Bruner's Texas Takes © Matt Bruner, 2005
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NEW PUPPY
This past week, we decided get a new companion to replace our recently
departed Jinx, the lab mix. Jazzmine, our other dog, seemed as depressed
and lost as we were. The time had come to let Jinx go, due to his many
health problems and his age. He was happy and hungry until the end,
though he could hardly stand on his own, needed help to lie down, and
had been unable to sit for a year or so. He had heart problems, bowel
problems, respiratory problems in addition to his mobility problems. As
parting gifts, he got a chocolate bar (his first), and we got a nice box
to display.
As is the modern way, our puppy search began with an internet search.
STARS, our local shelter had many dogs, but only small-breed puppies at
the time. We wanted a mid-size – big-enough for long hikes, but
small-enough to pick up. We identified several hot prospects at the
Montgomery County shelter, and after a couple days of deliberation,
decided it was time to commit to something. We made the drive.
We arrived and stated our intentions. Our first stop was to be the puppy
room, but a small resident had just been confirmed to have parvo, so the
room was quarantined. No worries, there were many more to view and
choose from, including puppies among the general population. We took
mental notes of several dogs and puppies, in particular, a large, red
dog that seemed to want a home. Most dogs had the usual “arf,arf, yes I
am another dog” look, but the Red Dog said, “I am NOT another dog - you
and me, we can really make this work.” Red Dog was a top contender,
despite being full-grown.
I remember well the first time I went to an animal shelter. I expected a
dozen or so hard cases. I thought I would see the blind dog, the one
with the missing leg, a couple with ribs showing through missing fur… I
was shocked by both the numbers and the quality of the dogs that were
there. Many could easily be identified as pure breeds: Afghan Hounds,
German Shepherd Dogs, Beagles, Jack Russell Terriers, Bull Terriers,
Labradors, Cocker Spaniels. Hundreds of good-looking dogs were all
hoping for a home. Our family always chose carefully and kept dogs for
life. It is hard to imagine giving a pet up, though I must admit it is
just as hard for me to imagine the circumstances that might require it.
I don’t know how many rooms there are at the Montgomery County shelter,
nor how many pets are in each room. We never made it to the far rooms,
where the tough-case dogs apparently spend their time. Before we got
that far, a woman who provides a foster home for some of the dogs asked
us what we were looking for, and met us again shortly after with the
sister of a dog she had fostered. Like a good sales pitch, there was the
qualification, countering of objections, psychological transfer of
ownership, trial closing, and sale. The lady was good, and the product
seemed to meet our needs. “Write it up, we are taking it home!”
We took our new puppy out to the grass in the parking lot, put her down,
and she obediently urinated. Maybe we did well.
Part two next week
Matt Bruner Coldspring, Texas 2/6/11
THE GRASS IS GREENER…
… on our side of the fence!
Several years ago, we built a chain-link fence to enclose a portion of our yard for the dogs. Since that time, the grass has changed such that, at this time of year, the grass in the neighbor’s yard is brown, and ours is green. I know your first thought has to do with the dogs, and their “habits.” Well, we pick up the waste frequently, so that is not the reason for the greener grass.
I have noted in our travels, that the vegetation is often remarkably different on opposite sides of a fence. Sometimes it seems due to cattle – I am sure their eating and waste habits will affect what grows in their pasture. Horses or other livestock would have the same result.
Sometimes I think it is due to snow. In the midwest to northwest, the snow can build deeply on one side of the fence due to the wind making it drift. I read a story about Theodore Roosevelt in the Badlands. It described a terrible winter storm with strong winds. The high points of the terrain were snow-free, and in fact scoured of all small vegetation. Small valleys were filled to the peaks with snow, often forty to fifty feet deep. The irregular snow pattern would kill some plants due to exposure, and drown others in the spring thaw. I am sure a fence would affect the plants similarly, in a small way.
Some fenced areas are irrigated, which makes a difference. If an area was irrigated decades ago, I am sure the vegetation still shows signs of the pattern – water-loving plants once established, still hold on. Often a fenced area has been cleared at some time. The natural trees and plants will grow back, but not the rocks, bumps and crannies that made the area unique. The fence itself provides a microclimate for plants – look sometime at the things that grow on the sunny side versus the shady side.
There is an old saying about fences making better neighbors. I have built fences between yards, and I have removed fences between yards. In both cases, the changes were welcomed, but I did not see a change in the quality of the friendship. Maybe a fence affects us in small ways, like it does the grass and flowers, the change being too slow to perceive.
Matt Bruner Coldspring, Texas 1/15/10
NEW MOTORHOME
After our last trip, we decided it was time for a new motorhome. Our old one had served us well – nearly 60,000 miles in six years, with few problems. We did have the normal maintenance items: tighten screws and bolts, change oil, new tires batteries and brakes. It failed to start twice, both times at home and from dead batteries, when I had left an accessory turned on in storage. We replaced a faucet and a heater on the road, and did several oil changes in parking lots.
It seems that some people, but not all, think a motorhome owner is rich AND stupid. We were once quoted over $200 for an oil change, if I provided the filter. The filter is a $40 item, because it is unusual and huge. Cost for me to do the job in a parking lot is about $40 for oil and supplies, less filter. We had an oil change done at a Walmart once for $39, which was quite a deal, but some quote more, and some do not have a door big-enough to allow the beast in. The motorhome holds more oil than a car, but not five times as much, and it still takes up just one service bay. The price disparity extends to parts as well. Cash and carry, a motorhome furnace is twice as expensive as a bigger, more sophisticated home furnace. A faucet is much more expensive, as is nearly every part made specifically for a motorhome.
My attention to maintenance may have worked in our financial disfavor. We sold the old motorhome at a great-for-the-buyer price, but it had new tires, new windshields, and a fresh oil change. The windshields were huge, and the deductible for the insurance replacement was over $1000. I suspect we would have gotten the same price (cash of the folding-type and a diamond ring, seriously!) if we had not done the updates. Oh Well…
So we have our new coach, the same model-year as the old coach. It is ten feet longer, and has a queen bed, not twins. In the front, there is a nice sitting area with sofa, chair and recliner. Both the kitchen and the bath are larger. It is currently worth about a tenth of what it originally sold for. It has lower miles than our previous coach, but the maintenance records got sketchy for the last couple of years, so I am serving-up oil changes, adjustments, replacement parts, and inspections. Every squeak and creak is investigated. I know we will be OK if we have a breakdown, but my ego would be crushed. In all my years of driving, I have never been left at the side of the road. I like to be ready and prepared, and get myself home, or on down the road. A car can be pushed - a 20,000-pound cabin on wheels, a little less so.
Matt Bruner Coldspring, Texas 12/16/10
WHAT IS YOUR ANIMAL?
