Today’s question in the Californian about women in the churches prompts me to go back in time to a sermon preached following WWII:

    Clearing his throat, Pastor Samuels asked, “Would you all please turn in your Bibles to Matthew 19, verse 14.”

    We all turned to the passage as he read aloud: But Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven. “My friends,” Pastor Samuels continued, “we all know the verse; we all know how precious the children are in the sight of God. But can we agree that children are the closest thing to the heart of God Himself? We all know the Scripture, that Jesus has said unless we become as little children we cannot enter into the kingdom of heaven, that their angels always behold the face of our father in heaven.

   “When Jesus said you must be born again, Nicodemus asked Jesus how a man could be born when he is old. We all know how Jesus replied, but I want you to consider this together with what we have just read and know of his feelings about children. And I ask you all to keep in mind, throughout my following words, the fact that Jesus said all the Law and the Prophets is summed up in this: To love God and to love your neighbor as yourself.

    “When meditating on the problem of good and evil, it seems that only children weep over injustice. I recognize this trait in children; a trait that is too soon lost when the realization sinks in that the good that tries to abide by civilized behavior has always seemed impotent in the face of determined evil. But we, as human beings, are the most reluctant when it comes to facing the part we play in the perpetuation of evil.

    “How, you ask, do we, as good people, do this? We do it, my friends, when we refuse to take action against evil. We do it by our fears, ignorance, and prejudices. If we can agree, and all Christians do, that the love of God is manifested by our love for one another, that Jesus himself said that to love God and one another is the True Gospel of life, we must accept as a corollary that anything that denies or works against this is evil and of the Evil One.

    “I think the most important thing I learned in gaining an education was at least some appreciation of my own ignorance. That is a humbling experience. And we need humility, a word not too often heard now. But we are told of God to humble ourselves. God tells us this for our benefit. True education is the dispelling of ignorance. And it is ignorance that leads to the evils of prejudice and bigotry… and underlying such ignorance is the sin of selfishness.

    “Now it is one thing to be honestly ignorant of many things. None of us will ever know it all and you surely know that is not the kind of ignorance about which I am speaking. It is the sinful ignorance of willing to be ignorant, of refusing instruction that, as God says, leads to destruction. To the hard of heart God says, because you refuse instruction, you will surely die in your sins.

    “I was born and have spent my life among the people of Bakersfield. But wherever Dickens' children of Ignorance, of want and poverty exist and hold sway, there will you find lawlessness, cruelty, ignorance, and bigotry. We consider ourselves civilized, a nation of law… And, as the Apostle Paul pointed out, the law is just and good and holy.

    “But the weakness of the law, as he further says, is in the flesh; that flesh which rebels against lawful behavior. Further, the laws of any nation are of no avail unless you have a foundation of true morality in its citizenry… And such a true morality cannot consist of a foundation of ignorance and poverty.

    “It is often too easy to generalize from a single exception to the building of a whole system of belief on that exception; how many a beautiful structure of philosophy and science has fallen to that very weakness. We need another and new Critique of Pure Reason; a rethinking of the muddy thinking of which I believe so much of humankind has been guilty… and, I believe, led to the horrible war just past. And I include myself in that shameful category of such ignorance.

    “For example, the exclusion of women in philosophy and theology, in the decision-making process of government; this, I believe, has cost humankind dearly for it is well said that ‘Woman is the antithesis of war.’ Women do not bear children to sacrifice them on the altars of the wars of men! And are women of lesser importance, of any lesser value to what Jesus said in regard to our neighbor? Are we men to consider only other men in this regard? You would think so by looking at the record of history; and most especially the history of the church.

    “We have recently lived four years in a world at war, a war that caused unimaginable suffering for millions; a war in which millions died. There must come a time when wars cease or humankind has no future as such. Because of the unimaginably horrible weapons we now have, atomic weapons, we have a greater responsibility than ever in history to make wise decisions, decisions that lead to a future for our children, all children, for the sake of all humankind in concert.

    “We must have a Gospel devoid of the kind of dogma that alienates and is effective in the actual living of the Golden Rule, of people treating one another as they would be treated, thus proving their real belief in God… in One who wants to deliver humankind from selfish ignorance, bigotry, intolerance based on prejudice, to deliver us from the wars such things lead to. Simply on the basis of the indisputable fact that men make war, not women, that women attempt to make homes in the face of the horrors of wars perpetrated by men, that woman is the antithesis of war, should make men wake up to this! And women! This, together with failing to make children the proper priority that God Himself ordained they should be, has doomed attempts to quell violence and gain world peace.

    “One of the major obstacles which humankind is going to overcome is intolerance. You know I do not mean the setting aside of proper judgment against those things like perversion, those things that militate against a civilized society. No, I am speaking of the kind of intolerance that leads to the evils of one thinking themselves better than another on the basis of things like race, religion, or politics, even the evil intolerance of men thinking themselves better than women simply on the basis of gender.

    “Why has humankind been devoted to violence, to war, to the ‘musket worshippers’ as Emerson called them? Yes, excluding women by men not considering them of equal value, not giving children the priority needed are the most fundamental factors. But the various hatreds, prejudices, and too all-pervading ignorance that breeds such things as war and violence have a history… and it is the history of evil, the evils of intolerance, self-willed ignorance, selfishness, all of which is paraded in too many cases in the name of some group that believes itself divinely anointed to spread its own peculiar gospel.

    “Thus the need to find the root of these things, the justification for another way, another path to understanding than that which has been followed throughout history. A New Thing is needed… and his New Thing requires a firm grasp and understanding of the history of humankind. It is my conviction that America as the most blessed nation in history has the duty and responsibility to take the lead in the things essential to leading the world out of violence and on the path to world peace.

    “But to do this, it is first essential to understand our own history. And while there is much to be understood from ancient history, it is a record of the failure of humankind to end war and find peace. It is a recorded history of failure that doesn't include women and children on a basis of equal value to men. And understanding this failure and determining to set it right on the part of men may be the answer to our dilemma. And women must accept their distinctive responsibility in helping to accomplish this.

    “We have been taught to believe in the Rapture when Jesus will return and make all things right. But far too many have abused Jesus and this doctrine by abrogating their responsibility to contend against evil. My brothers and sisters, the weight of Scripture, of humankind itself is against such selfish, muddy, thinking. Nowhere in the Scriptures can we find justification to give up without a fight and simply hand the world to the devil and his wicked servants by default.

    “I would leave you with this thought. What if God needs our help in overcoming evil, what if we are failing to do our part by continuing to exclude women on a basis of equal value to men, what if we have failed to make children the priority they are to God Himself? These, my dear brothers and sisters, are the questions I hope you will take home with you and pray about. And be patient with me and pray for me as we seek answers to these questions and honestly face our responsibility in these things, as we search out a course of determined action against the evil.

