I try hard to get interested in this blogging crap, but my heart isn't in it. It's not an old man's thing. Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think old people read blogs. In fact, I'm fairly well convinced that all this internet stuff is mostly a young person thing . . . and I don't have much to say to young people these days. I spent most of my life talking to young folks, and that's because I was a college professor for a long time. But that's over, and I'm out of the loop now with what's trendy and on the minds of younger people. In short, I don't give a rat's ass anymore. And that means I don't really have anything to say via the blog route that anyone out there would be interested in reading.
There's a lesson here, maybe. Uh, like, maybe I ought to just shut up and do something else with my time. If and when I get a new book out, maybe I'll talk about that. About a half dozen people might read it, the blog that is. And that gives me even more of an excuse not to do it at all. If I think of something to say, I'll scribble a note from time to time. Otherwise, I'll just read a book or something
more mind expanding that this.
After two paragraphs, I'm already feeling too stupid to continue. What was I talking about?
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
A LITTLE ADVICE ABOUT GUITARS
Since I'm a builder of guitars and a collector of them, I often get asked what's the best guitar for the money. And I never have a good answer for a simple reason - there isn't one. I'd have to ask a lot of questions before I could answer. Are you a professional musician? Beginner? Fair to middling picker? Collector? But I could ask all sorts of questions and still not come up with a decent answer because we all have ideas about what we want . . . or think we want. If I run across a rare person who has no idea what he wants, I can be more useful.
First off, guitars can be expensive, and some of them are very expensive. As a young man, I wanted the best guitar out there - a Martin, Gibson, or maybe even a custom made guitar. I learned to play on an old Gibson Hummingbird, and that set the tone for me and guitars. But I was an older man before I ever got one of them. I finally figured out that the only way I'd ever own quality guitars was to build them myself, and I've built dozens and dozens of them. I've built bass guitars, jumbos, dreadnaughts, parlor, and even ukeleles. I've built electric guitars too, but that's not my favorite, and I've bought lots of guitars. What's my favorite commercial guitar? That's still the Martin guitar. I sure wouldn't turn down a Taylor, Santa Cruz, or Gibson, but I'm a Martin lover first and foremost.
I own about 70 guitars, most of them vintage. I've restored quite a few old guitars, but I don't really enjoy the work. And I've long since overcome my love of expensive guitars. One of the guitars I play most often cost under $500. And my best playing guitar is an Alvarez Yari, a DY-77 that's over 30 years old now. I bought a Parker guitar a few years ago, and I like it very well. Not cheap, though. Mostly, I play guitars I built myself, and that's because I made them to suit various purposes. I've got jazz guitars, big box dreadnaught blue grass guitars, little parlor guitars, and my favorite size, the OO size guitar.
OK, here's my suggestion. If you're an accomplished guitarist, bite the bullet and get a good guitar. All the big names like Taylor, Martin, Santa Cruz, and Gibson produce fine guitars, and there's other companies out there doing the same. If you've got big bucks to spend, go to a custom guitar builder and buy one, but if you've got only a moderate budget to deal with, try Alvarez. A top rung Alvarez will set you back well over a thousand dollars, maybe even two grand, but they're good guitars. And don't be afraid of the Asian guitars from Korea or China. I've got several Chinese made guitars that are pretty nice. Spend some time in guitar shops playing various models, even if you don't know much about them. Ask lots of questions.
One last note. My granddaughter wanted a guitar for Christmas some years back, so I went online
and bought a cheap guitar for her. Paid like $150 for it, then was amazed at how good it was. It was cheap, not a great player by any means, but it was decent. And just as I suspected, she lost interest before long. Don't be afraid to start at the bottom end, especially with a beginner.
First off, guitars can be expensive, and some of them are very expensive. As a young man, I wanted the best guitar out there - a Martin, Gibson, or maybe even a custom made guitar. I learned to play on an old Gibson Hummingbird, and that set the tone for me and guitars. But I was an older man before I ever got one of them. I finally figured out that the only way I'd ever own quality guitars was to build them myself, and I've built dozens and dozens of them. I've built bass guitars, jumbos, dreadnaughts, parlor, and even ukeleles. I've built electric guitars too, but that's not my favorite, and I've bought lots of guitars. What's my favorite commercial guitar? That's still the Martin guitar. I sure wouldn't turn down a Taylor, Santa Cruz, or Gibson, but I'm a Martin lover first and foremost.
