A few thoughts about religion.
If God loves me and I am his child, why does he subscribe to cruel and inhuman punishment?
The big threat from every religion is that if you are not good, you will go to Hell "FOREVER." Let's look at this as a punishment. If we decide that "forever" means the life of the universe as we know it, and we are currently in the middle of the universes' life span of 30 billion years, that means that forever, currently, is about 15 billion years.
So ..... religion tells me God loves me and cares for me and wants the best for me, but, if I somehow screw up during my measly 80+ year life span, God will sentence me to at LEAST 15 BILLION YEARS of pain, torture and anguish. That seems to be quite an overreaction and quite a punishment for someone you "love." The whole concept is rediculous.
Plus, isn't God supposed to be all-knowing and all-powerful? Isn't Heaven supposed to be the place where you will go to earn your "perfect" reward if you are good?
Yet, Satan and his followers were angels in Heaven. They turned against God (because he gave Man free will and angels didn't have that - wait a minute - if angels didn't have free will, how could Satan have turned evil and decided to challenge God? Oh that's right, I'm not supposed to question that). They started a WAR IN HEAVEN and tried to take over. If God is all-powerful, why would Satan have even tried to challenge him? Why didn't God just make them all disappear? If God is all-knowing, why didn't he see this coming and just prevent it? (God seems to be surprised and angered quite frequently for an all-knowing being) And notice that God didn't actually defeat Satan. They actually came to an agreement to stop the war where Satan and his followers got their own country. And they were then allowed to torture mankind. Doesnt sound like a crushing victory for an all-powerful being.
If you subscribe to the idea that God is all-knowing and all-powerful, then nearly every story in the Bible makes no sense. If you believe the stories in the Bible, then you have to accept that God is, at best, maybe just "slightly" superior. But certainly not all-knowing and all-powerful.
This is why religion makes no sense and is bunk. The stories and the rules are completely contradictory.
The purpose of religion is to pretend you are doing good for others so you can convinve your religious leaders to tell God you are good to save your own ass from going to hell. In the meantime, religion fosters intolerance, hatred, elitism, and the persecution of anyone not "of the faith." Thou Shalt Not Kill .... this is a COMMANDMENT .... unless your religious leaders tell you God said it was ok to kill "this time."
Rediculous.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Friendship Tied to the Tracks
I felt badly for many years because I just kind of abandoned my friend Dale when he got into drugs and alcohol. I wasn't sure how to deal with it, he scared the crud out of me, so I just avoided him. Over the last 9 months, we discovered each other and re-opened our friendship on Facebook. I knew he had cleaned himself up and that he was now a religious nut, but, I felt we could still be friends. However, over the last couple of months he went through a personal scare and operation for prostate cancer. The result was that he suddenly went DEEP into his religious fervor. That's what religious people do when faced with the thought of death. They start being more religious in the hopes that they can convinve everyone (including God) they are good people so they can make sure to get their asses into Heaven. That's all religion is about. It's not about helping others to be good. It's about doing good works (as defined by your religious leaders) so you can save your own ass and not go to Hell. He began posting between 5 and 10 different religious messages to Facebook almost on a daily basis. I do not believe in religion. God may exist, I think that question may be open, but the absolute bullshit that people created that they call religion is nonsense and I don't subscribe to any of it. I challenged Dale on several occasions, pointing out the discrepancies and inconsistencies with what he was writing. At first he tried to be a little understanding of me and my position (I was doing it mainly to try to get him to tone it down a bit) but he became more increasingly fundamentalist. He became intolerant, angry, and started suggesting that I should not be allowed to post anti-religious stuff while he was allowed to post as much religious stuff as he wanted. I subscribe to the Freedom from Religion Foundation and he even created posts calling them a CULT. What utter nonsense. He said he felt "sorry" for me and became convinced that "something" was controlling my life. The implication was that I was somehow under Satan's control. This was the last straw. This time I walked away voluntarily. Sick or not, friend or not, I do not have to be abused by any religious nuts just because they feel morally superior to me and decide I need to be suppressed. I asked him when they were going to tie me to a stake and burn me, or call me a heretic and kill me. What's the difference? The same arrogant attitudes and religious hate that has fueled religious murder for centuries will not put any of those freaks into "heaven." If I am going to hell, I expect to see a lot of those persecuting murderers there with me. So this friendship, as screwy as it has been, is now over. I live my life just fine without religious oppression, fear, and arrogant hatred of others. If you don't believe the same things, that's fine, I believe you have that right. But don't you try to deprive me of MY rights.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Social Nutworking - The Results (kinda)
I've just spent six months on Facebook and I'm ready to give my interim grades. Right now I give it a C-. Is it nice to find all of my old friends and family and have a handy vehicle to talk with them and keep up with them .... yes. But it does not take long for the distasteful side of this to appear, and that really taints the entire experience for me.
First, you must understand that, dispite all of the sales pitches about how great social networking is, the primary reason it exists is so that the social networking providers can gather and sell information to advertisers and vendors so they can all make money off of you. You, and especially your information, are vital commodities to be bought and sold. I am not comfotable in this role as "information bitch." I am a private person and I feel my life is my business and "IF" I decide to let you in on any of it I will. The idea that everything I say, do, write, and contribute to the provider becomes their "property" to sell as they wish just makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Second, many people have no actual lives and social networking quickly becomes an addiction that billows into the rediculous. It gives the average person an incredibly overblown sense of self-importance because they can publish something and they feel that (for some unknown reason) the entire world is reading their stuff, and it makes them feel important. They then become convinced that they need to keep the world informed and start posting every stupid little thing they see, think, or do to the networking site(s). People actually spend their entire day posting shit like "I woke up," "I'm having breakfast now. I like pancakes," "ate something yesterday that is not agreeing with me today," "time for my shower," "going to sleep." When I read stuff like that my response (to myself - of course) is STFU! Who cares? This is just drivel and helps dilute the good parts of social networking. Facebook has a lot of this, but the WORST offender is Twitter. This was designed for, and it overused by, two kinds of people, those with exceptionally overblown senses of self-importance who truly believe the world really DOES need to know everything they think and do, and those with no lives at all, who actually subscribe to the twitter pages of the arrogant assholes in order to have lives, and, in so doing, further feed the imagined self-importance of the posters. It is a psychological experiment in self-reinforcing delusion.
Third, just like in real life there are assholes and bullies who feel like really big people when they can shout down or rip apart someone else. In real-life you can often see those people coming and just avoid them. In cyberspace, because you are often at the mercy of the privacy settings of people you talk to, these shitheads just pop up out of nowhere and try to take over. They try to crush your opinion, they are insulting, they are denigrating, and there is almost nothing you can do about them, unlike real-life. This is a very discouraging and disheartening thing.
