New Indiana Jones in2007

'Indiana Jones' to Begin Filming in 2007
Dec 30, 1:02 AM EST
George Lucas said Friday that filming of the long-awaited "Indiana Jones" movie will begin next year. Harrison Ford, who appeared in the three earlier flicks, the last one coming in 1989, is set to star again. Lucas said he and Steven Spielberg recently finalized the script for the film.
"It's going to be fantastic. It's going to be the best one yet," the 62-year-old filmmaker said during a break from preparing for his duties as grand marshal of Monday's Rose Parade.
Exact film locations have not been decided yet, but Lucas said part of the movie will be shot in Los Angeles.
The fourth chapter of the "Indiana Jones" saga, which will hit theaters in May 2008, has been in development for over a decade with several screenwriters taking a crack at the script, but it only recently gained momentum.
Lucas kept mum about the plot, but said that the latest action flick will be a "character piece" that will include "very interesting mysteries."
"I think it's going to be really cool," Lucas said.
At the inaugural Rome Film Festival in October, the 64-year-old Ford said he was excited to team up with Lucas and Spielberg again for the fourth "Indiana Jones" installment. Ford said he was "fit to continue" to play the title role despite his age.
Ford played Indiana Jones in 1981's "Raiders of the Lost Ark," 1984's "Temple of Doom" and 1989's "The Last Crusade."
Lucas praised Ford for breathing life into his character.
"Mostly it's the charm of Harrison that makes it work," he said.
———
On the Net:
Lucasfilm Ltd: http://www.lucasfilm.com
Tournament of Roses: http://www.tournamentofroses.com

body and mind

“Youth is the time for adventures of the body, but age for triumphs of the mind.”

Logan Pearsall Smith

70 40

“To be seventy years young is sometimes far more cheerful and hopeful than to be forty years old”

Oliver Wendell Holmes

most beautiful

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.”
Albert Einstein

another man's road

“We can’t reach old age by another man’s road. My habits protect my life but they would assassinate you”

Mark Twain

madness

“There is no genus without a mixture of madness”
Seneca, the Younger, Roman Philosopher

habit is......

“Habit is habit, and not to be flung out of the window by any man, but coaxed down stairs a step at a time”

Mark Twain

screwy post

Jimmy Buffet.


Why Don't We Get Drunk

I really do appreciate the fact you're sittin' here
Your voice sounds so wonderful
But your face don't look too clear
So, Barmaid, bring a pitcher, another round of brew
Honey, why don't we get drunk and screw.

(Chorus)
Why don't we get drunk and screw
I just bought a waterbed filled up for me and you
They say you are a snuff queen, Honey, I don't think that's true
So, why don't we get drunk and screw.
(Instrumental)
(Repeat chorus)

tonight.........

Bob Dylan
Tonight Ill Be Staying Here With You
Throw my ticket out the window
Throw my suitcase out there too
Throw my troubles out the door
I don't need them any more
'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you.

I should have left this town this morning
But it was more than I could do
Oh, your love comes on so strong
And I've waited all day long
For tonight when I'll be staying here with you.

Is it really any wonder
The love that a stranger might receive
You cast your spell and I went under
I find it so difficult to leave.

I can hear that whistle blowin'
I see that stationmaster, too
If there's a poor boy on the street
Then let him have my seat
'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you.

Throw my ticket out the window
Throw my suitcase out there too
Throw my troubles out the door
I don't need them any more
'Cause tonight I'll be staying here with you.

possessions

“Each person is born to one possession which out values all his others- His last breath”

Mark Twain

sands of time

Like an aging picket fence weaving along a white sand beach in a place of such timelessness, your beauty knows not where to end. Sprigs of wide bladed grasses pushing towards the life giving sunlight that also lights your face, exposing your features to my eyes. Which in turn, reminds me of how you are my life, of what you mean there, and why I could never draw another breath with out you in it. A sea bird passing overhead, calling out for nourishment, for either belly or soul, longing for both in the long run like I. Wave after wave rushing in, lingering, pausing for its one moment of equilibrium before being pulled back home, remixing, never to be exactly the same, leaving only one mark that is absorbed in those sands. We too, are like that in one another’s lives, soaking up the good, fearing the bad, but none the less a canvas of marks, of high tides, and of the low. Washing upon the face of the other, this dance of land and sea, of you and me, a road map in this journey of love, and of life. The fine lines, now lit by the sun show me the way, reading your face, understanding the path, the past, the present and the future.

the twain rolls on

“When I reflect upon the number of disagreeable people who I know have gone to a better world, I am moved to lead a different life”

Mark Twain

pencil-thin

Jimmy Buffet

Pencil-Thin Mustache

Now they make new movies in old black and white,
With happy endings, where nobody fights,
So if you find yourself in that nostalgic rage,
Honey, jump right up and show your age.

I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache,
the "Boston Blackie" kind, or a
two-toned Ricky Ricardo jacket,
and an autographed piture of Andy Divine.

Oh, I remember bein' buck toothed and skinny
Writin' fan letters to Sky's niece Penny.
Oh, I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache,
then I could solve some mysteries too.
Oh it's Bandstand, Disneyland, growin up fast,
Drinkin' on a fake I.D.
And Rama of the jungle was everyone's Bawana,
But only jazz musicians were smokin marajuana.
Yeah, I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache,
then I could solve some mysteries too.

But then it's flat-top, dirty bop, copin' a feel'
grubbin on the living room floor;
They send you off to college to try to gain
a little knowledge,
But all you want to do is learn how to score.
Yeah, but now I'm gettin' old, don't wear underwear,
I don't go to church, and I don't cut my hair;
But I can goto movies and see it all there,
Just the way that it use to be.

That's why I wish I had a pencil-thin mustache
the "Boston Blackie" kind, or a
two-toned Ricky Ricardo jacket,
And an autographed picture of Andy Divine.

Oh, I could be anyone I wanted to be,
Maybe suave Eerol Flynn or the Sheik of Araby.
If I only had a pencil-thin mustache,
then I could do some crusing too.

Yeah, Brylcream, a little dab'll do yah,
Oh, I could do some crusing too.

again, and again, and again

Implosion was emanate, fueled by his mouth, her skin rippled with each passing lick, soft and gentle, each one teasing, thick and timely. Pulling his hair as if guiding a horse drawn carriage, she steered him into those zones she loved touched. The backs of her knees, now damp and raised above him, making her feel all the more naughty. Her breath now a pant, as if no air was left in the room, each one, timed with each lick, she moans out, and growing louder, and louder she comes so intensely that she becomes limp, like a rag doll, laying there, smiling as he raises up, and in a single graceful motion, slides up, on and in her. Slowly, commencing to move in and out, touching his tongue to hers, the heat of their passion builds, like steam in a volcano, the lava of their love grows, waiting for impending eruption, enjoying, toying, they make love in a way she had never tasted before, never like this, never so sweet, never so intense, never so pleasing……she moaned again, and again, and again, and, then again, her eyes rolled back as she moaned once more, once more as he groans her name long and slow.

killing me

This song came to me, that when I knew I was high!


Roberta Flack-Killing me softly


Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

I heard he sang a good song, I heard he had a style.
And so I came to see him to listen for a while.
And there he was this young boy, a stranger to my eyes.

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

I felt all flushed with fever, embarrassed by the crowd,
I felt he found my letters and read each one out loud.
I prayed that he would finish but he just kept right on ...

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

He sang as if he knew me in all my dark despair.
And then he looked right through me as if I wasn't there.
But he just came to singing, singing clear and strong.

Strumming my pain with his fingers,
Singing my life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...

He was strumming, oh, he was singing my song.
Killing me softly with his song,
Killing me softly with his song,
Telling my whole life with his words,
Killing me softly with his song ...
With his song ...

frozen heart

Frozen from your world
Set adrift, and cast to sea
Looking for redemption
In a three part harmony

now that I'ved lost everything to you

Cat Stevens
Wild World

1. Now that I've lost everything to you
You say you want to start something new
And it's breaking my heart you're leaving, baby I'm grieving
But if you want to leave take good care
Hope you have a lot of nice things to wear
But then a lot of nice things turn bad out there

Ref.: Oh, baby, baby it's a wild world
It's hard to get by just upon a smile
Oh, baby, baby it's a wild world
I'll always remember you like a child, girl

2. You know I've seen a lot of what the world can do
And it's breaking my heart in two
'Cos I never want to see you sad girl. don't be a bad girl
But if you want to leave take good care
Hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware

Ref.: Oh, baby,baby ...

