Interludes and the deluded.

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The Sound of the clock rang one last time,  as the weary hearted shadow failed.   The sun was seeking to find an image lost, that ceased in the middle of a deep blue sky.  At every angle and throughout the day,  nothing changed but the chill and the chattering teeth.    One raindrop had fallen from a crescendo of tears,  evaporating just like time,  seasoning the still damp land.

Followers in sequence too busy to care,   hustled about the streets waiting for the next ball to drop.   Cheers and acrimony and a wave of the hand,  til bedding with strangers again and again.    When the moment came,  an idea sprang to life,   why not choose between the party-goers and the party?     Pretty soon flashes of white and the shutter’s eye,  passing a cake for two intended and then shared with more.  A part frozen never to be warmed but only discarded.

The wine skin burst but nothing more flowed only the dim retrospect of a choice that morphed into a bad dream.   Words were exchanged between the two and the two by many.    Now, a gavel and the sounds of finality.    Where did I come from and why should I care?   Surely there is more to this than that?

So now jaded, a victim of familiar circumstances,  those eggs all in one basket fell.     Now is the time to adjust the screen.    Take out the colors that are purple and green.   Wiser now with only a poem to tell.    Finding a warm spot in the winter’s interluded dreams.

To Grandmother’s House We Went.

There are those times as a child when certain memories come back like yesterday.   For those of us with doting Grandparents these times are even more special.   Grandma and Grandpa lived in near Wellsboro,  PA.   The town was one of those factory areas with lots of farms, and lots of old dirt roads.

Charles Chips

In the early days going to Grandma’s house there were a few nostalgic places along the way.  One was an area that was flooded and a dam built where there used to be farms and one of those were owned by our extended family.   Next was the old store just before we turned onto the old Route 6,  the road my grandma lived on.

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The road was semi-paved and long and the old store was torn down a few years later with my only recollection was a new road was put in it’s place.   The old road also marked the nearness of Grandma’s place and a sense of magic and an accommodating environment.   Grandpa was always a bit annoyed at Grandma’s eccentricities and she had a few.   But in th end,  his love was born out for her even though Dr House probably learned snarkiness from him.

He used to show us the severed finger he suffered while working on an old car that collapsed as his finger got in the way of the hitch.    He wore his infirmity with pride and he was also very keen to my dad’s mistreatment of Mom.   Grandpa seethed with an inner rage and a few choice words from time to time.

Dad’s father was a bit of a jerk also and his sister would tell how he was beat by own his dad and thus the cycle of abuse was passed down.   That inner rage like an old tire tube,  slowly leaked it’s venom and poisoned what would have been an ideal childhood,  all things considered.

Staying at the house was the feeling that dad was powerless there and that he could only go so far pushing my mom to tears.   Something about being patriarchal and fair.   But Grandma always had the Charles Chips Potato Chips,  cases of soft-drinks and a few cookies to boot.  She was in love with her children in the sense that her world revolved us.  From the sock cookies to her love of the Pennsylvania Amish.   I remember light switches that read, “Outen the Lights” and other relics of a different time in the midst of the present.

I remember one time when Grandpa and Grandma visited us in Fairbanks, Alaska.    The bitter cold was relieved by their presence and true to form,  Grandma,  who my dad despised,  was able to help give aid to my mom’s beleaguered spirit.  This is where my anxieties deepest fissures stemmed.   The memory of my dad on top of mom was a knife threatening to hurt her (kill her) if she ever did whatever she allegedly did.

Being the only child old enough to remember much,  it as though something was relentlessly scratching the blackboard in school.   I dangled like an ornament precariously situated on a branch and Christmas a kind of detante against the ongoing drama and virtual cold war.

But back at her mom in Pennsylvania was a place of peace,  a lean-to and suspending sanctuary against the bitter winds that blew like an angry wind.   The best was staying over at Grandma’s during the summer and a few times during Christmas break.   I used to watch the traffic on the new Rte 6 and when there was snow,  the crunching of tires and the slow procession that followed the ruts in the snow packed ice.