    “Finally, I would ask you to consider this: If knowledge plus wisdom equals peace, as most would agree, where in history has there been the wisdom that would lead to peace? Knowledge we have in abundance, but it seems wisdom is an orphan, left alone and divorced from knowledge. We now possess the knowledge to destroy ourselves, to destroy the entire earth. But wisdom demands an honest heart. Let us consider how honest we are in our own hearts and minds. Only when we do this are we to have any hope of the answers we need, any hope for peace."

Now that what I anticipated is coming to pass, those in a corrupt Congress attempting to save their skins trying to retroactively prevent Caesar Bush (and themselves) from being prosecuted for war crimes I offer an article unchanged from when I wrote it in July:

July 13, 2006

The Weedpatch Gazette

    “The four fundamental forces can each be characterized by a dimensionless constant: Strong: Glues together the parts of a nucleus. Electromagnetic: Holds electrons around atoms; explains light. Weak: Responsible for certain radioactive decays. Gravity: Keeps planets, stars, galaxies from flying apart.”

A line from Porgy and Bess “The things that you’re liable to read in the Bible, they ain’t necessarily so” should be applied to science at least as much and more. No one knows what these fundamental forces are any more than science knows the origin of life or what that “something” is that differentiates between life and death. A label in lieu of understanding will not do. There are neat categories of the various kinds of energy, but not knowing what, exactly, energy is, this science cannot define.

These “constants” noted as I have suggested in some of my writing questioning Einstein’s famous equation for example are now being called into question: “‘There is absolutely no reason these constants should be constant,’ says astronomer Michael Murphy of the University of Cambridge. ‘These are famous numbers in physics, but we have no real reason for why they are what they are.’ The observed differences are small — roughly a few parts in a million — but the implications are huge: The laws of physics would have to be rewritten, not to mention we might need to make room for six more spatial dimensions than the three that we are used to.”

This very same statement by Murphy “…we have no real reason for why they are what they are” is equally applicable to the claims made by proponents of Darwinism. But unlike evolutionists at least real scientists are willing to grapple with facts, “inconvenient truths” contradicting cherished beliefs. Unwilling to admit there are things more than inconvenient truths, but truths in the universe beyond even our imagination allows of a wide range of speculation many relegate to “metaphysics” but in too many instances does our science fail to come up to the mark.

Take Caesar Bush, for example. Is he a mad man or a supreme egotistical pragmatist? We lack the science to distinguish between the two options given our present day witch doctors, psychologists and psychiatrists that are as believable as economists, real estate and used car salesmen, and stock brokers.

Some condemned me for taking Caesar Bush to task immediately following the Attack on America because he failed/refused We the People miserably by not ordering tactical cruise missiles fired on Kabul and Baghdad the very evening of 9/11. But his refusal to respond immediately and appropriately to the Attack on America by Muslims clearly indicated Caesar had another agenda, one that would meet his plans for wealth and empire, and so it has proven to be.

My generation had Remember Pearl Harbor! But Caesar Bush and Company together with a cooperating politically correct media would not have Remember 9/11! The Japanese were properly demonized wholesale because of Pearl Harbor, just as they were demonizing Americans. It is absolutely essential to winning any war that the enemy be demonized. Well, my generation was not concerned with offending any Japanese either at home or abroad at the time, so how was it our “leadership” was so very, very concerned about offending Muslims? In a word: OIL!

A good friend of many years, an Episcopal priest, was sharing his concern the other day about the conspiracy theory of Caesar Bush and Company actually being complicit in the Attack on America. But my reply to him was a Federal Caesar that has proven to have lied to us about WWII, Korea and Vietnam, about JFK, about WMD in Iraq, a Federal Caesar talking “homeland security” while refusing to secure our borders and so much more, how do we now separate the lies from the truth, especially when no one in government is ever held accountable for the lies?

The protection of Caesar’s Saudi “friends,” the outright lies about WMD, the refusal of the 9/11 Commission to hold any in government accountable for the success of the attacks by Muslims, all these things and so much more can only lead to the conclusion that those in power intend to profit from war, as has ever been the case in the wars of men.

There are a great many “inconvenient truths” besides global warming, multiplying millions of unproductive human weeds, flag-draped coffins, our unsecured borders for the sake of slave labor benefiting only the wealthy having the rule over We the People, the refusal to protect women and children from the monsters in human guise preying on them, the truth that only the most base of persons like politicians seek power and authority over others, the truth of an utterly failed system of education in America, and so on ad infinitum.

But is Caesar Bush actually mad, as many of his words and actions implied to me early on and I began to question the man’s sanity? And, as to be expected, I’m not the only one addressing the possibility.

MSNBC: “Look at this crazy quote of Cheney’s in Ron Suskind's amazing and terrifying new book, that appears to be guiding this administration’s response to events: ‘It's not about our analysis, or finding a preponderance of evidence. It’s about our response.’ Another way of saying ‘madness’ in this context is ‘ideological fanaticism and imperviousness to reality,’ but John Judis opts for the former in his piece ‘The Madness of George W. Bush’ in describing this administration’s modus operandi, and writes: ‘Isn't it conceivable, for instance, that Vladimir Putin secretly desires the downfall of the United States and that under extremely strained circumstances —perhaps a previously undetected brain tumor— he might resort to weapons of mass destruction to effect it? It’s not likely, but it is conceivable. And if it is conceivable, shouldn't we do something about it before it's too late?’ Oh wait, I forgot. Bush looked into his soul (I guess we should be grateful he didn’t kiss his tummy). But the point is, the most powerful nation in the history of humankind is being led by a guy just doesn’t recognize reality. He (Cheney, his Bible) is right. Reality is wrong. The experts are wrong. The Constitution is wrong. It’s like the Soviet politburo all over again.”

The madness of leaders taking nations in the path of destruction is easily seen in retrospect, but who doubts they believed it seemed like a good idea at the time? No one can doubt Hitler believed in the righteousness of his cause, that he was following a “divine plan.” There is something about power that conveys the thought to those holding power they have a “destiny.”

Nothing could have been further from the minds of those German leaders their actions during WWII would eventually lead to that Nuremberg Tribunal. “Impossible!” each and every one of them would have exclaimed should such a thing have ever been mentioned to them as a word of caution. The very thought of such a thing to those German leaders would have seemed bizarre in the extreme. Most believed in what they were doing, most believed in the righteousness of the course they were pursuing under Hitler’s command for the sake of Germany. And the great mass of ordinary German citizens? What did they know of what was going on since all they had was a media under the control of Goebbels? The ordinary Japanese citizen fared no better. And here is the obvious danger of America’s media emasculated by political correctness in its way as dangerous and effective as any Goebbels under Hitler.

Immediately following Caesar Bush’s invasion of Iraq I wrote for my website he was pursuing a course of action reminiscent of Hitler’s invasion of Poland; that Caesar’s mad plan of conquest and empire could not but conjure up images of that Nuremberg Tribunal. Now one only has to turn to Aljazeera for a mock trial of Bush, Blair, and Sharon for crimes against humanity, and right here in America some New Jersey high school pupils put on a mock trial of Bush for war crimes. Silly? Perhaps not.

