Short Nights of the Shadow Catcher

<a href=”Short Nights of the Shadow Catcher: The Epic Life and Immortal Photographs of Edward Curtis by Timothy Egan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I first came across Edward S. Curtis’ photography in “Puchteca,” a Native American art gallery in Flagstaff, AZ, in 2010 and was hooked on his unique and monumental work, The North American Indian, a 20-volume set published in the early 1900s. Then I received a copy of Egan’s biography of Curtis for Christmas, 2012 and dove in headlong. What an amazing story of this one-of-a-kind, 6th-grade-educated man’s focused dedication, spirit of adventure and self-confidence as he set out and spent all of his adult life preserving images of the cultures of some 80 American Indian tribes. His work includes not only stunning photography, but music and lyrics of songs, alphabets and lexicons of their languages, descriptions and photographs of their daily lives and cherished rituals.

Egan’s story is much more than a chronicle, though. He adeptly captured the complex character of the man — not a perfect man, by any means — in all his confidence and bravado, his self-effacing dedication to his work in spite of all obstacles, his growing apprehension of the plight, and revulsion at mistreatment, of the Indians, and his obsession with the work. This is another of those historical pieces of literature that rises well above the norm and captures a riveting life.  I was even more captivated by the fact that Edward Curtis was a product of Seattle as it grew into adolescence in the late nineteenth-century Alaskan gold rush era, founded his photography studio in Seattle with brother Asahel Curtis, and started his family here.

I highly recommend Timothy Egan’s Short Nights of the Shadow Catcher and know you’ll enjoy the reading!

View all my reviews” title=”Short Nights of the Shadow Catcher”>Short Nights of the Shadow Catcher

The Price of a Pair of Shoes

 An American working man’s story as told to the author

These shoes. Whence all the scratches, tears, wrinkles, grime and rundown appearance?  I came up in a time when good shoes were hard to come by and were to be treated with care and respect in hopes that one could maximize the mileage from them. “Keep ‘em polished, son — maybe impress somebody enough to get a good job.” Shoes definitely spoke in former days about the wearer’s quality — “good upbringin’, personal pride” and all that.  But things happen along the way.

Take that old supporting chair, for instance.  It sits as a bedraggled, faded and sweat-stained pedestal, mute testimony to the years shared with those shoes.  There’s a back story, and I know it well … all too well. The knowin’ quiets many of my questions as I think about the shoes, the chair, and the implications softly spoken, and sometimes wept, by that scarred, stained leather and the hours of labor put in – and risks taken – by one man’s feet on an assembly line.

These shoes, and the chair that supports them, bear a common-but-remarkable and oft-unnoticed story of the so-called “blue collar worker” in America.  Cut by cut, step by step, drop by sweaty drop.

I can just hear him, the man who wore these shoes for twenty-five years, arrivin’ home still sweaty and grimy at the end of a late-night swelter of a summer shift – or the bitter cold of winter – after drivin’ the fifteen or so sleepy miles down that dark, all-but-deserted two-lane Highway 45. “Clump, clump” the shoes numbly protest as he takes the wooden steps, unlocks the door to the trailer, and sits down in the dim light in his chair – this chair – emits a deep but almost-silent sigh, then wearily stoops to pull off these shoes. “My feet are so tired they could cry.”  He blinks back a tear and quickly glances over his shoulder, half-embarrassed and feelin’ like he weakened though he knows nobody’s awake and watchin’.  Leanin’ gingerly back in the old chair, he stretches legs and wiggles toes, still sweaty in heavy cotton socks, and takes stock. “Man, shore glad I have these steel-toed shoes! That part that fell off the line would’ve cut off some toes – and durned-near did anyhow!”  Fresh cuts in the shoe-leather and bruised toes silently confirm.

Mind and body return to the present: “Do I eat somethin’ first? Take a shower first, then eat? Or just pull off my dirty work clothes and climb into bed?  I’m wore out, so tired I cain’t see straight.”  The pull of bed and rest are irresistible.