Lastly, this just becomes another consumer of your life and time. You begin to feel obligated to check your page multiple times a day "just in case" someone has sent you a message. So instead of possibly relaxing, or doing something constructive with your time, you end up spending even more lost lifetime sitting behind your computer (or phone) anxiously waiting for someone else to acknowledge you. This is also distasteful.
So what am I going to do? I will continue to stay with Facebook for another six months and give it a full year. But, based on my experiences and the way I like to live my life, I am making some changes to my usage. I am going to cull my friends list. I have allowed people in as my friends because I used to work with them, even though we were not really close friends then. I want my friends list to be people I really care something about, not everyone on the globe, so I will start cutting off some of the bit players. I am going to do a LOT more of my correspondence with friends by PRIVATE MESSAGES so that the assholes can't interrupt and disturb me. If I don't feed their stupidity, maybe they will die and fall away. I am going to only post publicly if I think I have anything to post that may be of interest. I am going to avoid giving public opinion (don't feed the dickheads) and avoid responding to other people's stupid public opinions (don't feed the dickheads). I think I'm going to print a big sign and tape it up by my computer that says DON'T FEED THE DICKHEADS !!!! This should help remind me to hold my tongue.
So, the first six months was mixed, but, I am going to change the way I use the product and see if my experience improves. The only thing that is for sure is that it is good for advertising. I created pages for the two websites I manage and within days the hit rates began to climb after being very steady for years. I guess this all goes back to the first point. We are all just commodities anymore.
Final grade and decision on whether to continue in six months.
First, you must understand that, dispite all of the sales pitches about how great social networking is, the primary reason it exists is so that the social networking providers can gather and sell information to advertisers and vendors so they can all make money off of you. You, and especially your information, are vital commodities to be bought and sold. I am not comfotable in this role as "information bitch." I am a private person and I feel my life is my business and "IF" I decide to let you in on any of it I will. The idea that everything I say, do, write, and contribute to the provider becomes their "property" to sell as they wish just makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
Second, many people have no actual lives and social networking quickly becomes an addiction that billows into the rediculous. It gives the average person an incredibly overblown sense of self-importance because they can publish something and they feel that (for some unknown reason) the entire world is reading their stuff, and it makes them feel important. They then become convinced that they need to keep the world informed and start posting every stupid little thing they see, think, or do to the networking site(s). People actually spend their entire day posting shit like "I woke up," "I'm having breakfast now. I like pancakes," "ate something yesterday that is not agreeing with me today," "time for my shower," "going to sleep." When I read stuff like that my response (to myself - of course) is STFU! Who cares? This is just drivel and helps dilute the good parts of social networking. Facebook has a lot of this, but the WORST offender is Twitter. This was designed for, and it overused by, two kinds of people, those with exceptionally overblown senses of self-importance who truly believe the world really DOES need to know everything they think and do, and those with no lives at all, who actually subscribe to the twitter pages of the arrogant assholes in order to have lives, and, in so doing, further feed the imagined self-importance of the posters. It is a psychological experiment in self-reinforcing delusion.
Third, just like in real life there are assholes and bullies who feel like really big people when they can shout down or rip apart someone else. In real-life you can often see those people coming and just avoid them. In cyberspace, because you are often at the mercy of the privacy settings of people you talk to, these shitheads just pop up out of nowhere and try to take over. They try to crush your opinion, they are insulting, they are denigrating, and there is almost nothing you can do about them, unlike real-life. This is a very discouraging and disheartening thing.
Lastly, this just becomes another consumer of your life and time. You begin to feel obligated to check your page multiple times a day "just in case" someone has sent you a message. So instead of possibly relaxing, or doing something constructive with your time, you end up spending even more lost lifetime sitting behind your computer (or phone) anxiously waiting for someone else to acknowledge you. This is also distasteful.
So what am I going to do? I will continue to stay with Facebook for another six months and give it a full year. But, based on my experiences and the way I like to live my life, I am making some changes to my usage. I am going to cull my friends list. I have allowed people in as my friends because I used to work with them, even though we were not really close friends then. I want my friends list to be people I really care something about, not everyone on the globe, so I will start cutting off some of the bit players. I am going to do a LOT more of my correspondence with friends by PRIVATE MESSAGES so that the assholes can't interrupt and disturb me. If I don't feed their stupidity, maybe they will die and fall away. I am going to only post publicly if I think I have anything to post that may be of interest. I am going to avoid giving public opinion (don't feed the dickheads) and avoid responding to other people's stupid public opinions (don't feed the dickheads). I think I'm going to print a big sign and tape it up by my computer that says DON'T FEED THE DICKHEADS !!!! This should help remind me to hold my tongue.
So, the first six months was mixed, but, I am going to change the way I use the product and see if my experience improves. The only thing that is for sure is that it is good for advertising. I created pages for the two websites I manage and within days the hit rates began to climb after being very steady for years. I guess this all goes back to the first point. We are all just commodities anymore.
Final grade and decision on whether to continue in six months.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
A Little Travelin' Music
Here is another short story I wrote about my hobo friends. On a day which is synonymous with American history, it only seems right to post about an important part of that history.
I Know the Hobo
Originally written May, 1983
Revised April 14, 2002
The United States is a democratic republic, and every hobo is a king unto himself. Yet, every year, an event happens which is designed to rock the republic to its’ core.
Every year, all the vagabonds, hoboes, and travelers all meet in Britt, Iowa and elect a “king” who rules the nation. I know this because I have attended the event several times and have personally seen it happen.
I first heard of this remarkable event from hobo king “Steamtrain” Maury Graham
himself. I met Maury at a crafts festival in the Catoctin Mountains of Maryland. He
invited me to come to Britt in order to see how a hobo king is elected. How could I, a devout wanderer and traveler, possibly have turned down an invitation like that?
Unlike the majority of the true hoboes who come in to Britt “on the rails”, my
arrival has always been by conventional truck or motorcycle. I have always wanted to
make a grand entrance by hopping off a freight; however, the old-timers have told me of the dangers and discouraged me from trying. They have explained how riding the rails is a survival art of much skill which is best left to those who have extensive experience at it. I trust them so I listen to them.
The town of Britt has acted as host to this annual hobo convention for over a
hundred years now. It would be hard to find a better host. The people of Britt love the hoboes. I have seen people buy groceries, clothing, blankets, and other goods for their hobo friends. Many residents, who have gotten to know the old ‘bos over the years, will come out to the “jungle” and invite their friends to their homes for food and to stay over. Everyone else just seems to get caught up in the festive atmosphere. There are events and a carnival all week leading up to the election and coronation of a king and queen of hoboes.
As a friend of “Steamtrain” Maury, I have had the privilege and fun of
participating in many of the activities, and I have been allowed to live in the jungle with the ‘bos. I have helped in the preparation and serving of “mulligan stew” and have been trusted to guard the jungle during the coronation festivities.
