Yellow is the color of Spring

Yes, we do have daffodils in Arizona. Just down the street, as a matter of fact. Click on the picture for a better view.

This was brought up by comments posted on my Mag 7 posting yesterday. Enjoy!

Mag 7

Magpie Tales is a writing exercise begun for bloggers, poets, writers and the like by the illustrious Willow of Willow Manor. Each week she posts a photo and she and the rest of us are to write "something" . . . a poem, a vignette, or whatever based on the photo. This week is a bit different as we explore Magpie Tales 7.


"We all live in a yellow submarine,
a yellow submarine, a yellow submarine,
We all live in a yellow submarine,
a yellow submarine, a yellow subm . . ."

What’s that?

A daffodil?

Are you quite sure?

Hmmm.

Well.

Never mind, then.

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I told you it was different. To see the other creations click here.

Sunday, Sunday

I know, I know.

I haven't posted since Monday. Living on my Mag 6, you say.

Well, not really. I just haven't had a thing to say. I've been watching the NCAA basketball tournament and following, with glee, the fortunes of Butler's Bulldogs, which are in the Final 4 next week.

I've been keeping tabs on a friend, who is in the hospital.

I've been reading "Game Change". It's a book in the likes of those written by Theodore H. White but it's more superficial. Maybe it's perfect for this era but it's fun, with lots of gossip on the 2008 presidential race.

And I've watched a couple of movies - "The Men Who Stare at Goats" - a totally mindless hour and a half but a bit funny; and "Broken Embraces" - with the perfectly lovely Penelope Cruz and her favorite director, Pedro Almodovar. That one was better.

So, you see, I've been kind of busy. I'll be back.

Mag 6

I passed through the gates at the institution for the criminally insane, past thick iron bars, past stolid armed guards. I was told bluntly to stop, to raise my arms and was frisked thoroughly. As the guards eyed me, seemingly hostile, I felt a nervous tremor in my stomach. I was not a threat but they didn’t know that. They knew only that I was here to visit one of their most dangerous prisoners.

Burt Jensen had been born in a tarpaper shack on a dirt poor northern Wisconsin farm. He lived through his childhood in that shack with only a small iron stove for heat, sleeping on a ragged pad with one blanket on the floor in one corner of the single room that housed them all. His mother had died giving birth to him. He had one brother four years older, who used to beat him nearly every day and steal food from the tin plate on which he ate. Those were the good days. The day his father, Olav, didn’t beat him.

One night they both beat him, kicked him into a small bundle and left him on his pallet while they laughed and drank the evil smelling alcohol they brewed out of potatoes. Later that night, after they had passed out, he took a knife and cut both of their throats.

When the police came to take him away, he was hollow-eyed and chanting, over and over

Fratricide,
Patricide,
Cops call it
Homicide.

That’s all the authorities ever got out of him. Just that mad rhyme. That was all he had ever spoken since that horrible night.

So now he was here. In the bowels of this huge grey institution. And so was I.

I was a reporter. After months and months of effort, I finally had been granted this opportunity to talk to Burt Jensen. Was I fearful? Oh, yes. Even in spite of knowing that he would be shackled, hand and foot, and I would be "protected" by the armed guard in the same room.

So I entered. And waited. The room was empty except for a small wooden table and two straight-backed wooden chairs.

I jumped as I heard the door clang open. And Burt Jensen came in, with a guard holding tightly to one arm. His dark hair was disheveled and hung down on his forehead. His eyes were on the floor. The guard roughly pushed him down into the chair by the table opposite me. I sat and, slowly, his eyes rose to my face. They were blank.

My long sought interview was a disaster. Burt Jensen didn’t answer any of my questions, he didn’t respond at all, he just stared. Not at me, exactly, but through me. He sat still for the entire time, just staring.

Finally, I had enough. I gave up. I turned off my recorder, looked at the guard and nodded. He took Burt Jensen’s arm and raised him from his chair. And I turned to leave. As my back turned, I heard, for the first time, Burt Jensen’s voice.

Nails in his arms,
Spear in his side,
Jesus Christ
Was crucified.

I stood there, stunned, as he repeated the words over and over again as the guard shouldered him down the hall. His words grew fainter as my hands gripped the edge of the table in an effort to stop the trembling.

