Monthly Archives: October 2013

Silent Night

I write this remembrance for my children as well as their own including those who follow us down those halls of time hallowed by our endless line of ancestors reaching into the remote past.  If I can pass but one gift to them it would be imagination; not just for visions to amuse but to fully appreciate the universe in which they find themselves involved.

Silent Night
Prologue
There is just nowhere in the emerald mountains of Idaho which is not heart-achingly beautiful.  Just to find yourself amongst the peaks and and valleys; the pine, fir, aspen and hemlock; and standing surrounded by beasts which could end your life without departing their daily lifestyle is a return to our primal spirit and refreshment to our eternal soul.  To be mounted on a fine horse, riding the narrow roads gouged from the sheer cliffs surrounded by eternity…this is heaven.
My good friend and I had arrived in the southern most reaches of the mighty Bitterroot Mountains above the great Snake river to hunt elk.  The headwaters of the Snake spring to life high upon the Yellowstone caldera.  It races through the mountains to begin a long twisted trail across Idaho and Oregon to it’s magnificent confluence with the huge Columbia river.
The Bitterroots erupt skyward along the splendid western Montana border and extend their glorious elevations south, skirting the unequaled glacier clad Tetons, and finally into Idaho where their roots are at the last washed by the Snake.
I seriously doubt there is an area more conducive to this huge member of the deer family.  Dense stands of forest interspersed with grassy parks (aptly named elk parks) all spread over the steep mountainsides were perfect cover for this handsome animal called the wapiti (elk) in the native Cree tribal tongue.
Even before the camp had been pitched, an officer of the Idaho Wildlife Department stopped by the gradually growing camp the first day.  He was probably the most courteous and friendly game warden I have ever met in any state.
I talked of many things with the warden offering up many helpful tips on camping and hunting the area.  I had offered to exhibit my permit and tag early in the visit but he politely declined.  He went on to explain this area would be teeming with elk once the snowfall began and the snow was then late in coming.  He speculated that hunting pressure would drive the animals over the pass at the upper limits of the valley we had located camp.
Yet…(fade to ending)
After two weeks of hunting, scouting and riding the huge area in which we had claimed for hunting on our permits, it was found to be sterile of the elusive wapiti.  A massive bull moose became a familiar, if antagonistic, acquaintance as he was usually to be found standing in the center of the trail challenging all comers.
Bears, well, the black bears, of all sizes, were everywhere.  The hillsides were covered with a bright red berry which the bears loved to browse.  The season was just prior to their winter nap time and they were taking in all the foodstuffs they could manage.
Last Chances
Down to our last day of hunting, I rode the miles-long perimeter of the the valley while my friend went to the very top of the pass.  We agreed to meet back at camp around noon to compare notes and findings…if any at all.
When I rode into camp he was ecstatic.  A good-sized group of elk had crossed over the high pass and milled in the new snow on the very mountain top.  He described a large circle which the herd had trampled while milling around.  They had apparently drifted off searching for food.
Quickly we laid plans to find well-covered stands around the location upon which all the elk had converged in hopes they would return before today’s darkness extinguished our right to hunt and turned our hunting activities illegal.
A bite to eat for the horses and ourselves and we hit the long trail back up the mountain one last time.  The slopes were clad almost entirely with evergreens making the scene appear almost spring-like.  This changed as we climbed beyond the snow line.
We had only experienced a couple of light snows in camp which melted without delay.  Even with temperatures lower down in the mid 30’s, no snow or ice lingered.  Higher was a different story.
Snow upon the Mountain
No snow on top of the mountain when we arrived changed slowly into a now 6 inch layer.  Each day it crept lower, but we had arrived about two weeks too early for the white cover to move the elk towards us.  Even the steadily increasing pressure of many hunters across the pass failed to prod them into moving into our area.
We tied the horses a good half mile below the hunting ground.  The smell of horses and the small noises they make carry for long distances in the crystalline air of high mountains.
Approaching the open space upon which the elk had milled about, we silently chose our stands.  I was above the circle left by the untrammeled herd and to the northward.  I enjoyed unobstructed views and could spot any moving object for nearly a quarter mile in a great sweep to the east, south and west.
I carried every type of weather-proof clothing on my person.  The temperature was hovering about 25 as we left camp and steadily lowered as we climbed.  I knew not to what extremes the climate might plunge but I was ready for it!
Sitting
Time crept as if a metronome were slowly beating within my ears.  Snow fell in light flakes and soon covered my bundled body blending me into the surrounding landscape.  Maintaining my head steady I swept the whole of the area with long slow eye movements.  I knew that my peripheral vision was the valuable motion detector in this situation, I focused upon objects and allowed free rein to my senses.
