“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.

He'll Be Back

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Indians and Governors

A Study Of Power
By S. Redenbaugh





Tonight, somewhere in the state of California our Governor is celebrating his birthday. I know this because earlier today I had lunch with him.

We had a delightful salad with dried cranberries, almond slivers, and thinly sliced roast beef topped with diced egg and a wonderful Thousand Island dressing. We drank iced tea and bottled water, and topped it all off with a piece of rich chocolate cake. I do need to add that it wasn’t just the two of us. Three California State Senators, including Chuck P, who’s running against the ex-gov, Jerry Brown for the State Attorney Generals office, joined us. I had a delightful time listening to Arnold’s stories and jokes.

I was sorry I had to cut the entire lunch short in order to get across two counties for a dinner I was having with a band of Mi-Wok Indians, but I think they understood.

I made the Cave where the dinner was being held about 6:45, just in time to watch a fantastic power point presentation of the history of the this band of Indians. The group that assembled this dinner is the Counties Historical Society, and the dinner, corn and tri-tip had all been cooked in a deep pit by the Mi-Woks. After dinner they had a display of their native dance.
It was a great day, with good people, good food and everything I have written is true, although some of the facts have been omitted in order to make the other facts seem cooler.

Road Trip in the Western Skies

Road Trip in the Western Skies-A Study of Desert Hallucinations-
A short story by S. Redenbaugh


7-13-2006-The first night-A Nevada Night-

The crunching sounds of the salt breaking away under our feet weren’t conducive with our attempts to avoided rattlesnakes, which in complete darkness is very hard to do correctly. We were now well off the Hiway, in a wash facing an orange orb as it appeared to be hatching from the mountain range to our East. Our flashlight for the remaining drive was now awaking, slowly rising up, contorted into a strange shape undoubtedly altered by the desert heat and the smoke circles we sent skyward formed by the rounding of one’s lips. Was that a snake?

Much later in real time we drove in the still hot darkness as the waning Buck Moon gave it it’s best shot. Its light beaming brighter from space with each passing moment, yet the desert seemed to grow, opening wider, expanding 360 degrees all the while sucking the light deep into the sand around us. We had no choice but to continue on.

Still much later and at a new location the Moon finally brought the surrounding landscapes into as clear of a picture as one can get at 3:00 a.m. Nevada presented us with Elko, and we laid down our weary eyes understanding the wake up call was but four hours away. I dreamed of snakes.


7-14-2006-The 2nd day- Timpanogos- The Cave and The Mountain-

7 am came and we went. From Elko we headed due east, driving deeper into a desert marked by the boarded up remains of the dreams of those who came before us. This is somewhere you want to hurry through, not stop and make a life.

Utah soon became our location. Our destination was the cave Timpanogos that lies somewhere south of the Great Salt Lake and its city. Finding no clear direction, and following a less than through road map we discover that like the people of our own valley, utterly unaware of Yosemite and her beauty, that no one here can tell us how to find the cave. Thinking that it should be easy to find a huge hole in the side of a mountain that sticks up in the air 6700’ in their own backyard proved false. Stopping for direction, I carefully conceded that I was a man lost.

Some time later money is exchanged and a better map becomes ours. Using it wisely we soon roll into the valley of the cave Timpanogos. Mountains made of marble and limestone line each side of this canyon, towering high above us. These Ancient seabeds’s now heated and pushed sky ward house what we seek on this day.
Money is again exchanged and we began our mile and a quarter hike up the face of a crumbling distant cousin of El Capitan. Many others are found lying upon the path, dead from lack of water or snakebite. We step over them and continue our trek. One hour later we have risen twenty two hundred feet from the valley floor below us even though the official height is twelve hundred. The exposure sends electricity through two out of four of our collective testacies. Rock slides; snakes and 99-degree heat have not stopped us. Our resolve is steadfast, and our eyes are rewarded as we enter this hidden cave.


Once back out of this gem we stand at the edge of this world and gazed down at the canyon floor far, far below us. Understanding that we had to hike back down if we wanted to live. The view of the canyon, now more appreciated on this downward trek was due to the increased risk of stumbling into a 30 second splat as opposed to the uphill hike where gravity tends to slow one down. We were able to fully comprehend the lack of any type of rail system on the asphalt path, now seeing how the paving ran to the edge of the shear drops. About one quarter of the way down, the strain of the decline began its assault upon my knees, which were now quivering like a bowl of desert at Bill Cosby’s house. The shock to them grew so great that I had to turn, facing uphill and take my stride backwards. Soon a huge group of camera clicking Japanese were following me, viewing an American doing things his way. Through their interrupter the ten-dollar guide fee was collected for each of them.

Still, much later we stopped at a Wyoming supermarket. Filling up our baskets with black powered goodies the proprietor had to point to the no running sign, as we, like two kids explored this explosive candy shop. More money was exchanged.


