Beaky Buzzard is a great favorite of mine, and I still enjoy that marvelous first cartoon appearance of his with Bugs Bunny. It isn’t often Bugs gets upstaged, but Beaky managed to do it. Despite the smoky haze the wonderfully warm weather drew me outside early this morning where I could enjoy the wonders of nature of my surroundings in this part of the Sequoia National Forest. But as the cat and I were basking in the warmth of the balmy summer morning I noticed the Turkey Vultures circling overhead.

The Kern River Valley boasts a nature preserve that draws birders worldwide, and is also the Butterfly Mecca of California. But we also have an annual Turkey Vulture count, and here in Bodfish Canyon where I live the sky overhead has been darkened by as many as 200 of the critters circling in a bunch all at the same time as though orchestrated by some master choreographer.

Now I grant you the spectacle of vultures circling overhead brings to mind many a scenario, and what with earthquakes, floods, fires, and drought I can’t help but consider these winged scavengers and what they represent of death and destruction. Poe had his Raven and we have plenty of those here in the valley as well; but as a sure indicator of the presence of death though Hitchcock didn’t use them the vultures are the most significant sign of such. While Poe could hardly have written such a masterpiece using a vulture they remind me of Ben Franklin wanting the wild turkey to be our national bird. Fortunately in this particular instance despite Ben’s genius and practical bent he was outvoted. While turkeys are a valued food item even my own Indian ancestors sang the praises of eagles as a symbol rather than turkeys notwithstanding Ben and T. R.

But as I watched the vultures circling overhead this morning I was reminded once again of something Henry Thoreau wrote: “There is no odor so bad as that which arises from goodness tainted. It is human, it is divine, carrion.” Henry was making direct reference to the evil arising from the unintended consequences of those forcing their view of what is best on others not like minded and “would rather suffer evil the natural way.” Nature does indeed provide vultures whose purpose is to cleanse the earth of carrion, but we seek in vain for the vultures that would cleanse humankind of the divine carrion of tainted goodness.

No one for example of any noble character wants to be a politician. Like lawyers in too many instances the role of a politician is that of Henry’s goodness tainted, divine carrion the stench of which reaches everywhere but without the benefit of Nature’s vultures to cleanse away the filth. So it is that as I watch the circling vultures here in Bodfish Canyon I’m reminded they still represent Nature’s way of dealing with carrion, and cannot help wondering if Nature herself has had it with our species defiling our planet? As a metaphor, I see the vultures circling everywhere and just waiting for the moment to descend when the stench of death has reached Biblical proportions.

There is an old hymn we used to sing in our small church in Little Oklahoma that goes “How beautiful heaven must be.” Considering the plight of our species and how we have fouled our own nest, it isn’t any wonder some of us are longing for a promised heaven in a hereafter we are not likely to ever experience on earth. It seems there are just too many descending on us promising to do us good, insisting on doing us their idea of good from whom we should flee as quickly as Henry claimed he would from such persons, knowing they represent divine carrion, goodness tainted by such people demanding we all become part of their odd society.

It may be there are vultures circling ready to pick the bones of America and there is nothing I can do about that, but I’ll tell you what I am going to do. I am going to enjoy what I can of summer’s warmth here in the Kern River Valley; I am going to enjoy watching the vultures circling overhead, the butterflies, quail, doves, hummingbirds and others of my feathered friends, the numerous lizards frolicking among the rocks and count my blessings I am able to enjoy these companions in such a setting.

As though the usual world class air pollution was not bad enough in Kern County smoke from the many fires is hanging heavy in the air here in the Kern River Valley making it hazardous for young and old alike. Fortunately feeding myself and the resident cat is the extent of the essential exertion I face and I’m reminded it took a leisure class to produce the great works of literature. But whether such leisure is had by poverty or wealth a good education and a mastery of language, the skills and discipline of writing remains essential.

It used to be that a library of finely bound books of great literature was the hallmark of a civilized society, and for those of us born to read before the advent of TV books were our path to imagination and adventure lifting us out of the ordinary affairs of day to day living, and in some cases delivering souls from desperate poverty. Benjamin Franklin was a man of great genius, and in his genius recognized the need of a public library in order to make books available to those who could not afford them. Alas, the libraries of America have fallen on hard times due to electronics and illiteracy and this generation does not cherish books the way past generations of Americans did.

People interested in writing today should read the interview of Harper Lee by Roy Newquist. Her remarks are a scathing indictment on the lack of writing skills and the teaching of these in the universities over forty years ago, and the situation has only worsened since. When I wrote my critique of To Kill A Mockingbird I had the benefit of knowing the era and the kind of people Ms. Lee wrote about. And while derided by many, I have a beautiful cameo embossed and gilded rare copy of Thomas Nelson Page’s IN OLE VIRGINIA, and most of the great southern writers knew his work well though as the years passed many would become increasingly circumspect about even mentioning the name of Page let alone familiarity with his writings.

When I began teaching in the 60s I became quickly aware of the coming slide into illiteracy due to the very things Rousas Rushdoony pointed out in Intellectual Schizophrenia and Harper Lee mentioned in her interview, things she undoubtedly knew were not going to be corrected, things that despite the Blue Book A Nation at Risk would become increasingly worse in the universities and their product schools of America. It was while teaching a graduate class of prospective teachers, all university graduates with their B.A.s in hand none of whom could write a paper worthy of a college freshman I knew there was little hope of improvement.

Here is a continuing source of consternation when it comes to literature. To my utter amazement when the first edition of the Great Books of the Western World came out not one single woman was included! And despite the sop to women in the second edition, one must read Mortimer Adler’s justification for the exclusion of women to fully appreciate what the thinking of Adler and the committee was that led to the exclusion of women entirely from that first edition; quite remarkable, really. And all you ladies, you owe it to yourselves to familiarize yourselves with this.

Gerry Trudeau had quite a bit of fun satirizing the common thinking of men during colonial times in America that the minds of women were too weak for the classics of literature. But here is Henry Thoreau’s comment: “Books are the treasured wealth of the world and the fit inheritance of generations and nations… By such a pile we may hope to scale heaven at last.” And given the admiration Margaret Fuller was accorded by transcendentalist luminaries of her time it is doubtful any thought a woman too weak minded for the classics of literature. While Mortimer Adler didn’t come right out and say such a thing, he may as well have.

You see, I was raised with the books by Stratton-Porter and other gifted women writers. I was fortunate my reading was not confined to male authors, but included women as well. However, as Harper Lee pointed out writing was falling to an abysmal level in America and though hers became known as The Novel of the Century it must be admitted there are women whose writings are as dreadful as those of some men.

