10/25/2005
Singing On The Wall
NUMBER ONE HUNDRED SEVENTEEN
Singing On The Wall
Quite a few of you have expressed an interest in and a sympathy for my occasional rants about Oompah!, the god of Christian Rock Worship Music. For those of you who aren’t interested or sympathetic, just skip this one. (In fact, forget I ever mentioned it)
A couple of weeks ago I tuned in to my local County-Gospel radio station to hear the end of a song. I had to hear the whole thing so I called the station and the young lady was kind enough to play some of it and give me the name and the artist. She had the name wrong but I eventually got it right, ordered a CD with the song on it, and am enjoying it immensely.
Here are the words. They are a little rough since there were no liner notes and I had to take them off the CD. Lovelace is from Alabama, so singing is singin’ and want to is wanta but you will get the idea—just imagine Johnny Cash singing “A Boy Named Sue.”
The Ballad of Levi Slocum
Tim and Mary Alice Lovelace
From the CD--Fun With The Lovelaces
Well it was Wednesday night prayer meeting
At A holler up in the hills
When the preacher said, “did y’all hear today
That one of our deacons was almost killed.”
Well it seems that Levi Slocum,
He was working on his tractor today,
When his dog named Blue ran into the jack,
The Jack started swaying and something cracked,
That jack jest gave away.
Well his wife heard him a hollering,
She thought that he was dead,
But when she got to the barn she said,
“Thank goodness, it only hit your head.”
Now they got him down at the county hospital
Under lock and key
They say something’s wrong, his vision’s hazy,
Singing loud and talking crazy,
The strangest of all things,
He keeps hollering he wants to hear our choir sing.
O when the preacher finished talking
That side door busted open
And there he stood, all black and blue,
Big ole Levi Slocum
With his hair straight up
One eye shut, he really scared all,
He had a knot on his head the size of the Taj Mahal
He said “Folks, I been lying at death’s door all day
Jest hoping someone would pull me through.
You know the Lord’s been good to me
And I’ve got no regrets if it my time to go I’m ready to go
But I was thinking if I could do anything over again
It’d be to just hear the choir sing
Some old hymns out of the hymnbook,
Then it dawned on me,
We don’t sing out of the hymnbook anymore--
So I tied me some sheets together
And made my great escape and here I am.
Now cousin Huey, you get to passing out those hymnbooks,
Sister Peggy Jean, you get over there on the piano
We’re going to sing them songs just the way we used to,
But before we do I got something to say,
And y’all better listen;
I don’t want no singing on the wall
I’m tired of it, y’all
I don’t want to hear just a couple of words
Sung over and over and over again,
I want to hear some four-part harmony
Well, the way that it used to be
Like Amazing Grace and I Surrender All,
But I don’t want to hear no singing on the wall.
Then coming down the aisle
Was the sheriff with a smile
And a couple of men in white coats to carry Levi away.
Well you should of heard the racket
When they put him in that strait jacket
But it didn’t stop Levi from saying what he had to say:
I don’t want no singing on the wall
I’m tired of it, y’all
I don’t want to hear just a couple of words
Sung over and over and over again,
I want to hear some four-part harmony
Well, the way that it used to be
Like Amazing Grace and I Surrender All,
But I don’t want to hear no singing on the wall.
Hey I’ll be back, they’ll never keep me in a place
That only serves lemon Jell-O
Has anybody got anything for a headache?
My head is killing me
Keep passing out them hymnbooks
Listen, I know we spent a lot of money
On that big screen but I got an idea
We could take it down, put it in the Family Life Center
We could have the best super bowl party in the county next year
But one thing I don’t want to hear
Is any more of that singing on the wall.