7-15-2006-The 3rd day-Breakfast in Wyoming-

I am now a passenger on this endless road through this equally endless blue-skied Wyoming. Settled in to write, having partaken in a hearty breakfast complete with the presentation of a local Indian Smoke Dance I turn my gaze skyward and feel the white softness of these clouds enter my soul. Patches of long brown blades of prairie grass began to turn into fields, greening as we intersect a river of significance, made apparent by the growing number of anything man made. Present road excluded. Springs receiving the filtered water of their host hills spill out life giving water to small clusters of trees, and the multiple shades of green grows as we cross the Continental Divide. Beauty abounds here, as do snakes.

This vast landscape had become slightly less appreciated one short hour ago. The sun had begun to heat the cloudless day, and our drive would be long, but now, Wyoming is opening her beauty to us, revealing her richness, suggesting the possibilities. Her pallet hued in so many shades as the clouds paint their shadows upon her luscious canvas. Dancing, floating, expanding ones true understanding of just how majestic this place called Wyoming is.

Now, growing closer toward Colorado, piles of rock appear, stacked one atop another, each pile imitating varied cartoon characters from my childhood. Droopy ears, extended tongues, and large noses can be seen by the trained eye, hidden, carved in stone, etched in time. These images, many coated with a deep green lichen bring a peaceful, and to borrow the words of an eagle, easy feeling to me. Soft textures rise and fall as we drive past them, where they have stood, like the sentries of time, and landlords of snakes.

Arriving much later in Colorado Springs we secured bedding for the night. Word on the streets was that the Cave of The Winds would be having a 9 pm showing of a first class laser light show. Money exchanges hands and we took our seats. Soon, tens of thousands of teenaged children and future rest home operators flooded the bleachers, spilling out from 4 huge busses. The chatter of nothingness from this crowd was soon broken, silenced as lasers beamed across the canyon forming a spectacular sight. Enchanted, this child of the sixties was mesmerized watching the random repeating patterns bounce across the side of the canyon wall.


7-16-2006-The 4th day-Never Trust A Hotel Clock Radio-

“Umm, umm-morning? I said, digging deeply into my vast, eloquent morning, verbiage data bank. The cell call had awakened me and I knew we had over slept. About half an hour later, we were on the road, gassed and fed, undeniably an hour and a half late for the pick up. Which wasn’t a snake.

Henry had grown so much in six months. I had last seen him this past winter, watching him digging a hole, then hiding the dirt. When I asked him why the dirt was being stashed he stopped, looked left, then right, making sure no one else would hear. He then told me “Well. Yesterday, I dug this hole and then someone filled it in so this time I’m hiding the dirt”. I remember holding back my laughter; fully understanding what he had expressed and simply nodded my head. Five year old wisdom, light years ahead of many adults.

Today, he greeted us with exciting news; detailing his account of trapping two rolly poley’s under a rock in the front yard. Running there he lifted a small rock, revealing his treasures. Our journey was now half way through.

Later, we return to the Cave of the Winds and see a line awaiting tickets that seemed to go on for days. My adult traveling companion uses his connections and we are moved to the front of the line. Tour 27 begins and we enter the cave. Beauty runs deep inside this mountain. What we get to see is only one quarter of one cave of a collective group that totals 70 within this canyon.

Much later today as we drove through Denver, a Bob Seger song came to my mind. It was from his album “seven”, the song entitled, “Get out Of Denver”. Believe me when I say his words proved sage advise.

Soon Denver becomes a distant memory in our rear view mirror and the real beauty of these Rockies explodes. We followed Interstate #70, which snakes through the amazing mountain range. This Interstate runs through a canyon, which contains; one railroad track, the road itself, and one river. The White River runs untamed here. It cuts into the canyon floor, just as it has for so many winters, summers, springs and falls, hurrying towards its convergence with the Colorado River. And, as far as the railroad goes, well, I would be lying to you if I said that, this railroad, was once used to smuggle Elvis into a secret underground bunker in order to meet with space aliens to co-write songs that could be used to brain wash the earths population. Then again, if you looked hard enough, I’m sure a tour leaves each hour from somewhere

Glenwood Canyon is a place I would explore until I died if given the opportunity. Layers upon layers of the past have been opened here by the unrelenting carving power of water and time. Rocks formed by pressure and heat deep under the earth’s surface, then thrust sky ward, exposing them to the brutal Colorado winters have left behind a picture of time itself. In the canyon, there are places where man has made the most out of Mother Nature’s wonderland. The town of Glenwood Springs is a prime example. Here there is a cave that is the exit for volcanic steam rising thousands of feet up through cracks in the earth’s crust. In this cave you can get a massage, sit in a sauna or get one of hundreds of other services. None of which involve snakes.


