February in Cave Junction

Here in the rain forest, today is a good day to have a 30 year roof . Cozy in my perch, food in the refrigerator, dry firewood stockpiled, eight dollars cash and the bills paid, I remember not long ago how hard life was in the pursuit of the little comfort I enjoy today. Today the wind picks up every so often and the skies darken, a hard rain follows until the wind again picks up and the skies lighten, The rain then becomes a sprinkle until the next dark minute\hour\day of hard rain.
I'm rooting for the dark clouds. Even though the water is turning my lower driveway into a river and the upper switch-back into an obstacle course of muddy ruts, I love the coziness of the shack when its raining. The hell with the driveway, I don't have to go anywhere. When I do I'll waddle down the road with muddy, unbalanced tires until I can get to the car wash. Mud is still part of the deal here. Maybe this year I can get some rock and road done. Maybe.
Ain't that the way it is: Used to be I didn't mind running around with muddy tires and rims, I was mountain man-in' it, but enjoy a little success over and above warm, dry and fed, and like all fools I want some bling,.....can't be running around town with muddy rims on my new jeep ( with only 154,000 thousand miles on it). I can hardly stand to let the dog go everywhere with me now; Leather interior.
Speaking of living high on the hog, a good friend of mine switched shirt sizes and gave me upwards of twenty something of his old shirts. Most better than all but my best, so now I look better everywhere I go. His shirts never looked so good either. I hope he has to switch slack sizes soon . Is that gratitude or what? Thanks Gman. Every time I go off the property and look half way presentable I'm truly grateful. I wish I could bring myself to spend the money on some new shoes.
Oh well, it's February in C.J. and it's wet. In town the Chevron is slow. Tourism is light this time of year and at twenty five cents a gallon more than the Chevron in Grants Pass, smart travelers drive by with full tanks. Still the station is doing some business, and as always the attendants have biscuits for the dog. Here in Oregon it's illegal to pump your own gas, so there are always attendants and they most of the time have biscuits. Tells you something about how many people in southern Oregon drive around with their dogs.
Watching the news today, I see they want to add a suicide prevention net on the Golden Gate at a mere cost of fifty million dollars. What I want to know, besides whether or not these people are nuts, is this; After a suicidal person jumps and hits the net (really a chain link barrier as it is described) what keeps them from crawling to the edge and jumping again?????????? So they throw themselves in front of BART instead. It's no wonder the place is bankrupt.
More and more, Obama looks like a one term disaster. It was fun while it lasted but the bill for this president is becoming horrendous . The scary part is: Creditors want to get paid for the balloon even though the air is gone and the collapse is on. The ugly truth: The race downhill is picking up steam. Throwing false economy in front of the ball in the form of "stimulus money" is like adding fuel to a fire to stop it. Get ready to bite the bullet; In my uneducated , occasionally newsclip informed, save yourself the world don't wanna be saved world, it still looks like America needs to severely rein herself in.
And our elected officials need to be voted out. Every one of them. All that money for war while the country falls apart. C'mon man.

"You cannot multiply wealth by dividing it." Adrian Rogers

Blue Jays

The stray cat is quickly becoming my partner cat. Grey, with an extra heavy coat, and big light green eyes, one can look at him and see he is not tame. Except when he lets me scratch his ears. Or at feeding time. Which for him, like the dog, seems to be every time I pass by. The Cat still sleeps outside, and isn't friendly with other people or Shep, but he doesn't bother to get up from my motorcycle seat when I drive up now either. Friends.
The blue jays recognize my whistle . When they hear my special screech the trees in front of the shack become a waiting ground for hungry birds. I like to throw a couple of pieces of broken bread down for them, then go behind the long mirrored window in the Octoberfest room to watch the show. After that it's on.
The Bluejays come in cautiously at first, swooping down from the oak trees, to the shoulders of the wooden people in front of the shack, to the ground and sour dough love. Once the first, and bravest birds, successfully grab bread and fly, the rout is on and birds approach from everywhere. Free Bread Birdie!
Winter. I have other things to do then talk to the animals. Returned from down south last Thursday. When I arrived the cabin looked like a Swiss chalet. The windows were frosted, resembling store window decorations, but the ice was real. Uh-oh. The five days I was gone temperatures were well below freezing. The plastic plumbing in the house froze. All the pipe split. The Toilet froze and exploded. The faucet on the kitchen sink broke. Five days of plumbing later I'm still trouble shooting leaks and replacing pipe. I don't know if the water heater has to be replaced. I may have a shower tonight, it may not be an option.

No water damage luckily, the pipes are exposed on the inside walls and everything was frozen solid.... I just swept up the ice and turned the main off before I lit the fire. Next time I leave in winter I'll take precautionary measures. The crisis gave me something to do anyway. Good training my brother said. Life is wonderful, Every miserable moment.

Happy Holidays

When Grey Consumes All

.............and leaves paint their seasonal masterpiece daily until Winter when grey consumes all. ( Shorter days 30AUG09)

The leaves have all hit the ground. In the end their bright colors desert them and they fall in the rain brown like the earth from which they grew. The grey of winter takes over Happy Camp road this time of year. No longer passable through the mountains and into California, traffic consists of visitors to the snow park eleven miles up the road whom return in grey cars covered with road spray, and my few neighbors.
Grey clouds cover the sky. The Sun don't shine, the birds don't fly. Blue is not a color now but an emotion.
Fog obliterates the view until only the closest trees stand distinct in their grey outlines. The surrounding ridges, furthest first, nearest last, have been swallowed .
On the north side of the ridge, at Bradland, direct sunlight will only reach the cabin for three hours a day, from Mid-November to Mid-February. The Grey of the shade.
Soon, grey snow will creep down from the higher altitudes to make it's seasonal two week appearance , and then retreat with the winter solstice and longer days. Winter's grey will be most dominant then; Colorless, Cabin fevered, lonely, secluded, Greeeeeey. Soon, but not now , Now it's Thanksgiving and time to be grateful for another year and rewards reaped with it.
I'm grateful the truck still runs, the house is built, the toilet is working, I'm healthy and maybe fit, my new teeth fit, that the world is still spinning, that the money goes to the bank, that the Chinese are still underwriting us, and I can still speak Chinese. I'm grateful for a whole bunch of other shit that I don't need to publicly acknowledge. AND... I'm most grateful that the miracle of life is still being enjoyed by all of you. HAPPY THANKSGIVING

My Critics

Well, I recently mentioned to a friend, a good friend, that when I had written enough letters to be able to glean through them and pick out one hundred and fifty good ones, then I would publish "Letters from Bradland".

