morning words

In the misty morning hours

when the quite soaks through

theres a place I love to be

and that place, is with you.

the next day

Goodbye, Christmas 2005
Old Yuletide.
So long Christmas day,
It was a joyful ride.

Actors and Me

Actors. Me.
Difference #783.

First and foremost I do give my friends on both sides of my middle, the right to voice a question, comment or concern about, near anything.
Talk about sports, sure.
Talk about the weather? Alright,

BUT when a Actor, just left of the tree of life gets “one of those “political thoughts, and when it bounces inside the void we call your precious little head REMEMBER when you give your option its news, it will be heard by way more people then when I give my option, now’s here the part your agent might could explain to you by drawing small sketches on the backs of brown paper bags, while your comment can sink an acting career mine will only stop BBQ invitations!

With all due respect, to all
due concerned, I have a
question to pose;

IF, someone took a Koran, and expertly handled it, then removed and replaced each and every reference to their belief system with Christianity, would a Liberal get mad? Would either of the two afore mentioned religions get mad? Would the balance of the verbiage read in a positive light? Or in a negative light? Would you be mad?
Now, once more I beg your forgiveness, and ask another question.
What would your reaction be if they did the opposite, and added the Koran to the Bible in all above referenced switch out of the core foundations? Would a Liberal get mad? Would either religion get mad? Would the balance of the verbiage read be a positive light? Or a negative light?

IN GOD WE TRUST
WE TRUST IN GOD
THOUGH MR NEWDOL
THINKS IT ODD

The color purple

Voting. To you and I its something we might not think about much. But to our brothers and sisters in Iraq it means life itself, changes for their children, a future without the fear of terror, a chance for normal, a correction to a wrong. I take off my hat to you brave souls, both American and Iraqi. I stand in awe of you all. I thank the God I believe in for what he has done in your world, and you, everyone of you, shall remain in my prayers. May Christmas 2005 bring peace to all of God's children.

Write on, brother

Note: This is a draft of a story I am play writing, if anyone would like to help me finish it, I think it would be a hoot! Add to it, and lets see what we can come up with. Thanks, Scott




His sadness dripped from every pour on that lonely drive to the cemetery. They had been married 23 years and she had taken sick this past Christmas, fought him on spending money on a doctor every step of the way. Her heart was failing, she was given 2 months to get her affairs in order, and depending on your out look it was good that she completed them 2 weeks early. Their children didn’t seem as concerned for him in terms of his grief as much as for their own lives and their desires that he not come and live with any of them.

At the last minute he had opted out of traveling in the limo with them, and choice to drive by himself. His tears made driving difficult but hell, what did he really care, everything he had ever lived for was going 6 feet under in less than an hour.

Everything that happens at these things happened just like normal, the same words were used to sum up her life, her loves, and her worries, the same tears fell, the same songs were sung, and the same salutations were extended. He took everything in with a numbness he had never felt. Everything was in slow motion and sir real, but he kept it all to himself. The people left quickly to get back to the hustle and bustle of their own lives, each determined to be better at telling those they love just how much. He stood there alone, even the kids had to run. The normal hugs came and went.

His eyes didn’t seem to be focused on anything in particular when the waitress asked him if he wanted the cup he was holding so closely refreshed. He pushed back slightly and reentered the world of the living long enough to say “No thank you”. She shrugged and headed towards the next table. The plate of pork chops and mashed potatoes sat untouched in front of him, and he laughed quietly. He remembered how much he always had loved her cooking, and especially the pork chops. She had stopped cooking the way she had learned from her Mother, and Grandmother almost 10 years before being diagnosed with high cholesterol so this type of meal had been few and far between. Now, with out sampling the food, he knew it would be tasteless in more than one way.

Goodbye, so long, say hello to those before ya

Gas.
A
Clean
and
Renewable
Resource.

