“On the brink of the waters of life and truth, we are miserably dying.” Could Emerson view our world today he would have all the more reason for his dim assessment of humankind, one that led Franklin, Clemens, and others of renown to doubt ours a species deserving of surviving. It wasn’t just the brutish beginnings of what was to become civilization leading to these men pronouncing our species unfit; it was the slavery of English factories, of those in both the north and south of America, places that should have been “factories of hope” rather than “factories of slaves.”

It is painfully evident We the People are not told the truth by our “leadership.” In some cases where national security is involved this is quite understandable. But increasingly we are not being told the truth for the sake of power and profits, the Federal Triune Dictatorship being more interested in the bottom line of power and profits rather than the bottom line of national security. And as evidenced by a thoroughly corrupt UN the conditions in other nations can hardly be said to be any better.

But such is the condition in America today where we have just cause to wonder why We the People are accounted unworthy of being told the truth by our leaders? And in far too many cases it really does come down to hiding the truth for the sake of power and profits. The result being we have just cause to be cynical of the phrase “national security.”

None of us can possibly feel at ease when those in our government are actually forced to conceal the truth from us for whatever reason. Few of us are so naïve as not to know there are cases to be served by “the greater good.” But this decision concerning the greater good cannot be trusted to liars, thieves and corrupt scoundrels.

However, one thing definitely impacting national security is the indiscriminate breeding without any thought for the future of the resulting babies that must invariably lead to incalculable misery and suffering, not just in third world nations but even in the more advanced like America where such indiscriminate breeding has resulted in a number of third world cities like Los Angeles throughout our nation.

But the wealthy have always favored the breeding of more slaves, a notable exception being the story of the Hebrews in Egypt. Pharaoh and his counselors were alarmed that the enslaved Hebrews might grow in such numbers as to threaten Egypt. The decree to “winnow the crop” resulted in the story of Moses.

The nations of Western Civilization are facing the same problem as that of the ancient Pharaoh; the slaves are growing in such numbers as to threaten civilized nations. The slaves invading America from Mexico by the millions certainly threaten our nation, but these slaves of today are not likely to produce a Moses.

England and other civilized nations have nurtured the viper of Islam in their midst for the sake of slave labor. But the slaves to Islam, for such they are in reality, are increasingly likely to produce a nuclear holocaust. Were such people not enslaved to such a barbaric religion they might be able to entertain some hope of a future that did not require all to bow to a bloodthirsty Allah and his pervert “prophet” with the subjugation or destruction of all “infidels.”

I recall a time in America when people were filled with hope for the future. This is no longer the case. Our nation has been sold out and betrayed by greed for power and profits, our betrayers offering We the People nothing that would either promise or sustain hope for the future of America, but are rather dedicated to making wage slaves of all Americans not belonging to the privileged club of wealth. This is patently obvious by the refusal of our leaders, both Republican and Democrat, to secure our borders for the sake of slave labor from the barbarian and totally corrupt nation of Mexico.

The thoroughgoing corruption throughout our own government is nowhere so in evidence as in the refusal to secure our borders and enforce our immigration laws for the sake of slave labor benefiting only the wealthy in America. This is so patently obvious one can only wonder why any in the political spectrum even talk about “national security” since such a thing is such an obvious farce. And Caesar Bush will talk about “securing Iraq” all the while refusing to secure America. Not that the Democrat Party holds promise of anything better.

The bottom line for good people is justice; and when justice is not served, is in fact mocked by our courts and government there can be no hope for a better America. It is intrinsic in good people to want justice, to protect those who cannot protect themselves. Should Ellie Nesler have let the law handle the evil man that molested her son? And what would have happened to Ellie and her son if this monster was released and came after her and her son? Are the victims to stand guard with guns to protect themselves because the law fails to do so, to wait in fear not knowing when the predator will attack? Some will point to the many faults and the failure of Ellie Nesler to be a good parent, of her being a drug abuser and such, but her concern for her son was something all parents feel for their children.

The weakness of any law falls into two general categories. One, it fails to be just. Two, it is impossible of enforcement. The laws governing child molestation are of the first category. They are not just. And when a law fails to mete out justice, the people have a right to cry out for a just law to take its place. The leadership, failing to hear the cry of the people against laws that have become so punitive against honest, responsible, law-abiding citizens and so favoring the irresponsible, the bullies and criminals that the leadership better begin listening to the cry of the people.

I doubt any of us would advocate anarchy. And while no reasonable person could fail to sympathize with Ellie Nesler, no reasonable person, for the sake of a civilized society, wants to have to resort to her method of seeing justice served. Then what? The only answer is law that is just, law that we can depend on to be enforced, expeditiously and without a ten years or more process of appeals, law that does not make the victims wait in terror for the criminal to come back to do them further harm.

Without a just system of law, there can be no civilization worthy of the name. Like most civilized Americans I want children to grow up and live in a civilized society, not one where it takes a gun to protect ourselves and mete out justice. But we need leaders that do not set themselves above the same laws We the People are expected to obey. I do not hold much hope of this becoming the case in America, especially since our leaders refuse to secure our own borders and continue to favor other nations over America for the sake of power and profits.

The Founding Fathers in their wisdom provided the Second Amendment as our protection from the tyranny of an unjust government. We can only hope and pray it does not come to this and a just government will come about before We the People are forced to act on our own behalf once more for the sake of freedom.

All of this to point up the fact the greater good cannot be served by liars, thieves and scoundrels. And it remains virtually every tyrant and despotic government maintains itself using the same mantra of “the greater good” in order to maintain and advance an agenda of power and profits, our own government now being an infamous example of this, known to the whole world as such and thereby putting a sword in the hands of our enemies.

I have a bulletin for our leaders: We the People can handle the truth. What we cannot, will not handle is lies for the sake of power and profits, a creed of “the greater good” advancing only the agenda of tyrants and despots, advancing only the cause of those like the despicable ACLU and others demanding America become something other than the America of the Founding Fathers, an America that was once a proud nation and beacon of hope to the rest of the world!

Among those things so very uniquely, distinctively American is the Daisy Red Ryder lever action Carbine BB gun. It is coming on that time of year once more, and I will once more call attention to the fact the Daisy Red Ryder Carbine WAS NOT AN AIR-RIFLE! IT WAS SPRING-POWERED!

How does a Daisy Red Ryder spring-powered BB gun become an “air-rifle?” By the ignorant in power calling it such and promoting the ignorance through films like “A Christmas Story (1983).”

Now I find it a charming film with some very clever dialogue and I continue to watch it with delight, but decades before the film was made I earned my genuine Daisy Red Ryder BB gun selling garden seed and Cloverine Salve door-to-door as a child in Bakersfield. This was such an important event in my life it became the focal point of my novel Donnie and Jean about two children growing up in Bakersfield, and it was the mechanism by which Donnie met Jean and how these two children changed each other’s lives.