My friend responded, " You know,...... there are those whom would say that your letters are just the rantings of an ex-postal employee". And he smiled at me. And he was right, 100% correct except for the word "just". I am an ex- postal employee, and the term, ranting, has been used to describe my letters in the past by those of greater education than I , so I argue neither point. But "just " the rantings , No, No No.

"Just" makes me sound like a damn rabid dog, foaming at the mouth, spewing rantings on empty E-mail boxes and shitting on the floor. Are you kidding?

I would have to argue these letters are the "exceptional" rantings of an ex-postal employee.

"Just " makes my letters sound like they are not entertaining , thought provoking, funny , sad and enlightening.

"Just" diminishes the sociological and cultural differences I try to illustrate between the rural and urban lifestyles I expound on.

"Just" makes my letters sound like any sum bitch could sit down and whip out a little ranting . I take exception to that.

My letters make people feel rich, smug, intelligent, happy to be where they are, superior, self righteous.

My letters, and their honesty about my bad choices, make others feel good about the choices they have made. It's important for people to be given credit for doing the right thing, and how often do everyday heroes like YOU get a pat on the back for being strong and making the right choices? Kudo's to you whom can read where I went wrong when you avoided the pitfall.

My letters give perspective from perception you can only get from the Bradman.

ie

Then I thought, " That miserable mother*****will probably go out to dinner tonight, have a few drinks, go home and get in bed with a women whom loves him, not once think about how lucky he is, and then not be totally cozy, until he remembers that I'm alone, Pissing in a milk carton in a funny looking shack in sub-freezing temperatures, With nothing but a wood burning stove to warm myself, after a one course dinner of smoked salmon and only a dog for company.

Thats why I'm here , so everybody can be comfortable.

"Just" gives the impression there is nothing but the words on the surface. I'd like to think there are deeper thoughts conveyed, a deeper story told. And I do believe that "Letters from Bradland" will be a roaring success despite what the critics think . Who foresaw the pet rock?

Disclaimer: The Oregonian and Encyclical Letters‏

As a matter of clarification:
I am not an Oregonian.

True Oregonians, those born in Oregon, are a proud group and very exclusive and they could hardly suffer having a Smokey Mountain hillbilly from California like myself calling himself an Oregonian.
My mother (born in Pennsylvania and raised on my Grandfathers homesteaded property in Southern Oregon) was not an Oregonian to the Oregonians, she was a newcomer. I'm worse; I'm a Californian. The son of a Pennsylvanian, who was the daughter of a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly who came from a long line of North Carolinians raised in the Smokey Mountains. You can't divorce that kind of heritage in one generation, and I only try to make all this clear in effort to say that I only speak for myself, and that my blog, titled 'The Oregonian', is a misnomer in regard to myself.
It should not be confused for someone actually born in the state of Oregon, or a rural, backwoods thinking, unemployed lumberjack clinging to his guns and his religion in bitterness. Oregon is the most atheist state in the union. Halleleujah.

As a matter of further clarification:
I did not assume the title of 'The Oregonian'.

It was a gift from a man in Italy. The son of an American, he was raised in California to be a Smokey Mountain Hillbilly, who instead fled to Europe to live a life of culture and became a British citizen. Who am I to question a well rounded man of the world with heritage like that?
If he wants to call me 'The Oregonian' simply because my property borders on Oregon on all sides, so be it; I've been called worse by him.
However, I don't fancy myself to be an Oregonian because I own property in Oregon. Every landowner on the Oregon side of Happy Camp Road is a former Californian. Owning property in Oregon has nothing to do with being an Oregonian, really. The distinguishable qualification in determining a true Oregonian is that of having been born in Oregon. Otherwise, most of the Oregon residents I know are, well, like people in London, from somewhere else.
As a final clarification, should I need a 'true Oregonian's' opinion, I need go no further than to call my older brother and sister, both of whom were born here in The Beaver State. However, since they were both raised in California, disqualifying them in the eyes of people who were not only born here, but had to grow up here too, I could use one of a hundred other relatives that qualify for both prerequisites, should I be pressed to refine my research.
That said, I think it should now be perfectly clear that these letters carry no authority in regards to what other people in the state of Oregon might be thinking, and further from that still, what may or may not be the opinions of real Oregonians.
Quite honestly these letters do not even originate from Oregon state, but rather from 'the Shack'.