The Full Cold Moon and the Kitten

Listening to the quite sounds of a gator-aide lid turned hockey puck Thomas the less than 1 year old kitten makes his shot. ITS GOOD… somewhere deep within his little cat brain this score counts, but just as quickly as his new toy goes hiding under the chair he’s off exploring behind the TV. Finding no viable, or mobile toys he stands in front of CSI and watches the gory for a moment before contemplating a direct leap into the Christmas tree. My “NO” changes the course of his history and he’s off seeking a way into the 1” gap between floor and chair, the last known location of fun. I wonder how much of his foolishness could be connected to tonight’s full “cold” moon? Does its pull on our inner gravity tug harder against his small fir lined shell? Then I suddenly hear the new sounds in the kitchen of perhaps a spoon now being used as an object to spin wildly on the lino and the answer becomes crystal clear……we stand not a chance, we humans who find ourselves sitting between the moons tug and the creative mind of a crazed and bored kitten.

walking in the snow makes me feel so small, as if the entire world is so much bigger then I. Its only when I look back and see my footprints that I can understand where I fit here on earth.

Where you sat
now grown cold
you left us all
though not old
my friend my friend
we cry for you
in winters grasp
or skies of blue
your flight departs
into the stars
twinkle twinkle
where you are
another year has
come and gone
without your smile
without your song
where you sat
now grown cold
you left us all
though not that old

Winters Friends

Friends and family, one of the true gifts of Christmas assembled today in my neighborhood. From 60 to 6 months we gathered in a loving environment to take part in a friendly game of cards that we call whoopee, food and fellowship. It was a good time to catch up on the events in the lives of those who we see almost everyday, yet forfeit the understanding of their burden simply because we have our own to carry on with, and so with a daily wave and a hello we go our own ways. It was very good to reconnect for all of us. I loved the patter of tiny feet wildly running towards their next adventure, dodging adults standing above them, lost within their own conversation, often about the very children that just scurried past. Watching the interaction of these young children with one another as well as with those older warms the soul.
It is now Christmas season, the weather chills the nights, and unprotected plants fall to its bitter cold, not to return until the spring thaw. The smell of smoke filters inside from the fires of others warming themselves from this winters frost. Still, the children play and I am reminded of the internal fires that burn brightly as their laughter reaches my ears, filling me with a peace that God is not yet done with us, or with me.

The Fire and the Chicken

The Fire and the Chicken

A short tale by s.redenbaugh

So there it was, ready. Missing only one last item, her. She was somewhere between the Junior Collage and here, only that distance and the rain was now keeping her from my preparations. There were 5 candles placed here and there, and while they could have been mistaken for random, each had been placed in an exact position, each caused its light to be cast just so. One small table lamp sat next to my one vise. A roaring fire burned brightly in the corner, filled with the wood we had collected together one sunny Sunday up in the high country. It’s warmth was beginning to fill the large room. In front of this a folding table and two chairs sat ready for use, a red and white checkered cloth lie across that table. Upon the table, and protected by the cloth sat two round dinner plates, each with two folded paper napkins forming triangles sitting to both the right and to the left of each plate. The long flat edges were facing the sides of each plate, and sitting on both the napkins to the right were a silver knife and spoon. The forks sat to the left. A round bucket sat off to the side, its contents slightly revealed by the one lamp that sat by my one vise. Inside, ice surrounded three bottles. One Corona and one water, her possible choices and the other bottle was Gatorade. A slim bottle opener sat upon the ice. Spread across other areas of the table were tightly covered dishes of baked chicken, mashed potatoes, a green salad, with two dressings and 4 freshly baked parker house rolls. Inside the house I had written on a dry erase board three words, “wife. Garage quickly”. I had barely set down viewing our dinner arrangements when she walked in. Her smile was big, and her eyes tired, school, Christmas shopping and life in general had taken today’s toll and this was my way of making something we do three times a day special for her, special for me. You see, in our house of many splendors there were two things that I couldn’t provide us. One was a fireplace, the other a tin roof. So now she sat smiling and gazing at the spread all around us. The rain tapped out its song as we ate by firelight, laughing, talking and sharing all the while unconcerned of the old shop slash garage we sat in. It was as if where we sat, fireside, and being with each other caused there to be nothing else in the world and that all other things, like the one vise I keep in the garage, the walls and every thing all the way to God’s foot no longer existed. Enchanting to say the least.
Yes, this evening was wonderful. Fine food, and company. A warm fire to push back the rains chill, the aroma of oak burning and small talk about life. Conversation about the small things that each of us do in a day, that sometimes may go unnoticed every other day of the year. Bonding, melting more into a 22 year creation with each bite, each glance, and each smile. It was like Heaven.
Tonight’s fire has now all but gone out, only a few small embers remain glowing as I clean up, having insisted on her retreating back to the house to get into her jammies. I enjoyed the clean up, listening to the rain, dodging drops with each trip to the house, even while being the target of lawn sprinkle light years ahead of my time, and of my ability to program them.
The clean up is done, the fingers on both of my hands now pen this history of the wonderfulness of this evening. She lays under a warm blanket on the sofa, eyes now closed, dreaming of the things she dreams of. The half smile she has, deep in peaceful bliss would make a fine masterpiece of a painting, but that will have to be another time. In closing I would only add that I recall the mention of my one vise kept in the shop, and thought those of you that may read this one day should know that my vise, it’s the one that’s bolted to my work bench.

