Watching Snakes Run

The release of the new movie Ford vs. Ferrari  reminded me of a sunny day, the first of March in 1964, and I was going to see my first sports car race. I was a big fan of all forms of automobile racing,  a regular at the Thursday night stock car races at Greenwood County Fairgrounds and Sunday would find me the Starlite 25 Drag Strip  in Ware Shoals, South Carolina. But that day would find me at the Augusta International Speedway just across the state line in Georgia. I had only seen a few sports cars other than in magazines.  There was something strange and maybe a little weird about the small and fast cars. They had strange names like Ferrari, Lotus, Maserati, Porsche, and some I could not pronounce. There was one I could pronounce though, Corvette. It was the only American made sports car. There was one in my home town and I had seen it a couple of times.

We arrived, my buddy and me, right after lunch. Admission was four dollars.  Lunch only cost about a dollar.  MacDonald's hamburgers were only fifteen cents then. I think I was only making a couple dollars an hour in an iron foundry in those days. If you had a "1-A" draft classification. Most employers thought you wouldn't be around very long. The Vietnam War was hitting it's stride. We found us a great place to watch the race near the pits. The pits were where all the race cars were  and where repairs and tuning was done on the cars. We noticed the Cobras right away. Numbers 15 and 16 painted in a white circle on the doors. The open cars were blue with a white racing stripe down the centerline. There was a hubbub of activity around the cars.  The mechanics were dressed in white coveralls. I don't remember if Carroll Shelby was there or not but I don't recall anyone in a black cowboy hat. We weren't familiar with many of the drivers except for those we had read about in hot rod magazines. Augie Pabst was there, the great-grandson of the founder of the brewery bearing his name. I would serve in the Navy with a sailor who said Augie Pabst was his uncle. Buck Fulp of Anderson, South Carolina was there in a new Ferrari. We were familiar with the Cobras though. Carroll Shelby, a retired race driver, had

put a small Ford V-8 engine in a light weight AC Bristol sports car.  It was exciting to watch the cars race. They were very quick!  We were pulling for the Cobras. After all I was a Ford guy.  Jim Hall was there in his Chevy powered Chaparral, but I did not point that out to my bowtie loving buddy! With every passing lap the Cobras would be closer to the front of the pack. They finished first, second, and third, and  Dave MacDonald of El Monte, CA was the winner. He had flown from Daytona, FL where he had raced directly to Augusta. The gray-haired Englishman, Ken Miles was the Shelby-American Team manager.  Miles at 45, the older of the two Shelby Cobra, drivers finished in second place.  MacDonald at 27 had a short but very successful career as a driver. He would die later that year in the Indianapolis 500 and Miles two years later in an accident while testing Ford's GT40. But on that day March 1, they put on a great show of driving skill while driving what would become a great American sports car: the Shelby Cobra or Ford Cobra.

I was in heaven. Ah-h-h! The smell of exhaust, burnt rubber, and  perfume of a long-legged girl in a miniskirt.

They Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To

Occasionally at a car show I hear someone say, "They just don't make 'em like they used too!" I couldn't agree more.  But I'm glad they don't make 'em like they used to. I remember those old cars so very well.

Take a little ride with me in one of those old cars down memory road. One thing that sticks in my mind is how they always seemed to need maintenance. You always had to change the oil, check the water level in the radiator and the battery. And the older it was, the more it needed. Now some cars use the same oil for 10,000 miles. I was never fortunate enough in my younger days to own a new car.  Most of the time I financed someone else's trouble.  I remember, on one Ford I had, part of the rocker panel fell off and I read a New Jersey newspaper that fell out. Those with memories like mine will remember vacuum powered  windshield wipers.  When you drove up a hill the wipers would almost stop. In a downpour you were blind. Headlights and taillights didn't have very long lives either.  Seems like one or the other was always burning out.  Sometimes on the manual transmissions, a.k.a. straight drives, the linkage would would jam up and you would have to raise the hood to unjam it. All the radios in those days were AM.  At dusk reception was garbage.  Zilch.  Then about eight o'clock those powerful stations like WLS Chicago, WABC New York, and the stations across the Rio Grande  came in loud and clear. When I was a teenager, some of the guys installed 45 rpm record players in their cars. They sounded real good unless you hit a bump. There were no power options on the average Ford or Chevy. No power windows or seats or steering or brakes.  No anti-lock brakes either.  You could lock up the brakes and skid. Easy on wet pavement. If the driver stopped quickly you could bang you head on the dash.  The dash was all steel and not padded.  No seat belts either to restrain you. Automatic transmissions were an option. Most of the fellows I knew wouldn't be caught in a car with one. There were a few good things about them though.

When I was about nineteen years old I was working the night shift in a woolen mill.  I got off work at eight in the morning and by nine I was snug as a bug in a rug in my bed sound asleep. On a particular morning in early November my mother knocked on my bedroom door telling me that some of  my friends, Frankie and Joey, were outside. I never did like being waked up before getting at least six hours of sleep. I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep and my rear would drag through my eight hour shift that night at the mill. Momma said they had insisted so she gave in and woke me up. After having pulled on my jeans and a flannel shirt, I grabbed my jacket and was out the door. The morning sun almost blinded me as I stumbled down the front door steps into the front yard. It was not unusual for people to park on the hard packed clay in the front yard when visiting. And there were my friends leaning on the hood of a brand new blue 1964 Chevrolet Impala Super Sport. "Look at Joey's new car!" Frankie said enthusiastically.
"Yeah," was my groggy response.