Six hours of rest pass quickly, then yesterday’s re-run begins again with feedin’ the few animals kept in a small patch of pasture behind the trailer and openin’ yesterday’s mail to add to the stack of bills to be paid. There’s a bowl of cereal with fresh milk and a cinnamon roll waitin’ for his silent daughter when she shambles from her bedroom with school books in arm.  As he pours a mug of steamin’ black coffee from the old percolator, he asks how her special-ed classes are goin’ and gets no answers, only shrugs. The school bus pulls up, and out the door she dashes with sudden energy. He’s left alone to ponder.

Cold sandwich, a glass of milk and a couple of cookies for lunch precede a dozin’ nap as he tries to watch the noon news with its daily stories of continuin’ high unemployment and climbin’ national debt. Then he’s back in the old truck and off up the highway for his shift at the plant. A note is left for his daughter, “See you tonight, hon.  Call your mom and say hello.”

I know for a fact that these shoes are owned by a man – a smart but simple, unsophisticated man with simple needs. A member of the backbone of the American workforce.  Finishin’ high school with a talent for mechanics and a set of trade skills, he got married and spent twenty-five years doin’ his job well, pride of quality and dedication intact, on an American assembly line. Tryin’ to make a way for his family.  Any number of circumstances foreclosed college or advancement beyond crew lead.  And there were some losses along the way.  But that’s natural, isn’t it?

Then one day as he sat in the plant break room eatin’ another cold sandwich from his black lunchbox, he and a thousand-or-so fellow employees were called from their places and told their plant would be closed and their jobs shipped to a place near Saltillo in northeastern Mexico.  “Lower wages, less overhead for the company.”  As he listened to the speech, a set of burnin’, practical questions assaulted his mind like incomin’ fire from an all-out air attack. “Bills to pay. Did my union help me by constantly pushin’ for higher wages? [While they constantly pushed for higher dues from me?]  With my high-school education, I assumed the leaders were smarter than me, knew what they were doin’, cared about me.  Did they?  How’d they let all these jobs go south across the border, while at the same time, hundreds of thousands are crossin’ the river into our country and takin’ even more of our  jobs for lesser wages?”

Turmoil rose up in the pit of his stomach like a churnin’ tide. He looked down at his feet. “I wonder who’ll fill these beat-up, wore-out old shoes of mine?”

When he got home from work that night and sat down in the old chair, he unlaced those shoes for the last time and sat there lookin’ at ‘em between his tired feet, knucklin’ under toes with feet arched, then fannin’ ‘em out as if to let ‘em breathe. Lookin’ at those old shoes as though they were twenty-five years away, old friends and ghosts rolled into one package. Pickin’ ‘em up with one hand, he slowly rubbed the leather with his rough, shopworn hands, rememberin’ by touch every cut, nibble and tear in the rugged leather. No patina here.  Just scars and a tale wrought in leather, rubber and steel, blood, sweat and tears.  Settin’ ‘em on the old chair, he snapped a photo for remembrance.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© 2012 by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work reserved.  Photo © 2012 by Dwayne Eacret, published by permission.

There Is A Friend That …

What does a friend “look like” to me?  The answer is straightforward and uncomplicated.  I don’t want to have to scratch around in the background looking for my friends.  Life is complex enough without taking on complicated personalities who are like hothouse plants … or disappearing lizards.

In time, a true friend is not hard to identify.  A good friend has qualities that “go” anywhere and survive the circumstances — but not because s/he looks like what’s around her/him.  S/he will stand out from the surroundings, whatever they are.  You might say a true friend is like family, in the best sense of that word.

And while there is no perfect friend, here are a few qualities that are high on my list and which, over time, will show as the dominant traits of my friend — a friend toward whom I want to reflect these same qualities:

• Honesty — and truthfulness right along with it. There’s a difference.
• Loyalty.
• Courage.
• A Winning Attitude — not to perfection, because no one is truly always “up.”  But I don’t need a friend who’s a negative energy drain.  I’m not a garbage dump and won’t treat my friends like one.
• Friendliness — with a SMILE.
• AND the ability to LAUGH … to enjoy a funny story, especially on oneself.  If I have a friend who can laugh at herself/himself, I know I’m in good company!

