“The heart has reasons that reason cannot know.”
– Blaise Pascal

Trespasses.

Well, I did it again.  I try not to.  I mean, I know it is wrong.  The whole trespassing thing…..  again….. I don’t SET OUT to do it.  It just evolves.

I try to hold my trespassing indiscretions to just a few times a year, because I sure don’t like it when people trespass against me.  I mean, Howard be thy Name!!!…… I try to forgive them too….  and I hope with all hope that my trespasses are forgiven as I forgave those who trespassed against me…..   you know the drill.  But when St. Francis tells you to talk to the hand, and his hand is missing…..well…..let’s just say it doesn’t bode well for the whole karma deal.

So here’s how it went.  I have been trying to shoot at this Catholic Cemetery all week.  But each time I walk ALL THE WAY UP THERE, the darn thing is locked up tight as a drum.  Today was no different.  The church is on a pretty busy street…. so there’s no climbing over the big iron gates there for God and everyone to see.  However, today, I noticed a back wall, that looked like it might have promise… and I knew a fairly quiet parking lot abutted.  AND THAT is when the Mission Impossible Theme Song starts playing over and over again in my head.  In a few moments, I was IN.  I really only scaled one small wall, and accessed a gate that “technically” wasn’t locked, but could be considered “secured”.  It all happened in a frenzied blur…. with Peter Graves’ face flashing in front of me.

I had the whole cemetery to myself. (Creepy.)  I shot like crazy……… but quickly.  And then exited.

While stealing through the aforementioned gate, I was met by a huge dark gray cat.  Not black, but dark gray.  Just sitting there, staring me down with it’s big green eyes.  I got the serious heebiest of the jeebies EVER.  I picked up my pace through the parsonage, and it was there I met St. Frank.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry….”  and he just coldly gave me the missing hand.

I got home, and found that my camera settings were down about 5 stops.  Most of the digital data was too dark to use.  Except for St. Francis here.

It scared the living daylights out of me……  I broke out in a cold sweat…..  I…..  …..uh………uh…… I guess I have to go back tomorrow……  (This message will self-destruct in 5 seconds.)

This is the Post Office.  It is right up the street from me.  It isn’t the only one around here… but one of them.  It relates to today’s snidbit… mainly because I lack a better venue tonight.

On this Day in 1792, on the 20th day of February…… President George Washington signed an act creating the U.S. Post Office.  It was a Monday.  Now, here is how it came about. Washington’s birthday was just around the corner.  Two days away.  He wanted BIRTHDAY CARDS!  So good old George canoodled this grand scheme of a thing called the Post Office… yes…… where people could take letters and correspondence….. and envelopes filled with cash inside cards that said Happy Birthday Georgie-Boy.

The Colonials could walk their dusty shoebuckles right in to a building and deposit this envelope, with an address or a name scribed on the front, the government would charge them a small pittance, and that letter would be taken to the intended recipient.  Magic.  Presto Chango.  There it goes.  And better yet, to prove the fee has been paid for such a delivery, there would be a thing called stamps…..mmmm hmmmmm…….. with President’s faces on them.

That George W.  was a thinker I’ll tell you.  A real thinker.  He had this one all tied up, neat & tidy, with twine.  But wait!  There’s more!  Oh yes, wait just a little minute Mr. Postman.  You guessed it.  One of George’s very closest cronies was Benny “The Kite” Franklin.  Guess who the first Postmaster General was……  Mr. Electricity…..  you got it.  Oh yes, send me a letter…..

I’ve been thinking this for a long time now.  Our country as we once knew it, is on the way out.  I’m not sure how it is going to end up…….. or down.  But things aren’t looking good….I am certain of that.

I mean, what the heck.  Anarchy in Wisconsin?   WISCONSIN?  America’s DairyLand?  Let’s just hope they keep it peaceful, and don’t stab or cut any cheese up there.

And now this…. ……..I am NOT jerking your chain here.  There is a 77 year-old Mennonite man in Ohio, who has been labeled the “Amish Madoff”.  Seriously.  This comes about, after the Securities and Exchange Commission accused him of losing $15 million of his neighbors’ money in a duplicitous investment scheme reminiscent of the notorious Madoff.

His name, of all things, is Monroe Beachy.  From Sugarcreek, Ohio.  Beachy is said to have collected $33 million from as many as 2,600 investors, many of them Amish, over 30 years.

Oh, there were warning signs, and those Amish-like friends & family just didn’t pick up on ’em.  Like, he started wearing colored socks and wearing his big black brimmed hat backwards.   He also wanted the other Mennonites to call him Beachy-Daddy.   He bought a white stretch-buggy.   His wife began suspecting trouble when Monroe would sometimes stay in bed until after 4:30 AM.

NBC’s Tom Brokaw tried to get him to comment on camera this evening, and Beachy replied “Talk to the hand, ’cause the beard ain’t listening.”

America is dying.

I am a bit of a worrier.  A Nervous Nelly.  Fretting Fanny…..fusspot…. worrywart….  chowder head.  In short, I taught Chicken Little the whole deal about the sky.   I come from a long, long line of worriers.  My Mom is a worrier.  About everything.  I think my Dad might worry every now and again.  He used to say things like “Safety is no accident.”  and “Save your money and buy good whiskey.”  The latter doesn’t have much to do with worries, but he really did say that quite a bit.

