Barn Memories

America is a different place than it was. Even where my father grew up is under water. Like it never existed, now a reservoir.

Minnesota Prairie Roots

MY FONDNESS FOR BARNS, for photographing them, never wanes.

When I fit my eye to the viewfinder, swing my camera lens toward a barn and click, it’s as if I’m clicking my heels together and flying into my past.

I am trudging down the barn aisle, leaning into the wheelbarrow heaped with ground corn. I am scooping that feed by the shovelful to top silage pitched from the silo and parceled before the Holsteins’ empty stanchions.

Later, as milk pulsates into milking machines and Dad has poured the milk into a tall thin pail, I am lugging the precious liquid to the milkhouse, handle biting into my chore-gloved hand.

Memories come into focus—the golden booming radio voices from ‘CCO, the slap of a cow’s tail, hot urine splattering into gutters, cats swarming around a battered hubcap, the stench of manure, taut twine snapped with my yellow jackknife and prickly alfalfa…

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The Bad Mother? Having empathy for other mothers

Very perceptive and we males do not help in this. Like the judgmental female against women, we may compound the problem.

frommtvtomommy

We’ve all done it before.

Maybe we shook our finger silently while watching a mom with her children.

We’d never do what she did.

Maybe it was something we overheard. Something we saw.

Sometimes indeed, a mother just truly blows chunks and should have her license revoked—like the one mom I saw smoking and drinking at the park…blowing her cancer-causing agents near my toddler and living it up with her solo cup. But for the most part, as much as I think a lot of people are plain stupid, I feel women do try hard to be good mothers.

There was this one mother who attended a class that I went to with my daughter. She always complained about her kids–she has 4. She would say how annoying they were.

She really grated on my nerves, especially when she discouraged another mom from taking her daughter somewhere because it would…

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Bo Pellini. He is right!

I was watching Bo Pellini,  coach of the Nebraska Cornhuskers can be abrasive and even volatile but he has a point.   Sports reporters think they are Woodward and Berstein,  as they try to find some salacious bit of gossip and talk about it until coaches, players and fans get sick of it.

BB 1

Bo Pellini will have none of it though and even said,  “Go ahead, fire me”.   And I bet a few media scribes were cowering,  thinking maybe he was going to crown them with a ring of fire.    Afterwhich they go to their Word Program and call him a bully.

This whole deal in Miami is largely a media creation and there forte is exploiting the race issue.  Due diligence has gone by the wayside,  as reporters try to get the story first and the net effect is they get it wrong and the damage is done.   Are there any apologies and “my bads”?  Not a chance,  because lawyers will butt their noses in and complicate matters.

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So when Bellini takes exception,  he speaks for a lot of people,  especially the coaches and players.   The expectations of BCS games becomes the litmus for success,  in a system that sucks so bad,  I am surprised Oreck is not a sponsor.

Another part of the media are the shows like the Jim Rome Show and Rome is burning.   I guess he got burned when Jim Everett made a point of not calling him Chrissy.  Of course, Rome didn’t count on Everett smacking the snot out of the churlish baiter.   He rails against what he calls his ‘clones’ and then disavows any association when they go over the line,  way over the line.

The above video is another explosion by a coach and these are not uncommon.   The coac has to play it close,  while the media says they are just getting what the fans want.  Oh sure you are.

So while Rome is Burning and the debt ceiling continues to rise,   we have Colin Cowherder,  the ugliest twerp on radio and TV calling fans jock sniffers but then in the same breath,  inhaled the second hand smoke of Lebron Jame’s tailpipe.    As you can see, hyperbole has replaced reporting.

In many cities,  wannabe ballers essentially taunt coaches and when coaches like Pettini and Riley speak out,  they are considered crass.   The media is like that bully that tease their classmates and then run behind their big brother and points at the victim of his taunts.

As a kid,  I remember Craig Morton and Roger Staubach QB controversy and while that was quite a bitter battle,  the media is nothing like it is today.   The situation is so bad,  that this year the Tampa media basically got the QB fired and then had the audacity to cry foul,  implying that the change was somehow racist and even indicating a staff infection in the clubhouse was somehow some kind of conspiracy of silence at the urging of Coach Schiano.

CraigM Freeman Roger

My point to all this is that the media starts fires and then calls the fire department.   These people are no better than the National Enquirer but everyone knows they are as fake as the WWE.   It has gotten so silly that everyone is a bully except Suh and Haynesworth.