I have vivid memories of the smells and tastes of the stew as all of the ingredients
cooked for hours in the pots. I have tasted “hobo pickles” which are very tasty and can be made in only a few hours. I have tasted a hobo candy made by an old ‘bo named “Frypan Jack.” It is so sweet and delicious that people will wait in line for hours to get some. I have no idea what the ingredients are, nor do I care.
I have slept under a clear Iowa sky, inside an open boxcar, and in a small tent with no other protection as a tornado passed overhead during the night. The roar and whistle inside the funnel did no justice to the feeble attempts at description that others have made who have had contact with these monsters. I have even met Mr. Nobody. Mr. Nobody is the hobo candidate for President of the United States. When you ask someone who they are going to vote for, and they reply “nobody,” you now know who they were talking about. Most importantly, I have met many new people, made many new friends, and heard many good stories and much history.
That is the purpose of a true hobo; to make friends. Not just acquaintances, but
friends whom you will keep in touch with throughout your life. I have done this and I
correspond regularly with many of my new friends. In 1980, in appreciation of the help and friendship I put forth to my hobo friends, I was officially dubbed a “Grand Duke of Hoboes” for life. I have the paperwork to prove it. I cherish the honor, and, like everything else connected to the hoboes, I laugh about it at the same time. Irreverence is a hallmark of hobo life. I was even given a hobo name, “Black River Blondie,” to identify me and increase my “status” among the brotherhood. I have since shortened it to “Black River” out of laziness, but I will never drop the name I was given.
So, every year I sit down and try to see if I can find the time to return to the
festivities. Since I have settled down with a wife and family it has been difficult. I read the hobo web sites to see who did or didn’t make it to the convention. Whether those who didn’t were just ill, or whether they “caught the Westbound” and will not return again.
It is a sad irony that I have discovered the honor and friendship of the
“brotherhood of the road” just as it is entering its twilight years. The heyday of the hobos rested on the steam locomotive. As the steamers faded into oblivion and the economy improved the job prospects of the millions out of work during the depression, the ability of the old ‘bos to travel freely was severely restricted. Few young men took up train hopping and the existing population has now become quite aged. Soon there will be no “real” hoboes left. I have wished many times that I could have discovered it when it was young so that I would not have to watch it die.
But there is hope. Maybe not for the train hoppers, but for the traveling spirit and
the vagabond lifestyle. Every year more and more young vagabonds show up to be a part
of the convention. Hitchhikers, bikers, and campers are well represented along with the original vagabonds who never die, the tramps. So maybe the reign of the American Hobo is not quite over yet. Perhaps I can still be a part of some of the festivities over the next 100 years of coronations in Britt, Iowa, the home of the “American King in Rags.
I Know the Hobo
Originally written May, 1983
Revised April 14, 2002
The United States is a democratic republic, and every hobo is a king unto himself. Yet, every year, an event happens which is designed to rock the republic to its’ core.
Every year, all the vagabonds, hoboes, and travelers all meet in Britt, Iowa and elect a “king” who rules the nation. I know this because I have attended the event several times and have personally seen it happen.
I first heard of this remarkable event from hobo king “Steamtrain” Maury Graham
himself. I met Maury at a crafts festival in the Catoctin Mountains of Maryland. He
invited me to come to Britt in order to see how a hobo king is elected. How could I, a devout wanderer and traveler, possibly have turned down an invitation like that?
Unlike the majority of the true hoboes who come in to Britt “on the rails”, my
arrival has always been by conventional truck or motorcycle. I have always wanted to
make a grand entrance by hopping off a freight; however, the old-timers have told me of the dangers and discouraged me from trying. They have explained how riding the rails is a survival art of much skill which is best left to those who have extensive experience at it. I trust them so I listen to them.
The town of Britt has acted as host to this annual hobo convention for over a
hundred years now. It would be hard to find a better host. The people of Britt love the hoboes. I have seen people buy groceries, clothing, blankets, and other goods for their hobo friends. Many residents, who have gotten to know the old ‘bos over the years, will come out to the “jungle” and invite their friends to their homes for food and to stay over. Everyone else just seems to get caught up in the festive atmosphere. There are events and a carnival all week leading up to the election and coronation of a king and queen of hoboes.
As a friend of “Steamtrain” Maury, I have had the privilege and fun of
participating in many of the activities, and I have been allowed to live in the jungle with the ‘bos. I have helped in the preparation and serving of “mulligan stew” and have been trusted to guard the jungle during the coronation festivities.
I have vivid memories of the smells and tastes of the stew as all of the ingredients
cooked for hours in the pots. I have tasted “hobo pickles” which are very tasty and can be made in only a few hours. I have tasted a hobo candy made by an old ‘bo named “Frypan Jack.” It is so sweet and delicious that people will wait in line for hours to get some. I have no idea what the ingredients are, nor do I care.
I have slept under a clear Iowa sky, inside an open boxcar, and in a small tent with no other protection as a tornado passed overhead during the night. The roar and whistle inside the funnel did no justice to the feeble attempts at description that others have made who have had contact with these monsters. I have even met Mr. Nobody. Mr. Nobody is the hobo candidate for President of the United States. When you ask someone who they are going to vote for, and they reply “nobody,” you now know who they were talking about. Most importantly, I have met many new people, made many new friends, and heard many good stories and much history.
That is the purpose of a true hobo; to make friends. Not just acquaintances, but
friends whom you will keep in touch with throughout your life. I have done this and I
correspond regularly with many of my new friends. In 1980, in appreciation of the help and friendship I put forth to my hobo friends, I was officially dubbed a “Grand Duke of Hoboes” for life. I have the paperwork to prove it. I cherish the honor, and, like everything else connected to the hoboes, I laugh about it at the same time. Irreverence is a hallmark of hobo life. I was even given a hobo name, “Black River Blondie,” to identify me and increase my “status” among the brotherhood. I have since shortened it to “Black River” out of laziness, but I will never drop the name I was given.
So, every year I sit down and try to see if I can find the time to return to the
festivities. Since I have settled down with a wife and family it has been difficult. I read the hobo web sites to see who did or didn’t make it to the convention. Whether those who didn’t were just ill, or whether they “caught the Westbound” and will not return again.
It is a sad irony that I have discovered the honor and friendship of the
“brotherhood of the road” just as it is entering its twilight years. The heyday of the hobos rested on the steam locomotive. As the steamers faded into oblivion and the economy improved the job prospects of the millions out of work during the depression, the ability of the old ‘bos to travel freely was severely restricted. Few young men took up train hopping and the existing population has now become quite aged. Soon there will be no “real” hoboes left. I have wished many times that I could have discovered it when it was young so that I would not have to watch it die.