3. (Instrumental)
(Instrumental)
(Instrumental) , Baby I love you
But if you want to leave take good care
Hope you make a lot of nice friends out there
But just remember there's a lot of bad and beware

Ref.: Oh, baby, baby ... (2x)

The Blokes

The Long And Winding Road
(Lennon/McCartney)

~~~

The long and winding road that leads to your door,
Will never disappear, I've seen that road before
It always leads me here, leads me to your door.

The wild and windy night the rain washed away,
Has left a pool of tears crying for the day.
Why leave me standing here, let me know the way

Many times I've been alone and many times I've cried
Anyway you'll never know the many ways I've tried

And still they lead me back to the long and winding road
You left me standing here a long, long time ago
Don't leave me waiting here, lead me to your door

But still they lead me back to the long and winding road
You left me standing here a long, long time ago
Don't keep me waiting here, lead me to your door
yea, yea, yea, yea--

nilsson

Harry Nilsson.


Everybody's talking at me

I don't hear a word they're saying

Only the echoes of my mind

People stopping staring

I can't see their faces

Only the shadows of their eyes

I'm going where the sun keeps shining

Thru' the pouring rain

Going where the weather suits my clothes

Backing off of the North East wind

Sailing on summer breeze

And skipping over the ocean like a stone

against the wind

Bob Seger and The Sliver Bullet Band, “Against the Wind”.


It seems like yesterday

But it was long ago

Janey was lovely she was the queen of my nights

There in the darkness with the radio playing low

And the secrets that we shared

The mountains that we moved

Caught like a wildfire out of control

'Til there was nothing left to burn and nothing left to prove

And I remember what she said to me

How she swore that it never would end

I remember how she held me oh so tight

Wish I didn't know now what I didn't know then

Against the wind

We were runnin' against the wind

We were young and strong, we were runnin'

Against the wind

The years rolled slowly past

And I found myself alone

Surrounded by strangers I thought were my friends

I found myself further and further from my home

And I guess I lost my way

There were oh so many roads

I was living to run and running to live

Never worryied about paying or even how much I owed

Moving eight miles a minute for months at a time

Breaking all of the rules that would bend

I began to find myself searching

Searching for shelter again and again

Against the wind

A little something against the wind

I found myself seeking shelter sgainst the wind

Well those drifter's days are past me now

I've got so much more to think about

Deadlines and commitments

What to leave in, what to leave out

Against the wind

I'm still runnin' against the wind

I'm older now but still runnin' against the wind

Well I'm older now and still runnin'

Against the wind

Against the wind

Against the wind

Still runnin'

I'm still runnin' against the wind

I'm still runnin'

I'm still runnin' against the wind

Still runnin'

Runnin' against the wind

Runnin' against the wind

See the young man run

Watch the young man run

Watch the young man runnin'

He'll be runnin' against the wind

Let the cowboys ride

Let the cowboys ride

They'll be ridin' against the wind

Against the wind ...

ripe

Ripe with juice, her words run down my face as I bite them. The tang, overwhelming in texture and truth fills me with pleasure. Each bite, fresher and fuller than the last, I become gluttonous. My belly swells with their delectable flavor, but I do not stop. Like a horse to water drinking in their meaning, learning more of who I am from her non stop banquet of words. This is inspiration at is finest. This is what I thirst for. Addicted I must have the fix that pulses threw my veins………..

words to live

Youngblood’s, “Let’s Get Together”.


Love is but the song we sing,

And fear's the way we die

You can make the mountains ring

Or make the angels cry

Know the dove is on the wing

And you need not know why

C'mon people now,

Smile on your brother

Ev'rybody get together

Try and love one another right now

Some will come and some will go

We shall surely pass

When the one that left us here

Returns for us at last

We are but a moments sunlight

Fading in the grass

C'mon people now,

Smile on your brother

Ev'rybody get together

Try and love one another right now

If you hear the song I sing,

You must understand

You hold the key to love and fear

All in your trembling hand

Just one key unlocks them both

It's there at your command

C'mon people now,

Smile on your brother

Ev'rybody get together

Try and love one another right now

Right now

Right now!

The Most Painful Day of the Year

Sitting here waiting for the end of this seemingly endless precession of rail cars a sweetness comes over me. Like that gentle breeze we have all read about, passing over our bodies while lifting up our hair. My mind has drifted off, sending me to another place and time in my short life. For only 3 or so seconds I was transported to a time and place where my lonesomeness had not yet been born.

I can still remember most of them, although some are nothing more than a name on a list, a mark of my conquest, never shared with anyone. I do not name names when I kiss and tell. From this list, only some are remembered completely. Their touch, smell and taste, right here, never fading, some how remaining separate from the rest. Remembering the way they moved when I was in them. Some I miss, and some miss me, and still others I would still die for, but there was only that one that really mattered. I sit and stare; lost in the vibration of the train I recall that year, it had started in spring.

The dingers’ rose and traffic rumbled back to its business at hand. Somehow I retained a small piece of that long forgotten happiness. A smile curled the edges of my lips as I headed home. As I drove through the older neighborhoods of town I continued to reach back into that often-sordid bag of my past.

The Springtime of sexual awaking-

I thought about the wonders of seeing the ground pushing bulbs and shrubs towards bloom. I could smell the warmth of the earth, as a spring shower would dust the ground, sending its scent of freshness all around. I could see blue skies, with distant clouds bellowing, puffy white and pure. The days as a teen spent falling in love with young girls, still learning about our sexuality one day at a time still made me hard. Tender moments spent licking one another’s cracks and shafts. Rabbit like raw humping keeping time to the rock n roll anthems of our time. Our nudity so new, the shyness fading to an unbridled freedom to fuck. With each stolen moment, and with each kiss we swore to an unending love all the while holding hands between smokes.

The Summer of love-

The swimming holes filled up quickly with the boys and girls of that summer. Heavy drinking and pot gave the courage to explore many uncharted seas. Relationships came and so did I. Of the many loves that summer one stood out and still owns major real estate of my heart even now. Flirting with one another she made me feel things the others hadn’t, and in that summer of love we educated one another in ways that still make me smile. Lovers learning the ways of their bodies, boys becoming young men as girls stepped towards real maturity, wishing that we would never leave. But unlike Pan, I could not fly.

The Fall from grace-

Watching the sun slowly speed up, heading to its summer equinox, Fall rounds the corner. Leaves burning in piles, while giggling children run hoping the shrinking daylight can be altered. I spent that fall completely in lust with an older girl that introduced me to the naughty side of the tracks. We would lie under the trees and listen to the sounds of migrating birds while leaves fell on us. Many times we did this naked, and if your in Rome. She opened doors to me that defines who I sexuality am today for the most part. Twisted and playful she showed me secrets I treasure yet share freely today. Growing erect and standing firm I schooled long and hard in her ways of love. Quaaludes or mushrooms set the many a mood that fall, and when I woke up I found it wasn’t a dream.


Winters of our discontent-

Ice cold, frozen wastelands stood sentry that year, and I lived in many places staying warm. Allowing strangers to hold my heart in exchange for a few quick fucks, I was on a path to sexual freedom man. I had the world by its tail but didn’t we all in our teenage years? I slept around and got no rest, content to just lick and learn. One day I ran into Mrs. Summer, you remember her, the heartland Baroness. The rush of both being with an old lover that had learned so many new things to pleasure one another with was sweet. The sex was in the top 3, having both quit our jobs in order to stay naked and connected once or twice. If I could hold this one today I know she would say to me, borrowing the Uncle Cracker line; “I polished up your halo, and you dirtied up my soul”. Soul mate number one she was.

The honk of his horn startled me, hitting the gas I looked back and drove away. My 3-second slice of past lovers and friends was through. Another day, another laugh all the way to the bank. I drove towards my empty house not wanting this day to sink in. I fought the varied attempts for that thought, that recollection of the past to hit. But I do remember her and this day so long ago and I miss her in a way that can never be corrected. Death can do that, robbing any way to touch her again, sealing the heart to remember her forever, never being able to detach fully and step back into real life full of real people. I didn’t want to remember but I did.

