Giant Stepping

     Honestly , I don't know why anyone would want or need the following information, but I'm sworn to tell all, so my advise to the reader is: Read it anyway. 

     OK, Giant Stepping.  I  call it that because when you do it, you feel like you are twenty-five feet tall and have a hundred foot stride. As you might imagine though,  Giant Stepping is not possible just anywhere; not on your neighborhood sidewalks, certainly not the interstate and forget about bridges high above the river or the cross-traffic...hey those things can add to your apparent height but where does the 100'-stride come in?  

     Imagine  yourself on a "flying" platform, moving at about fifty miles per hour and maintaining a distance of eighteen feet above the ground. Stroll slowly in the direction of the platform's flight and, with each step you take, the platform puts another skatey-aight feet of the ground below behind you.

     The platform is not in a vacuum. It is actually part of a catwalk, bolted to the top of a bunch of boxcars in a train making it's way across the Great Basin on the route of the original trans-continental railway. Of course, any group of boxcars on any track in open country  can be a good place for  Giant Stepping.(In populated areas, safety concerns dictate lower speeds and lotsa witnesses are present.) I mention the location here, because that's where I did mine. And I do mean "did", as in past tense. I was in the last few weeks of being eleven when I went Giant Stepping for the last time,  about sixty years ago. I still have vivid memories of it, mostly for the thrill and exhilaration of strolling, walking and running back and forth atop fast freights. (Fifty is fast for a freight, especially if you're standing upright on top of it. Not top speed, for sure, but 20-or-soMPH faster would probably have been enough draft to blow one off the train.) There is a natural tendency, as the train gains speed and the draft increases, to lean forward, into the headwind to avoid being blown back. I remember a few times that a sudden gust of wind provided enough pressure to lift me off my feet for a flight of a couple of yards; I think that if I had ever gone stepping at 70 or 80 MPH I might well have been blown off.

     That's not the most dangerous part of this, though. Getting on or off the moving boxcar is. The faster it's moving, whether you're trying to mount or dismount, the more difficult and dangerous your task.

     I don't recommend this activity. Remember, I'm talking about a time before TV. A time when people looking to entertain themselves  had to get creative. The place had something to do with it,too. About half-way between Reno and Salt Lake City, on that self-same  transcontinental rail line already mentioned, the little town was first seen in blue prints as part of the plans for  that railway. Before that, there was a small settlement a couple of miles  to the southwest, called Chinese Gardens and no one found the site of the current town fit to build on until after the railroad selected the site for one of it's terminal towns. Called that because crews are changed at these points, but also because facilities for re-fuelling, oiling and taking on vast amounts of water are also present. Steam locomotives (aka engines) became obsolete  before water-recycling systems for them got a good start. Terminals are about 200 miles apart. Depending on terrain, one of those old steamers could  use as much as eight tons of water in that distance. All of the terminal towns  as well as those towns between, had huge water storage facilities.

     "T-towns" in northern latitudes and at high elevation will have a sand house. Sand is used to improve traction between steel track and steel wheel in wintry conditions.

