PHOTOS ON THE CAFE WALL

I have been putting a ton of photos--some new some old onto the computer. I wonder if perhaps I should have sent these e-mail, but I hope the quality is as good on the Cafe wall.

The moth, bee, flamingo, tiger and weed seed are new. The flamingo was a paint shop trick. The pond with the deep blue reflection grabbed my attention in California. The Mallard swam around in our local lake. The rest are just shots.

Notice the dew in the flower, the proboscis on the bee and the top picture, in the tangle of weeds there is a little puddle of blue--one of my favorites

Enjoy

SO HOW MANY ROCKET SCIENTISTS DOES IT TAKE

Pictured in conjunction to the story is the canyon we raced to arrive on the second day. The first victim after hitting the lowlands of Nebraska and the flaming yellow Penske van

WRITER'S NOTE:

The following true story contains humorous memories of a cross country trip with a family who became violently car sick. As an afterthought I decided to warn readers that the story can cause one to recall unpleasant days.


DIE ANMERKUNG DES VERFASSERS:

Die folgende zutreffende Geschichte enthält humorvolle Gedächtnisse einer Querlandreise mit einer Familie, die heftig Autokranker wurde. Als nachträgliche Erklärung entschied mich ich, Leser zu warnen, die die Geschichte veranlassen kann einer, um unangenehme Tage zu erinnern an. Fühlen Sie sich frei, es nicht zu lesen.

Diese Anmerkung ist nicht Satire.



Recently I undertook the dreaded task of going through boxes of stuff. Now I know in today's book of proper morphology, "stuff," is just one step above ain't, twern't and other assorted profanities of the English language. But I would only be pulling your leg, if I said the following essay contained a pure combination of The King's English dotted with Latin, French and the romantic languages throughout man's existence on earth.

In the past week a box of California memories, consisting of letters, old photos and dust balls arrived on my toss and destroy list. Deep in the corner of one box was a card from a one-time dear friend whose family held a very close place in my heart, but for the usual reasons our friendship drifted apart. On the bottom on the holiday greeting, the mother of the clan scratched the following words in white ink, "We had a great time, must get together someday and laugh at our trip once again." A frightful shudder, as if a cold hand had been placed on my back side, rattled through my body, as once more after 12 years, the week from Hell returned to haunt me.

Perhaps to this day my friends are still laughing, but suppose I tell you what happened. We are all familiar with the phrase, "Does it takes a rocket scientist to.......................?" (Fill in the blanks.) Well my friend Joe just happened to be a bonafide laid off rocket scientist, who decided waiting around for another rocket scientist job in California was consuming their savings, so his wife and four children chose to move back to a little town in western Wisconsin where perhaps a cheese maker could use his expertise.

Now we can use the phrase–it took more than a rocket scientist to move the family from the high desert of California to the cheesy hills of western Wisconsin. In this case it took a journalist, but more important, an ex-long distance truck driver who knew the way back home, which happened to be me, a journalist, not a rocket scientist, nor a logistic expert, just a gypsy with a hankerin' to travel.

So I received this call from Joe one autumn day stating they were in a quandary. His family had a house full of furniture, a station wagon, a Corvette and one big yellow Penske moving van that needed to go east.

I replied, "Sure thing Joe, I will get your Corvette to Wisconsin and will wait for you and your sweet family there."

Joe had something else in mind. He wanted me to drive the big truck. Not the Corvette. Kathy, the wife of the family and a bonafide overly-sensitive artist, informed me they never once traveled in their life and couldn't quite recall how they arrived in California to begin with. After pondering that statement a tad bit, I decided the whole shebang sounded like unpleasant work, but our itinerary would take us through Minnesota and my homesick heart would give a king's ransom to kiss the fruitful soils of home once again.

So our journey commenced from the deserts of California that hot autumn day. I took a head count to make sure none of the little ones were hiding in the truck. I wanted nothing but the open highway and the FM radio to keep me company. I maintained a cautious watch on the two vehicles in my rear view mirror, Kathie in the wagon with the baby and two youngest kids and Joe in his ‘Vette with the oldest child. Me, I had the yellow Penske truck pointed toward our first stop, Las Vegas.

No sooner did we get onto I-15 when I saw Joe's blinking headlights outside of Baker, California, a mere 100 miles from home. He decided to fuel up and water down the kids. Not a bad idea, but his wife started to whine about calling it a day. It wasn't barely past lunch and we still had 1,825 more miles ahead of us. I convinced the crew to make it to Vegas where we could eat and bunk down. Of course after we ate I told them better lodging was available in Mesquite, about an hour down the road (not really). This psychological warfare kept us moving. In Mesquite we bedded down, completing a good days journey for a family caravan.