We had started a life together, and for the very first time I was truly in a committed relationship. I was 17. The world was perfect and over the years our love grew, as did our son. She was a beautiful mother, a great wife and a kind, naughty yet nurturing lover. I loved that I could get away with telling her that she was a Mother, and I fucked her, thus, I was a bad motherfucker. I was also a great Dad and a true husband. I loved her like my very life depended on it. It turned out, one day it did. That day is here again and I know I will have to write away the thoughts once more. I remember so clearly how she worked to unbuckle me as the jeep began to sink. Pushing me towards the shattered windshield I realized she was just sitting there, not struggling to get free. I turned back, and I went for her seatbelt. She looked at me and somehow I knew. I found the steering wheel had impaled her. She said I love you, and the last bubbles left her. The man who had run us off the bridge pulled me out, and even though he saved my life I still hate that he did in to many ways. Anyway, now its tomorrow, I made it one more time baby. You’d be proud of our son.

Words

The white paper was tightly bound around the green tasty filling, which was now hanging from my lips. Standing James Dean proud the crisp sound of the safety match across the back of my 501’s becomes joined by the fresh flame. Introducing the two of them, they begin their dangerous dance and in moments I am reduced to a fool with his weapon.

Multiple colored words weave in and out my brain. Some touching, rubbing together, creating friction, starting sentence structure while others lay in mid air, useless to me. I reach out, almost touching the word “FUCK” but it slips between my fingers as it floats past. Soon the words overtake my will and my fingers defect to them, now doing their evil work by typing this nonsense up.

I curl up on the sofa, listening to their arguments of what they want to be, and how they wish to be remembered. These words are crazy, but I listen and wait. “Clouds of smoke”, three of the words that formed a partnership early on are attempting to win over the “Seasons” group, which consists of “summer”, “autumn”, “winter” and “spring”. I don’t know why, but Hubcap” is pissed at this. Grumbling can also be heard from “Texture” as well as “Pigment”; still I am unable to break this hideous code.

I look left, but not at “Right” who is watching me closely, I spot something that may help me with my escape. I ask if I may get a fresh pen from the desk drawer, now to busy with their infighting I am allowed with the wave of the “Hand”. Sweating it, I carefully reach down, taking the jumbo gum eraser from the drawer. Its time to erase these bastards from my mind.

This Simple Man

This simple man, who writes to battle the pains, many deserved, that have collected around my heart. I have had my fair share of troubles in life but at the same time I am so blessed, I can still see, feel and dream, while others have been lost to drugs, or alcohol, or have just made poor choices. Understanding pain opens the door to the healing process and I use my ever-increasing knowledge to express myself. So often as I write, I began to cry, and my emotions overtake me even if what I am writing about has never happened to anyone I know. I think I am able to place myself in the shoes of others, taking on their pain, letting it spill out on the page. I don’t know if that’s a bad thing to do or not, I’d never hurt someone purposefully, but when the idea comes, I become a man possessed, I seem to channel that pain, it becomes part of me.

Honey Tribe Concert Review

Honey Tribe
A Concert Review

The band cranks out song after song, as what’s left of the 60’s love children gyrate at stage center. As if attempting to relive something from their past, each seemingly longs for a taste of immortality, even if its found in a drop of sweat from the very talented Devon Allman. Front man for a hauntingly pseudo-reincarnated Allman Brothers Band called Honey Tribe, it is indeed sweet as. Part way through this opening acts repertoire Mr. Allman takes us back in time with ever so subtle licks from “Travelin’ Man”. Their beat and drive is pure Allman through and through. One can see not only his famous fathers musical savvy coming through, but his uncles as well. This band is out to have fun and they want to take us all along. Their new “album” is entitled “Torch”.

Too Short The Day

“I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read, and all the friends I want to see. The longer I live the more my mind dwells upon the beauty and wonder of the earth”

John Burroughs

Reno 11-26-06 Pictures

The Hand Of God

Here's a picture taken from my hotel in Reno Sunday 11-26-06

Shadows and Sunshine

“Most of the shadows of this life are caused by standing in one’s own sunshine”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

He went to Paris

A Jimmie Buffet Classic

He Went To Paris

He went to Paris
Looking for answers
To the questions
That bothered him so
He was impressive
Young and aggressive
Saving the world on his own
The warm summer breezes
And French wines and cheeses
Put his ambition at bay
The summers and winters
Scattered like splinters’
And forty-five years slipped away

He went to England
Played the piano
And married a actress named Kim
They had a fine life
She was a good wife
And bore him a son named Jim
And all of the answers and
All of the questions
Locked in his attic one day
Cause he like the quite,
Clean country living
And twenty more years
Slipped away

Well the war took his baby,
Bombs killed his lady
And left him with
Only one eye
His body was battered
His whole world was shattered
And all he could do
Was just cry
While the tears
Were a falling
He was recalling
Answers he never found
So he hoped on a freighter
Skidded the ocean’
And left England without a sound

Now he lives in the island
Fishes the pylons
And drinks his green label each day
Writing his memoirs
Losing his hearing
But he don’t care what most people say
Through 86 years
Of perpetual motion
If he likes you he’ll smile and he’ll say
Just some of its magic
Some of its tragic,
But I had a good live all the way

He went to Paris
Looking for answers
To questions that bothered him so

The Death of Pain

The Death of Pain"

A short rambling made up story"
By s.redenbaugh



The cheap metal wheel spun, striking a small piece of flint, which produced the flame that brought a red-hot tip to the joint that now fills my lungs with an ever expanding smoke. In my lungs that smoke swirls, brushing against the fine cilia fibers, sending waves of euphoric bliss straight into my brain. Like a bullet, these freshly clipped, primo Humboldt buds draw smooth as silk. Expanding my horizons as well as my mind and lungs. I smile, exhaling and look out the window.

The rain is falling, cascading down, stripping the leaves from the trees. Pushed into the street, which is empty, they float along the gutters and then disappear, into a system that will someday carry them to the ocean where they will no longer be my concern. The only concern I seem to still have is her. The radio noise from the condo next door is loud, and the singer is expressing how bad he feels about his woman leaving him. This cuts deep into my weary mind, and it feels as if my beating heart is in that gutter, drifting away from me.

Now my memories of her are all that remain. Even after two years I think about her every waking moment. Once I even called my girlfriend of nine months her name in the throws of passion. She moved out that night. A flood of others have come and gone because of my inability to move on, they all brand me damaged goods, and for understandable reason. A soul mate cannot be replaced by quantity. It can only be dimmed by quality. No amount of smoke, nor liquor, or other drugs can erase them. No amount of nameless sex partners can bring me peace. Her image is burnt upon my retinas and I can no longer live this way.

Without a coat, and in the falling rain, I walk to the cliff where she had died. The sheared off trees tops and brush are still visible where her car had shot off the road that night. Moments of madness rush my thoughts and death seems all that could relieve the inferno of pain with in me. I lean over and hold my arms up, lifting my hands, I begin to cry out “take me, me. Why didn’t you take me?” And then in that single moment I am back to that night. I am again just waking as the car begins to skid out of control. I can still see the fear in her eyes as the first tree rips the auto apart, her hand reaching for mine, fingers, briefly touching, then nothing but darkness, nothing but sobs, nothing but death. And then, unlike the thousands of other times I have stood her and replayed that night I leap.

Did you hear that?

Both small and large children ring the doorbell and shout out their greeting seeking sweets in exchange for not killing us. “Trick or Treat” so casually tossed out, meaningless to oddly dressed human children attempting to get free candy from strangers. What’s next? Running with scissors? How can this be, and where are their parents? Some of the older children are dressed as older children as they try to blend in with the others who have at least attempted to pass as pirates and princesses. Is there a type of “bah humbug” greeting for those of us would wish this night would end? 364 of the rest of the nights in this year would land one in jail for asking “would you like some candy little girl”? Go figure. Anyway, happy spooks and goblins

This Old Farmhouse

This Old Farmhouse
A cold short story


This clapboard farmhouse sits waiting for winter, absent from the warm days and cool evenings of autumn. No more children will run past her windows laughing as if the sun will stay forever. The chill of the air, lightly scented with burning fires will cut into the weathered siding, digging deeper into the small cracks, starting its never ending quest of removing another undetermined amount of paint from her sides. Soon the rains will beat against her, adding layers of rust on her hinges and the exposed heads of nails, as she begins to swell like some aged ship reintroduce to the sea. Many creaks in her floor will return while others head south. She will change, this home, this sanctuary from the storms. Fires inside her will start as each log placed into the wood burner attempts to counter the exterior wind driven freeze. She will be both hot and cold, wet and dry, safe and dangerous as she stands firm in facing those elements of the winter as they pound against her. Her doors will increase width; temporally sealing them tightly to each exterior doorjamb, most certainly causing their use as designed to fail. Drafts will seek ways around her walls, sneaking in and bringing forth small cold spots, chilling the surrounding air as if to remind us of where we are.

