President TRUMP Election November 8th, 2016 (Verse)

ELECTION 2016

When some things occur, we know where we were.

And even the time of the day.

I’ll always remember that day in November.

Somebody shot JFK.

Who didn’t fear or shed a tear,

For Jaqueline and Nellie too.

Some evil plot saw two good men shot,

By the twisted minds of a few.

John said soon, they would land on the moon.

And they did while I was in France.

In a little campsite, on a radio that night,

Three men held the world in a trance.

Fast forward my friends through the milestones and trends

To November in twenty sixteen.

Clinton and Trump had been on the stump,

What a year - like none we have seen.

How could he intrude - this blowhard so rude?

He has to be soundly rejected!

But soon we would see in The Land of the Free

The Boor of the Year was elected.

Americans all, how far must you fall

In the eyes of your allies and friends?

Perhaps you don’t care or you just aren’t aware

For some things you can’t make amends.

Who will be next? We're really perplexed.

Rocky Balboa or Spock?

What about Kramer? Someone even lamer?

Might we suggest a Pet Rock?

Stop the free fall. Please heed our call

And give your heads a good shake.

Your man  with the frown is such a let down

It's time to right your mistake.

The Brewster

World Peace - and Skunks!

How SKUNKS could lead to Word Peace

One of the most vivid childhood memories I have involves skunks. Come to think of it, several of the most vivid and emotional adult memories I have involve the same thing, but the two-legged variety. Am  I alone?   

There was a valley in our neighborhood - a ravine - through which we walked to school. Dead-end streets existed on either side which were eventually joined. For many years however, the path which lead through it was simply known as the "gully". As with most gullies, there was a creek in the bottom and a swamp where it widened. We skated there. The ravine itself was lush with bushes - great for playing, hiding, exploring and that sort of thing. Nightfall was a different matter. 

  

Because it was isolated, and because like many kids I was afraid of the dark, it was not a place to be caught after the sun went down. I remember having to walk through it on occasion at dusk and once or twice in total darkness. I waited for all sorts of bogeymen to jump out of the bushes to get me. But foremost on my mind was skunks. The mere thought of one of these little creatures made me run for my life. They were a real live representation of all that was to be feared at night.

 
There were times of course after seeing a horror movie when thoughts of werewolves, Frankenstein, robbers and murderers  also made me run at the slightest sound. Skunks however were the only real nocturnal creatures I would occasionally see. In such a case I was upon them or vice versa before realizing it due to their dark color. Most parents train their kids to run like hell at the sight of a skunk. More power to them, since I have had to bathe my dog more than once after such an encounter. I wish I had been able to train her in a similar manner.

Now to the CREATION part. I am a believer in Darwin, Natural Selection etc. Let us assume however that there is a supreme creator. Of all the creatures on earth, what in heavens name - if that is where such a creator resides - could have possibly incented the inclusion of this little four-legged animal which lifts its tail to fend off attackers by emitting a pungent odour? This reminds me of the squid which emits black ink to hide itself. Naturally I’ve never encountered that. Why ink anyway? What is a squid going to do if attacked - write about it?
  

Creatures have built-in armor, strength, speed, camouflage, poison, or just plain ugliness to defend themselves. Skunks take the cake. Much as I love cake, if one of the little darlings ever made off with mine, I'd be the first to say "let it eat cake" and find another desert. I couldn't have dreamt up this animal if I were on drugs!  

I read once that only one part of this chemical in several million parts is all it takes to be detectable by a human being. Now you know why it is so tough to wash away - it lingers in and on anything it touches. For your information, there are shampoos now which can be used to clean pets that get sprayed. I am happy to say they work. I kept a bottle on hand (about $8.00) when I had a dog and had occasion to use it.    