Thanksgiving 2005

Well Thanksgiving 2005 wasn’t what I had hoped for. I had thought we were going to replace family with adventure, but as this trip has taught me (like I didn’t know it already!)there is, sadly nothing that can replace your family. Funny, you’d think free drinks would be as entertaining as Uncle Harry telling the same joke he’s told for the past 35 years, but even after 12 or so drinks, truth be, they aren’t. Restaurant fixings can’t touch Aunt Betty’s lumpy gravy, nor can the waiter at Reno’s finest match her surgery stories. Face it, we can’t stand to be around them, but when they are gone, we become closer to alone, we become them whether we want to or not, one day waking up to find that we no longer have anyone to tell our own stories to, no one to make our own uneatable food product for long after our own taste buds have rotted. Family, hold it tight and don’t ever give up the fight to claim them, each and everyone of them, toothless or not. For one day, we will be alone, and the young man who bags our grocery’s quite possibly will know more about us then anyone we have in our waning lives. Keep each human who shares more than 25% of your DNA in your heart, in your prayers and in your life. Love them because blackjack dealers don’t really care. Love them because it’s the right thing to do. Love them because your Mother would want you to.

flying children from the 18 hundreds

In the early months of 1808 it had become expected for folks children to be able to fly. When this often wasn’t the case, some would succumb to peer pressure. Many reverted to selling kidneys to be able to purchase “flying” machinery apparatus’s hoping to aide the offspring into a flight not unlike that of the 3 winged Blue Heron. Silly as it may seem by today’s standards it was serious business then, many children that were able to fly naturally went on to become cartoonists making upwards of $1000.00 per week. Others, sadly would only go on to being in charge of pencil sharpening for these draftsmen. Later, Mr. Francis P. Poe would attempt to unionize these lower paid workers only to watch management teams across the USA simply plug in the latest thing, the electrical pencil sharpener. It became a rallying cry for the flightless children and the 43 States adopted the 11th amendment. The last child able to fly without help past away in the spring of 1867, strangely it was Mr. Poe’s own youngest son Crawford Poe. A monument was commissioned in 1877 of these events and in 1888 it was unvailed in Brookfield Wisconsin.

I put the following to you

On a closed metal gate, a sign reads "Keep gate closed at all times", would keeping with the request now make it a fence?

A Scary Story

Somewhere between safety and distraction the chisel pushed through the soft wood and ricocheted off the first three fingers of my left hand. Blood appeared quickly and began to cascade down into the palm of my hand. I called myself the appropriate disparaging names and I headed towards water. At first the stinging was sharp but watching the flow of my own blood spill to the bottom of the sink caused a visual that over road the pain.

Now, with the first finger deeply gashed, the exiting blood made the middle and ring fingers look like a winning Halloween display. I none the less didn’t feel festive.