Wedged as comfortably as possible between two massive fir trees, I hoped to avoid cramps, pains & the fearful “Charlie horse”.  It has got to be programmed into the human psyche that during extended moments of inaction, somewhere an ache, pain or itch becomes the sole and uncontested focus of the mind.  Desperate to not reveal my position I slowly moved within my clothing only to find the pain following that movement; often arriving before I reached the new position.
Eventually, I found that by concentrating on the heights above or upon some comely spot and allowing my imagination to roam my mind denied the banal bodily cramps conscious attention.  It was in this manner I passed the hours leading to darkness.  I could vision the Blackfoot, Crow and Nez Perce men moving across this clearing challenging faith and life in their grueling yet noble existence upon this earth.
Evening Falling
I became familiar with every bush, tree & stone upon this high inclining and scenic masterpiece.  Colors, shadows, and textures blended into unimagined allure.  Over the years I have reminded myself while viewing such scenes spread about me to be mindful that I may well never travel this way again.  Seeking to imbue into my memory this spectacular niche of eternity.
As alluring as this place of seductive beauty, it was eventually clear that the elk had moved on with no thought of return.  As darkness approached the frigid air seemed to be abating.  Clouds above us gradually lightened and soon the small snowy chips falling evolved into larger and larger wafers.  One by one they grew into great orbs forming the creative and non-reproducible crystal structures.
Forgotten in my reverence of the moment was that this night marked a full moon.  Movement to darkness lower on the mountains was swift and complete.  Up here nearest the sky it took longer and soon I sensed that dark was not entirely to be.
The glare of the late evening developed into a mystic ethereal glow of mixed moonlight radiating through the billowy snow clouds and dispersed by the multitudinous flakes filling the world about me.
End of the Hunt
At this moment my friend materialized below in the clearing as if an apparition had leap full life from the very earth.  He stood motionlessly staring at the still visible circle left by the descendent’s of the wapiti hunted by my just imagined Native American neighbors.  In my mind he looked forlorn thinking of what might have been his long dreamed end to this epic undertaking.
Quietly joining him I noted his disappointed demeanor as we made our careful way down to the tethered horses.  With a bit of relief we found them placidly awaiting our return.
I mention our relief because, near this very spot, my friend had tied his horse while he scouted the area on our second day on the mountain.  In his absence a bear had stumbled upon and panicked the animal into ripping the reins lose and, in his terror, running at full speed down the mountain and past the campsite.
The bridle rein was broken where attached to the bit and, tied to the other rein, trailed far behind the speeding horse further adding to his hysterical flight.  Far below I heard and gave chase to this totally unnerved animal.  Sides heaving-in great gasps of air, I slowly gentled him and wondered at his appearance hoping the rider did not lay injured upon the mountain.
Returning up the mountain we encountered the beleaguered animals rider and discovered the source of the run-away mystery.
Wayward Horse
Now, as we mounted for our ride down the mountain, the giant flakes of snow obliterated all evidence of our unrequited hunt.  Yet the ending of the hunt did not mark the last of adventure.  Before us lie the long miles to the end of this the highest trail over our mountain.  Endless in the moon-glow and falling snow.
I led-off and allowed my tall mount to determine his own slow pace.  In most points of the trail merging with the ancient logging road there existed an abrupt precipice on the right and vertical bluff to the left.  A misplaced foot or turned hoof and eternity would meet both horse and rider (me) on the long way downward.
To further aggravate me this beast of an equine hard-headed and free spirited individual moved inexorably toward the outer edge of the path.  He seemed to relish balancing on the knife-edge of road and cliff edge.  Turning the faithless animal back to the other side was only a temporary relief.  Step by step we unerringly headed back to that line demarcating this existence with the next life.
A Night of Great Beauty
I was unable to long focus on my mount’s peculiarity as the growing moonlight was creating a vision about me beyond my own poor imagination.  I have often noted the differing appearance of the night sky at these great heights.  On clearest nights the stars dance temptingly within an arm’s reach.  The Milky Way becomes a true highway of the gods extending endlessly across the unfathomable universe.
The huge moon was clearly visible through the over-covering clouds transforming those snow-filled vapors into a massive source of radiance effusing the world with a light both seen and felt.
And the snowflakes, huge frozen orbs of sculpted ice, became carnate with this exquisite glow.  Each snowflake manifest as a lantern with it’s own soft smoldering blaze.  Legions of luminescent and full of glory small entities gently drifting earthward.  Each flake became a star glowing, writing it’s brief existence into my memory.
Hoof falls became muffled upon the earth’s pristine new white skin.  All my world approached an unchallenged silence.  Only the light, myself and my horse upon the mountain existed encapsulated in a totality of separation from normal time and reality.  This journey downward became a lifetime entire; a beginning and ending encased and exclusive of other mundane life.
Lost in my reverie I rode in blissful abandon.  Sensing the gradual ending of the steep slope blending into the soft incline of the valley, I endured a sadness realizing the culmination of this my dream journey.

