A Ride to South Georgia with Georgia and Benjamin

It was a beautiful October day, this first Saturday in October. Our cousin, Hilda Vann, was to have celebrated her 96th birthday at her daughter's home in Newton. Georgia and Benjamin had spent the night with us and were to accompany us to this gathering of "old folks". With a smattering of young and middle aged folks mixed in. Promises of good food and a chance to run around on a south Georgia peanut farm enticed them to come along. They are 8 and 9.

I decided that I would take a back road up to the main drag into Newton. We would see some swamp land and forest along the way and perhaps see a little wild life. I told them about the time I had taken John Darwala, a company colleague from Philadelphia up to Cairo via that route. He had asked me in his best Indian accent if I had ever seen an alligator whilst riding along that little two lane stretch of road. I advised him that I had not. It was a mile down the road that a big gator, about an 8 footer, dragged himself from one side of the road to the other right in front of us. John was ecstatic and would refer to this experience all along the course of my 30 year career with DuPont.

I told them of another time that Benjamin's Mom and I had taken this road on a fallish Sunday morning and had seen two of the most beautiful wild turkeys we had ever seen. I then regaled them with a tale of one of the biggest rattle snakes that I had ever seen coiled up on the shoulder of this little back woods road. It was about at this point in the trip that I noticed that I was getting little, if any, affirmation of what I was speaking of. I looked in the rear view and saw the ear buds of their individual devices just entertaining them as best could be. Benjamin was gaming on his Kindle and Georgia was listening to her music on her I-Pod.

I am pretty used to being ignored. I am 70 and have been invisible to humanity for a good 20 years. Please see my BLOG entitled The Invisible Man. So I dispatched with the fascinating tales of my journeys down this road less traveled and began to agree with my  wife that we had wasted a good 30 minutes on this back woods road.

My mind traveled back to when I was around 9 and my brother was 6. We had grabbed a good hand hold in the bed of Dad's old pick up truck and enjoyed scooting down the old country road on our way to a church picnic. Our entertainment was spitting into the wind to the other's detriment. Our entertainment at the picnic was catching tadpoles in the pond near the site.

I further mused as to what it must have been like to have been 10 years old back in Hilda's day. That would have been around 1930. People could talk for days about the airplane that they  had seen fly over their farm or the fact that the preacher had a new car and maybe they could get a ride in it one day. No television, maybe a radio. Certainly nothing like a lap top computer, I Phone, Kindle, X-Box.

My 7 grandchildren have incredible technology at their finger tips. They bore easily. They must constantly be entertained by what's on cable TV or what game they can conjure up on their devices. As I drive by the nearby elementary school I am taken by the fact that the kids walking home from school are not running and playing tag or tossing a ball. They are walking along staring into their palms and tapping on that device held there. They truly do look like a Zombie nation.

I suppose each generation must have similar observations about the kids in their worlds. I still revel in the road less traveled and the mysteries and surprises that lie along the way. " Oh I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence. How two roads diverged in the woods and I, I took the one less traveled by and that has made all the difference."

Where Were You? (Repost)

I remember where I was when President Kennedy was shot, so do you. I remember where I was when Bobby Kennedy was shot, so do you. I remember where I was when Dr. King was shot. I will always remember the day I watched Neil Armstrong take that first step on the lunar landscape. You have to be a mature American to recall all those events.

You can be a child as young as 12 and remember the most significant event since the shot heard around the world that was fired at Ft. Sumter, South Carolina somewhere around 1861. That event was September 11, 2001. The Ft. Sumter event was the impetus that led to the most blood ever spilled here in America since the Revolutionary war.

When those planes flew into the World Trade Center and our Pentagon approximately 3,000 innocent Americans shed their blood, innocent, collateral damage in a cowardly act of terrorism. Since then one of the most evil dictators in history was captured, tried and hanged. Our soldiers still are taking it to the terrorists and those who have harbored terror. Many additional lives have been lost in an effort to make you and I feel safe once again.