The white stripes are a touch of class. If it were totally black, more people would probably get skunked. As it is, there is kind of a visual warning. Nature is like that. Think about it. Rattlesnakes, bees, dogs, cats, scorpions, ground hogs (they click their teeth), even human beings usually give warning before an attack. It's a kind of "Back off or else". The baboon family - closely related to humans - use their behind as an insult. Human beings often do the same thing. We call it "mooning". We consider the terms "asshole" and "horse's ass" to be insulting.

Now to World Peace.  

How did the creator miss the mark? All the great wars of history could have been avoided if human beings had tails and stripes. Instead of shooting, stabbing, slashing, and exploding each other to bits, the armies of the world could simply have faced off. The only ammunition required would be the last couple of meals. On the count of three or whatever, troops would simply turn around, lift their tails, show their stripes, and let fly. The most offensive collective odor would win the day. The military cooks would be the heroes. No-one would be killed. They would just blow each other away. Turning tail would be the norm, not a cowardly act. Perhaps this is why Scottish soldiers wear kilts?. Maybe Mel Gibson in Brave Hearts knew more than he was letting on. 

  

Right about now you are probably thinking that this is one columnist who has inhaled a touch too much skunk odor. You could be right for here is another thought. I happen to believe that when war is declared we should send entirely female armies. They could simply talk non-stop until one side surrendered. No killing would be necessary here either. On the other hand they might never make it to the front. After all, on each side,  the entire army would be wearing the same outfit! YIKES. I shudder at the thought. They would kill their own peers. Maybe not such a good idea. 

The Brewster

Alzheimers - While Shepherds Watched Our Flocks.

Christmas – a time which stimulates a very personal memory. It is time to share it. Think about this. Please.

In 1996 I sat with my mother and father and another couple at a simple table, in a simple dining area, eating a simple Christmas meal in advance of the big date itself. There were some old decorations - artificial, and - simple. Dad was tucking into his turkey. Mom was smiling. So was the other lady. Neither husband seemed to share the richness of the moment.

 

As I looked around, similar scenes unfolded with many faces - some smiling; some sad; some blank. I remembered former family feasts with toddlers in highchairs being spoon-fed by a parent. Parents struggled to direct one utensil to the child’s mouth and another to their own before the meal became cold. Sometimes kids enjoyed every morsel as seen by their smiling faces, giggles, and flailing arms. Other times they resisted every spoonful. Food was dropping everywhere. That was long ago.

This time the difference was stark. Here, there was little resistance and no giggling. There were some highchairs. Food was dropping. Some spouses were struggling to enjoy their own food and feed their dependent. However these dependents were not toddlers but seniors with Alzheimer’s. The lady at our table was feeding her husband. At others men fed their wives, or volunteers fed a stranger without any relatives who bothered to visit. Soon thereafter, we would have to feed Dad.

There are other memories. I remember the first time we had to leave Dad in the “lock-up” facility - him following us to the door; the guilt on our faces; the look on his. “The Doctor said you have to stay for a while” was our explanation. Dad was either so ill that he had no ability to argue, or he was just being himself and was accepting the inevitable peacefully for our sake. We will never know.

I remember entering the combination the nurse gave us to open the door while hiding it from the more clever residents. For them this was entertainment. Some managed to exit but were always returned. The combination would be changed. The game would start over.

I remember when Dad stopped addressing me by name and the first time we saw him walking up and down the hall hand-in-hand with a little lady who resembled his wife.  Mom smiled and thought it was cute - or so she said. One stark image was that of Dad standing in the corridor chatting to another older man who responded in kind. It was total gibberish - baby talk. But they seemed to be communicating!

 

I remember Dad’s future roommate - the same man. He was alone - first in a corner chair; later in his bed. His brother never came. The man wasted away. Then he died.

After dinner we gathered in a room to sing carols. A volunteer played the piano. Most people sang including the patients. Mom sat and joined in - her voice an unmistakable soprano. The pianist remarked after the first tune that she could hear one clear voice hitting the high notes - Mom’s. Dad also sat and sang - something. I held the song sheet for a man standing on the sidelines with me. He held it with me but was obviously singing from a failing memory.

