“Does a Flapper Make a Good Wife? Painted lips, flush of liquor, scanty raiment, dash, and high speed – How do they mix with happy marriage?” The Roaring Twenties question posed in an article by Kathleen Norris in the weekly magazine Liberty may have given some men pause to wonder, and ask “Am I willing to risk marriage to a gal with these questionable attributes?”

Well, I admit that the question of whether a Flapper would make a good wife is a tad antique by now. But, then, so are both Liberty magazine and I. Still, the question raised back in the 1920s by Kathleen Norris about what constitutes moral, civilized good manners and behavior are no less relevant to a successful marriage these days. A good, moral man capable of responsible and trustworthy commitment and a good moral woman capable of the same are still most likely to make a good, moral, and committed marriage.

Nope, not going to go into endless discussion of what constitutes “morality.” I’m antique enough to believe some things are right and some things are wrong. It’s wrong to lie, cheat, steal, abuse a child, engage in sexual perversion or betray the love and trust of a marriage partner. Some might say in this respect “It’s easy to be on the side of the angels.” But only those who haven’t tried it would say such a thing in the face of society today notwithstanding the heated debate over women bobbing their hair seems no longer relevant to these times.

But one thing debated since the beginnings of human history has not lessened in intensity, the debate concerning questions surrounding the origin and purpose of life. “Why can’t we know?” a very young and beautiful Clara Bow asked in this exquisitely poignant way concerning the hereafter during a Liberty magazine interview. While Clara Bow was exploited as the “It” girl, anyone making a study of her life cannot escape the conclusion that she was a very profound person; and more importantly, a very good person.

To know that we don’t know raises an interesting philosophical question as well, particularly when science is telling us that 96% of the universe is unknown, and possibly unknowable, leaving great latitude for speculation as to what is contained in that vast unknown. When it comes to the grand questions of philosophy, the how and the why of the universe, of life and death, science has made some progress in giving us answers to the material composition of the universe, but the fundamental questions remain unanswered. And the question, all pretensions and charlatans aside, remains whether we can know? I can’t help but smile at the question Clara Bow in her interview with Liberty phrased so succinctly and eloquently, the haunting question from time immemorial, so seemingly ingenuously. And while the question lends itself to the dictum “You cannot know what you cannot know,” no philosopher or theologian has ever phrased it better or more honestly than she did.

Religion and its varied monuments, artifacts and methods of worship and the King of Disciplines, Philosophy, do not provide us any certain knowledge of where we came from or where we are going. They do not answer Clara Bow’s honest question. But it does seem that we are possessed of an instinct that caused Clara Bow to even ask the question; that drives us, just as the caterpillar, in a direction that death is not the end, that life does have purpose, that by whatever form of a “butterfly” we emerge, that purpose will be fulfilled. There is an instinct of self-preservation and for procreation in all life forms. Perhaps we human beings even have an instinct for love? Why shouldn’t there be an instinct for a belief in God, for a belief in purpose in our lives and that death is not the end?

Religion and the biases and prejudices in our lives may be matters of choice or what we have been taught to believe. Such things do not seem to be “instinctive” but depend on things like others and how they impact our lives, of things like the circumstances of environment, what we are taught and what we choose to believe. But could it be that we have an “instinct” to believe in God? If so, it still remains of critical importance to separate what we believe from what we know based on empirical evidence rather than coming to blows over matters of beliefs.

It may be that Clara Bow’s question cannot be answered while we remain in our present form. It may be that as the caterpillar may not know or recall anything of its larval stage, and the butterfly may not recall either of its previous stages of existence, such “knowing” isn’t possible for us at this time; that such things progress on the basis of an unconscious knowing that we call “instinct.” Like the caterpillar, we may believe in God(s) by instinct, and by that instinct attempt to live our lives in preparation for the hereafter, our instinct in most cases being to live by the precept of the Golden Rule and emerge the most beautiful butterfly possible at the next stage of life.

Though answers to such questions may in fact not be possible to us in our present form of existence, the pursuit of answers, the curiosity that drives people to search for answers continues. It seems that the quest for answers to these questions is just as natural (instinctive?) as that of the caterpillar preparing for its next stage of development. But the caterpillar, while having the instinct for survival and preparation for becoming a butterfly, has no sense of impending death… and it does not die, but metamorphose. Jesus’ parable of the seed certainly represents this very example, as does the teaching concerning “resurrection bodies.”

