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I’ve always loved seeing movie footage of the past. It makes this short film below that more special in that I was born and raised just outside of The Big Apple and considered it my stompin’ grounds during my High School days.
More, I’ve had a couple of odd coincidencedinks in life that revolve around my early years spent in New York City. I’d often spent time in New York City, The Village, roaming the walk down shops after munching on a seventy-five cent pizza slice. By far, the Leather shops were my favorite to visit. I was immediately attracted to the smell of finished leather goods, their shine, polished to deep warm browns or beige and tan colors. One shop owner in particular was a bit more out going than most, and that was wrapped by a quick sense of humor all tied together by tremendous wit. His name was, Byan. He stood tall with penetrating dark eyes that glowed above the flash of his smile. Our conversations were never long but they played in my head usually throughout the following days. Mysterious, that was the word for this fellow.
Fast forward eight or so years and I’m attending a bluegrass festival in Hog Town Creek, just outside Gainesville, Florida. I was singing lead for an agent at that time, traveling to gigs with one of the three bands he managed. I’m thinking my pay was about a flat 75 dollars per week. The music drew me to the festival and there the smell of leather goods at a nearby booth attracted my attention. Sure enough, it was, Byan, running a leather stand. It turned out his parents owned a ranch nearby and he’d left NYC to return to his family’s home. He wanted to learn how to play guitar and I was intrigued with leather work… We traded skills and I ended up being a leather worker running three shops for the next 14 years.
Of course, there’s more. I got to know my wife of 38 years while learning the leather trade from, Byan. We made items for the local leather shops in Gainesville—there were about four of them in town. I often worked on sewing leather hats of all shapes and sizes. A few years later found my wife and I working into all hours of the night sewing wallets and visors as we started our first leather business. It was years later when all of this came to circle.
Thirty years later, my wife and I visited Denton, England, along with her Brother and his wife. It was there that my wife’s family were once hatters. It turns out they started in Denton and finally made it to New York City and I suspect made ,’a killing,’ as they say in retail. Why? Well just look at what everyone is wearing in the film below. Wow. The story of my wife’s ,’Hatters,’ family is also amazing, but that’s for another time.
Enjoy this glimpse into another era; a time gone by.
One more thing: the air seems much more polluted in this film than it appears to be in New York City now. Maybe too much,’Clean,’ coal back then?
Franque23
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( added pictures below post…send me your pictures on FB=gerald franquemont)
My cousin’s wife says it all for dog lovers the world over. That post of her’s is included below.
But first, I’ve my own, ‘Shadow,’ a Catahoula Leopard who is my constant companion.
Shadow enjoys the flowers.
From my parent’s dog, Socks, to our family dogs over the years, I’ve rarely lived without having a dog making home life better.
Socks lived about 18 years.
Man’s best friend: you can’t say it any better.
Orion is one of my favorite, ‘Reading Dogs,’ at the library.
Our part Basenji, Toby, used to prance as he walked so we called him, ‘Toby-Toes.’
Cheers, and a big thanks to Jessica for posting this wonderful piece. Sob; sighs and I understand. There’s nothing like a dog’s ability to love us back. Here’s Jessica’s post, and just wow.
Jessica with her dog, Pedro.
Jessica Franquemont posted:
“My Buddy Pedro:
Your butt wiggle going down the stairs,
Your gentle bite when taking a treat,
Your wandering security walk along the fence line,
Your short sunbathing nap by the water fountain followed by a good roll in the red bark to scratch your back with happy doggie snorting & all,
Your old man delay, non-threatening beagle bark, & “swagger run,” when hearing Ellie bark before you at a possible thief/burglar/food thief/mail carrier/neighbor/pizza guy/cat/other dog/kid,
My first time sadness upon seeing an empty Chipotle burrito wrapper on the floor without my left over ½ burrito realizing you are taller than Ellie & can counter surf,
Your first time with me in the pet store when you stole a bone shaped treat off the bottom shelf, tried to eat it, & I had to do a pity purchase with the cashier,
Your sleeping on the couch with your face between the pillows,
Finding your head sticking out of my poofy pink Halloween tutu I left on my bed,
Your gentle mouth hold of a whole loaf of bread/pack of tortillas (& all things carbs) off the “no dog shelf” trying to saunter away,
Your slight pushiness after anyone sat down to proudly lay your 32 pounds in their lap & slip your beagle nose under their hand to prompt neck scratchies for a very long time then get up abruptly when said scratching stops,
Your & Ellie’s patient waiting under messy Talia’s dinner chair for any slight semblance of a crumb,
Your love of TP from any bathroom to your crate with one continuous very long stream of toilet paper,
Your binge on Beth’s Scentsy samples that were only the food scented ones,
You & Tyler’s love for each other,
You being my literal shadow & never letting me be in a room alone.