But there is hope. Maybe not for the train hoppers, but for the traveling spirit and
the vagabond lifestyle. Every year more and more young vagabonds show up to be a part
of the convention. Hitchhikers, bikers, and campers are well represented along with the original vagabonds who never die, the tramps. So maybe the reign of the American Hobo is not quite over yet. Perhaps I can still be a part of some of the festivities over the next 100 years of coronations in Britt, Iowa, the home of the “American King in Rags.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Misc Parts
I've already talked about the hoboes and Steamtrain Maury. I now understand that his wife Wanda is in a rest home and at death's door. I will have to keep up to see what's going on.
When I was small I wrote a bunch of books for other children about a bunch of silly characters. I may publish some of those soon. My niece in England is very creative and she is also writing children's stories. I have copies of some of them. We are buddies and I encourage her to be as creative as she wants to be.
I decided at the start of the year that I was really tired of being overweight and feeling bad and began a new exercise regimen. I have officially lost 20 lbs, a good start, but I have a goal and it is a long way to that goal. But I am very encouraged and highly motivated to do this for ME and I will keep plugging away.
My mom is now in a rest home (Alzheimers) and she had a lot of hand written family tree stuff. My wife's mom had a bunch for her family. So I got some family tree software and started contacting people and putting info in from the papers. It is going well and there are now close to 1000 individuals in the tree going back (in one line) 28 generations to the 1100's. Will have to see how this pans out. I've already told everyone when I am done I will export a GEDCOM file from it all and give everyone a copy.
When I was small I wrote a bunch of books for other children about a bunch of silly characters. I may publish some of those soon. My niece in England is very creative and she is also writing children's stories. I have copies of some of them. We are buddies and I encourage her to be as creative as she wants to be.
I decided at the start of the year that I was really tired of being overweight and feeling bad and began a new exercise regimen. I have officially lost 20 lbs, a good start, but I have a goal and it is a long way to that goal. But I am very encouraged and highly motivated to do this for ME and I will keep plugging away.
My mom is now in a rest home (Alzheimers) and she had a lot of hand written family tree stuff. My wife's mom had a bunch for her family. So I got some family tree software and started contacting people and putting info in from the papers. It is going well and there are now close to 1000 individuals in the tree going back (in one line) 28 generations to the 1100's. Will have to see how this pans out. I've already told everyone when I am done I will export a GEDCOM file from it all and give everyone a copy.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
The Martians Did It
Another story .......... just for the hallibut.
“The Martians Did It!”
By Kim Falk
Originally Written 1983
Revised March 16, 2002
H. G. Wells’ “War of the Worlds” told the tale of the invasion of the Earth by large, malicious, technologically-advanced Martians. A frightening story to read although we are comforted by the knowledge that it is only fiction. I, however, have seen real Martians. I have watched as they persistently invaded a classroom in my high school. They were not large, nor were they malicious, but their numbers caused a great disruption in the everyday activities of my English class for several months.
It all began in “Stalag 206” one winter morning. Stalag 206 was how the students referred to our English class. That morning I was being verbally lashed by the “Kommandant” for doodling when he believed I should have been mesmerized by his disjointed ravings at the front of the room. I had been drawing a series of small, oblong creatures whose two skinny legs and bony knees protruded down from directly beneath the tiny body. The body itself was dominated by two huge friendly eyes which completely dwarfed the two tiny nose holes and the little smiling mouth. Two antennae, which protruded from the top of the head and bent towards the sides of the body like two elongated, backwards parenthesis, completed the picture.
The teacher looked over my “Martians” briefly and made some rather cruel statements concerning their appearance, parentage, and reason for existence. I felt sorry for the poor little things. They had certainly done nothing to warrant such harsh treatment. I decided right there that the Martians were entitled to some small measure of retribution.
A few weeks later, after allowing our beloved teacher’s mind to wander far from his recollection of the Martians, the attack began. I had carefully created ten “life-size” Martians and, just prior to class, placed them strategically around the classroom. The “Beast of 206” stormed in at the bell to start class. By the time class was over, as was the plan, he had been completely frustrated by the discovery, every few minutes, of another small smiling creature. I was genuinely amused by the many and groundless threats of violence he uttered towards his unknown assailant. This was fun! I quickly decided a “second wave” was in order.
One week later our Kommandant’s ire was raised, once again, to the boiling point as he stumbled through another class discovering the twenty-five Martians who had come to visit. The threats of violence now began to include not just the unknown trickster, but the trickster’s parents and any possible relatives, living or dead.
I waited a month before the next attack. It was a rapid one-two punch that left him breathless. First, he was surrounded by fifty tiny, smiling Martians. Then, a few days later, before he could fully recover, he came into class to find it nearly wallpapered by over one-hundred smiling little faces. He seemed particularly perturbed by the plaid ones. The epithets screamed at the class by the madman with the red, contorted face convinced me that he was near the breaking point. The Martians were near victory in this war, and I needed to help them post the win. All they needed was one carefully planned final assault. An attack so devastating that the revenge of the Martians would be complete. I had a plan … it would just take a little time.
Exactly two weeks later, on a bright sunny December day, I walked into school carrying a large manila envelope. It was time. Everything would have to go perfectly if what I had planned were to work.
I entered the classroom quite early so that I would have the time, and the privacy, to set up for the assault. I opened the envelope and carefully began placing the two-hundred fifty, brightly colored, full-size, smiling little Martians around the room. It took a while to get the job done, but the effect was startling. Anyone entering the room would find themselves stared at from every possible nook and cranny. I had even found a way to slip a few through the cracks into his locked desk drawers. I then pulled one last Martian from the envelope. This Martian was huge. The poster board he was on measured twenty-four inches square and he filled every inch. This was the “King Martian.” Complete with crown, robe and scepter he was a regal sight to behold. I carefully smoothed him out and taped him onto the small blackboard on the rear wall of the classroom. This gave the effect of all the other Martians facing him as his loyal subjects.
At this point a few of the other students began arriving for class. The stunned looks and giddy smiles as they entered that Martian “Wonderland” told me I had done well.
Enlisting the aid of several other students, I finished the scene. Carefully, we turned all of the students’ desks around to face the back of the room where the “King” presided over his motley court. I then instructed everyone to turn the desks upside down and for every student to sit in the opening created by the desk legs which, to be perfectly clear, were now all pointing up in the general direction of Mars. The final coaching was completed only moments before the Kommandant arrived.
The angry look of stunned horror on his face as he entered the throne room that used to be his classroom put victory within easy reach. He was livid! He had trouble breathing he was so angry and flustered. Finally, after several minutes of struggling to regain some semblance of composure, he managed to blurt out, “What the Hell is going on here?” To answer him, the entire class turned to look at him and began chanting in unison, “The Martians did it! The Martians did it!”