7-17-2006-The 5th day-Glenwood Springs Cave-

I am a caver afraid of certain enclosed spaces, through not the one’s contained with-in the coolness of caves. I am however a bit shaky when it comes to the ones that shallow you up with doors that close. Doors that won’t open on my command leave me with that deer caught in the headlights look. Gondolas are one of the many types of “transporters” that I don’t care for. This became an unfortunate issue today as we hopped on one that would have taken me to Glenwood Caverns. I sat down and looked around, and in a nano-second my brain determined that there wasn’t enough fresh air supplies to adequately allow me to live with-in the confined space here. So, just as quickly as I had sat down, I sprang up and exited, telling my friends that I was feeling way to much claustrophobic to go. So, here I sit, hoping equally that the cave is spectacular for them, and that I have not put a damper upon their enjoyment of this underground beauty.
This is also perhaps, a huge reason I haven’t seemed prone to a life of crime. Why caves were ever removed from this phobia list of mine is no mystery. They offer me live. They fill me with joy. They tickle an insatiable thirst for discovery. They send a profound sense of history deep within me. My issue today is how I was to get there. I now eagerly await their return, and their verdict as to whether this cave rocked and was worth it all. I know I have missed out on something special, and can now only hope that I am able to live vicariously through their adventure.

End of day update-Turns out they had a blast, and then we drove to Ely Nevada. This put us starting in Colorado, all the way through Utah, and into Nevada where we stayed in a two-bit dive called Bates Motel# 6. We headed out for dinner at 9:30 pm at the “Nevada Hotel”, an old favorite since 1888, which did not have snake on the menu. So, I had a short stack of Blueberry Pancakes and a side of Biscuits and Gravy, which won the trips “Best Grub” honor.


7-18-2006-The 6th day-Damn The Torpedoes –

Up at the crack of dawn, which for us while in Ely, is 8:30. We ate, fueled and split like a bad seem in a vertical toupee, although I really haven’t a clue what that means. We then drove more; saw more, sort of the same old same old same old. Because we were heading home nothing was stopping us except, gas, food and elimination. Then, somewhere in Nevada it happened. I was driving, cruising along at fifteen under a hundred when the Jeep began to shake. It started on the right side, and moved to the center, then the sound waves hits. As they did, the shaking shifted to the left and the percussion thumped deep in each of our chests, and then it was gone. In their place a F-16 zoomed into sight, by now a mile to the left side of us. Stunned, we watched it bank right and then pull straight up. It then turned again and at first something seem to pull away from it. Falling towards earth, it seemed to right itself and then it shot straight towards the mountain directly south of us. Before either of us could say a word the rocket slammed into the base of the mountain and exploded! Dirt and smoke cascaded upwards, the sound passed through the closed windows and we immediately pulled to the side of the road, cameras in hand, we exited quicker then a Kennedy from a submerging car. The jet had pulled up, almost out of view, and then arching over it turned, facing the spot it had just targeted and another rocket shot from it. We started snapping pictures as it screamed towards earth, striking the exact spot the first had hit. The explosion was bigger, creating a huge black mushroom cloud. Our eyes wide, we stood silent. The grass on the hill began to burn, and then we drove away. I thought to my self that surely some snakes had just died.

We made California by 5, and Mountain Ranch by 6:30. Our journey was almost complete. We were headed down the single lane road that dead ends near my friend’s house when something startling happened. In broad daylight a mountain lion appeared on the left side of the road no more then 25 feet in front of us. She turned away from us, and darted towards the other side of the road. Large and forceful, her powerful muscles showed as she bounded away. Scrambling up the bank to our right she disappeared into the dense brush. We quickly stopped and looked up where she exited the road. Though she was gone from sight a new fear rose in me as we saw branches still moving from her rapid departure. In the 22 years I had been coming here I had never seen such a large creature and now it was leaving a mark on my psyche. It stripped away the feeling once held of being safe in this valley. At least now, snakes didn’t seem so bad.

And you thought those people that set up roomfuls of dominos to knock

This is a real cool commercial. Turn up your speakers and watch it!


http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/honda.php>

History Inventions

http://www.ideafinder.com/history/inventions/a-z/letterA.htm

Try this plummer game

http://www.lostbum.com/fungames

Natural Hallucinogen

This takes the entire 1:39 BUT its so worth it.

Launch Space Shuttle Discovery 4th of july

Happy day for space travelers

More Cactus Shots

I couldn't help myself, here are the rest of the cactus shots talked about below

Record Cactus Blooms

Last night, the 4th of July, my Mother-in-laws transplanted cactus garden started blooming in a huge way. Spectacularly, 9 beautiful white flowers appeared, each open for just one night before they close forever. Budding from one of four cacti that now grow a full 6’ above, and through the tin roof of my garage. Tonight, on my big brothers birthday these cactus opened 11 new blooms! Attached are some photos of this fantastic site.

