On the subject of big cats

Back in the early 70's I worked for a fellow named Joe who had done some Oil Exploration in the Brazilian way back when he was younger. He told me the tale of walking through the jungle with the sense that he was being followed. He stopped and the noise stopped. He went on and sensed it again. He made a camp, and in the firelight saw eyes reflected from the bushes. It took several encounters, but eventually the smell of coffee and bacon overcame the Ocelot kitten's natural fear, and he came to Joe for food. Joe eventually became friends with the animal and they became inseparable. Back in the out back in those days, if you rented a room at a local in and it had a double bed, that meant that it was double occupancy. You never knew who you might wake up next to. Joe stayed at one of these places and a fellow came in during the night and got into bed with him. He didn't fool around with Joe, so they slept the night peacefully. Until morning, when Joe felt an the sharp pain of an elbow in his side repeatedly. Joe woke up and his now full grown kitty was sitting up on this fellows chest drooling a little. He had put the Ocelot on a leash at the foot of the bed when he went to sleep, but it was just long enough to reach his new friend. The man complained to management and Joe had to leave, but he laughed every time he told the story. He had pics too. Smoked enormous foreign cigars and had great stories.

A post that apparently was erased

When I was a pre-teen boy we lived a very rural existence. In fact, the county I grew up in has only one permanent automatic stop light today. (And it isn't in one of the five or six hamlets in that county, it is on the numbered highway that is said to be the best thing to ever come out of there) We had a wood stove for heat that would go out during the night, and slept under many blankets. It was perfectly warm enough even on the coldest nights, and since no one had explained poverty to us we were happy and well adjusted to our circumstance. On cold mornings, before the stove got going, our feet would stick to the linoleum floor in our bedrooms, and we had a ritual of racing out to the kitchen and putting our feet on the door of the propane oven to warm while the big wood burning stove gathered momentum. I remember my grand mother staying over one night, and coming in to wake me to get ready to go do morning chores. My brothers and I had been wrestling on my bed, and somehow a small portion of the window pane had broken, and since it was a cold snowy blowy night a very small snow drift had formed on my blankets. I wasn't cold or even uncomfortable that I remember. My grandmother was used to somewhat better conditions, even though she had grown up in a similar circumstance. She had already been up for a while, as I remember her having a cup of coffee in her hand as she came into our room. The snow drift offended her, and she began to shout for and at my dad regarding it. The "discussion" moved to another room, and she eventually laid that coffee mug up against my fathers head in order to get his undivided attention. Now I have had that experience myself, (Coffee cup correction) and am here to tell you that it can change your mind if done properly. We got a new kerosene burning stove shortly after that, with the capability of running all night uninterrupted, and those really cold winter floors became a thing of the past. We became "modern" very slowly. The house was always full of love and respect for one another was not asked for. It was demanded.

Long ago, and far away, when we were teens and young men, my brother Bill and I liked to coon hunt. We would get the dogs and guns and old fashioned kerosene lamps and head off to the big woods on what we called the Harry Ross place. Those woods have been bulldozed off for pasture land many years ago, but I go back there in my mind occasionally. I hadn't thought of it for several years, but this morning I was talking with my daughter about who should or who shouldn't be on our Forrester family web site, and she being much younger not being so familiar with shirt tail relatives, had some questions. Alice Norton's name came up as someone who was related to one of these unknown persons, and I mentioned that she had lived deep in the woods on a road that is grown up in weeds that cuts off of our primitive road to our family cabin. I told my daughter this was the old wagon or stagecoach road, and led on to the big woods, or where they used to be. The house where Alice lived has long ago burned down, and when Bill and I would pass that way on our way to the big woods it was a bit spooky, and only a barn and the basement of the old house remained. Alice is a couple of years older than my mom, and would come up and babysit me and visit my parents. At any rate, Bill and I took that path on the way to find our fortune in Raccoon pelts. There were trees in that big wood that were so big and high that our shotguns would not reach the top of to kill squirrels, but would just "tickle" them or Raccoons into jumping about where we could get a better shot with a rifle. Bill had a Dashound named Hank that loved to go, but had such short legs that he would get tired after a while, and want to be carried in the game pouch until things got more interesting. Once the big dog found a coon and "tree'd" him Hank wanted out and was all business. Dachounds were originally bred to go into Badger holes, rout them out, kill them, and drag them out. We didn't know this at the time, but apparently he did. Once a coon was knocked out of the tree, if he survived the shot or the fall, he would stand on his back legs to fight the dogs. Hank would hunker down on his belly, and crawl into the fray. Once close enough he would lash out with his very sharp hooked claws and disembowel the coon. He would then back off till the coon was tame and then go on in and rough him up. We were all amazed and pleased at the results. These coon pelts were valuable to us and provided us our allowance. We picked black berries, and mushrooms for cash in their seasons as well. It's odd how one thing leads to another, and one thought sparks a memory from so long ago. It seems fresh and new to me this morning at any rate. I haven't been posting for a bit, and hope to start again. Maybe I can figure out some day how to put some relevant pictures to go with the stories.