Do you have a totem? Did you choose it, or did it choose you?
A lot of cultures place special spiritual significance on animals. The American Indians, of course, revered animals, believed they had individual and collective spirits, and used their body parts to gain spiritual power. They carved animal likenesses in wood and stone. They painted or pecked the images on leather and rock. I love animals, but I don’t believe that they will favor me or disfavor me based on my prayers to them.
Having said that, my totem animal is the hawk. I did not choose it, it chose me. I would have chosen a dog, wolf, or something more warm and cuddly. But it seems every time I am frustrated, angry, indecisive or even bored, hawks appear. It began nearly twenty years ago. Kelly and I had just visited my aunt in Arkansas and the place where my ancestors settled, and I left with lots of questions about family, tradition, and how I was to approach those things. After lots of thought, the answers came to me at the moment my car passed a hawk sitting at the side of the road.
I see hawks almost daily now, but then they were pretty rare. That sighting was the first time I could recall ever seeing one in the wild. It sat just a couple of feet from the roadway and watched me pass. A very deep event in my life, it was. A couple of years ago, I was driving in Kansas, amidst lots of plain plane and nothing much else, except a power line. I was getting pretty bored. I noticed a hawk on the line. Then another, and another... In ten miles, I probably passed thirty hawks on that same power line. It lifted my spirits and kept me alert.
For about a week, I have been eaten-up with motorhome shopping. It is time-consuming, frustrating, discouraging and exhausting, though I hope a modest reward will follow. Yesterday, we were driving down the country road that leads to our neighborhood. Just above the truck, on a power line was a hawk. We stopped, unrolled the window, said hello, and enjoyed his presence for a minute. He left, we left, me feeling a little more relaxed.
Hawks can be fast, but they can sit quietly. I work hard, but am content to sit and watch the world. Hawks fly high and look down on the world. I will climb the hill, just to look over and down. I would have a forest service observation tower in my yard if they would let me. Hawks have eyes that can see almost into the future. This man, with his two telescopes, 40-pound binoculars, and small binoculars scattered about, admires that power.
Maybe one does not have to worship an animal to share a kinship.
Matt Bruner Coldspring, Texas 12/03/10
INTERESTING STORY
Close to twenty years ago, I was working and in college, trying to get my tired butt toward a Master’s Degree. For an international business class, we were asked to do some original research on African nations, to learn how business was done there, the customs and conventions. Just down the street from our home was an African restaurant. Being bold and young, and having the authority of an assignment from a college professor, I just walked in and started asking questions.
The young gentleman at the counter admitted that he would not be much help, having been born in Georgia and having never been to Africa, despite his accent. He suggested that I talk to his mother. I was to return later in the day.
Mom was from Liberia. I asked an introductory question, and quickly realized that I should just shut-up and listen, and not worry too much about my school assignment.
Thelma was born in Liberia to a privileged class. In Liberia, there were two general classes of people: those who were from slave families, and those whose families had remained in Africa. You may remember that, despite a century or so of colonial accusations directed toward the US, Liberia was our only true colony. It was founded by President James Monroe to allow former slaves in America to return to Africa. The capital city is still Monrovia, named after our president. Those that did return typically spoke English, had some knowledge of reading and mathematics, and often had the lighter skin from relations with slavemasters. They were looked-upon with jealousy and admiration. From repatriation until at least the 1960s, this animosity was still prevalent.
Thelma was a government worker, and served as an office clerk for her working life. She felt she had lived a charmed and gifted life, and after her retirement, wanted a way to return favor to the little African nation that had given her such comfort and bounty. She founded a shelter for unwed mothers, a place for them to live when family could or would not support them. She counseled them in life skills, in reading and mathematics, and prepared them for success in the world. Thelma was happy with her new vocation and proud that she could offer help to others.
Africa is known for political unrest, and eventually it came to find Thelma. Despite rumors of political gangs, she believed she and her “girls” would be safe from the partisan bickering - she and the girls had no particular political ties or leanings.
She was wrong.
The militia came to her sanctuary, and raped and murdered the girls, for no reason but the pleasure of it. Thema narrowly escaped with her life, a small roll of concealed cash and the clothes she was wearing. She bribed her way back to the home of her great grandparents, the United States, unable to face the guilt, fear, and uncertainty of remaining in Africa.
Human history is filled with events such as this. Tens of millions killed in China, a million or so in Vietnam, millions on Russia. Usually, the tens and twenties of lives lost are scarcely recorded. Such is the lot of human existence. We have been blessed with a brief period of history, in one nation out of hundreds, where such violence and death is not commonplace. America has had its sad and dark episodes, that is for sure, but disagreements are usually resolved by law, and not by human attrition.
We are exceptional. Think a little about what has made us that way.
Matt Bruner Coldspring, Texas 10/21/10
A CLASH OF TITANS
Last week, we took a short camping trip to Dinosaur Valley State Park near Dallas. It is based around the results of a series of chance events millions of years ago, so they say.
During the Cretaceous Period, that part of our continent was the ocean shore. A freak storm deposited a layer of mud on top of the shoreline. Before the mud was disturbed, a group of plant-eating dinosaurs came by, leaving their prints in the mud. There is also a set of prints from a carnivorous dinosaur. It suggests a dramatic pursuit, though we can’t know the timing, maybe hours or days.
The mud was not smoothed by the tide. It was not baked into powder by the sun. It was not trampled into a mess by other animals. It was covered gently with a layer of sand, preserving the prints. The mud became hard rock, and the sand, a soft shale. We fast-forward to today, the perfect point in time when the river has eroded the bed some fifty feet or so from the surface, has removed the softer shale, but allowed the harder stone to remain. One walks to (or in) the river and can see the prints, some merely depressions, and some very distinct.
I visited a similar site elsewhere in Texas that had what the guide claimed to be an unusual addition – a human footprint. It did not show the individual toe prints, but when asked by the guide, my unshod 12D foot fit into the print perfectly. Some of you will find this very interesting, and some of you will be laughing. Scientists suggest that the dinosaurs were gone a good 60 million years before man arrived. The Bible suggests otherwise. I suggest that ancient man probably did not have a 12D foot.
Just down the road from dinosaur Valley State Park is the Creation Evidence Museum. It was closed during the part of the week of our visit. I was interested to see what they had to say. The fact that they used “evidence” and not “proof” in their name suggests inquiry and not doctrine. In any case, it has always been MY belief that creation and evolution can be easily reconciled when you understand the answers they provide are for two completely different questions.