I own about 70 guitars, most of them vintage. I've restored quite a few old guitars, but I don't really enjoy the work. And I've long since overcome my love of expensive guitars. One of the guitars I play most often cost under $500. And my best playing guitar is an Alvarez Yari, a DY-77 that's over 30 years old now. I bought a Parker guitar a few years ago, and I like it very well. Not cheap, though. Mostly, I play guitars I built myself, and that's because I made them to suit various purposes. I've got jazz guitars, big box dreadnaught blue grass guitars, little parlor guitars, and my favorite size, the OO size guitar.
OK, here's my suggestion. If you're an accomplished guitarist, bite the bullet and get a good guitar. All the big names like Taylor, Martin, Santa Cruz, and Gibson produce fine guitars, and there's other companies out there doing the same. If you've got big bucks to spend, go to a custom guitar builder and buy one, but if you've got only a moderate budget to deal with, try Alvarez. A top rung Alvarez will set you back well over a thousand dollars, maybe even two grand, but they're good guitars. And don't be afraid of the Asian guitars from Korea or China. I've got several Chinese made guitars that are pretty nice. Spend some time in guitar shops playing various models, even if you don't know much about them. Ask lots of questions.
One last note. My granddaughter wanted a guitar for Christmas some years back, so I went online
and bought a cheap guitar for her. Paid like $150 for it, then was amazed at how good it was. It was cheap, not a great player by any means, but it was decent. And just as I suspected, she lost interest before long. Don't be afraid to start at the bottom end, especially with a beginner.
LIMPING ALONG, THE AMERICAN WAY
Maybe we got it from the British, that old notion of muddling through. I taught political science at the college level for well over 30 years, and I still don't know exactly what that means. Here's my take on it, for what it's worth. Democracy is clumsy and often inefficient, and sometimes the only way you can get anything done in a society like ours is to muddle through, to limp along, to just get by and be done with it. Hardly anyone gets their way in politics and government because democracy forces upon us something we're still not artful at doing - compromise. Want a close up look at how that works? It's on display right now in Washington, state capitols, courthouses, and city halls all over the country.
I broke a leg when I was a kid and have had a limp ever since. It was just a slight limp at first, but the older I get, the more pronounced the limp gets. These days, and with the onset of joint problems, the limp is a pesky problem. I live with it just like I live with doing what most Americans do - limp along, just get by, make ends meet, and go from day to day along a highway of life that always seems to be uphill. It's the American way, and it's not altogether bad. Like a physical limp, it's pesky and irritating at times. I put up with the physical limp because I'm still walking, still getting from one place to another, and that's what counts. I'm not just sitting there, and that makes life tolerable. When it gets right down to it, perhaps the limp serves me well because it keeps me from moving too fast . . . and we all want to go fast. Going slow allows you time to look around, pay attention, and maybe learn something. You miss a lot going fast.
I try hard to pay attention to what's going on in the society around me. I watch other people, so I'm aware that most people around me are also hard up against it sometimes. Life presents everyone with speed bumps, detours, and a whole helluva lot of little irritating chuckholes. And you can't just run through them; you've got to deal with them, and that means slowing down. Some folks like me call that slowing down process limping along. I hear quite about of talk about the fast pace of life, and most people tend to think that's America. We're the right now society, but that's mostly in our heads. Yeah, we want to get there in a hurry, but that usually doesn't happen. Our system just isn't set up to go fast.
Lack of money is a speed bump for some, or if you're lucky, maybe it's just a chuckhole. With me, it's often a detour, and sometimes it's a roadblock. I have a steady income, and I get bills paid. I don't really have a budget. My way of doing things is to start the race fast, then limp to the finish. In other words, I pay bills early, and then I quit spending money until more comes in. Sound familiar? Even if you carefully budget your monthly spending, you're still limping along. Don't worry about it. You might not be living the American dream, but you're sure living the American way. I'm not convinved that you can run down a dream, but you might be able to limp your way there.