The quest for answers about life and death has much to do with a great deal more than just curiosity. Humankind has the knowledge of death, something the caterpillar does not have. The butterfly? It lays its eggs and dies and that is the end of the cycle of nature for it… but human beings? Self awareness is a great distinction between a lower life form and human beings, one that calls to mind the Genesis account of our being made in the image of God, and as such the children of God; and perhaps we have an instinctual “knowing” of this resulting in a search for answers and the refusal to accept death as the end of the cycle of nature for humankind.

I have pointed out in the past that we may be born with an instinct to believe in God(s), an instinct that leads us to believe in things like prayer and a hereafter, an instinct that makes us cry out to God(s) in extremis. It would be of great comfort to me to be able to answer Clara Bow’s question: Why can’t we know? My guess is that in the grand scheme of things it was determined best that we should not know, apart from what may be that instinct of knowing. And I continue to believe the opening chapters of Genesis are based on facts of the actual Creation and The Fall.

Time may be relative, but death is not. The quest for an answer to what life and death really are goes on and we will continue searching in spite of the many charlatans, and as long as humankind is possessed of self-awareness, imagination, and curiosity, whatever the source of these, we will continue the quest. In the meantime, I maintain the hope that I will yet join loved ones and friends that have gone on before me, no matter where they have “gone on.” My part, my responsibility as long as I’m in this body that is only a vehicle for the transport of this “fire of life” I carry about that is me is continue trying to emerge at last the most beautiful butterfly possible. After all, though esoteric it does not seem to me to be of paramount importance whether someone is the best Buddhist, Jew, Catholic, Baptist or any other, but what kind of butterfly may eventually emerge.

With the usual sensitivity I generally show for those who have met with disaster after doing something really stupid, by now many of you have heard or read about the fellow recently that put a “pet” rattlesnake in his mouth and was bitten. Had he died, he would have been a contender for the much sought after Darwin Award that so far has eluded me despite my many efforts.

For example, most of us as children learned to make paste of flour and water; but hominy, “properly prepared,” makes for an adhesive that would put “Liquid Nails” to shame. You won’t find it in any Betty Crocker or Martha Stewart cookbook, but some few of you know the procedure, usually the purview of bachelors, of putting a can in a pan of water to warm on a stove; saves on using and washing unnecessary dishes. On one occasion some years ago, I had done this with a can of hominy. But the phone interrupted me, and becoming absorbed in conversation I forgot about the can of hominy. It was only when it sounded and felt like a bomb had exploded in the kitchen I was forcefully reminded of this lapse of memory.

Ruefully, I surveyed the damage. Not only had I forgotten about the can on the stove, the phone had interrupted me before punching the necessary hole in the can to allow the escape of steam. Readers may well imagine the kind of “bomb” I had unintentionally created. The bomb had punched a hole in the ceiling and made a huge dent in the top of the stove, and with the forceful explosion of the can each kernel of hominy had become a yellow “missile” plastering the walls and ceiling of the kitchen. It was while attempting to clean up the horrendous mess I discovered the marvelous adhesive characteristic of hominy “properly prepared.” Shortly into the cleanup thoughts of applying pneumatic power tools and an auto body grinder to the job crossed my mind.

Some people have been critical of the massive search that was mounted for Steve Fossett and still ongoing; correctly pointing out no such search would have been conducted for the average Joe that went missing under similar circumstances. But given his fame, it isn’t unlike the media frenzy over some psychopathic ex-football player.

We still don’t know if Fossett was on some clandestine mission around Area 51, whether he and his plane were taken into a flying saucer by extraterrestrials as per “This Island Earth,” whether he died of a heart attack and the plane landed itself as has been known to happen, or whether he was the victim of doing something really stupid. After all, even really smart people are capable of doing really stupid things. And it’s not impossible if Fossett is eventually found he will have been mummified by the sun, sand, and clear desert breeze.

Traveling Route 66 in the 40s was a real adventure in motoring across the country. I was entranced by the many desert “museums” that contained live rattlesnakes, huge tarantulas and scorpions, artifacts like two Gila monsters chomping each other’s tails in a circle of death, meteorites, crystals and geodes, Indian jewelry, hats, pipes, baskets and blankets; there was so much to inspire the imagination of a child. I especially wanted one of the souvenirs of the Painted Desert. There were small glass bottles with layers of the colored sands in them; they were really beautiful. But one place we visited had something that held me spellbound. It was a mummified body identified as a notorious outlaw. He had been lynched by a mob and left hanging from a tree in the Arizona desert, the weathered rope still around his neck and rusted manacles on his wrists; now on display for all to see. I’m not sure such a display would be permitted these days.