Another year gone for her

With the date nearing, I wanted to remind everyone about the death of Mary Jo Kopechne at the hands of Edward Kennedy, a free man. A poem, and a time line of how long we’ve waited for justice.

How many roads can a drunken man drive,
when his passengers don’t arrive alive?
And how many beers did that man drink,
before, his car it did sink?
And how many years can a murderer stay free,
When he drown, Mary Jo, Kopechne?
The answer my friend
Is floatin’ round the bend,
Past the bridge, it’s floatin in the wind.

July, 18th 1969
July, 18th 1970
July, 18th 1971
July, 18th 1972
July, 18th 1973
July, 18th 1974
July, 18th 1975
July, 18th 1976
July, 18th 1977
July, 18th 1978
July, 18th 1979
July, 18th 1980
July, 18th 1981
July, 18th 1982
July, 18th 1983
July, 18th 1984
July, 18th 1985
July, 18th 1986
July, 18th 1987
July, 18th 1988
July, 18th 1989
July, 18th 1990
July, 18th 1991
July, 18th 1992
July, 18th 1993
July, 18th 1994
July, 18th 1995
July, 18th 1996
July, 18th 1997
July, 18th 1998
July, 18th 1999
July, 18th 2000
July, 18th 2001
July, 18th 2002
July, 18th 2003
July, 18th 2004
July, 18th 2005
July, 18th 2006
Someone, please, bring justice and closure for her family.

twain never late

"I have never let my schooling interfere with my education." - Mark Twain

Movie Review

I just saw a movie that I found very fresh, raw and real. They do cuss too much and there is some nudity but once you get beyond that there is a great story and an equally well made movie here. You won’t know the truth to the end, just like life. The movie stars Robert Downey Jr., who normally wastes his talent in rehab but stayed straight long enough to team up with a gay character played by Val Kilmer. Both did an outstanding job which I’m sure they were equally well paid. The love interest is played by Michelle Monaghan who does a great job, although she does take off her clothes a little bit. So, if your looking for something different tonight try “Kiss Kiss Bang Bang”.

The Good Fight

"No arsenal, no weapon in the arsenals of the world, is so formidable as the will and moral courage of free men and women. - - - Ronald Reagan

The Untold Story of Iraqi Documents-Rush/May-2006

For those of you Non-Rush Fans that would like to check out thousands of documents that include proof that our President was right go to the U.S. Army Foreign Military Studies Office Internet Portal Site below, for the other 90% of Americans I know your covered!

FMSO DOC-EX


Fmso.levenworth.army.mil/products-docex.htm (http:70.169.163.24/)

Juggling Finale

You gotta see this!

Amazing Juggling Finale
Description:Chris Bliss performing an amazing juggling routine.

New Great Web Sites

http://stoptheaclu.com/archives/2006/05/


http://www.911familiesforamerica.org/


http://www.bsalegal.org/

The Man Fool

These thoughts of brushing back,
the hair from your face.
Fill my mind of that time,
and the warmth of that place.
Reminders of that sweetness,
as it hung against your cheek.
As my fingers brushed across your face,
Aware you make me weak.
These moments, though brief,
are frozen in my mind.
For you they may be nothing,
but for me they seem to shine.
I tell myself, you foolish man,
you’ve nothing for her, to give.
Yet in my heart there is a chance,
some reason to laugh and live.
I know to you, that I am not,
a man you’d want to see.
But to me, you are one
That with, I’d love to be.
I know that you have tried,
in your way to tell me no.
But as a man who dreams through life,
I am a little slow.
So today, I understand.
The time has come for me.
To tell my heart to let it go,
for it will never be.
I can still dream that if it had,
been another place or time.
That maybe then together,all the words would make a rhyme.

another great blog site

I have not been all the way through this site but it appears to be a great one.


http://supportmyredbulls.blogspot.com/

Drinking it all in

On May 4th, 2006 Ted and Joan Kennedy’s son, Patrick, who is the Demon-crat Representative from Rhode Island, crashed his car into a Police barrier near the Capital just before 3 a.m. He was hauled off, WITHOUT a sobriety test by the Capital Police, and has since entered the Mayo Clinic to be treated for his Prescription Drug habit. Well, I have been moved to write him a poem, a little ditty that goes like this:

Teddy, oh Teddy
Where have you been?
I’m showered and sobered
Now won’t you come in?
Teddy, oh Teddy
When the road went right
You left Mary Jo
Submerged that night
Teddy, oh Teddy
You and Joan
Must be so proud
Of your own flesh and bone
Son Patrick, oh Patrick
Apple of father eye
You didn’t fall far from
Where Mary Jo died
To rehab, to rehab
You run and hide
Addicted to drugs
High on your ride
Oh Patrick, oh Patrick
Have you no shame
Corruption running
Through every vein