A matter of perspective

Last Sunday was Mothers Day, and a Sunday. I don't know if that always lines up, but I suppose it does. We had planned on going up to my parents farm after church and visiting for a bit. This happened, and then that happened, and then it was sort of late, and my frustration level was up two or three notches above too much coffee. We finally got on the road, and I drove too fast. I like to drive fast, and always have. I do not know of many thrills in this life that compare. Being older, and having my wife along, and not having my radar detector, I chose to moderate this proclivity. Some. I did let her stretch out her legs on the interstate, and made the horses talk to me a couple of times. Once off of the four lane after Carthage, and heading north on a very straight road I know so very well, I just went a little fast. I remembered, and recalled, days of a hot rod Lincoln on that road, and coming down from 100+ at the first tree line to keep from bottoming out the shocks as the road fell away, and then back up for a bit, and then down for a hard left turn. Mostly my imagination this day. But as I made the hard left, my wife said the GPS says I should go to the right. Now I knew in my heart that this is just wrong. I have been this way many times. But That GPS has proven my facts wrong before, so a hard brake, and back to the intersection and on through to what would have been a right at the hard left. My wife says you just passed the road. I say: "That was a dirt road", we can't take it, I will parallel it at the next blacktop. We do, and sure enough tractors and implements that take up the whole road keep appearing. I try to make up time by going just above uncomfortable. More implements and hard stops. Suddenly we are on the gravel, and I am believing this is shorter, but not faster. Up over a rise, and we are on a dirt road with ruts so deep that if a wheel were to go in, we would be high centered, and stuck there, and probably be broken, until a large truck came to pull us out while the hillbillies laughed. Having grown up where roads are often bad, I made it about a mile down this road (being shorter) to an impasse, where a tree had fallen across the road, and the GPS said I only had a thousand yards to go to the highway. I considered going to the field to go around, but thought better of it, and turned back. Once again through the ruts big enough to take a proper bath in. Back onto the blacktop, and south. (remember I had wanted to go north) and just considered it a bad deal. When we got back to the wrong town, and got back on the road, and came to where the road actually came out, I found I had made the right move. The ruts on that last hill down to the highway were monstrous, and would have required a four wheel drive big big truck to negotiate.I think I should rely on my instincts more. I have become dependent on this tech stuff. Oddly enough, my mood was much better than it had been in days. My wife noticed and asked why. After some thought, I decided that it had been a bad plan, but well played. Sort of an adventure. We overcame obstacles, and made the goal. The only thing that could have improved it at all would have been a cop on my tail.

Full of Myself

Well, here I am again. Wife is out. Son who lives here gone. Just me and the small screen. I haven't been putting my thoughts down lately, because they are thoughts of anxiety and uncertainty. Not my normal self. Generally, I find humor in the juxtaposition of normal circumstances crossed with a chaos philosophy I seem to work within. I had some blood taken last Friday for cancer tests, and will know the results mid-morning Friday to come. It has been six months since my last go around with this, and my last results were not horrible, or comforting, as far as that goes. I have had some troubles associated with the last rounds of radiation, and fear the worst. I suppose this is a way to get that WOW what was I thinking feeling when the results all come back with low numbers. My dad says "Why worry". Sounds right, but doesn't seem to work for me. I brood. And, I suppose it serves me right, after all of those years of not paying any attention at all to my health. I really only became "Vincible" three years ago. It is relatively new thought for me. In my heart I know I will be fine, regardless of which way the test goes. The worry is not the twist your hands, self introspection, sort of brooding I see in others. More of a steam vessel concept. Set for ten lbs. and the pressure is 9.6 lbs. Small jolts seem to break the seal, and tiny bursts of steam escape without my permission. It seems like a stupid way of dealing with it when you think about it. Not so very productive in any way. Yet, here I am. I can't think of a worst way to deal with this. (With the possible exception of my friend Verne, who has this and just chooses to ignore it) I am an angry man it seems. That fellow who we all see, and think, Man what made that happen. It is totally arrogant on my part to have this attitude I suppose. I did not design this plan. I wasn't there when the foundations of the earth were laid. Who the heck gave me permission to have any thoughts on this in the first place. Shaking my fist at the sky is just pitiable. Writing it down does not help either. The truth is: I am glad I was born, and happy I got this far. I feel very fortunate to have had the life put before me. I suppose I could have acted better at times, but then I wouldn't know the depths of being sorry, or feeling foolish when I made really stupid mistakes. I truly have been blessed, and if I never get older, I certainly got more than I deserve. I have a few regrets, but am not fully prepared to make reparations, and will just have to count of the grace of my friends in these matters. Assuming the worst. If I get better, and win the lottery, then this will just be a moment of weakness and indecision. It only deserves posting because of the contrast to the glitter that truly has been the bulk of my life. I once had a man tell me that my promotion over him was just and right, and had nothing to do with being deserved. It was just part of my path. I don't know exactly what that means, but have thought on it at times when things went my way for no reasonable explanation. Just possibly I should use the light of that epiphany on this time as well.

