Descended stairs
to the concourse
where piano played
a moving chorus
and he brought me
to tears
with Hallelujah.
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
always cry at
Cohen’s
Halle-lu-u-u-u-u-u-u-juah!
The sun’s not up
this Christmas morn
yet round the world
praise, “Son is born!”
As with the teeming throngs
we’re flyin’ to ya.
Flyin’ to ya,
Flyin’ to ya,
all jammed in aeroplanes
and flyin’ to
Ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ooh-ya.
Though sting of tears
may mist my eyes
My heart still sings
joyous reprise:
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Halle-lu-u-u-u-u-u-u-juah.
Flyin’ to ya,
Flyin’ to ya.
Not angel’s wings
just aeroplane
that brings me to ya.
Brings me to ya,
brings me to ya.
Halle-ay-ay-ay-lu-u-juah
“Love is not a victory march,”
you cleanse my soul,
uplift my heart
(Hope you knew that.)
Hallelujah,
Hallelujah,
Halle-lu-u-u-u-u-u-u-juah!
I posted the following on Facebook: “I can abhor Trump without demonizing his followers.”
This garnered 111 comments from friends, mostly rants demonizing the “other side.” (Le sigh!) In response to my friends’ rants I shared my poem “Base and Blind” to which my friend Tom replied, “I’ve read a lot of your writings. That may be the best.” Tom’s comment got me thinking about my writing from a different perspective, a perspective not of recording and sharing my thoughts, feelings and opinions but rather how my scribblings may be judged by others, a topic I only consider when dealing with extremely sensitive subjects. For the most part I write me with the unspoken invitation of, “Hey, y’all! Here’s what’s going through my head. Wanna see?”
Self-expression, rather than good, better, best (Or for that matter, bad, badder, worst!) is my priority, not the judgement of my readers. (Though I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit that I like “Likes” and LOVE comments.) Tom’s comment got me thinking about how my writings are viewed by me versus readers.
I started writing poems for friends decades ago and quickly learned that most people find poems about themselves FABULOUS! Sending someone a poem about them is almost sure to garner glowing praise but the praise tends to be shallow. They’re not evaluating the poem’s content, structure or ability to hold interest they’re just thrilled somebody (ME!) wrote about them.
When receiving praise from the subjects of my poems I try to remember a language lesson my tenth grade teacher MS Lyons delivered back in 1976. She warned of vapid, subject based accolades that do not reflect the quality of the writing but rather the predispositions and prejudices of the reader. MS Lyons explained that sometimes people who love kittens find any and every thing kitten praise worthy. Bad paintings, bad poems, horrid prose, doesn’t matter, if it’s kittens then they’re smitten. I love being told that something I wrote is good but praise based on subject rather than content, while appreciated, is given very little credence.
I try to evaluate my writing based on whether it works or not. Does it get my point across, does it keep the reader’s attention, does it put images in readers’ heads, is the spelling and grammar correct and therefore not a distraction? Throw in some fun alliterations and a few rhymes to make the writing fun and I may have written something I find praise worthy.
Last in my goals is word length. In today’s society a 500 word essay is considered long, a circumstance of which I am aware but rarely act on.
Base And Blind
Oh, we the righteous do decree
that all shall see the world as we
and if you dare to disagree
we righteous shall mock and shun thee
If you support the evil side
with widest brush we will apply
the taint from which can’t run nor hide:
We know the truth as testified
Inquisition not just old Spain
for we righteous bring back its reign
our instruments your blood will drain
as condescend and spew disdain
There are two camps, one wrong one right,
and you the wrong we right shall smite
for paradise, bombast, cordite
we know sole path from dark to light
Don’t speak to us of your concerns
contemptibles we righteous spurn
just get on board, backward slatterns
or be cast in bubbling cauldron
We know your hearts, we know your minds
your very souls are hateful kind
repent your sins, you unrefined
for all you are is base and blind
Blind to the truth of your cancer
that we can rout, we are the cure!
You are disease, you base adders
we righteous know how to skewer
We’ll call you out, though haven’t met,
for there’s no room for your dissent
and if you dare to share mindset
our wrath shall be your epithet
Oh, we the righteous do decree
that all shall see the world as we
and if you dare to disagree
we righteous shall mock and shun thee
The moon appeared in splendor, big and bold and bright,
watched her with my darling and felt my heart take flight.
Sky above Atlantic moon shared with sky of stars,
to south circled Saturn, red hued gave hint of Mars.
Sweet lovely, languid hours twilighted into night,
final days of summer, watch Selene’s arc of flight.
Sky of brightest azure transformed to smoke, then black:
Contrail pierces Luna, bleeds not from the attack.
On a strip of island gentrified beachy homes
laid out in grid pattern, dominoes wait for storm.
To everything a season, slipping into fall,
bright moon keeps on shining, reflection for us all.
No light does she emit, yet symbolizes love?
Both barren and frigid, why look we to above?
There’s love all around us on Earth verdantly rich;
warm hearts, human grappling, let souls entwine in tryst.