"He just got it late yesterday," Frankie added.  Joey has said nothing.  He just smiles.
"Bet you ain't rode in anything this fast before," Frankie was still running off at the mouth. "Joey's got a hunnert dollar bill he'll put on the dash.  If you can reach it when he pops the clutch, you can have it. Show him the hunnert, Joey!"
Joey digs deep into the pocket of his Levi's and pulls out a crumpled bill.  I felt like it took him half and hour to make the picture of Ben Franklin appear.

"Let's go!" Joey said.  And looking at Frankie he added, "Tony has to get back to his beauty sleep!"

"You get to ride shotgun," Frankie said to me as he climbed in the back seat of the coupe.

I noticed the number four hundred and nine under the crossed flags directly behind the front wheel well as I opened the car door.  It had that new car smell and the interior felt plush. The bucket seats and console with the shifter made me feel like this was going to be a ride I would not soon forget. The crumpled c-note was on the dash. Joey deftly backed over three thousand pounds of Detroit's finest * onto the asphalt and pointed the car toward the crossroads. We lived in the last house on the country road.
"Joey," I cautioned, " in little over a quarter mile, just over that rise and around a slight bend, is the crossroad and the road turns to dirt." He nodded.  There was a rumble under the hood as the four hundred and twenty-five horses got ready to run.
The driver moved the shift lever forward into first gear and slid his foot off the clutch pedal. The rear tires screamed, scratching for traction, as the engine roared, I heard the two four-barreled carburetors gulping air, and the interior was filled with the odor of burnt rubber. The tires got a grip as I lunged for Mr. Franklin on the dash. The man from Philadelphia was unreachable. I tried again as Joey's hand moved the lever to second gear in what could best be described as a blur. Once again the c-note avoided capture. We were approaching one hundred miles-per-hour when the crossroad appeared in front of us. Joey reined those horses in just in time. And the boys dropped me off to get some sleep. I climbed back into bed and turned on my transistor radio for a little music to sleep by. The first tune up: 409 by the Beach Boys. Sleep eluded me just like Mr. Franklin did on the dashboard of that 409.

No, they don't make 'em like they used to.

* If you were of the Ford or Mopar persuasion you might not agree with my assessment!

"!@#$%^&*" sorry 'bout that photo!

CORNBREAD

Occasionally on the farm Momma would run low on cornmeal. It was a staple in her kitchen. Cornbread was always on the dinner and supper table at our house. When cornmeal was low it became my job to shell the corn to take to the miller. 

The corn crib formed part of the boundary around the lot which is how we referred to as the barnyard. It was a small building about twenty feet wide by fifteen feet deep. It had one door secured by an iron hasp made in the farm blacksmith shop.  I would take my place on my knees beside the corn sheller. The device was made of cast iron was mounted on a wooden box which measured about 18 inches wide 12 inches deep and high. The kernels of corn were removed from the cob as you turned the handle. I would shuck the corn before I shelled it.  When I had about fifty pounds of corn shelled Daddy and I would take it to the mill. It was Shinburg Mill on Hard Labor Creek in McCormick County. The miller was a man named Shepard. I never knew his first name. Everyone called him "Shep". He was shorter and older than my dad and sort of pudgy. He had almost white hair which was thinning on top. Mr. Shep always looked like he had bit into a green persimmon. That sour expression stayed on his face. Once Shinburg Mill was powered by water power from the creek but I remember it powered by a Ford tractor. We did not have to pay for Mr.Shep to grind the corn into cornmeal, he took his tole, a small amount of meal, for payment. We did not have the corn ground into grits which are really just coarsely ground corn. Maybe because we had yellow corn for cornmeal and always ate white grits. You could make corn into hominy to eat without grinding it.  It took a lot of work because the corn kernels had to be soaked in water with lye to make them swell up and then the husk had to be removed by hand.  It was then cooked and served for dinner. I like grits better and they're easy to fix, just add twice as much water as grits to a pot and cook until soft.  I could not wait for supper that night. Momma would bake a big hoecake of cornbread in her big iron skillet. That hot cornbread would be buttered and crumbled into bowls of cold buttermilk. I could hardly wait. We only ate yellow cornbread but my great granddaddy, Eldridge Dorn, would only eat white cornbread. He had a special corn patch just for white. And we never put sugar in cornbread. 

I don't know exactly where cornbread came from. Some say the term "hoecake" for a small cornbread cake comes from the African-American slaves who baked it on the old plantations. In my life I've used a hoe a lot but have been unable to determine how you can bake cornbread on one. The Europeans don't eat cornbread. Only the Italians eat any corn and that's in the form of polenta.  In most of Europe corn is only used as food for animals.There is a story told about how the Americans sent the starving French after WWII a ship full of corn. They let it rot. They wouldn't eat it. I think the Native-Americans invented cornbread.* They cultivated corn, had mortar and pestle to grind it and fire to bake it. I think my Scots-Irish ancestors got cornbread from the Cherokee Indians in the backcountry of South Carolina in the early eighteenth century. 

And I still love it today, but I don't have to shell the corn any more. 

*After I wrote this I found that Wikipedia verified my speculation about the origin of cornbread.

The Scandinavian Countries.

My wife and I recently recently visited some Scandinavian countries. I had heard much about these "socialists" (not actually socialists but frequently referred to as such)countries from television politicians and political pundits. It was good to hear firsthand what actual citizens thought about their system of government. it seems that in a recent survey that the Danes are the happiest people on earth. Common consensus is that this is because they do not have to be concerned/worried about their welfare. Education, health care from cradle to grave is provided by the government. (Dental care is usually not included and it can be cheaper to fly to the continent for dental work.)

