My Path

Once trodden now gone barren

Neath arms of the forest,

A path lies hidden

Its visage long surrendered to emerald carpet

Life returns.

Unshod I wander

Earths pulse below me

Each pace fortified

Living energy compels

Tomorrow’s battles

Won today

Yesterday’s sorrow yet lingers

Memories to teach

Lessons unlearned.

The future unknown

Tomorrow not yet today

New trials to meet

No advantage from the scale

I face the rising sun.


There is a special place within my mind where none may enter but me. It’s a haven rife with color and life yet devoid of human eye – save mine.

Its mid-autumn, the beginning of the Cleansing Time when Nature, in her wisdom begins to sweep away that which must reincarnate to nourish the earth below me. While I, seated upon an outcrop mere feet above crystal clear brook watch rafts of amber, crimson and ochre drift lazily to the vermillion lake. My back resting within the arms of aged oak – I feel its life flow and hear its wisdom upon the wind.

Around me, life scurries and flies in preparation for the Resting Time when all things shall dream of tomorrow. I hear the winged ones calling their friends to travel while the four legs prepare dens and burrows for the long sleep. The six and eight legs now long hidden awaiting the warm days to return.

The air is brisk with scents of the forest – reminders that life continues.

Here, in my solitude the pains of my body may not enter while the pains of my mind begin to heal for this is my Crying Time. The tears of my shame and lost memories will join the crystal waters of the brook, perhaps to be carried away upon the rafts of another time.

It is my Healing Time!


Politically correct is:

The art of not insulting anyone by thought, word or deed.

The ability to tell someone to go to hell and make them happy to be on their way.

The skill to recognize you’re already in hell.

The conviction to realize those who sent you to hell are politically incorrect.

Therefore, the politically correct are incorrect to assume that being politically correct can only be mandated by those who are actually not politically correct but feel they are politically correct because they, and only they deem it appropriate.

In summation – “Political Correctness is just another lie.”


EINSTEIN…. E = mc2

Einstein developed proof of this remarkable formula:

Energy = Mass x Speed of Light squared.

Another lesser known of Einstein’s formulas determined: 

If you were to strip naked and run around in a circle at the speed of 298 KM/sec (the speed of light) it could be possible for you to screw yourself!

Should you determine you are not physically capable of achieving that speed at your age, you can easily accomplish the same result by voting Democrat in the Nov. 8, 2016 election.

Author Unk


Dr. Howard Moskowitz and the Tomato Sauce

“…His next client is even more important – The Campbell Soup Company. This is where Howard made his reputation. Campbell Soup made Prego, the trade mark brand name pasta sauce, which was struggling against Ragu Sauce, in the 70s and 80s. Now it is quite well known in the industry that Prego is a much better sauce, with its perfect mixture of spices and the fact that it blends beautifully with pasta, as was proven by the famous bowl test. But despite this, they were in trouble, and that is when Howard came to the rescue. What he did to this ‘dead tomato sauce’ was that he went to the Campbell Soup kitchen and made over 45 different varieties of tomato sauce, and he varied them in every way that you could possibly think of – sourness, level of garlic, tartness, what have you. He took these sauces to New York, Chicago etc., sat truckloads of people down into a hall with a bowl of pasta for each with his varieties of sauce and asked them to rate on a scale of 0 to 100 about how good they thought the sauce was.

Now, after months of this activity, he had a mountain load of data about how the American people feel about spaghetti sauce. Now would he look for the perfect pasta sauce? No, Howard doesn’t believe that there can be only one. Instead, he grouped this data into clusters to see if a pattern emerges, and it sure did. He found that there are three types of Americans when it comes to spaghetti sauce – there are people who like it plain, those who like it spicy and those who like it “extra chunky”. The third type – “extra chunky” sauce was nowhere to be found in the American supermarkets of the 1980s.

So the revelation was that there are one-third of Americans who crave for “extra chunky” sauce, yet no one is servicing their needs! And then, the “extra chunky” line of sauces that Prego came up with earned them $600 million over the next ten years.

         Once everyone else in the industry realized this, we started having 7 different kinds of vinegar, 14 different kinds of mustard and 71 different kinds of olive oil. Guess what, Ragu eventually hired Howard to do the same for them, and what we ended up getting was 36 different red sauces in Germany, in six varieties, one of which was "extra chunky". That is Dr. Moskowitz's gift to the world. It has changed the way the food industry things about making us 'happy'." Tanuj Nabar, Executive Officer - Marketing at Huhtamaki, Linked In.

Personally, I prefer to chunk my own smooth Marinara sauce.

