Bareing Arms - A Right & A Privilege

I've been hearing a lot of chit chat, whining, blustering, and filibustering lately about guns and bearing arms.  Here's an interesting point I picked up from Reuters news agency: 
"U.S. citizens own 270 million of the world's 875 million known firearms, according to the Small Arms Survey 2007 by the Geneva-based Graduate Institute of International Studies.  About 4.5 million of the 8 million new guns manufactured worldwide each year are purchased in the United States, it said."

That was in 2007.

310 million = Total number of non military firearms in the United States as of 2009.  Project those numbers, and that means that there are now over 350 million firearms in American citizens' hands, right now, in January 2013.

In 2011 34% of adults in the United States personally owned a gun; 46% of adult men, and 23% of adult women. In 2011 47% of the adult U.S. population lived in households with guns.

Imagine those numbers, if you will. 

I don't have a gun in my house.  I've owned guns, including a handgun which I used for target shooting, only.  When it became a liability by virtue of it's presence in my home, I sold it to a collector and made money on it.  Hooray for me, eh?

I was in the US Army, during the Vietnam conflict.  Hell yes, I had a rifle.  The Army said "weapons are for shootin' and guns are for fun".  Well, having the right tool for each job, is important.  I was expected, like my son who followed me in the military, to kill or be killed.  Probably both, eventually.  Folks, that's war.  That's where firearms are really a necessity.

Nowadays, I don't hunt.  I'm not looking to kill anyone, or be killed by anyone.  I don't have a firearm, for those reasons.  I simply don't need it.

I'm in favor of hunters, sportsmen, and hobbyists, target shooters, etc., having the right tools to ply their trade.  Our Constitution guarantees us, as American citizens, to have this right.  It should not be taken away, but not for the reasons that the NRA would have you to believe.

We don't have to have them in the house to protect ourselves from anyone.  First of all, the chance of anyone reading this article has of being assaulted, his house burgled while he's home, or attacked by a rabid murdering bastard, are nil.  It's not going to happen.  There were 114,825,428 households in the US as of the 2010 Census. There were 2,159,878 burglaries  Only 75 % of those were residential. = (approx) 1.5 million homes were burgled.  Realistically, your home has about 1:100 chance of getting broken into. 

Let's just say your house does get broken into at some point.  Most likely, you are not at home.  90% of burglaries happen when nobody is home.  Can you defend that with your gun, from work or vacation?

Another scenario:  It's the middle of the night.  The druggie down the block knows you have prescription drugs in your home.  Like every criminal does, he considers them his.  He walks in at 2:45 AM, catching you in deep REM sleep.  You are quickly taken out by a baseball bat to the noggin, and he removes your stash.  You get home from the hospital, and check your gun safe.  Yep, ole' "Bessie" is still in there, all safe and sound.  What did you expect?  You sleep upstairs, and the gun safe is in the basement, where the floor is strong enough to carry it's weight.

Here's some scenarios I love.  I know where I'd be with a gun under my pillow, protecting my middle-class abode and empty nest, from intruders.  Which one would fit you best?
 
Some 26 year old in need of cash to buy his next fix, breaks silently into my home in the middle of the night.  My faithful Labrador retriever wanders downstairs and scares the bejesus out of him with a wet lick to a dangling hand, as he traverses the dining room.  I realize the dog has left the room, because he left the door open on his way out, and go see what's up.  I hear the invader whisper "sit", to my faithful companion, and go back to my pillow for my trusty 357 Magnum, long barreled handgun.  It's six round cylinder is filled with heavy load, armor piercing bullets.  I creep down the stairs, but they creak.  Scenario 1, (A):  The burglar hears me coming, and heads for the door to make good his escape.  He gets away, and I round up the Lab who has followed him to his bicycle parked at the curb. Scenario 1, (B):  The burglar hears me coming.  As I hit the light switch, he greets me with a punch in the nose.  I fall, down and out for the count.  He spots my prize revolver, and takes it with him to sell for his next supply of drugs.  Another gun in the hands of criminals.  Scenario 2, (A):  The burglar hears me creaking down the stairs.  He is straight enough to remain calm and wait around the corner for me to appear.  As I enter the dining room, he grabs for the gun, illuminated by the flashlight in his left hand.  Decades younger and 30 pounds heavier, he takes the gun, pushes me down, and runs away.  I'm out a perfectly good weapon, and some crook has a reliable firearm all his own.  Scenario 2, (B):  He hears me coming.  He waits for me to hit the dining room, where he grabs me and we tussle.  I'm getting the upper hand, and suddenly he gets the gun pointed at my chest.  He squeezes the trigger, and 'game over' for Mr. Model Citizen.   Scenario 3:  this is the one you all dream about.  I come down the stairs undetected by the intruder.  I suddenly hit the light switch, catching him red handed, with my lap top in hand.  I tell him to drop it.  He throws it in my face, instead.  Now, I make one of two stupid life choices.  I shoot him, and call the cops  They praise my bravery and quick witted ability to take charge of my domicile and protect it to the limit.  The media makes me out to be a hero, and I'm on the CBS Morning News, chatting with Charlie and Nora.  Or:  Same scenario except I wing the bad guy.  He wheels and heads outside.  In the heat of the moment, adrenaline pumping, scared as I've ever been, I squeeze off another round as he runs down my steps.  He falls to the ground, dead, with a giant hole in his chest where the powerful projectile exited from the back shot.  The cops come.  I'm arrested for criminally negligent homicide, found guilty, and spend the rest of my life in a crowbar hotel.

You have a right to bear arms.  Are you really the best person to be bearing it?  Is it really necessary?  Not only is it unlikely that you'd ever have to, you can't defend your home with a gun.  Could you pull the trigger?  It's harder and a whole lot messier than you think, citizen.  Then, you have to live with it forever.  You don't want to go there.  Believe me.

We'll never see a time in the USA, where citizens are forbidden to bear arms.  It's simply responsible, to see that only those who are appropriate to have them, have them.  Gun control doesn't mean swooping down and taking honest, upright citizens' guns away.  That will never happen.  (For one reason, more citizens have more guns than the authorities will ever have, and you outnumber the authorities, by many thousands to one.)  But, if we can keep a small percentage of firearm mayhem from happening, "gun control" is worth it.

Trust the military and cops to protect you.  That's what your tax dollar is buying in the security department.  That's a "dead bang fact."

Happy New Year!

     As I write this, it's the first week of a shining new year.  There are 51 weeks of 2013 left.  It's a blank page!  We stand at the brink.  No matter who we are, or where we're coming from, we have a chance to write our own story.  We have the golden opportunity of making the best of the coming year that we are able to, within our individual limitations.

      I want to urge one and all, to join me in putting 100% of 2012, behind.  Whatever your successes or failures last year, it doesn't matter.  Don't gloat or dwell.  This is a chance to start fresh.  If  your past year was filled with triumph and successes, congratulations.  Think of the even bigger possibilities that are now available.  Success and achievement has given you the confidence and experience to really get out there and kick some ass!  Do it!