This clapboard farmhouse, built in 1832 by Great-Grandfather Levi for his new bride is still home to his descendants, I, his great-grandson have kept the home fire fires burning a long time, and though life here is not unpleasant, it is extremely demanding during the cold months when the snows come. For the last 27 winters, each one has left me snow bound, trapped inside for weeks at a time. Unable to retrieve water from the tap, forced to melt snow for drinking and cooking. One year the back porch where I have my writing studio caved in, 7 feet of snow turned into a glacier and advanced half way into the kitchen before the spring thaw came. Lost a lot of my stories not to mention it made the house cold as the North Pole. That was the year my girlfriend Jill had decided to stay the winter with me. We both took sick that year and for a few weeks I was bedridden, not sure that I would recover, Jill claimed that’s as close to death as she’s ever seen a man. Her blankets would pile up on her chair and could be found covering most of the sofa. Her green quilt, the one with the embroidered brown and red leaves became her cocoon, traveling from room to room. My needs for fresh air became a flash point for conflict, and the next 3 or 4 months we fought over whom holds control of the temperature. That also left a lot of time for getting back into bed and making up.

I can still remember that year we spent here together. Funny how winter can change us. It was the next year that she had made arrangements for a more southern location where she thought the two of us would bask while winter did its thing. Since I spent every winter there writing, a disagreement broke out and didn’t end up leaving us in a happier ever after kind of hallmark moment. She left for the winter and I stoked the fire more than ever before. Two stubborn fools we were. She said she be back in the springtime and left.

It was the coldest winter ever recorded that year, reaching minus 15 for 3 straight weeks. My wood was running short even though I had tried to conserve, I had no choice but keep it burning. Had it gone out, death would come in days from hypothermia. In the mean while, I had been very productive writing that winter; with no one to spend the day with I immersed myself in my stories. One story in particular was most certainly the greatest love story I had ever written. A tale so beautiful that each time I read it I cried tears of joy. Back then I did all my writing on my trusty old Underwood typewriter because of the power going out so often. It was about mid December, near as I could tell when I started burning the chairs, most of the firewood was gone and the stockpile outside on the porch had become much to wet to catch fire. I moved the logs inside and every couple of days I would try to burn another one, pulled from the igloo like stack I had built from them around the fireplace. I had already chopped up the butcher blocker cutting board that had stood in the kitchen first, mixing it with the remaining wood, getting three days heat from her. After that the picture frames went, then the headboard and dresser. I had burned every door, all the cabinets, and even part of the wooden flooring. The clothes burned ok but smoked awfully bad, but not as much as the mattress had. I was down to one old wooden chair, and boxes of my writings. It didn’t look good. The boxes went next, and I had to stop eating, having burnt the food as fuel, but not in an ingested way. I had kept her blankets, bundled up in them all, I found myself faced with life without my stories, or death and the chance the world would read them. One by one, a story was pulled apart, page after page kept me alive. The tears became like ice on my face as each one caught fire. The day I burnt that love story all I could think of was her, and the reality that I most likely wouldn’t live to see her again. Thoughts of how horrible it would be for her to open that door and find me frozen like an ice cream ran through my mind, with each moment, and each page I tossed in to burn I formed a plan. I would type her a letter on the back of one of the last pages telling her not to come in, but to go get the sheriff because I didn’t make it. Most everything was now burnt.

As I lay my head down, covered only by the blanket with the embroidered leaves, and with the one page note pinned outside on the door I began to dream. The last of my fuel cast its glow, as the final chapter of the most beautiful love story ever written burned. The dream I had was with me on that beach she wanted me to go to, in swim shorts sipping a nice cool drink, smiling at her, thanking her for her thoughtfulness.

I drifted in and out of sleep over the next few days and I felt deaths icy claws pawing my face. The room had long grown cold. Peaceful thoughts filled my mind. The shivering had past. Numbness blocked any feelings I should have had. My eyes could no longer see although they remained open. I was near death.

Somewhere in my mind I heard her voice, telling me to hold on. Demanding that I not die. In the dream I heard her say “Don’t you fucking die on me”, it was so real that even the smell of smoke was present. The words were like heated water enveloping every part of me. I could taste something warm on my lips. Then I felt my finger move, and that’s when my eyes focused and there she was. The tears in her eyes changed quickly to a sparkle as again she cussed me out, this time for scaring her so badly. She told me she thought she had lost me forever. She had returned and was saving my live at that very moment.

I made it through that winter, losing only the first finger on my right hand to frostbite. The one I hunted and pecked with best. And the very next winter I learned to write in shorts, sipping Mi-ties on the beach as I made every attempt to recreate that love story, only now, she’s on every page.

“Strolling Down the 1874 Trail to Yosemite”

“Strolling Down the 1874 Trail to Yosemite”
Or An Unknown lapse of Reason

A Barely Readable Account Of Near Death And Bruises-

If I were a Scientist I would be able to tell you the complete story of this tail, but I’m not, didn’t even play one on TV. What I am is a very sore man human who basked in a walk through history Saturday. Up at 6:50 am though not by choice, we bathe, eat and set out for an adventure. This one requires two 4 wheel drive jeeps, but only because that’s what we were driving. The first one is left along the side of the road, next to “El Capitan Meadow” on the Yosemite Valley floor. The other is taken through three tunnels and 30 some miles to Tamarack Flats which just happens to sit about two thousand feet above the meadow we’d walk to. Crazy, not at that particular moment, but it was still early.

If one were to stand at the southwestern end of the “El Cap” meadow and look north across the valley floor you might be able to make out the faint dark line that travels down the canyon wall. This outline can be seen running along the hauntingly beautiful tree covered bluffs then suddenly it disappears under 7 or 8 different landslides. At each edge of these slides the road reappears seemingly rolling along on it’s merry way to nirvana, the valley floor. You would have to be insane to attempt to walk this long ago abandon road.

The hike down the winding trail/road is filled with many wonders, and some plants and trees are starting to show their fall colors. The air is cool and clouds dart to and from as if in some sort of tug or war with the mountains. A few miles in the road has started to become a part of the surroundings, reclaimed by vegetation, undercut by over a hundred and twenty five years of winter. At the four-mile mark the trail splits and we bear towards El Capitan, the single largest monolithic granite rock in the world. One half of a mile later a footbridge allows us across Cascade Creek. It is here that we stop for a quick lunch and listen the sounds of the creek.

Opened sometime in 1874 this road was used as a wagon road to haul supplies and tourists to the valley floor. We can sense this history, and are in awe at the extent they went to in making this roadwork. It is just after our lunch that we hit the second split in the trail, the one we do not take is a 13 mile trek up to and then back down the top of El Cap. It is a clear, maintained path, while the one we take instantly shows that no one has touched this trail in at least 40 some years. Fallen trees lay across the road, and small trees grow up through the middle. Soon huge piles of bear scat appear, I rack my 40 and keep an eye out as I lead us around the obstacles that cover the Old Oak Flat Road. In many places the path is only as wide as a foot, new growth filling in the hard work of those whom toiled so long ago.

Looking up from the floor the slides appear huge, one at least, looks to be about a quarter mile wide. The road sticks out of both ends. In real life, this first slide is massive. Standing at its side, and looking across at the other side we are in awe. Rocks the size of houses sit where gravity and balance merge. The road is somewhere under us we start out on the dangerous surface of this very unstable rockslide. I tap and push on each rock as I scramble east. One rock the size of one half of a vw bug moves under my feet. I start a ten-foot gap between each of us for safety, as the full predicament sinks in. Everyone agreed that running with scissors is safer, but there’s no turning around now. Each step is well thought out and our slow progress begins to doom the remaining daylight.

