A Magnificent Missouri May Moonrise

A Magnificent Missouri May Moonrise

 

  

I arrived 30 minutes early for Saturday night’s show but a large, restless, noisy crowd had already gathered as I took my seat.  Though we all shared a love of nature, I was different from the rest.  I was the only one present with only two legs. 

At 9:21 PM a full moon was scheduled to rise above the tree line east of our home.  I knew it because I checked it out on the internet.  Everyone else knew it by instinct.  Camera in hand, I patiently waited, hoping the mosquitoes had other plans for the evening.  From the cheap seats deep in the woods, a lonely coyote began to rehearse an ancient haunting, high-pitched song.  Moments later, it was joined by a comrade, and then another, a trio of voices rising into the night.  Not to be outdone, a barred owl joined in from the balcony.  “Who cooks for you?  Who cooks for you, too?” were the strange lyrics.  Then a whippoorwill added its semi-soothing, semi-frantic namesake call to the mix.  WHIP-POOR-WILL, WHIP-POOR-WILL, WHIP-POOR-WILL.

From their watery seats, a chorus of bullfrogs added an impressive bass section to the natural symphony.  And then, contributing to the spectacle, thousands of twinkling lightning bugs began to rise from the earth to add a sparkle to the black backdrop of the forest.

Right on time, gracefully, regally, the moon began its ascent in the east behind a curtain of new green leaves.  A warm breeze washed the landscape as the giant orange-hued lunar orb cleared the tree line and illuminated our yard.  The music of the night seemed to quicken and the wind set the tallest branches of the dignified oaks visible on the newly-lit horizon into an involuntary, graceful, sweeping dance at the feet of the moon.  

Anyone who thinks the country is quiet and still has never been to the country on a warm moonlit evening.

Inexplicably, the words to an old country song came to my mind.  Written by Carl Perkins and sung by Johnny Cash, Daddy Sang Bass sat atop the charts for six weeks in 1969.  My momma always hated that song.

Daddy sang bass, momma sang tenor,  

Me and little brother would join right in there,

Cause singin’ seems to soothe the troubled soul.

Me and  MY little brother could put forth a rousing rendition of that song.  Now you have a clue why our momma hated it.

Saturday night though, the lyrics that came to my mind were different.

The bullfrogs sang bass, the coyotes sang tenor

The owls and the crickets just joined right in there.

Mother Nature’s song is soothing for your soul.

Sorry, Carl.   Changing lyrics to Johnny Cash songs just comes naturally.  Like,

 

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. 

And I hold my pants up with a piece of twine.

Because you're mine, you can pull the twine!

In case you were unable to attend a local presentation of Saturday's "RISE OF THE FULL MOON", here is a one-minute video I took of the central Missouri edition, music of the night included: 

 

                                                                                                     

More for Moore

That's Life in the Big City

The country song lyrics that philosophize "If I ain't got nuthin I got nuthin to lose" pretty well describe the attitude of the lady in the following news video.  I would describe her as "everybody's grandma".  Having just taken an unscheduled flight aboard an airborne toilet and finding herself covered in the debris of what used to be her home, she tells the reporter "That's life in the big city!"   Do yourself a favor and take a couple of minutes to watch this amazing video:

http://news.sky.com/story/1093711/tornado-survivor-finds-dog-during-tv-interview

If you'd never before seen God perform a miracle on TV, now you have. 

The day after the tornado I watched NBC's Brian William's interview other area residents.  Scenes of incredible devastation and incredible heroism were intermingled.  "This ain't our first rodeo" said one cowboy as he described what people were doing to get through this crisis.   I was amazed and inspired by a comment Mr. Williams made near the end of broadcast:  "You may have to wait weeks for help from FEMA, but the Baptist men will be there in the morning".  To which I would add, and the Catholic men and the Methodist men and the Presbyterian men and the men from any area congregation that had the means to help out. 

A local Jefferson City church is collecting items to take to Oklahoma at the request of a church not far from where the tornado changed the landscape.  Concord Baptist Church is collecting the following items:

1. Bottled Water
2. Formula
3. Baby bottles
4. Diapers
5. Rakes
6. Tarps
7. Shovels
8. Work Gloves
9. Underwear
10. Socks (infant to 3x)
11. Soap, Shampoo, Toothpaste
12. Cash

At first I wondered about #9.  After giving it some thought, I realized that if I had gone through what the folks in Moore have gone through, I'd need new underwear too.

Items can be dropped off at Concord 8:30-4:30 Thursday and Friday, May 23-24, and from 8:30-12:30 on Saturday.  The items collected will be delivered to Moore next week and distributed to people in need, regardless of religion or lack thereof.   You can contact Concord at 893-2876 for more info.