Good writing, great writing has everything to do with the advancement of a civilized culture and a civilized society. TV supplanting literature has not contributed to a civilized America but quite the contrary. And it did not take the kind of vulgarity that began to creep into American writing that made the greatest of literary works what they were and continue to be as “the treasured wealth of the world.”

Literature as the symbol of a nation must be the very best. And while America has such a great heritage of literature this has been squandered to the vulgar tastes of an increasingly barbaric nation that has left off the good manners and civilized speech that used to qualify the best of literature that is now mocked in the universities of America and our schools. For my part, I want the realism of Stratton-Porter’s Limberlost, Ingalls’ and Cather’s Prairie as opposed to the kind of violent, vulgar, profane and perverted realism in which America and the world is drowning.

There is no denying the benefits of books that have stirred social conscience and led to the redress of righteous grievances. But neither is there any denying the need of books that make their own unique contributions to a healthy mind, a mind in which imagination, hopes and dreams find a safe harbor apart from violence and barbarism and encourages civilized, proper speech and behavior. Somewhere there must be room left for idealism in the face of pragmatism, and the best books keep such ideals alive long past the lives of their authors.

Moby Dick was very poorly written and John Steinbeck was a fraud. That these opinions of mine did not set well with some of my instructors as a literature major you may be able to imagine and caused me no little grief. But as to Steinbeck, my contributions to the Weedpatch Memorial Library pretty well covers my disaffection with his view of the Dust Bowl migration and the way his socialist views obscured what was really happening. For people who know nothing about life in the camps of that era and among people like the Joads but want to pontificate on the subject much in the way of the myth of the noble savage, I can only say you must know that kind of poverty without the benefit of Steinbeck’s silver spoon pedigree to understand.

Socialism has often proven to be the siren call to those who find it so easy to be on the side of the angels, as they construe such beings, while ignoring the grim realities of life. It is for this reason the universities are filled with those out of touch with reality even from the time of Emerson that know very little about such grim realities but taut socialism and have earned the pejorative appellation Ivory Tower.

These days what with socialism so well entrenched in the universities, their product schools, and throughout America and virtually half of Americans feeding at Caesar’s table drawing a government check in some fashion it has become downright heretical to speak against the early socialists like Steinbeck that promoted the idea everyone was owed a living rather than earning a paycheck. Utopian ideals were placed in the hands of politicians who promised everyone a chicken in every pot and a living without having to earn their own way, and those that took advantage of the ignorance and desperation of the Dust Bowl migrants were easy targets of socialists like Steinbeck. It’s easy to hate those that take advantage of others, but not so easy to place blame on those who look to politicians to take from the productive to feed the unproductive.

My having been born in Weedpatch some of my earliest memories include bigotry, prejudice, and what the insults Okie and white trash meant. In too many instances of my own personal experience such insults were all too well earned, and the myth of the noble savage as abused by Steinbeck had no place among those who had to root hog or die, though the best of southern civilized good manners were still to be found. But the false idealism advanced by socialists and the universities through pandering politicians has brought us to the place we are today, a place where slave labor from Mexico is used for “Work Americans won’t do!”

It was easy for Henry Thoreau to fault those that built pyramids for “some ambitious booby” calling such workers “degraded,” and to compare such an Egyptian temple to the United States Bank. “It costs more than it comes to. The mainspring is vanity, assisted by the love of garlic and bread and butter.” To bring Henry’s estimate up to date, we must include beer as well. Henry went on to say, “For my part, I should like to know who in those days did not build them,—who were above such trifling.”

But trade cursing everything it touches, as Henry pointed out, and when there is a living to be made people adjust to whatever is required of them. Henry’s fault was in failing to acknowledge the fact that people “degrade” themselves to menial tasks when there is no other way of putting food on their tables. He was astute enough to plant beans, to learn what beans could teach him when it came to providing the necessities of life but was not himself in danger of starving whether he planted beans or not. And that is a very significant difference, the kind of difference that made Steinbeck a fraud.

If our measure of success as a nation is that Steinbeck’s success has been the supplanting of Okies with Mexican slave labor from which he and his family profited then where is the advantage to America? As a symbol, The Grapes of Wrath aided in large part by the film was spectacularly successful. That these are socialist propaganda conveniently sidesteps the larger issues of what has taken the place of honest labor Americans not only used to do, but is now denied them by welfare or the inability to speak Spanish.

Nothing can take away from Steinbeck’s honor due his artistic ability as evidenced by both his Pulitzer and Nobel. As a lover of great literature, as a writer and author I fully appreciate his artistry and find no fault in that. But I’m acutely aware of the prevailing attitude of the better classes of Steinbeck’s era, one in which socialism was gaining in strength advanced by the universities of America. But today, I think of Al Gore’s praise by the very same kind of people who were heaping praise on Steinbeck. Al has both an Oscar and a Nobel, but these do not make him an honorable or truthful man cleaving steadfastly to the truth.

As those on the side of the angels sing the praises of the dignity of labor while damning the exploiters of the common man, I’m reminded of the German fellow I knew while working as a machinist that told me, “We were starving until Hitler came to power; and when he took over we had meat and potatoes.”

There has never been a more successful symbol of power than that of Hitler’s design of the black, white, and red Swastika flag that even today evokes a visceral response in anyone seeing it. No one of any sensibility would compare such a symbol equated with the ruthless power of evil to The Grapes of Wrath or An Inconvenient Truth. But when any symbol comes to represent “vanity, assisted by the love of garlic and bread and butter” it serves us well to question the value and aim of such a symbol and question the real motives of those bestowing the honors on the creators of such symbols.

When a young fellow back in the 60s came to school and tried to check his gun in at the front office while he attended classes and wanted to pick it up after school so he could protect himself on the way back home, from the reaction of the principal you would have thought he was making an unreasonable request. For my part, I thought it quite admirable the young fellow was even trying to attend school under the circumstances. These days, when the young people are carrying guns to school they aren’t as courteous as this young fellow was.

One reason, and a considerable one, that I was able to make it at David Starr Jordan High in Watts during the 60s was my reputation as a skilled gunsmith. I usually knew who was carrying and who was not at the school, and sometimes my expertise was needed in some rather clandestine fashion that while undoubtedly still going on in some inner city schools seldom make any headlines. The greater problem is that our schools are supposed to be the bulwark against a descent into all out barbarism; and the schools, particularly those of the inner cities are being asked to do the impossible in the face of so much against them not the least of which is the threat of lawsuits from every direction.

