(I’ve written over 550 posts during the past 10 years and people have asked if there is a way to read thru them via subject matter. Well, here it is. All of them can be found by subject at the end of this post. So have at it, and I hope you enjoy the reading…..It’s been a great ten years for me; thank you for following. Franque23.)

The seasons don’t need to be elected, they just know. The earth knows its time and place and beats a rhythm we all follow. I’ve stepped outside my front door every morning since retirement to ramble along the yard and gaze over the garden but no two mornings have ever been the same.  Every day, in every way, each morning has been different.

Today, two spirited mockingbirds circled our cedars while neighbor’s chickens clucked at my feet. Crows crackled from hidden places as mourning doves fluttered off to a nearby phone line above. The chickadees called as cardinal’s chirped.  And, I listened. These sounds are home to me.  Still, I listened for more, for the possible Sand Hill cranes’ call as it might echo through the sky as they fly south. It’s approaching that time of year when these amazing birds fly over two thousand miles to either winter or summer in their comfort zones.  The high sky was silent, but the woods were an uproarious chatter zone of life made of all kinds even without the Sand Hill.

The fall garden is doing nicely and enjoying the cooler breezes that have come our way recently. This, however, was not the case this morning. No, the dryer, fall air had been cloaked and seemingly wrapped  in air that felt more like a wet blanket: the air felt so close this morning. It’s the type of air my northern friends from around the Lake Bonaparte, N.Y. area would refer to as death warmed over. I’ve no doubt that most of them would rather run naked through the snow than walk in shorts through this morning’s microwaved ambience.  Heck, it snows in May sometimes up at the lake!*

I thought I’d take you with me as I did some of my daily chores at home, a place with 16 citrus trees, lemon and orange, fig trees, a huge blackberry tree, papayas, pineapples, an abundance of indigenous plants like a huge jasmine plus a garden to tend to—these are my focus of attention. The rest, the fence lines, lawns, out buildings, pool maintenance and will I ever clear one driveway of endless grass growing through the cement cracks(?) and the removal of a jungle that really wants Florida back, drift in and out the plans for the weeks and months ahead.

Shadow’s ready for the morning rounds.

Right out the front is the indigious Jasmine-a tall bamboo -like plant that dies to the ground in winter and springs up to 14 feet high by the fall……..the smell from this flowering plant covers about two acres at night.
It lets sunlight in during the winter and shades us during the summer.
This was today’s pick after the morning rounds….though, whoops!
I’d missed a papaya to add to the Satsumas, oranges, lemons, miniature meyers, the basil, green beans, lettuce, grapefruit and Asian beans.

The asian bean are winning this year’s “crop of the Season ” award best I can tell. These all grew from seeds from last Spring’s garden. They circle the garden along the whole fence line and there are about three hunderd separate beans growing right now. I love these asian beans, sometimes called, Asparagus beans, because they have a unique flavor but, in some ways, best of all is they climb so there’s no need for bending down to pick them like you do for bush beans.

Here’s a better shot of the Asian Beans

It’s easy to check out the pineapples and enjoy the indigious Rose while walking around back past the pool area …

I planted a miniature Meyers by our bedroom window thinking the fragrant blooms would be amazing and it’d be fun to see lemons growing outside our window.

So, yeah, the lemon tree is awesome but it’s good to think of how trees bend to the light before planting, and maybe how lemon trees have thrones and how now I have to crawl on my hands and knees to get by it on the once-was-a-pathway space. Ouch! By the way, lemons when ripe come off at the touch of the finger—they’re not like an orange.

Once under and around the lemon, you come back to the garden by way of several orange trees and our huge papaya that now hangs 38 papayas…we’ve been eating papaya every morning for 3 months now and I guess the cold is the only thing that may snap that …BTW–you can see a pot on a smaller papayas on the left. This is to maybe keep those trees yielding low to the ground—a friend from India gave me this tip.

Bonus picture of Shadow out riding waves with me last week. (Please DO not start typing… I’ve no clue why this is here in this pic…)

This papaya is at least thirty -five feet tall.

Whoops, here’s the ‘pot-head’ papaya…

Thanks for coming around the house with me. Yep…there’s no telling about the election now two weeks away—who knows who will win? But, I know I’ll be out and about again in the yard tomorrow morning thinking about you all and hoping you have a most wonderful day! Let’s all try to do that.

Let’s call it a morning, Shadow.

Another tip–See the cracks in the surround on our fiber glass pool? Bulls Eye 1,2,3 paint (at lowes) repairs the crackes in pool surface surrounding and lasts about two years. It cost about 25 dollars a gallon, maybe? paints on after scraping the area….saves about 300 hundred dollars if you pay someone to come do it or much more..amazing paint…. I’m waiting for the swimming season to end-it’s coming soon- to repair this. It dries in a day.

Just think, the Sand Hill cranes are about to fly two thousand miles…just wow.



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The only thing I don’t like about digging ditches is they are below the ground. Really. I wasn’t raised on this Earth to hate ditch digging or ditches in general. I find nothing objectionable about a ditch but that it is one. Fine, a ditch is a ditch but why then are they so underground about it all.

Let’s face it, a ditch could be much better it if were, say, on a table, four feet high and right where I could work on them. But no, a ditch remains down under, a kinda rocky, gravelly sorta mess that might smell if I think about it. At least, a ditch runs straight though, really, that’s not always true. Ditches usually have some quirky kink in them somewhere that no ditch digger sees or talks about—some bend along its history that’s best kept secret when it comes to those who inspect, those who judge. But, it should be noted that no one is having a gay time digging ditches…just to get that out of the closet.

Since we’re on that gay happy dance extravaganza, you will notice when you dig a ditch that you are bending over quite a bit. Sure, eventually you’ll fall to your knee because your back just went out through your mouth, but until then you seem to be auditioning for the San Francisco Gay Pride yearlong parade. And, you know the neighbors are watching, right? The thing is—who really should care, right? You dig your ditch; I’ll dig mine.