The constant slide, then road becomes tiring, feet are hurting and the total sum of our sanity is discussed. Then, the road cuts around a bend and we stand looking down at the valley floor. Busses are the size of ants and we all see the beauty of this place from a new angle. Everyone picks up damage to themselves, blisters, cuts and bruises but we push on.

About 4 or so in the afternoon we turn a corner and see a site that amazed us. In our view is El Cap, Half Dome, Bridalvail Falls and Sentinel Dome! The sun lights up the views we then experience on the remainder of the trip as it starts to sink behind 7 and 8 thousand feet high mountains. We finally find the main road, tired, spent yet content that we made it, and hiked a trail long ago forgotten by people and mapmakers. We walked in the path of the ancient and came out alive.

Sunday morning standing at that meadow, looking across at the rockslides the others tell me that had they known…………………………….insanity, at least that trail is marked off my list.

Pictures of the waterfall

Water falls,
and butter flies.
The rocks within,
tell no lies.
Dig it once,
dig it twice.
Because its cool
day and night.

Shadows Of Ourselves

Shadows of Ourselves

A rambling


Someday men and women will be able to not only communicate with each other but also understand one another, fully, and completely. Women will feel the closeness to these new found men who will never leave a commode seat up and will always notice when a single hair has been cut, curled, or colored. The new woman will hand the do-it yourselfer the correct socket, or screwdriver and be able to recite any sports score while stocking the garage refer with the proper beverages. Listening will become a fully developed function in men, who will never tire of hearing any story more than once, and be able to notice new shoes unprompted. Sex will be available through the improved women anytime, anywhere. Men will enjoy talking to their Mother-in-laws. But until then, we will be as we are. Allowing shadows of ourselves to live the lives we should be living. Falling short of being able to make another person we care about or love feel complete. Waiting to make the connections that can change us.

50

“Turning Fifty Outside”
A life well spent by S. Redenbaugh

Well, as much as I hate to admit it, fifty is almost here. Only an hour and a half separates me from the start of senility, bad jokes and half priced senior food…..tic….tic….tic…….

The first ten years were bliss, being young and sheltered from the world’s evil; somehow I knew Ward and June were acting and that Eddie Haskell was the crack in the façade.

The second ten years brought many changes, learning to vote, kiss and other things I still enjoy. A failed marriage, a kid and a new relationship that still exists today all have left me a stronger man. Ward and June were replaced with Edith and Archie and the meathead was appropriately named for later in his life. I wanted my MTV.

The third ten years brought many deaths to the forefront of my life; I stepped up and took the reins I was handed. Still very young at heart I started getting complete physicals, and had I known I would have made it this far I would have taken better care of myself. Edith and Archie stepped aside and Homer and Marge took center stage. I changed my political beliefs, learning how wrong I had been.

The forth ten years brought more death, and soon I was without parents, sadly wishing for more time I vowed to spent more time with my son. I excelled in my profession and made money. Homer and Marge stuck around but their luster faded as Wisteria Lane warped our hearts. Seinfeld was about something and a grandson was born. I quit working for the man, and became the man, doing 4.5 million in my 49th year.

So now, where I go is anyone’s guess, but I have learned so much more. I have learned to accept change, but not to enjoy it. I have watched the children of friends become parents.

So, bring it on, inside I’m still that insecure little boy on the vast playground of life, but fifty really doesn’t matter. Sixty is to far away to worry about today, and seventy is a goal. Here’s to everyone who gave a piece of their heart, making me who I am today, thank you.

“Vicarious Tales of Woe”

“Can one die vicariously through another?”
a short rambling by S. Redenbaugh

Patriotic Nymphomaniac was written on the card she handed me. I wasn’t sure if she was in a band or trying to pick me up but it certainly was a conversation starter. We drank heavily and talked deep into the half moon night. It was like being a teenager again, tapping back into that stamina that used to race through the veins. Laughing from the heart. Each sharing small intimate stories we hadn’t told anyone else in years. Silly kid stuff in full-grown adult bodies, we were having a type of fun that doesn’t happen that easily after ones thirties. Comfortable with each other so quickly, a wordless trust was expressed through our eyes. Her hands, softly touching my wrist, punctuating her reply to my child like question. I hung on every word she spoke; even those that one-day would become irritating if we were to ever marry. She laughed at my silly jokes, even those that would become irritating if we were to ever marry. I was mesmerized, awestruck, and I felt lightheaded watching her slightest of moves. I couldn’t help but notice the way her lips curved up when she smiled. It was the first day of the rest of our lives together.

The cancer claimed her last Tuesday; 3 months to the day she told first me. She had known when we met, but when would be a good moment she would say later, the prognoses were good then. Her treatments always coincided with visits to her fathers or work trips away, her secret held so close for two years, the double pain she must have felt. I still wish I would have known from the start, I couldn’t help but think I might have been able to do something, its human nature to think so. I do not fault her though; the love she gave me was one that I consider infinitely lucky to have had in my lifetime. It will never be matched in the life I still have left.

The day she found out it had grown, that death was all that was left was the day she sat me down and said she had to tell me something. I didn’t have a clue of what she was going to say having never seen that look in her teary eyes before, but I knew it was going to change my entire life.

We held each other and cried for the entire first week, we both took family leave from work, neither caring about anything in the world outside of us. I felt an array of emotions, from anger and betrayal to fear and hopelessness, but I kept them to my self. My mask was one of strength, but I know she knew better. I wanted this to be her time, what ever was left it was going to be spent doing the things we had planed and talked about.

The house was sold, and both cars traded in for a shiny white convertible. We jumped on the adventures after talking with her doctor. “We” didn’t have long. For her, our trips were something she had always dreamed of, for me, I didn’t notice anything but her. Sadly, I also believe it was a nightmare for her at the same time, knowing the memories we were making would be left to me with no one to share them with. It was unspoken, and unshakably it was there for the rest of her life. I knew she was mentally counting off each of the few days we knew she had before her body would shut down. I ignored the calendar, but in her eyes I knew the count.

In the final days she laid in our bed. I had moved it into our home office where she could look out into her garden. She had made beautiful things grow there, and had spent countless hours working the ground. I can still taste the abundance of what she grew, and her lust for life. She is everywhere I look doing all that she did in life. I can also still taste her. I can still feel her soft hands in mine. I can still hear her call my name, weak, tired, and at deaths door, telling me to water her garden. I knew what she meant, that was her way of saying it was time, and I took her in my arms, softly kissing her goodbye.

Tomorrow will be one week, although the days have no meaning to me any more. The grief is beyond anything I have ever known, or anything I have ever felt. It is in these silent moments that strangely I realize that I have also died vicariously through what she went through.

Through it all, her love stayed as strong for me as when we met. Mine grew in ways I can’t explain. I remember in the end when I tried to make her believe that I believed that I would be all right. She smiled at me and called me a liar, but it wasn’t hurtful, it wasn’t spoken with anger. It was in a softer tone. It was as if she was able to mentally paint a picture for me, one of her arms holding me one last time. Still sobbing like the little boy that once lived in this giants skin I felt her stop breathing and I knew I was alone again.

“The History of Something in the Future”

“The History of Something in the Future”
or “Smoking My Way In”
A short story by S. Redenbaugh



As I cram myself deeper into this slot fissure inside the cave I smile. Fitting into it requires me to exhale than push through the small opening that angles up a mud slope . This is something you don’t do alone, I do, but you shouldn’t. Once in, I look for the winters ravage on the room. The air here is cold, and its smell is that of wet mud and clay. Catching my breath, I reach into my mud crusted cave pack and remove a twelve inch by three eights of an inch iron pipe. I unscrew the end and slide out a stick of Nam Champa incense. I bang my elbow on the wall behind me as I light the stick and place it into the mud floor below my feet. Looking down I see history before me.

When smoke travels perpendicular to an incense stick there is a very good reason. Airflow strong enough to push the smoke away from the upright stick is the tell tale sign of more cave beyond my present reach. I am knocking upon this heavens door.