North Dakota Night

There are so many stories waiting patiently inside me. Some have already happened while others, I will never fully see nor understand in my lifetime. Within my mind mega bites of information enter and exit at their own will. Some pieces are caught in a filter to which no delete or open button exists. These lay lodged, awaiting other pieces to complete them. Others, though full of hope, never find their way out. These show themselves to me at night while in slumber, burning up as my eyes open. In what would best be described as an informational field of asteroids these ideas exists. Much like deep space many of these thoughts live in states of suspended animation. Some will collide with others and form a new idea, which for reasons unknown to me take on a new shape. It is in these new shapes that they began to work towards the surface of my consciousness. It is here that they wait to be nudged into the limelight of this computer screen.
Ideas are like that, at least for me. Waiting for some small event to light the bulb above my head. For some they start the long process to become a story after a smell, a touch, or a taste causes me to understand where they wish me to take them. Often, they are sad and desire the story of themselves to be so, while others seek a happy ending. Many, are incomplete and become an unfinished work in progress, and of those, few ever make it to anyone’s eye. Their fluid sounds falling on deaf ears, some slowly forgotten, while some die. It was Michelangelo that once said that within each piece of stone is a sculpture waiting to be released. For me, these stories are but moments away, await their release, awaiting that nudge out into the light of day, and this was one of them.

long tall sally shadow

the red ground rolled up and down as far as the eyes could see, with the sun beating down on me I had no other choice but to keep walking. The jeep had run of of gas 20 plus miles back, and now, I poured the last of my water down my throat. Later, after the sun had gone down I was biten by a rattlesnake and spent the night in a sweat much like an LSD trip. But when the moon fell from the sky I pretty much figured this was all made up and that in real time I was sitting on my sofa writing.

love again

I once drove the hi-ways, carrying my family, entrusted to me, which I did with great joy. Now set out to pasture I sit waiting for love again

cave city flowers

April showers have brought the May flowers in a little early. Enjoy.

the flowers of Cave City

For many years we have built
rock walls to retain the massive loads of mud, dirt and rock we haul out of the cave. In this mixture I have planted flowers
of many kinds, these are Tulips and were beautiful. Hope you can smell them and find them as beautiful as I do.

step up

Rocks, once laying in quite places have

recently been relocated and brought

togather to be something where nothing

was before. From as far away as the cave

the hardest working man in the world

and I have constructed these steps.

So, take a few minutes, walk them in your minds and please do not trip.

Rock On!

Baa Baa Whats up with that

I recently visited this flock of
sheep dressed as a sheep in
order to gain their trust. I
did so in order to crack open
the blatantly and exclusive
“flock” they belong to. I was
shocked to find out that even
though there is a song about
black sheep, none had been
allowed to join this group.

Reporting from the field,Caver Thomas out.

Thirty feet below this water lays my lover. I cannot reach her, and haven’t been able to since 2005. Record rainfall has drown her and with her my heart sinks.

this rusted heart

The rust began to form the very second she closed the door to my heart. There would be no more of her smell. My lips would never again taste hers. The tattered remains of my heart fell to the ground and all hope drained from me. My mind fought the voices ordering my own death yet knew the peace would be soft. The rough edges of my life now would forever more cut anything beautiful that came near me. I knew that one day, a hundred years from now, that door wouldn’t open again, rusted shut, allowing no other woman to enter my life.