The Old Man

My sister called me today. She had received a call from a potential buyer who she described as an old man with an accent. He was to be driving by my property and getting back to her. My sister was alerting me to watch for him and, if I wanted, I could invite him in and show him around.
I meet the nicest people trying to sell this shack. A lot of nice people would like to buy the shack. The nice people don't have any money.
About 40 minutes later, interrupting my attempt to blank my mind and find another plane, a Toyota Corolla pulled in front of the gate, blocking it, and parked. I watched as an older gentleman with white hair under a tan golf cap exited the car and, sure enough, walked right around the gate and up the driveway. I could see he was old. I tell the story like he moved quickly, but actually the whole procedure was a controlled, careful combination of rather jerky movements that had little fluidity and much determination, and moved him forward at a slow pace while barely bending his knees. Nevertheless, he was halfway up the driveway by the time I went out and introduced myself.
I stuck out my hand and said, "I'm Bradley Austin."
He took my hand and said something that sounded like, "Bran Ray."
I noticed he had an accent, and I said again, "Yes, I'm Bradley Austin." But this time more slowly, so he could pick it up .
Again he mispronounced my name, so a third time I stated it. Maybe he didn't hear well, too.
Then he slowly said in his accented voice so I could hear, "Yes, Mr. Austin, I'm Van Ray."
I think I blushed a little and asked him in. We toured the cabin.
I demonstrated all the amenities, and then I asked, "It's all a man needs, but don't you think it might be a little rough for your wife?"
"Oh, we'll just use it for camping," he said.
"Let me show you the upstairs," I responded.
Upstairs, I invited him to sit in my chair. He sat at my desk and faced to the north.
"Oh yes," he said. "I like the view."
Then he faced me and said, "I have an unusual proposition for you. I'm 90 years old and my wife is 88 years old. We're not going to be around very long and so we thought we'd offer you $10k and then will the property back to you when we die." He continued, "Look, we can't live too much longer. I'm already 90. In these hard economic times we thought you might take the deal."
I smiled at him and said, "You look like you have another 20 years in you at least. I wouldn't want to bet against you."
He answered, "That would make me the oldest man in America, don't be ridiculous."
More than willing to reassure me he would die quickly and I would soon have my property back. Seeing he was earnest and ready to negotiate, I then explained to him why I could not accept his offer. He was disappointed and offered me an additional $100 a month while he was alive. I further explained my business and finally, not wanting to be harsh, I told him I would consider all offers presented in written form. He was encouraged and I saw him out and down the driveway.
Later, relating the story back to my sister, adding that if he was a moll he got all my information, she said, "Maybe... Although he said he lives on Highway 199 by the community college. There is an old folks home there. Maybe he hates it so much he wanted your cabin to escape senior living."
Which made more sense than his story of buying the shack to use for camping. The senior home is only 40 minutes away, he could use it as a base for 'camping'. I have to hand it to the old man, whatever plan he had in his mind, whether it was imagined, unrealistic or not, he still had the gumption to come up here and make a pitch.

Grandchildren

It's all good.
Soon my property will be SOLD. Or not. The idea stirs so many emotions in me I can hardly begin to enumerate them; rootless with a profit; terrified of homelessness; free to simply be a boy and his dog; agile enough to hang with the young; once again unencumbered, and solvent with capability to ______ with the rest of my life. What's the next 5 year plan?
When I left Sacramento I proclaimed to another idiot that "a man can do anything in 5 years if he's capable and smart." The other idiot looked at me like 5 years was a century. He was unaccomplished and younger than I. Looking back 5 years is a blur, but looking ahead it's practically limitless. When I think of the last 27 months and how my world has changed, I wonder how many more lives I have in me? And where will I find the worlds on which to live them?
Of course I could never return to the city or California, because I have passionately declared them either flooded or a desert in the future, so for investment purposes they would be out. I would only return for love, because love overwhelms reason and is always a good investment. See? So point made.
In 5 years I could have a doctorate and be teaching university classes. At the very least earn a masters and be totally immersed in the world of academia. I could do a thesis on comparable similarities between the Han Chinese and the Native Americans tribes along the Pacific Northwest. I could ______. Fueling my desire, that is the question: what still burns hot enough to fire the engines? Nothing, really.
It's sad.
My youth is gone and I realize it could have been better spent. My children are grown and I realize I could have been a better father. My looks are gone and I realize I was flattering myself anyway. I have squandered a small fortune, and would have lost more, but for luck and economic circumstances. And I have a world of choices from which to choose and no passion for anything. Sad.
Grandchildren are the answer. Grandchildren are a second chance. Grandchildren are a great investment. Grandchildren and great-grandchildren are all the future I need, all the love I desire.
Until then, it might be time to learn to sail. I know where there is a dry-docked trimaran as big as the one in Waterworld. Time to ask a price and assimilate a crew. Sail to Italy. Right after I build a new compound in the city in the valley where the two rivers meet.

