TRAVEL LIGHT -- OH YEAH?

I'm back.  I know you don't believe it.  But I am here.  Taking my directions from my computer in French now.  But that isn't going to stop me.  Oh no,not me.
Two weeks ago we started to pack for this nearly three week absence.  We wanted to do it intelligently and we wanted to prevent ourselves from being swamped with too much luggage.  So we did do things quite intelligently.  We held ourselves down to four pieces of luggage.  Two for checking and once each to carry-on.  It has worked quite well and we are rather happy with the results.  it could be better, but considering that we have to stay here for a long time, we are going to be OK.  It is never easy to pack and expect everything to be fine.  There will always be something that is forgotten.  That is an axiom that seems to be inviolable.  However, this time we are flying in the face of the axiom,or so we think.
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We can't believe what has happened since we boarded the plane in Los Angeles.  The plane left on time.  Landed on time.  The flight to which we connected left on time and landed on time.  The final leg took off on time and landed on time too.  Then we took the bus at the airport in Lyon and the bus left on time and arrived at the destination on time.  It was as though the moment we go to LAX that we had crossed the border into France and everything started to run on time.  Then, in France, things fell apart.  We were sold a bus ticket at the central depot that was for a bus that was not due to leave until the morning.  We then had to find a hotel quickly and have an overnight in a location that we had not anticipated.  The ticket it turned out was not good for the next day and the clerk could not give a refund.  So we had to buy a replacement ticket.  Oh, by the way, the bus left on time.  Now I have to write to the department of transportation of the local government in order to convince them that their clerk made a mistake and that I expect a refund of my $14.00.  I can hear you clucking and chuckling from here.  So you think that will would be a waste of ink right?  If I remember, I'll let you know.
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As sometimes happens, after taking the room, we got hungry.  We had not really had much to eat.  So we left the hotel, took a left on the sidewalk and at less that 75 yar...oops,sorry, meters, we saw a Chinese restaurant.  So we went in, spoke in English to the owner and made ourselves at home.   I had a great time listening to him speak in perfect French to the patrons.  The place was filled.  I have something to say about waste and good portion management that was a thought that I had during the meal there.  Stay tuned.
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We knew that we had to rise early because the bus was an early departure...7:45 AM.  All of a sudden with a leap, I awoke, rousted Belle out of bed, dressed, looked at the time and went down the lobby to start checking out and going to the depot across the street.  I found it was rather dark outside so I asked the clerk what time it was.  Imagine the look on my face when she responded:  3:15!  We went back to the room, caught two more winks before rising at a decent hour and ran out to get the bus.  It left on time.  Of course.
The bus ride took us to our hotel.  That's another story.  
Now we are at LaSalette and the way here was marked by a very emotional stop.  That too is another story.  
Plenty of pictures and more "Thoughts" in the imminent future.

GOOD NIGHT IRENE,GOOD NIGHT IRENE --

Good Morning all,

"I pray that all of you in the path of "Irene" will be safe and are safe.  You are in our prayers, as all of you are.  Alleluia!!!"

The quote at the top of the page is seriously prayerful.  The author is a dearly beloved person in my life.  He is also one who knows that I am scheduled to fly eastward in a few hours.  I therefore am grateful that he is praying for me and for my dear spouse. There is nothing like spiritual support when Mother Nature unleashes her fury.  So, Reef, thank you.  We are leaving LAX at 13:30 and headed into Detroit where we will have a vehicle change before continuing our way to Lyon via Amsterdam.  From what we can see on the computer models pictured here, we should be safe from the swirling effects of the turbulence of this angry little lady.  Are we pleading that the next time something similar enters the atmosphere, please let us be singing, "You picked a fine time to leave me Lucille." 
That would be fine, but then what would I be able to do with this ... ???

Let me just leave it there.  I got a heavy date with Irene in the evening.

The next voice you hear will be asking, "Passez le camembert, s'il-vous-plait."  

And the temp will go from 108 to 68.  Bring on the fur-lined skivvies.

SYNAESTHESIA -- HUH?

How someone with synesthesia might perceive certain letters and numbers.

Hey, I am here in full and living color.  I have to start by saying that I don't remember ever promising that I would delve only in 65 year old thoughts.  The interesting thing about this word is that about seven or eight years ago I read an interesting study about the phenomenon that it names.  The name of it, synaesthesia never appeared in the article I read.  In fact, in the article that I read today it is stated that the majority of people who experience this condition do not know how to name it.  Of course, with a spelling like it has, can you blame them?  Another interesting aspect of this condition is that it is estimated that there is a probability of its occurring at some degree in about 1 out of every 23 people.  If you, dear reader know where this is coming from or where it is going, you no doubt fall within the parameters of probability that I just mentioned.  That means that there could be 4 or 5 of you who know what I am talking about.
I know, you're thinking, so tell us the definition, air head.  OK, here goes:
SYNAESTHESIA: "...condition in which stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway."  People who have this condition are called "synaesthetes."  
Now, the curious part of this condition is that it affects people in different ways.
The first time I read about it was in an article saying that certain people see colors when they listen to music.  They have sound:color synaesthesia.  Others have the species of synaesthesia which causes something similar to the picture at the top of this page, called, oddly enough, numerical:color synaesthesia.  There are more, but the one among the rest that intrigues me is lexical:gustatory synaesthesia.  Words that are heard or read result is causing food tastes to occur in the mouth of the synaesthete.


I am offering you this because of the underlying reason why I did not pay much heed to the information I received some years ago.  Yep, I got it on the Internet.  It was there as an interest piece and as interested as I was, I did not give it credence.  It just did not seem possible.  There were no references in the article and it was a Saturday.  I didn't forget it, but I didn't much believe it.  Then today I fell upon a blog that had the word in its title.  A Catholic blog.  That's what got me going.  
I followed the nudging of my curiosity and I found references and some scientific writing.  It has been quite an experience.  The fact that I have an underlying distrust of the Internet makes me leery of what I find.  Every now and then, I find some satisfaction.  This has been one of those moments.  I hope that you've had some fun with this.  
By the way, here's something else I found:  What is it that occurs once every minute, twice in every moment and never in a thousand years?
I may see you tomorrow.  I promise I will make an effort.  France beckons.

