Jasmine St

       Bigger is better. We moved into a duplex with an upstairs component. I finally got semi-private quarters. My Mother is the wheeler dealer of the family.  No one can resist her charming manners. I built a writers desk out of ply board that served for quite a few months. Simi lived next door. He is a retired priest who has a gay streak of friendliness. He enjoyed our all male family.

      The University was in the throes of change.  We wanted autonomy from LSU to simply become UNO which sounded way cooler. This bug tussle went on for sometime. The school was allowed to change the name to the University of New Orleans. This lasted a few years until LSU reclaimed the right to manage this sprawling campus under the LSU system of conquer and control. I was above all of this political intrigue. I simply wanted to play music and set up festivals for the music aficionados of New Orleans.

      I completed one semester and took off for Miami during the Christmas holiday by thumb. Florida in those days, harbored many travelers escaping winter.      The Gulf Stream Racetrack was the site of the Miami Pop Festival which brought the best rhythm and blues people from all over the country. That music scene was the most intense I had ever been a part of. 

    I hitched with Decky who knew Jerry Jeff Walker as a lover and friend. I followed this tiny woman seeing many art shows at the festival. Jerry Jeff held his performance in a theater along with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band making this special. I managed a backstage pass to meet these guys. I saw them before the performance. One of them was impeccably dressed as a Canadian Mountie.  I remember this because of the bright red of his jacket with gold buttons. I had never seen anything like it before. 

      Why these folks wear dark glasses is anybody's guess.  My assumption is to hide the heroin use. Jerry Jeff was of that kind then. His music was superb. We joined him later in Coconut Grove where he kept a rental throughout the winter. The festival was extraordinary because of the art that Miami produces. I returned to New Orleans and UNO.
       My window opened right on the roof on Jasmine St. I'd go outside on the roof rather than climb down the stairs through the gauntlet of family matters which would engulf my brothers. It gave me freedom to think creatively and record my thoughts on paper.   All that is lost having moved so many times. One man's junk is another man's treasure.  There are so few original thoughts in this world. 'There is nothing new under the sun' is another thought that negates inventiveness. 
     The Ecology Club was a new entity on campus in 1968.   My friends at the Ecology Club wanted to do something big with music.  We got permission to hold an event at the Student Union after hours. Nearly everyone participated in making this impromptu festival happen. 

     The nun who told us how to get the city permits was instrumental.  Crowd control and the acquisition of super trooper spotlights and other lighting from the drama department was essential. I joined the Ecology Club to gain some protection. Even though I was not officially enrolled but was waiting for a position to resume my studies after a healing hiatus.  Psychological damage takes a long time to heal.     

     They gave me a desk in a back hallway of the Union. The Festival became something larger than intended. We had thousands of people attending. We subsequently moved to Camp Leroy Johnson to hold the first Earth Day Celebration in history on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain as an annual rite of Spring.

         I discovered the next big thing. It was not paying the bills, though.  I had to work at a job so I could afford the tuition. My older brother Mike had the smarts and the math background to be given the free ride of scholarships through the educational process. He was right with Doc Wieda. I was not so fortunate.
        My struggles were intense and not very productive with education then.  I hit the road for the Miami Pop Festival in the winter of 1968.  Florida was a scary police state.  You just never knew if they were going to stop you for a detailed examination only to let you go. Being from out of state is a risky business for music fans. Tribal music was taking root. The Conga drums became prominent in my life.
      The music festival held at the Gulf Stream Racetrack, was an eye opener. I saw things from the art world that were truly inspiring. The music was the best ever with acts like Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels, James Brown and the Famous Flames. There were so many others, all dressed to the nines.  Epic does not do it justice. Nor does the word awesome.

      I rode down the Gulf Coast with biologists who were doing a survey of the Everglades. We stopped at every roadkill and flock of birds so they could examine and document species they've never seen before. 

       They were from the Northeast so naturally this was exciting for them.  I was always hungry and thirsty so frequent feedings was the norm. These brothers predicted the demise of the Glades. They were not far off the mark.  Protection was essential at this point.  Preserving the waterways ultimately protected the Glades.

      There is more awareness about environmental degradation because of people like these guys who take it upon themselves to document the destruction. This  gave credence to the environmental movement.  You must be careful. It has become a rallying cry for radicals and militants who disrespect all the efforts of genuine scientists.  
     Jasmine St. gave rise to my Guild thinking. There are many craftsmen in New Orleans who would benefit if they worked within a Guild. A Guild is an ancient organization. Craftsmen share information about their skills and tools. It is not a political organization.

         The media was obsessed with Vietnam.  I had my own affairs.  Paul McCartney opened Sea Saint Studios a few blocks away from our house. I got to see inside that operation just once.  The mafioso music groups wanted me back in the loop.  All I wanted was to make sandals like Bill Powell, the Englishman.
     Bill made his sandals in the French Quarter at 1212 Royal St.. He was loved by everyone. He taught men how to design and make all kinds of sandals. His designs were innovative and very Romanesque. I went with him a few times to select leather at the tannery. I learned as much as possible from him. I found out he was being deported because US Customs said they found marijuana under his fingernail as he returned from Mexico.  We had a farewell party for him. He looked strong and ready for the long flight back to England. I heard he was still making sandals. He is such a great soul and a ladies man. Nancy was wild about him. She cried real tears as he jumped in a cab for the ride to the airport on Veterans highway.
     I've seen some wild nights in New Orleans. I was uptown in the Garden District listening to music near Tulane U. at The Boot when a tall blond walks up crying croc tears.  I asked if she needed help. Her car had been robbed and everything was gone. She was from Australia. I felt badly for her. There was nothing I could do but call the police and let them handle it. What a shame on New Orleans.
         There were other times when being in the right place and the right time made all the difference to the outcome. Early intervention is the key to almost every dangerous situation that humans get into. Hank Hayley and I were designing music one night when we spied this guy fall over. Not knowing the situation, we went over to help him to his feet. Obviously drunk and disoriented made him a prime target for the street rats that prowl the shadows. We cleaned him up and gave him fluids. He sobered after about an hour. We oriented him to his hotel and set him loose to make a beeline to the front door. I wonder how other drunks survive.  
    One of the perks for me as a reviewer of music were the free records. These were sent directly to me to listen and enjoy by record companies. I'd choose the ones I liked and rated them for listening quality.  I was the first to hear Judy Collins records and every new Rock and Roll group taking the stage in those days.  These were extraordinary times for me.
     I was on the Riverwalk one night watching the river traffic as I usually did when I was at Jackson Square.  A Chinese freighter was making its way down river when suddenly it burst into flames after colliding with a fuel barge.  It started drifting into the Mississippi River Bridge abutments and was caught there as it burned. Seamen were jumping off the stern into the swift river. The flames reached higher and higher on the river bridge. The fire boat that protects the harbor, arrived to put out the flames. There was the loss of many lives that night on the Mississippi. In those days, accidents were a spectator sport.                 There was absolutely nothing I could do but watch. I am a card carrying member of the International Society of Gawkers presented to me in a small ceremony by the founder and president, Rick S.
     I went to many concerts then. On one Saturday night we heard Jimi Hendrix was going to play in City Park near the Merry-go-Round. Seeing him was awesome because of his command of himself and music.   He moved with such grace and dignity that we admired. Of course he was high. The music was higher.   On the same bill was Procol Harem which was an astounding treat for the know nothings of New Orleans. Rick and I knew though how special this was.  We were solidly Gawking at the Gawkers.
        The French Quarter was now super hip with boutiques all over with that charming incense smell. This lets you know you are among friends trying to make a living selling whatever. All the girls were buying hip clothes. You wanted to show them you were hip as well.  He had to fit the bill to get a date with these high class girls. They had nothing going on but clothes and boy toys.
        My girlfriend at that time was Sandy. We met at Kingsley House Camp and hung out during our time together  There was alot going on with many adventures in the sailing canoe. Sandy had those Twiggy eyes she used to flash at me during staff meetings. I had no chance except to submit to her charms. That was one of the greatest summers of my life.
      I was a man of many hats in those days, both literally and figuratively.  My all time favorite was a wide brimmed plantation hat that had the distinctive paisley cloth hat band.   When you get into straw hats you find out about how they are made. The very best come from a region close to Panama but in Columbia on a river made of fine silal that is grown by the Indians and woven underwater for the most part.  These hats are the softest and most durable Panama hat you can own. You can roll it up and stick it in your back pocket and it will pop back into the shape it was first woven in.  Its waterproof too. It is such a joy to have a genuine Panama hat that will last a lifetime. Nowadays, they are made in many styles for the hip elite to the traditional wide brimmed style so popular with men out in the sun like deckhands on fishing boats. 

      Jasmine St. was in the general area of Gentilly Ridge supporting the only road to the coast called Hwy 90. All that has changed with the advent of the new causeway bridges crossing Lake Pontchartrain.

      One day, during the British music invasion I was car pooling with Dave V when, who pulls up alongside us but Chad & Jeremy. It took us a few seconds to realize who they were.  The limo they were riding in gave us the clue. Such an interesting day since we were trying to make it in music with the same sort of folksy ballads they were singing. We were amateurs and always will be amateurs. 

