Cogito, ergo sum.

Stop going on about how when you die, "Poof!  You'll be gone." 

I guess my expressed opinions and beliefs have attracted a number of atheists as my Facebook friends.  That's OK.  We do still live in a free country, despite what certain GOP asshats would have us believe.  But, one thing that troubles me about atheists is this.  They seem as desperate to defend their position as a dedicated evangelical is to convert others to their belief system.  Proselytizing is still proselytizing, you know.

One of the positions that these people take is that anyone who believes in a heaven, or any kind of afterlife, is being extremely self-centered, or egocentric.  They try to say that once you're dead, you're gone.  Poof!  Some of them go on about how you will be absorbed into the greater universe or some such crap.  But, essentially, they want to dissuade you from believing in anything after this life.

Here's the thing.  I am self aware.  I am indeed very egocentric, because I have been aware of myself and everything in my world has always been seen from MY perspective, and I really do not see how any of us can expect that to change.  I have to quote Spock on this, and say that any idea where my ego, my "self," ceases to exist, on some level, after death is just illogical.  What the hell is the point of making me self aware if that "self" is going to just end?  Not logical at all.

So, if it is all the same to you, I'll stick with Descarte on this issue.  "Je pense, donc je suis."

Crossings

We went across the border yesterday morning to purchase two macetas (flower pots; in this case, a large size for a large plant, not necessarily a flowering type) to take with us on a road trip this coming weekend.  We already had two, and needed two more, to fulfill a commitment to our son, who we hope to spend some time with on this trip.

We found a place that sells them, and made our purchase, and then got in the very long line to come back across into El Paso, at the Ysleta Border Crossing Station.  This used to be a very routine kind of trip to make, and we used to go over at least once a week.  Once upon a time, the U. S. Customs and Immigration station at this location was a simple little building, with a simple two lane road, pretty much like this old photo, from 1962:

Of course, in this post 9/11 world, crossing the border is no longer a simple thing.  The lines are very long, and the wait can be more than an hour.  Then, of course, after the long wait just to get up to the booths where the CBP agents are, we have come to expect to be treated with less than the respect due to our age and status.

The crossing now looks like this:

Well, yesterday we were in my new/old Chrysler Town and Country minivan.  I just bought it a couple of weeks ago, and applied for the plates the day before, so it still has the temporary paper permit on the rear, that the County Tax Office gave me.  This is because I requested the special license plates that show me to be honorably discharged from the U. S. Army, and it will take a couple of weeks for those to be mailed to me.

As is the routine, yesterday I handed over our passports to the female agent, and opened the side door of the van at her request.  She went inside her booth, to her computer, and then, went over to the agent in the next line, and then came back, handed me my wife's passport, and stuck mine under the wiper on the driver's side, along with a yellow piece of paper.  She told us to pull ahead, under the large canopy, to station number four.

Under the canopy (which would be to the left side of the above photo), I parked at number four.  An agent came by, and told me to turn off the engine, and give him the keys, and he walked away.  We watched and waited as other vehicles were parked at nearby stations, and agents strolled by in groups of two and three, chatting and laughing, and we waited and waited.  At some length an agent with a dog came by, and he let the dog sniff around.  We asked him what was the delay, and why  nobody had told us anything, and why we were just there waiting, and he was only able to tell me that he would ask.  He also said that they (the many agents, in uniform, wandering around, chatting and visiting with each other) were not "allowed" to inform us as to any reasons for our delay.

Finally, more strollers came by, and - being less than happy with this entire process - I started asking questions:  "Are we being detained?  What is the reason for this delay?  Why are we waiting here?  Would you treat your parents like this?"  The agent to whom I posed these questions, of course, did not seem to appreciate my line of questioning, and he said something about "You're entering the United States from a foreign country, so you and your vehicle are subject to search and questioning."  (nobody searched, unless the dog walking around the van, and the female agent's cursory glances into the side and back of the van constitute a search).