Young Hippies

After a long day of doing nothing (those are the longest days of course), I settled into bed rather late; about 7:30pm. I had one elbow down, and was about to ease the other half of my body onto the bed, when a car pulled up and parked at the bus stop/u-turn point across the road. The car was there when I fell asleep and it was there in the morning when I went to town. A red Jeep Cherokee. Newer than mine, and from New York. Lic# EJL1303. Duly noted.
Returning from town they were still there, but this time there were people moving around the Jeep. I parked and entered the house. Heated coffee, and went upstairs to view the squatters from behind the mirrors. I was on my first cup of coffee when they approached the shack; a tall woman, not heavy, but not thin either with long, dark, red hair and a child hanging from a wide band of cloth slung around her neck and over her shoulder: a kind of circular hammock the child hung in. The child, a cute little red headed baby girl that was eight months old I would later find out, was adept at holding on to that cloth as a young chimp. A man, at least ten feet behind the woman, with a full beard and wearing a cap with ear muffs he had pulled over his ears, was carrying a small bag with paper handles that, when he got closer, I could see contained four one pound packages of butter and some mushrooms in a cardbord package under cellophane.
I said,"Good morning. What can I do for you folks today?"
The woman smiled and said,"We were looking for a barter."
I smiled and replied that there wasn't a thing in the world that I needed except 380 rounds for my Sig Sauer and shotgun shells (I had planned on driving to Grants Pass and buying both, along with a case of clay pigeons, before they had appeared on my doorstep). Then I asked what they had to trade, and what they wanted.
The woman smiled and said, "How about some coffee? We have butter and mushrooms."
I considered her request. Hot coffee, after sleeping in a car, probably sounded wonderful to her.
It was a moment of decision. I had no interest in bartering, but I thought I would hear their story and invited them in for coffee. The flip side of the decision was to send them down the road. The baby was the deciding factor. I brought them into the warmth and shelter of the stove room in the shack. I sat them down, served them coffee, asked their names, and then asked how they came to sleep in the Jeep across the road (I couldn't help the touch of Seuss).
Their story was a 'friend' had told them that Happy Camp was an old hippie settlement where, if they just went and hung out, they would be invited into a commune or a community, or find their dreams of nirvana or something... and so they were on their way to Happy Camp.
Happy Camp Road starts one mile down the road from my house at what is locally called 'four corners'; a crossing of Takilma Road where Happy Camp Road becomes Waldo Road. I live one mile up from four corners. Happy Camp is thirty seven miles farther south across the border, in California. I know the sign at four corners reads 'Road Open', but as this young couple found out, the road is only plowed to the snow park which is just eleven miles past my house. The road is impassable during the winter months. That was how they came to be sleeping across the street.
I asked where they got the butter. Neither answered
I asked how they came to be in Oregon via New York. Several times the young man got lost in his dialogue descibing the trials and tribulations of being young and aimless and wanting more, without opportunity. At times he made no sense in his words. The two of them had been together since New Year's Eve. She had escaped a musician that hit her, and he a woman now in a cult, who wouldn't have sex for purposes other than propagation of the species. Somewhere there had been a settlement, and he had bought a Jeep, and they had been on their way to her mother's in eastern Washington before Happy Camp had come up...
I tried to steer them right; I explained that Happy Camp was a defunct logging town, heavily influenced by the Indian Reservation where (my impression was) people were neither friendly nor open, and usually didn't like strangers. I went further though and described Takilma. The small community on the south side of Hope Mountain, on the opposite side of the ridge from me. Takilma, an old hippie settlement with an alternative lifestyle community where (if there was a place in this area) these psuedo-hippies would be welcome. It's only a mile and a half from me and I explained twice how to get there. I told them of the community school where they might get help.
They made no move to leave. They were comfortable. I looked at both of them. I knew they were scared to death. Finding our way in the world can be terrifying. My heart went out to them. Maybe they needed to learn about 'work'. I knew they would have been happy to move right in. I stood and escorted them out. As the mother held the doorjam, and lowered her foot down the long step from my doorway to the ground, I noticed the baby under her arm; the baby's legs around the mothers back, still holding to that circular cloth for dear life. The baby understood. I had the feeling she was already learning to take care of herself.
I wanted to rescue them. I hope they rescue themselves. I remember it was not that long ago I had to rescue myself.
It only takes yourself, most of the time.

Days of Rain

Cabin fever season. I haven't left the house for two days. The dog and I had dinner about 13:45 today and I'll probably be in bed about 16:00. The dog only gets up to eat or 'go'. After days of rain, the creek behind the house is a bubbling torrent, polishing the rocks at it's bottom where it has eaten the soft topsoil away and now races downhill. Opening the door to the shack one is greeted with the sound of water gurgling by, and it is both pleasant and reassuring. I like the sound of the rain on the roof too! Cozy! Until the water torture affect comes into play.
The shack is completely closed up inside now, meaning the inside walls are built too, and the insulation is no longer showing. Where the rough edges of the boards meet I've used expanding foam insulation for the chinking. Not only is it attractive, but everyday the place has gotten one step closer to being as 'tight as an egg'. I have to be careful not to overfill the wood burning stove or the house gets too hot.
The rain continues to fall steadily. The creek widens and narrows with the fluctuations in the rainfall, and today the waterfalls have been at their full 12 inches. I need a life. I tried to have one, but the Kings are the worst team in the NBA.
It's a shame we can't know that when we agree to buy "NBA Pass". The hated Lakers are winners again. Life is so unfair. Of course, after the referee went to jail and (beforehand) admitted the 2001 playoffs were rigged (you know the hated Lakers were 'supposed' to win), thus robbing the Kings of their championship, I can't believe in the NBA anymore. It might as well be big time wrestling. Commissioner Stern should be tarred and feathered. Really!
The rain has stopped for a moment. The storm, or this storm, must need to take a breath. The Weather Channel says rain for another five days. I am afraid that life in the mountains is too slow for this urbanite. Is the redwood tree, stationary with nothing to worry about save sun and rain and nutrients in the soil, content to observe the world from its platform for thousands of years? It would be a thousand year torture to me. Thus, not having a thousand years, I no longer feel I have time to hermit in the mountains.
I looked at a large trimaran for the second time last week. I'm not getting any younger, it may be time to see the world. I'm not kidding. Every day I wake up and think, "life is so wonderful ...and so finite." There could never be enough time to share with my sons. There isn't now, and it decreases everyday. I need more freedom to be able to spend more time with you both.