CHANGE -- NOT NICKLES AND DIMES -- LIFESTYLE

OK, brace yourselves.  I slid a bunch of deep philosophy thoughts in on you a couple of times this week.  Not this time.  This is going to be nothing but sheer common sense that we can all believe in.  Oh, Yeah!
Two or three days ago I got a long email that I had received many times before.  When you're old like I am, you receive emails that resemble editorials that you read 40 years ago.  Those who send them to you over email think that they are new and revolutionary.  As a matter of fact, they are, for the most part, nothing but history repeating itself.  The worst part of it all is, we old people think it has been email all along.  Now, you know the email I am talking about.  The one that starts out, "Changes are coming..."  No?  You don't say?  Change?  Oh my goodness!  We haven't had any of that for a long time.  Hhmmm, let me see.  When was it the last time you mailed a post card for $0.01?  How many of you can remember the difference between 1st and 2nd and 3rd class mail?  Can you remember the last time the United States Post Office hired high school Juniors and Seniors to help with Christmas deliveries of Christmas Greeting Cards?  Was that change, or do we still do that but just don't get to see it any more because we're too old to look out the window?  How many of you can remember when the daily newspaper was delivered to your home for six straight days for $0.15?  Better yet, how many of you remember the trauma it caused when the price went to $0.25 for the same service?Now that I think some more about it, it's been so long since I have bought a newspaper that I can't believe there's been any change at all.  Except that I don't read newspapers any more.  I got over that habit when I lived in a third world country where newspapers didn't reach out further than the government building anyway.  There was no "news" in them either because reporting was against the law.  I could go on and on, but I'll leave it up to you to wait for the next time this email will rattle your CRT.  Right now I am going to propose what can be done to save this country ship loads of money with a minimum of discomfort.  I mean, besides recalling the military home.
The Post Office has to go.  Three year plan.  1. By end of fiscal year 2011-2012 (June 30, 2012) absolutely no more "junk mail."  If you want to advertise, use Craigslist.  2.  By the same time, delivery on Tuesday through Saturday, only and only in  urban areas the definition of which I leave up to those smarter than I.  3. By June 30, 2013, No more Saturday delivery.  4. By June 30, 2014, bye, bye.  Gone.  Don't tell me it can't be done.  If you want more paper, buy another fax machine.
Along with the absolute abolition of junk mail, all franking privileges will be abolished as well.  If the government is going to continue taking bribes from insurance, pharma, comm, oil, etc.  let 'em use the bribe money to get their lies disseminated.  That's what's happening now with the TV and such.  They don't need mail.
You don't really want to know what I think about the rest of this "memo" do you?  There are some interesting thoughts in my brain about some of this stuff.   I have lived in some rather unique places under some rather interesting conditions.  I'm able to tell you all that there are MANY things that we could do without in this country and still be comfortably happy.  But I'm getting long winded here, so I'll spare you.  Maybe I'll mail you a $0.32 post card.  


I'll end with the change that just hit Apple computer today with the de-mission of  Steve Jobs.  Don't worry, Apple will be around as long as Microsoft has a well that needs poisoning.  


That's it for now.

WHAT'S MORE IMPORTANT, WHO YOU ARE OR WHAT YOU ARE?

I was tempted to see if I could get a G-rated picture for this article, but then I decided that it would be futile.  It is about a lesson that I learned when I was about 16 years old.  At the time I was a pretty fair "country" handball player.  I was not able to afford the fees for indoor play, so I got to ruin a lot of shoes on the tar courts that were available. There was one fairly good clay court at the West Street public school in Holyoke.  So I spent some time there.  It just so happened that my Uncle Edward was also quite adept at the game.  So if we both played, we could split the fees and have some fun...at least that's what he called it.  I had confidence that it would be fun.  after all he was 15 years or more my senior.  I thought that "fun" was the appropriate word...but not for him.  Now you know that I would not be writing this if it had been fun for me.  Right?
I learned a few things from my uncle for the three or four months that we played handball.  We stopped because our lives took forked paths.  Actually, I was left with a large hole in my life when that happened.  But the "parting" stories I have are for another time.  This one is about several things, all of them important, all of them have to be learned.  But learning them is not the end of the story.  Remember my reflections about "winning" and "surviving?"  Learning life lessons falls in the same category.  My uncle taught me this.  "Killing" the person you defeat is not necessary.  Making your victory a pleasant lesson for the opponent is the ideal way to win.  Losing without learning something is the real loss.  He told me to read Jean Paul Sartre, the existentialist so that I could understand what he was saying.  His biggest point was that winning and losing are defining processes of whom you become, not what you become.  I don't know how many times he paraphrased Sartre by saying, "It's in dying that you define your life."  I don't know how many times he said, before repeating the dying bit, "It's in winning that you prepare your dying."
I learned that my uncle trusted that a 16 year old could accept and understand these concepts.  I learned that EFR Dion's brother was made of the same material that shaped my father.  Not only did Ed trust ME, he trusted people as a default position in life.  One of the first times we had played indoors, we had showered (now you know why there's no picture!) and and were toweling ourselves dry when Ed, short for Edward, you know.  I always called him Uncle, notice the Upper Case "U".  Anyway, at a given moment he softly said to me, "You know who that guy is?  The one over there in the corner to your left."  I had to admit that I didn't know him, not at all.  Not by facial recognition nor by any other of the clues that I could have used at the moment.  So I said so.  Uncle Ed said, "That's the mayor of Holyoke.  Not too much different that the rest of us, is he?"  I didn't have to read Jean Paul Sartre to understand that lesson.  You can tell that I never forgot it.  When you get right down to it, we're all the same.  Skin is water proof for everybody; everybody sweats and smells when that happens; just about everybody is bi-laterally symmetrical, but not to the point of perfection.  Remember my thought about the difference between the human concept of beauty and nature's expression of beauty.  Nature doesn't present perfect symmetry as beauty.  Anyway, we're all about the same on the outside.  It's on the inside that we differ.  It's from the inside out that we define ourselves.  It's in "winning and losing", it's in how we suffer and how we survive from what we have suffered that we define ourselves.  Yes, our crowning glory or our crushing opprobrium is clearly unveiled during the last moments of our life.  Don't believe me?  Look around you.  If you fill the church while you're in your coffin, it's usually not because those who knew you want to see for themselves that you're really out of their lives.  If your survivors have to hire six strong street people to carry the box, chances are pretty good that it's God's call without a jury.  Summary judgement is what that's called.
I leave you with these thoughts and with the directive that there is not to be any crying at my funeral.  No matter that you beat me or lost to me, all that is important is that you've learned something for having known me.   Even if it's only how not to do something.
                              amen

AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL INTROSPECTION IS WHAT THIS IS