The toughest job for those supporting Caesar Bush is finding anything positive to say about him. Few now question Iraq is at the very least a quagmire and the stories of abuse and atrocities are multiplying. That most of these stories are of the Aljazeera variety does not lessen the propaganda value of such accusations against America.

During WWII Hollywood was doing a superb job of demonizing the “Rotten Japs” and “Stinkin’ Knocksies!” Everywhere we turned during WWII whether in films, newspapers, radio, even comic books and the funny papers those in the Axis Powers were being demonized. We children were dressed in military uniforms and our games often consisted of killing Japs and Knocksies.

But while writing of Caesar Bush’s attack and invasion of Afghanistan and Iraq reminding me of Hitler’s invasion of Poland and conjuring up visions of that Nuremberg Tribunal, I also mentioned the gauntlet being cast against Islam, the most deadly foe the civilized nations face. It comes down to this: Either the civilized nations of the world will prevail against the barbarian nations of Islam, or that Nuremberg Tribunal for Caesar and America cannot be totally discounted.

Of this we can be certain; there can be no accommodation on the part of civilized nations to the barbarian nations of Islam. And only fools like Caesar Bush believe the fanatics of Islam will not infiltrate our ports, will not take advantage of our porous border with Mexico.

But at the same time Caesar Bush and Company refuses to secure our borders for the sake of slave labor thereby inviting nuclear terrorism they have plunged America into fathomless debt, so much so it cannot but remind me of the story of Babylon and the destruction of that “Great City” in Revelation, the result being the merchants of the world crying who would then buy their goods? The thoroughgoing lunacy of the whole thing cannot but call up images of an apocalyptic End Times scenario, the Presidents of both America and Iran declaring deity is on their side, Kim Jong-il declaring he is deity, all being mad, all pursuing a course that can only lead to unimaginable suffering and destruction.

Then there is always “Fail-Safe” to consider, especially now that computers are taking the place of human judgment, the result of the potential for an accidental nuclear Armageddon becoming increasingly a possibility.

Well, perhaps ongoing events in Israel even as I write will overtake the truth.

In Tora! Tora! Tora! a poem by the Japanese Emperor is quoted, “If all men are brothers why are the wind and waves so restless?”

It’s an ill wind that does not blow some good. Since the pope’s speech Hitler’s Mein Kampf is enjoying a renewal of brisk sales in Muslim nations, dictators threatening America and Israel are getting plenty of face time in the UN and on TV networks worldwide. Meanwhile our “leadership” continues to live on planet Greed seemingly oblivious to We the People, fiddling while Rome burns.

Power corrupts, and this explains why the White House and Congress, state legislatures seem oblivious to the fact America is being destroyed by the enormity of corruption throughout all levels of government, continuing to sell out and betray America to other nations for power and profits, for slave labor from Mexico, and can’t even agree on the need of secure borders and secure ballots.

Some time ago an editor for The Bakersfield Californian published a column calling attention to the aggravation of receiving all kinds of material from banks, credit card companies, government agencies that continue to send out their computer generated propaganda long after a loved one is deceased.

    Granted it is left to the living to inform the appropriate parties that the loved one to whom all of this computer generated junk is addressed has passed on. But this editor pointed out the extreme difficulty one faces in stemming this flood of unwanted and unneeded computer generated material that continues coming despite efforts to stem the flood. Among the difficulties in attempts to inform the various parties and agencies involved of a loved one’s passing are those interminable mindless, disembodied telephone menus that so frustrate any hope of talking to a real, live and breathing human being.

    Unexpectedly I find myself the remaining patriarch with all the folks now gone. I hope I have “cleaned up” after myself, and others won’t suffer any “clutter” after I am gone. We owe that to those remaining after our demise.

Now given the extent of corruption, and yes TREASON! in government at all levels I have to wonder: Who is going to “clean up” after America’s demise?

To use David Keene’s words “The Islamic world, along with the politically correct world, is in a snit” over the pope, all the while Iran’s mad man continues threatening to wipe Israel off the map and make America bow to Allah and Iran. Not really much to be done about these things on the part of us ordinary folks except look to the ballot box and keep hoping, and maybe praying, cooler heads will eventually prevail, and in the meantime keep our powder dry.

It seems a vain hope that any truly civilized solution can be found for Muslims threatening the destruction of Western Civilization. And all the politically correct diatribe aside the pope is certainly justified and proven correct by Muslim reaction to his words. Try to imagine Christians finally reacting with such barbaric threats and violence to the ridicule being continually heaped on them by the ACLU and other of the politically correct. And it is obvious the MSM is avoiding any criticism of Islam and the barbaric actions of Muslims due to abject fear!

Maybe if Muslim boys were raised to value and respect girls, if Muslim girls were raised to value and respect themselves things would be different. After all, girls should be a civilizing influence on boys provided they are raised to value and respect themselves, if they are raised to expect boys to show the proper deference due the fair sex.

Because of all the bad news abounding with lunatics rattling their sabers I’m going to write about the kinder and gentler civilizing influence girls should have on boys. For example, Sam Clemens wasn’t joking about Tom Sawyer trying to impress Becky Thatcher. Sam easily recalled his own efforts as a boy trying to impress girls. But when a boy meets that special girl, and meets her at that special time in their lives, a whole new world of the civilizing influence girls should be on boys becomes a reality. How many of you men can recall the first time when as a boy that special girl got your attention? I certainly remember that girl when I was a boy, and therein lies a tale.

“Grandma?”

“Yes, Donnie, what is it?”

“Grandma, can you tell me how to dress for a girl?”

If it was anyone but grandma I couldn’t even have uttered such words. Or wanted to. Grandma (actually our great-grandmother. Somehow she became “grandma” and we called my grandmother “Tody,” though I never knew why) was the one person my brother Ronnie and I could tell anything and she would understand. She loved us without reservation; and Ronnie and I knew that when she would tell us if we got hurt or were suffering from some illness that she wished she could take the pain on herself she really meant it. In spite of a bad hip and having to walk with a cane, grandma always seemed to be a strong woman. She wore her silver hair in a bun and had pale, blue eyes that would twinkle when Ronnie and I were younger and would tell her some fanciful story or share some recent capture of a lizard or June bug. But those eyes had the most uncomfortable ability to pierce you through her steel-rimmed bifocals if you had done something wrong or tried to lie to her. We didn’t lie to grandma.

“Why Donnie, whatever is it? Tell me why you want to know?”

“Well, grandma, I met this girl; her name is Jean.”

Grandma hesitated a moment and then asked, “Tell me about this girl, how old is Jean and what does she look like?”

“Well, she’s twelve like me, but a few months younger; her birthday is June tenth. She’s small and kind of quiet, and she has really beautiful, long, light brown hair. And she has violet eyes. I’ve never seen violet eyes before, grandma. They are really beautiful.”

Grandma smiled at that.