Matt Bruner Coldspring, Texas 10/6/10
*A SNIFF OF FALL*
*So it has been about a month since I have written to you. It has been difficult to get motivated. *
*I feel the seasons changing, despite the still-warm weather, and it brings on an emotion that I can’t quite give a name to. I suspect it is something primordial and vestigial. Maybe the change in seasons is reminding my body to be rested and fattened-up in order to survive the winter. Generations ago, that would have been important – get into the best possible shape, as fat as possible, because the fruit and vegetables will be gone. The game will hibernate or head south. The days will be short. The animals you find will also be gaunt and hungry. I have always added a few pounds in the fall, succumbing to natural and ancient cycle of living.*
*Modern life, of course, is a whole lot different. Even here in the country, we can get most fruits and vegetables all year. Yeah, the tomatoes are pretty bland in the winter. The grocery store, though, is always full and ready. The restaurants will be glad to serve your 3000-calorie meal, even if it snows. The outside, natural cycle has been banished for us, but the internal cycle remains. Years ago, in an attempt to lose some serious weight, my mother went on a 900-calorie a day diet. In nearly a year, she lost eight pounds. She lost eight pounds in a year of serious, disciplined deprivation. Modern life made her fat.
A thousand years ago, she would have been the elder to survive winter after winter, with her extremely efficient metabolism. Blessing became a curse.
*There are some other reasons to be down, but I will blame it on the changing seasons, for now at least.*
*Matt Bruner Coldspring, **Texas** **9/18/10***
FEBRUARY 9, 1940
I have interests in old books, history,
the outdoors, and, in particular, deserts. So it was exciting for me to
purchase a 1938 printing of “The California Deserts: A Visitor’s Handbook to
the Mojave and
It was an interesting read. (I hate
using verbs as nouns, but it seems to be what people say now.) Not much
has changed in this desert region, except it has trended toward a drier climate
in the last sixty years. Another book about the area I read recently
talked about growing some crops in the Joshua Tree area. I assure you that
crops have not grown in the area in recent years.
About a third of the way through the book
was a makeshift bookmark, obviously in its spot for a long time. It is the
removable portion of an old desk calendar, perforated to tear easily from the
bound page. I remember the calendar type. It has two metal hoops and
a heavy metal base, and the pages are to be turned daily, to expose the new date
and a memo-writing spot. I suppose these calendars are still manufactured,
but largely have been replaced by computer screens, day planners, and small
electronic devices.
As much as my new book fascinated me, the
calendar page has fascinated me more. Why did a person mark the page and
never return to finish the book? What happened in their day?
Pinocchio, Disney’s second animated
feature, was released on February 7. Maybe Friday was movie night for our
reader, and he or she was distracted from the book by the wonder of animation.
(For some reason, I imagine the original owner of the book to be a she – white
blouse, charcoal gray wool skirt, sensible heels.) Also on the seventh of
February,
On the eighth, the day before our book
was set aside, the
I will never know the answer to why the
book was shelved, but my internet research found an answer that satisfies me.
On Monday night, the calendar sat on a
small desk, its pages still unturned from the previous Friday. A young
woman reached to her calendar on her desk, and pulled off the removable tab.
She placed it in her book and set it aside on her desk. A new radio show
was on, and had captured her attention. With all of the trouble brewing in
the world, an entertaining distraction was valuable. The first episode of
the show had just begun, a show about someone who had the power and the heart to
help the good – to intervene when things went out of control in favor of evil.
The episode was called “The Baby From Krypton.”
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
DAY TRIP
A few weeks ago, we were looking for an
outdoor activity for a Sunday, and decided to go to the beach. Galveston
is just south of Houston, a nice place, but often crowded on weekends when the
weather is nice. A neighbor had recommended
It seems like Hurricane Rita removed Sea
Rim completely. There are no buildings, signs, roads, or any other
structures left standing, save a few unconnected sections of boardwalk in the
marsh. In fact, most of the beach is gone, leaving large mud ruts and
gravel. We could not really tell exactly where the state park once was.
Rita made landfall at Sabine Pass, which is just a few miles down the road.
Sea Rim, apparently, was just obliterated and then taken off the list,
so-to-speak.
There is a small section of beach west of
where the park was. We drove down the beach a short distance, and it
turned into a jeep trail following the shore. Along this section of shore,
what was once apparently beach, is now large, uneven shelves of mud, some having
a several foot drop into the waves. Above the waterline was the usual
dune-type growth in a sandy soil, and the trail that followed the shoreline.
We followed the trail for several miles, and then turned back.
There are many oil and gas rigs offshore,
and we saw along the shore dozens of hard-hats, and interestingly, laundry
baskets. We found and took home a length of black and yellow docking line.
This section of shore is not maintained, so a lot of trash has built up over the
years since the hurricane cleansed it. Not what we are accustomed to
seeing at the beach, but interesting nonetheless.
We then met a couple of Jeeps going our
original direction. We asked them about the trail, and they verified that
it continued to Boliver. We turned around again, gave the Jeeps a lead,
and then followed. The trail followed the shore, went through several mud
pits, and made the 20-mile journey to Boliver. We stopped several times,
took photos, watched shore birds, sifted through the shells and flotsam, and
continued our trek.
Near where the trail reconnected with the
highway, was the nude beach the Jeep drivers warned us about. It is
apparently an unsanctioned area, with “no nudes” spray-painted on a tree and
an abandoned boat. There were a few people about, obviously
unclothed, but seeming reluctant to present themselves. To each his own.
We continued past the nude area, parked on the beach, played in the ocean and
enjoyed our packed lunch.
I had come to think of public features
like National and State parks to be permanent – where memories live and
can be shared with the grandkids. I recently heard that a few states are
considering sale of public lands to meet budget shortfalls. The
libertarian in me reluctantly agrees with the right to sell public land, but the
idea of these areas ceasing to be accessible still concerns me.
The thought of a public area being
literally washed away, like Sea Rim, never entered my mind.
Matt Bruner
SPORTS ON TV, OR WHY I TAKE WALKS ON
HOLIDAYS
Baseball, basketball, football… they
all are American spectator sports, popular for viewing in person and on
television. Somehow, in my upbringing, I was not taught the appreciation
of such things.
My father had no interest in
ball-oriented sports. His early life involved shooting, horsemanship,
running, and other rural, survival-related activities. The shooting was to
provide dinner. Running was to get from place to place. Horses were
for plows, stump pulling, and other work too demanding for humans. To my
knowledge, he never in his life played football, basketball or baseball.
He had no interest at all in any of them, save one tiny indulgence. He
learned that people were passionate about their favorite teams, and his
coworkers would place unusual trust in their team’s abilities to perform.
This confidence was reflected in their choices for the office betting pools.
Dad would read the sports predictions, bet based on the prediction, and be ahead
hundreds of dollars per year. He never watched the game. He would
just collect his winnings and wait for the next betting pool.