Nothing

The weather is changing here today. The warm sunshine and tease of spring is being replaced by a north wind, black clouds, cold rain and dropping temperatures. Winter is returning for the latter half of February. The driveway is returning to mud. Wood consumption is rising quickly.
Finally, California may get some rain. More importantly, the mountains on the California-Oregon border are getting snow. My property needs the water.
Watching CNN today, I see that citizens that have lost their homes are protesting in front of the homes of CEOs of various lending institutions guilty of predatory lending. The idea is to 'personalize' the victims to the culprit. Remember this desperate day; the victims are forecasting an attitude and frustration that is going to explode nationwide.
As one friend put it, "This $900 billion give away is the grease that will send this fine country into the big black shit hole. The poor will be in the streets looting. The folks with anything left will retreat." Predatory Bankers better hide now. It would appear when the guillotines are dragged out their heads will be the first to roll.
If this was China, their greed and crimes would have already brought death. Maybe we can learn something from our Pacific rim partners. Misuse of public trust and power should be punishable by death. We wouldn't have to kill many politicians before Washington straightened itself out. Think if we killed just a few and all of the lobbyists.
It's only the beginning, too. As the race downhill proceeds (like a snowball) people will get angrier, hungrier, more unsatisfied. Public unrest is coming. Tax-payer revolt is coming. The ball gets bigger and rolls faster every day.
Americans have lived fat and sassy, and will not be satisfied by a simple subsistence survival. For awhile everybody had money, and everyone got a taste of having a little wealth; watch how we revolt against being poor.
And why shouldn't we? It's the people's money keeping the whole system afloat. Why don't the people now own the system? The banks, the automakers, insurance, housing, They should all be the people's now, and so should their profits! The privatization of profits and socialization of losses is plain robbery. These bailouts are just continuations of the robbery. A few heads should roll, literally. No, a lot of heads should roll.
As the house of cards falls the terror from within will begin. Eventually there will be no good or bad guys; people will fear both the government and the enemies of the state. I guess the retreat part comes into play about then.
The world is changing. America can no longer afford to support the rest of the world with her unbridled consumption, just as America cannot afford to police the rest of the world. Maybe it's time we focused on saving ourselves.
The sky is black now. Snow is starting to fall, swirling in the winds, carrying the latest storm into southern Oregon. It's late in the afternoon. The sky will only darken, the day become night, and the cold deepen before the storm passes.

The Roadmonster

How can I make this page make me a bazillionaaaire so I can do all the talk shows and really tell some stories. I like the idea of being richer.
I was riding my Motorcycle the other day and stopped at the market. Leaving my wallet locked in the trunk of the bike, at the register I had only the change in my pocket to pay for my purchase. As I fished for change wondering if would have to get my ATM card from the bike, a young blond women behind me tried to give me $5. I guess I was dressed for the occasion; my 'riding' pants are Air Force flight overalls. Wearing them over jeans with a down Jacket and a hooded sweatshirt, I looked like I 'live' in the elements. I guess my appearance, coupled with me counting my change, led her to believe I was broke and prompted her to offer me the $5. The little sweetheart.
Putting my hand up, I protested, "Oh, no thank you, I have money. I appreciate your kindness, though, thank you." I joked and said, "Hey, didn't you try to lend me money before?"
Again she extended the money.
Again I protested, "Thank you but really, I have money. I'm a millionaire." Everybody's jaw dropped.
"You're a millionaire?", she asked, incredulously.
The fact I broke a tooth earlier in the week and have a gap in my smile where you can see the bridgework didn't help matters either.
"Oh yeah," I said. "Can't you tell?"
"You're a millionaire?" she asked again as she finished bagging her groceries and was leaving.
No. Not unless we count benefits and pension over the rest of my life. As I straddled my 23 year old classic red Goldwing, the Roadmonster, still smiling about the young woman's kindness in the store, I wondered when I would see her again, and how I would appear.
I roared by the Chevron, (the only Chevron in town) and there she was, and I knew that I looked the same, but on the red and chrome blur of the Roadmonster, my appearance was totally different.
Anyway, I could be richer. I could be poorer. Shoulda, woulda, coulda pudding. I couldn't be more me, and as long as one is happy with who they are, without lying to themselves... The whole game is played between the ears!
Be Happy.
I'll worry about being richer in about 2 million hits.

I Could Return

Craig's List has a small house on a third of an acre on 67th street, two blocks from my old compound.

FOR SALE for $125k. That is a $150k difference from my California property selling price 2 and a 1/2 years ago. All the money that was needed to finance all the good and bad choices, extravagance and excess, substance abuse and self abuse that I packed into 20 years. Well, almost enough. Twenty years is a long time.
Now being of moderate income and having sold my residence in the city to retire in the mountains of southern Oregon, I never thought affording a house again in that city in the valley where the two rivers meet (especially one at least as good as the last) would be possible. It would appear, however, that returning to purchase equal or better housing at this point is entirely feasible.
That wouldn't look good to all the people who have read my various posts predicting flood and future deserts for the Valley (not that what others think carries great influence for me; I have watched others "think" while I have lived my entire life). Somewhere between locking yourself in a safe room and running headlong into the train, there is a style for everyone's life.
The winner shares the most love, has the most fun, and lives the fullest life (in my opinion). Since I am still enjoying life and living fully, there in itself is the argument for me. Though it would be better if I was most loved.
Part of me would love to own a home in California again. I love southern Oregon too though. Croco-dog likes the Shack and property.
Anyway, as luck would have it (only luck and the Housing Market moved me at the right time; enabling me to both catch the wave and return with the swell gone), I could return to California and buy a residence. The perk is bills paid, debt resolved, mortgage owed, systems cleaned, and adventure lived; I would be way ahead. Think of what I could have done if I had been on top of the game.
Choices.

Tales of Doom

I've been at the shack for 7 days now. I know there are people out there who would love to be alone in the mountains of southern Oregon for a week, but for me, well, I actually jogged two miles today on my mountain road, worked on the house, and now am writing this post to occupy myself. Maybe I should put this place on Craig's List as a $1500 a week mountain hideaway rental. One week rented a month would be cool. That would be enough I could be gone to the city to spend money.
Anyway, don't be a sucker, let your Congress Rep know, nothings going to save us; give the money to the Chinese and forget the bailout.
Hey, we owe it to them. I know how it feels. I want my money too. Now. And hell no, no more credit till I'm paid.

