Kay Buena’s blog

Oh, great swami of the computer Empire of the network here, please bring back the picture, or actually a photocopy of the painting I did of the Snoop Dogg, of whom I have great respect, however strange than may seem to some, but to other’s probably not.

Portraits, especially paintings can take months to years to get done. At least for me.  I thought about trying to do a portrait of Mance Libscomb, the great Texas blues man, who died back in 1976 at the age of 80.  Thing is, Snoops’an abstraction to me, he wouldn’t recognize me, if I had a sign on. But Mance Libscomb, though dead and long gone, is very real to me to this day, and those portraits of people you knew and truly loved, are much harder to face if they are done in the here and now, and even if they are still alive or not…I tryed but couldn’t. I think probably the next portrait i’ll try is Steve Jobs on drugs, or my husband (not on drugs) and he’d be a great model. Hardly moves a muscle, and for hours at a time.  Only thing is, what else can he doing,besides what you’re doing, in which he would be willing to participate?  I mean that’s not assumming this pose in front of the computer and typing away like a mad crazed field mouse working on something vaguely eatable? Nothing. So be it.  Maybe if I tryed a lifesized sculpture sitting here, he would find a hobby.

But I am in digression again.  ‘Hate when that happens.  Actually, Charles Sauer (my husband ) has an extremely beautiful sculptural quality about him.  I just wound’nt want him in my weight catagory in case we’re wrestling.  So the Life sized Terra Cotta Portrait’s out.  He’s a string bean. Looks like Alfalfa, of the Our Gang Comidies, but with way less hair, and a mustache.  Actually, He’s a very handsome man and when they’re young, all men are trouble. I’m glad we’re old together; he’s rational and realistic, I’m not quite sure how to discribe my virtues, but those are not mine.  I like to think I’m sort of humerous and whitlessly clever, in a practiced way.  I trained for this, guys. And it didn’t come easy, believe me.

      When I was a freshman at the University Texas in 1965 (don’t drop dead, but some of us have had ‘extreme experiences’, within those extra years, and simply watching the music business in Austin, Texas could and can be enough to make a decent musician take up painting; just becasue we’re talking about Social Security issues, doesn’t mean we will get them…((especially if the Democrats get in the White House, and keep the Congress busy doing nothing.)  Just because I rarely leave my home these days, or nights, doesn’t mean that was always the case). )  I’m used to being an outcast, not only was I a Military Brat (yeah, yeah…we heard about it -already…) but I also worked for the Internal Revenue Service, after I graduated from college; my art degree came in handy as candy in those days around here. And who is less popular than a tax examiner for the Infernal Revenue Service ? Course the population was about 3/4 less than now at that time, and all the start up jobs were held by college students or people who wouldn’t budge till they keeled over dead, kicked the bucket and later died.  Oh, well, I lived through it.   

I used to spend every night I could watching these great Texas Blues men,–And speaking of Lightnin Hopkins,(which I wasn’t) he and Mance had a real good relationship, they were not trying to put the other person down when Lightnin would say,”There’s Mance Libscomb, he aint learned a new song since 1935.”, and Mance would top that by saying: “Theres Lightnin Hopkins, playing the blues…in E. ” (for those non-musicians, that’s the easy key on the guitar for blues, no question about it.)  Mance played blues in so many keys it was supernatural.  He also played Texas “Slack Key” with his pocket knife. But Those Rilvalrys are good for business, and “giving them the business” as well.    

  I always wondered why Lightnin had a problem with old songs?  ‘Cause, frankly…that’s where I’m headed, and rightfully so… I’m the real deal.  I learned how to play and sing from the real thing; my family, particularly from my Dad (check him out on ‘You Tube‘(”Col. Charlie Abbitt, live at the Wellington”, or something of that nature)…he’s great and still at it.  And the songs were so musically delightful, varied, and complex that we all listened to in my home, as to keep any kid, young adult or old geeze (such as myself) entranced. It was normal to go around doing your usual and singing to yourself.  It was also normal to go around talking to yourself; which is a practice I still keep in practice currently, as I am the most intelligent conversationalist in the house (the other one types, no talking permitted.) excluding my cats.

  ‘Thing about Mance Libscomb was everything he played struck me in my home grown heart.  His music, his graciousness, and his ability for self-expression, were like nothing I have every seen in my then short life. I had only experienced this other times, up close and personal, and that was when my Dad played and sang for me. Or when Jerry Jeff Walker sang and played for me. We sang some together in my ”yout.” He was and probably still is a marvelous entertainer and musician.  I met him back then too (when I was in college). He was a fine guy, but not as sculptural. (Sorry Jerry, if you ever see this, which I doubt very much you would.)

      So, anywho, singing and playing guitar, etc. was a normal thing to do…,But to do this so perfectly, as Mance did when I saw him playing the old time southern country music that I love so much, got to a place in my heart I didn’t know was there. My Uncle Georges’ licks  on the fiddle, would get you just like Mance’s. But back then I was too young to appreciate my family’s musicality.  What is it said, about “Youth being wasted on the young?”  Hey, that’s it!

    I’d found some Lightnin Hopkins records before I saw him in person, and although some think of him as the king of the Old Texas blues, like Mance said nearly every song he played was in the key of E, (which means his musical theory was limited in a big way, however inherited or learned or what ever it was). Not so with Mance; he could play blues in any key, and easily as well. Lightnin’s playing was never as full and inclusive as was Mance’s playing, but it was truly cool as was he then too.  Also Lightnin’ either played with a band or at least a washboard player and those were entended on filling in, and widening the drone of his fingerpicking, to put the rhythm where it needed going. (And neither of them thought or wrote like Yoda from Star Wars (sorry)….Jeeeez,)

     When I heard him or them play in their prime, that means they were about my age now.   But back then, when I was a freshman in college, I’d find out where to go hear those cool dudes playing: and go there, I would (not Yoda again!), which is one explanation for my overall grade point average. 

  I play my Mance Libscomb CD’s, especially when I’m alone in the car, some how that brings the experience all back to me.   When I’m driving I’m usually alone, and the time/space continuem isn’t always in expected perameters then either.  However, the only song I ever play, that I learned from watching him play it, was “Shine on Shine on Harvest Moon”, which I transposed to the piano and play to this day. Every time I ever try to play “Mother-less Children” which I also learned from him too, I can’t make it through the whole thing, and If you’ve lost your mother too I’m sure you can relate to that.

     Next time I might let youse guys hear me play those old songs, but why go there? Not Unless I get that lifesized terracotta portrait of my husband done anytime soon.   What the heck, I threaten to play the piano and have Charles tape me, let’s see if I could do that.  I can play these songs,but not in front of him, he’s too critical, you know the type? …But that would  be different anyway–and since it’s just youse guys,me and Charles, and the bigger than life Snoop Poster ( copies for sale on the web site now, just in time for Mother’s Day.)  And I am thinking a bunch of youse guys are problably “Mothers’” for sure..(Digression again. )These are limited editions of 100, signed by this author, and artist. or not. But just to make it simple all are 18″ by 24″ .  But That’s a different matter, commerce is not my most important product, or idea; frankly I stink at economics unless it’s ESP economics, Or ESPN economics: I’m great at figuring out which football team’s gona win and why. (It’s a secret talent.)

 But if you get a chance, listen to Mance.  You can’t buy that kind of experience anymore, but check his site. You can still hear him.  