Mostly I remember thinking as the food was served, that on December 25th the same caregiving staff would be here once again, not at home with their families. I shuddered to think of the consequences if too many of them took a “sick” day on Christmas, or any other time. It would be Bedlam - literally.

I hereby gratefully thank every Caregiver to the chronically ill in every facility everywhere. So should you. Some day you might need them. Know someone with this disease? Visit them - often. The staff will know you care even if the patient doesn’t. That alone will sometimes make a difference in the care which they receive. It shouldn’t but we have all heard of a very few places where patients were not only ignored but abused when there were no outside eyes keeping a vigil.

I remember Dad’s final moments.

God - whoever and wherever you are, and anyone else so inclined  - bless Caregivers. Please keep up the good fight.
There are many great blogs devoted to this disease. Here is an earl for a partial list:

List of Alzheimer Blogs

The Brewster

Mother Goose - The Sequel

Canada Goose

Firstly, for the uninformed, the CANADA GOOSE is NOT an indigenous form of sexual grabbing in the land of the Mounted Police. No, the Canada Goose is a bird - a very large one. It is, however, not unique to Canada although I'm sure many nations wish that were the case.

There was a time when Canada geese spent the summer in Canada but come winter, they would migrate south to warm climates just like many other Canadians. Then however, I believe they learned how to work the system, also like other Canadians. They return once per year for a minimum stay to secure free medical treatment of broken wings, acute sunburn, annual checkups etc. Obviously no birth control pills. I understand that various provincial and federal governments are working independently (of course) on closing this flagrant rip-off of public funds. So far they appear to be failing. They are up against formidable competition – superior bird-brains.

Typically the white bibbed birds fly in a distinctive "V" formation in the sky. I used to think that this behaviour proved the intelligence of the bird - very strategic. Now however, I realise that Canada Geese should be flying in "C" formation. They are not after all Venezuelan Geese. Besides, if they were so smart they would just stay south where it remains warm thus obviating the weary flights. Then the Medicare would not be needed. Now it appears that most of them stay all winter as well.

It seems that there is a population explosion every year. Given their current numbers I suspect that all they ever do is … well … goose each other. There are MILLIONS of them. They put the rabbit to shame.  A goose has up to a dozen or more offspring. I have never actually seen two of them performing the act. It makes me wonder then – why is their population so immense?

My own theory is that the "act" takes place on water right before our eyes while they appear to be just floating. It certainly gives a new meaning to synchronised swimming! That would mean that the males are very skilled and very well endowed. At any given time several are constantly "honking" - a distinctive, horrible sound. I can't distinguish the male honk from the female one. Could it be that this is climactic delight - you know, the big “O”? Are they declaring that the lake moved?  I believe that when they are honking on land, what they are really saying is "How about a quick swim - a little dip in the pond if you know what I mean - nudge, nudge, wink, wink, honk, honk?

Many consider them to be magnificent at least in the sky - “C”, “V” or whatever. In fact, all aspects of their flight are fascinating - especially the take-off and landing and there are several documentaries on the subject. The distances they cover are truly amazing. In my opinion the magnificence ends there.

Like most birds and some humans, it appears that they never received toilet training. The characteristic green droppings are everywhere. I once spent just over 2 1/2 years in London England in the early 1970’s, and there were even large numbers of them in Hyde Park at that time. I was taken back when I detected a tone of annoyance in the normal English politeness, as I brought up the subject of my fellow flying Canadians in the famous park. Quite simply, they made a horrible mess. It was as though I was being blamed. I wondered if they thought that I might recklessly squat and attend to business on the grass myself. Bloody Colonials!

Geese are attracted to golf courses – lots of grass. Golfers hate them. Spectators hate them. Greenkeepers hate them. No doubt the feeling is mutual. Although I am sure it is good for the grass, green goose poop is not good for the golf shoes. Greens have become a little too green. Golfers have developed their own "goose step" as though the green were a mine field. Removing such obstructions before a putt is not a pleasant task.