Singing On The Wall
Quite a few of you have expressed an interest in and a sympathy for my occasional rants about Oompah!, the god of Christian Rock Worship Music. For those of you who aren’t interested or sympathetic, just skip this one. (In fact, forget I ever mentioned it)
A couple of weeks ago I tuned in to my local County-Gospel radio station to hear the end of a song. I had to hear the whole thing so I called the station and the young lady was kind enough to play some of it and give me the name and the artist. She had the name wrong but I eventually got it right, ordered a CD with the song on it, and am enjoying it immensely.
Here are the words. They are a little rough since there were no liner notes and I had to take them off the CD. Lovelace is from Alabama, so singing is singin’ and want to is wanta but you will get the idea—just imagine Johnny Cash singing “A Boy Named Sue.”
The Ballad of Levi Slocum
Tim and Mary Alice Lovelace
From the CD--Fun With The Lovelaces
Well it was Wednesday night prayer meeting
At A holler up in the hills
When the preacher said, “did y’all hear today
That one of our deacons was almost killed.”
Well it seems that Levi Slocum,
He was working on his tractor today,
When his dog named Blue ran into the jack,
The Jack started swaying and something cracked,
That jack jest gave away.
Well his wife heard him a hollering,
She thought that he was dead,
But when she got to the barn she said,
“Thank goodness, it only hit your head.”
Now they got him down at the county hospital
Under lock and key
They say something’s wrong, his vision’s hazy,
Singing loud and talking crazy,
The strangest of all things,
He keeps hollering he wants to hear our choir sing.
O when the preacher finished talking
That side door busted open
And there he stood, all black and blue,
Big ole Levi Slocum
With his hair straight up
One eye shut, he really scared all,
He had a knot on his head the size of the Taj Mahal
He said “Folks, I been lying at death’s door all day
Jest hoping someone would pull me through.
You know the Lord’s been good to me
And I’ve got no regrets if it my time to go I’m ready to go
But I was thinking if I could do anything over again
It’d be to just hear the choir sing
Some old hymns out of the hymnbook,
Then it dawned on me,
We don’t sing out of the hymnbook anymore--
So I tied me some sheets together
And made my great escape and here I am.
Now cousin Huey, you get to passing out those hymnbooks,
Sister Peggy Jean, you get over there on the piano
We’re going to sing them songs just the way we used to,
But before we do I got something to say,
And y’all better listen;
I don’t want no singing on the wall
I’m tired of it, y’all
I don’t want to hear just a couple of words
Sung over and over and over again,
I want to hear some four-part harmony
Well, the way that it used to be
Like Amazing Grace and I Surrender All,
But I don’t want to hear no singing on the wall.
Then coming down the aisle
Was the sheriff with a smile
And a couple of men in white coats to carry Levi away.
Well you should of heard the racket
When they put him in that strait jacket
But it didn’t stop Levi from saying what he had to say:
I don’t want no singing on the wall
I’m tired of it, y’all
I don’t want to hear just a couple of words
Sung over and over and over again,
I want to hear some four-part harmony
Well, the way that it used to be
Like Amazing Grace and I Surrender All,
But I don’t want to hear no singing on the wall.
Hey I’ll be back, they’ll never keep me in a place
That only serves lemon Jell-O
Has anybody got anything for a headache?
My head is killing me
Keep passing out them hymnbooks
Listen, I know we spent a lot of money
On that big screen but I got an idea
We could take it down, put it in the Family Life Center
We could have the best super bowl party in the county next year
But one thing I don’t want to hear
Is any more of that singing on the wall.
10/18/2005
The Underclass And The Death Of Stars
NUMBER ONE HUNDRED SIXTEEN
The Underclass and The Death of Stars
I have been reading a book by Theodore Dalrymple, “Life At The Bottom. The Worldview That Makes The Underclass.” The Author is a psychiatrist and journalist who has practiced both professions in the third world and who presently treats the poor in a slum hospital and a prison in England.