Albert

      After our whirlwind trip to the West Coast we moved back into Edna's duplex on 2466 South Caliborne.  This is my step Grandmother we called Mamare who tore up all my childhood photos in a fit of rage. This was because good Catholics did not divorce but soldiered on in a bad marriage. 

        We lived there for awhile.  My half brother Duke and I were almost the same age to the day minus one year. Duke is the favorite of Edna because he is blood related. She fawned over him. Our birthdays were huge affairs celebrated at the same time.         

    This is the essence of Cajuns of French extraction from Quebec. They intermarried with German immigrants.  Read Longfellow to gain insight about the great displacement of French Canadians.

      The big attraction at Mamare's  were all the fruit trees in her backyard.  My Mother began canning pears for the winter. This is where she got her raw ingredients.  The pears were cooked down with sugar then it was figs and mulberries all made by hand.

     Our favorite was the mulberry tree which we would strip bare of fruit consuming as we climbed. May the purple lipped live forever.
     Albert found us play fighting in the backyard. I was winning. In those days, everything was hung on clotheslines propped up by long poles. He chose that moment for a training session for Duke. He took down the poles and gave one to each of us. He then started showing his only son how to defend himself with me as the foil. In effect, I had to fight both of them with this slender pole.  Talk about learn quickly. This was not a game... it was deadly serious. Welcome to the family in New Orleans. I was tilting windmills just like Don Quiote.

     Eventually, Edna came around to accepting us.  The damage was done though.  All one can do is carry on until you can escape. It was another 13 years before I could leave this insanity.  

     It was hard times for us. Albert Jr. eventually became my step father.  I finally got over all the life changes I went through and accepted my Mother's choice in a mate.

    I missed my real Dad so much.  I would cry myself to sleep thinking how betrayed I was not to be with him even though he was a flaming drunk and womanizer with two wives. Alex was still my father no matter what. 

     The Seawall with stairs leading down to the water at Lake Ponchartrain was my favorite retreat. The Mardi Gras fountain is where we would take our dates to watch the submarine races at the Lake. 

   The Westend Marina had a watermelon stand we would go to as a family. These melons were transported by boat from the growers across the lake. All that is gone now. The remains are still there but the vibe has changed.

       I rode the train from Chicago through the swamplands just outside of the Big Easy. This is the original City of New Orleans train that makes its way south through gator country. It pitches back and forth as it rambles on. I saw a huge black gator sunning himself as all cold blooded reptiles do.

      At Lake Mireaux, I saw the skinning of giant catfish. The skinner nails the head to a vertical board after making an incision around the girth. He the grabs the loose skin with two pillars and pulls down strongly.  The skin just peals off.

    This track was the only road during the Civil War. It was captured and recaptured many times. It was used to transport the Confederates to the battlefields with all the equipment that goes with them to the front. 

   Very few realize how important the railroad was to the South. The war brought the South to deaths door.  Nearly every Southern family lost members during the war.

The Right Side or the Sewerside

I'm on the sewerside of life. 

Like a turd floating down the tube

Being treated ever so rude

Like a log in the River

It makes me shiver

To the Swamp of Disrepairing.  

 Looking for light

 Saved from caring. 

I'm on the Sewerside of Life

 No one knows the troubles I've seen

 Or the bowls that I have cleaned.

Or the stinks that I smelled

Waking up again 

In the strangest of Hells. 

Texas

      I retired from Mayo Clinic after 8 yrs of ridiculous service.  I started for Texas on a cold day in May hoping to complete the drive without the car blowing up on me. She is a tough 1999 SAAB 95 sedan bulletproof in every way.  I bought her from a dealer in the north. 

    This SAAB was built in Canada and had all the winter gear one would need for those icy and treacherous roads. I would drive from dawn til dusk in the great push southward finding a safe parking spot at Walmart.  They allow overnight parking. I'd sleep all curled up on the backseat with my pee bottle handy for

 those night time relievers that are so essential.

       As I crossed into Kansas, I could see weather developing. Storm clouds gathered in the distance. As darkness fell, the winds lashed out with all their fury. The windshield wipers could not keep up with the amount of water being blown around.     

      It was time to pull over. I parked under an overpass and prepared to rest. The radio crackled with a report of a twister nearby. There was a sudden whoosh as the thing swept over the roadway on top of the overpass. The car shook violently and moved around as the wind lifted the two ton behemoth for a moment.  There was no one around since the roadway had been cleared by the sensible State Police. No damage at all. I started her up again and drove into the next town which proved to be safer.

    My destination was my brother's ranch in Chappell Hill. He was allowing me a few weeks to get organized and find work.  This was not my idea at all.  I did not want to work in healthcare since the only thing I really gained was enough capital to travel.    

      When you let the dog loose he runs for awhile. I was a dog on the loose with many ideas of where to go. I stayed at Mike's for nearly three months working at various things that needed doing.

      The old man was living on the ranch since he lost the fishing camp to Katrina. My mother was in the Brenham nursing home. I would go visit her a few times a week until I had to leave. Another hurricane was forming in the Gulf.  It was directly offshore. I only had a few hours to get out of town before IKE made his presence known.  It tore things up pretty good at the ranch. That was the last time I saw the old man. While we were spreading the tar roof on the milking parlor he gamely climbed the ladder to have a look at the work being done. 

      Mike eventually drove him to El Paso and the VA retirement center.  He said he was scared.   It does not have to be scary. Three meals a day. Plenty of fellowship and pretty nurses to ogle makes it a delightful occasion for most.   I hope he adjusted.    I won't see him again. He just won't remember me. I worked in many nursing homes to know exactly what goes on and how patients are treated. He will be fine.     

       The reason Mike did this was because his legs were turning black. This is caused by improper diet.with the ultimate culprit being scurvy the lack of vitamin C.   When a friend can't take care of himself the compassionate thing to do is get them help.   First you take them to the emergency room for evaluation and a solution to immediate problems then the social worker makes an appearance.  She tries to figure out where to place your friend. It could be in a home-like environment or a nursing home with skilled nursing to supervise his recovery or demise. 

   I drove to Austin to let the storm blow itself out. I continued my long drive to San Diego and finally the ocean. The interstate 8 leads you directly to the Pacific Ocean.  Once you see this beautiful sight your mind can relax and smell the salt air which in itself is invigorating. 

     There a few hostels that are always full so plan ahead and make some sort of reservation or you will be scrambling for shelter like the many homeless.  This is the grim reality of the coastal cities especially a navy town like SD. All those PTSD people come to SD to survive. Unless you have a excellent retirement plan of some value you are probably destined for the same fate.
         Many choose Hawaii simply because it is warmer.  Even that is filled with challenges and awkward false starts. At least you can swim everyday in the ocean and watch the sunsets.  The rest of the time is pure survival. Food is expensive. 

     The Chinese have the cheapest foods. Transportation is also cheap. You can ride the circle island bus for just one dollar and an adventure of a lifetime. I chose to go to sea and the South Pacific which in retrospect was the very best of ideas.

       My hand was still broken but I could function at a reduced level. The charm of the islands will never leave you. You will always want to return even though you know it won't be the same. There is nothing more powerful than a sunset in the South Pacific to set the imagination aflame.

Barry

      It was during these times that I met Barry. He is the smartest person I have ever known.  He and his brother are excellent chess masters who were willing to teach the game to me. There were many Saturday mornings when I would go over to their house and have lunch served by one of the most cordial mothers in the world.   It was a short lived friendship.  His father took jobs all over the country so it was soon in the cards for Barry to move away. I wonder if he even remembers those great days we spent together.  I saw his name somewhere. Apparently, he is a doctor now in Shreveport Louisiana.
      I had two hamsters called Ham and Eggs. Along with turtles and a huge stamp collection. Having friends around was not a good incentive for me.  Our family was bound to be educated and well respected.   I was part of that expectation.   

     How soon those goals change simply because of all the pressure that was coming down on us.   The Vietnam war was raging and consuming many of the guys in school.  The ones who did manage to come home were badly wounded and disabled for the rest of their lives.

The Spitball Wars

     Capdau Junior High School was filled with many misadventures. In the afternoons usually the fifth or sixth period when the punishment would be lighter, we would start our campaign of spit balling. It would take us a few minutes to ready our shooters which consisted of palmed soda straws from the cafeteria and lots of paper. The paper contained chemicals that cause neurological problems we found out later.

    We started by chewing up paper and forming the spitball in our mouths. We would check for caliber, grading each carefully formed spit ball for continuity. The onslaught would commence as soon as the substitute teacher turned to write on the blackboard.         Substitutes were the most likely to just let it go, so we knew it was spitball day when a substitute showed up.

       We were merciless. Spit balls were stuck everywhere. No one was safe. We used a sawed off version that we could flip back in our mouths to secretly inflict damage on others.

      One of us took a shot at the blackboard. It went splat close to Mr Gillespie.  He knew what was happening but was powerless to stop it. He simply ignored this madness and continued to teach the willing. His classes were very good.  They were all about Louisiana history that most of us already knew growing up in Louisiana. We were just bored and ready for the outdoors. The sweltering classrooms made the class restless.  Our sanctuary was the woods that surrounded the Crescent City.

     My favorite getaway was City Park. This park is huge. It connects the Mississippi River with Lake Ponchatrain as a relief spillway much like the Bonne' Carrie Spillway. It could have been designed as a backup when the River threatened the city.       