Mom attended football games at the high
school she worked at, but showed little interest when her young friends were not
playing. I remember going to some of my own high school games, but not
paying too much attention. It was more of a social event, or something to
do in the evening. Both of my parents finished their schooling in their
late-forties, and often worked overtime or second jobs, so leisure time was
precious in their early married life. We didn’t watch a lot of
television at home, and preferred reading and outdoor activities.
I never sat and watched a football game
with my father, nor any ball-sport event for that matter. I was by his
side for brake jobs, home window replacements, car exhaust valve reseating,
water skiing, trail horse riding, boat repainting, camping, planting trees,
fishing, hiking, and all of the other off-time stuff our family did.
In any case, I missed-out on the
sports-on-TV thing. I actually watched a sports event on TV from beginning
to end last year at a friend’s house. I think it was the first time in
my life. It was kind of interesting from a sociologist view, but didn’t
at all compel me to watch another. I do have a fondness for ice skating
(yeah, I am sounding real macho here). It began when I watched an Olympic
skater carry his skating partner across the ice like a pizza box. Strength
and coordination, art and poise. I find the skating exhibitions boring.
It has to be Olympic figure skating. There is present a tension, a bit of
glory and desperation, and a lot of crash-and-burn. I am interested in
mountain biking, but it is a terrible spectator sport, on TV or in person.
Which thirty feet of the twenty-five mile track to you want to watch? So
sports on TV in our home is an hour or two every fourth year.
So I have probably missed-out on a lot of
male-bonding time, but I can’t fight my nature. When the big game comes
on, I will likely grab a handful of snacks and go walking.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
ANOTHER SATURDAY NIGHT
We drove through a small town just
outside the border of the Lakota Sioux reservation near
We drove through mid-morning on a Sunday.
Two characteristics made the people in the town worthy of remark. First,
everyone was dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt. That seems to be the
dress for everyone on the reservation that does not want to appear too much to
be part of the reservation. It is not like people walk around in buffalo
robes and feathers. But many people there do show some solidarity, with
jewelry, some beadwork on their hair, or an Indian-related t-shirt.
Second, no one in the town was moving.
All were sitting, standing, leaning, or laying in a heap on the ground. It
was a strange sight to see several dozen people in a town, yet none were in
motion. In a typical town on a Sunday morning, people are walking to
church, pumping fuel into a truck, darting into a grocery store, walking the
family dog…
This town exists to serve alcohol to
Indians. There is no way around it. It sits just outside of the
reservation, if my memory is correct, by mere feet. On a nice Sunday
morning, people were still out from the night before, apparently still too
numbed to have found a way home, or to have gathered the motivation to beg for a
ride. It was a town of sadness, dependence and darkness.
Alcohol can be a pleasant diversion, a
social lubricant, a sacrament. It can also mean the death of families, of
relationships, of souls.
It has been theorized that Indians have a
genetic disposition to alcoholism. I don’t know about that – it seems
no more likely than a genetic disposition to obesity, methamphetamine use,
dancing, or building casinos. It is clear that the social controls on
alcohol consumption are not as strong. On the reservation, alcohol is
prohibited. One must leave the rez to get alcohol, but then there is no
one to say “enough.”
It has been a couple of years since we
drove through the small town, but I remember the feeling of the place vividly.
It was as if space aliens had frozen life there. It was as if there were a
cloud of darkness hovering over the town. It was as if the people were
lost, and no one cared to find them.
We locked the doors and kept moving.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
DAD
I am not a big holiday person. I
never really have been. I will ignite some fireworks on the Fourth, send a
few cards during the year, and maybe go to church for a Christmas program.
Since we no longer have dads around this house, Father’s Day kind of came and
went, with just a bit of quiet missing.
Most of you never met my dad. He
was quite a man, and he lived a strange and charmed life. He was born in a
sharecropper’s cabin in
When I was very young, my dad mentioned
walking five miles to school, often (as the story always seems to go) in the
snow. I remarked that this was incredible! He replied that he walked
ten miles on some Saturdays to go to the movie theater, and thought nothing of
it. That was how one got around.
Dad left home at a young age to work
construction for the CCC during the Depression. I have told the story
before how he enlisted for WWII, and spent his “fighting time” as a sergeant
typist in a WAC camp in
It is interesting to think about the
changes he witnessed during his life, and how he adapted to them so easily.
He saw the cities grow, and rural life as he knew it, practically disappear.
He saw the automobile go from a rich person’s hobby to ubiquity.
Telephones came and became wireless. The transistor was invented, and was
miniaturized so millions could sit on a postage stamp. Wars, disease,
prosperity, hope. The
We remark now about how quickly change
happens, but the changes seem to be in small things. A computer can double
in speed in a couple of years, but air travel speed probably took half a century
to double, and has not changed much in decades. A car is much safer and
more efficient, but it still rolls on tires and we still have to guide it down
the road. Many of the things we were promised – disposable clothing, a
cure for cancer, synthetic body parts, cities in domes, a helicopter in every
garage – have not happened. When you consider the progress our parents
witnessed, it seems like progress has stalled for us.
I may change my mind about that in twenty
years. Not being a father myself, I will have to really “sell it” when
I convince some unsuspecting child to listen to my boring old-person stories.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
CO
Kelly and I have no children, a
combination of choice and fate. I was never driven to have kids, Kelly
could have gone either way. There are normal precautions a couple takes to
prevent conception, but after twenty years of marriage, destiny has had its
hand. Not to get too clinical or personal, but age has determined that the
prospect of having a child is pretty slim now.
Recently, we have seen a lot of parents
having problems with their teenagers. Driving problems. Drug
problems. Insolence problems. School problems. I am not
qualified to analyze these problems, but I can see how modern life makes it
difficult to maintain an influence on one’s children. Do the kids really
listen to the parents? How much together time is enough, with the
influence of school, friends, social websites and television.
Years ago we had some neighbors, whose
daughter started acting up. The parental response was swift, decisive and
effective. The entire family left their home and went on a church
missionary project to
On a recent driving trip, I noted how the
barn swallows build their nests along the underpasses, just above the 70
mile-per-hour traffic. The “kids” are indulged until that first trip
from the nest. Then they had better succeed, or the consequences are
severe. I know we are not birds and birds are not us. But maybe
there is a lesson here about expectations and success.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
HOW HISTORY MAY HAVE BEEN CHANGED, OR
NOT
Eric Clapton has called him “the most
important blues musician who ever lived.” The sum of his recorded work
is from two recording sessions in
Robert Johnson the blues singer occupies
the first several pages of a Google search for that name. He died in 1938.