Head Out On The Hi-Way

"Head out on that hi-way, looking for adventure, in what ever come our way, yeah we gotta go out and make it happen" Traveling north on I-17, we left Phoenix at a crack and a half past dawn, fully fed and ready for an adventure. Passing by so many interesting named locations, such as "Wool Growers, Bates and Grassy Mountain Windmill's". Our path cut through the winding Black Hills near Pinto Mesa and Copper Canyon. It was near here that we hooked an East onto State Hiway 260. As we crossed the great Wingfield Mesa we then turned south, heading into the heart of the Cottonwood Basin. Following "Fossil Creek Road" we left the Mesa's 3229' elevation and were forced to shift into 4 wheeled drive as we started the deep descent. The road quickly turned from dirt into a series of impassable ruts. It was here that carefully placed rocks pulled from the cliff walls would allow us to pass, although men of sanity would have turned back. If this landscape was shouting go back then we must have had the stereo to loud.With each turn of the road we sat in amassment at the topography, from sheer cliffs to rolling hills on the valley floor. A mixture of Painted Desert and Grand Canyon meeting the sky. About 20 miles back we came to a junction marked with a sign from the 1930's. To the south lay the "road" to "Child's Powerhouse" and the one towards the northeast would take us to the "Irving Powerhouse,” which was also the way to the town of Strawberry. We hoped the map; the road and the 4-wheel drive rental would get us there, but then again there had been many rockslides covering parts of the road. One still held in its rocky grasp an old truck pinned against a tree. Its owner, long since given up retrieving it. We knew that once to Strawberry we would only be 23 miles to our end game destination. But first, we'd need to climb over 8000' to crest this valley.So, we decided to go check out Child's first, heading the completely opposite direction. We ended up running parallel with a lot of river access; the beautiful Fossil Creek carving deep into the varying strata exposing millions of years of its journey. This place oozed history yet we could never find the powerhouse. After an hour we lost enough road to go forward, what remained amounted to a path that I wouldn't have walked on, the rest lay about 100' below, the river already pushing it relentlessly to the sea. We turned back and soon came to the junction again.About thirteen more miles were painfully put behind us, traversing over fallen trees and twice having to push boulders out of the way with the front bumper, which we had latched a piece of iron pipe to in order to minimize the damage. Soon we saw the main Fossil Creek Bridge, and though we were wickedly tired we stopped and walked out on to it. Mainly to check for safety our spirits lifted upon viewing the deep green water rushing below us. Deep pools, small falls, and rushing rapids were all there for the viewing. We spent some time under the bridge to attempt to green light our travel across it since it creaked as we walked on it. Danny walked in front of me as I drove slowly over the dilapidated structure, weaving the vehicle back and forth so the tires would have something to touch. The only thing we were missing would have been a set of those red flags used to guide planes into their berth. At one point a section about 15' of the side rail fell, landing with a crash and a splash into the river below. We both froze with saucer-sized eyes, heart rates double the norm, but still in the game. I slowly tapped the gas and felt the tires digging in to the mud that had been deposited on top of this bridge so many years ago. Pieces of the bridges road top started to crumble and I knew it was now or never. I switched back to 4-wheel low and floored it. Just as the passenger rear tire begin to drop towards the river the other three tires pulled it up and out, ending us on the other side of the bridge. I got out and we both walked over and stared at a sign posted on our side, it read that this bridge was condemned and unsuitable for even foot traffic. It was about then that we saw a sign across this termite infested hull-laying face down in the grasses. Neither wanted to read it, but both agreed it was an exact copy of the one on our side. No turning back now, those 8000' worth of switchbacks ahead better be in decent shape.We began to rise up, winding thru roads built in 1910 yet not repaired since 1950. With each switchback the cliff grew deeper and deeper. Soon we hit snowdrifts in full sun. Then, we'd drop slightly back into canyons such as Hackberry and Doren's Defeat. We could often see Fossil Creek below, thousands of feet down it looked like a small blue ribbon winding in the canyon it cut so many years ago.The Creek ran between the Buckskin Hills and Deadmans Mesa. It was as beautiful as our own God's Bath and Stanislaus River Canyons. Hours past, mud flew, and our rise out of the canyon was at first uneventful. Then we rounded a sharp corner and saw a huge truck, sitting in the middle of the road, and there wasn't anyone in it. We stopped, shut off the engine and started walking up, and past the truck. About a quarter mile up we found the driver, he was shocked to see us because for the better part of his day he had been guiding a huge crane down the canyon, and we had not past them. It was here that we began to learn the history of the powerhouses. Build in 1910 the Irving system diverted water 29 miles upstream and ran it through a system of flumes that ran along the northern side of the canyon. The mountain range it had been install on was named the Cimarron Hills and that water was dumped down into the turbines that made the power. From there it returned into another flume that had ran down to Child's, and when it exited there it was retained in a lake known as "Stehr Lake". We remembered seeing what appeared to be a drying up lake back where the road had tumbled into the river. The bottom line of the entire situation was that the "Enviro" mental's had sued and won their case to have the entire project torn down and returned to the way it was. This was won based on the fact that three non-native fish species had gotten into the river. We were told by the truck driver that in its hay day there were 50 people living in this oasis, complete with a schoolhouse. In fact, his wife had lived there since she was a child and her father had help construct the project. Soon the still diverted water will flood this canyon, yes, flood it because they had been using 80% of it to make into electricity and once they stop the diversion the water flow into this canyon will increase, well, 80%. This is predicted to draw tens of thousands of white water rats into the canyon. Increasing from the 8 or 9 a week that go there now. We talked for about an hour then figured out how to get our jeep out of the way of their truck and crane. Running the jeep's driver side off the road on the canyon side where it looked to be stable did this. Once past us we started again up the mesa with the Cimarron Hills across the canyon. It is here that the canyon walls began to show their own Grand Canyon type formations and colors, sadly the river would soon start to rip away at the long-standing natural beauty. It seemed so wrong that the one's who did protect it will now give up the stewardship to those who will learn they did more damage than good.Soon, we crested the mesa and the road became paved. Minutes later we found the town of Strawberry and stopped for food. 23 miles later we turned off Hiway 87 and descended down a 9% grade to our final destination, the Tonto Natural Bridge. It is believed to be the largest natural Travertine Bridge in the world. Think Natural Bridges in Calavaras County times 4. It was a wonder to behold. At 183' tall, 150' wide and 400' long it took 3 rolls of film to quench my wonder. David Gowan discovered it in 1877 as Apaches were chasing him. He hid for two days in one of several caves that dot the inside of the bridge. According to the ranger we learned that the west side of Pine Creek had been formed by a flow of Rhyolite. This rock was eroded, leaving behind purple quartz sandstone. The rock layers were then lilhified, titled, and faulted. Then the area was covered by seawater, which left behind silt and mud. Volcanic eruptions then covered these rock and sediment layers with lava, forming a basalt cap. It was quite the site and well worth what we went through to get there. From here we had 109 mile trip to get back to Scottsdale, and that trip, is a story for next time!