     If your life really sucked in 2012, take heart.  You're facing the same blank page as those who had a great year.  You too, have been given the opportunity to learn from your experiences.  Even if you consider them to have been failures.  Think about that a minute.  Do you really want to make those same old mistakes all over again?  Remember, one of the looser definitions of insanity is 'repeating an action over and over, and expecting a different outcome'.  So, I'll ask you:  Are you friggin' crazy?  Get it together.  Suck it up, and make use of this fresh start.  It's the same one everyone gets, and there's no charge!

     To all my friends, fellow bloggers, Trop Rockers, "The Shore" listeners, and even those who wish I'd just crawl off and croak.....  HAPPY NEW YEAR, Y'ALL!  HERE'S TO EVERY SUCCESS YOU HAVE THE WILES TO BEG, BORROW, OR STEAL!  

     One final thought.  Stolen successes are the sweetest!

Holiday Cheer

Merry Christmas, everybody!

It's that time of year when our heads are filled with mixed emotions.  We love to see the relatives bringing tons of gifts through the door.  That's a good thing.  The kiddies will be ecstatic for a few minutes, and occupied for a few minutes longer.  It's great to see Uncle Harry...it's been a year.  On the other hand that drum for the four year old, is getting old fast.  Uncle Harry is half loaded again.  How many times do you really need to see his belly-button sing the same filthy song it was singing last year?

It's okay, though.  No real harm is done, and they'll all be gone in a day or so.  The thing to keep your eye on, just may be that they cared enough to come and spend some time with you.  That six hour drive from DC, or Richmond, was way above what they could have done.  In a few more days junior will have trashed the drum, and peace and quiet will again settle over the homestead.  Uncle Harry will have taken Aunt Judy back home, and you'll be looking forward to next year.

So, deck the halls, don your gay apparel, roast up a turkey stuffed with giblets and bread crumbs, and fire up the electric fireplace.  Celebrate the love and companionship of those close to your hearts, and be of good cheer.  It's only once a year, and if it wasn't happening, you'd be one depressed, unhappy camper.

Keep the good thought.  Have a wonderful Christmas Time, and an Amazing New Year! 

JOY TO THE WORLD (Not just part of it)

"Merry Christmas" from Kona

There has started, on Facebook and other social media sites, the annual "bashing of Holiday Greetings" ritual. I believe in 'live and let live', including tolerating & accepting the prejudice and small-mindedness of others. They are who they are, and as long as they don't interfere with my life, I usually offer no opinion. If you're wondering where this is going, please read on.

I don't usually weigh in on social issues, but this is the one time of the year when I believe people should try to get a grip on their pettiness, narrow-mindedness, and prejudices. The truth is, that this IS the Holiday Season. Always has been, and hopefully, always will be. It is the SEASON of brotherhood, understanding, and sharing our bountiful gifts with others. ALL OTHERS. Not just those who look like us, or believe what we believe. Of all times of year, now is the time to exchange wishes, of good will and joy with all mankind. It's not about YOU. It's about mankind. Please bury your prejudices and give/accept ANY Holiday greeting offered. Putting aside our differences is the common thread of every holiday being celebrated during this all inclusive holiday season. HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO EVERYONE! Whatever your faith or nationality happens to call this blessed time of year.

If you see me on line, in line, or walking through the Worm Gear Mall, greet me any way you please.  I'll smile and return your greeting with a genuine Holiday Greeting of my own.  I'll try to tailor it to your preferences, but If I say "Happy Holidays", I hope you'll understand that a genuine expression of good will and friendship, are being extended to you and your loved ones.  

From me and my family,

Enjoy the best Holiday Season of your life!

The Pirate Who Sails On Land

by: Don “Da Pyrate” Winfield

© Pyrate Music, 2009

Sure, I wear an eye patch and a three cornered hat

Yer lookin' at 'em funny, but hey I'm not like that.

Yer lookin' at me plumage and me ruffled shirt

Be careful now matey, a sailor could get hurt.

When I come a-shore in yer little town

I'm plunderin' and pillagin', and bringin' yer house down.

I'm holdin' out me hand and brandishin' me sword

Carryin' on like a Pirate, and dancin' on the boards.

I'm grabbin' all yer booty, and chasin' all yer wenches

I ain't just watchin' you, I got some bad intentions.

I'm a Susquehanna Pirate, oh yes I arrrrrr!

I've never sailed the open seas

I came here in a car.

Come on, Give it up! GIVE IT UP!

I'm comin' for yer gold

Come on, Give it up! GIVE IT UP!

Before we all get old!

Sure! I wear an eye patch and a tri-corn hat,

Yer lookin' at 'em funny, but HEY, I'm not like THAT!

I'll whisk ye off to sea on a par-tee-ful night,

We'll feast 'til we drop, then have another pint

Yer grinnin' at me feathered hat and me ruffled shirt

Go easy on that matey, they're me pirate perks!

I'm here for yer booty, or press you into service

I'm a river Pirate, who's gonna make ye nervous

Grabbin' all yer booty, and chasin' all yer wenches

I ain't just watchin' you, I got some bad intentions.

I'm Susquehanna pirate, oh yes I arrrrrr.

I've never sailed the open sea,

I came here in me car

Come on, GIVE IT UP! GIVE IT UP!

I've come here for yer gold.

Come on, GIVE IT UP! GIVE IT UP!

Before we all get old.

Come on! GIVE IT UP! GIVE IT UP!

I'm commin’ for yer gold.

Come on! GIVE IT UP! GIVE IT UP!

Before we all get old.

NOTE:  This started out as a theme song for a club.  Rejected by that group, it evolved into a song about one person's care-free spirit, and penchant for piratical good times.  You can request the guitar chords, by using the 'comment' feature of this blog.  

For your viewing pleasure, two arrangements of the original song are available on YouTube: 

Rum Runners:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TYKhp-Z2NLw

Outer Reef:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lP-iYNXUHpI

I hope you enjoy it!  Arrrrrgh! 

DOMESTIC ABUSE AWARENESS MONTH

October is a month of awareness for many important health and societal issues. This month, as always, I am supporting Breast Cancer Research, and Domestic Violence Awareness. Domestic violence may not always be preventable, but can usually be stopped. Click on the link below, and see how you can be part of a solution to this tragic problem.  Join with concerned people everywhere, and make a difference for abused children and adults.

National Coalition Against Domestic Violence

www.ncadv.org

1.800.799.SAFE (7233)1.800.787.3224 (TTY)Memorial DonationsAlberta 

FACEBOOK PAGE
http://www.facebook.com/SupportNCADV

Summer Encore Music Fest

          THE ROAD TO 'SUMMER ENCORE'

                 AND BEYOND                       

     The road turned out to be long, and varied in pavement texture.  The past two years' ride, has been a wild, frightening, exciting, fun, and often bumpy one.   I'm talking horse drawn buckboard, bumpy.

     Part I:  Turn the key.

