of themselves or their resources with no expectations of receiving anything in return. Many times they give anonymously.

An honorable person will stand up for what they think is right, but will listen openly to the opinions of others, and may be convinced to change their mind, if enough good evidence is presented. Being honorable does not mean being intractable.

A truly honorable person will be able to forgive others for almost anything, while seeking forgiveness when they have wronged others. Being strong does not preclude forgiveness or contrition.

It has been said that the “knights of old” were the most honorable of men.

While there are still “knights” of honor in our day and age, they are few and far between, and getting even more rare with every passing day.

A sleep deprived mind is a terrible thing. The neurons don’t fire like they should and sometimes you don’t think “normal” like you should. I think that may end up being the case with me. After all I sleep with this mask contraption strapped to my head that’s supposed to help me sleep better. I look in the mirror sometimes at night after I “suit up” and I remind myself of something from outer space. It’s connected to a machine that blows air through the mask and keeps me “pumped up” at night. It’s a non-snore machine. It’s really kind of weird that anyone could ever think of something like this.

I feel rested though, so what the heck.

They have a saying about drugs that a “Mind on Crack is a terrible thing” I think in my case it’s a “Crack in the Mind is a terrible thing.” My brain is cracked and nobody minds. Weird things come out of my mouth. My body doesn’t do what I ask it. It does what it dang well pleases. Is it age related? I hope not, because I ain’t getting any younger.

I have been thinking about world events, but I really don’t feel like talking about them. Talking about world events is like walking through a pasture full of cow pies blindfolded.

I really don’t feel much like talking about religion or existentialism, either. That’s like walking through a cow pasture full of “pasture pudding” and land mines.

Dang…I don’t know what to talk about.

I got any idea though. I’ll do a post about the things I don’t want to talk about and put it on and don’t tell anybody that’s what it is about until the last line.

That’ll do it.

Creatures

We are of the earth, no matter your philosophy of how we got here.

We are all creatures of this world.

No matter our skin color or the shape of our eyes, we are creatures of this world.

We are so much like other living things, that it is plain to anyone who will look, that our basic blueprint was laid down long ago, in our cells and in our spirit.

We are of this Earth, but our spirit can soar high, if we will only allow it to do so the first time.

High into the pink sunsets we can fly like the eagle or the hawk.

We are every cloud and raindrop which falls and runs to the sea.

We are of the ocean, and every wave which breaks on the sand.

Forever tied to our planet which sustains us, which has sustained us, and which will be here long after us.

Larry Bowers

As we move forward, we must keep in mind that we….all of humanity, ride the same boat.

We have to begin deciding whether or not we want to leave our descendants a world on which to live and thrive, or whether we want them to become extinct. It’s that simple.

Use your brains logically in the decisions you make, and don’t be persuaded by anyone that you cannot. Decisions made based on feelings of hatred, mistrust, partisanship, and self righteousness are usually tainted decisions.

We have to do more thinking, more researching, and much more soul searching if we want to survive as a species.

I’ve been as bad as anybody in some cases about my feelings and opinions, but going forward I’d like to try and work for the good of everyone. I don’t know if it’s possible for me because of all the pre conceived notions and dogma that I was exposed to so early in life, which has shaped how I react to things. I will try very hard though.

I know my Daddy was a hard working man. I remember being very young, back when we lived over on Simmons street and Daddy would come home from the mill. I rushed to meet him, and most of the days he would grab me up and give me a hug. Some days though, when he had been working right up until the last minute before the whistle blew, he would still have the grease and oil from working on looms on his hands and he had to go clean up before I got my hug.

Mom didn’t like all that mess in her bathroom sink, so Daddy had a little container of kerosine and some soap he kept out next to the back steps, along with some rags with which to wipe his hands. He’d get most of it off his hands, then finish up in the bathroom. I know he was tired, especially on the days he worked over. Still, he always had a little time to play, whether it was throwing a ball around or going out to where the beagles were penned up and letting me play with them a little.