I was teaching metal shop as well as working security for the L. A. City Schools, but it was my ability to teach the young people how to operate machinery, to do welding and foundry work, all the metalworking skills, useful skills that made me both accepted and respected. Things were always a little different in Watts, as some in the Firestone Division of South Central L. A. from those days could tell you. And given the environment, that young fellow with the gun was acting sensibly being armed though some might fault his judgment in trying to check his gun in at the office.

Of course I know how fanciful such a story sounds. But it was one of the reasons I used to tell people “Things aren’t as bad as you think in the schools; they are far worse!” Coming from industry into education I saw things from a considerably different perspective than most teachers going through the system directly into the classroom and never having punched a clock for a living. And what I saw was something I began to realize even back in the 60s when it came to education: A system for failure could not have been better designed had it been done intentionally! And I knew what I was experiencing in Watts at the time was bound to eventually infect schools across the country. Not only in terms of drugs and violence, but in dropout rates and illiteracy as well. But I also came to realize the fundamental problem in the universities responsible for education in America was impervious to any change for the better.

However, that was Watts; and all that most of the country knew about that community was from the riots with the senseless violence and destruction born of anger and despair being shown on their TV screens while Ozzie and Harriet was on another channel. Who was going to speak up about the impossible odds the children and the schools in that area were facing? There was no political incentive to do so, and every reason politically to keep quiet and the job of the schools in that part of Los Angeles was to just try to keep the lid on because of all the violence. Now gentle readers, do you suppose things are any better in the schools of the inner cities these many years later?

This morning I read an article at MSNBC where the writer is asking whether things in America are spiraling out of control? It’s increasingly obvious no one seems to be minding the store, but this should have been obvious back in the 60s. Mulholland Falls is one of my favorite films, faithful in the details to what I recall of that era when the L.A.P.D. took care of business as portrayed. But the F.B.I. as portrayed in the film, ah, I understand the Chief’s attitude toward that agency because that’s the way things were back then in the 50s. However, it didn’t get any better for the F.B.I. in the 60s despite the propaganda like Mississippi Burning.

Along with a young man wanting to check in his gun at the school office, how is this for surreal? My being a Caucasian teacher in Watts made me unusual to say the least. But here come two young men, Caucasians, dressed in three piece suits and wearing hats, F.B.I. agents coming on campus asking to speak to me in private. These two were right out of the film Mulholland Falls, and might as well have had F.B.I. stenciled on their suits for the whole campus to see, asking me to tell them if I heard or saw anything that might be of interest to the agency? Talk about making me a target! And it didn’t exactly endear me to administrators and faculty. Ruby Ridge, Waco, these did not surprise me. That neither Janet Reno nor Louis Freeh could even turn on a computer let alone use one didn’t surprise me. The agency did much better in The Pelican Brief, though I doubt if computer literacy and systems have improved all that much.

Problem is we can’t trust those in government to tell us the truth about anything. We hear of potential threats of Armageddon having been averted, things like the various accounts of the Cuban Missile Crisis, of how close Russia came one time to launching nukes, and right now the possibility of Israel attacking Iran. What I know is that I’ve experienced so much of the ineptitude and duplicity in government including the educational system, police agencies and government related industries to provide me plenty of cause for concern.

Carlos Castaneda was a pretty popular fellow when I was doing my doctoral work, but then so was Viktor Frankl whom I met at my university where he was a guest lecturer. Both had their own worldview, and each had its attraction though I never credited Castaneda’s personal claims in many instances and voicing my objections led to some spirited debate in a couple of seminars I attended at the time. But each of them seem fanciful in their own way and serve to remind me that the truth is often stranger than fiction.

The point being that when we are being confronted by so much uncertainty, when things seem to be spiraling out of control there is room for both reality and fancy to come together to help us through these very uncertain times. Hopefully we will not lose touch with reality in the process, but why fault anyone for taking the path of fancy when the reality is more than they can handle. If someone’s fancy should take the turn of religion or other similar means of dealing with the ugly and uncertain realities as long as they do not incite hatred or do harm to others they are welcome to do so.

But neither should those compelled to do what they feel they must be faulted for their continued efforts to right the many injustices and inequities of this world system no matter whether they meet with any success in doing so or not just so long as they act from the pure motives they demand of others. I would far rather the guns be checked in at the school office, but so long as there is a need for guns just to attend school we have every reason to be concerned for the direction of America. Things change from any existential mode to grim reality in a heartbeat, but I remind myself allowance must be made for fancy as well if we are to retain any grip on reality.

Mine are only the wonderings and ponderings of an old fellow that has experienced enough of reality, wondering how I have lived so long, to know it’s sometimes difficult to distinguish between the lunatics of this world and who really has a grip on reality. But as I view what is happening in America, I have cause to wonder just who our real enemies are? Some are readily identifiable, but I don’t trust our government to tell us who they are.

It’s very likely while panning a stream and you’re coming up with #8 birdshot and no trace of color you aren’t going to find any amount of gold. We have one of the most marvelous native trout streams here in the Kern River Valley; Bull Run Creek. The largest trout I’ve pulled out of this pristine, mountain stream weighed five-pounds, but the biggest I hooked and lost raised a rooster tail nearly two-feet high with my line sawing through the water as it made its run through one of the deeper pools and dislodged the hook before I could lessen the drag on my reel.

In 1969 I filed on an old lode silver mine up the stream, not with the intention of working it but to try to keep it from being trashed while also keeping the trail open for forestry and other avid fishermen like me. I had first learned of the mine and the stream from an old fellow that came by our cabin one day in 1949. When he discovered my interest in fishing, he drew a rough map of how to get there and I had been fishing it ever since until I was no longer able to make the hike.

Years ago forestry put a gate at the end of the pavement of Burlando Road, for which I was grateful. Any place easy to get to in nature is inevitably going to be trashed, and the entry to Bull Run was showing evidence of this when the lake went in and the population here in the valley began to increase.

There is an old saying; Gold is where you find it. I’ve done enough prospecting to learn the truth of this. But the beauty of Bull Run Creek had always been gold enough for me; the natural and unspoiled trout stream in a wilderness environment is something no amount of gold can buy. Fishing such a stream is time not subtracted from our natural span, and I often think of the judge who when asked why he spent so much time fishing replied, “Because it keeps me mindful of how very unimportant so many things in life really are.”

To lie beside Bull Run Creek at night taking in the scent of the surrounding forest while a light evening breeze soughs through pine needles, listening to the stream and viewing the stars overhead unaffected by any extraneous manmade light is to see and experience heaven in its real glory so far as we earthbound creatures can do so. But I was to learn not everybody is sensitive to such glory, and one instance of this left an indelible impression on me.

A young fellow who wanted to go fishing with me at Bull Run also wanted to learn how to pan. So, along with the fishing gear I packed a couple of my gold pans. I knew there wasn’t much chance of finding gold in Bull Run, but this young fellow was anxious to try his hand at panning.