Dr. Dalrymple’s key insight is that long term poverty is caused not by economics but by a dysfunctional set of values, one that is continually reinforced by an elite culture searching for victims. His book draws upon scores of eye-opening true-life vignettes that are sometimes hilariously funny, sometimes chillingly horrifying, and all too revealing—sometimes both at once.
To sum up the worldview, “The aim of untold millions is to be free to do exactly what they choose and for someone else to pay when things go wrong.” In England this underclass is primarily white, in America it is primarily black. It is not a function of skin color, but of the mindset created by the multicultural welfare state.
The author reports that 98% of the patients he sees in his toxicology ward each year have attempted to commit suicide. After stabbing, strangling, or merely striking those who appear in medical records as their partners, they take an overdose for one of three reasons, and sometimes for all three: to avoid a court appearance; to apply emotional blackmail to their victims; or to present their own violence as a medical condition that it is the doctor’s duty to cure.
What is amazing is that the abused women, or sometimes men, go right back to the abuser or find another person just as abusive. On the rare occasion when an abused woman manages to find a man who treats her with respect and tenderness, she doesn’t stay with him long…he is “not attentive enough to her,” he is “apathetic.” It is as if domestic violence is the only thing strong enough to hold a relationship together.
For some reason, reading this stuff reminded me of a poem I wrote in 1988. There is some of this mindset in the pop music culture—the “live for the sensation of the moment and let the future take care of itself,” mindset. I think the rabid multiculturalism of the American elite is rapidly driving us down the same road that has turned much of England into a place you would rather not be. If you want a picture of what much of America might be like in 20-30 years, you might profit from reading this book.
ON THE DEATH OF STARS
Andy Gibb, 1970 Pop Music Sensation
Dies at 30 Headline, LA Times
Remembering, vaguely,
Karen Carpenter,
Another singer
Who died in the fast lane.
In the name of Style
She starved herself
And never a thought she gave
To the rules of her Maker
Set down in His Book
For the journey
From cradle to grave.
The name of the game
Was money and fame,
She sang like an angel they say,
Her records were gold,
Millions were sold,
People still buy them today.
One day she woke up
On top of the heap
And went for a ride in her Rolls...
That night she lay down
And died in her sleep,
Still number one in the polls.
3/88
056
+++++++
“For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul?” Matthew 16.26
The Underclass and The Death of Stars
I have been reading a book by Theodore Dalrymple, “Life At The Bottom. The Worldview That Makes The Underclass.” The Author is a psychiatrist and journalist who has practiced both professions in the third world and who presently treats the poor in a slum hospital and a prison in England.
Dr. Dalrymple’s key insight is that long term poverty is caused not by economics but by a dysfunctional set of values, one that is continually reinforced by an elite culture searching for victims. His book draws upon scores of eye-opening true-life vignettes that are sometimes hilariously funny, sometimes chillingly horrifying, and all too revealing—sometimes both at once.
To sum up the worldview, “The aim of untold millions is to be free to do exactly what they choose and for someone else to pay when things go wrong.” In England this underclass is primarily white, in America it is primarily black. It is not a function of skin color, but of the mindset created by the multicultural welfare state.
The author reports that 98% of the patients he sees in his toxicology ward each year have attempted to commit suicide. After stabbing, strangling, or merely striking those who appear in medical records as their partners, they take an overdose for one of three reasons, and sometimes for all three: to avoid a court appearance; to apply emotional blackmail to their victims; or to present their own violence as a medical condition that it is the doctor’s duty to cure.
What is amazing is that the abused women, or sometimes men, go right back to the abuser or find another person just as abusive. On the rare occasion when an abused woman manages to find a man who treats her with respect and tenderness, she doesn’t stay with him long…he is “not attentive enough to her,” he is “apathetic.” It is as if domestic violence is the only thing strong enough to hold a relationship together.
For some reason, reading this stuff reminded me of a poem I wrote in 1988. There is some of this mindset in the pop music culture—the “live for the sensation of the moment and let the future take care of itself,” mindset. I think the rabid multiculturalism of the American elite is rapidly driving us down the same road that has turned much of England into a place you would rather not be. If you want a picture of what much of America might be like in 20-30 years, you might profit from reading this book.