Selene with your magic you do naught but mock me;
ever cold and distant, yours is deadly beauty.
Beauty cold and distant? Without cal’rie of heat?
Never can compare to two hearts that as one beat.
Lover’s peaks and valleys, the heat of passion’s kiss,
these from Selene missing, let’s long remember this.
Give me flesh and sinew over a billion stars,
though reflection’s lovely rather have love of ours.
Colors of rainbow have all washed away
gone’s arco iris, all’s left’s black and grays.
Thought I had power and dreamt I had speed
left riding solo’s lonely place to be.
Longed for adventure, I needed to fly,
so I saddled up and went for bike ride.
Seems dark and dreary had entered my soul;
to cure winter blues knew I had to roll.
A lack of daylight and excess of mead
hitched my giddy-up so went out biking.
Goal was a roll with friendly peleton
alone at start line where have riders gone?
There’s strength in numbers, there’s value to herd,
camaraderie and to heights we’re spurred.
That’s all terrific but none of it counts
cuz on my group ride my solo-ness taunts.
Day was not tempting fact I must admit
cool temperatures and steady fine mist
but it’s been observed we don’t go to war
with army wanted as we roll forward.
Whether it’s warring or withering sky
weather’s the weather when time for bike ride.
The mail must go through in sleet, rain or snow
out in the drizzle this male man did go.
The wind was blowing to that must confess
a forty knot gale made my bike skittish
but I persevered and I fought the wind
as I cycled from home to ride begin.
Incredulous stares and a few horn honks
affronted my eyes as Klaxons did taunt
but I soldiered on despite wind and rain
I knew peleton would ease stress and strain.
Five miles I traveled by bike to get there
arrived wet and chilled at parking lot stared
expecting to find riders at the start
found I was alone it tore at my heart.
I shrugged my shoulders and inhaled deeply
made the decision to ride solo-ly.
Cursing the weather, resenting lost mates
I went for a ride turns out it was great.
Despite the weather, the wind and the rain
horrid conditions, fact I’m not quite sane,
ride on bicycle beats sitting around
but on next group ride hope lost mates are found.
Colors of rainbow have all washed away
gone’s arco iris, all’s left’s black and grays.
Thought I had power and dreamt I had speed
left riding solo’s lonely place to be.
At the end of our ride I bid farewell to Jack, approached Nicolette and exchanged numbers. We agreed that I’d peruse the Potomac Pedalers rides and see which one fit best. I explained that I’d be riding the tandem solo to the ride start so we’d almost certainly do a ride that originated in Ashton or Olney. I didn’t explain that we’d have to start close by because I was carless, the reason wasn’t relevant, and Nicolette smiled while Geoff scowled as they drove away with their bikes atop their BMW 733i.
I cycled the five miles from Sherwood High to home, put the tandem away, (it was my most expensive possession) showered, grabbed some food and, since it was Saturday and I didn’t have to wait until after 11:00 for rates to go down, phoned Jean.
“Hey, baby,” I said into the phone, “how you doing?”
“Good,” she replied. “Just getting some last minute wedding details planned. You’re still planning to make lasagna for the rehearsal dinner at Marie’s, right?”
“Yep. Lasagna Florentine. Gotta Popeye it up.”
“Great. We can go shopping when you get here. You’re driving up with your folks?”
“Uhm, maybe?” I responded. “We’re all coming so I should have plenty of people I can catch a ride with. Maybe John and Brooke. Guess what I did today?”
“Heard from a school in Atlanta!?”
I exhaled heavily. “No. Sorry. Nothing yet. No. I went on a group ride with Jack on the tandem.”
“Oh. Yeah?” Jean responded non-committed. Jack was not one of her favorite people.
“Yeah. Potomac Pedalers? The bike club? We rode the tandem.”
“Cool. Have fun?”
“Yes. I’m looking forward to tandeming with you in Atlanta. Had a gal express interest in a tandem ride with me and so next week I’ll probably ride with her.”
“Oh, yeah? Somebody you know?”
“Not really,” I replied. “We’ve been on rides together, but we haven’t talked much. She usually hangs with her body-builder boyfriend.”
“Oh. Cool! Well, have fun! I got stuff to do. Talk to you later?”
“Absolutely. I should be home tonight. Call you around ten?”
“Perfect. Love you!”
“I love you, JPT. Later,” I said, waiting for her to hang-up before disconnecting.
I consulted my Potomac Pedalers newsletter and found a ride that started from the Olney Theatre and called Nicolette. Geoff answered. “Hi. Is Nicolette there?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Tony Kneel. I’m supposed to arrange a tandem-”
“Nikki!” I hear Geoff call out. “It’s the tandem guy.”
Nicolette gets on the phone, we agree to meet at the Theatre on Saturday the twenty-fourth and go about our days.
Saturday May 24th brings another beautiful not quite summer morning to central Montgomery County. I cycle to the Theatre and find Nicolette waiting with Geoff who scowls. “Hey!” I say, “how are you this morning? You have water bottles?”