You lived 12 years & 117 days & we got to re-home you with us for 3 years 250 days. We are a more loving family because of you. Last Thursday a huge chunk of my heart had to say goodbye to you & since then I’ve been devastated & lonely without my short shadow following me. I know by having a loving pet, we as humans pay a price for having to make “that decision.” But the animal lover in me would never have left you alone in your last minutes of your wonderful life. Knowing you had just a little more time & getting to rest my nose one last time on top the bridge of your nose is worth all the heartache. I love & miss you my Pedro Buddy.”
It always come down to this: the love shared with a dog during their short lifetime is worth the pain of the loss no matter how long that lasts…
Cheers!
Franque23 loves dogs.
Here’s a link to a previous glob I wrote in, 2009, about a dog’s spirit.
https://franque23.wordpress.com/2009/08/26/red-dog-forever/
Shadow smiling.
Frank Lamont
Andrew Faint’s , Bo , with his son.
relatives Virginia Murphy Rotteveel…sleep tight.
My ‘Shadow’ writer…
Andrew Faint’s, Frankie…
Shakespear, in OR recovery, Wendy Schneider…..
Yes, this is a hedgehog pet with, Spooky. They live together. Part of ,Juut Von Franquemont’s group.
Here’s the deal—no fish is going to an Ivy League school. It doesn’t matter how many fins they have, their underbelly colors don’t count and the tail size has no Equal Opportunity standing.
But, do fish think?
oh my gosh–I’m on a stringer–now what?
Of course not! Fish swim around dropping eggs like flies and eat each other when possible. The don’t really go to school, and how many very tiny books has anyone every found on the bottom of the Ocean, or any lake? I have yet to read any book written by a fish (though I’ve wondered) and they’re all nudist no matter the water temperature which is a bit off.
Still, this odd worm of a thought keeps luring me into its weedy lair, and it’s so bad I hate to ask. Fishermen/women, secure the oars.
Here it is on a swivel hook: why, or better yet, how can lures that once worked so well in the past not work to catch fish worth a flip ten years later? No, listen, this is important. Let’s examine the flat fish lure , all the rage in the 1960’s and thru the 70’s. It was a great, effective lure for catching Northern’s trolling or flipping the shore line for bass. Now? It’s as if every fish alive has been through the drill and knows to never eat a flatfish lure? Why? How can this Be? Is it a matter of fashion? But then this would indicate fish have a sense fashion? “Oh my God! I’d never be caught dead biting that lure!” The fish said.
See? What’s the deal? Do fish have amber-alert type memos that last beyond lifetimes? Fish ten generations removed from the flatfish lure eating frenzy still know today not to strike those lures. Let’s face it, it’s been 50 years since Mankind knew cigarettes cause cancer and we still smoke them! Or, how about those hamburgers I still buy from time-to-time in fast-food places? Those are good for me, right?
Yep, whatever the reason, fish seem to communicate important life lessons through generations better than humans. That’s odd; this is what I’m saying.
Okay, forget all the writing, just answer me this: why do fishing lures become less effective over time?
In the meantime, check out this great link of many, many interesting facts…they’ll hook ya.
Cheers…. have fun this wkend
Franque23
I let the big ones go. So, is this how it happens? “Tellin’ ya, I was abducted by a weird bald guy and put on a string , then let go…I got caught on a white plastic worm: don’t go there.”
About that Morgan-Franquemont conflict: The Royals verses the pirates.