And, of course, there is “Psycho” to remind us of how strange adventures in taxidermy and mummification take place, and some of you will recall the story not that long ago about a mummified body of a man in Germany. He had been dead in his apartment for a full year before being discovered. There is a lot of weird stuff out there for inquiring minds. Right here where I live I won’t be surprised if I read a headline in our local paper: “Mummified body found in Bodfish.”

No one has seen or heard from Junky Jerry. Apart from locals here in the Kern River Valley, no one would really know much about him, and most of us accepted him as another local colorful character adding further distinction to Downtown Bodfish. He got the nickname over twenty years ago by touting junk as “antiques and collectables.” Not that he didn’t have any real antiques and collectables, but much of the stuff was junk; hence the name. Eventually he accepted it, and tried to turn a vice into virtue; kind of like Pride-Integrity-Guts. But I gave the cops credit for trying.

However, Jerry’s biggest problem was his mouth. He didn’t speak, he shouted. And his opinions were so abrasive; often outrageous to many people none of us knew how he managed to remain in business since more often than not he would chase prospective customers out of his store. And as he grew older, many began to suspect he had truly become cronked in the attic.

I had met Jerry when he first opened his place nearly thirty years ago. Somehow, I managed to tolerate him and his mouth and was probably the closest thing to a friend he had simply by virtue of longevity. So when I noticed his truck had not been moved from his backyard for a spell, something quite unusual, I tried calling but got no response. Knocks at the door and ringing the bell went unanswered. Jerry was elderly and lived alone with a cat for company. He had gotten it as a kitten and made it a housecat, thoroughly spoiling it. So I knew if Jerry had dropped dead there would be no one to take care of the cat. Ah, hah! Now readers know of my priorities in this case, further evidence of my sensitivity in such matters.

When there are no relatives to keep track of the elderly, it sometimes happens that one of these people can in fact be dead in their homes for a lengthy period of time before authorities are alerted. And even so, while the police can be notified of such concerns they can’t just bust open a door to check things out. And in Jerry’s case, he had openly expressed the desire to shoot a few of them on several occasions, even meeting me at the door once gun in hand. So I have done my part by expressing concern for Jerry to authorities, but it may yet come down to that mummified body found in Bodfish. Well, there is a lot of weird stuff out there; and things just keep getting weirder.

One of several ongoing discussions I have with God is whether many of the advances in technology are the result of his influence or that of Satan. It does seem to me humankind would be better off without gunpowder or nuclear weapons. “Get a horse” has long passed, and few any longer say “If God had meant us to fly he would have given us wings.” Still, though not of an entirely Luddite persuasion I do have cause to wonder about some of the improvements of a technological age. But I remind myself I came along before there was a TV in homes, let alone a computer.

Notwithstanding their enemies in “Fahrenheit 451,” most of us know that even books can be dangerous; “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” for example. But is the forsaking of books and literacy in favor of computers any less dangerous? I think not. By now, the worldwide dependence on computers leaves many of us with the opinion we are vulnerable to things like being unable to account for nuclear weapons or even the accidental launching of nuclear missiles by any nation relying on computers for such things. And then there is the very real possibility of our enemies causing such computer damage as to paralyze America.

At my age, time flies whether you are having a good time or not. It seems the weeks and months now fly by and turn into years without any real perception of the time having passed. But there is no denying the “computer age” that has had such a profoundly marked influence on the passing of the years.

One thing that has not changed with the advent of computers is the hypocritical pretense of sincerity on the part of politicians that is infamously proverbial, and has been around as long as there has been politicians. I recall reading many years ago in the old Saturday Evening Post of one such incident in which the politico was campaigning. He recognized a man in the crowd, and while vigorously shaking his hand asked him in an unctuous voice, “And how is your dear mother doing?” The man replied, “Oh, she’s still dead.”

However, at least in this case there were human beings involved irregardless the human frailties. What with the computer age this is becoming ever less the case, but despite the increasing reliance on computers I do not anticipate a computer generated Rembrandt, Sinclair Lewis or Harper Lee. Nor have they made politicians any more sincere than the one in that old Saturday Evening Post jibe.

Tim Russert’s interview some time ago with David McCullough having to do with David’s book “1776” was one of the best of such interviews I have watched. But the painful fact brought glaringly and painfully to the fore during the interview is something of which as a teacher of many years experience I am too well aware— the fact that Americans have become illiterate when it comes to our history as a nation; and the universities long ago ceased to emphasize the importance of the Bible to our history as a nation. The omission of this alone accounts for much historical illiteracy among college graduates. Long ago the teaching of American History in our universities and their product schools fell to the wayside; as has the teaching of great literature in our schools; and no amount of “computer literacy” will compensate for this monumental loss to our young people especially. And it is in this I see the real danger such a loss poses to America.