Day two, Joe fed the family at a fancy breakfast buffet. I showed them the outline for our days journey. A rather long one, but the view would be magnificent. I hoped to make it to Grand Junction, Colorado. Other than Green River, Utah, there was little to distract the pilgrims with lodging signs along the highway, or so I thought.

After we hit I-70, the little town of Salinas was our next stop for fuel. We got a quick snack and as soon as Kathie started looking at the lodging map in the gas station I reminded them about the most spectacular sight of the day,the Canyon as you descended into Green River. If you arrive after dark, well you blew it. Plus, there are zip, nada, nothing for lodging all across Utah. The Mormons don't want folks to spend much time across sheep herding country.

As the sun started to set I pulled into the scenic canyon vista for all the necessary ooohs and ahhs. After another meal of snacks I herded them back into the vehicles and set Grand Junction as our next stop. I admit hauling them such long distances started to get a bit cruel, but what could I do, there was no lodging. Finally, tired and weary I brought them to Motel 6 across the Colorado border, much to her chagrin.

The next morning I received an earful about the cheap lodging but Kathie soon found civilization started to appear once again. After the young ones were fed we took off, but for my punishment the oldest boy had to ride in the truck, which worked out fine because boys and trucks are a marriage made in heaven.

About 1 p.m. we started up the pass after motoring through Glenwood Springs. I prayed for a slow peaceful day but when the Corvette begin to lag behind I knew we were in trouble. Nothing lags behind a moving van going up a mountain. One can easily step out of the drivers door,stretch the legs, grab a breath of fresh air,and jump back in without losing a beat. Joe became a bit green behind the gills and somewhere about 7,000 feet the whole family gave out.

I reminded them mountain resort communities would take away the rest of the money and we should move on to a healthier spot. Money meant nothing at this point, so the first sign of lodging the stupid lights started flashing again. They put me up in a fine hotel so I would not to bother them anymore since there was still lots of daylight driving left. Denver would have to wait.

Somewhere during the evening sickness moved throughout the family and they needed lowland oxygen, but they begged not to be disturbed. Obviously nobody wanted supper, so I trudged to Wendys. The air was so thin at 12,000 feet I thought to get back to the hotel 911 may have to be dialed.

We gathered for breakfast the next morning and somehow I knew it would be the day from Hell. I gazed upon their white-as-ghost faces and we still had some altitude to overcome before I got them down to the flat lands.

By some miracle we made it to Denver to fuel up, but Joe still had the greenies, so redistribution of the children was necessary since the Corvette had now became a rather smelly mess. As we rolled into Nebraska one family member after the other fell to the auto-disease and Karen was sure it had to be a rare disease they caught from the Mormon sheep herders back in Salinas.

By the time we hit North Platte, Nebraska the station wagon had now become more toxic than any human could stand, so we stopped and washed out the car. The oldest boy got into the truck once again and before long he started up-chucking and decorating the big yellow truck with various forms of pre-digested foods (I warned you in the second paragraph). He returned to mamma's car and I took the next youngest. By the time we hit Grand Island, he caught the same sheepherder disease, so once again we stopped and scrubbed down the truck interior.

I often wonder how we ever made it to Omaha that day. I rode with both windows down and little did it matter what we sprayed in the truck, it just plain smelled nasty. The family spent a three day R & R at a dismal Holiday Inn, forcing Joe to call home for more money. I spent the days by the pool. By this time, I too felt rather indisposed.

After the layover the family still looked anaemic but time was no longer on my side so we headed out for the last leg. We cut up to I-90 and across the wondrous plains of Minnesota into Wisconsin. A week after departure we arrived at his mother's house. I stayed for two days of good food, charming company and pretty scenery, but the home turf called and Winona was my first leg to California. With a tearful departure, the puddle jumper headed for the Twin Cities. After switching planes in Minneapolis, the luscious green foilage swiftly disappeared and in few hours I landed back in LA in time for supper.

On the flight back home, this former Midwestern gal realized how much easier the people around Wisconsin laughed at the journey. Sickness meant bonding. Joe and Kathy swore off traveling. I had many more miles to cover in my life, though at that time this journalist had no idea how many more hundreds of endless miles lay before me.

Still, I wonder to this day, just how many rocket scientists would it take to move a family from California to Wisconsin?