Frankly, as best as I can determine, questioning by agents of CBP are supposed to center around possible illegal immigration and/or smuggling -  (https://help.cbp.gov/app/answers/detail/a_id/176/~/cbp-search-authority). - I would submit that we already let them see what was inside our van, and we had already provided their agent with our passports.  I would point out that the best information that I can find regarding the authority of these people seems to focus mostly on immigration issues, as well:  (http://immigrationpolicy.org/just-facts/authority-us-customs-and-border-protection-agents-overview)

Ultimately, he told me that the previous owner of the vehicle had had a problem when crossing the border, so they had to check us out.  Granted, I did not have the papers from either my recent purchase of the van, or from my picking up the temporary license just the day before, but frankly, I had no idea that those papers must be in the vehicle!  I must point out that the vehicle does have a current window sticker, and the temporary tags issued by the State of Texas.  I guess my problem is that I simply cannot understand what I, or the vehicle, for that matter, have to do with any problems the previous owner might have had with these people!

At length, we were finally told we were free to go, and we came on home.  But, I have to say that I really, really hate what we have become as a nation.  Cd. Juarez used to be our "sister" city, and we all felt free to come and go across the border, for all kinds of socializing and shopping.  I find it very hard to accept the fact that this kind of thing is no longer possible.  Frankly, I am left with the feeling, more and more, that the U. S. CBP, or whatever the hell they call themselves, is not at all interested in much beyond throwing their weight around.  Each time I have to interact with these people, I am left feeling like a second class citizen, and I resent that very much.  Why are these people not able to show the slightest bit of courtesy?

We have the government that we deserve.

I don't know how else to get this message out, but to urge, plead, beg, and ask everyone to please, please, please get out and vote!  The Texas Primary is coming up in less than two weeks, and the early numbers indicate that once again, nobody wants to be bothered.

I grant you that it is very discouraging to see so many people running for office - especially judgeships - unopposed, but I can only conclude that there is more behind that than just the exorbitant cost of running for office, even at the local level.

If nothing else, please remember that those who actually pay heed to this vital civic duty, and turn out to vote, are in reality the only persons entitled to complain about the outcome in the years and months to come.  Perhaps if the whackos who rail against the big, bad government and take over wildlife sanctuaries, were to exercise their franchise, they'd feel more a part of that government.

Because, remember, that not only do we have the government that we deserve, and if it is not one that we like, we have no one to blame but ourselves.

Please.  Vote.  It is indeed vital.

Joe Btfsplk was a real person.

"Let's go see if there are any more crawdads," said Peggy, my older sister.

"Nah, I wanna go riding down the hill," I said.

"Well," she said, "Let's go by the creek first, and then, if Mick and Doug want to, we'll go up the hill with the wagon."

"So, then we can coast back down?!" I asked, eagerly.

"OK," she responded.

I agreed with this, and off to the creek we went.  Well, it wasn't really a creek.  More like a brook; just a tiny rivulet that ran along one side of the property where the little cabin was located.

We called the place Rocky Ridge, and that most likely had to do with the fact that the little cabin where we lived was pushed back against the ridge that ran at the back of the property.  My memory is that the property was entered from the north or northwest corner, and there was an east/west road in that direction.  The small creek ran from northwest, to southwest, along one edge of the property, and  there were trees between the western edge and whatever was out that way.

The rest of the northern edge, all of the eastern edge, and the southern were trees, growing along a ridge that climbed upward from the level of the cabin.

We lived in this cabin for part of one year, moving there after our home had burned to the ground sometime in mid-1951.

Mom was pregnant that summer, and Mick took his position as oldest very seriously.  This slim, dark haired ten year old did indeed carry a lot of responsibility for his age, and those of us younger than he did not exactly go out of our way to make things any easier for him.

He was pretty much in charge of us most days, and usually it was all four of us that played together, under his supervision.  We went to the creek, and we waded in its crystal clear, shallow water.  We counted crawdads, picked them up, moved them around, and if we got thirsty, never thought twice about drinking from our cupped hands.

Then, just about the best thing to do, we went for the wagon, and began to pull it up the hill, on the old road that ran along the top of the ridge, behind the cabin.  Most folks should be  aware of the famous Radio Flyer Red Wagons of the 50's.  It might, therefore, interest you to know that the Radio Flyers were not the best wagons around.  They were not the best made, in terms of quality, nor were they as practical as they could have been.  And, more important, they were not as fast as they could have been for coasting down a hill.  We had a red wagon that was either a Mercury or a Murray brand and it beat the pants off any old boxy Radio Flyer you ever saw.

