Contributed by the Library Police

UPDATE! Just in!! This is what the library bandit looks like today.
Carl Owen has been photographed with an overdue library book. There have been many sightings of him on his way south from Washington State. He is obviously on the run. We are hot on his trail and we would really appreciate any help from concerned citizens like you that want to see this atrocity stopped. Call 1-BOOKPOLICE if you have any leads. Thank you for your time!

Contributed by Carl Owen

Business Cards and Notes

Junk mail comes in handy. I’ve always had a habit of writing phone numbers and addresses on available envelopes instead of my handy lined pad which is placed in a mysterious spot where I can never find it. I can always find a junk mail envelope.

I thought I was the only one in this universe (excluding perhaps on Pluto) that did this. I viewed it as a form of recycling. I visited my sister Estelle once and she spent 21 minutes looking through a pile of junk mail envelopes looking for a grocery list or a phone number. I felt somewhat better that someone else shared my eccentric behavior. I suggested that we go and buy her an address book and a lined pad. She just looked at me and laughed. We ended up going for a big cup of Royal Blend coffee instead. I loved her and she loved me and we shared this weird trait. I felt such close kinship.

I guess different people have different skills. My sister, Sis has been an artist as long as I remember and I’ve known her a long time. I just have a different skill set. I used to keep a lined pad and a pen by my bed so I could wake up in the middle of the night and write down some of my weird dreams. This went on for some time until the white girl objected strongly to the bedside light coming on at all hours of the night. So, you guessed it, I moved the lined pad to a place where my missing scissors and fingernail clippers reside and haven’t seen it yet. Now my sister Vonda has a different problem, she can’t find her lined pad or a junk mail envelope. I called her once with a handy junk mail envelope available to write down her new address. She said she had it written down somewhere and I stayed on the phone patiently for several minutes while she looked for something with her address on it. All that time I was muttering as the white girl likes to describe my talking to myself. I kept saying, How can this fruitcake not know her own address???? Well if you knew my sister, Vonda Lee you would understand…

Oops, I’m getting off track again. It’s lucky I’m not a freight train.

Anyway, many, many, many years ago or Once upon a time, I was visiting my Daddy and my sister Thelma. At that time, Thelma was an illegal real estate agent selling property, or as some would say, land. She proudly gave me one of her business cards and I put it in my new birthday wallet. I used to get a new wallet on my birthday until I put out the word that I was going to open a store and sell wallets. That stopped those gifts. Ironically, my current wallet is worn almost out. So, I put Thelma’s business card in my wallet with my two dollars and went with Daddy up on Chestnut Mountain to pick moss.

We climbed up and down the same mountain picking moss on the way up and turning it over so the sun would dry it and picking more moss on the way down. We worked Chestnut Mountain so hard there was hardly a speck of moss left. Every once in a while, Daddy would holler at me and say: “Where the hell are you?” I’d say, “You talking to me?” “Hell no, I was talking to that woodpecker on the tree beside me. Git over here.”

I’d go over and he would point at an old Chestnut log down in a holler right through a briar patch. “See that big log down yonder? There’s some good thick moss on it.” You go down there and get it and bring it up here in the sun and I’ll go to the truck and get our lunch.” By this time, I knew not to argue with my Daddy. I can show you some knowledge bumps on my head. The barber has to use curved clippers to cut my hair.

Anyway, I clumb back up the mountain loaded down with wet moss, bleeding profusely from the briar patch and plopped down on the ground breathing like a tired race horse. About that time, Daddy came around the mountain with our lunch. He looked at me and said, we ain’t got time to take no dam naps if we are going to make any money today. If you want any of these Vienna sausages and crackers, here they are. I popped a can of sardines and ate a cheese pack with yaller crackers and a can of Vienna sausage and the blood from my wounds started to slow some.

Daddy ate some crackers and sausage and went over to a small stream and filled the sausage can with water a few times, reached in his back pocket, pulled out a pint of White Lightning and took a couple of swigs followed by a small sip of branch water and then handed me the whiskey and the Vienna sausage can. While branch water and sausage juice will never be my favorite drink, it went well with the 100 proof whiskey.

He took the whiskey back and said I’ll put this stuff in the truck. On the way over here I noticed another good batch of moss in the next holler. You haul it up here in the sun and I’ll be back soon. Well, you can guess the rest of the story. I came back up the mountain loaded with heavy wet moss and fresh briar scratches on top of the old scratches.

I happened to have a pen in my pocket and I jotted down a little verse to commemorate the day on the back of Thelma’s new business card. I had no junk mail envelope handy. When I got back home from my visit, I had a business card made. I think this is what gave the white girl the idea to have a business card still years later.