However nothing is free. They are heavily taxed. Income taxes range from 30% to 75%. There is a Value Added Tax of 25% added to anything you buy including food. Taxes on an automobile purchase can be as high as 150%. Every bridge has a toll and free toilets are rare. Most Scandinavian countries are situated on as many as 100 islands islands. According to the statistics after a person pays all the required taxes and food, lodging and normal living costs they would have only about 20% or less of their disposable income to spend as they wish. Unemployment is about 3% which according to experts is about a good as it gets. (There is always a number of people between jobs or entering the workforce for the first time.)

The 37 hour workweek is common. Vacation plus holidays equal about 60 days off from work per year. Both Mom and Dad receive maternity leave.

As a closet Libertarian, I believe that this is a good system for people who wish to cede their wellbeing to the state. It is not for people who want to choose their own destiny and make their own decisions about their own well being.

In defense of these countries, they concentrate on their strengths. Their citizens are educated for the country's major industries. Many of these industries fill niche markets. And, I might add, these countries are very clean.

Another thing they do is require seatbelts on public busses. (A heavy fine for non-compliance.) Something I would like to see on our school busses. Our state requires this in automobiles and trucks but we don't protect our own very future -- our children!

Afterthought: 89% of the citizens of Denmark vote in elections. 

A Short Trip Mid-Week

Coffee Underground

On Monday Claudette looked at our calendar and exclaimed, "We have nothing on the calendar after today! We need to go somewhere!"

"But where?" I countered.

"We can get a free room at a Marriott!"

"Really?"

"Yep, we've got enough points on our Visa card.  What about Greenville?"

"Fine by me. We haven't been there in a while. I wonder what is their current show at the art museum?"

"Okay.  Tomorrow we'll hit the road right after we get home from the gym"

"Why not skip the gym? We'll be walking all day after we get there."

According to plan, the next morning found us on I-26 west on our way to Greenville, South Carolina. The trip was uneventful with fairly light traffic. It was approaching eleven when we parked our car at the northern end of the tree-lined Main Street. Greenville is a hilly city at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains. The temperature tends to be quite a few degrees cooler there than at our low country home and the humidity is considerably less. On our way down the tree lined sidewalk we passed a statue of Max Heller, an Austrian Jew who became one of the most popular mayors of the city. His family had escaped the Holocaust in Germany before making his fortune at the base of the Blue Ridge Mountains in South Carolina and becoming the first Jewish mayor of a major South Carolina city. Mayor Heller's leadership is seen throughout the area.  The shady streets we enjoyed as well attracting such multinational corporations as Michelin Tire to the area are attributed to his leadership.

A few blocks away we found our favorite Greenville coffee shop. We had visited Coffee Underground before and enjoyed the relaxed atmosphere.  The delicious  lattes with almond milk were enjoyable as we snuggled in the overstuffed sofa and planned our day.

Upon leaving the coffee shop we went our separate ways.  I would continue walking down Main Street toward the restaurant in West Greenville while Claudette would find a place near the restaurant to park the car.

I had a considerable wait for her at Pomegranate, the restaurant we had chosen. The hummus I ate while waiting for Claudette was quite "garlicky", the way I like it.  Upon her arrival we placed our order for Persian dishes. The Persian fare was quite good. A variety of roasted and marinated vegetables. Middle Eastern restaurants tend to have vegan dishes or those that are easily modified to fit our diets. Usually just a matter of leaving off the goat cheese.

We were in the neighborhood of the statue of another famous Greenvillian, "Shoeless" Joe Jackson. Interestingly enough, Joe Jackson of early baseball fame, got the moniker "Shoeless" after playing shoeless in only one game.

Did I mention that my walk had been down hill and I had crossed the Reedy River? The river provided for a natural landmark in the center of the city, the Reedy River Falls. The cascading waterfalls are the centerpiece of a lovely park filled with large shade trees and blooming flowers.  Stone stairways and walkways give access to river's edge and a semi-circular suspension bridge gives access to the other side.  We saw some folks enjoying walking in the shallow water.  We did not join them.  On our way back up to our car we stopped by a juciery for a cool wholesome beverage.  The area near the river is lined with interesting shops and galleries. And, of course, Canada Geese which seem to be required at any body of water larger than a mud puddle in South Carolina. One must walk carefully! We window shopped on our walk. It was a chamber of commerce kind of day, warm temperatures and puffy white clouds in a cerulean sky.

Reedy River Falls

There was a new museum in town since our last visit and we couldn't wait to visit it. It was on Heritage Green. This block in downtown Greenville has the Greenville County Library, the Greenville Little Theater, The Greenville County Art Museum an the Upcountry History Museum. The one we wanted to visit was the Upcountry History Museum.  As a native of the upstate, I was  very interested in seeing the museum. It was the newest structure  on Heritage Green at the very end of the Green with free parking behind. (a plus!) We paid our entry fee and got the maps of the floor plan on the building. The exhibits tell the story of the area from the early pioneer days to the present. Through hands-on exhibits as well as modern audio-video techniques the story of the upcountry is revealed. Also featured at the museum was a traveling exhibit which happened to be about the films of Alice In Wonderland. There were many props from the Tim Burton film.

The Upcountry History Museum

The Springhill Suites by Marriott was only one block off Main Street and easily accessible. We decided we would opt for valet parking since our room was free. After checking in we had some nachos in the bar.  Not good.  At six there was free wine and brats in the breakfast area. That was much better. We did not go out to dinner and satisfied ourselves with the free food. In our room which was upgraded had a small sitting area where we planned our next day activities.

After watching sunrise from our east facing window we checked out and went back to Heritage Green.  This time for the Greenville County Art Museum.  This museum has always been a favorite of mine.  The featured show was of water media paintings. Some Andrew Wyeth paintings were the centerpiece of that show. One of the largest collections of Wyeth paintings once graced the walls of the  museum before local textile magnet Arthur McGill sold it to the Japanese. Notable in the collection is a number of works by native South Carolina artist, Jasper Johns. The discovery I made while there was unique to the work of David Drake. I did not recognize the name but I did recognize the work.  He was known to me as Dave the Potter. I had always heard that this enslaved 

David Drake pottery

craftsman decorated his pots with Bible verses. 

