02 MAY 14

A Tale Of Two Drum Sets . . .

Back when I first wanted to begin drumming again,
I had a problem . . . I no longer knew what was
quality in the drum world. Back when I'd begun
playing it was a given that the ONLY drums to play
were Ludwig, Gretsch, Slingerland, Rogers.
The ONLY cymbals to use were Zildjian.
All else was considered to be crap.
(With the exception of the British-made Premiers.)
(This would be 1960.)
Today, there is a plethora of fine drum companies
crafting fine instruments. The old stalwarts have,
mostly, fallen into disrepute. It seems that they
have all been sold off and their names used to
market "beginner-level" drums.
(Again, with an exception, Gretsch.)
Any way . . .
I was looking to buy a quality set.
I'd found a Rogers Drum group on the web.
Following their advice, I purchased the
set depicted in Picture #1. 
It was offered at a reasonable price on e-Bay.
When it arrived, I was dismayed to realize
that the wrap had been badly applied, was a Ludwig
style and would have to be changed.
Put them aside and went shopping again.
Found a black-wrapped Rogers Holiday set that I could
afford. Bought them. The black are fine drums . . . but
had always wanted a WMP set. Finally sent my original
purchase to a drum restoration company (Precision Drum)
and had them refurbished. While all this was going on,
my one granddaughter, Grace, had been learning to play,
was a member of her school band and her 13th birthday
was approaching. When the refurbished drums came back,
I made the decision to give them to her as a birthday
present. That's what is shown in Picture #2.
She spent two days with me, putting the pieces back together.

Now, as for Grandad . . .

I've used the black-wrapped Holiday set for several years now.
They are great drums. Used to mate them up with a COB Rogers
Powertone snare. Today I play with a Western Swing band,
"Western Roundup." We have a standing gig at a local restaurant,
in a small room. I play, what I call, an abbreviated set.
(That would be Picture #3) It's the black Holiday 20" bass
drum, paired with a cut-down Rogers Pageant wooden parade
snare. I play with brushes and mallets. Keeps the volume down.

Western Roundup

-Fini

05 MAR 14

Being a fan . . .

I'm a fan of singer/songwriter Janis Ian.
I think her album, "Between The Lines" is sublime.
On her facebook page I found a posted photo from
about that time period. Of course, I Photoshopped it.

-Fini

16 FEB 14 (MILSPEC)

001.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/11/09-nov-13.html


D01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/08-apr-13.html


V01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/08/14-aug-11-2.html

V02.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/07/21-apr-11.html

V03.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/12/13-dec-11.html

V04.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/01/16-jan-13.html

V05.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/01/19-jan-13_19.html

V06.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/03-apr-13.html

V07.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/10/22-oct-11.html

V08.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/03-apr-13.html

V09.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/05/lest-we-forget.html

V10.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/05-apr-13.html

V11.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/01/20-jan-13-2.html

V12.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/03/29-mar-12.html

V13.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2014/02/13-feb-14.html


J01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/01/28-jan-13.html

J02.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/10/28-oct-11.html


B01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/16-apr-13-2.html

B02.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/07/25-jul-11.html


M01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/07/15-sep-09.html

M02.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/04-apr-13_4.html

M03.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/01/13-jan-12.html

M04.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/05/22-may-12.html

M05.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/07/23-jul-11.html

M06.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/12/30-dec-11.html

M07.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/03/18-mar-12.html

M08.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/04/21-apr-12.html

M09.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/06/29-jun-12.html

M10.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/06/24-jun-13.html

M11.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/08/20-aug-11.html

M12.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/08/23-aug-12.html

M13.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2012/09/07-sep-12.html


N01.) http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2013/04/16-apr-13.html