Now you're going to know part of who I am.  It is impossible to cover the description of a person in 400 words, so I will try to make these 400 words as pleasant as possible.  I started out by putting up a picture, but then took it down because it didn't say anything.  As you all know I have been thinking of writing my autobiography now for nearly ten years, maybe even more.  Hey, 10 is a nice round number, so let's go with that.  Now here's the goofy part.  I am still debating with myself about how to keep track of the stuff that describes me.  Here's what I mean.  Every project that someone undertakes has a beginning, a middle and an end.  Usually, they come in an order that is readily captured by the people who avail themselves of the end product.  Usually written product, like this article, have a plan that they follow.  Remember, I said usually.  Because I know that, and because I insist that my autobiography should be understood by the readers, it has to have a plan. That truth I have been carrying around with me since I turned 9.  The nuns told me how to write stories.  I followed their advice and found that it works.  At least it worked for all the time that I was doing school assignments.  
Then I left school.  I didn't stop learning, I just stopped getting harassed about grades and discipline and little things like that.  Well, the grades I can do without.  The discipline though is what is getting to me.  I know what I don't want to do.  Now, all I have to do is to decide what it is that I want to do.  I know for sure that I want the first page of the book to be in the back.  Why?  Because I would then be the first person to respect those people who like to read books starting from the right.  Besides, that;'s how I start reading any book or magazine.  So that is I, with a capital "I" and I want to celebrate that idiosyncrasy of mine.  But that's not all.  I know that I don't want to divide the book into a regular, straight line of events like most history books.  Boooorrrring!  For a few years I thought I had the answer to my perverted desire to arrange the book in a non-traditional way.  I was decided that I was going to write it according to the four seasons.  I decided that I would start with Winter.  Go ahead, ask me, "Why Winter?"  I was born in Winter, that's why.
I was so sure that I had the answer.  Then, one fine day, it struck me that I had more than four seasons swirling around in my head.  I had the heavy duty celebratory seasons that were full of stories that bore telling.  They also demanded that they be distinct from the "astrological" reality during which they fell.  You all know by now that for me Summer and Baseball season are not synonymous.  Rats!  Now pay attention to this.  I have been carrying this dilemma around with me for several years now.  I have to tell you that even though I should be embarrassed to say that, I'm not.  Heck no.  I'm coping pretty well.  Not super happy that my creative alter ego is dragging his fanny about solving this problem, but hey, we still get along.  Every now and them he throws me a bone.  A small chicken bone, but hey, it's better than nothing.  I confess that I have not yet had the final mental turbulence that I would like to have so that things would get clear, but I am getting somewhat optimistic that I am getting there.  The free flowing, stream of consciousness exercise of the "365 Thoughts Emanating from Paul Dion, STL" is helping.  I like it because it doesn't have the rigid railroad track discipline that chapters and verses have.  That's OK for the Bible, but what was good for my namesake doesn't turn me on.  Not in this field, anyway.  [Gotta be careful here.]  So now, after a few months of this exercise, I'm thinking that a clustering of related themes would be a good way to go.  That way I could spend a couple more years deciding what should be clustered with whatever else.  I figure that if I give it two years, I could almost get half-way through. then my sons could look at it and be convinced that what their mother always maintained is perfectly true: "He started a lot of things but never finished anything."  So there ya go, "Manifest Destiny" is what it is.  It won't be on paper, but it will exist.  It won't be distilled, but it will take up space, electronic or otherwise.
Every now and then I read some of the stuff that I have written.  There's a lot, believe me.  Some of it is pretty neat.  All I can hope for is that my progeny will realize that this is the record of my hegemony.  If they live long enough, they'll get to know who their old man really was.  There's nothing there to make any of you cry at my funeral.  For 50 years now that has been the title of my autobiography.  That, I tell you straight up, will never change.

PARAPROSDOKIAN TWO

I got this the other day.  It is not original from me.


A sensitive husband:

This guy is sitting at home alone when he hears a knock on the front door.
There are two sheriff's deputies there; he asks if there is a problem.
One of the deputies asks if he is married, and if so, can he see a picture of his wife. The guy says "sure" and shows him a picture of his wife.

The deputy says,"I'm sorry sir, but it looks like your wife's been hit by a truck." The guy says, "I know, but she has a great personality and she's an excellent cook."


Now you know what a paraprosdokian is.

I WON! I SURVIVED THE WAR -- I'M HOME -- I'M SAFE -- OH YEAH?

Winning isn't all it's cracked up to be.  I am not making this up.  I used to think that winning was <the ONLY thing.>  Then I lost a few.  The first ones were always because the other guys had been lucky.  There were some when the other guys caught us on a bad day.  There were always the cheaters on the other side.  I was glad that for the most part, growing up I won more than I lost.  I never was <lucky> though.  Not me, I was good.  Better than most of the rest.  Then I moved away from the warm confines of my small home town.  Then I really had to prove to myself that I was in fact, better.  It wasn't easy.  Nevertheless, I did mange to win more than I lost.  None of this .500, break-even bull for me.  I would wonder how some people could go through life at .500.  I still do.
If there is one important thing that I have learned it's that winning is not everything.  Sometimes you have to be able to be satisfied with survival.  As I've grown older, I have come to learn that sometimes even survival isn't anything to brag about.  I think of the 9/11 survivors.  I think of the Great Tsunami survivors.  What about the Chilean miners?  The Japanese tsunami/nuclear survivors. The prisoners of war who survive.  Escapees from concentration camps.  Do any of these humans ever regain what they had before surviving?  I often think about the soccer players who survived a plane crash in the Peruvian Andes.  They survived in large part because they ate the remains of those who had died.  You call that winning?  I'll bet that they wouldn't call it that.  And they were athletes.  Competitive sorts.  They had to be good since they were on their way to an international match.
The reality that makes me think the most is the one in which a person survives bad habits that are self destructive.  You'd think that this is the most exalted victory of them all.  If that is true, why do the ones that I know suffer so much from their "victory?"  I know people who have <survived> different things.  Drug abuse; alcohol abuse; the practice of violence towards others; prostitution; mental aberrations, etc.  All of the ones with whom I am familiar are happier than before.  True.  It is also true that the residue is "killing" them.
I could go on for quite a while about this.  Be that as it may, I leave you with the story the way it is.  I leave you to your own devices.  After all, I do not have the answer[s], as neither do you.  It is a mystery with which we all have to live.  I can only wish that the reward for winning was always pure and absolute happiness.  It isn't.  No matter how much you win, or how much you survive, happiness will never be distilled to its purest form.  We have to get used to it.  Sadly, some of us never do.  I hope that those of you who follow this series can handle living with this mystery.  Plus, I sincerely hope that you will win more than you lose...in short, survive.  I'm still convinced that it is better than the alternative.

SLEEPLESS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

This is a loopie, lollapalloozzer.  I leave the front of the CRT and head for the bedroom.  OOps, forgot to close the doors.  So, U - turn, close the front door, close the back door.  Turn right, three steps toward the bed...Ay, ay, I think I have something else going back there.  Better check.  Oh, yeah, my perfumed candle is still lit.  How can I be so stupid? So, Pphhfft!  Hmmm.  Wow, it's dark in here.  Easy now, slow as you go, no wanna stub a toe.  Good going, almost in...POW! the bed put a move on my shin.  That's OK, I'll get even, I'll pounce on it on the way down.  So I do.  Then I squiggle a bit, get the hole for my head well formed in the pillow.  I let out a sigh, wiggle my hips, close my eyes away from the LCD glow of the alarm clock read-out.  Then, I fall victim to my detailed check-list.  Now my mind won't shut down.  It just got itself into gear and is cruising down the Strip and the internal stimuli are attacking the queevates and the synapses big time.  Lights, noises, feelings, memories, more lights, despicable people from my past, money I owe, fights I lost, fights I WON, the GAME that we lost on the last play of the last inning, the hardest four balls I ever hit, all in a row and all to their brilliant shortstop, the one with the big rep.  I'm thinking that it will never end.  I get up, slide over to the computer table and before I get to be seated, now the ear worm gets me.  It's a crummy song, one that we used to sing on the roof-top terrace in Rome.  Shheeesh, 50 years ago and He's back again.   Of course, good ear worm that it is, it refuses to go away.  Then I get attacked by the cars I totalled, by the shenanigans I actually got away with, the ones that I got caught at, the times I got fired, the wins I had in court, the grades I got at the University, the one I got where the examiner said, "I see you have studied."  He gave me the lowest possible passing grade.  He knew I had my plane tickets in my pocket.  He was nice to me.  I then actually had five minutes of peace and quiet.  I didn't move.  I didn't wiggle, I didn't squiggle, squirm nor squeeze.  I didn't breathe.  Oh, %^#@**, I shoulda kept breathing.  Here it comes again.  Now it's the worst kind.  Questions.  That 365 thingy?  Whatcha gonna do after 365?  It's gonna be less than a year ya know?  You... [That's better.  Quit the slangy, trashy stuff.] You haven't told them anything about you yet.  When are you planning to do that?  Then I get this Catholic Guilt nervous defense going.  I've told them a lot.  Haven't you been reading it?  Yeah, I'm reading it.  When you going to get personal?  I mean, real personal?  No, not that personal, but you know, down deep personal?  Like, do you really believe in God?  Why don't you tell them more often that you're Catholic?  Why don't you say how you really feel about religion?  Politics too.  Why don't you tell them what party you belong to?  You afraid or something?  You and all your fancy words and you've never told them what you really think about education.  Are you ever going to do that?  Your philosophy of life and all that kind of stuff is still out there isn't it?  Whoaaa...You mean I have to tell them that I am a Marxist?  Or a Sartrist?  I'm not sure I want to go there.  It snarls back at me, <Why did I ever dare to think that you're not really a wimp?>  Now, not only am I not sleeping, I'm really fighting it.  Like Bill Cosby once said, "Did you ever try to really FORCE yourself to sleep?"  Yep.  Sure did.  Last night.
Well, the wimp thing got me.  By then the nasty ear worm was gone, and so was everything else.  Oh, except my bladder.  Funny, how that earthy necessity, cut the misery short.  I washed my hands, went back to bed and in fi... Stercus taurorum, not again?  No, no, I'm backing off now says Captain Coconut.  I just have one more thing and I promise I'll let you alone.  Know what?  I don't believe you. Believe me.  Last two things.  a. Don't forget to write all this down.   b.  Next time this happens, run to the table, start writing and I'll go away.  I hate people who write.  Then go back to bed and Morpheus will take care of you.
Now that I have shared my little secret with you, you won't have to cry at my funeral.