While the book includes much of Kern County history for the period of WWII and is largely autobiographical, there are the deep subjects of religion and politics as well where angels and all good Baptists fear to tread. And not a few people that have not read the book will wonder how God could use a BB gun to bring two children like Donnie and Jean together. How can God bless a boy wanting a BB gun? Well, maybe as that last line in Sergeant York: “The Lord sure does move in mysterious ways.”

But even as a child I knew the difference between the low velocity Red Ryder Carbine and an air-rifle. That spring-powered BB had nowhere near the velocity of a proper air-rifle, some of which can match the killing velocity of a .22 cartridge, and the better quality ones selling for up to a thousand dollars or even more for the match quality guns. When they were first developed, Napoleon thought air-rifles should never be used in warfare because of their silent killing capability.

However, I very much doubt the makers of the film were aware of any history of air-rifles and I’m sure they didn’t know the difference between a spring-powered Red Ryder BB gun and an air-rifle. Had anyone qualified bothered to check they would have noticed the Red Ryder was never advertised as an “air-rifle.” I’m sure Harper Lee knew the difference since she had Jem and Scout’s uncle giving them air-rifles not spring-powered BB guns, and Aunt Maudie would not have been in danger from spring-powered BB guns at any distance across the street while bending over presenting a “generous target” before Atticus intervened.

But as with the fallacy of calling the Red Ryder BB gun an “air-rifle,” in just such manner on the part of the universities and their product media illegal aliens become “immigrants,” child molesters, rapists, and murderers become “gentlemen,” and Negroes become “African-Americans.”

However, I share Ralph’s disillusionment over his Madison Avenue discovery about “secret” messages and Ovaltine commercials. When I joined the Captain Marvel Club I felt cheated to discover the “secret code” was only the alphabet backwards.

It has been many years now since I learned some of the hard lessons of childhood that things do not always turn out as advertised. Still, I can’t help wishing people would tell the truth. While I can understand ignorance, and as a classroom teacher I spent years trying to dispel ignorance, nevertheless I wish we had a leadership that would deal in the truth rather than lies many of which unlike the “air-rifle” error in A Christmas Story are intended to deceive, take advantage and do harm.

“Yet some natures are too good to be spoiled by praise, and wherever the vein of thought reaches down into the profound, there is no danger from vanity.” I have learned to appreciate my “simple, rural poverty” that has no need of either lies or praise, and I cannot help wishing those that lie and scheme their ways into power did not do so. However, this is the system established by the god of this world, and those that would achieve and hold power over others work by the rules of that system. But these will never be profound for their very works proclaim how shallow their need for the praise of men, nor does it speak well for humankind that such as work within Satan’s system rather than that of Jesus rise to power over others.

But to return to A Christmas Story and the Red Ryder Carbine, one of the things missing from the film was the genuine reaction Ralph should have had when opening that box containing it. Since that part of the story is missing, I will tell you from my book what my reaction was, what the reaction of Ralph should have been and perhaps would have been had he earned the gun as I had:

    The day finally arrived. The long, heavy, and important looking heavy cardboard box clearly said in beautiful red block lettering: One Daisy Red Ryder BB Gun.

    Everyone was gathered round for a sight of the long talked about Carbine. My grandparents and great-grandmother heaped praise on me for my diligence and responsibility in fulfilling the goal; together with the essential and expected dire adult warnings of consequences should I ever misuse the weapon.

    I beamed with pride at the praise of fulfilling my obligation and listened dutifully, shook my head in the right places and, in general, ignored the threats and warnings. I knew my part as the kid and I knew the part of the adults, and we all played our parts faithfully. That’s part of being family.

    As everyone looked on I took my pocketknife, and being careful not to damage the box removed the heavy, copper clad staples. Holding my breath, I slowly lifted the lid. There in front of me, wrapped in thick, brown, wax paper was the Red Ryder Carbine.

    I slowly exhaled at the excitement and anticipation of finally holding it in my hands. Gently lifting the magnificent Red Ryder Carbine out of the box I began to carefully unwrap the paper; I didn't even want to tear the protective, waxed paper.

    And here it was at last; in all its metallic blue and dark brown walnut glory, with genuine saddle ring and leather thong, the picture of Red Ryder mounted on Thunder, together with his name formed by his lariat clearly branded into the stock, the gun I had dreamed of and worked so hard and waited impatiently for so long.

    Everyone said it was beautiful. Grandad clapped me on my shoulder and said it like man-to-man, “I'm really proud of you, son.” I almost blushed. After everyone had taken a turn admiring the marvelous treasure, I was permitted to go to Ronnie's and my bedroom with it.

    It was like I was dreaming; a gauzy, surreal scene as I held the gun in my hands, moving them all over the rich walnut of stock and forearm, touching the saddle ring and leather thong. There was Red Ryder's picture, mounted on Thunder, with his actual signature in scrolled writing formed by his thrown lariat branded right into the wood on the beautiful, smooth walnut stock just like the pictures of the rifle that I had seen.

    This was something I had dreamed of and worked hard for; something I had earned myself. It was real now; a dream realized that I held in my own hands. This was something I had earned on my own. This made it really special; something I could take deserved pride in as a personal triumph of self-discipline and perseverance.

    I gazed with pleasure at the long tube under the barrel into which you poured the BBs, just like the tube on the Winchester ‘94 .30-30, a real cowboy rifle. After a few moments of enchantment I pulled the lever down, cocking the gun, and returned it to its upper position and felt it click into place: Ready to shoot!

    I held it to my shoulder, pointed, sighted and pulled the trigger. Snap!

    It was an authoritative sound, a sound that meant business. I was now a Rider of the Purple Sage; I was shooting it out with rustlers and bandits! I could now hold my own alongside Red Ryder, the Lone Ranger, and Hopalong Cassidy. I belonged.

    I didn't delude myself that a BB gun could compete with a .30-30. But it didn't have to. It wasn't meant to. It was special not because of the difference in firepower, but what it represented of the cowboy aura where only children lived, something I realized somehow grownups weren't a part of, something that belonged to me as a boy no matter how grown up I was beginning to feel.

    There was magic in that world that grownups didn't seem to understand or had long forgotten. I couldn't go out there in those open fields around the neighborhood of Little Oklahoma with one of the real guns. But I could go out there, wherever I might find There in my imagination, with my Red Ryder Carbine and enter into that magical world that belonged to me as a boy, no grownups allowed.

    I couldn’t remember when I had lost interest in shooting marbles or playing Cowboys and Indians, I couldn’t remember when cap guns stopped being of interest to me; maybe when I first started venturing into the forest around the mining claim on my own. But for some reason, the Red Ryder Carbine seemed to be a reminder of the things that were really meaningful about being a boy, before I had started thinking more like an adult rather than just a boy. Strangely, with the Carbine in my hands, I seemed to want to go back to when things were simpler and not so confusing to me, a time when I believed I could be one of those cowboys fighting rustlers. I still wished things didn’t have to become so complicated with growing up.