While we’re digging, ditches have not come from anywhere but from where they started. There are no Mexican ditches, Australian ditches, Middle East ditches that invade anyone anywhere. I think this a nice aspect of a ditch; it is what it is, and it’s a relief to know ditches are fairly generic; one is just about like the other but for their size, shape and the color of the earth around them.

Ditches, which rhyme with bitches, glitches and not leeches, come in all sizes night or day. Some are wide and some are narrow. Me? I prefer the skinny ditches cause they’re easier to handle when it is time to dig them. Yep, the thinner they are the better, and that’s my dig at fat shaming; I’m ditching this from here on. Bing! Gone.

I could show you a picture of my 80 foot ditch but I’m not going to. We’ve all have seen a ditch or two, or maybe you’ve been in one and thought, “Wow, I can do anything now cause I’m stuck in a ditch!…” But really, here’s the hitch: you’re not a cow so forget that.

Me digging a ditch in an alternative universe (not even then); when will the work end?

Anyway, ditches depend upon the correct pitches and can be full of hard rocks but they are also much like a religious experience. All you need to do is keep your eye sight and spirit in line with your purpose and you’ll reach the end of your ditch at some point. Of course, there’s a glitch— once you reach the end of one ditch you’ll find yourself in another so maybe buy that cow after all. Here’s the deal, while you’re at it, don’t hit a power line unless you’re lookin’ for that once-in- a-lifetime religious experience. Some, I guess would rather see God now, not later.

Remember, ditches don’t always work out for everyone

Man digging ditch with car in ditch | International Center of Photography

(Random thought: In Japan there is a forest where people keep committing suicide. People of all ages go there and off themselves. The bodies litter the forest, fill the caves and hang from trees… What’s the rush? Anyway, this is the “Kill Yourself Forest,” (my name) or the Aokigahara forest as it is called in Japanese. At the entrance of the forest there is a sign posted by authorities asking people not to commit suicide in the forest because, for one, can we be honest; it’s a bitch finding the bodies. ) *

Err,, basically this sign says, ‘Don’t do it and seek help,’—this forest is stinky they should add.

Yep, you’d be up in smoke soon enough if you do hit or aim for that power line while ditch diggin’ and who knows, maybe Heaven needs ditch diggers and that’s why underground power lines are here to kill people? I think so. If God didn’t want to kill people digging ditches with underground power lines he would have never invented them. I mean, I hate to snitch on God, but this here is proof positive God needs ditch diggers. And, I bet, once you get in heaven you’ll see a ditch here but not Mitch anywhere. (Forgive me, but I had to and I Loved It.)

There is one more thing to dig up about ditch digging. Simply, ditch digging at my age is an outer body experience. Really! Eight hours of glorious cursing while digging and my body is kaput but I have to be somewhere, right? See? I’ve found my niche until tomorrow when the glitch of a ditch will be a bitch of a job once again. Yay!

Franque23 is shoveling it.

Party horn - Wikipedia

Odd, but it almost seems as though Birthdays come around every year! Thing is, the years take about one-half the time they used to while passing by.  Just what’s up with that? I’m a May 29th guy so Memorial Day wkend always gave me great days for Birthday parties.  I’d stand on our front porch and wait to see my neighborhood friends walking down the street to our house. There was always a plastic pool set up and hotdogs and chips on our plates. The cake and the party hats made it offical: it was my Birthday.


Those years were long ago for me. Still, I remember my friend’s smiling faces and the mess the chocolate ice cream made on our shirts. Sox’s tail—he was the best dog, ever—patted my leg as he waited beneath the table for crumbs of cake. And how can a small crumb of cake mean so much to a 55 pound dog? Do you remember how the air felt a bit lighter on your special day; somehow you were taller having grown over night. It was another year, a new year to feel the sun on your face and run through the dandelions in the grass—you might get a new bike? You just never knew about the brand-new year ahead, did you?

Now, maybe for you as it is for me, the Birthdays come differently than they used to, but the morning coffee still tastes better than it did the morning before and the birds sing a bit louder and a note higher on this amazing day. I think from now on I will have a box ready to open on my Big Day that holds a brand-new pair of sneakers—that would be fun. I could run like the wind once more.

Should everyday feel like a Birthday?

It’s THE DAY!!!! Your day! Oh, I do hope you have something special today; maybe fluff that pillow twice instead of just once? Take a step out on the walkway so your neighbor might say, “Hi,” or a plane might fly overhead through clouds as your eyes follow it until it’s clear out to sight. Then, what you’ll see is the child you once were shaped before your eyes, the young, the pure, the child full of energy and dreams that knew nothing about what really could be but imagined it all anyway.

You Dreamed.

You laughed, danced and your voice was full of song. The trees you planted grew and the birds sang for you. One class that ended or one friend who left was easily replaced by another and the days came and went as a breeze on a hot summer day. The boxes you opened were packed with surprises; you saved the ribbons. Your drawers were full of special things that were not hard to touch, but glided easily through your fingers tips that would hold them forever.

You dreamed of forever.

Strong, good looking, witty and quick to laugh; your eyes glanced as a glint of light from a mirror upon all that surrounded you, and it all smiled back. Was there ever one thing you couldn’t do? The world appeared as endless doors with keys made of which ones to open. As you did, the path ahead was clear and waiting for your baby steps that soon stretched to become a glide of strength and assurity because you were rock solid, a mountain of understanding, experience and ability.

You dreamed of forever being yourself.

Life came into focus and you were so busy. Calendars marked up through the days and weeks were turned from month to month quickly as though those glossy monthly pictures were a switch you turned on and off. The used calendars would stack high because the pictures in them were too good to cast aside, and the dates marked in them had been the avenues you’d traveled to remember. Why would you ever let go?  There’s comfort in not letting go.

Now? It’s your birthday. The clouds before you form images of those cone-shaped birthday hats you used to wear as a child on your special day, the ones secured by a thin rubber band chin-strap that could only break. It seems you could fly through those clouds as easily as you might run an all-day marathon, swim the ocean blue or climb the tallest mountain. In a world of endless possibility there will always be things left undone.