ON THE DEATH OF STARS
Andy Gibb, 1970 Pop Music Sensation
Dies at 30 Headline, LA Times
Remembering, vaguely,
Karen Carpenter,
Another singer
Who died in the fast lane.
In the name of Style
She starved herself
And never a thought she gave
To the rules of her Maker
Set down in His Book
For the journey
From cradle to grave.
The name of the game
Was money and fame,
She sang like an angel they say,
Her records were gold,
Millions were sold,
People still buy them today.
One day she woke up
On top of the heap
And went for a ride in her Rolls...
That night she lay down
And died in her sleep,
Still number one in the polls.
3/88
056
+++++++
“For what will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and forfeits his soul? Or what will a man give in exchange for his soul?” Matthew 16.26
10/10/2005
Biker Contemplating Calamity Joan
Some of you have asked about pictures of our recent trip. Here is one of the most interesting. This was taken at the Badlands, south of Wall, South Dakota.
10/04/2005
Mr. Golden
NUMBER ONE HUNDRED FOURTEEN
Mr. Golden
In one of the poor townships of Capetown there lives a man who believes God answers prayer. This man’s name is Golden—he has a wife and four fine daughters.
For some years Mr. Golden worked in the gold mines. It was very demanding work. He seldom was able to get home to see his growing family. But the money was good and he was able to provide well for them.
Then he became ill, not an uncommon problem for those with a long history in the mines. He was told he could no longer do the job and sent home. He became one of the six out of ten black men in Capetown who wanted work but could find none.
Day by day he left his home early and sought a job. Night by night he prayed that God would help him find a means to care for his wife and children. He began to dream. Each night it was the same dream—a large field filled with all kinds of beautiful flowers.
One morning as he left for his daily search for work he noticed the many pop cans tossed aside in his neighborhood, and all through the township. The cans were colorful. At some point he connected the cans and the dream. He says today that God made this connection.
He collected a few of the cans and took them home. That evening he began to make flowers from the aluminum. It was hard at first, but he persisted, endured the cuts and scratches on his hands, and eventually began to produce lovely flowers.
He found a market for his flowers in the tourist shops of Capetown and eventually was helped by a friendly tour operator to get a good price for his work. Today he pays young boys and girls in the township to bring him cast off cans-- and he makes a comfortable living for his wife and four daughters.
My son and his family spent 5 weeks in South Africa last year. They tell me Mr. Golden is a man with a firm belief that God answers prayer, and also that God helps those who help themselves.
Mr. Golden
In one of the poor townships of Capetown there lives a man who believes God answers prayer. This man’s name is Golden—he has a wife and four fine daughters.
For some years Mr. Golden worked in the gold mines. It was very demanding work. He seldom was able to get home to see his growing family. But the money was good and he was able to provide well for them.
Then he became ill, not an uncommon problem for those with a long history in the mines. He was told he could no longer do the job and sent home. He became one of the six out of ten black men in Capetown who wanted work but could find none.
Day by day he left his home early and sought a job. Night by night he prayed that God would help him find a means to care for his wife and children. He began to dream. Each night it was the same dream—a large field filled with all kinds of beautiful flowers.
One morning as he left for his daily search for work he noticed the many pop cans tossed aside in his neighborhood, and all through the township. The cans were colorful. At some point he connected the cans and the dream. He says today that God made this connection.
He collected a few of the cans and took them home. That evening he began to make flowers from the aluminum. It was hard at first, but he persisted, endured the cuts and scratches on his hands, and eventually began to produce lovely flowers.
He found a market for his flowers in the tourist shops of Capetown and eventually was helped by a friendly tour operator to get a good price for his work. Today he pays young boys and girls in the township to bring him cast off cans-- and he makes a comfortable living for his wife and four daughters.