It’s a miracle any Morgan Pirates survive, with Joe Morgan driving off of bridges as a kid, with ladies running a muck who need,’How to wear hat lessons,'(This photo blocked by the Who knows Who) and Dave Morgan, now gone, bless his soul, who once fell into the brink at age three without a care in the world or knowledge of how to float. Ripley’s Believe It or Not has maybe called me twice about this family,* but I’ve taken the high, Royal Road and decided to write this glob only.
To begin, it’s obvious the Noble Franquemont line is ready to take control.
It’s a Royal bunch…those who will lead us are pictured above and below.
We can rest assured of our humble Leadership.
And here is pictured the foundation of our Royal belief…our backyard entrance to our home’s Nobel courtyard in Germany-*(Thanks to my wife for this wonderful shot.)
Should you dare step inside the courtyard of our ancestral home, you would see this.
And here are some of our joined generation that solidified the Franquemont (okay, Morgamont) victory at Lake Bonaparte.
But, truthfully, most Morgan pirates need to be in jail. NO, really, I think I could sell them time shares in prison!
It’s not because of their politics, their thievery, their gluttonous drankin’ and absolute aversion for just about anything normal, no,,,these are their very best parts. The worst of the lot lie in the shadows of innocent looks, half bent smiles and spineless attacks when the Royal Franquemont Guard is sleeping, or talking , or eating, or just fartin’ around paying no attention to the Pirates.
Do you see how young the pirates begin to sneak their way into our unsuspecting hearts!
And Pirates the Morgan’s be, every lad and lass of them, the worst sort. Call the cops! No, wait, he’s one of them no good, double fistin’ potato chip eating lot.
The fellow on the right is by marriage one of them, and he’ll arrest anyone of us on the spot—the cop that he is. The middle man, Nick Morgan, be just that, a go between who claims the Morgan name but not the politics. And on the left, a Royal, Craig the Car-is locked,(Carlock) member who listens to all sides.
Well, at least the Morgan’s will have trouble posting bail….oh wait, one of them was or still is a fierce bail’s man guys?
The Morgan man at Dakota’s back was once a bailsmen. Ben the Morgan is now an insurance guy. Ha! He wants to insure your life.
The Crime as witnessed this past July on the 24ish upon the dock of Innocence….
It was a clear day, the waters calm, as I stood unsuspecting on our new dock, recovering from three cracked/bruised ribs, a torn right leg and fatigue it’d cost me to build it**. Mike the Smile, Pirate Murphy, as he’s called, came kayaking up to me all, well, smiles. Aye, if I hadn’t been in such a pleasant ruling mood I might have notice his smile seemed a bit skewed. Sure enough , our pleasant conversation was soon followed by Nick the Wicked and his protege, Blake, known as Blinko the Pirate, who laid my smiles to waist. I always take the high, Royal road so I never suspected foul play as Blinko raced up the stairs while Mike the Smile Murphy and I shared conversation. Moments later, Nick and Blinko hauled ass off in their kayak with my beers and soda’s in hand!!! Yellin’ all the while! This will forever be known as the Slithering Smile theft of 2018.
I’ll have em’ walkin’ the steps to the lake when I catch up to them.
(Our half way dock steps.)
They took my very best beer—not to be replaced throughout the reunion—and some super soda I’d never miss. It was a horrible sight, and then Mike, the bad smilin’ Murphy, slid like a snake away in his kayak to follow the pirates.
This is typical stuff from the Morgan Pirates; I have to cheer, Nick Morgan, however, who is smart to realize in his own words, “Trump is a con, a cheat and lizard eating suck head with no brains…”***So there is hope for the genes. Anyway, with our Franquemont Royal empathy I will spare the Morgan lot this time.
For now, let them eat ice cream!
(BTW-this is one shot of the new dock.)
The decree has been decried? It reads like this: “I don’t know, something will happen in two years at our next reunion…dead fish in the frig…something.” This man in a new Franquemont helmet guarantees it!
Meanwhile, I’ll be checking passports when getting aboard from now on.