Three years ago I broke into this fissure and pushed it as far as possible. Every Saturday night after spending the day there I would nurse the gashes and rips in my fore arms from attempting to place my body into a narrow slot smaller than my sum total parts. I had to.

Just beyond where I can get to lies a huge room, thus the airflow. I can see the blackness of this void; her name is The Apricot Gardens because of the fruit colored blobs growing on the ceiling. She has kept her virginity from me far to long.

This narrow slot fissure is about ten feet tall but is on a slant, keeping me from standing. In most places here the walls are so close to my face that I have to close my eyes to keep from going insane, its only when facing straight down the fissure that I can look. For a man with claustrophobia I pick strange things to entertain myself with.

Today, by proving the airflow is worthy of altering the entrance I take steps to remove her obstacles. I drilled eleven one inch holes eighteen inches deep into the stone wall that is doing just that in its blocking my way on. Inside these holes a licensed professional will pack them with a state of the art expanding agent and I’ll leave it at that. The expansion will take place Tuesday after work, then Thursday; I’ll reenter and remove the rubble. I hope to then push into the virgin passage with glee.

Parkinson’s Pete Rides Again

“Good, Good, Bad Vibrations”
or “Parkinson’s Pete Rides Again”
An extremely short story by:
S.Redenbaugh


Vibrations deep within the earth go unfelt by most, yet he noticed them all. Each day as he went about his business he could sense the coming wave of movement. He had learned not to say things about them because the others never understood, and they would pass. He also hated the sound of cardboard.

To his knowledge and based upon earlier experiences, these feelings were only shared with common ants and certain birds. One day when he was eight he had felt one coming, somewhere near the mile deep mark he happened to glance back at the ant farm he was holding. The ants were noticeably upset and were scurrying in circles, almost as if they had all been held beneath a magnifying glass in the hot sun. Then it hit. They all knew. He also knew not to tell his parents again.

When you and I feel an earthquake we know it and we will talk about “it” at the water coolers of the work place. If it has been above a 7.0 we’ll talk about it again the next day. The 1989 California quake was talked about for months. For him, that earth shift sent him to the Holland Hospital for the Mentally Disturbed until yesterday. Yesterday he was “released” after spending the past sixteen years there. He wasn’t crazy, we just needed to run a few tests on him and lost track of the time.

He had been at the market shopping that day. He had first felt it as he opened a carton of eggs to check them. As the first shock wave shot upwards toward the surface the eggs began to vibrate. The shells quivered slightly, nothing we would notice, but he had. The noise that glass bottles make as they began to touch each other had sent him racing towards the exit. No one ever knew he had dropped the eggs because a minute later every egg there was destroyed.

We estimate the quake to have been at least 8 miles below the crust when he first felt it. What he felt at that moment was what we feel when a big one over 7.0 “hits”. For him the quake had lasted 4 minutes longer then the one we “felt”. He knew the power this one had as he had ran out into the street. His eyes had searched for someway to tell the others, but the beatings as child crying wolf would not let him say the words out loud. Each ten thousandth of a second it grew closer, his ears ached as if concert speakers from a heavy metal band had been duct taped to each one. The vibrations would have almost been detectable on a rector scale at this point. He ran towards the alley and crawled beneath a pile of boxes, cardboard boxes. His worse fears were nothing compared to the next 8 minutes.

His Doctor used to tell me that if I were to watch his right index finger I would see that he lifted it several times an hour. Like a serrated nerve gaining a split second of connectivity it would jump straight out, pausing, then slowly relaxing back into the ball his hands made when he slept. We finally proved those were connected to actual earth movements as the technology improved. Hooking up a Chisel 5000, which is a super sensitive earth movement monitor we recorded his “marking” of the beginning of each one to a, however small, tremor. He could “predict” earthquakes up to 2 minutes before the machine picked it up. He was a deep earth seismograph. We never told him that ours had come in a cardboard box.

Annie had long grown tired of the waiting for him to return back to their life. She only had known about his vibration sensitivities through the secret readings from his journals. He had kept them from his childhood and they contained hundreds of thousands of “events”. His writings of them seemed to be an outlet to purge their damaging effects on his life. He had suffered alone through them all after being put into a hospital by a drunken father who accused him of knocking over his beer when he was four. The Sperm Donor didn’t like his kid blaming the earth for ruining his prized perfect bowling scorecard with a lap full of suds. No matter how much he had begged between each slap, each hit his word vocabulary was no match for an abusive father. He left with Annie yesterday.

The sun was just starting to come up as they left and he drove. Annie smiled watching him as they finally were through with the tests. She had watched us hook him to countless devises through out the years, and even though some of them had hurt, she never got upset. She seemed to understand that we would one day tire of his abilities and find someone new to play with. I will always remember him fondly as an incredibility gifted man and she as the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.

I made my final notes when the phone rang. I picked it up and felt chills run up my spine. I had never told anyone else about this, it was my secret, my burden. Someone was rubbing cardboard on the other end of the wireless line. I hung up and shivered. This wasn’t funny, but I thought I understood why he had called. He had learned as much about me as I had of him. Then I felt something else, and I called out to Martha, my secretary. “No”. she replied, she hadn’t felt anything………………..

Me and Bobbie Malone

He was just this way I thought, as his face slammed into my fist, stubborn. When he got this way, only being beaten unconscious would stop him. I tried talking first, believe me but for now I would have to continue striking him.

I hated violence, unless it stops a death, then I’m first in line. Bobbie Malone wasn’t dying on my watch, although he would wake up in a hospital. I guess to someone who didn’t know him you might think him insane, but you’d be only scratching the surface of his complete psychosis.

Watching Bobbie Malone is like being on fudge with a pot cake, and as clear as the backwash of a tsunami. Bobbie wasn’t like us, he wasn’t like anyone, nor did many think him completely human.

After many vicious moments Mr. Malone was no longer moving, so I checked his pulse, it was fine, and now after his recovery so would he, at least until next time.

Ramblings on my mind

Ramblings on a mid summers night

or, a point somewhere.

A short ramble by S Redenbaugh


We had an understanding, they being the Jock’s at West Lambert High and myself, a longhaired hippie freak. It was 1973 and the world was my oyster. I was in the prime of my life; I just had no idea at the time.

1973 was so long ago it’s back in style again, only I’m on the outside looking in. The landscape was very different then, as were we. The Jocks of course were the athletic souls that set records, drank beer and had the best bad girls. They came from families that placed a high value on those records, and high five’d one another under the table on the conquests of the females they kept handy. They drove fast cars, and lived the same way. It was also them that bestowed the nic-name “The Freaks” upon us.

You see, the year before I had an experience that altered my thought process forever. I had just moved from a small rural town with a population of 5300 people. A product of a no fault divorce (the victims), Mom and I moved 2500 miles away, on the day after my last day of my 1st year of High School. I know, its sometime hard to follow, you see, I came home from school and there was a moving van parked in front of the loser, 2 bedroom apartment my Mother and I had been forced into after Pop chased a weasel.

She hadn’t told me this until then, but she needed us to move out to Indianapolis. Her own Mother was near death with cancer and things couldn’t get much worse here. So, the next day, without proper time to say any goodbyes we split. Years down the road the collective group of Psychiatrists who “helped” me since then would tell me that this was the reason I deal with death and rejection the way I do. Anyway, The high school had maybe 350 students there, and the new High School in Indianapolis had 6000, the second largest high school at the time.

Trying to fit in at North Central High to whatever group would want me, it was there that I made the decision to part my hair down the middle and grow it long. The few kids that accepted me all had longer hair so the connection seemed clear. Many of the above mentioned Quacks would say this was the manifestation of a young boys cry for help, clear, and classic, but Mom had bigger issues at the time so I went back from Easter Break a new man, finishing the year sitting behind a huge girl that had the smell of grilling onions coming from her armpits. My hair kept growing, but so did the uncertainness of a misguided youth unfamiliar with the reflection in the mirror.