There were several, large old pines on our mining claim. As a boy I was able to build a platform in the branches of one of these not far from our cabin. Thither I would resort to do my schoolwork on occasion, and in addition to the usual math, history, and English I would often take some books for pleasure like a National Geographic or a novel.

Sitting on the planks in the branches of the old tree, I would look out to the dun-colored, sere hills to the east, and moving my eyes north to north-westward to the majestic, forested and granite grandeur of the mountains I was master of all I surveyed from my aerie. What child could help but imagine all things were possible in such surroundings? But it took good books and good literature in conjunction with such grandeur of my surroundings to fire my imagination. Sadly, few even my age had such an advantage of environment I enjoyed.

Computers were in their infancy many years ago when I read a SciFi story in which a person got caught up in a relatively innocuous problem. But through having to deal with computers in attempts to resolve the problem, it escalated to his being condemned to death for a capital crime by the government despite the fact the fellow never was able to contact a living human being in the process! There would appear to have been a degree of prescience on the part of the writer of this story so many years ago as we face interminable telephone menus, especially for government agencies, our finally despairing of contacting a living human being.

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 no one will suffer any “clutter” after my demise. We oldsters owe that to those we leave behind. But as to those ongoing computer generated messages from the various disinterested, disembodied entities continuing to haunt the living, beyond the aggravation of systems dedicated to taking our money dead or alive I fear our government agencies operate in much the same way. And like the film Fail-Safe when things become so complicated and complex relying on computers removing living, breathing, human beings from the system, when you have no one to hold personally accountable as with government throughout you have a system virtually destined to break down. And with so much nuclear saber rattling around the world this lack of personal accountability does not bode well for our survival.

It is good to put a human face on these systems, and to demand accountability. However, with those in government as with business motivated by greed and avarice, their lust for power, Emerson was tragically correct in pointing out the study of Shakespeare will not produce a Shakespeare, and the virtuous whether Socrates, Jesus, or Washington have left no “class” and each generation must find its own way. And I fear for this generation that has no leader of virtue to lead the way, and is moreover forced to rely on computers.

“The pen is mightier than the sword” has a history of proving correct. However, when the pen is forced to rely on computers there is room for much mischief. And whether of God or Satan, whether of neither, the world has become far more dangerous due in large part to computers. And so, my discussions with God on the matter will continue despite the fact we cannot go back any more than anyone can change the course of events set in motion by those like Bush. But in far too many ways the electronic age has built an electronic house of cards, one that is susceptible to a vagrant breeze that may cause the whole thing to collapse catastrophically.

To be sure, we live in a demon-haunted world and some of us have more trouble with the demons than others. Some of us can hardly dwell on some pleasant memory of the past than immediately comes to mind some ugly thing that attacks that pleasant memory. Jack Cafferty: “It’s Getting Ugly out There: The Frauds, Bunglers, Liars, and Losers Who Are Destroying America.”

I like Jack Cafferty; he seems bluntly honest. But there is no doubt in my mind I have covered the same subjects he addresses in his book in my own books. Writing is often a catharsis of the mind, of the heart and soul, sometimes a way of attacking our own demons and exorcising them. Having long been a fan of Jack, listening to the interviews about his book, the many things he mentions about dysfunctional family, a dysfunctional society, these are things many of us can relate to. But the one thing that struck me in one of the interviews was his mentioning being only 64 years old. I hadn’t thought about this previously, but here was a relatively young man, at least young compared to me, and he was talking about memories of a Norman Rockwell America, memories I don’t usually associate with someone as young as Jack.

Nevertheless, I have to remind myself occasionally that while America emerged from WWII on an extremely high note of optimism for the future this was quickly extinguished following Russia detonating its first nuclear bomb and the advent of Sputnik. There was the Korean War, the assassination of JFK, Nixon and Vietnam, so many things that were a part of Jack’s early memories he has more than enough to draw from in writing his book. Then to be in an occupation where you deal with the thoroughgoing corruption throughout our government on a daily basis, this alone would account for Jack’s book.

For those of us who have lived long enough for time to cast an azure tint over some of our memories of the distant past, memories that may age gracefully and acquire a pleasant, aged patina to the mind’s eye, we consider it a blessing when the mind works its peculiar magic of smoothing, or even brushing out, the ugliness that may have attended such things in our past. I have many memories from childhood during WWII, and most certainly not all of them are pleasant. But when I reflect on those years long ago, when I write about them, my mind often refuses some of the ugly realities in favor of those people and events that emphasize the good, and perhaps this is how it works in the hereafter as the Scripture has it all tears will be wiped away.