Arriving at one of the more beautiful spots in the stream where there was a goodly amount of black sand I showed him the fine art of working the pan. But to my consternation all thought of fishing, all thought of the surrounding beauty of our environment was lost to this young fellow as he spent the hours in a vain attempt to find some gold. To this day the mental image of this young fellow wading in the pristine, crystal clear water of this marvelous stream working that pan and wasting the precious hours of the day remains vividly with me, and I realized gold fever isn’t caught only by the sight of gold, but the hope of it as well.

There is many a homily to be drawn from this story, and over the years I have done so. One of the things that makes life a living hell on earth is the fact where people don’t care about the environment you will find trash. If there had been gold in Bull Run, it is doubtful it would remain the beautiful trout stream it is today. But when a nation is producing millions of unproductive mouths demanding to be fed, eventually the beauty of places like Bull Run will be sacrificed by politicians.

I’m all for the present demand for drilling for oil that will meet our needs. Other nations are not going to care for the environment no matter how green America tries to be. That pragmatic part of me realizes the futility of trying to save the planet when it has so many unproductive mouths demanding to be fed, when politicians, tyrants and despots are determined on their paths of power and wealth. But when you cram people together like rats you have to expect some to behave like rats.

I realize our species is not on the path to heaven being the global environment. But it’s the relentless gold fever of so many that seems to be pushing our species to extinction all the while the real gold of our planet is being sacrificed to greed and the kind of ignorance that makes slaves of billions. I’ve experienced Norman Rockwell’s America and I’ve experienced Bull Run Creek, and it would be a poor trade for the selfish interests of politicians and their corporate bosses to prevail over these. But the best of what our planet has to offer can only be saved through the cooperation of nations, and given our track record as a species this doesn’t look promising.

An article I wrote about the local flood of February, 1998 that puts things in some perspective for me:

Well, we've been getting our share of water here in the Kern River Valley and it finally flooded. But not the flooding so many others are suffering. Snow surrounds the Valley and it's cold. Don't like the cold. I was eight days without propane, so no heat and the temperature went down to 27 degrees one night. That's cold for an old fellow. So I bundled like an Eskimo and spent a lot of time under my electric blanket reading and being grateful the power hadn't failed. A small electric heater at my desk enabled me to continue writing. Last winter I spent three weeks stranded by snow in Tahoe. This year I get flooded here in Bodfish.

It all started with some relatively heavy rain that caused comparatively minor inconveniences like a huge boulder, about 200 tons, that decided to cut loose and blocked the canyon to Bakersfield for two days until it could be drilled and blasted to clear the road. The rains create some interesting situations; and some tragic ones as well.

The only modest catastrophe I suffered physically during this early period of the rains was falling off a ladder while repairing a rain gutter. Of lesser damage to me was an incident that occurred while emptying the sump at my back door. This catches run-off and has to be emptied periodically. While performing this operation, the bottom of the plastic pail I was using decided to detach itself and I managed with superior skill and cunning to direct the contents of the bucket into my shoes. Once I had performed the appropriate rain-dance accompanied by the proper incantations directed at the perversity of the gods of El Nino and plastic pails (thankfully no women or children were about), I looked around at the snow-covered mountains and decided it shouldn't be so surprising the water in my shoes had the effect of soaking my feet in a very large, thoroughly and properly chilled martini (sans olive).

Through all the inconveniences (mostly the result of personal stupidity) to me I'm reminded that they are only that; inconveniences. I'm always sensitive to the difference between trying to decide what you're going to eat and whether you're going to have anything to eat, of having to fix the leaks in the roof and not having a roof to fix.

Well, early afternoon of February 23 changed things considerably. Bodfish got a taste of real flooding. It came like a flash flood down the canyon without warning. It was exactly as though a dam had suddenly burst up the canyon, and I had about twenty minutes to get what I could off the floor before the water began to enter the cottage. Within a half-hour, I had nearly five inches of water filling the house and still coming through both the back and front doors. I left them open in case I had to beat a hasty retreat.

But driving out, even had I been inclined to do so, was made quickly impossible with the river that was now so suddenly raging through my front yard and down Bodfish Canyon Road. But by the grace of God, so I believed, I never lost electricity. There were some extension cords and three breaker strips I quickly got off the floor. I missed the one in my bedroom, but when I had re-wired the house I had wired the bedroom circuit to the bathroom outlet and installed a groundfault breaker. When the water hit the extension cord plug, the breaker kicked out and saved that situation. Whew!

I watched anxiously as the water cut channels on both sides of my well. If the river carried away the pressure tank, I would be in some real hurt due to the loss of fresh water, though I did keep a couple of gallons on standby at all times. A box of approximately 50 LPs had to sit it out on the floor. No time left and no place to put it out of the water— Shoes on the floor of the closet and under my bed; too late for those. The vacuum cleaner: too late and no place for that.

The water reached the coil of the refrigerator. Unplug that; same with the washer and dryer. Turn off the gas to the water heater, heater and stove. I had moved books and a couple of dozen items. A whole set of Britannica had to be placed above the water along with other books, various boxes of papers, stationary, etc. The bottom drawers of my filing cabinets; it was a frantic race against the rapidly rising water. In retrospect, I'm amazed I saved what I did.

By Sunset, I'm in my recliner watching TV. The weather news is vitally important now. Stupidly, I didn't have any waders. I've been doing all this in the frigid water in my bare feet with my pants rolled up to my knees. I have an electric heater on the coffee table next to the chair. I put my ice-cold feet right up against the heater.

I think about the miraculous survival of some people who have lived through hypothermia, even while submersed in freezing water in Alaska, by the mechanism of their minds; truly mind over matter. The Will to Live is only a label, it doesn't explain anything. Perhaps, like prayer, God holds conversations with us through our minds. Perhaps it is Him, not ourselves, who carries us through such things. Certainly I credit God for carrying me through many a crisis. I can't quite believe it is only my strong will and mind (pigheadedness or stubbornness) that has saved me in such events.

As my feet gradually warm, I begin to take stock as I watch the rising water. It has reached the bottom fabric of the chair. Will it gradually reach high enough to saturate it and I can no longer sit in it?

By nightfall, the water is nearly seven inches high moving through the house. A couple of emergency workers, fire department, come sloshing into the house. Do I want to be evacuated? No. But I ask them if they happen to have a spare pair of wading boots? No. At this point, I'm willing to pay anything for a pair of waders. They would have spent $3,000 of taxpayer money relocating me to a shelter, but couldn’t give me a $20 pair of waders. Our government at work.