So by the time the summer of 1972 ended my Grandmother had past away, God rest her soul, and my Mom had re-married. She married a wonderful father figure who moved us north into his house, and that is when I met the Jock’s. Although I couldn’t have had a better new Father I pushed away. Maybe from fear of being rejected once again, first by the Weasel Chaser, and then by an array of “Big Brother’s” that just didn’t like me and stop calling, I don’t know. I just didn’t use the resources available to me until later in life. He was a great man, a great Father, and he taught me who I am today, at least the good parts.

When I started my Junior year my hair was to my shoulders. Uprooted once again, like a witness protection subject hiding from town to town, my identity changed again, reinvented I hoped to get it right this time, yet still miles from knowing what really made me tick. But, my hair was long and straight, much like the path I would walk each day to and from my 3rd new school in 3 years. Oh boy.

On the first day of school I started walking towards West Lambert High, my mind racing as to what this year’s crop of homegrown locals would be like. I was sad over losing the 2nd set of friends that should have been here, to help me find truth, and the way through this crazy thing called High School. But NO, my steering committee was again just some pimpled faced kid, unsure of life or how it worked, wishing for someone to hold his hand and make it all better again. Underneath my hardened shell a psychoanalysts wet dream lurking in a small child in a bumbling boy body, but with the long hair I prayed would somehow change all that. I also understood that all the things I learned from the last set of friends was really nothing more than just male cow poop scooped up and held as the truth, at least for that stinking moment. Still, in my heart the reality was that I was once again, and for the 3rd time walking into a place of mystery, and for the 2nd time, alone.

Alone, from the Greek language meaning to die a thousand deaths inside for no comprehendible reason other than I somehow knew my own Mothers happiness was at an all time high. I knew that I had sucked it up at 12, guided her home to mend and that now was suppose to be my time for the healing, for the acceptance of the pain and for the help I knew I needed. The final piece had been the new marriage. I hid more than my face under the long hair. If you think adult men are the worse at being stubborn asking for directions along life’s busy hi-ways, you ain’t been a teenaged boy.



The sky was clear and fresh that day, I made mental notes of places I could hide until school was out, but I knew I couldn’t do that. Not because I wouldn’t, but because my Mother had taken a job as The Superintend of Public Schools secretary. In fact, most everyone that worked in my new school was connected to my new father. Miss any day, any time and she’d know. It was about then one my first day walk to WLH that I saw a beautiful girl crossing the street ahead of me. I slowed down so we wouldn’t meet but she turned and said “Hello”. She told me that her name was Katrina, which may have been Greek for girl with hair down to her, ah, her butt.

It was through her that I met the others like me. Broken children from broken homes, afraid, and good at hiding being bad. Even if it was just across the street in a vacant lot where we smoked pot before school. A new meaning to the term “higher learning” was born, at least for me. It was on this first day that I started to become poplar for the first time in my life. The new kid in town with, now get this, an accent! The Boys and Girls of the hippie community welcomed me with open arms and full bowls of low grade smoking materials. We were “The Freaks” and the Jock’s had mandated where we couldn’t smoke cigarettes during breaks. They claimed the entire front of the school, and we were to go to the North side of the building. This was our understanding. Stay away from them and live. Cross them and die, and for the next one and a half years that’s what I did, mostly.

My hair kept growing, but so did the uncertainness of a misguided youth unfamiliar with the reflection in the mirror. Who was that boy performing a magic trick with the cut off straw in his nose? I adapted, and through it I survived. The cost is still being worked out, the collateral damage totaled, and the benefits worked on.

To this day I think back upon those years of aimless rambling, late night smoke outs and learning to keep fear deep inside with a twisted smile. I remember all the hours of stupidity, and of all the broken hearts I gave and received. I was a teenaged moron; glad to never have been both the prior and a father. It was our day of sexual promiscuity, and unprotected hearts, and free love only cost a joint.

Now, as I sit here, wondering what ever happened to any of them, those friends that shared the pains, the fears, and the uncertainty I am somehow at peace. Where once the overwhelming need to contact them would fill my every waking moment, tonight there is only peace, and a joint.

Warlords of my past

It was 1956, and the jungle was impenetrable to everyone but me. I had spent my formidable years there, in the bowls of the cavernous rain forests. I had learned to be self sufficient by 7 years old. I could catch game, kill and cook it, all while making a swell hat from the skins. The vast cave systems were my subway, many passing through piles of the treasures hidden by the looting Spaniards 400 years ago.

I had been 13 when the jungle had become over run with warlords that fought for the “rights” to smuggling the cocaine across the Peruvian jungles for the young cartels being formed. The warlords brought terror to my people. We left in the middle of the night, exiting our hut through the hole made by the fire out back. The out back being set afire by the Indians as a sign of respect of our family, two feet wide it would allow us to depart instantly as long as we followed only it.

It was followed through out that dark night, where the smoke of burning huts hung low and the children’s cries went unanswered. I would latter learn that those very children grew up under the powerful cartels, parentless small versions of soldiers fighting a war that still blows in the winds today.

As daylight broke, we found ourselves walking a red clay path that ran along the river.
4 months later we found ourselves in the United States, cold hungry and in poverty. Over the course of the next 7 years my father worked his trade as a carpenter and my Mother washed the linens of Ladies. I on the other hand was forced to wear shoes and clothing, oh, and I wasn’t allowed near the fishpond on the hillside estates.



August 7th, 2006-

Today I found the above words while going through my grandfather’s things, it was found on the back of an old map ripped in two. There appears to be another half to it that completes it. I wanted to get this out so if anyone has Granddads map briefcase let me know-

Hiway Companion -A CD Review

As I listen to Petty’s songs here it is like I am sitting with an old friend. So many songs here that flow over my heart like water through a cave.

From the 2006 CD Hiway Companion
By Tom Petty


“Square One”

Had to find higher ground-
Had some fear to get around-
You can’t say what you
Don’t know-
Later on won’t work no more-

Last time through I hid my tracks-
Sowell I could not get back-
Yeah my way was hard to find-
Can’t sell your soul for peace
Of mind-

Square one, my slate is clear-
Rest your head on me my dear-
It took a world of trouble-
It took a world of tears-
It took a long time to get
Back here-

Try so hard to stand alone-
Struggle to see past my nose-
Always had more dogs than bones-
I could never wear those clothes-

It’s a dark victory-
You won and you also lost-
Told us you were satisfied-
But it never came across-

Square one, my slate is clear-
Rest your head on me my dear-
It took a world of trouble-
It took a world of tears-
It took a long time to get
Back here-



Another great line and song is off “Big Weekend” where he sings “If you don’t run you rust”

And his song
“Damaged By Love”

she don’t care about time-
time gets in her way-
fades into the wind-
days roll into days-

shes got nothing to hide-
and she hides it so well-
keeps broken dreams
to fix up and sell-

damaged by love-
damaged by love-
so young-
and damaged by love-

theres rain on the road-
and the faithful have gone-
in a crowd all alone-
walking ‘round in a song-

damaged by love-
damaged by love-
so young-
and damaged by love-

eyes down at my door-
and she holds out her hand-
I love you so deep-
But you can’t understand-

damaged by love-
damaged by love-
so young-
and damaged by love-

My heart still beats

Life is funny
A short story by S. Redenbaugh


“Listen”, she said as she drove the knife deep into my heart, “you were never meant to love me” She laughed so wickedly and walked out, leaving me in a puddle of blood, dying both inside and out. I stumbled to the window and watched her drive away in my 07 BMW. I thought for a moment whether I wanted to call 911 or just sit down and die, but I have always hated to make rush decisions so I wanted more time, which equaled 911. I pulled out the knife and waited.

I woke up in the hospital with wires and tubes running from my body to beeping machines, and though I could tell someone was sitting at the end of the bed I could not focus on whom it was. I attempted to raise my hand but failed, looking down I could see that I was strapped down at both wrists. It was then I heard his voice. “Mr. Jackson, my name is Detective Fripp and I have a few questions for you.” “Such as, why did you try and kill yourself?” I heard his words which connected my being bound but didn’t make sense, digesting his query I closed my eyes.

Three months later I walked out the door from the hospital, a free man in to many ways for my tastes. I had been cleared of attempted suicide, and she was now in police custody, my car though had been set on fire in some remote area south of the city. I knew that by now my houseplants would be way past dead but headed home nonetheless.