You dream of forever having made the effort.

You’ve left the trees you’d planted behind but they have turned into life-long friends, ones who remember along with you as we do. We are some of  the ones smiling in your pictures that rest in boxes kept in drawers you’ve cleaned out so many times. It turns out, friends are the surprise you hadn’t seen coming; there’s no date to mark upon a calendar for friendship. Thing is, you know you did enough because you have them. Friends are the reflection we always hope to see in life and you have them in us. You have them.

Some dreams come true forever.

And, because I’m always full of advice, the cake before you may be fattening but you should have another piece. After all, you were once a ballerina in sparkling, silver, square-toed shoes. We all know. Or, perhaps you were that knight in shining armor coming to save the day or that square-shooting cowboy riding a horse-headed stick! Of course you were.  We all had chocolate, friends and days made of dreams…

Dreams are the stuff of any day, but especially Birthdays.



The fight is on.

At least, this is what some are saying in America. Some say the Democrats might invest in more rope to further tether themselves to so-called American ideals of bipartisanship while Republicans come to Washington to clean the Democrat’s clock.  Indeed, is time running out for bipartisan politics in Washington?

Are major changes coming to politics in America?

Today, many believe it’s one party or the other in America; the Left or the Right; one power or the other, period. Any middle ground has washed away as a flowing muck made of moral platitudes and the needy, the rich hating the poor, the powerful abusing the weak and the riff between those who are doing better and those who wish to. The currents of political reform have always run strong in Washington, but when has the parting of the ‘waters’ been so awash in unfathomable faithless speech and out and out lies?

How do the Democrats navigate Republican half-baked crummy platforms when literally none were presented at their National Convention? Indeed, the only self-promoting cry coming from the GOP nomination show was, “Re-elect trump!” That was it, only a flat, simple, go with the flow kinda one sentence on how to help America rang out from the GOP as the solution we need.

I keep expecting someone to ask, “Why re-elect trump?”

Honestly, what has trump done or finished doing? It’s fun, I suppose, to imagine the recent Middle East accords as something Trump had a hand in but I’ve a problem with this celebration. You see, I’m over 70, and if I recall correctly there have been approximately 1,594 and 1/2 peace agreements* set in place in the Middle East since I was born.  None have lasted. Call me a ,’Doubting Franque23.’ Yeah, it’s way too early to start dancing over these recent agreements much less to waltz away from them as though the ‘Dance’ was over.

NO! Truthfully think about it: what has trump accomplished but for punishing our farmers with his tariffs?

Re-elect trump! Why? Those great tax cuts absolutely made life zip, zero, nada, not a grain, not one iota, zilch, not even a burp better for working people in America. Oh yes, about those super rich guys—that’s who trump helped.

I’m just saying I’ve got questions.

Shouldn’t we be talking about the stream of untruths that splurt from trump’s mouth like a leaky faucet on a daily basis?

And what about his request in 2016 for foreign intervention in elections?** I know, that’s old news, but I’d never heard an American candidate ask Russia to help them before and I’m wondering where does that leave us now and where is that heading? The wall of trump has not been funded by Mexico as he promised but rather it was funded, in part, by funds trump absconded from America’s military budget. I’m pretty sure all that money belongs to American taxpayers and not to trump’s pockets so he can dish out the money as he wants!  It seems to me this money exchange as well as the money missing from his campaign funds needs explaining, not just a, ‘Vote for Me,’ sorta message.

So many questions and so little time, right?

As a negotiator for over 12 years in the past while working for the CWA, I have to wonder how questionable, divisive restraints applied to the Democrats—restraints the GOP party would never apply to themselves—fit on any negotiating table? (Hence: the Supreme Court Nomination.) Mitch McConnell, endearingly called by many, Moscow Mitch, certainly led the charge 4 years ago as he proclaimed there’d be no hearing of President Obama’s SCOTUS pick since it was an election year. McConnell’s about-face now (though he never served) is more than a slap in the face to Democrats and fair-is-fair minded people alike, it’s a colossal garbage shoot of crap. Maybe, Mitch McConnell’s point is simply that there is no need for negotiation when there is only the party of the ruling. McConnell has thrown a blind eye to history.

My point is a bit different than Mitch’s.  Simply put, there is no avenue in Washington D.C. that leads to the direction the GOP is taking if true bipartisanship is to survive in American politics.

This may change in time but, if it does, this shift in the future should not come at the cost of the Democrats as it has over the course of the past twenty years.

Democrats can no longer afford to only abide by our Nation’s Constitutional principles when dealing with a party who does not. The Democratic party has demonstrated it’s desire to reach agreement with the Republicans through, “Interest Based Bargaining,”—a technique that finds the common ground each party might stand upon. Meanwhile, the Republican Party has repeatedly sighted higher Ideals and moral grounds from which they cannot stray so far as a single step to create compromise.

In the end, I can’t think of any ideal the Republican’s stand by. Certainly, it’s not the Constitution, not a woman’s right to choose, not the dignity of immigrants, mothers, children and families who are torn apart daily at our southern border. It’s not the working man that gets the bacon from trump, but the super rich; it’s not our environment that gets a break from this administration, but rich oil companies who rake in the money under trump.

If I had to boil down this election to two opposing sides it would be the White Supremacists versus those who aren’t. Yes, that’s too simplistic but it starts to focus if you think about it.

Some say Bipartisan Politics is over, dead and gone in Washington. Is it?

If we could just get our heads together.


  • *this figure may not be correct.

**(“Russia, if you’re listening, I hope you’re able to find the 30000 emails that are missing,”  July 27th, 2016, President Donald Trump said at a news conference.) https://www.usatoday.com/story/opinion/2019/01/02/trump-broke-law-russia-clinton-emails-hold-him-accountable-column/2449564002/

But, before we start, should it bother me that a bald head was called a “Fly Rink?”*

This list comes from clippings from Facebook and other sites.