He gasped. He growled. He made genuinely ridiculous noises as he tried in vain to find any words at all. It was of no use, however, and he stormed speechlessly out of the room. My Martians had had their revenge.
The teacher was so flustered by the whole affair that he did not return to class for three days. When he did return, he acted much more pleasantly and significantly more human. We were all amazed that the Principal or one of his assistants hadn’t come down to see the spectacle and punish us all. They must have thought he needed it as much as we did. Anyway, the plan was a success and the Martians and their King returned back to their home planet victorious and happy. It was a great and wonderful occasion.
Still. I wonder, though. What I could have done with Venusians.
“The Martians Did It!”
By Kim Falk
Originally Written 1983
Revised March 16, 2002
H. G. Wells’ “War of the Worlds” told the tale of the invasion of the Earth by large, malicious, technologically-advanced Martians. A frightening story to read although we are comforted by the knowledge that it is only fiction. I, however, have seen real Martians. I have watched as they persistently invaded a classroom in my high school. They were not large, nor were they malicious, but their numbers caused a great disruption in the everyday activities of my English class for several months.
It all began in “Stalag 206” one winter morning. Stalag 206 was how the students referred to our English class. That morning I was being verbally lashed by the “Kommandant” for doodling when he believed I should have been mesmerized by his disjointed ravings at the front of the room. I had been drawing a series of small, oblong creatures whose two skinny legs and bony knees protruded down from directly beneath the tiny body. The body itself was dominated by two huge friendly eyes which completely dwarfed the two tiny nose holes and the little smiling mouth. Two antennae, which protruded from the top of the head and bent towards the sides of the body like two elongated, backwards parenthesis, completed the picture.
The teacher looked over my “Martians” briefly and made some rather cruel statements concerning their appearance, parentage, and reason for existence. I felt sorry for the poor little things. They had certainly done nothing to warrant such harsh treatment. I decided right there that the Martians were entitled to some small measure of retribution.
A few weeks later, after allowing our beloved teacher’s mind to wander far from his recollection of the Martians, the attack began. I had carefully created ten “life-size” Martians and, just prior to class, placed them strategically around the classroom. The “Beast of 206” stormed in at the bell to start class. By the time class was over, as was the plan, he had been completely frustrated by the discovery, every few minutes, of another small smiling creature. I was genuinely amused by the many and groundless threats of violence he uttered towards his unknown assailant. This was fun! I quickly decided a “second wave” was in order.
One week later our Kommandant’s ire was raised, once again, to the boiling point as he stumbled through another class discovering the twenty-five Martians who had come to visit. The threats of violence now began to include not just the unknown trickster, but the trickster’s parents and any possible relatives, living or dead.
I waited a month before the next attack. It was a rapid one-two punch that left him breathless. First, he was surrounded by fifty tiny, smiling Martians. Then, a few days later, before he could fully recover, he came into class to find it nearly wallpapered by over one-hundred smiling little faces. He seemed particularly perturbed by the plaid ones. The epithets screamed at the class by the madman with the red, contorted face convinced me that he was near the breaking point. The Martians were near victory in this war, and I needed to help them post the win. All they needed was one carefully planned final assault. An attack so devastating that the revenge of the Martians would be complete. I had a plan … it would just take a little time.
Exactly two weeks later, on a bright sunny December day, I walked into school carrying a large manila envelope. It was time. Everything would have to go perfectly if what I had planned were to work.
I entered the classroom quite early so that I would have the time, and the privacy, to set up for the assault. I opened the envelope and carefully began placing the two-hundred fifty, brightly colored, full-size, smiling little Martians around the room. It took a while to get the job done, but the effect was startling. Anyone entering the room would find themselves stared at from every possible nook and cranny. I had even found a way to slip a few through the cracks into his locked desk drawers. I then pulled one last Martian from the envelope. This Martian was huge. The poster board he was on measured twenty-four inches square and he filled every inch. This was the “King Martian.” Complete with crown, robe and scepter he was a regal sight to behold. I carefully smoothed him out and taped him onto the small blackboard on the rear wall of the classroom. This gave the effect of all the other Martians facing him as his loyal subjects.
At this point a few of the other students began arriving for class. The stunned looks and giddy smiles as they entered that Martian “Wonderland” told me I had done well.
Enlisting the aid of several other students, I finished the scene. Carefully, we turned all of the students’ desks around to face the back of the room where the “King” presided over his motley court. I then instructed everyone to turn the desks upside down and for every student to sit in the opening created by the desk legs which, to be perfectly clear, were now all pointing up in the general direction of Mars. The final coaching was completed only moments before the Kommandant arrived.
The angry look of stunned horror on his face as he entered the throne room that used to be his classroom put victory within easy reach. He was livid! He had trouble breathing he was so angry and flustered. Finally, after several minutes of struggling to regain some semblance of composure, he managed to blurt out, “What the Hell is going on here?” To answer him, the entire class turned to look at him and began chanting in unison, “The Martians did it! The Martians did it!”
He gasped. He growled. He made genuinely ridiculous noises as he tried in vain to find any words at all. It was of no use, however, and he stormed speechlessly out of the room. My Martians had had their revenge.
The teacher was so flustered by the whole affair that he did not return to class for three days. When he did return, he acted much more pleasantly and significantly more human. We were all amazed that the Principal or one of his assistants hadn’t come down to see the spectacle and punish us all. They must have thought he needed it as much as we did. Anyway, the plan was a success and the Martians and their King returned back to their home planet victorious and happy. It was a great and wonderful occasion.
Still. I wonder, though. What I could have done with Venusians.
Friday, February 12, 2010
It's Not the Size of the Engine ... It's the Road It Travels
Recently a friend was feeling rather depressed and confided to me that he had been thinking about his life and how he hadn't done anything "big" with his life. I thought about that for a while and I realized that he was looking for comfort and validation for his life in the wrong place. Very few people in this world do huge things that make them famous or noted. You can't judge your life by impossible criteria. You make a difference one person at a time. Small victories. Just being there at the right time or helping steer someone the right way. I taught at college for six years as adjunct faculty. I still meet up with ex students and I can't tell you how many of them thanked me for what I taught and for being helpful and patient with them. I was a scoutmaster for a while and I think I helped make a small difference in how those kids viewed the outdoors and their own self-sufficiency. I've had people confide the worst things to me because they needed a shoulder to cry on or an ear to listen and they know I will keep the secrets they have asked me to keep. So I am not famous. I am not going to cure cancer or create world peace. But, hopefully, I have been a positive and guiding influence to some and, hopefully, they will pass that along to others. I can make a difference in the lives of many .... as long as I do it one person at a time. And THAT is a huge victory and a reason to keep going on.
Monday, January 18, 2010
What "Family" Really Is
It has become very apparent to me lately that the term “family” refers to the people in your life that nurture you, and guide you, and love you. This often has nothing to do with the people who created you biologically, and anyone who may be related to them.