The four of us pretty much shared our streamlined wagon.  Mick, the oldest, was about 10 years old, then Peggyy was about 8, Doug must have been 6 and a half, and I was 5.  The wagon that we had was, in my recollection, a red metallic color, but that was a long time ago, and I can't find any other image than just plain red.  It looked like the image below.

We used it for play, but it was also a work horse, and it carried wood for the stove, dirt, and whatever we needed to move from one place to another.

On the day in question, however, our purpose was play.  The idea was to pull it up to the top of the hill, around the long curve, up above the cabin.  There was an old road up there, with pretty good pavement, and it was great fun to pile into the wagon, and get a push off from one of my older siblings, and then go like a bat out of hell, until we ran out of hill, or road, way down, around the curve, at the bottom.

As we made our way up the hill, we passed a neighbor's property, where we tread with care, because they had a dog that always went nuts at sight of us.  For some reason, this particular day, it got loose, and attacked poor Dougie.  Who knows why he got singled out; maybe it was because his level of fear was greater than the rest of us.  Maybe it was because everything always seemed to happen to Doug.  I don't know.

My recollection is not the best, but I remember a flurry of activity.  Dog and kids, in a scramble, raising a lot of dust.  I remember a cacophony of noise, with the growling of the dog, the screams and yelling of Dougie and the rest of us.  Fortunately, the lady who owned the dog heard us and came to pull him off poor Doug.

The dog had bitten through his cheek, up on the right side, just below his eye.  There were two long gashes, and I could see the white line of his skin contrasted with the red flesh underneath.  There was, of course, a lot of blood.  There was another puncture clear through his lower lip, and various other cuts and scrapes and bruises.

I don't know how we got him back home, because I just do not remember.  He was taken to the hospital, where he spent at least one night, after they stitched him up.  He carried the scars the rest of his life.  His upper right cheek, especially as a child, looked like a double railroad track.  The physical scars faded over the years, but I know that the psychological scars never did heal.  And, now, he's gone too, faded away just like those scars.

It ain't easy getting old, ya know?

Is it all part of the dumbing of America, is it just because I'm an old man, or is it something else?  It seems that lately, I am finding it increasingly difficult to discuss certain issues on a public forum with way too many young people.

         Recently, I got into it with a young person (I'm guessing she is very young, compared to me) on a Facebook thread that started with someone's meme about how Andrew Jackson supposedly made a killing in real estate, and how he took advantage of many people, and had a lot to do with forcing the Cherokee from their homelands.

         My initial comments pointed out that he was likely not the only one doing that sort of thing, but also tried to show how my generation was taught history based on what we knew about various historical happenings at that time (the 50's & the 60's).  Specifically, I mentioned Columbus Day and how his place in history is now refuted.  My statements had to do with the fact that we were not (in my opinion) taught necessarily to revere Columbus, but that the day itself (always observed on October 12th, by the way) served to remind us of the date when the New World was supposedly discovered.

         This person got all hung up on a statement that Columbus did not discover anything because there were indigenous people already living here.  And, then she went off on a rant about how Columbus murdered and enslaved many people and spread disease, which killed many more.  And, then, of course she did bring it back to Jackson and how he was a slaver.

         I tried to rein her in by pointing out that she had not even read what I posted, and that this is the sort of thing that causes so many social media disagreements.  She was so intent on her point, that she ignored what I had to say.

         I guess my point here is that I always thought that old people were accused of being stubborn, and of clinging to outmoded ideas or beliefs, and therefore impossible to talk to or to understand, and that may even be at least partially true.  But, how about maybe young people are not taught any appreciation for history, or respect for their elders, who have really been there, and done all that?  Why is it so hard for a young person to understand that we older folks were indeed taught differently?  I can accept that Columbus may well have been responsible for all kinds of evil, and that Andrew Jackson was a slaver and may have benefitted financially from misdeeds and shenanigans.