     On Saturdays, I'd ride my bike to spend the day tromping through the unexplored Park areas. I was looking for wildlife. The Park holds so much wildlife that escapes the normal eye.

      I once found a injured Sparrow Hawk. She was such a beautiful bird of prey,  I nursed this injured bird feeding it raw hamburger.  I eventually gave it to Frank who was the troop wildlife specialist.
   One cold day, I was on the perimeter with the roadway nearby. A cop was passing by on the typical three wheeled motorcycle. He passed by.  In my haste, I threw him the bird in a spontaneous display of resentment. I thought he could not see me.  He suddenly wheeled around.  I spent a few hours in jail.  My Aunt Marion bailed me out. Respect authority is my suggestion.
     The giant Live Oaks planted by the French Founders of the city are incredible. They were a shipbuilders dream. These giants suffer greatly during the huge storms of hurricane season. Like all life, they recover quickly in these moist environs. 

    In New Orleans there is an unseen population living among these trees. These are the squirrel families of many generations. They love the acorns which the trees produce year round.  If you are fortunate enough to see one, try sitting in perfect stillness so they don't see you. Animals key on movement and the eyes. They are always busy burying acorns. This ensures that a few oak sprouts will grow. One can dig them up and take it to a new home if you know of a place big enough for the tree to grow to full stature. 

   The English and French built their ships from oak. Those trees are no more. An often overlooked reason for the War of 1812 was the English interest in the oak groves along the Mississippi.

       My Dad told me of hunting squirrels with slingshots in these great groves of the huge Parks of New Orleans in the 30's. They hid the little bodies inside a wheel they rolled to hide them from the cops. They stayed put as long as the tire kept rolling but once stopped they would fall out. Thus the incentive was to keep rolling so no one would get the wiser.  Kids do what they can to get away with their petty crimes.

     My Dad came from the Heckmann family. Our Great Grandmother we called Fat Mamare.  She was one hundred per cent French Cajon. The story goes that the family fled Nazi Germany through the Netherlands by ship.  They eventually came to New Orleans and opened shoe stores. 

       I have some famous relatives like Johnny Schumacher, the jockey who won the Kentucky Derby many years ago. The stories go on and on.

The road to Philmont Scout Ranch is paved with disillusionment

      Joining the Scouts was life changing for me. I became a Scout eager to consume everything related to Scouting  I rose through the ranks from Den Chief to Patrol Leader to Assistant Senior Patrol Leader to Senior Patrol Leader then finally Assistant Scoutmaster. I advanced in rank although a few merit badges short of Eagle. I will be a Life Scout forever.  ❤️

    It was my dream to make the trip to Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico.  It was a dream too far. At that age everything is pulling you in all directions. The cost was prohibitive since there was no way to make money except by slaving away at a pitiful excuse for work.  Even that would not have provided the basic cost to Philmont.

       I was invited to go on a road trip to Seattle by the Buck family. That gave me a taste of a history as we toured.  I was such a Cowpoke fan. Only later, I learned that most cowboys were outlaws. Uncle Ralph gave me a book about Cowboys of the old West.
      I settled for a life of poverty and labor like any good Southern boy. I was determined to suceed like my older brother. I became a student at the University of New Orleans because I thought it would help me achieve my goals. It did not. I was interested in other things besides a Science discipline which is the only way to find work in the oil industry. I was not a smart boy just a writer and a poet. Calculus was my downfall. Volume estimates are essential in the oil field    

       My brother had the smarts to become a geologist for the oil companies based in New Orleans. Hard work was not my strength. Injured oilfield roustabouts were all over the place. The University was a candy store with endless choices that never make you happy.  Outside of school, things were pulling at me like girlfriends and music.

       The war in Vietnam was the biggest obstacle I faced . The draft was waiting to cart me off to war.  If you fall below the 2.2 point in the grading system, you are draftable.  When I took the physical my eyes kept me out the draft.   I was given a 4F deferment. Hallelujah I'm a bum again.
      R.R. Eckart was our Scoutmaster. He worked as a lead geologist which gave him time to be the Scoutmaster of Troop 87. I learned a lot from this man.  His leadership was immpeccible, well planned and spontaneous. His family supported everything he did concerning the nurturing of young Scouts. He was an outstanding Methodist and parent.  He once went charging through our encampment screaming at the top of his lungs carrying our troop banner. We joined  him since he was going somewhere.  It did not matter where since he was leading. It could have been a Civil War movie for all the drama created. I introduced my older brother to him since he was becoming a geologist. Networking is the way to go.  I got Duke to join the BSA.

        We camped in a Forest Reserve with many logging skidpaths and slash piles to hide behind. We were playing war games. We divided into teams. It soon got out of hand.  Scouts were making spears and setting traps. We were living out the Lord of the Flies. The running was exhausting. What we experienced that day was how it feels to go to war. Lucky no one got hurt. Tempers were flaring and things got testy. Darkness quelled the anger.  Soon we were back to scouting, getting ready for dinner over the open coals of a well built fire.
      Our weekend camping trips were educational. We set up our camp in the backwaters of the Gulf Coast of short leaf pine and boggy swamps. The fishing was good in these bogs. The frogs set forth with a mighty chorus of croaks and grunts as the sun sets on our Southern paradise. We found carnivorous plants such as the sun dew and pitcher plant native to America. How they got to the Gulf Coast from South Carolina is anyone's guess.  They were growing in the seldom visited backwaters of our coastline, in all their sticky glory.       

        We tried everything to make ourselves immune from poison ivy. We heard that you could eat a leaf of poison ivy wrapped in bread to stimulate the immune response. This is ancient Indian lore.  It works to some degree.  

    We perfected campfire cookery by pre-packaging our dinners in aluminum foil. All we had to do was toss it in the coals of the evening fire. We never washed a pan or opened a can out in the wilderness. The coffee pot was always hot. This was the welcome sign to visitors who wanted to know us. Scouts are that friendly.
     The mosquitoes were horrendous. Some of the ways to get relief was to build a smoky fire then smother it with Spanish moss. Soon though, the mosquitoes would be all over you looking for that special place to drill. The richer scouts bought repellent which soon washes off with sweat. The Indians caked mud all over their body which was a fine solution. Who wants to be that dirty all the time?  We struggled on with this huge problem.  We discovered jungle hammocks with mosquito netting. After all, you get to lay down. You still have interesting conversations with your buddies.  In the evening when the onshore winds blew, it took most of the mozzies down to the ground. We were safe for awhile.

Yo-Yo's and Spinning Tops

     Growing up in Metairie was different than New Orleans. The Vieux Carre' is the first place we landed on our way back from California  The old man wanted to live in the suburbs like everyone else he knew.  The folks bought a brick house. 

      My brothers and I enrolled in John Clancy which required a walk through the woods to get to class. These woods were so interesting to us that we built a stick house there. Sort of like a club house only it was breezy. 

      School was not what we looked forward to. The fifteen minutes mid morning and the lunch break is what we relished. We engaged in games such as tops and marbles. The Yo-Yo's came later.

      These games began with a circle in the dirt with the target circle in the middle. This is where you put your trading marbles or tops. The skill was to dislodge these 'up for grabs' items with the careful accuracy of your shooter. If you were lucky to have one, it was a steely.  A steely is a giant ball bearing that has the weight to move the cache of marbles at the center. If you develop the skill, you can scatter the group with just one shot.        Bowlies are giant glass marbles that also have the mass but not weighty enough to compete with steelies.  Steelies rule the ring. These were ball bearings taken from the stash at the many garage shops around the Big Easy.  All the marbles you knock out of the ring are yours to keep.  The ones that stay in the ring you must continue to shoot for.  Many a day, I came home with a sack of marbles greater than when I started with at the cost of the other players. Life was good on those days
     Tops were played that invested much thought into making your shooter top deadly. The psychological advantage was important. I had a prize top I painted bright yellow.  An egg shaped onion top and studded with nail heads all designed to maintain revolutions which seems to be the key to dislodging stationary tops in the center ring.  The spindle was sharpened to cause gouges which is a sign of dominance.  When your top enters the circle it does damage.  We had many spindle designs so that we could change them to accommodate the circumstance. There was one spindle design that we hammered flat so that when it impacted the dirt it would dislodge a top by digging a trench like a shovel.

       Psychological warfare with tops was just one of the tools we learned.  By the time I retired this yellow onion top was full of gouges from having been in many of these circles of warfare.
    The string that one uses to wind around the top is equally important. There were many tricks to this string. Once you got the number of wraps right you then wax the tightly wound cord by pulling it over a candle. You still had to replace it regularly. The wax added life to the string...so anything that helps the longevity of this essential item was well worth it.     

   9ppp  Throwing the top is learned through practice. Side arm like a baseball is best. The string whips in an arc.  Sometimes a button helps save your finger from being strangled by the leash. The correct finger is the middle finger. That way you have a little more control over the physics of tops.  This is a game of precision.
      After the season of marbles and tops passed we picked up on yo-yo's. The science of yo-yos is also a discipline.   One starts by being able to make the thing sleep which is stopping at the bottom of the throw. Then you can walk the dog and do other tricks like shoot the moon or around the world or rock the baby.   Tommy Smothers had the yoyo moves down on his TV show.

