Owen Newsletter

Goldie Girl

2011-04-23T12:38:00.000-07:00

It seems like I have always had Goldie as a cat because she fit in with the family the very first day that she came into my home. The first time I saw her, she was lingering by the pool. She had burrs all through her hair and she looked like she was just burrs, skin and bones.

I sat on the bench on the porch and watched her for a bit before I called, “Come here kitty.” That's all it took to have the kitty run from the pool and land in my lap purring away. I was giggling hysterically because the cat was extremely friendly and cute. After about fifteen minutes of petting the cat, I decided I was going to relieve this stray of her burrs and see if I had any food to give “her”.

While she was eating half a can of chicken, I cut the burrs out of her hair. She didn't care that I was doing that because she was so hungry. She finished the amount I gave her before I was done cutting, so I gave her the other half of the can. “She” licked the can clean.

For some reason, Michael came up from downstairs and saw me interacting with the cat. He would never let me have a cat because he said that he didn't want his house to become a big toilet, didn't want his TV to be destroyed (the tv doesn't have a protective plastic screen), and he was very allergic to cats. I guess he couldn't stand to see an animal starve, he opened the living room door and let the cat come in.

The cat didn't hesitate in walking through the door. I was in total shock watching Michael let the kitty in considering I was never going to have a cat. The cat toured the majority of the house. I jumped on the opportunity to possibly have a cat by suggesting we go get some cat food from the store. While Michael and I went to get food and kitty litter, Andrew babysat the cat.

We came back with lots of canned cat food. A box lid was used to make a kitty litter box. Over the next couple of days, we kept a close eye on the cat to see how she was adjusting to eating regular meals and what kind of behaviors she had towards us and the house. She didn't scratch the furniture but a couple of times because we admonished her when she did it. Krysty, Beckie and I looked over the cat's skin to check for flees and ticks because Krysty saw something on the cat. We got over ten ticks off of the cat.

Andrew helped me give the cat a bath so “she” would be nice and fluffy, along with flea and tick free. As I was drying her, I noticed two white worm like objects near the kittys bum. I did research to find that the poor thing had ring worm. I treated her for that twice and haven't seen any signs of worms since.

About a month ago, I noticed that there was a male cat that would hang around our property. Since Goldie (the cat) is an indoor/outdoor cat, Michael and I decided that we needed to get the cat fixed. Beckie tried to make an appointment with one of the clinics closest to us, but they were booked for six weeks. She found a place to take the cat within a reasonable distance and that could take her within a week.

We kept the cat indoors until the day of her appointment. A lady from work gave me a cat cage since she had many. Beckie managed to get the cat in the cage and drive her to her appointment. Goldie complained the whole way there. At the clinic she was shaking because she heard other cats and dogs bellowing. Beckie left the clinic and went about her other plans for the day. Sometime during the day, there was a message left on the machine from the clinic. That wasn't discovered until Beckie and Michael returned from picking the cat up.

I guess when Goldie was dropped off at the clinic, Beckie told them she was a stray. That might have been the reason that she had her belly shaved before she was put under. It's a good thing they did that because they did find a scar in the place where kitty's get spayed. ::::Laughing Out Loud:::: Goldie went all day and the night before without food and water just to get her belly shaved and spend the day stuck in a cage. She was not happy one bit when she was brought home and she wasn't afraid to show it. She pouted the rest of the day and didn't want to have anything to do with us.

The next day, she was back to her loving personality, wanting to play, be petted, and fed. Goldie does not hold grudges. She even lays on her back to have her bare belly petted. She is truly a great cat. What a trooper!

Unlike my parents, I know a girl cat from a boy cat. :oD

SQEAKHER BECAME SWEEKHE

2011-04-23T12:10:00.000-07:00

CAT CONFUSION

We have cats. Here a cat, there a cat everywhere a cat cat. Before the recent addition of Squeak I would see two or three cats in the kitchen and one or two in the window sills and some lying on the bed.

Now Anita swears there is only three but I have counted up to a dozen. However, when she gets them all together it does appear there are only three. Maybe the confusion is in the names. She calls the two black cats Emma and Lucy while I call them Thunderbolt and Lightfoot. She calls the Calico Rosie Cat and I have called her RZG short for Rosie Girl. So that accounts for at least six of them. At any rate along came Squeak.

Our good friends who live out on 110 acre farm have Barn Cats. Sometimes the quantity varies due to foxes and chicken hawks and various other factors. One day we got a call and they asked if we could baby sit a newborn cat while they were on a trip to Texas. We agreed and received a cat no bigger than a small apple. Anita had to feed her with a medicine dropper. She gradually got bigger and bigger and Anita became more and more attached to this tiny fur ball. The cat would make a noise that is best described as a Squeak so therefore the origin of the name Squeak.

Well, it came to pass that the friends came back from their trip to Texas and they said that they would be out in a few days to get Squeak back. I told them that Anita had grown quite fond of the little fur ball. I told them that Anita had a firearm in the house and that it would probably be dangerous to repossess the cat. They realized that Squeak and Anita had bonded and after all, they had oodles of cats still around the farm. So Squeak became a member of the family.

When we first got Squeak she was sick and Anita took her to the vet to get some medicine to clear up the virus. Everybody made a fuss about what a cute girl that Squeak was.

A little later, we discussed having Squeak fixed because we did not need any more little cat critters running around. Anita made an appointment with the Vet for Squeak to have a cat hysterectomy.

On the fateful day, Anita took Squeak to the vet. I was sitting at my desk at work and Anita called me on the cell phone. It sounded as if she was crying so I said what is the matter? At that time I figured out she was laughing as she told me about the call she received from the vet. The vet asked her, “Did you know Squeak is a male?”
I was floored. After Squeak being a cute little girl kitty for so long, it took a long time to come to grips with this. Thus Squeakher became Squeakhe.

At least that explained his aggressive behavior running around the house like a bat out of hell. Chasing the girl cats. Squeak was an Alpha male and the only male cat in the household. But the vet tamed him down a mite as Squeak ended up nutless in Idaho. We still refer to him now and again as a her and when we do he attacks. He always wants to get even so we are watching him closely. All the ladies on Anita’s quilt blog were flabbergasted to find out that Squeak was a he. This is going to take some getting used to but everyone is now able to laugh about it. That is everyone except Squeak.

When I told my daughter, Margaret about Squeak’s ordeal, she told me her cat story. She had a female cat, yes indeed a real her or she. She wanted to have her cat fixed so she took it to the vet only to get a call saying: “When I shaved her belly I discovered that she has already been fixed or altered as Squeak would say. Anyway the daughter Unit had to have her say. She said at least I know a girl cat from a boy cat. I explained that all the time we thought that Squeak was a she that I had not seen, nor had anyone else, a dangling participle. Over time we are hoping that Squeak will forgive us for calling him a girl for almost 5 months. But just in case, I lock the bedroom door.

MEMORIES GOOD AND BAD

2011-02-27T06:41:00.000-08:00

I was stationed on the USS Hornet, an aircraft carrier, home ported in Long Beach, California in 1967 and 1968. I was a Second Class Petty Officer. Things were going well in my life. I had a beautiful 1965 Chevrolet Malibu Super Sport (SS) forest green with bucket seats. It shined so bright when I waxed it. Anita and I had a nice apartment on Pine Street in Long Beach. We were expecting our first child, Margaret. We had a reel to reel tape recorder and tons of music I had collected during my Vietnam cruises. We had some good friends and even though there was not much money left over after the rent and car payment we were happy.
We would lift the couch cushions and scrape up .98 cents to attend the .49 cent double feature movies down on Ocean Boulevard. Once we went there with only .49 cents and when we got to the ticket booth realized that we were two not one.
We had a good friend from Louisiana named Frenchy. I was feeling flush one day with about $30.00 in my pocket so we invited Frenchy and I think his live in girlfriend, to dine with us. We went to a fancy restaurant up at the top of Cherry Street. We were seated at the table, the waiter brought us fancy gold leafed menus and we were shocked to see that just about every dish was 12 to 25 dollars each. Anita and I split a chicken dinner and I think Frenchy and his girl did the same. At any rate, it brought me back to reality but in a sense it made us realize that money is in fact no measure of happiness. We enjoyed just window shopping in Long Beach and once in a great while we would splurge and go to our favorite restaurant “Hoff’s Hut”. It was a small place that served excellent food at a reasonable price. We always had the same thing even though the menu had various choices. I chose the chopped sirloin with mashed potatoes, gravy and corn (chopped sirloin is a fancy name for a hamburger patty) and Anita always chose grilled halibut.
We felt we were living high on the hog during those days. Life’s simple pleasures like an afternoon in the park lying on a blanket enjoying the sun, watching people from all walks of life pass by and guessing about them as they walked by. That guy there is named George. His wife’s name is Alice and they have a Chevrolet Impala and a dog named Simpson. They fight a lot and like to BBQ.
Fantasy and fun were the name of the game during those days. We eventually moved to an apartment in Wilmington not far from Long Beach. I would whistle at our land lady, Mrs. Carey. What a nice person she was. She was about 80, loved my whistles and often asked me to cook grilled pork chops which I must say were delicious. Such a joy to have a land lady who seemed to adopt us and we enjoyed our stay in Wilmington. Then came another cruise to Vietnam and long hours of launching aircraft and loading bombs sometimes as much as 20 hour stretches for months on end. War was quite an experience and I lost some good friends and shipmates and had some close calls myself.
Sailing back into Long Beach with the crew manning the rails with flags flying showing off the awards or gedunks as we called them in the day was quite an experience. The docks lined with newspaper and television reporters and hundreds and hundreds of residents and relatives to welcome us back home.
Sousa marches and hugs and kisses and then a period of time in dry dock to prepare for the next war deployment. I was getting close to completing my first hitch in the Navy and had decided to get out.
My happy reunion was soon sobered by the death of my Mother. I flew back to North Carolina where I spent hours standing in front of her casket gazing at her face and waiting for a slight movement or twitch so I could explain to my family that this was a horrible mistake and she was just unconscious. The movement I was waiting for never came and I faced the hardest time in my life coming to terms that my Mother was gone. I don’t feel that I have ever fully accepted the loss. I know my family has never recovered. None of us have been the same since. Time dims the memories and hurts but does not erase the pain of them. The cruelty of the funeral ritual to me extends the depth of the pain and slows healing. I won’t put my family through such an ordeal.
I tried to transfer to another carrier for the short time I had left but no, hell no. We left Long Beach once again early one morning and picked up the sounds of a Russian Sub which we chased all the way from the California Coastal waters into the cold frigid waters of the Alaska islands where we discovered our Submarine was a whale. Well at least it is a whale of a tale eh? All the sailors were expecting to spend some time in Hawaii before heading back to the North Vietnam coastline and here we found ourselves wearing foul weather jackets and launching aircraft to chase the whale. Well, we did eventually make it into the port of Hawaii and I took the time to visit the USS Arizona Memorial, an experience I will always remember. Standing on the memorial looking through the clear water to the sunken battleship below with entombed sailors who went down fighting was a moving experience for me.
Instead of taking me on to Vietnam and flying me back for discharge I was flown back to the states for discharge. They gave me orders to Treasure Island, California for out processing and I drew a line through San Francisco on my ticket voucher and wrote in Los Angeles. I drew a line through my orders also and wrote in Long Beach Naval Station for my destination. Though some processing people questioned the pen and ink changes, I lied and said that it was okay-ed by the ship and the travel costs were the same. I reported to Naval Station Long Beach for discharge thinking they would release me early but no, hell no. I spent the last two months on my first Navy Hitch in charge of a Military Funeral Squad. I still can see the people dressed in black clothing and the tears in the widow’s and parent’s eyes as I handed them the folded American flag after I ordered the gun salute and taps were played. It was a sad time in my life to be so closely involved with that part of the costs of war. Finally, I received my discharge and Anita and I put our suitcases in the back of the Malibu SS and headed back to my hometown in North Carolina. I remember coming down the mountain from Tennessee and seeing the Welcome to North Carolina sign. I pulled the Malibu over and had Anita take a picture of me hugging the sign. I was welcomed home by my family and friends but as I stood over my mother’s grave for hours and tried to revive the good memories, I knew that the reality of life had hit me hard.
I find it amazing that I can recall those details so vividly after all these years have passed yet now, I find often that I can’t recall where I sat my coffee cup down. No matter how great your life seems at times, life intrudes with sad events that mar your happiness. I have developed coping skills but when I conjure up these old memories, the sad times appear along with the good times. The realization that life is a journey and the path has rough spots as well as smooth places sinks in. I concentrate on the good memories and good times and count the other times as part of the experiences that have made me who I am.