1. The rule of thumb.

In the 1400s a law was set forth in England that a man was allowed to beat his wife with a stick no thicker than his thumb.

2. GOLF.

Many years ago in Scotland, a new game was invented. It was ruled ‘Gentlemen Only…Ladies Forbidden’… and thus the word GOLF entered into the English language.

3. Each king in a deck of playing cards represents a great king from history:
Spades – King David,
Hearts – Charlemagne,
Clubs -Alexander the Great,
Diamonds – Julius Caesar

3.5 Personally, when someone says, “It’s a piece of cake,” I look around to see where it is.

4. G
oodnight, sleep tight.’

In Shakespeare’s time, mattresses were secured on bed frames by ropes. When you pulled on the ropes the mattress tightened, making the bed firmer to sleep on. Hence the phrase……… 

5. Honeymoon.

It was the accepted practice in Babylon 4,000 years ago that for a month after the wedding, the bride’s father would supply his son-in-law with all the mead he could drink. Mead is a honey beer and because their calendar was lunar based, this period was called the honey month, which we know today as the honeymoon.

5.5. Freelance.

In the Middle ages freelances were soldiers who fought for anyone who would hire them: free lances.

6. Mind your P’s and Q’s’

In English pubs, ale is ordered by pints and quarts…
So in old England , when customers got unruly, the bartender would yell at them ‘Mind your pints and quarts, and settle down.’


Take it with a grain of salt.

This idiom is one of the most ancient, originating in 77 A.D., although it wasn’t used in its modern sense until around the 17th century. A grain of salt was thought to aid in the digestion of food, and also as a component in an antidote for poison, so for hundreds of years, the phrase was literal. The figurative meaning: don’t take everything at face value, but use your own discernment to sort out the truth

7. Wet your whistle.

Many years ago in England, pub frequenters had a whistle baked into the rim or handle of their ceramic cups. When they needed a refill, they used the whistle to get some service.
‘Wet your whistle’ is the phrase inspired by this practice.

7.5 Whipping Boy

Prince Edward, later, Edward Vl, had a boy who was whipped in his place every time Edward was naughty. ( Question: did people apply for this position?)

8. Daylight Robbery.

In 1696, William III of England introduced a property tax that required those living in houses with more than six windows to pay a levy. In order to avoid the tax, house owners would brick up all windows except six. (The Window Tax lasted until 1851, and older houses with bricked-up windows are still a common sight in the U.K.) As the bricked-up windows prevented some rooms from receiving any sunlight, the tax was referred to as “daylight robbery”!


9. Saved by the Bell.

The 19th Century had a nasty habit of burying the living. At the time, there were grave keepers or watchmen who guarded grave sites. In time, so many buried were heard screaming from beneath the ground only to be dug up alive that a system was put in place to protect those buried alive.  A string was placed inside every coffin that was attached to a bell that was on top of their grave. Someone unintentionally buried alive would pull the string in the coffin to ring the bell topside. You’ve heard the expression, “Saved by the Bell ?” These people were saved in the nick of time.

10. In the nick of time.

Through the 18th century, businessmen often kept track of debts owed (and interest that built on loans) by carving notches (or nicks) on a “tally stick.” When someone arrived to pay off their debt before the next nick was carved, they’d save that day’s worth of interest, thus arriving “in the nick of time.”

11. Put your best foot forward.

When bowing to nobility, a gentleman would literally put his best foot forward, extending his leg to take the bow.

12. Drop of a hat.

Instead of a gunshot to indicate that a race had started, in the 1800s it was customary to drop a hat to begin.

13. Start from Scratch, (as we often have to do.)

This phrase comes from when a line was scratched on the ground to mark where a race would begin.

14. Finally, the word, “Mortgage,” exclaims a brutal truth all too often.


The Old French word ‘mort’ means dead and ‘gage’ means pledge. They knew even back then what loans can do to you… a mortgage was a,  “Dead or death pledge.”


I read a book years ago, Where Dead Voices Gather, by Nick Tosches that traces many of the words and phrases we hear in old Blues, Rock and Folk songs… If you enjoy this music, this book is quite a trip down memory lane.


  • *(I’m pictured here with a great workmate.)


Thanks to Facebook threads that helped me compile much of this post.

I thought the date was going south when she said: “I can’t believe you’re eating meat, a body part!”

I scanned my soul briefly and looked over her plate. Hmmm, I wonder if any potato eyes made it into her mashed potatoes. ( Don’t say it; just don’t.—if only I’d ordered pasta romesco with crispy baked tofu.)

“Well, my Dad was from Iowa and really every night at dinner he’d say he was, ‘A Meat and potato man,’ but hold the eyes.”  Hmmm, nothing but an inquisitive glance.

I couldn’t help but eye my date’s ear of corn, wondering how that might taste, and dad being from corn growing Iowa and all, but really for a first date, I liked this girl. I liked her eyes, they darted with flashes of light as she moved them; I liked her brown hair, chin, cheeks and laugh. I liked that she was smart in our religion class; witty, too.  I’d no idea when we first sat down to dinner that she’d order a vegetable garden.

“Are those Legumes, kidney beans?” There was a bowl of seed-like things set off from her plate.

“Yes!” she offered with a smile. “There’s not a trace of gristle in them.”

“Ha! Great!”  Hmmm I’ve got to quickly savagely devour this ribeye and see if they have a silken tofu chocolate mousse dessert.

“Here’s your Fuzzy Navel order.” The waitress smiled as she place the drink down. Oh, if only I’d ordered any other drink!

I looked over my date’s plate. “Hey, how’s that head of lettuce? Hearts of palm?” My date burst into laughter as I crawled out of the pits of hell into the limelight of consideration.  Forget math, english, history, and biology, please, just know this date is why I came to college.  Hmmm,,,I could be on a vegan roll here.

“No,” my date said as she began to eat, “these are artichoke hearts.” I watched her take her fork and stab an artichoke heart before devouring it with a smile.

“Maybe we should go to my place to see what there’s to eat there?” What the hell; this is college and the date is already blown out of the water by my bone-in ribeye.

