Ride the High Lonesome

High Lonesome Road (Most of it doesn’t look this good.)

If I could ride the High Lonesome Trail,

I’d choose the right path and I’d never fail.

Wending my way through washes and rocks,

And not give a care for cell phones or clocks.

I’d gaze at the mountains in wonderous awe,

The prettiest picture that I ever saw.

Fed by the rain and warmed by the sun,

Topping by far anything I have done.

I wouldn’t care that the bridge is washed out,

Finding my path is what life’s about.

If I could fix the wrongs I have done,

I’d make amends to everyone.

Give me the tools to fix broken hearts,

Like slivers of gold from ledges of quartz.

If I could ride the High Lonesome once more,

I would rejoice in what life has in store.

LDT April 29, ‘24

The High Lonesome Trail runs along the eastern foothills of Arizona’s Mule Mountains. It has been abandoned for decades.

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Retina

Cloudy lens, myopic eye,

Give the Doc just one try,

Doctor A will fix me good,

I will see like I should.

Easy op with little pain,

My world becomes clear and plain.

I threw my glasses in the trash,

Had better uses for my cash.

The curtain came from the side,

My vision was not so wide.

Each line I saw had a flaw,

I had to draw with a yaw.

Lasers with two surgeries,

A left one that barely sees.

Follow-up with Doctor A,

To see what he has to say.

My good work has gone to waste,

He said it to my swollen face.

Pay your bill, see me soon,

I have golf this afternoon.

YOU SON OF A BITCH!

That I made rich.

I will never darken your door

Was the oath that I swore.

If my story had ended there,

I wouldn’t have this vacant stare.

The other eye became so blurry,

That I was wrought with some worry.

The silicone had come undone,

What happened next wasn’t fun.

Neon bolts of red and green,

With flashing lights in between.

I stumbled in my new world,

Lights around me swirled and whirled.

My Retina Spec showed concern,

As her laser flashed and burned.

Her tiny straws and stainless sticks,

Were the tools of the fix.

That I can see a little bit,

Is thanks to her amazing grit.

LDT April 14, ‘24

Thanks to my Retina Specialist at the Tucson VA Hospital, I got some vision back.

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Pinned

Proper use of a bottle jack with and axle adapter

There I was stuck, pinned to the ground.

My budding mechanical expertise had utterly failed me. How was I going to get out of this mess?

My eleven-year-old self had been so proud when Dad told me to go put the tire back on the truck. He had done something to the brakes and hadn’t quite finished up. I now had the opportunity to show him I could fix stuff.

I surveyed the task. Our ’50 Chevy pickup was parked in the back driveway with the right rear tire sitting on the ground next to it. It was up on blocks. No, not those new-fangled ANSI compliant jack stands that BMW technicians in white smocks use. These were good old-fashioned blocks. Well, 2X4’s, actually.

Nothing to it. I hefted the tire and slammed it up against the axle like a NASCAR pit crewman. The lugs didn’t line up. I rotated it around. They still didn’t line up. I peered through one of the holes. The damn truck wasn’t high enough off the ground. Easy fix.

I went into the garage and got Dad’s bottle jack. I would need it anyway to remove the blocks. I carefully placed it under the rear axle. I rotated the extension screw several turns until it got close. I checked to make sure the release valve was tight. Then I closed the gap with a couple of short pumps of the handle. I knew it had to be perfectly centered or the truck might fall off. A few minor adjustments and it was looking good. What could go wrong? Nothing. I had this.

I only needed to raise the axle about an inch. Shrewdly, I left the blocks under the truck just in case the jack slipped. I was getting good at this mechanic thing.

This time the tire went on easily. I used a trick I had seen my brother do. I put the end of the tire iron under it and levered it into place. I barely had to turn it to get it to line up. I grabbed a lug nut and threaded it on. The tire seated and I quickly spun on the other five nuts. Dad better buy me a coke for all this great work, I thought. I picked up the lug wrench and applied some torque. When the tire was back on the ground, I’d finish the tightening. That would take all the force my 78-pound chiseled steel frame could muster. Almost done, I carelessly tossed the tire iron behind me.