Reminder about your invitation from Margaret Owen

2011-02-22T04:27:00.001-08:00

This is a reminder that on February 18, Margaret Owen sent you an invitation to become part of his or her professional network at LinkedIn.

Follow this link to accept Margaret Owen's invitation.

https://www.linkedin.com/e/3ykli4-gkgsins9-2a/doi/2357999393/evvE9zAT/gir_396361569_0/EML-inv_17_rem/

Signing up is free and takes less than a minute.

On February 18, Margaret Owen wrote:

> To: [margmystr.syadiloh@blogger.com]
> From: Margaret Owen [margmystr@gmail.com]
> Subject: Invitation to connect on LinkedIn

> I'd like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn.
>
> - Margaret

The only way to get access to Margaret Owen's professional network on LinkedIn is through the following link:

https://www.linkedin.com/e/3ykli4-gkgsins9-2a/doi/2357999393/evvE9zAT/gir_396361569_0/EML-inv_17_rem/

You can remove yourself from Margaret Owen's network at any time.

--------------

Invitation to connect on LinkedIn

2011-02-18T11:37:00.001-08:00

I'd like to add you to my professional network on LinkedIn.

- Margaret

Margaret Owen
Clerk Typist at Butler County Assistance Office
Greater Pittsburgh Area

Confirm that you know Margaret

HIDE NOR HAIR, by Carl Owen

2010-11-14T10:58:00.000-08:00

The title of this story has nothing whatsoever to do with the story. I was just
listening to an old Ray Charles record and this was one of his songs. His baby
left him and he has not seen hide nor hair of her since she walked out the door.
It is a familiar refrain with Country and Blues songs. However, I got to thinking
about the expression and I used to hear it as a child growing up in North Carolina. For instance, the Sheriff would ask me if I had seen my brother, Edgar,who had broken out of jail or my brother Charles who was AWOL from the Army and that would be my answer. No, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of either one of them.

Since the statute of limitations has probably run by now, I can admit that I
did see Edgar occasionally. He was living in the woods dodging the law and he
would show up at home now and again to get some potatoes and eggs and salt
to go with the squirrels and fish he caught in the woods and streams. Charles
also would show up to say hello and go back hiding from the MP’s. Not many
people saw hide nor hair of those two while they were on the run.

Anyway, the title to this story should be:

FRED, CARL AND THE SNAKE

I used to loaf a lot with my Dad. Dad knew the ways of successful loafing. He pretty much knew what time supper was served at various relatives and friends houses. We didn’t hit the same ones over and over, we sorta rotated. Daddy said why spend so much of your life cooking when so many folks did it regularly. Of course Southern Hospitality and custom required visitors dropping in at suppertime to be invited to have a bite. We took several.

One day we were loafing and we had just reached the bottom of Jim Dick Hill, right across from the Aunt Lissy place (Aunt Lissy was a witch) when Daddy saw a bottle in the ditch. He had extremely good vision. He could shoot a squirrel’s eye out at 300 yards with a 22 rifle. He could see the glint of sunlight off a liquor bottle from some distance. So, He skidded to a stop on the gravel road and told me to get out and get the liquor bottle. Well, I knew not to argue with my Dad or my Grandfather either. Might as well add Mama and Grandma to that list also. At an early age I had wisdom knots on my head from taking too long to mind or pretending that I did not hear the orders.

So, as soon as the old Dodge truck came to a stop, I opened the door and went to the ditch to retrieve the bottle. Why did he want the bottle? Well, my Daddy made corn whiskey and we retrieved empty bottles wherever and whenever we could. My Mama would wash the bottles and we would fill them from gallon jugs and sell them to customers. Anyway, I digress. As I reached the ditch and parted the weeds to get the bottle, a snake coiled close to the bottle struck and bit my leg. I had just gotten hold of the bottle and I yelled quite loudly as the snake sank his or her fangs into my leg. I can’t tell a male from a female snake. Although in high school us guys referred to good looking girls as fine looking snakes. I never figured that one out either but I went along with it. Peer pressure probably. Maybe it was the wiggle in walk. I’ll do a wee bit more research on the subject. Anyway this particular snake bit right through my new denim pants. Daddy came out of the truck to see what was the matter and I told him a snake had bit me. Well, he looked around the ditch and said: I
don’t see no dammed snake. Get the bottle and get back in the truck. Well, as I headed to the truck, I heard Daddy say, well I will be dammed. He came back to the truck holding a snake in his hand. This thing bit me he said. I started to tell him I told you so but I wasn’t ready for another wisdom knot. He tossed the snake to me and said hold this thing. I brushed it off my lap into the floorboard of the old Dodge and put my foot on it.

Daddy stopped up the road a piece and cut some milkweed. He said he would make some tea out of it since it cured snakebites in dogs. I asked him if it worked on people too and he said, I guess we will find out.

When we got back home Mama told us we had better go to the Doctor just in case the
milkweed tea did not work on humans. Well, Daddy not wanting another knowledge bump
also ordered me and the snake back in the truck and we drove to town. Rosman is a small town with only one red-light and one doctor. We stopped at Doc Stokes house and went in. I was a little fearful of Doc Stokes because he had recently pulled a tooth of mine without numbing it since the numbing shot costs a dollar in addition to the dollar the tooth extraction cost. I was shifting my feet around getting ready to pull up my britches leg to show the doctor the fang marks and dreading a possible shot.

Well, Daddy carried the snake in and handed it to Doc Stokes and said this thing bit me and my boy. Doc Stokes took the snake over to a table and turned on a light and stretched the snake out on the table and looked at it through a big microscope. Finally, he turned to my Dad and said: Fred, I’m afraid I can’t do a thing. I hate to give you the bad news but this here
snake is gonna die.

Daddy gave the Doctor a pint of moonshine for his trouble and we returned home. I guess the word got out to the other snakes cause neither my Dad nor I were ever bitten by another snake.

On a side note, Old Dr. Stokes passed away a few years after the snake episode. I was home a few years ago and my old high school coach, Coach Cathy had bought Dr. Stokes office and house and was living there. When I was in high school, my first cousin Willy was a halfback and Coach Cathy called him Lightning. I was a halfback on the JV team and he called me little lightning and later in life, I made white lightning.

The Case For The Return of The A Model Ford by Carl Owen

2010-10-10T06:41:00.000-07:00

Things used to be so much simpler than they are now. When the A Model Ford was the thing to drive life was easier. You had your choice of colors as long as you chose black. You had a steering wheel and a gear shift and a clutch and of course a brake for the women drivers. Behind the seat was a wrench to start the car. You stuck the wrench into the front of the car and turned it like a lug wrench and the car started. Rarely did it fail to start and if it did you did not call a mechanic, you fixed it yourself with a piece of coat hanger and some duct tape. If you were able to afford a mechanic, he showed up with a coat hanger and some duct tape. When he was done, you paid him a dollar and gave him a dime tip.
My seester Vonda Lee recently went in Ebay and bought a Toyota Hybrid a Prius. Well, you have heard of a praying mantis and this car may be a prius mantus because Vonda prays she can figure out how to make it go from one place to another. I told her to get a coat hanger and some duct tape but she says you have to talk to the car and the computer does everything else. You say: Hey car, I need to go to the bathroom. The car says sorry Miz Vonda but if I stop now you will suffer a loss of gas mileage. Then Miz Vonda says look here car, when you gotta go, you gotta go so screw your gas mileage and find a rest stop like real soon. But says the car and Miz Vonda pulls out a 45 and the car pulls over and says to your left is a juniper bush. Anyway the bottom line is that if something goes wrong with the hybrid car, you have to call a mechanic who brings a computer with him instead if duct tape. Miz Vonda says what is wrong with the car and the mechanic says I have no idea but I will guess at it for $125.00 per hour.
Now, this car was located in Ohio (yankee land) and Miz Vonda intended to fly to Ohio and spend 5 days driving this hybrid car back to Montana. She could not get out of Kalispell so she flew to Salt Lake City. Makes sense so far right??? Oh I forgot to mention, she hired a truck driver to load the car up in Ohio and deliver it to her in Salt Lake City. When she got the car she could not figure out how to start or stop it. Thankfully it came with a book. They figured out how to get it to Nevada where she gambled and there is no get rich story to tell about that stop over. So she drove from Nevada to Twin Falls about 55 miles from her brother who had Tequila in his liquor cabinet. We won’t go into too much detail about the tequila either. Mike helped her brother put a bed together and a cabinet for the white girl’s quilting room. Oh, I almost forgot, when they stopped in Twin Falls, they left the car running and went into a restaurant for about 43 minutes. When they came out Miz Vonda said What the hell, why is the car still running. Mike said I did not get to the part in the book to get it to shut off. The car said Hey, nobody told me to stop and Miz Vonda did not pull out her 45 so I just continued to run. I am sure there will be more to this story as they make their way toward Montana reading the car manual and arguing with the car that talks.
Word through the grapevine is that Miz Vonda was driving just south of Butte Montana when the car said stop within the next 27.5 miles to refuel. Miz Vonda said lookee here car you don’t tell me what to do. I am the owner and you are a car. I will stop when I want to stop. The car said suit yourself Miz Vonda just choose when you want to stop but if you don’t like walking with a gas can you might want to consider stopping within the next 26.97 miles. Miz Vonda pulled over at the next gas station. It seems the car gets such good gas milage that she did not think it needed gas in addition to the car batteries.
Yes it is time to bring back the A Model Ford. At a time when most of America is getting rid of Toyotas, my sister buys one that talks back to her. I don’t see a bright future for this car. Nobody talks back to Miz Vonda unless they are looooong distance.

MAMA IN TEARS AND DADDY IN A TAXI, by Carl Owen

2010-08-11T03:12:00.000-07:00

The other day I was listening to an old Garth Brooks song and he was telling about how his Daddy drove a truck and how his Mama was cheating on his Daddy. Anyway, the song had a line where Daddy drove his truck into the local motel where his Mama was shacked up with a man. Garth sang: “Mama’s in the graveyard; Daddy’s in the pen.”
The song got me to thinking of when my Daddy was in the pen. Funny how songs invoke memories but this one caused a flood of memories to wash across my mind. It was a bad time in the Owen household because my Daddy, Fred Owen, had been caught with moonshine where the tax had not been paid on it. Now that I consider this, I don’t think I ever heard of moonshine where the tax was paid on it. The government controlled legal liquor sales and they did not like competition because for each bottle-in-bond they sold they collected tax from the buyer. So, they passed a law making it against the law to sell whiskey without a tax stamp. Some years back, the guv’mt tried the same trick and there was a Whiskey Rebellion similar to the English Tea Tax Rebellion. But, nowadays, they don’t have rebellions because even that is against the law. They just send their competitors to jail. Daddy always believed that if he grew his corn that he should be able to sell it in solid or liquid form. I agree with him. When you look at all the laws the Government has instituted, they fill many a law book. It seems it would be easier to print books outlining the things you could still do legally. That would save a lot of trees.
Well, back to the story. Daddy was sentenced to a year and a day in a Federal prison. If you got that type of sentence it meant you did not get out early on parole or probation. You served a year and then another day. Well, that is what my Daddy did. While he was in prison his whiskey customers drifted along to different suppliers and the family income went from passable to nothing. We became poorer.
Being poor is a great test of character and if nothing else my family has lots of character as well as lots of characters. My sister Thelma and her husband Henson packed us up and moved us to the West Coast to a little town called Westport, Oregon while Daddy went to Atlanta, Georgia to spend his year and a day in the Federal pen.
Westport, Oregon was a big change from Frozen Creek, North Carolina. Somehow we scrabbled a living there with Thelma’s generous help. The family felt like they had moved to a foreign country. I experienced my first encounter with store bought bread there. Gerald had his first girlfriend there and Edgar fell in love with two girls, Indian twins. Estelle had a boyfriend named George and I learned to roller skate. I could write a whole book on living in Oregon and I did write a story about our time there entitled: “STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER” See the Owen newsletter archives for that one.
I remember hearing a fellow say one time that his family was so poor that they didn’t have a boot to piss in. That never made sense to me. Even when we were approaching the bottom level of poor, we still had an outhouse. Anyway I think the proper expression is: We didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Although, that really doesn’t make much sense either. Why piss in a pot? But I diverge.
I guess it is time to explain the title to this story. I recall once that Mama was crying and I asked her why she was crying. Her black hair shined and her shoulders shook as she told me that school was starting soon and she had no money to buy the kids school shoes. I gave her a hug and told her that we would be just fine with the shoes that we had which were tattered and had holes in them. It is O.K. to have shoes with holes in them if you are careful and don’t step on sharp objects but in the wintertime when it rains and snows, your feet get mighty wet.
Anyway, Mama talked with Thelma and Thelma found out that if you were poor and out, you could get shoes for your kids by going to Astoria to the Welfare Office. Well, Mama swallowed her pride and I found myself sitting on a bus with her after much begging to go with her. We were on our way to Astoria and Mama had a paper bag with measured sticks of the kid’s feet. The sticks would not fit in her old black purse that she had had ever since I could remember. Mama wore old threadbare dresses and shoes that were falling to pieces. She never thought of herself. Her thoughts were always about her kids. Her heart was big enough to contain enormous love for her 13 kids. I always recall seeing her with her pretty black hair rolled up in a coif and pinned with bobby pins and wearing a threadbare dress with an apron made from a flour sack. As we made the long bus trip I could see the pain in her brown eyes and an occasional tear would trickle down the wrinkles in her face and drop onto her dress.
When we got to Astoria, we made our way to the Welfare office. It was situated in an old brick building that looked at least a hundred years old. We walked up the stairs and into a dingy room with a long wooden counter across the room separating the customers from the workers. Mama went to the counter and a woman took her name and gave her a card with the number 17 on it. We sat on hard wooden benches until they called our number. A woman opened a small gate in the counter and we went into a small room where this woman with an attitude grilled my Mama with questions. I still remember to this day how she was haughty and talked down to my Mama. I would have loved to have told her to show my Mama some respect but Mama saw me squirming and reached down and patted my knee with her weathered hand. We left the office with a coupon book and went to a shoe store down the street where we exchanged the coupons for shoes. We caught the bus back to Westport and I remember looking up at my Mama and still seeing the pain and shame and the tears still streaming down her face. I leaned against her and fell asleep with her patting my head.
Almost a year later, Gerald and I were playing at the foot of Nicoli Mountain and we saw a taxi cab winding up the curvy road to my Sister Thelma’s house where we were currently living. We ran down to turn-a-round where the taxi pulled to a stop and this tall man got out and was talking to the driver. As we came up to the taxi we saw it was Daddy. He was out of the pen. He called us over and told us: Go tell your Mama to come and pay for this cab. I ran up the hill toward the house and met my Mama running down the trail to the parking space, her apron flapping in the breeze. The pain and shame was gone from her pretty brown eyes. They were lit up glistening and shiny with happy tears as she grabbed my Daddy and gave him a big hug and then took some bills from her old black purse and paid the driver.