          The other tricks get progressively harder and more and more time is needed for perfect execution.  Go to any hobby shop and they will pull out the yo-yo display.  Again, the string is the key to good yo-yo-ing. Getting the twist just right is essential. The string is separated and double back on itself so there is a loop at the end. You open this loop to mount it on the spindle. This loop is the ultimate weakness. Always carry a spare.
     Nowadays, the library is the place to start looking for books on these games. We learned the hard way.... at the playground from the bigger kids.  Life is hard and then you die. 

      The jungle gym was interesting for exercise.  The girls liked to climb and the boys would taunt them to climb higher.  These recess breaks were only ten minutes long. Not enough time to even get started with a program of development.  It was barely enough time to use the restroom.

Why I fight

  I have a friend named Betty. She comes from Honduras.  She doesn't talk about this to anyone.  I had an interview with her sometime ago about why she moved to Texas. This is her story:
     She was living a quiet life in San Pedro Sula with three children and a husband who was a journalist.  It was a beautiful life. One day as she was seeing her husband off to work in Tegucigalpa where he worked as an investigative journalist, he was stopped by a woman with a question. The most recent project he was involved in were the roving gangs of street criminals that had overtaken this Capital.
     As he was backing out the driveway this woman approached the car.  She held nothing in her hands. She was quite striking in appearance. She asked him if he could tell her where she could find a job in the neighborhood. He said no. Suddenly, three men came up to the car one in front and two on the sides. They raised their AK-47's that had been concealed under their coats. Betty's husband died in a hail of gunfire.  The three gunmen and the woman ran back to a car and departed. He died instantly while Betty watched in terror.

I am a monk

       I am a monk. Okay, a novice monk but still a monk leading a monk's life. I've been initiated and served in a monastery. I know the Benedictines and the Franciscans, the Ursulines as well. I know the Buddhists and the Hare Krsnas and the many sub groups associated with these orders. I have many friends who are dedicated and sincere in monasticism. I lived among an illio monastic society for a few years in Arlington. I studied many of the great religions and psycho religions that come to America for shelter from the harsh reality of persecution. The USA is the only country that has separation of church and state.
         Religion shelters many people. It still takes a commitment to goodness and honesty which is difficult for many people. Especially, those displaced and wandering souls that have lost their community. This is exactly why I became a monk in the first place. I struggled not to become displaced.  I fought in every way not to be subject to a routine of prayer and ritual.  

    Religion that calls itself religion is not the real deal. All the trappings of religion are simply a reminder of a God that needs your worship. He can be called to help you. It is not an easy thing to do. It takes forgiveness first. 

       Forgive yourself then your surroundings and the people who surround you. By getting a fresh start you can give a fresh start to everyone. 

     The Native Americans pray this way. At the very first light of morning, the Warrior would bow first to the East, then the South, West and North saying at each point: "All to the East of me is sacred, All to the South is sacred, All to the West is sacred, All to the North is sacred."
      During those days, I had heard the Timothy Leary mantra that said tune in, turn on, drop out.  I added the rejoinder which is applicable...come back for a visit. There is no escape from reality.

My Mother

      She came from a large family.  Four sisters and three brothers well bred in Dothan, Alabama.  She is the fourth born of Irish and Scottish descent.  The family had come from Ireland so Irish is how we identify ourselves. There is a street named after us in Dublin. Price St. is so named because of our connection to the old country. There are 10's of thousands of families named after us, both here and abroad. Our ultimate roots are in Wales so the Welsh can be proud.
    Ercie is a beautiful woman. Her natural beauty is a gift from God. Her jobs required perfect make up and clothing.

    She showed me how to roll tobacco like a cowboy. Twiddling my thumbs was also given to me.  My Grandfather used this method to relax and pass the time.  She never failed her family. She brought a lot to the table, enduring disappointments and great losses that will never be replaced.  She was stalwart in her devotion to family. She improved the lives of everyone she came in touch with.  She solved  problems, whether it was an injury or a belief in yourself. Her encouraging words illustrates her love in a most complete way.
   All of the 7 have passed on now. She holds the middle position where balance is maintained. She told me of having lunch with a friend at the Walgreen's Drug Store on Canal Street. Her friend looked away for a brief moment. My mother the jokester, said to her,' I spit in your Coke.'  Her poor friend did not know how to respond to her humor. They left the drug store laughing at this silliness which, in turn, put smiles on everyone passing by no matter what kind of day they were having. 

     I came running in bleeding from a foot wound. She calmly took me to the bathroom and carefully removed the glass shards from my foot. I felt like I was being cared for by someone who really loved me. This is what a Mother does for her child. She heals all hurts.
         She taught me how important reading is. She illustrated this by having stacks of books near her night stand. She bought us the Encyclopedia Britannica for Christmas. Then another Christmas she surprised me with the complete set of Ian Fleming's 007.

      Ercie constantly encouraged my many hobbies. When I would visit her downtown on Saturdays she would take me to a store that sold stamps in bulk for the collector. I was an avid collector. I looked forward to seeing her coming home after a long day in high heels, selling women's apparel. Everyone seemed to know her downtown. She did not judge people. Everyone from the lowly janitor to her many bosses wanted the very best for her and her family. She was a prized employee having won the honor many times over for her sheer volume of business she generated for New Orleans. She was a treasure that everyone enjoyed.

       I still remember this as if it were yesterday. It was early morning and the mists on the river were surrounding us that Sunday when Nana and my Mother took us to St. Louis Cathedral for services. It was the most remarkable of times. Not only was I being introduced to the Ursalines Convent who care for the Church but the whole French Catholic experience of New Orleans.  

     Nana was the only child of Irene and Abbie Heckmann.   Irene was completely French and Abbie a German shoemaker.  Nana ascribed to the French culture of the French Quarter.  These were my relatives who lived on St Phillip St right off Rampart St. where the French Market begins. On the corner is a bank that has since closed its doors. The hipsters started a dance club that stayed open during the early years of hippiedom in New Orleans.
      My Mother was given a poodle which she raised as family. One cold afternoon, we all were down at Lake Pontchartrain. We walked out on a dock. The poodle ran ahead.  The poor thing ran right off the dock into the cold waters of the lake. By the time I rescued the critter she was not breathing. Nasty as it was, I grabbed her muzzle and blew into her nose. Her eyes popped open.  She was glad to be alive.  I got a good dinner for my heroics.  So did Mimi the poodle. We had this poodle bred producing a new household pet named Peaches and Cream is the one I saved.. These dogs stayed with Ercie and Al for many years. The pets moved with them to Snug Harbor after the camp was built near the Rigolets Pass that connects Lake Ponchartrain and the Gulf of Mexico.  This was the exact spot that Jayne Mansfield was killed on the adjacent highway.
       My brother talked them into moving to Texas as they aged. They could not live on the lonely highway much longer. They sold the place to a young women.  That very same year hurricane Katrina blew through. I looked at the satellite pictures of the area. Nothing was left. Not even the pilings. It was all gone. That was the second time the old man sold his summer place to have a hurricane level it. That storm was named Camille.  Nothing but the blues.

     When she passed away, I knew exactly when that happened. By the Grace of God she appeared to me in a vision from Heaven looking young and healthy with short black hair. This was in Tijuana. I knew then how much she cared about her long lost son.

   I knew God was taking care of her and her worries.  I had seen His Shining face in Fayetteville, Arkansas after praying a lengthy plea for guidance. He lifted his arm and pointed to the Pacific Northwest. I had studied for many moons with the Independent Baptists.  I heard many stories of Missionary ventures to Alaska.  I wanted to go there. It was not to be though.  Plans change people change. I went back to school in Bellingham.

The Swamp Lords

    The L & N tracks led to the most beautiful swamp in East Gentilly not far from Swegmann's Supermarket, the largest market in the South.  I'd spend my Saturdays in this Swamp watching wildlife and fishing. One day, I came upon a giant mulberry tree that only the birds seem to know about.  These mulberries were as long as your pinky finger. 

      The mulberry is one of the oldest fruit bearing trees going back to prehistoric times.

The Greeks used the mashed berries to dye their clothes. The Tongans cultivate the trees for the inner bark.  They turn it into Tapa cloth.  The more you have the wealthier you appear. 

   Valu gave me a Tapa Cloth with Tonga symbols painted on with homemade black ink made from burnt Coconut shells. I carried that cloth until my van was stolen in Portland. Such a loss, I never will see such things again.

     This mulberry tree I found was bearing so heavily the ground was littered with fruit.  I began the feast which lasted well into the afternoon. The birds and I eat so much flying is questioable. The berries ferment in the stomach producing alcohol. Seeing inebriated birds staggering along a branch is hilarious.           Along the waterways filled with fallen trees, I found muskadines growing along the branches. The leaves are big and need lots of sunlight to produce fruit. Most of the swamp lands are in semi-darkness. The only open sky is over the waterways.

      These wild grapes have a defense. The outer skin has prickly hairs that cause an irritation in the mouth and throat. The way to eat them is to squeeze the grape until the sweet core pops in your mouth. The poor gather these wild grapes to make wine. 
    After a rain, the spongy earth is sodden. This is a perfect environment for mushrooms.  A fairy ring of mushrooms was growing beneath a grove of cypress.  It was the most charming episode of my many adventures in the L & N swamp. You can find out about these fairy rings in almost any botany book. 

     The growths are some of the oldest and largest on the planet because the mycelium root system covers much of the earth. The fairies dance around these rings using fireflies to light the affair. The mushroom cap serves as a stool for their little bottoms. You must be ready to see them for they disappear at the first disturbance.