As ever,

Kay Buena (AKA) Caroline Abbitt Sauer

     Once upon a time in a place far away from Austin, Texas, there lived a little idiot girl named Caroline and her family, who went all over the place, and she hated them all because of that.  And who would not?  Little girls like to feel cared for, secure and comforted, not dragged around like some old chair no body cares much ’bout, especially when they’re young.

     Now, oddly enough, that Little Girl changed, -overnight-  into a grizzlie Old Lady, who’s hand’s looked like a combination of her mother’s and her father’s hands, when they got old ( but it was like you could see both of their hands at the same time, every time she looked down at them, and they wouldn’t change back. ) And she hated them all because of that too.

     About the only thing truly good about her family, besides herself and her dog, Jenny,( well…maybe Jenny was really the only good one among that lot) she thought, but the truly good thing about her family that made them real speacial, was her father was kin to Pocahantas’ son.  Now, she was aware that this seemed like some form of somebody else’s idea of a load of horse doo, but it’wer the God’s honest truth.  She had seen the proof of that  fact with her very own eyes, ’cause one of her cousins did a big deal Thesis, and done got “a amster’ degree’ from college, which I ’spect is better than a regular degree, but it’s hard to say. First time she heard that one, she though her cousin got a “hamster degree”, which sounds allot more likely.  But in truth, she did see with her own two eyes from copies of the ‘census’ taken over the years, where you could follow that group back to who was who’s mother and dad and all that, and the ”piece of resistance” was the original land grant given to her grandmother’s family from King George III. Those kin of her’s must have been nuts as a cheezeball, cause old King George of England was crazy as they come; so he must have liked ‘em right fine, cause they got an enormous acreage, at the time it was given- it was something like 6,ooo acres of prime farming land in the Virginia territory.  She thought it out and was pretty darn sure if her dad was kin to Pocahontas’s son, ‘chances are just as good that her father  (and this Little Girl that turned into a grizzled Old Lady) were “kins” with that old boy’s mothers ’s-well, that’d be Pocahontas’ hereself.  It weren’t hard to follow that reasoning.

     That means that some part of that little girl was really an Indian, from  the Virginia territories. She didn’t know what part that were, but it didn’t matter much.  So she decided to start  play-acting with her dog,  Jenny (she’s part border collie, which are very smart dogs) in the Old Dog House right back of this particular house, that’s one of the houses they lived in when they went all over the place; And since she learned as how she was part Indian, for real, she could slip into that role quite naturally and easily, ’speacially with that striped towel wrapped around her shoulders like an indian blanket. But even though she was pretending, she really was an Indian Girl all by her self, with her dog in front of an unlit cooking-fire, inside a little old house, (so that was like ironic or doublely strange)–Only she was too little, or too stupid, or too much of an idiot (like I said about her in the first place) so it seemed she weren’t able to figure in a lot of important stuff she was needing to learn about later, but after all she was only 6 years old. What could you expect, Rocket Science? 

      First off, she was gonna have a cooking fire like ’twas done when she saw Indians in the movies, but instead she ‘oughten’ to have put the fire in a more practical place, like outside, but she made up a right nice fire by the front of the door opening, so the other Indians would see the glow of the fire and know she was back there in that dog house. It didn’t seem like a bad Idea at first, ’cause it was just going to be a little fire. 

     When Jenny saw that one coming on, she took off quicker’d you could spit, cause she was one fine smart doggie.  But The little Indian Girl stayed right there, still staring into the fire, as it grew from the leaves she put on the bottom of the little dried tree branches she’d collected and carefully put all up into a stepel shape there, all by herself.   And the fire was so pretty, and it smelled real good, ’cause the branches came from under an apple tree in that back yard. But about the time she first noticed her fire was getting too big, there sort of whooshed out a strange noise, not like the fires she’d watched and listened to in fire places in other houses.  It sounded sort of like a whistling tune, but real quiet like it was whisperin to her, but with no real stable melody to it. But it was nice and warm inside that Dog house, and then the fire started to look stronger and bigger than she figured it’d ever grow on to be. She seemed to be hypnotized, but not in that weird way where her eyes would be going all in circles like the way they was always doin in the cartoons, but in a peaceful, solid way, as she continured to look into her “cookin’ fire”, and she wasn’t ‘ascared like she knew she ought to be. Then the ”cooking fire” started catching onto the wood of the dog house, first into the floor and then up one side, and then to the other side.  But there she sat, cross-legged in the back of all that as ’twas goin on at the same time.   Only when the fire was a whole lot bigger than she was, did she understand that she was probably going to be on fire too, pretty much the next thing, cause it wouldn’t stop. And that wouldn’t be so pretty, and that wouldn’t smell real good either.

     It was so smokey in there, kind of like when her parent’s gave parties and every one was smoking ci-gars only worse than that, but the wind outside started kicking up ’cause she could hear that too.  Then some way out of that wind, came a strange sounding, moving real big shapeless thing that looked like it was a bunch of darker smoke, but  was real fast-like. And it wasn’t coming from her little puny legs and idiot head, that did this, but that smoke thing just sort of quicker you’d ever think any thing was possible, or any one she ever saw could do (and she was a fast runner herself, so she was on to what fast was), what ever that smoke thing was had her out of  and on the out side of that fire so quickly, she couldn’t even speculate or figure when it was done!  But she was out on the other side of the fire, still left sitting cross-legged, but definely outside of the burning dog house.  And that weird smoke-soundin’ whistlen continued, all during this that happened, and allot weirder than her brother’s eyes when he crossed’em and he whistled out the space a’ween his front teeth, that was her usual ”too strange” thing, but not nearly as strange as that dark stuff that looked like compacted smoke, whisperin that quiet same whistling tune with no real melody to it.  And then that thing just faded into the direction the wind blew the smoke.   The little Indian Girl figured she ought to walk that way too, only real fast, so she wasn’t there when her family noticed what’d happened.   She might even find that same whistling wind-thing that took her out of that fire, cause she could have still been in the back where she’d be all black and burnt up, but she wasn’t; cause there she was, walking real fast, only  all covered with some black dirt, and the ends of her braded hair were sindged too; but she kept looking around  where she was, tryin’ to figure how that might have happend in some reasonable way, even though there wasn’t any clue ’sept that sound went where she followed.

       But she found nothing there once she got way far from the smoke, she kept on walking that direction just for good measure, afor quite some time, cause she was way on down their street almost to the end of it, just thinking about what had happened that afternoon.  She even figured she didn’t really hate all her family either, only when they got real mad at her, like if she burned down the dog house on purpose or something. The she stopped walking and breathed real hard and stood real still, and went back to face the music, cause she couldn’t go on walking that way any further.

      The  whole Dog House and most everything near there was all burned down, and ruined, and black, and gone that day.  Even the climbin’ ‘Old Roses” next door on that fence that surrounded the back yard were that way too,black and mostly gone. There was only one big ( mostly blurt up) red rose left hanging on to the fence. She went there and took that away cause it was too awful to see. What was the Dog House was so awfully charred and gone, and every one in her family (that she’d mostly hated for pretty stupid reasons) were so truly sad about what happened there in the back yard , she could tell by looking at their faces. I think her mother had cried while she was out walkin’, but then  her mother looked real stern and went back inside the big house. The Little Indian Girl wished she could tell them about how that whistling smoke thing moved her out back of the fire, on to the outside yard. But she knew that wouldn’t believe her, “her and her stories.” Now, she hated herself too, even though what happened was miraculous and true, and it weren’t her fault, really.