The Giant Hoax Exposed

2010-07-05T16:31:00.000-07:00

Having had some success with using anonymous names so as not to embarrass certain people, I will attempt to continue in that format.

You see I don’t want to embarrass my sister Vonda Lee who I have written about before and I don’t want to angrify her either since she recently came down from Montana and helped me renovate the White Girl’s Quilt room. She was a great help and I might need her help in the future so I will protect her identity and just refer to her as Miz Vonda. I hope someone does not figure out that Miz Vonda is really my sister Vonda Lee. If they do figure it out, I will chalk it up to their superior deductive skills and not to any deficiency on my part in trying to protect her identity in the following story.

So, Once upon a time I wrote a story about Miz Vonda and the “Second Thai Food Restaurant” in Kalispell, Montana. In my zeal to tell an interesting story, I might have, repeat might have exaggerated slightly to keep the story interesting. In the description of where she was wrrrrrronng about the second Thai Restaurant, I indicated that actual flames emitted from her eyeballs when in fact, it might have just been sparks instead of flames that set my favorite shirt on fire.

Anyway, after reading the story, Miz Vonda made a comment about getting even with me. At the time I did not understand what she was talking about. Whatever had I ever done to her to have her promise to get even?

Just recently, through superior detective skills, I stumbled upon a conspiracy, yes an actual plot by Miz Vonda and a co-conspirator who I will attempt to protect by assigning her a cover name of SIS. Well maybe, I should not use SIS because I have a sister who everyone calls Sis. Oh well, I don’t think anyone will make that connection. Word on the street is that my dear wife Anita agreed to assist the conspirators but that is simply beyond belief.

Anyway, Vonda Lee, I mean Miz Vonda called her sister who we will refer to as SIS in South Carolina in a small town named Easley and conspired to make up a story about me that if anyone believed it would do great damage to my tough guy reputation that I have spent years building up. Just ask my kids.

I found out that they were going to send a wildly exaggerated manufactured story to my favorite daughter Margaret about me having a cat. Now, Anita, the white girl owns three cats and of course they are around me a lot but I am not a cat person? She has the title on all three cats. I even have a recipe for catsirole. Anyway, a couple of times the white girl has asked me to feed the cats and to make her happy I have done so reluctantly. Sometimes, when I feed the cats they raise their backs up and touch my hand and if anyone not knowing the background saw this in a picture, they might jump to the conclusion that I was petting the cat. I know it is ridiculous and I only mention it in case Miz Vonda and SIS make allegations that I have actually petted a cat that you can see to what levels they are willing to stoop to and to what lengths they will go. I don’t know all the conspiracy so I have to attempt to protect my reputation.

I really don’t think my favorite daughter would even publish an obviously fabricated story but I have to put out all stops to alert the honest readers out there are aware that not everyone adheres to my strict adherence to truth, justice and the American way.

I have it on good evidence that while Miz Vonda was down here in Idaho helping me with the White Girl’s quilt room that she staged a phony photograph showing a cat in my lap. If this photo ever shows up in print then look closely and you will see I was sound asleep in my chair when they placed the cat in my lap and took a picture. Imagine them believing that any of my honest and faithful readers would not see right thru that.

Now another allegation that I discovered was the cat I supposedly have is named RZG. Well I confess that I did shorten the name of Anita’s cat which had the cumbersome name of Rosie Girl. I just invented the abbreviation to make it easier to communicate with the white girl about her cats. So RZG simply stands for Rosie Girl. Now as to the conspirators alleging that I call RZG “Daddies little kitty”, I did utter that phrase once or twice in a joking manner just to see Miz Vonda’s reaction. Also, RZG does follow me when I go to check my e-mail. But generally, when I tell her that she did not get any email she leaves. Well don’t believe these two sisters if they come out with this vastly over exaggerated story of me having a cat named RZG. I mean really. Who would believe such a thing? My advice to Miz Vonda and SIS is to stick to the facts and quit exaggerating and trying to ruin my reputation.

Searching for a Non-Existent Item, by Carl Owen

2010-04-23T14:23:00.000-07:00

I’ve had a lot of experience searching for things. If I am working in the shop and I need a pencil to make marks on wood, I have learned to take two or three pencils with me and keep them close to the work project. No matter how hard I try I experience the same results. I turn around to get a pencil and all three pencils have walked off. I now order my pencils by the gross (144 pack). I think I have two left which reminds me that I need to place another order. The last time I ordered the pencil company sent me a brochure and directions on how to order pencils wholesale. The same things happen with screwdrivers. If I need a Phillips head screwdriver, I know that having one available is not sufficient. I will take three or four to the work-site. When I get to the point of needing the screwdriver, I turn slowly around knowing that the screwdrivers have ESP and have already walked off or hidden themselves. I have thought about installing cameras.

So over the years, numerous pencils, screwdrivers and other tools have mysteriously disappeared and gone into another dimension. I won’t even talk about the hundreds of socks that have walked off into a parallel universe. I had a nightmare once about opening a closet door and having hundreds of screwdrivers, pencils, books and socks come cascading out of the closet onto my head. They must be together, right? At any rate, with the screwdrivers; when they come on sale, I buy 15 or 20 Phillips head screwdrivers. However, if I went to my shop right now, I would only be able to find a straight slot.

I figured there is perfectly simple explanation. Some cosmic voodoo expert has cast a spell on me and laughs hardily every time they see the confused look on my face when I turn around to reach for the screwdriver or pencil to find it gone. What the heck does a voodoo expert need with that many pencils and screwdrivers?

I will admit that once in a while I put something in a safe place to shorten my search time and forget where the safe place was. I once bought a CD by Lari White and I bought it for one particular song. So, knowing that my son Kyle occasionally walks off with one of my CD’s I put it in a safe place that I figured Kyle would not find. Well, my plan worked too well. I put it in a too safe place. So after several days of in-depth search and a third degree grilling of Kyle under a bright spotlight, I bought another CD. My first CD was on sale for $12.98. The voodoo expert knew I was buying another so when I got to the music store a voodoo looking guy was busy pasting new prices on the CD’s. My replacement CD cost $16.99. Feeling safer with an odd priced CD, I went home to put it in a safe place. I thought and thought. What place can I put the CD where I can remember where I put it and protect it from Kyle and the voodoo guy? Finally, it hit me. Put it in the laundry room on top of the freezer right by the bottles of wine. Aha, what a brilliant idea. I walked smugly into the laundry room and placed the CD on top of the freezer right on top of my original CD.

I tell you this story to let you know that even I can search endlessly for something and get frustrated. I sat down one time and tried to put on paper a plan to keep from losing pencils. I made a little holder with holes drilled in it and stuffed about 10 pencils in the holder and put the holder on the workbench in my shop. I was successful in using one of the pencils and as soon as I used it, I turned slowly around and placed it in the holder. Aha, all ten pencils accounted for. I counted them twice and turned back to my project. About 10 minutes later, I turned confidently around and reached for a pencil from the pencil holder and all ten pencils had vanished in thin air. I thought for a minute that I heard a voodoo like laugh in the air but could not see the rascal. To make matters worse when I came back in the house to get more pencils, Anita said: “what are you doing with all those pencils? Pretty soon, you won’t have room for your table saws in the shop with all the pencils you are taking there”. Well, I didn’t tell her that that was why I had three table saws because I figured they were next on the disappearing agenda. I am thinking of ways to take advantage of this thing. I will take a bag of trash with me to the shop and put it in a corner. But, so far, every time I turn around the trash bag is still there. Maybe the voodoo guy is not so easily fooled or may be smarter than I give him credit.

Anyway, this is a prelude to a story about someone looking for a non-existent article. I don’t want to name names because I don’t want to embarrass my daughter xxxx I mean this person who will remain anonymous. I will just refer to the two people as anonymous person one and anonymous person two. No, better yet to make the story more realistic, I will give the two people random names. I will call my daughter xxx I mean the first anonymous person Margaret and I will call the other anonymous person Michael.

Anyway, far off in Sarver, Pennsylvania (fictitious name) anonymous person one calls me and says: Dad, we are going crazy here. Michael is ranting and raving because we can not find the book. I said what book are you talking about Anonymous person one.

She said the repair book for the Chevy Malibu. I said, Margaret, I mean anonymous person one what repair book are you talking about? The daughter, I mean anonymous person one said: We ordered this repair book on the Chevy Malibu and Michael or anonymous person two cannot find the book to see where the oil filter is located. I asked Margaret, “Why do you need a book, just lift the hood or crawl under the car and look and you will see the oil filter.” Anonymous person one said, Dad, Anonymous person two has already done that and he can’t find it. I wondered briefly if the voodoo guy was visiting Sarver Pennsylvania when Margaret said, Dad are you there? Yes, daughter, I mean anonymous person one, I am here, I was just thinking of something. Have you seen a strange looking voodoo type person around the car? Dad, have you been drinking again? I am talking about searching for this book. We have searched every square inch of the house and it costs like $25.00 and it is nowhere to be found. I could hear anonymous person two in the background yelling: Margaret, where would you put a big book? Wouldn’t you put it on a bookcase? Why is it we can’t find anything we need in this house? Everything should have a place and everything should be put in its place. Obviously Michael did not know about my pencil and screwdriver story. He ranted a while and then he raved awhile and finally I told Margaret, I mean anonymous person one: Have you looked in the glove box of the car? That is where an owner’s manual should be placed? Dad, says she this is not a little book like an owner’s manual. This is a big repair book. How big says I? About 10 inches by 12 inches says the daughter. What color is the book? I don’t remember says anonymous person one. Where would you have put it? Duh says she. O.K. just look on the computer to locate the oil filter or call the Chevy dealer says I. When did you order the book? Well, about 3 months ago says she.

Where would you have put the book? Duh says she. Well, I could still hear Michael muttering in the background and I was growing tired of the topic, so I said: “Daughter, my phone has a lot of static on it as I made sounds like ssssshhhhkkkkkk, brrrrrrzzzzsss into the phone. Margaret says oh Dad, you are not going to try to pull that again are you?

I says, if you can still ssssklllyy brryyyss hear me, I can’t hear you and I’m not trying to pull anything ssssskkkk there is a lot of static…..I’ll call you back later when the phone is better. Goodbye. So I takes 4 or 5 aspirin to calm the headache from the drama.