The chiming of the old grandfather clock and the old black and white TV that sat below it.  My mom told as kids that they put a kind of tri-colored flimsy on top of the black and white picture to get color TV.    The only cable back then was the one that towed your car out of a ditch.

Speaking of ditches.   While still very young I was in the front seat of our old blue Ford stationwagon while mom and dad were inside.   I decided to go with my first driver’s education class and put the car in reverse and it slowly rolled down the driveway and onto old 6 and against a barb-wired fence.   Beyond that fence was about a twenty foot drop.   My dad was sheepish at his thoughtlessness and I was pretty scared myself.   Afterwards was a warning and a laugh from grandfather that dissipated the pressure of that event.

The old Grandfather clock croaked out the time,   it’s face made of copper and ornate arms which  spun slowly,  methodically and predictably.    Calming the tempest in a generally unfamiliar way.   The stairway seemed much longer than it really was and the excitement of the old house gave it a kind of haunted house feel.

Grandma’s heart seemed in synch with the old time keeper and my grandfather sat in his chair and winked at us.   He had a quiet power over us and though 70ish he was no one to mess with,  He was a steadying force in the family,  truly a great man in my eyes.

I really feel that he loved Grandma even though his first wife died pretty young.  Reminders of her were her spinster sisters,  kind of like the Baldwin sisters in The Waltons.   He was also a pretty good ball player and played in the industrial leagues that were common then.

Both of my grandfathers played semi-pro baseball and probably where I got my athletic skills.   My dad did too though he opted for working hard and there is nothing wrong with that.   The problem is he was terribly conflicted and full of inner rage.   He never went to my sporting events and he missed something special when I was in high school upsetting the number one wrestler in the state of NY in my division (105lbs) LOL>

But Grandma T’s house was a kind of sanctuary and better when the cousins showed up.   We rigged an old crate and used a small beach ball and played basketball.    The excitement with the prospects of going to our Aunt and Uncle’s House on the Dairy Farm.   Days were long with chores and all and since it was a novelty,  the fact that it was work was not a problem.

After eating during the spring and summer we played Little League Baseball.   With tons of catchers mitts and other types of baseball gloves we would head off to the park.  Even cousins who were girls played baseball and this was true even at the fair they had each year near Blossburg in a towned called Roseville.   It was Hooterville with our telephones inside but they were party lines.   Yeah they did exist and long distance calls in the states, a few miles away were expensive.   No cellphones then unless the cans with the string attached could be considered thus.

On our way home we would stop at the Farmer-in-the Dell Creamery were absolutely delicious fresh ice cream was served.  Too bad but that place was bought out and leveled in corporate America’s siege of small farming communities and forcing farmers to find jobs in a world that was decreasingly hospitable to the menial-minded laborer.

The only time it was tolerable was when I had my 17 year old girlfriend Marci along for the ride.   We stroked each other’s hair and cuddled for the long ride.   I was pretty happy at that time.    I remember waiting at her parent’s house one day and the song by Gordon Lightfoot ‘Sundown’ was playing.    As she emerged to come downstairs,  her long flowing black hair felt right at the moment.   I was pretty happy with that too.  Of course.

As my dad and my mom’s mom grew older my dad actually conceded that it was a nice time though he hated going because I think,  it reminded him of what he never really had and the world is sadder when you cannot feel that way about Grandma and Grandpa.

The Cat who saved my life. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaby!

baby102Cat Fancy

Baby is kind of an enigma.   She is very affectionate towards me,  myself and even I.   But she is very distrustful of others.   Perhaps it was the loneliness and privation she suffered as a result of my calamity.      Being penned up for nearly two years and the pain I felt as she was in her cage in a shed,  sometimes with temperatures way below freezing.   Her pain was mine and I got sick of the circumstances and finally it was me and baby in the back seat of an aged Honda Civic.

Baby went everywhere with me and she loved the travel.    I would take her on long trips to Raleigh,  Durham and points in between.    She would sit in the back window or sidle up to me when it was cold,  raining or the loud slams of thunder shook the car.