But there is one more thing. Through tough negotiations, tireless days and nights on scotch and beer, we have decided to claim the Morgamont dock, ( a half-way dock located between the bluff and lake as pictured four shots above), as a safe heaven from any intentional farting, photo bombing or fire burning, stuff like that. It’s sorta like during World War 11 when countries agreed to not bomb special places like France’s, Versailles, as they bombed and killed 60 million people else where.
We will, instead, follow this new helmet wearing man to the,’New,’ Marina and camp ground…
It’s all good.
Franque23
Calling me the absolute, forever King will do for now.
- Not true….believe it or not.
- **Our ancestral home in Germany.
- ***See previous glob—Bonaparte Dockin’
- ****This may not be an exact quote….
Long before Elvis knew he’d be a star
Or, when Chuck Berry showed the world how to play guitar on Johnny Be Good…
Yes! Even before John Wayne saved the West…
The Morgamont genes were already in motion.
Simply…Two households, both not alike in dignity,
One in fair Iowa, where we lay our scene, and then to the lake,
From ancient grudge of dogs. Socks and Specks, break to new mutiny,
Where pirate blood makes Royal hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two friends
A slew of star-cross’d cousins take each other’s beers;
Whole misadventured piteous throws in the lake
Do with their new sign bury their parents’ strife. (As if…)*
So long ago, before their division, they stood in the same row, but without a boat between them.
My dad(far right) and his sister, Virginia,(middle) had grown from among the flowers in my Grandma’s garden.
So near the Dutch Elm lined streets of Des Moines, Iowa.
And as to my father, neither he nor his dad and brother’s knew before the war what fate lay ahead for their lives and their children’s frolics. The sun shone on every face.
(My Dad, Max, is the oldest next to his dad…before WW 11)
Soon, the brothers split into different war divisions to fight for America. New uniforms were put on, new bonds were made and the flower of family grew beneath the struggle of separation.
My dad stood strong.
His sister, Virginia, met a soldier.
And during the war, the new families met at Grandma Franque’s house in Iowa, or where they could.
My mom helps at the table in Des Moines while my sister, Sharon, seems quite happy!
Here is some very early evidence of the merge to come between the Morgan pirates and Royal Franquemonts!
The die was cast, as my Uncle Mo, Aunt Virginia, and the Roland and John Franquemont group conspire to create history. My grandparents stand helpless to stop it.
My Uncle John and Aunt Donna were too happy to notice how the drift of time was tumbling..
Only the very young, Robin and myself, crying as we were so aware, foresaw the coming, Franquemont, Morgan, Morgamont was near..
Bill and Buzz Franquemont stood in shock while Jim and Joe planned their escape on bikes…
Alas, those Morgans grew a cute bunch. Robin with his Bow tie and Joe with a look that could sell any car he’d driven into the river. Claudia a looker from the start and Ginny realizing she had her hands full.
Yep, in the end, I’ve come to love each and every last one of them—and I’ve met some in far off places…like the two wearing super funny hats…
.
As it turns out, what the Morgan pirates steal best is the theft of the heart. So back in the day, I guess the grandparents, the parents, they all knew what they were doing and they could not have laid the bonds between our stars stronger.
Maybe the night sky at Lake Bonaparte whispered the truth loud enough so we could hear.
And to think, they’re always there…
Yes, I think Lake Bonaparte can help show the light.**
From the old to the new. The lines will continue to grow together, and never apart.
On a night to remember Dave Morgan…
(around 1956)..(I’m the sexy kid in the Speedo)
We’ve come together many times at Lake Bonaparte. And of the last two times….
(2014)
(2018)
The full moon came over the Morgamont Dock for the first time. (July, 2018)
(Franquemont camp and dock is on the right—the Morgamont deck is just above)
Cheers
Franque23
- Read more Shakespeare
- **Yes, these are actually night sky shots taken at Lake Bonaparte…Thanks for them, Ross Franquemont.
r there dyslexic birds?