I was ready to let the truck down when I first noticed my mistake. I had placed the jack in a position where the handle would be directly under the tire when I released the valve. Oops!

I thought for a moment. Take the tire off, drop the axle back on the blocks and move the jack? Nah! Too much trouble. If I turn the jack handle very slowly, I can release the valve and pull the handle out with my lightning quick reflexes. Nothing can possibly go wrong.

Gingerly, I grabbed the handle with my thumb and forefingers. The first gentle twist wasn’t enough. I must have tightened the valve a bit too much. I gripped harder, but my fingers slipped. Damn! I’m gonna have to wrap my whole hand around that handle to get enough grip. OK, let’s get it done. Just let it down slowly and get your hand out fast.

I slipped my fingers under the handle and gave it a good solid twist. Nothing. It was stuck. Then I turned it with a bit more force. Not enough. OK, add more power. Not too much, not too little. Suddenly it let go. The jack dropped. Too fast! My fingers were caught under the handle.

I looked down at my hand, surprised it didn’t hurt. Must not be pinned very hard, I told myself. I tugged to see if I could free it. Then it hurt. Dad was a railroader. The driveway was covered with cinders from steam locomotives. They dug into the back of my fingers as I struggled.

I reached down with my left hand and tried to scoop away the dirt and cinders next to my trapped fingers. No luck. The ground was hard, real hard. I looked around for a tool, but I had pitched the lug wrench just out of reach. I sat and pondered what to do next. What would the mechanics at the Indy 500 do? Certainly not cry like babies. I needed help.

Now there are lots of advantages in living in the last house on the last street on the edge of a very small town. You get to enjoy the country on two sides. You don’t have to deal with a lot of traffic or nosy neighbors. You can watch the cows in the pasture behind the house. Shucks, we could go skinny-dipping  at Bare Butt Beach. At this moment in time though, I found myself wishing we lived in the middle of Times Square. No one could see me. The last Cavalry Trooper had left Montana around 1911. Nobody riding to rescue me.

I put my analytical mind to work on the problem. A coyote caught in a trap would just gnaw his paw off. Good thing I wasn’t a coyote. The thought of letting the air out of the tire would not occur to me for another 6 decades. There seemed to be no way I could get myself out of this mess.

OK, it is time to yell for help. If that doesn’t work, scream. When that doesn’t work wail like a wildcat. But, never, ever, let them see you cry. Sniff, sniff. Wah, wah! Only the Magpies heard me. They squawked back. I looked down at my fingers. They had changed from red to purple to blue. I thought about the Jim Reeves song. “They found him there at dawn. …Hands froze to the reins.”

I don’t know how long I was stuck. It was probably a lot less time than it seemed. Eventually, Dad came out of the house to check on me.

“What’s takin’ so long? You OK?”

“No! My hand’s caught.”

Sizing up the situation, Dad leapt into action. He grabbed the jack from the car and slammed it under the truck’s step bumper.  Within seconds the truck began to rise. I felt the pressure being relieved and pulled my benumbed hand out. Dad grabbed it and began to massage my swollen fingers, gently wiggling the joints.

“Does it hurt?”

Duh, of course it hurts, I thought. You don’t talk back to the Old Man though, so all I said was, “A little.”

By then, Mom had come to check see what was going on. She raced back inside to call Doc Smith. It was a weekend, but he said to put some ice on it and meet him at his office in fifteen minutes. By the time we got there my hand was looking better and I could move my fingers again. I could still count to ten on them.

I think Dad left that truck sitting there with the blocks and jacks under it for another week. When he finally needed it again, I was not asked to help.

The lessons I learned that day are obvious. Be careful when working alone. Provide adequate supervision to wannabee mechanics. Use proper equipment in the proper way. Let Dad fix his own damn cars.

LDT April 10, ‘24

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Arizona’s 1864 Abortion Law

In 1864 Arizona was a newly created territory with a multitude of problems and a population of about 5000 non-Indians (about half of whom became U.S. citizens when southern Arizona was acquired from Mexico in the 1854 Gadsden Purchase.) The only real town in the territory was Tucson. It was a backward place of rough adobe hovels.