Loom fixers were essential back in the cotton mill in the 1950’s. Good loom fixers, like my Dad were sought after. They moved around from “upkeep to upkeep” inside the weave room, getting the better set of looms to look after as they became more proficient. New fixers got the worst running looms and had to ask for help from the older more experienced fixers sometimes.

I never realized how hard working in that cotton mill could be until after I was sixteen years old. That was the age in which a student could get a summer job in the mill and make themselves some “good” money. A lot better money than caddying up at the golf course, or working bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. So, in the summer of 1967 I got myself a summer job in the mill.

By that time, my Dad had worked his way up to being an Overseer in the mill. He was the “boss” over the second/third shifts in the weave room. My Dad didn’t believe in doing family any favors though. I ended up doing a job called “taking up quills” We’d take a little buggy and go around to every loom and fetch the empty wooden quills on which the filling yarn had been wound. We’d dump the container into which they fell, in our big rolling buggy, and when that buggy was full we’d take it to the “quill machine” It was there that the quills were reprocessed to be sent back up to the spinning room. It was the location of one of the strangest sights I can ever remember.

Me and Kelley ( a teacher at our High School who also had a summer job in the mill) had filled our buggies up to almost overflowing and were bringing them to the machine. The dumping station was a circulating belt which eventually fed into a smaller belt which took the quills upstairs. A lot of times there was a little yarn left on them and the quill machine operator was responsible for getting that yarn off before the quills got to the smaller belt. There had been a large influx of quills and the operator was standing in between the large cirulating belt and the smaller belt buried chest deep in slowly moving wooden quills. With his arms outstreched and pulling the remnants of yarn off of the quills he looked like some strange multicolored ghost with stringlets of light hanging in all directions off on him. He was covered in sweat and it dripped from his face and neck onto the remnant yarn. “Damn” Kelly whispered, “I hope he doesn’t get buried” He didn’t.

There was no air conditioning in that mill back in 1967, just humidity. The more the humidity, the better, because the looms ran better when the humidity was high. They even had “humidity heads” built into the ceiling spewing out moisture into the air. It has hot that summer. Over 100 degrees inside that weave room most days and with that humidity, it was brutal.

I came home most days and just went to bed and slept for 10 hours or so. I didn’t feel much like doing anything else.

I developed a very healthy respect for my Dad, and all of the other men from our community who had been working in that place for most of their lives. They were tough men. Most of them were good men. Many of them, they just don’t make ’em like anymore. My Daddy was one of them, as was many of yours my friends. I met and worked with a lot of them that year and in the subsequent years in which I worked in that cotton mill. I will have to admit that the next summer I asked ol’ Henry Rider about a job before I did my Dad, and he put me to repainting the walls. It was a lot better than collecting quills!

I don’t know what it’s like in there today. I haven’t been in a weave room in a score or more of years. I do know how hard of work it used to be though. Hard..hard work.

The spirit rises, and the pragmatist subsides, and I think of all the things I do not know…nor will I ever know.

I cannot see the wind, but I know it is there because it blows my hair in my eyes. If I cannot see the wind, what else can I not see?

I cannot hear the sounds that the wolf hears, and many other animals besides him. What sounds are there that even the most sensitive of animals cannot hear? What does the Universe whisper just beyond our ability to detect, that may hold secrets we do not know.

I know I can only sense certain things within the capabilities of my brain to process, and I wish I had the eyes of an eagle, combined with the eyes of an owl, and the radar of a bat. Even still, there would be things that could not be sensed.

The world we live in is a deep mystery, within a Universe with which we are barely acquainted. We are like a new swimmer paddling along on top of the great oceans, thinking that all existence is what we see and feel at that very moment, when beneath us lying deep and huge, is a vast store of knowledge we are not even seeking out. Just beneath the surface.

I’m excited by people who can look at life as a quest for facts, but who still believe that human understanding can only progress so far without intersecting with the place in space and time which will never be quantifiable by any means, or explainable by any words. I am confident that we will find something on the other side of that last door we go through, and it will be something good. It will not be what any of us expect it to be….not what any human explains it to be. But we will run to it with open arms, because it will be all too familiar once that door is opened.