I’ve always been dyslexic, but because I was born one million years ago I only learned of the condition while in Clolege. So here’s to putting hte cool in shcool. No wonder phonics wasn’t my best sujbect! It was a great relief to get to know how my head worked, and once I did my grade average went from a sub pair 2.0 to a 3.7! All I had to do then is what I od now—question how I see things, realize when it’s backwards and correct my understanding of whatever it is I’m erading, looking at, or writing. I can convert anything-right or wrong:-)…
I write books that are on Kindle that make editors spell for me….I have to laugh, one editor once asked, ‘Why are yoru sentences always inverted?’
So tell me, how does it change dyslexics to take a light bulb?*
Thing is, really, my body just hasn’t gotten the message about this,’let’s not be so dyslexic,’-ont at all. No, my bodsy’ backwards from ear-hair to navel fuzz. Here I am, clearly a twenty-ish type pushing some other galaxy of age so why the bursitis in the left knee, or slow moving knees, why the left-eye occlusion and the turkey neck that makes me dihe through all of Thanksgiving tmie? Why can I talk to my jingling ellby? And Asthma inhalers are not the death of fresh air they’re meant to be but, man, they take the pharmaceutical’s money right! See? My entire obdy is going dyslexic on me!
I’m younger than a bean sprout but my face has age wrinkles, weird, my head is missing my hair, astoundingly bizarre, and my get-up-and-go is beating me to some place I can’t seem to find. What I need here is a good walyer. I’ll sue my odby and win whatever’s left of it. Vey, oh, why bother!
still, some people think they are beavers…so maybe i’m koya
Of course, some things still work fine: (I can’t believe you thought that-that’s just wrong, like really young of you.) I mean I can snap my fingers, wait, not so much; at least I can see, sorta, using a different set of glasses for every kind of seeing distance; I can whistle, no, actually I never could; I can do the tiswt, though I’d never try it again; I can talk about times I lived through but never knew; and I’ve got lots of stories to yell cause I’m still dancin’ inside, byba.
this is actually Billy the kid’s friend who shot him..but this has nothing to do with this post… ceehrs**
Yep, I’ve got my head turned around so it works but this body thing is a feakin’ dumb-ass diesitter. Yoga helps, but I’ve lost my mat and I can’t find the floor. Bending over to see things upside down seems all too familiar to me while breathing heavy while working out means some of that god hair I find under the couch is actually going into me instead of under the conch. I know it’s good to rush blood to my head while bending over but does it ever leaf my skull? No, this entire upside down workout cesspro may be why my ears and head aer twice the size they were ounce, gone lgoa.
Let’s ace ti: I don’t know my bowel from my elbow, but is there really umch of a difference?
the Cliffs of Moher never shave…
When you get right up on it, being dyslexic isn’t much the same as anything that’s so different. So hwy lla teh kalt about it…?
It’s odd , but spell check just isn’t ehlping.
Franque32
- Slopped from aonther tighs.
- **for some other glob.
*** “Body Language worth noting” (Translation)
Thirteen years ago I built a dock with cousins. This year’s dock is my last, uno over, no mas, caputio, last forever to build. Promise—
building the dock 13 years ago.
The reunion of our families happened again this year, and in a big way. First, though, there was lots for me to get ready for the crowd. Me? I hoped to fish, fish, fish during the eight days lead time I had until the reunion start day plus some other stuff done—like covering our aging dock in plywood sheets to steal one more year out of the structure—
I arrived to an empty camp…
And thought about the picture I’d had taken of me while holding a shot of my dad sitting before a fireplace when he was in college some zillion, light-years ago.
I thought about the fishing I’d get done before the gang arrived…
This shot is from 2012. Not a bad night in Mud Lake.
2008
hmmm forget date,,thought it was on picture.
I’ve caught a number of good fish over time but the monsters usually come years apart. This year was different.
It took Thursday evening and most of Friday for me to ready camp before I could venture out across the Lake and ‘test’ the waters at about 6 P.M.
Boom, as pictured in the previous glob, the big ones hit.
I stepped off the boat and about promptly fell thru the dock to my hip/.
My right leg was bruised from calf to upper thigh, and those marks would take twenty days to almost vanish—It seemed after inspection that topping the dock for the reunion was a no go, and I’d have to replace the entire dock before 49 people including 21 children showed up in a week’s time.