BEWARE, THIS IS FOR THE BIRDS!

JUVENILE RED SHOULDERED HAWK

Free as a bird. Ha!  Read on.
Beware, this is a "coming of age" story.  No, not THAT kind of coming of age.  Is that all you think of?  Sheeesh! 
I was 14 years old.  I was just starting high school and I was in a boarding school, 150 miles away from home.  I was sure that I was going to be a Roman Catholic priest but I didn't know what I was going to have to do to get there.  The one thing I knew for sure, It was going to get cold [New Hampshire, ya know]; baseball season would then be late.  I wondered about that a lot.  I never gave a thought to the possibility of having to abandon my diamond ambitions to get the goaled  I was sure I wanted. [got it?]  Little did I know that there were many things that I would have to learn along the way to adult maturity.  Some, I refused outright, and never looked back to check to see how I would have been with them.  Some seemed to me to be so far out there that I never thought there would ever be a fit between them and me.  One was sailing.  Another one was water skiing.  But the farthest out there was "bird watching."  Bird watching!  Time out.  You're kidding, of course.  You're not?  HhMmm...
I'll have to think about it.  I thought about it all during my first year.  As I was thinking about it, new realities kept bombarding me.  First, of course, the robins disappeared as it got colder.  Then all of a sudden other, somewhat more colorful birds than robins, began to appear.  I didn't say anything but I would hear things like "The Pine Grosbeaks are coming.  I saw one today."  I asked myself what language these schoolmates of mine were talking.  As the avian population changed and turned over, the "bird watchers" stayed aware of the changes and showed emotion when the seasons changed and the feathered kingdom kept changing scenery along with the weather/climate.  I had to admit that I was getting interested.  The clincher was when a very respected friend of mine from the same elementary school that I attended told me that bird watching was a very noble pursuit.  He explained to me that to watch birds required the talent to know a lot about the biosphere.  It required knowing the types of vegetation that attracted certain birds and other animals as well.  He pointed out to me that in order to appreciate what inhabited the air also depended in the ground.  He pointed out that the trees and the ground were not just alighting points for birds, but sources of shelter and food.  He pointed out to me that the migration of birds is a mystery that could occupy and interest me for a large part of my life.  Finally, he pointed out that this was a mystery of creation that holds lessons for us humans that lead us to develop a deeper appreciation for God Himself.
To make the story shorter, the following year when I reported to school, I had found a way to acquire a pair of binoculars rather than a new baseball glove.
Ever since then, birds have been able to fascinate me.  It has been years since I have devoted myself to serious bird watching.  Every now and then, however, something happens that captures my attention and doesn't let go.  Like when the Snowy Egret drops in for a couple days every year.
This what this rather spectacular bird looks like.  It appears in the little area that occupies the front of our residence.  It is a small pond, full of small fish and surrounded by palms and pines.  It is inhabited by a small flock of mallards and a pair of brown ducks.  Every now and then a kingfisher makes himself at home and picks up breakfast just before sun-up.  Lately, a wonderful event happened.  A large bird of prey began to make himself at home in the area surrounding the pond.  He has discovered that the edges of the pond are drilled full of holes that serve as home for small rodents and frogs.  It is a juvenile Red Shouldered Hawk.  [See above]  A very imposing presence in the area.  I might add that it is also a very welcome presence.  The murder of crows that hung out here has decided that it would be better for it to move on and find a less threatening environment.  So, we are now quiet.  I for one hope that Mr. Bird of Prey makes this his dinner table for a while.
To get back to the beginning.  When we look up in the air, our soul soars too and we wish for the freedom that we seem to see there.  Bird watching has taught me that there is no more freedom there than we earth-bound creatures experience here.  They, in fact have less.  They are bound by the endless search for sustenance.  I watched my friend the hawk this morning through my binoculars for about 45 minutes.  When I started, he was 90% through a small meal.  When he finished, he changed position and went for a vantage point that gave a good angle between him, the area he wanted to survey and the position of the sun.  In those 45 minutes he made three attempts to grab something to supplement his protein intake from earlier.  Three.  All three were misses.  I thought that he had succeeded on the first one because I saw some frantic wing flapping while he was down below my level of complete vision.  He came up empty.  The prey, whatever it was, could have slipped into water too deep for hawkish pursuit.  My first reaction was, "poor bastard."  I saw him try twice more and saw clean misses each time.  It was then that I saw that freedom is not a part of a bird's life.  Constant striving for survival is their lot.  I love birds.  I am grateful that I listened to the friends who taught me the value of paying attention to the birds.  From those who hunt and eat on the wing [swallows], include those who swim and fish and those who know how to break open the shells of mussels, to those who stalk and fight on the ground.  From those who fly thousands of miles to escape the inclement seasons to those who stay put all year long.  I am glad that I did not pursue the dictates of my ignorance and imitate those flightless ones who bury their head in the sand to escape reality.  Now, let me go check to see if Mr. Hawk has found his dinner.

VICTORY GARDEN -- DO YOU HAVE ONE? WE DO & OTHERS DO TOO

Are there any of you out there who remember what a Victory Garden is?  You can either tell the truth or fib a little to hide your age.  If you have vivid memories of this phenomenon you are at least 7 - 10 years older than 70 years old.  During the time that I remember well, the population was accustomed to the concept.  It was something that had begun during World War I.  During the second World War the majority of home owners who had any kind of land around the house, had a garden.  It was not a time when ordinary people [now we call them middle class] bragged about a lawn.  They did brag about their garden.  