somewhere in this desert

Somewhere in this desert, of sand and cacti, there are new doors to pass through, new adventures to be found. Tomorrow, Jerome, a town of hippies is our target. Reporting from the roads of Arizona, SRR

Enceladus

An enhanced-color image of Enceladus, based on data from the Cassini spacecraft, highlights dark "tiger stripes" in the south polar region. Those stripes are actually fissures that appear to be the source of the Saturnian moon's geysers

Clooney Puppet Speaks

George Clooney Speaks. The “actor” was heard to have said that he would rather watch one of his own movies than be an American.”

What a waste

Well it was 24 years ago today that a huge talent allowed drugs to rule his life. Cocaine and heroin shot into his veins by a “fan” brought his heart to a halt, and ended the short life of John Belushi. I have never forgiven her, or him for letting that happen. John, may you live on in others you touched with your humor.

Nasa Links

Columbia site- http://www.nasa.gov/columbia/home/

Shuttle History- http://history.nasa.gov/shuttlehistory.html

Nasa’s Free Education Packs- http://education.nasa.gov/

Matrix Ping Pong

Anyone up for some ping pong?

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-8079411349144989883

Other new options

Here's another new car option for you!http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1999617328673633907

Getting a new car?

For anyone looking into getting a new car, this option is a must!

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-1921087967554708751

New Car Option

If your think about getting a new car, make sure and get one of these!

'>http://

The King of Beers

This is a funny commercial to check out, just click and go!

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=-3010891853586596603

Really Cool Car Trick Site

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=3520789471434710955

Now Listen

Terrocrats, shut your faces, your red, embarassed stupid faces!

Go soak yourself

Here is a web site just for you that seek a nice long soak in a natural hot tub. Scattered across the world you can check and find GPS locations for your next trip. Enjoy, and let me know if you find any super cool ones!

http://www.soak.net/

Laura Bush takes names

Laura Bush calls Hillary Clinton out of bounds
12 February 2006
TURIN: US first lady Laura Bush called New York Democratic Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton "out of bounds" for a recent attack on her husband, US President George W Bush, but chalked it up to politics.
Senator Clinton, pondering a run for the Democratic presidential nomination in 2008, has begun to intensify her criticism of the Bush administration, recently saying it could go down in history as among the worst ever.
"Of course I think it's out of bounds," Mrs Bush told ABC News from Turin, where she attended opening events at the Winter Olympics. "But I think it's politics, it's certainly politics."
The Bush and Clinton families have a complicated relationship. President Bush and his father, the former president, both Republicans, get on well with former President Bill Clinton, a Democrat, but the Bush family does not want to see Clinton's wife, the former first lady, win the presidency in 2008.
A rich political tapestry was evident at the funeral last week in Atlanta for Coretta Scott King, the widow of civil rights leader Martin Luther King, with the Bush and Clinton families gathered along with former President Jimmy Carter.
At that event, former President Clinton gave a hint of his thinking about who should win in 2008. He noted that former presidents were present, as was the current president, and then he gestured to his wife to suggest she was the future president.
Mrs Bush said the two Bush presidents and Clinton "are in a club together and really I think wives of the presidents are in a club, as well."
"We know what it's like to live in that house. We certainly know what it's like to have your husband criticized. So I think there's a certain empathy that we might have for each other that we wouldn't have maybe for somebody else who said something like that," she said.
In an example of the way Republicans are dealing with Senator Clinton's attacks, Ken Mehlman, chairman of the Republican National Committee, has said Senator Clinton's attack was an example of anger and that Americans do not like to elect angry candidates.