Did Dr. Moskowitz start a revolution? Yes would be a good guess.

Did Dr. Moskowitz’s revolution change things for me?

`     I don’t go shopping anymore, I go guessing! It’s serious guesswork too!

Is shopping stressful for me? Yes and no. The major portion of my shopping is for food. How do I get the best quality for the least money? Does the generic taste as good as the name brand? Can I make lasagna with turkey instead of beef?

While those choices sound simple enough add in one more consideration into the mix.

Can I afford to experiment on my fixed income?

Shopping for clothing is, for me at least fairly easy. Because of my biceps and waistline, I am forced to shop in the big and tall men’s section. If I can’t find what I want, I do not buy what I won’t or can’t wear. Finding something that fits and that I like is the stressor.

It can be depressing at times because who wouldn’t love to always look their best? I mean, come on to strut the beach in Speedos but the reality is Speedos are for young men, not old dudes. Alas, poor body I once knew you so well.

My choice is, I’ll stay home because the sun is not good for my complexion. (Lame)

When I was a kid back in the 1950-60s it was easier to buy clothes, at least for boys. Levi’s were in along with flannel shirts, white socks and black leather belt. I think the boy’s department had only one aisle while the girl’s department had sixty-three, or more. It is no wonder I remember a lot of “I won’t wear that” screams from their direction.

Are there too many choices now? From my standpoint, yes. Too many choices means too many options which equates to the manufacturer having to price products based on material cost, labor cost, shipping and waste allowances for styles and sizes that don’t sell.

I am paying extra for my Levi jeans because no one wants to buy the Armani jeans with rhinestones on the zipper. Too many choices equates to too much waste in almost everything we purchase and suppresses creativity. We tie-dyed, cut holes in our jeans by ourselves (through work primarily) and took old shirts, cut off their sleeves and made muscle shirts.

Thanks for nothing Dr. Moskowitz!

How Do I Know?


Refugee v Immigrant v Invader

In this age of turmoil the Americas, Europe and Scandinavia are confronted with a dilemma of unprecedented and urgent need thrust upon them from several directions by fanatical religious organizations and corrupt governments that are brutally competing for control in the Middle East. All to what end?

On the battlefields and city streets opposing forces strive for dominance by killing, maiming and butchering other combatants and innocents – so called collateral damage. In some instances, the murder of innocents is choreographed for sheer terror effect. For what reason?

These are not battles for water or food nor are they for land and resources! These are battles for power, control, dominance and supremacy over minds and bodies, the greatest treasures I can think of.

There are those who would try to equate events of today with those during the Nazi era and WWII. They may be correct up to a certain point, after all in the beginning Hitler was adulated as the savior of Germany but it ended when the German forces suffered defeat after defeat against allied powers. But before that happened, he was able to systematically murder millions of people he felt unworthy of life. His motivation? He saw them as inferior and there, at least for me the similarity starts to come apart.

The radicals on both sides of the coin in the current Middle East conflicts are using precisely orchestrated and publicized murder and mass murder as a psychological weapon to defeat the minds of both their enemies and the innocents. Terror, pain and horrible death awaits those who would defy the new order.

Thanks to the ineffectiveness of governments who have declared against this evil tide but done very little a tsunami of humanity is on the move. Daily, thousands of innocent people rush towards safe borders to escape the pain and suffering of starvation, thirst and brutality. Risking everything for a better tomorrow they walk carrying their young, infirm and aged, perhaps to reach the green horizon before death overtakes them.

These people are refugees: “A person who owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group or political opinion, is outside the country of his nationality and is unable or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country; or who, not having a nationality and being outside the country of his former habitual residence as a result of such events, is unable or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to return to it.” Refugee Council, PO Box 68614, London, E15 9DQ. They’ve fought the hard battle to get to the hope of safety and a future but there is still one more step – asylum.

The Oxford Online Dictionary defines asylum as: “the protection granted by a nation to someone who has left their native country as a political refugee.”

Another term often heard if “Asylum Seeker”. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees position is:

    “The terms asylum-seeker and refugee are often confused: an asylum-seeker is someone who says he or she is a refugee, but whose claim has not yet been definitively evaluated.”

    I strongly believe in this position so long as it’s a women, children, elderly
and the infirm first formula but from what I’m seeing and reading it is tragically not.

“Senator Cruz speaks to the makeup of the so-called refugees, noting that one estimate pins the percentage of military/terrorist age males among the population at 77% and notes the likelihood and reports that there are a significant number of ISIS terrorists included in their ranks.”