We place her two bottles in the stoker’s waiting cages and we three sign the ride log. I explain the basics of being a tandem stoker and then we’re off, heading northwest toward Old Baltimore Road. It doesn’t takes long before the ride group splits into a slightly smaller faster portion, and a larger slower part. Nicolette and I leave Geoff behind in the slower part as we motor through the mostly rolling byways of rural northern M.C. With nearly twice the horsepower but almost no additional aerodynamic drag, tandems allow riders to go faster on flats and fly downhills, with the flip-side being a more precipitous slowing on ascents.
We all know of Peter and his fairy pal Tink,
and army of Lost Boys from fount of youth did drink.
Neverland far away, yet ever is it nigh,
ADA accessible, as we all can fly.
Fly away in spirit, God Father, Son, and Ghost!
My Cath’lic upbringing this play reflected most.
Not too far from Dubuque, in eastern Iowa,
is where I lived longest, tall corn and short soya!
I too am an orphan, I too am four of five,
play made me remember times long ago slipped by.
Sarah captures nicely Midwest mid-century,
Wendy, John and Michael, Jane and Hook all family.
First we lost our mother and then we lost our dad;
only one not present when our Royal Dame passed.
Ten years span of siblings, eldest turns sixty-two
all love one another; I’m liberal in the room.
Spread out cross the nation, triangle of vast size
from D.C. to Memphis hypotenuse inscribes.
Though great is the distance hearts are our winning suit
for love of family for all’s an absolute.
Known to act a fairy, flit merrily around,
though the years weigh heavy life still holds me spellbound.
Here’s to sister Peter, my John and brother Mike,
Jane’s our youngest sibling, I will Captain our flight.
We all know of Peter and his fairy pal Tink,
and army of Lost Boys from fount of youth did drink.
Fly away in spirit, God Father, Son, and Ghost!
My Cath’lic upbringing this play reflected most.
My 63-year-old bride and I hiked to the top of Mount Mitchell, the highest peak EAST of the Mississippi in the USA. We didn’t do it because, “It was there,” we did it to prepare. Prepare for what? Ah… “Durga,” my darling bride of 38 years, is actually 222 days older than I, but seems to be 222 months younger. Twenty years back we promised one another to work hard at not falling apart prematurely as we age, something at which she’s been far more successful than I.
Summer of 2024 Durga decided we should have TWO adventures, the first riding in RAGBRAI LI, the 51st trans-Iowa, 434 mile/700 km rolling bicycle party that we did as youngsters back in 1987 PLUS a week of hut-to-hut hiking in the Dolomite Mountains of Italy. As we ascended I thought of Aesop’s “The Tortoise and The Hare.”
My wife and I did journey for anniversary to highest peak in country east of Mississippi From our quaint home in Cary drove westward towards Asheville to scale not too tall mountain peak known as Mount Mitchell.
Near two score years been married accumulated age tween us hundred-twenty-six, feel wrath of time’s rampage But my great warrior queen refuses to bow down to aches, pains or restrictions that hold mere mortals bound.
She is my super woman Durga’s here moniker for white haired sculpted beauty who deepest passions stir She’s no shrinking violet she’s bulldog with sharp teeth once her jaws are clamped round thing there’s simply no surcease.
Though twelve months in every year there are but two that bear names of Roman Emperors who bore titles Caesar Julio and Agustus, summer in northern clime, are pair most hot and fetid and impetus for rhyme.
In youth was strong and mighty, would go adventuring, with ferocious Amazon fearing nary a thing But age and time are fickle and so now hesitate no longer strong and mighty; with age some suffer fate
My Durga darling goddess ages like a fine wine while I’ve aged like vinegar that is well past its prime This summer my bride and I adventuring shall go in July ride bicycles with fifty thousand souls
In nineteen-eighty-seven, first anniversary, my darling twenty-something mentioned RAGBRAI to me. RAGBRAI, for those not knowing, is ride across the state of “I” states contiguous rolling party post haste.
I’d never heard of RAGBRAI but I said, “I’m all in!” with twenty-thousand others cross Iowa did spin. In 1987, my darling bride and I, only twenty-six years old, we were both young and spry.
But time it waits for no one and convoluted fate turn of prior century in Iowa home made. Bride and I left Iowa, but our first born did stay, July twenty-twenty-four with progeny we’ll play.
Son, grandone, daughter in law, along with dearest wife, quintet we shall go riding though fear fills me with strife. Sixty-three I’m not the man was at twenty-seven, though cycle regularly ride fills me with tension.
Gone is strength and stamina as youth took for granted a long, long bicycle ride thirty miles ventured. My mental capacity, no longer what it was, but my brains not so addled to not work towards my cause.
Slowly I have grown stronger riding my bicycle but RAGBRI’s just beginning of darling Durga’s thrills. Julius was a Caesar, Augustus forget not, for when eighth month rolls around we are Italy bound!
Not content to torture me July’s little bike ride, we two shall go a hiking Italy’s Dolomites! My body’s bent, not broken, but I’m far worse for wear than my darling goddess ages nary a care.