So, about two hours later the phone rings and the caller id says it is anonymous person one. Reluctantly, I pick up the phone prepared for more soap opera about the missing book. Surprised was I to hear my daughter laughing as I picked up the phone. Dad, she says, you are going to laugh. We looked through our records and we never ordered the book. We were going to but we never got around to it. I said: Daughter, my phone is ssyylkkls rkkkbbb making ssrorsl static sounds.sssi oposjps[gj;;jgp;. She finally got tired of listening to my static imitations and hung up so I wrote this story to get even with her for putting me through the missing book soap opera story.

My Brother Gerald, by Carl Owen

2010-01-24T07:14:00.000-08:00

My brother Gerald and I grew up together. We went fishing together, we went hunting together, we loafed together. Some say Gerald, as he was growing up, was meaner than a rattlesnake. Others say: Don’t piss off the rattlesnake by comparing him to Gerald. Now our wives would say we are still in the stage of growing up because they often tell us to grow up.

Gerald and I spent a lot of time in the woods squirrel hunting, ginseng hunting, raccoon hunting and just camping out. We always loved to go deep into the canebrake and fish and just hang out. We had old beat up cars converted into what we called strip downs.

The strip down was mostly a car frame with a motor, occasionally with some body parts.

The good thing about a stripdown is that you don’t have to worry about scratching the paint job or bending a fender. If we bent a fender by running into a stump or tree, we just tore it off and continued on our way.

Gerald used to catch blacksnakes and garter snakes and chase his sisters with them. Some of our sisters could have qualified for the Olympics track events as they poured on the speed to escape Gerald. He would drop spiders down their necks as they performed exquisite gymnastic moves to get rid of the spiders or frogs or whatever.

We used to have corncob fights and I always wanted to be on Gerald’s team because he didn’t just stand off at a distance and lob corncobs at the opposing team, he attacked.

He waded straight into a flurry of corncobs and I waded right in behind him. He did make a good shield.

We turned it up a notch when we started rock fights. We would gather a pile of rocks and use old washtubs to hide behind. When people talk about getting knots on their heads, we can relate. We stuck chicken feathers in corn cobs and a nail in the other end and made our own darts. We cut long poles to knock bats out of the sky.

We carried tons of sugar and gallon jugs into Daddy’s many still places and packed white lightning out. I remember once we stopped at Camp Sky Top with a gallon of Daddy’s best and visited with Norris Free, the caretaker. That was the night when Norris was trying to light the gas cooking stove to warm us up. He turned the gas on and started striking matches. Well, to make a long story short, we started smelling gas real strong right before a big ball of flame knocked us all across the room. Gerald grabbed the jug of whiskey to keep it from toppling over as I hit the wall. The next few days everyone asked me why my hair was singed and what happened to my eyebrows and eyelashes. At the time of the explosion I was playing my guitar and singing Thunder Road. That is the name we unofficially named Frozen Creek Road. Gerald was just glad the whiskey did not catch fire. Being 100 proof it would have exploded like a hand grenade.

Gerald always looked out for me and my younger brother Michael. You couldn’t ask for a better partner than Gerald in a fight. He would fight like a wildcat with no stopping sense. I remember in school one day a bully was heckling me on the playground. Gerald called me aside and told me to tap the boy on the shoulder and as he turned around to land a haymaker on his nose. He said if that doesn’t get his attention, then sock him in the stomach and repeat the nose punch. He said a nose punch would take the fight out of him. I explained to Gerald that the boy outweighed me by close to 73 pounds and that he was a foot taller than me with arms that hung down with knuckles dragging the ground. Gerald told me that I was to beat the crap out of the bully or he would beat the crap out of me. He meant it too. I did as Gerald said. I punched the bully in the nose. Blood squirted all over his Big Ben overalls and he hit the ground like a felled timber. I would have fought Goliath to keep Gerald from beating the crap out of me.

Even though Gerald cheated me out of some of my best collector marbles including the famous soup bean marble, I forgive him.

Even though Gerald stole my bottle of Vodka when he married Mary Grace and has never replaced it, I forgive him.

Even though Gerald held my head under the bedcovers and farted, I forgive him.

I forgive him because I don’t think I could beat him in a fight just yet.

Some of my favorite memories are the times I spent with my brothers Gerald and Edgar.

Now that Edgar is gone I admire Gerald for stepping up to the plate and promising Ed that his brothers would not stop until Justice was done. Together we have double no stopping sense and we do not fear the obstacles before us. We will find out what happened to Edgar and when we see Edgar again, he will say: “I appreciate it”.

Now as to Gerald being compared to a rattlesnake, you really have to get to know Gerald.

After you strip away the big tough front he puts up and his tough talk. Once you look past that; you will see the gentle loving side of Gerald. Once you hang out with him awhile and see him in action, you will have no doubt in your mind that way down deep…………… He truly is much meaner than any rattlesnake you might come across.

My Brother Edgar, by Carl Owen

2009-12-05T18:46:00.001-08:00

MY BROTHER EDGAR

My brother used to be an outgoing person. He used to travel and work hard whether it was logging, construction or whatever. I never met anyone who did not like Edgar. The women especially thought he was a handsome man.

Truth be told, he was probably the best looking of the eight brothers. He spent some time on the west coast in the Eugene, Florence, and Bend areas. At one time I had three sisters in the Bend area right by the three sister’s mountains.

I think I was around 14 when he brought his girlfriend, later to be his wife, Fay Henderson to the mountains of North Carolina. While I was growing up, Edgar, my brother Gerald and I spent a great deal of time in the woods hunting rabbits, squirrels, and other food for the table. Often, we would go fishing in the Auger hole and the Canebrake. The French Broad River was our main source of fish and in fact, my brother Michael overtook my brother Charles as the best fisherman in the family. Mike could catch a fish with a diaper pin or the finest of Eagle Claw fish hooks.

Mama packed our family up when Daddy got sent to prison for moon-shining and moved us to Westport, Oregon. Thelma and her husband Henson crammed us all in a 1955 or 56 Chrysler and we drove across the County like college students tying to set a record on how many people would fit in a phone book. I don’t know how anyone survived that trip.

Edgar and Gerald fished the steel-head streams and Gerald and I fished the port. Daddy hunted the mountains when he joined us after his one year prison stint. For a time we sharecropped in Banks, Oregon picking strawberries while Daddy was incarcerated. We lived in a tarpaper shack at the end of the strawberry fields and each day was a repeat of the one before. Most of the time we picked strawberries through the week. When the weekend came then we picked strawberries. Somehow we survived through Mama’s strong will and with by brother Charles standing in as the head of the family with Daddy being gone. We strung beans and picked beans. We picked blackberries and picked up beer bottles for the refund.

Later, we moved back to North Carolina and Daddy went back to moon-shining and Edgar got in a little trouble with the law by driving while driving under the influence and breaking jail and such. He ended up spending a year at hard labor in Craggy Prison. He came out a changed man. He kept to himself a lot. After a bad car wreck, he kept more and more to himself until some folks described him as a hermit. This went on for a while and all of a sudden, Edgar dried out and moved to South Carolina and started working regularly.

Edgar was home one day when one of his brothers pulled a U-Hall truck into Edgar’s house. Edgar had just got off work and did not know that the truck was loaded down with Marijuana. Suddenly, Law enforcement was everywhere and Edgar was arrested and sent to prison for something that he had no part in.

This event turned Edgar bitter and reclusive and he retreated from society for the most part and did in fact become a hermit, exiting only to get some smokes or beer. He would welcome you in and show the traditional southern hospitality, but it was clear that he was on edge until you left.

When I would visit from the West Coast, I would take my guitar to Edgar’s and play for him. There were two songs that he loved dearly. The first was: “You’re my Memory Number One” and the other was an instrumental, “You are My Flower”. Edgar loved those two tunes and I play them still. I can remember Edgar walking through the woods with me showing me different flowers such as lady slippers and lilies. He seemed to know the names of various roots, plants and trees intimately. He knew where every ginseng plant was and he loved to collect ginseng and ramps (wild onions).I know that when he worked with Daddy that Daddy taught him the difference between a Sour Gum tree and a Sour Wood tree as well as how to adjust the moonshine temper exactly to 100 proof.

Edgar was a jack of all trades. He could fix broken things like chainsaws, trucks, etc. But he can’t fix our broken hearts.

He was found dead on November 23rd 2009 floating face down in Frozen Creek, the creek he and I fished so many times and where we both grew up alongside. He lived most of his life alongside Frozen Creek.

Law Enforcement was quick to assume that Edgar was drunk and stumbled into the creek and drowned. They did not do very much of an investigation and a doctor where Edgar’s body was taken quickly announced that the cause of death was accidental drowning.

Edgar never expected or received a break from law enforcement during his life and he did not get the investigation he deserved at the end of his life. His wallet was missing and his pockets turned inside out. Quite a few drunks and deadbeats hung around Edgar’s place, some of who would kill for one dollar or less.

The truth will eventually come out. I know in my heart that the cause of death was not accidental drowning and I also know that eventually, someone will tell what happened and then and only then will Edgar be at rest. Until that time he can rest assured that his family will always love him and never forget him. He is with my Mama and Daddy, my brother Ronnie and my sister Estelle. They will sooth and comfort him.

Story contributed by Carl Owen

2009-11-18T16:00:00.000-08:00

The Owen Gang Rides Again

My son Kyle has the uncanny ability to attract deadbeats and losers. He owns a duplex and lives in one side and rents out the other. He has owned this duplex for several years and has never made a profit from renting it out. As a matter of fact, he has lost several thousand dollars in unpaid rent, damages and repairs.

First, he had a deadbeat renter in one side when he bought the place and couldn’t get him to pay rent or move. So, the Owen Gang rode into town with a Makita drill and drilled the locks off the doors and installed new locks. Then we called the Rent-a-Center and told them to come pick up the rented furniture that the deadbeat had not paid the rental fees for. We boxed up his miscellaneous junk and set it outside for said deadbeat to haul off.

The deadbeat and Mrs. Deadbeat found their key would not work and called the cops. The cops showed up and questioned the gang leader, the guy with the Makita drill. The gang leader admitted the deed and was informed by a Sheriff’s Deputy that what he had done was illegal and that we could go to jail. The gang leader informed the Sheriff’s Deputy that he should advise Mr. And Mrs. Deadbeat so they could sue the Owen gang if they wanted. Since it costs money and deadbeats don’t have money to sue, we were not sued.

Instead, the deadbeat stood on the sidewalk about 50 yards up the street and yelled down insults and threats. He yelled out that he was going to kick my son’s ass. I invited him down to first kick my ass. He declined.

So, Kyle and I cleaned up the duplex and Kyle rented it out for a short period to his friend Ted. Ted paid rent so he was not a deadbeat, but after Ted, came the ex-girl friend who enjoyed a reduced rent and had a big dog who preferred going to the bathroom on Kyle’s carpet. The place became a mess.

The gang leader cleaned up the Makita drill but the ex-girlfriend moved out and in with another bum, her on again off again friend. But the girlfriend recommended the latest deadbeat to Kyle as a really nice guy who would be glad to pull carpet, refinish floors, renovate the bathroom and so forth for a couple of months rent. Kyle agreed and let the deadbeat move in with an agreement for 2 ½ months free rent and a reduced rent of $500.00 for six months. The deadbeat thanked Kyle profusely, moved in and did almost nothing for 3 months and paid no rent. Kyle and I took him a lease to sign which he refused to sign. He also refused to pay any rent.

So, the gang leader started the lengthy eviction process by initially serving the deadbeat with a 3 day notice to pay rent or vacate. When he did not move, he was served with an eviction summons and a complaint which was filed in Superior Court. Then he was served with a requirement to pay rent into the court fund or provide a sworn statement explaining why he was not paying rent. Finally, he was served with a summons to show up at a Show Cause Hearing in Superior Court to give good reason why he was occupying a rental unit without paying rent.

He showed up in court and stated that Kyle had agreed that he could stay and pay no rent for as long as he wanted to stay. The Judge did not by it and signed a Writ of Restitution and a money judgment against the deadbeat for $1490.00. Kyle then paid the Sheriff $120.00 to throw the bum out after three days. On the last day, the deadbeat and a friend of his started moving his junk out of Kyle’s duplex. I followed them to find out where they were moving to so we could take action to collect on the judgment.

They split up and sped through school zones and through stop signs and lost me several times. Finally, Kyle showed up after work and he took one of the vehicles and I took the other. Kyle lost his target but this time I was determined to stay with the deadbeat. I stuck with him until he pulled into a shopping center parking lot. A few minutes later, the other truck showed up and they started yelling at me. I stood by my car with a 4 pound spring in my hand and invited them over to talk it over. They declined. I then called Kyle who showed up to make it two against two.