The police tape around my house had been removed. I had seen it while watching TV during my recovery, which the doctors said was nothing short of a miracle. Some how the blade of the knife curved when it struck my ribcage and had missed my heart by a measurement so tiny it boggled the mind.

I turned the knob and walked in. There appeared to be no sign that I had been stabbed in here 90 days ago. I wondered who might have cleaned the blood stains up, but really it didn’t matter that much. I hit the button on my machine and was told I had 122 messages. I then hit the button that deletes them all so quickly and quietly. I opened the refrigerator and pulled out a beer, and then sat down on the same chair I sat in when she had attacked me. It seems softer, like the stuffing had been replaced. This brought a very sickening feeling to my stomach. I dropped to the floor and flipped the chair over; taking out my pocketknife I ripped the bottom liner open. I then crammed my arm up inside and felt nothing. This would not be good I thought, sipping my beer while sitting on the floor.

Four days later my phone rang. It was a woman who said she had something that I probably would want. I asked her what it was, to which she said I knew. We arranged a meeting and I left. Stopping by the bank I entered and went straight to the safety deposit box window. I confirmed my identity and was soon alone, opening a small metal box. I withdrew a 9 millimeter Glock which I stuck in my waistband.

A dark blue SUV pulled up at the meeting spot, and the drivers’ window was rolled down. I exited my Jeep and wasted little time as I pumped 4 shots into the man at the wheel. Quickly I determined he was alone. The search of his car produced nothing I wanted. I then emptied a one-gallon can of gas out inside the car and tied a lit cigar to the steering wheel. I slammed the door and drove away. The explosion could be seen in my rear view mirror a minute later.

An hour later my cell phone rang and her tone wasn’t pleasant. She told me the price had just doubled and the time frame to retrieve my item was shortened. I listened to her instructions and hung up. I reloaded the Glock and whipped a u-turn. I soon pulled into an alley behind the Maxi-Bowl, which had been closed, during my hospital stay. I could see two men with semi automatic rifles pointing at me, and figured there would be a few more. I fired off two shots killing them both and then came under fire. I slammed the Jeep into reverse and smoked the tires. I also was able to throw a smoke grenade out the window. As the smoke built I exited the moving Jeep and took cover behind a industrial trash can. The jeep stayed straight for a moment then hit a parked car. Its alarm began to sound and I heard footsteps running towards my location. Three men carrying Uzi’s past me and soon lay face down in puddles of each of their own blood. I reloaded and ran towards the bowling alley. The door was opened and I inside stayed low as I entered. No movement was detected as I stood and walked to a desk that sat in the center of the room. There was also a chair with handcuffs on it and a few small electrical wires sitting next to it. They ran down to a car battery.

Again my cell rang, only this time it was Detective Fripp. He wanted to know if I had time to come downtown for a chat about a burnt out SUV with a crispy man full of bullet holes. I suggested he talk to my attorney and hung up. The phone rang again. This time it was a man yelling at me. He told me that my item was now on its way to the local FBI branch. He also told me that I was a fool. I replied that I was indeed a fool, and that I would find him and kill him. I searched the room and found what all people looking for clues find, a book of matches.

The jeep was still usable and I backed out of the alley and headed towards “Vic’s” bait shop. I did so not out of a need for fishing supplies but because that’s where the matches came from. When I turned the corner and drove up “18th” street I saw the police cars all over Vic’s. I turned off and went to plan “B”.

Plan “B” was not as good as “A” but I would still be able to salvage my day. The officer at the Stanislaus County jail looked me over as if I had a head wound, but allowed me to visit the wife who had tried to kill me. See didn’t look surprised to see me, and was glad that we were separated by a glass partition. We dispensed with the formalities and I told her I wouldn’t testify against her on the attempt murder charges if she’d give me the name of the woman who was apparently trying to kill me. I left a minute later and dialed the number I had gotten.

As I left the jail I saw two squad cars following me, Fripp must have been tipped off. I had no beef with them so I would have to lose them. Hurting good cops wasn’t allowed in my universe. As I began to accelerate she answered and told me he that I had one more chance to obtain my item. I was to drive out to the lake south of town. She’d call me with further instructions once I was there. I informed her I would need a few extra minutes to lose my tail. She agreed and we hung up.

I pulled the pins on two smoke grenades and tossed them a few seconds apart. As the second one flashed coating everything with a thick smoke cloud I pulled over and parked. Seconds later two police cars shot past me and I flipped another u-turn.

The lake was desolate. I pulled over by the marina and my cell rang. I knew that meant she was watching me. I scanned the possible locations she could be hiding at and saw only a large tent half way up a hill. I listened to her and reached under the seat. I pulled up an outdated Soviet surface-to-surface rocket launcher and pointed it out the window. I squeezed the trigger. The explosion could be heard through the phone right before the call was dropped.

I hoped for the best and drove home. If my item was inside with her I would still be ok. The heat from the missile would have melted it. The knife used to stab me would no longer have a chance to surface at her trial. I would still be able to save her from her self.

The trial was never held, I had stuck by my statement I had given from the start, that I had stumbled and fell into the knife. Even though they had never believed me, mostly because the knife was never found and people that accidentally stab themselves can usually locate the knife, she was let go. I was being watched closely but I did get her home.

Three hours later she was dead and I had ditched the cops again. I headed north thinking how she had been right when she said I was never meant to love her. I had been paid to kill her through a hit contract but thought she was way to pretty to kill. I guess I was wrong.

“Noxious weeds and the search for Granite”

“Noxious weeds and the search for Granite”
A motion study of 50-year-old knee’s in the Sierra’s
A short story by S. Redenbaugh


Up at 7, packed and out the door by the grace of God we exited the city and drove into the Stanislaus National Forest, home to the lake Pinecrest. We arrived 2 hours early so we could honor our friend and employee Mike by hiking the perimeter of the lake. A memorial for him was scheduled for 2 at this lake he loved so much, so we set off and put the 4 miles of beauty filled alpine lake scenery into the memory banks. A man made lake that laps against the granite mountain range that holds in her waters, surrounded by pines of every type and size that fill the air with their scent. A sweet walk in the woods.

A fitting service was held, and over seventy-five friends and family were on hand to honor him. As the young crowd broke to began an additional honoring of their friend through the drinking and smoking of mind-altering substances we split.

Down the road a bit we turned from the hi-way and found ourselves heading deeper into a canyon on a one lane, rutted dirt logging road. Miles into the name unknown canyon we spotted some beautiful Hornspar, which is a type of granite that was either heated to much or to little during the formation of the Sierras. It littered the hillside and we pulled over to collect the slabs. In minutes we had the Jeep half filled with the soon to be patio material. Further down the road we found what I truly sought, flat, white square-ish black-specked granite. Slabs about an inch thick lay where gravity placed it after so many cycles of expansion and contraction. Scooped up we layered them in the rear of the jeep, tossing everything else into the back seat. Into the sunset we went and into our rear patio that borders the new waterfall the slabs now set. Oh yeah, it was in that canyon we found all these weeds with yellow “noxious weed” tape wrapped around them, which was weird.

Film Review of "A Good Woman"

A Good Woman

I believe that Oscar Wilde would stand and applaud the combined talents of Helen Hunt, Tom Wilkinson, and the ever-bodacious Scarlett Johansson in this excellent film version of his play. Brilliant performances of such a stellar screenplay make this a MUST SEE film, or DVD if you’re under 30. Plan on staying engrossed in this fantastic masterpiece of a plot. Good to the last frame, you’ll feel good about love again. I do wish I had viewed this film in 2004 when it was released, but I found it well worth the wait.

Fairwell Mike

Blood exited his body
Flowing freely from every part
As his life drained away
We held onto his heart

He was here too little
Now gone forever more
The ballad of his life
Now behind closed door

Goodbye, Mike
you flew so close to the ground
one forty into the rocks
some pieces will never be found

You died as fast as you lived
But you left so many behind
Goodbye young man
May God blow your mind


Our dear friend and employee, Michael Barnard, 27 died from massive injuries received Sunday night after his motorcycle slid off the road he was traveling, hitting a ditch, then a huge pile of rocks at 140 MPH. He died an hour later with his wife and best friend at his side.