     I started this journey with an idea that seemed reasonable at the time.  I love the music genre' known as Trop Rock, and I love raising funds for my favorite charities.  It seemed reasonable (there's that word again) that I could blend the two into a cohesive unit, and do some good on both fronts.
     That's the last you'll hear of reason.  It turned out it never was part of the equation. 
     Adding up the above mentioned parts, I decided that holding a musical event for charity was the way to go.  I'd get a lot of Trop Rock musicians together, in Binghamton, NY, and raise a lot of money and awareness for my favorite charities.  The charities closest to my family's interests, and beliefs are:  *Wounded Warrior Project, **Humane Society, and ***Magic Paint Brush Project.  You'll find the urls for these great causes, at the end of this blog.
     The trip began when I finally decided it was something that could be done.  I mean, I was convinced that I could jump right into the mix, and make something happen.  Then, I had a shocking realization.  I knew nothing about either holding a Trop Rock event, or being a fund raiser, independent of a larger entity.  Alright, I'd participated in a few fund raising efforts, helping area sports teams, and the leaders of other charities, have events to benefit their causes.  How to go about raising funds as an independent effort?  No clue. 
     For many years, my wife and I have attended a lot of Trop Rock concerts and festivals for charity, and I decided that these events would be a good place for me to learn something useful.  I did, too.  I learned that the artists are wonderful people who want to help as many causes as they can, within their limited time constraints.  I learned that charity and musical events, take a lot of cooperation, among a focused group of people, to be successfully staged.  I also learned that a lot of what you "learn" on the surface, turns out to be less than accurate.
     For several months, my lovely, and patient, wife, traveled with me to Massachusetts, New Jersey, Connecticut, and Pennsylvania.  We enjoyed and, participated in, many Trop Rock fund raising events.  At each one, we talked with the organizers, artists, attendees, and bartenders/wait staff.  We wanted to gather all the information that may be helpful to my plan, that we could.  
     By Spring 2011, I thought I had all the information I needed to set the  event preparation gears, in motion.  I was a founding member, and a member in good standing, of the local Parrot Head Club.  They were Trop Rock lovers, one and all.  Who would be better suited than this group of phriends, to help stage the event. I'd partied, traveled, shared hotel rooms, and been friends, with this phlock, for several years.  But, there were hidden factors, within this group, I was unaware of.  More about that later.
     The proposal was made to the club, a meeting was scheduled, and a group was formed, to make my dream come true.  Well, friends.  It's possible, I've learned, that your dreams may not be as contagious as you think.  Maybe your ideas sound great to others, and they are enthusiastic as long as you are willing to make those ideas a reality, before their eyes.  They'll even give you plenty of room to work, and not get in your way.  I had twelve volunteers.  I soon found that there were only six of us who had the dedication, desire, and time, to make the concert/fund raiser come to fruition.  A couple of the other original committee members, had the desire to help, but little time to spare.  After delaying the change over way too many months, I decided that the six of us would soldier on alone, and way too late, left the others out of the loop.   I am now convinced that an earlier switch to the streamlined group, may have made a ton of difference in the outcome.  Trying to get that many people on the same page, was beyond my organizational skills.  It was not their fault, but mine for not knowing my own limitations.
     First we needed a date.  Then we needed an all-weather venue, which could host a two day show, and provide on site lodging for the artists and guests.  We found one locally.  The Binghamton Riverwalk Hotel & Conference Center was perfect.  It has a large ball room with a spacious and well equipped stage, for any musical act I may wish to present.  Once we contracted with them, we needed only to fill that stage for the now established, two day show.
     Very quickly, a combination of solo artists and bands, sixteen in all, were hired to play the event.  All were enthusiastic and looking forward to coming to Binghamton to play for the charities and adoring fans.
     Right from the start, we fielded an elaborate web presence.  Our web expert provided a beautiful website, with new information added, eventually.  We set up a facebook page, to promote the event to all the loyal fans who frequent that social media.  We had a dozen or so excellent sponsors, and a lot of generous businesses, signed up for our event brochure.  We were off and creeping.  
     We thought our journey was half over.

     Part II:  The downhill run.
  
     Long story short:  Here are some facts of life.  Most of the artists we'd hired, pushed "Trop Starz & Tiki Barz", on their web sites, and newsletters.  My hat is off to Loren Davidson, Dani Hoy, John Friday, Chris Sacks, David McKenney, Tropical Soul, Pirate Dreams, Frank Vieria, Mike Cadden, Harbour Knights, and Jimmy & the Parrots.  All mentioned us numerous times, and brought us to their fans' attention.  Possibly due to oversight, the other acts didn't.  
     Frustratingly, a local Parrot Head Club member continually countered our facebook posts, and Parrot Head emails, with ads, promos, and personal recommendations, for Trop Rock events elsewhere in the region.  I don't know if it hurt, but I'm sure it didn't help.
     Maybe July 6th and 7th in beautiful upstate New York are a bad time.  Maybe the economy is too depressed.  Maybe $75.00 tickets were too steep, for a 2 day show.  Maybe we just didn't strike a chord with the fan base.  For whatever reason, ticket sales stayed parked at the curb. 
     With thirty-one days to go before the event, we had to cancel.  We felt that was as fair as we could be to the acts, the ticket holders, and the sponsors.  We refunded all the tickets, returned the sponsorship money, and didn't get any of our deposits back from the acts who'd required one.  One act which hadn't required a deposit, because of our association with the local Parrot Head Club, demanded compensation for the scheduling change.  We gave them what we could, which wasn't all they'd asked.  All the money in the event account, had already been paid out in refunds.  No problem.  They deserved something for their kindness.  I dug into my pocket.

     Part III:  The rebirth.

     At first, a huge letdown, after all those months of intense planning and preparation.  Once we wrapped our heads around the disappointment of failure, the road ahead looked a lot smoother.
     A chance to breathe, for the first time in over eighteen months.  No artists to cheer up, and no sponsors to worry about giving good value for their investment.  No angry ticket holders to placate.  Life was easy for a change...I thought.  
     My confidant, and partner in foolish endeavors, Rick DeBacker, pointed out that The Riverwalk didn't/wouldn't refund our deposit!  Crap!  Just when life was good.  Rick had put up the deposit, which meant it was a total loss to him.  I offered to split his loss down the middle.  I'd already given money to the insistent, hold out band, "so what's a few hundred more?" I thought.
     "No," he said.  "I want them to earn that money." 
     "What's your idea," I asked.
     "What if we have another show?  A smaller one, and use that deposit up, in food?" he asked.
     "OK, let's do it.  We ought to be able to get some players to come.  Let me ask a few artists." I said.  Trinity Logistics, our biggest sponsor, and a generous fan/benefactor, had informed us that they would stick with us.  With those lucky breaks, just a small crowd would be enough to make it successful.
     The date was decided, and I asked Dani Hoy, David McKenney, and Jim Jowsey, my three top picks, to come.  All three said they would.  Then, all I had to do was line up the local Trop Rockers, to round out the show.  David Shoudy, of The Outer Reef Band, and the entire Susquehanna Rum Runners band, agreed to play.  We figured that five acts, over a seven hour period, would be a nice day of entertainment. "Summer Encore" was born.
     All the same arrangements as for "TSTB" were made.  We set up a Website, facebook event page, sent letters to the Parrot Head Clubs in the region, posted lots of bulletins on the appropriate facebook pages, Trop Rock sites, and blogs.
     Then, I took a wrong turn.  "What if we have a song writers forum after the 'Summer Encore' show?" I asked Rick. 
     The very generous Scott, from Mad Moose, agreed to host the after party at his Mad Moose House of BBQ & Wood Fire Pizza.  The wrong turn I made was into a dead end.
     It didn't occur to me that people would be too whipped after seven hours of Trop Rock, & Americana music, to go to a nine to one event, too.  
     The 'Summer Encore' crew and two loyal fans were all that turned up at the Mad Moose.  The artists didn't want to take up space in the restaurant, for such a small group.  They decided to play in the hospitality room we'd set up at the Riverwalk Hotel.  After a delicious meal at The Moose, we repaired to Room # 612.
     The acoustic music was fabulous, and the camaraderie was palpable.  The birthday cake for our two birthday celebrants, capped the night off, perfectly.
     