Whatever one’s beliefs about a hereafter, with the passing of Don Knotts it occurred to me how much we need to believe in Barney Fife and Mayberry. We Americans have been blessed with those like George Washington as our heritage, and those of us who experienced a Mayberry, Walton’s Mountain, and Norman Rockwell America prior to WWII are blessed with precious memories of the way things are supposed to be, much as Jack Cafferty points out. However, most of those my age were also blessed with many shared and common beliefs emphasized in the churches of America, and most of us believed in both God and the inherent goodness of America.

I don’t envy those like Jack Cafferty or Lou Dobbs, I don’t envy any who have jobs in the media, especially not those who are trying to do the work of dealing with the truth and presenting the truth to We the People. No matter their “success” in this world, I strongly suspect if there will be any real reward for their efforts it will be in the hereafter. In this world, too many kings remain given to killing the messenger, and in my opinion evil is so deeply entrenched throughout the world we are on a collision course with the kind of destruction only such evil lunacy explains.

For those of us who lived it before and following WWII and know what is missing in America today, what our leaders have squandered and frittered away by betraying such a wonderful heritage, it does seem that the demons outnumber the angels. Those of us who have lived long enough to look back far enough know what has been lost, and we can be excused for grieving over the loss.

It was while contemplating this loss, thinking about Mayberry and other like things my mind turned to something philosophers and theologians have long pondered about a possible “hereafter.” My idea of heaven would be Mayberry, a place where only goodness and virtue prevailed, where there is no place for the evil men do.

One of the things that has made it easier for me to contemplate my own death is the thought there will be those loved ones and friends who have gone on before me, those who are waiting to greet me upon my own passing. But I would not want them to be witnessing the failures, trials and tribulations I go through while in this present life. It could hardly be “heaven” where our loved ones and friends witness our ongoing struggles and are helpless to intervene on our behalf.

We read in the Bible a description of death comparing it to a seed being planted, one that will grow even as an earthly seed planted in the earth. Our earthly body even as that earthly seed is a promise of life coming forth, and will go through a transformation even as that earthly seed.

My own thought is that we will be “born” into the heavenly life much like we are born into this life. Just as we know nothing at birth but become slowly aware of our surroundings, slowly learning and becoming self-conscious and self-aware so I believe it will be in the hereafter. How else to cope with the shock of entering into the hereafter? No earthly seed could possibly survive being instantly transformed into its promise of the life it contains.

The doctrine of the “Rapture” has people being transformed in the “twinkling of an eye.”  But I do not believe this transformation could take place without incorporating that parable of Jesus comparing death and resurrection with that earthly seed. It takes time for the seed to transform, and it will take time for us to transform in the hereafter, to become aware of our new surroundings without suffering the same shock should a seed not be carefully nurtured and given time to grow into its earthly body. It may be our loved ones and friends gone on before us will be “gardeners” tending us even as our earthly parents tended us as babies, and we in turn “tended” our own children.

The Bible presents many thoughts on this subject, among them being that of earthly things being the pattern of things to come. While all of this is metaphysical, only speculation, nevertheless there is the reality of Mayberry. And for those of us who knew an America in which there was a Mayberry, those of us who knew Norman Rockwell’s America we live in hope of a heavenly Mayberry, since there is little hope of anyone listening to those like Jack Cafferty and there is no doubt in anyone’s mind “It’s Getting Ugly out There: The Frauds, Bunglers, Liars, and Losers Who Are Destroying America” tells it like it is.

Far from making America safer following 9/11, our own leadership still refuses to secure our borders for the sake of slave labor benefiting only the wealthy, and it would seem those dedicated to the destruction of America have used The Attack on America as an excuse for globalization and profits. Those politicians applauding themselves for frustrating any more attacks like 9/11 all the while dedicated to profits and betraying America in the process are not fooling anyone. But I’m sorry Jack; no “prophet” has ever been listened to or had any honor in his own house.

Letting fancy take wing and putting the obvious and mundane possibilities aside for the moment I have asked myself, now you don’t suppose Bush and Bin Laden are simply bored, do you? Pushing the envelope for the sake of feeling alive is not just for fighter pilots, the rich and famous or thrill-seeking daredevils, many of us ordinary mortals do so to relieve boredom. We humans are not wired for boredom, and even cats have a reputation for needing nine lives because of curiosity. However, most people have a sense of self-preservation that prevents them from taking unnecessary risks. Still, many qualified to say so will point to war being the ultimate aphrodisiac. There are few experiences to equal kill or be killed for thrills. Yet, there is no discounting stupidity that may lend itself to a few thrills as well. There has never been a lack of Dee Dee’s in Dexter’s laboratory looking at a button wondering what that thing will do, and pushing the button.