I do have plastic trash bags. I wade into the kitchen and get them. I slip some over my feet and using clothespins to attach them to my pants’ legs and large rubber bands to keep them snug, I fashion Okie waders. Just keeping the water off my feet is a relief though it doesn't do a thing to keep out the cold. My feet are really freezing.

But the rest of me is nicely bundled. So I watch TV and the water in the house and with both front and back doors closed praying it doesn't get any higher. The water reaches nearly three feet around my house and is booming like the sound of a cannon as it shoots out of a culvert under the road nearby. I try not to worry about the record albums and other things I wasn't able to save from the rising water.

Thank God the water didn't reach my bed. By midnight I've determined the water has stopped rising and I wade into the bedroom and with great difficulty I'm able to get into bed; fully clothed, of course. I've pinned my plastic bags to my top dresser drawer. When I get up, I'll be able to reach them. I fall asleep to the sound of the rushing water all around the house.

In the gray morning light, I groggily assessed the disaster. There was still about three inches of water circulating throughout the house. The torrent had cut a channel at the end of my driveway about eight feet deep, eighty feet long and six feet wide. The river was still running with great volume and force through my front yard. I wasn't going to drive out anytime soon.

Stuff was stacked everywhere in the house but I had missed a few things. There just hadn't been enough time to save everything from the rising water. The moisture content in the house had reached one hundred per cent, and as the sun came up every window began to weep moisture; the greenhouse effect.

I had a small electric heater for which I made room on my desk. I had to try to keep the moisture from damaging my computer; I could survive if I could write. I know I won't be able to print, however. Every piece of paper in the house is moisture-laden. Books have swollen from the moisture.

But the little heater did the trick. The computer came up running. My dear friend Byron brings me a pair of waders in the late afternoon after the waters had abated sufficiently for him to do so. At that he has to brave the still running waters to reach my place on foot. I'm more grateful than I can say. I've been sitting at my desk in over two-inches of water and mud with the plastic bags around my feet as I write. A hazard of which I'm constantly aware: Don't drop anything! The TV remote for example.

One of the greatest difficulties throughout was my leg. The fall I had taken before the flood hit had apparently damaged ligaments and muscle. It is extremely painful and all the work I had to do moving things had only acerbated the damage. The leg had become swollen and walking was excruciatingly painful.

The biggest problem I now face is the mud. As the water in the house recedes, it is leaving about an inch of very fine silt, mud, throughout the entire house. This keeps the moisture content in the house at virtually one hundred per cent. With electric heaters and the sun now shining I can dry the air somewhat as the day progresses. But the nights are another thing. As I'm trying to sleep I think about an old medical term: Ague. I'm constantly breathing a lot of moisture. This can contribute to pneumonia; worrisome.

My house is front-page news in the local paper, The Kern Valley Sun. Since I'm at the bottom of Bodfish Canyon, I caught the brunt of the flood. There is an interesting picture of my little cottage with the river running around it and through my front yard.

But so many things are relative. I watch the news about the tornadoes in Florida with such loss of life. There are the pictures of houses sliding down hills in Southern California, the two CHP officers killed buried in the mud west of me. So many have lost everything, some their lives. I have no room to complain. And thank goodness my youngest son Michael showed up as soon as he was able to help me shovel out the mud and restore order. It’s the American way. And what with cinderblock construction and slab floor my little cottage is prepared for the next flood whether I am or not. Fires, floods, and earthquakes; I’ve been through them all and my heart goes out to all those suffering far worse than I have.

Disasters like fires, earthquakes, and floods order one’s priorities very quickly. And if the Big One strikes California, which could happen at any time, the priorities will suddenly be re-ordered and the issue of sex in my native state and county of Kern will certainly be knocked off the headlines. But I’m beginning to wonder if it will take something so catastrophic to get the attention of people to what the real priorities ought to be? Well, God has used things of such magnitude to get people’s attention in time past and I suppose this is still a viable option.

The Bible is remarkable in many respects, one of these being that no matter where you turn in its pages you find something of interest, especially regarding sex. This came to mind as my native county of Kern has been thrust into the spotlight over this issue. As Henry Thoreau remarked of economics that it may lend itself to levity but cannot so easily be disposed of, so it is with sex. Joking about it won’t make the matter of any less gravity, and there is much to be said for the Biblical view of sex having to do with original sin and the curse of God as told in Genesis. That the curse seems to fall disproportionately on women is a point I have attempted to understand for a very long time, and whether one accepts the Biblical account or not it cannot be denied that women suffer the results of sex far more than men and it has been one of the reasons for male domination throughout history.

Religion has certainly been a means by which men have subjugated women to a role of lesser value, a means by which men have notoriously and even infamously declared women to be inferior to men as Harper Lee so eloquently expressed it in To Kill A Mockingbird. But it isn’t a point being addressed by those attempting to use religion as an apologetic against homosexual so-called “marriage.”

The issue of sex confronting Kern County is making national headlines and ideologues and hypocrites on both sides are using inflammatory rhetoric to propagandize their causes. While I don’t support homosexuals demanding their perverted view of marriage be acknowledged as “normal” in any sense of the word and using bullying tactics to force others to accept such a minority view, neither do I want those in the churches to resort to bullying in return. I’m more than willing to allow the decision to be made at the ballot box, though I’m acutely aware the will of We the People is too often circumvented by judicial fiat. That I have personally suffered in the workplace bullying tactics of both homosexuals as well as good Baptists simply means that good people will do good and the evil will do evil no matter their sexual or religious affiliation.

However, the whole idea of marriage, the ideals of family being the foundation of a society has been under attack for so long and suffered such devastation by the onslaughts of legislators and courts that no matter how Kern County or California comes out of this I do not see America surviving with anything approaching the ideals of the family structure that once dictated the morals of our nation. Just what, I ask myself, is the future of a nation without the foundation of family in the normal and traditional sense of the word? Nothing good, I have to suppose because there is no other viable substitute.

But while the Bible is clear on the subject of sexual perversion being an abomination to God the opening chapters of Genesis regarding the creation of Adam and Eve are confusing. There is the matter of a council of gods in making the determination to create humankind in their own image, then there is the matter of differentiating between the first generic Adam meaning both male and female, and the later reference to Adam being male and Eve being female. But while Adam is said to have named his companion Eve because of her being the mother of all living, Adam is not called the father of all living. Why not? Scholars of the Hebrew language and Old Testament are of no help in this matter.