    Do we stop this influx by adopting an immigration only policy?

Immigration is the movement of people into a destination country to which they are not native or do not possess its citizenship in order to settle or reside there, especially as permanent residents or naturalized citizens, or to take-up employment as a migrant worker or temporarily as a foreign worker.” Wikipedia

Immigrant is defined by the Oxford Dictionary as “a person who comes to live permanently in a foreign country.” Although there is a difference if duration of residence between the definition of Immigration and Immigrant both would seem to apply.

I believe that immigration is an earned privilege and the only people with a legitimate position against it are the First Peoples – indigenous people. Unfortunately for them, they had a non-existent immigration policy, a misfortune that has cost them dearly over the centuries. That is my fear now!

Certain members of our government have determined that we should accept illegal immigrants, forgive them their crime and offer them the same benefits our needier citizens get. Furthermore, they want to import “refugees, asylum seekers” and immigrants from the Middle Eastern conflicts and do the same sans any legitimate form of vetting process. As part of that process they are bowing to the questionable demands for religious exceptions such as not wanting to be fingerprinted, no photographs and no background checks. This making a complete mockery of our national security and lawmakers.

What is my point?

Is this an infiltration of invaders? If so, covert identities are important.

“Invader”, the last word in my title is defined by the Oxford Online Dictionary as: “a person or group that invades a country, region, or other place…”

“As a member of the true religion [Islam], I have a greater right to invade [others] in order to impose a certain way of life [according to Sharia], which history has proven to be the best and most just of all civilizations. This is the true meaning of offensive jihad. When we wage jihad, it is not in order to convert people to Islam, but in order to liberate them from the dark slavery in which they live.” Saudi legal expert Basem Alem, March 2009.

How many of these “refugees” are answering this call?

One of the national news TV stations just showed another video of what they referred to as “refugees” landing on the shore of a Greek Island in a large, inflatable rubber boat similar to ones I’ve seen in military training articles. What was most interesting to note was that with the exception of two healthy looking young females the boat was filled with several well-built and healthy appearing young, healthy men in their late teens to early thirties. I got a little jealous of the nice clothing and expensive looking cell-phones they were using to take selfies but that stuff is for younger people not us old guys.

I have to admit, I did start to wonder what I would do if I met one of these people on the street. I like to be polite so I’m wondering do I call him Sir, Mr. Refugee or say welcome immigrant or do I report an invader? It all seems so confusing to me.

My fear is not making the correct choice before it’s too late.


Your loving adopted son.

Sunday, three A.M. a full moon illuminates a forest alive with night creatures. Their eyes aglow as if in wonderment as our emergency beacons pierced their world. Only the sounds of our engine broke the silence as we raced through the night. No need for the siren. We were ten miles from nearest major road, fifteen from any community and hadn’t seen another vehicle since leaving the hospital garage.

My partner, a trainee scanned the road ahead for sign of our contact, while I wondered what we were rushing into.  Our only information was a call received by the dispatcher requesting an ambulance to an isolated rural area. The caller did not reveal the nature of the emergency and his location directions were vague. He said someone would meet us on the main highway. That made me nervous! I decided to radio the dispatcher for police assist. Unfortunately for us, that meant a town constable at home in bed twenty miles away. On the plus side, the dispatcher at the time was my wife.  As she still liked me back then, she decided to request assistance from the Sheriff’s office and two other police departments from adjacent jurisdictions.

Suddenly, headlights flashed in front of us. A large, dark car pulled out from the shoulder of the road, its driver waving frantically as he turned onto a narrow, gravel township road forming a dust cloud between us.

Maintaining a safe distance back, we followed the dust cloud at a slower speed allowing my partner time to note any landmarks he could radio to the dispatcher.

Abruptly, the dust dissipated revealing the dark car with its mysterious driver stopped next to a grassy open area.  A dirt drive wound its way up to what appeared to be an old basement dwelling set a good eighty yards from the main road.  We stopped a few feet behind him.  As I exited our rig in an attempt to approach and question the driver he silently pointed toward the dwelling then sped off down the gravel road.

My attention turned to the dwelling. It was built into a low knoll, had large front windows and, thankfully, was well lit both inside and out.

“Something is missing!” I whispered. “No vehicles, people, dogs or movement.”

Slowly we inched our way up the drive. When almost parallel to the dwelling, it made a sharp right to an exterior wood frame, enclosed stairway atop the knoll. There, in the glare of our floodlights lay the body of a woman. Dressed in a blood stained, pale green nightgown, her head turned away from us, she appeared to be sleeping, but it was an illusion. An obvious gunshot entry wound to the back of her head told a different story.