The official estimate to replace the dock was 7 thousand, so I bought 2 grand worth of lumber and rallied with friends, Randy, Brain and Tony to get her done. I spent two days ripping up old dock boards and hauling the wood laden with nails away for safe keeping to a burn pile. Then, Randy showed me a better way to remove the boards-rather than plying them up one by one, he cut the heck out of them first so the small boards could be sledge hammered up and off.
Three days later we had about 2/3 of the lumber in place for use to build the new dock and tools in hand. Dock work is tough in and out of the water work, and dangerous. Tony took a broken piling steel cable into his leg, but he’d just gotten a tetanus shot so he carried on. My leg hurt but so does life. It was the third day as I walked on an old beam we’d all used as we moved docking boards when it gave out under me. I fell like a stone and hit a piling timber with my ribs. My guess was I’d fractured a rib or three….but what can you do with that? Nothing. I steadied to realize I could breathe, move with pain but not danger. The job went on, but from that moment on I couldn’t use my left side for strength, and resembled a snail on dry land while working, especially when hauling my butt in or out of the water.
The job took 135 man hours, (65 of mine)and some long days-Randy worked one 13 hour one day by my side. We sorta finished—all but for one hundred top deck screws I did later—exactly one half day before my grand children arrived and one and 1/2 days before 49 relatives came.
We had the most glorious week for the reunion…and all the while I remained thankful the weather had held for us dock workers the previous week. Up there at Bonaparte, bad weather can stop everything for a day or two if it decides to.
It came time for everyone to leave and I dropped my grand kids and wife off at Utica for the train with another day and one half left to fish–at last…..Ha;hahahaha…. not.
For some reason I thought my dock injuries were done?!!? Yeah, so my last night there I hit Mud lake only to have the sky dump rain on my head as I raced back to the dock. Once there, I notice an umbrella had been turned over all the while of the reunion. If only I’d realized the one dock board with nails I hadn’t removed was secretly hidden beneath that umbrella’s fallen top. I lifted that umbrella top to right the stand, the board slipped off the upright and landed a 16 penny old, rusty nail into the top of my ankle.
Think Mash (tv show) when I pulled that nail out of my ankle…I ran up 48 steps to wash out the wound and get a towel to soak up the blood… ten minutes of pressure and a first aid kit later I raced to local medical center room but it was closed. I headed back to the lake and noticed the sky had cleared and hobbled down to go fish again…(clearly, I’m a fisherman with a huge problem, doctor.) In truth, the real pain didn’t set in for about two hours. Once I returned to camp, I realized I was in the worst pain I’d ever felt. A relative got me to Carthage hospital for x-rays, antibiotics, and pain killers.
I was resting in bed by four A.M. wondering what I might have caught this year if fate didn’t hate me.
So now,,,almost a week later, I’m home, working, recovering as the swelling and pain are subsiding. Dang it, if I’d only gotten to fish more.
Here’s to docks everywhere–they are a pain in the butt to build. Dock nails can go to hell and if you catch a big fish this year at Bonaparte that was the one I would’ve had if only…..Nah, actually, it’s all good. I loved building the dock with the guys; I’ll fish next year and not fall thru it!
Franque23
Lake Bonaparte has a knack for drifting the sand while holding the heart.
This shot is of my first night out this year, just before my plans came crashing down along with my dock. But please, don’t ask me about the dock we HAD to re-build before this year’s reunion. Heck, the next glob is about that. For now, it’s all about my first night out fishin’ and me coming back all grins.
What you see here is a 5 pound bass, a 4.5 pounder, and two smaller varieties though one may be that huge sunfish I caught to kick off the night. I had the larger ones measured and weighed by a fellow who was also fishing in Mud Lake at the time with two lovely women. Some guys have the best luck! Thing is, it’s been near about ten years since I caught a monster bass, and these two came within 30 minutes of one another. All top lure, split Rapala’s.
I think they both went 18 inches, but the main thing is I’m as convinced now as I was then that this year is the year of the lunkers…Good luck fishing. One man in our reunion group caught about a four pounder off the dock, and another slightly smaller right in his boat house. But, perhaps the strangest catch was Dakota’s reel in of a good size bass that wasn’t connected to his line or lure at all, but to a line the fish had broken previously that got tangle in Dakota’s lure on the retrieve!!!!