The Early Quest

THE EARLY QUEST

Sitting on a moss covered rock
and seething with the early morning chill,
I watch the misty tendrils
rising over the still waters, placid
beneath the spiritous, dancing forms.

The newly born rays, golden,
over the mountains
crest, color the dark depths
of the sky.

The song of a mocking bird follows
my concious, wandering mind through
the forest,
across the river,
climbing the mountains rise,
to the bright heights,
where I send it seeking in far distant places
for you,
my love.

Beyond and Again

Yellow Elk moved in swift strides across the sandy
silence of the forest. Footfalls were as quiet as the
darkness touching the sentinel fir and sweet scented pine surrounding him. Yet, even the skill of Yellow Elk paled to the ability of his unseen, unheard friend.

Now and again, the young warrior would pause, wondering if he were, indeed, so alone as his senses told him. After a moment, Yellow Elk felt the warm presence of the other. He reflected upon the name chosen for his companion so well describing that wraith-like presence…Wind Which Speaks.

The two formed a brotherhood in youth, a fellowship in adventure. They were a part of that fraternity of young seeking always to test their courage and honor.

This night, a force of power drew the spirit within them to the darkness of the river. Knowing neither reason nor caution, they hungered for that which spoke, unseen.

Yellow Elk felt a feather’s breath upon his shoulder.
Stopping instantly, he was close upon the water’s edge.
Slowly kneeling he touched the river with a 
single finger. 


In the darkness complete, he would have fallen, breaking silence, into the water, had not Wind Which Speaks halted him.

Together, they faced across the waters, waiting that they knew not. An ancient mountain stood towering and glowing lightly in the starlight across the stream. And, standing thus, they perceived a faint light growing to limn the peak. This was the moon flowing across the night sky. Soon it would break over the mountain to bath the land in soft honey veils; sundering darkness.

In the ethereal iridescence which precedes the moonrise, Wind Which Speaks knew another presence and it was upon the waters. He, spreading his hand, swept his arm slowly over the river to indicate to Yellow Elk these others. As he motioned, the waxing moon coursed o’re the mountain, mirroring into the river waters; a bridge born of God’s crystal tears. Upon the waters danced and twisted ancient spirits in wisps and tendrils of misty vapor. The mists whirled and dissipated only to be reborn and multiply.

As the young warriors watched, enveloped in awe of the night’s artistry, they heard a sound no louder than a baby’s sigh, but unmistakably that of an paddle upon the side of a tan-bark canoe. Through the parting mists an apparition appeared. Wind Which Speaks could clearly see a war canoe which carried five mighty warriors bearing down upon them. He turned, whispered word upon his lip, only to see Yellow Elk did not share his vision.

Indeed, though Yellow Elk could perceive some form across the waters, it was only another fantastic forming of the vapors. As it came nearer, he felt no fear, only the unfamiliar strangeness of the night. His eyes roved hither and yon, seeking the unseen canoe which he unmistakably heard. But, when the voice spoke, flowing over the water before him, fear then struck deeply into his courageous heart.