Immediately, my instincts and training took control.

“Shut off all our lights, give me the radio and get your ass out of this rig now!” I yelled to my partner. “Hide in the woods beyond the tree line!” Next thing I knew he was running fast and low towards a large pine tree.

I radioed the dispatcher, “We have a D.O.A with G.S.W.!  We need help fast!”  *

Now what do I do?  Sitting in a darkened ambulance, on a small rise next to an illuminated earth home I was a sitting duck. If the shooter was still there, one well aimed bullet could have hit me or the large oxygen tank and I’m history.

What if there are more victims inside? What if they’re still alive? Call it brave or insane, I had to know. It was my job to save lives.

Flashlight in hand, I made my way through the shadows to the stairwell. Standing to one side, I held it high above my head to disguise my position and true size as I peered through the door. Looking down inside, I saw a single, bare bulb ceiling light, a child’s bicycle in a corner and a second body at the foot of the stairs. Like the woman’s, it was face down in a pool of dark, clotted blood. It was a man with a gunshot exit wound in the back of his head.

The bicycle – is there a child here?

Against all policy, I descended the stairs, stepped over the man’s body and entered the living room to a scene of rage and anger. Furniture overturned, appliances broken, dishes shattered and personal items everywhere but no child.

Cautiously I searched the remaining rooms. I saw a life style of modest income and means but no child or other bodies. I was relieved.

Retracing my path, I exited the house to call in what I’d seen. As I reached the radio to give the dispatcher update, the dark car returned. As if in slow motion, it appeared on the gravel road and turned onto the grassy area in front of the dwelling.

Cutting my report short, I waited and watched. The car stopped and the headlights went dark. The only light was from the dwelling and beautiful, setting full moon.

I could hear the radio in the ambulance. The dispatcher telling me the closest police unit it still fifteen minutes from our location.

Estimating the distance from my position to the car at forty yards, I realized I didn’t have a lot of options.

I saw one person, the driver sitting behind the wheel staring at the house seemingly ignoring me.

Was this a neighbor, friend, relative, curiosity seeker or…?

I had to know! I couldn’t be out here in the middle of the wilderness trapped by my own fears.

Heart in throat, I walked to the car while keeping my flashlight trained directly at his face.  I got within ten feet, when he suddenly turned on the interior dome light and looked at me. He was young, late teens, early twenties, long black hair, average size and scruffy appearing. He had a strange, peaceful look on his face, a calmness as though his burdens were gone.

As I attempted to talk to him, I visually searched the interior of the car with my flashlight. He had no less than eight guns and what appeared to be hundreds of rounds of ammunition strewn over the seats.

He asked me, “Are they dead?”

I believe so.” I replied.

“Good!” he yelled as he slammed his foot onto the gas pedal and sped through the grass to disappear down the gravel road.

There was a return to silence as a soft glow in the east announced the rising of the sun.

It was going to be a beautiful Mother’s Day – for most.

G.S.W. = Gunshot Wound

D.O.A. = Dead on arrival

I lived this story.

Argument to Persuade

Argument to Persuade

    The sales pitch!

Personally, I feel some of the best persuaders (salespersons) in the world are Emergency Medical and Rescue personnel. Let me see if I can persuade you to agree.

Working ambulance in Minneapolis, we were called out late one evening to a person trapped under a car. An elderly blind woman was walking home from work late when a car backed out of a driveway hitting her, knocking her down then stopping on top with the hot muffler burning her back. Needless to say she was terrified but why? She only had a general idea of what a car looked like, had never seen the undercarriage of one and had nothing to compare the concept of a muffler to what was happening to her.

The rescue was risky, it was a black night and as the car was on an incline. If we tried to lift the rear end it might disengage and roll over her. She heard the rescue workers talking about it and her anxiety level shot to the top of the meter. She started to struggle and whimper in a vain attempt to escape. As Attending it was my job to care for her regardless of where she was, so I did.

I crawled under the car from the opposite side, took her hand in mine and starting talking with her. I introduced myself as if we were standing face to face, told her what I was doing and asked her a few diagnostic questions to ascertain her stability.

She was trembling and crying as she clung to my hand. Thankfully she was not bleeding profusely and had a good airway. It was impossible for me to check for fractures but she stated she didn’t think she had any. (Note: She was in a state of traumatic shock and may not have felt any even if there were)

Now, I’m not sure how many of you have ever lain on your stomach under a 1960s Cadillac sedan so I’ll tell you this, it’s creepy and noisy even when the motor isn’t running. Made us both nervous but I couldn’t show her any signs of it in my voice or movements. What did I do, I talked about son who had been born a few weeks prior. Seems strange hey? Well, my son had some issues when he was born and I was pretty worried about him so sharing my fears with her was a form of displacement. She gave me advice and her trust.