    We were wandering the swamp lands of Louisiana via pirogue. I named mine Swamp Fox which is Jean Lafittes nickname. This is a flat bottomed double ended canoe-like water craft that can be configured in many ways. It could be built with an inboard motor using a Briggs and Stratton engine turning a thru hull shaft to a propeller.  This is no easy feat. The Cajuns have been doing this for generations with these boats. 

    When motorized, one stands and steers with a long pole. This was perfect for tending crab pots or getting to your blind during duck season. You gotta be quick and calm when commanding a ship like this. Our pirogues were powered by paddle.  The best paddles are made of Ash with fir stiffeners.
     We were Scouts who just wanted to get outdoors any chance we could. Frank had his driving license. His family had an old DeSoto touring car that is long lost in motoring history. We called it the Hoopie Dupe. It had suicide doors on one side. It was a mammoth car with an overhead rack that accommodate the pirogues. Combined with the fluid drive transmission and cheap gas, we were all set for weekends filled with adventures in the swamp of Louisiana.
    We bought jungle hammocks from Army Surplus stores. We traveled to some of the most remote and unexplored areas of Louisiana just to test ourselves in the natural world.  The mosquitoes ruled the swamps. At dusk, the ominous humming would start. It was time to crawl into the jungle hammock and seal yourself from the hordes.  There was always some that you had to eradicate that made it in.   One night, I felt something brush the bottom of my hammock. A small animal I surmised.  You learned to survive in the wilderness. 

        During the day we hunted snakes. The water snakes that we killed and skinned were valuable. We even tried to eat snake by frying the carcass in hot oil. The reptilian nervous system reacts to any stimulus so when we draped the snake in the hot oil, it turned over and over until it reached a nut brown. By then we were not that hungry for fried snake. We saw 8 ft Blue Runners swiftly darting ahead of us as we walked in this savanna wonderland of mosquitoes.

     The hammock was our only refuge. It starts at sunset. The hum gets louder and louder as they rise in the night airs to find the warm blood of mammals to feed their brood. The heat was oppressive at night. It finally cools in the early morning hours when you are drenched in sweat. You are chilled until the first light. The return of the hot sun was a joy. 
       Many a fine afternoon was spent fishing for bass and sunfish using a popper and fly rod. Sometimes the stringers of fish was so long we had to call it a day to start thinking about cleaning all those fish before dark. 

    We came across a small pond that had been cut off from the main channel  It was drying out. We could see the tails of Choupics as they gasped for air since there was no oxygen in the water now. These fish are prehistoric relics of the transition from fish to amphibian. We decided to harvest them to put them out of their misery.  The only good use of these fish was to make them into fishballs, roll them in cornmeal then deep fry them. We cleared that pond of about 100 lbs of fish. We had a sweet memory of that day along the banks of Mireaux Canal. The one thing we did not anticipate was the cut on Dave's leg from the razor sharp machete he carried as he cleared the grass to make a path.   It was just a warrior wound.

     Nearby to Gentilly was the Intracoastal Waterway connecting to the Industrial Canal which handled much of the shipping from the Mississippi River.  These waterways transported the Saturn Boosters assembled by NASA.

    Snake hunting turned out to be our specialty on those super hot and muggy mornings in the swamps and cane breaks of these hardly used areas of Louisiana.

     Watching the shoreline during low tide, we found the brown water snakes would stretch out to sun themselves recharging their nervous systems on the exposed banks. We simply walked up to these snakes quietly and relieve them of their heads with the trusty machete. The skins were salted and dried then made into hatbands, belts and guitar straps we sold to tourists.

     We had a folk group appearing in various venues. The limelight was but a short lived phenomena that never produced anything but heartache. We broke it up after a few seasons when our plans changed. Susan and Marylou were our backup singers. These girls were interested in performing and made the group more interesting to watch. They dressed as Parisan hookers with the red garter bands. Marylou was the first girl I kissed.  

        We were solidly rooted in the folk music and hootnannies that were taking place everywhere. We played everything from Peter, Paul and Mary to the Kingston Trio tunes. Our music was superb and delightful to the ear. We found out how tough it is to keep things together with two girls and three guys all needing transportation to rehearsals and shows. It was getting to be a drag on all of us.  Giving it up for employment or school was the proper evolution.

      Times were hard then. The swamps were our refuge. The wilderness was our sanctuary. It gave us freedom from the humdrum home life.  Once, we decided to build a replica of the reed boats of Lake Titicaca.  It was an all day project of gathering and lashing, shaping and designing as we built this raft of reeds on the bank of the Intracoastal Waterway.  We launched on the rising tide. The thing floated so low in the water there was no way to easily move it.  As we sat there sinking and thinking we realized these reeds were not the right kind.  They are easily broken. They lose their buoyancy which is the key to success. 

      This final analysis was discouraging.  By doing things that fail made us better planners. Trial and error was the method we followed. Our building skills came in handy when we were asked to build a monkey bridge in the parking lot of the local mall for a Boy Scout Show and Tell demonstration. The rope tricks and Cypress poles made us look knowledgeable.  Funny how all that skill disappears after a few years without continuous use. Teamwork is the key that unlocks many doors.  However, one never forgets his Scouting days.     

         To be a scout, I had to ride my bike some 5 miles to make the meetings through some risky neighborhoods. I rode through the Baptist Theological Seminary which was also a huge pecan orchard.  In the fall people would come for miles around to collect the paper shell pecans. My Mother got her share thanks to me and this discovery.

      I remember when Kennedy was shot in Dallas.  Rosalind came running into our 5th period Social Studies class with the news. We gathered early one Sunday morning to sing O Captain My Captain in tribute to the fallen leader at the elementary school where our Thursday night troop meeting took place.
    We were exploring in eastern new Orleans in the older areas like the lake shore where many a fishing camp was built. Our relatives had a place there called Dun Woikin Done Working to non Cajuns.. You had to cross the railroad tracks to get to the ramp that led to the gate of the fishing camp. There was a bayou along the tracks. This canal was dug out to make the railroad bed. 

    We were paddling this canal looking for snakes. I spotted a monster water moccasin that was underneath the bundles of railroad ties that had been discarded.. The thing was as long as the ties which is 8 feet. My trusty  single shot .22 was locked and loaded.  I took aim and clipped his back opening up a deep wound. This viper reacted by whipping around and biting himself thinking something was attacking.  He became still and stared at me with those round black hooded eyes. He started to slide into the water directly towards me.   Dave opened up with his automatic ending the threat. Always hunt with a partner.
     We were trained in marksmanship and safety by the old man who himself was a marksman in the US Army.  I could cut center paper nine times out of ten when target shooting. My brothers could not even come close to my deadly accuracy.  I was destined to be a sniper in the Vet Nam War.  That never happened for a variety of reasons. I was not draft eligible because of the eye damage I suffered watching welding without a shield. What that did to me was burn a hole in the macula which is where the foci is. I was doomed to have a blind spot for the rest of my life. However, as I got older it improved. I no longer have a sight deficiency. Eat your carrots.
     I used to go the swamp by myself during the summer looking for wild mulberry trees, birds, animals or anything of interest along the L&N railroad tracks.. Walking a path, I was about to step over a log when something told me to stop. Lucky I did because there was a huge moccasin laying the length of the log. Was it instinct? I just don't know what actually alerted me to the danger. Being snake bit miles from help would have certainly ended my life. I peered into a grove of cypress I noticed a fairy ring. Which if you don't know legend, has it fairies come there to dance in the wee hours.  The cypress has what's called knees which stick up just about knee high. They say this is a way for the roots to breathe. I myself think it is for protection from man since they can easily wreck your knee if you don't see them.
      One year we cut down four of these young cypress trees for our Monkey Bridge project in the parking lot of the local mall. There is nothing like a monkey bridge to show off your talent with lashings and a two inch hawse to walk on.  We did this for a few reasons.  One of the more important reasons was to invite young guys to join the scouts by demonstrating what they could learn by being a scout. Building a Monkey Bridge was in essence building a bridge to the community.
     At this spot we fished for turtles in the L&N swamp. These mobilians were big and tasty when cooked cajun style. I don't fish for turtles anymore or anything else for that matter simply because of the oneness of life principle finally got through to me.    Everything one does here will have consequences. Christians believe that happens on judgement day. Sometimes it happens immediately. As you move through life you should try to remember the good and forget the bad.  It takes some people a very long time to forget anything which is why some people use alcohol to un-remember things. Thinking back to those days can be treacherous.

Hurricane Betsy roared through New Orleans in 1965. It was a powerful storm that breached the levees just like Katrina. We were on the edge of Gentilly Ridge. The water came up to the foot of our stairs. The house shook and the nails squeaked and the green and white awning blew away. We got up the next morning to find complete destruction. We all got together and launched our pirouges to go on a search and rescue mission in the flooded neighborhood close by.  It was not long before we came upon the sound of a woman calling for help from inside an apt building. We called back.  We found her standing on her stove with just her head above the water.   Boy,was she glad to see us. We maneuvered her outside and into the boat and safety.