       It stayed that way until her dad, took all that old black, left-over burned wood away. And her dad knew how to plant pretty green plants, in that place, a whole lot of new pretty bushes and flowers, so you’d never know about what’d happend. What was that dog house, I ’spect, were’t nary a piece left over, and she got to be the one who mostly helped him put those new green plants too. Even when she looked at her brother, and he was doing that eye-crossed whistle thing to make fun of her, that seemed alright.  Even though they did that and it was so much better to see, she still felt real guilty, cause she knew she was the little Indian girl that caused that fire, but she wasn’t brave enough to say it were her that made that fire. And they would have hated her too. She had some suspicions they knew it was her that was bad; but they never said nothing ’bout that, not one word.

    By the next Spring, that yard was more pretty than it ever had been. Only thing that was bad, was the Old Red Roses to the front of that house that used to bloom so pretty, the one’s climbed over a white arched trellis there, died on down to the roots for no reason we could figure.  I guess sometimes that just happens. Even when The Little Indian Girl turned into being that Old Grisslie Lady, she’d think about what happened back then. Sometime’s she’d cry too, but it wasn’t a’cause the dog house burnt down, it was a’cause they were all gone but her-and they never even knew what really happened.

My rear aint even near to those gloreous mornings

that flowered in the inside, were always in mourning

My site wasn’t  cool, since only a fool would believe me to be

in that picture, right next to the flowers, all torn and tattered

They took out my humor too, though what does that matter?

Since then, I’m no longer walking, that ass is much fatter. 

   My Portriat of Snopp Dogg  has been sold.  It can still be seen somewhere in  the Art section of www.KayBuena.com.

         There it was, coming up on Christmas at the Sauerosa, here in Austin,Texas. However, there were certain complications having to do with age and the price of beans, who has fleas or has flown, and who cares?  All expectations from different generations revise the inner eye’s implications that that’s all there is to this thing we call Christmas in America.  But  the holiday season is not always so: something  to be faced with a lackadazical dismissal, or the casual retort that “Christmas is too commercial.”  Or “isn’t it sad that our family is not all together for Christmas,” which is true from my point of view.  My Brother’s family is living near Dallas along with my good old dad , who at 87 is doing a whole lot better than I am, but that’s about 200 miles away plus some.  And here, very near Austin, lives my very wonderful 3 year old grand child, so as it is said, “This is zee plazce” for Christmas this year for me.  ‘Cause Christmas is mostly for kids and the wonder their eyes and future’s behold. 

     When last we rode in the car with my granddaughter, she exclaimed “look at all the colored lights, they are so pretty.” Which, as per usual, she was right on that one, they were pretty.  When I think of all the Christmas’s when my family would discuss the important issue of where should lights go, what color? “Should we go over the top, and make the house look like a “bar”  or remain with in the boundaries of civilized normality?” (?)  We could never agree.  However, I remember how much trouble it is to get the lights out from storage and check to see if there are bad one’s needing replacing or whatever; how are we going to attach them? — with big old nails or some clever under the gutter type of effort, or do we just debate until the Christmas season is over? However this year we did surround the doorway with ever-green and colored lights, got a Merry Christmas sign in Hawaiian with incredible bling, and a solar powered Christmas flamingo, who turns red at night. (All of which can be boxed up, except the flamingo, who appears to have an all purpose all season appeal.)

     I have the most lovely granddaughter, who makes all my efforts to decorate, however complicated or overrated, worth the effort I put in to this sort of thing, which used to be no big deal to me, when I was not so old and creaky, or er…freaky.  Ah, let’s go with this comment:  Grandma Caroline AKA (Kay Buena) is her usual nut case self, however is physically and memory challenged these days.  I am now 60 years old.  There it is for the world to see.  Now, as a notorious nut case, who tries to appear ever so normal and acceptable to most any given group, I have finally gone and done one of the strangest things that a woman my age has ever done.  I have dyed my hair gray.  This is not as easy as it seems. I think I’ve got this figured out; mainly, no one wants to have gray hair.  Ergo: there is no gray hair dye – simple as supply and demand.

      Ever notice that if you go to the drug store or even the beauty supply store, there are few if none available gray hair dyes at all, unless you count the strange sparkly kind of a glop for teenagers.  Now there are available rinses to make grey hair more silvery (taking out the yellow, mainly by adding purple) all of that can become a pain, however, what be gained by giving in the towel?  So right there in the beauty supply store I went into my “art mode” left brain trance and pretended I was mixing paint, starting with the light blond (of most of my hair) or light yellow, then going from there to formulate that start into a steel gray.  I came up with a box of cool (as mixed with a purple undertone) light brown, then added what seemed like a real purple to me (a so called “brightener (to take out the yellow or brassy tones of blond hair)) which appeared altogether purple on the hair swatch. (yellow+ brown + lesser amount of purple = gray.) Or at least that could happen when mixing paints.  Thing is, hair dye is not paint.  However by putting Vaseline on some hunks of white &/or platinum blonde and rolling them up out of the way, so as that part NOT be effected by the new hair dye…I managed to make my hair look somewhat normal, with some authentic white streaks to avoid tedium, and unless under the direct light, the overall effect seemed to be gray.  However under certain lighting, the brown parts look curiously as though they are dark fuchsia. Not that either one of those colors really exist in nature if you think about it.  Except on a Russian Blue Cat — which was the color I was going for all along. I squint my eyes and pretend I got there.

      Oh well, it could be worse, once feeling patriotic, I added some bright blue vegetable dye and my hair was turquoise for over 4 months.  In those days, I gave up and covered my hair with scarves. 

      But all things considered, being here even though being old, is better than not; mainly because if one were not presently occupying their given life space, when a disheartening comment of an inflammatory nature concerning one’s very nature is not disclaimed, it stands (whether right or wrong); ergo: it is one’s duty to be on guard at all times, as old gals like I, tend to become disturbed or a bit unglued by many a benign comment when it is directed to our person, or become aggravated when some detail which goes un-nit-picked remains ignored. It is our job to remain present and counting. Why that is, I have no idea, although I suspect there has been some Divine interaction in this, I can’t call it destiny, but one thing is true:   It is a far far better thing to stay out of beauty supply stores and either buzz cut all the dyed hair off, or keep the roots blonde.  Don’t you hate ambiguity? It’s so unclear.

    As to what that had to do with Christmas? Not much, however me and my hair survived Christmas and new years, and on Christmas day, watching what went on here at our house during what little time I got to spend with my Grand daughter was all together a taste of  joy that had been missing from here for many years.  And if I may be so bold as to point out: Cinderella’s fairy Godmother’s hair is that gray of a Russian Blue cat, I had in mind all the time.  Wonder who does her hair?