Do geese live forever? I never see any dead ones - dead seagulls and other birds, but no dead geese. I suppose this is a good thing - I would not want to have one drop out of the sky and onto my head. They bring down airplanes. A long life expectancy would explain the numbers. One of the coldest winters I recall was 1993-1994. The geese were still here. How do they eat under such conditions? The grass is under several inches of snow and ice. The ponds and most rivers are frozen. Once again we see their intellect.

These Mother Geese have learned that in winter Canadians see them as homeless fellow citizens. We feed them. I suspect the birds also know about “landed immigrant status.” In their case however they can just land anywhere without the need for airports or immigration. Mark my words: it is only a matter of time before publicly funded goose housing projects are under construction. They will get the vote at this rate.

I have a suggestion. The next time there is an emergency call for food in some part of the world, try this. There was a Canadian with a lightweight aircraft who trained his geese to follow him. Unfortunately he has passed. But perhaps someone else could copy the idea and lead the damn things straight to the stricken area. Call it “Smart-Aid” - they will actually fly themselves to those in need and their plates. Heck, the recipients could collect the goose down and sell it back to us for winter clothing thus helping both economies. We get most of our goods from abroad now anyway. I do believe my own bird brain is on to something here.

There you have it - a full circle. My mother used to read Mother Goose tales to us. Now I am writing my own. The only thing missing is the "And they lived happily ever after.” That does seem to apply to Canadian Geese – not so much to the rest of us.

The Brewster

Secrets – Don't Tell Anyone BUT …

What is it in human nature that seems to cause so many of us to treat a “secret” like some kind of trading chip  - an international currency which will be accepted anywhere and can be instantly traded for more of the same?  

Whenever someone begins a conversation with the likes of “Can you keep a secret?” I have some immediate thoughts - negative thoughts. "Yes, I can keep a secret but obviously you can’t, so I will never divulge any to you." There is also the classic “I’m not supposed to tell anyone but …” and I think "So why are you?" In each case a trust is being broken if they tell me. The loose jaws really come out of the woodwork in a corporate environment, especially when the boss passes on something in confidence.

I loathe this. Is it just me or does anyone out there agree? I think along the following lines:
  

When someone trusts me well enough to tell me something about themselves or about some thought or concern they have, it is a compliment. This person sees me as a true friend. If they ask me to keep it to myself I do. To do otherwise is to betray the confidence placed in me. I admit that sometimes it is difficult, but for me it is a matter of pride. Unfortunately, most other people do not seem to agree. 

I have a friend who once passed on something that he was not meant to and I called him on it. He laughed and justified his actions by saying that if the source really wanted to keep it a secret, then they wouldn't or shouldn't have told him in the first place. Maybe he was right.

I suppose the only true secret is the one that never leaves the cranium. If you pass on a confidence - note the word I am using -  to a trusted friend - great!  That is one of the benefits of true friends. They are hard to find. Afterwards you have the choice of telling someone else but they do not. If a group of people all agree that something which is about to be spoken or has been spoken is to be kept strictly among the members of the group then that qualifies as a secret as well. No member however should decide independently to tell someone outside the group. 

When someone at the office seems to know just about everything before anyone else hears it they like to call it “networking.” Developing the biggest network often becomes a game practiced by both sexes. What they do not seem to realize is that some people (me for sure) conclude that the inventory of confidential information they have in their brains might have been ill gotten. People won’t continue to “network” confidential things if they receive nothing in return and It is very likely that the collector gave up something for the information in question. 

With the internet and Social Networking today it is easy to collect and dispense as much public information as desired and to be the first. Many well-known TV and Radio personalities make a career of it. But to me secrets conveyed directly to me are and will remain sacred.

Naturally all of this is just between us.

The Brewster