One has to work through three pages of links to find a reference to another
Robert Johnson,
He was not particularly popular in his
time – he sold a few 78s, and slid to the brink of obscurity. It was not
until over thirty years after his death that some prominent rock musicians
discovered him through a reissue of the recordings. Now many of his songs
are well-known: “Sweet Home
Well…
It has recently been theorized that the
recordings were speeded-up by about 20 percent when the masters for the modern
records (and then CDs) were manufactured. What does this all mean?
Was his guitar playing less impressive? Was the voice more ordinary?
Did his original 78 recordings not sell because they were just not very good?
The debate is on! We can’t predict the future, and we can’t predict
the present from a different past. It is interesting to think that,
without this mistake, Robert Johnson might have slid into obscurity like
thousands of other unremarkable musicians, having missed the chance to become
famous for something he never was. Very possibly so…
The irony of this all is that I really
like the slower versions I listened to on the net, and I am hoping for a release
of the “corrected recordings.” When I listen to them, the performance
sounds mournful, more emotional, and just plain “bluer.” Right, wrong,
I don’t know, but I like the “new” sound. A small adjustment, and it
now all sounds right to me.
Maybe the Devil is in the details.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
MIKE, MY FRIEND
Several weeks ago, I was sifting through
some boxes in the attic, looking for a newsletter from a former employer from
the late seventies, in order to scan it for an internet posting. I found
among the papers from my past, a photo of an old friend.
I met Mike when I was working at the
government about 1986 or so. One morning a new guy was sitting near me.
I welcomed him, and he quickly pointed out he had been around for a while.
He calmed my embarrassment by explaining he had left the previous afternoon with
long black hair and a beard, and had returned a clean-shaven blonde. We
made introductions and got back to work, but a friendship grew.
Mike was, as one might say, “very
gay.” I have never had a problem with that – I am not interest in gay
men in “that way,” and they could easily find a more handsome and willing
object of their love and/or desire. Anyway, we became good friends, and I
caught glimpses of a world usually not open to me. One night, Mike took me
to a restaurant in
A year or so later, Mike developed a
bruise on his neck that would not go away. Testing proved it to be
Kaposi’s Sarcoma, very rare at the time, seen only on old Jewish or Italian
men. Further tests revealed the reason for the unusual, opportunistic
disease, AIDS.
In the present, AIDS is a very scary
diagnosis. Back then, it suggested a slow, wasting death. This was a
time before anyone knew what exactly caused the disease, how it was transmitted,
or how it should be treated. Around this time Dr. Peter Duesberg, one of
the leading AIDS researchers, planned to inject himself with the virus at the
scientific community’s AIDS conference to prove his theory that it was benign.
Could one get sick from a handshake, a hug, a kiss on the cheek? Was it a
disease at all, or a symptom of immune system abuse? Was the sickness
caused by something else, not yet discovered? It seems ignorant now, but
these were the questions the best scientists in the world were asking.
Mike was my friend and he needed my help.
I built a deck with a ramp to his front door, anticipating the progression of
his disease. I made a plumbing upgrade so he could water his flowers from
the porch. I performed some electrical repairs. I later helped him
keep inventory of his medicine (AZT or placebo, we never knew. He was part
of the first clinical trial.)
I once asked Mike what made a person gay.
He asked the same of me. I answered, “The way I was born.” He said it
was the same with him. He said he never had a choice, and he would not
have wished his life on his worst enemy. He was voted the homecoming queen
of his rural
Several weeks before he died, his parents
were convinced to come see him. Tears, hugs, apologies, and a flood of
love.
As a result of his odd childhood, Mike
had never owned an electric train – He wanted one as a child, and wanted one
still. We built a train set in his extra bedroom, and I purchased for him
a copy of the John Bull steam engine. I was promised the return of the
small engine when he was finished with it, something to remember him by.
However, with the reconciliation of Mike and his family, I felt out-of-place,
and retreated so the family could enjoy their limited time. I never got a
chance to ask Mike or his parents for the little train engine. My
recollection is that Mike’s parents took him home to
My photo and memories of a damn good
friend are enough.
SOME SPRING-TIME OPTIMISM
I suppose it is acceptable to find some
good in the adversity of others. I would never wish bad on people, but
given that bad happens, it would seem good, and maybe even beneficial to find a
positive result from the bad.
Spring has arrived in
Monday, we went on a bicycle ride with
Chris and Linda, a bit of a send-off for their “cyclical” return to
The foot pushes the pedal. The
pedal moves the crank and chainring. The chain pulls the hub, spokes and
tire. The bicycle and rider end up where they began. American
Indians think of life as a circle or cycle. The end is the beginning.
You don’t end up somewhere strange and foreign. You end up where you are
familiar and where you belong. It is the same with a journey or a life –
a life is a journey.
Everyone dies – it is just a matter of
the timing. I have no idea how much time I have, but I am pretty sure it
is more than half over. I have been getting a lot of reminders recently,
from interesting and reliable sources, to make damn sure I am enjoying the
journey. A young neighbor died. An 86-year-old picks me out to share
his stories of a life lived well. Our atomic clock jumped seven months
ahead overnight. When my cycle begins again, I want some good stories to
tell for the next round.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
700-POUND GORILLA IN THE ROOM
I have waited for a couple of weeks, and
the gorilla has not gone away. The gorilla is always breathing behind me,
distracting me from clear thought and the normal joy of life. I never
truly expected the gorilla to disappear - maybe we might just wake up and find
out it was just a bad dream.
A couple of weeks ago, a friend and
neighbor died from a diabetic coma. Josh was fourteen. He was scary
smart, a lot of fun to be around, and I consider him to have been an honorary
son.
Maybe next week, I will have more to say.
MODERN MUSIC DISTRIBUTION
Last weekend, I made the final commitment
to digital music. I have been buying CDs for some time now, and I recorded
a lot of my old vinyl albums to CDs. I have a digital music recorder/mixer
– I recorded my own CD here at home with it.
I bought an iPod! I have had
several mp3 players, but they were handoffs from my wife, who has been more
serious about experimenting with the new ways of the world. But this time,
I bought the real deal, a new player with current technology.
It is a bit ironic, though, that I bought
the iPod mostly because it has a big screen that I can read without glasses.
It sounds about the same as the last player, and the one before that, but it has
a big screen that lights up, clear print that I can read, and a real directory,
not just two buttons with fifty functions each. My player is the small
capacity, eight megabyte. With most music albums, after half a dozen
listens, I am ready to put it away for six months or so. Very few albums
and artists can I listen to frequently and consistently. I may eventually
fill my new player up to its capacity of 700 songs, or whatever it turns out to
be, but I will have no problem removing a few of the old songs to make more
room.