The New Testament has it that the Jews were threatening to stone Jesus because he called God his father and that by doing so he was making himself equal to God. But Jesus called their attention to the passage in Psalm 82:6 declaring we are gods and the scripture cannot be broken. And while we may recognize God as our father even as Jesus taught the disciples to pray, while we may accept we are children of God this does not help us understand why Eve should be called the mother of all living but Adam is not called the father of all living. The subject of sex may come to the fore by way of explanation, but this would presume Adam knew Eve would bear children even before The Fall and the curse was pronounced upon our first parents, something that only leads to more confusion in attempting to make sense of the narrative.

Biblical studies have not only been my resort of interest and scholarship, but my refuge when the world seems too full of misery and suffering and I can do nothing about it. The Bible addresses the issues of life with which I am concerned, and though it has its weaknesses nevertheless within its pages there is always something to ponder and helps me to make some sense of the too often seeming futility and lunacy of life.

For example, while Young Frankenstein is a real hoot of a movie the idea of reanimating the dead is a very sober issue, though often the stuff of horror films. After all, what would be the point of experimenting with death unless there was hope of such experimentation having a positive impact on life? Even the many experiments having to do with life and death begin with life in some form, and science still has no understanding of either of these. Life may be considered energy, or spirit as the Bible has it, but that is only a label in lieu of understanding and death is the cessation of life. But what animates at birth and departs at death is still the greatest mystery of all. And rather than tilt at the windmills of so much prevailing evil in the world, I choose rather to give my attention to the great mysteries of our universe, of life and death and what could possibly be the meaning of it all?

We carry the fire of life about in these mortal bodies, but the real value of life to me is others I love and cherish; family and friends. These, and only these, make life meaningful for me, and it is the love we have for one another that I believe will triumph over death in the end. So while ideologies bring people into conflict, while monsters in the guise of human beings prey on the innocent and men without either soul or conscience wage incessant wars I have to find the answers that soothe my soul and mind in the love I believe God has for those who truly love Him and declare that love by their love for one another. It does not make the monsters go away, it does not make the world any less evil or perverted, it does not diminish the number of bullies or protect families from the depredations of those intent on destroying any semblance of a normal family in America, but it does distinguish between the children of God and the children of the Devil. And in the face of so much evil and inequity throughout the world that has to be answer enough for me.

Certainly it would be astounding to discover other intelligent life in the universe; it would be astounding to discover we are alone in the universe. But whichever it proves to be we will all die. Whether our questions will be answered then is also unknown. In the meantime if the stars declare the glory of God to me, if they speak to me in the language of God none are able to dispute this because such things are a matter of the soul and spirit and not subject to disputations of men. But I keep in memory the story about the death of a wealthy man, and when someone asked “How much did he leave?” another replied, “He left it all.” Despite what the MSM and others consider the priorities, death remains the great equalizer and being the ultimate final disposition of life and all worldly affairs orders and arranges all of our personal priorities in the end.

Is nothing sacred? It’s the end of the world! When Belgians attempt to buy Budweiser you would think a beer brand name is more important than sex the way some people are objecting. On the plus side, it diverts some unwanted attention from my native county of Kern and the brouhaha here over homosexual so-called “marriage.” Legislators will pass laws, judges will make decisions, but society will eventually determine the outcome when the lunacy of it all comes crashing down upon us; the kind of lunacy that the potential loss of Budweiser, a name many believe to be synonymous with all that is good in America, arouses in the righteous.

The madness of it all leaves me often wondering who the real lunatics are. But we may as well face it; America is for sale and waving the bloody shirt over Budweiser isn’t going to prevent profits being the driving force behind refusing to secure our borders and selling off America a chunk at a time in the name of globalization. However, the fact that our sorry excuse for leadership has driven America into bankruptcy speaks of a much darker game afoot in my opinion, one in which America is becoming a pawn rather than the King or Queen of the game.

It is well for me that I no longer have any delusions about changing things of even minor moment, let alone such monolithic things like government. I am fortunate to be able to take the position of the elderly and detached observer, taking note of things that interest me without any expectation of changing anyone’s mind or having to make the tiresome effort of attempting to advance my own opinions and beliefs beyond a cursory note at one time or another here and there.

For example, it was during the time Caesar Bush and Company was claiming to be looking for Saddam’s WMD that I wrote about the old fellow looking for his lost truck keys. He knew they must have been somewhere in his house, but he was out in his yard searching for them because the light was better outside and his eyes were going bad. If you know anyone like this old fellow you also know you can’t win arguing with them. Obviously there is something wrong in their brain, and just as obviously they shouldn’t be driving. But you can’t reason with such people; they are much like the drunk that believes they are a better driver after hoisting a few before getting behind the wheel.

Our government reminds me of that old fellow and the drunk driver. Neither should be driving but there they are, and no amount of reasoning with those in government will change them. There is something wrong in their brain that causes them to believe they should be looking for the keys in the yard rather than the house, something that causes them to believe they are better drivers when they are drunk. Unhappily for America, there they are out on the road and all we can do is hope we don’t get in their way. How much better if the oldster after losing their mind and vision would just stop driving, and the drunks would just not get behind the wheel. But there is as little hope of that as there is of changing the ways of those in government. No one of noble character aspires to becoming a politician.

It may be that the darker game afoot is an actual conspiracy of evil dedicated to the destruction of America as a free and sovereign nation. The pieces on the larger board seem to be moving in that direction, but I’m as helpless to prevent this as I am trying to convince drunks not to drive. How many decades ago was it suggested that the way to fix our government was to clean out all the scoundrels and start anew. Decades ago it was claimed the only way to save our educational system was to abolish the schools of education on all university campuses and start afresh. But it takes a revolution to change such monolithic structures; whether it replaces the flawed institutions of a society with better or not.

But history takes some very strange turns, and who knows but what Budweiser may be held by some to actually be sacred to their system of American worship. Will the worshippers file suit in the name of their religion or threaten to leave America if things don’t go their way; and just where would such latter day Pilgrims find a welcome?