“A friend loveth at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.”  Prov. 17:17

“A man that hath friends must show himself friendly: and there is a friend that sticketh closer than a brother.”  Prov. 18:24

Carpe diem.  Vita brevis!

©  May, 2012, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work reserved.  Photo by Colin Houston (col.hou on Flickr).

A Ticket to Space?

The Pacific Ocean Viewed From Outer Space, a photo by BlatantWorld.com on Flickr.

“What’s the most you’d pay for a ticket to visit space?” you ask.

“About a buck-thirty, maybe a buck-seventy-four … but no more,” I say.  No need to buy a ticket; I visit space every day, wherever I am.  I like my space.  I like some public spaces.  And I LOVE fresh air space, especially that of the mountains where there are chill streams flowing with power and thunder or trickling and gurgling among pebbles and boulders.

Another space I enjoy as often as possible is the space where my bicycle takes me as I stroke the pedals with a firm, circular cadence. That space includes the whistling of wind in my ears, the rush of wind through my helmet and the rush of blood and oxygen through my brain, my muscles, heart and lungs singing with elation even as they sometimes cry out in momentary pain on a challenging climb.

Or there are the big spaces and tee-ninecy spaces where my camera lens takes me. I sometimes have to squeeze and squinch to get in there, or hang over a barrier, or climb up onto a precarious ledge, or backpack for miles to camp and wait for just the right light conditions.  But once I’ve ‘clumb’ up there and snagged the shot — the space, that is — on my SD card for transport to my computer and the world, I have no need to even think about outer space. That’s for another photographer — and more power to her/him.

My own space is fine … terra firma.  Love it.  Outer space is intriguing, especially from the standpoint of stars, novas, supernovas, and all the other systems of planets, etc. I enjoy photos taken in outer space, photos from the Hubbell telescope and other traveling tools of science and exploration.

But my heart is in my own space, and that tiny bit of space has more miracles of adventure, beauty, enjoyment and love than I can exhaust in this lifetime.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

© April 24, 2012, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights to my original work are reserved.

Images

Hi there.

Below is a 5″ x 7″ photocard that I recently created with one of my camera shots and had Shutterfly produce for my personal use.   The card is blank inside so that I can use it for all occasions, whether sending a “thinking of you” message to a friend, a birthday greeting, or any other communication I want to send.  Shutterfly has a variety of card types available, and you can design your own.  The pricing is very reasonable and Shutterfly’s customer service is excellent.  Give it a try!  I’m betting you’ll be highly pleased.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

Michael

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5×7 Folded Card

View the entire collection of cards.

Sammin’ Cookin’

When I was a kid (second half of ‘40s – early ‘60s) growing up in the LM (Lower Midwest, northern Arkansas to be specific), “salmon” connoted canned fish of a decidedly-pink flesh with a few small, round, crunchy backbones sometimes mixed in, and the usual mode of prep by my mother was to make salmon patties grilled on the stove top.  No such thing, as far as I knew, as fresh salmon.  So much for living where I did, when I did, as a kid.  “Seafood” was primarily catfish, bass, or shrimp, although one could occasionally acquire a whitefish, such as cod, at the meat market.

As a young adult in the ‘80s, I rarely encountered fresh salmon prepared as a main course. More often, I’d come across smoked salmon – as with bagels, cream cheese and lox.  Since then, I’ve learned to love smoked salmon, whether with breakfast, as a snack, or as trail food on backpacking ventures.  Great stuff, high protein, high energy, and easy to pack in a foil pouch for lightweight, fast travel on foot or bicycle.

But when I moved to the Pacific Northwest at the turn of the 21^st century, I encountered a regional, culturally-common culinary fare – wonderful, fresh salmon of several varieties including Chinook (aka “King”), Coho (aka “Silver”), Chum (aka “Dogs”), Pink (aka “Humpies” and the variety most used for canning), Sockeye (aka “Red”) and Steelhead.  Chefs and mothers prepare it in many ways.