I mentioned earlier that I used to get a new wallet on birthdays. Several years ago I cleaned out and old wallet and put my $2.00 in my new wallet and sat Thelma’s business card aside along with the one for myself I had made. I recently tore down the mobile home we lived in for about seven years and in the process found a box of old junk mail envelopes and Thelma’s and my business card. I turned Thelma’s card over and saw the verse I wrote about mine and Daddy’s moss picking trip. It brought back a flood of old memories of times gone by. I’d give a lot to go picking moss with Daddy again.

Contributed by Auntie Sis

Here's an update of what's happening in Montana. Michael had a motorcycle accident on 8/16/09 in the parking lot at Home Depot. He was knocked unconscious and sustained a pretty serious head injury with bleeding on the brain. At the hospital he was put on life support because he could not breath on his own. The doctor put him into a coma to keep him from injuring himself further. The man who hit him said he didn't see Michael. The man was pretty shook up. We were all shook up and scared silly. He spent 2 days in ICU in a coma. Today he was sent home but has been sick with confusion, headache and nausea. I spent all day till 5:30 pm trying to get his doctor to call in prescriptions to the pharmacy. I was ready to throttle the doctor who could not even get the prescription right. Nothing seems to be helping. We are all exhausted and poor Vonda has been unable to sleep much. He will not be able to drive a car or pick up anything heavier that a milk jug, or return to work for at least 2 weeks. It is 9:30 pm and I can still here Michael gagging and cussing in the bathroom.
He was hungry and thought he could eat some fried squash I had made. Vonda fixed his plate and he started gagging before he could even take his first bite. We are hoping he will sleep tonight and have a better day tomorrow. He is lucky to be alive. Keep the prayers coming as he is not out of the woods yet. You never know what can happen with head injuries.

Contributed by Carl Owen

MY SON KYLE

Kyle was born in Keflavik Iceland on 15 March 1973. The Naval Base Hospital where he was born was an old building built during the 2^nd World War. The night he was born, his doctor was called from his home and showed up in Pajamas with hearts on them. Not real hearts just imprinted hearts. He was an obstetrician not a sloppy cardiologist. (The doctor not Kyle).

There is an old Roman saying: “Beware the Ides of March”. Kyle, like Caesar, decided to ignore that warning. He practiced ignoring warnings for some time and still occasionally ignores them. When he was smaller and a little younger this trait of Kyle’s worked for me. I would say, Son, you better not eat those vegetables, you will get all muscular like the Hulk or Superman .

Kyle often heard me tell people that he was born in Iceland and that I had the Doctor put a small tattoo on his butt: “Made In Iceland”. He believed this for some time. He would turn around and around like a cat chasing his tail trying to see the non-existent tattoo. His sister Margaret, my favorite daughter, decided to take care of Kyle from the moment he was born. She did a good job of this until she left home at age 18. She waited on him hand and foot, helped him do his homework and kept his room clean, wellllll semi-clean. You might say Kyle had his big sister wrapped around his finger. She did have one major fault. Since she was bigger than Kyle, she would push him around and wrestle him to the ground. Well, after many cans of spinach and a few years of growth, I warned Margaret that if she didn’t stop beating Kyle up that I would let him take her out in the yard and beat her butt in a wrestling match. Well, Kyle finally triumphed and whipped his BIG sister and boy was she shocked. I think Kyle was equally shocked.

Kyle grew up to be a fine young man. He is generous and kind-hearted and has many friends who have known him from grade school. He loves all his Aunties and they love him and spoil him rotten as does his Mom. He is quite the charming smooth talker and somewhat of a con artist. He, like me, has decided to grow older but not necessarily grow up. His mother still has high hopes for him as well as me. Hope springs eternal.

Kyle and I have a routine where we start laughing about something and we keep on and on until we are both lying on the floor out of breath with our sides hurting. His mother does not like this routine much. His Mom used to send us to the store and she always gave us a list and told us not to get things not on the list. Well, this worked a time or two until Kyle wanted some cookies. I told him: “Son, we can’t get cookies; they are not on the list”. Well, this boy is smart and inventive. He had me buy a pen and then write “pen and cookies” on the list. We have been incorrigible since that time.

One time when he crunched a door on his car, we drove about 75 miles to an auto wrecking place and bought a replacement door. Then we drove about 83 and 7/10 miles to a friend’s house who agreed to help replace the door. When that was accomplished we drove back home and just a few miles from home, I realized I was missing my coffee cup that enjoyed going everywhere with me. We were close that coffee cup and I. Well, I told Kyle. Son, we have to go back to the wrecking yard and find my coffee cup. I’m sure that is were I last remember having it. Well, while I was looking for a place to turn around, Kyle looks at me and says. Dad, those coffee cups cost $2.00 at 7-11 and you will spend way more than two dollars in gas driving all the way back in hopes of finding your %^$#&*^ cup. I couldn’t ignore this stroke of brilliance so we went to 7-11 and I bought another $2.00 cup and received my first cup of coffee in the new cup free of charge which brought the relative cost down to $1.00. That boy is a genius.

Kyle knows I like to do things the hard way and he has come up with a saying: There is a right way and a wrong way and the Owen way. He takes great joy in telling stories on me.