I broke a leg when I was a kid and have had a limp ever since. It was just a slight limp at first, but the older I get, the more pronounced the limp gets. These days, and with the onset of joint problems, the limp is a pesky problem. I live with it just like I live with doing what most Americans do - limp along, just get by, make ends meet, and go from day to day along a highway of life that always seems to be uphill. It's the American way, and it's not altogether bad. Like a physical limp, it's pesky and irritating at times. I put up with the physical limp because I'm still walking, still getting from one place to another, and that's what counts. I'm not just sitting there, and that makes life tolerable. When it gets right down to it, perhaps the limp serves me well because it keeps me from moving too fast . . . and we all want to go fast. Going slow allows you time to look around, pay attention, and maybe learn something. You miss a lot going fast.
I try hard to pay attention to what's going on in the society around me. I watch other people, so I'm aware that most people around me are also hard up against it sometimes. Life presents everyone with speed bumps, detours, and a whole helluva lot of little irritating chuckholes. And you can't just run through them; you've got to deal with them, and that means slowing down. Some folks like me call that slowing down process limping along. I hear quite about of talk about the fast pace of life, and most people tend to think that's America. We're the right now society, but that's mostly in our heads. Yeah, we want to get there in a hurry, but that usually doesn't happen. Our system just isn't set up to go fast.
Lack of money is a speed bump for some, or if you're lucky, maybe it's just a chuckhole. With me, it's often a detour, and sometimes it's a roadblock. I have a steady income, and I get bills paid. I don't really have a budget. My way of doing things is to start the race fast, then limp to the finish. In other words, I pay bills early, and then I quit spending money until more comes in. Sound familiar? Even if you carefully budget your monthly spending, you're still limping along. Don't worry about it. You might not be living the American dream, but you're sure living the American way. I'm not convinved that you can run down a dream, but you might be able to limp your way there.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Cats: The Real Pussy?
I'm a cat lover, which means I'm a real pussy hound in that regard. I love cats for sure, but I don't call them a pussy cat, or just a pussy because the word has been ruined by slang. Pussy might well be an good word had it not become associated with a woman's private parts, and that happened during the 19th century. If you look it up, you'll find that the word pussy came from low German or maybe Norse, but it didn't find a commn usage in English for a long time after that. And it's not usually used in regard to a feline critter . . . but rather for a female body part. Or more recently, a pussy has come to be a weak hearted person. Regardless of how you use the word, I like it. I don't call my cats that, and I don't use the word in conversations with women, but I have been known to call someone "a big pussy." That's because we've got lots of them around. Congress, for instance, is full of them. You don't have to go to Washington to meet a big pussy, though. Go to your local bank and ask for a big loan, and you'll meet one.
This blog isn't going to be about big pussies. It's about cats, my cats, and there's some purpose here other than cat talk. My day starts with cats and ends with them. I feed the house cats, the front porch cats, the back porch cats, and then drive across town to feed the shop cats. And I'm personally involved with all these cats, some of them still kittens. I didn't have a choice because they picked me, just showed up at my door (or doors) . . . all 30 of them. I'm convinced that there's a cat channel of communication out there. If you feed one stray cat, he goes back to the park or wherever he came from, and says, "Hey, guys, there's an old guy over there on Parkview Drive that puts out food. All you have to do is show up and act hungry." And across town at the shop, the same thing is going on. Go to the shop, hang around, and the old guy comes and puts out food.
Now, here's the bad thing about getting involved with cats that just show up. Sometimes they don't leave, and sometimes they stay and have kittens, and before long you've got a ton of cats hanging around. Then whatcha gonna do? Well, in my case, you buy lots of cat food. And, you pay lots of vet bills. And, you devote lots of time to making sure they're cared for. So, I've been told, "Well, dumbass, quit feeding them." Sorry, can't do that. I'm a sucker for animals, especially small animals. As long as I've got money, they'll get fed. And I'm doing my best to have them spayed and neutered to keep down the cat population some.