Last Monday night, inspired by a late-Spring snowfall and unusually cold weather that got me out for a soul-cleansing trek to flush out the cabin fever of winter, I bought a pound of fresh Coho salmon fillet (with skin on) and a bottle of nice sauvignon blanc (dry) white wine, then headed home to prepare dinner for my Lovely and self.  I had only a vague, general intent to prepare a savory dinner – no recipe in mind. But as I stirred in the fridge looking for inspirational taste kick, I came up with what I presume is an original, not having seen it in a cookbook. Here’s the recipe, which I’ll artfully dub “Cranberry-Mango Coho.”   For the whole dinner, I got lots of “mmmms” and kudos from my Lovely (she prepared the delectable salad of fresh Spring greens, radishes, fennel and grape tomatoes).

Cranberry-Mango Coho

Servings: 3

Time to prep. – 15 minutes

Total cooking time – 15 minutes  

Ingredients:

1 lb. fresh salmon filet (any variety works), preferably with skin on to preserve the tasty fat just underneath.

1 package fresh, whole cranberries

½ cup sugar (I used xylitol, a natural, low-glycemic sugar substitute that substitutes 1:1)

1 whole, fresh mango (I used a champagne mango, but any will work as well), chopped to small pieces (dime-sized).

¼ cup finely chopped yellow onion

2 large cloves of fresh minced garlic

¼ cup dry white wine (I used sauvignon blanc, but other dry whites will work)

¼ cup of fresh chopped cilantro

1 tbsp of honey

Cranberry sauce:

Bring 1 cup water and ½ cup of sugar (or xylitol) to boil in small sauce pan. Pour in 12-ounce package of fresh cranberries and bring back to a boil, then reduce heat to a low boil and let it cook for 10 minutes. When finished, pour entire contents into a bowl and let it cool at room temperature.

Next, rinse the fish filet and dab dry with paper towel, then let it stand on a plate ready to cook.

Mango onion glaze:

To a hot frypan add 2 tbsp. of high-heat cooking oil (I prefer grape-seed oil or safflower), sauté the chopped onion, quickly reducing the heat to obtain a golden brown, then toss in the chopped mango and minced garlic, continuing to sauté for another minute or so. You may want to add a small splash of the wine near the end, along with the honey and freshly-chopped cilantro, allowing it to simmer for 30 seconds or so to release the flavor.  Then spoon that glaze or sauce into a small ramekin or bowl and set aside.

Return the same frying pan to a moderately high heat, add a little more oil, and then sear the salmon filet (generously salted on each side to seal in the moisture), on each side, reducing the heat to moderate to avoid scorching.  [Here’s the rule of thumb for cooking seafood I learned from some popular local chefs: “We don’t so much cook it as threaten it with heat.”  Allow 10 minutes of cooking for each 1” of thickness.]  My filet was 1” thick, so I allowed 10 minutes – about 6 minutes on the first side, then turning to the opposite side for an additional 3½ – 4 minutes. In the last minute of cooking, add the remaining measure of white wine to simmer the fish. Then turn off the heat.  At this point, I smeared a pat of fresh cream butter over the beautifully-seared fish just to add some flavor, then promptly served as described below.

Cut the salmon into portions, add to the dinner plates and top generously with a warm mixture of the mango glaze and fresh-cooked cranberries. [Note: the cranberry sauce is slightly tart because I halved the amount of sugar customarily used].   Add the salad (and steamed rice or potato if desired) to the plate and serve.  Glasses of the sauvignon blanc may be imbibed with the meal as desired.  You’re on your own.

Buon appetito!

 

Carpe diem. Vita brevis!

 

© March 4, 2012, Michael Stubblefield.  You may share the recipe with chosen and trustworthy friends and family.  

Cheater!

“Cheater!” she yelled, but I just kept going.