So, hiking we two did go, on a cool day in May up highest elevation east part of my country. The peak’s no Mount Olympus, mere two thousand meters, but as we started hiking feared I’d be defeated.
Most every day I perform in early morning hours stretch and strength exercises so through day don’t cower. SIXTY minutes every morn I go through my routine just to do the commonplace; growing old can be mean!
I have provided background summer of discontent as at Black Mountain Campground we parked for our ascent. Common when telling story exaggerate a bit? My pains and trepidations I inflate not one whit.
Oh, I was more than nervous, yeah, I was downright scared as we started adventure to climb Mount Mitchell there. Though bride is superhuman a mere mortal still be so wisely she invested in climbing poles you see.
My hands they are arthritic, back scoliosis twists, but up ten-K rooted path in climb we did persist. A funny thing did happen in our climb to the top my fears and apprehension tormenting me did stop.
Upon our backs we carried liters of H2O long with snacks and sandwiches as hiking we did go. The pain of which I’d fretted as started our ascent joyfully it stayed away as upward we two went.
For two-and-one-quarter hours my bride and I did climb and just fore reached the summit a runner did RUN by! Water, shoes, socks, running shorts were the accoutrement of flashing Pheidippides who ran up in one hour!
It rained a bit at summit, sexagenarians, my wife and I took cover fore started our descent. My fears and trepidations Left not on mountain top but our climb up Mount Mitchell is tribute to Aesop.
A long and winding reading of my long and winding poem for our ascent up Mount Mitchell.
I am a secular humanist atheist, lower-case/small “a.” (If you don’t know the difference between Atheist and atheist you might want to look it up.) Human beings capacity for inhumanity is seemingly endless as illustrated by the current conflict in Israel/Gaza/Palestine and our insistence that we are doing god’s work in our battles absolutely makes the terrible situation even worse. The only “universal commandment” that is worthy of the title is “Love your neighbor as yourself,” something most of us fail at in a hellacious manner.
Do you believe In fairy tales, that Jesus Christ hears children’s wails? That Son of God, omnipotent, simply looks on as babies die?
That the Alpha AND Omega simply chooses not to save them? Unless He hears sufficient prayers mea culpas go unanswered?
Prayers make Him act? “Thank God above! He’s saved their lives! Infinite love!” I’ve yet to hear through billion prayers through wails and tears go unanswered.
A billion strong for Liverpool, while Chelsea’s count did fall behind? It is same God no matter name That does ignore score football game.
Who keeps tally, Intercessions? Is it numbers or intentions? One-billion prayers can change the score and change losers to crowd that roars!
Pray for Gaza, pray Palestine, pray Israel will look through eyes compassion see prayed terrorists who KNEW were right to call cease fire.
To end the bombs and endless war, to praise Allah when kill ten-score, bomb hospitals and cause to starve the poor children not six-point-star?
Do you believe In fairy tales, that Jesus Christ hears children’s wails? That Son of God, omnipotent, simply looks on as babies die?
Declare with all that we are worth when THEY behave have peace on Earth? But even piece eternal graves sacred no more advances made.
But PTL! WE are Christians know His own Son paid for our sins. The Word of God is oh so clear if we with faith His truth would hear.
It’s said that Faith can move mountains, it would be grand if staunched the flow. If heard our prayers and answered them stopped the slaughter of Jesus’ kin.
My God, my God why don’t you act? Forsaken love seems is a fact. Opposing sides are hellbent on Proving their right and other’s wrong.
The proof its clear in tally count the dead children each day surmounts. How many prayers, intercessions Until You act Great God of Love?
Do you believe In fairy tales, that Jesus Christ hears children’s wails? That Son of God, omnipotent, simply looks on as babies die?
That the Alpha AND Omega simply chooses not to save them? Unless He hears sufficient prayers mea culpas go unanswered?
Finding anyone who is less interested in professional sports than I would be a Herculean task. Watching sports is not my cup of tea, and unless I have met one of the players on the field, my interest in sportsball is in the first percentile, and yeah, that includes championships and college teams. Who’s my favorite for the big game? Don’t know, don’t care, I’d rather watch a play.
My first experience attending a professional sporting event was circa 1983 when I went to a Hartford Whalers hockey game with friends and my future wife. My next up at bat was when my wife and I attended an Atlanta Braves baseball game spring of 1987 with work colleagues. Fast forward three decades and there’s a HUGE uptick in my attendance rate, not because I care, but because our 1993 progeny younger son does.
Sean has “forced” me to see a handful of Baltimore, er INDIANAPOLIS Colts games and for the last decade my wife and I have gifted him four or five tickets for Colts games, games I’ve usually attended with Sean and my wife but have also passed up for my older son, his wife and my grandone to go watch the gladiators. I’ve also been coerced to watch the Tampa Bay Rays when we lived in F-L-A, the Red Sox while visiting Boston, and the Colorado Rockies when we were in Denver. My total attendance to college and pro games hovers around a dozen, and the sure money bet is that I will fall asleep sometime during the game.
I like to be active, but I don’t care about sports and if you do that’s great; I hope your team wins!