They called the cops and a city cop showed up and talked with the deadbeats. Then he came over to talk to Kyle and me. He told us we were breaking the law by stalking the deadbeats and could go to jail. He said he would not write a police report but just hold us there until the deadbeats could take off. I had some rather strong words with the cop about protecting deadbeats instead of law abiding citizens. The cop asked Kyle if he was having his dad follow the deadbeats. Kyle said, are you kidding, I can’t have my Dad do anything, he does what he wants to do. I forced the cop into writing up a police report and he informed us it would go to the prosecutor who could have us put in jail. I said fine but at least the police report will show the address of the deadbeat and that’s all we want. Haven’t heard from the prosecutor yet.

I looked around the deadbeats meeting place and saw three storage facilities across the street. My favorite daughter Margaret used to work at one of the sites. The next day I visited the storage sites one at a time.

I introduced myself as a friend of the deadbeat and explained that I was there to pay one month’s storage for him. They looked at their rentals and the first one said he wasn’t renting there. On the third one, I hit pay dirt. I went through my spiel and the manager said the monthly storage for the deadbeat was $174.00. I said I didn’t realize that it would be so much and asked if it was a 10x30. She told me it was a 10x20 unit number 2153. I thanked her and left.

I showed up with a bouquet of flowers the next day and asked the manager if she could help me find the deadbeat. She wrote down the address for me and stated that no one had ever given her flowers before. I sweet talked her a bit and left to drive by the address which happened to be a rental that the deadbeat’s sister was renting.

So, then I was ready to go back to Idaho so I called Miz Vonda to come over and help me by driving my car down to Idaho. She showed up and I picked her up at the airport. When we got home, she went straight into the kitchen and fried up two big fryers. It had been years since Kyle and I had enjoyed her famous chicken.

Before we left for Idaho, we stopped by Kyle’s duplex to get my tools. The neighbor called the cops and reported we were burglars. In no time we were surrounded by two city cop cars and in a few minutes later two sheriff cars. I cussed them all out and showed them that I had the key to Kyle’s duplex.

Later that night we set out for Idaho with me driving my moving van and Miz Vonda following in my Honda Accord. We drove and drove and drove and finally made it to Idaho. Miz Vonda stayed overnight and flew back to Montana. I didn’t have much time to spend with her but appreciated her help so very much. She said she would come back and help me with some building projects and I will get her famous chicken again. I intend to make her my famous BBQ.

So the Owen Gang is alive and well and ready to go to battle again if necessary but I hope Kyle sells the duplex and gets out of the rental business. After all, we are surrounded by deadbeats and the cops and rental laws are on their side.

The Twins, contributed by Auntie Sis

2009-10-11T06:35:00.000-07:00

Time In the Sun, by Carl Owen

2009-07-24T16:42:00.000-07:00

There’s an old saying that everyone will get their 15 minutes of fame; or as I like to call it, time in the sun.

That doesn’t necessarily mean that Hollywood will discover you and give you a bit part and I suppose it means different things to different people.

I recall a few memorable moments in the sun that I have enjoyed or at least felt a sense of achievement.

Of course there were the smiley faces on school papers but as I thought about those smiley faces; I realized that, in fact, they were quite plentiful. As I discovered one day as I turned around in my school desk to show my smiley face to a pretty girl who was a little light upstairs and before I embarrassed myself, I saw a smiley face on her paper. So I guess you have to take some of those moments with a grain of sand.

Speaking of school, one of my earliest proud moments and a genuine “time in the sun”, was when I graduated from High School. I was the first of 13 kids in the family to graduate and back in 1964 in the hills of North Carolina, that actually met the measure mark. At the ripe old age of 17 I gazed out from the stage as I was handed my diploma and saw the proud smiling faces of my mother, my grandmother and my sister, Thelma. That certainly qualified as one of my times in the sun.

To take a little polish from the apple, my Dad did not show. He kinda felt that going to school took a lot of time away from hoeing corn or trimming creek banks. He of course had one important point there. It was those fields of corn that helped him to raise 12 of 13 kids. He turned the corn into white lightning and then sold the product. My brother Ronnie lived only a short time after birth.

My brother Harold named his first and only son Ronnie and that certainly brought a smile of satisfaction to my Mother’s weathered face .That smile certainly counted as a moment for Harold. My Mother always said that she wanted to go before any of her children and. except for Ronnie, she did. She died at the age of 51 from complications of Diabetes combined with a hard life.

I come from strong stock: English, Welsh, Irish and some Scottish. Some say we have Cherokee Indian in our family but I haven’t proven that yet through genealogy research. I have a strong suspicion that it is true because I have gone on the warpath a few time and I have seen some of my brothers and sisters do the same. My daddy did it quite often.
The overall factor in this eclectic mix is determination, which my dear wife, Anita, refers to as stubbornness. Be that as it may, that trait has helped me through some tough times over the years.

One of my moments was at a family reunion where my brothers and I kept passing by the dessert table again and again. Just seeing the Chapman clan and the Owen clan together was such a joy. I recall my grandfather, Edmond Chapman, sitting on the back porch of his house in his wheelchair. How proud I was to finally garner a seat on the porch close enough to my Grandfather to hear some of his stories. Of course, I had heard them many times before. What a story teller he was. His voice inflections and his vivid descriptions made me feel as if I were present in the story instead of listening to his recital. I only wish I could sit next to him again and hear those time-weathered stories again. He made me feel like I was so important when he spoke to me. A definite countable time in the sun.

I’m not leaving out the time I spent with my Grandmother, helping her weed her garden, running to the store for her or just listening to her tell about my Mother when she was a child. My Grandmother always took time to make biscuit sandwiches full of jelly for me and my cousin Eddie Dean. Eddie and I grew up together and often we would show up at Grandma’s back door. The door would creak open and a wrinkled hand would hand out two biscuits full of homemade grape jelly, without a word, but with much love.

I joined the Navy at 17 because no one would hire a 17 year old kid who hadn’t “put in his military time”. My high school friend, Henry McDevitt, and I joined under the “buddy” program which meant that we would be stationed together.

Another moment was when Henry and I ended up stationed in the desert of Arizona at Naval Air Facility Litchfield Park. That is where Henry and I met our future wives, Anita and Lupe or Guadalupe. We decided that they were our girlfriends and Anita of course took umbrage at me referring to her as my girlfriend because she had not agreed. I of course did not let such a thing deter me even as she stated that she wouldn’t marry me unless I was the last man on earth. (See my story about “My Woman, My Woman, My wife and the Last Man on Earth”). Well, to make a long story short, since she had already stolen my heart, we later married, after my time in Viet Nam. So, I guess the Last Man on Earth got his way. Ha Ha. I told you determination or “stubbornness” could be a good trait.

As the war heated up a bit, Henry and I volunteered for Viet Nam. I spent a few years in Attack Squadrons. We flew A4 low level attack bombers and another moment in the sun came when I qualified as a plane captain. How proud I was to maintain my airplane and sit in the Squadron Ready Room during mission briefs and debriefs. I recall seeing the bombs from my plane destroying bridges and ammo dumps from the observation plane’s cameras. We sometimes painted messages on the bombs for the North Vietnamese. I won’t go into graphic detail but some of the messages were X rated.

Fast forwarding, another moment was in Grand Prairie, Texas when I stood outside the glass windows and gazed at my daughter, Margaret Rose. What a joy. Margaret would lie in her bassinet and sleep and I would stand for hours watching her and of course pointing out to anyone that stopped by that that little girl was my daughter. She filled a spot in my heart and I still smile proudly when I think about her. She of course became a Daddy’s girl and I became a girl’s Daddy.

Another happy time for me was in Iceland when my son, Kyle Edward was born. I think I might have got on the nurses nerves a little as I watched the little birth announcements get tacked to the bulletin board. I would go over and look each time and verbally voiced my displeasure each time the announcement was for someone else. I persisted and finally, an exasperated nurse posted Kyle’s birth announcement. How proud I was. For a while, Daddy’s girl took a backseat as another part of my heart was occupied. Kyle and I are good friends and we share some memorable moments. I told him when he was just a wee boy that I had the Doctor put a tattoo on his butt that said: Made in Iceland.

As you can probably tell, I did not make this long story short and I have had many moments in the sun since then, but, I will save those times for another story. Such joy it is to count my blessings and think back on those moments. They sustain me.

Bubba and the Red Ants, by Carl Owen

2009-06-17T10:42:00.000-07:00

Recently I went on a trip to North Carolina for a high school reunion and to visit my family. I still have some brothers and sisters living near the place where I grew up, graduated from high school and joined the navy. You’re probably wondering about the title to this story. Well, before I get too deep into the Bubba story, I have to give a little background.

I normally stay with my sister Thelma when I visit. I certainly have an ulterior motive for this. You see my sister Thelma waits on me hand and foot and cuts my toenails and cooks good southern cooking. I average five to eight pounds of weight gain each trip. Well how sad it is that things change. I showed up and had a shock when I found that a big, old dog named Bubba had adopted my sister and she had adopted him. Well sad as it is, Bubba rules the roost at my sister’s place now. She calls him her little baby furry friend (in baby talk) and he kisses her on the cheek. It is really sickening. I was glad that I’d kept the barf bag from the airplane because watching this big ole border collie and my sister together causes you to want to vomit.

Well, to make a long story short, I had been replaced in my sister’s affections by a big ole dog named Bubba. I’m including a picture of this critter so you can see my replacement. My brother Brian was just as shocked as I was to see this big dog in her house of all things. After I told him the whole story he commented rather wryly, “face it, brother, things are going to the dogs”.

Just to give you an example, my sister made a wonderful breakfast for me and we had leftover biscuits. I put the biscuits in a plastic zip bag and intended to use them later with some good homemade jelly. Imagine my surprise when I turned around one day and saw one of the biscuits was missing. I confronted my sister and she looked me right in the eye and told me that Bubba’s friend (a neighbor dog) had dropped by and she’d fed my biscuit to the visiting dog. After another bout with the barf bag I came to the firm realization that Bubba was now the top dog.

This realization was confirmed in many ways during my visit. Just to give you a sadder example: I love grits. One day I got up and my sister asked me what I would like for breakfast. I said I would like eggs, biscuits and grits. She said, “Oh, we don’t have grits.” I said, “Oh yes we do, I saw a whole box of grits in the cupboard.”

Well you’re not going to believe this but I’ll tell it to you anyway. When I opened the cupboard, the grits were gone. I had to sit down in a chair for a moment to get over the shock and surprise. Then I asked my sister ‘what happened to the whole box of grits?’

She looked at me and, in a matter of fact tone, said ‘I fed them to the red ants.’

I had to ask for clarification and she stated that ants were getting into the rows of beans and cabbage in the garden.

Still in a state of shock, I asked her ‘why in the world did you feed my grits to red ants?’

In my mind I’d sunk as low as I could go. First my biscuits go to the dogs, and now even the lowly ants get my grits. I felt abused, distraught, misused, upset, hysterical, mistreated, maligned, discarded, broken-hearted, confused, dismayed, and at my wits end. I stumbled down to the garden in a state of disbelief. Where I saw with my own two eyes, sure enough there were my grits neatly sprinkled alongside the rows of beans and cabbage in the garden. I turned again to my sister and asked, ‘Why in the world would you feed my grits to the red ants?’ She stated that a neighbor lady had told her that to protect her garden vegetables to sprinkle grits alongside each row so the red ants would eat the grits and the grits would expand and cause the red ants to explode. Knowing that no one would believe such a story, I removed my glasses so that I could see again the waste of my grits when just at that moment a red ant exploded in my eye.

OK, so maybe there is some truth to doing away with red ants by giving them grits, I still feel left out in the cold with no biscuits and no grits and my position in the house of my sister taken over by a big ole dog. I intend to seek psychiatric help to overcome these tragic events and I will keep you all posted in a later newsletter update.

Loafing with My Sister Estelle

2009-03-01T14:38:00.000-08:00

Some of my most cherished memories are of the times I loafed with my sister Estelle. I would sometimes call her and sometimes not before my visit. I knew I would be welcomed if announced or unannounced with open arms, a big kiss and hug and a hot cup of coffee.

I would leave Washington with my guitar, a carry bag and a bottle of Tequila. You see, my sister and I enjoyed making our own Margaritas. If I called ahead, I would know that a pot of pinto beans and fried chicken would be waiting. Although, sometimes it was Costco salmon and a tossed salad and a bottle of Zinfandel.

Of course a bright spot in my visits was to visit with my Grand niece, Morgan. Morgan worshiped Estelle and Estelle worshiped Morgan and I worshiped both of them. Such great memories.