Another irony is that, even after many
years of CD listening, I am still ready to hear something else after 20-25
minutes. I am still programmed to the length of a vinyl LP. I like
shuffle. I like portability. I do not miss scratches, wow and
flutter, skips, stylus cleaning, record cleaning, and the other vinyl record
issues.
I am mentally prepared to have tunes
without album covers, without liner notes, without frame-ready wall art.
Music can be reduced to a bunch of digital files in a folder, and after a decade
of resistance, I am ready to embrace the future.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
JUST SOME LIGHTHEARTED STUFF
I feel a political rant brewing, but I
think I can fight it off for another week or two. The weather here has
changed again: last week snow, and now it is sunny and warm, another tease
of the Spring to come. Maybe I can think about the weather.
The Winter has its blessings. One of the recent storms washed a bunch of
trash into our yard, and along with the trash was a truck-load of nice
driftwood. Chris the wood-monger came over and we prospected the yard and
the nearby slough. He left with a lot of intriguing pieces. The word
is that one has to start cutting to see if the inside will be interesting and
usable. It could be a characterless root, it could turn into a bunch of
fuzz, or it could just come apart. It could also become something
magnificent.
Chris got the tree parts, and I took the
boards. I now have about 120 board-feet of pressure treated lumber, nicely
aged by the lake. I have used past bounties for benches and plant stands.
I haven’t decided on the next project yet. There is still a piece in the
slough I want. It is about three feet by two feet and probably eight
inches thick. It was too heavy to get out, and might require a tractor to
pull it up the bank. I am thinking guitar bodies!
I saw that piece float by during a
windstorm. I was so interested in it, I waded into the frigid waves
waist-deep to retrieve it and tie it to our dock. The storm broke it
loose, but it made it to the slough. Maybe my riding lawnmower (sorry,
“garden tractor”) can pull it out. Must get it before the snakes come
out for Spring.
This is a hard country we live in. The
sun is strong and damages the house paint and rots window screens. The
wind chews up tender plants and dirties the windows even under deep overhangs.
The rain goes sideways. I once watched raindrops hit a window, be driven
up several inches, through the frame another inch or so, and come out indoors!
Sudden thunderstorms can make boating, or even being outside hazardous.
But with the harshness comes beauty and excitement. And a bounty of
interesting stuff from the lake.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
REGARDING “REGARDING YOUR
REQUEST”…
Last week’s
If you read it and were offended, I
apologize. There was never meant to be anything “arrogant,”
“pompous,” “pretentious,” or “Maria Carey” about the thoughts I was
trying to convey. (Those were actual words used in readers’ responses.)
The whole point was that when I perform, I try my best to be entertaining,
despite my failings. I am not thrilled that I cannot sing songs that are
not interesting to me – I try and the results are miserable. I consider
my failing a lack of talent and professionalism. I would not know what
else to blame it on. It takes a certain attitude to be comfortable
performing, and sometimes it is difficult to maintain that attitude amidst
failure.
In a book, one has plenty of time and
space to create a context for a statement, be it fact or fiction.
Computer-based communication, be it an email or blog, is usually short and
to-the-point. It is easy for honesty to be interpreted as sarcasm,
hyperbole as fact, fact as intentional lie. The point is easily lost.
When we take away the face, with its many expressions, the inflection of the
spoken word, the timing of the statement, the context which brought forth the
statement, and the ability to question the writer for clarification, it is
remarkably easy to misinterpret a statement.
Some revelations are probably best left
to the spoken word.
I will hope that friends know my nature
well-enough to understand what I write, but it is always a hazard that they
might not. When I write it is for friends and strangers alike, though.
If you do not know me, please remember I am better with words than emotions, and
not an expert at either. If I write something that I think might be
offensive, I will label the blog “Do Not Read.” (I have done this
before!) In the absence of such a label, nothing was intended to offend,
and if you are not sure, just send me an email and give me a second chance to
explain.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
REGARDING YOUR REQUEST…
I appreciate your interest and confidence
in me when you offer a song request. I will smile and play it, or I might
admit that I do not know it. In any case I offer my gratitude. I
have more to say, but in front of an audience is not the place to offer it.
Despite my apprentice-level skills, I
really am a bitchy artist inside. Maybe I have not earned the right to be
a diva, but the emotions are there nonetheless. I have several hundred
songs in my book. They were chosen, not by requests or at random.
They are songs that move me – that create an emotional effect in me.
They are also songs I have sung maybe a dozen times in a single rehearsal, plus
a couple hundred performances, and I still enjoy the way they make me feel.
You may think of that as selfish – my choosing my songs for me and not for
you. I am not a good reciter, and I am sure you would feel my discomfort
if you were to watch me present a song I did not enjoy. Maybe I am
unprofessional, maybe I am selfish, maybe I am a hack. I don’t know.
Some songs can be done better by others,
often by many, many others. If you ask for a Jimmy Buffett song, I will
politely respond that I do not know it. That is true, but there is more to
the story. I have heard numbers of performers do Buffett well, and a lot
more do it badly. My heart will not be in it to do it well, and you
don’t need another singer doing it badly.
Some songs I cannot sing well.
Crosby, Stills, and Nash is a combination of some of the most distinctive voices
in music. I cannot do a poor imitation of three great voices at once.
(Personal message: I have “Wooden Ships” on my learn list!) I
will sing some Marty Robbins or the like, but I know I don’t do it justice.
Some songs are just too deep, too emotional – I don’t think I could sing
Marty’s “The Master’s Call” or Bill Miller’s “Faith of a Child”
without turning into a sobbing mess. I admire the artists that can drag
their anguished heart out of their chests and hand it to the audience, but I am
not there yet.
I want to please you, but it may not be
possible all of the time. If I can’t do your request, smile and say
thanks anyway, and understand that I offer what I can do for your enjoyment.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
WATER SAFETY
When I get involved in a new pastime, I
like to learn as much as I can, in order to make my participation more enjoyable
and less embarrassing. Shortly after we became involved in boating, I read
a cautionary story about boating and water safety. Before that time, I had
been living with the stupid and naïve impression that if one falls in the
water, one laughs, climbs out, and goes on about the business of the day.
The reality is often a lot different.
The story I read was about a seasoned
boater, tending to some maintenance on his boat while it was tied to the dock.
The gentleman, tripped over a line, and went into the water. When he fell,
the impact on the edge of the dock dislocated his shoulder, which nearly caused
him to faint from the pain. He hit the 40-degree water head first after a
full exhalation. Did I mention it was nighttime? So within five
seconds, the writer went from smug and hearty on the dock to underwater,
disoriented, injured, and his brain quickly shutting-down from hypothermia.
He sensed he was moving but did not know if he was headed for the surface or the
bottom. By some miracle, he had the presence of mind, amidst the panic and
addling, to stick his hand in front of his face, blow bubbles with his last
remaining air, and determine by the feel on his hand which direction the bubbles
were heading.