BUDDY CAN YOU LOAN ME A GRAND

This is another story from the dusty (cough) caverns of yesterday. I composed it in a time of suffering because, at that time, my journalistic endeavors were not panning out. Later that would all change. I put it on the blog so we could all be reminded of those pitiful days of unemployment. And forgive the first paragraph--it did not want to fall in line with the rest of the column

For reason's unknown I can share many a tale about the horrific pains associated with pounding the pavement looking for a job. I've been downsized, upsized and criticized. Still after all the hassle with the nitwits who hire the likes of myself, there are precious few jobs to satisfy my thirst for capitalistic gain.

There are two areas of the classifieds in my local newspaper that create disturbing thoughts of chaos and madness deep within my soul, the Help Wanted and the Mate Wanted section. I consider both to be for the down-and-out.

The sweetheart ads, as I see it, are for those who can't live without an annoying, nagging, room temperature body hanging around complaining about everything you do, say and think. Meanwhile the Help Wanted ads are also for those who can't live without an annoying, nagging, room temperature body hanging around complaining about everything you do, say and think.

Understand my dilemma, I really do want to be gainfully employed, but stopping white collar businessmen on the streets with the old "Buddy can you spare a job," routine is a unbecoming to my staunch Scandinavian heritage work ethic.

So instead, I awake every morning, convince myself it is advantageous to leave the safe haven from underneath my nice cozy down-filled quilt. Then begins the journey to jump-start my life. The coffee pot must be activated which requires me to first walk outside, grab my soggy newspaper, conveniently tossed under the lawn sprinklers, consume a mandatory 12 cups of coffee in order to bring my energy level to a somewhat higher point than the rigor mortis that claimed my body overnight. Then and then only do I dare turn to the Help Wanted Section.

For the sake of good mental stability and to show mercy towards my delicate psyche, I choose a maximum of three businesses per day from the ads and grant them complete permission to work me over by telling me I don't qualify because they need a stiff who can speak seven languages, operate heavy equipment, answer the phone and have the uncanny ability to understand 32 computer programs, be under 40, willing to work for $6,25 an hour and provide their own desk.

Okay, now this is my simple philosophy on job seeking, " Attempting to prove ones worthiness to consume precious oxygen in front of a nit wit potential employer, who really cares less if you can fulfill the above requirements, but has a job that pays substantial money if you can whistle Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's Don Giovanni Overture backwards, is a one way ticket to neuroses." Stay away from such.

It is a documented fact that if you fill out more than three job applications per day, your mental health will deteriorate to a level where drooling and hallucinations may occur. I recall reading that 64 percent of people who attended four or more interviews a day had a high tendency of postal transformation. Foraging for the elusive splendid job is bad mental hygiene.

One secret I discovered--nobody is straightforward about the job you are expected to perform after applying for your wonderful new livelihood. If you are unfortunate enough to be searching for a job then cut out the following paragraphs and keep it posted on the fridge for a reference.

Below is a guide for employment opportunities:

Advertising executive means hanging fliers on doors of possible voters for the party of your choice. Drivers wanted means taking your car and running off your 100, 000 mile warranty, using up all your gas and likely bouncing up your insurance premiums, in order to feed couch potatoes all across your community. Customer relations means greeting folks at Wal Mart while handing out shopping carts to grouchy seniors and placing smiley face stickers on deranged children.

Sales jobs. Potential to make $15,000 a month is the same category as a protozoa life substance from Uranus launching into orbit only to crash through your living room window. Entertainment means nude dancing, psychic hot line jibber-jabbering or worse yet, sex line chats for some rapid breathing, unshaven low-life.

As I wind down the list of horrific jobs, we arrive at the telemarketer. Why in God's name (which is mighty) would I want a job doing what I wish my phone had a strangle button for. Many a time, a double flip and half twist was performed trying to get to the phone as quick as possible because that illusive job offer was beckoning me to the phone. Odds were three million to one that the dream job would appear, so with bated breath the receiver lifted slowly from the cradle only to hear some remedial reading student slowly parrot 25 lines off an index card and finally break his or her monotone voice asking, "Now doesn't that sound like a great deal."

"Zzzz, snore, huh, wha', sure I'll take a dozen. Good bye. Click."

This I pray Dear Lord

Please help writers avoid day jobs. Allow us to sit at Starbucks all morning and observe the yuppies come down out of the hills for their ritualistic feeding. Give us each day our daily hob-nob with the colorful locals at the corner cafe. Let us thus hear the tales of life which so enriches our imagination. Grant us free time every night to snuggle up in big overstuffed chairs and read novels that makes of envious of the writer.