My not having yet achieved the status of those luminaries receiving a Darwin Award is really frustrating to me. I have worked hard for this award, I deserve it, and despite my many efforts have thus far been thwarted of winning this distinction I so richly deserve. It is more than enough to question whether the gods favor some over others, or even whether they might have a sense of humor and get a laugh about my efforts directed toward winning this particular award. I can imagine the deities nudging each other, exclaiming “Hey, get a load of what this guy is trying to do this time!”

Sigh. Regardless the many times I have failed there is no question in my mind, the gods notwithstanding, that I will press on, and I have accepted a nearly fatalistic attitude toward doing stupid things that should terminate my tenure in the land of the living. I do maintain some hope. If someone like Steve Fossett may have pulled it off so can I. More than one smart person has occasioned their demise by doing something really stupid.

Some accuse religious people of being stupid, but the attraction of various myths and superstitions leading to so many among even the most well educated engaging in things like religious observances, séances and astrology has its basis in being removed from the ordinary. Most of us want to spice up our lives with a little variety, most of us want to believe there is substance to the stories of ghosts and goblins in some form or another. But whatever the beliefs the Golden Rule is one that distinguishes between good people and bad no matter what the beliefs otherwise.

However, I also have to accept that if the gods have a sense of humor, if some like to play tricks with us humans, there is the possibility some of us may be more favored of the gods than others. Apart from my efforts to win a Darwin Award earning some laughs among the gods I have survived several incidents that should have been terminal and were the fault of others. After each of these I have been left asking why so many die from such things and I continue to cumber the earth?

Most of us enjoy a thunderstorm, the magnificent display of lightning and Nature’s Fury unleashed. The movie Twister was one most of us enjoyed and many could relate to those storm chasers, though common sense tells us there is much danger involved when we go out in such weather, and tragedies involving lightning strikes remind me of an incident during the time I was a boy living on the mining claim.

It was a warm, sultry and overcast day. I was fishing with a telescoping, steel fishing rod and wading in a creek near the claim when a dazzlingly, near blinding, brilliant blue wide sheet of lightning whipped alongside the stream of water to my right. It snapped off the branches of trees and bushes next to me little more than an arm’s length away with a cracking sound like large caliber pistol shots, and the pungent smell of ozone from the instantly ionized air engulfing me was searing powerful. I stood transfixed in the water, dumbfounded, looking at the steel rod I was holding. Why hadn’t the lightning struck me? Here I was standing in water with this long steel pole in my hands, all the conditions necessary for me to have been struck dead by that massive bolt!

However, I lived to tell about it, and it makes it all the more confounding why some die and some do not. While science provides some answers, there are still too many anomalies and questions that defy scientific explanation. Perhaps “The Force” is with some and not with others. At the point where science fails to provide answers, speculation takes over. Lincoln was far from being alone in expressing uncertainty over which side of an issue God favors, and there is certainly ongoing speculation over the question of why so many evildoers seem to prosper and go unpunished. Perhaps there is, as I have speculated, more than one spiritual “force” humankind has to deal with.

While I am grateful to George Lucas for his films, it is doubtful he knew Emerson had already written of “The Force” long before Star Wars. But when the phrase “The Force be with you” popped up in his films I knew Emerson had long before anticipated Lucas. As Chairman of the Board of the George Lucas Educational Foundation he should be aware of Emerson preceding him, and give that great American intellectual credit for this idea.

But as a force, weather is something over which we have little control, apart from us humans fouling our own nest, and if you are going to be out and about in threatening weather you take your chances with Nature. Children especially are at risk since they love being out of doors and playing in the rain, splashing in puddles and just being children.

The very day I received my Daisy Red Ryder Carbine lever action BB gun which I had earned selling Cloverine Salve and garden seed door to door in Little Oklahoma, I was understandably anxious to try it out, and my brother Ronnie was excited about going with me. The wide open expanses of the tumbleweed dotted alkali fields surrounding our neighborhood beckoned us to get out there and start plinking away.

It was turning into a humid day. There were some high, cumulus clouds just beginning to form and if we were really lucky we might get one of the summer storms I thoroughly enjoyed; one with a lot of thunder and lightning and huge raindrops that would explode into small alkali puffs and geysers when they pelted the dry dust.