“Violet eyes, you say? My, that is unusual. She sounds like a very pretty girl.”

There was a twinkle in grandma’s own eyes and in her voice as well.

“She sure is, grandma, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in my life!”

“Well, well, Donnie, now that really is something. I’m going to have to meet this beautiful girl.”

Grandma didn’t seem altogether satisfied with my abbreviated description of Jean, but I was having great difficulty meeting grandma’s expectation of a description. A lot of things were going through my mind, things I wanted to say, but just didn’t seem able to come up with the right words. I wanted to say so much more, like Jean’s eyes, how they seemed to know what I was thinking, but....

Grandma sensed my difficulty and said, “Never mind, Donnie, she sounds like a very nice and beautiful girl and I am definitely looking forward to meeting her. Now, let’s get to the original subject of your question about how to dress for a girl.”

I felt the tension go away. I was really concerned and badly needed to talk to grandma so I plunged ahead.

“Grandma, she made me feel funny. I don’t quite know how to explain it, but I just felt like my Levi’s didn’t fit or I was wearing the wrong socks and shoes when I met her. I felt kind ‘a mortified.”

Grandma gave me a quizzical look before she replied.     

“Well, Donnie, you have very nice clothes you wear for church or going to special events where you have to dress nicely.”

“But grandma those are dress-up clothes. Most all black or brown with a white shirt and tie. I need clothes like regular ones; you know, regular pants and shirt. And shoes. I need a pair more like the clothes; regular shoes that aren’t exactly like Sunday shoes.”

“I believe I know what you mean, Donnie. I’m sure we can do something for you. It’s good to see you finally taking such a special interest in your appearance. You’re the right age for such things to begin to become important to you.”

Grandma was giving me a look I had never seen before. Her kind eyes were still quizzical; and yet there was the understanding in them I was hoping I would get from her. Grandma would understand what I was trying to say even if I couldn’t say it right.

“Well, Donnie, it seems you like this girl very much.”

If anyone but grandma had said such a thing to me, I would have been defensive and embarrassed. But coming from grandma, I knew the statement was well intended. She never embarrassed me and her comments were always genuine. I not only loved grandma, I respected her. This made it easy for me to talk to grandma about things I would never consider talking about with anyone else. Grandma had a way of making you want to talk to her about things you wouldn’t talk about with anyone else. And I really did want her help in trying to understand my mixed up feelings about Jean. So I tried to answer the best I could.

“I don’t know Grandma; well, I guess I do, but she isn’t like any other girls I know.”

Grandma was smiling and the twinkle was in her eyes. But there was a serious look there now as well.

“Donnie, she sounds like a very exceptional girl, and I am very much looking forward to meeting her.”

I went on, “I just never met a girl like this before. If you saw her and talked with her you’d know what I mean. She’s just different and I feel real funny around her.”

“And you say you felt embarrassed about the way you were dressed?”

“Uh, huh. I had clean Levi’s, my fingernails were clean and my hair was combed. I even had my good tennis shoes on. But I still felt funny, as if I just wasn’t dressed right?”

Grandma’s expression turned reflective.

“Well, well, well,” grandma murmured.

She sat back slowly in her rocking chair and with her hands folded in her lap, looked up at the ceiling for a few moments. Then, unfolding her hands and placing them on the arms of the rocker, she started gently tapping her fingers on them. Bringing her gaze back down to me she said, “I’ll tell you what Donnie, I’m going to ask your grandparents to take you to town. I think I know the kind of clothes and shoes you need.”

A feeling of relief swept through me. Grandma did understand.

“Thanks grandma, I love you.”

I gave grandma a hug and kiss and went outside thanking the Lord for grandma. Like the Lord, she never failed us. Grandma always had a way of explaining things that took the puzzle out of them, and this was another reason I knew she would understand what I couldn’t really explain. And though I was too young at the time to appreciate it, in looking back I realize grandma was somewhat ahead of her time in sticking up for what girls were capable of and should be learning and doing. Even so this was uncharted territory for me, and I was still uncomfortable with thinking and talking seriously about any girl. But between grandma and Jean, in some as yet incomprehensible way I knew I was going to have to think about a lot of things I’d never thought about before; intriguing things, yet somehow vaguely uncomfortable as well.

That very afternoon grandad and Tody told Ronnie and me to get ready to go downtown. I was delighted. If things went well, hopefully the next time I saw Jean I would be better dressed than I had been the first time, however being better dressed turned out to be.

A trip to downtown Bakersfield was always exciting for Ronnie and me. The cartoon matinee, for example, was only ten cents. For a dime we could watch two hours of glorious cartoons. And there was always a stop at Owen’s Toy Store, that fabulous place of such fantastic wonders! This was the source of electric trains of all descriptions, of our own Lionel, of cap guns, of peashooters and yo-yos. It was Mr. Owen himself who told me that yo-yo came from the Tagalong language and meant: Come, come. There were bicycles and tricycles and tops and marbles of every kind. I really believe grandad enjoyed Owen’s nearly as much as Ronnie and I. At least he was always talking with Mr. Owen and picking up various toys and examining them, all the time smiling and laughing. Grandad had once bought me a film pistol at Owen’s. A strip of film, mostly cartoons could be loaded, and when you pulled the trigger a light shined through the barrel. The film progressed one frame with each pull of the trigger, and the picture could be projected against a wall or anything you chose. My favorite strip was one of Tarzan.

Nearby was Vest’s Pharmacy with its marvelous soda fountain and delicious milkshakes, sundaes, and sandwiches. The beautiful green and white tile façade of the store was always a delight to our eyes. Nearby, two gray, stone pedestal drinking fountains were mounted on the sidewalk. They were equipped with white ceramic balls that had holes in them through which the water spouted when you turned the handles. These were welcome items for shoppers and children during the extremely hot Bakersfield summers. During the hottest days, the stores would have large blocks of ice sitting on the sidewalks in front of them to cool things off; or at least make you feel cooler by just looking at them. Encased in the clear blocks would be straw hats, skimmers, adorned with red, white, and blue bands. Most of these large blocks of ice came from grandad and Tody’s icehouse on 4^th and Chester.

The trips to downtown held marvelous sights like the magnificent Clock Tower of such intricate stonework. The clock sounded beautiful chimes on the hour. Nearby was the Bakersfield Arch over Union Avenue, and the adjacent large motel built like a Spanish Mission with its towering palms all along the front.

There was a drive-in restaurant that had the tail assembly, the empennage, of an airplane sticking out of its roof. This fascinated me and I always wanted to climb on the roof and examine it up close. Another restaurant mom would take us to not far from Vest’s Pharmacy had electric model trains running on tracks suspended from the ceiling. Ronnie and I were enraptured of the trains running overhead with their clickety-clack, clickety-clack, and the whistles of the locomotives as we ate. The owner must have really loved model trains. The big city certainly had its attractions for us.