     Part IV:  The bottom line.

     The the 'Summer Encore' show was a success.  Funds were raised for Wounded Warrior Project, and the Binghamton Humane Society.  Trop Rock fans filled the Carlton Room with laughter and singing along to the music they love so well, and the cheer flowed all day.
     We were disappointed that we couldn't have the after party we wished for, and we know we let the Mad Moose down badly.  We hope Scott will let us make that up to him.  We will do our best to do so.  We were also sad that we had to drop the Magic Paint Brush Project from our beneficiary list.  A three way split, with such a downsized show would not have done justice to any of the charities.

     Epilogue:

     Headache, heartache, riotously humorous mishaps, downsizing to make the show fit the budget, all the amazing people who attended, and our super talented performers, made 'Summer Encore' a hell of a trip.
     Will Rick, I, and our astute money manger, Mike, ever stick the keys in the ignition for another wild Trop Rock ride?  As our Trop Rock guru, Jimmy Buffett, says, "only time will tell."


*Wounded Warrior Project - http://www.woundedwarriorproject.org
**Binghamton Humane Society- www.bchumaesoc.com
***Magic Paint Brush Project - www.magicpaintbrushproject.org

Even if you didn't make it to 'Summer Encore', please consider donating to any or all of these very worthwhile charities.  You will find donation information on their websites.  Thank you.

    

    
     
    

A FAMILY LOSS

I don't have a picture to put at the top of this blog.  I don't have words of wisdom, passed along by him, to help me deal with the things in life, a younger sibling follows the elder through.  What I have is a mental image of a 39 year old giant, with a serious look on his face.  In my mental image, he's packing up his life, three small children, and a dour wife, and flying off to Germany.  A career Enlisted man, he's taking the family to Europe, for a long deployment with the US Army.

Fast forward about thirty-five years.  The phone rings.  From the handset, I hear another brothers' voice.  I know it's bad news.  This brother never calls unless he has bad news to pass along.  When he says he's in El Paso, I know what that news is.  

I was a pre-schooler when my third oldest brother, the veteran mentioned above, became an adult and no longer lived in our family home.  He would occasionally stop by, but not for long, so I don't have fond memories of an older brother, that you'd expect a kid to have.  He's been dying of cancer, in El Paso, for the last couple of years.  Now, before the brother on the phone spoke, I knew the Texan had died.

This is not the time to air the strange relationship a couple of my brothers have had with we family members who've remained residents of upstate New York.  I will say, that the soldier, and the brother who follows him, chronologically,  on the branches of the family tree, decided decades ago, to separate themselves geographically, and emotionally, from the New York crowd.

I haven't seen him in over thirty-five years.  His choice.  Once, many years ago, I, my wife, and children, tried to visit him.  We were a few blocks away from his home, with an evening to kill in Washington, DC.  At that time, I hadn't seen him in nearly ten years.  I called him.  After a brief conversation, he said goodbye and gave me permission to call him again, if I was ever back in the area.

The brother calling with the bad news, and his wife, had taken a quickly arranged flight to Texas, the night before. He had been notified by one of the retired GI's children, that their dad had gone to the hospital. They thought that this would be his last trip.

I surmised, from events that subsequently unfolded, that my moribund sibling's progeny got quite a surprise, when they called their uncle to tell him their dad had died.  Surprise!  He was in El Paso, and was sorry he'd missed saying goodbye to his brother.

The reason I say that they were probably surprised by the news of his arrival, is that it seems that they didn't welcome his presence.  My brother's voice was thick with disappointment that he was not being welcomed by my late brother's family.  They wanted him to know that they had a grip on everything, and "the family" didn't need to do anything.  It was soon learned that  meant, even a family gesture of flowers for his funeral, would not be "necessary".

If I ever had any doubt, this set of circumstances drives home, that you truly do "reap what you sow".  My brother is dead.  I will never see him again.  What he sowed was the seemingly uncaring attitude of his children.  He most likely passed that, perhaps inadvertently, down to them.  They will probably never realize, even if they read this, that a gesture made upon someone's death, is not for the dead person, and possibly not even their children.  These postmortem gestures, are often to help the mourner deal with the loss, in their own way.  

I have decided, that I'm going to deal with it my way.  I'm going out and, buying a card of condolence.  I'm mailing it this morning, and it will be received by my brother's children.  His widow, I've just learned, is suffering extreme Alzheimer's Disease, so the children will be opening the mail.  Then, I'm going to follow the obituaries from El Paso, and send flowers, if not to a funeral parlor, to my brother's home.  

I feel no guilt, and the loss of my brother happened decades ago.  My gestures will simply make me feel like I've said "goodbye", in some small way, to a brother whom I never really knew.

Driving Upside Down

Ridin' down the road, about 65

The boys all laughin' and talkin' real loud

Only 5 in the Chrysler, 5's not a crowd

What's that tune? can't hear it too clear

Radio's under my butt, can't crank it from here

I go upside down, reaching under the seat

Gotta turn it up, that music so sweet.

What's that you say Billy?

We're gettin' off the straight and narrow?

Just be a second, hang onto the wheel

That's grindin' and crunchin' I feel?

Thought you were keepin' us straight.

Oh, the fender and grill got ripped off

Radiator's good...just drive the old crate.

THE FLOWER FARM

Here's a short short story contributed by Brazilian resident, and semi-expatriated American, Mel Chaplin, formerly of Binghamton, NY.  Enjoy!

The place was a flower and herb farm. It was early Spring, and they were just planting herbs in the greenhouse. Spring doesn't start 'til late May or early June, in Ithaca, NY. Some tulips, daffodils, and other bulbs, had already poked up through the earth. I was there to visit Becky. I was reminiscing about last summer, and the great time Josh and I had when we'd visited her.

Becky loved the farm. Working in the fields, she got to drive the old pick-up truck and tractor. Weekends, she worked at the farmers market, selling the current season's produce. She also arranged fresh and dried flowers, grown on the farm, for sale at the market. The fields, with row after row of flowers always needed tending. My previous visit had been during the sunflower harvest. I remembered how beautiful it was.