We had one at 1 Hartford Street.  My grandfather Thibault did most of the work during the week days.  We, EFR Dion and I and my brother would help one another on Saturday.  It was a fairly large garden and it was very bountiful.  It did provide us with goods to trade for ration tickets.  <Ration Tickets?>  I guess I just used a word that not too many of you know about.  Yes, during WW II people had to prove that they had the right to buy food by surrendering stamps or tokens to the vendor.  It was something like 3 stamps for a dozen eggs; 10 stamps for a three pound pullet; 4 stamps for a half-pound of butter, etc.  Yup, this is a real story.  That's why it was better to have a garden than to have a front lawn.  So, when I saw this today, I thought of WW II and all you young people out there.

Doesn't that look beautiful?  You should see it live and in living color.  It's 300 square feet of lush squash plants.  It is the front lawn.  It reminds me of 1975.  May and June of 1975.  Saigon had fallen and many people flooded into continental USA.  When that would happen in the 1940's we called them DP's [displaced persons].  So these Vietnamese came to Southern California and other parts of the country and one of the first things that shocked them was all the "wasted" arable land that stood in front of the residences of even the simplest family.  They were shocked that people would work so hard to grow green grass that they would not eat rather than to plant food that they could eat.  So, in many neighborhoods where they settled, front yard vegetable gardens actually sprung up.  Not only the Vietnamese did it, but others saw the wisdom of it as well.  We have a few families in our San Diego neighborhood who have front yard gardens.  We, as a family also have a garden.  We do rather well with it too.  In many ways, I agree with those who say that a front yard garden is better than a lawn.  We don't have a front lawn, but some who do have land in front of the house prefer to have a vegetable garden rather than a lawn.  You have to admit, it is better to grow people oriented veggies in the front yard than to have grazing sheep and/or goats.  True?  Worse yet, have simple grass and yipping and yelping dogs...or even growling ones.  

That's the thought for today.  Put me down as in favor of home gardens, front or back or both. Just do it.

THE THINGS THAT LOVE CAN DO

At first I was going to treat this with humor.  I received a short story yesterday that I thought I was going to present to you because it brought some fairly humorous images to mind.  Then I got the nice comment from Justa about her husband Josh who has been doing better.  She believes that our prayers have been key to this process of healing for him.  Thinking about him and what he has done over the last few months for so many people, members of his extended family, mostly, got me to thinking about some behaviors that we humans practice out of pure love.  One thought came to me about myself.  I am the oldest son in my family.  My father, EFR Dion was the oldest one in his family.  The Voice from the Kitchen is the oldest from her family.  Josh is the same.  I don't know how this is connected with the following stories, but I let it up to you to make the connection.  The first thought I had today was  the ease with which I could change my siblings' dirty diapers,even from a young age.  It never bothered me.  Baby sitters would be repulsed by the idea.  They would call me and I would do it with alacrity and feel good about it.  I would do whatever it took to make the people in the household  happy and comfortable, no matter how ugly or smelly.  The one story that struck me about myself today is this one.  I was still in grade school, maybe 12 or 13.  It was an ordinary evening.  We had supper, washed and dried the dishes and were returning to our respective corners for homework and study before night prayer.  EFR Dion had work to do that evening, so he began preparing his work area in the corner of the "family room."  All of a sudden, he was surprised by his own body and upchucked his entire supper all over his desk, papers and floor.  I immediately got into high gear, got the necessary equipment to clean up the mess while he ran upstairs to the bathroom with MJT Dion close behind to help.  I cleaned the corner, restored the documents that I could to some semblance of decency and even found some substance to try to restore the normal air quality of the area.  I never batted an eye and I never gave a thought to thinking that I had committed some act of high courage and filial love.  when I finished, I went to my designated space and turned to my school work.  He came down from upstairs and in a short while while reappeared fully expecting to have to clean up behind himself.  He was so embarrassed that it had already been done.  He couldn't finish thanking me. I couldn't figure it out.  What was so great about helping your father?  Love makes any task just as sweet as roses.  You smell it, appreciate it and move on.  You know that the act itself contains its own reward.  It's the only gift you need.  I found out that evening.  I've had many experiences of actions taken out of love along the road of life that has been my path so far.  Too many for one "thought."  Too many to keep an audience interested past the first two.  
I am sure that everyone of you has had a similar experience.  More than one.  Give it some thought and rejoice in your personal collection of love actions for the good of others.  Finally take my word for it, Josh and Justa have such a collection, and I dare say, a lot more impressive than mine.  Thanks for praying for them.  

SHORTEST THOUGHT I EVER HAD

I'm all tuckered out, I've had a long day

I've raked, shoveled, swept the driveway

Watered the plants and washed the car

Had to add gas cuz it couldn't go far.

So now it's midnight 'n then some

Got lotsa ideers, not a real plum

So rather than sit on my writer's block

I'm gonna go gather the whole flock

But the way I feel I'll count one by the clock

And be gone from this darkened world.  

I lost the rhythm and can't find a rhyme for world.  

Got word that Josh is doing much better and thanks us all for our prayers.

Take it easy.  I'm gone.  Goin' outta da country to buy drugs in the mornin'.

Luv ya's all.

FORBIDDEN TOPIC -- KARL ROVE, A FASCINATING GUY

I am writing this even though it has not totally blossomed into full flower.  I am writing it in a snit of pique over the person for whom I voted back in 2008.  I started out sure that I would not vote for him.  I was angry that he voted for the right of large communications companies to eavesdrop on American citizens.  But then something happened that was worse than that.  If you click here you can see a long list of reasons why I did not vote for the other guy.  Even though his choice for V.P. is near the end, it was the straw that broke my camel's back.
So, I went the other way.  That hasn't turned out so well either.  Keep your eye on the picture, because I am getting there.

=====+++++=====+++++=====
I have never voted for a Bush, nor a shrub.  I have voted for Republicans along the way and I have voted for Democrats along the same way.  I don't adhere to the leanings and the philosophies of political parties.  I strive to vote for the person who seems to offer the best opportunity for the country to experience good governance.  In my lifetime, that hasn't worked very well either. :-(  
I do have one thing to say:  I learned a lot from Karl Rove.  
Rover is a monster, in a rather good sense.  He is a bulldozer.  He is someone who conceives of governance as a fight.  Not a dialectic, like Karl Marx.  No.  For Rove, getting stuff done in politics is dependent on how willing the leader is to win and take no prisoners.  Karl Rove has as his first principle of governing that the leader <always> puts something on the table that the rest of the personnel have to spend time knocking down from a defensive posture.  The corollary is that you don't fight anything with questions.  You make statements, give direction, give orders and never, never make a "U" turn.  If the other side puts up a marker or two despite everything, you fill the documents with marginal conditioning statements that effectively water down the other side's "victory."
The strategy is that the leader always makes the other side respond to propositions that demand action.  The only acceptable answer to the demand is a proposal of how to make it work.   The leader never accepts anything less than a well constructed response.  If it not forthcoming, then the leader commands that the initial position be actuated and made real.  In Rove's world, the leader is always pushing the other side to produce something that will make the leader successful.  
Morality is not a driving force to Karl Rove.  Human kindness is not in his field of acceptable virtues.  The only thing that is important is that the leader wins, enriches himself/herself with the spoils and slays and burns the other side.  In Karl Rove's life the best thing that happened to him was GW Bush.  GW was no match for Karl.  So we got what we got.  An education in how to govern.  An education in how one man thinks that leadership should be practiced.
                      *+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+
Barack Obama is a lot of things.  Barack Obama makes me think of his namesake in the Bible.  The Bible Barak is sent to battle by the woman judge Deborah and she assures him that God will give him the victory against the attacking Persian, Sisera.  His answer to her is, "Yes, I certainly will go.  But you have to come with me." [Judges, chapter 4]  He's a wimp and she knows it.  She then informs him that she is surely going.  That the victory will remain assured but that the glory for it will go to a woman.  Shades of Karl, right?
Our Barack is a lot of things, and like the guy in the Bible, including being a wimp.    