Despite my near zero interest in sports the phenom known as Caitlan Clark captured my attention as the University of Iowa player earned GOAT status during spring of 2024. MS Clark was able to keep my attention for months rather than minutes not only because of her virtuosity but also because I lived 25-miles (40- Km) north of Hawkeye Land for twenty years and ten years after leaving Cedar Rapids news out of Iowa City is still likely to catch my attention.
I semi paid attention to the college basketball championships and rooted for MS Clark. She and her team did phenomenally well and their loss to UConn made me sad, but her ascension to the #1 WNBA Draft Pick pleased me enormously. Until.
Until the discussion turned to the inequality of MS Clark’s salary. Caitlan Clark’s $76,535 contract makes her the highest paid WNBA player while Stephen Curry’s $51,915,615 places him as the highest paid NBA player and this 678 times higher pay for Curry discrepancy has many people up in arms.
Knowing nearly nothing about the NBA and WNBA I did some quick fact checking and discovered that the NBA is composed of 30 teams and has 560 players. The Women’s National Basketball Association (WNBA) is composed of 12 teams and each team has either 11 or 12 players for an approximate total of 140 players.
Total WNBA revenue was around $200 million in 2023. For 2024 they’ll be playing 36 regular season games. Meanwhile, the NBA raked in $10 billion in 2022 and plays 36 regular season games.
The WNBA’s $200,000,000 gross dollars divided by their 140 players equals $1,428,571 brought in per player.
The NBA’s $10,000,000,000 gross dollars divided by 560 players equals $17,857,142 brought in per player.
The NBA pays an average of 50 times more in comparison to gross dollars collected than does the WNBA, while the average NBA player earns 12.5 times more than the average WNBA player.
As stated at the top, I don’t understand the attraction of sports, but I was curious how the math worked out, so I did a little digging for comparison. If you want women ball players to earn more then attend their games, if you want to live your best life, try to stay active physically, and if you want others to enjoy their best lives stay active politically, but before we get up in arms over “inequities” it’s in everyone’s best interest to do a little fact checking so we can compare bananas to budgets with our feet on the ground as we try to score points for our teams.
Congratulations, Caitlan Clark! I hope you have a great season with the Indiana Fever!
Modern Israel became a nation May of 1948, and they’ve had to fight for their existence ever since. October 7, 2023, Israel was viciously attacked by Hamas and Benjamin Netanyahu, Israel’s hard liner, right wing prime minister, responded with indiscriminate violence against the Palestinians. In the name of self-defense Israel is starving the Palestinians, which has led to protest around the world including the USA.
I stole Peter Frampton’s “Do You Feel Like We Do?” to express my dismay at those who think either side is on God’s side. Mao said, “Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun,” but peace is highly unlikely to. In the USA protesting war is a fundamental Right but we have no business blaming Jews for Israel’s crimes anymore than we should blame Muslims for Hamas’s.
I woke up this morning to violence and protest Whose God? Which God? Yahweh or Allah? Watching babies bleed I can’t believe where this leads Come on, point fingers again!
Do you, you, hate all the Jews? Hate Palestinians too?
There was a dust up, out west, UCLA both sides pointing fingers along with blame Heard catcalls of Nazis That was a charge lowly Fireworks got heated, all I did was pray!
Do you, you, hate all the Jews? Hate Palestinians too? Do you, you, hate all the Jews? Hate Palestinians too?
War’s never ending You’ve got a Glock in your hand! Pointing fingers never fails God gave US this land our Holy Book proves it’s so we only kill in sorrow!
Do you, you, hate all the Jews? Hate Palestinians too? Do you, you, hate all the Jews? Hate Palestinians too?
War’s hell too! Do you, you, hate all the Jews? Do you hate, hate Palestinians too?
“Do You Feel Like We Do?” Songwriters: Rick Wills / Peter Frampton / Mick Gallagher / John Siomos
My first-born son lives 900 miles west of us in Des Moines, Iowa, but for the two weeks between 5/3 and 5/25 he had work training a mere 90 miles north of us. He flew into Raleigh’s airport, borrowed my car, borrowed a bicycle, a bicycle helmet and headed north with plans to return to our home on the weekends. He did return to our home the weekend of 5/11 and 5/12, but on Mother’s Day things didn’t go as planned.
My son K and I set off for an exhilarating and challenging bike ride at Umstead State Park on Sunday 5/12, a ride that took twists and turns of both a literal and figurative sort. Having received a distress call from Commissioner Gordon (aka my son K) via the Bat Signal (aka my cell phone) I retraced what had been an aerobically challenging uphill ride back to the Sycamore Bridge where I sigh, get off my bike and watch as Fatima tends K. I ask Fatima, the woman who found my son dazed and confused and lying in a heap, where she’s from and it turns out she used to live in Iowa and that Boyd is transitioning from living in Iowa City to Cary, NC, a shining example of, “It’s a small world, ain’t it?”
K is rambling and incoherent and I ask him to take his glasses off so I can look at his pupils. I then asked Boyd to do the same so I will have a reference for pupil size. Looking back and forth between K and Boyd I comment, “Pupils don’t look dilated,” a statement that causes Fatima to again kindly but firmly emphasize that K needs medical attention.