     Back in the days of the early 1960’s my family was living in Bedford, Massachusets in the Base’s housing at Hanscomb Field Air Fore Base.  The housing area was planned in a rather blunt but real as was implied manner, set out in a most stratified and obvious way, having 3 main streets named (by topological truth and by status of rank)very neatly and graphically laid out ,with the existence of an actual ”Low Street”, a “Middle Street”, and a “High Street” to which each family was assigned quarters (housing) according to the father’s level of rank in the service.  We first lived in a temporary apartment, then were given a quite lovely two story house, very ‘New England’ in it’s style, and quite nice in it’s placement among rank and file, at the top of a hill surrounded by beautifully wooded natural land.   The beautiful natural Forrest enclosure made our base housing seem more like an up-scale neighborhood surrounded by an impressive greenbelt around it’s perimeters. My father was working for the Department of Defense in an important area of  National Security at that time.  I was a clueless 15 year old, not wanting to be up North, and doing everything I could to express that, as I remember it. This was a number of years ago… (Wow, it was actually about 45 years ago.) nnnnooooooooooway.

     We moved to Massachusetts from the coast of central Florida the summer before I was to attend 10th grade, the first year of  High School in those days (the big time.)  However, the culture and climate were ever so completely different, to the point that I remember thinking the Principal of “Bedford High” was doing a “Kennedy” impression when giving the morning announcements over the school’s intercom.  This I found to be quite amusing, something not shared by my peers. Wonder why that was?  Also, after we drove from Florida to Massachusetts in August of that year, I discovered the horrendous climate difference right away.  It got colder at night in the Summer there, than it ever got in the Winter in our previous station, where we had spent a most unusually long assignment (5 years). That was when my Dad was stationed at Cape Canaveral off the coast of Cocoa Beach Florida, back in the days when it was not so overwhelmingly populous as to seem to be an extension of Disney World, the Space Travel theme section or something of that nature, as it is today.

     The public schools were ever so much better, though, there in New England -and that was a remarkable thing. As a High School Sophomore, I and two other weird souls wanted to take “music theory” which, with allot of trouble and schedule shuffling, Bedford High provided.  My 10th grade honors English class was more like a college level lecture, the teacher being phenomenally dedicated to spreading his love of words and their power, along with the importance and insistance on following the preferred structured and correctly doccumented written work, which he assigned regularly.  He would edit these papers untill we learned this skill and neccesity on our own.  He was a remarkable speaker and the Drama coach as well,  so I participated in the Drama program there under his guidence as well.   There was even a genuine visual art teacher who knew his chops.  I had no idea this sort of thing existed in the world, but soaked it in like a sponge- however tempory it was.   But for that year, it did exist for me, even if my nose froze and I very regularly slipped on the ice and could barely spell Massachusetts.

     Most of the local culture was so firmly evident, having been long ago established with a reverence for academia not found in Florida (for obvious reasons-I mean, who needed that there?…) and the area surrounding Boston was oozing with such superlative displays of all kinds in the arts there, and the ever present excitement that came with living near a big city with such a particularly historical significance-that brought a whole new unexpected bonus with this odd year of transition.  That part of our stay made this area sacred to me, even if I was alienated by my status of Military Brat, a tempory, new kid, and obvious suspect. I went to the Club 47 with older friends and was introduced to the budding folk music scene. I remember attending a performance of the Royal Ballet when Margot Fonteyn still danced with the Royal Ballet Company.  Although I do not remember a single “Lift Off” of an Inter-Continental Ballistic Missile the whole time were stationed there.  How odd that seemed at the time.  Oh, sure they played around with some “Nike rockets” upon occasion (?) but that hardly compares to intensity of the other experience, as to be so different, so civilized and so strangely smooth ,and so damn cold in the winter as to freeze your eyelids open if you walked into the wind.  It was the actual  living experience likened to the existence of when” Hell actually done froze over” to me, as it were, and hopefully, we were just visiting, even with all the added excellence in it’s local color.  Frankly the local color became blue like the tip of my nose upon occassion.

          Although this move and that year spent in the Boston area was one that broadened the perspective of my very naive life experiences, and probably froze away some overly-fashioned conscious brain cells, as the approaching reality of  Winter there did not ruin my here-to-fore optimistic idea that my long brown hair was the all occasion head cover for any occasion.  It was nearing Christmas before I realized that by covering my head with a very warm scarf or hat, this addition really would make quite a difference, and that there are those times when survival becomes ever so much more important than one’s fashion image at below freezing temperatures, especially when the wind chill is factored with in the equation.

       However, when Spring sprung ,up there, it was so overwhelmingly relieving ,and wonderfully, shockingly different, as to make even one as young as I was, truly realize the renewal of the earth’s cycle of life, a concept brought with wisdom not personally realized before that year.  I remember one afternoon in late Spring, when my mother was at some Officers’ Wives’ Club function, and not expected to return until dusk, when my big brother and I had one of the most over the top “water fights”I have ever heard about. It was quite comfortably warm and we had the screen door and some windows open to let in the Spring’s warm breeze. This was so altogether inspiring as we were seemingly freed from an icy prison, and yet again given back our childhood’s playful attitude, so impulsive and invigorating as to reintroduce our former stupid and purposeless battle for family supremacy. This, particular noteworthy exchange was undoubtedly started by the simple reality of my having to do some chores (NOT THAT!) that day -when I was putting some used and rinsed dishes and glasses in our new dishwasher (a first for our family).  This kitchen also came with a very handy tool, the removable and easily directed and defused spray nozzle at the kitchen sink-not the usual simple fixed faucet that we were used to having.  Of course, this marvelous new invention became the ultimate efficient and evil spray gun that never ran out of water unless you gave up and ran.  So, my brother proceeded to walk by on his way toward the door of the kitchen, providing the perfect and most excellent target for said convenient kitchen utensil.  I Sprayed him with maximum water pressure, and with out mercy and rather thoroughly (I thought). Where as he had only the glass of water he carried to return fire until he escaped.  Given my brothers proclivity for ingenious revenge, he found the garden hose and spray nozzle in the garage, which he then attached to the closest outside water faucet (all without my noticing him doing that).  I was almost finished my task of loading the dishwasher, when he returned with that far greater fire power, a fully pressurized garden hose, locked and loaded for battle.  My puny kitchen sprayer was no match for that garden hose at full blast, but we preceded to battle this out until noticing we had both of our persons and the entire kitchen sopping wet.  To the point where there was (mas or menos) almost an inch of water contained with in the kitchen floor. At this significant moment of inevitable retreat, for both, and the realization of the much needed reconaissance that we faced; we shifted our formerly advisarial roles, becoming allies (however temorary) in order undo the horor of our water war, which would not be viewed in the spirit intended by our parents.   We knew the battle was over but not the war.

     I think it took us over an hour to re-establish normality to that lovely, clean kitchen …err… with the very recently rinsed (quite thoroughly) light yellow tiled floor, and wiped down cabinets. The effort put forth took every broom, mop, and  dry towel in the house, which we thoughtfully put in the washer to clean, and the dryer to dry, sneaking down and retrieving them, folding them, and returning them to their former locations, later- on the sly.  Fortunately, the kitchen curtains were “wash and wear”, though I don’t think this was what they had in mind.  We had barely finished doing this, when we heard our mother come home, driving the car into the garage.  Though the hose and nozzle had not been returned to it’s assigned place in the garage, it was not a noticed factor, so we proceeded to behave quite normally, having changed out of our soaked clothes, and evil expressions.

     As I remember things, by the time my mother returned to change out of her very formal attire, I was sitting in the den pretending to read the newspaper and my brother was in his room ingrossed in his home work.  Just another afternoon, in the tales of the Air Force Brats, that we really were.  Too bad that time goes away as easily as the water disappeared that afternoon of memorable though dubious intent.