Most of the farm's crops were sold to florists and local grocery stores. A neighboring farm grew cherries. Millions of them grew in a secondary orchard that was used in case of a crop failure in the primary orchard. If there were no problems with the main crop, the ones in the secondary orchard were just left to rot on the trees. The cherry farm was a co-op, and Becky had permission to take what she wanted. It was June, and an idyllic day on the rural hillsides. In my mind, I can still feel the balmy wind against my face. The cherries were at peak ripeness. The branches sagged under the weight of the sweet red orbs. Josh and I picked several pounds of them from just one tree, and hardly made a dent in its abundant yield.

I wandered off, tape recorder in hand, making verbal notes of the experience. There was a little haze in the air, as there often is early in the day in New York's hilly lake country. I could clearly see the ridge of the next hill to the east, above the tree tops and low lying haze. I gradually drifted down the hill, to the shady, wooded dell, below. My minds eye took it all in. On my left were grassy fields with pastel wild flowers showing between thin, wispy stems. Pink, yellow, and white, waving gently in the soft breeze. As I looked out over the field I got a larger perspective. I watched a ballet as the grasses and flowers bowed in unison to the master choreographer. The flowers moved like the ripples on a pond, with alternating areas of glassy smoothness.

As I descended deeper into the valley, the trail drifted to the left. Around a bend there was a surprise. There, along the hillside to the right, was another flowered plot. I was struck by a rush of color. Zinnias of many hues, in short fat rows, appeared to be wanting to be picked and sent to market. Their beauty perhaps to be shared by lovers at a candle light dinner? Maybe they would not be sold, and Becky could arrange them creatively. Once arranged, possibly she would take them to the Nursing Home, as she always did at the end of the week. There, maybe their final mission would be to spark nostalgic memories for persons who had little more than their memories left. Or, maybe someone would take one of the arrangements home, as a token of forgiveness for their partner. The possibilities seemed endless.

Emerging from my reverie, I wandered further along the road. I was now heading north, on what was a mostly grass covered trail. Ahead on the left I saw a neatly planted group of young trees. Perhaps it was a future orchard? Beyond the trees, was a field of pumpkins. They were still small and green, with bright yellow-orange flowers punctuating their dark green leaves. I thought, this field must also belong to the co-op.

Just then, to my right I noticed a break in the trees. There was another trail. What was it? I wondered. I walked between the trees. I found a long, straight, flat passageway. Perhaps it's an old railroad bed. I headed south, but didn't get very far. A chasm where a stone bridge once stood, severed the trail. The steep embankment remaining, was too threatening for my constitution.

It was getting late and I had to get back. The kids may think I've gotten lost. I retraced my steps and marched back up the hill with gusto. As I got closer, I saw the field of flowers and the tractor, where Becky was working with another young woman. The bucket on the back of the tractor was filled with blossoms. From this perspective, the field had a very different appearance. I now noticed that the rows were a hundred feet long. I could see that they had been planted sequentially, to assure an ongoing crop yield. The rich, fertile soil, was full of composted organic matter. The long planting mounds were covered with the black plastic, with enough room between the rows for the tractor to cultivate them. There were even numerous varieties of plants that I had not noticed at first glance.

My kids greeted me and we headed uphill toward the barn. To the left of the lane, just below the greenhouse, was a large plot of Iris. They had already bloomed and had been pruned close to the ground. Becky led us inside the barn. There were no electric lights. Sunlight streamed through the open door, and filtered through the cracks in the walls. A little more light came from the few windows high above.

We were at the barn's lowest level, standing on the earthen floor. On the right was an enclosed area. Rebecca showed us this "cold storage" place. Long ago, it had been used as mortuary to store bodies. Ironically, it was where the beautiful flowers now rested, awaiting their final destination. Much like the dead bodies of prior years.

Mel Chaplin
Petropolis, Brazil

The Message

     "Tammy," Linda June typed with flying digits.  "I'm running late!  Can you tell Throckmorton that I'm picking up Dunkin for the office?"

     The new BMW X3 sport utility veered right toward the on ramp guardrail.  A deft flick of a long fingered, well manicured hand, quickly corrected the vehicle's direction.  Twelve hundred dollars worth of Michelin snow tires whined slightly from the strain of the rapid whip to the left.

     Linda June wasn't an executive, but her husband was.  As CEO of a locally based international insurance company, he wanted Linda June to have nothing but the best.  He couldn't understand her desire to keep her receptionist job at the aluminum tubing factory.  At forty three, Linda June could be spending her days lunching with the Garden Club ladies who comprised their social circle.  Instead, she preferred to spend her days with the blue collars at Alum-a flex, Inc., answering phones and keeping the coffee fresh for her bosses.

    The cigarette in her left hand made it a little difficult to hang onto her iPhone 5 but she managed.  She needed her right hand to guide the forty-two hundred pound missile up the  I-88 exit 4, on ramp.

    Loud chiming told Linda June that Tammy was responding.  Not wanting to miss Tammy's acknowledgement of her tardiness notification, Linda June focused on the iPhone.  For a moment she wished her arms were a bit longer, but by squinting she could make out the fuzzy "K" of Tammy's response.  She smiled to herself, knowing that oversleeping fifteen minutes wouldn't kill anyone.

     Now, almost at the end of the on ramp, Linda June focused on her iPhone and began typing with both thumbs. 

     In Alum-a-Flex's break room. Tammy Lewis was grinding fresh Kona beans.  The bosses loved the premium coffee she brewed, when they arrived at 9:00 AM.  She thought it strange that Linda June hadn't responded to her "K".  Tammy had to smile thinking how her friend always had to have the final word, talking or texting.

     Eighteen year truck driving veteran Ralph Morrison, was close to the end of his daily Schenectady to Binghamton run.  His  dispatcher  friend Rick, had given him a great load.  He'd left the terminal in total darkness, at 5:30 AM, and he was only 15 minutes from backing up to the loading dock at Conklin Industrial Park.  A real pro, Ralph was still fresh and alert.  At forty five, he was at the top of his game.

     Ginger Rappaport had left Massachusetts at midnight, on her way to Scranton for a 1:00 PM job interview.  She'd be in Scranton in an hour, and had planned for a short nap to refresh, before dressing for the important appointment.  Ginny was a little sleepy, and her thoughts were mostly on her 3 and 7 year old boys, home in Natick.  This new job would mean uprooting her older son from his elementary school.  Ginny's mom would miss having her 3 year old grandson with her every day.  Since that bastard David had headed for Florida with his 23 year old bimbo, life had been really tough.  Ginny hoped Scranton would be the start of a much better life for her and the boys.  She was only 35.  She still had her looks, her redhead spunk, and hit the gym for two hours every other day.  Most men she met thought she was"hot", but she was not ready to get involved just yet.

