A Reindeer Named Karen

Hi, I’m Karen. I’m the replacement reindeer for Blitzen in the number 7 slot on Santa’s sleigh. It seems old Blitzen fell of the wagon and nearly crashed the sleigh last Christmas. The job is a bitch, but I’m out of hay. Sometimes ya gotta do stuff to survive.

            The other coursers are some snooty ruminants. Rudolph is the worst. Since he got that record deal, he thinks all he needs to do is prance around and look pretty. Prancing is Prancer’s job, but he isn’t very good at it. Dasher and Dancer do the heavy hauling, but they are both dumb as an ox. Two oxen, maybe. It is good that they are good pullers though.  I gotta admit, sometimes I leave a little slack in the traces. Santa has put on some weight and those new Nintendos are kinda heavy. This ain’t my Christmas fantasy. Why put myself out?

            Santa’s sleigh is an older model. Probably a 648. That makes it what? Thirteen hundred and seventy-six years old! Even if you figure it only gets used one night a year, it has a lot of hard miles on it. The damn thing is hard to pull too. Hell, they started selling streamlined sleighs in 1936. Why do I have to bust my reindeer butt pulling this pile of junk around?

            Santa has been milking this Christmas gig for far too long. He sits around loafing while the elves do all the work. He’s got a big mansion at the North Pole with an indoor pool and a three-sleigh garage. Meanwhile we reindeer are out on the frozen tundra trying to forage a measly blade of grass. It’s oligarchs like him who have exploited those who do all the work. We oughta form a union. We got rights!

            The route tonight takes us over northern Europe first. The sleigh looks weird with all those alpine skis sticking out. I’ll be glad when we are rid of them. They better leave us some sugar cubes and schnapps! The Italian kids know how to pick reindeer treats. And lots of vino to wash them down. Meanwhile Santa will pig out on pizza and glühwein. That ain’t gonna lighten our load.

            After Europe we’ll zip across 4 time zones to get to North America. The Canadian kids all wanted hockey sticks which are damn near as bad as the skis. In the good old USA we finally get rid of all those Nintendos and electronic geehaws. What a bunch of entitled, useless little urchins! The Mexican kids get nothing now that Trump is president. Speak English or go back to where you came from!

            By dawn we’ll be on our way back to the Pole. While Rudolph and Santa get all the credit, the rest of us will be bone tired. My only satisfaction will be when that red-nosed elitist gets back to his stall. I stole all his hay and replaced it with a fake Christmas tree.

            I saved the best for Santa though. Mrs. Claus will be greeting him with a rolling pin. Someone, I won’t mention who, told her about how much time he spent at that voluptuous Italian model’s villa. Stick that up your fat, uh well you know what I mean Santa.

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Line Camp Christmas

Rex Thill spent a very cold winter at the Etchart Ranch in South Valley County, Montana about 1968. This horse was his only company

The cattle have all been fed,

  And Bowser’s lyin’ in his bed.

The fire crackles in the stove,

  The hackamore is finally wove.

He doesn’t have a Christmas pine,

  A tumbleweed will do just fine.

Tinsel from store-bought smokes,

  Good enough for most cowpokes.

Ornaments from cactus fruit,

   Strung up on cords of jute.

The window is all frosted up,

  Beans and bacon for his sup.

 Wind is blowin’ awful hard,

   Snow piles up by the yard.

He sings an old Christmas song,

  With his guitar he strums along.

Later on, the cow boss comes,

  With some porridge and some plums.

His whiskey they’ll be drinkin’ straight,

  There ain’t so much to celebrate.

In the night sky they see a star,

  Reminding them of who they are.

Just God’s children full of awe,

  Seeing what the angels saw.

A Holy night to stir the soul,

   The comfort of a warm bedroll.

It’s Christmas Eve and all is well,

  For those who on the prairie dwell.

LDT Christmas Eve, December 24, ‘24

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Bad Mexicans

A Book that Could Be Banned

As I read Bad Mexicans: Race, Empire, and Revolution in the Borderlands, I was reminded of the extraordinary efforts of the state of Arizona to ban the teaching of Mexican-American Studies by the Tucson School District. The conservative leaders of my state lived in fear of telling the truth about the struggles of Americans of Mexican heritage. They seemed to believe that the knowing their history might somehow alienate Mexican-American students. This would make them less malleable and more dangerous to the ideals of state leaders. The effort to ban Mexican-American Studies was White Supremacy at its core.

Kelly Lytle Hernandez tells the story of the origins of the Mexican Revolution through the deeds and actions of those who inspired it. She places the blame for the conditions which led to the Revolution squarely on American economic imperialism. Sensing an opportunity, American titans invested heavily in the Mexican economy during the three-decade long rule of Porfirio Diaz. Americans owned virtually all the mines, railroads, petroleum, and manufacturing infrastructure. Mexican labor was exploited by low pay and bad working conditions. Diaz had driven the peasants from their lands creating a feudal empire. Indigenous peoples, like the Maya and Yaqui, had been driven from their ancestral homelands to work as virtual slaves for rich land owners. Americans owned a quarter of Mexico’s agricultural land. Some Americans bought and sold indigenous people who were indebted to those who had stolen their land.

A handful of revolutionary journalists and dreamers emerged to oppose Diaz and his enablers. They worked on both sides of the border to foment revolution. Some were men of action, taking to the revolution to the streets of Mexico. Others lived in exile, their pens as their only weapon. One of the latter was Ricardo Flores Magon, publisher of the inflammatory Regeneration newspaper. Suppressed by Mexican and American authorities, the paper, and the movement it spawned lived underground in the borderlands and communities as far afield as St Louis and Douglas, Arizona.