At the shop each morning, I'm greeted by Rusty and Big Mama, the two neighborhood females that keep me supplied with kittens. Street life is tough on kittens, and most of them die before they show up at my back door wanting food. If they're lucky enough to make it that long, I'll damn sure feed them. So outside at the shop I feed the two mama cats, two tomcats (Toby and Tinker), and two 3 month old kittens (Gizmo and Gidget). Inside the shop, I've got six cats, last spring's kittens now about 7 months old - Urkle, Yoda, Lionell, Muffin, Pekabo, and Lulu. I go back in the evening to feed them again, and I try to hang around each time to play with them some. With the weather getting cooler now, they'll see more of me during the daytime. That way I can let them outside for a while.
Yeah, I know, I sould like a pathetic old man who's got nothing to do but mess around with cats. And maybe I am, but I live by a simple code - what goes around, comes around. I could be a hardass and turn my back, just let the cats starve or go uncared for. Someone has got to care, and if I do nothing, that somehow comes back on me. The same is true concerning people, and that's the lesson I learn from the cats. Some of my cats are hard to deal with. I feed cats that won't allow me close to them, can't be petted. I've got one house cat like that - wants to be close, doesn't want to be touched. Just feed me and go away, that's her attitude. I've found that most needy people are also difficult to deal with at times. If you're expecting gratitude from some folks you help, forget it. When you help animals like that, or people like that, you can't get bogged down in your own needs. Do I need the gratitude? Sure, we all do, but I don't have to have it from every cat I help, and I don't need it from people I go out of my way to help.
And when you run across someone who is too consumed with his own affairs to help a needy animal or person, then you've met the biggest pussy of all. Myself, I'd rather hang around the real pussies, the cats.
This blog isn't going to be about big pussies. It's about cats, my cats, and there's some purpose here other than cat talk. My day starts with cats and ends with them. I feed the house cats, the front porch cats, the back porch cats, and then drive across town to feed the shop cats. And I'm personally involved with all these cats, some of them still kittens. I didn't have a choice because they picked me, just showed up at my door (or doors) . . . all 30 of them. I'm convinced that there's a cat channel of communication out there. If you feed one stray cat, he goes back to the park or wherever he came from, and says, "Hey, guys, there's an old guy over there on Parkview Drive that puts out food. All you have to do is show up and act hungry." And across town at the shop, the same thing is going on. Go to the shop, hang around, and the old guy comes and puts out food.
Now, here's the bad thing about getting involved with cats that just show up. Sometimes they don't leave, and sometimes they stay and have kittens, and before long you've got a ton of cats hanging around. Then whatcha gonna do? Well, in my case, you buy lots of cat food. And, you pay lots of vet bills. And, you devote lots of time to making sure they're cared for. So, I've been told, "Well, dumbass, quit feeding them." Sorry, can't do that. I'm a sucker for animals, especially small animals. As long as I've got money, they'll get fed. And I'm doing my best to have them spayed and neutered to keep down the cat population some.
At the shop each morning, I'm greeted by Rusty and Big Mama, the two neighborhood females that keep me supplied with kittens. Street life is tough on kittens, and most of them die before they show up at my back door wanting food. If they're lucky enough to make it that long, I'll damn sure feed them. So outside at the shop I feed the two mama cats, two tomcats (Toby and Tinker), and two 3 month old kittens (Gizmo and Gidget). Inside the shop, I've got six cats, last spring's kittens now about 7 months old - Urkle, Yoda, Lionell, Muffin, Pekabo, and Lulu. I go back in the evening to feed them again, and I try to hang around each time to play with them some. With the weather getting cooler now, they'll see more of me during the daytime. That way I can let them outside for a while.