One time I was in Durham and getting some food at Open Table Ministries and a lady across the street was a storage unit place manager and she offered to have my cat stay in there while I ate and out of the car.  In the A/C.   I managed to make her as comfortable as I could and her payment was her love and devotion.   To this day.

 Baby is a dark cloud with a white lining.   She brought love in her own way and hid in a place out of site.   Prying eyes were sometimes a concern.   Citizens with good intentions and a roof over their head,  experts in suffering in their spare time.

     Baby is an angel full of life,  since her blue-eyed days of infancy to her long enduring roads and the moment I came back from a chore, or an errand.  Living for me,  she added some hopefulness to my life and that my friends is true love.

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My frustration finding a home was taking it’s toll,  sleeping at rest stops, Walmarts or busy truck stops.   There was always the bus people on Greyhound and those party buses and they increased my stress.   I just about had it.    When help came,  first by Baby being classified as emotional support animal by the VA.   I had help with the cat by a local humane society who knew the cat and I needed each other.

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They were actually impressed that I would not give up on her or gave her to someone else. The VA said I needed to get rid of baby and I read them the riot act and got very upset.   Because of that they (The Humane Society) did all they could for me and the cat.   My cat was kind of cold to them but they stilled loved her and helped me with food and litter.

Now baby and I are happy living in the warmth and coolness respectively.   She runs like a track star,  as opposed to hanging upside down from the headrests.  She always made me laugh or made me feel calm and now she is right behind me purring and sleeping.   This is her place and I just stay with her and enjoy her loving me.

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Detroit. The Real Decay. Ourselves?

“The attraction of horror is a mental, or even an intellectual, excitement, but the fascination of the repulsive, so noticeable in contemporary writing, can spring openly from some rotted substance within our civilization …”
Ellen Glasgow

Think about it.    We have a form of pornography that is almost passe.   It is a horrible sin to show a nude butt or breasts but we let psycho-social imagery of young girls provocatively dressed and then brutally assaulted and maybe beheaded or otherwise violated.

We yawn if someone is brutally murdered.   And then talk about sexual deviance and ignore the greater sexual smut.    It is…   misogyny.    It depicts nubile young women as sexual objects and then murder them in a frenetic bloody massacre.    We then try to figure out why children and young people become so perplexed.   A sociopath sees a target rich environment and apologists make every excuse for that aberrant behavior.

When the truly horrific happens,  we were far too busy talking about help,  charity and sponsorship.    Where were we when a poor bullied child is sobbing and sitting on a floor in the middle of the school?   Do we call it teen angst or do we analyse the problem and get that confused person some help?

Then stories like Casey Anthony (talk about a sociopath) or Tanya Harding happen,  or Tiger Woods,  OJ Simpson and The Fish that Stole Pittsburgh and when we can’t get enough of the slanderous,  especially the sexual,   we go even further and become transfixed over the almost cult-like feel of one of these scandals.

At the same time,  sexual and physical abuse go unchecked.   We moralize,  we rant and we talk about justice and let the poor bugger die of exposure  to the cold because we were too busy with Foxy Knoxie Amanda Knox.

Yet do we try to understand and fix the root of the problem?   Do we get the person convicted of sexual deviancy a way to get better?   Or do we release these people back into the mainstream to do what they do?

Where has mercy and love gone?  We talk of no tolerance but we arrest a kid using a banana as a gun and missing that AK-47.   Teens mug and kill a feeble 90 year old and then spend weeks on a questionable murder,  in a time with potentially sociopathic cops, charlatan evangelists and parents more eager to settle out of court than helping the victim.

People say there are no rehabilitating murderers and sexual predators and yet we leave unstable people to roam the streets and they don’t even need a gun to cause a lot of heartbreak.    What do we do for the victim and why the victimizer did it in the first place?   Many times the perpetrator was hurt in the same way.   If we are consistent we realize a huge problem.    That easy fixes usually are Hollywood fantasies.