An unnecessary war with the Chiricahua Apache had driven virtually all of the ranchers and miners out of Southern Arizona. Federal troops had gone East to fight in the Civil War leaving the area defenseless. Southern Arizona and New Mexico initially sided with the Confederacy in the hope of gaining some protection from the Apache. A column of California Volunteers drove out the Confederates, seized the property of a prominent collaborator and attempted to restore order. The Lincoln administration gave the area territorial status and appointed a Governor who died before he could take office. The second Governor headed for Fort Whipple which had been established to protect mining claims in the Prescott area. This became the Capitol for a time. The first legislature convened in a log cabin in September of 1864. Since all members were not present, they ordered liquor and tobacco and partied for 3 days. The Speaker of the Arizona House was W. Claude Jones, a lawyer from Tucson. Jones had been a Confederate sympathizer during Arizona’s brief time as a Rebel territory. He had previously resigned as US Attorney in New Mexico after marrying a 12-year-old Mexican girl. ) At the end of the legislative session, he married a 15-year-old. (He would later move to Hawaii where he married another 15-year-old.) One legislator resigned and another died during the term. Another legislator was granted a divorcé on the basis of “fraudulent concealment of criminal facts”. Dressed in frontier attire and packing guns, the legislature set about establishing the framework for Arizona’s government. They set up Arizona’s 4 original counties, established a badly needed territorial militia, provided for future schools, set up franchises for toll roads and developed a code of laws. Called the Howell Code after one of its authors, the code drew heavily from the legal codes of New York and California.

Arizona’s 1864 Howell Code came back into focus on April 9, 2024. In a 4-2 ruling the Arizona Supreme Court held that the prohibition on abortion in the code with the only exception being the life of the mother was still legally in force.

This provision of the 1864 Howell Code reads as follows:

And every person who shall administer or cause to be administered or taken, any medicinal substances, or shall use or cause to be used any instruments whatever, with the intention to procure the miscarriage of any woman then being with child, and shall be thereof duly convicted, shall be punished by imprisonment in the Territorial prison for a term not less than two years nor more than five years: Provided, that no physician shall be affected by the last clause of this section, who in the discharge of his professional duties deems it necessary to produce the miscarriage of any woman in order to save her life.”

This court ruling is causing a tsunami of activity. Some politicians are seemingly changing long-held stances on the abortion issue. Former gubernatorial candidate Kari Lake, who once praised the law, has called for its repeal. (Given the political affiliations of the current legislature and the Governor, that seems unlikely.) Former Governor Ducey, who appointed all 4 justices who affirmed the law, is also trying to distance himself from their decision. The appointments of 2 of the Justices who voted to affirm the 1864 law must be confirmed by the electorate in November.

Meanwhile, a grassroots movement has already gathered enough signatures to put an initiative to amend the state constitution to include abortion policy on the ballot in November. It will require 60% of the votes to pass.

Arizonans need to buckle up for a bumpy ride over the next several months.

No photo description available.

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Election Fraud Rant

There is nothing wrong with showing an ID when you vote so long as it does not impose an unfair burden on the poor, the infirm and the elderly. The 42-state figure is, however, incorrect. There seems to be a fallacy that there is significant voter fraud in America. There is almost none. It is a felony to vote illegally and very few ever do. When it happens, it is often a felon who didn’t understand how to get his/her rights restored, someone who voted from an invalid address (e.g. former Congressman and White House Chief of Staff Mark Meadows who voted from an address he had never lived at) or someone who illegally uses someone else’s ballot. (e.g. Bruce Bartmam from Pennsylvania who voted for his dead mother.) The false allegations of widespread voter fraud in the 2020 election were refuted in over 60 court cases. These phony allegations resulted in the January 6 insurrection, intimidation of dedicated election workers, disbarment of prominent attorneys for the former President and numerous felony charges and convictions. They have literally put our democracy in peril. https://x.com/rAgingPachyderm/status/1776711143349948901

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A Bird Softly Soars

I rarely write free verse.