"COFFEE WARS, that's the first factor I want to consider. Not that Starbucks and Dunkin-Donuts will determine our national economy and save the housing market, but they are great indicators of the times. See, I don't think that improving a latte' , or customer service, is going to save Starbucks. As times get harder it is my bet that the extravagance of $3.50 cups of coffee will be one of the first luxuries to give way to reality: Look for coffee shops, cafe mochas, and Cappuccinos to disappear quicker than equity in a Las Vegas home."
(Coffee Wars, Property Prices, and Nothing Left to Lose 26Feb08)

It's a year later and the news has only gotten worse. I read an article this week written in 2004 by Mark S.. Watson, 'The oncoming economic depression.' Mr. Watson had foresight. I found the article interesting because it was exactly four years old. If Mr Watson is correct, and he seemed to be accurate back in 2004, don't look for things to improve for a long time. In a small, small, small world, America's big standard of living is going to shrink a little.
Remember the rich have no borders and don't care about the non-rich. You have money or you don't. Believe that, and this: money can live anywhere and cares not about nationality or allegiances. Former President Bush is developing a compound in Paraguay, isn't he? Of course that might be to avoid prosecution, or worse, but after what has happened in this country the last eight years, does anyone really think he gave a damn about the average American? And the strings that strung him damn sure didn't care about America.
Starbucks is closing another three hundred stores today. That 's what this letter is about. They were my measure a year ago and, unfortunately, they are my measure today and the first sentence of this paragraph says it all.
Welcome to the future. You'll be forced to live in a house that's not worth what you owe on it, as it's value decreases. Fuel prices and insurance will force you to mass transit where you'll be forced to meet people you don't want to meet, private transit will be restricted to the upper classes, and worst of all, you'll have to brew your own coffee because Starbucks will only be affordable to the wealthy.
Enjoy them while you still can...

The Third Year

Saturday. The Shack in southern Oregon is 2 days away from it's second birthday and the start of year 3. It's raining outside, just as it was two years ago. Unlike two years ago there now is an insulated house with plumbing and hot water, a toilet, a kitchen, and a shower. Life is good, time to sell. Fall is most beautiful here. Deciduous trees mixed in with the Evergreens combine to make a spectacular array of Autumn colors. The waterfalls in back and on both sides of the house are starting to drip, and soon the pond will be full. The firewood is stocked for the first half of winter, and a plan is had for the second half of winter. If I had an oven I'd bake something and Life would be full. I love listening to the rain hit the roof while the house is cozy. Inside the Shack it is a different world than out in the raw wilderness that surrounds it; like a Hobbit hole, with the security and warmth of the fire. I have a Pipe too. In the beginning it's tranquil and serene, after thirty days it's cabin fever. Now though, it's serene.

Sunday. Football. Two years on the Hill complete. It's been raining for four days now. The five day forecast is rain for five more days. The raindrops are softly tapping on the roof, lulling the less wary into forgetting the waters true nature, and force; Erosion. Even the soft tapping becomes monotonous, then aggravating; gently taunting the "cabin fevered" with it's wet reminder that it's raining. I check the Pacific Satellite map at the weather channel website. It will be time for some 'doom and gloom for the valley' predictions soon. Is it sunny and warm today in California?

Monday. Happy Birthday Bradland. It's raining. The weather channel talks about this storm and that storm, in the rain forest the only way to tell is the different temperatures of the rain. Today's has turned cold. This is the fifth day of rain, and the five day forecast calls for five more. Great concealed weapon, weather. I see that Mammoth Mountain in southern California is going to open it's slopes today; no need to ask if it's snowing in the Sierras. The Shack seems to be holding the heat this year. Halleleujah for insulated floors. I'm looking forward to snow on the ground for six weeks this year. It's soundless. Sometimes it all seems worth it. You really have to define 'all' and 'it', and what choices that you have.

Cross Eyed Fish

This last week I was in that large California city in the valley where the rivers meet, and it was hot. And the City; fast and furious with busy people, crowded, young and amped on testosterone, impersonal and hard, began to feel uncomfortable and dangerous to me. I felt old and slow and disoriented. I visit my friends and they seem old and tired and unsure of their footing. There are those that aren't disoriented though; they realize their world, and time, and life's opportunities approaching. These are the twenty-five year olds I know.
Those my own age I tell,"Get up and go!" At our age we're the ones that have less to risk. How long do the mortal live?
I feel good. I am on an adventure. Life is exciting, challenging, rewarding, and fun. Well... it isn't desperate anyway. Life is wonderful, every miserable moment. It is good living another adventure at fifty. It has to be; I'm here and the best course to stay appears the one I'm on. Additionally, the longer I live as I do the more comfortable my life becomes. Only affirmed more and more by the city's decreasing attractiveness as I become acclimated to the rural life.
Here, in the mountains, on a still day, Time stands still. Almost always Time crawls and life is elongated here, but when the forest is entirely still, time doesn't move at all. The world looks two dimensional, as if one is standing in a picture. Time to learn how to plane jump.
If the answers are in-between the parameters, then humans must be looking at the world wrong. Not in a philosophical manner, but in their actual vision.
Juggling supposedly increases Brain Mass three percent. Probably due to forcing the mind to focus on ones peripheral vision and reacting. I think looking at the world cross eyed to force one's mind to see, and mentally respond to one's entire peripheral vision might be the next evolutionary step. Like driving down the road with one eye on the rear view mirror and the other on the road, digesting both pictures and responding; building brain mass.
Be careful though... with everything to live for, watch your 'road'.
Next time I see you though, if you're looking cross-eyed and seeing everything, like a fish with eyes on different sides of it's head... well, I'll know that you know a good idea when you hear it.