Of Pets and Paradise

A recent survey by the American Heart Association concluded that pet owners have a lower risk of heart disease than non-pet-owners.   A Reuters article on the subject stated “Research has shown that the loyalty and love pets display can reduce stress, anxiety, depression and loneliness in their owners and increase their sense of self-esteem”.  In other words, throwing sticks to dogs can delay  getting stuck in the ground.

Increased longevity does NOT extend to the neighbors of pet owners, who sometimes find INCREASED levels of stress, anxiety, depression and loneliness as a result of the dog(s) and/or cat(s) next door.

Let me offer a personal example. 

When my wife and I lived in Kansas City, neighbors two doors down had two rambunctious, verbally-expressive mutts penned in their back yard.  As can happen in doggy math, 1+ 1 soon equaled 8 rambunctious, verbally –expressive mutts.  Much of their verbal expression came, to use a phrase my grandmother liked, “in the wee, small hours of the morning.”

While my neighbor’s blood pressure and stress level may have been pegging new lows, mine were on a decidedly upward trajectory.  Usually, I chose to deal with the problem by discussing it directly with my neighbor - at 3 AM.  “Hey, Jim.  I’m concerned about your dogs.  They just woke me up with their barking.  I certainly hope they are all right.”  After hanging up, I would hear my neighbor checking on his dogs from his window.  “SHUT UP!”  he would scream in a concerned voice.

That temporary strategy kicked the can on down the road but never resolved the issue.  Then, one glorious day I stumbled on a permanent solution.  (No dogs or humans were injured in the execution of my permanent solution.)   I received, via first-class mail, a letter from a local realtor.  “Would I be interested in a free market appraisal of my home?”  If so, I was instructed to return the enclosed postcard with my name and address.  That I did, with two exceptions.  I returned it with my dog loving NEIGHBOR’S name and address instead.  A week later a real estate sign appeared in my neighbor’s yard.  The house sold, problem solved.  Thank you, enterprising realtor!

Does the role pets play in keeping you (temporarily) out of heaven earn a spot in heaven for your devoted pet?  In a sermon I heard a few years back by Dr. Monte Shinkle, Dr. Shinkle addressed this matter.  Though he admitted his conclusion was definitely not a crowd pleaser, Dr. Shinkle stated that he was unable to find any scriptural evidence that all dogs go to heaven.  Or any, for that matter.

Will Rogers felt strongly about this question.  He once stated “If there are no dogs in Heaven, then when I die I want to go where they went."

Personally, I’d be a little cautious with a blanket statement like that lest my request be answered and I find myself engaged in a joy-inspiring doggy activity, like rolling in a pile of stinky stuff, for eternity. 

After analyzing this matter, Mark Twain concluded, “Heaven goes by favor. If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in”.

Groucho Marx had a different view of pets and paradise.  He summed it up like this:  “Just give me a comfortable couch, a dog, a good book, and a woman. Then if you can get the dog to go somewhere and read the book, I might have a little fun.

For what it is worth, Groucho lived to be 86,  Mark Twain died at 74, and  Will Rogers died at 55 in a plane crash with one-eyed pilot Wiley Post at the controls.  Will made many observations during his short life.  Reportedly, his last one was “Wiley, I think you got that patch on the wrong eye!”

Biting Back at Insects

Iron Man's Lovely Decaffeinated Pepper Potts

 



 

Iron Man III brought in $175.3 million dollars on its opening weekend.  That’s a lot of beans.  Luckily for Gwyneth Paltrow, who portrays the beautiful and savvy Pepper Potts in the movie and was recently picked by People magazine as “World’s Most Beautiful Woman”, beans are still part of her diet.  So is pepper, I suppose in deference to her character in the movie.

 

MS Paltrow released a cookbook this spring that urges readers to remove coffee, alcohol, eggs, sugar, shellfish, soy,  dairy, wheat, meat, processed food and various and sundry other items from their diet.  Beans are still ok.  I’m not sure where she stands on the recent initiative of the United Nations to fight hunger by feeding people bugs that are efficiently produced by “Insect Farms”.  Insect Farms?  I’ve got 15 acres teeming with insects I’d be happy to part with - for the right price.  One problem.  My insects think this is a people farm and that I am the main entrée.