This thought came to me several times over the last few months.  It is very interesting to me how a person can go through so many hoops in the vetting process that is a presidential campaign and still come up short.  I am old enough to remember FDR and HST.  To use an expression from Ronald Reagan, <Barack, you're no Truman.>  As it turns out, it's looking to me that if a simple guy like me living in a back-water town in Southern California can learn from Karl Rove, then, a Harvard graduate should be able to incorporate at least some of Karl's philosophy into his life.  Use it against the other side.  Fight back.  Make them back-pedal.  Norquist?  The guy isn't even in the government.  Make his disciples suffer.  Twist their arms into knots.  Play games with their brains.  Barack is making it too easy for the Republicans to assure themselves of the White House in 2012.  Good for him that he will have a pension and that his wife is a lawyer.  They'll get by.  The worst luck they could have is to fall into one of the higher tax brackets reserved for the middle class.

MONEY, MONEY, MONEY

important message click here

This is about as taboo as it gets.  In fact it is so taboo that we're going to have to go to the Bible to try to exorcise it.  I rather like going to the Bible to talk about secular stuff.  Surprisingly there is a lot to be learned there.  Yes even about ------------->>>>

Sometimes it makes me think about the movies though.  You know, like James Bond, for instance.  How does he do it?  Never runs out of mo... resources.  Of course he is a government employee.  But, then there is the guy, the doctor who is running away to escape from the police so that he can catch the real killer.  I forget who that is.  I'll try to look it up.  
Kimble, that's who, Dr. Richard Kimble.  He was portrayed by Harrison Ford.  I could never figure out how he could do all that escaping and never do a lick of work.  Where did he get the mon...uh, wherewithall?
That never happens in real life.  In fact it is the other way around.  The Bible, oh yeah, I almost forgot.  I've noticed that Abraham never runs short.  I don't know how many stories you can read about him and he's always flush with the green.  My favorite is the story where he buys his burial ground from Ephron.  Amazing!  He doesn't bargain or anything, he just tells the guy, take the money. The guy says, in front of all his people, "OK, four hundred shekels of silver is not too much between friends."  Done.  They count it out and they're happy.  Sheeeesh!  That Abraham, first he gives seven of his best heads of livestock to Abimelech and then the silver to Ephron.  No wonder I never met this guy.  He's too far out of my league. 
But it does give you an idea of how much of a rat-fink weasel Judas was.  30 pieces of silver.  I wonder what that was worth on the open market back then.  Heck, it was only 9 centuries after Abraham.  [It was worth 1 day's wages.  Or you could buy a slave for that.  About 30 shekels.]  Sounds like serious devaluation to me.  Maybe the shekel had taken a nose-dive because of the competition with the Roman "denarius."  But wow, what a cheap *&^%))__#@!
Back to the green.  The thought I had the other day was not green or any other color.  I was thinking about electronic money.  For a long time now I have never had more than $5.00 in my pocket at any given time.  That is simply because I sit at my computer, type some numbers on the keyboard, hit "enter" and know that suddenly my gross worth has declined.  It is rather depressing to work hard, sweat until "payday" only to find that the only way to ascertain what happened is to go home and check your computer to see if it really happened.  I was wondering if there really is any real money out there or whether it is all just a hoax.  I am going to be out of town for some four weeks or so shortly.  In fact I will be in Europe for nigh on to three weeks.  My mortgage payment is going to come due, as well as other electronic obligations.  No sweat.  I will just sit there and do what I usually do.  Type in the numbers and hit "enter."  Done.  Better yet. Just like James Bond, all I will have to do is go to the nearest Banque Nationale de France, put my piece of plastic between miss ATM's lips and catch the bills that she spits out in return.  That's only if I have to deal with some retrograde traditionalist cobble stone street merchant somewhere.  I have made confirmed hotel reservations in the space of five minutes from ten thousand miles away.  Are they crazy?  No?  Then maybe I'm the crazy one.  10,000 miles away in an unincorporated mountain village 4,000 feet in the air and they trust a message saying that they are going to  get money after I sleep there.  I think that we are both nuts.  it sure gives a new meaning to the expression, "Got no money, got no time, ain't got nuthin', not a dime."
I have no idea who invented money.  If it was the Romans, they were smart not to have a "zero" in their life.  That way, they always had something.  If it was the Mayan, they were lucky too because they could keep adding zeros after the "1" and really sock to it the poor unsuspecting Roman.  Can you just imagine that?  Some Roman noble comes to the West, buys three panther tooth necklaces and gets socked for about 10,000 Mayan-a-macallums.  HHeeee... Such a deal.  See, that's what you get for not having a "zero", tin-shirt, square pants boob!  Hey, is that an Arab Horse you got there?  It is!  Whoa!  Hey, how about 000000000005 for that sweetheart?  Really?  You're good to go for that.  Yeah, just a minute.  Hey ya know what?  How about I give you a deal and give you 075 for your sturdy steed?   Yeah, good, I feel better for you too.  Besides I don't have anything smaller than that on me.
Now, try that on your trusty megabyte grinder, Sir Brin.


I never believed I could have such an inane, inconsequential thought.  My gray matter must be loosing its wrinkles.

WHAT DID THE MAYANS DO THAT THE ROMANS COULD NOT?