2 out of 5

The beginning of November will be the start of my third year here in Oregon. If the progression of the improvements on the property continue at the rate they have the previous two years, by this time next year the shack should be complete. In three more years the place should be paid off, or paid down to less than what you paid for your last car.
Life is good. I'm adapting to the new world and the lifestyle changes. I need a few goats and some chickens, a 'Sea-Land container' filled with MRE's and a ton of rice and beans. A little more ammo and fishing lessons and I'll be ready for the Apocalypse.
The last thirty days I've had caretakers at the house to feed the dog and watch the property: Randy and Jacob. The three of us Insulated underneath the shack, water-sealed the exterior, dug trenches and helped the Plumber plumb the place. It's a whole house now, or at least a whole shack. When we weren't working, or they weren't fishing, I was riding the motorcycle back and forth to California. It was good to have someone watch the dog and guard the property while I rolled a little. But alas, all good things come to an end; last week Randy went to his mother's in Portland. Today Jacob returned to Sacramento. It's back to me and the dog.
It'll be nice to have the shack to myself again for a while, but it will be lonely far too quick.
I look at pictures of my sons and kick myself in the ass for not video recording our every moment together. I try to talk them into coming and living my life with me, but they want their own lives. They are exactly whom I thought they should be in many ways...what the hell did I know? They're Worldly, Educated, the Beneficiaries of learning from my mistakes, I feel like the ultimate loser on Jeopardy around them.
It was a good year. Three more to go, this base will be paid for, and I'll be able to start the next Five year plan: buy a 36 foot sail boat and become a Asia coastal trader for five years while I pay for the Boat. But I won't think about that for the moment...
Don't live for the future, Live for the NOW, you get more done that way. Yours must be a busy, enjoyable world.

Only the Bear does now

There's a Shower, Dishwasher, Sink, and Washer hookup too. The Shack was also water-sealed and insulated underneath this month, which should make Winter MUCH more comfortable than last year.

Say Good bye to the bucket.

The Earth

The first thing I gotta know is why are all the planets round? The Moon is round.The Sun is round.
Why aren't there any square planets? Even rectangular? I mean MASS seems to take every other shape; why are the planets, moons, suns all round? Galileo, Columbus, they questioned the earths squareness and proved themselves right; making history in the proces. So I say, "The secret to the universe is the secret of why is everything round." Firstly, I was thinking about the Earth though. I was thinking about how the Earth and the other planets go around the Sun (SEE, there it is again). I was thinking that as the Sun burns, it must lose weight so, inevitably, it's suction would decrease and the planets, one by one, starting with planet #9 (Pluto, Uranus?) would drift off and be lost in space. This is nothing to be alarmed about; the Earth has no idea where it is in relation to 'outer-space' anyway. Lost from where? As long as Earth kept spinning, (keeping the atmosphere around it, right?) the Earth could be like the biggest cruise ship ever! Never mind the heating problems. Spaceball. Stellar road trip. Why does the Earth spin? The spinning is necessary, but who thought of making the place spin to retain it's excretions and create atmosphere?
I was thinking about the Black hole thing too. I don't understand how we could be sucked into a hole though. I mean we revolve around the Sun because of its mass. When the mass is burned until consumed won't we be free of the pull? There shouldn't be any vacuum created when the Sun collapses, right? So... what's up? I think it's Pinball Earth. And then what? It's all such a delicate balance of things. Maybe we'll end up somewhere where there are square planets. But, today's burning questions are, 'Why are the planets and moons and suns ALL round?' And spinning. Are they all spinning? Are the answers to these questions known?
Forget the Black hole stuff. I don't understand it so it can't be real. I know people who solves life's questions like that so I thought I'd try it. Doesn't work for me though. Still thinking...

American Terror

Have you seen…

Zeitgeist?
9/11 revisited?
The God delusion?
The Sun of God?

The Shack is twenty months old now. In that twenty months I have had the time, and in some aspects was forced, to examine myself, life, death, etc. It has not all been pleasant.
In admitting my own mistakes to myself, and reconciling to the idea you can never go back, that the first fifty years are gone, I was forced to shed old lies and accept new truths. Partially due to this process of growing up (something I had neglected to do in my first fifty years of living, and still have trouble with), I came to the realization that instead of becoming more conservative in my thought as I grow older, holding on to what I know, I am becoming more open minded. More willing to consider ideas that don't mirror my own. Instead of just calling bullshit, I'll look, read, consider before I call bullshit now.
I was more rigid in my parameters of tolerance in thought at twenty-five then I am at fifty-two, I was more ignorant at twenty-five.
Easier for me to change than others, I imagine. I was raised without religion, had no real expectations to live up to, lived day to day, hand to mouth most of my life, and believe strongly in nothing. I witnessed life in the drug culture for twenty years too, so obviously I had some mental adjustments to make. My convictions are few, but my patriotism is strong.
My family has been in this country since the late 1600's. I spent six years in the Army. So, we’ve established that the USA is my country, and I am a charter member patriot.
In the last eight years this country has been hijacked for the private interests of the ultra rich. It is a great country and my home. Unfortunately, it’s being driven not by the will of the people, but by the greed of a few. Elitists who think, despite what the masses want, that they know best. And what is best usually includes a large profit for them. That is not Democracy, but a facade of oligarchy.
Watch 9/11 re-visited.
Watch Zeitgeist.
I'm convinced The US government are the terrorists.
Take the war in Iraq. The American people were willing to stop Saddam Hussein from having WMD. But occupation? Here it is years later and our leaders are giving us every reason in the world to continue their policies, i.e.: Al Qaeda in Iraq, Iraqi Independence, The War on Terror… it's like a Star Trek series where in the Universe’s infinity the dangers are never ending.
Now that Iraq has it's new puppet Government, the problem is now in Afghanistan, coincidently along the pipeline route. And the War on Terror continues. Except, IT'S ALL BULLSHIT.
We are the terrorists.
We have taken Russia's place in Afghanistan, the same place we denounced them for taking from 1979-1989. The Taliban are the same as they were then, except now they're the bad guys fighting the good foreign invader? I'll say it again, we don't need permanent fortresses along that pipeline to search and destroy Al Qaeda (The news 08DEC07).
Watch Zeitgeist, America is being fed a line. The American Army is fighting so Profits can be made on a pipeline to supply INDIA. I don't give a fuck about Indian Markets. Do you?
And the elitists don't give a rat’s ass about a country, or people, or the average man. Money lives where life is best, so money doesn't care if a few hundred thousand people die, if countries are ravaged, if the poor starve, etc. Money won't be in the neighbourhood, just profits. The fact that it is a country other than America doesn't make it right (The Aliens 12JUL08). Even if they are American companies, or the American Army, exploitation is exploitation and imperialism is imperialism.
Enter my neighbor, a local schoolteacher and resident of Southern Oregon since the 70's. An intellectual. I think he can't resist opening minds and eyes, but he has successfully changed my outlook on some things by simply saying, “Hey, watch this.”
Those four titles above are great food for thought. Especially Zeitgeist and 9/11 Revisited. You can Google all four.... Zeitgeist has no picture the first two minutes, just words from the Dahli monk.
Now, most American’s live comfortably, myself included, but what am I willing to allow my country to do in order to make this the best place in the world to live? At the very least I want to know the truth.
I honestly cannot look at people who think those planes brought the WTC down without feelings of disgust for their ignorance.
I always felt these religious fanatics (Jihadists, Christian warriors etc) were brainwashed fools, but after Zeitgeist and the God Delusion I realize that I was a fool too. I am ashamed of my own ignorance and lack of education (part of the remorse for having screwed around for twenty years in the drug culture).
People here in the State of Jefferson question everything. Oregon is the most atheist state in the union. Fewest Catholics and Baptists. Independent Voters. This is Ron Paul country (probably due to his platform to repeal the income tax (there is a lot of non-taxable income in this area)). It is fertile soil for alternative lifestyles and ways of thinking, good and bad. Who knows what my mental makeup will be after a few more months?