Yeah, I know, I sould like a pathetic old man who's got nothing to do but mess around with cats. And maybe I am, but I live by a simple code - what goes around, comes around. I could be a hardass and turn my back, just let the cats starve or go uncared for. Someone has got to care, and if I do nothing, that somehow comes back on me. The same is true concerning people, and that's the lesson I learn from the cats. Some of my cats are hard to deal with. I feed cats that won't allow me close to them, can't be petted. I've got one house cat like that - wants to be close, doesn't want to be touched. Just feed me and go away, that's her attitude. I've found that most needy people are also difficult to deal with at times. If you're expecting gratitude from some folks you help, forget it. When you help animals like that, or people like that, you can't get bogged down in your own needs. Do I need the gratitude? Sure, we all do, but I don't have to have it from every cat I help, and I don't need it from people I go out of my way to help.
And when you run across someone who is too consumed with his own affairs to help a needy animal or person, then you've met the biggest pussy of all. Myself, I'd rather hang around the real pussies, the cats.
Cletus Duhon Books
He's a cowboy, rancher, adventurer, and storyteller . . . and he's not real. Oh, he's real in a literary sense because he's the cowboy voice of author Philip Martin Cawlfield. And there's a story there, too. Phil had gone on a brief vacation with his then girlfriend, an outing one Easter weekend, and ended up stopping off to visit with a friend in east Texas. He met a few interesting people and came away with a story, or at least a story line. Several months later he had written his first Duhon story, The Duck Ranch. That was just the start of what has turned into a series of novella length stories that are showing up in The Altos Cuentos Trail: The Adventures of Two Old Cowboys. The first two volumes of that series are out now in paperback, and more will follow.
But back to Cletus Duhon, the focus of this blog. Although he's just a pen name, Cletus has taken on an identification that makes him more than just part of the stories he writes. Phil created him as a voice for his cowboy stories, but he has used him extensively as a blogger. Perhaps that's what did it (give him a personification), but he's now got a history. I've Googled him several times and find that he's even got a criminal record, or at least you can conduct an internet search for one. He's got an address, phone number, and even a ranch (that doesn't exist either). So the question is this: In this digital age can you create a big as life character like that? Apparently you can.
I remember reading once about a group of students at a university who created a student. They got him registered and enrolled in classes. It took a team of students to work this ruse, but the got him up to being a junior before getting caught. They'd enroll him in a course, let's say English 101, then have one of the team members attend class and take tests for him. And they'd pick a team member who was good at that particular subject, and that's how they got caught. It seems this imaginary student ended up winning an award because his grades were high, and somebody had to show up to receive it. Professors started talking then, comparisons were made, and the jig was up at that point. I don't know exactly what point this team of students was trying to make, but they made at least one point. If you're clever enough, you can make the unreal appear to be real. And if you can do that, what's real turns out to be what people think it is.
Cletus Duhon seems real to readers because his name is on the books they read, and he's a character in the book. His narratives are always about what he's involved in, meaning first person or up close and personal . . .and that makes him more personal, more familiar, and more real. When it gets right down to it, I'm not real either, at least by name. D. Paz Dalton is also a pen name, with the man behind the pen being the same author who created Cletus - Philip Martin Cawlfield. I sometimes wonder if this is wise. Perhaps it would've been better to keep that secret, to just allow people to think we actually exist. But sooner or later someone would recognize how much alike we all look, that we have the same address and all that. And as writers, there are differences between us - different voice, different style, and different stories to tell. And it's fun. Today I'm D. Paz Dalton, writing about Cletus Duhon. I'm OK with that, and I'm not crazy . . . yet.
But back to Cletus Duhon, the focus of this blog. Although he's just a pen name, Cletus has taken on an identification that makes him more than just part of the stories he writes. Phil created him as a voice for his cowboy stories, but he has used him extensively as a blogger. Perhaps that's what did it (give him a personification), but he's now got a history. I've Googled him several times and find that he's even got a criminal record, or at least you can conduct an internet search for one. He's got an address, phone number, and even a ranch (that doesn't exist either). So the question is this: In this digital age can you create a big as life character like that? Apparently you can.