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This is the sixth in series of weekly writing exercises initiated by Willow, who posts a photo and invites people to write a poem or a story or an essay based on it. You can learn more and read other entrants' writings at Magpie Tales.

R.I.P. Stuart Udall

A son of Arizona, former U.S. Interior Secretary Stuart Udall, died yesterday at the age of 90.

My favorite line from his obituary in today's New York Times reads as follows:

"When he was 84, at the end of his last rafting trip on the Colorado River, Mr. Udall hiked up the steep Bright Angel Trail from the bottom of the Grand Canyon to the south rim, a 10-hour walk that he celebrated at the end with a martini."

That is a man I can idolize.

The Perfect Country & Western Song

A nearly private concert

My cousin, Bonnie, has become a musician, playing with a number of groups in Billings, Montana. She plays bass, fiddles some, some keyboard, maybe a little guitar and Lord knows what else. She and a group of friends decided a trip to the Southwest was due and they arrived this evening. After dinner, we all repaired to their motel where they had imposed on the night manager to allow them to do some pickin' in his lobby.

They are, from left to right, Larry, Cousin Bonnie, Clayton and LaLonnie.

LaLonnie plays a mandolin which was made for her by another friend in Montana.

Larry is a fine singer and guitar player as well as the comic virtuoso of the group. (Ask him to sing "I Don't Look Good Naked Anymore!")

Clayton is the true professional musician of the group, playing guitar and mandolin and singing with a sweet tenor voice.

Everyone sings. LaLonnie and Bonnie combine for some beautiful duos.

Several people wandered through the lobby during their one-hour pickup concert. During a break, one pleased young man said "I thought it was the radio!"

These talented musicians are on their way to Scottsdale where they have a couple of gigs planned, then home again to Montana.

Lot of talent up there in Montana.

Spring is here!

60 degrees at high noon, on its way to 70 today.

A fine day for a bit of drinkin' of the Guiness!

Update - 4 p.m. - the high reached 71 degrees (F). What a fine day it is!

Viva San Patricio - Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Mag 5

The Captain's Hand

It was made of smooth, tooled wood with amazing hinges at the joints of the fingers. It was a hand. Even the fingernails were delineated. When I first saw it, the fingers were half-clenched. It was beautiful. And it was hideous.

As I gazed at it resting on black velvet in it’s glass case in the seafarers museum, a chill ran over me.

I could only think of the captain.

Like the legendary Captain Ahab, he had lost part of his body in a battle with a whale at sea.

His "hand" was hand-crafted in Sweden by an artisan some years later.
It never worked very well. It was supposed to be controlled by nerves in what was left of his arm. But it didn’t. When he wanted to put it forth to grasp another’s hand, it frequently shot up the middle finger in what was thought to be an obscene gesture.

Needless to say, the captain had few friends.

His life became more restricted, more lonely, and he retreated to a small cabin near the sea on a remote coast.

He slowly became more remote himself, refusing to answer letters from family and friends of his former life. He eventually was thought to have died, passed into the beyond.

Yet he lived on.

Until. Yes, until. A long forgotten, nay, long ignored former love of his came to find him in his self-imposed exile. She had searched for years and finally learned the location of his self-imposed exile. And eventually she came.

But she was too late.

All she found was his artificial hand, floating in the surf, just offshore from his tiny cabin on the rocky crest of land.

It was slightly clenched, as if frozen and no longer defiant.

She took it and cleaned it and kept it.

In a small glass box, lined with black velvet.

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This is the fifth in a series of writing tests based on photo prompts put forth by Willow. You can read other entrants' offerings at Magpie Tales.

Sunday night

Most of the nation (U.S.A.) went on Daylight Savings Time today. Arizona, sensibly, did not.

Arizona State University's basketball team was passed over for the N.C.A.A. tournament today. The N.I.T. tournament picked them as the #1 seed. The University of Arizona was passed over by both tournaments.

Glenn Beck has suggested that anyone who is a member of a religion that supports "social justice" shoud leave it. Beck is a member of the Mormon Church. No word yet on when he's leaving it.

The "media" is saying this is crunch week for the Obama administration's push for health care reform. Time will tell.

The weather is warming here in Arizona. The forecast is for the 60's all week. I'm ready.

That is all.

This godawful winter

When I got up this morning and looked out the window I couldn't believe my eyes. Two to three inches of snow covered everything, all fallen overnight. I had an early doctor appointment so had to scrape the windows of the car free of light ice and snow, then watch for slippery spots on the way into town.