As soon as the hype dies down,  the victims are virtually forgotten by the media.   Trayvon Martin is still dead.   The poor old 90 year was yesterday’s news.   Media has become a breeding ground for narcissistic and delusional circus freaks.   They exploit the story and then do absolutely nothing.   The killer continues to kill and the sexual deviant continues his or her deviancy.

No solutions, no ideas of when some relief may come and just waiting for a chance to editorialize even more.

Seeing Nancy Grace huff and puff about the latest scandal or crime,  one gets the feeling that these crimes are the highlight of their day.

That we can talk about tolerance (or the lack of) for opposing ideas even if they are in the majority.   Wrong will always be wrong but we lack the courage to call wrong wrong and right is really right.

Join my Senior Gang – Walkers Across America! Fear Us!

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I know it is a scary site so if you see us,  run for your life.

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I can see it now.    It is a sunny hot and balmy afternoon,  feelings are on edge and all of a sudden there comes the squeak of hearing aids over-modulating and the steady clack-clack-clack of our tricked out walkers as they crash against the heathen sidewalk.

I pull off my AARP approved helmet engage my kickstand while others fall suit.  It can be quite intimidating as the smell of tosterone and Hai Karate aftershave fills the promenade. The Discovery Channel is falling us around,   capturing our exploits and with dramatic elan show us entering our coffee klatch and winking at the young girls.   (Sixty year olds).

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Of course the big event is going to be when we get in our cars at rush time and drive 20mph in the fast lane while listening to sound bites of the old Lawrence Welk Show.   We will be in a Geritol-induced coma listening to the honks and remonstrations of busy young people.   Our old ladies (literally) will be wearing their antique jewelry and swinging their pearls flirtatiously.

But on a more serious note,  we are civc-minded rebels with a cause.   We man our walkers from our golf carts,   flashing gang signs and cooing sweetly at our female hang-arounds.   You can tell how mean we are by the tats,  like the one with the knitting needles or the EIB Network.     However on that day we are all business,  as we have our Walkers Across America Fund Drive for better sidewalks and Senior Discounts.   We are so vicious that we go to the Full Throttle Saloon and we scare the Bikie Gangs.

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Other distractions for us included collecting at a friend’s house and cajoling the parents and children as they come home from school.   “Mommy, they are scary,  when are the police going to do something about it?”    The mom say the cops are chicken and that we are no one to trifle with.   We have names like Lawrence,  Myrtle and Gertrude so we don’t even need gang names.   That is scary enough right there.

In our clubhouse we have pictures of Bad Granpa, Granny of the Beverly Hillbillies and Festus of Gunsmoke.    We have a saying,   ‘Torn clothing Needs Stitches’.   We like to let our children and grandchildren pay for our hip replacements at 90 and we watch our windows to see young people breaking the rules of our park and turning them into the community’s park management.

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If you go to our website.    www.bluehairs.com you will see our fallen bros and bro-ettes and please do not ask how you can join,  just find one of us and ask.    We would have been on the Sons of Anarchy but that would have only led to a rumble and we try to keep a low profile just in case the Popo spots one of us.

So the next time you think about coming up on one of us,  just remember if we are not wearing our patches and rockers you might not know who we really are.   Suffice it to say,  we have nothing to lose except our driver’s license and free parking signs.

RIP George Washington and watch out for Reverse Mortgages and Clappers!!

Before Kindle. Airline Bestsellers.

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Above right was our actual crew on flight 666.

I used to remember the long boring flights across the pond and across parts of the U.S.   Airline periodicals (some of those do not exist – Allegheny Airlines, e.g.) were really intense.   Reading copious amounts of airline propaganda and smelling the sweet ambiance of restrooms,  was always a highlight.

I remember when the back two rows were not the only coach seats and where DC -9s and 727s hauled most of the freight.  Still I did  ride a pond jumper into Memphis,  complete lightning strikes,  hail and wind sheer.  The best part of those flights was probably the propeller engines grinding to a stop and the jerking noise made as the wheels grazed the runway and the nose came gliding down.