And there was a Jewelry store not far from Vest’s Pharmacy with the most amazing “toys” in its front window. These were intricate, carousel-like and clockwork driven, with tiny figures, usually elves, doing a variety of things such as ringing tiny, silver bells with tiny, gold hammers. Ever so often a new creation would be displayed. I remember one that had an elf using a gold hammer to work something on a silver anvil. Ronnie and I would watch these mobile works of art with rapt attention, marveling at the amount of movement and detail in these wondrous displays of the watchmaker and jeweler’s artistry.

Brundage Lane, Niles, Union and Chester Avenues were almost as familiar to us as Cottonwood and Padre or Weedpatch Highway. Other areas were of excitement and enjoyment to us as well. Like China Grade East of Bakersfield where we could look out over the barren oil fields and hills punctuated with the many pumps, bobbing up and down slowly and rhythmically like huge iron birds sipping black nectar through steel straws.

Trips up the canyon along the river on highway 178 to Kernville and Isabella were really exciting and we had made many trips before grandad and Tody had acquired the mining claim. Ronnie and I always gazed with wonder at the tunnel way up the mountainside just before you entered the canyon. Grandad said a mining railway used it. As you drove up the canyon, you could see the tailings from the mine and the trail alongside the mountain that the old donkey engine with its ore cars had followed.

The fantastic granite sides of the canyon with enormous rocks as big as houses, some of them balanced so precariously they looked as though they could fall at any time, were fearfully awesome and fascinating. Tody would find pictures in the rocks. She would always point to one in particular that she said looked like a lady playing a piano. I dutifully looked, but could never make out the picture.

I had a great love of animals, birds, the outdoors and nature. I loved our visits to the mining claim in the forest. But downtown Bakersfield was always a study in people and architecture, and adventurous and exciting in its own distinctive way. While Ronnie and I had lived in some large cities like San Francisco and Cleveland, there was something about Bakersfield that was just different. And it wasn’t just because of it being more like a hometown to us. It was just somehow different in some indefinable way than other cities we had lived in.

Once downtown, Ronnie and I would see a few Zoot-suiters and scantily clad women wearing lots of makeup, strange hairdos and hair colors. A few of the women would elicit the phrase Painted Hussy from Tody, a phrase with which Ronnie and I had become well acquainted from earliest memory. Neither of us, of course, had the foggiest notion of what a painted hussy was; but we had heard the expression often enough, and somehow we had gotten the idea that any woman wearing a lot of makeup was a painted hussy.

But today, the strange outfits of some of the men and the strangely clad and made-up ladies only added mystery, intrigue, and excitement to the atmosphere of the Big City. This trip was different. There wouldn’t be any matinee or visit to Owen’s. I was going to get some clothes, different kinds of clothes than the usual bib overalls or Levi’s. Usually, Ronnie and I made directly for the toy department or the ice cream fountain at J. C. Penney’s. Ronnie did the usual; but grandad and Tody led me to the clothing department, an area I usually avoided with studied indifference if not downright disdain.

A lady clerk came over and grandad introduced Tody and himself and gave the clerk a very generalized idea of what they thought we were looking for. I say we even though my input was not invited.

The clerk looked me over like I was a bug in a jar. She seemed snooty to me. I didn’t like her. Instantly.

“Well, I think maybe we have something that will suit you (this to Tody and grandad, not me).”

The snooty clerk went to a rack of trousers and pulled off a pair. They were some kind of dark blue material. Then she went to another rack and pulled a shirt. It was white, long sleeved cotton. I wasn’t too sure about that. I had a couple of long sleeve flannel shirts for winter. But a long sleeve shirt in summer? What the Sam hill would anyone want a long sleeve shirt in summer for unless you were fishing or hunting in order to keep off mosquitoes or other bugs? Besides, I already had a couple of long sleeve white shirts. Why buy another one? I looked at grandad and Tody and started to say something. But grandad had that “Don’t” look in his eyes and shook his head ever so slightly. Tody seemed to be silently agreeing with grandad. The clerk got a matching leather belt off an oddly shaped wire hanger near the counter and threaded it through the loops in the trousers.

Now why couldn’t she have let me do that? I could sure put my own belt in trousers! I wore proper pants on Sunday; I didn’t always wear Levi’s like I was now wearing! And they had a belt in them, didn’t they? Who’d she think put the belt in them? I was feeling somewhat indignant.

“What is his name?” the clerk was asking Tody.

The way she said this she might as well have said: What is its name! Why didn’t she ask me? Didn’t she think I knew my own name? Indignation increasing.

“Donnie,” Tody replied.

“Well, now, Donnie (she made it sound like it was a word that fitted that bug in the jar) you just go in that dressing room and try these on.”

I went, feeling indignant and resentful. I put the pants and shirt on, somewhat surprised the snooty clerk hadn’t insisted on helping me to dress myself. But I was even more surprised that the pants and shirt fit perfectly. The snooty clerk hadn’t even taken or asked my measurements. Well, I could give her credit for knowing her job. Albeit very grudgingly. I walked out of the dressing room.

“Now go over to that mirror,” the clerk said imperiously. Knowing her job or not, she was really getting on my nerves. But having been taught not to argue with or show disrespect to my elders I obediently walked to the full length mirror, with an effort holding my opinion of the clerk to myself.

Tody and grandad were beaming.

“My,” Tody said, “doesn’t he just look grown up?”

I had to admit the pants and shirt really did make me look grown up. And in a much different way than my Sunday clothes. I hadn’t realized what a difference such clothes, properly coordinated, could make in my appearance. And somehow these clothes felt right on me when I tried to visualize myself standing in the presence of Jean, though I didn’t understand why? But once more I grudgingly admitted to myself that while I didn’t like the snooty clerk she knew what she was doing (I was to frequently confront this lesson about people over and again in my life).

The times our mother had Ronnie and me dressed up in some sailor or soldier outfit came to mind, as well as the year we had spent at St. Joseph’s Military Academy usually dressed in school uniforms. But, except for the Academy, that was playing, acting a part. We knew we weren’t really sailors or soldiers, though we would pretend we were. This was different. I was really going to wear this outfit to see a girl; Jean. It wasn’t playing. In some way that I did not understand, I somehow knew this was very serious business.

“Does he have shoes and socks to match?” the clerk was asking.

Grandad chimed in: “We want to get the boy new shoes and socks to match.”

“Then please come this way,” the clerk said… still snooty, still imperious.

She led us to the shoe department. I took a seat and was made to strip off my tennis shoes and socks and put on the new socks of the clerk’s choosing. They were of a thin, black material and I had to admit they felt good. She introduced Tody and grandad to another clerk (still acting like I didn’t exist), a man that was in charge of the shoe department. He measured my feet. For at least this much, I was grateful. The man didn’t look at me like a bug in jar. He went into a stockroom and returned with a shoebox in his hands, and I soon had on a new pair of black loafers. I had never had such a pair of shoes in my life. Grandad had some though, and I was really feeling proud.