     There was one thing about our T-town that few of the others shared. An installation of Pacific Fruit Express Company (PFE). To my knowledge, only in our town did PFE have two square miles of ponds about four feet deep where they "made" ice two to three feet thick, harvested it a couple of times per winter, stored it in giant, thickly-insulated buildings and when fruits were ripe in the Central Valley, PFE loaded them into their reefers which were then collected and attached to a group of engines that pull all that fruit to Peoria and beyond. Before that though,at about 33 hours out of the field, the fruit in each reefer is joined  by a few thousand pounds of ice, thanks to a couple of hundred men, armed with long-handled ice hooks and aided by a network of loading conveyers, who moved the large ice blocks (2'X3'X4') up, onto and along the nearly mile-long loading deck, filling the ice compartments at the ends of each reefer. With doors sealed the reefer was so well insulated that the fruit was still in cold storage when it reached it's destination, even if that was in Boston or New York, according to PFE advertising of that time.
     My mom's dad paid us one of his very rare visits, when I was about six or seven. He was the kind of guy who was interested in everything and was also a good teacher. He was in his eighties then and had long since learned the value of time. I Don't think he wasted much of his time, based on what I learned during his visit.
     The first full day he was in our little town he told me, at breakfast, that he'd like to tour the Railroad's"facility"today and asked if Id like to come along. I couldn't imagine what facility he meant; hey, I'd been downtown, my dad had a couple of businesses on main street and from them (or any business on main st.) the railroad and it's workings were clearly visible.  If I had to guess I woulda said the tracks and all the engines and cars that are constantly moving both ways are the facility. OK, there is the depot if you want a ticket to ride or the freight office if you have shipping needs. At that time, my dad was still a regularly-appearing employee of the railroad,  as well as a businessman. He had begun working for them during the depression as a section hand; the guys that install tracks and the ties that they rest on. Just 13 years later he was a conductor of Southern Pacifific's crack streamliner, "The City of San Francisco/Los Angeles" (SF goes east/LA goes west.) And, by the time I was six, I had already been his guest aboard said train many times, over about three years, so I figured I knew the railroad pretty good.
     At least the parts I was familiar with. Even today, whenever I think of "The Cities" (As my mom called either or both of them) the images popping up are of dining car interiors, scenery seen from inside dome-topped observation cars and all the cooks, porters and trainmen aboard who always treated me like a prince. Actually to me, then, that streamliner was the railroad.
     There was a lot more to it from my grandad's point of view and he was about to broaden my knowledge and show me how curiosity and close observation can result in gaining knowledge. Walking to the railroad yards that morning he asked me some questions that I was unable to answer about specific facilities: How many engines can the roundhouse contain? How many switch engines work this yard at once? How many passenger trains stop here each day? Freights? What's the yardmaster's name? Well, that last one I knew, but only because  his dad was our school principal and probably everyone at our school knew it.
     Our first stop was the yard office, where we were directed to the yardmaster's  office. Really a large sort of cubicle which had direct access, thru glazed doors to the rail yard. I exchanged hellos with Mr. Notting  and told him I was with my grandad, who then properly introduced himself and pretty much asked permission to tour the facility. Mr Notting, knowing me, and my dad, mom and my other grandad (my dad's dad) and ,I think, having taken a quite favorable first impression of the grandad just met, granted his request and offered to walk us to what grandad told him would be our next stop; the roundhouse.
      The one word that comes to mind on seeing a roundhouse is HUGE. In the center of it is a turntable more than 100' in diameter that can fit most locomotives with tender inside that distance. Add another 200'+to the building's outside diameter for all the shop spaces that surround the turntable. Finally, add about 50' to the outside diameter for storage of tools, parts and materials. Locomotives are driven onto the turntable, which can be turned 180 degrees to provide a quick turnabout or lined up with tracks that go into the various shops. We went into the nearest shop as we approached and saw a crew removing the drive wheels from a giant 4-cylinder Malley locomotive which had had to be pushed into the shop by another locomotive since, with it's tender, it was too long to fit the turntable. Grandad talked to the crew as one who understood their task and knew exactly what was involved in completing it. I didn't know his history but it was becoming obvious that he had been around railroads before. I  thought then, that our "tour" might be his way to make sure I knew everything about railroad that I needed to. Like treaspassing on railroad property without putting yourself in harms way. Technically, it could be illegal to just be in the railroad's yard or on the right-of-way that the tracks are laid on. Posted signs in those areas warn that permission to pass over such properties is "revocable at any time"...etc. He pointed to a couple of them during our time there and explained that that meant we start with their permission to pass over or thru their property and by behaving ourselves while present, we retain their permission.