He and I get together to go to the horse races and we go pool shooting sometimes. He always does something special for his Mom and me on our birthdays. This year was no exception. About eight years ago he took me to a Randy Travis concert and we enjoyed it so much we still talk about what enjoyment we got from listening to one of our favorite singers in person.

Well, He did it again this year. He found out Randy was coming to Tacoma and he bought VIP tickets right up front about 7 feet 9 inches from the stage. It was a great night and I enjoyed it so much. A birthday present that I will always remember not just some store bought item that I have to find a place for or pack up, but a wonderful memory with my favorite son.

I am proud of him and appreciate spending time with him. He shared a joke with me that
I thought everyone would like.

A dog walks by a store and sees a help wanted sign that said: “Help wanted. Must be able to type 80 words a minute, have excellent computer skills and be bilingual.” The dog takes the sign into the store and barks until the manager comes to see about the noise.

He sees the dog with the help wanted sign and says: “What are you doing? You are a dog. I can’t hire a dog. Anyway, you have to be able to type 80 words a minute. The dog goes over to the typewriter and types out a perfect document without any spelling errors. The manager is amazed and says well, I still can’t hire you and anyway. You have to have excellent computer skills.

The dog goes to the computer, writes a program, executes the program, and prints out the results. The manager is again amazed but says: “This is truly unbelievable (which is what I told Kyle at this point in his story) but I still can’t hire you because you have to be bilingual. The dog walks over to the manager looks up at him and says: …….



“Meow”.

For a boy born on the Ides of March, he turned out O.K.

Contributed by Tom Hedglen

By Charlie Reese

Politicians are the only people in the world who create problems and
then campaign against them.

Have you ever wondered why, if both the Democrats and the Republicans
are against deficits, we have deficits?

Have you ever wondered why, if all the politicians are against
inflation and high taxes, we have inflation and high taxes?

You and I don't propose a federal budget. The president does.

You and I don't have the Constitutional authority to vote on
appropriations. The House of Representatives does.

You and I don't write the tax code, Congress does.

You and I don't set fiscal policy, Congress does.

You and I don't control monetary policy, the Federal Reserve Bank does.

One hundred senators, 435 congressmen, one president, and nine Supreme
Court justices 545 human beings out of the 300 million are directly,
legally, morally, and individually responsible for the domestic
problems that plague this country.

I excluded the members of the Federal Reserve Board because that
problem was created by the Congress.

In 1913, Congress delegated its Constitutional duty to provide a
sound currency to a federally chartered, but private, central bank.

I excluded all the special interests and lobbyists for a sound reason.
They have no legal authority. They have no ability to coerce a
senator, a congressman, or a president to do one cotton-picking thing.

I don't care if they offer a politician $1 million dollars in cash.
The politician has the power to accept or reject it. No matter what
the lobbyist promises, it is the legislator's responsibility to
determine how he votes.

Those 545 human beings spend much of their energy convincing you that
what they did is not their fault. They cooperate in this common con
regardless of party.

What separates a politician from a normal human being is an excessive
amount of gall. No normal human being would have the gall of a
Speaker, who stood up and criticized the President for creating
deficits. The president can only propose a budget. He cannot force
the Congress to accept it.

The Constitution, which is the supreme law of the land, gives sole
responsibility to the House of Representatives for originating and
approving appropriations and taxes.& nbsp; Who is the speaker of the
House? She is the leader of the majority party. She and fellow
House members, not the president, can approve any budget they want.
If the president vetoes it, they can pass it over his veto if they
agree to.

It seems inconceivable to me that a nation of 300 million can not
replace 545 people who stand convicted -- by present facts -- of
incompetence and irresponsibility. I can't think of a single
domestic problem that is not traceable directly to those 545 people.

When you fully grasp the plain truth that 545 people exercise the
power of the federal government, then it must follow that what exists
is what they want to exist.

If the tax code is unfair, it's because they want it unfair.

If the budget is in the red, it's because they want it in the red.

If the Marines are in IRAQ , it's because they want them in IRAQ .

If they do not receive social security but are on an elite retirement
plan not available to the people, it's because they want it that way.
There are no insoluble government problems.

Do not let these 545 people shift the blame to bureaucrats, whom they
hire and whose jobs they can abolish; to lobbyists, whose gifts and
advice they can reject; to regulators, to whom they give the power to
regulate and from whom they can take this power.

Above all, do not let them con you into the belief that there exists
disembodied mystical forces like 'the economy,' 'inflation,' or
'politics' that prevent them from doing what they take an oath to do.

Those 545 people, and they alone, are responsible.

They, and they alone, have the power.

They, and they alone, should be held accountable by the people who are
their bosses provided the voters have the gumption to manage their
own employees.

We should vote all of them out of office and clean up their mess!

Charlie Reese is a former columnist of the
Orlando Sentinel Newspaper.