 

In my younger more adventurous years, I once purchased a package of chocolate-covered bumble bees.  They were very similar to coating a lump of rice krispies with chocolate.  A little bit crunchy, but pretty much all you taste is chocolate.  Which I believe is a fine way to entice the female portion of our population into at least giving insects a try.  Dark-chocolate covered cicadas.  Grasshopper sauté, crunchy fat ‘hoppers dipped in a chocolate peanut butter sauce.   Yummy.  With loads of protein!  If you want guys to try them, dip them in batter and deep-fry them.   Hey, if the Testicle Festival is such a success around here, who’s to say a Crispy Cricket Festival wouldn’t do equally well (as long as they sold beer like the Testicle Festival).

 

My father-in-law, gone nearly 10 years now, grew up during the lean years of the Depression.  He often said they survived on fish caught in a nearby stream and turnips.   For him, the shock of military life in WWII was offset by the joy and regularity of Army chow.  His favorite dish was S*** on a Shingle.  That’s what chipped beef and gravy served on toast referred to in those days.  Probably still is.

 

But if the new edible insect kick is successful, the recipe may be revised to “Dung Beetles on a Shingle”. 

 

Just think – it was unnecessary for my father-in-law’s family to survive on fish and turnips alone during the Depression.

 

For more variety they could have eaten the bait.

 

 

 

CRICKET - IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER!

A Complete Idiot’s Guide to Tools

Headstart Program for Budding Mechanics

As Baby Boomers retire, I seem to hear a common refrain:  “________ (fill in the career blank) has been good to me, but THANK GOD I’m not starting out NOW!"  This seems to be an especially common sentiment among teachers.  Doug Bartlett could be the poster boy for this group.

 

Mr. Bartlett, a 17-year veteran in the classroom and a second-grade teacher at Chicago’s Washington Irving Elementary School, was suspended from his job last month and charged with “possessing, carrying, storing or using a weapon”.   His offense?  He brought some common tools to class - pliers, wrenches and screwdrivers - as part of a lesson on the proper use of tools for his second-graders.

Though I personally subscribe to the theory that one can get by with only two tools  – WD-40 to make things go and duct tape to make them stop – I’m certain that many second graders have a much greater mechanical aptitude than I do and could benefit from a little classroom tool time. 

I received an email this week that summarized my experience with tools.  I would call it “A Complete Idiot’s Guide to Tools”.    Here are a few examples that nail my experiences with tools pretty well:

Skil Saw – A portable cutting tool to make boards too short.

Belt Sander – An electric sanding tool commonly used to convert minor touch-up jobs into major refinishing jobs.

Wire Wheel – Cleans paint off bolts and then throws them somewhere under the workbench at the speed of light.

Channel Locks – Used to round off bolt heads.

Table saw – A large stationary power tool commonly used to launch wood projectiles for testing wood integrity.

Band Saw – A large stationary power saw primarily used by most shops to cut large pieces of wood into smaller pieces that more easily fit in the trash after you cut on the inside edge of the line instead of the outside edge.

Two-ton Engine hoist – A tool for testing the maximum tensile strength of all the hoses you forgot to disconnect.

Phillips Screwdriver – Normally used to stab the vacuum seals under lids and to strip out Phillips screw heads.

Common screwdriver – a tool for opening paint cans and for converting common slotted screws into non-removable screws.

PVC Pipe Cutter – A tool used to make plastic pipe too short.

Hammer – a tool used to locate the most expensive parts adjacent to the object you are trying to hit.

Utility knife – Used to slice through the contents of cardboard cartons.

&@#%&!!! Tool – Any handy tool that you grab in frustration and throw across the garage while yelling &@#%&!!!!.  It is usually the next tool that you will need.

Attorneys for The Rutherford Institute have filed a civil rights lawsuit on behalf of Mr. Bartlett.  I wish them success.  I lift my coffee mug and offer them the following "mechanic’s toast of solidarity" in support of their cause:

RIGHTY-TIGHTY, LEFTY-LOOSEY!

On second thought, that’s probably considered "hate speech" in Chicago.



 

Born (in a snowstorm) on the Fourth of July

 

Mark Twain was born in 1835 as Halley’s Comet passed over his birthplace in Florida, Mo.  In 1909, Mr. Twain said “I came in with Halley's Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year (1910), and I expect to go out with it”.  He was not disappointed.  He died April 21, 1910 as Halley’s Comet neared the sun. 