My dad was an alcoholic and died when I was nine. My mom raised my sister and I by herself. We always knew she cared for us and she always did her best for us, but she was not a huggy kissy kind of person. We were never really “close.” She was always cold and aloof and rarely praised us. Even when we had good grades and stuff it was always, “Well, you could be doing better.”
Because she was always working, my sister and I were “latch key kids.” This meant that we really had minimal supervision. Where I generally took that as a challenge to try to “do the right thing,” my sister looked at it as free-range to do as she pleased. We both abused it at times but no one’s perfect.
My sister was always very selfish and everything was always what she wanted, and she wanted everything. She was angry when I was born because I cut into her having her way and she has treated me badly my whole life. She teased me, denigrated me, and generally bullied me until I was in high school and finally got the nerve to tell her off. I’ve refused to let her bully me since.
For many years, my mother lived with my sister. This was, in my opinion, primarily because my sister used my mother to bail her out of all of her financial crises. My mom always complained to me about how my sister had to borrow money, or how she had to help her pay for something. But for many years we all hardly talked to each other except on holidays or if there was some “important” news about a relative, like someone died. I never considered this a bad thing because if there was one thing my mom taught me, it was to be independent. We always had an understanding between us that “no news was good news” so we never felt compelled to talk “just to chat.”
My mom eventually moved out and got her own apartment where she lived on her own for a long time. A few years ago, she began having weird spells and memory problems and she was diagnosed with dementia. This has progressed and she is now diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. For a couple of years, meds kept her fairly stable and she could still live on her own with my sister keeping close tabs on her. My sister did this because she lived very close to her and worked from her house. I worked business hours in an office 35 miles away and we both agreed it was better if she did the day-to-day stuff. But she is no longer able to care for herself and is now in a nursing home.
I was handling her finances for a while, but, I could get no accountability from my sister and I didn’t like a lot of the things I was seeing in the checkbook. The more I asked for accountability the angrier and more abusive she became. Until she finally stopped taking any calls and blocked my emails. Imagine, I’m legally responsible for money she’s spending and she won’t tell me where it’s going. That was the last straw. Since I was legally responsible for the government money, and because I could get no decent accountability from my sister, I had to protect myself and my family by divorcing myself from my mother’s finances.
My sister has spent the last year telling everyone on our side of the family that I have “abandoned” my mother. I “never” visit her and “never” call her. She takes great pride in telling me how the rest of our family now hates me as thoughtless and evil. In the meantime, no one from our family has made any attempt to contact me for anything. Not to find out my side of the story, or even to see how things were going for me. Most of them haven’t sent me even a token Christmas card in years, and stopped inviting me to any family outings well over a decade ago. My niece is a chip off the old block. Harassing everyone in my family and attacking them at every turn.
This is supposed to be my “family?”
I have been visiting and calling my mother, and she once commented that I was not really a member of our family anymore. I seemed to be a member of my wife’s family. This is because when we talked I always talked about my wife’s family, her sisters and husbands, and their kids.
She was right.
I am a member of my wife’s family. I became that when I married her and they treat me like a “family” should. They are close and keep in contact. We are always invited to different homes around holidays and everyone sends cards and letters. We constantly call and email and when my mother first started having problems, many people on my wife’s side of the family called to ask how I was, how my mom was, and if there was anything they could do to help. It’s not all perfect, but at least people care and show it.
All I did was marry into this family and they have taken me in as one of their own. Just like in high school when my friend Joe’s family took me in and cared for me like I was one of their kids. I was just invited over around Christmas and spent time with them. These are the people I learned loving, caring, respect, and how to treat family from. Not my biological household. These are the people who are my family, not those whose DNA I share. I would be proud, at any time, to tell people I was a member of those families. I do not have the same warm feelings for my biologics.
So I watch with great sadness as my mother goes through this, and I will continue to see her and talk to her as long as she can remember who I am. We actually have nice conversations and she seems pleased to see me. My biological relations can think of me by whatever slander my sister feeds them. I’d sue her but she’s not worth it. It is their shortcoming and problem, not mine. I will continue to spend most of my time with my “family.” The ones who really care and the ones who really matter.
I really don’t think I care anymore what my biological relatives do.
They are simply not my “family.”
My dad was an alcoholic and died when I was nine. My mom raised my sister and I by herself. We always knew she cared for us and she always did her best for us, but she was not a huggy kissy kind of person. We were never really “close.” She was always cold and aloof and rarely praised us. Even when we had good grades and stuff it was always, “Well, you could be doing better.”
Because she was always working, my sister and I were “latch key kids.” This meant that we really had minimal supervision. Where I generally took that as a challenge to try to “do the right thing,” my sister looked at it as free-range to do as she pleased. We both abused it at times but no one’s perfect.
My sister was always very selfish and everything was always what she wanted, and she wanted everything. She was angry when I was born because I cut into her having her way and she has treated me badly my whole life. She teased me, denigrated me, and generally bullied me until I was in high school and finally got the nerve to tell her off. I’ve refused to let her bully me since.
For many years, my mother lived with my sister. This was, in my opinion, primarily because my sister used my mother to bail her out of all of her financial crises. My mom always complained to me about how my sister had to borrow money, or how she had to help her pay for something. But for many years we all hardly talked to each other except on holidays or if there was some “important” news about a relative, like someone died. I never considered this a bad thing because if there was one thing my mom taught me, it was to be independent. We always had an understanding between us that “no news was good news” so we never felt compelled to talk “just to chat.”
My mom eventually moved out and got her own apartment where she lived on her own for a long time. A few years ago, she began having weird spells and memory problems and she was diagnosed with dementia. This has progressed and she is now diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. For a couple of years, meds kept her fairly stable and she could still live on her own with my sister keeping close tabs on her. My sister did this because she lived very close to her and worked from her house. I worked business hours in an office 35 miles away and we both agreed it was better if she did the day-to-day stuff. But she is no longer able to care for herself and is now in a nursing home.
I was handling her finances for a while, but, I could get no accountability from my sister and I didn’t like a lot of the things I was seeing in the checkbook. The more I asked for accountability the angrier and more abusive she became. Until she finally stopped taking any calls and blocked my emails. Imagine, I’m legally responsible for money she’s spending and she won’t tell me where it’s going. That was the last straw. Since I was legally responsible for the government money, and because I could get no decent accountability from my sister, I had to protect myself and my family by divorcing myself from my mother’s finances.
My sister has spent the last year telling everyone on our side of the family that I have “abandoned” my mother. I “never” visit her and “never” call her. She takes great pride in telling me how the rest of our family now hates me as thoughtless and evil. In the meantime, no one from our family has made any attempt to contact me for anything. Not to find out my side of the story, or even to see how things were going for me. Most of them haven’t sent me even a token Christmas card in years, and stopped inviting me to any family outings well over a decade ago. My niece is a chip off the old block. Harassing everyone in my family and attacking them at every turn.