“God Bless America” is a great song. Just don’t try singing it in the schools as we used to or you will be sued by the ACLU using your own tax money to sue you. If the rest of the world sees America as a bunch of lunatics led of lunatics there is sufficient to support the view. Just a government that funds the ACLU and a “leadership” that talks “homeland security” while refusing to secure our borders is patently lunatic enough to support the accusation.

The appeal of the noble gunman who rights injustice is something we all applaud. We always applaud the good guy who blows away the bullies. But because of university bred political correctness America cannot identify the bullies using plain language, but our enemies are free to demonize America at will. And given the “leadership” of America, our enemies have no problem making our nation out to be the bully among nations. And bullies have no friends.

My condemnation of Caesar Bush from the beginning has been based on his being only a politician, and as such would never allow our troops to fight a war to win, but as with Korea and Vietnam only to sacrifice Americans to political ends and that means for the money to satisfy the greed of the corporate masters with all politicians in their pockets having the rule over America.

And what is this visit by the Pope to Turkey but political? He already apologized when he had nothing for which to apologize. Perhaps this visit is the equivalent of going into “therapy,” which has become all the rage when someone says publicly what they really believe privately only to have it come back to bite them.

Some time ago I read of a big league ball player after a questionable call by an umpire stepping away from the plate and saying to him “What would you do if I said you’re a blind sonofabitch, a rotten umpire and shouldn’t be allowed to work in the major leagues?” The umpire replied “I’d throw you out of the game.” The ballplayer thought for a moment, then said to the ump “And what would you do if I only thought you’re a blind sonofabitch, a rotten umpire and shouldn’t be allowed to work in the major leagues?” The ump replied “Well, nothing. You can think what you want to.” The player looked at the ump for a long moment; then returned to the plate.”

As Jesus pointed out “Wisdom is justified of her children,” and those that don’t know enough to keep their mouths shut rather than making fools of themselves are certainly lacking in wisdom at the most charitable; but it is when words become the weapons of fools and tyrants we are at the greatest risk, the tyranny of religion such as that of Islam being a case in point.

It would serve us well to look to some of the wisdom of the past in addressing this issue. There is a solid foundation of historical wisdom from which to draw. How many today, for example, know much of William Penn, the founder of Pennsylvania? Yet his wisdom of religious toleration is still an excellent example to follow in many ways.

Penn wrote a great deal. He had the spirituality of a John Woolman mixed with the common sense of a Benjamin Franklin. Penn’s most well known work is “No Cross, No Crown” that he wrote while in prison in the Tower of London for his heterodox, religious views. A devout Quaker, he questioned the orthodox interpretation of the trinity among other things but his preaching and teaching of mankind’s responsibility for social ills, the opinion of Benjamin Franklin and others, was especially ill-received by the churches of his time.

An example of his opposition to the pseudo-spirituality of his time (and ours as well) is a statement from his book which fairly represents his view, together with that of Franklin, of the relationship between men and God: “True Godliness does not turn men out of the world, but enables them to live better in it, and excites their endeavors to mend it.”

Would that those professing to love and serve God would pay heed to Penn’s words in this regard. Particularly those who insist you must belong to their little, exclusive club in order to really be right with God and have his blessing and favor. From Penn’s “Some Fruits of Solitude” we read:

Inquiry is human; blind obedience brutal. Truth never loses by the one, but often suffers by the other.

There are some men like dictionaries; to be looked into on occasions, but have no connection, and are little entertaining.

A wise man makes what he learns his own, another shows he’s but a copy, or a collection at most.

Because of the truth of Penn’s observation people like Socrates, Jesus, and Washington leave no class as Emerson observed. There are many pretenders, but none to take the place of those persons like Socrates, Jesus, and Washington unique in history.

It takes a great breadth of reading and study to take advantage of the best of wisdom, to learn the lessons of the past in such a way as to improve the future. By paying too much attention to expediency, to palliatives that do not cure the ills or advance civilization, we have suffered mightily. At the best Caesar Bush is a fool; at the worst a dangerous fool that has put America in grave danger. He lied to get his wars, and is now caught out as both fool and liar. How now is America to extricate itself from the danger? The clear and present danger of Islam is patently obvious, but fools and liars are not going to deliver America. And the present crop of politicians exemplifying the “systematic organization of hatreds” holds little hope of change for the better.

As with politics blind obedience to some superstitious or religious orthodoxy invariably leads to conflict, conflict which, like that between Muslim and Jew is in itself a crime against humanity. Consider the divisiveness in our own country of those that promote one form of religious interpretation of Christianity over another. And especially those preaching and teaching their way is the only way of salvation. But those in the churches of America and England are not preaching and teaching the hateful and barbaric doctrines characteristic of woman-hating, bloodthirsty Islam. It is obvious that such fanatical, superstitious, religious taboos and hatreds such as that of the Moslem Taliban are repugnant to any civilized society. To beat men, women and children openly in the streets for a failure to adhere to religious dogma is barbaric in the extreme.

But the tail will always wag the dog when good people fail to do their part in opposing evil. However, throughout history the case has been a failure of good people to actively oppose the evil. Nobel-winning Physicist Michio Kaku has pointed out the very real danger the world faces because of nuclear proliferation. There is no denying the substantive evidence of such a threat. But it will take leaders of great knowledge and conviction to confront and overcome the obstacles to peace.

However, men being war lovers there must be a place for women in the decision making processes of world governments for peace to have any chance. I call your attention to the fact that women are conspicuous by their absence in the UN. But wisdom can never be achieved by the exclusion of a full half of humankind in the decision-making processes and leadership of nations.

This lack of women having a place in our own history of government is all too apparent. During all the turmoil of the years preceding our Civil War, a few women like Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Lucretia Mott were active abolitionists. But because they were women, they were refused admittance to the Antislavery Convention in London held in 1840. The commentaries of Sir William Blackstone held sway and continued to enslave women to their historical status as legal and political nonentities.

But Mrs. Stanton and some other determined women were resolute in changing their “slave” status. So it was that in 1848 the Seneca Falls Declaration of Sentiments and Resolutions came into being. Patterned after the Declaration of Independence, these women cited their grievances and asked for justice, especially in respect to the franchise. However, it would be another seventy years, 1920, before women won the right to vote. And only one woman, Charlotte Woodward Pierce, of that original meeting in Seneca Falls would live to cast a vote for President.

It is to America’s credit that such a meeting as that of Seneca Falls could be held and widely publicized (though most certainly unfavorably many times) … This in spite of the fact that it would take seventy years to accomplish the purpose of that original meeting in 1848.

I find it a curiosity of history that the two, abolition of slavery and woman suffrage, should be so intertwined in time; but perhaps, given the similarity of the causes, not so curious. And I would point out that the battles of Civil Rights and Women’s Rights would boil over and still be fought in the recent history of the sixties.