For more inspiration I pray.

Amen.

PLEASE DON'T POKE ATTHE ARTICHOKE JOKES

This column is from my newspaper days back in California. I think the satire was published around 1997 or so, but you will see that nothing has really changed in the Reverend Jackson type world. Jena 6 proves that wherever people are offended there is someone trying to create hatred between the classes


Stardate, June 14, 1980. After a long night of driving through thick fog and narrow two lane highways, I pulled into Kingtree, South Carolina. After backing up to the dock, a lanky southern lad unloaded my 53 foot trailer full of dog food. By the time he finished pulling off the pallets and breaking them down it was time for lunch, though my Minnesota timepiece said breakfast.

Being a stranger in town, as so it was everyplace I delivered, I asked the young gentleman where a lady might get a bite to eat.

"Oh," he replied, "Ya'll gotta go out to the highway. You don't wanna eat here in town, It's full of, ya know, black people (politically correct wording placed here.) The best place to get eats is the motel just outside town, cuz they put up a buffet every noon."

I jumped into the cab of my beautiful red International Eagle and headed down Highway 52 searching for this buffet where white people ate. I pulled my empty truck into the dusty lot and shut ‘er down. As I opened the truck door the humidity hit me in the face like a jug of sorghum.

From the outside, the restaurant looked like any other American roadside eating establishment, but the food didn't quite look like Midwestern food. The steam table had large trays of "good ol' boy" food; catfish, hushpuppies, fried chicken necks and backs, white rice and of course, slimy cooked greens. After consuming what we stupid Yankees call knockers and a plate of greasy fried potatoes I left, thinking I should drive back into town to see just exactly what the black folks ate that he warned me about.

Now all you southern ladies and gents of notable respect who consume slimy green-pond-scum type food and eat bottom feeding fish who live in murky water (Yankee talk), let it be known those foods have now been placed on the things you can no longer joke about in public without being accused of hate speech. Another big step in political correctness, another small step for mankind.

Allow me to explain. It seems like this white-golfer-guy, Fuzzy Zoeller, repeated a bad food joke about collards. Now K-Mart, who sells a lot of nasty junk food products like Rice Krispie sticky stuff loaded with white sugary marshmallow, and artificial chocolate breakfast cereal designed to launch your children into explosive fits of attention deficit disorders, stated Fuzzy could no longer remain a sponsor of sporting goods because he said the "SF" word. (Southern Food). Unlike Dennis Rohdman, Fuzzy is no longer a good role model for American couch potato children, which, by the way, are inedible.

Now I rarely shop at K-Mart after they built a store on my ecologically sensitive childhood home in Ohio. I'm sure thousands of bullfrogs and pollywogs, not to even mention butterflies and fireflies, which are also inedible inasmuch as to ensure good taste you need to cook them in highly saturated oils. The above innocent critters were massacred at the hands of K-Mart developers, not Fuzzy Zoeller.

Protectors of sensitivity gaged when Fuzzy made collard jokes. Collards are, by the way, consumed by white folk who won't let black folk know they eat the leafy organic matter, because black folk have to eat in town while white-butt-honkies eat out on the highway.

Remember now, Tiger Woods never fell to the ground in a fitful rage over collard jokes because he is a golfer with a bit of class. As far as I know, no other black athlete appeared on television to voice their rage over collards.

Now you executives at K-Mart, sit down. That's right, pull up a chair and let Micheala explain something to you. We don't need your steeenkin' cheap Blue Light politically retentive group to stop endorsing Fuzzy in order for you to endorse another group of crybaby rejects like People Against Nasty Food Remarks Yo'. PANFRY has to be stopped and K-Mart, you need to get a life.

All around the globe humanity laughs at the consumption habits of others with no shame. Jewish people are razzed for chicken soup and Matzo balls. How many Jewish chicken soup jokes are out there? Millions at last count.

Italians are not getting off that easy, the little spaghetti benders anyhow. The Russian potato jokes, man are they bad, but the one about blintzes really crack me up.

By the way did you ever hear the one about two guys from Austria who ordered Gans Leber. Irealize. That is not as humorous as the little lady from Tunisia with amnesia who fed her dying husband a big plate of Chachouka. All right, that is an old joke, it's still funny though.

My Japanese roommate in nursing school used to tell me a joke about two dragons, a virgin and a take-out-order of Take No Ko No Unani. Had something to do with fingernails, never did get the punch line.