“Hail, young warriors of our people,” came the deep
voice, quiet and harsh, quivering the very leaves about them.

“Who speaks thus,” cried Yellow Elk?

Wind Which Speaks made no sound as the attention of the savage warriors within the canoe focused upon his friend. Yet, though he could taste the fear consuming Yellow Elk, he could see none upon his face.

“Come, travel with the ancients to fight the enemy who live beyond the known waters of this your river. Know battle with us! This night we shall deliver those warriors to that place where they shall fight no more,” came the deep voice while ignoring the question of Yellow Elk.

The spirit of Wind Which Speaks was calm as he
lingeringly inspected the occupants of the large war canoe.   He saw the five warriors who held five shields and their weapons. There lay another shield beyond the last warrior.

The first warrior held a shield and upon it was the sign of the bear, fearless and first to charge into battle. This warrior was the speaker. The next warrior carried the sign of the eagle upon his shield; the wise counseling the raw bravery of the bear.

Next, a warrior bearing the sign of the buffalo; the provider, solid, of the earth which carried the river waters… that which was and will be forever.

The fourth warrior bore the sign of the mighty waters; indomitable and forever as the earth. This warrior and the third held paddles. The fifth warrior was a darkness in the moonlight and his sign was of fire. In the deep recesses of his skull blazed the insane flames of madness, the light in the sightless eyes of a mad wolf. He was silent. And beyond him lay the last shield in the dark void of the shadow canoe. And the sign upon it was death.

“Come,” repeated the warrior of the bear and he raised his mighty arm to beckon Yellow Elk.

But, the young man could not face this which he could not see. He stumbled back and faced his friend. “I cannot… I must return to the people,” he stammered. When he saw the strength of Wind Which Speaks he sought to cover his weakness and spoke thus, “You may go, if you wish.”

As Wind Which Speaks turned to gaze into the face of Yellow Elk, he saw the hopeless fear of the unknown. The wind knows some of the restless spirits of this and other worlds and this man who bore the name of the lonely wind knew also. Yellow Elk’s eyes begged forgiveness for the weaknessof his quailing heart.

Wind Which Speaks placed his hands upon the cold
shoulders of Yellow Elk, a smile softened his harsh mouth as he spoke, “Go, my brother. Speak to our people. Tell them I shall return… if only in farewell or in a faraway day. Take courage within your spirit for of these things you know not.”

And to the time-ravaged warriors in the canoe he exclaimed in a mighty voice, “I shall go with you and we will fight to the very ends of the earth… and beyond.”

Thus parting from Yellow Elk, he made a mighty leap and fell amongst those in the canoe and they were departed. The braves felt the strength of Wind Which Speaks as he entered the canoe and knew their choice was true. For it had been this young warrior and not Yellow Elk for which they sought.

Yellow Elk watched with dread as his brother disappeared into the swirling mists. He heard a faint noise as the warrior fell into the canoe, as a single leaf makes dropping upon the floor of the forest. The only sound ever after was the gentle rip of water closing where the canoe was no longer.

Taking paddle, Wind Which Speaks drove the canoe far into raging currents. The sinews of his mighty arms corded as he flung the frail craft amongst fog shrouded mist, over the foaming crests and down the long miles.

By and by, they came to a land which was bathed in pale light, riven with dark rain. The spirit of Wind Which Speaks would have fallen as if frozen by bitter winds of winter had he not seen the hell fires leap full force into the eyes of the dark warrior kneeling beyond him.

The warrior of red flame felt the enemy long before fiery eyes beheld.  Seeing the flames uncovered, Wind Which Speaks brought forth the fighting madness in his own soul preparing for battle.

A huge cry broke from the throat of the bear warrior as he jumped firmly upon the riverbank. And lo, there was the enemy all and about the companions. The battle joined and blows fell as thunder from the sky. Wind Which Speaks slew an enemy and rushed to aide the eagle warrior beset by many. The fight roiled upon the hillside and darkened the lowering moon.