I remember reading once about a group of students at a university who created a student. They got him registered and enrolled in classes. It took a team of students to work this ruse, but the got him up to being a junior before getting caught. They'd enroll him in a course, let's say English 101, then have one of the team members attend class and take tests for him. And they'd pick a team member who was good at that particular subject, and that's how they got caught. It seems this imaginary student ended up winning an award because his grades were high, and somebody had to show up to receive it. Professors started talking then, comparisons were made, and the jig was up at that point. I don't know exactly what point this team of students was trying to make, but they made at least one point. If you're clever enough, you can make the unreal appear to be real. And if you can do that, what's real turns out to be what people think it is.
Cletus Duhon seems real to readers because his name is on the books they read, and he's a character in the book. His narratives are always about what he's involved in, meaning first person or up close and personal . . .and that makes him more personal, more familiar, and more real. When it gets right down to it, I'm not real either, at least by name. D. Paz Dalton is also a pen name, with the man behind the pen being the same author who created Cletus - Philip Martin Cawlfield. I sometimes wonder if this is wise. Perhaps it would've been better to keep that secret, to just allow people to think we actually exist. But sooner or later someone would recognize how much alike we all look, that we have the same address and all that. And as writers, there are differences between us - different voice, different style, and different stories to tell. And it's fun. Today I'm D. Paz Dalton, writing about Cletus Duhon. I'm OK with that, and I'm not crazy . . . yet.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Pontotoc, Texas
I write stories about rural America and small towns most of the time. Maybe that comes from my background as a teacher. One of my favorite courses to teach was a rural sociology course, and I usually turned it into a discussion class with quite a few field trips. I'd load students into a school van, and we'd head for the boonies to take a look at a one room school, or a feedlot, or a dairy, or perhaps even a ranch. I wanted kids to understand that there's more to living in this country than city living, and I did that with some purpose in mind.
We've got over 300 million people living in the U.S., and most of them live in cities. In fact, something like 90 percent of our population lives in less than 10 percent of our land area, and that leaves lots of empty spaces out there that have become neglected areas. I could go on and on about this neglect, but that's not what this blog is about. My point is that we should not overlook rural areas because this is still the heart of America. Perhpas it's true that the brains of the country live in cities, but if the heart stops pumping, the brain dies. It's a simple as that. When small towns die, we lose something important.
I live in a town of about 5,500 people, but that's not at issue here. Out in the countryside here in the hill country of central Texas, we have lots of small burgs - tiny villages, just wide spots in the road. It's easy to miss them, even easier to ignore them, but we shouldn't lose sight of them. My friends Alphonse and Martha Dotson are in the grape business. They own and operate a vineyard in Voca, Texas, and that's about 13 miles from where I live. Voca is one of those tiny towns, but it's perfect for a vineyard. Down the road, that would be highway 71, there's another tiny village called Pontotoc, and something remarkable is happening there. I don't know the exact population of Pontotoc, but I'd be surprised if more than 100 people live there. At one time, and that would be a long time ago, there was a school there, built by the man who first settled the place. All that remains of that school are some stone walls, and there's not much to the business section of town. There's a small Thrift Shop, and then there's what once was downtown Pontotoc. It's just one building - a long rectangular building divided into four or five sections.
At one time this little village had a post office, a theater, and several businesses. But that was quite a while back, and the building has been shut and vacant . . . until recently. Then a man with some vision for Pontotoc showed up and bought property, including the building that once housed the few businesses in town. He bought a historic old house and restored it, and he set about creating a vineyard and winery. The old business district is being restored. It already has the winery up and running, there's a tasting room, and the theater is being refurbished. And, my friends Alphonse and Martha Dotson will have a home there for their wine products. In short, the smal downtown area of Pontotoc is coming alive again, and that's good for everyone.
I'll write more later about Pontotoc and the people behind the restorations there. And I posted some pics to show what's going on.
We've got over 300 million people living in the U.S., and most of them live in cities. In fact, something like 90 percent of our population lives in less than 10 percent of our land area, and that leaves lots of empty spaces out there that have become neglected areas. I could go on and on about this neglect, but that's not what this blog is about. My point is that we should not overlook rural areas because this is still the heart of America. Perhpas it's true that the brains of the country live in cities, but if the heart stops pumping, the brain dies. It's a simple as that. When small towns die, we lose something important.