Also those stewardesses (mostly at the time) won awesome little hats,  serving Gingerale,  stale peanuts and movie reviews on an aircraft with no headsets but plenty of antiquated gas masks.   Still, it wasn’t all bad.  Gone are the days when security personnel didn’t molest octogenarians and three year olds.    A time in which OJs biggest hurdles were football players and suitcases.

But back to that reading fare.   Back then no one was telling you that there will extra charges for additional luggage and one butt bought one seat.    I keep forgetting the reading part.   Anyhow,  before LOL and ROFL we had old magazines that must have been out of date,  even for a doctor’s office.   Periodicals which FDR’s third term and how one day air travel might actually transport people across the country and even the world.

In day when a non-stop flight was done along with crop dusting and mail deliveries.   Could you imagine what they must have read back then?  Or the stewardess (mostly) saying, “oh crap’ had a totally different meaning.   So if you see hieroglyphics and the Original 10-15 Commandments consider yourself lucky.  It could have been worse,  you might have had to watch ‘Annie Hall’ and her polymorphous sexual expressions.   Still trying to find those.   That Woody!!!!

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Larry’s Angels! Just Catting Around!

Man’s best friend has a bit of the stray cat strut.   And Live Science (the blog site) says the book is out.  In the end however,  cats do not work well with people and that dogs (as wonderful as they are) let humans figure it out while a cat is more persistent.    Maybe stubborn is the right word.   LOL.    Be that as it may,  cats have a smaller pct of brains to body mass but 300,000 to 160,000 million neurons.  So what?  Right?  Maybe, but cats have my fancy and here is why in my mind.

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Baby to the left and Lacey to the right.   Lacey is a crazy sweet SnowShoe Siamese and I hear she speaks about 20 languages,  begging for food that is.

Felix d catHerman

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Stormy Heart Serenade – Damages

My dream –  25 January 2015

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The day was one of those humid but unremarkable days with the exception of a forecast that included inclement weather.

I was standing outside a warehouse with three friends and we were discussing the forecast with the sunny blue skies and a light wind.  I gave my take on the situation being a Meteorologist.   In effect saying,  You cannot tell by the clear skies what’s going to happen during the afternoon and early evening”.

Sure to form by late morning the first little towers of cotton seemed to gather as the heat poured energy from below.  Like a pot of boiling water the change became more noticeable as the air liquefied into mad rivulets of upward vertical motion.

Marci told me that she needed to get out of the bamy skies as the humidity hung like a soggy blanket,  making the hot more miserable.

We found our way into an empty warehouse,  where we found a fairly sturdy set of walls and a heavy steel door.   Apparently,  we weren’t the only ones with that idea.   The fact it was ventilated made it a prime place to hide.

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The room was not really that spacious so one got the feeling of being like an animal caught in a snare.  Claustrophobia seemed to seize us both at the same time and we left the relative safety for the open air and a less confined place.

The wind began to swirl with a passion as the heat climbed up towards the fast growing clouds.  In the distance were lines of Cumulonimbus Clouds.   Like a gathering army of angry and mischievous Gremlins. By late afternoon,  the ominous looking clouds fattened with sharp spikes of light shooting out in all directions with the accompanying claps of thunder and their reverberations.  The party was getting into full swing.

From an office you could see lines of storms systems.  These Mesoscale systems snarled and marched onward with high winds and low pressure that popped your ears and engendered a primal fear.  Soon sirens blared as the culmination of physics manifested in an eerie calm.     Bluish black clouds ragged with pent up rage acquiesced to nothing.

Buildings shook as they do when heavy ordnance releases it’s fury.   With the rise in air currents came the chattering of old roof tops that graced structures with uncertainty,  threatened to be peeled back or just collapsing with fatigue.  We saw a woman on a phone as the curtain of night started to drape itself about and the luminous light and sound show intensified bringing an increased sense of dread.

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We wandered about and around the phone lady and soon she feel self aware and struck out to find another place. Marci and I,  decided to hole up in this semi-private space,  waiting for the current round of chaos to abate.         The last round of storms left us shaking.   To the left of us was a window which was heavily armored and I assured my consort that we were safe.   Suddenly like a bomb exploding,  a wash of red covered the window,  a human stain with no doubt,  all was not well.

