“Selma Alabama, 1965’ a Turning Point”

 

            I was speaking with my father Jerome Ernst, who had witnessed first hand the “Confrontation in Selma Alabama” during the height of the civil rights movement. His passion of his experience in Selma and the pride that he felt of being there and, furthermore a player at a pivotal moment in the civil rights struggle is evident as he begins telling me quotes from a Catholic magazine the Extension for which he wrote and received a journalism award. He reads the words of the people he interviewed allowing for the emotion of the interview to spill out in his voice. I’ve been kicking my self for not having a tape recorder going, for I was hearing a part of history.  Even after 40 years the excitement of that day still poured forth in the telling of the event.

            I asked him to send me the article which he did as well as letters he received. These caught my eye and I became engrossed in the mind set of that day. Out of thirteen letters three of these using quotes like “Why doesn’t he take his band of imposters to Moscow” accuses Dr. King of being a communist and have links to communist organizers. One even goes so far as to state that the civil rights movement is controlled by the communists. The major two issues that are discussed besides civil rights, lay with discrediting Dr. King and his supporters by tying him to communist activity, and the other revolves around the actions of priests, nuns, and/or the directives handed down by the “brass” of the Catholic church. Over half of the responses speak on the remarkable actions of priests and nuns marching side by side with Afro-American’s and the considered radical King and his supporters. My father explained how even within the Catholic Church there was argument and conflicting orders and opinion about what was happening. Archbishop Toolen, who had Selma as his local responsibility, gave strict orders that none of his parishes would march. Dad laughed at the memory and explained how priests and nuns followed his directive about not marching; instead they organized or filled other positions that were vital to the operation. Archbishop Lucey of San Antionio gave praises to the marching nuns, on the other hand Cardinal Cushing who hailed from Boston, supported the march and issues, yet not the actions of the nuns joining in the marching and putting themselves in the way of harm. Stating that “nuns stay in the class room where they belong. I found on curios letter from a nun who speaks about Sister Mary Peter marching. I find her words powerful yet, for me confusing for I cannot tell whether she commends the actions of her sister or condemns them.  I do feel from her short two sentences that she is a woman who recognizes suffering and feels a spiritual calling to alleviate the pain of those who need help. The biggest squawk that compels a verbal response reflects the underlying unrest of a moral Christian community place in a struggle that is at fruition. The fact that a major established institution as the Catholic Church began its involvement in a social issue that was tearing at the moral conscience of America was a social milestone.

Thus began the first involvement of Northern White churches and their congregations in the civil rights “battle” movement. I say “battle” for things had become violent and bloody. Truth that some people don’t want to hear is that an un-seen player in the civil rights actions was white people were on the front lines. As we look back from the social conscious of today; we are incensed and confused by the voice and picture that they represent, that lay in the south. Even as we see these people were Christians and active in their Catholic Parish, their fear and resistance to change was a shadow of the social unrest that lay ever present in the South of the 60s.

THOR

Christmas morning in the Ernst house is.... The Eye of Thor Chp. Sixty Days without Rain

 The Eye of Thor
 Chp. "Sixty Days without Rain"

 

            Christmas morning in the Ernst house is always full of joy and measured excitement. The presents are bought with thoughtfulness, love, and wrapped with all the joy that the holidays can muster. Socks, toys, video games, sweaters, underwear, pants, Christmas cards lining the string, laughs, jewelry, joyous thanks followed by hugs all around with wrapping paper carefully folded for next year stacked up by Sherlynn with her hand resting softly on top, my father always acting surprised to the tenth degree and still more so when a gift hits home, are some of the usual scenes in the Ernst family Christmas. I watched with a quiet reserve for this Christmas in the way of gifts was more for my little brothers and sisters than for I. The gift I was given in an envelope a hundred dollars to give me a start. I’m not complaining; I just missed the personal touch. Sherlynn always made crepes with strawberries melted butter with powdered sugar or her baked custard with raisins and cinnamon, and Dad still had occasion to make his spicy sausages in the cast iron pan.