Supposedly because his master had taught him to read from the Bible. I was surprised to find Dave's pots decorated with verses of his own poetry! This is a great art museum and I believe the only one without an admission fee in the state.

Later we had lunch at the Pita House on Pleasantburg Drive, formally known as the 291 Bypass.  The food was great at the restaurant/grocery store but only cash was accepted for payment. Styrofoam cups and plates with plastic utensils. It was a very popular eating spot totally lacking in any sort of ambiance.  But if you serve good food they will come!

from the Pita House

It was an uneventful, though picturesque, drive back to the Creek. We took the blue highways.

Security Checks

I really don't know why but I get anxious when someone performs a security check on me. Thankfully, it doesn't happen very often. The most recent incident was at Camp Lejeune. We were there to meet our grandson who was returning from a seven month deployment as a member of  MEU (Marine Expeditionary Unit). He's not a Marine, but like his father, a sailor.  He' a Hospital Corpsman assigned to the Marines.

Camp Lejeune is in Jacksonville, North Carolina.  I doubt if there would be a Jacksonville if it were not for Camp Lejeune. We had to obtain visitor passes to enter the military base from the base Visitors Center. It was furnished very sparsely. That was fine with me.  I would rather the military spent my tax money on weapons rather than comfy chairs.The somewhat taciturn lady in her early fifties was very nice and furnished us with the required forms on clipboards.  She gave us pens too.  My pen skipped over the poorly printed form.  (I don't think their printer had been serviced since the Civil War.) It was the usual numbers, addresses and questions describing us physically. We sat on the hard chairs and waited to be called to the counter. Patience is not one of my virtues.

Eventually our names were called to the counter manned by dutiful public servants. They wee civilians.  There were no military personnel in the Center. The counter ran the length of the room and was cluttered with keyboards and monitors and video cameras. Claudette dealt with a bearded man with a ponytail and receding hairline. He had the personality of a rock.  (I'm being kind.) I, on the other hand, was being served by a lady with a bubbly personality with tangled unkept brown hair. She dutifily reviewed the information I had entered on the aforementioned form. She laughed when I said I waa six feet tall except when I was depressed. This lady was peering over the top of her computer monitor. Imagine this; she has one monitor on the counter and another above it. I could barely see her face peaking between them.  There is a device on the counter to take, I guess that is the proper term, my fingerprint. It refuses to take the fingerprint of my right index finger!  And middle finger, ring finger and thumb. She checks to make sure the equipment is working. I say, "It may be because I have callouses on my fingers from playing the guitar."

She says, "Really?"

"Yeah, I do a mean intro to Sweet Home Alabama!"  I felt a bead  sweat pop out on my brow and hoped she did not detect the lie I told. (I fret the guitar with my left hand.) After considerable fretting of another kind the technological marvel finally got my fingerprint of third finger, left hand. After I was fingerprinted, I had to be photographed. Once again, Lady Luck did not smile down on me. Oh, no... I think she signaled some thing with her finger. The camera is mounted on the counter. That's okay... if you are severly height challenged. "Stoop down," she orders.

I stoop.

"More," she says.

"Like this?" I ask as the arthritis in my left knee let itself be known. Yes, there was pain! I moved a little bit lower and I heard her say, "Got it!" Once you look at my picture on the Visitor Pass you'll understand the situation clearly.
I straightened up and replaced my USS Intrepid ball cap, the pain subsiding in my left knee.

And then I heard the voice from the other side of the cluttered counter say, "I think there is a problem."

I had the feeling something had been found in my past that would jeopardize my application. What could it be? I just wanted to  see our grandson. I was not a security risk. Probably some low level clerk in some far away city was holding up my perceived future happiness. Or maybe a computer glitch. After a very long moment the voice from the other side of the counter says, "Oh, the problem was just our printer! Here is your pass Mr. Young! Have a nice day!"

We walked out of the Visitor Center under threatening skies but I had passed another security check and we were going to see our grandson. All was right with the world.

A Sea Story

This is a sea story.  I was once a sailor in the United States Navy. In four years I managed to circumnavigate the earth twice. It was not my intent, it was simply the direction the ship took. I was not consulted. Actually, at my pay grade I was rarely consulted about anything. However, at my paygrade I had little responsbility, which in itself gives a certain amount of freedom. I'm not quite sure why I am telling you about this since it has little to do with this story. 

First let me say a bit about Navy tradition. When a young man completes basic training, which in the Navy is known as boot camp, he is usually asigned to a ship . Those sailors on the ship usually refer to these new shipmates as "boots". After you have been to sea you relish welcoming new boots, because the you are no longer considered a boot.  When I was a boot on the crew of the USS Bon Homme Richard, I and my fellow boots were the butt of many practical jokes. However, later in the voyage, other boots joined us and we were the admistrators of the practical jokes. Some of the jokes were very simple and usually involve some facet of naval life. For example, we would send the boot to find some much needed relative bearing grease for the ship's navigator. Or, for batteries were needed for the sound-powered phones. They could be ordered to procure one hundred yards of shoreline. 