“Ignore the flak,” I thought to myself, “this is no shortcut or violation of rules.”  So I continued my steady pace down the steps of the ‘down’ escalator, even though it was moving ahead at its own plodding pace.  Careful not to bump other riders on my escalator that ran in the same direction parallel to its fuller partner in JFK International Airport in New York City, I was cruising faster than other riders precisely because I was walking.  I was running late, needed to reach my flight at an outlying gate — the last flight to Seattle for the evening.  Guess my hurry offended a female rider on the adjoining escalator.

As I turned briefly to look at her glaring at me, I noted that she was young (probably late twenties) and carrying only a handbag slung over her shoulder.  Best I could tell, she was not disabled in any way and could have walked, too. But for some unknown reason, she chose to stand her ground and yell at me.  Oh, well.

As I reached the bottom of the escalator and stepped off, I hurriedly covered the distance to a second down escalator that dumped me off just before a turn, after which one of three moving walkways, each in succession, came into view and would take me nearer my gate faster than I could walk on “solid ground.”  Marked with signs that said to move to the right to stand, to the left to walk, the walkways were there for all.  I moved to the left and continued my brisk pace forward, passing several riders in the process without bumping or being rude to anyone.  On the second of the three motorized walkways, another woman chose to yell “cheater!” at me after I passed.

Now my curiosity was triggered. “What the heck is that about?” I asked myself as the analytical corner of my brain started searching for answers at this second accusation.  One heckling remark could go unanswered, but two in a short time required an  answer.  After all, if I was offending someone — two someones, in this instance — I needed to know why in order to avoid further offense.  So the analysis began:

• I’m in New York City, so perhaps it’s nothing more than high-spirited and confrontational New Yorkers.
• On the other hand,  maybe there’s an unwritten code here that I’m unaware of.  What could it be?  Nothing obvious; no signs that said one must stand still on escalators and motorized walkways.  Matter of fact, signs on walkways clearly anticipated the opposite, as already mentioned.
• These were comparatively young women yelling at me, neither of whom I’d touched, hit on, or compromised in any other known way, nor had I impeded their progress or threatened their spot in some unknown line.  Am I missing something?
• If I had been running up a static set of stairs, would they have yelled at me because they were only walking?  Wasn’t what I had just done analogous to using the left-hand passing lane on a highway, passing in a legal manner?
• Was the heckling a result of some weird distortion of egalitarianism?  That we must all be equal, so no one can go faster than anyone else on any moving conveyance? If so, this is the airport equivalent of “dumbing down” the classroom by holding back the quicker students to the pace of the dullest.
• In a corollary vein, was the heckling a result of some ostensibly-liberal (but quite the opposite) outlook that dictates that one must never “take advantage” of others in any way?  And was I taking advantage of others by simply walking, using my legs to cover ground at a faster clip than they could cover by standing still and letting the equipment do the work?  Such a conclusion would mean that no one could walk faster than the slowest walker on a public sidewalk.
• Was I somehow not being “green”?  That would be a far-fetched conclusion, since I was not enlarging my carbon footprint and was the only one exponentially expanding efficiency by using my own muscles.

I reached no firm conclusion in my mental queries.  My faster progress had not hurt anyone, delayed anyone, or consumed “more than my fair share” of the world’s space or energy or resources, nor had it profited at the expense of others. Yet it had offended at least two for reasons unstated and unknown.

I mark it up to insanity, some distorted view born in the Political Correctness maze, some weird moon cycle, or … mere heckling for the helluvit.

Can you, my readers, enlighten me?

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© January 21, 2012, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

10 True Things

I've slowly discovered that real living can be simple … even amid the seeming complexities. Here's a potpourri of simple things I've found to make life more worth the living.