On Saturday, I attended the funeral of another remarkable man whose birth and death coincided with a natural phenomenon.  Reverend C.J. Greer was born in a snowstorm on July 4, 1921 in Gillette, Wyoming.  Though he moved to Missouri as a young cowboy to attend Central Bible College in Springfield in 1948, in his later years he remarked that he would like to visit Wyoming for “one last blizzard”.   Rev. Greer's funeral was Saturday.  As my wife and I passed through Mack’s Creek early Saturday morning on our way to Rev. Greer's funeral in Brighton, Mo, it began to snow.  The last time Springfield had a measurable snowfall in the month of May was May 2, 1929.  That record was broken Friday, May 3, 2013.  And snow was falling again Saturday morning, May 4.  Swirling flakes joined their fallen brethren, adding to a layer of white already coating rooftops and newly-sprouted green leaves as we made our way through the small Missouri towns of Pleasant Hope, Goodnight, and Tin Town.  I suspect the snow was a celestial tribute to Rev. Greer, probably in lieu of flowers that are scared to stick their heads out due to the cold weather.

Rev. Greer began ministering to the people of southwest Missouri while Harry Truman was still calling the shots in the White House.  Among the thousands of lives his ministry touched is a former Missouri Governor, Senator, and U.S. Attorney General.   John Ashcroft still lives not far from the Brighton Highway Assembly of God church that Rev. Greer founded and pastored for 40 years.  On Saturday morning, he joined friends, family, and pastors that had entered the ministry under Rev. Greer’s leadership to honor him.

As a former student in Rev. Greer’s Junior Boy’s Sunday School class, Mr. Ashcroft recalled that it was something of a sensation to have an actual Wyoming cowboy as a Sunday School teacher.  “He taught us about Jesus and how to rope stumps” he said.  And while Mr. Ashcroft faced some monumental challenges while serving as a Governor, Senator and U.S. Attorney General, he noted that the skill set required to teach Bible lessons and maintain order in a Junior Boys Sunday School class should not be underestimated.

Rev. Greer was no stranger to hard work.  As a bi-vocational pastor, he supported his family as an iron worker for 28 years, as owner of the Elm Valley Goat Dairy from 1957 through 1984, and by raising and training Border Collie dogs.  A former church member and friend of Reverend Greer’s children who is now a pastor recalled that if you spent the night at the Greer house, you were usually awakened around 4:30 am by Reverend Greer loudly reciting a Bible verse, Proverbs 6:9:  HOW LONG WILL YOU SLEEP, O SLUGGARD?  WHEN WILL YOU ARISE OUT OF YOUR SLEEP?

Even though he is no longer with us, I still learned something at his funeral:  If three preachers and a politician are going to speak, don't drink a large cup of coffee before you sit down.

Congratulations to Rev. Greer on his "home going".

He left behind some pretty big cowboy boots to fill.

School Days, School Days, Lots of Brand New Rule Days

There are a few memories from my elementary school days that are still indelibly inscribed in my brain.  A couple involve food.  I can still remember walking into school and knowing immediately when cooked cabbage was the vegetable of the day.  The gag-inducing smell permeated the entire school.  To this day, I can tell you the percentage of cooked cabbage that was ladled onto my plate when I passed through the lunch line that found its way into the trash can when I left the lunchroom.  That would be 100%.  Pity the poor pupils of New York’s Public School 244.  PETA has prodded Principal Dennis Walcott to prohibit meat on the daily school menu.  Mr. Walcott calls it “trailblazing”.  I call it a tremendous idea if your goal is to fill the cafeteria trash cans with uneaten vegetables.  In fact, a new eating disorder called “Orthorexia” is making headway in America.  This disorder is described as “an obsession with eating only healthy food”.   According to Nutritionist Jenn Culbert, that’s unhealthy.  Though most of us admittedly overdo it, our bodies actually have a minimum daily requirement of bad food.  According to Culbert, “Fat helps us absorb fat soluble vitamins A, D, E, and K, and it also helps us absorb phydo chemicals in fruits and vegetables”. 

My other elementary school food memory involves a classmate, Jimmy Brymer.  Jimmy once laughed so hard at a joke I told that milk came spewing out of both of his nostrils.  I wish I could remember the joke and forget the sight of the milk coming out of his nose.

One of my most pleasant elementary school memories is recess.  This, too, has come under scrutiny from the playground powers-that-be.  In New Hampshire’s Windham School District, the school board voted 4-1 to ban dodgeball.  Oh, sure . . . I SUPPOSE dodgeball CAN be a little hazardous.   I recall scrambling once to retrieve a loose ball that was rolling near the center line only to look up and see Larry Hopkins, the biggest kid in our class, only a few feet across the line, arm cocked, with me in his sights.  I can still recall the smile that came to his face when I looked into his eyes and realized he was ready to knock me into next week.  I got hit and it probably left a mark.  The mark wasn’t permanent but the lesson I learned was:  always know where Larry was before charging to the center line after a loose ball.