Many and many fell to hideous wounds, yet the enemy never seemed to be lessened. In fact, they grew in power and pushed the companions hard upon the river’s edge.

Fell death facing them from the water and the enemy about and among, the bear warrior uttered a great battle-cry and unleashed an unseen fury upon the enemy and all the spirituous brotherhood fell upon the enemy in renewed strength.

Many of the enemy fell and many of the companions of the war canoe were seen to fall, but Wind Which Speaks saw none of this. He could but batter those who came before him and, with swinging blow of club, seek to shatter.

O a sudden, there was quiet and he halted to hear a whisper going along the shore, “See, he is hurt, he bleeds; let us flee this place. He lives to die and this should not be,” so saying, dark forms fled the battle-ground.

Wind Which Speaks beheld and could not comprehend. Then, he dropped his gaze and saw the blood which covered his chest. A wound was opened there and his life was but loosely held within by a weakening spirit. He knew fear.

The warrior of the Buffalo gently placed him into the canoe and covered him with many hides of wondrous softness. Wind Which Speaks felt the blackness cover him and the smooth flow of water beneath the canoe. Yet, before darkness claimed his soul, Wind Which Speaks sought to touch the gaping wound within his chest. And lo, the wound was no more!

Wind Which Speaks awoke as the light softly probed the leather covered opening to the skin house. Dawn was breaking over the village, his home. Above him, his father saw the life in his son’s eyes and wondered. Of great adventure he asked his son. With renewing strength Wind Which Speaks whispered of the night, of his strange companions and of the enemy they met beyond the mists of time.

Speaking, strength returned. When his tale was finished he leaped to his feet threw back the leathern door. There before the lodge stood his friend Yellow Elk. Thinking to reassure his old companion, Wind Which Speaks strode forth into the new light and, with a smile, grasped the arm of Yellow Elk.

But, the grasp of friendship was the talon grip of
death, for life fled from Wind Which Speaks as swiftly as a stone sinks into still waters. Bleak darkness enveloped his sight and the smile failed upon his lips.

Yellow Elk caught him within his arms and tenderly lay him upon the sweet smelling grasses and blooming clover as life flowed out upon the warm breeze. The evil which grows within the mortal man gushed forth from the mouth of Wind Which Speaks in a foul gout of black blood.

Yellow Elk turned his face… seeking the blue sky over all… seeing afar a single fair tendril of light river mist
drifting beyond the breaking day.

 

 

GRANDPAPPY, THE INDIANS, AND THE BEAR in the WYOMING WILDERNESS of EIGHTY and EIGHT

“Grandad told me this story. His Grandpap told him. Now, I’ll tell it to you. That’s three people telling a tale that occurred over 100 years ago. Take it for what it’s worth, I do.”…John H. Lambe

“That ol’ man was a wanderer. He had a family, but I guess they were used to him being gone. Some folks are better loved that way anyhow. And he was probably one of them. He sent money home every now and again.

“It was August of fifty and four. He’d been settled into an old cabin that had known a long line of occupants, some human, some not. It was the legacy of some forgotten trapper long returned to the Earth in that endless cycle intimately known, loved, and lived by denizens of the wilderness.

“He was panning for color on Passway Creek, not far from the headwaters of both Yellowstone and the great Snake Rivers. Beautiful, high country, dropping off from the mighty Tetons; up amongst the bubbling cauldrons of the Yellowstone plateau.

“He’d been there long enough to find a few flakes of yellow which he could point to as a reason for being there. But, I reckon his main reason was just to fill his life with days he could live with. His real gold was all around him.

“He’d noted four things in a descending order:

“First was the awesome beauty and the soul filling thrill of just being there. Second was Injuns. He hadn’t seen any, but there was enough sign to give even a fella with sunset eyes a pause.

“The third was bears. Great silver tipped monsters that lumbered down out of the spruce and across the park. They fished the trout creeks and occasionally exploded in speed and blinding force to bring down an elk or moose. And they lived with him in this world.

“The fourth was gold; the least of all things.

“Late one evening, when real gold and the red of rubies played across the skies of a sundown world, he looked up into the twenty four eyes of twelve warriors. He was a good enough judge of men to know they weren’t friendly and this would be entirely their show.