            After breakfast Dad loaded me into the “landlord sedan” and took me to 8 Philadelphia. He explained that he was selling the house and only had one tenant left an Afro-American family living on the first floor. We made our way up stairs to the second floor. Dad with a thirteen inch television and I carrying my bags, and moved into one of the rooms vacated, yet holding a bed. I scrounged up furniture from around the house and made myself at home the best I could. Dad said “I’ll see you tomorrow. You can use the truck to look for work” and was gone. Anticlimactic is the word.

            I decided to go and visit Wayne an old friend the next day. I called Wayne and we made arrangements to get together and play some "Seven". We met at his house and then rode over to a field by Sligo Creek parkway. The snow still covered the ground and it had an icy cover which added to the slickness of the two inches of snow. The game Seven requires agility, throwing skill, and speed. I was always the fastest of the group who played, but it was 2001 and had been a while since I had played a serious game. Wayne was always a serious player. I had my work cut out in the icy cold. The field was a long rectangle with a baseball diamond at my end extra tricky running ground for a sprinter. The all too familiar pine trees watching and the park names still on brown log posts of a sort with lettering.  We both could launch a Frisbee for over 200 feet and add that tricky spin that could put a fly on the end of a throw; there bye, confusing our opponent. Wayne’s first throw was a high lofted floater which I had to run towards him to catch. I sent back a missile driving him to the right. I caught him unaware and his feet sped to catch traction, and by the time his hand was in place for the catch it wasn’t ready for the impact. I scored one zip. He would not fall for that again. His next shot was a sort of payback and sent me sprinting for the baseball diamond over my shoulder. I was off at full speed sending ice and snow flying from my feet as I caught a mental line for catching the throw that was just about to pass me. My arm snapped into the air to snag the Frisbee as it passed me. I got it at the same split second my feet hit the dirt on the baseball diamond, braking. Bad timing; for I had to make a choice hold the Frisbee or windmill my arms to stay upright; I chose the latter. The score was now one to one. The throwing became conservative for a few tosses while we tested each other for we had not played for years. Again the throwing turned competitive and we pulled out our best throws; long sloping high angled flyers, drifting shots that increased with speed as they fell, drives that crested just as they reached their target, and after a half an hour the score was six to six. Wayne has a way of spinning his throw so hard it begins a long curve that reacts almost like a boomerang, and I hesitated reading the throw a little longer than I should. I took off to run down a long throw that was curving against the trees; my feet beat the ground as fast as I could get them to go without slipping, and I jumped reaching out to snag the throw. My cold hands were to slow to contract fully and the Frisbee snagged my thumb and bounced off my fingers dancing across the back of my hand and out of reach. I reached seven and Wayne won.

We loaded back into the Camry and headed back to the house. I asked about Bracken, his brothers and sisters and his mom. He told me how his step kids Summer and Kyle had good jobs. Wayne’s life was full now and us spending the time we used to when I was just an adolescent had passed. We stopped at his house and he made assurances that we would spend some more time together, but things had changed. Life in Takoma Park in the place I called home was not the same time had passed on without me over the last five years. I would begin to see how much over the next couple of months as I began to find farther and farther from my heart.

New Year’s Day came and Dad didn’t want me over for dinner. I was pretty bummed until the neighbors below me asked me for dinner. I had not spent much time with Afro-Americans in my life, so my coming to dinner with them meant more to me than just a meal, and I would learn more than watching them on T.V.  The lady of the house was of slim build with oval face toned in deep chocolate with bright eyes lined with worry and smiles. A blue bandana covered her head. Her daughter was a bouncy young lady of fourteen with a lighter complexion than her mom and her hair in pig tails. The man of the house was about forty five years old, dark complexion with distinguishing gentle eyes and a hint of snow over his ears. We all sat around a small chipped linoleum covered particle wood table with brass painted legs in the downstairs kitchen. We all bowed our heads for a moment of prayer. I quietly thanked God for a place to be. I waited patiently for the family to gather their plates and began loading mine. The mother told me to get a little of everything, and she made special attention to the greens and black-eyed peas. “The greens count for dollars and the peas for coins.”

“Really” I relied.