The scent of fresh rain mixing with the earth was always a heavenly aroma to me. And we would have an abundance of fresh mud puddles to stomp in barefoot and feel the delightful squish of the mud between our toes. If the puddles of water were large enough, I would fashion small boats of balsa and rig tiny sails to send them scudding swiftly across the water. I had even made some with rubberband powered paddles, much like the rubberband powered cars I could make with empty thread spools. You notched the outer rims of the spools to give them traction, and if you made them just right they could scoot as fast as the spring-wound, store-bought tin racing cars.

But of course if a storm developed, Ronnie and I would have to cut our safari short and get back pronto. I knew better than to risk being out in an open field with lightening about, especially carrying a built-in lightening rod like the Carbine would become. You see, I knew about the hazards of lightning long before the incident while wading in the stream with that steel fishing rod. Stupid.

Grandma had told us many stories of dreadful storms in places like Kansas where she had lived. She told us of tornadoes, twisters with winds that were so fierce they would drive stalks of hay into telegraph poles like nails. I recalled once more the story of her seeing a mule standing in a field after such a storm with a fence rail driven through it.

I always wished I could witness such a powerful storm. Sometimes I would watch a dust devil on the alkali fields and wish it would grow up and become a real Twister. But then I would feel guilty if such a thing caused real damage or hurt someone. Funny how many things like this troubled me; wanting adventure and excitement, but not wanting such things to cause harm. Too bad, I often thought, that we can’t really save our cake and eat it too.

But there it is; Nature seems often capricious; and while we may enjoy the outdoors and thunderstorms, danger lurks no matter our personal innocence. Well, perhaps unless “The Force” is with you. But then, the Court Jester has favor with the king only so long as he can entertain the king. I sometimes wonder whether humankind is intended for the amusement of the gods; and at what point they may cease to be amused. The history of lunatics being favored of the gods is a long one, and there seems no want of lunatics among leaders in the world today, though I have good reason to believe the gods do not find them funny. In fact, they may yet prove to be the real contenders for the ultimate Darwin Award when the mushroom clouds begin to dot the landscape.

Steve Fossett was (is?) a determined man, an adventurer and thrill-seeking daredevil. He was determined to lead a life less ordinary, to never be bored and wring out of life what he could. But when those with the power to kill millions of people are determined to do so, pushing the envelope in order to make their own lives less ordinary and relieve their boredom by taking enormous risks with the lives of millions, we can be excused for thinking they are quite literally insane. And there is no lack of mad men in power, of those like Patton who love the smell of battle, of those who love the smell of Napalm in the morning.

Anyone familiar with the 1955 SciFi film “This Island Earth” knows the scene where the small aircraft is captured by a flying saucer. And a whole lot of us are going to be disappointed if the search for Fossett turns out to be something really prosaic rather than him and his plane suddenly vanishing and never heard from again. But my hopes are up since the Citabria is a very strong bird and rated for aerobatics and a locater beacon signal has not been reported. Fossett is (was?) a very experienced pilot so it is going to be interesting to see how the story unfolds. Possibly as strange as space aliens is the stories of planes landing by themselves without damage, so no impact radio signal, after the pilot has been rendered unconscious. But what if Fossett decided to land in Area 51? Hey, he’s a known adventurer. I know I’m probably doomed to disappointment but I’m pinning my hopes on another episode of the Twilight Zone.

It isn’t likely there will be any signs appearing at the Kernville Airport such as are seen at the Kern River. After all, piloting small aircraft is hazardous, fraught with many pitfalls for those that do not pay strict attention to being on task and pilots are expected to know the hazards of flying. Earning a pilot’s license is a formidable task; so formidable that the great majority of those attempting to do so “wash out.” Like the Camp Perry Matches where you won’t find any weekend plinkers, flying demands a high degree of skill and knowledge.

My friend Mike Turner was going to drop by today, but said he may not make it due to this: The Kern River Valley has made the national news again due to a tragedy, a plane crash that has claimed six lives including an infant. According to the L. A. Times the plane had departed Santa Monica and the family had planned a camping trip here. One witness said it appeared the plane crashed nose first into the ground just short of the Kernville Airport.

Mike is the Captain for our local Citizen’s Service Unit (CSU) comprised of volunteers that lend a helping hand to the Kern County Sheriff’s Department. He called me yesterday afternoon when the crash happened, then sent me a follow up email. It’s a stark simple statement: “I don’t know about tomorrow. I have to go in at midnight with another guy and baby sit that crashed aircraft until NTSB shows up in the morning. The coroner is there now and they are asking for some big lights to be brought in so they can see. They may need to tear the aircraft apart to get the rest of the bodies out. The Sgt. told me there are body parts all over the place. He said it looked like the aircraft went into the ground nose first.”