I couldn’t wait to get out to fish again, but I about never did for the next of all the twenty day’s I had left to fish up there. There’s good reason—that’s the secret in the next glob.
It was a reunion year, and the Franquemont-Morgan gang had a freakin’ blast.
This is the cook-off contest and the five judges were clearly paid-off not to pick my stuffed mushrooms but some other foreign dish cooked by Nick with a name no one could pronounce.
But, before I sob in my gravy, someone asked me how big fish used to be in Lake Bonaparte, and although I’ve no idea , there’s this picture of a kid bringing in his catch to Priest’s so long ago. As a kid, I heard plenty of stories(all true no doubt:-0) of Northern’s pushing six feet long coming out of the lake. I’d give about anything to have those pictures that lined the eatery and penny candy store at Priest’s….One huge, gigantic fish after another,,,the types we don’t see at all anymore. (Thank you Jesus since I skinny dip, or now, chunky-dunk)
This is an old photo of a typical catch long ago at Lake Bonaparte
We did a zillion things as a family this year, pirate hunt, pan fish, dance, bowl, Ice cream sundae day, games, dock-out, and rock out with painting them.
But, the Ice cream boat!!! Oh my…
We mobbed the boat every chance we got..the reasonable prices hit the mark and the selection drooled the mouths.
The two families slid in every direction and never met a face they didn’t love.
In fact, the Morgan—Franquemont families have decided to name our 1/2 way dock down to the Lake….Morgamont. Now, if you see the sign you’ll understand.
Of course, some couldn’t make it this year, and other’s never will as they’ve gone to the other side or maybe flipped the Venetian blind between us.
I’ll forever miss my cousin Rob Morgan
And so many others who did or didn’t know the lake.
The waters run swift in season in a State Park, just east of Harrisville (Glenwood Falls)
But when the 21 children of our reunion handed me a petition to return our reunion to a two year cycle instead of the four we were on, I knew what had always been true:
Nothing runs as deep as the bonding waters of Lake Bonaparte—that’s the truth, and the soul knows.
Have a great August and Fall at The Lake….
Franque23
The point. Trump’s latest action to separate children from their parents at our southern border is an administrative decision, one put in place by the DOJ, Sessions. This action is the result of a policy decision—NOT a law.
There is an important difference between a Law and a Policy. A policy can be the result of a back room deal brokered through cigar smoke, dosed in alcohol, sponsored by I.O.U.’s or any random opinion that makes people take notice. A Law, however, must be approved—voted on—by a legislative body unless you don’t live in a Democracy but under some guy wearing a large hat.
Maybe this quote?
“It is important to understand the difference between a policy and a law. A policy outlines what a government ministry hopes to achieve and the methods and principles it will use to achieve them. It states the goals of the ministry. … Laws set out standards, procedures and principles that must be followed”
Some think this swing in our border crossing enforcement is a hole-in-one for Trump! But a hole in what? Democracy? Human rights? Human decency? Rational thought? Introspection; love; hope for humanity? Or, is this policy decision really just a bagel hole that’s being sold as the real deal?
Anyway, what’s scary about today is the Head of I.C.E. was asked if he thought the actions being taken on the immigrants by border agents were Humane? He said: “It’s the Law!” See? Actually, we all know this grande immigration action fiasco that has so outraged the world and many U.S. citizens is not the result of a Law at all! Nope, this action is not by law, but merely a policy decision put in place by those who use nun-chucks for brains instead of thinking power.
I don’t want to get into how degrading this policy decision has been and still is to America and its citizens. I don’t want to rake over how this gross injustice is cutting the Statue of liberty at her knees and shredding the basic principles she stands for so much that soon she’ll have to take a knee! I don’t wanna harp how this improcedente action gives good cause for the U.S. to pull out of the UN’s Human Rights Council! We don’t belong on it! Sure, all of this is true but what matters most is the idiots who did this are still in charge.