I was in Baton Rouge, La. with DuPont. I had flown in on 9/10. Myself and 2 colleagues were doing software training for 2 cardiology groups assembled at the Baton Rouge Hilton. I had been to breakfast and had read a little article in USA Today about the establishment of 911 as the emergency number for the nation. Some sort of commemoration was scheduled somewhere on 9/11 to apply a little numerology. When I left my room to go down to the meeting room my colleague, Roger, came out of his room with a funny look on his face and announced that an airliner had just flown into the World trade center. I thought back about the article I had read and I said " No that is just some sort of gimmick to promote the establishment of 911 as the nationwide emergency number." Boy was I ever wrong.

We went to the meeting room checked in with our management and called off the training and went to pack. I was fortunate enough to think about getting a rental car. I had National Car Rental on speed dial. After I speed dialed it about 10 times I was able to successfully reserve a car. By the time my colleague from Birmingham, who had driven down, got us to the airport all airports across the country had been closed. Air Force One was heading to Louisiana, where I was. I had a guy at the rental car desk offer me $1000.00 for my rental car. He was trying to get home to Los Angeles. My other colleague and I drove the 8 hours back to Tallahassee and then he went on to Sarasota. We were scared. I just wanted to be home with my family.

I remember my daughter stood in line in Gainesville at the University of Florida, along with her room mates, to donate blood. People went to church in droves. Retailers sold out of flags. The mood of the country was anger towards the terrorists.

Where are we now? Blood donations have become a way to buy dinner for some. People stopped going to church in droves. Republicans hate the Democrats. Democrats hate the Republicans. Everyone hates the war. Tea parties abound. GM's principal owner is the U.S. Government. Financial institutions are owned by the government. The government wants to own health care.

What scared us to death back on 9/11/01 is now just a bare memory. If you fly into New York City there are new structures going up to replace those twin towers. It is hard to remember what they looked like in our mind's eye.

The same resolute planning that effected 9/11/01 is still going on in some Al Queda camp somewhere. Death to America still motivates people to strap bombs on thier children and send them into a crowd.

I wonder when and what the next 9/11 will be. Sure makes you pause and reflect doesn't it.

Surviving an Itty Bittty Hurricane

Living in Florida means one thing pretty consistently. You are vulnerable to a pretty volatile meterologic environment. I'm talking a consistent rash of thunderstorms, a much lesser occurrence of tornadic activity and a miniscule threat of tropical storms and hurricanes. Someone once said that this is the cost of living in paradise. I really cannot dispute that statement. One consistent thing about Florida is the hot and humid weather.

A couple of weeks ago my wife, Nancy, and I were laying in our bed. Around midnight we were awakened by the distant sound of thunder and could see some bright flashes of lightning. The storm was sort of pretty and melodic mixing flashes of light with rolling cascades of thunder. As the storm approached our address we could tell that it was going to roll pretty much right over us. Sure enough it did. After a few minutes of being a bit on edge we heard a zap and a ping and then a heavy retort. We had either endured a direct hit or one very close by.

The next morning we were disappointed to learn that we had no cable, internet or phone service. Life without TV is very difficicult for my wife as well as myself. I only watch sports on the cable. Her viewing is much more wide and sophisticated. I am an internet junkee. I find it unnerving not to be able to look at Real Clear Politics, Alabama.com for my team, ESPN.com, LDS.org and  local news all driving to and culminating in the many pithy tweets I send out via Twitter.

It took us 4 days to restore our TV and internet. Life was not pleasant. I also make my living via access to the internet as do so many other people. Thank heavens for the IPhone. We had to buy a new TV as a result of one being fried. That meant a little larger screen just in time for football season. Little did we know what lay in store for us.

