The Correlation Theory

There is something about the absence of heat that seems to bring on winter.  I also believe that no sooner does the cold set in, so does the dark.  It became apparent to me that the cold area of the moon is coincidentally always on the dark side.

 Likewise, sitting in the shade of an Oak tree, one tends to feel cooler than those sitting out in the light.  This theory can easily be viewed in Nature.  Looking around at the lawns of summer you will find them to be a dark green, while those same areas in winter appear snow white.

          There could, of course, be gray areas within this theory.  Further study may be required.

 

          As always, opposing views are welcome.

 

I just think he could do better

 

Apparently, I am not a part of the masses.  I have made several attempts to read books by the popular authors, like John Grisham.  He magically turns out more books than is possible to write in the timespan reflected between publishing.  Either he employs a team of writers and they simply use the Grisham name, or he doesn’t take time out for meals.

Anyway, they seem to write for the masses.  The more books sold, the more money made.  Simple.

Just today I made another attempt to read one of his works.  I enjoy the law and courtroom stories, but his latest work, by chapter two, takes a dark turn.  It tells, in graphic detail, of a gruesome murder.

I’m sorry, but for me that is not entertainment.  It is not fun to read and certainly not fun to retain as a memory.  If that is what the masses like, then I take that as proof that I am an outcast.

How hard could it be just to tell a simple, enjoyable story?  Isn’t the evening news bad enough?   Do we really need to fill our bookstores and libraries with it?

Yes, you are right.  I usually don’t break into a rant, but seriously folks, what’s the matter with Charlotte’s Web?  Okay, wait… maybe that’s a bad example.  Right off the farther wants to slaughter a baby pig with an ax.

Forget that.  How about Animal Farm, by George Orwell?  Oops, I forgot.  Once again there was an uprising, animals plotting against farmers and what-have-you.

So maybe the good-old-days weren’t all that much fun either.  But you see my point, right?

 

I have spent the last 8 years writing this blog.  No one has been murdered, nothing has blown up, there isn’t any warning about graphic detail, strong language or animals being turned into breakfast food.

It is just 8 years of silly stories, goofy pictures and more nonsense than is required by the recommended daily allowance people.

 

I’m done now.  I’ll shut up, and I'll try not to rant in the future.

Some Kind of Nut

 

This is an Acorn

As acorns go, it is small, in fact tiny.

To give you some idea just how small...

I have placed a penny next to it.

The problem stems not from its size

but from its number.

The Oak Tree in our yard drops

millions upon millions of these little things

all day and all night.

They cover the lawn and kill the grass,

they stain the driveway

causing us to have it power-washed

They plummet to earth with such great force

should one hit you on your head

you'd most likely be killed instantly.

But it's just such a nice tree

I'd hate to cut it down.

Forensic Entomologist

 

Jackie was never your ordinary little girl.  Bugs didn’t scare her, they made her more curious.  She chased grasshoppers, tried hard to understand why butterflies flew so erratically and even gave a presentation in grade school on how snakes propelled themselves along the ground, when they obviously had no feet.

In college she excelled in physics but surprisingly majored in law.  By the end of her formal education she had acquired a law degree, a master’s degree in physics and had a Bachelors in Entomology.  Needless to say, it surprised everyone when she took a job with law enforcement as a forensic entomologist.

I have known Jackie all of her life.  I have followed her career and have always enjoyed having her as one of my best friends, but when she asked me to write about her life in my blog, well… I just couldn’t do it.  I told her straight out;  “Sorry Jackie, but your job creeps me out.”

Face to Face

 

It was a very large tree.  It was mostly dead, but none the less, it was large, and that is where he hid, with his rifle, a few snacks and canteen.  No one had called a truce, nobody stopped fighting, it was just that Sargent Dan Porter had had enough.  He was done.  No longer would he point his gun at anyone and shoot.  He had tucked himself into that hollowed out tree and there he would stay.

With his eyes squinched closed he tried to remain perfectly still.  Even his breathing was kept as quiet as he could make it.  He didn’t wish to be shot, nor did he care to shoot anyone.  He wanted, with all his might, to be back home.  He wanted to be a little boy again, complaining about his chores, whining about his sister.  He even thought about being back in school, sitting in those stupid little desks, and lugging his books from class to class.  Where did that time go, he wondered.  It all went by so fast, and now here he was wedged into this tree, hiding from the war, hoping it would all just go away.

 

At least when nightfall came, he would be able to sit down.  Even if his feet stuck out a little, no one would see them at night.  For now, however, he just stood motionless, squeezing his rifle close into his chest, and hoping the nearby sounds he was hearing were heading away from him.  He knew if the enemy found him they would shoot him, but if his own men discovered him hiding he would be tried as a deserter and then shot.  Either way – it wasn’t looking too good for the Sargent.