When you have towns with names like my birthplace Weedpatch together with those of Pumpkin Center, Oildale, and Bodfish you expect a certain amount of kidding that is not in the same vein as that of “Beautiful downtown Burbank.” Years ago here in the Kern River Valley Garfield disappeared by some person unknown under cover of darkness simply removing the sign between Isabella and Bodfish; though I continue to find the sign designating “Downtown Bodfish” amusing since trying to find any such thing would be quite frustrating to visitors, it being as nonexistent as Garfield. But it isn’t so simple for Kern County to get rid of names like Weedpatch, Pumpkin Center, Oildale, or Bodfish. And anytime someone mentions Bakersfield…

It’s easy to understand why Kern County in general and Bakersfield in particular gets kicked around by people from places like Frisco. The city fathers of Btown should have taken my advice to turn the Padre Hotel into a world-class brothel outshining anything Frisco or Vegas has to offer; thereby putting my hometown on the cultural map and silencing detractors and naysayers. But alas, my sound advice in this regard fell on deaf ears. At the very least The Bakersfield Californian should have given this a hearing and thereby announced a willingness if even grudgingly to entertain some notion of keeping up with the changing times. Not to mention the many benefits to the city such an enterprise offered while diverting attention from the world-class air pollution along with some other minor distractions like graffiti everywhere and people living in fear of their lives from gang violence. And since living in sin is passé…

Since this was such a worthy and sensible thing financially and culturally to do I had to conclude that what was really at work in refusing to address the issue of my suggestion for the Padre Hotel was actually an Axis of Evil, shadowy figures in the background that felt threatened by an enterprise that would put Bakersfield on the cultural map and be a financial boon for the entire county. While some would accuse me of being paranoid, there is the matter of The Lords of Bakersfield and a few other things that lend credence to my conspiracy theory. I mean, it isn’t like I was claiming to be an alien abductee or was saying Garfield disappeared because of extraterrestrials. While I know from my own experience the truth of Ben Stein’s accusations in Expelled, suppose I were accusing astronomers of being guilty of a conspiracy about the cosmos? How many would take such an accusation seriously?

New Scientist news service, June 10, 2008: Colossal structures larger than the visible universe -- forged during the period of cosmic inflation nearly 14 billion years ago -- may be responsible for a strange pattern seen in the big bang's afterglow, says a team of cosmologists. If confirmed, the structures could provide precious information about the universe's earliest moments.

New Scientist 13 April 2007: ‘Axis of Evil’ a cause for cosmic concern: Some believe it is just a figment of overactive imaginations. But evidence is growing that the so-called "axis of evil" - a pattern apparently imprinted on the radiation left behind by the big bang - may be real, posing a threat to standard cosmology. According to the standard model, the universe is isotropic, or much the same everywhere. However, in 2005, Kate Land and João Magueijo of Imperial College London noticed a curious pattern in the map of the cosmic microwave background (CMB) created by NASA's WMAP satellite. It seemed to show that some hot and cold spots in the CMB are not distributed randomly, as expected, but are aligned along what Magueijo dubbed the axis of evil… Regardless of the reasons, one thing is clear: the axis of evil won't be written off any time soon. "Interest keeps growing as people find more weirdly connected observations that can't all be put down to coincidence," says Land. "And hey, everybody loves a conspiracy."

No, I am not accusing astronomers of any conspiracy of evil. But Kate Land is correct; everybody loves a conspiracy. And just like brightly shining Buffy with its weird orbit lurking out there on the far edge of the Kuiper belt confounding some theories of our solar system astronomers and scientists quite obviously are not without a sense of humor, and when I first read of that designation “Axis of Evil” back in April of 2007 I wondered at the time whether Magueijo wasn’t engaging in some whimsy of the nature of those naming Buffy?

It did cause me to pay closer attention to Emerson’s essay Circles. I had written at some length about the strange forces that favor spheres and circles, questioning things like the cosmos favoring these shapes and something Mel Gibson found of great interest, though it is questionable whether people calling attention to crop circles are familiar with Emerson’s essay. But long ago as I wrote about our spherical universe, now “The temperature variation in the CMBR is expressed as a function upon the inner surface of our celestial sphere” is given very serious attention as scientists attempt to get at answers to the origin of our universe.

While I don’t expect the Phoenix Lander to find evidence life ever existed on a “pickled Mars,” I am excited about the near miraculous genius of some among our species even being able to accomplish such a thing. But I continue to have my reservations about the Large Hadron Collider, whether the Langoliers will be unleashed upon us rather than leading to the Philosopher’s Stone or Fountain of Youth. As one correspondent pointed out to me at what statistical point would scientists refuse to pull the trigger on the LHC; one percent, ten percent, twenty, even fifty? Oh well, the Manhattan Project was successful, so…

Whether I was thwarted by an Axis of Evil concerning my suggestion for the Padre Hotel I do not know. But this I do believe; there are dark forces of evil at work both in the universe and right here on our planet. What but monsters in the guise of humans would torture and murder women and children, foment wars, and what but an Axis of Evil, a Conspiracy of Evil would put our entire planet at risk for the sake of profits? It may be that while Machiavelli didn’t give our better angels much hope of success, he certainly understood what world governments are all about. “Put not your trust in princes” has always been good advice.

Many years ago when I first read Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s Night Flight I was struck by his telling of how while we consider life to be the thing of greatest value, we will do things like constructing a bridge knowing lives will be lost in the process. Who would give voice to a bridge being of more value than a life? Yet, as he pointed out we live as though there were something of greater value than life; but what thing? The war-lovers will never answer that question but astronomers may yet find an answer, though I continue to believe Saint-Exupery had more than a fair idea of the value of life that motivated him. And while I consider his thoughts, as a pilot myself I can feel the wind in my face in an open cockpit and hear it telling me as it must have to him there is more to life.

It’s a device of some Literature instructors to ask freshmen students to make sense of the Jabberwocky. The innocent will attempt to do so, and then be subject to ridicule. But these same instructors with great gravity will expect students to make sense of Moby Dick, seemingly unaware of the novel’s Jabberwocky similarities in many places.

While acknowledging his gifts and often referring to some of his great insights his ego has always prevented my having much sympathy for Henry Thoreau, a sore point voiced by some of his contemporaries. Melville, on the other hand, him I can feel sympathy for. Attempting so hard to put a face to the evil, the demons that haunted him and unable to do so, unable to exorcise his demons and as a result as Hawthorne said of him never finding something to believe in, something that would deliver his soul and give him peace. This haunting vacuum in Melville’s life caused him to meander, often repetitiously as though searching for what he knew not throughout Moby Dick that would eventually bring him the literary fame he so sorely sought as with Thoreau but never knew while alive.

One reason Melville’s now praised novel met with little success in his time was the fact no one in their right mind would name their child Ahab. Taking leave of his senses Melville seemed determined to flaunt common sense and chose a name recognized as the personification of evil and would offend intelligence; an incredulous choice of a name to prospective readers. But this is a point in fact of history, and one overlooked if not unknown by most professing to be learned in the ways of literature today. The Bible was still America’s textbook in Melville’s time, and people would no more name a child Ahab than they would name a child Judas. This is but one instance, albeit a most important one, in which an attempt at a literary device would fail Melville because of his inner demons.

Like Thoreau, Melville chaffed mightily under the cloud of his perceived genius not being properly recognized and appreciated. But even those lacking the credentials of these two writers have felt much the same, refusing to recognize the fact Sam Clemens pointed out that no one is a poet by just claiming to be a poet. Nor is an exclamation of “Thou damned whale!” evidence of the discovery of evil or putting a face to such evil, and in Melville’s fevered mind never does he even succeed in such a thing being a metaphor for the personification of evil though acknowledging what many suppose some mad force with mad purpose driving some men, whether by heaven’s decree or other.