One of my all time favorites is the blond who ordered Borju Vagy Dizno Paprikasszelet in a Hungarian cafe, thinking she ordered Transylvanian Tokany, what she got was Boszorkanyhab. She wiped out the whole experience with a jar of White Out.

Yes sir, my friends, food jokes can really bring us together as one, give us peace and harmony amongst all people in all nations. Food witticisms are somewhat like singing, "I want to give the world a German Apfelsinebiscuittorte Ungefult in perfect harmony, it's the real thing."

Of course there are a few off color jokes. Just mention Lutefisk to any second generation Norwegian or Swede and see what happens. I don't recommend doing so if your ears are easily offended.

Meanwhile K-Mart, you purveyors of junk food, dump the PANFRY whiners. We don't want Fuzzy back on your Chinese manufactured sporting goods–he is way better than that.

Oh, and I know you heard the joke about the first words red-neck children learn to say. "Attention K-Mart shoppers."

THE LAST TURN IN THE BEND TO NOWHERE

I realize this is a long chapter but it fits into the Carter stories rather well. Someone just donated a nice sum of money to get started on the book, so busy I must get.

The autumn weather nipped the air about the Edward's homestead. Carter became more restless than the squirrels hustling acorns about the unkept yard. Granny had been laid to rest long enough now that the conversations about her sudden death diminished around the diner table, so now everyone more-or-less sat about and grunted their way through the meal. Mearl, the youngest of the twelve, recently dropped out of the eight grade and found great delight spending his newly acquired free time agitating Carter.

Mearl's name should have been spelled Merle but the boy before him was named Earl. So Ma Edwards just put an M before the name to make it simple. After all, finding a new name was more than she wanted to do the day he arrived. This new name also functioned well for his sister Pearl.

"That's exactly why the others never come by the house anymore," Carter yelled as he slammed the front door, salvaged from a nearby house that lost the entranceway during a tornado. He just concluded another argument about whose turn it was to go into Berford and make the final payment on Granny's headstone. As usual, he lost. Carter felt it only fair his brother should now shoulder some of the responsibilities once performed by one of many older siblings who seemed to just disappear into the woods.

Pa told Carter there weren't no need for Mearl to be doin' work that hard if most of the family ain't there. If'n they were, then likely there would be ten times more people to feed, clean up behind and what ever it were that the kids did in the first place. That thought sort of eluded him at the time as he sat down at the table, put a wad of Beechnut in his mouth and commenced to ramble on about something else.

Nobody really knew what happened to the older children. Like Gramps, they just left without notice. It is as if the highway running by the Edwards place held a magical one way ticket for those choosing to escape. Except for Carter. The road never took him much passed the county seat.

Carter grabbed the $15 hidden under the steps of the shed in an old toolbox. The Edwards never believed in hiding money in the house as the shed never seemed to burn down nor blow up like their house. More and more often the old house would suffer severe damage in what appeared to be stupid mistakes by overlooking several flaws.

So one more time Carter headed up the driveway to catch a ride on the two-lane. As he walked by the old Dodge Lancer, disabled with a blown radiator hose, he perched himself on the trunk covered with wet oak leaves and once more envisioned what life beyond the county seat must be like. He knew the $15 would buy a new radiator hose and a little gas, but that is about all.

"No," he mulled, "gotta pay for Granny's stone.

He slid off the trunk and kicked an old gas cap up the driveway and stood by the road waiting for a ride. Carter pulled his hood over his sandy hair to keep the chill off when Melvin Housser happened by and offered him a ride to town.

"Getting nippy son. Winter will be here before you know it," Melvin said, as he pulled the pickup back onto the road.

"You got that right and all I can do is think about bustin' loose and going somewhere. There is a whole world out there and I ain't never been past Ridge City and as soon as I can figure out a good reason to go, I'm history," Carter said. For the next few miles Carter stared down the highway while he rubbed his hands briskly to fight off the chill.

Melvin tipped his DeKalb Corn hat back a little, scratched the bald spot underneath, looked at Carter and asked why he doesn't take up hunting.

"Hunting," Carter asked. "Just what am I going huntin" for. The only gun we got is for shootin varmints out of the garden patch. Heck, it wouldn't even put a dent in a soda can."

"Why you need to go hunt up your grandpa, what else. Granny Lizzie been dead for sometime now. Donchya think he should oughta know his wife up and died."

"No way, he gets word I killed her with that stupid computer virus he'd likely wallop me until I saw stars. Forget that buddy," Carter replied.