I recall one time that I didn’t announce my visit and while Estelle was busy scrambling around the kitchen making something for us to eat and snack on, Morgan and I were left alone to entertain ourselves. Now if you haven’t met Morgan, you are really missing out. What a personality. She is gorgeous, smart and also just a wee bit on the stubborn side. I’m sure her mom, Vonda Lynn is convinced that Clairol invented hair color to hide the grey because they somehow had inside information that Morgan was coming. The girl is a handful but such a joy. Well, we were in the living room and Morgan was going through one of her stubborn spells. I had my guitar out and was playing an old folk tune “She’ll Be Coming Round The Mountain”. Morgan wasn’t participating because she was acting very shy as if I were a stranger. I ignored her. Well that’s the key. When Morgan feels she is being ignored, she comes round the mountain. Soon, she was sitting beside me on the couch and asking me the words to the song.

It wasn’t long till she was bellowing out the words to the song. She especially got into it when it came to the part of killing the old red rooster. She would emphasize the word KILL very loudly. Well, Estelle stopped whatever she was doing and came to the living room doorway and was watching with astonishment as this little bundle of a girl was straining her vocal chords and singing with such abandon and joy at the prospect of KILLING the old red rooster. I wish I could go back in time and repeat that particular visit.

Now Morgan spent quite a bit of time with my sister Estelle and where we went Morgan went with us. To the coffee shop where her treat was hot chocolate and some kind of pastry while Estelle and I enjoyed our Royal Blend coffee. A stop at subway was always on the agenda where this little tyke of a girl would inhale a foot long sub sandwich. We would go to the Thrift stores in town where Estelle would look through the clothing to pick out shirts for my brother’s Edgar and Gerald. She loved to pick out bargains of brand name clothing and continually sent books and clothing to North Carolina for my brothers. I would browse the books and pick out some that both Estelle and I would enjoy. We read a lot of the same authors. Then we would drive around town to the yard sales. Now, Morgan would look through the things available, latch on to something and get all excited yelling, Mam, Mam, look at this . Look at this. I want this.

As a veteran yard sale person, I was forced to take Morgan aside and teach her how to get the best deal on whatever she had decided to get. I told her to look it over and then ask how much it was. Then to look sad and put it back down when she heard the price. Then I told her to pick out something else she did not want and take both things to the Yard Sale Boss and ask how much for both. When she heard the price, she was to look sad and put the other thing down and pull out about 17 cents. She was then to look pitiful and look at the money and look again at the item she wanted and ask the person, “Would you take 17 cents for this one alone?? After I briefed her on the procedure, I asked if she understood and if she had any questions. She said she understood perfectly. Then I watched as she ran to the yard sale table, picked up the item she wanted and yelled Mam, Mam, I want this one. I want this one. Well, eventually she caught on to my process and started making better deals. Even Estelle was impressed with her practiced bargaining skills.

I remember one time I visited Estelle when she was working at Sun River Resorts. I went to work with her. We had our coffee, came out into the garage, she unlocked her car, looked at me and said, “Get in, sit down, buckle up, and shut up.” Wow, she could be bossy at times. I always felt proud to see her finally find her keys after 10 to 15 minutes of frantic searching and she would hold up the key ring for me to see that she was using the key ring I made especially for her on my wood lathe. She loved me and I loved her.

Anyway, after a hard days work at the Resort, we went back into town and she drove to her hairdresser’s house. She handed me the keys and told me to come back in about an hour and a half to pick her up. Well, I meandered around until I found a through street to get out to the main drag of Bend and proceeded to the grocery stores to check and see if they had any of my special mustard. I roamed the pickle and mustard aisles until Store Security came back and asked if they could help me find something. I looked at my watch noticed that I had killed too much time and had to pick my sister up at the hairdresser.

I paid for the mustards and pickles and rushed out to the parking lot where I spent 11 minutes trying to find the car. Then, when I found the car, I realized that I had no idea on how to find this back street hair dresser. No street name, no address, no idea. Not a solitary idea. The only thing I could think of was that Estelle was going to eventually wring my neck. Well I knew what side of town the street was on so I drove up and down streets, back and forth, up and down and across until I covered every street and then started over. Finally, I gave up and pulled over to the curb to think. While thinking, I glanced over at the sidewalk and noticed Estelle standing there with both hands on her hips and a stern look on her face. I had stopped to rest right in front of the hairdresser’s house. She got in and asked, “What happened did you lose track of time in the pickle aisle.” She sure knew me.

We had so many nice visits and have so many treasured memories that we created together on those visits. When Estelle died, I was convinced that I could not go on with my life without my dear sister and my dear friend. I think of her several times a day and every time I have a cup of coffee I raise it to her. We drank more coffee together than the law allowed and enjoyed every cup as if it were our last. Neither of us tolerated bad coffee. What allows me to deal with her not being here is my collection of the good times we spent together. We hit the road running and made every minute count. I can close my eyes and see her love filled smile and almost feel her hug. She and I had such fun with tomfoolery and little habits. When I had to leave her to come back home, I would go into her room and leave a note on her pillow. The note always said the same thing; it was a line from a Billy Joe Royal song we both loved. The note read: “I’ll leave a note on your pillow to tell you I’m gone.” She kept every note in a little wooden box I made for her along with a few favorite pictures and some little knick-knacks. Once I forgot to leave the note and was almost through town when I remembered. I turned around and drove back to her house. She had stood in the driveway as I drove away fighting back the tears in her eyes. I didn’t want to see her cry again so I wrote a note and stuck it under the windshield wiper of her car: “I’ll leave a note on your windshield to tell you I’m gone.” I slipped away and drove home. Estelle’s favorite song was: “When Will I Be Loved”. I told her the answer was “ always”.

When she died, her daughter Sonya gave me back the notes she had saved over the years including the windshield note. They were lovingly folded and put in her wooden box that we called her possible box. Morgan asked once why we called it a possible box. I explained to her that the mountain men always kept their possibles (necessities) in a possible bag and took it with them on fur trapping missions and rendezvous’. I told her it was possible for Estelle to put anything in her possible box. Indeed she did; she kept mementos of cherished memories.

Hospitality, by Carl Owen

2009-02-05T16:51:00.000-08:00

In the “old” days we seemed to live in a kinder gentler environment. People were civil to each other even when they didn’t necessarily care for each other.

I grew up in North Carolina where hospitality is a trait handed down from generation to generation and considered extremely important. We didn’t have a who’s who list in our communities but you could dam well ask anyone about hospitality and get an earful about a certain person who shouldn’t live in the south or call themselves southerners cause they don’t even have enough sense to be hospitable. I guess you could say it was so deeply ingrained that when someone was not hospitable, it was considered almost an unforgivable act. “Of course he has killed a couple of people but you can always count on him offering you a cup of coffee or a drink of white lightning if you stop by his place”.

A sad theme in the Appalachians is the outsiders, people from other parts moving in and weakening the hospitality strain. Those dam carpetbaggers from New York and New Jersey buying up property and posting “no trespassing” signs all over the good hunting and fishing areas. People there will welcome outsiders but will take a long time to measure them up before relaxing and accepting them. Even a dam Yankee is welcomed if he has the sense to learn and practice hospitality.

I recall going on a loafing trip with my Daddy a long time ago. We stopped up at Quebec at the top of the hill where his brother Spurgeon lived. We were welcomed into the house and offered a chair to sit in. My Daddy talked to his brother a while and finally after long enough he turned to me and said, “We have to be getting the hell out of here” and promptly got up and left. His brother followed to the front yard saying stuff like come back again and see us. Daddy angrily got in his truck and was turning around even while I was trying to get in the front seat. We spun out of Spurgeon’s yard and onto highway 64 with the tires still spinning. Daddy was red in the face and sputtering things like gdam crazy ignorant fools. They don’t have enough sense to offer a man a drink of water or coffee. Dam crazy %^&*&* *&*^%$$ idiots.

Well he calmed down a little and we pulled off down the road a bit at the cold water spring where a pipe was stuck in the mountain and ice cold water spurted forth. Daddy took a coke can from under the seat and we used that to drink a couple of cans of the icy delicious mountain water. On out the road we turned down a gravel road about a mile and pulled into my Aunt Frances’s house. She came out on the porch to greet us and gave us both a big hug. She welcomed us in the house, sat us down and automatically went into the kitchen and returned with a fresh cup of coffee for us. Then she told us she had just baked an apple pie and we had to have a piece of it. My Daddy did the customary, “No thanks, we have to be going real soon. We just stopped by to say hello.” “I’ll just hurry and cut you a piece to eat with your coffee” and we had pie and coffee within 5 minutes of our visit. Now, that’s hospitality. Now we did have to look and brag at several pictures of nieces, nephews, grandbabies and so forth but that pie was really good.

Anyway, the point is that times and standards have changed. You now run across rude customer service and people who think hospitality is an outmoded thing. It is sad and people tell me that I just have to adjust and accept it. Well, maybe so, but if the South had had a little more food and ammunition during the war, we wouldn’t be putting up with this kind of crap. And that’s the truth. That’s about all I’ve got to say about that matter.

Recently both my son and my daughter made me very proud. My son, Kyle was having trouble with the Credit Union where he financed his car for a very good rate. They changed his interest rate to a much higher rate and claimed that he had never made the Credit Union the legal owner on the title. Well, he filled out several papers to fix the problem but he continued to receive delinquent charges for the higher interest rate and letters and phone calls almost every day telling him he needed to resolve the issue. He resolved it again and again but the head office in Virginia (of all places) would tell him by phone it was resolved and then send a threatening letter the next week.

He was at the point of frustration where we have all been at one time or another and cussed them out on the phone and told them to come and get the dam car if they couldn’t get their head out of their ass. Well, I suggested we go into the local office to resolve the issue and Kyle said that they told him the local office could not resolve it because the title office in Kentucky had to send a copy of the title to the Virginia Office. Well, after some persuasion, we went to the local office and we were both rather vocal. We sort of almost politely informed the office supervisor that between us we had almost 75 years of membership and that the Virginia Office had stated the local office could not do anything. We made it plain that if the local office could not intervene into a broken electronic process that we would have no further use of the Credit Union. Words were said, copies of paperwork was made, the problem was resolved.

My daughter, Margaret was recently suffering from a coworker who had appointed herself to be Margaret’s boss and caused great frustration for Margaret everyday by bossing her around and interfering with her work. Margaret takes a lot of abuse before she gets her dander up but she finally reached the point. She had tried to resolve the issue with Management and management’s solution was for her to try harder to get along with the B from hell. Well, Margaret drafted up a letter entitled “Hostile Working Environment” and gave it to Management. Suddenly, sensing some liability from allowing the B from hell to run wild and continue alienating all her coworkers they finally came up with a solution. They moved the rude broad to the back where she answers the telephone and they monitor the phone calls. Since Margaret and some other coworkers told management they would no longer put up with the situation, they reluctantly took action.

This is the sad new world we live in where you have to be prepared to battle to get resolution when no battles should be necessary if people simply did the job they are paid to do and common courtesy and “hospitality” are practiced.

You can’t wait patiently until someone comes along with a brain and takes action. You have to take the bull by the horns and swing it round and round and throw it through the head office window first to get their attention and then politely ask them to resolve the issue.

At any rate, I am very proud of my two youguns (young ones) for listening and taking Dad’s advice that I preached to them over and over and over and over through the years. YOU HAVE TO STAND UP FOR YOURSELF.

Biblical Information

2008-12-14T14:21:00.000-08:00

Protestent Catholic

Hebrew Bible Version of Old Testament Version of the Old Testament

24 Books 39 Books 39 Books*

Torah/Prophets/Writings * Plus 7 Books of Apocrypha

The Bible was not a a single book but a collection of scrolls or stacks of volumes until the 4^th century A.D. In the 16^th Century A.D. , the Bible was divided into the chapters and verses referred to today.

The Old Testament has 39 books and 929 chapters, 23,314 verses and 593,493 words.

The New Testament has 27 books, 260 chapters, 7959 verses and 181,253 words.

Shortest book-Old Testament=The Book of Obadiah The New Testment=2 John

Shortest Verse=John 11:35 “Jesus wept” Longest Verse=Ester 8:9, consisting of 90 words describing the Persian Empire.

Middle verse of the Bible (Old and New Testaments): Psalm 118:8 “It is better to take refuge in the Lord than to put confidence in man.”

Oldest verse in the Bible: fragments of “The Song of Deborah”

Newest verses: Gospel of John, dating from around 100A.D.

The name Yahweh or Lord appears in the Bible 855 times.