  Ever noticed how some times when trying to make it through the day with co-workers, or family members, some comment that was meant merely to be amusing, or lighthearted, or ever so slightly discordant, in order to change the focus into a pleasant pathway to a different subject or attitude, goes terribly wrong:  And this particular statement will invariably become the  explosive phrase, that (allthough intended to entertain or raise the spirit of the establishment) starts a vicious verbal battle; simply because what is ”funny“, is objectively so.  Though meant to be playful, what was said is easily taken in some context from where it did not originate or belong.  Then with out any warning or rationally intended interlude, the baffled speaker, who finds his or her own benign group of words to  have been taken as surprisingly venomous and insulting, perceived and mistakenly twisted into the official passwords that open some heretofore blocked behavioral vent from which comes ( from the listener ) a preposterous yet clearly vile spewing of internalized rage. 

      I don’t think this is all that uncommon.  All though, I am beginning to wonder about that, as it is rather bizarre, given the circumstances experienced. However, it is damn “funny” that “funny“can turn out to be anything but that. Now, this is something  universally understood, as words and emotions and reactions become so different and as delicate as hand blown glass when thoroughly mixed by any one culture or person’s own attitude.

      Perhaps a sore spot, never having been touched, the discovery of  it’s presence quite recent, never even suspected to be present or ever so sensitive was brushed by some inflammatory (though unintentionally meant) phrase or word which brought this all on.  Though there is no doubt in my mind that these sore verbal toes had been stubbed before, as never have I been quite as taken aback by the vindictive reaction of this” listener”to my having spoken in jest upon this strange occasion; I find this particularly curious when said audience is a family member you have known  for more than 30 years.  But maybe that’s the problem: with in those many years spent, coupled with the unfortunate truth that familiarity breeds contempt, it lay dormant, however deeply hidden.  But way too often- some wack reaction will throw you off normal, and not just in this example of the results brought forth from one misunderstood phrase used, which to one’s own mind was meant to be be taken lightly, in an effort to lift the load off a much too dreary, tedious or serious extended mode. Ever noticed that?  Perhaps there was the wild hope that this comment would be taken in as it was meant to be taken, merely as an entertaining interjection that would be the catalyst to encourage further pleasant conversation?   But for some inexplicable reason ,what has been said then becomes the very cathartic and caustic statement taken by one’s partner (or whom ever) as nothing less than a very personal slam. 

     Perhaps it is because with in any group there are always overly sensitive and non-comically-centered people among us, who expect or really prefer to be the administrators of a reality based existence, and in these days and times that is understandable, though lacking in fun for it’s own sake. Many people have never learned to enjoy a lighthearted exchange, or to “play”, as it were, (as we’ve neither the time or desire to engage in so silly an endeavor) when the morbid truth is that most all current family and international situations really do tend to pile up here and suck.  All these everyday problems and interactions can be so incredibly complex, so never ending, so constant, so often lacking any possible solution, as to become way too hard to sustain with out an occasional blowing of one’s” stack.” But it seems to me that the introduction of an obvious silly comment at times might contribute to a more pleasant dialogue, one with some comic relief, when it is so badly needed.  Although this just goes as an example of the existence of those who would deem a splatter of laughter here and there, to be an inconsistent or disconcerting way for adults to behave, much less converse.  Which of course, makes here-in the so-called “dialogue” not possible to exist as a dialogue, which would indicate the verbal exchange of two equal and willing people trading ideas or attitudes, or even an actual debate where words some time clash in disagreement, as this communicative style (like talking normal) tends to be a two way street, even if there is a one way mind in the mix.

       Perhaps this suddenly angry and inadvertently insulted person, who is able to display quite an impressive incredible proclivity for sustained spewing, is far too used to typing on this overly receptive computer, and quite prefers to have no other-wise thoughts directed to the contrary of those expressed or believed by said person, which would complicate the ‘peace and continuity’ or his or her writing, or reading, or very existence. Especially when an obtrusive idea comes from such a long known relation for whom the worst possible translation seems habitual.  

        The introduction of some imbecilic comment, however ludicrous, incongruous, or comical, has broken many a trance in an nefarious unacceptable manner in this household,and as no facts are exchanged -who needs that?  However, the overwhelming pent-up repressed anger hidden inside such a highly disciplined person, must be quite a personal problem to carry around; so maybe I’m looking at this situation with the wrong attitude. (Certainly that has occurred many times, and I have been corrected with great detail for this fault). But that is beside the point.   Quite obviously the preferred  manner of communication  should be literal, serious and add to one’s knowledge.  Pardon me if this is sounding a tad critical of those among us who spend far too much personal time typing away (a one way exchange that, I might add), and/or reading what some (believe it or not) other human person  has written here in this handy instrument of endless information.  However this process which dominates many a life, certainly does not include or encourage an opposing view point, or disconcerting subject, and any unwanted interruption can not possibly occur, ‘less the power is loss or the ISP has been seemingly overtaken by Satan.

     He who is not comfortable with a verbal addition (much less an interruption) or is reluctantly receptive to one, probably just wants a companion who is silent, yet pleasant (hmmm, like this damn machine.) A person with these traits would be very unlikely to want to be interrupted, even in the event of Christ having reappeared as promised.  Ah, Too bad about that, let the old boy wait, as now we are deeply involving  into some serious coding problem ,etc..

     One thing in which all cases ARE NOT acceptable as a humorous subject is, as you may have noted: Christ. Or Biblical passages, in any form, are usually most unacceptable in a humorous context.  The only person who I have ever known to get away with this, and in fine form I might add, was my dad, the always entertaining (with a very complex hereditary British dry humour, to the point of never knowing if he’s serious or not, that is entirely his own (well, I can tell, but that’s genetic.)) Col. Charles W. Abbitt, formerly of Appomattox, Virginia. (i.e.) He and my mother once received a phone call asking my father to be the “judge” (or acting official) at the Salado, Texas election on voting day…That town is (or was, in those days)  too small to divvy up into Republicans and Democrats, but they needed a respectable, responsible person to take over the voting process there and report the results in the appropriate bureaucratic manner.   Well, what was said to my Dad was more or less, “Col. Abbitt, would you be willing to be the ”Judge“on next Tuesday’s election day, as we really need a responsible  person for this job.  To which my dad answered,”Judge Not that you be not Judged.”  and an awkward silence ensued.  He was in jest, of course, as he had acted as “Judge” at these polls several times before, and was just giving that person “the business.”  Although said person on the receiving end of the phone , either was a little slow that afternoon, or simply did not get the connection.  It happens.  I on the other hand thought this exchange to be hilarious.  Which just goes to show, maybe you have to know someone your entire life, not just a mere 30 years, to “get it” or understand a particular person’s sense of humour (if there is one)and really recognize every lightly meant moment, as simply that.  Now, this could be because there are not many of those light moments these days, here at our house, now that we’ve an empty nest. (If you don’t count the 15 computers.)

      However, when someone asks me what”I do” I usually say, ‘I am a strange cross breed of a professional critic and comedian, or a ’retired Mouseketeer’, or some equally silly occupation.  Well,it could happen.  But  if I were to say, “I am an Artist”, that sounds so overly pedantic, and is not really the complete truth.  For I spend allot more time around the Sauerosa being the recipient of an extended spew, or cleaning toilets and the like, rather than artistically playing the piano, or drawing or painting. Sad that, but true. This is no one’s fault but my own, for my closest friends know of my problematic need for a completely clean bathroom fetishism.  You know you’ve got a problem, if and when you neatly place strips of toilet paper over the seat of your own bathroom’s toilet.