Gordie

   Living in Olga I took a job working on Blakely Island for a contractor named Gordon. This was a job that paid only $5 / hr which is really not enough to live on because of the terrible economy then.  Labor jobs require people to be dependent on the paying job. This is how an employer subjugates the worker. This is plainly wrong thinking.
       Paid slavery only leads to social unrest and a shorter lifespan for everyone. Injuries are a regular occurrence among labor workers. The types of injuries are sometimes not physical but mental. Once injured, it is difficult to rejoin the workforce. No one cares except your Mother. There were good days to be had in spite of these drawbacks.
    The boat ride over to Blakely island early in the morning was unsurpassed.  Obstruction Pass was always a challenge to cross with a boatload of uneducated but intelligent workers. Sometimes in the winter we would see harbor seals hauled out on the rocks waiting for a blast of early morning sunlight to get them going.  When they saw us, they quickly retreated to the safety of the waters of Northern Puget Sound.  Starting the day at 4 am and ending it at 7 pm was the life of the men who build the houses and homes in these San Juan Islands.
          Larry the long hair carpenter drove the boat over one morning.  We all took turns doing this chore of going to work. To empty the boat of rainwater one simply removes the drain plug while skimming along as free as the breeze. Larry seemed to be tired like a rabbit after having sex.  He put the drain plug in his pocket. He forgot to remember it. We all left the boat since time is money when you are at work. In the afternoon we looked at the anchorage in anticipation for home. All we could see was the bow of the green runabout with the brand new Mercury outboard attached dangling by its painter. Gordon was none too pleased.             

       John B. the foreman, took control and emptied the boat by dragging it ashore with the truck. We then dismounted the engine and according to the factory, we turned it upside down in a barrel of fresh water to stop corrosion. The next day after much discussion and cleanup we pressed the starter and the damned thing fired up. Larry still had his job but was not driving the boat ever again.
      Gordie gave us the job digging up the electrical supply cable that comes ashore in a remote area of Blakely for an eventual splice to the new housing development we were involved with. Late in the afternoon, we heard the telltale clunk as the shovels found the underground line. You could actually hear the EMF hum of this huge electrical cable transmitting all of the electrical power for Blakely's wealthy patrons.  

     Gordon issued no warnings about how easily we could get electrocuted if we happened to break the outer plastic covering of this monster cable.  It was just a small oversight. Explaining an electrocution to the sheriffs' department could be dicey, so the plan was to bury any victims of electrocution in the same hole as the cable. Nice work, boss.
       In a moment of departure from his norm as Commander of the Slaves, he told us a story of his first and only time to smoke the evil weed called wacky backy.  He was at a celebration with plenty of party girls. You must remember party girls tend to be over sized.He got stoned. He stared at a poor struggling thing. He suddenly blurted out a despicable remark, completely out of character.  'You've got a fat ass.'  She did not give in to his charming ways though, and left in short order.

       The man was a loser from the get go. Until he got tangled up with a beautiful Maritime lawyer who put him straight. There was no hope for this guy in the real world.  This lady was the most rapturous thing I had ever seen. She was living in a cold log cabin and raising her only son as best she could. She was looking forward to the day she could sling her fur coat over the sofa and pick up a wine glass after dismounting her private jet from Seattle.
       We got the job to build for the Runstadts two cabins of remarkable size using the biggest timbers all with mortise and tenon joints. This was the Hall of the Viking King.  It was a cold day when we started clearing the site. Digging down we uncovered a huge boulder that could never be moved in our lifetime. We built the cabin on it. We then hid the rock behind a full, porch-wide staircase that would rival 'Gone with the Wind' of the antebellum South.  After months of hard labor we put the last touches on this master work.          His wife surprised us with an hours long party complete with beer and specially catered dishes flown in from Seattle by seaplane. That was the most memorable party I ever attended dressed in work clothes. I just hope the Runstadts twin 63' Swans are always moored safely.

Baba Ji

You might have wondered how I got started on a spiritual path. It was a simple book called The Autobiography of a Yogi by Paramahansa Yogananda. This is a well known book. It has many chapters of spiritual encounters that I admired. 

      My absolute favorite story was that of Baba Ji.  This is a semi-mythic being who lives a solitary life in the Himalayas. He wears a simple tarzan like loincloth.  He overcame the material world. He does not age. He does not get cold. He is able to transcend everything which includes all barriers to the Clear Light of many traditions. His super consciousness is completed.  He is desireless and content in his mission of self realization. It is the ultimate solution to material life. He never hungers or thirsts. This being has long hair and no body hair. His face is clean much like a native American.  He seldom leaves his spiritual abode. He does make appearances at spiritual gatherings such as the Kumba Mela in India along the Ganges
      The Lost Gospels of Jesus indicate Jesus made trips to this region for spiritual instruction during his early years. Christians think this is a confabulation. Of course, it could be that but I prefer to believe that Jesus exercised his inclination to all things spiritual before becoming one with God. This transformation has been happening throughout history in order to help mankind evolve to a higher state of being. Staying in a stasis is counterproductive to spiritual development.  The Greeks called this Agapi love.  I call it home.
         It supposedly takes 33 lifetimes to become enlightened. Jesus was at his flower of 33 lifetimes when he became Christ realized within the Source we call God. Paramahansa founded the Self Realization Fellowship after coming to America in the 1920's when people were receptive to believing in a greater good.  The book is still reverential in its presentation of his childhood experiences. It is such a good read if you trying to understand the reason for spiritual life.  You can visit the Self Realization fellowship and it's wonderful Garden in  Encinates in Southern California.
       While I was following gurus, I went to Baba Hari Das ashram on the shore of Lake Chelan. These folks were holding the Healing Gathering. There was a entrance fee of 10 bucks. One of the ladies had all that entrance money which totaled about 10 K   Following her inner guidance,, she wanted to remove all the bad karma associated with money. She enlisted me to help her. We packed all the money in pillowcases. We made our way to the laundromat on a Sunday morning. No one was around. I was her body guard. 

     We loaded the money in the washer added borax and set the machine to delicate. We then took the pile of wet bills to the dryer. We put in our quarters and started it tumbling.  Nothing compares to watching 10 K USD tumble dry. The bills came out fresh and clean. With just a little smoothing with an iron they stacked and bundled easily. Another satisfying day of service. The bank did not know what to make of it.

Mardi Gras and the Sea of Blue Eyes

     I am a veteran of Mardi Gras having been to roughly 25. One year, I found myself on St Charles Avenue right where the street cars turn onto Canal St.  There is a wonderful hotel called the St. Charles Hotel.  I would often enter the lobby to watch people come and go.      

      I saw some very interesting people one Mardi Gras. Who pops out of the elevator but Ray Charles himself as I live and breathe. He had blonds on both his arms to guide him through his darkness. Ray is blind but I swear he could see with his ears as well as anyone with eyes. They were laughing and carrying on having the best of times. I would have asked for an autograph but seeing him happy was enough for me.  I remember the moment as if it were today. 

       Mardi Gras is about beautiful girls with beautiful eyes. It is a sea of blue eyes all flashing in unison. Sometimes they are looking at you and laughing.  The only thing I saw that was close to this phenomena was schooling fish.  That many eyes are powerful. Ferlinghetti the poet called it walking on eye beams.
       The Ecology Club rented a UHaul van. We filled it with 55 gallon steel barrels to collect the colored glass that wound up in the street after a parade had passed. We were stationed at the very end of the parade dressed in costumes that hid our features. I chose to wear a Arab head dress and dark sunglasses with a handmade gorotti headband. This was a bad idea though, because it attracted the wrath of the public that hated the Saudis.

         I was using a heavy steel ram to break bottles to make room in the barrels. The bottle collectors were dressed in flight crew overalls and other protective gear. They dragged giant cotton picking sacks to collect the bottles. These were subsequently passed to the truck crew. We were stopped for a few minutes.   I always get nervous when we stopped. 

    If a drunk does not like your looks he unloads by throwing objects like beads or bottles. This drunk threw beads this time. I barely saved a girl from getting hit in the face by Mardi Gras beads which would leave a mark. I am grateful for my quick hands and awareness of disgruntled spectators. This is learned from years of interaction with inebriated Southern crowds.
      One year when I was very young, the Mardi Gras came in February which is the coldest of months. It is based on the start of Lent season and Easter which is determined by the full moon.  My dad pushed me up on the street light so I could be in the bright sunlight and warm up. I was six years old. The scene was wall to wall masses of humanity all churning toward some unknown goal. This is a rare moment when you can take in the many millions of people who come to the Mardi Gras to celebrate the beginning of Lent. 
     As night descended we retreated to the balcony on Bourbon Street above the Guys and Dolls Strip Joint that Uncle Tony owned. The riot police were clearing the streets now by riding their horses into the crowds and swinging their batons. Many a head was cracked and bleeding as the cops sought to restore some semblance of order to this seething mass of urinating drunks. Soon, a squad car with both doors open would drive down the middle of Bourbon Street with the cop's foot acting like a spring as it bounced off the lines of beaded drunks scrambling  out of the way.

      Nighttime was not good for these celebrants.  Fights would break out. Huge circles would open in the crowds. These fights were vicious and quite bloody. It is advisable to call it quits at dusk before the drunks get rowdy. 
        Rick and I shared shared a Vieux Carre' apt one winter on Bienville St. It was not cheap thus we took in roomies. We had to work to sustain ourselves.  There was a lot happening. Between the University and piece work around the French Quarter, we were always on the run. My art teacher Vin Scully sold his art at Jackson Square. The gays survived this way.  