While these jokes were rather simple we did have one that was the creme de la creme.    We had a new practical joke. We would take the new boots to see Pappy. Pappy was a yeoman in Main Com (Main Communications)  A yeoman is sort of like a secreatary in civilian life. Typing and paper shuffling, things like that.  Pappy was a rather rotund fellow with many years in the Navy. His buzz cut hair was gray. There were three hashmarks on the left sleeve of his jumper indicating over 12 years  of service. But the patch on his left shoulder was the three small bars of a seaman, the rank usually achieved in about two years. You could safely surmise that Pappy was not the sharpest knife in the drawer but had that personality that everyone liked. Pappy  did have one unusual feature though. He had a glass eye!  And he could do something very unusual with that eye. He could remove it and put it in his mouth. He would open his mouth just anough for the eye to be visable. Yep, it would freak out most people. I remember once in a bar in Olangapoe City, P.I. he was sitting at the bar when he had to go relieve himself. Not wanting anyone to disturb his drink he took his eye out and plopped it into his drink.  When the Filipino barmaid saw it she let out a shreik the shook the bamboo rafters of Noni's Bar. Of course we howled with laughter.

 It became regular procedure to expose all new boots to Pappy's eyeball in the mouth trick after getting underway on a cruise. And we did this until there was an incident that terminated Pappy's unique presentation of his mind's eye. We usually built a lot of hype around the event before the boots actually experienced it. 

We had picked up two new boots at Subic Bay in the  Phillapine Islands and were steaming north to the war zone, the South China Sea. The boots were fresh from electronic technician school. One, the larger of the two was Denubio, an Italian lad from Boston. With a big nose and jet black hair, he was immediately christened, "Boston Butt".  The other was his opposite; thin,  with buzz cut red hair and he spoke with the accent of the Appalachian highlands of his home in Tennessee. We called him "Cornbread". Time would reveal that Cornbread was something of an electronic genius, particularily if he had access to his seemingly endless supply of illegal Jack Daniels whiskey.  

I was a seaman assigned to the Electronics Division and had been to Navy "A" school to be an electronics technician at the time. My job involved servicing the electronic equipment in Main Com. Security was tight around Main Com. You would ring the doorbell and a little window would open and Pappy would appear. Upon identifing you he would unlock the door and let you in. We would call him and tell him we were bringing a new boot to see him and he would open the window appearing with his glass eye in his mouth. On one particular day when we took our boots to see Pappy he was in perfect form that day with a big cheerful smile on his face with that glass eye peeking out from between his smiling lips. The boots' jaws dropped with  gasps according to plan. At that very instant a chief radioman slapped Pappy on the back and announced in a booming voice, "How's it going, Pappy?"  Surprised , Pappy gulped and swallowed his glass eye!

That was the end of that particular practical joke. I don't know how Pappy got his eye back or if the eye I saw him with months later was the same one. I really did not want to know. But for a while it was a great joke to play on boots.

Who's That Knocking At My door

Who's that knocking at my door?

With the new doorbell cameras you‘ll always have the answer to that question.  Once a novelty of electronic hobbyists the doorbell camera is now available for all homeowners. These are sold primarily as security devices. When used with your home wifi you can easily determine who’s at your door from your smartphone, PC, tablet or laptop. Sounds great doesn’t it? You can tell when that pesky neighbor that always wants to borrow something is at the door.  Or maybe a political candidate that you despise is at your door with that insincere smile and a hand full of flyers. You don’t have to confront these people; just ignore them.

However, not all clouds (No pun intended!) have a silver lining. Doorbell security cameras operate with your home’s wifi system. Wifi systems can be hacked. Virtually  any electronic signal , i.e. radio signal, can be hacked. Hacked, meaning it can be received or intercepted, usually with bad consequences. In doing so a hacker will know who your visitors are and, with proper facial recognition software, identify them. He will also know if you have packages  delivered such as UPS. By having a view of your street they will know what happens in front of your house. 

One of the most popular doorbell cameras is the Ring Video Door Bell.  This is sold by Amazon.  The initial product was very easy to hack but the company says that changes have been made that make hacking more difficult. The Ring is accessible via an app for your phone or computer. Ring also suggests that you share the information from your doorbell camera with your neighbors, thereby improving neighborhood security.  Local police departments endorse this. They say it is a deterrent to crime. The Ring camera can be linked to Amazon’s Alexa.  

It is most interesting that Amazon would offer such a product produced by a company owned by, you guessed it, Amazon. Think of it as Amazon’s own private view into your world. If you shop at Amazon, and who doesn’t, the company has quite a comprehensive customer profile according to your shopping preferences and, of course, your credit information.  If they choose to collect data from your doorbell cam, and who says they won’t, your profile will be enhanced. Actually, anyone can hack your wifi and get all this data. This does not mean to imply that hacking is easy. It's not. Hacking requires considerable computer skills and tenacity.  

Recently, an Arizona homeowner received  a phone call from a hacker in Canada.  The hacker informed the homeowner of considerable personal data. He told thenhomeowner how many visitors he had received and described them.  When asked why the phone call, the hacker said he meant no ill harm he only wanted the homeowner to know how vulnerable he was. 

It could have been you.  What can be done? Since all our electronic devices are accessible via wifi it is imperative that  we have proper wifi security.

According to the experts  at the National Institute of Standards and Technology a password containing numbers, letters, and non alphanumeric characters is no longer recommended.  Currently they recommend a passphrase. A simple phrase that is from eight to fifteen characters and is easy to remember is sufficient. And if it is effective, it is unnecessary to constantly change these passphrases.  However, a different passphrase is recommended for each account you have. 

Remember to take proper precautions if you only need to know whose been knocking on your door.  

I've Got A Target On My Back

I have a target on my back and I don't know what I can do about it. I am a Caucasian. Yes, white. And I am male.  Yes, a man. And I am 75 years old. That's right, I am an old white man.

It seems like every time I watch the news on TV or read a newspaper, I find that phrase “old white men”. It seems we are blamed for all society's ills. Whatever the government does that doesn’t meet the approval of the populous is done by old white men. It even seems that old white men owe reparations for the descendants of slaves. The corporations that produce the goods and services the people enjoy are run by old white men. Old white men control everything, or so some people say.