The snooty clerk took over once again and walked me to a special machine and had me put my newly shod feet into it. Through a fluorescent green light, you could actually see the bones of your feet in the outline of the shoes in the device! Marvelous!

“Now, Mr. and Mrs. Caldwell,” the clerk said, “please look for yourselves whether you think the fit is right.”

Grandad and Tody dutifully peeked into the magic apparatus and pronounced the shoes a proper fit.

“Now, Donnie,” grandad said practically, “walk around in them and tell me how they feel to you.”

My heart went out to grandad. He was sticking up for me. Maybe he didn’t like the snooty clerk either? I walked up and down a few times. I was tempted to say they didn’t feel right just to cause the snooty clerk trouble. But that would probably have caused trouble for the man who had selected the shoes and not for her. And besides that, they felt good. And I was beginning to feel a little more charitable toward the clerk. She obviously knew her business. There was another full length mirror just off to the side of the shoe machine. I walked over to it in order to see how I looked in the new outfit, shoes and all… and this time I didn’t hurry because of the snooty clerk. Besides, with grandad and Tody going to all this trouble and expense, the least I could do was to try to cooperate and take a really good look at myself and see if they were wasting their time and money. And now that I was trying to really look at myself, the boy that stared back at me wasn’t me! He was a total stranger! For whatever unfathomable reason, I seemed a different person!

I heard the clerk asking the folks, “Would he like to wear these things or change back?”

“How about it Donnie?” grandad asked me.

Grandad was on my side. He knew we men had to stick together.

Turning from the mirror, I gathered my wits and tried to be nonchalant.

“I think I’ll wear them,” I said as condescendingly as I knew how for the clerk’s benefit.

Grandad had a smile. He looked at the clerk and said, “He’ll wear them.”

The clerk gave a little sniff and replied, “Very well, I’ll wrap his other things.”

I just knew she had wanted to say his old things and was resenting putting my Levi’s, old shirt, and socks into a clean, new store bag and my tennis shoes in the new shoebox.

Serves her right, I thought to myself. I wasn’t feeling all that charitable.

We collected Ronnie; and for his pains he got one of those toy boats that flew apart when a wood torpedo fired from another boat hit it just right. It was worth it just to see his eyes bug out at seeing me in my new sartorial splendor. As we returned to the car, something was bothering me. Then it struck me! It seemed I had never really looked at myself until I finally stood in front of that full-length mirror and tried to really see myself in the new clothes. Apart from the stranger I first saw, the straight brown hair was the same as mine and the hands were the same. But the new and properly coordinated clothes made me not only look older but feel older, and the next time I saw Jean dressed in these new clothes things would be different; I would be different. But I didn’t understand how or why, and that was somehow vaguely pleasant but very disturbing as well.

Well folks this story is really personal, but one I am compelled to write about. Bad enough there are so many criminals preying on the elderly, but when a form of fraud and abuse is perpetrated against the elderly by a tax funded government agency I am going to speak out against it!

There is mounting anger over the failure of our various agencies and courts to properly deal with child abuse, and I am grateful for the coming opportunity to vote for Jessica’s Law here in my native state. But I am finding the elderly to be at increasing risk as well as children.

One of the things that come with old age is an increasing awareness of how many unscrupulous people are all about preying on the elderly. Every month the AARP magazine warns of the various scams being perpetrated against the elderly. We see these being the subject of TV newscasts, talk shows and newspapers, there are mailings from various government agencies in the face of a stream of commercials touting products like electric scooters, medical alert “services,” nostrums of a seemingly infinite variety, etc.

There is outright and rampant fraud perpetrated where even homes are stolen from the elderly by forged deeds for example. This actually happened to my grandfather and it took enormous effort and expense to clear this up and bring the guilty party to justice. There are the many frauds by charlatans promising cheap drugs and medical procedures, the multitude of scams promoting mortgages, home repairs, and nowadays the ubiquitous threats of identity theft with which to contend. The elderly are an easy target for these things since many are not able to keep pace with the ingenuity of criminals, especially in an electronic age of computers.

Few of us plan to get old, and few can anticipate the many indignities that come with old age. Bad enough our bodies begin to betray us as the various systems and functions start demanding attention never before experienced while we were young and filled with the vigor and vitality of youth. But it is of no avail to try to explain these things to those who are young, because they have not yet become old; and unlike the elderly who remember their youth the young are unable as yet to look back, the truism of “I have been young, but you have never been old.”

But none of the elderly are so at risk of predators than those living alone. Those fortunate who have loved ones to care for them do not have to live with the many difficulties, and yes even threats those living alone face. This has been especially hard for me since I have been such an independent man all my life, never having had to ask the help of anyone.

However, even as independently as I have lived always doing and providing for myself there came the time when I had to swallow my pride and begin to accept my increasing limitations. And so it happened I began to look at what is euphemistically called “Senior Services” here in Kern County. And I began to get an education in what the elderly living alone are facing.

My first foray into Senior Services was Meals on Wheels. Now I don’t know about the service elsewhere, but the tip off for me as to further efforts to enlist the aid of these agencies should have been when half the time these “meals” would only qualify as hog fodder. Not even the resident cat would touch some of these “meals.”

Further education into Senior Services began about two months ago with a call to a Sharon Caughlin, advertised with College Community Services and having the title of “Case Manager Supervisor, Senior Outreach Coordinator.” She came by about a week later, but seemed unimpressed by my situation, especially since I am still able to drive though very limited in doing so and confine myself now to the valley. Seemed simple to her; if I could still drive despite my physical limitations in other ways like emphysema I didn’t need any help. That I was elderly and living alone without any family did not seem to move her either.

Well, accepting I couldn’t expect anything from this “Case Manager” and having a list of all the Senior Services provided throughout Kern County I called a local number promising “In Home Supportive Services.” The blurb looked promising, declaring help for the elderly not yet needing a hospice to “remain safely at home; an alternative to assisted living.”

The lady answering was a Melody Batelaan here locally in the Kern River Valley. She told me she would contact the appropriate persons in Bakersfield and they would call me. So, no one locally was available to meet with me. I waited nearly ten days and nothing. So, I called Ms. Batelaan again. But she seemed annoyed by my calling a second time and told me because of the Labor Day weekend and other matters there was a backlog of cases and to be patient. I thought nearly ten days was being patient.

Hearing nothing from Bakersfield I decided to take another tack. There was a number for “Adult Protective Services” stating it was “a program for any senior or dependant adult who is at risk physically, emotionally or financially or in danger of suicide or neglect.”

So, I called that number. With the loss of my daughter a year ago I continue to suffer deep depression, so much so my doctor prescribed medication for me which I am still taking. The lady answering was “Cynthia.” She was very kind and listened to me. Then, she asked me many personal questions to see if I qualified for assistance. Satisfied that I did qualify, particularly because of the deep depression, my physical limitations and living alone and without family, she said my request would be sent to the “Aging and Adult Services Department” and someone there would be in touch with me.