As it turned out, I was completely wrong about that. Cannibal or not, I apparently was exactly the bone-head she was looking for that night.

Since we’re talkin’ sex here it’s best to point out the major differences between any guy and gals. Guys can go out looking to hookup 365 days of the year and get lucky a few times if they are. Gals? If gals go out looking for sex they will get ‘lucky’ no matter what.  Men are the beggars and women are the efficient invigorators.  Unlike men, male lions figured this out eons ago. They lay around doing very little until a female shows up for a good time. They don’t do cart wheels in the sand, handstands, race around trees while stomping through mud or dig very large holes or set off bombs; male lions wait. They know eventually a female lion will saunter by who wants to do the deed. So guys, save the tread on your sneakers, your money on hair wax, car gas, fancy Ray-Ban shades, cheap Old Spice, useless breath neutralizers and Spongebob boxers….. just relax, breathe deep and know lightning rarely strikes twice in the same place.

There’s a good reason wolves howl in the night but does it help? This, THIS, is the government funded study I want to run by hiring people who don’t mind the night, the mosquitoes and the dangers of living with wolves. But it’s not a study I want to watch; I just want the stats, thank you very much.

I was brought up religious and when I first met my neighborhood girlfriends I thanked God every night for not making women who eat their mates. Sexual cannibalism is what they called it in school. And text books claimed the praying mantis, (I thought this a very weird name considering the cannibalism) the black widow spider, (But, I’m not married!) and the jumping spider—just creepy—are among a number of species that devour their mates. Thing is, even back then as a kid, I felt sympathy for the males of these species. I knew if my childhood girlfriends did eat their mates I’d be UP for the gig regardless: I’d be eaten. Sad.

Moving on. Blind dates: just without seeing the raw footage or looking over the data, I think most people on blind dates can see one another, right? So what is ‘blind’ about it.  Oh, I get it, the two people don’t know each other, like every other couple who has ever finally met, right? But wait, every time a young guy walks with a gal he’s dating her for the first time. And women? Every time a gal asks a question of a male friend it’s an interview she will never forget. Men, BTW, forget everything said, done, laughed over and eaten during any courtship. For young guys it’s about the one time in 365 days they got lucky and the rest followed.

Not that sex is the driving factor between younger people meeting for the first time, or third time if they are religous, but it is. That’s why there are one thousand and ten magazines written every month that tell women how to look better and three for guys.  Remember: guys are the beggars. Have you ever noticed how all female restaurant workers are well dressed and trimmed out while the male patrons can look like slobs in cut-offs, beat-up sandals and well-worn tee shirts as they wait to eat? Yes, women are the sophisticated executioners** of any relationship.

People will hate me for saying men are basically thick but I offer world history as my evidence.

I don’t mean to be too hard-on men. We have that purpose.  I think once men decided they should start thinking and stop begging everything got out of hand so to speak. Men need to be like Lions. Wait for it and stop trying to move the world around as you do.

Men have complete dominion over everything they don’t know. Men lead where they are led. Men rule themselves and that’s about it. Men set the pace as we sit on the couch.  Men are not Sherlock Holmes—that’s not our sticking point.

Men are a household name; there men are brave, courageous and told what to do.  So what’s to do about all of this? It’s really very simple; let the woman order first, (this is called being polite but really it’s one thing men have figured out.) That way, if your date orders Orecchiette, (little ear’s pasta), with a ‘toe’ of garlic, you might try a Mint Jullip, Lady Fingers and a side of Navel Orange slices.

Okay, just ribbin’ ya…sorta.


*My apologies to every possible person or thing that might be offended by this post, like Women, Men, Vegans,  mash potatoes, my Dad, corn and kidney beans, ‘Corn’ in general,  the cut-off fashion industry, blind dates,  women of my childhood, Male and Female Lions, Ray Bands, Old Spice, breath mints, men’s designer boxers, world history, politically correctness, and all minds in good working order.

**obscure referrence to, Sexual cannibalism.

As Rapidly Reflective News mirrors broken stories from around the block there’s no need to look both ways to know something’s about to happen. It could be something big like a neighbor’s dog’s poop on your front lawn or as small as a child’s Covid-19 virus snot hanging on your car door handle. Finally, size doesn’t matter.

In retrospect, a herd of ambulances were said to have thundered across main street as a flock of people stood by waiting for the lights on those trucks to change. Some say these were not ambulances at all in BloodYear tires but a gaggle of UFO’S zoning cross walks to see if they could do it.

Multilevel flying ambulance hd

Those caught and interviewed by our Rapidly Infected team seemed in awe of a new, Thomas Loves Gerry, ice cream flavor—we couldn’t even get a tree to bark on the subject due to the dogs nearby.

Video: Dog pees on reporter: Romanian TV reporter gets peed on during live television - Mirror Online

Yes, the dogs were the problem.

We have perfect pictures from nowhere near the scene, in fact, they are from another country, we think, but there are very few differences between identical cross walks.

Anywhere, USA.

Arc de Triomphe, Paris, France. Twelve avenues converge to form up to 10 lanes of traffic going in an endless circle. Though… | Arc de triomphe, City photo, Aerial

News scurries  and when we’re getting sh-t slogged by fake news from the right, left, up and down, the trivial, infinitesimal middle, and God forbid, Russia and China…just pick any country you know how to spell to add to this list, why worry about the crap on the blackboard as my fifth grade Math teacher said once, per day.

Young Scientist Man Image & Photo (Free Trial) | Bigstock

Still, Rapidly Neglected News kept accosting people lying on the sidewalk. We had to dig deeper to get this story on paper with a number two pencil.

“Where were the flying ambulances beheaded to and what they found is not the point!” said an anonymous source from a local insane asylum. “The food is good!” he added.

Core-despondent, Mark Matie, has the latester update: “Thank you, John, I’ve forgotten your name, but the real story is simplisticated. Sure, we know the sh*t is gonna hit the fan, but who threw the baseball? That’s the question! And, we can only conjester the flying ambulances came early for the event.”