This is supposed to be my “family?”
I have been visiting and calling my mother, and she once commented that I was not really a member of our family anymore. I seemed to be a member of my wife’s family. This is because when we talked I always talked about my wife’s family, her sisters and husbands, and their kids.
She was right.
I am a member of my wife’s family. I became that when I married her and they treat me like a “family” should. They are close and keep in contact. We are always invited to different homes around holidays and everyone sends cards and letters. We constantly call and email and when my mother first started having problems, many people on my wife’s side of the family called to ask how I was, how my mom was, and if there was anything they could do to help. It’s not all perfect, but at least people care and show it.
All I did was marry into this family and they have taken me in as one of their own. Just like in high school when my friend Joe’s family took me in and cared for me like I was one of their kids. I was just invited over around Christmas and spent time with them. These are the people I learned loving, caring, respect, and how to treat family from. Not my biological household. These are the people who are my family, not those whose DNA I share. I would be proud, at any time, to tell people I was a member of those families. I do not have the same warm feelings for my biologics.
So I watch with great sadness as my mother goes through this, and I will continue to see her and talk to her as long as she can remember who I am. We actually have nice conversations and she seems pleased to see me. My biological relations can think of me by whatever slander my sister feeds them. I’d sue her but she’s not worth it. It is their shortcoming and problem, not mine. I will continue to spend most of my time with my “family.” The ones who really care and the ones who really matter.
I really don’t think I care anymore what my biological relatives do.
They are simply not my “family.”
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Transformation of a Town
This story is a mite older. It reflects more my status as Grand Duke of Hoboes and gives you a better feel for why I appreciate the honor.
Transformation
of a Town
by The Grand Duke of Hobes
Originally written April 14, 1983
Revised March 15, 2002
Copyright 2010
Tucked away along an insignificant little crossroads in north central Iowa is the
town of Britt. Britt is a small farming town that is just the same as hundreds of other small farming towns in Iowa. Were it not for the grain elevator and the local Harley-Davidson dealer, this little town would sink, without a trace, into obscurity. Yet, for one week every year in August, this easily misplaced speck on the map is visited by a group of fairy godfathers. These gentlemen produce a transformation of the town that is as wondrous as changing any ghetto into the “Emerald City” of Oz. These gentlemen are hoboes. Hoboes who have been returning to this spot at the same time each year for over a century to hold their annual convention and elect a national “king.”
The transformation begins about a week before the hoboes arrive. The shopkeepers and merchants along Britt’s one main street begin hanging signs and decorative bunting proclaiming the event to come. The normal daily quiet is assaulted by the sounds of hammering as the coronation and judging platform is erected in the town park. The large metal drums which will hold the gallons of mulligan stew that the town cooks for the visitors are brought out from some forgotten corner and cleaned. The public address system is rented and brought to town from Mason City by the editor of the Britt newspaper.
The ancient presses at the newspaper office get used now more than at any other time of the year. Mulligan stew cards, hobo convention cards, and brochures describing
the advantages of bringing a business to Britt are all produced en masse. The local residents, who have come to know and love the hoboes that visit their town, begin to gather in excited little groups. They discuss last year’s convention and wonder aloud what this year will bring. Which one of the old hoboes didn’t make it to
the festivities last year, and whether that individual will arrive this year. They try, many times in vain, to remember the names of the young newcomers who showed up and surprised the town. Many begin to take frequent trips to the north end of town to see if anyone has arrived early in the hobo “jungle.”
The festivities and coronation are always held on a Saturday. On Thursday morning the carnival arrives. This is one of those traveling carnivals that comes to shopping centers and malls across the country. They set up rides and games in the parking lots of those malls and still manage to leave quite a bit of room for parking. When they arrive in Britt, however, the squeeze is tight. The main street is blocked and the carnival sets up. This turns the entire shopping district into one huge midway. By Thursday night, the bright glaring neon lights and the taped strains of calliope music begin to fill the evening breezes. The hoarse cajoling of the game barkers to passersby and the sights of people with cheap stuffed toys and cotton candy confirm that the festivities are underway.
Hoboes have been arriving sporadically during the entire week. They quickly settle into the “jungle” which is right along the tracks at the north end of the main street. The grain elevator, like some familiar protective behemoth, rises abruptly from the level terrain on the opposite shore of the tracks. It is huge and silent. Seemingly quite content to tower supremely over the bright singing machines which leap and spin about in its shadow. The hoboes know this dark lighthouse and follow it to their friends.
Saturday morning finds the butterfly breaking from the cocoon. People from all over Iowa, indeed, from all over the United States flood into Britt. The noise is unlike
anything normally heard in this little town. The barkers are calling, the rides are singing, horns are honking, people laugh and speak loudly to be heard above the din. Trains pass by occasionally, their crews yelling loudly and waving as the engines scream a salute to the “men of the road” who wave back from the “jungle.” The air is filled with a myriad of smells. Popcorn and cotton candy from the carnival mixes and is overpowered by the smell of the stew cooking in the park. Near the tracks, the hoboes small stewpot sends its own aroma skyward and the smell of hobo pickles peeks from hidden corners where they are fermenting. Here and there an almost imperceptible hint of liquor betrays a few old ‘bos who made the trip to the tavern the night before.
Saturday night brings about a great change. The crowds slowly leave after having
witnessed the coronation of the “king” and “queen”, and then watching them ridden out
of town on a rail. The masses of smiling children which flood the hobo camp during the day trickle down to a persistent few. The carnival, having a commitment to be elsewhere by Monday, begins to vanish from the streets. The popcorn all sold and the cotton candy eaten, the great dancing machines quiet and fold themselves into cold, silent stacks of steel. The hoboes gather around a large campfire and begin telling tales of the road. They talk about the “good old days” and the “bad old days.” They talk of trains, adventures, and other hoboes in a sad nostalgic way as they realize that none of those things exist anymore. They sing railroad songs and exchange lies that bring guffaws of laughter from both the hoboes and the remaining crowd that gathers to listen. The integrity of the storytellers is never questioned as the entire point is fun and entertainment. Some hoboes, in an attempt to coerce the crowd into joining in the fun, begin to grab spectators and dance as several hobo musicians pick up the cue. Eventually, the hoboes and the small crowd that remains become like a large family. Everyone laughs, sings, jokes, and dances well into the wee hours of the morning.
By Sunday morning, the crowd is gone. Many of the hoboes pack up early so they can catch the early freight train which comes through about 7:00 am. The rest are recuperating from the days before or are visiting with friends before they leave. It is very quiet, almost solemn, as these vagabonds once again go their separate and solitary ways. The trucks carrying the carnival pull out and leave a deserted street. The platform in the park, a lone monument to the madness, will itself be gone before the day is over.