         But, I can also accept the historical reality that both of these people were considered to be of historical significance, and that both of these people were indeed of historical significance - even to those who now revile them.

         I can also point out that certain days on the calendar from my youth were marked or even celebrated based on the information that we (and, generations before us) had available to us at the time.  So, just because we no longer celebrate Columbus Day in the manner that we once did, does not mean that we were necessarily wrong!  Likewise, I would submit that changing Memorial Day to a Monday holiday and changing Abraham Lincoln's birthday and George Washington's birthday from Feb. 12 and Feb. 22, to some arbitrary Monday holiday has changed these formally important days to something insignificant, and rather meaningless.

         I think the tragedy is that young people cannot understand the significance of certain special days.  I remember my mother telling us about May Day (May 1) and Arbor Day (now the last Friday in April, but traditionally a spring day for planting trees), and especially Memorial Day.  You see, Memorial Day was always on May 30, and it also happened to coincide with my mother's birthday.  But, she taught us that it had begun as a way to remember war dead, and the only reason we did not maintain a great degree of solemnity on that day was because it was her birthday.  I remember we went out and picked wild flowers for her on May Day, because it was a day that had to do with the rites of spring, and we learned about the May Pole, and it was not until later in my life that I learned some of the special significance of this day, in relation to the Middle Ages.

         My point is that we need to be able to see and acknowledge that times change, but in the long run, nothing really changes.  And, yes, it does bother me very much that young people apparently have no respect for their elders.

The Field is once again just dirt, and the Dream has flown.

          "Tinker to Evers to Chance." 

For some of us old guys, those words still bring a chill to the spine, a thrill to our hearts, and maybe a tear to our eyes.  There was a time when those words evoked more than just what the names represented.  There was a time when those words stood for a game that was indeed our national pastime.  There was even a time when most boys spent their entire summer, playing the game of summer, on sandlots, and pastures, in back yards, and even on real diamonds in parks and schools across the land.  And, we did play from sun to sun, everything from 'Three Flies Up,' to 'Work-Up' to Little League, all summer long.

          "Tinker to Evers to Chance." 

          And, in the evening, we'd listen to whatever game we could get, all across this once great nation, on the radio.  That's right.  The radio.  There is no way to describe for someone who has never experienced it, just how awesome, just how special, a radio broadcast of a live baseball game could be.  Even, if you can believe this, a game that was being played in, say, New York City, involving the beloved Brooklyn Dodgers vs. the hated New York Yankees, but what we were hearing was the voice of a local sports announcer, who was getting the game information over either a telegraph, or a ticker tape or teletype machine.  You see, he had to try to visualize the ball park, the crowd, the weather, the players, and all the action, based on the scanty words that were sent to him, and then try to tell us what was happening, all the while trying to instill in us that sense of a "live" baseball game.  And, what we heard, besides his voice, was the sound of the teletype or the telegraph.  We could only imagine the roar of the crowd.

          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."

          My first baseball glove had the autograph (stamped into the leather, of course) of the great Pee Wee Reese, who played shortstop for the beloved Brooklyn Dodgers, and later, the LA Dodgers, after they moved to the West Coast.  I knew of him mostly later on, when he was an announcer on radio and television, first with Dizzy Dean, and later, with Curt Gowdy.  Like many of the greats from that era (1940's - 1950's), Reese lost a few years while he served in the U. S. Navy during WWII.

          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."

          I played mostly 2nd Base during my childhood, first in Little League, and later, on a Softball team.  I will never forget the thrill of having to win the position over all challengers, on one softball team.  I mean, in order to be on some teams, you actually had to show your stuff against others who wanted to play the same position, especially if you were trying to be an infielder.  (They called it competition, and they told us that it was good for us.  I know that is a bad word today, which explains why we have so many monopolies running things.  Oh, and another thing?  I never did get a trophy for anything).  I do not remember any particular big leaguer who I may have tried to emulate, but I learned to play the position, well to the right of the actual base, and way back, almost on the outfield grass.  But, before I played on any organized team, there were the pick-up games, the pitch and catch, the playing in the pasture with all the kids in the neighborhood.  And, I'm sorry, it was boys only, however misogynistic you might think that makes me. 