Melvin took a deep breath and started in again.

"Son, you can't be afraid of your shadow all your life. Look at it this way–your poor old gramps is wantin' to come home but his pride is in the way. Ever since he told the sheriff that story about the spacecraft and then gettin' laughed outta Buck's Tavern, why he ain't never showed his face in McComb County since. It's your duty as the oldest one left home ta go and git him and bring him back."

"Well maybe so, but tarnation, I hadn't the slightest idea of where to find him or how to get anywhere–my radiator hose is busted and that'll cost $13.47," Carter said as they pulled into town. "Here drop me off at the cemetery."

Melvin pulled the truck over to the curb and grabbed a twenty out of his coat pocket. "Your grandpa and I had a many good times down at Buck's and I sure miss the ol' goat. Get yourself a radiator hose, find some money and go bring him home. Do it boy."

Carter eased out of the pickup somewhat stunned. Nobody ever gave him a twenty for no reason, nor had anyone ever offered him a job to do. True, it wasn't really a job, but as close to one as he ever had.. He looked at the cemetery office, then again at the $15 for the last payment.

"This money just might find grandpa," he thought. "But the old coot would just beat me for not using it to pay off the headstone. No, gotta take care of granny first."

The deed completed and the receipt, as proud as any medal a soldier could earn, found a place in the pocket right next to his heart. On the way home he passed Gus's Gas and Guts where a free hot dog a small coke went with any new or used car part. He picked up the hose and felt lucky because Gus had the only upper radiator hose in the area that fit a slant six Dodge Lancer. He also found a slightly used, tattered Rand McNally Cities Service state map for seventy five cents. With the treasure, along with a 50 cent cup of coffee, he headed home with a mission.

There are only two roads leading out of Bruford that take you any place important. Most of the dirt roads went into the country, past old gravel pits, trailer houses and an occasional pasture or swamp that surround the small town. According to those whose jobs it is to compile statistics there are more gravel roads in McComb County than in all other areas of the state.

If someone wanted to leave Bruford they either went into the woods and stayed there until whatever it was that made them go there didn't make sense anymore or headed east or south on State Highway 97. If you headed east, most likely you were going to the lumber mill outside of town or perhaps as far as Pongers Creek where the drive-in movie once stood. Now that it is gone folks don't go there as much.

The same road makes a bend in Bruford then continues south past the town square with the statue of The Known Soldier, at least the town elders think they know who it is.. Although the East and South Highway is one-in-the same folks often refer to it as the South Highway, or the South Blacktop, depending on who you ask.. Most of the traffic flows south as it the county had been tipped downward by some unexplainable force making the return trip to Bruford the feeling of an uphill battle. Pa figured that had to be the road most of the children took, since uphill battles was not something the Edwards very often undertook. Likely gramps took the South Road--as for the kids who returned home, apparently they were hiding out in the woods.

The turkey plant down by Jeronsville took away half the population when it opened in ‘72. Of course the plant was south of Bruford. The county seat--south, and most everything folks talked about, you guessed it, south.

After supper Carter spread the state map out on his bed and found himself mesmerized with the abundance of squiggly lines in and around Bruford. All the towns and highways beyond his miserable existence lay on that simple folded sheet of paper. The map captivated him. The state was full of highways in red, some in black and a splattering of cities with bold black ink with little airplanes next to them. This treasure drew him into an imaginary world of the likes he never felt before.

"Imagine having an airport, then where could you go," he thought. He took a red felt pen and placed a star right over Bruford, then took the butt of the marker and placed it next to the star. The tip if the marker came to rest on a town about 125 miles south, near a river town named Clayton Falls, named after General Clayton who thought he discovered the starting point of a famous river, but instead just found a rather poetic little waterfall. Carter drew a circle around the spot on the map and thought to himself what a wonderful destination. And who knew what he would find there.

Over the next week Carter busied himself repairing certain precarious faults in the old powder blue Dodge. His imaginative vision of Clayton Falls kept his youthful energy pointed in the right direction. By scrapping out useless articles in the shed he fashioned a small bunk where the back seat once sat. In the corner he placed an old shelf Grannie had in her room and placed a Coleman lantern firmly atop it. In the trunk he built small bins for potatoes, matches, canned goods, a few rusty tools, clothing and flashlights. He spent endless hours walking about nervously looking for unexpected problems that could occur on such a lengthy trip, though in reality he had little idea what to look for.