Black in America

I've been watching ‘Black in America’ and now I know... that being a misplaced Smokey mountain Hillbilly, raised in California without a father in the home, almost makes me Black. I like to grab my crotch and tell people I'm part black, but that's a joke of course… I'm part Donkey.
Of course I'm really watching ‘Black in America’ because, ‘How ya' going to know?’
Nobody looks at me like I'm black. They look at me like I'm ugly. All you handsome, pretty people might not know what I'm talking about, but ya' know… when you pull up next to that hot girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and even if she ain't good looking, she got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on, so she thinks she is.... and anyway, inevitably I'll pull up and I'll be looking to see who is in the car next to me.... and whoosh, that girl will damn near break her neck twisting it around to look the other way. I want to jump out and yell, ‘Hey! I wasn't even looking' for a girl with her hair washed’.
But anyway, they always turn their head. Which is like looking at you like you’re ugly. If they don't turn their head, they ain't pretty enough for me. Good thing too. Ya' know, the male ego can make anything reality.

Reminds me of the joke:
I go out. I try to meet women. The first line is always different ‘Hi, how are you. You look nice.” Ya' know, something like that. But the second line is always the same, “Hey Bitch! I’m talking to you!”

People look at me like I'm poor too, sometimes. That just means I'm fooling the one's not paying attention the other part of the time. And of course, in the dice game of what really counts, and blessings you can't sell, I am as rich as my ignorance allows me to be. Which takes me back to being looked at like you're poor...ya' know, if you wear blue plaid shorts and the blue doesn't match the blue in the flowered Hawaiian shirt you're wearing, and your green safarii hat doesn't match your grey cross training shoes, people look at you like your poor. Like you ain't got a clue. Like you’re too poor to know about white teeth and vaginal odor, and wouldn't know how to appreciate a girl with her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on. Too poor my ass, I'd pay to appreciate it.
I get other looks sometimes. The ‘whoa, you’re too loud’ look is common. I'd be exhausted if I concentrated on whispering all the time.
I get the ‘oh, he’s bald’ look a lot too. Ya' know when you're meeting that hot girl for the first time, and she's got her hair washed and her shiny lipstick on and you smile at her, and she's watching your every move. You can feel her radar on you, and then... you take your hat off.... it’s like the power went off. Your blip disappeared. It's like your face became twice as long and everything else became half its appropriate size.
Sometimes, I get that perplexed look, too. Ya’ know, like, I was talking to this attractive woman at this party that my friend was invited to and, I knew she was looking for a man because she was there… and her hair was washed and she had that shiny lipstick on. And I hadn't had a shower for three days so I was manly. Also I hadn't taken my hat off... all that said I figured that I was in the running. So I just told her, “I'll give ya' a try-out.” She said, “huh?” I said, “Well honey, I can't guarantee you'll make the team, but I'll give ya' a try-out.” She looked confused walking away.
Then you meet a woman who, for whatever dysfunctional reasons of her own, likes you, falls in love with you. And you don't know how to act.... back to being ‘Black in America.’ Lack of a good ‘male role model’ in any young man's life is a serious problem, regardless of his race.
It is an inherited problem too. My sons inherited a father who didn't know how to act sometimes. I just knew how I wanted them to act. What I knew from experience, Tom Sawyer and the Hobbit. Make sense?
And I misspelled safari above because Hawaii has two eyes and so do fish. I didn't say this was going to be easy. You figure it out because I'm working on a new campaign to bring bald, ugly, crude, old men back into mainstream American life where we can be treated handsomely. See, I'm going to call it ‘Bald in America’ and I want Soledad O'Brien to do the interview because I think I could be comfortable with her.... she seems so understanding, and I'm always getting a look...