Within a week all of the hoboes are gone. The streets which were crowded with people and debris are clean and bare. The “jungle” is silent and the signs and bunting have been removed. Britt settles, once again, into friendly obscurity. The grain elevator
and motorcycle dealer once again regain their places of honor and prestige. The
convention, now just an exciting memory, fades further into history as plans for the next convention are quietly discussed. The cycle is once again complete
Transformation
of a Town
by The Grand Duke of Hobes
Originally written April 14, 1983
Revised March 15, 2002
Copyright 2010
Tucked away along an insignificant little crossroads in north central Iowa is the
town of Britt. Britt is a small farming town that is just the same as hundreds of other small farming towns in Iowa. Were it not for the grain elevator and the local Harley-Davidson dealer, this little town would sink, without a trace, into obscurity. Yet, for one week every year in August, this easily misplaced speck on the map is visited by a group of fairy godfathers. These gentlemen produce a transformation of the town that is as wondrous as changing any ghetto into the “Emerald City” of Oz. These gentlemen are hoboes. Hoboes who have been returning to this spot at the same time each year for over a century to hold their annual convention and elect a national “king.”
The transformation begins about a week before the hoboes arrive. The shopkeepers and merchants along Britt’s one main street begin hanging signs and decorative bunting proclaiming the event to come. The normal daily quiet is assaulted by the sounds of hammering as the coronation and judging platform is erected in the town park. The large metal drums which will hold the gallons of mulligan stew that the town cooks for the visitors are brought out from some forgotten corner and cleaned. The public address system is rented and brought to town from Mason City by the editor of the Britt newspaper.
The ancient presses at the newspaper office get used now more than at any other time of the year. Mulligan stew cards, hobo convention cards, and brochures describing
the advantages of bringing a business to Britt are all produced en masse. The local residents, who have come to know and love the hoboes that visit their town, begin to gather in excited little groups. They discuss last year’s convention and wonder aloud what this year will bring. Which one of the old hoboes didn’t make it to
the festivities last year, and whether that individual will arrive this year. They try, many times in vain, to remember the names of the young newcomers who showed up and surprised the town. Many begin to take frequent trips to the north end of town to see if anyone has arrived early in the hobo “jungle.”
The festivities and coronation are always held on a Saturday. On Thursday morning the carnival arrives. This is one of those traveling carnivals that comes to shopping centers and malls across the country. They set up rides and games in the parking lots of those malls and still manage to leave quite a bit of room for parking. When they arrive in Britt, however, the squeeze is tight. The main street is blocked and the carnival sets up. This turns the entire shopping district into one huge midway. By Thursday night, the bright glaring neon lights and the taped strains of calliope music begin to fill the evening breezes. The hoarse cajoling of the game barkers to passersby and the sights of people with cheap stuffed toys and cotton candy confirm that the festivities are underway.
Hoboes have been arriving sporadically during the entire week. They quickly settle into the “jungle” which is right along the tracks at the north end of the main street. The grain elevator, like some familiar protective behemoth, rises abruptly from the level terrain on the opposite shore of the tracks. It is huge and silent. Seemingly quite content to tower supremely over the bright singing machines which leap and spin about in its shadow. The hoboes know this dark lighthouse and follow it to their friends.
Saturday morning finds the butterfly breaking from the cocoon. People from all over Iowa, indeed, from all over the United States flood into Britt. The noise is unlike
anything normally heard in this little town. The barkers are calling, the rides are singing, horns are honking, people laugh and speak loudly to be heard above the din. Trains pass by occasionally, their crews yelling loudly and waving as the engines scream a salute to the “men of the road” who wave back from the “jungle.” The air is filled with a myriad of smells. Popcorn and cotton candy from the carnival mixes and is overpowered by the smell of the stew cooking in the park. Near the tracks, the hoboes small stewpot sends its own aroma skyward and the smell of hobo pickles peeks from hidden corners where they are fermenting. Here and there an almost imperceptible hint of liquor betrays a few old ‘bos who made the trip to the tavern the night before.
Saturday night brings about a great change. The crowds slowly leave after having
witnessed the coronation of the “king” and “queen”, and then watching them ridden out
of town on a rail. The masses of smiling children which flood the hobo camp during the day trickle down to a persistent few. The carnival, having a commitment to be elsewhere by Monday, begins to vanish from the streets. The popcorn all sold and the cotton candy eaten, the great dancing machines quiet and fold themselves into cold, silent stacks of steel. The hoboes gather around a large campfire and begin telling tales of the road. They talk about the “good old days” and the “bad old days.” They talk of trains, adventures, and other hoboes in a sad nostalgic way as they realize that none of those things exist anymore. They sing railroad songs and exchange lies that bring guffaws of laughter from both the hoboes and the remaining crowd that gathers to listen. The integrity of the storytellers is never questioned as the entire point is fun and entertainment. Some hoboes, in an attempt to coerce the crowd into joining in the fun, begin to grab spectators and dance as several hobo musicians pick up the cue. Eventually, the hoboes and the small crowd that remains become like a large family. Everyone laughs, sings, jokes, and dances well into the wee hours of the morning.
By Sunday morning, the crowd is gone. Many of the hoboes pack up early so they can catch the early freight train which comes through about 7:00 am. The rest are recuperating from the days before or are visiting with friends before they leave. It is very quiet, almost solemn, as these vagabonds once again go their separate and solitary ways. The trucks carrying the carnival pull out and leave a deserted street. The platform in the park, a lone monument to the madness, will itself be gone before the day is over.
Within a week all of the hoboes are gone. The streets which were crowded with people and debris are clean and bare. The “jungle” is silent and the signs and bunting have been removed. Britt settles, once again, into friendly obscurity. The grain elevator
and motorcycle dealer once again regain their places of honor and prestige. The
convention, now just an exciting memory, fades further into history as plans for the next convention are quietly discussed. The cycle is once again complete
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Christmas Got Run Over by a UPS Truck
Chestnuts roasting on a cardboard fire
Jack Frost chips a vinyl nose
Tapes of Yuletide Carols sung by a Plywood Choir
and Mannikins Dressed Up like Eskimos
Oh, Everybody Knows
Tofu Turkey and Fake Mistletoe
Neighbors Competing with their Lights
Tiny Tots before the Tube All Aglow
Will Find it Hard to Sleep Tonight.
They know that Santa's on His Way
Mom and Dad Have Been Ordering from Amazon All Day
and Every Mother's Child is Gonna Cry
If the Room's not Stacked with Presents ... Sky High
and so I'm Offering this Simple Plea
To everyone including you and Me
Let's Keep Christmas for Family and Friends
and Make It Mean Something Special Again
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