I would like to say something in defense of old white men and not just because I am one. Let’s look at the things we enjoy every day. What about that automobile you drive? You can afford it because it was built on an assembly line created by an old white man. Most of the products we enjoy in our homes from food in the pantry to clothes in our closets are there because some old white man built a factory or a railroad. And a farmer grew that food on a farm cut from the wilderness by his pioneer ancestors. I’m not saying that everything we enjoy today is the result of some old white men.  Some innovations were created by non-white men. But the majority were created by white men. Like it or not white men made America what it is today. Sure they had help, but they did most of it. Yes, old white men do run most of the most powerful corporations. And yes they do pay themselves too much. But sometimes there is something rotten in the state of Denmark. (And always will be.) We need those corporations to sustain the quality of life we’re used to.  Reparations for slavery are ridiculous. I’m reasonably sure that if I looked far enough back in my ancestry I would find a slave. Slavery is not defined by race. 

We live in the greatest country in the world. The grand experiment is still working as planned. And this old white man believes that if you don’t like America, you should leave it. I’ll wear my target proudly!

  

Another One Off The List

The temperature was moving up in the eighties as we stood in clusters beneath the cloudless sky. I had a bit of anxiety. I had never done anything like this before. I had entered my first 5K race. It was on my bucket list.
The Goose Creek Police Department was sponsoring the first annual Hot Pursuit 5K  race, a charitable event. We had seen a flyer at the gym and I said to Claudette, "We ought to do that." Before I had a chance to recant my statement, which was nothing more than a verbalized fleeting thought, she had entered us in the race. Due to her persistent efficiency I found myself awaiting the sound of a starting gun a couple of weeks after my seventy-fifth birthday! 
There was a crowd of over one hundred representing quite  a cross section of humanity. I needed someone to talk with. Usually, I would have my dear wife to engage in delightful vocal exchange. But, alas, she was called away at the last minute leaving me without my usual conversation partner. But having once run for political office I am familiar with being in crowds of people I don't know.  

I met one man probably in my age group who was busy making last minute adjustments to a running app on his phone. He was tall and lean with a narrow hawkish face. His gray hair was cut short and he had the quick movements of a trapped hare. He said this would be his eighth 5K since heart surgery, and he had lost over one hundred pounds through diet and exercise.  Close at hand was his thin wife with laugh lines accenting a formerly youthful face. Our conversation was interrupted by an announcement from the police chief, in her resonant baratone voice, that the police department chaplain would offer a prayer. 

After the prayer the race was underway. The runners quickly left me and other walkers behind. I was not the last. There was a man in a wheelchair behind me. 
The course would lead us around the lake behind the municipal center, along public roads and through residential neighborhoods. One of the first obstacles encountered was the goose poop. The lake has 

attracted quite a few Canada geese as year round residents. These large birds leave large deposits. We, or at least most of us, successfully navigated the excrement under the watchful eyes of the winged observers. There were some geese in the water with goslings. The ladies walking in front of me commented on how pretty the geese were.  One was obviously from the north east where they pronounce a very hard "a" while the other was a mid-westerner with a  hammer toe. The one with the hammer toe said the young birds were cute. I remarked that turtles sometimes ate the young birds. They would simply disappear under the water right before your eyes. And I added, as an after thought, that gators liked them too.  They slowly moved away from me on the trail with concentrated intent. 
Our course led up up the hill from the lake toward Highway 52, Goose Creek Boulevard. A retired GCPD sergeant was there to point us down the hiker/biker trail parallel to Highway 52. In front of City Hall a female police officer cheered us on, and one hundred yards later we were offered small cups of cold water. I did not drink, only swirled it around in my mouth before spitting it out. I had eaten a large breakfast and the grits felt like lead in my stomach. Ahead, an officer was directing us into the Woodland Lakes subdivision. We welcomed the shady streets as the temperature had risen considerably since the start of the race. There was little traffic and fewer spectators.

 I caught up with a couple of ladies whose figures could have been described as "pleasantly plump" which reminded me of an old country music song. 
          She keeps me warm in the winter,
          Shady in the summertime,
          That's what I like about that
          Fat, fat gal of mine!
Soon we were exiting the neighborhood near the Goose Creek branch of the Berkeley County Library. It was the first time we were on a public road. Plastic cones had been placed to give the runners one lane of the two lane highway. We were in the third kilometer, I think. In the distance I could see an orange Igloo cooler. It was the kind that is usually seen at construction sites with cool water for the workers. My mouth was dry and felt like the desert a thousand Bedouin camels had walked through. I was thirsty. By now I had passed several of the participants and was about to pass a cute soccer mom with two little boys under seven years old.   The younger one ran ahead, then scurried back to tell his mom there were no cups. But big brother came to the rescue. He had saved his cup from the earlier watering hole and shared, with his mother's insistence. But he did not share his cup with me. Near the bottom of the hill we were directed to the right off the highway across a grassy area back onto the walking trail around the lake. It was time to avoid goose poop again. There was a snake bird drying its wings. They can seemingly stand motionless forever. 

This time we walked in the opposite direction. I could see the finish line with the brightly colored sponsors' sponsors' tents across the lake. I was about to have that long awaited feeling of accomplishment.  But, when we got to the access trail to the finish line we were waved off and directed toward the Recreation Center parking area. It was an uphill climb for me. I don't do hills very well. It has something to do with having CHF. We passed the sarge again before heading for the finish line. Since I was one of the last finishers, there were a lot of people cheering. Someone thrust a cold bottle of water in my hand and I sought protection from a brisk breeze. I was soaked in sweat and did not want to get a chill. Consequently, I did not enjoy any of the after race activities. The results would be on line. 
Later that day I checked the Hot Pursuit 5K results, but my name was missing. Why? Had I not registered properly or was there some other technical problem?  A few hours later my wife called and asked if I had finished the race. Of course, I told her, and I had checked my watch and found that I had completed the race under one hour. Then she told me that she had found her name on the list of finishers. I could hear her smile when she said that.