 

Apparently, he hadn’t been the only one to hear people making their way through the woods, for someone lobbed a hand grenade and it exploded not far from the tree he was using for shelter.  The blast scared him, and he jumped but didn’t yell.  He could hear the soldiers fall and one of them was moaning in pain.  His tree shook but nothing penetrated the wood.  His first thought was to get himself out of the tree he had wedged himself into and check on the wounded man.  Maybe there was something he could do to stop the bleeding.  He stood perfectly still, listening, waiting.  Would there be a second grenade?  His ears were still ringing from the blast and for just a moment he thought the moaning had stopped.  He was wrong.  He still heard it, and it was close, maybe just on the other side of his tree.

As he stood there frozen in fear, he began to wonder which uniform he’d find on the downed soldier.  Would it be someone he knew?  Maybe even someone who would recognize him.  Maybe it was the other side.  It’s very possible the enemy had been following him, saw him duck into this tree and just before they got to him, the grenade took them out.

 

It had been long enough.  It didn’t seem likely there would be a second grenade, but should he risk stepping out of hiding to help some guy who could very well be the enemy?  Maybe the guy was already dead.  He didn’t hear the moaning anymore.  Maybe he should just stay put.  What kind of person am I?  Can I really let someone bleed to death who is lying just a few feet away?  I doubt I could live with myself.  For the rest of my life I’d think about nothing else.  Being afraid of war is one thing but this was something else altogether.

 

Even though it was not yet dark, the Sargent turned a little sideways and squeezed himself out of the tree.  Just to his right lay the body of the soldier.  It was not a uniform he was familiar with.  He knelt down and gently rolled the body over.  He was still alive but barely breathing.  The Sargent was surprised to see how young the kid was.  There was way too much blood on the uniform to be able to tell the exact location of the wound, but he couldn’t risk ripping open the guy’s clothes, not while they were out in the open.  Who knew who was watching, or if this guy would suddenly wake up and start yelling.   On the other hand, he knew he had to do something if he was going to try to save him.

 

The distant gunfire had not let up, and occasional explosions rocked the countryside.  What am I doing?  I’m not a medic.  Even if I expose the wound – then what?  Direct pressure, how long can I keep that up?  There isn’t going to be a Calvary riding over the hill to rescue us.  This isn’t the movies.  I should get back into my tree and wait until dark.  But as the Sargent was thinking of retreating back into hiding, the young soldier opened his eyes.  Now Sargent Dan was face to face with this person.  The kid looked scared, even more scared than the Sargent.  Neither said anything.  Then something happened.  Unconsciously the Sargent made a facial expression, as if to say, I’m sorry this happened to you.  At that moment tears rolled down the cheeks of the young soldier.  They both just knew they were not enemies; they were simply people.  People who had been put into a situation neither wanted but couldn’t get out of.

 

Dan Porter’s grandson had hung on every word.  The ladies were still clearing off the dining table and fussing in the kitchen as Dan wrapped up his story.  But the grandson wanted to hear what happened next.  He climbed up on his grandfather’s lap and then slid off, landing on the sofa cushion next to him.

 

“Finish it Grandpa.  What happened?”

 

Dan looked into the face of his grandson, smiled and said, “Well, as you can see, I got out of that tree.”

 

“But what happened to the dying soldier? 

 

“Some day I’ll tell you the story of your Uncle Todd.  He isn’t really your Uncle but I’m guessing you’ll like the story.”

 

 

 

 

 

 zc

Net Weight

 

He didn’t see it as a chore, it was simply something that had to be done and he was doing it.  With a very familiar pail he was making his way out to the well.  As he walked, it was the obvious things he noticed first.  The morning air was crisp, not too cold.  The crows, as he knew they would be, were up before him and voicing their concerns about all things crow.  He had no idea what that was but from the sounds of it, they were surely important topics.

It was his own shoes he noticed next.  He couldn’t help it.  He was looking down as he walked to the well.  He had stepped into a small gopher hole last month and had twisted his ankle.  That discomfort lasted for a few days and made his daily chores difficult.  He never wanted to repeat that, so it was with caution every day thereafter that he made his way to fetch water.

He actually laughed out loud when he glanced off to his left.  Two of the crows were perched on one of the arms of the scarecrow.  So lost were they in their conversation that neither realized what they were doing.  Or maybe they did, he wasn’t sure.  When he thought about it, the crows would have to be complete nitwits to believe Mr. Scarecrow was real.  Number one, he didn’t move.  He had never moved.  He didn’t look scary.  In fact, he looked more pathetic than anything, and now he was holding up his arms to be used as a conference table for a most important meeting.

Nate remembered building that scarecrow years back.  With the exception of the lumber, everything had come from that old donation box.  He chuckled, thinking how his children, at the time, wanted to name him Net Weight.  Mary, in showing off her reading skills to Scott, pointed to the cardboard box and said, “This must be his name.  Net Weight.”  Little Scotty, thinking she must know what she’s talking about, agreed, and so Net was born.

 

Now is the Time

 

Keep in mind, it was a really bad phone connection.