They had their fun with Tim Tebow too,  saying that he was no good at football,  yet I wonder how many of them even played anything but intramaural hockey or the spelling bee.   Tebow’s biggest sin was being a virgin and not being aborted.  Oh and he dared mix sports with Christianity.   I bet if he pulled out a prayer rug or suggested Jihad,   he would still be the talk of the town.

TTebow 2 oc TTebow1Orphan care

His crime, praying and helping the poor in the Philippines.  Do not forget Typhoon Haiyan!!!    This is a good young man.

As it is,  the media are like a bunch of maggots,  who ruthlessly and efficiently eat away at careers and reputations.   With Tiger Woods,  they raked him over the coals for behavior they have engaged in.

The media is more ridiculous than Dog’s wife ‘Beth’.   Rather than have big boobs held together with duck tape,  they are the ones calling a female ESPN host as a lady of the night and this by a guy uglier than Girard Depardeaux. <sp>

Media expl. 1 Media expl. 2 Media exploitation

I think you get the picture or remember any other person even those misfits on Jerry Springer.

Life on Every Level

This touches my hearts and I hope we are not all so vain as to not consider the moral of this story. Humaneness! Because these are what the meals are about, not once or twice a year but the gift or hopefulness and the appreciate of, what it is.

The Neighborhood


Dream, dream, dream
my little sheep
Dream that you are the moon.
Bold, beautiful, round and calming the sea…Dream

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 Life on Every Level

written & edited by Kendall F. Person

There are irrefutable differences between nature and nurture. Nature is passed down through the blood and especially prevalent in the wild, it is the instinct that enables animals to survive. In us, it may be the way we think, or how we relate to the world, and according to Professor Paul Bloom, a researcher at the Infant Cognition Centre at Yale University, it may dictate our moral code. Nature just happens, all by itself. But nurture, on some levels, is much harder, more complex. Nurture must be taught and it must be learned. It is what a child sees in his immediate world, during the all to important formative years. The fortunate are raised by parents who are wise, healthy…

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Simple Truths

Simple Truths

Asian Hornet

— Like the hornet,  beauty can be savage and ironic.    Splendidly arrayed and ruthlessly efficient they feed upon their foes without censorship.    Their horrific bite, paralyzing sting or ghastly aroma is a specific statement of intent.   Our senses are provoked and we assume a kinship beyond the realm of reality.   We think we can escape the orbit of our own mortality and we both create and in certain circumstances immolate.

Sometimes we become so full of ourselves,   that we create unwilling and unwitting victims and make lengthy reasons why these values should be universal.   We imprison mortal minds within the hubris of fear and fitting in.    We create gods and sacrifice imperfect virgin souls,  instead of owning up to our own avarice and greed.

We tend to idolize youth and depict their angst as somehow reasonable for their collective ages but in reality,  giving ground so we are not consumed by 0ur own insecurities.    We sing ancient hymns that are sung in subdued voices and project holiness with a bowed head and a contrite heart.    But it is not really ashamed because behind us several rows back are those heathen,  who dare cough during this holy time.   And old ladies and men assess the length of a dress or of hair.    As Gatekeepers keep meticulous records of attendance and how many dimes are contributed.

I sense that some of these representatives are as clueless as we are.   Because before we were sitting on committees and dictating where people can live or their own morality we were sinning.   Now the sins I talk of are not the petty white lie but a bit of a scandal we wish to hide.   Our own hideous venom washes aware the veneer of  those altruistic motives.   It is not that we cannot be decent,   but that decency is probably flawed.

H and h 2111

Our artists strike back.   Knowingly they depict nature in it’s varied shades and sizes.      An alert elder looks quizzically at a painting thinking he sees something but can’t quite figure it out,  while the artists wink knowingly,  that their conspiracies have gone unseen.   Even bolder the brush strokes become.    Even louder the cries of the ministers of truth while their conspirators shout oratories as more dupes follow along like a monkey with a stun gun.

As I see it,  I am NOT the ONLY ONE,  who gets ‘IT.’    We are like ships trolling in the deep waters of a bay, in from the storm and safely secured by mooring.   Who can harm us now?

Church ladyChurch lady 2Justin Bieber is satan

And who is the antichrist?   and who is Satan?