-Fini

13 FEB 14

ASA War Story -
1967
8th Radio Research Field Station,
Phu Bai, Thua Thien Province, Vietnam (Republic of)
Late summer:
Had been there a short while . . . perhaps 2 months. Was beginning to feel confined. We weren't allowed off the combat base. A ration convoy was being put together. I volunteered . . . wanted off post, badly. We had to be fully armed, but nobody said with what. I decided to forego taking the -14 and borrowed a .45 pistol from a machine-gunner friend. (Note: I had no idea how to operate said pistol. How fucking stupid was I??) We rolled out the main gate early one morning and turned north, towards the city of Hue. After traveling for about 30 minutes the truck I was riding in began back-firing and jerking and then stopped. The convoy kept going, per SOP, and we three found ourselves stuck on Highway 1, in an area away from any villages or U.S. forces. Me, armed with a pistol that I'd never even held before and two other nervous ASA'ers armed with their M-14s and 80 rounds each. After an eternity of time, along came the maintenance trail. They fiddled with our engine and after a time we were rolling again. We wended our way through paddys, villages and farm country until we reached the shore of a large body of brackish water. On the shore was a small village and our trucks were all parked there, on the beach. Out on the water, about a quarter mile,  was a US Navy self-propelled reefer barge. A "Mike Boat" (landing craft) was ferrying the trucks, one at a time, out to the barge, where they were loaded then returned to shore.

Since my truck was now last in line, I had a goodly bit of time to explore. I wandered through the village, taking in all the strangeness and tranquility and poverty. A little girl caught my eye. My guess is that she was about 10 - 12 years old. She waved me over, then offered me a slice of watermelon. It was a brutal hot day. I accepted. I was struck near dumb. Here was this child who had nothing, offering me something . . . for nothing . . . out of compassion. The melon went down smooth. Tried to talk with her but she spoke no English and I was mono-linguistic. I was then called over and ordered to go out with the next Mike Boat to facilitate the transfer of foodstuff. It was getting late. Once aboard the barge we labored long and hard, shifting crates of vegetables (To include a deck cargo of heat-rotted potatoes that the navy insisted we take because they were ours and "sorry, there was no room in the cooler for them, and we know we're three weeks overdue but regs are regs . . . and there's a fuckin' war going on!") The hardest part was moving the frozen meats up from out of the freezer compartment. I stood on a crate and passed each piece up, through the open hatch, to someone there, waiting for it. This went on for about three-quarters of an hour. It would have been a good workout for a weight lifter in a gym. I was whipped afterwards. Went up on deck and lit a cigarette. Local kids, in round caracle boats, had swarmed the barge and were yelling (begging) to the GIs on board. Somebody had opened a crate of oranges and had begun tossing them into the water to watch the kids fight over the fruit. Some of the fights were downright vicious. Guys were taking bets on which kid would get to the orange first. I found this to be repugnant behavior on the part of well-fed Americans.

Soon, the transfer of foodstuff was complete. We formed convoy on the beach and prepared to drive off. I was, once again, in the back of a truck. This one happened to have a couple crates of oranges on board. As we passed through the village, I spied the little girl who'd offered me the melon slice. I waved at her, then heaved a crate of oranges out towards her and yelled "Thanks." She waved back . . . that's the last I saw of her.

I've remembered that little girl through the intervening years. Wondered if she survived, grew up, got married, raised a family.
I dearly hope so . . . hope her life was peaceful and uncomplicated.


-Fini

29 JAN 14

Random thoughts:
Having a pet while growing up leads to fond memories that can be revisited as we age. My family kept a dog and two cats (Plus, for a short time, two parakeets). Our house sported an enclosed front porch which connected to the living room via a door with multiple glass panes. (15, I think, in rows of three.) Someone accidentally kicked out the bottom left pane. My dad was slow to replace it. Over time, all three pets began using the, now-empty, space as a portal to the front porch. This gave our dog, Copper, access to the mail slot and allowed him to vent his distrust for the mailman and protect us from whatever it was that was being pushed through that little hole in the front door. Lost a bunch of government-issue refund checks to the dog's vigilence. (Do Not Fold, Spindle Or Mutilate) The front door, itself, was one large pane of glass and the cats used to enjoy sitting there and watching the outside world pass by . . . especially in winter.