           Maybe I should start answering the question of what I do as, “I am a cowboy”.  That one I like. It has nothing to do with reality, but it’s a great aspiration.   And it’s not meant to be funny, because most decent cowboys (be they male or female) would probably take such insult in the loss, or disregard for any attempt at cowboy humor not acknowledged at least by a smile, as a totally unacceptable reaction and a great offense;  As to be chastised for one’s attempt to lighten the conversation at any time by a cowboy, by some character who’d rather be right than cordial, would require a truly revengeful tactic for sure..  This sort of thing could lead to a ‘whoop-side the head,’ (certainly not here ! we are non violent as hell around here!, even when we’re cowboys,) But such an insulting misconstrued reception, does deserves at least a colorful and obscenely insulting comeback-for sure.  Yeah, and that I can manage with no problemo, actually I can manage many a comeback likely to be funny as all get out, as to whom, or for what purpose I have no idea anymore.  But you see, as a Native Texan, it is my birthright to seek out the silly, to say nothing of hogtying some overly sanctimonious computer jerk (with less than a halfassed respect for my wit and wisdom) with some entertaining phrase like the ever popular, disconcerting: “What’s a matter you, boy? Got a Turd in Your Pocket?”

     I don’t know ’bout you all, but I need every semi-humorous thing in my life just to continue to survive these days; and actively resent when my feeble attempts to bring some mistaken humanity, or humor (how ever simplistic) isn’t noticed to be the good thing that it is, in this ever complex, and overly serious, and intricately troubled world we share.  ‘Know what I’m sayin’?’ Or could be-you gots a Turd in your Pocket as well.

As Ever Kay Buena, from deep in the heart of Texas

The Author of this work wants all readers to know that this is strictly fiction.  And Names, Characters, inferred places or incidents are the product of the author’s rather sticky imagination, and are used fictitiously..  Any resemblance to actual evens, locales, persons, living or dead,  is so coincidental as to be funnier than the fact that I spent hours  re-writing this crap. (Like my policy is to be non biased in offending everyone regardless of his or her race creed color or code. (What I don’t do to promote family harmony, and I’m still the one who gets run over by the mean train, also I get more hits than anyone else in this house…think there’s a connection?)

     I first became acquainted with Mr. Bill Ducker back in the early 70’s when times were not exactly prosperous or even ironically amusing for me and his then girl friend (later to become his wife), Claire.  We were House mates at the time.  She had divorced her husband and had three very small daughters, complete with the complications of a tug of war custody problem, as her husband lived out of town and was known to be less than cordial upon occasion.  At that time I was in the process of getting a divorce from my first husband, who did live in town (Austin, Texas) having a rather cozy little rat hole for sleeping and more or less existing in the style to which he wanted to become accustomed, in the loft he was renting where he was building his sailboat to head out to sea.  Although my ex-husband was in the process of selling the property we used to share, as who needs a home when the open sea called? (I’ve heard of long distanced relation ships, but the one he was building had no room for two: it was about 20 ft. long.) But for a time the lovely little cottage my ex-husband and I used to share became a refuge from homelessness for Claire and I, and I was very glad, indeed, for her company.  I had been working at the Infernal Revenue Service after college (not that my BFA in visual arts did any good in this job, or any other I could find at that time.) But the IRS offered more money for time spent than anything I could find, so I stayed in that job for 3 & 1/2 years.  The artist in me was beginning to disappear, strangely enough I had just received a promotion.  But when they handed me a book of tax law -the size of the Webster’s Complete Unabridged Dictionary to peruse, I realized the seriousness of my predicament; I was starting to become one of “them.”  So in a sudden splendorous satori, I decided to quit.  And as there is only so much room in the brain for memories, I didn’t want my head full of facts from that book, when I was supposed to be an “Ortist,” searching for truth and beauty. So I walked very quickly and deliberately into the personnel office and said: ”I’m leaving in five minutes, what do I need to sign?”  This was before my 1st husband began with the ‘yo, ho, ho’s and a bottle of rum’ scenario. So the ‘Ortist ’ in me overcame the oppressive government job, but as the days went by, I began to realize that not only was I losing a husband, but gaining true independence, though continuing in my quest for truth and beauty aside, I was (whoops) unemployed.  So I started singing and playing my big old Martin D-21 on Guadalupe, or the “drag” as it’s called,the street that ran right in front of the University of Texas — well traveled with all sorts of people who might contribute to my empty guitar case with spare change.  Which wasn’t too bad a thing to do with my time, and it required no government ID to wear like an albatross around my neck.  The money wasn’t as constant, but I was frugal and funny and young, ( the kind of young, when you never think or see danger, even when it’s standing right there in front of you.)  Claire, being a mother and a lot wiser to the ways of the world, to say nothing of having a profession that paid money (she had a masters degree in Speech Therapy)was a superlative ‘reality-checker’ for sure when need be.  Someone with this talent was greatly needed, and so in her own way said something to the affect of: ”So what now, brown cow?” Which was a concept pondered not often enough, if ever, to a very naive and now single (for the most part) female composer of “Outlandish Outlaw-Country” songs… well, it was becoming a hassle to pay the electric bill with rolls of quarters.  Fortunately, my ex-husband left me a legacy of hundreds of returnable Lone Star Beer long neck bottles, that I began taking back to the distributors for the cash refund. See, there is the silver lining in that cloud too.  But it was raining all the time, so I stayed indoors and practiced my routine and continued the Street Singing, and began to play clubs when I had the nerve.  

         Any way, it was around that time that she and Bill Ducker became close friends and then lovers, so he was a constant visitor to our abode.  We would sit around my antique round table and drink coffee, or whatever, and talk or sing or play the guitar (Bill was an excellent classical guitarist, but also was a master of obscene ditty which he sang with great dignity, as Claire and I rolled on the floor laughing), and I played my own songs or old country songs or blues. So many a hour was spent in intense, silly, and sometimes serious musical study with seemingly endless conversation by the group ( that expanded…) and became the official meetings of the ”Ne’er do Wells.” I would give anything for even a few minutes around that table again with such close and highly interesting friends.  At that time I did not realize how this marvelous shared creativity and companionship would soon fade away into only memories long past, as we all went our separate paths.

        Bill was a wonderful teller of stories and jokes. He had the most elegant way of speaking English even in his youth back then, interspersed with his own special colorful cursing he obtained while in the Army.  Bill enlisted in the Army, when these were the times when all young men his age where destined to Vietnam, if drafted.  After the Army he attended law School at the University of Texas until threatened with graduation.   But he realized he liked every thing about the study of Law, but being a lawyer.  So on this particular professional path,  he was waylaid by ethics, always somewhat of a problem in finding one’s calling. So the legal biz, regardless of how interesting, would not be his way… I think he saw lawyers at that time to be a bunch of “silly bastards who were really professional liars,” most having no acquaintance with ethics, but masters of twisting logic into their own desired direction and shape.  So he dropped out, finding various odd (and I do mean odd) jobs, keeping us regularly informed at the Ne’er Do Well meetings, until he became the manager of a large apartment complex, with apartment included and a small salary, which was perfect for him with his military background and eloquent language skills.  Not to mention he was absolutely huge, not just wide, but very tall as well. In the early 70’s he also sported a military haircut, which was quite a  rare thing for a man of his age in those times, as you can imagine. If you did not know him, as he was a true gentleman and scholar in every way, he was able to appear to be a rather frightening person to confront in those days, no question about it.