To some,  everything is known by God and that Science is a lie and while I do not count myself as an adherent of Richard Dawkins,  I do get the sentiment in ‘One Tin Soldier’.      As we are encouraged not to mix drinking and driving,   we should not use religion as scientific proof of anything,   although the venomous Christian-haters are the opposite side of the proverbial coin.  Their Anton Lavey vehemence is actually quite comical or just plain pathetic.    As I see it,  you do not agree with something,  move on.    That really does work,  especially when life and death are not involved.

Because we are part of nature and part of the kingdom,  so to speak,   we have our own beauties.    Our beauties are icons of history like Marilyn Monroe,   who was cherished for little more than her blouse bunnies.    Kurt Vonnegut introduced his new characters by their genital size and ultimately about the unused area on the whole.     This may seem superficial or an artist putting this spin on culture,  much as the quadri-amputee in ‘Johnny Got His Gun’.

The bottom line is everyone has their own kind of god.     And our holy grail is what motivates us,  whatever that is.  And like any beast of burden,   we all will lay prone one day and that beauty hopefully will be over-ridden by our own deeds.    If we sting more than we pollinate we will die out.   The flowers will wither by the unrelenting sun and the youth that once was,   will be like an antique grandfather clock,   which keeps time for just awhile.

GF clockI remember visiting my grandparents and at certain times the clock would chime.   As I lie in the bed in an old house that I have dreamed about as an adult,   I felt safe,  for awhile.   Total darkness gave me the creeps,  particularly there as if the old clock was some kind of harbinger.

As I saw the eerie landscape in dark shadows and the old house,  with it’s mysteries I felt strangely drawn to this picture.,    Like one of those bees who flew back to it’s nest,   I felt kind of safe.

I guess my own private hell prefers the rain.   Perhaps as an equalizer,   depriving my oppressor of a certain territory  —  my own privacy!    I  wanted to find some dark corner,  to hide from the monsters that chased me in my dreams.     I loved the snowfalls that painted the ground in sufficient enough depth so as to protect me from harsh diminishment.   I loved the ice cycles that were like life is slow motion in a world that seemed like a refigerataor freezer.

While I harbor resentment,   that is the part of me,  that indicates how shallow that emotion might be.   That I am very far from perfect or adequate, I guess.   Regardless,   I am here now, trying to find some room to breathe and being closer than I can ever remember.    Not needing the rain to hide the tears of frustration that feel in our house.

Everyday I feel this kind of pain,  and each day the haze begins to lift.  I see out from a curtain,   past the dewy grass and the threatening tumbleweed,  that fostered mayhem.

I want to shake you down. My child(ren) Love Story

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uc8wmLul3uw

I used to feel something.   Something like desperation.   

 We were like fugitives from another life, 

  riding the waves of orgasm and then

with little outlaws and outstretched fingers.  

The first blessing of two,   faded like a stranger, 

although I felt his spirit as he left,   saying “Dad do not worry.” 

I just had to say,  “Goodbye”,  because I really did love you both.

Then I told my lover,  “Little David is gone”.  

  I sat and watched as mother and child spoke silently, 

as only a mother can,  now—

  Another empty rocking chair creaked for the last time.

and the rocking chair sang a lullaby,   “Hush little baby,   don’t say a word”.  “

Surely as one ship sails from view,   another will come.   And it did.  

The news came about as a lighthouse parted the fog

but the jagged rocks once again appeared,  

 like little daggers that lined the halls,  

just getting their was perilous.   But the fury of the sea calmed, 

and another blessing appeared upon the stoop.    

But as one tragedy had faded,  another conspired,  

by this time mother and I were tired.   Little did I know or suspect,  

that the next day it was like a hole swallowed them both up,   

mother and child.    The twists and turns of this hallway with many doors, 

had very many vistas,    but some doors were locked.  

   Then one day some 15 years later,  an angel reappeared,  my daughter.  

A friend of my X said Rachel wanted her dad.  A tear and excitement

rocked me like a spewing volcano.  

   The  mother of my child was now no longer a harbor,  

but a battered port and Rachel,  my daughter,  paid for it.  

   The end of this story is a reunion that seemed like continuity.   

Like heartbeats over some rainbow,  the colors appeared brighter, 

than even before.    To hear my sweet day say,   “This was the best birthday of her life”.     I do

not know how to even express the waterfall of love that engulfed me.  

my story