Anyway, all three became used to passing through that open space on the door. Finally, my dad replaced the glass pane. (Am thinking it was over a year after it was broken.) On a day . . . both cats were feeling restless. They began wrestling and racing through the house. The older cat, a Siamese named Kismit, charged straight for the front porch . . . and ran, BANG!, right into the new glass pane. She sat, stunned, shaking her head. She, then, found a place on an easy chair and settled down to ponder life for awhile. I laughed. Kismit had always been a clown cat and was forever entertaining to live with. I told my dad what I'd seen. He immediately thought of the dog . . . said that a 25 pound dog was a whole lot different than a 7 pound cat. Told me to get a bar of soap and to mark up the new pane of glass so that Copper could see that it was no longer a passageway. Took about four weeks before they all stopped trying to pass through that space onto the front porch.

There are other memories . . .
one, in particular, of the younger cat, Teddy Bear, and a 34 pound
Thanksgiving turkey that was left, overnight, on the cold front porch
because there was no room in the fridge for it.
Stories for another day.

                                          The two cat culprits, Teddy Bear and Kismit

My mother and I, with our dog, Copper, and the two ill-fated parakeets

-Fini

22 NOV 13

One day in Dallas . . .

Got to remembering today.

I'm 67 years old.
Now nearer to the end than to the beginning of all things "Me."
Been thinking about politics and presidents.

Had these thoughts on things presidential:

The first president I can remember is Eisenhower.
I liked him because he reminded me of my grandfather.
I was 10.

Then came Kennedy . . . 
He became a sorta teen-idol figure.
I loved his look and sense of style.
Plus, he drove PT Boats in the war.
Cool.

Lyndon Johnson . . .
I alternately hated or pitied him.
Hated his micro-management of the war in Vietnam.
Pitied his obvious pain at the American troop losses
that ensued.

Nixon . . .
Couldn't get a read on him.
He wasn't called, "Tricky Dick" for naught.
(Although I did write a college paper in 1974, defending
him, for a Political Science class I took via USAFI.)

Gerald Ford . . .
A caretaker ...
a nice guy who was just "there."

Carter . . . 
An embarrassment to all of us ex-patriots living in Berlin.
Thought his handling of the Iranian Hostage Crisis abysmal.

Ronald Reagan . . . 
Loved how he rebuilt the military to counter Soviet threats.
(But then, I'm a bit biased on the subject.)
Don't really know how his "Trickle Down" theory of economics
worked ... whether it did what he claimed or not. All I know
is that the country seemed to thrive, economically.

George the First . . .
A solid bureaucrat.
Well versed in the world of international derring do.
Plus, he was another WWII vet, one who'd flown combat
missions and had once been shot down.

Clinton . . .
A flim-flam man who made good.
The first president of my own generation
and he managed to avoid military service
by staying in college. (At least he was smart.)

George the Second . . .
A good man, trying hard
but not always getting it right.
Another one who avoided service in Vietnam
but at least he flew jets for the Air Guard.
(And how many thousands of my fellow citizens
joined the Guard for the exact same reason?)

Barack Obama . . .
An empty suit, not near as smart as
he thinks himself to be.
Still ... duly elected ... twice!

As for 2016 ...
dunno for sure.
It could very well be Clinton v Christie.

All I know for sure is that after 67 of my years,
The Republic still stands.

Being career military ... both in and out of uniform,
I learned to keep my presidential political thoughts to myself.

(Plus, I once worked with a soldier who's last prior duty station had been
the White House. Part of his duties required him to sweep the briefing
room for bugs prior to the president's morning briefing. At the front
of the room was a large flip-chart, with a black cover stenciled with
"PRESIDENT'S EYES ONLY." On his last duty day, he peeked under the
cover at the top briefing sheet. He told us that after reading what the
man has to deal with before breakfast, daily, he'd never criticize another
sitting president again.)

I've always tried to emulate him in that.

-Fini

09 NOV 13

Veterans Day Approaches . . .