     Now, as I have bored you all to the bone with how I grew up a military brat, etc. remember that my Dad was an Officer, not an Enlisted-man.  Where as Bill enlisted during the Vietnam War, as in doing so he could pick where he wanted to be stationed, also his talent for languages (in this case Russian) lead him to Germany, where he listened to the Ruskies (no offence meant to those of Russian extraction) over the radio waves for Army Intelligence. (Remember that this was in the days of the cold war) Although some people would question Army Intelligence as a conundrum, Bill Ducker was one, if not the most intelligent person I ever knew, and I have met in passing, (as my father’s daughter) some famous and quite well established, brilliant scientists, but none were as well rounded in their knowledge as Bill seemed to me, through out the 30 some years I knew him.  His stories of his army experiences as an Enlisted-man always fascinated me, as what I knew of the service was from a much different perspective and experience.  My father graduated from VMI in 1941 (before the US was officially part of WWII) and at that time, before he had much of a chance to sit around a table with friends and Ne’er Do Well as did I, he was sent into the infantry but managed to be assigned to what was at that time the RAF, and then the Army Air Force when the USA was officially at war. His college degree in Electrical Engineering, native intelligence (and I’m sure his charm and authoritative, aristocratic good looks) lead him into many unique opportunities as an Air Force Officer, he was the lead navigator in the biggest air strike in WWII (and this was done in very poor weather with no GPS) and was assigned to work on the development of Radar, at MIT (very interesting I’m sure and a lot safer than Germany or France) and after the war he continued his career in the Air Force, involved from  the very first of the Project Mercury, or getting that first man in Space.  Let’s just say, he never had to do K.P. or be belittled by an Officer, as in quite the same way an Enlisted-person was likely to be.  However, the Military never was known to be a democracy by it’s very nature, as all soldiers follow the orders of their superiors, as their very lives depend on that, but a solder took his moments of personal victory where and how, a soldier could.  Which brings me to one of Bill Ducker’s better stories of life as an enlisted person in the Army.

      Bill told how his much revered Master Sargent and a particular snooty Officer clashed many times over trivial matters, and as the Officer was never to be angered by disagreement, or shown any form of disrespect from  a non com (serious business, the rank and file system in the Service). His Master Sargent developed a plan that was sure to work with a passable one-up-man-ship, to say nothing of grossing the Officer out, which he clearly had coming karmic-ly.  When “inspection time” was carried out, this Officer was always greatly displeased with the quality of cleanliness in the toilet area.  And, for all practical purposes rightfully so … But for this one particular time his Master Sargent assigned a newbie to sanitize a particular toilet (one of many).  It was first to be scrubbed down with soap and disinfected with Clorox, then rinsed with fresh water on the exterior. It was then to be drained of it’s water and thoroughly wiped inside and out with rubbing alcohol,  then filled with fresh water and finally put back to look usable, but forbidden for any of his soldiers to touch.  As his troops were greatly curious as to his intentions, but suspected a set up … all were united in looking forward to the next inspection,  and they followed the order that the one toilet be left untouched and began to prepare for this event.  As per usual, when the Officer and the Master Sargent entered the ‘throne room’, the Officer complained of the unacceptable conditions.  So the Master Sargent approaches the aforementioned toilet, lifts the lid, and rubs his index finger around the top of the toilet bowl then proceeds to put said finger in his mouth, reporting, “Well it tastes OK to me, Sir.” Naturally, all Soldiers remained at attention with serious expressions.  The Officer turned red in the face but made no further comment, although there was a report of his active gag reflex.

     That particular story was one of so many, and probably less than ideal the way that I told it, but Bill had a way of making the most mundane happenings seem extraordinary, because of his eloquence, and wonderful sense of humor which he never lost.  He converted to the Anglican Church and became a true Christian in the 1980’s, which added to his accomplishments, as well as to his wisdom.  He would always have the best and most truly obscene jokes to tell in his wonderful style all through our association.  I must say, I feared that his conversion would chop that off, but he continued to set most of his many friends into fits of laughter with his jokes. As they spread, he became legendary.  If he thought of some really strange and funny idea, or expressed some thought of a questionable nature, he often simply followed his statement with “of course, our dear Lord Jesus would not do so, however…”

     Actually, if it had not been for Bill Ducker’s encouragement, I would have never gone to Westchester, New York to be with Charles Sauer, my husband of  30 years now.  Although Charles and I were clearly ‘in love’ at that time in my life, when a decision needed to be made, I was reluctant to trust anyone after my first marriage, and felt weighted down by family and possessions.  Bill pointed out how easy it would be to have all my furniture and other stuff put in storage, by calling a company that did this in my presence.  He then pointed out how I was truly clinically depressed, that all I really looked forward to were Charles nightly phone calls. He also made the comment that I was the one who had to take action to change my life.   (I think, frankly, my situation was becoming a pain in the ass for the whole Ne’er Do Well membership.)  But he was the person with the moxie to say this to me. And he even drove me to the airport for my flight.

    Bill Ducker gave me the solution to a terrible problem I was having when my daughter was in High School.   The little idiot was chronically skipping school, and refused to think finishing high school was a must.  He explained that High School in those days and times probably did suck, and that no one would want to be a part of that.  However, she would be greatly impaired if she didn’t get her diploma, so she just had to go through with it. Then he gave me the formula for her success in this venture, which I followed to the letter:  I told her that, if she skipped even one class, I was going WITH HER to every one of her classes to see that she went.  Actually, this sounded like a decent solution, and I really looked forward to her trying my patience on this issue.   But she found the whole idea of my accompanying her to class so deplorable, that she did attend her high school classes from that day on, and this I know to be the case, as I called the poor troubled person in charge of attendance every afternoon, to see if she had attended all classes. 

     When I went through the last two serious joint replacement surgeries, Claire, and/or Bill and Claire came to visit me in the hospital.  The last being my knee replacement surgery, which was quite serious and agonizing. Bill and Claire held hands with me and prayed in a  such a beautiful manner that lifted my spirits, in a way I had never experienced before. The caring and true friendship they offered me that day was a gift I will always remember.

     Bill Ducker affected so many people in a positive way that I am humbled and so grateful  that he continued to be my friend until his death on October 13, 2007.  Bill had some serious health conditions (diabetes, as well as two heart surgeries), and tended to be overweight (another problem we shared), and although he certainly was disciplined in getting physical exercise (he loved to go long distance biking), and had even organized a biking group (largely he and his daughter, Eleanor) of which he began to write weekly hilarious ‘training reports’ sent via email, which I keep looking to appear in my “inbox” again, but alas that will not happen. Eleanor, who I’ve known since she was about 3 years old, was riding behind him the day of his death, when he suffered a 2nd massive heart attack.  She said “it was as though the lights just went out in there and he fell over.”  She called the EMS and he was rushed to the hospital but never regained consciousness. The world is a much better place because you were here, Bill.   And you will be here in the hearts  and memories of so many friends.