2018 won’t wait forever; 2020 might bring America back to the land of the loving, the forgiving, the thinking, caring and leading people we have most often tried to be. America has failed before when it comes to Human Rights, but this border children round-up is putting the U.S. on the fast track to Hell. And it’s so ironic that this administration seems hell-bent against high-speed trains!
The ‘beef’ of the brief is out before us all to see. Trump’s directive to Sessions was a huge, bigly mistake and even his big mouth can’t gobble the words back up quick enough.
From the doctor’s couch: Trump was separated from his parents early on and now he wants to hurt everyone because of this.
Sigh—this is a, ‘hole-in-one.’
Franque23
(click the pic for a better view)
Our love makes a rose blush.
There’s a light between us; you know.
How can love move not as a sound, not even as a whisper, but with such force air is washed away to bring clarity?
Love is the moment we never forget. I will never forget.
*
Of all the ways of knowing, the heart is the true map maker of the soul. That map of a soul’s love burns without end, always lighting the way no matter how often it’s left. The course seems unknown but it remains a lover’s best friend, always waiting to be found, read and followed. To follow is best. This path dissolves differences in the soul as simply as a mirror loses a reflection. Might we step away from the difficulty of life and walk into another space where love is the reflection? How far can that journey be?
(This is a stream we call , The River Sticks, that flows near Micanopy, Florida….my wife’s shot.)
The field of love is daunting and magnificent. Beauty radiates to shame the sun; light beams illuminate shadows without dispelling their shape. The glistening water, flowers of purple, pink, daisies of so many colors, even the fallen leaves thread together to become the softest thistledown that’s blown by purpose. Hearts hope to follow. Hearts watch and hear that gliding, floating seed as it infuses vision with images as real as our thoughts and dreams. Soon, our hopes become our visions and, if we dare, an endless walk to understanding ensues. There’s so much to leave behind and so much to learn again; the feet get tired but the heart remains determined.
When true lovers look out and see themselves, then, they know.
And when I followed the course of love, I went beyond the moon to pass Jupiter and Pluto to find a space beyond where Time began. There, I found you, again. The Universe is never surprised, so my hand found your grasp to fit as if we’d never let go—we could never let go. Separation was never possible.
( this is my shot, and it went with a glob I love...https://franque23.wordpress.com/2014/12/23/the-man-with-a-wave-a-holiday-story/ )
We fell spinning into the smell of fresh, spring grass. This was us. Love remained the flower, gentle, unassuming, radiant, a flower lost only to a moment repeated, forever. And in this moment the sun became a blanket; the breeze blew cool to perfectly lift your face. Birds sang, ringing my ear more in time than can be imagined but for the beating of a heart.
The heart is Life’s echo chamber.
I’ve turned around to find time slipped. There are so many painted canvases beneath beds that will never be put up again. There are so many numbers we’ve shared that we’ll never dial—so few are left to answer. Our voices though not gone are different. Still, my heart refuses to hear.
Of course, it’s time to listen. Everyone knows the time.
**People say it’s a calling, a voice heard, a secret message from the heart as a tap on the shoulder so forceful it causes a person to turn to find no one is there. It’s time to revisit the waters, the field that seemed so intimidating at first, as if every step along my way would bend the grass and leave a mark unwanted. I leaped ahead to run and splash back then anyway, trusting love was there as it seemed to always be.
Jan, 1983 I know who to thank on this Father’s Day….
What a flight, this place called love. And what I have to offer in return are things that aren’t mine to give, the sky, the ocean, those crunchy shells in the beach sand at your feet, the wind, a warm rain and an icicle’s reflected light. I’d bundle it all for you but still the gift would not be enough to give in return for love.
“Words are never enough.” I read this upon a wall and knew a writer’s heart had left a message.
Love.
But, you know.
Bonaparte glistens….
Thanks Mary Sherman for this shot.
We love the Shermans
I’m on the far right with my cousins, sister and brother.
Franque23-
*This is Cassie Anderson’s first painting…It hangs in our camp at the lake. I’m in the boat with her dad, Rob Morgan…..
**This is my brother, Ed Franquemont, standing before the steps of his passion-the Peruvian culture.