I HAD WORN HER SHIRT AND NUMBER!

Friday, M ay 31, 2019

Some times when you enter a restaurant you want more than just food. There is that certain ambiance  you seek. Kind of like matching a certain earthy single malt Scotch whiskey to that perfect Cuban cigar. Or the right limoncello with that perfect Swiss chocolate. The Hi Lo Lounge is such a place. Located in the Normal Neighborhood of Athens, Georgia, it has a charm all its own. By the way, I was curious to know if there is an Abnormal Neighborhood in the city. But then I googled it. There was once a teachers' college, State Normal School here, hence the name.  Now it is better known as the hipster part of Athens. 


On certain nights quite a few years ago the sounds of the B-52's and Michael Stipe and REM would echo through the neighborhood. But not tonight. 

We arrived as the Georgia sun was sinking low, but the heat of the fiery orb caressed my skin with fire and etched long shadows on the sidewalk. The temperature today had been near the triple digit mark. 
A patron unknown to us held the door while our friend negotiated entry in a rolling chair backwards. It seemed cooler inside but it could have been the dimly lit interior that brought false comfort. There was a lady about my age teaching a youngster a game with a set of large ceramic dominoes. The sixteen tables seemed to be occupied. But, after waiting a few minutes in the shabby decor, a man occupying a table alone offered us his table.  He was a young man. But when you're seventy-five almost all men are young!  Mid-twenties, I would guess. He was tall and slim but not skinny and had light brown hair in dreadlocks. Could he have had hair extensions? Each muscular arm had a tattooed sleeve. He was dressed in faded jeans and Birkenstocks and the graphic on his t-shirt was faded too. His smile exposed pearly white teeth and his brown eyes had a permanent squint like someone who spends a lot of time in the sun. We thanked him for his kindness and we set about checking out the menu. 

We had picked the Hi Lo because of its vegan offerings. We have been following a plant-based diet for almost two years. Its been good for us, but finding food at restaurants has not been easy.  The menu was interesting with quite a few vegan options. There did not seem to be a wait staff. I asked a guy in an apron delivering food to diners and he said we had to order at the bar. The bar was on the other side of a wall, but I could see it with a cash register through an opening the size of a double door. We perused the menu and made our choices. I picked a slaw dog and black bean chili. The ladies had a Czechwich and a falafel sandwich. I went to the counter to order. On the chalk board behind the bar was listed a number of craft beers. I chose a local stout. Negra Modello, my favorite beer, was not available. I prefer to help the Mexican economy rather than the Chinese. The girl taking our order was rather cute with a northeastern accent. Southern girls tend to be a rarity in larger Southern cities nowadays. She was probably an UGA student.



 I went back to our table to await our food. Eighties rock and roll was playing in the background. I took a slug of the stout and started to feel a bit like a local. The clientele was quite a cross section of humanity. At the table next to me a rotund bearded young man was busy with his laptop computer. The buttons on his shirt threatened to free themselves with each breath he took. His cellphone was attached to the laptop and he would occasionally refer to an iPad. I peeked at his screen. There were scrolling columns of data. What was it? I could not tell. Maybe he was a spy! Or a video game designer. There may be little difference. His stare was concentrated on the screen over his horn-rimmed glasses. Occasionally, he would speak to his friend who seemed to be playing a game on a tablet. Then, he would take a drink of the beer at his right hand. A preppy looking young man in his early thirties stopped to chat a few minutes with the pair. They seemed to be friends. A few minutes before our food arrived two young women joined the young man with the dreadlocks. One was less pudgy than the other, but both were dressed in a style somewhere  between college student and streetwalker. They seemed to be well acquainted with the young man. They brought him a champaign flute. They squeezed onto the bench beside him, obviously trying to maximize physical contact.

The food was great! Food was the reason we were there. A Czechwich is predominantly a chunk of fried cheese with various accompaniments on a sandwich roll. The falafel sandwich was filled with various veggies. Both ladies said their food was very good. My slaw dog was 


eatable. The pseudo wiener was quite tasty, but the slaw left a lot to be desired. It showed no imagination and creativity. When I eat out I expect the cook to cook better than I do or at least as good! Now the black bean chili was something to write home about. ( Should I update that to "text home about"?) The beans were plump and succulent and it had a bit of heat and that unmistakable taste of non-milk chocolate

Food is good at the Hi Lo Lounge. And it delivers in ambiance too.  The next time I'm in Athens I'll be eating there.

A Museum of Civil War at Sea

Main gallery NCWNM

In the city of Columbus, Georgia, on the banks of the Chattahoochee River, lies a very special museum.  Within forty thousand square feet of exhibit space encased by red brick of Georgia clay is the only American museum with artifacts and exhibits commemorating naval warfare of the greatest military struggle within our borders, the American Civil War.

As soon as you arrive at 1002 Victory Drive you realize you are at some place special.  One hint is the full-size reproduction of  a Civil War side-wheeler and a huge selection of naval cannon. As you enter the building, which was completed in 2001, the information booth is on the right adjacent to the gift shop and, of course, the exit.  There is no admission fee, but a volunteer contribution of five dollars is expected. A large exhibition area is visible and the lecture area is flanked by three huge paintings totaling over fifty feet. They depict the ships of the opposing navies. In the distance the ruins of the ironclad C.S.S. Chattahoochee are visible.