But in spite of the passage of time, even to this date, it cannot be said that women have achieved equal status with men, either in America or any place else in the world. For this to be accomplished requires wisdom, the kind of wisdom that denies prejudice and bigotry and leads to equal value, something not to be confused with equal rights and something not considered during the Seneca Falls meeting for women or by Martin Luther King, Jr. on behalf of minorities.

It will take the kind of perseverance evidenced by those like William Garrison and Elizabeth Stanton to accomplish the task of equal value. More, it will take exceptional women like Stanton and Mott, as diverse, educated and intelligent as Susan Anthony and Elizabeth Cochrane (Nellie Bly) and others, to develop a philosophy distinctive of women that will meld with that of men and, through the compatibility of differences correcting the errors in the philosophies of men, thereby making for a complete philosophy on the basis of equal value.

I give America credit for being a nation that considers fairness and justice of such great importance, and we are a nation that has a history of being charitable beyond that of any other nation towards other nations, especially following WWII and in many other instances. We are a nation that in spite of many failures such as our deplorable mistreatment of Native Americans has a generally proud heritage of fairness and justice.

However, unless women attain a place of equal value to men throughout America and throughout the world humankind has no chance of attaining the kind of wisdom that holds any promise of world peace. If on this basis alone Islam was determined to be the enemy of civilization that would be sufficient cause to banish it from the world. But such a “war on terrorism” cannot be waged by fools driven by greed and avarice with any chance of success. And the world is running out of time; the world does not have the seventy plus years it took for women to win the vote here in America.

If you have spent any time camping here around the Kern River Valley you know it can get very cold in the higher elevations during May. One time I was camped up at Bull Run Creek during this month only to awaken with frost on my sleeping bag. This reminds me of a time some years ago I had taken a friend who had never been there before to Bull Run Creek to go fishing. It was in May.

    The weather was absolutely beautiful. The sun was shining brightly and in no time we were in our shirtsleeves. The warmth of mid-day made a swim in the creek really inviting. There are several deep pools in Bull Run. You can stand at the top of some granite rocks and dive from ten feet or more into these magnificent pools.

    Bull Run is a native trout stream and runs year-round. Why? Because it is spring-fed and does not depend on snowmelt alone. So trout thrive; and the water from the springs is naturally very cold. Also, in May there is snowmelt feeding into the stream and the snowmelt water adds considerably to the frigid temp of the stream. In short, during the month of May and at its high elevation Bull Run is very cold. Really more like ice water lacking only ice cubes.

    On this particular trip with my buddy the outside air temperature was about 76 degrees. The water was about 39 degrees. I knew this but my friend didn't; and as he expressed the thought of peeling his clothes and taking a dip in the frigid waters, I thought to myself “Why should I tell him?”

    How often I've wished I had been able to make a video of what transpired. He had no sooner dived into the ice cold water than he popped up like a cork. Instantly! His arms hugging himself and his mouth working like a guppy, his silent scream unable to find articulation his departure from the pool came the closest I've ever witnessed to running on water.

Bill Cosby has a skit where this occurred with his wife. But that was at some sophisticated place with a swimming pool; and while funny I prefer this story about my buddy.

Yes, I’ve been to Burney Falls and other environs where the overwhelming beauty transfixes the eyes with wonder at the magnificence of such natural splendor of Creation. I have fished our streams in my native state where that nearly fabled golden trout are found. But the rugged beauty of Bull Run Creek remains unsurpassed to my eyes.

In my travels throughout America I have visited all the National Parks, but in my travels throughout the southern states there was no escaping what Faulkner so well called the “gloom of green.” You can’t escape it, and for a Westerner like me longing for the wide open vistas of the great deserts, and the rugged beauty of the brown and gray tones of granite splendor found only here in the West while I would never disparage the natural beauty to be found elsewhere in America there is no other place to compare with the West. “Don’t Fence Me In” was my heart’s desire and creed before it became a popular song.

However, like my soul brother Henry Thoreau there have been times when this longing for “wildness” and refusing to be tamed has led to some difficulties, particularly with the distaff side.

    Due to some calumny directed at me I wish to make it clear that my belief concerning the doctrine of hell has absolutely nothing to do with my ex-wives. Of course, I won't presume to speak for them regarding similar beliefs on their part due to me in the relationships.

    This leads to some thoughts about a recent accomplishment by some British scientists who have created a headless frog. Why? you may ask. Well, tasteless jokes about the perfect wife or husband aside, in order to clone body parts without ethical or moral considerations, lacking a brain or central nervous system, headless bodies may be the right direction. Want a spare heart, liver or kidney? Just have a headless clone on standby. “But Doc, will I be able to play the piano after the operation?”

    Let's hear it for the South American frog that was recently discovered to have a substance (epibatidine which resembles nicotine) with all the pain-killing power of morphine without the side effects.

    But speaking of headless frogs and Frankensteinian science at its best, some time ago scientists at the University of Basel in Switzerland succeeded in putting the gene for the eyes of fruit flies on different parts of its body and producing flies with eyes on their legs, wings and antenna. One fly had fourteen separate eyes on its body. Parents of small children and teachers are particularly interested in this.

    A disturbing factor that may trouble people is that John Bardeen, Walter Brattain and William Shockley didn't know where their discovery of the transistor would lead. One result, as per Moore's Law, the doubling rate of electronics and computer advancement every 18 months, is another factor. What will the advancements of molecular engineering and cloning lead to? As with the transistor, no one has a crystal ball.

    The brain is another matter when it comes to cloning. If the result of genetic engineering is a beautiful face and body but a creature with all the wit, grace and charm of a sea slug, or one with a voice like a hard rock singer that shatters glass and makes beavers impotent at a distance of a football field away, what real improvement?

    The brain remains a mystery in many ways. For example, William Safire had some fun a while back by calling attention to the syntaxical faux pas linguis of then president-elect of Brown University E. Gordon Gee's usage of the word faculty instead of the proper faculties in the context and a mixed metaphor in Gee's solecisms.

    I commiserate with poor Dr. Gee. No, I haven't joined those who hear voices and wear aluminum foil underwear. Though when I make such an outrageous blunder as using the word gorilla instead of guerrilla I know there must be alien influences at work. After all, did I intend to make it look like Planet of the Apes or the opening scenes in 2001 had some supporting evidence or that Indians in this country had simian allies? Such a thing makes me take another look at the possible efficacy of aluminum foil underwear. To compound matters, what do you do with a spellchecker that insists on both subtile and subtle?

    You have to know that Gordon Gee certainly knows the proper usage of the word faculty. Just as I know the difference between gorilla and guerrilla. What's going on in the wild waves of the brain when you make seemingly silly mistakes?

    This all reminds me of a Christmas letter sent out by the Superintendent of Schools in the Antelope Valley when I was a teacher in the district. The letter left all the teachers in the district asking “What the hell is he saying?” Other comments such as “What the hell was he smoking when he wrote that?” were less charitable. It was such a masterpiece of obfuscation that I still have the thing in my enormous file titled “Really stupid things by experts in education.” Of course, the Super was an Ed. D. so his vain and failed attempt at intellectualism was understandable. I can't help feeling in my bones that the creator of Dilbert had to have spent some time as a teacher in the public schools.