My plan had been for K and me to bicycle back to our car, but Fatima’s words and K’s disorientation and lack of short-term memory slowly makes its way into my brain, and I concede that I need to call the cavalry. Fatima finishes with K, I thank her repeatedly and then make two phone calls, the first to my wife and the second to the park rangers whose phone number is conveniently located on a small sign directly next to the bridge as the Sycamore Trail, a hiking only trail, crosses the wide open to hikers, bikers, and equestrians Grayson.
I explain to Durga what has happened, that K needs to go to the hospital and ask her to meet us at the Reedy Creek parking lot, a request to which she immediately accedes. I phone the ranger station and calmly explain what has happened and the ranger asks if we need an ambulance or just transportation. I tell him transportation will suffice and he lets me know he’ll send a ranger to help.
K continues to ask me the same questions over and over, to declare that he doesn’t remember anything and to be very disoriented. A ranger appears, helps K get into the bed of a pickup truck, load our bikes and transport us back to the parking lot where Durga awaits, he also emphasizes to take K’s helmet into the emergency room for the doctor to examine. We thank the ranger, Durga helps K into her car in preparation of heading to urgent care and I say to her, “Hang on. K’s wallet is in the car,” as I retrieve it, hand it to her, tell K I love him, tell him to call his wife, then tell Durga the same and ask her to be sure and bring the helmet home so I can use Trek’s crash replacement to get a new one at no additional cost. I load the bikes, call my D-I-L E and head home.
Once home I again phone E, text my siblings, text Durga, text our born-on Mother’s Day younger son and wait for news. Urgent Care sends K to the ER who, after examining him, releases him to our care but tells him not to drive for 24 hours. K makes the necessary phone calls to work and as I type this up, he’s sleeping in our spare room as Durga sleeps in our king-size bed.
The real takeaway from this true tale is to ALWAYS wear a great helmet, bring ID, your insurance card and a cellphone if you have one when cycling, the humorous part is that K finally found a way to outshine his younger brother’s Mother’s Day entrance by K making this Durga’s new Mother’s Day to remember.
My first-born son lives 900 miles west of us in Des Moines, Iowa, but for the two weeks between 5/3 and 5/25 he had work training a mere 90 miles north of us. He flew into Raleigh’s airport, borrowed my car, borrowed a bicycle, a bicycle helmet and headed north with plans to return to our home on the weekends. He did return to our home the weekend of 5/11 and 5/12, but on Mother’s Day things didn’t go as planned.
My wife Durga and I have lived near Raleigh for nearly seven years and our son K has visited with his bride and our pride-and-joy Grandone over a dozen times. K and we have gone cycling on the very tame American Tobacco Trail (ATT) as well as on the slightly to decidedly more adventuresome Umstead State Park trails. May 11th, Saturday morning, K and I rode 33 miles on the ATT and on Mother’s Day the plan was to cycle about the same distance at Umstead. That was the plan, but reality took a decidedly different and striking twist.
To facilitate higher mileage K and I started our ride at the Old Reedy Creek Road trailhead. By starting at Reedy Creek we had over 2.5 miles of well-groomed gravel road with few twists though plenty of rolling hills. We set out at a warm-up pace and rode sedately to the Graylin Trail where we turned left, and I bombed down the still tame and wide but now significantly downhill gravel road. I bombed down, crossed the Grayson Bridge, and resolutely grinded up the still easily negotiated from a technical aspect gravel road though the physical requirements are noticeably higher.
K and I were both on old but well-maintained mountain bikes. My mountain bike has a suspension fork and special pedals that work like ski bindings. I click into my “clipless-pedals,” and I’m attached to the bike. These pedals allow for more muscles to be engaged while riding which is especially helpful when climbing. I climbed the steep hill assuming Kevin was behind me but five minutes later I heard my phone ringing.
When riding off-road I use a small backpack that has a water reservoir within so I can keep both hands on the handlebar. (K prefers these Camelbak devices for riding and he also was wearing one.) Hearing my phone and being able to answer it are not synonymous. The first thing I have to do is decide to answer my phone, a choice I frequently don’t make while riding, but on my Mother’s Day ride I stopped, got to the far side of the trail, took off my Camelbak, took my phone out of a pocket and it stopped ringing. Sighing deeply I check for messages and see that K has called. Sighing, I call him back and ask, “What’s up?”
“I think I crashed,” K responds.
“You think you crashed?” I ask.
“I think so,” he says.
I hear a woman say, “May I have your phone, please?” and she goes on to tell me that K has definitely crashed and that she’s tending his wounds.
“I’ll be right there,” I say with a sigh, wondering how anyone could have crashed on the sections we were on before bombing down the very steep but wide-open section of the Grayson Trail and finding my son sitting on the ground near the edge of the stone bridge while an agemate woman dresses his abrasions with gauze from her backpack. She introduces herself as Fatima, her hiking partner as Boyd and explains that she’s a healthcare worker and that K is in rough shape.