There were further delays; further calls on my part before I was told it would be a week to ten days before anyone would be out to see me. So, I waited anticipating a call to confirm an appointment. I had been told the person being sent would be a Mr. Lewis McBratney.

Time passed once more, but to my immense surprise and consternation I chanced to open my front door yesterday and there was a card stuck in it that identified Lewis “MAC” McBratney, C.A.D.C.-II Senior Outreach Assessment Response. There had been no call to confirm his coming by, and I had not been told when he would come by. Now, all I had was a card to show for my nearly two months trying to get someone to talk to personally about my situation.

While answering the questions for Cynthia, which I assumed this Mr. McBratney had received, I made my situation very clear. I lived alone, and living in the country I had no nearby neighbors. Special attention to my situation under these circumstances had to be given when anyone came by in order to meet with me.

Well, Mr. McBratney had come and gone. If he knocked or rang the bell I didn’t hear any of these. And from here where I write at the back of my home I often do not hear a car pulling into my yard.

All this time and effort and now all I had was a business card to show for it! I was angry, to say the least. The card did have an email address so I immediately sent the following note to Mr. McBratney:

Sam Heath 9/18/2006 1:01 PM: I may have been in the bathroom when you left your card. I just don't think you tried very hard when you came by and I will pass this on to  senior services here in the valley. Surely you have dealt with enough seniors living alone to know you can't just knock or ring the bell and expect us to come running.
Samuel D. G. Heath, Ph. D.

That afternoon I received the following reply:

From: "Lewis McBratney" Sent: Monday, September 18, 2006 3:24 PM. Subject: Re: Do what you feel is necessary, I rang your bell 3 times and knocked on the door. There will be other opportunities to discuss this in person on my next visit, or if you like I do not have to visit you again. The choice is yours.

Incensed by this callous response I immediately sent this note:
    No, the choice was yours! You could easily have come to my back door which was wide open! That you did not bother to do so leaves me in no confidence whatsoever in any good intentions for my welfare or that of other seniors in similar circumstances and I will convey this to the appropriate parties in government.

This provoked such an insulting reply that I immediately deleted it! Those suffering dangerously high blood pressure will understand my doing so. I had every right to assume this person had all the personal information I had given Cynthia. But while I deleted the insulting message, it contained his telling me I should consult a doctor for my “condition!” He even had the unmitigated temerity to tell me he had “diagnosed” me as suffering from depression! All of this information was given Cynthia, but this government bureaucrat apparently hadn’t even read the report!

My Ph. D. is in Human Behavior. And here is some bureaucrat making an instant diagnosis of MY mental problems, oblivious to the circumstances I had already described to Cynthia and of the sheer ridiculousness at best of his instant “evaluation” of my need of consulting a doctor! There are the many vicissitudes of old age any professional dealing with the elderly should be expected to know, expected to deal with and never be insulting to the elderly because of these!

Well folks, this is where the rubber meets the road, downright personal and without any polish, just the ugly facts. This is my experience with Senior Services here in Kern County. And you can believe I would not be getting so personal were it not that I fear there are other seniors like me out there suffering the same indignities at the hands of taxpayer funded agencies of which Mr. McBratney may be too typical.

For example, seniors living alone do not always keep up with things like whether their door bells are working, they may not hear a knock at their door, they may well spend a lot of time in their bathroom and be hard of hearing, they may spend a lot of time lying down and napping. And of course there is the increasing hazard of the elderly, especially those living alone, of mixing or missing medications that may leave them incapacitated. And if they are living alone without any family to care for them too often they fall prey to this form of elder abuse I am describing by government bureaucrats, from those holding positions where we have every right to expect them to be fully aware of such limitations on the part of the elderly and act accordingly.

In my case, to not even receive a phone call confirming an appointment, to be left not knowing the hour or even the day when someone would come by is to me unconscionable! At the very least it is unprofessional by any standard. But in my case as well, what these bureaucrats had not foreseen was my being a scholar and academic, a professional writer and still possessed of an especially keen mind. And having been very politically active all my adult life I will follow through on my promise to let those of my political acquaintance know how seniors like me are being mistreated by those that consider themselves to be “untouchable” and above any criticism or personal accountability.

There will be usual protestations on the part of bureaucrats, of their “impeccable credentials,” and “successes,” of how “hard” they tried to help, they will have their stories confuting me to be sure. But this is all whitewash, something we have come to expect from all such bureaucrats. And for those of you who may have elderly loved ones, take the responsibility to stay well informed about how the various government agencies are dealing with them.

If it were only a “war of words” that would be fine with me. I don’t expect the pope or any politician to fall on their sword and a good old southern expression comes to mind, “Call me anything you want, but don’t call me late to dinner.” As with those who take the trouble to excoriate me, as long as they do so in a civilized manner that would be acceptable. But, alas, that would be expecting too much of the uncivilized whether here in America or Iran. So, knowing there is no changing those who not only do not know better but have no intention of doing better, this morning in my reverie of a kinder and gentler America I used to know I recalled the love I used to have for shooting marbles.

I wonder why kids don’t play marbles any more? As a child in Little Oklahoma I lived for shooting marbles. Any child worth his salt, to be acceptable in our company, had to have a good collection of puries, boulders, and stripies. A couple of steelies had to be included as well. One had to be on the lookout for doughies, only used by unscrupulous cheaters.

    How many of you remember the incantation: “Here’s the river ‘n’ here’s the snake; here’s where y’ make your big mistake” while kneeling in the dirt, drawing the appropriate symbols to foil your opponent’s shot? Or, do any of you remember throwing a marble over your left shoulder in order to find a lost one? Losing a marble was one of the hazards of playing chase.

    In order to give the reader some idea of how serious I was about marbles, I came in second in the Bakersfield Championship of 1943. Yes, there really was a citywide championship for shooting marbles. Such was the innocence of the times that a city could have a marble-playing championship for children while the world was plunged into war.

    We could listen to Gabriel Heatter and Edward R. Murrow on the radio and hear news of battles, but bombs were not dropping on Little Oklahoma or Bakersfield. Therefore, the War was an exciting and far-away thing, made real to kids by such things as rationing, Superman and others doing battle against the Axis Powers. Even Bugs Bunny was doing his bit to win the war alongside Humphrey Bogart and George Raft.

    There were also the numerous military personnel in and about, constant reminders that a war was going on; Ronnie and I would be dressed in the diminutive uniforms of soldiers or sailors, there were little flags in windows with blue stars indicating some loved one in the military and, tragically, an occasional gold star declaring the ultimate sacrifice. We children could see AT-6’s and an occasional P-38 overhead from Minter Field. Sometimes we were entertained by them engaging in mock combat. But God seemed to be sparing America from an invading enemy on our shores.

    Back then there was no such thing as TV or gangs of kids shooting bullets at each other. Shooting marbles was certainly preferable, but children had a chance to be children in those long ago, simple days.