   Coming home one night, I met Crystal from Miami. We immediately found solace with each other. She stayed with me at the apt. telling me stories about her time with the Blues Image Band in Miami. She was their groupie.  She probably had STDs.  They threw her away.

      Life was fast in New Orleans. Crystal would go out at night to dance for the Turkish sailors who were in Port. It was their brief respite before returning to the Mideast and the Muslim lifestyle..  In those days, the girls did things that no good girl would ever do.  Nothing sexual, although Crystal would dance for them making big bucks. This helped with the rent and food. We were  struggling to survive

       My brother Duke would crash at the apt when the old man kicked him out.   He would entice the flaming gays into a liaison then steal their money. He joined the Navy soon after that. The Vietnam War was still raging.  For some unknown reason we lost that apt.  I jumped for another apt near St Phillip St. that my Mother helped me pay for. That's when I found a beautiful Persian cat in the wall crying for help.  I figured out how to get him out. He stayed with me for quite a while.  I gave him to my brother. 

    This was the time of Bodhi Satva with Kumi Maitreya. She had a storefront center where the freaks came to to hear her lectures and pronouncements.  Her Sacrament was morning glory seeds.
     I went to one of these programs. I was being pulled in many directions.  I am no bum.  I had never been to jail like many of these people. They were simply looking for a new start.  I was working at Vaucresson's Cafe Creole Restaurant on Bourbon St. It was a crazy, busy time for me with hardly enough time in the day to do anything well.  My grades started slipping. Too much science made me stress too much. The end came with Chem 2B. I needed a break. That is when I met Sheila at the restaurant on Christmas Eve. She invited me to LA. Soon, I was hitching rides in late April through dangerous Texas.
      You'd see everything and everybody who are stopping in the New Orleans French Quarter.   There was a German riding a BMW motorcycle with the side firing pistons. This was a new design he was testing by driving it across the country. I would meet different travelers like the bike rider from Minnesota who rode his drop handled racer all the way from the cornfields of the upper mid west. You could tell by his posture and arm positions that were frozen in that position. He had been at this for some time.
    The two dykes from England were rebuilding their station wagon with a second story sleeping area. They were financing this overhaul with their craftsmanship of antique earrings very popular with the hippie girls..            These gals were jewelers assembling those dangle earrings which have the antique look.  They enhanced them with Mardi Gras beads to accent their designs and make them more appealing. To each his own. I call it as I  see it.  Dykes are wire cutters to the electrician.        

      These women used dykes and needle nose pliers to assemble jewelry kits ordered from a New York City mail order house. They would then display the works of art on a black velvet covered board at Jackson Square. The velvet certainly brought out the colors in the bright light. It was common for artisans to present their wares at Jackson Square on Sundays. You can get away with this without having a vending license on Sundays.  Cafe' Du Monde is close by so all the coffee addicted people can go for a coffee fix anytime time of the day or night. It was interesting to be part of the artistic community that came to New Orleans.
    Buster Holmes Restaurant is famous for serving a plate of red beans and rice for the remarkable price of 27 cents to the young Beats that stay hidden in New Orleans. They come out when the chances of getting arrested or mugged are low which is mid day. Buster makes a giant pot of red beans and white rice everyday as part of his Christian belief that he should feed the hungry. Of course, you had to pay extra for anything else like a piece of sausage or side order. The plate of red beans and rice served with a piece of french bread that was welcomed by any and all who happened to find this little counter restaurant on the outskirts of the Quarter. We studied the proper timing for these cheap feeds.  Arriving too late was just as bad as arriving too early.  The deal was to eat as fast as humanly possible because you were taking up a paying customer's place and setting.  Buster introduced the uncouth to the discipline of manners in a restaurant which is a public service in itself. His crawfish bisque was to die for as was his fried 'strimps'.  Long live his heart.
       Some years, I would wander to the foot of Canal St. and the Algiers Ferry.  This is a free passenger ferry although the cars need to pay. The ride over is full of different perspectives and different smells. Once you reach Algiers things suddenly become quiet. Walking towards the residential section you are immediately struck by the huge oaks and the variously colored homes that make you think of the Caribbean.  There are many cultural treasures to be discovered if you have the time to wander in New Orleans along the river.
      You start wandering around with no direction in this sea of humanity that was slowly becoming intoxicated beyond measure.  There were always naval ships at the Mardi Gras. I wandered down to the docks which is dangerous anytime. During Mardi Gras it can be especially dangerous because there are roving bands of youth who prey on easy targets.  I was one of those easy targets.
     I bought a pint of whisky that fit in my back pocket nicely.  I boarded the aircraft carrier for the tour below decks. This took longer than I expected so when I finally decided enough was enough, I started back to the Quarter.  Darkness was closing in.  It was not long before I was accosted by a group of white street rats from the infamous Irish Channel. They circled me and started with their taunts.  I told them I had nothing but a little whiskey which I readily surrendered to the ring leader.

     As I was walking away the punk sneaked up and hit me over the head with the pint I just gave him. I started running which probably saved me from a beating. The streets are filled with opportunistic types from all over.  You must develop a plan of escape before you need it. A gun will just be taken away from you. Pepper spray works but not that well on a gang. Once a weapon is out you will be helpless. If they are drugged they will still come at you.
       I was walking to my girlfriend's apt after a set at one of the nightclubs. It was very early in the morning when we played our last note. The apt was a few blocks away. I started out in a fast walk hoping not be seen. They saw me. I  could hear them overtaking me. I was hoping they would simply pass by. They grabbed me and threw me down with my arm twisted behind me. They took my omega astronomers' watch and wallet. They wasted no time in leaving the scene of a crumpled man on the sidewalk. I could tell they were high on heroin and probably from the projects which is a nest for criminals. I soon left New Orleans never to return.
        My brother was similarly attacked.  He picked up two riders on his way to work. They jumped in the back seat. As he drove down Royal St one of these bandits hit him over the head fracturing his skull. He crashed his car into the wall. They jumped out and ran away. My brother was arrested for this until a witness came forward and explained what he saw. My brother had brain surgery for his injuries with a permanent metal plate.
     George McGovern III is the nephew of Senator George McGovern.  He came to New Orleans after his stint in Vietnam. He also had a head injury that required a metal plate. He hung out with us at UNO for awhile as I tried to overcome obvious difficulties of these times. I was being torn by the war protests and academia.  I held to a view that war is the outcome of unrest within societies around the world instigated by ruthless rulers.  I have three uncles who fought in WWII so protesting was not possible for me. There was no way out of this dilemma. I simply stopped functioning. One vacation led to another. I was on the road to nowhere soon.
    During those years we kept hearing about huge drug busts. Like the time the tug from Colombia was inspected and found to be carrying a huge bounty of marijuana.  The incinerator used to destroy these bales of green was next to the Parish Prison in New Orleans. The inmates struggled for a place at the window hoping for a wafting of the smoke to drift in.  During my DLM days we used to visit the Prison. It was not pleasant. The building itself was antiquated and hostile. It was painted with lead based paint which was peeling. It was the toxic box of New Orleans.
     I've seen some nasty jails but the one in Puerto Jimenez in Costa Rica is very high on the list of noxious.  Not only is it small with a dirt floor and no bed but they give you a bucket for your toilet and water to drink as well. The survival rate is very low and death comes in different forms with neglect being high on the list of causes.  Never do anything that gets you arrested in Latin America. There is no coming home after that.

Mississippi

      My family developed a summer retreat in Mississippi near Bay St. Louis which is close to the Kingsley House Camp.  I rode the Honda 50 between the two locations. 

      One morning, I was on an outing with my parents. We came upon an accident that just happened. The overweight redneck had fallen asleep at the wheel in the early hours. He hit the bridge abutment at highway speed. The car careened down the embankment packed with family members.  I asked my folks to stop to see if I could help. I climbed down the embankment peering into this carnage.  The injury to his chest was a crush wound.  His breathing was gurgled.  I could tell he had severe internal injuries as well.                                 Everyone was moaning and groaning. There was nothing I could do. The ambulance would be here in minutes. I elected to leave the scene and let the professionals handle this world of pain and injury. A rescuer never pulls people out of a wreck unless there is imminent danger.
     Our fishing camp was nothing more than a mobile home on a small property on a canal that led to more canals. In the South, drop a fishhook in most any spot will get you something to eat. This was my party spot for hot dates. Sandy and I discovered sex and other essential skills. She wore the most complicated outfits complete with a girdle that made getting to the sex difficult.

     I took a job at the YMCA in New Orleans East as a lifeguard and swimming instructor that carried me into my first year at college. Jack T. took the job as well. Jack was a rescue swimmer for the Coast Guard.   Benton B was a champion swimmer and diver who also worked this summer job.   He would finish his day with one of those spectacular dives. He was perfecting his one and half twist with a somersault entering the water without a splash.   I had a lot to learn about body mechanics before I could ever do things like Benton.  He was another rich kid that had nothing to worry about future wise.   His parents were country club members with all the toys that go along with that lifestyle.  I had nothing but the desire to do great things for people. This was the summer of 1969.               The New Orleans Pop Festival was about to happen on that Labor Day weekend. Going to this Festival with Rick S. would turn out to be the most delusional moment in my life.
     If you never have been to one of these drug festivals ..er...music festivals, be prepared to be around people who are there for other reasons besides music appreciation.  The festival was swarming with undercover cops. Many people were incarcerated. There was no tolerance for bad behavior then. Michael Bear was one of those arrested.