When the revolution finally erupted in 1910, the radicals who had sparked it were largely swept aside. They became a postscript to Mexican history as the revolution continued to rage on toppling several governments until it petered out around 1917. About one million Mexicans fled to the US during the Revolution. Their descendants deserve to know what drove them here. The book, Bad Mexicans, is a good start to their story.

LDT December 16, ‘24

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Kilowatt

Dance at the Glasgow, MT High School gym-1958

His name was Kent but we called him Kilowatt,

‘cuz the way that he danced was so damn hot.

Jerry Lee’s piano was no match for him,

And Kilowatt was his pseudonym.

White Bucks and ducktails were all the rage,

And America’s youth were on the rampage.

Hot cars with Smittys were cruisin’ the drag,

Quarter mile rods with bolted-on swag.

Aspirin and coke were the drug of our choice,

A Wurlitzer juke box gave us our voice.

Jon’s Ice Cream Parlor was the place we hung out,

As we tried to discover what life was about.

At Friday night football we usually lost,

Chasin’ the ball in the snow and the frost.

We consoled ourselves at the Hop in the gym,

When Kilowatt danced, we all gaped at him.

He had all the moves, the steps, and the grooves,

And when he rocked, it was the devil on hooves.

We all stood aside to give him some room,

And asked the band to boost the volume.

I think of him yet when the old songs they play,

A Rock ‘n Roll hero back in the day.

LDT November 30, ‘24

In memory of Kent Kalweit 1941-2013

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Bottom of My Glass

Now I don’t mean to sound so crass,

But the world looks better through my glass.

It puts a golden glow on all I see,

When things aren’t what they should be.

It offers me a better view,

When I get to feelin’ blue.

One more beer and I’ll be fine,

Two or three would be divine.

I pull my slouch hat way down low,

Don’t want my Preacher Man to know.

Tell no one that I am here,

Just countin’ bubbles in my beer.

Until all my troubles pass,

I’ll look at them through this glass.

LDT November 23, ‘24

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The Age of Uncertainty

Karen an I are in the process of retrenching as we live out our remaining years while navigating troubled waters. We have recently arranged for in home care and assistance. Though a Godsend, we now find ourselves dipping into savings to get by. (Not to worry, barring an economic collapse, we should be fine.) We have had to cut back on things like travel, leisure, dining out, charitable giving, and helping family members.

            We see some dark clouds in the future. I retired under an archaic public pension system that virtually no one is still paying into. For now, it seems safe, but the system has few advocates left. The current wave of anti-government populist nationalism will probably create some instability in all our lives. Perhaps ours more than yours.

            I expect the cost of living to go up dramatically as tariffs are imposed and workers are deported. The air and water will get dirtier while temperatures rise bringing more adverse weather events. Farmers will adapt to changing conditions by finding new ways to raise new crops. Safer areas will see an influx of climate refugees. Energy prices will continue enriching the oligarchs, Russians, and Middle Eastern potentates. They will have increasing sway in domestic and world affairs. People will continue to feel that their governments don’t care about them. The right to freedom of expression will be constrained by social pressures if not by legal means. Governments will become more authoritarian. Pressure groups will seek to impose their values on others. No country will step forward to promote world peace and human rights. Whole populations will find themselves increasingly marginalized.

            Here at home the economy is about to go through considerable disruption. Tariffs will raise prices and result in retaliatory tariffs on our exports. Any jobs created by domestic protectionism could be offset by decreased sales of American goods overseas. Income disparity will continue to increase. Hunger and homelessness will be on the rise.People who can no longer afford health insurance will get sicker. Social unrest will get uglier.

God help us if another airborne virus strikes. There will not be enough mask wearing, social distancing, closures, or vaccines to protect us. Waters will rise as more glacial ice melts. Kiss the coastal areas goodbye if Antarctica’s Doomsday Glacier slides into the sea.

I no longer see myself as part of the solution to the world’s problems. Like you, I have concluded that it is now every man for himself.

Good luck. I’ll see you on the other side, if there is one.

LDT November 12, ‘24

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Unbowed

Bataan Death March 1942

A mournful bugle blows,

For a soldier no one knows.

Sent to foreign shores,

To fight forgotten wars.

The enemy on the flanks,

With aero planes and tanks.

The ammo running low,

And nowhere left to go.

They say he gave his all,

Until the bastion’s fall.

The white flag of surrender,

Was the battle’s ender.

Marched o’er harsh terrain,

He never did complain.

Penned behind a fence,

The cruelty made no sense.

Beaten, starved, and cursed.

By those who showed their worst,

No letters came for him,

His fate looked kinda grim.

Grilled for information,

Stayed loyal to the nation.

Tunneled out one night,

Gave the goons a fright.

Helped the sick and lame,

Cuz they’d do the same.

Stood up to the guards,

In a dozen prison yards.

Though he earned no glory,

He lived to tell the story.

That he remained unbowed,

Made his country proud.

LDT Veterans Day November 11, ‘24

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Hollywood Marine

John Basilone on his War Bond Tour 1943

He was a Hollywood Matine,

At the USO Canteen.

Hung out with movie stars,

With big old fancy cars.

Smoked his Lucky Strikes,

On bivouacs and hikes.

He proudly wore dress blues,

And made the hometown news.

Had some medals on his chest,

One proved he was the best.

Hollywood was not for him,

And the War was lookin’ grim.

He knew he could not stay,

He went back into the fray.

On Iwo he would die,

But he saw Old Glory fly.

Basilone was mean and green,

More than a Hollywood Marine.

LDT Marine Corps Birthday November 10, ‘24

Dedicated to Sergeant John Basilone (1916-1945)

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