By 5 o'clock this afternoon it was 50 degrees and the weather person says it will reach 60 tomorrow.

How can a person achieve any stability in his life if the weather can't?

Another recommendation

Regular readers of this blog will know about my involvement in Magpie Tales, a creation of Willow which gives the would-be writers in the blogosphere a chance to give it a try each week. I say "would-be writers" but there are some professionals involved to give the rest of us something to shoot at. One whose writing I dearly enjoy is Vicki Lane. Check her out at one of her several blogs but you can start at Vicki Lane Mysteries. She's a treasure.

Spring in Indiana

A cousin on SWMBO's side of the family raises bees in Indiana. He has just sent me a photo of a couple of his bees enjoying the first spring flowers there - some crocuses. It's such a beautiful photo I had to show it to you.

Mag 4

The continuance of Magpie Tales. This being the fourth . . I offer this small fable. You can read the offerings of other writers by clicking here.

"What the hell is that thing?"

"It’s an elephant."

"Awfully small elephant."

"It’s a baby. A young one."

"Well why do you have it? You carry it with you all the time."

"It brings me good luck."

"Good luck! We’ve been in this damned prison for nearly 27 years! Some good luck."

"But we’re still alive aren’t we?"

"Sometimes I wonder about that."

"Have to keep on believing though. One of these days it’s all going to get better."

"Yeah, one of these days we’re gonna die and then it all WILL be better."

"Ah, now, you’ve got to have hope. Be like the elephant."

"Ha! How long does an elephant live?"

"They say it can live for some 70 years."

"Yeah, and how old are you now? 72?"

"Oh not quite. But I still have hope."

= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =

Several weeks later – the guard opens the cell door. It is February 11th, 1990. After 27 years, Nelson Mandela and his cellmate are released from prison. Mandela leaves the small elephant on the sill of his barred window, smiles and walks out into a changed world.

It has been questioned as to whether this story is true or not. One fact is accurate. Nelson Mandela was released from prison on February 11th, 1990 after 27 years of confinement. The rest . . . is all my imagination.

Oscars

So, I got 5 for 7. I missed on the Best Foreign Film, picking "The White Ribbon" to win and I went away from the favorite, Sandra Bullock, to pick Meryl Streep for Best Actress.

But . . . all in all . . . 5 for 7 isn't bad.

Me and my big mouth!

I should have known better.

Yesterday I was bragging to some friends back East that it was pushing 60 degrees here. This morning, it became evident that rain had fallen during the night. And a little while ago . . . WHAT? SNOW? AGAIN? YeGods!

Now the good part is that it's warm enough that most of it is melting as soon as it hits the ground. But it is sticking on other things. Like the car. And the garbage can lids. And the satellite dish. THE SATELLITE DISH? Yes, and once it gets a nice coating, our television service cuts out. And tonight is the Academy Awards telecast.

So I finally did something I'd been told about once and kept putting off. I got the ladder out, climbed up to the satellite dish, brushed the snow off and then sprayed the entire surface with Pam Olive Oil cooking spray! I know. It sounds crazy. But I've been told that the slippery surface will then cause the snow to slide off and not stick. So far, so good. But we'll see. I have my fingers crossed.

Things feeling a little tight, John?

Clouds

Forgive me. I am captivated by clouds.

Recession? What recession?

Construction is speeding along on an orthpedics center on the "backside" of Prescott Valley.

Meantime, down at Glassford Hill Road and Lakeshore Drive, another project is underway. This, I am told, will be a Maverick service station and store.

(Sorry for the slanted photo . . I took it out the side window as I was driving by.)

In addition, but not pictured, a new doctors' office is being constructed in the growing medical center of Prescott Valley.

And another dollar store is about to break ground on the east side of P.V.

As my contact (a high-ranking city government official) said, "not bad for a recession economy."

Not bad, indeed.

Lily and Jet

The BRD and her beau spent a couple of R&R days in Scottsdale. SWMBO spent the two days at the BRD's house so her cats wouldn't get lonely. She snapped a few photos and here are a couple of my favorites. Jet (obviously) is the black boy cat. Lily, still showing a bare spot where she had her neutering (or is it spaying) surgery is carefully watching the camera.