She in turn said, “This is a traditional meal all our peoples eat. It is for a financial blessing for the new year.” I found while sitting there I mused about the origin of a tradition hewed out of a history of a people who forever were struggling and praying for the future of their own. I began to imagine if I had been raised by an Afro-American family in Washington D.C. during the turbulent years of the 70s. I imagined living in a state of insecurity over shadowed by the hope of a people. The way I feel now in Oregon I guess matches it, but then I could only get a wisp of understanding. I came from a family of security where merits built upon each other over the years never lending to a place of poverty. Afro-Americans have lived as a people in a state of poverty in comparison against the white majority, but what they were enriched with could not be bought or sold it was hope and faith. In this they were rich beyond measure. I would guess you would have to be to under go the struggles and pains that plague a community that was the American scapegoat for over a century. The height of the racial dogma truly lay in the 1800’s when the Afro-American race was supposed to be inferior to whites, and lay across the beliefs of a community that wished to believe in their divine elitism. What I saw over this dinner with a working class Afro-American family reminded me of the true strength of a people, a willingness to recognize suffering and a way of life that defeated this suffering by rising above it. My dinner with them became a gift beating down my own blues and what would soon be evident as my homesickness for Oregon.  

I would go to the house for dinners for a couple of days now and then until Dad asked me to not come over unless I called first. He told me I needed to be working on getting a job full time. I had been but my father always thought I wasn’t doing enough. It had been just short of a week of me being home and doubts of my abilities were already in play. I told my Dad I would have a job by Saturday. He replied, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He was forever the skeptic when I came to me. I began my scout for jobs in the rich downtown section of Bethesda Maryland bordering Potomac Maryland were the houses were priced well over a million dollars. I stopped at every establishment that looked promising; dropping my resume’ off and making my case describing my skills in the field of culinary arts. It was closing on the end of the week and I had not received a call back yet. I took off Friday because this was a bad day in restaurants to apply; for, the house was very busy and spent its energy devoted to the service of its guests. I was out at it early Saturday which I consider the best day to get hired in restaurants. The managers were sitting back enjoying the slow day and had a good Friday night which left them sitting on their financial laurels for the week. I stopped at Rock Bottom Brewery’s and then went by La Miche’ a southern French styled establishment. I went it and spoke to Chef Bernard who had been the Chef a La Miche’s for twenty five years. He passed on me having no local experience for five years. I was outside the door when Jeri ran out to call me back. She was the dinning room manager and after just a few questions one of which was “Do you know how to wait on tables?” I was hired as a waiter. I started Monday at six. I went outside and whooped after walking for a half a block as to keep my quiet professional reserve visually intact until out of sight of my new restaurant. I called home and asked if I could come for dinner. Dad said okay.

I showed just before six as dinner was served at six thirty as it had been for years. I parked the truck out front and made my way into the house to offer Sherlynn help with dinner. She said no but Dad was outside raking leaves and needed help.   I went out grabbed and a rake and went down in the yard to help Pops. We started to make piles around the huge yard. I began talking to Dad about this concept Peace-Up and what it was really about. I tried to impart the concept of strength and community brotherhood that could solidify a people toward creating better lives for those around them. My father always dubious of what he considered one of my half baked ideas that I forever was coming up with. After awhile dinner was called and we went into eat.

Conversation was about classes or what new and exciting extracurricular activity the kids were involved in. I just listened for a while with interjections like, “Pass the salt” or “Can I have some more potatoes?” I then piped up with, “I had been looking over the menu and was really impressed by the fare at La Miche’. I should be able to make some good money on tips.”

My Dad comes back with a reply, “Well don’t count your chickens before they hatch.”

“O yeah I reply. I got a job. I told you I’d have a job by Saturday” The whole table erupts with praise and a “Well that’s great.” from my father.