Played around in Photoshop and came up with this
for a holiday facebook Timeline Cover photo:

Touched up another photo from Vietnam also:

-Fini

06 NOV 13

Words . . .
We communicate with words.
The written word may have a lasting impression because of it's very nature but the spoken word, too, has a very strong impact ...
especially when delivered by a master orator.
Witness this video: "Remember How We Forgot"

                                        Poet, Shane Koyczan and Violinist, Hannah Epperson

 

 

 

-Fini

 

 

 

 

 

 

01 NOV 13

A War Story ...

8th RRFS, Phu Bai, RVN
In 1967, we acquired a new room mate,
one Al Gray. He was from Alaska ... more
to the point, he was from the Aleutian Island
of Unalaska, a crabbing center. His father
worked in a cannery there and began sending
cases of premium crab meat to Al every month.
What to do? Make crab salad of course!

Al wrote and asked his father to include jars of mayo
with the crab ... soon, we were making up batches of
crab salad. Bread! We needed bread. Not just any
bread but a sub-sandwich type of bread.
In my travels to and from the airport, I'd spied a local
kiosk that sold bake goods.
I visited there ... became, immediately, entranced by the
kiosk owner ... a beautiful French/Vietnamese woman
named Mai (?). She was older than me by 20 years
but still jaw-dropping beautiful (Think Nancy Kwan).
She spoke four or five languages, English being one, and was
happy for the business. I made an arrangement to buy a dozen
baguettes of bread from her once a month.

Once a month, we'd have a crab salad party in the room and invite
anybody who'd supply the beer. My boss, CWO Slusser, attended
a couple of times. As for Mai ... I had a big crush on her and we had
many a chat together. She told me that she was married to a French
soldier and was waiting for him to return and take her back to France.

Came Tet '68.
Lost track of most all of our LN's for about a month or so.
Was restricted to the confines of the 8th for the same amount of time.
Our LN's began drifting back ... telling tales of terror and death in the
surrounding villages. A mass grave, containing 3000 bodies, was
uncovered on the outskirts of Hue City.

Finally, local kiosks began reopening.
Business slowly began returning to normal.
Mai's kiosk remained closed. She never reappeared.
I heard rumors ... stories told by the locals, that she was executed for
being too friendly with the Americans.
Could never confirm this.
Have always felt guilt at the thought that our friendship may have been
a cause of her death.

-Fini

22 SEP 13

A PCS Story
"... and miles to go"

July 1971, returning from Japan ...
I was met at Travis AFB by friend, and former 14th Field Station comrade, ex-33B Bob Broner, who lived in Oakland. He'd ETS'd about three months earlier. We'd planned this meet-up because I had to get to the Oakland Army Terminal to pick up the Pontiac I'd shipped home. Bob had offered a room for the night and to drive me down to the terminal. We passed the night and picked up the car the next day. I departed almost immediately after, intent on making Reno by nightfall. Arrived in Reno and found a motel ... ate, showered, slept. Next morning I went looking for a bank. I'd converted all my cash to an  American Express Bank cashier's check and now needed to cash it in to pay for the road trip home to New Jersey. (Think it was for $400)
             
               My 1968 Pontiac LeMans, bought from my trick chief at the 14th, Milt Chambers

Visited several banks and not one would cash my check unless I had an account with them. What to do? Walking down a street, I'd passed an army recruiting office. I went in and introduced myself, explaining my problem. After showing copies of my orders, a recruiter volunteered to take me to his bank and vouch for me. This done, I thanked him and with money in my pocket was soon on my way. ( Had gotten a parking ticket for letting the meter run out. The car still bore the plates issued in Japan. They were valid for 30 days after return to CONUS. The Parking Officer had tried to copy the Japanese glyph from my license plate that identified Fukuoka Prefecture ... to no avail. He then just wrote, "Foreign" in the ID space. The ticket itself was in the form of an envelope and the instructions informed me to place two dollars in the envelope, seal it, then drop it in any mailbox. I was tempted to ignore it all but then figured that two bucks wouldn't break me ... and I was still a long way from home. No sense in pissing off the municipality.)