The name Jesus appears 700 times in the Gospels and Acts, fewer than 70 times in Epistles. The name Christ occurs 60 times in Gospels and Acts, 240 times in Epistles and Revelation.

An English translation of the Bible was produced by John Wycliff in the 14^th Century.

King James commissioned the Bible that bears his name to attempt to satisfy both Catholics and Protestants. In 1603 he appointed 54 scholars to this task. The Bible was published in 1611. A revised version was published in 1952 and revised again by the National Council of Churches in 1952. So over time the Bible has been translated and re-translated.

Christians call the first 5 books of the Bible the Pentateuch (Greek for 5 scrolls); Jews call the the Torah (or Law).

Seventh Son by Carl Owen (part three)

2008-11-27T10:46:00.000-08:00

Well, the second day was quite an awakening. I heard a lot of banging and clattering so I kinda scooted to the edge of the bed and dropped down to the floor. I put on my hand-me-down Big Ben overalls and managed to get one side much higher than the other. I adjusted the straps and now the other side was higher. After a few attempts to meet the Gentlemen’s Quarterly standard , I gave up. I looked like a hillbilly. I then went to see what was the matter. I still had a little residual hangover from raiding my Dad’s Moonshine stash.

I still couldn’t walk all that great but I managed to wobble through the house occasionally leaning against a doorway or a wall and found myself in the kitchen. I saw my Mama in one of her pretty blue- flowered flour sack aprons moving pots and pans around on the wood stove. She had these

heavy , black, cast iron pots and pans she used to cook with and the wood stove was designed where as you heated the stove you also heated water in a hot water tank enclosed on the end of the stove.

I just stood there quietly and watched as my Mama fried side pork and stirred grits into boiling water and took a pan of biscuits from the oven. Man those biscuits smelled and looked so good all lightly browned. She seemed to be doing several things at once: Putting dishes on the table, stirring the grits, turning the frying side pork, slicing tomatoes, putting silverware on the table and replenishing the wood in the wood stove.

She finally turned around and saw me and said, you are sleeping in a little late aren’t you? It’s almost 6 o’clock. Well, I didn’t hear the rooster crow said I in my defense. We ate the rooster last night for supper said my Mom. He was getting old and lazy. Around here we kill off things that get too old or too lazy. With that, I went out the back porch and into the side yard and started splitting more stove wood. I certainly did not want to be categorized with last night’s rooster.

I heard something and turned around. My mama was on the back porch trying to get my attention. She told me to go down to the spout branch and bring up a jug of milk for breakfast. I wobbled down the hill and almost fell into the water from the spout that had been carved from an Ash Tree. The water was cascading out the spout and pouring over two jugs of milk. My daddy liked to reuse things; he used gallon jugs to hold his moonshine whiskey and also milk. I wrestled a jug from under the ice cold water and lugged it up the hill to the house. I manhandled it up on the front porch, crawled up the steps and dragged the milk into the kitchen. My mama looked at me and said son, I wanted the sweet milk, and this is buttermilk. Take it back and get the sweet milk. I had no idea what sweet milk was. I was later to find out it was milk that had not been churned into buttermilk. I started to protest but as I opened my mouth I saw my Mama had a stick of stove wood in her hand so I reversed the process and wobbled back down the trail to the spout branch and exchanged the milk and delivered it back. By this time I was tired and hungry and the table was piled high with biscuits, grits, fried eggs, sliced tomatoes, side pork and a big quart jar of grape jelly.

I pulled myself up into a chair and my sister Thelma came into the kitchen and looked at me like I was crazy. She said, you better get out of Daddy’s chair before he sees you and knocks you into next week. I clumb down from the chair and up into another. Thelma shook her head from side to side and said that’s Charles’s . The next chair I climbed into was Howard’s, then Harold’s, then Thelma’s, then Estelle’s, then Edgar’s, then Mama’s, then Gerald’s. I ended up sitting on a little homemade bench at the back of the table. You see, at our house everything was run on a seniority system even though we were a non-union shop.

By the time I got situated the table was full and I was stuck where everybody kept asking me to pass things up and down the long table. Finally, I got a biscuit and pried it open with my fork, put a chunk of butter on it and managed to get a couple of fried eggs and grits on my plate. All that was left of the side pork was a gristly end that was really tough to chew with my new teeth. I looked across the table and watched my brother Charles. He was a master of food management. He cut his eggs into his grits and as the yellow yolks ran into the grits, he plopped a chunk of fresh butter in the middle of the grits and used his fork to cut up two big slices of tomatoes into the mix. I followed his lead and that’s how I learned to eat breakfast. I drank a glass of milk from my Mama’s recycled snuff glasses as I ate. Gerald finished before anyone else and Daddy told him to get the hoes ready. I was a little shocked at the language until I found out just a little later that he was referring to dirt moving instruments or tools used to hoe corn.

I was full and starting to get a little sleepy. I was thinking about a nap when my Dad looked at me and told me to go help Gerald. I went out and helped Gerald prop the hoes against the front porch. I started to go back in the house when my Daddy came out and told me to grab a hoe and get to the cornfield. At my age, I didn’t know a cornfield from a candy apple and I remembered what my Mama had told Gerald yesterday. I looked at my Daddy and said , I’m too young to hoe corn yet. I heard all my brothers and sisters take a deep breath and some covered their eyes and some covered their ears. The giant walked up to me and said in a real quite voice: You ain’t gonna get no older if you don’t get off your lazy ass and grab a hoe. You dammed sure didn’t have no trouble using that fork at the breakfast table. I quickly grabbed a hoe. My Mama didn’t raise no fools. Thelma looked at me and shook her head, that’s Charles’s, I grabbed another and you know the rest. It was kinda like the three bears story, too hot, too cold, and so forth, That’s Estelle’s, Edgar’s Gerald’s. Daddy watched this routine until he got a little perturbed and grabbed an old ratty looking hoe from the end of the stack and shoved it at me. I grabbed it and immediately got a splinter. I looked up at the giant and said, it’s too long. The giant grabbed the hoe from me, slammed it across his knee, broke it right in the middle and jerked out his big yellow handled knife from his pocket. Everybody covered their eyes including me. Everyone was waiting for my screams and backing up to avoid the blood splatter. My whole life flashed in front of me. I finally peeped through my fingers covering my eyes and saw my Daddy whittling the rough end of the hoe handle smooth. When he finished he whacked me on the butt with the hoe handle, jammed the hoe in my hand and said what the hell’s everybody standing around for. Get to the field and get started.

I fell in line behind all my brothers and sisters who were muttering about how I had escaped death. They weren’t sure if I was brave or stupid or some combination thereof. So my second day was spent hoeing corn all day in the hot hot sun. I was plumb worn out at days end. I had blisters on my hands, all my muscles ached and I was sunburned.

After a supper of venison, boiled potatoes, corn and corn bread with a big glass of buttermilk, I wobbled into the bedroom and clumb up into the bed and fell asleep right there on top of the patchwork quilt.

THE SEVENTH SON (part two), by Carl Owen

2008-10-05T14:44:00.000-07:00

The Rest of The First Day

Well, after dinner, I got real sleepy and my Grandma had settled into a rocker on the front porch with me on her shoulder. Finally, the meal of soup beans and corn bread caught up with me and I dozed off. I must have slept for a few hours because when I woke up I was in the front bedroom lying on the bed.

I rolled over and slid off the bed. As I wobbled into the living room, I could hear my Mama on the front porch talking to my Grandma. I looked out and saw them pass a jar of what I later found out was snuff back and forth. Every once in a while, they would spit into the yard a stream of brown spit. I wondered a little about that but I was feeling a little hungry after my nap, so I walked into the kitchen to see if I could find a snack. I was a little unsteady because I wasn’t used to walking. I saw a big pot of soup beans on the wood stove but I wasn’t tall enough to reach them. Finally, I saw a piece of cornbread on the table. I climbed into a chair and ate it. Then I felt thirsty. I went over to the kitchen sink but it was too high for me to get any water. I looked under the sink and saw a quart jar almost full of water. I finally got the top unscrewed and took a big drink. Wow, it wasn’t water after all. I took another big drink just to make sure and it still wasn’t water. I was later to find out it was moonshine whiskey that my Daddy made. I finished off the quart of whiskey and then I felt sleepy again so I staggered back into the bedroom and after some time was able to climb back up onto the bed. I settled into a deep slumber.

When I woke up Mama was shaking me and saying son, wake up, wake up. I opened my eyes and she looked at me and said what is wrong with your eyes, they are all red. I also had a big, big headache. She took me out on the back porch and splashed cold water on me until I was fully awake. Then we sat on the front porch and rocked for a while.

Just as it was growing dusk, I looked out the road and saw a long string of kids and a giant coming toward the house. The kids all had hoes on their shoulder and the giant brought up the rear. As they filed into the house, my brother Gerald stopped by my Mama’s rocker and said: “How come he didn’t have to hoe corn?” My Mama told him I wasn’t old enough yet. Then the giant stepped up on the porch and told my Mama. Have that boy go and chop some stove wood to cook supper with.

My Mama took me out to the side yard where some logs were piled up and we grabbed a bow saw and she and I cut off several rounds of wood. Then we split them up with a heavy axe. As Mama finished splitting the wood, I carried the smaller pieces into the kitchen and gave them to my sister Thelma who started a fire in the wood stove and started fixing supper.

Supper was fried rabbit, boiled corn and biscuits along with some sliced cucumbers, onions, and radishes. After supper, I went back into the bedroom and climbed back on the bed. Then I heard a commotion in the kitchen. The giant who later I found out was my Daddy, Fred Owen, was cussing up a storm. He was yelling at Mama about someone drinking all his likker and leaving an empty jar. I tried to keep up with the conversation, but I was too tired. I dozed off and did not wake up until the morning of the second day. I still had a headache.

Seventh Son by Carl Owen

2008-09-25T15:28:00.000-07:00

I was born a young child. No, I wasn’t a coal miner’s daughter. I was a moonshiner’s son.

It was a hot August day, the nineteenth, to be exact. The sun was about midway up its climb into the sky over the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, not too far from the Cherokee Indian reservation. The familiar blue haze was being displaced by the bright rays of the warm dog day’s sun.

To find the exact place, you would start in a well known tourist city of North Carolina. The city of Asheville and also the home of the famous Biltmore House and the Buncombe County jail as I was to find out in later years. You would take State highway 64 east and pass by the entrance to the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Cherokee Indian Reservation. About 30 miles from Asheville you would come to Brevard, North Carolina, now a popular retirement spot for out –of- towners from Florida and New York City. Brevard is also well known to artists and musicians as an up and coming sorta artsy fartsy place. A place where you can experience some of the finest musical and art events and still get to rub elbows with the natives, more commonly referred to as hillbillies.

About nine miles on up highway 64 you will find the small town of Rosman. You would stop in Rosman at the Company Store and have two famous chilly dogs and a pint of Sealtest chocolate milk for about 35 cents or so and pick up a nickel’s worth of penny candy from the display by the meat counter. Continuing up highway 64 about three miles you would come to a turnoff road proudly labeled Frozen Creek Road. Since you could only go left, you would go left unless you were my sister, Vonda Lee, who still has some difficulty telling her left from her right. Up Frozen Creek Road about a mile and before you get to Jim Dick Hill, you will see a small road leading to the left named Bothy Road. Please don’t ask me why someone named the driveway to my Daddy’s house Bothy Road. It didn’t even have a name when I was born. The first road to the left off Bothy leads directly into the yard of my Daddy, Fred Owen’s house.

So, roughly 45 miles from Ashville on Frozen Creek Road about ten o’clock in the morning on August 19, 1946, I was born in the living room of my Daddy’s house. Within 11 minutes of my birth, in a little town called Hope, Arkansas another young boy was born at home also. His name was William Jefferson Clinton. Despite sharing a birthday with this other young boy, I did not become President of The United States as he did. However I was elected a Union President twice much later. Now Union President has nothing to do with the Yankee Union Army. It’s a different thing entirely. But both Hillary and Anita can claim they slept with the President.

Well, everybody had been hanging around the house all day because my Mama had told everyone she was giving birth so she could get back to work. I remember one minute being all warm and sleepy and the next minute be held up in the air, my butt slapped, and wrapped in an old rough towel. The sun was coming through the window and I had trouble holding my eyes open. Mama, yelled at my sister Thelma to bring her a wash pan and some warm water. The next thing I knew, she was scrubbing me with a washcloth and everybody was gathering round saying, “I wanna see the baby.” I had never known such excitement. As I looked around the living room, I saw a gaggle of people who I later came to know as my family. They were talking about the new baby. I looked all over and did not see the baby they were talking about. I was still a little sleepy and also beginning to get a little hungry too.