I began to fall into a routine working at night and then began doing work for my father during the day when the weather started getting better. The winter was unusually mild that year and sunny days in the 50s surrounded the Washington D.C. area. I had some heavy work to do and needed to hire some young men to help with falling a tree, splitting, and moving the wood to my parents’ house and other lawn care actions that required back strength. I was at the store and a young fellow impressed me with the respect he showed me at the store over some random street ethics situation. I asked him if he wanted a job and he replied yes and his friend was interested as well. We introduced ourselves and walked around the corner to my house on 8 Philadelphia were I told them to meet me there the next morning at nine in clothes that could get dirty and ready to do some work. Mike and Maurice showed the next morning, and we piled into the Chevy and went to work. Dad had bought himself a real chainsaw a Mcculloch with a 28 inch bar which made tackling the tree fun. I had a sixty foot ladder and climbed up to the top and then into an 85foot Tulip Poplar tree climbing a few more feet, tied the chain saw in and began my first cut. A limb about a foot diameter was just over the one I was standing on and had to come off before I could top the tree. I had the boys sling a rope over the branch and told them to be ready to pull when I yelled down. The chain saw ripped to life after one pull and I dug into the limb. The limb was about 40 percent of half the weight of the top of the tree so I knew the tree itself would give a big kickback when the limb went and I should have a go hold before it went. I made it part way through on a wedge slant and began my second cut. I had reached about halfway when I heard the first moan of the tree. I yelled down, “Get ready…’ I made a little more of a cut and heard a crack. I pulled the chainsaw up, grabbed the tree with one arm and bellowed, “Now.” CRACK the wood gave way and the limb went hurtling to the ground in a big crash. The tree shuddered and swayed a little not as much as I had anticipated. Next was the top. I climbed back down the ladder to retrieve the rope. I climb back to a position above the last some 70 plus feet in the air tying in the rope to the top of the tree. I made my way back down to a lower branch and aimed a deep wedge cut into the wood that aimed the top away from my perch. On the second cut I gave room for a drop to lessen the force against the tree when the top fell on my next cut. I made the boys keep tension on the line while I made my last cut. The tree moaned and shuddered like it was waking from a long giant sleep. I continued to cut and crack the whole tree gave a shake. “Now” I yelled when the stresses got too much and with a huge boom the top snapped right through the drop cut and toppled over as the boys almost turned and ran with the rope in their hands pulling the branch as far from the tree as possible. I hung on. The tree swayed and shook at the same time doing its best in protesting by attempting to shake me off like a squirrel on a branch. I held on. As quickly as the violent ride started it stopped. I continued to hug the coarse bark for a while then I lowered down the chain saw and made my way to the ladder climbing down. I reached the bottom and they both came over looking at me with their eyes kind of wide but with a mischievous look hidden behind like a youth gets when he has blown something up with a fire cracker. I looked back and said I’m going to stay on the ground for a little while. They both chuckled.

I saw bucked up the rest into discs, and we began splitting the wood. I had a nice disc with a little ledge at the back making a perfect wall to place a log on a nice flat surface without it falling down. I left this to Mike who had a pretty good swing and tackled the discs with Maurice stacking the truck. Anybody who saw me with a ten pound sledge would say, “That’s why they call you Thor.” The way I swing a sledge hammer is by using not only my whole body but also the momentum of the steel. I send the hammer on a swing behind my right shoulder allowing it momentum to pull my arms up over my head and then I snag the handle causing a sling shot reverse adding gravity to the equation pulling down with my whole body until the head of the sledge impacts with the wedge. If I have done it well my feet leave the ground by a few inches. In doing this I can blow through a full round with just two sets of the wedge.

 We would finish for the day and I would pay them in cash, then we would be off to 8 Philadelphia to hang for a while. I would be eating dinner from my favorite Chinese and cheese steak house “Pete’s” which was on Maple Avenue when I grew up and then moved to Langley Plaza and smoke a bowl of weed. I got my hands on an old Sega Genesis system and all three Road Rash games. The boys would hook up their cell phones with their ear pieces and began doing their thing. That’s the way “G’s” ran back in the day while taking turns on the game with me.

cont...
THOR

HARD CORE! MOB RULES! Inmates & Christmas by THOR

My seat was waiting for me, front of the T.V tonight we were watching Elf. It was 2004 and it was a week before Christmas. I was up front, well me a few guys were running Camp by then, 81 had rolled thunder, and as THOR out of respect the brothers always had a seat for me waiting. The movie came on and we were all laughing when you were supposed to and having a good time of it. Movies always at 8 were cool after long days in the brush of Oregon working in rain, muck mud, working to clear forest area's to stop forest fires, fire roads stream habitat, national parks, local parks, we got the job done. Forest Work Crew day after day 6 days a week the trucks pulled out and we worked, and a good movie at the end was a great way to unwind, stay cool. It was near the end of the movie, when the little girl started singing, "You better watch out." I chimed my voice up letting it roll powerfully into the room in time with the music a Christmas classic "You better watch out" Another voice joined in taking the next line. "Better not cry!" a bunch of tough guys.. "Better not pout" chimed in from another corner of the big dark room. Then a few voices with mine took the next line, "I'm telling you why." It is one thing when just a voice or a few sings along, but then something happened. Every single man in that room sang the next line.. "SANTA CLAUSE IS COMING TO TOWN!" We all keep singing louder and louder, other men came in the room, blue clad, with lettering, all began singing lining the walls watching at first with funny looks then catching the bug joined in. Finally a few Sheriffs on duty at The Lane County Forest Work Camp walked in in wonder and amazement as 50 Inmates in JAIL sang a children's Christmas Carol at the top of our voices, smiles, leaning and swaying with the music, Santa Clause IS COMING TO TOWN.... Christmas in Jail. THOR