We get somewhat Tropical storm weary in this part of the world. Seems like every year about this time there are numerous tropical depressions floating around in the Gulf or the Atlantic. In my world of real estate the significance is that if there is a named storm floating around in the "box" then real estate closings come to a grinding halt. The box is an imaginary space 700 miles X 700 miles. If a named storm moves into that box then property insurance issuance is frozen. If insurers won't insure, lenders won't lend and most buyers cannot buy. I had 3 closings scheduled this past week and was keeping a close eye on TS 9 out in the Gulf. Having barely managed the closings and getting past them I suddenly realized that TS 9 is now Hurricane Hermine.

Two of the families I was helping were out of town move ins, one from Atlanta and one from Niceville. A race was on to get closed, beat the storm and get moved in. Both families accomplished their moves and settled in prior to the storm settling in on a direct line for our location .

I had been so involved in business that I was totally naive concerning the storm. All of a sudden here it is Thursday and all manner of storm preparation has broken out around me. Fortunately, my wife, Nancy, is always in a state of preparedness for most things. We had plenty of water, food, snacks and batteries, meds, fresh clothing, etc. I settled in to watch two football games Thursday night. Both were humdiingers. I began to realize the seriousness of the matter when the wind started blowing and rain was hitting my house sideways. It really got my attention when in the space of seconds my house was darker than the inside of Marianna caverns. The only sound manifested was the whistling of the wind. It seemed like morning would never come. It did.

We awakened to trees down all over our neighborhood as well as the Big Bend region. 150,000 people were without electricity across the region. One of the clients I had closed had a tree down across their house on the first night they had stayed in it. Of my three children they all had power. My son's thankful to a home generator that powers his whole house, even AC.

We were without power for 60 straight hours. We were able to cook, keep two refigerator's cool, light a couple of lamps, power a TV and run fans thanks to a small generator. The absolute worst was being without AC. We could watch cable and take baths over at our daughter's house but laying in bed sweating is no fun.

As always it is nice and disappointing to see people at their best and worst. Tree removal people were out in droves after the storm. My client with the tree on her house was offered a removal service for $1000 per hour and it was going to be a 5 hour job. Fortunately, she was not born yesterday. Her husband is a police officer and hopefully this contractor will hear from the AG after this cools down. Be nice to see him pay some heavy fines and maybe even do a little time.

It was also nice to see people treating  each other with courtesy as they approached traffic lights that were not working. Dangerous intersections were being negotiated very carefully as people very kindly yielded to one another as they moved through the intersections. I checked on a neighbor who is a very capable widow. She assured me that she was fine. As I left I provided her with an ice cold Diet Dr. Pepper from a cooler on my back seat. She smiled and hugging me accepted the treat and wiped away a little tear. Just a little kindness goes a long way when people are stressed out and disadvantaged.

The Psychology of a Bonus

It is an interesting thing to note that a person could be making $200,000 per annum and get a $10,000 bonus and be near nirvana as a result. I was employed by a multi-national, world wide company for 30 years. For twenty years of that time I was a salaried employee as were all of my fellow employees. The company we worked for believed in paying you well. There was no such thing as a peformance bonus. You were given a yearly performance evaluation. If you were fortunate enough to hit on all of the metrics in this performance evlauation you got a salary increase. There was a complicated, human resources developed, career grid. Every position had a level and a salary guideline. If you went from being a paper clip counter 1 to a paper clip counter 2 you got a very nice salary increase. There were 4 levels in each position. The gist was that there was a 56% spread across those levels. If entry level was $10,000 per year then the spread across the level you were in went to $15,600. Go to the next level the entry on that level would be $13,000 and the spread would take you to $20,280. All I know is that I started with the company in 1972 at $7800 per year. When I left, 30 years later, I was making $180,000.

Along the way, I was invited to serve as a member of a task force that looked into adopting a bonus program. Our division, within the company, was to be a test market on the effects of implementing such a bonus program. If it seemed to have a synergistic effect on employee performance then it would be adopted all across the company. The career performance evaluation method was to be retained and this was to be an opportunity for a bonus to be paid out quarterly. It took us 20 meetings at 20 locations across the country. We retained consultants to help us with the analytics and we rolled out the finished product approximately two years later.