Despite the later praise heaped upon Melville his most famous novel was poorly written, and tiresomely repetitious evidencing the struggles he was having with his inner demons throughout the book, something with which Hawthorne must have been acutely aware and those sensitive to such demons also realize. But only those who have struggled with such demons and overcome them, coming out of the battle with a belief that has put a face to the evil against which they struggle are equipped to continue the fight. However, it is this struggle against demons and faceless evil that causes Moby Dick to find favor among many of the literati, who themselves are having the same struggle but unable as Hawthorne said of Melville to find something to believe in.

Throughout my many college and university courses in literature as a major, my reading the works of the great writers the common theme of Good vs. Evil often encounters the very same difficulties Melville tries to come at in his writing, but too often with as little success. You win wars by being able to name, to put a face to your adversary and demonize him, make him flesh and blood to kill and only then can you hope to triumph. Ah, but some spectral, shadowy, evil force, something you cannot name or put a face to, that is a whole different story. Ahab’s madness in attempting to exorcise his demons reflecting Melville’s own struggle was a battle against such a nameless, faceless thing that cannot be won any more than one can strike a bargain with that ultimate faceless foe Death.

I fear America is reflecting the difficulty Melville had; we are beset by many demons but unable to exorcise them because of a lack of anything to believe in. And not having anything to believe in as a nation with a national identity our energy is exhausted flailing away at what we do not know. No face is put to our demons, our enemies, and while blood and treasure are exhausted in the process there seems to be no way of overcoming these faceless enemies set on our destruction.

Our leaders in government refuse to deal in specifics, and most are so corrupt they dare not deal in specifics. In just this way Melville flailed about, and with no better ending to Moby Dick than we can expect for America unless a flesh and blood face is put to our enemies.

The Pequod is a fair representation of America, our own mad Ahab being George Bush and his madness together with an equally mad Congress affecting all on board. But will we fare any better no matter who becomes our next president? Not unless they and our Congress and Supreme Court begin to put the survival and welfare of our “Pequod” first ahead of the mad dreams of empire on the part of the few causing so much misery both in America and throughout the world.

In the end I suppose it will be having something to believe in that saves the individual and gives purpose to life, a reason to get up each morning and fight the good fight. But this is no less true of nations, including America. So who stands for We the People, Americans, rather than the many divided interests causing so much suffering in America?

For those of us who recall Norman Rockwell’s America in which one paycheck provided for a family and good jobs were plentiful, an America in which a good education for our children and hope for their future was expected we realize that America no longer exists. As for putting a face to the evil that has brought us to this dangerous place in history, one in which all our institutions that should provide hope for our children have failed, none in positions of leadership or authority in government seem able or willing to do so, and they all seem to hold no more promise for Pequod/America than mad Ahab at the helm driven by mad purpose whether by heaven’s decree or other unseen, unnamed and faceless forces.

The earthquakes reported today up and down California reminded me the Big One is coming, and maybe sooner than later. But like the satanically twisted and perverted sick minds responsible for so much noise, cruelty and graphic violence with blood and gore portrayed by Hollywood, on TV and in video “games,” polygamous raping of children in the name of religion and other forms of abuse there really isn’t much I can do about these things. But with mildly detached interest, being too old for anything more than being a spectator to even the most cataclysmic events, I ask myself when that huge magnitude earthquake hits the coast of my native state and millions may need to take refuge inland who would want them; Blythe, Bullhead City or Needles? Will they be as welcome as Typhoid Mary or Katrina survivors and fare any better?

There really is such a thing as news fatigue, information overload of too much and incessant bad news. Eventually you become fatigued or even callous to the bad news of so much suffering throughout the world. Henry Thoreau quipped that if you heard of a murder, railway or boat accident you need hear of no others. Even in Henry’s day he pointed to the “great flapping ear” of America in which a man upon awaking from a nap would immediately ask what news transpired while he was asleep, as though the day would be ruined without a constant barrage of the news. Henry compared the main street of Concord to running the gauntlet, one in which each person would want the latest bit of gossip as you tried to make your way through town.

Ah, but the great flapping ear of America Henry knew in his time was without radio, TV or satellite communications. One can only wonder what he would have to say of today’s great flapping ear. Nothing good, I imagine.

Here in the Kern River Valley it is admittedly of more than passing interest to me that Isabella Dam has been called “dangerous” and susceptible to failing, especially in the event of even a mild earthquake. But I live above the lake level and I’m not overly concerned, and since there is nothing I can do about the situation why worry about it? So I don’t. You see, at my age I prioritize the things I worry about. When your future consists of simply being able to use the bathroom each day, brush your own teeth (and grateful they are my own teeth and not dentures) and do the minimum necessary to keep body and soul together your priorities concerning worries changes. In the words of Jesus, the evil of the day is sufficient for me and I no longer worry about tomorrow. The evil of that day will be sufficient as well and tomorrow will take care of itself without my worrying about it.

Certainly one should prepare and plan for the future. I did, and as a result own my home and am free of debt. But that’s about as far as I could plan. I have the required battery radio and flashlight, canned goods and water in case of emergency, but that is only prudent. I keep the weeds cut around my place in case of fires, as a smoker I never smoke in bed and always put out cigarettes in a bowl of water, never in an ashtray. There is a distinct difference between prudent and careless.

So, there isn’t very much I find worth worrying about. I write and address the grievances I have about government and a variety of other issues; but never do I delude myself that I am really changing those things over which I have no control, things like earthquakes or who will be our next president for example. Unlike Snoopy I can’t say my life has been one of “unsuffered consequences,” but I’ve outlived the consequences and quite frankly have little left to suffer from them.

Gerry Trudeau did a strip about the homeless being fed on Thanksgiving, and when asked about it one fellow’s concept of plans for his future was whether he was going to have another piece of pumpkin pie. At that, I easily understand the fitting parody of Caesar Bush’s resemblance in face and actions to Alfred E. Neuman of “What, me worry?” fame.

I freely admit there are things that legitimately qualify as worth worrying about, and one needn’t act the fool about such legitimate things. But the future is for this generation, not those my age and those of this younger generation are not beating down the door asking for my advice. So at the risk of incurring a “What, me worry?” stigma today the sun is shining, the birds are singing, I live without want and if the Big One should strike tomorrow there is nothing I can do about that. So, I’m simply going to confine my worrying about the future to whether I will have another piece of pumpkin pie.