My son and his family spent 5 weeks in South Africa last year. They tell me Mr. Golden is a man with a firm belief that God answers prayer, and also that God helps those who help themselves.
10/01/2005
On The Road Again
NUMBER ONE HUNDRED THIRTEEN
On The Road Again
We have just returned from a 6,648-mile drive. It was a very good trip. To get back into the blogging business, I am just going to make a few random observations.
FAMILY
God has blessed us with five children, 4 spouses, and 10 grandchildren. What began as the two of us 51 years ago last July has turned into quite a tribe. If we were Native Americans it wouldn’t take many more of us to get some land rights and start a casino. Casinos have become ubiquitous across the purple mountain majesties and fruited plains.
One daughter, her husband and three boys live just two miles from us here in Lexington. The rest of the tribe is in the West and we had good family time with all of them. The thing that strikes us all over again is how each of these 19 are different, each unique, each gifted and each a joy to our hearts. To spell this out in detail would take a long time so we will just observe that we are thankful for each member of this tribe, and proud of them all.
THE HAZARDS OF THE ROAD
We only saw one pothole but it was a big one, on US 29 North in the heart of Kansas City. I thought it would take the left front wheel right off but the Avalon shrugged and ran straight and true the whole trip.
Sometimes we are the bug--sometimes we are the windshield. Always we are the objects of the mercy and the grace of God.
Coming up the mountain out of Albuquerque we were commenting on how nice it was not to be driving into the blizzard that developed last trip. Then the sun came up, right in our eyes at the top of a rise on a curve. I think God must have steered for at least 30 seconds and then kept his eye on us the next half hour as we drove directly into the sun until the road leveled out and the sun was high enough for the visor to help.
OOMPAH! UPDATE
We heard the Word of God well preached by capable men wherever we found ourselves on the Lord’s Day. We were also saddened to find that Oompah! (The god of Christian Rock Worship Music) was alive and well in the West.
One morning we gathered with 300 or so worshippers of all ages in a nice auditorium. On the stage before us were arrayed an impressive group of sincere musicians. The Leader was a gifted woman with a lovely voice, a guitar, and the good sense to keep her talk to a minimum. Lined up beside her was a front four of sincere singers, bouncing to the beat, anchored at the end by a lone violinist.
On stage left at the back there was a keyboard man (or perhaps woman—the big, useless grand piano obscured our view)—stage right was sprinkled with 4 other guitarists—and in the center back was a drummer with a full set of stuff to pound, thump, beat, rattle, bang, etc., etc. You could tell he was special by the two mikes he was allotted.
The service began. The music rolled over us like the storm surge of Katrina, turning the congregation into an audience. The words were on big screens up front—the group romped through six contemporary choruses, written to be performed, not sung by a congregation. We were assaulted with a mind-numbing volume that reduced at least two thirds of the audience to silence. The rest mouthed the words but could hardly be heard over the thunder of the music. What was once a service in which a congregation ministered to the Lord has become a performance in which a rock group ministers to an audience.
Finally we came to the token “Traditional” hymn, an oldie, “Nothing But The Blood.” They gave it the full-blown rock and roll treatment, and the volume was the same, but something changed—everyone was singing. The young, the old and the in-betweeners all joined in and you could even hear them above the roar of the storm. We became a congregation again simply by the introduction of a hymn with substance written to be sung by a congregation.
I suspect even the token traditional hymns will soon become extinct. Ooompah! will not long tolerate music that turns his audience into a congregation. But perhaps someday a new generation will grow weary of the Sunday morning rock concert and discover the old songs, and even write some new ones, songs to be sung by a congregation, not performed by a rock band for an audience.