     Most educated people remember Robert Burns’ poems, who amongst many memorable verses and lyrics, wrote “Auld Lang Syne”, which is sung at midnight on New Years Eve in so many places around the world, having become a ritualized part of many a country’s culture, transcending it’s lyrics and verse into a classical verbal tradition.  Yeah, it was along time ago, and the dude was Scottish and talked (and wrote) in a weirder than all hell version of English, or even in what might have passed as Old English…but he was a prolific poet and indeed needs to be included as part of American and certainly, all English speaking countries’ education, as he was a significant writer, indeed. (check out: http://www.robertburns.org/works/97.shtml for the source whence cometh this particular one of my usual snide and idiotic comments and/or critiques, this time having the nerve to do so of his very famous poem: “To A Louse:On Seeing One On A Lady’s Bonnet, At Church” (1786).  Heck, I was just a kid back then.  But I remember my Dad quoting the last verse of this poem, as his mother often did to children as an illustration that sometimes a person’s appearance, does not that person make; or maybe, no matter how refined a person seems, he or she has unfortunate problems like we all do; or given the span of this work, perhaps when we get too proud of ourselves, for what ever reason, we are not always viewed by others in this same fine and positive way.  Here’s the last verse:

     O wad some Power the giftie gie us

     To see oursels as ithers see us!

      It wad frae mony a blunder free us,

     An’ foolish notion:

     What airs in dress an’ gait wad lea’e  us,

     An’ ev’n devotion!

     When I raised my daughter, if and when I used that verse, it was simply a very entertaining way of reminding the little idiot not to trade hats with the other little buggers at elementary school, as there was the possibility of one, if not many of her friends traveling with  these lousey tiny parasites that tended to hop from one head to the other, if only for variety’s sake.  Besides, as all parents of little rug-rats know, there will come a day, when as you comb out your beautiful princess’ hair (in my case this was so long ago as to seem an abstraction, however lice are always a popular subject in our local newspaper to remind me of their reality) one day you will go completely bonkers at the sight of one or many of these tiny terrorist head lice; in order to rid one’s family of these interlopers, they must be ‘treated’ immediately or the whole family will travel with a tribe of tiny parasitic hitch-hikers upon all heads.  Also, and perhaps the most fun part of this situation, is that all bedding, clothes, and the beds themselves must be washed with hot water and strong detergent, and/or sprayed down with something particularly toxically specific to kill head lice. All this must be done (along with the rather nasty application of a foul but innocuous (for children) shampoo, and the ever popular nit picking (always a favorite) fine-combing the hair free of the lice in their larve  or egg stage) or the little jerks (your kids) just get reinfected;  so getting rid of these nefarious parasites it is a hassle indeed… 

      I am a great believer in the encouragement of early-onset microbe-phobia, to say nothing of  the promotion of fear of all nature’s disgusting or revolting realities, regardless of their particular ‘color, creed and codes’ and their consequences. These must all be openly and repeatedly brought to the attention  of all, when raising said rug-rats, er…kids.–Who says this instills fear and or neurosis?  Too bad. Those GD things are real, and so are other horrible germs, bacteria,  and some of those other little friends can be extremely dangerous too, in some way. Take it from me, I used to be one, many years ago and in a far away land.   And as for “creeds and codes“: this is a big “No No” or you could end up with a house full of computer geeks coding like crazy–this must be stopped as well. (just kidding about that, there is no safe haven for that problem.)Yowsa.        

      For example the first time I heard the TV Character”Monk”ask his assistant for a wipe, after shaking hands or having handled something or someone of a dubious and questionable nature, I didn’t get the humour implied.  It seemed a perfectly reasonable request,( and although I have no assistant, with the exception of my imaginary friend, Mrs. Tiesdale) and a perfectly acceptable act, indeed. Not that most wipes would save you from all gross stuff, bacteria, and/or lice for instance, but it’s a good start.

     I am in digression yet again, however, I recently read the currently discussed whole poem and pondered it’s real meaning to me, and how I could relate to this predicament in these days and times; I discovered that even though, the ‘fine Lady’ in the poem, who had seemingly gone to such trouble with her visual appearance was not aware that Burns viewed the louse on her bonnet; and his seeing these unlikely compatriots in tandem, his comparison between them, was unquestionably with out a likely trait. It is totally obvious that he was grossed out by their relationship; and quite  disturbed, as she, although oblivious to the lice, was obviously feeling about her self and her appearence in a positive way.  And then Burns set’s off on a strange and delightful dis”ing of the louse for homesteading on this fine lady, and not some gutter snipe, of whom he deems a more fitting and likely candidate.

     However, now I can say from inside my own experiences, that a lady could look reasonably presented, nicely groomed, or even richly turned out in designer threads and such, but have a mind full or horrible thoughts and experiences eating themselves out from the inside of her head.  Such thoughts  tend to come out at unfortunate times,  such as when writing a blog about what was supposed to be an amusing take on this poem.  I remember being questioned by the checker at the local grocery, asking me ‘what was wrong and could he be of service?’ ?  I must have had a horribly bothersome and revealing expression on my face at the time, one indicating worry or dissatisfaction, as I was actually at that time in an internal debate with the ideas of Nietzsche as opposed by Kant, both German philosophers and both developmental in existentialism.  I was trying to remember which one of these ner’do well German dudes came up with the idea of ‘ that which harms us makes us stronger.’ This being, and always was, to my mind, a quadruple thunk up load of shit from the first time I heard it till today, some 50 years later.

     But how was I to gather these ideas and opinions together in a way to answer the grocery checker’s question of ‘how I might be helped?’  I was speechless, until the idea came to me that someone waiting in line at a grocery store with this sort of  internalized mind-daemons in action, was obviously over-educated to far beyond the level of her native intelligence and in the first place has (1.) too much time on her hands, (2.) needs to review her philosophy notes and books before hitting the grocery store, (3.) needs to be made aware of the need for a serene untroubled facial continence, (4.) or learn to think quick and come up with a relevant question, such as:” Where is the salt?” or “Do you have any paper bags,” under these circumstances.

      Admittedly, I went over the top with that, but the point being: what can be worse than lice outside the head, is to be in the act of destructive and unanswerable thoughts of such a powerful negative nature as mine were, at such a time, when innocently facing the grocery clerk.  One is better to live in the present and the now, (by the way, where was the salt?) than to be thinking of such no-matter, snowballing, unanswerable, irrelevant and unseemly questionable philosophy’s in the first place.  As for example, though Carl Marx, another acclaimed ,though long deceased, philosopher managed the writing of” The Communist Manifesto”, and gained world wide fame, never having experienced a job in his entire life.  What the hell gave him the nerve to think on this scale, with so little life experience?  And why have I lost that kind of nerve, myself?  ’Having been kicked to my knees so many times by life’s boot, that one of those knees had to be replaced by a prosthesis.  To my mind, the grocery clerk was probably the smarter person and certainly the more responsible, doing good honest needed work.  Carl Marx was a blow-hard that probably spent time in internal debate in line at the grocery (actually a far too mundane thing for him to have done…)

     I answered the grocery clerk’s question by reconfiguring my facial expression to a sheepish smile and shook my head, indicating no.  Hopefully, during that non-verbal answer, no head lice were detected or spread by my gesture, and these mind deamons are not contagious, unless expressed to others. He was a lucky guy.