Interstate 80 East ... leaving town, began passing a long line of hitchers, most of whom held signs telling where they wanted to go. At the very end of the line was a pair of guys holding a sign that read simply, "East Coast."  I stopped for them. Figured I could use the company. They presented a Yin/Yang in physical appearance ... one clean shaven with blond hair that was cut in the military style, the other was bearded and wore his dark hair long, down to his shoulders. They were bound for Massachusetts. I offered them a ride as far as the Jersey Turnpike. They accepted. They related their stories ... the blond fellow was just a young guy bored with college, bumming around the country. The dark-haired one was ex-army, a Vietnam vet who was "just looking" too. Before clearing town, we stopped at a diner to grab some chow. They would not serve the Vietnam vet because he looked like one of those "God Damned hippy types." We left. Found a small grocery and bought bread, peanut butter and jelly. That's what we ate for most of the rest of the trip.

Entered Utah ... and the Bonneville Salt Flats. The highway divided, with the west-bound lanes now about a quarter mile off to the left. Had been driving for hours by this time. The two-lane blacktop, with bright white salt on both sides of the roadway, began putting me to sleep with the monotony of the white center line coming towards me. Pulled into a rest area. PB&J for dinner. My two passengers pulled sleeping bags from their backpacks and stretched out on the ground. I crawled into the back seat and fell immediately asleep. An early start the next day. Approaching Salt Lake City, the car began to bumpbumpbump. Stopped and checked it out. Was my rear tires. The tread had begun to separate from the tire body. (I'm guessing from the heat.) Found a Sears-Roebuck. Bought 4 new radial tires ... cost me $200.

Continued East.

Now began a very long stretch of the trip. The pull of home was strong. Pushed the car hard ... 90 mph or better. That Slant-Six engine was humming! (This was long before 55 was the law.) Across  Wyoming, then Nebraska ... through Omaha and Des Moines ... places I'd only read about in geography books. Late afternoon and the blonde fellow reckoned that we might be able to spend the night with a cousin who lived in Rock Island, Illinois. We cut south on I-280, crossed the Mississippi and entered Rock Island from the south. Found the cousin's house. We knocked and were warmly welcomed, told to go and clean up while the family would throw together a meal for supper.



-To be continued

20 SEP 13

Meanwhile,
back at the Property Book Office ...


 I arrived at FSB in March 1973.
 Since my TS clearance hadn't yet been re-approved,
 I was put to work at the Site 3 Property Book Office.
 There was a warrant officer as OIC (can't remember
 his name), an E-6 NCOIC (can't remember his name
 either) and two enlisted warehousemen/drivers.
 I do remember their names ...
 Ray Pike and Paul Cole.
 On a summer day that year, with nothing much going on,
 we three decided to paint parking lines on the asphalt in front
 of the loading dock. This was to make it easier to back a truck
 into the space in front of the loading doors. We also marked out
 reserved parking spots for the OIC and NCOIC, loading spots
 for the two trucks and an X-striped no-parking area.
 I posted this picture because those yellow paint lines can
 still be seen here ... some 40 years later.
 Cool.
 (On a slow Friday afternoon, we'd wash the trucks and then
 soak up some sun, sitting in folding chairs to the right of the
 loading door while we awaited the end of the duty week.
 There was no overhang back then and the late afternoon sun
 shone directly onto the loading dock.)
 (Photo shamelessly borrowed from Thomas Kemnitz).

Things remembered ... Ray Pike was memorable for driving from
Berlin to Spain (and maybe Morocco) and back in a bright red Mini-Cooper.
(This was back when they were tiny little cars with 12" wheels.)

I remember, also, when Paul Cole acted as the roadie for my band, "Transom," when we played our one and only downtown gig at Club Sloopy ... October 1973.

               Transom, on stage at Club Sloopy. (Paul Cole, seated lower left.)       