Mearl spent most of his newly acquired spare time pestering Carter, trying to figure out what his older brother had in mind but Carter payed little attention. Nobody but Melvin knew about the trip and what little Melvin knew would never put his family on the trail of the trip to Clayton Falls. Finally after numerous days of bolting here and hammering there, the old 62 Lancer had been transformed to a miniature camper–uniquely simple, but amazingly brilliant for Carter.

With time running short Carter now had to think harder than he ever had to think before. He needed cash and he needed it quick, since the days were turning colder. Though it had not happened yet, pa may start asking questions. Instead he just sat on the porch rocker and with a somewhat puzzled look on his face he just took aim at the windshield with his Beechnut.

A lead pencil sharpened with his jackknife became the calculator for figuring out his needs, and best he could figure, a dollar a mile would get him to the falls unless he encountered gramps, then he would have to return home to drop him off. He also had to have a bit of spending money for stopping at cafes, bars and roadside attractions to ask if anyone seen gramps. Now he felt more and more like a detective setting out to find a dangerous criminal.

"Two hundred and fifty stupid dollars is all I need and there ain't a durn thing around here worth more than 50 cents," Carter mumbled as he chewed down his supper.

"Are you still carryin' on about your brother doin' his fair share here ‘bouts,"pa asked. "Cuz if yourn still is, I'll fix him up to clean out the shed, might be gramps died thar. Ya never know now do ya."

"No pa, I need some money to go somewhere."

"Leavin' home are ye," pa inquired while fighting with a tough pork chop. "Well that'll stop all this fussin' with you and your brother and who knows but what some of the kids may come back out of the woods and take your room. Be right fine to see um agin."

Carter pushed his chair back against the wall and laid into Pa. "Ya durn fool I'm going away to find Gramps and ya best leave my room be and that's final. If I could come up with $250 all you would see is my back end going out that ratty screen door."

Mearl sat at the table laughing while tearing away at the pork chop with his dirty hands. "Why don't ya'll go sell some of them turkeys like last year. Ya still smell like a dead turkey anyhow."

Carter picked up a piece of hickory stove wood and hurled at his brat of a brother who only stood a little over five foot but could throw out insults like Gramps, only Gramps could wallop any bystander with his cane.

While mulling over his perplexities, Carter figured out two ways to secure much needed capital, robbing a bank or selling Gramp's much beloved Studebaker truck. Robbing a bank would be the less painful way. That old truck meant more to Gramps than anyone or anything, except for his hounds. Carter knew all to well to mess with the truck.

As he walked back to the Dodge he pulled open the door, sat on the ragged seat and turned on the radio to a station that seemed a million miles away. The song made him want to turn the ignition key right away and follow the radio waves. He soon turned off the radio and thought so hard about the money he developed a headache. He got up from the Lancer and walked past the Studebaker on the way back to the house. Suddenly he acquired a Carter Edwards inspiration.

"Tomorrow," he bellowed out loud out loud, "I'll hock this old junker down at Honest Abe's. He'll give me 60 days to repay ‘em and by that time I will have me a fine job at the Falls and when I find Gramps, well he will have to settle up with old Abe to get his stupid old truck back."

Carter ran into the house yellin like a crazed fool. "Tomorrow buddy, we is goin' travelin".

He crawled into bed with his road map and pictured in his sleep of what life must be like beyond Jeronsville, the home of the Turkey Plant and the one-time-school pa burned to the ground by mistake, which by the way, is the furthest he had ever driven. The sight of a three story house, drive-up banks, car dealerships with brand spankin' new cars and drifted in and out of his over taxed mind. Of course, a few citified girls danced about just for good measure.

"Yes sir, " he mumbled as sleep quieted his soul, "Carter is goin' to be the talk of Bruford,, you just wait and se........."

The next morning Mearl ran into the house laughing like a half-crazed animal. Carter leaped from the bed, his eyes bulging with rage because the morning caught him by surprise. He had hoped to be up and long gone by now.

"Carter boy, your junky Winnebago is gone," Mearl hounded. "It up and gone, by George."

"What are you talkin' about, you nuthead."

"It's gone, gone, gone, I tell ya. Here read what says this letter. I know its got your name on it for sure. The rest I can't read."

Carter slumped down in the half upholstered chair by the kitchen stove and with a cup of coffee in his hand he read the letter of death. Though the scrawling was only half legible he knew who wrote it.