This gentleman was very lucky to have
survived a simple trip. I have witnessed someone who has fallen in the
water at a dock at night, in the Winter, with no way to get out of the water.
The person was clothed, had his boots on, and was very weighed-down. Sure
most boats have ladders – they were all folded up, where they usually remain
when not being used! Shore was 100 yards away. Lucky someone walked by,
and helped him back onto the dock.
One Fourth of July night, we were slowly
returning our houseboat to dock after the fireworks display, mingled with a
hundred or so other boats. Around the point of land near the marina came a
bass boat at full speed, with a person standing at the front of the boat with
his arms out like Jesus, apparently hoping to meet him real soon. The
speeding boat narrowly missed our boat. A year later, a similar scenario
(possibly without the Jesus stance) resulted in a corpse with propeller cuts
from waist to face. Do realize that both of these events happened at
night. Boats don’t have headlights, there are no lane lines, no
streetlights.
Last year, neighbors and I rescued two
families from a malfunctioning boat after a sudden thunderstorm on the lake.
A calm and sunny day quickly turned to thunderstorms resulting in a nearly
swamped boat and potential disaster. We grounded the boat near shore,
helped the panicked people through the 2-3 foot waves, and eventually abandoned
the disabled boat to run ashore eslewhere, after the engine refused to restart.
The middle of the coldest Winter in years
may seem like a strange time to preach about boating safety, but it isn’t.
Last week, a person apparently drowned on our lake. The sixteen-foot boat
was recovered, but not the body. The Coast Guard chopper could not find
him. Likely it will show up when the water warms, and things begin to
decompose and float to the surface. The prevailing breezes usually send
the lake debris our way. I enjoy seeing the flotsam brought to shore by
the lake, but that discovery would be unpleasant.
Watch your step, stay sober, and if you
drink, wear the damn vest.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
*LOCAL WILDLIFE MAKES A COMEBACK*
*I was probably in my forties when I saw a hawk for the first time. Now I see them frequently wherever I go. Here in the rural areas, I see one almost daily. When I am in the city, I will usually see one on a power line or riding the thermals over a neighborhood. On our trip last fall, I saw eight on a single power line in less than a mile. I see Bald Eagles several times a year – I saw one for the first time about three years ago.*
*In the **Atlanta** area, deer were rare. Many people would drive to the parks on **Allatoona** **Lake** to see them come to the car to beg for a snack, or would pay for admission to the **Yellow River** Game Ranch to see the small herd. At the Apartments in **Roswell**, we have seen several recently. This is an area that has been developed for at least half a century or longer, and has had relatively little development.
Further North, Alpharetta has had lots of property development, which might cause the deer to cover large areas to find enough food to survive. But these are not skinny, starved deer – these are big, healthy deer. Last week, a friend in **Atlanta**’s dog brought home a deer leg.*
*Bears, coyotes, etc. are frequently seem in suburban and urban areas now. I don’t think they are being forced into these areas trying to avoid starvation. Near our old home in **Atlanta**, coyotes were doing pretty well on domestic cats. I think animals have gotten used to our noise and smell, and are expanding their numbers. This will be all well-and-good, until people start running their cars into them and causing human injury and death. Then it will seem more like a problem.*
*I am not suggesting that we kill wildlife. I have heard, however, that the wildlife rangers are. Word is that the big cats in our area have become such a nuisance the rangers suggest shooting them on sight. A neighborhood near us fed their pretty deer until the deer took over the neighborhood, stripping away any ornamental plant they could get to. I hear the neighborhood had them “removed.” (By the way, deer sausage is excellent!) The number of alligators is said to be increasing in our area – will we allow this to continue when pets and maybe children begin to disappear?*
*We and the animals have been pushing to and fro for thousands of years – only our perception of the struggle has changed.*
*Matt Bruner **1/8/10** **Coldspring**, **Texas***
WHAT WILL I WRITE
ABOUT?
I have just sat down with no idea what I
will write about. That does not happen very often – usually I have
several ideas before I start. When I started writing my blog several years
ago, I feared that I would run out of ideas in a month or two. I have a
list of ideas somewhere, but I will try to avoid looking for it today.
Christmas is a time of mixed emotions in
this house. Those of you with children pretty much know where the focus
will be – the kids. At our home, we think a lot about four dead parents,
odd family situations, and how we could have been better people. Of course
the past cannot be changed, our personal traits are only slightly more
malleable, and the future is subject to our perceptions and personality.
In short, not a lot changes. We think about the past, we try to enjoy the
present, and we look toward the future.
We decorated the house this year for the
first time in five or so years. It is beautiful, but it is some trouble
fitting the decorating in with all of the “normal life” stuff. I
sometimes resent how complicated life has become, and how difficult it is to
find time for simple things like decorating the house. I have reports to
send to the city regarding the apartment inspections, recycling reports,
quarterly employment tax reports, Crime-Free Housing correspondence, a petition
for a street light, a letter from the IRS that I have responded to already,
copyright forms, plus all of the usual bills, taxes, etc. I received a
letter from the insurance company asking to report how much I drive. I had
another report to prepare for my workmen’s compensation insurance. It is
almost time to start on the income taxes again. I have been waiting over a
month for a replacement windshield for the motorhome. We bought sixteen
replacement tires last month.
When I was twenty, I could drive to
I have a prayer: “Every morning,
my faith and spirit is renewed because I live in freedom, health and prosperity,
and I am surrounded by good friends and family. I have a body and a brain
that function, and allow me to navigate my day. You may take me today,
God, because I have enjoyed more than I ever deserved.”
I often think about the suffering, pain
and death that is common in history and now in the world. I have never
been abused, but I have relatives that were. I have never been in a
concentration camp, but I have met people that lived through it. I have
never had a limb severed to coerce my vote, but it happens probably daily in
parts of
This will sound stupid to the more
agnostic, Deist, or atheist of you, but I look at my still being here as proof I
am still needed, at some time for some purpose. I have beaten the odds so
many times, I can only believe that divine intervention has kept me here.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
THE STRANGEST THING HAPPENED
Several weeks ago, we replaced our old,
big tube-type television with a LCD flat-screen. The old one was at least
eight years-old, and the picture has expanded to where the picture edges were no
longer visible. You may have guessed that we are not early technology
adopters. Anyway, the new TV looked great in the store, but when we got it
home and hooked it up to our usual crappy satellite dish signal and usual crappy
DVD player, it looked, well, crappy.
As is often the case with quantum changes
in technology, one component change suggests further changes up or down the
signal path. It is like when you purchase a new computer, and discover
that your serial printer no longer is given a serial port on the new computer.
Or when you realize your new cell phone requires new chargers and a different
headset.