     Her daydreaming had taken her mind off checking the rear view mirror for the last couple of miles.  She hadn't noticed that the 18 wheeler had caught her.  Ralph's front bumper was beside her left rear door.   Ahead, to her right, a silver SUV was slowly weaving up the entrance ramp. 

     Just as the eighteen-wheeler drew abreast of Ginny's ten year old Taurus, the silver BMW swerved sharply to the left, directly in front of her.  

     There was a loud screeching of rubber skidding on concrete, as both Ralph and Ginger slammed on their brakes.  The cacophony of screaming tires was instantly followed by the sickening sound of metal crunching and grinding against metal, as the three vehicles collided at once and began careening willy-nilly down the highway.

     Ralph whipped his steering wheel to the left.  His Peterbilt cab and fifty-five foot trailer, loaded with 30,000 pounds of rolled paper, jack-knifed.  Skidding out of control, it slid in a giant "L" shape, off the highway into the grassy median, but remained upright.  As it came to rest, Ralph grabbed his fire extinguisher and hit the ground running.  The accident scene looked like a war zone.

     A black older model Saab had been able to clear the debris, weaving it's way through the wreckage.  The driver pulled to the right, as far off the highway as possible, and hit the four ways.  He shut the engine off, silencing the Jimmy Buffett CD that was playing at max volume.  The commuter dialed 911.

                                                                      * * * * *

     Broome Volunteer EMS, and Colesville Fire Company Ambulances filled both Westbound lanes of the highway.  Traffic had been re-routed off 88, at Exit 4 West.  A white coated Paramedic bent over a pretty red head lying beside an upside-down '02 Taurus, on a litter.  There was s small trickle of blood on her left cheek.  

     "Your ID says you're name is Ginger.  You were knocked out for a few minutes, but you're going to be fine.'  the medic said.  "Your right leg may be fractured, and you have some minor facial cuts that probably won't leave any scars.  I'll just bandage your head and put a collar on you for now.  We're going to take you to Wilson Regional Medical Center, in Binghamton.  Is there anyone you want us to call?"

     "No," She said.  "My leg really hurts, and I have a headache.  I'll wait until I see how hurt I am, before I call anyone.  No need for them to worry."

     A silver 2012 BMW X3 was laying on it's driver's side in the driving lane, just past the end of the on ramp.  A pale, well manicured hand was sticking out from under the crumpled roof.  Glass particles littered the road leading up to the SUV.  Steam was coming from under the hood.  A young female NY State Trooper stood behind a a solemn faced Paramedic who was slowly rising to her feet.  The Paramedic frowned at the officer and shook her head slightly.      

     "She's still holding a cigarette and her cell phone,"  the Paramedic pointed toward the hand.  "Looks like she was texting."

     Trooper Brenda Delgado bent over the exposed hand.  The clenched fingers were still holding a broken cigarette and an iPhone.  She read the partial message on the iPhone's bright display.  Linda June's final texted words were, "Thanks Ta...."  A message that would never be received.

      Two pink rollbacks bounced across the median.  The drivers were grim as they unloaded shovels and brooms to clean up the too familiar mess on the Interstate.  

     "Probably texting, or something," Richard said.

     "Yeah, probably," Ryan replied.  "When they gonna learn?"

Goodbye Ralph MacDonald...RIP

It's a sad time in the world of music. Early Sunday morning, December 18^th, while some of us partied and some of us slept, 67 year old Ralph MacDonald, lost his long battle with lung cancer. With his friends and family gathered at his bedside, his soul went gently into the night, to emerge bathed in the bright light of his final reward. The music world morns his loss and grieves for his family. Always to be remembered.... never to be replaced, Ralph will remain a beacon guiding those who knew him and those who never will, leading us all to strive for better music and better lives. He lived life to the fullest, touched the greats and made them greater. He was a Jazz legend, Rock legend, and song writer extraordinaire. Regrettably, most Parrot Heads and Trop Rock aficionados only new him as a Coral Reefer. He was, and will remain throughout time, much, much more. Rest in peace, Ralph MacDonald. 1944-2011.

A Beautiful, Heart Warming Christmas Story

The Truth About Rudolph by: Don DaPyrate

My wife says I'm crazy.  She should know. No, it's not that. She's spent her whole life in a mental health career, and she should know crazy when she sees it. I'm almost sure she's wrong this time, though. I spent a lot of time in mental health facilities, myself. Gradually, they started trying to find ways to grab my keys. The last straw was when they finally snatched them and tried to drag me into a small room with soft walls and a tiny window in the door. I escaped...er, made good my exit, and never looked back.

However, I digress. The point is, that I know what I know, and I may not be crazy. You listen to my story, and judge for yourself.

With time, stories become vastly different from their origin, and usually far from the truth. Lines spoken and left unrecorded can become completely changed in context and meaning from what was actually said. Such is the true story of Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer.

The century was numbered in the higher end of the single digits, so it was a long time back. Novgorad, that was before it was called St Petersburg, was a thriving city in a cold little land we now know as Russia. The Winter that year was especially cold and brutal. In fact, it looked as though there would be no Christmas in Novgorad that year because of the inclement weather. It was just too cold for Santa to fly.

Though all the children were sad, they couldn't cry. If they cried, their tears would freeze on their faces and eventually build up in layers, until they were encased in a giant ice cube. Then, they could no longer go to school, or do their household chores. It was truly a hard Winter in Novgorad, and the prospect of there being no visit from Father Christmas. Of course in Russia he was known as Ded Moroz. It means the same thing as Santa Claus and he has the same red suit and long white beard.

Enough history! On with the story.

So, with it so cold and a strong likelihood of no Christmas presents in their near future, the dry eyed Novgorad children just stood in their cold little houses and looked pathetic. It was no different in the household of Rudolph and Natasha Ivanov and their 5 children. Natasha was brewing up hot drinks and baking delicious wood fire cookies, trying to cheer up the Ivanov brood. It wasn't working.

You can't quell the heartbreak of no Santa with tepid gruel and flat bread.

The science of meteorology was in it's infancy in the ninth century. Alright, you got me. Nobody had a clue about meteorology. It was pre-discovered at that point. Most everybody just looked outside and said, “yep, it's snowing.” Or maybe it wouldn't be snowing, so they'd say, “nope, it's not snowing,” However, A young Novgoradian named Rudolph, took a more critical view of the situation.

Rudy (his buds down at the local drinking establishment called him Rudy) would look outside and see what the weather was like, then write it down in his journal. After 9 years of note taking, Rudy thought he could see a pattern. Mainly, he realized that if it was Winter, it was probably going to be cold and possibly snowy. He also noted that if it wasn't all that cold, even if it was Winter, it might rain instead of snow. He could guess, most of the time, that if it was getting warmer outside in the evening, it might rain overnight. This led the quick minded Rudy to think he could predict what the weather was going to be tomorrow, by what it was like today.

December 24^th: We'll use that date because nobody seems sure when they actually celebrated Christmas way back then. Anyway, Rudy went outside on the evening of December 24^th, and predicted that Ded Moroz would be making his run as scheduled. He was the only person in Novgorad who thought Ded Moroz as going to make it. Soon, the word was all over Novgorad that Rudy the weatherman was finally off his nut for sure.