    Not being given to pedantry, I'm not among those who find fault with people who don't speak German wanting to pronounce the J in Junker as Yh. But I'll never forget a history professor climbing all over a student for doing this and embarrassing her in front of the whole class. Now that's a true pedant. Where do you draw the line in such academia? The attempt is made on what is called common usage. If a foreign term or phrase finds itself in common usage, then it is permissible even if you don't speak the language. So academics might forgive the use of faux pas by a non-French speaker and decry an Anglicized fox pass, Laurel and Hardy notwithstanding. Ah, the things people miss without a university education.

As though to purposely expose the pedantry of so many academics and prick the balloons of pompous asses I have Weedpatch University and The Weedpatch Gazette as forums. And one of my passions in this forum is frogs.

    Be a frog.

    I love it! For the non-cognizanti, the chorus (what else for frogs):

    Be a frog, be a frog

    If you try, yes you can, yes you can

    Now granted being a frog may fall short of the ambition of some (poor benighted souls, they) who do not aspire to such lofty status. Still, long before “It isn’t easy being green” became a catch-phrase frogs didn't get their just due. How can anyone minimize the importance of frogs? From Aristophanes' satire of Euripides alone, how could anyone not want to go right out and set up a ranarium and devote themselves to amphibiology? And what of Calaveras County? And how many crime novels would suffer unless someone croaked? Where would we be without the ennobling of the English language by expressions like frog in the throat and fine as frog hair?  Why, without the frog the loss to literature and language alone would be staggering! Consider the Epicure or the witch and conjuror without frogs (we must disdain pretenders, toads, frogs that never made it)!

    Think of the space shuttle Columbia taking off with 1,500 crickets and an assortment of other bugs, 18 mice, 135 snails, 152 rats and 223 fish. Just where, ah, ha! were the frogs? Nowhere! Not so much as a tadpole! Oh, I know, you're thinking those crickets would have been history with frogs on board. But where is the sense of proportion and equity in excluding these noble amphibians that have already made such outstanding contributions to science? Why should the noble frog be treated as déclassé? Ah, gentle reader, there is more at work here than the vagaries and caprices of human nature leading to mere oversight. It is sheer and blatant discrimination if you ask me! And just where, I ask further, is the Thurgood Marshall who will gallantly, courageously, stand up for frogs? Alas, nowhere in sight.

    And speaking of frogs, a yet unidentified heat-sensitive protein in Western lizards cleanses ticks of Lyme disease. Researchers are trying to find out how. I hope they are successful. Now why weren't lizards represented on Columbia? Another case of blatant discrimination? The whole world wonders? Well, maybe not the whole world, but close, undoubtedly.

    My scheme for bronzed bullfrogs may yet come to fruition. Inquiries are invited.

    The foregoing just to prove the poet and intellectual involves himself in more than ethereal esoterica. A good education is a marvelous thing. A mind is, indeed, a terrible thing to waste as this example proves.

Embarrassing as it is to admit, my first attempt at flying a gas model airplane ended in a total disaster. Fortunately it was only a silhouette model and I didn’t have that much time invested in building it. But I learned from that early attempt and went on to success, though the scale models which required a great deal of time and effort in building were not the best performers. But those scales were beautiful. As with so many of the issues of life perseverance was the key to success, and that first disastrous attempt could have been the end of my experience with gas powered model airplanes.

What is it that causes some to persevere and others to give up? What a person believes has much to do with this distinction. It was my good fortune to be born into a generation and among good people who encouraged children in doing things like building model airplanes rather than joining gangs dedicated to crime. Mine was the generation raised to slogans like “Crime does not pay” and “Honesty is the best policy,” a generation with justifiable pride in America. In short, mine was a generation that believed in America.

It all comes down to what people believe. If you believe others are inferior because of race you act accordingly. If you believe taking a gun and robbing and killing others is acceptable you act accordingly. If you believe no one has a right to have nice things and you deface property with graffiti or other acts of vandalism, and so on. It is all a matter of belief.

Parents, churches, and schools used to teach moral values and children were raised with beliefs in such things. This is no longer the case. In every instance where such instruction is attempted here come the ACLU and its accomplices to destroy all attempts to maintain standards of moral and civilized behavior. That America has fallen prey to a Federal Triune Dictatorship dedicated to corruption robs children of any chance of believing in America and encourages the growing barbarism throughout our nation. What are the beliefs of our leaders? In the words of Jesus, “Wherefore by their fruits ye shall know them.” I don’t wonder Kissinger says there is no chance for success in Iraq. What chance does America itself have without a national heritage, culture, language and identity, when our leaders won’t even secure our own borders because of their unholy lust for slave labor?

A friend has just come by to visit. As we often do, we got into a philosophical discussion about religion and I was attempting to explain my dissatisfaction with preachers in general. During our conversation he provided me with an excellent example of my statement that preachers, much like university professors, major in abstractions, not things that are of any real value to our lives in this down and dirty real world.

Well, I had used the word absolute and he seized on that saying God was the universal absolute. Now I know, good hearted as he is, he thought he had defended the honor of God and said something of real value that made perfect sense. But what that something was, there are no words in our vocabulary to explain.

Emerson pointed out the poet as the namer and maker gives expression to the thoughts common to most, thoughts that while common enough many people are incapable of verbalizing themselves. But poetry as such is not expression given the imprimatur of the universities that have bastardized the very meaning of the once venerated office of the poet, of those who made events, nature, and people memorable by “theater.”

In science, the concept of workability is the hallmark. That and replication are the essence of all science. If it works and can be repeated, explained, it’s good science. Preachers are poor scientists of their trade. Once you remove all the emotional attachment and prejudice of the average preacher’s verbiage, you have little left that has any practical benefit in the workaday world with which most of us have to contend. Just take away his pet phrases and buzzwords and few are left with anything to say. Small wonder Sam Clemens said: “He was as happy as if church had just let out!”

While living here on the mining claim I learned pinecones burn hot and fast but they have no lasting value, unlike a good honest piece of oak. Now the pinecones are great for starting the fire, but you need the oak for the long haul. How’s that for good old boy homiletics?

Jesus said he that overcomes, perseveres, will inherit the kingdom. The faint-hearted need not apply. He also said that we would be given the power to do so if we mean business. But there are many pretenders to the faith, without any real repentance from dead works, who, when the going gets rough or the Devil seems to offer a better deal or whose egos get in the way, fall away. By their fruits we know them.

What reality of God answers to our grief, when we desperately need answers? I believe there is a very human aspect to God, which stands to reason. If He had wanted robots He would have created them. Instead, He made people, in His image, creatures that could love and hate, work and fail, create and appreciate beauty, imagine and dream.