          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."

          And, yes, we actually played in a pasture.  We used cow patties for the bases.  Our bat was so old, the wood was gray, and splitting.  Any label was long gone, and only a memory.  The handle, where it was supposed to have a nice, smooth ridge all the way around, was like the cogs of a wheel, with most of the cogs missing.  Our baseballs were held together with friction tape, which was the duct tape of the 1950's.  This stuff was black, made of cloth, and sticky as hell, for at least one inning.  Then, it would start to unravel, so we'd wrap more tape around our ball.  We rarely saw a new baseball, and most of ours were hand me downs, or cast-offs, from bigger kids.  And, when someone miraculously cracked the bat one day, we held it together with that same black friction tape, too.

          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."

          Usually, there were only two or three of us, so we'd play something we called "Three Flies Up."  This consisted of one guy hitting fly balls to the others, who tried to catch them.  Once you had caught three total fly balls, then you went up to bat.  And so on.  When we had more guys, then we'd play "Work-Up."  This usually meant three guys were batters, and the rest took the positions of Pitcher, maybe First Base, and one or two other infield positions, then as many outfielders as we could fill.  Each batter was allowed to continue to be "up" until he had struck out (never happened), flied out, or was otherwise tagged out.  Then, everybody moved up one position.   This was actually a great way to experience the different positions, while playing the game we all loved so much.

          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."

          My organized playing only lasted a year or two, and then came to an abrupt end when I crossed my coach one day.  I was up to bat, in a very tight game, and he yelled to me to 'take' the pitch.  I thought he meant I could go ahead and take it for all I had by swinging at the ball, and he meant take it, as in let it go, and do NOT swing!  So, naturally, I hit a weak grounder that went into the hands of an infielder, who threw me out, and the coach was so mad at me for not following orders, he kicked me off the team.  I was, of course, devastated.  That may have been just because I was kicked off the team, but part of it had to be because I did not know what it meant to say to "take" the pitch.

          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."

          So, you ask, who were, or what is, Tinker to Evers to Chance?  Well, they were, or rather, "They are, arguably, the best-known Chicago Cubs of all time."  (from a 2010 Chicago Tribune article).

They were Joe Tinker (shortstop), Johnny Evers (second base) and Frank Chance (first base), and they last played together in 1912.  The phrase, "Tinker to Evers to Chance" refers to their smooth turning of double plays, back when the Cubbies were actually a dominant Major League team.  And, we remember these three all because of an eight-line poem, called "Baseball's Sad Lexicon."  This poem first appeared in print more than 100 years ago. It was written by Franklin P. Adams, a New York Evening Mail columnist who had been born in Chicago (and was a Cubs fan).  The poem was written in a hurry because he wanted to get to the ballpark to see his beloved Cubs play their arch-rival New York Giants.  His editor told him he needed just a few more lines for the next edition of the newspaper before he could leave for the ballpark, and that led to the poem:

These are the saddest of possible words:

"Tinker to Evers to Chance."

Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,

Tinker and Evers and Chance.

Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,

Making a Giant hit into a double—

Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:

"Tinker to Evers to Chance."

          I have to admit that I have misstated the key words for more years than I can remember by reciting, just as if I knew what I was talking about, "Evans to Tinker to Chance!"  Not only did I get the second baseman's name wrong, but I put him out of order!  Oh, well, I hereby stand corrected, and I apologize for this most grievous of errors.  No matter, because baseball has lost, at least for me, most of its charm, and I have not followed it much since maybe the days of Reggie Jackson, when he was Mr. October.  Just like basketball, I don't like the changes that have come to pass, and I hate the changes to the uniforms.  Imagine long pants to play baseball!  And, a cap with a flat bill?!  Really?!  Oh, and plastic helmets, instead of caps.  Aluminum bats?  Please!   Designated hitters because everybody knows that pitchers can't bat, and designated runners?  No, thanks.

The article I mentioned about the old time Cubbies can be found here: 

http://articles.chicagotribune.com/2010-07-05/news/ct-tinker-cubs-story_1_gonfalon-bubble-cubs-fan-poem