As we found another spot that seemed safe,  a room that looked like a classroom and filled with people, I had some bad feelings here,  even more than any that I had spent time in and my suspicions were born out.   With another lull in this never-ending parade of severe weather and the threatening sounds of crashing glass and gales of wind unseating rooftops we found an office across the street.

 

This one office struck my fancy as I saw a bay window front to a store and office warehouse.   Me and my friend sat in two of the chairs practically inert and watch debris flash by in an instant.   Only slightly more safe was this place and keeping that in mind,  I went into the warehouse with Marci in toe.  There were a lot of beautiful furnishings all handmade with the middle of the room sporting a table with chesire-acting cat sitting quietly in a chair next to that table.   She knowingly acknowledged me in this strange sanctuary conspicuously absent of people.

Walking back outside the carnage was obvious.   The scenery changes were not limited to buildings as dumpsters of debris,  seemingly human powdered the landscape and the aftermath of solitary suffering.

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Forbidden Victim.

I was so in lust that purity and licentiousness intermingled.   A strange concoction of guilt and a road never traveled.   All the sweat but none of the auroras that surge inside of me.    Her look was electric.   It pulled my willing self nearer to the spot where I belonged.

Yet innocence challenged the moment,   the soft refrain echoed like a chemical chimera waiting to devour it’s young prey.     As she pulled me in she got me to a new place.   I was the hunted man-child,  every cougar’s tender morsel.    I was like veal in a cage of happenstance hurling trinkets into the abyss.

The tide was high and the rush of the wind compounded the fury of that soft parade.  Pushing past the lapping waves of crescendo,   I was lost.  Emotions tighter than a manic  harp,  playing it’s own mischievous chord like the grunts of an obese oboe in a band playing it’s own tunes.

Harmony and biology and the conquest of same,  a boy victim without a name.   Lost near a buoy my eyes glassed over and now I searched for a ship to pull me in.   Proudly vanquished,  I smiled.   My story would change as I increased my wile.   She is a battered gown,  with icing reminders of a sweetness turned sour.

No,  this is not a requiem but a mooring to few or many docks.   The bright young adventurer did not want a curtain call for the young man had given his all.

Past Midnight. It’s a Beautiful Morning!!!

The prince of darkness and a highlighter pen.   Marking his victims one through ten.  Studying his quarry he chuckles and chortles,  oh how he loves the mere mortals.   The sun on hiatus in a full moon dark,  which gave us our peculiar spark and gave our paths original names,  in honor of men called errr.  Peter and James.

His quarry are gathered,  some of the best and the brightest, or so they think,  he’s getting ready to show them and throw at them,  even the proverbial sink.   Pretty soon the ten became thousands… finally much more.

Pretty soon the gavel smashed and the room quivered in fear,  why did our friend call us here?    Why does this place has tall fiery gates and pictures of all their victims?  Wait?

A sonorous laughter filled the great room,  as the chandeliers began  to shake and fill them with doom.    Pretty soon it was all for themselves,  as their allies wore signs and epitaphs from many wars.

The choir was assembled,  not hastily though,  it was time for the revenge of the primate doe.    Fear coursed through body and their much troubled brains,  is this what happens just before the holidays.

Now the penniless pauper with his nubile daughter look directly into the eyes of of.. new found doubt.    The King’s crown looked a bit withered and dithered and the jewels now gone replaced with inscriptions.     The writings now were in many languages but still just one,  there was going to be no room for interpretation, no not one nor drinks of ale or the fattest of quails.    This was their requiem for filling the jails.

The horny magistrate with his pointed tail,   was giving them remorse with the whip of his tail.     Suddenly they wanted to cry but none of that,  they were going to eat envy with silent wails.     All the former slaves laughed with glee and the sting of the whip could never cut so deep as the sting of a trapped conscience.

So bullies beware,  an election or coop lasts for a few years only and then my fearful one,  all is done and made right.