The humanity of the prophets and disciples is evident throughout the entire Bible. In Galatians 5:12 Paul wishes the Judaizers would emasculate themselves. In 4:9 Paul is indecisive about whether we know God or He us. In Ephesians 4:18 we are told that ignorance of divine things is due to hardening of our hearts; in 6:12 there are forces of evil in the heavenly realm. Colossians 1:19 there is a reconciliation of things in heaven to be accomplished. Indecision and human weakness are all there; no plaster saints.

Conviction of wrongdoing brings surrender and repentance, which brings obedience. That is the way of The Gospel. The conclusion of the Sermon on the Mount ends with the warning to count the cost and build accordingly. No one can do this without cold, hard facts in hand. If we are left guessing, God has played a cruel joke on us. However, if we are able to “know” it is worth everything to find out and pursue the very best that God has for us. And it should be exciting work, not guesswork.

It is one of my most infuriating traits (to my detractors in religion and education) that I insist that God is both reasonable and practical. I even believe He expects us to be these things as well. I believe in teaching young people the value of learning, of setting goals and persisting in accomplishing them, of persevering in tasks undertaken.

If Heaven is anything less than having joy in jobs that are worthwhile, of learning things of value, of being able to build, create, fellowship with those like-minded, of having fun, then it would be a cheat. But if it is all these things and more, religious leaders are having no success in showing it.

Heaven must offer both peace and excitement; it must be a place with a trout stream, mountains, and an abundance of wild life and unlimited opportunity to grow in mind and spirit. So I believe Heaven to be, particularly in the wilderness, in the stars at night and in the hopes, dreams and aspirations of young people who haven’t learned what is impossible.

I long for “Sons of Liberty” where others and I fired with that same revolutionary spirit against evil could resort, without distinction between plebeian and patrician, and encourage one another. While it is certainly a commonplace befitting our human condition to, lacking position in the higher classes, make a virtue of the lower, but this has somewhat to do with my own, professedly tongue-in-cheek, appellation of an Okie Intellectual. But it serves me well in getting the goats, if not the attention otherwise, of my self-assumed betters.

Reminds me of my own kin. My brother didn’t write much because he was proud but couldn’t spell his way through a book of cigarette papers. His failure to write is a great loss because he could have helped so much in putting some things of interest to his own children in print and helping me in much of my own writing. It is sad to me that our great-grandmother, grandparents and mom didn’t write down many of the stories they shared with us as children. Sadly, there are some things, like what really counts in life, that are only appreciated with age and wisdom.

The seeming disparity between an Andrew Johnson and Abraham Lincoln is easily resolved in the reading of histories. It is for that reason I encourage you to read Bowers’ account, The Tragic Era. It takes the historian of the soul and appreciation of the poet to do justice to history. For this reason, our most ancient historians were, literally, poets. The mythic of some of the histories had more to them than a simple embellishment of facts. The exaggeration of truth is not always with the intent of passing a lie. It is not always for the purpose of making the teller more important than he really is. The Indian acting out the hunt serves to provide not just the bald facts, but also a story that will be remembered.

Sadly, many truths become legend and are distorted to the point of prejudice; and those that are ignorant of the facts, whether willingly so or not, begin to build their own “facts” on such distortions. Convinced in their own minds of a truth which has no basis in anything but presumption (like the theory of Darwinism and the wars of Caesar Bush), the followers of noble lies and fairy tales designed to promote their own peculiar prejudices often carry them to the extreme of persecuting those that refuse to believe a lie. God’s “strong delusion that they will believe a lie... because the love of the truth is not in them” will be of such a character; the ministers of this grand lie will, as usual, come as angels of light.

I have come to know many wealthy and powerful people. The majority of these, while agreeing with much that I write about, would never be able to put their own thoughts into print as I do. For that reason, these men and women, many good people, would never put in writing what they share with me in confidence verbally. I understand this and have never betrayed their confidences. But there was a time not long ago when honorable men were able to freely express their minds; when political candidates were not one dimensional players in a schlock drama in spite of, at times, making speeches to the sound of cocking pistols in their audiences.

The poets of America have all but disappeared. And America is all the more impoverished, even placed in increasing danger because of this loss. But poets are the true believers, and little of the America my generation knew remains to sustain the belief in America of poets.

The problem of graffiti throughout Bakersfield and other towns about is evidence of those not properly “housebroken.” Years ago when I first began to see gang graffiti on the cottonwood trees along the Kern River I knew civilized people were in big trouble, that barbarians marking their turf had no sensibility of civilized good manners and were not about to learn better, had no interest in learning better.

While the national forests and parks are becoming increasingly dangerous for Americans because of the Mexican drug lords they and their gangs including illegal aliens have not yet taken over the Kern River Valley, and those of us living here count our blessings this is not yet the case. But when it comes to defacing things like cottonwood trees, this is evidence the barbarians have no respect for anything in either Nature or personal property.

In 1969 I filed on a silver mine here locally. A beautiful trout stream, Bull Run Creek, runs through the claim. The first time I ever visited the place in 1948 was at the invitation of an old man (probably my age now). He was the stereotypical prospector, grizzled, gray beard, gnarled hands, stooped back, faded and patched Levi’s, flannel shirt, slouch hat, etc. He happened by our cabin one day and was invited to lunch. While eating, he learned of my passion for fishing. He described where he was living and how to get there going on to say there was a great trout stream with waterfalls and deep pools and plenty of large trout begging to be caught.

The old fellow lived in a tin shack on the claim alongside the stream panning enough gold to supply his few needs and came down to town (Kernville) only when absolutely necessary. He recognized in me a kindred spirit and the first chance I got I took a rough map he had drawn for me and, with tackle in hand, went calling.

Bull Run Creek running free and wild, unprofaned by any pollution and sparking clean, the water so clear I could see the bottom of pools twenty feet deep was everything the old prospector said it was. He showed me a dent in the shack at the side of the doorway telling me he made it chunking a rock at a bear. According to him, the mine was last worked about 1928. It was a Lode claim and every winter the stream would flood it out. There were some old model T and A engines, and an old straight eight that they had used to try to keep the shaft (a stope) pumped out. He said they quit when they couldn’t keep up with the water.

Years later I filed on the claim, naming it the Laura Jean. Only then did I discover that the old boys that had worked the mine had never bothered with this nicety. They simply took the silver and gold and didn’t fuss with notifying Uncle Sam of their enterprise. When I first visited the site a mule trail was still in evidence together with a smelter and the remains of a rock crusher. The ore would be brought down from the mine to this site, and holding ponds for the necessary water were made of granite boulders. One very interesting structure was a long single room made of rock with gun holes all about. The old boys were obviously not going to welcome “visitors” when they were working the mine.

While teaching high school I took several of my pupils back to this pristine, wilderness site to give them the chance to share the wondrous joy of an unspoiled, mountain stream and the wildlife. So many magic hours with young people, my own children especially, in this truly magnificent setting. Oftentimes I cooked trout on the blade of my machete and ate them right beside the stream. Now how can you beat that for quality living!