In the end that should be now, Rapidly Deflective News decided to track this story down so the noise might stop. We hired retired train Engineers and a few ex-railroad workers from a bar to lay tracks we could follow or suggest a drink. But, have you ever tried to suggesty more productive tracks be laid across the less gooder roads we keep funding? Face it: with one kick in the caboose the Teamsters unhitched the trains! This is why we rented a small John Boat and captain to sail upon this mess of troubled waters  so we might swim in the swamp with the traitors. (EDITOR: please check that you did not mean, “Gators,” here?)

How's that swamp draining going?

In the long run, we’re not in shape or up to the flask.

It’s our job here at Rapidly Recurring News to be or not to be instantaneously assertive and dubious at Rapidly Recurring News. Rapidly Recurring News will stand in hurricane winds, brothels, sexy whore houses, salacious legal Las Vegas men’s clubs and government funded Margo-ladyvile, Florida, to show you the up and coming stuff. Thing is, Rapidly Recurring News  has found the women we have been looking forward to, but where have all the male reporters gone? It’s infurinfatuating! Why do we put up with this at, Rapidly Recurring News?

We just want to get to the very bottom as fast as  possible……

Rapidly Recurring News reports, based on a pile of other crap, that these mysterious missing male reporters have been lost to the Bermunda Triangle that has so often been associated with flying ambulances.

Bermuda Love Triangle yapan cartertoons | Aşk Cartoon | TOONPOOL

Tonight’s end game is lying on the sidewalks. It’s those down and out bums who barfed on God-fearing bystanders who are to blame. Innocent people were made to hallucinate the flying ambulances though we do, in fact, have photos in black and white—color could get tricky— of this cloudy colleciton of unfactuated cattletrap. Remember: one picture could be worth one thousand words. (Proof: this post is somewhere around 770 words.)

“No, is it Jim? The point isn’t where the flying ambulances were going. The point is if these sidewalk mucks were standing on their own two God-given feet we wouldn’t have needed the engineers, the tracks, the beers, or even the John Boat?”

“Mark, you’re right. Think about how much this is gonna cost and I do care, don’t you? You, her, him, them and those will pay but not me baby. I don’t pay taxes and I haven’t mailed a letter in years now that Rapidly Reactive News is here to intern us all! God Bless America!”

“Yep, Jack, I think that’s your name. Anyway, America’s broken. We ran out of toilet paper for God’s Sake! My advice is to buy stock in super-gluey and toilet paper.”

“Well put, Mark Matie, you’re right again and fired.  Nov. 3rd may find you languishing somewhere but, We The People, will vote then to recreate what has been undone. That, my friend, will take a whole bunch of glue to get the job togetherish….”

Finally, size doesn’t matter… but we need mounds of glue.








Yep! Our new Post Master General, DeJoy, a prime contributor to trump’s re-election and appointed to this position as Post Master General by trump, is so full of crap. 

How do I know? I don’t need a Bible to tell me so because I worked in the Post Office for three years. I’ve been there, done that, seen that. I know that, DeJoy, who seemingly finds No Joy at all in his life but to dismantle the Post Office before our upcoming election, is up to no good; he’s another con, a crook, a man being paid to fulfill donald’s wish to privatize the Post Office for another one of trump’s cronies to own.

Before I get into this, let’s review:

  1. I worked one full year as a letter sorter in the Post Office. I did this job by hand along with countless other employees (most are veterans BTW)  before the Letter Sorting Machines, called LSM’s, you’ve been reading about came on line. The LSM’s were said to sort mail 80% more efficiently than the people who were previously doing this job by hand.
  2. I then worked 1/2 year on the loading docks where the mail once processed inside is loaded on to trucks that were meant to leave with all the mail that belonged on them by 4 AM each morning( at least this was the case in Gainesville, Florida at the time I worked) This is a typical loading dock.
  3. I then worked 1 1/2 years in the maintenance department working primarily on the carts that moved mail within the facility.

Now for the low down on DeJoy’s lying low con cow patty of a testimony before our Senate this week.

It’s weird how people call the cost of our government providing our tax paid money to provide us ALL a service, ” Losing money?” Say what? The Post Office is not a business. Is every dollar paid for Social Security then losing money? Are the cost of our National dams and roads losing us money? No. They are, like the  Post Office, TAX funded. It’s our money!

DeJoy, trump, and GOP others know the Post Office is tax funded but they continually call the Post Office a money loser. These lying in the muck people are the real losers.

Get this straight:

The Post Office is a service for us paid by us, by our tax dollars, because we need it and like it. We’ve had over 1.5 billion pieces of mail delivered in one year across America by our hard working veterans in the Post Office. You know this; you know the Post Office is our tax dollars at work and nothing less. Thing is, trump, ‘NOJoy’, and others keep harping on the Post Office, “Losing Money!” which is clearly a BS call. I worked there for three years as I have noted. I know, apparently many don’t.

The post office is TAX funded and cannot lose money. It’s a service we pay for, that’s it. All the rest you hear about the cost of the Post Office is nothing but lies.

But here’s where DeJoy’s back stabbing lying testimony this week before the Senate hearing gets juicy.

DeJoy is attempting to dismantle the Post Office by removing the Letter Sorting Machines (LSM) , cutting staff and ending overtime pay and by insisting trucks leave their loading docks “on time” whether or not they have been completely loaded each night. Thirty minutes beyond scheduled departure of a truck ( I worked on a loading dock) to ensure ALL the mail for that truck is on IS the point of mail service!  We want the mail to move each night successfully, not be left behind for the want of thirty minutes. DeJoy has trucks pulling out now without all the mail in place. Every truck, every place, pulling out before fully loaded will cause huge delays throughout America, as we are seeing, reading about and people are complaining about.

So, DeJoy’s testimony that his intent, a number one goal, is to move trucks out on time for the benefit of the tax payer’s is a bogus way for him to say he intends to leave mail behind; he intends to slow down the mail.