The bonus was designed to provide you with an additional 10% added to your base salary. It behooved you to be the bosses fair haired child still to get good peformance evals. It was strange to see the level to which the sales force reacted to this bonus program. There were all sorts of little pockets of schemes across the country designed to tweak the sales numbers to drive optimal bonuses. Most employees lost sight of the fact that 90% of their compensation was performance based along such ideals as ethics, teamwork, sharing of information, etc. Instead people in teams would conspire against fellow employees to drive this 10% bonus system. If their conspiracies were egregious enough they could be disciplined, put on probation and receive no salary increase or bonus.

I was not ever able to see how this effected the overall ability of our sales force to drive more business. The sad result was that due to other issues the company decided to sell our division to another company. There were mass layoffs and I and many of my colleagues who had helped develop this bonus structure never saw enough proof that it was all worth the time and effort to create it.

Thus I conclude after thinking about this issue that there lurks within us some strange corner of reason that bonuses play to. It is sort of like "found" money. I recall the character Clark Grizwold, played by Chevy Chase in the movie Christmas Vacation. A sizeable part of his income had to be his salary. That seemed to provide more than adequately since he had a very nice home and numerous amenities. However, he dreamed of his Christmas bonus and the swimming pool it was going to provide for his family. One can only assume that he was willing to put in the extra hours, take on extra assignments, and whatever else it took to max out this bonus.

I suppose that this "found money" analogy must be what drives people to play online poker, buy lottery tickets, spend a week and a wad of money in Atlantic City to win the bonus. The very next lottery ticket I buy will be my first. That truly is a tax on the stupid. That is a whole different post to this Blog. Lot of tricky psychology wrapped up in this whole American scenario of the bonus.

The Goat Man

When I was a teenager, I used to spend summers working with my father all over south Alabama, most of Georgia and into Mississippi. His business was cleaning and repairing shopping carts. We traveled around mostly secondary roads into places like Demopolis, Sylacauga, Clanton, Enterprise, etc. We also spent time in the larger cities as well. It was pretty boring and hot, merciless work for which I earned minimum wage.

I clearly remember the few occasions where we would run across the “ Goat Man ” traveling down a secondary, less traveled road. He was always to the side of the road and taking his time and did not seem to ever back up traffic. He was quite a sight with his little herd of 20-30 goats just ambling on down the road pulling a ramshackle old wagon on his way to no where and in no hurry to get there. He always inspired an image of speculation as to what he was all about. Some thought he had some sort of mystical power, I guess somewhat like a wizard. Others thought he was a holy man with a commanding evangelistic style and could save your soul. I guess in the fashion that Neal Diamond used to sing about Brother Loves Travelin Salvation Show. I think the sum and substance of the Goat Man was that he was a penniless, vagabond. There were many characters like him that seemed to find their way through Mayberry on the Andy Griffeth show. Sheriff Taylor always seemed to escort them on out of town as a few chickens and hams disappeared in their presence.

The speculation as to who he was was part of the fun and lore of seeing him. Back in the 60’s we did not have 15 round the clock news and information channels on the cable. As a matter of fact there was no cable TV. There was only a flimsy antenna that could bring in three of the major networks if you were lucky. Thus the speculation was just that, rumor and fantasy for the most part. Nowadays there could have been a reality TV show starring the Goat Man in the same vein as Honey Boo Boo. Perhaps he could have been a presidential candidate.

Wikepedia paints him as somewhat of a kook. His real name was Charles (Ches) McCartney. He had run away from the family farm in Iowa at age 14. I was raised on a farm and left around 14 yoa. I can certainly see the temptation to leave because it was hard work and the lure of the open road would have been tempting. He lived off of his goats and donations from strangers. He was a friendly sort of person and did a little preaching when the mood hit him. It was reported that he smelled very badly. Speculation would be, did he earn the moniker of “ goat man “ from the company he kept or because he smelled like one? He died in 1998. He claimed to be 106, but it is more likely that he was 97. He met his demise in a Georgia, nursing home. He married and had a son who preceded him in death along the way.