“More than one way to Skin a Cat” Horror is sublime, a whistle... THOR

Cats! God, I hate those little claw sporting meowing cretins of the night, and this old bitty had at least a half dozen. I was standing on my porch watching my new neighbor unload a car full of the nasty little devils. I didn’t know how, but I was going to have to go to drastic measures to stop this infestation of hairballs from hell, even if it came to murder.

            “Ding Dong” the bell echoed in the house. I stood outside the door with my house warming gift held in front of me like a tribute to an alter. The door opened-but only an inch or so, yet enough for one enlarged blue eye to spy who the invader to her territory was. I said, “Hello, I’m your neighbor” in my brightest cheery voice. The door didn’t move. Neither did the eye. I lifted my baked apple cobbler, hoping against hope that the shrew liked apples and positioned it before the sole eye.

            “What do you want?” She screeched.

            “God damb old bitty” I thought. I smiled very sheepishly replying. “I brought you a house warming gift.” That eye stared at me and then at the apple cobbler, and then back at me. The door closed. I herd the chain slide and unlock; then the door opened.

             “Come in.” She said and I was escorted into the foyer. The stench of cat piss and old crow was over whelming. Dear God, here they come. Cats of every size and color were everywhere in the room. They were meowing in their little demon voices, and the din was amazing and sickening, yet I must endure if I was to have my plans come to fruition. “Do you like cats?” She asked in here most hopeful voice.

            “I do. I do” I replied lying while grinning teeth first. “Did you know that cats were once worshiped as Gods?” I asked. She nodded vigorously. “I believe they never forgot it.” Her laugh almost made me jump, for it started with a scream like tires on cement and then went into rhythmic hiccups, and then back to a scream.

            We entered into the drawling room and sat on the davenport. I could feel my skin crawl and my hands got sweaty just knowing multiple cats had surely shared the same space I now resided in. We chatted about this and that for a while and shared ice tea with way too much sugar. It made my teeth cringe and my stomach roll. After my second cup I asked to use the restroom. She showed me the way passing through the foyer and down the hall. There hanging on the wall was the object of this neighborly excursion, her house keys. On the way back from using the restroom, I quietly lifted the keys from the hook. I pulled from my pocket a small tin which I had full of clay. I pressed the key into the pliable clay on both sides creating an imprint of the front door key. I could here the old woman talking to her hairy minions in a motherly voice. “What a sicko” I mumbled. I was about to replace a set when a thought occurred, “The chain”, so I made a copy of the backdoor key before quietly hanging the keys back on the wall. I quickly returned to the drawling room so as not to raise her suspicions. We spoke for a short while longer before I returned to my home. I had insisted we have dinner later that week and remarked that tuna casserole was one of my favorite dishes, so our date was set. I knew that wrinkled old bitch would have plenty of tuna with those flea bitten purring imps being her only companions.