The better half was notified of the wounds and sprang into nurse mode. With all kinds of notions, leeches and witch doctory she plugged the leaks and deemed me “stable”.

Once the gore was contained we headed out back, where we had set up a pumpkin carving table that Martha Stewart herself would have approved with vigor. Set in the garage and directly in front of a roaring fire my nurse began to fashion her first work of art. I sat, and attempted to work the small pumpkin saws, sharp knifes, and other implements. All designed to aid in the of transforming of a harmless vegetable into a receptacle for an open flame. Beacons to tomorrow’s children dressed in slightly flame retarded costumes scurrying towards these “x” marks the spot faces. I quickly discovered that the three bandaged left fingers were a requirement in the proper operation of those conventional tools of the trade.

It was once said that “necessity is the mother of invention”, and it wasn’t long until I found myself using a hand saw to separate my tall thin “canvas” into two pieces. Then, using my Binford 18 volt cordless drill I punched through its thick walls with two eyes, set very narrowly apart each one half inch wide. I then followed with the nose, three small ¼ inch holes and then a one-inch mouth. All round, perfect holes giving him a wonderful personality. If I was to guess I’d say I had made as close to a Mr. Bill face as possible. I placed a candle inside him and lit it. My Nurse switched the light off and we laughed at the silliness of this pumpkin. My next pumpkin would be more of a challenge, and cracking it open would take some thought. An OSHA approved light bulb thought over my head soon appeared. I utilized my Bindford Saws All on this bad boy, ripping large thin slits for eyes and then drilling 2 small quarter inch holes upwards for his nose. The mouth was made using the ¼ inch bit as a router, and when I was finished, candle lit, lights out, the very clear image of ET smiled at us.

So boys and girls, when you view my pumpkins this year, laugh and cheer, just notice they will be closest to the house, in the handicapped zone.
I promise pictures tomorrow!

why I dig

To the question of why I dig, I have yet to find a simple answer. When I answer the question of whether I do so for gold, or silver, or artifacts or treasure I get even more befuddled looks. When I state that I do so for the simple joy of discovery the label “crackpot” becomes affixed in concrete upon my forehead and even after 20 years those who know me best say they can still see that word clearly. I can’t claim to know that what I get from what I do is similar to what a discover of an artificial heart gets, or that it’s the same as what Neil Armstrong felt as his foot touched the moon, but then again, I can’t say it isn’t. The one reoccurring thing I do say is that it is a mixture of emotions, both fear and excitement. The rush of this excitement builds as dirt falls against my face, as the opening in front of me grows larger with each new push or poke at the surrounding material. My breathing becomes very rapid and my eyes see every small hole as a going borehole. Often, tired beyond belief somehow another scoop of clay is past behind me, and the constant cramping of most major muscle groups, although crippling, is shaken off. And then, as I see that my tired and torn aged body will now fit into the blackness above me the fear hits. I do worry that I could be digging into the bottom of a bears den and that they are at this very moment drawing straws as to who gets first bite. As I stand, pushing my head up into the complete unknown, that excitement rush over rules the fear and I sing inside my head the Doors, “break on through to the other side”.

Perhaps 100000 years ago the cave passage we remove clay and mud and an occasional rock from was wide open. Perhaps others have walked in where I seek to visit, if this is so, I have yet to find anything they marked that event with, so I can only assume that I am the very first human to see each new room that I first enter. The air is often dank, and the fearfulness, or caution is ever present. My eyes view these rooms faster then my lips can speak of and I often yell back for someone to come in quickly. Perhaps this is done so to appease the bears hunger, perhaps it is to have another human near in case I need to record any final words or thoughts. Regardless, the rush quickly subsides and the need to begin digging returns as I find what appears to be the way on. The need that fills me is perhaps like the desire for more heroin pulsing thru the veins of junkie. To breathe in the past is something I can’t get doing anything else, the rush is not replaceable through any other activity I have ever tried. To say I am hooked is very much an understatement, and if asked if I have any responsibility to others that I have hooked into this addiction my lawyer has requested you contact him.