I remember moving to Tallahassee in 1972. After a short while living here and driving the streets I encountered a bearded man in a crown and a cape with a gold cross hanging around his neck. I soon learned that this was King Love. His real name was Kamal Abdou Youssef. King Love was born in Egypt in 1933 and matriculated to the states via New York, Tampa and ultimately to Tallahassee. He was a physician and had practiced pathology it was rumored and had somewhere along the way gone off the reservation. His mission in life was pretty simple. He would find a spot on a street corner and dance and shake a tambourine or beat on a drum and would espouse that love was the answer to all the world’s ills. Well, it was hard to argue with him on that accord.

He was obsessed with then Governor Bob Graham. He spent his social security check at Kinkos making up bulletins and flyers which he would toss across the fence at the Governor’s mansion. The security staff kept a close eye on him but never had to shoot at him. I had a golf partner, close friend, who was a practicing ER physician. He told me of an occasion when one of the nurses came to him and told him that King Love had been triaged into one of the exam rooms. He had to come immediately to see the King. The urgency was that he seemed depressed. This nurse declared that seeing King Love depressed was just too sad to deal with . My doctor friend had to do something immediately.  King Love died some time back in federally subsidized housing of natural causes here in Tallahassee. Culleys funeral home gave him a free funeral and burial. There were a surprising number of Tallahasseans in attendance.

I am not sure why I am blogging about this today. Maybe it is because it is rapidly becoming summer and my mind travels back to past summertimes when living seems to get a little slower and laziness descends on us. We are all about the hustle and bustle of whatever it is that we do. To have actually seen these two folk legends in my lifetime causes me to speculate as to what made them compelling? It is sort of like the bumper sticker that used to be popular, “ Why be normal ?” Indeed, why? We see these sorts of folks that seem to be caught up in their own little lives. They live in their private little dillusional existence and seem to get by while all the rest of us are pressing hard to make the buck to pay the rent and pay the utility bill and in my case buy some green peanuts for Nancy, my wife, who loves to boil her own peanuts in the summer time. I think, at least in my case, that there is some envy in play.

PFC James Clayton Reed

Re-post from May 2011:

My thoughts are turned this Memorial Day weekend to my first cousin, Jimmy Reed. He is one of 3 children born to my aunt Delores and Uncle Clay who lived in Los Angeles, California, light years from where I lived in West Virginia and later Montgomery, Alabama. We shared some happy childhood experiences. We did not see each other often but when we went to visit them or vice versa it was for extended periods of time. I remember him as being funny and entertaining. He was my younger brother's age almost exactly. They could always make me laugh.

Well here I am turning 65 in two days. I had a thirty year career with DuPont and got to travel a lot. I was able to carry some important assignments for DuPont and achieved some degree of recognition. I met a wonderful girl and we fell in love and raised 3 children. We have 7 grand children. I used to coach softball and baseball, volunteer in scouting, work in PTA, go on family vacations and just generally have had a great life.

Jimmy died just west of Khe Sanh during operation Purple Martin March 20,1969. That was just a little more than 30 days before his 19th birthday. He was a member of the D Company, First Battallion, Third MarDiv, USMC. He died that day along with 2nd Lt. Mike McCormick of Wellston, Ohio; LCpl Max Baer of Goshen, Ind; LCpl Steve Byars, Lakeland, Florida; LCpl Ernest Elders of Shelby, NC; PFC Norman Beck of Rockford, Il.; PFC Jeffrey Forry, Marion, OH and PFC Larry Knox of Harrisonville, MO.