Count on it. Honestly, I would not say it if I did not fervently believe it.

The Circus…

I feel like I have been on a tight rope lately. Balancing.

We all are, to some extent. We balance on that narrow thin rope trying not to slip and fall. You can’t jump off because there’s no net. You are scared to slide your feet along the tight rope and move towards safety, because you might fall and you know…there is no net. So, that prevents both quick action and careful action, doesn’t it? Mostly you just stand there. Balancing.

You stand there lightly, as lightly as you can and balance. Sweat pours off your forehead into your eyes, and you want to raise your arms up to wipe it off, but you can’t because if you let go of the pole you might lose your balance.

Eventually, we all do though.

We all make a mistake. There’s no way you can last up there forever. And then we fall. We all fall…and fail. Failure is what it’s all about.

It’s not as far as we thought, and it doesn’t kill us. At least not this time. But, it hurts a lot because there are no nets. And, the next time we go up, we will have to go higher. You can never go back to same level, you see. They always want you to go higher.

The only difference between any of us is how long it takes to heal, or to get our courage back. Some are more resilient than others. How long will it be before we are up on the narrow thin rope again? The ironic thing is, that it’s not our choice but the needs and wants of others, the spectators, that puts us up there. And, it’s our choices and our wants and needs as spectators instead of participants that put others up there. The higher you go, the more that is asked of you the next time you climb up.

I am going to be down off of the rope before long.

I have been balancing for a long, long time and I am not sure how much longer I can stay up. I know there are no nets, and it’s going to hurt if I fall, but it’s not going to kill me. I am still too strong for that. I may make it to safety! I have been inching my way along, letting the sweat fall off and drop to the ground, and I have been ignoring the jeers and catcalls and even the cheers, and if I make it to the ladder I am coming down.

I have decided I am not going to let anyone else put me back up on the rope again, ever. I am not going back up on my on simply to go higher either. I don’t like the way it feels and after all it IS MY CHOICE whether I go or not. Even with all the pressure, it’s still my choice and no one else’s. I think I will just stay down this time and become a clown. I have been practicing juggling “things” in between falls and I found I kind of like it. The Lion taming ain’t too bad either. They are mostly just roar and no bite. With a strong enough chair, you got it made.

I just hate the high wire. I also am not going to cause anyone else to have to walk the tight rope if I can help it. Heaven help me to help it. Nobody deserves to die from it.

I can tell you one thing without a doubt, my quadruple bypass surgery which I had in 2010 cost a lot of money.

I can take the most money which I ever made in one year,and double it….and it still wouldn’t be HALF of what that surgery and the subsequent recovery cost, and is still costing me in terms of medication,etc. If I hadn’t been working, and had good group insurance, I have no doubt I would have died. I just simply don’t believe my care would have been as detailed and comprehensive. Maybe I’m wrong…I don’t know. Experience over the years tells me I’m at least partially correct.

But even the group insurance at work was pretty expensive. A lot of people who worked where I worked complained about the high cost of the group insurance, but when you have bypass surgery…well….

The weekly cost of the group insurance was five times the cost of what I pay per month for my iPhone.

I find it hard to believe that people who do not have insurance get the same treatment and care as people who have good and decent insurance. I sometimes wonder if people who have had heart attacks in the past, but didn’t have insurance have been sent home from the ER with antacids and told they had bad heartburn. Am I being too skeptical here? Am I being too much of a cynic?

I know that hospitals and doctors are sworn to give care, no matter what a person’s insurance status, but do you think that sometimes in the past that ideas and philosophies have filtered down from the top at “for profit” hospitals which have perhaps caused people to be sent home who should not have been sent home? Do you think there have been some deaths because of that? I hope not.

I hope that in the future, when our county’s policies on Healthcare change again…and make no mistake about it, they are going to change…I hope that in that future, with whatever we are going to get to replace what we already have, I hope that no decisions are ever made to not give people who don’t have insurance the same treatment as people who are able to afford good insurance. I hope that poor people will be able to afford some kind of insurance, so that theory doesn’t have to be tested out. I’m not sure if they will or not.