I live in a town of about 5,500 people, but that's not at issue here. Out in the countryside here in the hill country of central Texas, we have lots of small burgs - tiny villages, just wide spots in the road. It's easy to miss them, even easier to ignore them, but we shouldn't lose sight of them. My friends Alphonse and Martha Dotson are in the grape business. They own and operate a vineyard in Voca, Texas, and that's about 13 miles from where I live. Voca is one of those tiny towns, but it's perfect for a vineyard. Down the road, that would be highway 71, there's another tiny village called Pontotoc, and something remarkable is happening there. I don't know the exact population of Pontotoc, but I'd be surprised if more than 100 people live there. At one time, and that would be a long time ago, there was a school there, built by the man who first settled the place. All that remains of that school are some stone walls, and there's not much to the business section of town. There's a small Thrift Shop, and then there's what once was downtown Pontotoc. It's just one building - a long rectangular building divided into four or five sections.
At one time this little village had a post office, a theater, and several businesses. But that was quite a while back, and the building has been shut and vacant . . . until recently. Then a man with some vision for Pontotoc showed up and bought property, including the building that once housed the few businesses in town. He bought a historic old house and restored it, and he set about creating a vineyard and winery. The old business district is being restored. It already has the winery up and running, there's a tasting room, and the theater is being refurbished. And, my friends Alphonse and Martha Dotson will have a home there for their wine products. In short, the smal downtown area of Pontotoc is coming alive again, and that's good for everyone.
I'll write more later about Pontotoc and the people behind the restorations there. And I posted some pics to show what's going on.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Loneliness: The Heart Stopper
Cancer killed my mother. A stroke killed the only aunt I was ever close to. Heart disease killed my two best friends and my father. I could go on and on, but it's like my mother once said. "Everyone dies from something." Occasionally I'll see statistics about the killers of most people, things such as heart attacks, cancer, flu, and so on. I never one time have seen loneliness listed as a killer, but it is. It will never go on a death certificate as the cause of death, but it is responsible for the deaths of quite a few people.
We've all experienced spells of loneliness. Everyone knows what it feels like to be lonesome, but that's a different thing. Lonesome is an active thing, something that comes on a person when they spend too much time alone. There's an easy fix to lonesome, but dealing with loneliness is something more demanding and difficult. I find myself getting lonesome from time to time, and that's when I seek out someone to visit with. An old fart like me can always find another old man willing to swat tall tales with him, or at least I can. But I can't get over being lonely for people and things and places no longer around. I can't pick up the phone and call my mom, can't run across town and visit with a friend who died ten years ago. I can't go back to the town where I was raised because like me, it grew up and changed.
I can't go to a drive-in movie theater or even look forward to seeing a caboose on a train. I can't go to a downtown drug store and buy a soda, and there's no old time hardware store around these days. Loneliness is a product of outliving the things you got used to, the people you loved, the places that changed or don't exist anymore . . . and it's a killer. Old people like me have to fight off this loneliness, find ways of dealing with it, or it will eventually lead us to something sociologists call disengagement. We'll pull away, or pull back into a shell because we don't understand or like the world around us anymore. We have to fight back, or loneliness will eventually be a heart stopper. We'll reach a point where we just don't want any more of it.
I hate cell phones with a passion, but I have one. I don't like computers either, but I spend up to eight hours a day sitting at one. I can't get by without these things anymore, but that doesn't keep me from feeling like I've been left behind. The train of modern digital conveniences pulled out of the station while I was still in the bathroom. I'm surrounded by digiheads, tecno-retards, electronic gizmo button pushers, and brain dead doodadders. My vehicle holds me hostage ever time I get into it because I can't trust a machine that talks to me, and worse yet makes me do what it wants to do. My wife loves it, has our cell phones programmed with its system . . . and now the damn car is calling up people for me. Yeah, I get in the thing and a voice says, "What do you want?" And I say, "Who the hell is this?" And the voice says, "It's Craig. You just called me." And then I have to sound like a total fool and say, "No, that was Dotson (that's my Explorer's name) calling. I'd let you talk to him, but he's driving right now." It's a killer, I tell you . . . a sure enough heart stopper.