My first-born son lives 900 miles west of us in Des Moines, Iowa, but for the two weeks between 5/3 and 5/25 he had work training a mere 90 miles north of us. He flew into Raleigh’s airport, borrowed my car, borrowed a bicycle, a bicycle helmet and headed north with plans to return to our home on the weekends. He did return to our home the weekend of 5/11 and 5/12, but on Mother’s Day things didn’t go as planned.
There are four of us in my nuclear family, my 63-year-old bride “Durga”, K, our 33-year-old first born son who lives in Des Moines, Iowa, S, our 31-year-old, born on Mother’s Day younger son, and 63-year-old me. Growing up, I had two brothers and two sisters, while my wife was born the fifth of six girls. My parents placed emphasis on sports for fitness and group dynamics while Durga’s father thought sports were important in and of themselves. Durga’s dad thought sports were so important that after serving in the US Navy he became a high school gym teacher and coach before moving on and becoming the principal at Lincoln High School in Yonkers, New York where he was known as Coach.
Both my bride and I were reared in families where there was an emphasis on being active to maintain physical fitness as part of self-care and Durga’s dad also loved watching sports while my father and mother had as much interest in watching professional, college or other high-level, highly marketed sports as I do; practically none.
Durga participated at the varsity level in high school and played basketball for her college team, and all four of my siblings received varsity letters in at least one sport, as did our younger son who managed to earn his varsity letter in cross country running as a freshman and remained varsity all four years. He was also on the varsity squad for track from his freshman through junior year but chose to “demote” himself to JV to play soccer. Our older son stayed JV all four years of high school as he ran cross country.
Me? The only teams I played on were little league baseball teams my mother signed me up for between first and fourth grades back in the mid to late 1960s.
I differentiate between an athlete and one who is active. I am no athlete, but I am highly active, especially in bicycle riding. In the last 43 years I’ve literally ridden well over 215,000 miles/350,000 kilometers as well as running over one thousand foot races, and participating in over a hundred triathlons, but when it comes to finesse, skill at hitting or catching a ball, I’m well below average as is our elder son K, the one who ran JV all four years in high school.
As a whitewater raft guide S literally earns his living by being active, taking risks, and utilizing skills of a sportsman. Meanwhile, K, like me, rides a bike.
This summer Durga, K, my D-I-L E, our Grandone, and I are going to participate in RAGBRAI, a disorganized, organized rolling party on wheels that crosses the State of Iowa over the course of seven days. That’s 434-miles/700 km, with the longest day’s ride being 85 miles.
K rides his bike on the paved, tame trails of Des Moines most every day but on May third he flew from Des Moines to Raleigh for work purposes. K is working 90 miles north of us in Boydton, Virginia and he borrowed my car, my bike rack, a bike, and a helmet so he could ride Boydton’s Heritage Tobacco Trail after work. His job is Monday through Friday, Friday 5/10 he headed south and arrived at our home before dark with plans to do a 40-mile bike ride with me.
I woke up this morning at my usual disgustingly early hour and listened to my gorgeous, kick ass, mother of two, grandmother of one, been my bride for 38 years, been a mother since 1990 and grandmother since 2018 breathing and gently touched her hand before rising from our bed and writing her this Mother’s Day love poem. All hail, Durga! My warrior princess bride!
3:14 awakening hear blessed sound of bride’s breathing reach out my hand, gently touch children’s mother love so much. Fourteen thousand days been bride twelve thousand since mother’s pride Foundation sure she has been thirty-eight years yang and yin.
“Cold and dark, passive power?” Potency emulator. It’s far more me whose passive despite yang nominative. This day the world celebrates madres, mothers birth did make, though been bride thirty-eight years each years passing more revered.
Today rose at three-fourteen, for me normal time rising. This day again blesses me thirteen-thousand, eight, four three mornings that she’s been my bride. But this day first born abides in our spare room cross the hall. sleeping, snoring sound enthralls.
That’s the sound of baby boy birth title Mother enjoined. Parents of two infant sons, who to men time has made them. In our home from far away her thirty-third Mother’s Day, our first-born who is father of our grandone we revere.
Seven years, five months, score days son with bride grandparents made. My Amazonian Queen? Made doting Grandma serene. Love the girl met long ago, life’s been blessed through stages go white haired hellion who is mate? Makes for mother whose first rate.
The beginning of April I began writing Menlo Manner, a story that takes place in Cary, NC, that has many connections to Illinois. I spent the first ten years of my life in Bloomington, Illinois and Bloomington is the home of my fictional character Calpurnius Kelly, age 72. It’s also where his daughter Connie, age 41, grew up. Additionally, Tahnee Zanger, age 27, is an important, if peripheral, character who moved from the DC suburbs to Cicero, IL after landing a job in Chicago.