That is a pretty typical description of airplane crashes where things happen at a very great speed, tearing airplanes and people apart as anyone who has seen such a thing knows. As I write there is no information on what caused this tragic crash; but my familiarity with flying and this particular airport allows me some qualified speculation, especially my personal experience and knowledge of what often leads to the majority of such tragedies: Pilot Error.

While the Kern River has gained notoriety as the “Killer Kern,” the Kernville Airport poses its own dangers and many accidents have occurred here, oftentimes because a pilot may have forgotten the maxim of bewaring “Hot, high, and humid,” this sometimes fatal condition for the unwary pilot. Then there is the “ground effect” due to the close proximity of the lake to the airstrip that can catch a pilot off guard in an instant. I am very familiar with this at the Kernville Airport.

I first started flying out of Torrance Airport in 1957 in an old J-3 Cub with an “armstrong” starter. That was real flying. For those of us with a passion for the Wide (and oftentimes wild) Blue Yonder, the truism that “There are old pilots and there are bold pilots, but there are no old, bold pilots” was quickly established in the Cub.

But for learning to fly in high wind conditions, there is nothing like the Mojave Desert as those at Edwards will affirm. Lancaster and Rosamond experience these high winds, and I recall one fellow coming into the coffee shop at Fox that told me he had taken off from Rosamond and encountered an updraft so strong he had the stick of his bird all the way forward and was still ascending better than 400 fpm! Walking out to his plane, he showed me the cigarette ashes pasted to the roof of the cockpit as proof. There were times when the wind blew so hard at Fox all I would have to do was loosen the tie downs to get instrument time in my plane. I had just taken off at Fox on one occasion and had no sooner reached field pattern altitude and suddenly it felt like a giant hand had closed tightly over the bird, squeezing it and literally freezing the controls! However, far too many pilots do not spend much time gaining experience in high wind conditions such as those in the Mojave Desert and sometimes encountered here in Kernville. And this lack of experience with such winds sometimes proves fatal.

While living in Lancaster, I bought into an Alon that was a real kiddy car to fly. I had also acquired a venerable Stinson Voyager; a heavy but solid old tail-dragger you really had to fly point-to-point. One of my buddies would often accompany me, but on this particular day I decided to take the Alon rather than the Stinson and fly up to Kernville. It was a bright sunshiny day, but a little breezy.

However, though I had checked for “winds aloft” before leaving Fox when we arrived over the lake the wind was really whistling up the canyon where the strip was laid out. As I came along the downwind, we must have been doing 180 knots groundspeed. Turning base to final, we were much too high. Kissing off that approach, I tried again. The tricky part was the fact that the canyon narrows quickly on the approach, and you really have to crank the bird around in a hurry if the wind is blowing hard. But, once more, I came in too high. Not only was the bird being hurled down the canyon at a dizzying speed on approach, despite my attempts it was being kept high on final by the very strong wind.

Since we had done a lot of sight seeing over Kelso Valley and the Piutes on the way, fuel was running low and with the high winds I did not want to take the risk of going over to Inyokern, my alternate. It was sweaty palms and white-knuckle time. I told my buddy “I’m going to have to get this thing down!” He was holding his breath too tightly to reply.

Having failed to make the landing on the first two approaches, I realized I would have to come up low, ignoring the field pattern altitude, and wrench the bird hard over on base. Actually, a base leg as such was out of the question; what I really had to do was make a gut-wrenching U-turn.

It seemed I had to point the nose of the craft right at the ground on final because of the excessively high wind. With the yoke far forward and the nose seeming to point straight down, the runway was instantly there, and sweat-drenched I managed to pull up at just the right instant to land safely.

But the fun was not over. With airplanes, not only does what go up must come down, what is down, must go up again. We still had the takeoff to look forward to. A few cups of coffee later, we were fortified to face the inevitable. The wind had not abated; only gotten worse. The strip was laid out in such a way that you took off toward the lake. With the wind howling toward us we were literally hurled up in an instant, no finessing.

Now if you have ever piloted a small aircraft, you know how the various types of geography create what is called ground effect. You also know that as you pass over bare ground and hit a body of water (the lake) it can sometimes have a dramatic impact on wind conditions. Sure enough, the fun was not over. As we passed over the edge of the lake and I began my turn, a huge fist (turbulence) hit the underside of the left wing so suddenly and violently that I struck the side of the canopy with my head hard enough to nearly knock me unconscious. Fortunately, it didn’t.

Little airplanes are fun, but I well recall “Pappy” Boyington’s definition of flying: “Hours and hours of dull monotony sprinkled with moments of stark terror!”