The country is so rough that it keeps the riff raff out and only other noble souls (fishermen) frequent the spot. It has seemed a sacred trust to maintain it and the very ruggedness of the country has, thus far, kept it so. Only the hardiest can make the hike in and these are, invariably, kindred souls. It is in such settings that we clean out our minds and souls and get our priorities right. There is no other counsel or medicine its equal. But that might be my Choctaw Cherokee blood on grandad’s side speaking- Strong feelings for the land and critters there.

While it remains an intriguing question whether those old miners quit work because the claim played out or they could no longer keep the water pumped out as that old fellow said it was never my intention to work the claim. For one thing, the stope going under the mountain would have to be pumped and dredged then remain dry for at least two years before being safe to enter. At that slant drilling would be required to pick up the vein of silver and determine whether it would be profitable to proceed. No, I filed on it in order to keep this marvel of Creation pristine and free for others to enjoy, and I used to keep the trail open so Forestry could have access.

But eventually a gate had to be installed at the end of Burlando Road out of Kernville to keep the riff raff, the barbarians not “housebroken,” from driving in to the lower area of the stream and trashing it. Still, I take some degree of comfort in knowing the area remains largely without the evidence of barbarians; and while I can no longer make the hike in and long ago set aside my tackle, I have a few pictures and the memories to sustain me.

Remove not the ancient landmark, which thy fathers have set. Proverbs 22:28

The Bakersfield Californian asking for “Treasures from the past” is sparking quite a bit of interest. For those of us who can look back over seventy or more years there is much to remember, and I capture quite a bit of this history in the autobiographical novel I wrote about two children growing up in WWII Bakersfield. But while the Clock Tower was moved and the Fox Theater renovated there is no duplicating many of the places such as the little church my grandfather built on the corner of Cottonwood and Padre. Fortunately, I still have a picture of it and together with memories is all that remains of the little church.

I cannot but wonder at the longevity of the ancient Egyptian civilization. It epitomized the meaning of “ancient landmark.” Those ancient Egyptians had something remarkable to hold on to, landmarks the fathers had set. But as with all civilizations, removing those landmarks eventually led to the demise of ancient Egypt.

But what of the America oldsters like me remember? Suffering as we do from a Federal Triune Dictatorship from hell that America some of us recall now only exists in memories of the past, and when we speak of that America it seems to many of our listeners we are recounting fables rather than actual history, stories like the days of King Arthur and Camelot. But America now seems led of lunatics bent on the destruction of America and the whole world wonders how our nation could have fallen into the hands of such lunatics? A great part of the answer is to be found in the cautionary words not to remove the ancient landmark, which in this case our Founding Fathers set.

There is no explaining an America such as that depicted by Norman Rockwell, but for those of us who lived such an America there is no forgetting it. And even though I was born in Weedpatch and raised among Dust Bowl Okies and Arkies, that America was real enough and we pledged allegiance to our flag, we sang “It’s A Grand Old Flag” as lustily as any in the more privileged and sophisticated schools of the time. We had pride in that America, we trusted our leaders, and the Bible remained our primary textbook both in homes and schools.

As my friend Byron, the Episcopal Priest, and I were discussing that America we knew as children it was with a great deal of melancholy we have lived long enough to witness the removal of the ancient landmarks, the loss of so much of the America we knew as children, an America children today will never know, an America Byron and I remember that was once held in such esteem by the nations of the world, but is now seen as led of lunatics, and thoroughly corrupt lunatics at that, all of them on the Devil’s payroll.

It was when our discussion turned to the Bible things became interesting rather than melancholy. My thought it may have been Satan and his crowd that caused the “confusion of tongues” in Genesis might explain the extreme evil of Homo sapiens not having a common language. It may even explain why the story uses the plural form of gods involved, crediting the story in Job of Satan being included in the “sons of God” and Jesus designating some as “children of the Devil.”

Imagine if you can what it would mean throughout history if all of humankind had a common language from the beginning and continuing to this day. Would this prove a greater threat to God or to Satan? Room here for much philosophical speculation.

But when it comes to “false prophets,” those that make a mockery of the plain words of Jesus that true prophets of God do not wear soft clothing or live in king’s palaces organized religions of all beliefs come under condemnation. While the Roman Church for example can no longer say in the words of Peter “Silver and gold have I none,” neither does it say “In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth rise up and walk.” Wealth invariably makes a mockery of religious pretensions.

As to wealth Byron and I found agreement that in the Temptation even though all the kingdoms of the world were the Devil’s to give to whomsoever he chose and this claim was not disputed by Jesus, these meant nothing to him. In the words of Jesus, “What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul, or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul.” So it was Jesus knew Satan had nothing of value to offer him. But why should it have been of such importance to Satan that Jesus worship him; so important the Devil was willing to give Jesus all the kingdoms of the world if he would only bow to the Devil? At this point the conversation with Byron became quite interesting indeed; after all politicians settle for much less, as with most others on the Devil’s payroll. However, I never think of wealth but a memory from the past in Bakersfield comes to mind: The Dump.

Living the solitary life of a writer and author I do not generate much in the way of household trash. The resident cat certainly does not contribute in this regard; a real advantage compared to some pets if you insist on not living in a fur free zone. As a result it takes two or three months for it to be worthwhile to make a trip to the landfill and empty my old pickup. At that, sometimes I just make the trip as an excuse to take the drive all around the lake and enjoy the natural grandeur of our valley. And I’m ever mindful to be grateful for the lack of traffic that makes the drive a pleasure.

    None of us way back when I was a kid had ever heard the word Landfill. The Dump was its progenitor. There were few as exciting places to visit as the Dump. Whenever grandad had to make the trip I was quickly in the old Ford pickup with him, all eagerness to explore this wonderful treasure trove of people’s castoffs. Truly, one man’s trash is another’s treasure, but to us children it was all hidden riches only awaiting discovery.

    I will never forget the time I became wealthy as Croesus as a result of one such exploration. Nothing escapes the sharp eye of a child. No eagle is a match for the gimlet eye of the child seeking treasure. I was making my way up a hill of paper, cans, broken glass and other debris when I spied it: A crisp, brand new one-dollar bill! It was folded into a square no larger than about one inch. But I saw it!

    To understand the magnitude of such a find, one must remember that at that time penny candy was really a penny, bread was five cents a loaf and an entire peach pie could be bought for fifteen cents. Royal Crown Cola, Pepsi, Coke, Dr. Pepper, and Nehi were a nickel each. An entire dollar was real wealth.

My strict, religious upbringing as a child caused me to give ten cents (a tithe) of my treasure to the church (The church in this case was the little one my grandad had built himself and pastored in Little Oklahoma in Southeast Bakersfield). But what was a dime to ensure that God would undoubtedly bless me in finding even greater wealth? Not to disparage those that believe in tithing, but such is the sometime thought always unspoken, never admitted, of somehow putting God in our debt by some act on our part.