            Now I had to choose how I was going to dispatch my new neighbor. Outright murder would just not do. A home invasion robbery coupled with a murder would be too suspicious, and require too much interaction and messiness. Not that messiness bothered me, but with today’s forensics cleanliness counted in the world of murder. I found that an accident or seemingly natural causes would be the most efficient rousing the least trouble. Eureka! Botulism, is the most toxic substance known to man and can be found in canned food, for it grows in an anaerobic environment. I being an unregistered psychopath had its merits, for I had numerous forms of dispatching unwanted pests hidden in my secret place which I created to hold my shall we say laboratory of unsightly, dangerous, and deadly items. Poisons, toxins, and other forms of vile chemicals were held in my make shift anarchists work shop. In a small locked refrigerator were the pure forms of everyday house hold toxins created by harvesting cultures and distilling them to remove the toxins and impurities. I placed on a set of rubber gloves and a gas mask opening the door to thee fridge. A small blue glass bottle in the door held the toxin “Botulina Intervosa” in a pure form. The small bottle of two ounces carried enough of the deadly toxin to kill outright twenty men. I wondered if I should give her the whole thing. The cats with no food for a week would eat off her dead carcass and die from the poison as well. An evil snicker escaped me as I cradled the death juice in my hand. I took of the cap and using a syringe pulled twenty C.C.s. Ten I squirted on a petri dish which I had a couple of teaspoons of tuna fish and a growing medium already seeded with botulism a few days before. The rest I kept in the syringe as a fail safe.

            Friday night finally came after an unusually sultry and hot week. A summer was approaching and already the air hung like a sweaty whore in heat. The stench from the tail sprouting urine and spray bags was permeating my space slowly and surely like mold on bread. I put on my double breasted black sport coat over a dark blue oxford shirt that had a sharply tied bow tie wrapped around my neck. My pants were black, my shoes were black, and so was my belt, yet I wore red socks. I always wore red when I was to make a kill. The red I wore was never completely evident though still there like my madness unseen yet sharp and with a taste and color like blood.

            “Ding Dong” the bell echoed eerily through the house. Again the door opened just a crack revealing that single enlarged blue eye. This time it was ringed with a garish green eye liner. Below that was a lipstick so red it would make a whore pull cash. This time there was no delay, and I was quickly admitted to the feline sanctum. The smell of the wharf was in the air eluding to our dinner  of tuna casserole. The mangy beasts were working into a furious fever with the scent of their favorite meal in the air. Everywhere hisses and subdued growls sprang up as the seemingly rabid animals jostled for dominance. My hands began to shake. The only way for me to stop it was to imagine a half starved pack of pit-bulls with a cat fetish let loose upon them shredding the fur from their terrified flesh and wrecking the house in the frenzied abandon of their kill. Slowly my attack subsided; replaced by a calm serenity which brought a glowing smile to my face. The nursing home slut reject mistook my demeanor and said. “Aren’t they just the cutest things you ever saw?”

            “Yes” I replied. Rip…Tear…Snarl… Then I chuckled.

At this she beamed. She truly had found a kindred spirit. She gave me a wily look and spouted “Dinner will be right out” as she headed for the kitchen. The table was set in grand southern fashion a light with cornbread, salad, that sickly sweet ice tea, and a garish bottle of Chianti that had already been opened. She pulled out her best china ironically for this dinner affair. She returned from the kitchen carrying  a casserole dish topped with all things French fried onions, and place it in the center of the table. We bowed our heads. I’m sure we did not say the same prayer. We passed the salad, cornbread, and butter back and forth in proper southern fashion. The sweat was dropping off her chin on to her turquoise dress adding to the garish splotch that resided there giving a dark backdrop to the foe pearls that swung from her flabby neck. She dug the serving spoon in to the casserole with the fervor of a mother serving her starving son and lay a mountain on my plate. At this I felt a wave erupt from the feral felines. In my mind I was drop kicking them into walls  and through windows. We talked, drank, and ate. I was biding my time until the desired moment arrived. I did my best to remain cheery and of good company so my now drunken sputtering spinster would continue to imbibe and let all her guards down. “When would this woman ever piss? She must have a bladder of steel that stored things under pressure.” I mussed with patience.

            Finally with a hiccup, wink, and a silent belch that traveled through here nose she pushed back her chair excusing her self to the restroom in the hall. By this time I had to go as well, yet I decided to complete my task, and there was no way I was going to miss the show that was about to unfold. I decided to make a two front attack on her which was strategic for military and murder standards. The first was to place the ten C.C.s of botulism toxin in her wine. The other was to poison the tuna casserole while first taking a large enough second helping so there was no room for thirds. I then pulled out a baby jar which contained the tuna I so carefully and meticulously had contaminated with a live culture of botulism and then baked of course. I added this to the casserole carefully. I placed the jar with lid on in a plastic zip lock bag and sat down to await this most joyous moment.