When it was time to get the car off of her, she became more anxious I reassured her that I would stay by her side through it all. She tried to argue with me because she felt that if the car came crashing down on me too, my son would lose a father. This told me she was transferring her fears to me effectively transferring her needs for safety to my son’s needs for a father.

The time came for them to remove the car. The Fire/Rescue captain lay down on the ground on the opposite side of her from me and told us what they intended to do. They were going put my side of the car up on blocks then have a hoist lift her side enough to get her out. Sounds scary hey? It was because there’s always a chance of a strap breaking, a failed calculation or even human error. She became a little agitated and more concerned about me but I assured her that if anything happened my kid would grow up and come kick some serious butt.

The process of setting the blocks was scary for her but I stayed and explained each and everything going on. Once my side had been raised about four inches they went to hers. This was more complicated explaining as she couldn’t touch anything and had no visual memories to draw from. She could, however feel the hands of the rescue team as they set the braces and hooks required to lift the car.

“Oh my, so many strong men!” she said. “Are any single?”

Told her I wasn’t a match maker but that’s see what I could find out.

When then informed us they were ready to lift, we were given protective eye wear and fire blankets to cover out heads. This made her more nervous and she clung tighter to me. I was talking to her about what she was going to do when we got out as the Rescue Captain gave me the silent signal they were going to lift. I warned her, pulled her head close to me and did my own silent prayer.

The noise of the winch and cable coupled with the snap, crackle and pop of the car was unnerving to say the least but I know a dozen members of the rescue squad were prepared to brace the car every inch of the way and they did. Once I could see light between the bottom of the car and her body I called stop and the blocks were shimmed in place. We were safe. The remainder of the process was sliding her onto a backboard and bringing her out.

She had minor injuries, dirty clothes and a demand for an invitation to meet my son.

My sales pitch worked – I persuaded her to trust us. We saved a life without further injury and my son got a third grandmother.

What really matters?

Lindsoe, R. Nyk

English 102


Dr. T. Rohman                 TED

“What Really Matters at the End of Life.”

BJ Miller

    WOW, this could not have come at a more inauspicious time for me.

I was born with a congenital defect of my lungs – they would not adhere to the chest wall for proper expansion during inhalation which resulted in a several spontaneous bilateral pneumothorax (lung collapse) episodes throughout my life. Due to the damage caused, my lungs are now beginning a shutdown process which cannot be reversed and, not being a viable candidate for transplant will eventually end in my death. This was tough but not unexpected news considering my age. I’ve outlived most of my family and now my time approaches.

Years ago I read a book called “Death: The Final Stage of Growth” by Dr. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and I became fascinated about the topic. I was able to use many of her suggestions when dealing with the dying and their families in my work as a Para-Medic.

I can remember one gentle man who was dying of colon cancer that had metastasized throughout his entire body except for his brain. He was in great pain and dreaded every time we had to pick him up and take him to the hospital for treatment. He and I became friends during these bi-weekly journeys and we would talk about family, kids, and his fears of what would happen to them after he was gone. He rarely spoke a word about dying until one day I asked him how he felt about dying. He said “I’m dead set against it.” The ice was broken and the tears flowed that day.

I visited with him as much as I could on and off duty until late one evening his wife called me at home to say he had gone to “sleep.”

“He left something for you. I would like you to be one of his pallbearers.”

I humbly accepted the honor.

At the ceremony at the cemetery his wife pulled me aside and handed me a handwritten letter. When she gave it to me she gave me a hug and said, “Thank you for helping him die on his feet.” A reference to my helping him get outside and actually stand for a few minutes. After being bedridden for several months it was an alien feeling for him.

I won’t cite everything that was in the letter but I will say this, he said “You helped me die like the man I always wanted to be. Thank you for caring, listening, crying with me and making treating me like a real person and not a patient.”

This man gave me more than I could have ever given him but I never told him. Perhaps one day, in the not too distant future he and I will be able to sit down together and talk once more.

Cloudless Sky

Tell tomorrow not to come

For yesterday left too soon

And today is not yet a memory.

So wandering

The mind holds free,

Thoughts of what was never to be

And dreams of tomorrow yet to see.

I did not succumb,

Nor did I die

I merely changed

To cloudless sky.