    I miss playing marbles; the good, warm, honest alkali dust under my bare feet, so much a part of an America that used to be. However, I never think of playing marbles but an incident comes to mind, one which gave me early pause to question my sanity at times and led me to speculate whether there are not in fact demons that suggest mischievous behavior to otherwise well behaved children (In the following narrative despite my first name being Samuel, everyone called me by my second name Donald, though most often used as Donnie).

    What happened was an unexpected and totally unplanned catastrophe. You know, one of those things that always seem like a good idea at the time but don't quite turn out the way you expect? Then you're left wondering why you thought it was a good idea but never able to say why?

    Now was one of those times.

    It had started as a normal day at school, the last day of school at Mt. Vernon Elementary before summer vacation. It was lunchtime and Charlie and I had been shooting marbles out toward the big chinaberry tree near the end of the play yard. It was a good, flat, bare dirt area and we always chose it to shoot marbles or play mumblety-peg. The sweet grass grew tall in the large expanse of the vacant field beyond the tree and I remember one time being able to fill a whole Prince Albert tobacco tin, one of those flat ones with a hinged lid, with ladybugs from that grass when it was fresh with dew and a hatch was on.

    We had drawn the regulation circle in the dirt for a game of rings and were playing for keeps; though the grownups had forbidden this evil, which made it all the more enticing. I had won the lag, so as first shooter I was concentrating hard as Charlie was busy with a twig scribing the twisting lines in the dry dust and chanting, Here's the river ‘n’ here's the snake, here's where y’ make your big mistake.

    We never knew if this incantation made someone miss their shot, but no boy who took shooting marbles for keeps with the right seriousness could fail to try if he wanted to keep his credentials. Like, if you lost a marble while playing chase, you stood with your back to the probable area of search and tossed a marble over your left shoulder. It was sure to land close to the lost marble.

    Charlie was the first to glimpse the slender, black undulating shape of the small grass snake.

    Hey! Look 'a there Donnie!

    I jerked around and spotted the hapless and harmless serpent.

    Pouncing quickly as only young boys can, I immediately had the wriggling creature captured in both hands.

    Whillikers, whut y' gonna do with 'im, Donnie?

    We were entranced with the small, captive reptile. It was only about eight inches long but lively. I held it tight but careful not to squash it and we watched the small, forked black tongue darting in and out, the snake's cold, black eyes a fascinating and penetrating attraction. I held it so only the snake's head protruded from my fingers, the rest of the small serpent's body twined around my hand and wrist.

    Dunno, gotta keep 'im somewhere.

    How 'bout y'r lunch bucket?

    That's the ticket!

    Charlie's and my lunch buckets were at the ready and empty. As I popped the wriggling snake into my bucket, we heard the bell being rung signaling the end of lunchtime. We grabbed up our marbles and lunch buckets and raced toward the school.

    Trouping into the classroom and taking our seats, we deposited the lunch buckets under our desks. Ella May had the seat in front of mine. She was wearing a yellow dress with small, white polka dots and a white sash tied around the waist in a neat bow behind her. A lacy, crocheted white collar went around the neck and with Ella May's short, curly hair, you could see it was open at the back. A row of dainty, white buttons ran half way down the back of the dress. It was a pretty dress.

    Miz Emelia, our third grade teacher, was busily putting a message on the blackboard informing us that we were required to make sure our desks were all cleaned out before leaving school as it was the last day before summer vacation. She was adding in her beautiful, meticulous, wavy hand (the Palmer method) that she wished us all an enjoyable summer and looked forward to seeing us again the next term. And she would be seeing a lot of the same class since many of my Little Oklahoma classmates would fail and return to the third grade.

    But in spite of my many shortcomings, school wasn't one of them. I enjoyed reading, writing, arithmetic and art. And I loved the music and singing. I was often paired with one of the girls to do duets, standing and singing for the whole class at the front of the room. And, of course, there was shooting marbles, tetherball, playing baseball, teasing girls and catching snakes. For the most part, I liked school.

    I was sitting and staring at the lacy, white, open collar of Ella May's dress. I bore Ella May no animosity. She was no worse than any other girl. In fact, strange, even alien creatures that they might be I even usually kind of liked some of them. I liked Ella May.

    I would never be able to explain what happened next. Maybe it was because it was the last day of school? Maybe it was because Miz Emelia was busy at the blackboard and not watching? Maybe I just went insane? People do that you know. Maybe I was suddenly possessed by a demon? Maybe...?

    The small snake seemed to materialize out of my lunch bucket and the hand holding the wiggling creature took on a life of its own detached from its owner as it reached out and slipped the little reptile down that open and inviting collar of the occupant of the desk in front of me.

    With a shriek peculiar and possible only to small girls with a snake down the back of their dress, Ella May shot up from her desk like lightning and instantly began performing a frantically insane dance accompanied with leaps and war whoops that would have made a frenzied Comanche preparing for going on the warpath green with envy and unable to duplicate! A truly awesome and spectacular performance!

    The chalk in Miz Emelia's hand snapped against the blackboard with the sound of a pistol shot as she whirled around in a state of shock and stood transfixed at the sight of Ella May leaping and whirling about the aisle like a dervish or turpentined cat, ricocheting off desks and shrieking at the top of her lungs! The whole class was in an uproar not knowing what was happening!

    Ella May hit the floor crawfishing, screaming and shrieking piercingly as a fire drill alarm, flopping like a fresh caught trout and clawing at the back of her dress. None of us had seen such a sight since one boy last year had a fit on the playground (But that had been the result of sitting on a mound of fire ants).

    Miz Emelia came out of her cataleptic state and rushed toward Ella May just in time for the girl to finally catch hold of the innocent and frightened reptile and sling it toward the teacher. The snake struck Miz Emelia right in the bosom and she instinctively whipped her hand at it only to throw it on the principal who had just run in the door of the classroom to see who was being murdered. It hit him right in his spectacles. He in turn threw his hands up and the poor snake found itself once more airborne along with the principal's glasses, landing directly in the wastebasket by the teacher's desk.

    It had all happened so quickly that I sat spellbound, unable to grasp the full significance of my handiwork. My mind didn't want to grasp the spectacular and frantic chaos I had caused all around me. I was truly impressed. Especially at the principal's shot into the wastebasket.

    I had never been to the principal's office before. But I knew others who had been. It was described as a dreadful place where Mr. Combs, the principal, had a huge paddle the size of a boat oar with which he meted out terrible punishment to evildoers. The paddle was described as being of oak construction with a series of holes drilled through it. The threat was made constantly: Don't get sideways of Mr. Combs! One older boy was quoted as saying that the holes were there to make it whistle and swing faster and to raise blisters. And when there were enough blisters, the principal would turn the paddle on edge and bust the blisters.

    It was quiet. A large Regulator pendulum clock with Roman numerals that was hanging on the wall in front of me held my attention as though I were hypnotized. Because next to it hung a huge paddle with holes in it. I stared at the pendulum of the clock swing back and forth trying not to see the paddle. I could hear each tick of the clock. I guess I wasn't hypnotized after all; just wishin'.