Goodbye Mary Jo-

Monday July 18th- 2005

Hello kids!

It’s hard to imagine that on this day in 1969 we almost suffered the lost of another one of our great political minds. What could have easily been twisted into something sorted or illegal was handled much like a dodge ball game with do overs on a playground. We know that had this corpulent leader not done what he did, that he could have ended up just like any other working stiff, in a prison for a half dozen crimes.

36 short years ago, a young Mary Jo Kopechne was in Ted’s car. Ted had been drinking, well, we know this because he was awake, and well, his car, a prelude to the apparent self driving SUV’s turned left instead of staying the course. It was a close call for Ted, though not made for hours, and the drowning was the end of young Mary Jo’s life. It was the beginning of Ted’s excellent adventure and the beginning of the grief of her parents, friends and family. I doubt any of us will see anything in the news today about this anniversary, but what if we were all to start next year with something like the following, and not meant to be disrespectful in any way to Mary Jo, meant so towards Ted:

Order “Chapiquitic Cakes” that are decorated with an upside down car, covered with water next to a bridge. You could just have “Best of luck Ted”, or “Tough break MJ” written on the cake. For those of you who are a bit more creative a small fat figure can be placed at the waters edge walking briskly away stumbling……………………………

What a I am trying to say, is that on this date in history, please remember that 36 years ago to the day, a “man” of title killed someone and was never charged in his crime.

His name- Ted Kennedy

"But he gave me a beer"

Yes, those who know the whole story know that Paul will do most anything for a beer, like pose for this shot!

its a hit!!!

Wasn't the fact that we (not me folks!) are smart enough to fly into outerspace and then launch a killer bomb camera into a speeding comet great!?

I watched with amazment.

A good shoulder is a good thing to have

Hi, its great to be back……………………lets see, where are we at?………..

I have been pretty worried lately kids. It seems that since last Thursday, the one 8 days ago I awoke and found the right side of my neck swollen. This in turn was causing the pinching of nerves down to the tips of my fingers, making anything involving being awake most painful. After spending countless hours at Massage Therapy, MD’s, Chiropractors and a trip to the ER while cartoons are on I was starting to think I might be on the DD List. (Designated Digger) for the 2005-2006 dig season. Even after 2 shots of Demerol, countless pills of every shape and size I HURT BAD.

AND THAT WOULD NOT BE GOOD

The pain was staying put, and it was painful pain, the kind that brings a man to his knees with saline dripping from his eyeballs even in front of a woman. Now that’s pain! Anyway, I had a MRI this afternoon and for even a caver that’s to tight to enjoy, didn’t seem to go………………so I figure I either have good coverage or its serious for old Doc Hindi to order one up.

Now, here’s the good part! It was interesting that about an hour before this procedure I Tried one more massage, you that know me understand that if asked to choose between a massage or a dig trip I might become distracted, smoke could appear and you may have finally succeeded in stubbing my mind. Anyway, this massage went very good if you know what I mean, yeah man, she got the shoulder back in place!!!! I was even able to play softball tonight!!!!…..

So it appears that I have turned the corner on the road to wellness!

So, tomorrow my 2nd wife, Paul and I shall roll up into the foothills, crawl into that cool cave of 56 degrees and start setting up for the season……………be still my heart.

Just one more quick one

This saying means a lot to me-

"Ce'ad M'ile Fa'ilte"

which means, "One Hundred Thousand Welcomes".

wise words

In the words of the writer George Eliot (1819-1880)

"It's never to late to be who you might have been"

Dig Thought # 132

“THE IDEA IS THERE, LOCKED INSIDE, AND ALL YOU HAVE TO DO IS REMOVE THE EXCESS STONE”
Michelangelo

(Stolen from Michelangelo)

“The Cave is there, locked inside, and all you have to do is remove the excess stone and mud”
Caver Scott

poem of the day

walking through a forest
and you come to mind
looking for my clearing
just so hard to find
swimming in an ocean
I taste you on my lips
looking for that dock
and for my sailing ship

why is the sky blue?