“So, Grandpap looked south at the endless wave of peaks washing down to that high sage brush desert of the Green River country. Then around behind at the notch of Two Pass Creek, and far beyond it, his family..fire, home, and safety. Then, he faced west. The sky was aflame over the blue-grey Teton Peaks. The reds and purples reflected off the timeless glaciers woven on their rocky shoulders. He sighed a little and figured there was no better place to die than right here on the mighty backbone of this great continent, the roof of his world, in the company of twelve warrior-men of another of another, slowly passing world.

“They tied him to an old snag, the doughty survivor of a long ago forest. First, they ate, then they talked it over. They’d dispatch him, of course, never any doubt about that, just the method.

“When the proceedings began, one man, then another dashed down upon at him shaking a spear at his belly or perhaps a club over his head. They’d shout their fierce words and contort their faces. He suspected he was getting a good description of their future intentions. Leather clad, tough, and resigned, he was just as glad that he couldn’t understand the lingo.

“The preliminaries went on for over an hour. But, Grandpap was resigned to dying from the start, so, it never really worried him as much as it perhaps should. Then the moon, full and orange with a halo rose. And the bear walked into camp.

“Yes, that moon was a sight. Big and full, it looked like the Momma of all the stars, fixing to add a few more, just for good measure. And as he looked at it’s hallowed wonder, hoping it would be the last thing he saw, ol’ Silver caught the corner of his eye and all of his attention.

“Well, that bear spoiled a good little party. An’ pap felt a little let down at this abrupt change in plans. The Indians made a strategic retreat, in a mass of flying legs and dusty feathers, leaving pap to face Mr. Silverback by his lonesome.

“Superstition of the bear is a thing all the Indians shared and they decided, right quick, this one had a message. They delegated it to Grandpappy to make note of whatever wisdom was about to be revealed.

“Ol’ bear ambled over and plopped, whump, down on his bohunkus in front of Pap, his back to him, looking at the departed parties. They could be seen silhouetted in the moonlight at a respectful…very respectful…few paces. Their eyes glistened from the abandoned fire, like coyotes waiting for the scraps.

“That furry monster was fed up on fish, Pap could smell the lingering aroma, he was that close. He was also, the bear, doing a little talking to the Indians. It couldn’t be heard, just a low rumble in his throat only he could understand. But, Pap felt it vibrating way down deep in the pit of his stomach. Probably bear was telling them what he would do if they really wanted to play.

“Directly, Silver pivoted all nine hundred-odd pounds around and looked over at Pap, as if to say, “You poor dodger, what ever am I going to do about a dreamy-eyed bugger like you wandering around my mountains?”

“Then, his little huckleberry eyes noticed the sweat pouring off Pap’s face and down his chest. The Children of Nature had shredded his shirt, probably with the intention of a little job of tattooing with a hot brand. Now, in the cool air of a high mountain night, Pap sweated enough to make a water hole for two mules and a burro under his knees.

“His legs gave out when Silver turned his laconic attention on him. Loosely tied to the snag, he collapsed, or collapsed as far as he could get that way, to his knees.

“To an Indian, in that country, the high recluse of the all powerful Grizzly, that bear was an agelong object of worship; a direct link to the Great Spirit. The Earthly messenger of such memos as Heaven directed to men. And here was their prisoner in a worshipful position before just such a divine runner.

“Well, Ol’ Silver ran that massive bundle of bone and muscle which served as his head, out on his long neck and snuffled the sweat on Pap’s chest. What he smelled was salt, of course, and salt is a mighty valuable commodity in the wilderness. In fact, salt is just the thing to top off a bountiful feast of mountain trout.

“He could have used his great yellow fangs to rip off the salt and thirty pounds of meat, blood and bone. But, he didn’t. What he did do was to daintily lick it off. The big, sandpaper tongue swiped chest, face, even Pap’s ears.

“I don’t know what went through Grandpappy’s head right then, he never told. But, the Indians were figuring that it was about as direct a message from the Last Hunting Ground as they would ever get. And it didn’t take any medicine man to translate or diagnose it for ’em.

“They just got on their shaggy ponies and rode out of the park, up the side of the valley, through the spruce and aspen, and over the mountain. All the way back to their lodges.