What a long strange week it's been

The rain tapped across the tin roof as the fire began to roar, signaling a start towards warmth. The chill possibly like getting embedded in a glazier by accident, or I suppose even on purpose fills this shop. Built in 1926 there is nothing straight here except myself. On a work table in the center of the room sits a black cat, eyeing me as she wags her tail attempting to get my attention. She laid claim to the place years ago and is usually quite successful on chasing the other cats out, and for that trouble she wants to be noticed. The smell of oak and pine whiff past me as I turn up the stereo system, and “Statesboro Blues” begins to soothe this weary mind. After a long week I need to erase the bitter taste of a world that rewards stupidity.

Stupid people shouldn’t breed, a truth long shared by most folks, but please add that they shouldn’t drive, speak, move or make noise in any way shape or form unless completely alone or in a meeting with others who have come to work on no fewer than 12 steps towards improving. Until then stay out of the way, keep out of cars if you’re driving and for heavens sakes throw your trash in a proper receptacle. Learn to be better and if you’re over 200 pounds please wear a shirt that covers your tramp stamp. Don’t swear at your children in public or for that matter, at all and always remember that no one really wants to listen to your cell phone call during the movie. Its also good to understand that wrestling on TV isn’t real or worth saving its greatest moments in the little gray matter you were given.

Ok, back to the nice fire, a cat and Alman Brothers, while the rain melts my thoughts back to its happy place. I feel much better now.

dirty time in the hills

……..stranded fifty plus miles from the nearest food or water I sit in this truck awaiting rescue, which at best involves my son following very cell phone unfriendly directions given in over twenty five separate calls all the while playing the “can you here me now’s”. Directions given a piece at a time as the cell waves allowed, a few words in each blast of communication, directions given in an insane attempt to guide someone to where even I wasn’t sure was. Twenty miles from a town of three, turning down an unmarked road by an oak tree by a stream with a “bait 4 sale” sign from years ago hanging on the fence. Then where the road forks miles in, trend left on what’s known as “Baker O’Riley”. Going 8 tenth of a mile there’s a quick right up through the shrub oak and on to the red clay slime that passes as a road only when dry. Dropping 500’ in elevation in ½ mile, winding passed the four wheel drive fire truck that now sits stuck and abandoned there comes a sharp left onto a freshly cut “road” which in these parts is code for a guarantee full axel embedment. Sitting just out of view, I’ve spray painted my son’s name on plywood scraps I’ve found that others have left behind after suffering the same fate as myself, hoping his name and the arrows will allow him to find me before death does. Now 10 hours since I ate my stomach suggests to my hands to throw rocks at the hundreds of deer that graze all around me.

I had done well down this road, made it to the very end, then making a 37 point turn to keep from getting stuck. I had even parked and walked the 2 acres fairly well, but as I drove out I made a huge mistake, I stopped again to look at some flagging tape marking a lower boundary, and its was at that very moment I knew I had made a poor choice. As I attempt to go forward the embankment started to give way and the drivers side front wheel sank into a puddle of slime, red clay slime. The bed of the truck ended 6” from the post the gate hinged off of.

For over three hours I used every stick, rock board and even “tee” rail fence posts to wedge under the wheels, hoping I might be able to back up. Now covered in mud from head to toe, 35 attempts late, it starts to rain and I know I have only a few minutes before self rescue is anything more than a pipe dream. At three o’clock straight up and down the impossible happened, no, but my cell phone rang and I explained to Tracey at my office what I needed and why. The clouds seemed to have caused the cell signals to work very sporadically, yet my “XM” satellite stereo system showed a “no Signal” display, something they guarantee would never happen. As the rain slowed a bit and with the knowledge the cavalry was on its way I sat out with digital camera and snapped 92 photos of moss, rocks and strange things to even me. When I returned to the truck I realized that it had slide 2 more inches towards the gate post and that the frame under the truck was now resting on slime.
So I now sit here awaiting someone to come to my aide and write. Tell everyone I loved them, I’m just thankful I won’t have to gnaw off a body part before I go…………………………………………………………

happiness is a warm gun

There’s a guy on my TV,
Telling me to listen.
Says he knows what’s best for me,
Yeah, a liberal politician.
He knows what’s best,
For you and I.
Getting his hands on your gun
Is what he’ll try.

So long Smith and Wesson
Kiss your Colt goodbye
Mr. liberal knows
What’s best for you and I.

So, they took away the guns,
But they stabbed me in the back.
So they took away the knifes
Trying to end the attack.

Next day they were horrified,
When they came to find.
Someone killed another, seems
There was an axe to grind.

So they took away the axes,
With smiles on their faces.
Until a little later when they
Found men hung in places.

So they banned all rope,
Happy once again.
Until the 6 o’clock news
Told of murder by poison.

Their list grow long.
Of what they ban.
But can you stop
The hurt, man to man?