FOOD-THE BEST AND THE WORST
In the teepees of the tribe, the food is always excellent but on the road it is often a gamble. When we arrived in Shawnee, Oklahoma on the way home, we asked our new friend Jerri, at the desk of the Days Inn, where Billy Boy’s Barbecue was (it was the only place listed in the AAA book). She didn’t know but she recommended Van’s BBQ and Pig Pit, “Everyone goes there—Van has been there 50 years and has another place too.”
We went, and found a meal that was truly world-class awful. The ribs looked and tasted like they had been cut from an animal that had died of thirst and baked in the desert sun for several weeks—and they were barely warm. The rest of the food was as bad, luke-warm to cool, poorly cooked and indifferently slung across the self-serve counter.
At the other extreme were the blackberry pancakes at the Fort Smith Arkansas Cracker Barrel the next morning. I am probably the world’s leading expert on blackberry pancakes, and I have never tasted better.
WILDLIFE
At Custer State Park in South Dakota we mingled with large herds of Buffalo and I ate a burger made from one of their less fortunate members—pretty good.
Outside Hill City, famous for antique car shows and motorcycle gatherings we almost became intimate with a large, 12-point buck. We were just easing out of town and I glanced at a billboard. When I looked back there was this magnificent creature about to step out in front of me. I braked and the sound startled his majestic walk to a liquid glide across the road into the yard of a small house.
We saw lots of signs, Moose Crossing, Deer Crossing, Man with Cane Crossing, but didn’t see any of the creatures threatened except this single Buck, right there at the edge of town.
HEALTH TIP
The general stress of travel, finding food, lodging, the right road, etc., can be the source of considerable stress. Such stress may result in irregularity which causes grumpiness which reinforces the stress. The wise traveler can avoid all this by carrying along a bag of pitted prunes and popping one in the mouth whenever stress occurs. This has several benefits:
1. The mouth is profitably occupied at a time when it best to be silent, since editorial comment on the cause of the stress only tends to aggravate things.
2. Prunes are a good for you; high in all sorts of stuff the body needs to function properly.
3. Prunes will eliminate irregularity with great regularity.
A final word from Psalm 119.53, 54:
“I have remembered Your ordinances from of old, O Lord…
Your statutes are my songs in the house of my pilgrimage.”
On The Road Again
We have just returned from a 6,648-mile drive. It was a very good trip. To get back into the blogging business, I am just going to make a few random observations.
FAMILY
God has blessed us with five children, 4 spouses, and 10 grandchildren. What began as the two of us 51 years ago last July has turned into quite a tribe. If we were Native Americans it wouldn’t take many more of us to get some land rights and start a casino. Casinos have become ubiquitous across the purple mountain majesties and fruited plains.
One daughter, her husband and three boys live just two miles from us here in Lexington. The rest of the tribe is in the West and we had good family time with all of them. The thing that strikes us all over again is how each of these 19 are different, each unique, each gifted and each a joy to our hearts. To spell this out in detail would take a long time so we will just observe that we are thankful for each member of this tribe, and proud of them all.
THE HAZARDS OF THE ROAD
We only saw one pothole but it was a big one, on US 29 North in the heart of Kansas City. I thought it would take the left front wheel right off but the Avalon shrugged and ran straight and true the whole trip.
Sometimes we are the bug--sometimes we are the windshield. Always we are the objects of the mercy and the grace of God.
Coming up the mountain out of Albuquerque we were commenting on how nice it was not to be driving into the blizzard that developed last trip. Then the sun came up, right in our eyes at the top of a rise on a curve. I think God must have steered for at least 30 seconds and then kept his eye on us the next half hour as we drove directly into the sun until the road leveled out and the sun was high enough for the visor to help.
OOMPAH! UPDATE
We heard the Word of God well preached by capable men wherever we found ourselves on the Lord’s Day. We were also saddened to find that Oompah! (The god of Christian Rock Worship Music) was alive and well in the West.