1. Taking no risks offers no safety.

2. Children have much to teach us.

3. After the rain, comes … more rain [in Seattle]!

4. Sunshine makes me happy.

5. Hiking in the mountains invigorates and inspires me.

6. Physical exercise offers more benefits than difficulties.

7. There is an unimaginable, intelligent, creative force behind Nature.

8. A smile is often the best gift I can offer anyone.

9. To be loved, one must love.

10. Acknowledging my mistakes, my ignorance, and my desire to learn and know more are empowering beyond imagination.

Real Books

Ah’m not stupid, though Ah may talk funny to you.  But Ah’m not stupid.  Mattuh of fact, Ah been readin’—or read to – since ol Heck was a pup, as we say back home. Can’t remembuh anything special mah momma read to me when Ah was little, just remembuh the sound of her many voices (Ah know now she was playin’ all the charactuhs) sayin long stories to me, and Ah later remembuh her hands holdin those red-bound books while Ah was a-straddle her lap, listenin.  Mah pa read to me some, too, but he was usually too tired from work to read much without fallin sound to sleep. So mah momma read, mostly.  And she read to all of us, my brother and sisters, too.

Those red-bound books had some good stories, lots of ‘em about Bible people and how they lived in the olden times.  There was fightin and runnin and hidin and comin out of the bushes and attackin folks sometimes, like Ah guess you had to do if you were gonna survive.  Sometimes those people got saved by water rollin over their enemies and sometimes one guy got saved from his enemies by just disappearin inta thin air, so nobody could hurt him, until he got caught in the end and they nailed him up on a wooden cross.  Ah reckon times were tough back then and Ah know that musta been some God-awful kind of pain!

Anyways, Ah’ve been thinkin a lot about the books and stories Ah’ve read in mah life and Ah just find them plain interestin because they often say things that sound real, like good things and bad things that happen to people in real life whether you want them to or not.  Things like this short little snatch from a book of short stories Ah’m about to finish.  Ah like stories like this because they seem real:

Watching little Lundy go back to sleep, I wish I hadn’t told her about the Mound Builders to stop her crying, but I didn’t know she would see their eyes watching her in the dark. She was crying about a cat run down by a car – her cat, run down a year ago, only today poor Lundy figured it out.  Lundy is turned too much like her momma. Ellen never worries because it takes her too long to catch the point of a thing, and Ellen doesn’t have any problem sleeping. I think my folks were a little too keen, but Lundy is her momma’s girl, not jumpy like my folks.

My grandfather always laid keenness on his Shawnee blood, his half-breed mother, but then he was hep on blood. He even had an oath to stop bleeding, but I don’t remember the words. He was a fair to sharp woodsman, and we all tried to slip up on him at one time or another. It was Ray at the sugar mill finally caught him, but he was an old man by then, and his mind wasn’t exactly right. Ray just came creeping up behind and laid a hand on his shoulder, and the old bird didn’t even turn around; he just wagged his head and said, “That’s Ray’s hand. He’s the first fellow ever slipped up on me.” Ray could’ve done without that, because the old man never played with a full deck again, and we couldn’t keep clothes on him before he died.

B. Pancake, “The Honored Dead,” The Stories of Breece D’J Pancake, Back Bay Books, 1977.

Anyways, Ah like the beginnin of that story.  Ah ‘spose because Ah know or have known folks pretty much like he pictured little Lundy or his old grandpa who had this amazin power to always know when people were sneakin up on him.  Sometimes Ah think a few people have uncanny ability to know what’s happenin, or what somebody else is gonna do, even before they pull it off.  It might be nice to be that way, too.  Or it might not.  Ah ‘spose it could be scary, don’t you?  But Ah can remembuh kids Ah grew up with, a few of them, who were so slow you could tell them something or a joke an’ they wouldn’t even understand ’til the next time you saw them and then they’d start laughin like you jus told them a funny story.  Weird!

Anyways, when Ah got in high school Ah remembuh mah ma tellin me Ah ought not to read John Steinbeck’s books because Mr. Steinbeck was pretty naughty and used naughty words.  So Ah didn’t, even if mah daddy sometimes did talk naughty, not because Ah was good, but because Ah didn’t wanna disappoint mah mom, like he sometimes did.  It worked.  She was always pretty proud of me right up til the day she died.  And she loved to hear me read back to her when Ah became a man.  Ah’d read old poems and funny stuff to her and she loved it.  Right up til she died. Ah miss mah momma.