At the Cochise Writer’s Celebration on Friday, I got a random prompt I couldn’t resist.

A Bird Softly Soars

Wings spread

Flitting among trees

Never landing for long

Seeking perfection

A nest, safe, shaded

Home

For but one season

Weeks of waiting

The newness of life

Nurturing

Fledglings take flight

On tentative wings

A hop, a jump, a flap

Away!

South

To new lands

Known but to the soul

Always returning

Building nests

The cycle unbroken

But for Man

LDT April 5, ‘24

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The Empty Cabin

Two old cowboys were lost in a storm,

Hopin’ to find a place that was warm.

The midnight hour was closin’ on in,

And the howlin’ wind was makin’ a din.

They found a cabin up in a draw,

And ventured on in hopin’ to thaw.

A miner’s tools were strewn about,

That he was gone there was no doubt.

They struck a match to give them some light,

And gazed in horror at one awful sight.

The previous tenant was lying in bed,

His skeleton told them that he was dead.

One of them said as he shut the old door,

“I think I will just sleep here on the floor.”

They found some kindlin’ and rustled some wood,

That old iron stove would make them feel good.

They made a good fire to warm up the shack,

Then they heard a roar that came from the back.

They’d woke up a Grizzly from his long nap,

He wuz comin’ at them with teeth that did snap.

They ran for the door as one of them swore.

“This cabin’s so poor, let’s ride on some more!”

LDT April 6, ‘24

CREDIT: This poem is based on a story told by cowboy artist Charlie Russell.

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Southwind

1983 Southwind Motor Home.

Back in the Eighties some friends came to call,

They were hopin’ to see America’s all.

Now eight people don’t fit in a green MGB,

A Super-cab Ford or a red Mercury.

Rented a Southwind, it could sleep eight,

If it gets to Montana, that would be great.

Four fifty-four and leaky exhaust,

There’s no GPS if we get lost.

We headed out West on Interstate Ten,

So they could tell ‘bout the places they’d been.

The West Texas sun was beatin’ on down,

And six MPG was makin’ me frown.

At Carlsbad we saw a hole in the ground,

Where upside down bats were hangin’ around.

Went to Nogales, we crossed the line,

To the tourist shops we made a beeline.

Pressed on to Tucson, had a flat tire,

Rusty old the tailpipe held with barb wire.

The Salt River Canyon gave us a fright,

We had to make Holbrook by night.

Spent some time at the Petrified Forest,

Watched The Painted Desert out before us.

Stood on the corner in Winslow, A .Z.

We heeded the call to take it E. Z.

Took a small detour to the Grand Canyon,

You ought to see it with a companion.

Headed for Vegas, crossed Hoover Dam,

Nearly ran over a big desert ram.

At Circus Circus we let the kids play,

But we stayed there for only one day.

At Beaver, Utah the engine died out,

And all of us were a-startin’ to pout.

Hayseed mechanic fixed it up good,

By spendin’ the night under the hood.

Looked at the time, looked at the route,

The plan wouldn’t work, Montana was out.

Durango, Colorado, another flat tire,

Of all this trouble, we’re startin’ to tire.

Ruined a drum with a hung up E-brake,

Don’t how much more of this we can take.

Rock hit the windshield and left a big crack,

But nuthin’ was gonna’ throw us off track.

At Six Flags we started to try out the rides,

Until they began to hurt our backsides.

Well after dark we started for home,

Pretty certain we’d never more roam.

At new Braunfels, Texas it died again,

It was startin’ to feel like we couldn’t win.

I called a friend to bring me some gas,

It was 3AM when he came at last.

We finally hit old Judson Road,

I was tired of peddlin’ this big load.

Hit a dip a little too fast,

From the rear there came quite a crash.

Then we smelled sumthin’ real rank,

We had just lost the holdin’ tank.

It sorta was the vacation from Hell,

But we all would have some stories to tell.

LDT March 30, ‘24

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