So I called our television signal
provider, the one that sends a signal from a satellite “direct”ly to our
dish. This is where the wonderful stuff happened. I called on a
Friday late morning. We were scheduled for a HD installation between nine
and twelve the next day. Do note that the next day was a Saturday.
On Saturday morning, a representative called to confirm that the installer would
be here within the appointed times. About ten, the representative called,
to tell us that the installer had been delayed at his first appointment, but
would still see us within the appointed time.
The installer arrived well before twelve, installed the new dish and lead-in
wire, programmed the new receiver, programmed our receiver remote to work our
new TV, verified all was working correctly, showed us several features on the
new remote, reset the remote to work with radio frequency rather than infrared
(shoots around corners now). He provided his name and cell number in case
we had any problems or questions.
I watched the installer while he was
outdoors. He left the base of the old dish bolted to the roof, to reduce
the possibility of any rain leaks from the holes. He dropped the
clipped-off ¼-inch copper wire ends from the new lead-in wire into his
tool pouch rather than dropping them in the grass. Other than a screw that
was lost when it rolled under his van while he was working, there was no sign
inside or outside our home that an installer had visited. Wire clippings,
boxes, packing, old equipment – all were gone!
While the installer was here, the
representative called to verify that he had arrived promptly.
Stories about cable and dish installers
are legendary – weeks of delayed visits, leaking roofs, cigarette butts in the
yard, mud tracks on the carpet, trash, intoxication, etc. At one of our
rental properties, a cable installer was so intoxicated (read that as “damn
raving, belligerent drunk”), management demanded he leave immediately and
called the company to report him.
Last Saturday, it was a pleasure to see
what a good company is capable of.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
A GOOD GUITAR
“When I was a kid” musical equipment
was not as common nor as good of quality as it is now. In the late
seventies and early eighties, we would go from music shop to pawn shop, looking
for a good, inexpensive playable guitar. I am sure they were out there,
but they did not appear consistently in music stores. Maybe they remained
in the hands of players. I had an agreement with one local shop. If
he got a good, playable used guitar in the shop, he would call me. I would
give him my credit card number and he would deliver it to my job. For a
year or so, I purchased nearly everything he offered, most at $300 to $400 each.
Any shop would have lots of guitars, but most would range from tired to badly
defective.
Today, the market is awash with great
guitars. This year, I bought a truly pro-quality guitar new for about
$700, which is probably about the same relative cost as my used purchases in the
seventies and eighties. I recently bought a new guitar, as functional as
any I owned in the eighties for $109 plus shipping. I am a 50-year-old in
a musical candy store – the stuff now is very good, cheap, and it is
everywhere.
A couple of factors play into this situation. First, a lot of the stuff
comes from
A big social change happened to us since
the eighties. Back then, a budding musician would be confronted by the
adults with, “ That is a fine hobby, but we will not permit it to interfere
with your education/ job/ goals/ etc. Now, an infant bobs his head to a
song on TV, and there is $1000 of musical gear stacked around the crib by
sundown. What was once the domain of outlaws is now mainstream.
Being a rock star is considered to be as legitimate as being a lawyer or doctor,
and probably much more respected than a politician.
Matt Bruner
Coldspring,
MARKETING LAKOTA-STYLE - A DIFFERENT
TELLING
When we passed the
While we were walking around the
cemetery, a couple of young Lakota men walked up. The first said, “We
heard that you like unusual Indian art – we have a couple of items to show
you.” They then pull out two nice, large dream catchers. I viewed
the items, and politely offered that I had just bought a dream catcher, and that
our money was limited. I would pass on the purchases, but I enjoyed seeing
them. After some friendly small talk, the young men walked on, and Kelly
and I continued our visit.
When we returned to the motorhome to
leave, another young Indian man approached us. He said that he had heard
we were lovers of music, and asked if we wished to donate to support his
activities in a youth music program. He apparently works with children to
get them interested in traditional music and keep them away from destructive
habits. The gentleman had no brochure, no flyer, no card, just a story.
I offered MY story that we traveling on a limited budget, but good luck.
He then pulled-out an “unusual” beaded necklace…
I can spend a day shopping in
Matt Bruner
MARKETING LAKOTA-STYLE
Last vacation, while on the Lakota Sioux reservation, we visited the Wounded Knee site. It was interesting for a number of reasons. First is the modest surroundings and presentation of the site. Custer Battlefield, in comparison, is a huge park, with paved roads, interpretation center, book and gift store, ranger presentations, memorials, maps, signs, and the like. Pretty much all of the amenities one would expect for a National Park.
The third time, we found the sign at the side of the road that tells the tale. If you are not familiar with the story, it is one of the most shameful events of 19th century America. Go look it up.
The sign title has artfully been modified to read “Wounded Knee Massacre.” We read the sign, took in the atmosphere for a few moments and were about to move on, when a nice Indian lady pointed us up the hill to the cemetery and “museum.” The museum was a round-shaped building, concrete floor, with paintings across the walls by Indian artists, mostly political and having to do with past and present Indian oppression and prejudice. There are a few historical relics framed on the walls as well. Very interesting for sure, but one gets the feeling that the presentation is not for the pleasure and interest of the white traveler, but for the purging of Indian anger and soothing of Indian soul. It is well worth seeing, but it is not a fun, nor comfortable place.
Outside is a modest fenced cemetery, with some names the historian among us will recognize. The gates are unlocked, more for keeping the rez dogs off the graves, than for keeping people out. Visitors unknown have left coins, feathers, ribbons and other offerings on the graves. When we arrived, we were alone. Later, we were joined by a tour bus-load of people who quietly shuffled through.
I suspect that if Wounded Knee were elsewhere, it would get the commercialized presentation common to other historical sites. As it is, one gets the feeling that the graves are a lot fresher than they look, the indigenous people there are not quite your allies, and the battle may be long-over, but the war is still unfinished.
Matt Bruner Coldspring, Texas 11/11/09
TRAVELING VERSUS CAMPING
We have just returned from our yearly
trip in our motorhome, after seeing a number of states, and even seeing a bit of
At the end of our trip, we were able to
sit and relax for a while. We spent several days at
After Lake Isabella, we ended up with old
friends in the desert outside Tucson for several days of ATV rides, long
interesting conversations, long pleasant silences, mesquite campfires, steaks
grilled on those campfires, shooting at bottles, watching for shooting stars,
and soaking in the naturally-fed hot tubs.
After reflection, it seems that, for us,
camping (as compared to traveling in the motorhome) is characterized by two
features: how much time the dogs spend outside and how dirty the motorhome gets.
When the dogs have turned nearly wild, and we and every surface of the motorhome
are dust-covered, we have been camping!
WORLD 