“He's coming, Natasha,” Rudy said. “It'll be warm enough for his sleigh to fly.”

“No way!” said Natasha.

“Way,” said Rudy.

“No way,” his good neighbor Boris said.

“Way,” said Rudolph. “You'll see. It's going to be warmer. In fact, it's going to rain. He'll be wearing a slicker, but Ded Moroz will come tonight.”

Boris just rubbed his neck, shook his head, and walked back into his house. “That Rudy's as crazy as a no legged cat trying to kick a flea,” he mumbled.

In the morning, when the good people of Novgorad looked out their windows, they were amazed to see rain dripping from their eves and familiar sleigh tracks in their yards.

The children cried tears of joy. Really. They didn't freeze on their faces! In the living room of every little house there stood a fresh, gaily decorated tree. Every tree was surrounded by piles of presents. Every Novgoradian child had a very “Happy Christmas”.

Amazed but happy, Natasha ran to Rudy and threw her arms around him with delight. “Rudy, I don't know how this happened. How could you have ever kept up such optimism? It's been below zero for the last eight weeks. What made you think you could predict warmer weather for Christmas Eve?”

“Well, Natasha,” Rudy grinned. “It seems like you should know after all these years with me. Rudolph the Red knows rain, dear.”

VETERAN'S DAY - 11/11/11

     Today is a day that is much overlooked in the United States.  No, I'm not talking about it being 11/11/11.  Everyone's talking about that and reading all sorts of strange and intriguing things into the numerology of it.  Give it up number crunchers, it's just another day in the life.  The moon will make a circle around Earth, and Earth will move 1/365th of the way around our Sun.  No, the day I'm talking about is Veteran's Day.  
     da Pyrate is amazingly enough, a military veteran.  Not just in the Pyrate Marine, but in an actual branch of the US military.  Army, to be exact.  Way back before I was really born, I was a soldier.  Now, that's nothing to call heroic or to brag about.  It wasn't some "calling" I was drawn to.  In those days, either you were a college student or a draftee.  Not enrolled in an institution of higher learning, the only way to avoid the draft was to enlist.  It gave you some choice, though not much, in what path your military life would take.  Of the six male progeny of Mr. and Mrs. da Pyrate from the dirt road in Upstate NY, four of us served.  Two of my brothers didn't, due to no fault of their own.  Too poor to go to college, I went to Ft. Dix, NJ., then on to various spots around the world.
     I served my time, and got out.  I didn't enjoy standing in line, at all.  I found even less enjoyment in eating the hearty yet somehow crappy food and wearing the same outfit every day.  Even pyrates have sartorial choices.  I eventually completed my education and found a career I loved.
     All that leads me to being an undisciplined pyrate with spots on internet radio, and writing poems and phrases for a living.  That's still not where this is going.
     Today, I did something that I'd never done.  I got something for free.  Well....not exactly free, but close because I only had to pay for my drink.  Lunch was on Applebees, if they were led to believe that you were a veteran.  I led them to that conclusion, and had an excellent lunch, surrounded by families, working folks, and lots of similarly mooching veterans.
     As I sat at the bar enjoying my chicken, I struck up a conversation with a fellow who stated that he was a vet, but was buying his own lunch.  I shook his hand and congratulated him.  I told him I had to take the freebie because my cardboard box got wet, and I had to move into my Merceded-Benz.  The parking fees, I said, were keeping me flat broke.  He sneered.
     Then, I did what I'm asking everyone who may read this, to do.  Even if Veteran's Day 2011 has long passed when you see this, do it anyway.  Please shake a vet's hand and thank him for spending his time serving his country.  If it was six months of active reserve, or a thirty year career, it was time well spent for the greatest cause I can think of.  Whether that vet served as a supply person, or a combat infantry-person, he/she played an important roll.  Every individual Soldier, Marine, Sailor, Coast Guardsman, or Airman has stood in the line that protects the freedom we all enjoy.  
     When you see that ancient, bent, and maybe even wheelchair bound, ex-military person in the Veteran's Day parade, show them respect and admiration.  They are the ones among us who have actually done something to deserve it.
    

 Sunrise

The giver of light rising over the horizon.

The clouds above and the mists below

Truncated it's roundness.

A Vivaldi flute concerto orchestrated the scene.

Thoughts danced through my mind

About the significance of the moment.

It is the giver of life, maker of the winds,

The great ember of our solar system

Making it's presence known again.

A spiritual moment.

Mel Chaplin

1999

I Miss Maggie

I Miss Maggie

By: Don Winfield

      Lying here in my hammock, I open my eyes and squint out at the blue Caribbean, and then up at the green parrot squawking in the palm tree above. I don't think about it as much as I used to, but now and again my mind takes me back to the tragic events that brought me to this beach. You ask how it is that I'm retired at forty-one, living in an island paradise I bought rock cheap from Jimmy Buffett? Jimmy had never seen it. He claimed he'd picked it up as an investment, back in the '80s, after he sold the charred land under the remains of his burned out hotel over on St. Barts. He said he wanted someone to have it that could make a home there.

      As I swing gently in the shade, I often find myself thinking about Maggie. She was my wife and best friend for eighteen years, until the day we drove into St. Pete to do our weekly shopping and banking.

      Our on line sales business was providing us with a comfortable living. We figured if we kept salting away a little tax free money, in small amounts each week, we'd beat Uncle Sam and be able to retire while we could still enjoy it.     Of course, American banks have their crazy rules about disclosure, and lots of unnecessary IRS scrutiny. So, American banks would not be friendly to our long term plans. That's how the incident began.

The Incident:

      At first glance, and even after a long, hard look, it didn’t seem like a place where such a catastrophe could happen. It was a towering seventeen story glass and steel building, vaguely shaped like a giant lizard standing on its hind legs. Its tinted windows were placed so as to create the illusion of a multicolored scaly reptile. Due to poor planning, cost overruns, unpaid bribes, and typical bureaucratic ineptness, the completed building was a clumsy looking affair. I always laughed and told Maggie it looked like a hung over Komodo dragon having a rough Sunday morning. As ugly as it was, it was ironically constructed so solidly no building inspector or civil jury could find cause to tear it down and replace it with a more attractive office complex.

It was Tuesday afternoon. Maggie and I always did our banking after lunch on Tuesday. Like most people, we'd fallen into a routine that meshed with our other needs.

      The small, cramped office on the 16^th floor, had “TWBSA, LLC.” (which stood for Third World Bank of Surreptitious Accounts, Limited Liability Company), stenciled in gold leaf on the narrow, opaque glass window. This unassuming office seemed an even less likely place for what happened.

      I'd left Maggie there for about ten minutes, while I went to the rest room. It wasn't far but I had to follow a few mostly obscured arrows, and go down to the 15^th floor. When I returned to TWBSA, she was already gone.