I wonder if anyone ever blew their head off over a cell phone, or over an automobile computer system. Lots of people have been killed using them while driving, but I've never heard of anyone killing themselves over some infernal contraption. I'm sure it has happened, but I've never been that desperate due to frustration that comes from dealing with a contraption. But I can see it coming. The doors to my vehicle automatically lock when you put it in gear and start to drive. I'm accustomed to the sound now, and I don't mind it. But some day I'll get in, the doors will lock, and a voice will say, "Sorry, Phil, but your time's up. This is a call from God, so please pull over and accept your fate. We wouldn't want you hurting anyone, would we now?"
I'm thinking of finding the fuse box on that vehicle and taking out some fuses, but I'd still have the damn cell phone. I'm living a digital bad dream, and I want to wake up. I'm lonely, dammit! I want to wake up in a time and age I understand, but we all know that won't happen. As bad as I hate it, I'm going to have to go digital. Da, dit, da, dit, da, dit!!!
We've all experienced spells of loneliness. Everyone knows what it feels like to be lonesome, but that's a different thing. Lonesome is an active thing, something that comes on a person when they spend too much time alone. There's an easy fix to lonesome, but dealing with loneliness is something more demanding and difficult. I find myself getting lonesome from time to time, and that's when I seek out someone to visit with. An old fart like me can always find another old man willing to swat tall tales with him, or at least I can. But I can't get over being lonely for people and things and places no longer around. I can't pick up the phone and call my mom, can't run across town and visit with a friend who died ten years ago. I can't go back to the town where I was raised because like me, it grew up and changed.
I can't go to a drive-in movie theater or even look forward to seeing a caboose on a train. I can't go to a downtown drug store and buy a soda, and there's no old time hardware store around these days. Loneliness is a product of outliving the things you got used to, the people you loved, the places that changed or don't exist anymore . . . and it's a killer. Old people like me have to fight off this loneliness, find ways of dealing with it, or it will eventually lead us to something sociologists call disengagement. We'll pull away, or pull back into a shell because we don't understand or like the world around us anymore. We have to fight back, or loneliness will eventually be a heart stopper. We'll reach a point where we just don't want any more of it.
I hate cell phones with a passion, but I have one. I don't like computers either, but I spend up to eight hours a day sitting at one. I can't get by without these things anymore, but that doesn't keep me from feeling like I've been left behind. The train of modern digital conveniences pulled out of the station while I was still in the bathroom. I'm surrounded by digiheads, tecno-retards, electronic gizmo button pushers, and brain dead doodadders. My vehicle holds me hostage ever time I get into it because I can't trust a machine that talks to me, and worse yet makes me do what it wants to do. My wife loves it, has our cell phones programmed with its system . . . and now the damn car is calling up people for me. Yeah, I get in the thing and a voice says, "What do you want?" And I say, "Who the hell is this?" And the voice says, "It's Craig. You just called me." And then I have to sound like a total fool and say, "No, that was Dotson (that's my Explorer's name) calling. I'd let you talk to him, but he's driving right now." It's a killer, I tell you . . . a sure enough heart stopper.
I wonder if anyone ever blew their head off over a cell phone, or over an automobile computer system. Lots of people have been killed using them while driving, but I've never heard of anyone killing themselves over some infernal contraption. I'm sure it has happened, but I've never been that desperate due to frustration that comes from dealing with a contraption. But I can see it coming. The doors to my vehicle automatically lock when you put it in gear and start to drive. I'm accustomed to the sound now, and I don't mind it. But some day I'll get in, the doors will lock, and a voice will say, "Sorry, Phil, but your time's up. This is a call from God, so please pull over and accept your fate. We wouldn't want you hurting anyone, would we now?"
I'm thinking of finding the fuse box on that vehicle and taking out some fuses, but I'd still have the damn cell phone. I'm living a digital bad dream, and I want to wake up. I'm lonely, dammit! I want to wake up in a time and age I understand, but we all know that won't happen. As bad as I hate it, I'm going to have to go digital. Da, dit, da, dit, da, dit!!!
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