Mama shooed everyone away and carried me out to the front porch. There was a little breeze and as she sat on the porch in the hot morning sun, I dozed off in her lap. I didn’t own any clothes then so I was still wrapped in the towel, but I was awful tired and a little confused about seeing so many people around. I must have slept for about an hour when Mama stood up and told my sister Thelma to come and hold me while she fixed something for dinner. You see, in some parts of the country folks eat dinner in the evening, but we ate supper in the evening so dinnertime was about high noon in our parts.

My sister, Thelma pulled up a wooden chair with a straw bottom and sat down in

it and Mama handed me off and went in the kitchen. Soon, she came out and brought a plate of soup beans and cornbread. Thelma held me while Mama fed me my first meal. I liked the soup beans o.k. but I found out later they make you fart. The corn bread was delicious but the onion and hot pepper seemed a little strong to me as well as a little crunchy on my new teeth.

Well, it wasn’t too long until my Grandma who lived across Frozen Creek Road heard that I had made my appearance and came to visit. I still remember looking out our drive and seeing her walking toward the house. She had her hair all tied up in a bun and had a blue flowery dress on with a white apron. She walked right up on the porch and told my sister Thelma who was holding me to let her hold the baby. When Thelma handed me over to her, I then realized that I was the baby that everyone was talking about.

2008-08-26T17:07:00.000-07:00

Contributed by the Library Police

2008-08-26T04:45:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-21T04:57:00.002-07:00

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

2008-08-21T04:57:00.001-07:00

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

2008-08-16T13:27:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-07T09:53:00.001-07:00

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.

Mike's New Job

2008-07-18T08:54:00.001-07:00

Great news. Michael finally found a job! He is really excited to be
working for Kalispell airport. Vonda and I are also excited by this
job as it comes with some great benefits. Free plane trips to wherever
for Mike, Vonda and Jean ( Mike's mother). He is in training in Salt
Lake City since Sun 7/13. He called today to say he made a 98 on his
first test. We know he studied very hard for a couple of days before
he left but was really suprised to hear he did so well. We expected a
90. Guess he's smarter than he looks, Huh? Anyway, it was really
funny. He was notified on Frid that he got the job and would be
leaving on Sun. So we all went shopping to buy Mike some nice slacks
and shirts as he was instructed to wear casual business attire. He
went wild and bought about 8 outfits including new shoes. He really
looked great in those clothes with his summer tan and pretty gray
hair.Whoo Hoo. Uh, or is it Woo Who! He said he felt like a kid again
with new school clothes. Betty and some friends came over and Mike and
modeled them again. Betty thought he looked really handsome in his new
clothes so she went out and bought him some more. Michael went to work
washing and ironing everything. He really wanted to make a good
impression on the trip. So, while Vonda and I weren't looking he went
to the beauty shop and had his hair, eyebrows and mustache died this
peachy color. Boy, did that every change his looks. Wish we had taken
a before and after picture. Nobody liked the way it looked and Michael
wished he hadn't done it. So, he went about trying to get it to wash
out. He put dawn dish soap and baking soda on his head and walked
around the house with this sudsy concoction slathered in his hair.
Nothing worked and he was thinking and thinking what he could do. Then
he came up with this bright idea that he would put some shout it out
spot remover on his hair! His reasoning was, if it gets out stains it
should get out the dye.Vonda put a quick stop to that and told him it
would might burn his hair off his head. Anyway, it was pretty funny;
can you believe that dough head?

Baffling Binder

2008-07-12T06:50:00.001-07:00

My daughter Margaret called me the other day. Well to be accurate, she
called the mother unit and I answered the cell phone since the Mother
Unit was driving. She is my chauffeur (the Mother Unit not the
Daughter Unit). Well, anyway, the daughter unit asked me to write a
newsletter story and she also asked me for my recipe for Lumpia
(pronounced Lump E Ah). Of course, the daughter unit wanted to argue
about the pronunciation too. She even states that the expression Woo
Hoo should be Woo Who. Wha…Wha…Wha… don't ask me I don't know what is
wrong with her. To find out would cost too much in Psychiatric fees.

It seems the Daughter Unit wants me to tell a story on myself instead
of her poor Aunties or the Mommie Unit. Unfortunately, I was in such
shock to hear from the daughter unit that I agreed. I checked with
several lawyers and they state that I made a verbal contract so….

Here Goes:

I used to work for Social Security as a customer service agent. I once
had a call from Sis when she worked for the Welfare Department in S.C.
I answered the phone and gave my name and Sis (I didn't recognize her
voice over the phone) said, "Who the Hell did you say you were?" I
said, "I said my name was Carl Owen, Who the Hell is asking?"
Well one of the rules is that you can't help family members. I
explained this to the Sister Unit and she wanted to argue about it so
I checked with the supervisor and was told since she was calling for
someone else that I could talk with her. Since the little nut case did
not have the person with her, I couldn't help her but it sure was
strange to get a call from a member of my family when there are
thousands of agents throughout the U.S. and thousands of calls coming
in every day. Figure the odds.

When I first went to work for Social Security they paid me to take 6
weeks of classroom training. Well, I had two instructors and there was
about 25 people in the class. One of the instructors was a black man
and the other was a blond woman. The black man's name was Al Blackman
(I'm not kidding here folks this is the honest truth). The blond
lady's name was and still is, by the way, Kathleen Watness. I put up
with Al Blackman but I absolutely loved Kathleen. Kathleen would be
giving a lecture on a boring subject (they were all boring subjects)
and she would lose her train of thought and look at me and say, "What
was I talking about?" I would reply, "Don't know Kathleen, you put me
to sleep again. She was and is a funny lady. She asked me to teach
her how to tell a joke. I put a lot of effort in her preparation,
memory and delivery. She is still a work in progress. She finally got
to where she could tell a short joke with the proper delivery, but she
would just lose it on a long joke. Anyway, I was the answer man in
class because I took lots of notes and made study notes for my
classmates. I finished the class in first place with the best grade.
O.K. Marg, yes, I've been stalling. So, here goes…..

Each of us in class was given a multi binder unit that held several
volumes of procedural laws, rules and regulations on everything under
the sun regarding the many social security programs. Periodically, the
instructors would give us changes to insert in the binders. No sooner
would we update the binders with changes than they would come out with
tons and tons of changes to the changes and changes to the changed
changes. Eventually, the procedures volumes weighed about 83 and 7/9
pounds (Marg, note the odd number). There was this friend of mine in
class, an Irish girl named Erin. Well, Erin would bring me popcorn,
snacks and coffee for helping her with her study notes and frequently
she would shake me awake during a boring lecture. Anyway, Erin and I
sat right next to each other so we got to know each other and I liked
her and she liked me. We would even pass notes back and forth, like
"Look at Charley, he is asleep" " I don't know he might have died
since we were being taught death benefits." Often Al Blackman or
Kathleen would say, Carl and Erin, do you want to share with the
class? And, we would cool it for a while. Erin always managed to make
me laugh and was probably one of the main reasons other than lots of
coffee that I was able to survive the long boring lectures. O.K Marg
cool your jets, I'm getting to the story. I might have rambled a
little off track.

The binder unit holding all the procedures was about 43 inches long
and the individual sections like retirement, disability, widow's
benefits, Medicare and so forth were held with removable three ring
metal clasps that had to be dismantled each time a change was made.
One day we were filing stacks and stacks of changes and Kathleen was
lecturing while we were making changes. I finished my changes and
glanced over at Erin who had the most puzzled expression on her face.
I asked her what was wrong and she said that when she slid the changed
procedures back in the binder unit that all the changes were upside
down. I laughed and told her to just stand on her head when she needed
to study that section. I could see that she was frustrated and did not
appreciate my helpful advice. I told her to slide the manual out of
the binder holder, take the papers out of the metal three ring and
turn the papers completely around and then put them in the binder
holder right side up. I went back to my nap. Suddenly, Erin nudged me
with her elbow. Since I was holding my head up with my arm, my head
hit the desk and everyone turned around at the loud thump. I then
looked over at Erin and she was almost crying. She had taken the
manual apart and turned the papers completely around but she had also
turned the three ring unit around so when she got it all put back
together it was upside down again.

Well, this was hilariously funny and I felt a loud uncontrollable
laugh coming on…but I didn't want to hurt Erin's feelings by laughing
out loud at her and I didn't want to disrupt the class and Kathleen's
boring lecture so I did the only thing I could do. I held my breath to
hold in the laugh and hurriedly got to my feet and made for the
classroom door. My plan was to somehow make it outside the classroom
and have about a ten minute loud laugh and then come back in. I hoped
everyone would just think I was making a bathroom trip. So, I held the
laugh in by holding my breath and rushed for the door.

I jerked the door open and lurched into the hallway. I put my hand up
against the wall and let my breath out. When I did, I found myself
totally without oxygen and I unceremoniously slid down the wall onto
the hallway floor, which thankfully was carpeted. I was having a hell
of a time getting air into my lungs so I thrashed around on the
hallway floor like a beached whale having an epileptic fit gasping for
air and making strange sounds like gahh , arguh and ahhhh. Sort of a
cross between Japanese, German and Spanish.

This is a funny story isn't it? Well the story ain't done yet.
Kathleen saw me rush for the door and thought I was sick so she ran
out after me. When she saw me on the floor, she got this worried
scrunched up look and yelled Carl, are you O.K? I of course, not
having any oxygen, I could not answer her. This is funny, huh. You
might even think it was a bit embarrassing too. Well, that would be an
understatement because as I slowly regained a little air in my lungs I
looked around the hallway and there was Al Blackman with the head of
the Agency and a bunch of visiting dignitaries from Baltimore Maryland
the great Social Security Headquarters staff bearing down on me. As I
looked toward the classroom all twenty –five of my classmates had
followed Kathleen out into the hallway.

So, between the classmates gawking, the VIPs and Al Blackman heading
for me and Kathleen kneeling in the hallway saying, Carl, Carl, Carl,
are you O.K.? I was just a tad embarrassed.

About this time here comes Blackman with a foldable wheelchair.
Someone was saying "I know CPR and all the dignitaries wanted to call
an ambulance. I wanted to disappear.

I was hoisted off the floor into the collapsible wheelchair which
almost collapsed again. I was surrounded by a crowd as big as goes to
a famous rock concert and everyone was talking at once. Erin joined
Kathleen and handed me a paper cup of water which I spilled half on
myself and was able to drink some. I stopped them from calling an
ambulance and told them I was O.K. I did have a carpet burn on my knee
from my spill on the carpet and for a while I suffered an overdose of
attention. Thankfully, it was almost days end so when they let me get
out of the wheelchair I slunk quickly out the back exit, around the
building to my car and raced home. Yeah, they still talk about me over
there. Erin forgave me for telling what had happened and you
know…..Life goes on.

Sara Leaving

2008-06-20T16:28:00.001-07:00

Well, Sara has been gone since Wednesday. Michael drove her and Allison down to Harrisburg to stay with her grandmother. Sara will be attending Shippensburg this fall. The room that Sara was using is now filled with Beckie's boyfriend from Michigan. He is here for two weeks. I will post pictures as soon as I get them saved to my computer. :o) BTW, the jello-pretzel salad was from my mom. Enjoy!

Jello-Pretzel Salad

2008-06-20T14:10:00.001-07:00

Jello-Pretzel Salad

2 cups crushed pretzels

3 T sugar

¾ cup melted butter

8oz pkg. cream cheese

1 cup sugar

8oz cool whip

1 Lg pkg. strawberry jello

2 cups boiling water

1 16oz bag frozen strawberries or raspberries

Cook first 3 ingredients on stovetop for 3 minutes. Place in 9x13 pan, bake 6 minutes @ 400^°. Cool completely. Mix next 3 ingredients and spread over top of pretzel crust. Dissolve jello in 2 cups boiling water. Add frozen berries and pour onto cream cheese/cool whip spread. Let it set. Enjoy!

Purpose of this Blogspot

2008-06-17T04:39:00.000-07:00

Hi everybody!
The reason that this blog spot was set up is to keep in touch with family and friends. I would love to make it as easy as possible for you to participate so if you have any suggestions, please feel free to e-mail me at margmystr@gmail.com. If you would like to be notified when there is a new post to the blog, I can set you up for that. Some ideas on what to put in the blog are: stories, recipes, pictures, jokes etc... You are also able to comment on other people's posts. Have fun and let's stay in touch.

Marg

June 15, 2008

2008-06-15T14:35:00.000-07:00

This is the start of the Owen Newsletter. Anybody that would like to share a story with the family, please let me know, and I will post it for everyone to read. :oD