            My timing was perfect. The freshly powdered wrinkled hag teetered back in the dinning room and plopped her self back in her chair. Her head lulled to one side for a moment. Then she seemed to brighten looked at me and open mouth belched out a cloud of fishy funk that filled the room. Meows attacked the air like sharks devouring fish and audibly ate the putrid scent from the air. I had to move now before I wrung her neck like a chicken at slaughter. I got to my feet and raised my glass in toast. “May we be neighbors and good friends till we die!” I was trembling all over with excitement. She pushed her unwilling drunk body to her feet and slowly lifted her glass to that blood red circled hole she called her mouth. Her tongue like live bait guiding the fish to the hook came out of her gap and met the glass as if it were her lover. I almost retched, yet I persevered and held my ground. Oh the joy! Oh the glee! I felt as she swallowed the red nectar. I too drank and heavily, for I was toasting myself. We sat. I waited. She sweated more and more. Her face took on a pained look like she suddenly felt a turmoil form some thing she ate that did not sit well, which she had. Her eyes were searching mine for relief. I gave back a gentle loving smile. Then they shot wide, grossly enlarging overfilling her spectacles’. The turquoise dress was sticking to her body and a sickly funk emanated from her. She began to rise, yet did not make it and fell over side ways taking her chair and plate of food down with her. The plate bounced on the carpet and deposited its contents on the side of her face and the floor. I applauded her aim silently for it added to the macabre setting that was now her death throes. I pushed back my chair and circled the table and squatted down beside her to get a better look. This stuff worked fast. Her eye’s were rolled into her head and her body flopped around on the floor in slow motion like a wind up toy in its’ last twist and turns. A noise and stench escaped her as her bowls deposited their contents inside her dress and began slowly seeping through. Her last breath escaped her mouth in a long ragged croaking sigh. She convulsed bending her self completely off the carpet and kicking the chair into the wall. I may be a murderer, yet I did not enjoy disgusting scents or smells. The cats ate the tuna casserole on the floor and her face which now stared right at her beloved friends. I began to tidy up the house and made any evidence that I was there disappear. I washed my dishes, pushed in my chair, and looked for notes on calendars and such that might give away my presence in the house that night. I went to the front door locking it and slid the chain home. I went out the back door took out my key and locked that to. I breathed in the wonderful air of the night and went and hopped the fence into my own backyard. I began whistling in the way a person does when he is extremely happy with himself and went up the stairs two at a time and into the house.       

 Thor            

 

 

Oregon "No Cause Eviction" Rich Landlords & Homelessness

I was making a comment to a very influential person on the front line of the "Homeless" fight, I thought real simply "Can we stem the flow of this by giving tenets rights so they don't have to live in fear of.. No Cause Evictions" (THAT WOULD GET MY VOTE!)…

 Hi I often can be seen in two places at once making comments in two different arena's at once yet they both have the same goal. A social gradient and response to ethos, logos, pathos, a well inclined attack at a system of injustice requires often Chaotic moves. Now in your case being a bed rock for a new template as seen many years ago. Bring it home. The right of a tenant to hold his home, is often at the whim of the land lord with a No cause eviction law. If you really want to make progress begin working this on the other hand. "Saving 60% of families in local area and 50% statewide. Tenants have no rights, this is not about me but in comparison I have been evicted "No Cause" due to issues with other tenants. In both instances I was assaulted, and both instances I had to move as well the other tenant. I am on SSD, and the 1st time would have put me on the street, if Dad didn't pay almost 3,000 to move me. Now a year later I have to do it again. "No Cause" Eviction, (Cause disturbances with new neighbor calling Police, and inter change with Bell real-estate. They don't like trouble and just kick both people out.) I have to spend thousands more, and h/c live on ssd, and should be homeless if I don't get big $$ help again from Dad. To many stories like this, are why so many people are on the street, or they tried to fight lost "No Cause Eviction" law.. It is a Land lord trap and money maker just like compounded rent late fees that were way to high putting families out of homes.

 

Who is willing to stand for them, about 40-50% of voters in Oregon?

Respectfully,

Chef John aka THOR

 

"Ride the Storm, Thunder, Lightning" First ride dedicated to Sonny Barger, Happy 76 birthday.