Moving on:

I also worked a full year as a letter sorter before the LSM machines were brought on line. This is what my station looked like; each slot is a zip code.

Then, the LSM machines came.

They were said to sort mail 80% more efficiently than people throwing mail by hand as I was. DeJoy says he took the machines out because mailings have had a 30% decrease over the years. Okay, riddle me this: why wouldn’t DeJoy want to process the mail we send in the most efficient mannor no matter what the volume??? The amount of mail doesn’t matter! DeJoy and trump’s cronies know it. The Post Office’s duty is to process ALL the mail in the most efficient mannor we have which means, BTW at this time, using the LSM machines!

Someone should ask DeJoy why he would want to move mail less efficiently no matter how much mail there is on any given night? 

Not to stress this overtime, but about that overtime pay DeJoy is not allowing this year?!?!

Yep, having been in the trenches, so to speak, at the Post Office I can tell you that even with the efficient LSM’s fully engaged our Post Office employees traditionally are NEEDED to work overtime in order to keep up with Holiday mail. Duh? Does a retail business hire extra people for the Holidays? Of course they do. A huge amount of those 1.5 billion pieces of mail moved through our Post Offices comes through during the last two months of each year.

Holiday season is a riot of a nightmare even with Overtime.

So, DeJoy, a fake, a criminal in my mind since he is deliberately slowing the Mail service in our country by his executive orders, is doing three things that will directly slow down and screw up our Tax Dollar Owned United States Post Office. 1) removing the LSM machines which he says he will not return to our Mail processing offices, 2) requiring trucks leave the docks whether or not the mail is completely on them for the night, and, 3) not only cutting staff, but also disallowing the use of Overtime as needed in our local offices.

I nearly puked to hear DeJoy squrim his way around the Senate hearing; he evaded questions and made himself sound like he was helping us. Ha! I doubt the Senate questioners have ever worked in the Post Office. I don’t have to ask. They would know what I know.

So, the next time your mail doesn’t arrive in a timely fashion, I want you to know this:

DeJoy is a lying cow patty of crap—a man appointed by trump to service trump and to dismantle the Post Office.

“But wait? What about my letter?”

Who in their right mind would vote for this mess to continue?


(Some pictures enlarge with a click)

This is one of my last day’s sharing life with Paul Doherty.

Paul felt like a brother the minute we first met. We had so much in common like loving my sister, Sharon, who he’d soon wed.  We were each playing lacrosse at the time; a love for sports ran between us, diping and diving beneath and over every conversation.

Our moments were easily laced together by Paul’s sharp wit he’d dangle around each corner of our shared experiences. I never knew what was coming next once we ventured across dynamically diverse conversations. Paul had already done so much in his life when we first met.

Paul Doherty


“Men’s Lacrosse

Doherty came to Adelphi from East Meadow, New York in the late fifties and made his mark in Brown and Gold athletics in both soccer and lacrosse. During his junior and senior years in the jersey, he captained both squads. Doherty’s real strength laid with lacrosse, as he was a stand out goalkeeper for the stickmen, leading the nation in saves in 1960. In 1961 he made the switch to attack and led the team in scoring.  Doherty was a two-time recipient of Adelphi’s “Most Outstanding Student-Athlete” award.

After his electing to the Hall of Fame in 1967, Doherty continued to serve the University as the Head Men’s Lacrosse coach, guiding the stickmen to 11 NCAA tournament bids and two national championships.”

Paul sits on top of my life’s pyrimid along with my brother, sister, my parents, our children,  few friends and cousins. So many have enjoyed this guy’s life the lot is a crowded room, an over filled vat of happiness that will be left in the wake of his passing. Really, there’s a funny Birthday card saying; “Weren’t you Old enough last year?” This reminds me of Paul’s life. Wasn’t the pile of awards Paul collected while playing lacrosse for Aledphi and then coaching Adelphi’s team to two National Championships enough? No, not for Paul; not by a long shot.

I remember Paul calling his honor of having made the most saves by a goalie in the Nation one year as, “Dubious!”  “Come on,” he’d say, “Our defense was a sieve.” Me? I suspect the team just wanted to see what miraculous save Paul would come up with next! I once watched Paul make 22 saves in a row in one game. He owned the goalie cage; it was ridiculous what he could do with a goalie’s stick.

Paul attacked life with the same acumen he used to draw up his team’s offensive power plays: repeat, two National Championships while coaching what had been before Paul’s time, lowly Adelphi.

Paul went on to become a World Class wood carver who was featured on not one but two covers of Wood Carving Illustrated magazine.

Wood Carving Illustrated Issue 2 Winter Spring 1998

Of course, Paul won numerous carving awards—so many, it’s not possible to list them. I’m leaving this full size so you might read the article.

Carver of the Month

One of his bird carvings sits in my power spot in my bedroom and his drawings adorn two walls in our lakeside camp.


You can see Paul’s work above the couch.

This fish was let go that night. But, as fate would have it, Paul fished our bay’s point the next night with a friend who caught this fish again. Paul is a catch and release man; his friend wasn’t. sob.

It was always a bright moment of any day when I could watch Paul motoring our way from his island on Bonaparte.

Here comes Paul with his daughter, Megan… (good shot of Birch Island in background)

Image may contain: 2 people, including Megan Doherty Carlock, people sitting, people standing, ocean, mountain, sky, outdoor, water and nature

That’s right: Paul and his wife, Meta, bought Birch Island on Lake Bonaparte and lived there for over 30 years.  Meta always watched over the nesting loons on the island and would report the babies progression. Paul remained active in the Lake Bonaparte association and helped organize the Eurasian Milfoil project that has been a life saver for the Lake. Of course, he also found time to coach a local school’s lacrosse team.

They loved the birds and peaceful island life but not so much the fishermen peeing off their boats around it:-) In the same time, by buying Birch Island they saved much of my childhood for me to enjoy for most of my life. For this I am forever grateful. They gave me endless days full of endless paths.

Birch Island has always sat in the middle of our camp’s and dockside lake view.