While the barbaric woman-hating religion of the sword Islam epitomizes the doctrine of putting God in one’s debt by even acts of murder and other atrocities to the “glory of Allah” and his pervert “prophet,” the same thinking is common to all religions, and in the end it all comes down to wealth whether in this world or the next for all those that believe they can put God in their debt by whatever means. Even, as Paul points out, though they speak in the language of angels, have faith to move mountains and give their bodies to be burned, without being motivated by love these profit such people nothing in the economy of God and the kind of wealth motivated by love Jesus said was to be laid up in heaven. But this is the kind of love that hates evil, and confronts it for what it is recognizing there is never an instant’s truce between vice and virtue, between the children of God and the children of the Devil.

No, I’m not going to write about politicians that are incapable of learning from stupid mistakes, let alone confessing them as such; though in my opinion Thoreau's dictum that “A wise man lives simply” is a truth impossible of improvement. But there must be opportunity to live simply, a place where people can dream and hope, where they can clean out their minds and gain a fresh perspective of what is really meaningful in life. You simply cannot do this while spending all your time “polishing the Devil’s door knobs,” drowning in smog and staring at the asphalt, steel, and concrete jungle.

Like Leo Stein I don’t question the wisdom of others because it differs from mine, I question it because I question my own. Not a few of my doubts about my own wisdom arise from the many really stupid things I have done, which has made me my favorite source of humor in many instances. Recalling these stupid things caused me to be extraordinarily patient with kids the years I spent as a teacher, especially while teaching shop classes. It seldom failed some kid doing a really stupid thing did not find a like correlation with the stupid things I had done as a boy. However, in most cases these stupid things came about from a lack of knowledge and experience.

    For those of you that can, teach your children how to do for themselves. It simply cannot be beat as a family exercise and an invaluable investment in theirs and your future. There were many times, as a child, that my grandad let me just do it. The It didn't always work out; but in no instance did I fail to learn something of value, even from the failures; I might say especially from the failures.

    Grandad was the idol of my childhood. He could do things. He could build a house, do wiring and plumbing, in short, he was a jack-of-all-trades as many of his generation were. But the automobile remained a mystery to him all his life. Grandad was never a mechanic.

    Some time after moving to the mining claim in Sequoia National Forest, I came of age to have my own car, about fifteen years old. From somewhere in that mysterious gene pool, there lay the bent of the mechanic and machinist in my own make-up. The essential missing ingredients were knowledge and experience.

    Grandad, being a firm believer in that maxim of hard work never killed anyone, had me earning money at every job to be found requiring a strong back. I was a mean kid with a pick and shovel (not to mention the fact that I supplied all the fuel for our stove and fireplace). But a regular job came my way when I became the Junior Custodian for old Kernville Elementary.

    For once, I had a real job and a steady income; the magnificent sum of $35 a month working every day after school. I was ready to commit to the American Dream, going into debt on the installment plan; so it came about Grandad and I took off to the Big City, Bakersfield, where I bought a '39 Pontiac for $100 payable at $10 a month. The fact that it had a pronounced knock from the bowels of the engine didn't seem to perturb Grandad. I drove the old car, slowly, all the way up the canyon to the mining claim with the engine knocking the whole time.

    An acquaintance, Gus Suhre, who was a mechanic, upon hearing the knock in the engine pronounced it a bad rod bearing. Now neither Grandad nor I had any idea about the mysteries of the internal combustion engine. But I was determined to learn. Grandad did share a story about a fellow he knew that had replaced a burned rod bearing in a Model-T with bacon rind and that got him home with the car. Gus explained the procedure for curing the Pontiac's illness but this was very nearly incomprehensible to me. However, I was determined to do the job.

    With the tools available, I was able to pull the head and pan on the engine. With its innards exposed, I was finally face to face with the complexities of the engine. There were things called valves, pistons, rods, and I began to operate. Following Gus' instructions I was able to locate the loose rod and pull the cap off and remove the rod and piston. However, what to do with this micrometer thing-a-ma-jig? Gus had uttered some mysterious words about “miking” the crank. I was supposed to use this glorified C-clamp to find out if the crankshaft was out of round.

    Following Gus’ mysterious instructions, I dutifully screwed the thing to fit the crank journal and moved it around like he said to do. The problem was that I simply did not know what the purpose of this maneuver was supposed to accomplish. Somehow, the fit of the contraption was supposed to tell me if there was anything wrong with the journal. It didn't. Mainly because I didn't know how to read a micrometer or what, exactly, I was looking for.

    But I manfully checked to see if the device moved around the crank at a certain setting and called the case closed. Looked all right to me. It was smooth and there wasn't any burning or galling as Gus had warned me to look for; and since I had the rod and piston out I was ready for the “fix.”

    Now, as Gus had said, I was supposed to get another rod and piston (Gus never bothered to explain why he thought I needed another piston; perhaps he didn’t want to go through the drill of explaining how to remove and replace just the rod). This necessitated another trip to Bakersfield where I was soon to be introduced to the exciting world of Auto Junk Yards.

    At the earliest opportunity, Grandad and I took off and I was soon examining bins of pistons and rods at one of the yards. All I knew was that I was to get a replacement for the offending '39 engine rod. But the bins had mysterious markings designating the assemblies with hieroglyphic markings like .010, .020 and .030.

    I have already said automobiles were a mystery to Grandad. It never seemed to occur to him or me to ask what these mysterious markings meant. I knew nothing of “taper” or “bored cylinders.” As a result, I simply took the rod and piston that looked the best from a bin marked with the hieroglyph .010 and off we went.

    On arriving back at the claim, I inserted the new rod and piston in the cylinder. Seemed a tad tight. What to do? Of course! Get a bigger hammer! Which I proceeded to do. With a little persuasion from the hammer handle, I managed to pound the recalcitrant piston into the cylinder and the rod down over the crank. Replacing the rod cap and all the parts in the order in which I removed them (no new gaskets; why waste money?) I was finally ready to crank the sucker up!

    Now for those of us that were raised with the old six-volt systems, we know how difficult it can be to get an engine started, particularly if it has had major surgery, with those old, six-volt batteries. With great foresight, I had parked the car on the convenient hill at the side of our cabin.

    Getting in the car, I performed the maneuver all us oldsters were familiar with back in the old days; I put the car in second gear, put in the clutch, let off the parking brake and let ‘er roll. At a fairly good clip downhill I popped the clutch and the engine fired. Once. With a horrendous bang!

    Rolling to a stop at the bottom of the hill, I got out and saw that from the place the engine had fired there was a long trail of oil in the dirt. Looking under the car I saw a truly magnificent, jagged hole in the pan. At the place where the trail of oil started, I found what remained of the rod cap.

    And so, my early introduction to auto mechanics was an explosive success. Knowing how to