“And over many a winter fire, burning at the center of the lodge-poles, the story was told of how they had almost killed a Small Spirit. Until the Great Bear had shown them their mistake.

“So, folks, just take this little story for what it’s worth.,.I always have.”

White House preventing WW II veterans from visiting their monument!!!!!!!!!!!!

This is an unforgivable act…a blatant act of supreme disrespect. This administration might get away with much by spin and lie. This I cannot and will not either forgive or forget. Denying access, budget or no, to these men who offered and gave their all for this country is immoral, unethical, bad, wrongful, wicked, evil, foul, unprincipled, unscrupulous, dishonorable, dishonest, unconscionable, iniquitous, disreputable, corrupt, depraved, vile, villainous, nefarious, & base.

“The White House and the Department of the Interior rejected a request from Rep. Steven Palazzo’s office to have World War II veterans visit the World War II memorial in Washington, the Mississippi Republican told The Daily Caller Tuesday.The White House and the Department of the Interior rejected a request from Rep. Steven Palazzo’s office to have World War II veterans visit the World War II memorial in Washington, the Mississippi Republican told The Daily Caller Tuesday.

Palazzo helped the veterans commit an act of civil disobedience against the Park Service Tuesday, when the heroes stormed through barricades around the closed memori

X-Rayed Feet & Cobalted Head

The one shoe store in Idabel had the x-ray machine. We (my cousins & I) would look over our feet 2-3 times a day if the customerd weren’t looking at it…we would trade-off putting our hands under it so the others could look. still got my feet, pretty much.

One better…a stray kitten showed-up at our house &, of course I played with it for a few days. Well, ringworms were one of the banes of childhood. Mom managed to get rid of them all with the exception of a half=dozen around the top of my head. She shaved my little head & treated it quite horribly. About that time we made the long trip out ol’ route 66 to visit my grandparents & uncle in California.

The trip itself was a wonder that I need to set-down somewhere. After we arrived my grandma got all the dope on my shaved head with sores all over it. She knew just where to take me…right back to the hospital I had been born into 4 years or so earlier. Take me they did. It was not unpleasant undergoing the treatment the Skin specialis proscribed for me. It was a new treatment…just out…the best thing in years…first cousin to the then recent Nagasaki bomb…laying me under a wild looking contraption they told me to hold perfectly still. Mom promised me we would drive out to Roy Rogers house as a reward (we did too!).

It was dad who got the specifics of the machine thingy. It delivered a high intensity cobalt treatment to very select targets on and just under the skin. It would and did literally burn those booger worms to death & then some. Also left some nice scars over my upper hemisphere. This with short burr haircuts the norm. Mine was always allowed to go a little longer…a secret well held by only my family and our barber who kept his mouth shut with a little tip from dad.

The one shoe store in Idabel had the x-ray machine. We (my cousins & I) would look over our feet 2-3 times a day if the customerd weren’t looking at it…we would trade-off putting our hands under it so the others could look. still got my feet, pretty much.

One better…a stray kitten showed-up at our house &, of course I played with it for a few days. Well, ringworms were one of the banes of childhood. Mom managed to get rid of them all with the exception of a half=dozen around the top of my head. She shaved my little head & treated it quite horribly. About that time we made the long trip out ol’ route 66 to visit my grandparents & uncle in California.

The trip itself was a wonder that I need to set-down somewhere. After we arrived my grandma got all the dope on my shaved head with sores all over it. She knew just where to take me…right back to the hospital I had been born into 4 years or so earlier. Take me they did. It was not unpleasant undergoing the treatment the Skin specialis proscribed for me. It was a new treatment…just out…the best thing in years…first cousin to the then recent Nagasaki bomb…laying me under a wild looking contraption they told me to hold perfectly still. Mom promised me we would drive out to Roy Rogers house as a reward (we did too!).

It was dad who got the specifics of the machine thingy. It delivered a high intensity cobalt treatment to very select targets on and just under the skin. It would and did literally burn those booger worms to death & then some. Also left some nice scars over my upper hemisphere. This with short burr haircuts the norm. Mine was always allowed to go a little longer…a secret well held by only my family and our barber who kept his mouth shut with a little tip from dad.