Where will I live

Baby Bear
The three bears had been having some trouble recently and had ended up in family court. Mama and Papa bear were splitting up, and baby bear had to decide who he was going to live with.

So, the judge wanted to talk to baby bear to see what he thought about living with either of his parents. When he asked baby bear about living with his father, baby bear said "No, I can't live with Papa bear, he beats me terribly."

"OK," said the judge, "then you want to live with your mother, right?"

"No way!" replied baby bear, "She beats me worse than Papa bear does."

The judge was a bit confused by this, and didn't quite know what to do. "Well, you have to live with someone, so is there any relatives you would like to stay with?" asked the judge.

"Yes," answered baby bear, "my aunt Bertha bear who lives in Chicago."

"You're sure she will treat you well and won't beat you?" asked the judge.

"Oh definitely," said baby bear, "the Chicago Bears don't beat anybody."

Industrial Terrorist

5 18 94


Yesterday, a small, smelly spot in the east parking lot by the old office building was brought to my attention. When I walked over there, it was apparent that the ground was saturated with human waste. The bricks actually gave way under my feet. On investigation, it turned out that the sanitary sewer for human waste to the Publicly Owned Treatment Facility was blocked big time. If you know how this thing is constructed, it's an amazing concept. The piping is over a foot in diameter in most places. When it goes into the man holes for distribution, the spaces are over five feet in diameter. Every thing from the street back into our rest rooms was plugged up twelve feet deep, which caused the sewage to back up to the surface at the lower parking lot. I called A.J. Allen Co. to get some help with the situation. The secretary from there was now involved. She helped find her boss, who was glad to come right over and evaluate the problem. We decided we would have to dig, so we called the one call operator for locations of utilities in areas where one has to dig. She is person number four. She calls the Midwest Power supervisor who authorizes the job and sends two people right over in a truck to check the power situation out. The one call operator next calls the Water works supervisor, who sends a truck and a person to see if we are going to dig next to any water lines. Next comes the several phone services, the Gas Company, City of Des Moines maintenance crews to check on storm drain locations, and sewer placement. I'm not sure if anyone else came, but we finally decided it was safe to call the back hoe in. His supervisor authorized it, and he came right over. We pulled the brick up and found the man hole we wanted and called the person from Smith's Sewer Service to put his high pressure hose down into the smelly mess. After a couple hours of sweat the first bundle of shop towels came bursting down the line. ( Did I mention Larry P., and Elmer M. were out to help earlier on) Several more attempts and we could finally see the bottom of the big manhole in the shipping lot. The bottom was covered with hundreds of shop towels and human waste. Now, if this happened at your house, and you found out that your kids, or your wife, or your neighbor had done it, you would probably put a stop to it. I mean right now!
All of the people who take the time to read this note, and talk it over with someone else will have eventually become involved. This is not a simple prank. It couldn't have cost more if the person had taken a gun and robbed a store. He would have gotten something out of it then. This person is involved in the crime I asked you to be aware of and report just last week. If you know who is doing this, and remain silent, you are part of the problem. This person is a criminal, and is costing every person around him more than they should want to contribute. Turn them in. Don't even think twice about it. They deserve no consideration at all. If you let these people have a say in your life, you are jeopardizing your own future. They certainly won't stop if you don't stop them. Don’t let yourself be terrorized by hoodlums.
Steve Forrester