Panama

       I was leaving the town of David in Panama for Costa Rica that morning. It  looked like a fine day to travel. There were two school age Indians that needed a ride to their land out on the coast. I volunteered to take them since they had no other options.            There had been an uprising over mining that was decimating their territory. This was a serious situation that galvanized Panama for weeks.   It would give me a first hand look at what was going on. 

       We turned off the Pan American Highway. The road became progressively undeveloped with a new roadbed being put in which means red clay for the most part. 

      We arrived and I parked the car on a slope  just in case I needed to jump the thing after the weekend. We started the long walk into the depths of the coastal jungle. They took me to the river first and showed me their method of fishing. The trees were huge and a welcome relief from the blazing hot and muggy weather. It started to rain a little bit so we made our way to the homestead. 

          It started to really get wet after arriving at the farm. The rain fell in a biblical deluge. These tormentas move in from the ocean and stay in place for hours unloading their water. There was nothing left to do. I put up my hammock curled up and let the storm blow itself out.  By morning it was over. It had flooded the land and was scarcely draining off in huge flows.  We went to have a look at the damage it caused. The aftermath was truly startling.
     I gave a little folding knife to the dad who broke out the biggest grin I've ever seen.  If you truly want to do something for an indigenous family give them a tool they can use.  I've handed out mosquito bars and food. The tools help a man take care of his family better than anything. 

     I arrived at the car. The SAAB weathered the storm well. The road was a mess but I had to get going now as the crunch was on for my visa.  I gunned the beast. The wheels were throwing huge clods of red mud,   I was making progress but the Pan American highway was at least five miles away through this muck and mire.  Once you start in a situation like this just don't stop.   Sometimes I was sliding sideways. Moving forward was all I had to worry about now.  I arrived at the edge of a great body of water covering the roadbed.  I had no choice but to get the speed up and run as close to the edge of this bog as possible. It was worse than I thought. I valiantly steered the 9-5 for almost half the length of the bog whereupon she came to a steaming, hulking halt.   I was short about 100 feet from solid road bed. There was nothing to do but make friends which is easy in the back country.
     I waited most of the morning.  A four wheeled Toyota truck showed up. After seeing my distressed vehicle he backed his high wheeled rig into the bog so I could hook up. I had to do this totally submerged in the red murky mud while feeling for the tow hooks.  It was not that bad the truth be told.           He was grinning when my car arrived on higher ground. It started to drain bright red water.  I guess he felt bad because he was the grader operator that was making the road so impassable.  I was glad to be on my way. The car looked terrible covered in thick red cakey mud
    There is a river further on down the road with an access road under the bridge. I drove the car right into the shallow river to give her a real cleaning. The river turned a bright red as the mud sloughed off in sheets.  I soon was feeling better about the whole escapade after surviving a terrible storm that unleashed so much rain. The rivers were now swollen and swirling.  I settled down for the long drive back to Costa Rica staying in the cheapest places I could find along the Pan-American highway.
       Arriving at the border one is always greeted by people who want to help you...for a price.  Sergio was paid by the government to help travelers. This was my third crossing. He recognized me instantly since most of the faces are just passing through this reality only once.  It is super hot. Everyone is looking for some advantage.  Get in line and wait for your turn is the only way forward.
    Every border crossing is the same. You must present 3 or 4 copies of every travel document including every visa from every page in your passport. The car is treated like a tourist needing triplicate paperwork, insurance and the like to get the necessary exit visa for the next crossing. Then comes the interview which is an air conditioned room. You need this after running around for hours in the stifling heat.  It is the warmest air conditioning you will ever feel.  Once this is done you are free to go except for one last minute request to take a rider. You can't refuse. Your visa will be examined again if you refuse. The consequences are painful enough to make you reconsider.   Besides, it is a border guard going home to his family for the weekend.  As long as he doesn't ask for anything it should be fine. You meet the strangest people on the road.
    As I pulled out onto the Pan American highway there was another roadblock with military men. I was grilled for the third time that day with the usual questions about where are you coming from and what you are doing in the area.   I was glad to have the border guard in the car.  He confirmed my legitimacy.        

       This officer looked just like the colonel in 'Traffic'.   As I told him about the rampant smuggling going on in Portobelo he turned to his soldiers and said 'rato' which can mean many things but in this case, it meant informer or Rat.  I never lied about this. I am an informer. I had no more problems until Guatemala.

Camp Salmon

    As a scout in New Orleans you get the chance to go to the Boy Scout Camp called Camp Salmon across the lake on Liberty Bayou. This was the best thing going for a young man of 15 to attend Summer Camp with his scouting friends.  The cabins were named for Indian tribes like Chickasaw and Choctaw with each one having a huge history one hears about from the seasoned campers.

     This is the first separation for many boys from their parents. It was not easy for some. Nevertheless, the ones that stayed on became somewhat better at handling their manhood. Yeah, lighting farts was the big pastime at night as well as short sheeting the rookies. I remember clearly sitting in the chapel next to the open window. A beam of sunlight landed on me as I stilled myself in worship. The sky was cloudy that day except for that moment.
       Greek the Clown was the mainstay that kept the scouts laughing. We enjoyed his antics at the nightly bonfires that were lit with a flaming arrow sometimes and sometimes not. People would be scared they would get shot. The arrow was shot from the other side of Bayou Liberty on a wire guide that led to the bonfire that was soaked in barbecue starter fluid. Such is life at Scout Camp. I saw my first epileptic seizure at camp. They simply put a folded handkerchief in the boy's mouth and let him thrash. The rag is so he doesn't bite his tongue and bleed to death. This has been proven to only block the airway.
     There were skits performed such as 'O Wa Ta Gu Siam'. You have the captured bow down blindfolded and saying this progressively faster until he becomes enlightened. The roar of laughter was contagious. Greek would have everyone puff up and blow the mosquitoes away which is purely silly but charming and easily gets everyone involved.          Our Troop 87 won the water boiling contest many times at the Scout Jamboree held each winter because we were so good at sensible pyromania. I got my mile swim merit badge one awesome year. I saved quite a few lives after I got my lifesaving qualifications together all because of Summer Camp.
     There were fifty mile canoe trips to take to qualify for the Voyageur patch. This is a rare achievement. These expeditions were led by the seasoned leaders of the Cajun variety. Our leader was named Ti Jean which means little John in French just like the monk in Robin Hood. His effortless skill with the paddle was a joy to watch. The scouts who showed up for these trips were inexperienced with canoeing. They had to learn the basics.  Hardheaded knuckleheads was the term most often used to describe these individuals. We had to stop and rescue them from their self inflicted troubles. They were good at going down the river sideways. They finally slid up on a stump and thumped over. They were carrying our food lockers. We were chasing oranges for miles afterwards downriver. We salvaged as much as we could. It was shortened rations for the remainder of the trip. 

      They would hug the shore until they ran into a low branch full of wasps.  This was followed by abandoning the ship for the safety of the water until we pointed out the water moccasins sunning themselves close by.  The panic that ensued was both amusing and concerning because our canoe was the only safety island around.  You felt big in the shoulders after all that paddling. The feeling of accomplishment lasted into the school year. Those days are gone forever. I am trying to keep them alive with these stories about scouting in Louisiana. 
    We found the Bogue Chitta River to be our favorite place to camp and would spend hours driving there in sort of a caravan led by our Scoutmaster. We were always looking for new campsites for our group of Father and Son campouts that was our signature thing to do. The things we did together were memorable. It helped everyone grow into better humans.  

      Fishing in the river was how many scouts enjoyed the river.  Our experiences at summer camp made singing easier and involved even the most reluctant to try to sing.
   Ted was a die hard Scout with a full chest of awards from Florida. He moved to New Orleans and joined our troop with his supporting family.   He is a big tall guy and the way he relates to you is intimidation first and friendliness second. We finally got Ted straightened out but he was none too happy about it.  He drifted in and out of our troop but never gave up his self proclaimed authority over everyone and everything related to Scouting. When you are off everyone knows it. We all have been there.
     The Scout Handbook was the most important piece of literature for any scout since it imparted instructions and guidelines from everything to dress codes and protocols, to survival in difficult situations. There is a program called Lone Scout for a boy on a farm or remote location. One can get all his scouting gear through the mail.  He can sign up for things like Boys' Life Magazine which is entertaining and instructional. One can develop pen pals who actually gets involved and shares their scouting experiences with this Lone Scout.
      The year Kennedy was shot in Dallas November 22nd 1963. We  met at the school where we held our Thursday night meetings to prepare for a memorial. The following Sunday morning we again gathered and recited 'Captain My Captain'. We were dressed in our best uniforms as we lowered the flag to half mast. Not a dry eye in the crowd. I'd go home to parents who had no sympathy for the loss of the President.                 Gradually, this changed as the comparisons to the Lincoln assissination  became public.   It takes people a long, long time to forget about the Civil War.  I know people that are still fighting that war in their dreams and daily life which is at the shallow end of the gene pool.   God will bless all who sacrificed for freedom and the unity of our Country.  For God's sake, learn to forget about that awful war.