My great-great-grandfather Peter Wourms was a worrier.  He worried about the crops, the chickens, the weather, the horses, and numerous other things.  He constantly fretted over whether or not he was pronouncing words correctly, like “Dalmatian” and “Lederhosen”  (He was a German Immigrant so the Lederhosen thing should have been cool.  But one time he said it at Fengold’s Grocery, on a Tuesday morning,  and a woman slapped him in the face.”)

Now here’s the deal.  As mentioned, I can certainly worry, from time to time.  Not as much as I used to…. but I DO worry.  Like today I was chugging through town and looked down at me feet.  Low and behold, I see this.  Charles Fenaoui’s name tag.  I think to myself……“Oh.  I sure do hope nothing has happened to Mr. Fenaoui……..  Holy smokes.  I wonder if he is all right.  I mean… ……..his “Hello. My Name Is” badge is just laying there…..in the street, for crying out loud.  Oh gosh.  I hope he didn’t get kidnapped, or abducted by aliens, or anything like that.  Oh Polly calm down.  The dude is fine……… BUT what if he ISN’T?” And on and on it goes.  “Okay, even if Chuck is okay, how the hell is anyone going to know who he is?  He lost his gall-dang name badge.”

I Googled him.  Hard to spell a guy with every stinking vowel in his last name…. which is suspicious I might add.  I found Charles M Fenaoui on Facebook, but he only has 34 friends….  many of which don’t seem like they would be real people.  I’m smelling trouble again, I’ll tell you…. trouble.  “What if he got hit by a horse carriage and has lost his memory?  He only has 34 Facebook friends, many of which are made up & none of which will be looking for him.   And he’s lost his name tag!  His wallet is probably gone too.  Oh this is bad….. this is very, very grim.  Someone should have told him that safety is no accident…..  what if he was hopped up on good whiskey?……..”

Cat.
(Cat occasionally glances at human with look of utter disdain.)

Human feeds Cat.
Cat Eats.
Cat Poops.
Human scoops poop.

Repeat.

Dog.

Where in Tarnation do you begin?

In these parts, as in most, there are a lot of old places with a lot of old history.  Nooks and crannies to be discovered, I think.  It is like the Final Frontier in reverse.  You have to dig and explore, and more often than not, just get lucky.

The other day we bumped into a neighbor on the street.  He introduced us to a neighbor and then from there another neighbor.  The third guy we met is somewhat of a historian.  His real name is Julian but everybody calls him Vic.  He is one interesting guy.  Smart guy.  Vic the Brilliant, I like to call him.

At any rate, he referred to our house as “The Pirate House”…. which is something we’d never heard before.  We followed him back to his library  where he pulled out several books with references to the “pirate” who owned our house.  He then told us about the paintings and log books they found in our attic before we bought the house.  One of the paintings was a Manet.  Yes, Edouard Manet.  Seems that painting sold for quite a bit to a private bidder in New York.  Smart Vic walked us outside where we then bumped into another guy, with the Gibbes Museum.  He confirmed the story.  (I felt like I was in some Nicholas Cage movie, or something….)

It appears this is not a gasconade.  Yet, I am planning to do more research of my own.  It is a snappy good time for me.  Exploring the Final Frontier, one dusty attic at a time.

Sick as a dog, today.  Sick as a dog.

It is true.  Matilda longed to be near Hubert.  She wished he would take her in his arms and kiss her…. yes…. kiss her….passionately…. long and hard on the lips.

But Herbert had his mind on farming.  There was dirt to be dug, and turnips, parsnips, and rutabaga to harvest.  You see…. he had his parsnip bucket, and that was that.

Matilda’s desires would go unrequited.  It would be another cold and lonely night on the root vegetable farm.

I hope your true love will turnip for Valentine’s Day.

and remember:

“Laugh as much as you breathe and love as long as you live.”

Busy, busy weekend.  We walked a lot.  Miles and miles.  There are many things so incredibly great about walking everywhere, but perhaps, the very best of it….. is what you get to see while you are in pedestrian-mode.  For instance, some things we saw:  lots of crazy-good dogs, including two little Westy puppies; numerous hot dogs stands… all purporting to sell the city’s best wieners; a guy with ducky-pants on (and he was old enough to know better); a Where-In-The-World’s-Waldo Guinness Book of World Record Contest… gone terribly bad; lots of grave markers; and on and on.

But perhaps the most interesting, or thought-provoking sight of the weekend:  We think we saw a hooker.  What were the identifiers?!  She was on the arm of a man at least twice her age; she was dressed a lot like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman (but she rrrrreeeeeeealllllllllllly should NOT have been dressed like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman);  she had that teased-up-kind-of-hair; and a boat-load of bad makeup.  Everything was WAY TOO tight.   We thinks, we thinks, we thinks… she was a hooker. But who is to say for sure….and we went back and forth on the topic.

Now here’s the thing… it hit me, right there in the middle street…. that I probably have never in my life…… & WILL NEVER in my life….. be mistaken for a hooker.  At least to the best of my knowledge.  It made me laugh and laugh…. just the thought of someone secretly pointing at me, and finding question in my “walking of the streets”……  …….mmmmm…..  ……. street SWEEPER, maybe.  But not the hook.

(To the morning readers:  Happy Valentine’s Day. I hope you find love in all the right places.)