No, it's not speak Mayan.  Smarty pants.  This, so it said in Google, is the 360 day Mayan calendar.  So that is mysterious in itself.  But that's not what got to me tonight.  What it is, is the wonderment that goes with not only the Mayans, the Aztecs, The Incas, the Egyptians and all those other pre-historic peoples who found out about all these things.  How could they know?  Is that all they had to do is to stay up and watch the stars to see where they were going?  How did they know what is Venus and what is Betelgeuse?  How did they come to figure out how to predict stuff?  How did they know that after 13 full moons the year was over?  How did they know that they could build a temple with a door that would tell them exactly what time it is every single cycle by the way the door let the sun come in?  Did they pay people to sit there and watch that stuff?  The other day we talked about scientists having to be ready to have their theory proven wrong.  Can you imagine being as Mayan and having some Aztec, blood drinking savage come up to you and tell you that you're wrong?  After all that observatory time?   If it were I, guess whose blood would be drunk?  In this case though,from what I heard the other day by a real, honest to goodness Mayan [yeah, they're still around.  They mostly inhabit the country called Belize.]  that the Mayans have an ace in the hole over the Aztecs.  See, the Mayans are the ones who came up with the "0" in the western hemisphere.  We know that it is the Phoenicians or some such people in that other corner of the world who got it over there, but the Mayans found it here too.  However, there are others who make the same claim.  Not the least of whom are our Indian friends.  So see, with all their engineering savvy and their ultra efficient armed forces, the Romans could not even think "zero."  How could they build roads without a "0"?  How could they measure anything without being able to mark the starting point, "0"?  Beats the life outta me!
Finally, I have to repeat what I once opined within these intellectual confines.  There has to be, even now in the age of cyber space, a spiritual communication between sentient beings.  The concept of "0" is a good example in point.  I personally do not doubt that the "0" could have been "invented", call it "discovered" if you wish, in different corners of the world.  Perhaps even in a fairly closely circumscribed amount of time.  Yes, even without travel and without man-made cyber space.  Don't ask me how they did it.  I think what probably happened is that someone got angry enough to sit down and invent one.  Maybe it didn't look like "0".  Then again, we know that in the Arabic system it sure looks like zero.  So, take that, you Romans.  Maybe that's why your empire fell.  You couldn't pay your debts because you had no way of figuring out how many zeros to put after the 999999999999999999999.9999999 denaria.  [That's a neuter, accusative plural for those who don't know the Roman language.]
Now you know what was keeping me awake.
Tomorrow, the forbidden subject.  Send your children to the baby sitter's house.

YOU SHOULD CONSIDER BEING "DOMESTIC HELP"

That's a direct quote from a Catholic nun,director of Saint Mary's College in Indianapolis, soon after World War II.  Here's the story, and more.
I was driving a van that carried people with what is called ESRD, <End Stage Renal Disease.>  Many of these people are constrained to get their blood mechanically filtered in a machine that emulates the work of the human kidney.  The process is known as dialysis and it is required three times per week in a shift that usually lasts from three to four hours.  It happened that one of my passengers was a lady approaching her 80's.  Except for her kidney condition, she was, and I take it, still is, a young 80.  I had to pick her up at 3:55 AM so that I could drive the 28 mile trip through the hilly country road to the dialysis center and get her there on time for the beginning of her shift.  I always had the radio playing soft classical music where ever I went.  It didn't take long before Miss Audrey took a liking to the music she was hearing, but she didn't say anything about it too early on.  After all, as I found out later, she had to evaluate my driving skills first.  Then she could make a comment about the music.  I transported Miss Audrey for about six months.  Three times per week.  3:55 AM going, 9:00 AM back.  Under those circumstances you have a good chance to get to know one another and either like it or suffer through it.  As it turns out, we enjoyed it.  I say, deeply enjoyed it.
One day, it was foggy.  A regular happening in Southern California.  It was about two weeks into our tin can relationship.  I didn't shy away from the foggy, hilly, unlit road.  I just drove and listened to the music.  The music, as it turns out was soft and pretty that morning.  Miss Audrey didn't say too much, and I didn't know that she wasn't listening to the music.  No sir!  She was judging and evaluating and seeing how comfortable she could be on such a morning with this grey-haired driver.  At the end of the ride, which was in clear weather, I parked, got out of the van and as usual helped her with her ditty bag and the long step down from the vehicle and into the lobby of the treatment center.  Imagine my surprise when she extended her hand and wanted to shake mine in appreciation for a job well done.  I honestly didn't know what to say.  So I said, "Thank you, Ma'am" and went on my way.  Turns out that I couldn't pick her up because an urgent call came in and I had to go somewhere else and she got picked up by another driver.  It took them almost an hour to get to their destination because the driver was afraid to take the back hills road.  Oh boy-o-boy, the next ride down was exciting, +.  Fast forward two or three trips and the music is sweet once again.  She names the piece, the conductor and the key it was written in.  She tells me the story of where she learned that and what she did after she graduated.  That's when she said, "Graduating wasn't hard, but getting in was."  
She told me the story about growing up a real smart African American child and having specialized music tastes was a rarity.  She knew that she wanted to go to St. Mary's College in Indianapolis to study music.  She had the grades and she had the talent.  She got to the interview with the Head nun, who told her in the lobby, "You should consider being a domestic helper."  Miss Audrey kept her cool, asked to be admitted to the interview room and sat with the Mother for more than one hour.  When it was over, she had her invitation to report to the school and graduated Summa cum Laude.  She said that God gave her the grace of not having to offer the Mother a job as domestic help as she had gone to her eternal abode over a year earlier.
Miss Audrey went on to have a very full life as a college professor of music.  She rarely related the story of her experience with the nun.  When I asked her why she told me, she said that the night I took her through the fog with calm and assured demeanor, she knew that I was praying along the way.  I asked her how she knew that.  "I knew it because when I said that it was going to be an interesting trip at the beginning, you said <my guardian angel never lets me down.>"
I was stunned.  I never remembered saying it.  I guess I did because she remembered.  From that moment on, whenever she would get in the van, we would both say, "Paul's guardian angel, protect us."  We haven't seen one another since I had to stop driving.  I hear that she is fine.  I too am fine, just thinking about such a brave and righteous person.  I know that my thought for the day is, "Why is it the little stuff that they always seem to remember?"

I HAVE THIS THEORY ... LET ME HEAR IT ...

There is a saying, I guess you might even call it a theory that says that a theory is not a theory if it cannot be proven to be erroneous.  Think about that a bit.  Also, think about how we generally use the word "Theory."  For instance, I, and you, have heard the saying, "No one who can read has ever been successful in cleaning out the attic."  Now, you and I both know that this is not scientifically true.  We will both say, "Yeah, I know that."  But when asked if we know why it is not scientifically true, we will be hard pressed to be able to answer, except in mere generalities.  We will be able to confess that in at least three tries to clean out the "attic" so to speak, we got so tangled up in the books and letters and old essays from high school that before we came back to the "real world," it was time to retire for the day.  The "attic" was still a mess, but we were happy with our total lack of productivity because we had so much fun.  So we hear the saying and we concur with the kernel of truth that it contains, but we're not ready to declare it a bona fide theory.  Why?  Because we know very well that it is a humorous, common sense kind of observation that has no basis in scientifically proven truth.  However, and this is the point, we sometimes use the word theory in the meaning of, "I have an opinion."  This is a very common practice among athletes, or more properly, those who compete in team sports.  Like I used to do.  I have come to the observation of how many "theories" the losers spout forth.  The winners, for the most part, don't need "theories."  All they need is a nice cool beer.  In all the case of the athletes, there is always the promise of the "next time."  That too, is not a theory.
The reason why I have this thought is because today I heard a great one.  I am going to call it a "paraprosdokian."  It sure sounded like a theory to me because it was given in a very serious conference.  It came at the end of a talk on cultural differences, not to call them idiosyncrasies.  After extolling the virtue of punctuality among her people, the speaker, with a very straight face and pleasantly accented voice closed her presentation with the assurance, "... are convinced that punctuality is very important, but be ready to wait."  Now I know the culture about which she was speaking.  I can assure you that this is not a theory.  It is an axiom.  I say this, tongue in cheek, because it cannot be proven to be erroneous.  There is too much historical and factual evidence to back it up.  So, while we  speak confidently of the theory of relativity and the theory of evolution, we speak even more confidently about the fact that certain cultures have a deep respect for punctuality, just as long as they are not expected to be on time.
Finally, let me tell you that, in this article,  I am playing footloose and fancy-free with a true concept of scientific value.  It is the concept of falsifiability.  That is the true measure of any true scientific statement that is not an axiom.  It is the engine that makes scientific progress work.  Every non axiomatic truth is open to discussion and to challenge, both in its entirety or in its singular parts.  True scientists leave themselves open to correction and/or revision 100% of the time.  Imagine what the world would be like if everyone operated under that kind of pressure.  There wouldn't be any politicians.  There wouldn't be a lot of things.  Sadly, there would also not be any poets, painters, musicians and bloggers.
If you want to get serious about this reflection, I suggest that you discipline yourself to read the book <How to Think Straight About Psychology> by Keith E. Stanovich, of the University of Toronto, published by Longman, copyright, 1998, fifth edition. [234 pages]
My personal story with this book is this.  When I was in my third year of college, I started my upper level classes in philosophy.  The professor stressed that philosophy is a science.  He also stressed that Theology is a science.  I was given many explanations for these statements along the way.  Some 40 years later my elder son was in college.  When he started his upper level classes in psychology, he heard the same assertions about psychology.  The assertions that he got were accompanied by this book.  It was his responsibility to digest it during the first month of the semester.  I saw him reading it.  When he finished, I devoured it.  I still have it and I still go back to it.  It helps me straighten out my frazzled mind.  I had some fun with some of the ideas tonight.  To be fair, I have to give Mr. Stanovich credit for a book that has helped me keep my head screwed on right when I needed it the most.  Still do!