WHY IS THE SKY BLUE?


Light from the sun is composed of the spectrum of colors. When sunlight strikes the Earth’s atmosphere, ultraviolet and blue waves of light are the most easily scattered by particles in the atmosphere. The other colors of light continue to the Earth while blue and ultraviolet waves remain in the sky. Our eyes can’t see ultraviolet light, so the sky appears the only color remaining that we can see, blue.



So, now, when in my absence, you are asked that question, you will be able to stand tall, and with no hesitation, you will fish.

decorations in the newly discovered "Cresent Room" at California Caverns 

ice on the way to Reno 

the gate on the S and P Excavation's South Lead Dig 

scott while caving 

sunset in Az.Springtraining 2004 

from Nasa's web site 

Mt. St. Helens 

God's Bath 2005 

Poem

As the present gobbles up
my future.
And my tomorrows become
my here’s and now’s
I am aware that I am still learningthe why of the what’s and how’s.

Cave City/ S and P Excavations Mini Burning Man

6/5/2005 1:07 AM

Something clicks and the fire starts, at first, small, then, an inferno. The 1st annual CC/S+P Mini Burning Man Festival has begun. With the bon fire turning shades of autumn, we hear laughter all around, then when the sounds grow lower a blazing flame shoots into the night sky, speeding in to the heavens, it stops, arcs and in a beautiful, peaceful, explosion, the colors are sent out like huge fingers in all directions, crackling and flashing on their descent to the ground. The ah’s, and oh’s rang out as if a choir, on cue had burst into simultaneous sounds to proclaim the wonders of the painting of lights on that darken pallet, but even before they were completely silent, when one more fire ball push upward, with very much the same results. More laughter and merriment, silly stories shared, mosquito smashing, more balls of colorful fire lighting this night sky, when all of a sudden, a very large Toucan passes by, seemed to be with its trainer so we didn’t really have much input as to whether or not such a bird should or could just walk by us, but we did stare and all laugh out loud at once. It was still our only topic of conversation for the next few minutes when two bizarre young men stumbled, up asking if anyone here, had, or had not, seen the very same Toucan we were now laughing about. The next thing we know, the entire group is being interrogated, while being video taped and it, was most unpleasant, but safety first right? It was through these dependable, hard working men that we learned that the Toucan is not native here, and they will kill you for no reason, other then say, because, you remind them of a former owner who teased them relentlessly with rubber crackers and jalapeno flavored bird seed, and showed no emotions at all. It was at this very moment, the giant Toucan, in all its natural beauty along with its trusted trainer stepped into the lights of the fire, and everyone froze, then from somewhere, towards the back of the crowd, a voice spoke up, it solidified what every man, women and child were thinking at the same time in 3 simple words, “cook the bird” echoed around us and giggles became full fledged laughter………..We had settled in again, watching the darkness explode into light, again, and again.

Its about time

You know how when you see a prism, spinning in the sun, and how the lights are sent out in ten thousand directions, constantly changing, forever remaining the same? Well this blog site is like that, only those beams of lights, at least the ones I see, are my ideas. When I am driving they appear much like those sun spot prism pulses of energies, but mine are ideas, most in their rawest form, though many refined to perfection. They will out number us, and please know there will be way to many for one man to absorb. Most will zip in and out of my brain without me seeing them. Some will get wedged against grey matter, where they spend time awaiting me the need for accessing them, perhaps with out my ever knowing they were there all along.(who said “necessity is the mother of invention”?) Then there are the few special ones, that rocket across the vast space between my ears, the ones I see quickly, grabbing them from the air because of the brilliance of their shine. These are the ones that are such great or simple ideas, such fantastic thoughts, that you may see me with my pen, and in the absents of paper, blocks of wood, or cardboard starting to write on the palms of my hands the details, hoping to not lose them. Ideas, some raw and primitive, each in their newest stages, while many a finished product or idea these will be recorded here. It is these ideas, imbedded deep inside my head that we will be typing about, here on this blog, yes, Views From Caver Scott.