But anyways, Ah‘ve lately found Mr. Steinbeck’s books to be pretty funny – at least, mostly so, but East of Eden not so much.  One of mah favorites of his is Cannery Row and mah favorite charactuhs in that story are Mack and the boys from the Palace Flophouse – guys with names like Eddie and Gay and Jones and Hazel – some of ‘em kinda weird names when you think about it.  But they were all reg’lar guys even if some had weird names.  They all lived together and didn’t work much but were always tryin to find some way to help their friends if it didn’t cost too much or require too much work. Except when they went all-out to throw a party for their good friend Doc who ran the marine biology laboratory called Western Biological.

So anyways, here’s a l’il bit of Mr. Steinbeck’s story about Mack and the boys from Cannery Row, and Ah think it’s tellin, too, because it sounds just like some people Ah know, more or less, and these guys are tryin to make Lee Chong’s Model T Ford truck run so they can raise some money without havin to work too hard, just like those other people Ah know:

Probably any one of the boys from the Palace Flophouse could have made the truck run, for they were all competent practical mechanics, but Gay was an inspired mechanic. There is no term comparable to green thumbs to apply to such a mechanic, but there should be. For there are men who can look, listen, tap, make an adjustment, and a machine works. Indeed there are men near whom a car runs better. And such a one was Gay. His fingers on a timer or a carburetor adjustment screw were gentle and wise and sure.

* * *

One twist – one little twist and the engine caught and labored and faltered and caught again. Gay advanced the spark and reduced the gas. He switched over to the magneto and the Ford of Lee Chong chuckled and jiggled and clattered happily as though it knew it was working for a man who loved and understood it.

J. Steinbeck, Cannery Row, 57-59; The Viking Press, 1945.

But anyways, Mr. Steinbeck seems like he understood people very well and especially the ever-day people that make up the most of this world, the way Ah see it.  Ah mean, how often do you really see someone you’d described as an “inspired mechanic”?  And yet they’re out there, more’n we know about prob’ly.  Else how could some of the old clunkers we see on the road even today stay runnin if they weren’t attended to by an inspired mechanic the likes of Gay. Know what Ah mean?  Ah mean, they aren’t stupid!

Just like Ah’m not stupid, even though Ah talk like Ah talk — with words that may be funny-soundin’ to you but aren’t at all funny-soundin’ down where Ah come from.  Ah know folks, ‘specially northern and western folks, that think that guys like me are stupid because we talk “funny.”  But we don’t talk funny, least not where Ah come from, but it won’t do to tell ‘em, those other folks.  They’re the ones who talk funny, those western and northern folks, as far as Ah see it.  Ah mean, Ah’m not stupid, even if you think Ah sound like it.  Ah’ve been readin—or read to – since ol’ Heck was a pup.

Carpe diem. Vita brevis.

© Sep. 10, 2011, by Michael E. Stubblefield.  All rights reserved.

The Most Destructive Force to Mankind

Who am I — REALLY?

Who Am I – Load in

The ridiculous assumption that we should embrace every idea, every movement, every experiment that comes down the pike, billed as being “worthy” of respect and honor, is one of the most destructive forces to mankind. We are absurd if we truly embrace such an insistence on “neutrality” and “plurality”! To do so is to assume, ab initio, that all ideas, thoughts, movements, value systems, etc., are created equal. And to attempt to live in such a system is nothing more than learning to become a chameleon who accepts everything and believes in nothing.

Better to find out who you really are at the core of your being and embrace those values, thoughts, ideas, movements, etc., that have put you where you are in your life, those that comport with the real “you.” Listen and evaluate — for sure and with deep reflection — the systems, values, beliefs and standards of others; explore them, those ideas and movements, to ferret out what drives them and motivates them, then balance those factors against your own values and make no apology for your decision to live by the highest result.