      Actually, she was still there. However, a religious person might tell you that what remained of Maggie was the earthly shell of a soul now departed. She had completed our off shore wire transfer and was leaving the bank. From all accounts, a pirate had suddenly appeared. Brandishing an 18th century cutlass, sporting an eye patch and a tri-corn hat, he had flung the door open with a violent shove. The rampaging rogue burst into the tiny office, shouting, “Arrrrr! Don't nobody go fer yer buzzers! Face down on the floor or ye be shark bait! I'm here fer yer booty!”

      To the pirate's amazement, nobody moved. The huddled bankers stood like statues. With wide eyes and gaping mouths, they just stared at the door behind the pillager. The only sound was that of retching, as Robert, the bald, bespectacled teller, puked into his open cash drawer.

      Coincidentally, Monday had been FWBSA senior teller Jolene’s, 37^th birthday. The bank manager had crowned her ‘FWBSA Queen for the Day’. The traditional “birthday tiara” was too small for her enormous head and, embarrassed, she'd set it aside. By quitting time, she'd forgotten about it and left it behind.

      The tiara was left on a shelf beside the coat rack, and was still there after the bankers went home at the end of the day. That's where Willy, the office cleaner, found it. Having an eye for Jolene, he attached a sexually graphic note to the fake crown before fastening it to the inside of the door. The crown's spikes hung about eye level to a 5’7” person, and protruded about eight inches from the door.

      Maggie was reaching for the knob, when the door flew open and the pirate burst in. One of the tiara’s spikes caught Maggie in the right eye. When her nose hit the door, the spike had gone completely through her brain. Maggie was dead. She was still standing, held up by the tiara. Willy had super glued the fake crown to the wood door, just above the fogged window. It turns out that though cheap, Wal*Mart brand “Instaglu” bonds exceptionally well.

      I was shocked, heartbroken, and devastated. My life partner, soul mate, best friend, and lover, was snatched from me. My happy marriage had ended unexpectedly, in a high rent, under sized, commercial space on the 16^th floor of a hideous downtown lizard.

A Land-Farin' Man:

      There were 16 witnesses on the sidewalk outside the “Gecko Power Tower” when a cutlass waving, eye patched, buccaneer, ran through the lobby and into the street. Those present watched as his tri-corn flew off and landed near a fire hydrant. Most recalled seeing him skid to a stop, reminiscent of Wiley Coyote. He quickly retrieved the plumed hat, resumed his stride, and continued southbound on the pedestrian mall. Most ignored him, thinking he was some kind of one man “flash mob” who would be expecting a tip. A few who kept watching him thought he may have gotten into a waiting vehicle and sped away. A lady pushing all of her belongings in a stolen Wal*Mart shopping cart, signed an affidavit stating he'd, “flown into the sky like Peter Pan.”

      Of course, no two witnesses told the same story. Some said he headed south down Salamander Boulevard. Others swore he disappeared into the sun, heading west up Island Parkway.  The cops put out an APB for the entire city.     

     Police have to use whatever information that's available, to create a composite of many the things happening in the midst of such calamity. Deputy Dan Frain’s All Points Bulletin stated that a red or maybe blue, or silver, or orange, two or four door sedan, mini van, or topless sports car, had whisked the bandit away. He could have gone either south or west, or some other direction. The police had nothing to work with. Everybody saw a pirate but nobody came close to identifying the escape vehicle.

      The car the whacked out pirate wannabe used was a 1979 VW Rabbit Cabriolet. The owner had begun restoration and had installed junk yard doors, fenders, hood, and trunk. Each replacement part was a different color. This eclectic array of hues had confused and bewildered the eye witnesses into a total lack of observational accuracy.

Justice:

      The traces of a crime can disappear quickly in South Florida. Before sunset, the stolen getaway car was abandoned, re-stolen, disassembled, and the parts delivered to an array of waiting VW Rabbit convertible aficionados.

      The sword wielding pirate, having learned the hard way that the Third World Bank of Surreptitious Accounts, LLC, held no appreciable currency, returned to a tattered tent behind a Motel 6 in the Florida Keys.

      My sweet Maggie's killer would never be punished. The following Tuesday, needing to clear his desk clutter, Dave Ortiz, a busy Pinellas County Coroner's assistant, labeled Maggie's death accidental. The investigation ended.

      The inept pirate, who’s name was Rutledge, would eventually be sentenced to 90 days in the county jail. There, he would tell a fellow inmate about his attempt to rob the TWBSA in St Petersburg, and how he'd made a clean getaway. It was a jailhouse confession to a crime that was officially never committed, but his story would never reach the authorities.

      Several points below a genius IQ, Rutledge had never figured out how to make it safely from his ragged tent behind the Motel 6, to the 7- Eleven on the other side of US-1. Speeding vacationers traveling up and down the Keys at 4:00 PM on a typically busy Friday, kept him marooned on the yellow line. A passing Monroe County Sheriff's deputy rescued him. Since it was the eighth time he'd saved Rutledge from the same spot, the deputy roughed, cuffed, and stuffed him into his cop issue Crown Victoria. Rutledge was booked into the Monroe County lock-up, for habitual J-walking.

      Sixty-one days into his 90 day sentence, Rutledge was being released early for good behavior. He was about to step into the lobby and regain his freedom, when he noticed that his left Reebok was untied. In front of the heavy steel exit door, Rutledge bent over to knot the flapping lace. Just at that moment, a hungry three hundred pound guard, in a hurry to enjoy his triple-decker ham and cheese sandwich and Diet Coke, barreled through the metal door. Rutledge's head cracked open like a fresh egg, and his brains splattered all over the gray tile floor.

      After a brief, neck-rubbing investigation, the floor was cleaned with Sure Save discount bleach.   The previously homeless Rutledge found a home three days later in the Monroe County paupers cemetery.

Coping:

      Maggie's one million dollar life insurance policy was doubled by the accidental death determination. A big check comes every month, and I've set up a diversified investment portfolio to insure my continued solvency. A couple of months after Maggie's funeral, I sold the small bungalow 10 blocks from the beach, and burned the furniture in the front yard. I scrapped my 1988 Taurus, and didn't even make a victory lap through town before I left. It was straight from bonfire to airport in a taxi, and off into the friendly sky.

      Now, I'm living in this little piece of paradise. The island is small enough to afford, but big enough to be safe in a tropical storm. I spend my days looking out on my private Caribbean beach from my front porch or hammock. 

     Am I lonely way off here in the middle of nowhere? Well, I've got the sun and the palm trees. I've got the pristine white sand, the warm ocean, and a thirty foot sloop that I can sail around on all day. Sometimes I just go fishing in a calm inlet, enjoying the peace and solitude. Then, after a day of sailing or fishing, I come home to a tropical drink and a good meal.  My companion, Marita, was a bartender when we met, and is an excellent cook.

      Marita is no Maggie, mind you. Yet, I was pretty lucky to find a beautiful, always tanned, 22 year old island girl, who was willing to come tidy up my tiki hut, and clean up the various messes she frequently helps me make.

      I truly do miss my sweet Maggie. It's not easy, but I feel I owe it to her to keep working hard to adapt.