I graduated from college in 1969 and rode a student deferrment to avoid military service. I also pulled a 344 as my draft lottery number. Were it not for those two happenstances I well could have had my name engraved onto that war memorial wall in Washington, DC. I have been there and was able to find Jimmy's name on that wall. It is a somber and eloquent memorial fitting as a requiem for those who gave their lives on various battlefields of the Vietnam war. For whatever purpose that war served I honor his memory this Memorial Day. I wish I could pick up the phone and call him and tell him a joke or two but that opportunity was nullified by the winds of war. His Mother, my aunt Delores, has grieved every day for her fallen son for 42 years now.

It is pure irony how some of us end up pursuing the military option. Today we have a totally volunteer military. You press the statistics on the makeup of our armed forces and you will see a lot of people who just seemed to have no other option than to join the military. The impetus is largely economic with job prospects being what they are. In mine and Jimmy's youth the draft was rampant. The selective service boards were steaming at full speed. In my case, had I not been a student it was a certainty that I would have been drafted into the miltary.

I recall that in those days you would report for a college class and two or three of the people that had been in the class the day before would be gone. You had to maintain a class standing to keep your draft exemption of 2-S. In order to do that you had to be in the upper 1/4th of your freshman class in academic performance. Fail to do that and you were draft fodder. Sophomores had to be in the upper 1/2 and Juniors in the upper 3/4. If you made it to be a senior then they left you alone. Along about my freshman year they administered the selective service standardized test. The guys at Harvard made the claim that the students in the bottom 3/4 of their freshman classes were superior to the upper 1/4 of the freshman class at State College X. So the selective service came up with the standardized test and administered it to us all in the second semester of my 1st year. You either had to maintain your academic standing or have scored 75% or better on the test. I remember scoring a 78 and my worries were ended.

There was also a point at which I was thinking I needed to drop out of college. I checked with the draft board and I was told the day after I did I would be reclassified 1-A and almost certainly drafted into the military. I do not know of Jimmy's circumstances but while I was studying Mark Twain in English 301 he was most likely doing basic training at Paris Island. Talk about worlds apart.

When I ponder the freedoms under which I live and also ponder the 58,220 war dead from the Vietnam war, the 405,399 from WW2 and the 116,516 from WW1 I feel guilty and appreciative at the same time. I do believe that those fallen willingly sacrificed their lives so that we could continue to breathe the free and unfettered air of liberty. I have to ask myself what sort of life have I led to justify the single death of my cousin Jimmy, not to mention the 100's of thousands of war dead who made similar sacrifices.

I suppose I have made small sacrifices but the bumper sticker I read once that said "All gave some but some gave all" makes me realize what an investment we all have in our freedom. Just about every American can tell a similar story as mine about my cousin, Jimmy. I contemplate why he had to lay down and die that day in Vietnam. It was because he felt the call to duty and like others of his family before him felt the obligation to serve. Pure and simple.

May we take a little time to really remember those who sacrificed their lives and well being to keep us safe and free this Memorial Day weekend. God bless you Jimmy. You were way too young to die. I hope to see you again someday, if I am worthy, and shake your hand and say thank you in person. I hope that you will see someone standing in front of you who you can feel justified your sacrifice. I need to work to become such.

LOUD AND OBNOXIOUS

How many times have you been lying in your bed at night and just drifting off to sleep and some Neanderthal comes driving by with his woofers at full WOOF?. He is very likely to be a pimply faced little boy who looks like a troll and could not buy himself a date with a girl. So he and his friends are cruising in your neighborhood, sharing the milk of their taste in Rap music. Wait a minute, delete the music from that sentence, because it ain’t and insert a capital C in front of the rap because it is.

There was such an event that occurred recently in Jacksonville that resulted when a citizen in between doses of his Adderall emptied his 9 MM magazine into a car of punks who were playing their music in a loud and obnoxious fashion in the parking lot of a convenience store. He asked them to turn the C-rap down and they refused. He then went off the reservation and killed one of them and mortally wounded 3 others. Betcha the one who assumed room temperature wishes that he had just turned it down if only for a brief moment. I think he earned a life sentence in Federal prison for his action. Betcha he wishes now that he had just gone home and taken his Adderall.