The hull of the C.S.S. Jackson

An opening in a wall to the left the size of a garage door leads to the center piece of the museum. It is the one hundred eighty foot long hull of the  C.S.S. Jackson (a.k.a. C.S.S. Muscogee). The ironclad warship was reclaimed from the mud of the nearby Chattahoochee. Ironclads were the very epitome of naval technology in the Civil War. Many small creeks and rivers throughout the south had shipyards producing such vessels. Our tour was self guided, sort of. Throughout the museum  life size cut-outs of "powder monkeys" point the way. Powder monkeys were the names given to the young boys who carried gunpowder to the cannoneers who manned the huge guns. Glass display cases abound filled with weapons, model ships, uniforms and even a surgeon's attire with bloodstains from the aforementioned armed conflict. A big screen monitor has a never ending lecture playing about weapons and weaponry. A life-size reproduction of the U.S.S. Monitor's turret adds to the authenticity of the Monitor exhibit. All captions on ship models and artifacts are easily read and interpreted. A broadside of the U.S.S. Hartford, Admiral David Farragut's flagship in the battle of Mobile Bay is reproduced. An actual small boat from that ship is on display.  The wardroom, berthing deck and the captain's cabin are also reproduced. We had seen similar displays at the Spanish Naval Museum in Madrid and the U.S. Navy Museum at the Navy Yard in Washington, D.C.

C.S.S. Albemarle

Near the Monitor turret is a man-sized opening leading into semi-darkness. As your eyes adjust you find yourself walking on a wooden pier.  On your left are shops with illuminated display windows.  On your right tied up to the pier is a full size replica of the Confederate ironclad Albemarle.  The muzzle of a 6.4 inch Brooke rifle peers from the superstructure. A gangplank leads to the interior of the vessel. It is quite dark inside the vessel but we can see the interior with the huge cannon and the helm from which the ship is steered. We exited through what appears to be the rear of the vessel into another exhibit hall. 

with the guide

We allowed ourselves four hours to bask in the history of the Civil War navies of the North and South.  It was indeed time well spent.  

Alabama versus Georgia (this is not about football)

The incident I am about to relay to you happened in the early 1940s. Recently, on a trip to Fort Benning, Georgia, a guide at the  National Infantry Museum told us a story about one of the U.S. Army's most colorful generals. 

Gen. Geo. S. Patton, Jr.

As you would imagine in 1940 Fort Benning, Georgia was a hubbub of activity. On the European continent The forces of Adolf Hitler were rapidly conquering neighboring countries. The swastika of Germany flew over Austria, Poland, Denmark, Luxembourg, Netherlands, Belgium, Norway and France. The training of soldiers were top priority at the fort in Columbus, Georgia.  At that time the 2nd Armored Division had as its training officer was one Colonel George S. Patton, Jr.  Patton would be promoted to brigadier general and assume command of the 2nd Armored Division whose tagline was "Hell on Wheels" later that year. It  was when he was commander of the tankers that the following incident occurred. 

Geographically, Fort Benning sits adjacent to the city of Columbus, Georgia, on the banks of the Chattahoochee River.  Across the river is the smaller city of Phenix City, Alabama. At that time and a few decades later the city was ruled by organized crime. The city was famous for its houses of ill-repute, bars and gambling establishments. All of these were super inducements to the soldiers of Fort Benning. They were the red flag to the Army's bulls.  Frequently soldiers were robbed and often would return to the fort beaten and bloody after a night in Phenix City. One one particular occasion some soldiers of the 2nd Armored division were jailed by the local police.  The general requested that the chief of police release the soldiers. But, the Chief of Police of Phenix City, Alabama, refused the general's request.  George S. Patton, Jr., Brigadier General, of the United States Army was not accustomed to having his requests refused. He proceeded to persuade the chief of police to honor his request. His method was one of simplicity.  He took one of his Sherman tanks to downtown Columbus to the riverbank*. The big gun on the tank was aimed toward Phenix City. There was no response to the General's second request.  He simply gave the command, "Fire". He called the Chief of Police again and asked that the soldiers be released and that the first shot had been a warning shot and that there would not be another. Within a few minutes the soldiers cold be seen returning across the 14th Street Bridge. In the crowd of onlookers someone was heard to say, "Boy, that's blood and guts!"
And that they say at Fort Benning is how Patton got his nickname, "Old Blood and Guts".

Sherman Tank

 * Today you can still see the marks made by the tank's tracks in the street.

My First CD

I was in the Musical Instrument Museum in Phoenix, AZ and I saw a guitar case for an air guitar.  I thought that was a little bit strange.  I went home and did a little research on google and found out they have contests national contests, international contests, I think in some Scandinavian country.

What I really wanted to find was a CD of the air guitar. I never could find a CD of the air guitar so I decided to make my own.  
And here it is. Our own CD of the air guitar.

I did all the artwork in Photoshop.  Notice I have a little blurb up here for a bonus.Gotta grab the viewers attention.
At the bottom is listed the artists that are on the compact disk.
Up here in the top left corner, notice it is rated PG-13. The production compony's name is Tonette.  Tonette being a combination of mine and my wife’s names. Tony and Claudette.

On the inside we have the CD itself, opposite we have some more copy.  Below is a little pull-out of with guitar chords and also guitar pick. I’ve always been a fan of giving a little bit more that what’s expected.

On the back cover is a list of the performers and their recordings like Gotcha by Alfredo Colbert, Caliente -Jose Garcia, Relative Noise by B. B. Steele, Brainfire by Ray O. Vac and others.  Lot of these names are reminiscent of old blues players, I really like those guys. 

And there it is.   Our own air guitar CD.