We put the plate on my Titan Suzuki 500 August 1988 and for the first time with Wayne leading in his 750 Suzuki "Water Buffalo" both bikes two strokes. I  had never hit the road and now legal tags hard plate using a trick with title transfer from our of state at Maryland DMV, and I was, well looked legal I had not taken  the permit test and still at this point my parents who said I couldn't live at home if I had a motorcycle had no idea I even owned one. Glenside drive was a short slow curve on the Long branch a block I often walked in my teens. I was 19 and had been riding the bike every weekend up and down the street for weeks. Every week driving 30 min on my day off pushing up the steep drive past 2 cars, it's a long bike, and then up and down the street for hours with no tags, I never went more than a block, just down to the turn, and then into another turn to get back. I had t learn right and left, turns in that nice swoop of pavement at the corner that gave just a little lean as you dipped in so the idea of powering out at different angles soon caught my head, I was learning.

We turned right, I had on my steel toed boots, black leather a tee shirt and clear classes work glasses, and I wound 1st, 2nd the wind ripped and then 3rd, and gave her a go after Wayne on his Water Buffalo 750 who was already making pace. I had never pushed 3rd yet, just as I passed the house I grew up in for years and the hill began up the gravity, the shear raw power of pushing the engine in a grade; I blew 50 mph before breaking it down on the top of Carroll Ave a tricky spot on a bike if going too fast, later I would have to do an air bound sideways turn right and drift slide power out around a car as someone was chasing me at speed over 60-70 mph on my 750 but that was years later, now I was just following Wayne. I was after 7 and the air was heavy with wind gusts, dark clouds swooped by the bright ones above leaving quickly: I would soon know why.  We took Flower Ave and down into the turns still local roads so many times driven, and as it ended on Georgia we for the first time lined side by side. I looked over with a big grin the very air shook with heat, the in it shook again this time it jumped as the air became tremendous drops of rain, big ones that tell of a big storm coming into Washington D.C area.

Wayne Said, "What do you want to do, you haven't rode in the rain yet.." The leave off being I only rode around the corner up the block on sunny days, even a little dew but that was it.

I yelled with the lust of the ride, "Let's go!" and we did turning right onto Georgia Avenue and headed north out of town towards the darkening sky deep bruised boiling purples mixed with the flashes of lightning beginning to tear the sky and making the roads and shadow play tricks it was full night and we off. Everyone remembers that first ride, the rush, the freedom, thundered in my as loud as the summer thunderstorm we rode in;  the rain smacking my lips so hard I grit my teeth, smile ride, wide. I happens that real moment when you are a biker or not, mine came at 40 mph when that little 500CC 2 stroke hit "Suzie", her power band. The back tire hydro planed and spun out, the bike was going sideways with a little angle thrown in.  I already knew 70% braking is front tire, and this angle no front brake was possible, the adrenaline hit, Wayne I could barely see him, a very little goes through a second of time or a whole lot, the thunder crashed, lighting threw shadows on everything, the lights of all the big trucks and cars still rolling; I was soaked, I lay off throttle and spin stopped, I felt the properties of 500lbs+ of 2 wheels steel moving in the air, the power, the side drift I hit the back break, tap tap and I was out, the wheels snapped back in line and I was off. I tried to tell Wayne. Thunder, C rash is all I heard,  all he heard. The bikes hissing in heat, We rode until the storm was gone and each moment in it, every once and a while a yell, a rebel yell deep from in me would break the night and the storm would yell back. It passed the streets dried and we made our way back. It was only 20-30 minutes, but it lasts a life time. A biker was born in that storm, 13 years later he would become to be known as THOR

A Motorcycle Deer Miss

I A Motorcycle  Deer Miss was on my 850L and just wound 3rd gear,,,, I saw the eye's first then the eyes turned towards the road. It was black accept for my light and the cars coming towards me way down the hill in a long line shining light at me. I began to brake then I saw it, 50 Mph full slam, back wheel went, and the deer's body and head began crossing in front of me by feet. I locked front and went into a two wheel drift on a motorcycle, (not good!) just as the deer passed I saw the white tail bounce, and a kick. I lay of brakes pulled out of drift, stood up on the bike and crossed myself. All the traffic coming towards me from down the hill and across the bowl saw everything, and honked their horns in celebration. I knew how close. 1990' THOR