"deer granson Carter," the letter started. "Thank ye fer builden me that camper. I always dreemed of havin' one i cood sleep in and put a few belongins in. I twere a feared that you would not git it runnin be fer winter set in. So now I reckon on to be headin' bout as fer south as one kould think ‘bout. Melvin told me about you buldin this fer me at our card game last week. Nice boy y'ar, better en some of you siblins. I always sed you were the best of the litter thats why I gave the twenty fer Melvin ta give ya.. I'd be thankin' ya in purson but i don't wreckon i could beat off that comp, er comput or heck what ever that virus was ya brout home. Thanks fer payin off grannies stone. See ya next spring if'n my heart holds out that long
gramps

Oh by the way feel free to use the studebaker but i had to sell some parts off'n it fer gas money.

Carter sat in the old chair for the next three hours staring out the back door, gazing at where the Dodge set a short hours ago. There sat Gramps treasured Studebaker with no battery, no gas and the worse part–no seat. All the dreams of what one desired to see, the world south of Bruford, now gone.

Guess it really doesn't matter, because in Carter's world nobody is going nowhere, nohow.

FACE TO FACE PART II--THE LOST PHOTOS

Let us see if the text stays where it belongs this time. First we have our creator (of Scrappleface). Always a great smile because evil is on his mind

Our humble abode (get your reservations in soon) And soon we must decide when our next secret meeting will be.

Once again, to the left, I mean face to the left. Right

We even had evil Republican seats to sit upon. Karl Rove, is this your board.

Camojack was holding this pillar up. Promise, cross my heart.

Apples have nothing to do with face to face. Just a reminder that September is here. Eleven months left until Face to Face II

This picture will be removed tomorrow Tuesday, for obvious reasons.
Ooops, the Scott Family is gone, hope you did not miss it.

The End--Good Night

REMEMBERING ONCE AGAIN--PART II

Monday, September 11, 2006

REMEMBERING EILEEN MARSHA GREENSTEIN

Today, six years hence liberals are still arguing about the war. How many of us have forgotten. I haven't. I still cry and as I am putting this up once again I weep. So we never forget I shall repost the woman I was picked to honor

As often is the case we awaken every morning, rub the sleep from our eyes and gulp down that cup of coffee as we head for the front door and move on to our assigned duties. For some, this is driving to classes at the nearby college, running off to the gym for a workout then stopping at Starbucks for a mid-day break with friends and associates.

For others it is off to the daily grind. Office workers, waitresses, bus boys, sales personnel, cab drivers, it makes little difference, the big city takes in the whole brigade that keeps America running–twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, 365 days a year. Men and women alike go to the big city and the city purrs like a warm kitten.

September 1, 2001 the city quit purring. New York City was attacked by Islamic fundamentalist who had a two part objective–to kill innocent civilians, and bring our nation's economy to a crawl. The Twin Towers, an art work of glass, steel and beauty, fell to a heap of dust and bent steel before the eyes of shocked onlookers, taking with it approximately 2,996 victims.

Eileen is not forgotten. This much I can tell you, Ms Greenstein was a resident a Morris Plains N.J. I can assure readers of Shelly's Cafe her memory, especially today, is held closely in many people's heart.

We can never understand the thought patterns of a terrorist. Hate is a sin born in the depths of Hell and civilized nations do not cower in the gutter of human depravity. God gives us a heart of love and compassion. Today, we as Americans, once again took time to remember the many, whatever their walk of life may have been, who gave their life five years ago. God bless you and your family Eileen.

FACE TO FACE PART I

I have more pictures in the camera. The Scrapplers in the photos had no problem being published, others folks who objected were cropped.

This is the town square in Ligonier where others shopped till they dropped. Not me, to weary. The above Ligonier VFW looked more like a movie theater. The very top was a wooded scene by the camp site

A lazy river near Falling Waters, Frank Lloyd Wright's design for the Kaufman family who, by the way owned Kaufman's Department store. Thanks Onlineanalyst for the correction





















Corner of Frank Lloyd Wrights home--hard to get a good shot













The Falling Waters home. Best I could do





That is what it said. We should have spent a day here at the white water river.


Ohiopyle and the Youghiogheny river




More of the river. Bad deal for me because I ran out of film and the fresh roll was at the cabin








The path to our cabin. The cabin picture is on the unfinished roll which, when finished will be published













The top is Mr and Mrs Beerme (Mike and Alice)and
Hawkeye peaking from the corner







The second photo is Hawkeye and Camojack (rear). Hawkeye has his towel handy because he is about to tour the Galaxy






This is our face to face tree for those who doubt there is a God who loves Scrappleface



An early morning shot before others arose. Oh, those weak bladders.