Here’s a nice shot of Aunt Donna with Birch Island behind her.

As a kid, My brother, Buz, cousins Dave, Robin and Joe Morgan and side-kick McGraw would row to Birch Island as a challenge or motor to it. I know the Morgan boys would sometimes swim to nearby Beer Island but also all or some of them swam to Birch Island as a rite of passage so to speak. But, no matter how we got to the island, once there we’d tramp trails still seen today that traverse from the island’s east point to it’s western rocky shoal. Birch Island was owned but not occupied at the time so we were free to be stealth barefooted Indians, swaggering vagabond priates or simply adventurous children in this mysterious place, one often so neatly umbrellaed beneath white, puffy clouds during long lake afternoons.

The island features two magical coves and at that time had a thick skirting made of bleached white birches(hence Birch Island’s name). We’d watch the fish move through clear warters from the island’s high points and just knew we’d be catching the big ones soon. Days stitched by endless memories remained mine to hold because Paul and Meta bought Birch Island.


(I’m really in this picutre: it’s not photoshopped)

Paul refined my knowledge of Mud Lake’s fishing grounds. He was a clean, sharp fisherman with great enthusiasm for anyone’s catch.  As many times as we fished together, now I wish it was ten times more. There’s never enough when it comes to sharing with people you love. It’s a hard row to lose, Paul.

I’ll have to leave an empty seat in the boat when I fish Mud Lake in case Paul decides to drop in. Really, maybe he could do that.

It’s come to endless days full of endless paths for us.  It’s time to say goodbye, for now.

Here’s to you, Paul Doherty. You’re a wonderful man.

I’ll never forget.




(some pictures enlarge when clicked)

Lucy and her tribe of four other chickens love our figs.

I promise to tell you more than you ever thought you’d know about chickens…..later on.

This is Lucy hurrying over to eat figs with me.

C.docx lucy 

(If you click this it will download into word and you can open it then (wait for it)–4 seconds of Lucy eating a fig.)

Frank Whitenack, who’s since passed, lived in a house we own in Micanopy and had more than twenty chickens that roamed the property and the house as well. Frank knew the chicken’s names and they never ‘messed’ the house.

Here’s Frank rocking with Blue’s Lightning in High springs, Fl….it will load and play if you like Blues.

Frank had about one zillion eggs to eat or give away and, BTW, if you don’t wash or refrigerate those eggs they keep fresh for at least two weeks tasting good, though you can keep them this way up to a month without worry. (The key here is to be sure to wash the eggs well just before using-cracking open)

Anyway, this was about the outter limits of my knowledge about chickens until our neighbors starting raising them and asked me to tend to their needs while they traveled on vacation. It was freaky at first retrieving some eggs that were still being sat upon by the chickens, but they don’t seem too concerned with this egg thievery but for making a few chicken cluck, bok, bok sounds. Then it happened, I became enamored with the chickens and started to see their beautiful feathered coats with all their individual distinctions… Chickens are truly beautiful birds.

But, what happened when the neighbors came home blew me away. After two weeks of feeding these chickens it turned out I was in a relationship, actually several… Yep, the next few mornings all five chickens started to cross the street and come over to our house.

This is Lucy in front and the best shot I have of the Araucana chicken, one who lays light blue eggs. Her tail is totally different from all the other chickens, sticking strainght up like a Mohawk hair cut!

Sometimes, I’d awake to the racket of chicken cluckers by our front door. To be fair, they’d discovered our bird feeder and all the dropped sunflower seeds left by birds and squirrells alike.

Lucy structs her stuff on one of our front walks—better known as, Chickensville, USA

But, if those seeds aren’t present, it seems the chickens have decided by unanimous decision I should get my ass out of bed and make things right. They’ve even fluttered up against the front door in a chicken-sort-a way knocking fashion.

“Forget the Papaya trees!” They clamor.

“Give us those figs!” They cluck.

Mornings now find me inadvertantly spilling sunflowers as I water our flowers and pineapples out front. I accidently bite several figs in half and clumsily drop them on the lawn by my feet which the chickens miraculously eat!

Recently, I discovered this amazing Asiaticum Crinum Lily growing while spilling sunflower seeds. I was actually clearing a 100 foot-long fence line wondering how many sunflowers might grow along it.

I talk to the chickens as well.

I swear there’s a chicken language we haven’t yet grown to understand. But, it’s true, Lucy is my favorite and she’s over every day. We have quite a lot to say about life on a daily basis.

“Lucy, I really think you are the best; smart and careful!” I smile at my friend.

“Really? That’s nice.” Lucy clucks. “Now hand over the sunflowers and no one gets hurt… Bok, bok, bok.”

I’ve learned a few things between the flower watering and citrus tree inspections: chickens hurry across even our simple one lane road as if they know it’s dangerous. So, how smart are chickens?

Here’s more than you ever thought you’d know about chickens… https://www.eastbaytimes.com/2017/01/04/chickens-might-have-machiavellian-tendencies/

Lucy can move with cat-like speed to catch a scurrying roach that she uncovered in the leaves. No joke, Lucy moved like lightning to get the roach and it was over in less than 5 seconds.

Another astounding thing about Lucy is she works with me in the garden. She sticks by my side to eat anthing I might uncover or scratches the dirt to help me turn over the soil. If she finds a worm (the garden has one million worms) she has the same routine: peck it over and peck it over again until she swallows it face first whole in one gulp. That whole procedure is under 15 seconds. I was like what?

I use an old mailbox container to hold seeds and stuff I might use in the garden—

It’s quite something, this life we have to live. The more we do, the more we get. The more we look, the more we see. The more we work, the better we rest. And, the more we love, the better we feel.

Tomorrow I’ll be cluckin’ with Lucy and the gang for sure. Oh, one more thing, the very first day I fed the chickens I brought Shadow with me and told him these were our friends. Shadow never once chased the chickens and now considers them part of the family.


Lucy eyeing a fig.

Chickens under the fig tree.

Shadow at rest: good boy.

See you next time.








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August 2022