Life is full of Larry’s. 

You can learn to deal with them sooner or you can learn to deal with them later but it is impossible to avoid them.      

But then, on the other hand, maybe it wouldn’t have stung so much if all Larry ever had to eat at school was carrot sticks and cauliflower.

 

 

 

 

A Fungus Among Us

My neighbor Tom, hardly breathing,
I mean, not even breathing hard after
pedaling to Hartsburg

Morel Mushroom aka White Gold

Morel Mushroom sautéed in butter

Oh, look!” my wife said as we passed a billboard on a recent drive in the country.  “Broasted chicken!  Let’s stop there for lunch”.  And that’s how we found ourselves eavesdropping on a controversy at the newly-opened Buffalo 52 Broaster Stop in Stover, Mo. 

“FIFTY BUCKS A POUND!” I heard a guy a couple of tables over exclaim.  Listening closer, I heard him explain to the restaurant proprietor that that’s how much a recent caller to a radio call-in show was asking for morel mushrooms.  Though I am a newcomer to the sport, hunting for edible mushrooms, ESPECIALLY morels (Morchella Esculenta) could be an Olympic event in central Missouri.  The few times I’ve ventured into our woods in search of morels I’ve come back empty-handed – except for one time when I found a mother lode of red ones.  Though the Conservation Department cautions that red mushrooms can be toxic, my neighbors must be immune.  They eat them with no ill effects.  Since I wasn’t willing to gamble a liver transplant against a free meal, I gave mine to them.

 On Monday my neighbor Tom & I biked the Katy Trail from Jefferson City to Hartsburg.  We passed several people stopped alongside the trail searching the undergrowth for morels.  Plastic grocery sacks appeared to contain evidence their search was not in vain.

On our way back to Jefferson City we took a break at a couple of benches overlooking the Missouri River.   There we met Roger Fisher, a retiree with a devotion to fitness.  Our conversation covered many areas, including biking, running, grandkids, religion, former jobs, ticks, recent travels and morel mushrooms.  When I related my "$50 a pound story" I overheard at the Buffalo 52 Broaster Stop in Stover, Roger asked “When were you there?”  “Saturday, around 1:30” I answered.  “I ate lunch there on Saturday too” he said.  “I must have left just before you got there”.  Hmmm.  I wonder what the odds are of meeting a stranger at a park bench on the Katy Trail and having had lunch at the same restaurant 60 miles away two days earlier?  Probably about the same as me finding morel mushrooms.

Turns out Roger grew up in Stover, a town I’ve passed through before but never had the occasion to stop.  He said an entrepreneur has purchased the old movie theater in Stover.  Instead of trying to make a go of it with current movies, he is showing old movies, like Ma & Pa Kettle and John Wayne and the Lone Ranger.  Coincidentally, a new movie about the Lone Ranger, Never Take Off the Mask, is being released July 3 with Johnny Depp portraying the Lone Ranger’s faithful Indian companion, Tonto.  I’m certain the price of admission will be considerably more than the two bucks it costs to see a movie in Stover.

As Tom & I got up to ride the last 4 miles to Jefferson City, another biker rode up.  He was a “fisher” as well.  Not the same kind of fisher as Roger Fisher, the guy we just met.  This biker was a “fisher of men”.  “May I give you a book?” he asked.  Not one to turn down a free book, the guy handed me a glossy paperback titled God Called My Name – Delivered from the Slime Pit of Hell – I Was a Hard Nut to Crack – I Have Been Set Free.  “The author, Kenneth Campbell, lives in Rolla, Mo and is a friend of mine” he explained.  “Would you like one too?” he asked, handing a copy to Roger.  “Sure” said Roger.  “Wait a minute” I said.  “Roger is a Methodist.  Are you sure you want to give a book to a Methodist?”  “I’m NOT a Methodist.  I’m a Lutheran!” clarified Roger, apparently not one to turn down a free book either.  I haven't read the book yet, but it may be worthy of a book report in a future blog.

Later that day, I cracked a tough nut too.  I went into our woods, walking stick in hand, and navigated the multi-floral rose sticker bushes (from the slime pit of hell), fallen branches, slippery creek banks and low-hanging limbs with newly-sprouted leaves and brought home 16 morel mushrooms of assorted sizes.  I also returned with several ticks of assorted sizes, and maybe an equal number of scratches.  My wife and I covered them with batter and sauteed them in butter (the morels, not the ticks) and had them for dinner.  I now understand why people rave about them.   

And, with my haphazard mushroom finding ability, $50 a pound would probably figure out to almost minimum wage.