MORENO VALLEY HAS SOMETHING TO BRAG ABOUT-- HUH?

Fatal automobile accidents = 1.57 per 100,000, third in the entire country. That is really something to be happy about. Imagine how safe you are in the streets of Moreno Valley. Only two other cities in the entire country can say that they are better.  Arlington, VA is best with 0.48 and Vancouver, WA has a 1.23.  It is good to hear that there is one place in Moreno Valley that you can feel safe.  Just stay in the car and keep on driving.  That is a good feeling.  When you are in your car it is nice and cool and you have good music playing.  When you're out of your car it is is generally hot (98+) and the murder rate is higher than the fatal traffic accident rate.  Over the last 10 years Moreno Valley has average 4.7 murders per 100,000 residents.  That's not really that bad.  There are about 150,000 people here, so the chances of being bumped off are less, way less than 1%...but that's still more dangerous that tooling around the burg in your classic rag-top Eldorado.  Too bad there's no A&W Root Beer place here.  You could go there and feel pretty safe, especially since that was a drive-in place that existed some 50 + years ago.  Hey, let me see if I can dig up an old picture.  Give me a second here, and I'll see what I can find.  I got one.  That took me all of about .00002731 seconds.  It took so long because ol' Larry and Sergey were having a little tete-a-tete.  But we did all right, so I'm disposed to cut them a little slack on this one.

Now Moreno Valley is not one of the places in which I lived and rated a "+" in a previous piece.  But, hey, what does a guy from San Diego know about a frontier town like Mo Val?  As a matter of fact, I never in my whole existence dreamed that I would say anything good about this place.  That's why I'm taking advantage of this nice rating, because tomorrow I'm going back to normal.

Because of the nasty willies that I normally get when I have thoughts about Moreno Valley, I am going to tell you one of the reasons why the fatal traffic accident rate is so low.  I have to dump all of my good stuff at once so that i can go back to feeling my habitual way about this place tomorrow.  I have to hurry because tomorrow is only 8 minutes away.  It is because of the "In and Out Burger" place in the heart of town.  Maybe it used to be A&W.  Who knows?  

This place always has a long line of vehicles waiting for the "Take-Out" stuff.  This line is so long that it sticks out into the street and everyone has to crawl.  No midnight drag racing in this place.  No fancy driving in heavy "rave party" crowds here.  This is an In and Out Burger corner.  The secret ingredient of our low fatal auto accident virtue.

Boys and girls, you have heard the last of the sweet talk from me concerning Mo Val.  Move here at your own risk.  Bring lots of ice.  Better yet, bring an ice-making machine.  You'll need it.  Also, of course, plan to spend a lot of time in your car.  It will be a good safe place to be.  The good side of all this is totally encapsulated in the Urban Legend Hall of Fame saying: <Ya kin live in yer car, butcha can't drive yer house.>  

HOME TOWN -- SOME THOUGHTS --- IT'S NOT WHAT YOU THINK

Now that you have been introduced to the places where I have lived and seen my opinion about them, which one do you think is my home town?  Well, there are some of you who may already know the answer to that.  That is not because you know where I was born, but because I perhaps have told what I have chosen to embrace as my home town.  I am of the opinion that unlike language, domicile is something that you have the opportunity to choose.  Domicile, in my view, is like marriage. You get to make the vow after serious due diligence.  It doesn't matter where you are born.  It is more important where your heart first took flight and made you a better person.  For a long time I was sure that South Hadley, Massachusetts was that place on earth that had done that for me.  I have to tell you that between South Hadley and the place I NOW know is my Home Town, there is a long, long distance.  The distance is not just mileage, it is a state of mind.  It is a heart anchor and a taste in the mouth that has to be treasured and captured never to go away.  I never, never got this from the city in which I was born.  MJT Dion always told me that I should not say bad things about Holyoke.  She always said that there were a lot of good people who lived there.  I never denied that.  After all, my grandfather lived there with my grandmother, and they were among the Very Best People alive and in my life.  But the city itself?  BOOO, HISSS, WHistle... I was so glad to be able to say that I was from South Hadley.

Since I moved away from there at the ripe old age of 14, I have to admit that I did get to enjoy the "puppy love" moments that other places gave me along the way.  Along that way I started to dream about Rome, Italy.  It consumed a lot of my heart time.  I never thought I would ever get there.  When I got the news that I had been assigned there, I was ecstatic.  Even now, the memory of that moment moves me.  Just thinking about it and the four years that followed, makes me feel light-headed.  It is a home town that I have at another level.  It is a spiritual level and occupies a special corner of my heart along with Jerusalem.  So Rome is not my physical home town, it is spiritual, hand in hand with Jerusalem.

That honor goes to the city in which I have lived for the longest consecutive amount of time in my life and of course, therefore the longest cumulative time in my life.  

San Diego, California has lit my heart on fire.  It has also enveloped me in its warm and charming embrace.  It is more than a city for me, it is family.  Not so much in the people sense, but in the "nest" sense.  For some odd reason I have never generated any desire to grow into a fledgling and leave.  I have lived in other places, away from San Diego, but I always say that IT is where I live.  That makes people to whom I say it shake their heads.  Especially since I tell many people in Moreno Valley that I live in San Diego [100 miles away].  It is true.  And the Voice from the Kitchen is the same way.  So now you know.  I find myself a little bit like the immigrants who constantly brag about the country that they left.  After a while, someone is bound to ask, "You like it so much, go back."  I don't have to tell you the reaction to that, "You crazy?"  So there you have it.  I have a physical/love interest home town and spiritual ones, shown here below.

COLISEUM, ROME, CHRISTMAS

MOUNT OF OLIVES, JERUSALEM