While the latter half of the 1960’s was filled with turmoil, unrest, and protest, I remember my first decade as idyllic. Idyllic, but very segregated. Oakland Elementary, the school I attended for six years, became integrated in September of 1970 when the school added a singles bus load of students to the previously small enough, so everyone walked or rode a bicycle to Oakland boundaries. (Technically Oakland was not 100% white prior to 1970 as the Asian American Valentine family attended Oakland, but there were no African Americans attending Oakland prior to the arrival of two siblings, a brother and sister, who desegregated Oakland Elementary.)
The desegregation did not go smoothly. My memories from fourth grade at Oakland are filled with many boys repeatedly picking fights and beating up the African American boy, frequently, two junior white thugs would attack the lone black child. His sister, meanwhile, was “merely” screamed at and harassed rather than physically beaten. I guess things were idyllic only so long as we were homogenized.
In August of 1971 my family moved to the DC suburbs and my life changed dramatically. Life six miles north of the DC Beltway was unimaginably different than what I’d experienced in small town Illinois where my father had worked at Illinois State University in adjacent Normal, Illinois, and while the students at Brookhaven Elementary were overwhelmingly white, the population was substantially more diverse than it had been at Oakland and the greater diversity went hand in hand with more catcalling, fist fighting and unrest. The unrest, of course, was because of “those people,” because everyone knew that the White Man had tamed North America and Made Her Great and that the blame for any unrest belonged squarely on the shoulders of “those uppity people.” (Right.)
Fast forward to May 10, 2024, and zoom in on Lockport Township, a suburb of Chicago where 70-year-old John P. Shadbar, a white man, has been arrested for shooting his next-door neighbor Melissa Robertson in the chest and hand. According to news reports Shadbar’s attempted murder was racially motivated and that he shot her after years of harassing her, her two children and her partner for over a decade.
One of Robertson’s sons, Mikeal Johnson, said Shadbar repeatedly shouted the N-word at him, his brother and mother and in one incident Shadbar shouted the N-word directly in Mikeal’s face, an action that led to MS Robinson demanding an apology from Shadbar. The apology was followed by Shadbar appearing in his underwear while holding a gun. Mikeal also said Shadbar would fire his gun in his yard and toss fireworks between their homes.
Robertson’s 8-year-old son witnessed his mother’s shooting and deputies reported that Shadbar made many self-incriminating statements during the standoff prior to his arrest and the Robertsons said they had repeatedly contacted the Will County Sheriff’s Office, but the harassment continued until Shadbar’s attempted murder of his white neighbor for the “crime” of loving a black man and giving birth two her two “mixed-race” children.
When I hear, “Make America great again,” this is exactly what I see. I see hate filled, ignorant people who know this land is our land, but it sure as Hell ain’t their land.
We don’t need to make America great again, we need to make her great for the first time and greatness should not discriminate, subjugate nor denigrate “those people” for their differences but should embrace diversity because any naturalist can tell you that a homogenized eco-system is far more vulnerable than is a diverse one.
Belief in a Holy Power is not equivalent to belief in a religion, and agreeing with a religion’s code of conduct is not the same as believing the “SACRED TEXT” of your religion is god given and infallible. When religious people insist their text is the absolute word of god and must be adhered to and accepted we box ourselves into a corner where we have to chase our own tail, a tail we never catch because if we did we’d choke on it. Faith and religion may have value, but if one’s faith precludes acknowledging advances in understanding our universe then they’re a bane, not a blessing.
There’s Jesus Christ the Father, there’s Jesus Christ the Son, there’s Jesus Holy Spirit, He’s how the West was won! Great Jesus Christ almighty, evoke his sacred name and if you don’t believe it eternity in flames!
Now it may sound as though I’m poking fun at your god, but you can rest assured that poke fun at every one. The testaments that followed The Book of Malachi are no harder to swallow than Jonah’s whale bye-bye!
Long ago upon the Earth a miracle evolved as went from carbon atoms to single cell dictums. Now that’s atom with a t, not A-D-A & M still if call it miracle I’ll chorus with, “Amen!”
Far away, eons ago Mankind became a thing. If years you’re thinking thousands needs exponential ring! Your sacred texts aren’t wholly, but wonderous they are, with them Homo Sapiens with infinity sparred.
Priestly Class is never wrong, if doubt that you should ask the witches and heretics the priests turned into ash. Galileo imprisoned when declared, “It still moves!” and yet some still insisting by Bible text should rule.
Of course it’s not just Bible contemptuously sing any text by anyone that zealously do cling. The words of gods were written by humans of flesh and blood men trying to make sense of flat Earth and sky above.
There’s wisdom in Holy Books, but listen as I say, an advantage of science is they do more than pray. The scientific Method is a true gift from God for with it we analyze great data He’s bestowed.
A postulate disproven is postulate replaced that’s a sign of strength, you see, in no way is disgrace. Each and every one of us has right to live our lives each of us has fantasies that deep inside KNOW are lies.
All I am really saying with my blasphemous song is render unto Caesar where the truth does belong. If you believe Genesis with time frame of six days then go about your business but don’t stand in the way.
The way of wielding wonder as we think, learn, and grow and through our discoveries find your truths ain’t all so? reason we’re given reason is ever upward go. Long ago and far away Mankind became a thing…
keithakenel 