My wife and I were recently at the beach to celebrate our 43^rd wedding anniversary. We drove down to Mexico Beach one of our favorite hangouts. We always rent a room at the same place and enjoy the sounds of the surf. US Highway 98 runs right through the middle of Mexico Beach. Everywhere we looked we saw motorcycles. From the moment we checked into our room we heard the sound of motorcycles. For two days we got to see and hear, first hand, the participants in a week long gathering called “ Thunder Beach.”  I respect people’s right to own and operate a motorcycle. They are a fascinating sub-culture of people. Most of them wear Harley Davidson monogrammed clothing. Pretty much all of them have numerous and sundry tattoos many of which you would be ashamed for your minister, daughter or granny to see and read. The bikes they ride cost a pretty penny. I am not sure that Harley-Davidson stock is publicly traded but it bears looking into about like Smith and Wesson stock. One profile that I think demarcates the subculture is that most of them are OLD MEN. They have to have been successful to afford those Hawgs.  By the way do you know what they call motorcyclists down at the ER? Organ donors. In the meantime, ride those damnable things somewhere else besides my neighborhood or my beach.

I live on a busy street. The traffic at certain times is unmerciful. Everyone in Tallahassee cuts through Killearn Estates to get somewhere else. We also happen to have a very nice sidewalk that runs in front of my house. The joggers, walkers, bikers, pogo stick enthusiasts, etc. comprise a steady stream of traffic by my house. I cannot tell you the number of times that I have been awakened prior to 6:00 AM by runners and/or joggers that come by my house guffawing and talking to each other at the top of their lungs. It is the rudest, most selfish activity that I can imagine. Now I am proud of people who exercise. Heaven knows I could use a little more of it myself. However could you not do it without noise? How about give me your address so I can get my golf group together and drive golf balls off the side of your house at 4:00 AM.

I love the people who go walking through the supermarket with their cell phones on speaker. They are talking at the top of their lungs to someone on the other end talking at the top of their lungs. Do you really think the rest of humanity gives a rip what you and your genetically deficient friend are talking about? At the very least take it off speaker. At the very most wait til you get home to hold this meaningless, superfluous conversation.

Even mother nature intercedes on our quietude at times. I love mockingbirds. I think they are our state bird here in Florida. I have had numerous experiences at 3:00 AM where a mockingbird has decided to serenade me outside my balcony. A pellet gun can be useful during such episodes. Waving a towel at the energetic little insomniac is effective. I remember once upon a time visiting friends in Arizona. Now that is a serious time lag. If you can last to 10:00PM their time you are retiring at 1:00 AM your time. On this particular occasion I remember a mockingbird serenade beginning at about 2:00 AM EST and persisting well past morning. Maddening!

Why do the inhabitants of our world have to be so incessantly loud? Is it installed into their DNA? Do they need to be noticed? Are they lacking something in their personal lives? How many times have you stayed in a hotel where a party begins at midnight and persists for many hours right next door to you? This usually happens when you have to be at a meeting at 7:30 AM. I remember one such occurrence in the Rennaisance in downtown Atlanta. The party began at 1:00 AM. No pounding on the walls, calling the front desk beating on their door could tone it down. The smell of Mary Jane wafts through the door between your rooms. They have numerous bouts of wrestling on the bed that bangs up against your head board. They could care less that they are keeping you awake. On this one occasion I had to arise at 6:00 be in my meeting at 7:30. By this time they are sleeping comfortably in their beds. The last act before I leave the room is push the TV to face their door and turn it up to full volume. I am sure that they were so stoned that it mattered little. I still smiled as I pushed the button to summon the elevator.

Our US Constitution was written with these words in the preamble “….to ensure the domestic tranquility………” What the heck ever happened to that notion? In parting I find irony in the fact the army, CIA, UN, etc. brought the ruthless thug Manuel Noriega to justice by flushing him from his mansion by playing rock and roll at killer decibles 24/7 until he crawled out in a state of humble silly-puttiness and surrendered. Something to think about.