What we have had was far, far from being a perfect system, but I think it was something to build on, if there had been any consensus to actually fix the things which were wrong with it, and build on the framework which it had put in place. I find it so hard to believe that the greatest country in the world cannot come together to find a system which would take care of all it’s citizens when they need medical help. I fear that what we as Seniors are going to lose much of what we have. I hear and read about the “Medicare advantage” plans going away…and they are very helpful plans. I hear and read of Medicare being changed to some type of “voucher” system and I am concerned. I hear about the costs of prescriptions skyrocketing beyond the means of many Seniors to purchase them, and I am concerned.

I fear of one day laying on a hospital bed, with some more stopped up arteries and have some Doctors discussing behind closed doors whether it’s worth wasting the money to try and salvage my old ass again. I tell you what, if that ever happens, I will gladly…gladly…give up my iPhone, especially if I’m still at the point where I feel like I would be useful to my loved ones if I were salvaged again,….

… and especially if I had the will to go forward with vigor, and not just go on and rest forever.

..

Two people that I know died this week. I know it’s not unusual for people to die, but I knew these two people.

One of them was a guy in his late seventies. I don’t know what killed him, but I hope it was painful. I hope he suffered. Why? Because he was a pervert who preyed on and sexually exploited and abused young boys. Boys as young as 10 years old. How do I know? I was one of those little boys. I was one one of those kids in the neighborhood, along with several others, who got lured into his house with the promise he had “something to show us”. Girlie magazines….and then worse. Things started slowly and we were eventually pulled down into a lurid rabbit of doing filthy things. I was able to break free after two years because we moved across town, But, oh God the shame which remained. Oh my Lord the repercussions of those experiences which have remained with me throughout the rest of my life. The mortification of which I have never spoken of with anyone until recently with my wife. And now. How do I forgive, and hope he found redemption? Fact is, I cannot yet do so.

How did the justice of the Universe let him live til almost 80, yet take a beautiful young woman, a mother and wife, before her fiftieth birthday?

This was the second death to which I refer. A petite and energetic woman who was always smiling, always friendly. A lover of horses and other animals who had already suffered an unimaginable tragedy of her very own with the early death of her first husband to cancer. A mother who’s young daughter has not yet graduated from high school. An unexpected death. A sneaky taking by death. An unfair roll of the dice which the Universe is constantly throwing. Oh God, I pray for comfort for this family.

In the same week, a tragedy of the utmost grief and a death too late in the coming which provides a test for my soul’s ability to find any room in my heart for forgiveness and the seeking of my own atonement. Is life fair? God alone knows.

One of the things I used to enjoy the most when I was eight or nine years old was hitting rocks with a stick. I especially enjoyed this activity when I went to my Grandparent’s house.

Grandpa and Grandma lived on the end of an old dirt road and of course that road was loaded with…rocks! I couldn’t wait to get there on a summer day back in the late 50’s. I’d go down to the road right next to the barn and find me a stick about the length of a baseball bat and make a pile of rocks about the size of a quarter. It didn’t matter that the stick was skinny because I could hit those rocks. I honed my hand/eye coordination with hours of hitting rocks into Uncle Lark’s corn field for hours at a time.

“There goes another Home Run for Mickey Mantle” I would holler out in my head. I could hear ol’ Dizzy and PeeWee Reece calling it out over the center field fence at 410 feet.

Mantle was my earliest baseball idol, and still to this day is my all time favorite. There’s a signed photo of him from his Triple Crown year of 1956 hanging on the wall down the stairwell from where I’m sitting. I wish I had gotten it signed in person, but I never got to meet Mickey.

I’d pick those rocks up and toss them in the air and whack them. I’d whack them and try to knock flying birds out of the air, although I never hit one.

This morning as I was walking down by the river, I picked up a skinny stick and a rock and when I got close to the river I threw it up in the air and swung….I was exhilirated and excited down inside as I heard a loud “crack” and “Mickey Mantle hit another home run” into the depths of the Chattooga river.

I looked around to make sure nobody had seen me, and I walked on….