One morning we gathered with 300 or so worshippers of all ages in a nice auditorium. On the stage before us were arrayed an impressive group of sincere musicians. The Leader was a gifted woman with a lovely voice, a guitar, and the good sense to keep her talk to a minimum. Lined up beside her was a front four of sincere singers, bouncing to the beat, anchored at the end by a lone violinist.
On stage left at the back there was a keyboard man (or perhaps woman—the big, useless grand piano obscured our view)—stage right was sprinkled with 4 other guitarists—and in the center back was a drummer with a full set of stuff to pound, thump, beat, rattle, bang, etc., etc. You could tell he was special by the two mikes he was allotted.
The service began. The music rolled over us like the storm surge of Katrina, turning the congregation into an audience. The words were on big screens up front—the group romped through six contemporary choruses, written to be performed, not sung by a congregation. We were assaulted with a mind-numbing volume that reduced at least two thirds of the audience to silence. The rest mouthed the words but could hardly be heard over the thunder of the music. What was once a service in which a congregation ministered to the Lord has become a performance in which a rock group ministers to an audience.
Finally we came to the token “Traditional” hymn, an oldie, “Nothing But The Blood.” They gave it the full-blown rock and roll treatment, and the volume was the same, but something changed—everyone was singing. The young, the old and the in-betweeners all joined in and you could even hear them above the roar of the storm. We became a congregation again simply by the introduction of a hymn with substance written to be sung by a congregation.
I suspect even the token traditional hymns will soon become extinct. Ooompah! will not long tolerate music that turns his audience into a congregation. But perhaps someday a new generation will grow weary of the Sunday morning rock concert and discover the old songs, and even write some new ones, songs to be sung by a congregation, not performed by a rock band for an audience.
FOOD-THE BEST AND THE WORST
In the teepees of the tribe, the food is always excellent but on the road it is often a gamble. When we arrived in Shawnee, Oklahoma on the way home, we asked our new friend Jerri, at the desk of the Days Inn, where Billy Boy’s Barbecue was (it was the only place listed in the AAA book). She didn’t know but she recommended Van’s BBQ and Pig Pit, “Everyone goes there—Van has been there 50 years and has another place too.”
We went, and found a meal that was truly world-class awful. The ribs looked and tasted like they had been cut from an animal that had died of thirst and baked in the desert sun for several weeks—and they were barely warm. The rest of the food was as bad, luke-warm to cool, poorly cooked and indifferently slung across the self-serve counter.
At the other extreme were the blackberry pancakes at the Fort Smith Arkansas Cracker Barrel the next morning. I am probably the world’s leading expert on blackberry pancakes, and I have never tasted better.
WILDLIFE
At Custer State Park in South Dakota we mingled with large herds of Buffalo and I ate a burger made from one of their less fortunate members—pretty good.
Outside Hill City, famous for antique car shows and motorcycle gatherings we almost became intimate with a large, 12-point buck. We were just easing out of town and I glanced at a billboard. When I looked back there was this magnificent creature about to step out in front of me. I braked and the sound startled his majestic walk to a liquid glide across the road into the yard of a small house.
We saw lots of signs, Moose Crossing, Deer Crossing, Man with Cane Crossing, but didn’t see any of the creatures threatened except this single Buck, right there at the edge of town.
HEALTH TIP
The general stress of travel, finding food, lodging, the right road, etc., can be the source of considerable stress. Such stress may result in irregularity which causes grumpiness which reinforces the stress. The wise traveler can avoid all this by carrying along a bag of pitted prunes and popping one in the mouth whenever stress occurs. This has several benefits:
1. The mouth is profitably occupied at a time when it best to be silent, since editorial comment on the cause of the stress only tends to aggravate things.
2. Prunes are a good for you; high in all sorts of stuff the body needs to function properly.
3. Prunes will eliminate irregularity with great regularity.
A final word from Psalm 119.53, 54:
“I have remembered Your ordinances from of old, O Lord…
Your statutes are my songs in the house of my pilgrimage.”