Link to a recording of "Transom" performing at the Berlin Funkaustellung - September,1973:
               https://soundcloud.com/snuffyny/rat-in-a-maze

-Fini

11 SEP 13

SOMBER ...

A day to remember
A day to reflect

What I wrote two years ago:
http://jmawelsh.blogspot.com/2011/09/11-sep-11.html

My perceptions haven't changed.


-Fini

30 AUG 13

Idle hands ...

Been ailing ...
digestive problems.

Spent today at home napping off and on.

Began perusing facebook and found an
interesting B&W photo of Janis Joplin.

Liked the composition, the naturalness of her pose.
Decided to tweak it some, using Photoshop.
Here's the final product:

-Fini

22 AUG 13

Confronting ...

Came upon this posting on facebook today:

Applaud her courage ...
but am in absolute awe of her great good luck.
The flake with the AK could, just as easily,
have pulled the trigger on her.
It would have been,"Goodbye, Antoinette. RIP."

Am not saying that she was wrong.
She used the only weapon at her disposal,
Psychology
... and it worked!





-Fini

03 AUG 13

Musicians ...

Some I've gigged with, while others I'm only acquainted with.
All are talented.

These are the portraits I've managed to produce
via Photoshop and other graphic manipulation software:
(Click on picture to enlarge.)


                                    Bill McCasland - Bass

                                  Dwight Immel - Drums

                                       Ed Heinzinger - Drums

Gus Weiland - Guitar

Jack Souligny - Drums

Missy Alexander -Singer/Songwriter

Rich Smith - Bass

Tom Taylor - Drums

Joe Welsh - Drums

Bill Petkanas - Guitar/Pedal Steel

Rob LaSalle - Bass 

Naomi Kennedy - Vocalist

Joe Vasaturo (Joey Vee) - Singer/Songwriter

Cosmo Policriti - Tenor Sax

Chris Ellis - Singer/Songwriter

Chuck Cundari - Guitar/Vocals

Rusty Beckett - Drums

Nancy Janutolo - Drums

Felicia Michael & Bob Brophy - The Blue Yodels

Ebylee Davis - Blues Singer

 Jo-Ann Jodi Morrison - Trombone  (RIP)

Jamie Ratzken - Sax

Tom Impola - Guitar

Tom Higgens - Guitar

Gregory Monacelli - Guitar/Vocals

John Ciulla - Drums

Al Burgasser & Susanna Marker - Lumos

Dov Dixler - Keyboard

Shane Bordeau - Bass

Kim Lanier - Drums

Andrew Gauzza - Drums

Mike Smith - Flute/Keys

-Fini

24 JUN 13

Kindred Spirits ...

Though our conflicts were separated by nearly 40 years time,
we were comrades in arms . . .
both of us holding the 98C MOS designation.

-Fini

22 JUN 13

TV

My television lied to me ...
that is, while I was growing up in the '60s.
And ... I'm sure it lies to me today too.
What got me thinking was an episode
of "The Rifleman" I just watched on ME-TV.
In it, the bad guy (Lee Van Cleef) rides
into town and takes up residence in the
town saloon.
He's there to kill the marshal
but he wants to spook him first.
His character spends two days and nights
sitting in the saloon drinking whiskey and
staring at the marshal's office.
That's a big lie!
Two days of ingesting nothing but whiskey
would addle the brain and make any kind
of a confrontation a sure failure.
He'd be stumbling-down drunk.
This was typical for depicting tough-guy drinking
habits back in the day.
Fooled all us kids growing up into thinking that
TV actions were how real life was.


-Fini

PS:  Never had seen Lee Van Cleef as a blonde before.
Liked him better with dark hair.

Another lie told ... If this character, who's come to kill the
marshal, just got out of prison ... where did he get the money
to buy two pistols, a rifle, a saddle, tack, a horse ...
and then have money left over to buy whiskey.
All those things cost a big bit of change back then. 

28 MAY 13

A Feminine Hand ...

Came upon this posting on facebook.
It's an elegy to a fallen air force officer,
a woman.
A nice piece of writing ...
definitely a feminine hand.
                     ________________

GROW
And whose hands first painted
this pool blue,
before a walled camp sprouted stacks
of metal shipping-container barracks
among the porches and grape vines
of Kabul's well-to-do,
And who imagined here
was where you would feed the
oblivious goldfish one
final time
with a smile as you walked past
flak-vested,
calm.

And is this the very same bottle of add zest
Heinz 57 sauce
you seasoned your grilled chicken with
under this sudden-colored umbrella,
and where now are the leaves 
that floated in the pool then,
having lived their short lives
to fall from the branches and dance
with the suds and shadows till
they were scooped out to curl
into the forgottenness of feeding
other growing things,
pulling them to life from the soil where
their delicate veins became running trails
for the ants until disintegration?

Your going was less gentle than theirs -
but who knows
what the seed of your gift
will grow?

For Roslyn Schulte (1984-2009)

(This was posted by one Farzana Marie on facebook.
Don't know if she was the author.) 

                                R.I.P. Lieutenant Schulte


-Fini

27 MAY 13

Memorial Day Again ...

An Unknown Soldier
 Back when I was a boy, a favorite game to play
 was "Army." We'd all gather our personal armory
 of cap guns and "dirt bombs," then we'd toss
 a coin to see which side we'd be on ...
 Heads - Allies, Tails - Axis.
 Everyone wanted to be an Ally ... cause the Axis
 not only lost the real war but were evil personified.
 (The "real war," being WWII.)
 We wore whatever bits of child uniforms that were sold
 in the toy stores ... cheap cotton replicas of pistol belts,
 pouches, packs ... plastic helmets. We'd even go so far
 as burning cork to use to blacken our faces ...
 just as the commandos in the movies did.
 One day, when I was 11 or 12, my Dad took me with him to
 Philadelphia on a Saturday afternoon. Walking to a business
 appointment, we passed an Amy/Navy Surplus store. The first
 I'd ever seen. After the appointment we stopped in the store.
 I was amazed! Never had I seen such an abundance of military
 uniforms and hardware. Dad wandered around while I was focused
 on the helmet liner bin. My thinking was that if I could get
 my hands on a real U.S. Army helmet liner (They just looked so
 keen!) I'd never have to be a German or a Jap again. I mean,
 the helmet liner looked just like the distinctive American
 helmet. No way could I ever be forced to play at being the
 enemy again. My father came up behind me just as I picked out
 a liner with two holes punched through it ... front to rear.
 I held it out to him and said, "Hey Dad, look at this. Somebody
 got shot in the head, neat! He took the liner from me, stared
 at it for a moment, then placed it on a shelf high up, out of
 the way. His face wore a mask of sadness ... almost grim.
 He picked out an undamaged helmet liner, took my arm and we went
 to the register to pay. It took me a good many years to figure
 out why he reacted the way he did that afternoon. Now I know.
 Enjoy the holiday but ...
 don't forget the reason for it.

Welcome Home All

-Fini

19 APR 13

Quotes ...

On a very early morning, sitting in my kitchen ... yawning, yet wide awake.
Thought to record some of my favorite quotes from years past.

1.)   "The opposite of resonance is amplification.
A choir is the unified expression of voices
resonating with each other; a loudspeaker
is the amplification of a single voice, excluding
all others. A bell resonates, a cannon amplifies.
We listen to the bell, we are silenced by the
cannon."
(James P. Carse - from Finite and Infinite Games)


2.) 

                                 _____________________________ 


Beginning at 0300:
The other side of the day ...
Of a sudden, the Boston bombers have been identified,
confronted and violence has ensued.
The pair are brothers. One is 26, the other 19.
They came here from the Chechnya region of Russia.
They've been in the country for the past 12 years.
They are Muslim. 
They seemed to have fit right in to their neighborhood.
As of right now, the older brother is dead, a police officer
is dead, a police officer is in the hospital, the younger brother 
is on the run and being hunted by most of the police in New England.