     Before leaving the roundhouse that day I  had learned the details of how the power of steam and the mechanism thru which it passes could pull long trains of cars carrying heavy loads; How the turntable, because of its good balance and the huge Timken tapered roller bearings, used for glide, needs only a 10HP electric motor to move it, even while fully-loaded. We must have spent a half-hour or more in the cab (the "office" of the engineer and fireman) of the Malley on our way out. Grandad knew what every one of the controls did and though I pretty much understood it all before we left that day,(he didn't just tell... he demonstrated) on my own today I doubt if I'd remember any of it. (I havn't visited the cab of a steam locomotive since)
     Two of the shops we passed on the way out were set up to re-paint rolling stock. In one of them two box cars were undergoing sand-blasting to remove old paint. In the other, a crew placed stencils on a tanker  already painted it's main color, now getting it's logos. I realized then, that there were actually, at least two  reasons for the railroad to store a lot of sand. I mentioned the sand house to grandad and told him my friends and I had gone there to play a few times. In winter, I said, it is heated and while that makes it an even nicer place to play, we've wondered why it would be heated. He said that was about keeping it dry (and fluid) so it's easy to move. We looked in on the sand house as we went by and, as expected on a day in the middle of summer, found no one playing there.
     The bottom of the water tower was 30' above the ground, the top was 125'  above. It was ,by far, the tallest building in our little town. A steel ladder was bolted to one of the tower's legs and continued up the side of the tank to the top. That ladder was most likely the first "rite of passage" for young boys in our town. I remember the first time I stood on the roof of that tower; it was a big deal. After a couple of failed attempts, I was advised by a somewhat older friend; "Don't look up, dont look down and once you've started climbing, don't stop 'til you're off the ladder and three steps onto the roof." It worked for me, the first time I tried it, but that was some weeks after grandad and I visited. On that occation we just stood at the bottom of the ladder for a few seconds before resuming our tour. I had heard other boys talk of the water tower but that was my first time to be right next to it and it seemed impossibly high to me, like Jack's Beanstalk. As we left it behind us that day I wasn't even sure I wanted to climb it.
     We sort of aimlessly wandered the yard for a while, stopping to see just how a manually-operated switch works, walking closely along-side a slowly-moving switch engine, to see the details of it's working,motive parts and watched while a large section of a future train was assembled by a few switchmen and a switch engine with it's crew. Those guys worked together like  the ballet. Ride the engine to the target siding, jump off, open switch, get back on engine, ride to target car, couple brake hoses, flag engineer to proceed, mount last car in line, ride to target siding....and on and on. (and that's just the switchman's part) At one point, we saw a switchman climb onto a flat car, run the length of it and climb to the top of the boxcar next ahead of it, then run along the top of about a half-dozen box cars before reaching the end of the last car and dis-mounting almost precisely as the line of cars came to a stop. Yard traffic never gets much above 20MPH, but even at that speed it looked like fun to me.
     Next, we had our lunch a little early 'cause grandad said we'd be a long time at our next couple of stops. "The Beanery"  was owned by the railroad and situated on the railroad's yard, but  on a yard boundary and facing away from the yard so that it opened onto a town street. It was just a hotel and restaurant. It was large, open 24/7 and had no bar or casino. This was a railroad facility, open to the public, though most of their customers were railroad employees. For that matter, so were most of the townspeople.
     With my parents, I had eaten at the beanery many times over my few years and even had a story about the place to tell grandad: About a year and a half before, during the Christmas break, one of my fellow first-graders invited me to go with her to a holiday service at her church. Afterward, we went to the beanery(which was right next door) for a snack. We ordered something like cake or perhaps pie with milk. We visited over our snack and when we had finished, I helped her on with her coat, put on my own and we left. I walked her to her house and went straight home. My mom was waiting for me; someone from the beanery had already called to say that I had left without paying my bill. I knew how to behave in the place, how to use the menu, where the restrooms were, everything but paying the check. I had never noticed that part of going out to dinner before. Everybody involved (except me) thought it was funny, but I was troubled to think I could be so stupid. I did know things cost money.  (It was probably just that it was my first time out  to eat that I was the one supposed to pay. 
     Grandad thought it was funny, too. When we finished lunch, he said it might be a good idea for me to pay our tab just to give me practice. Noticing, as we left, that he had forgotten the tip (of which, by then, I was well-aware) I said "I'll get the tip" and did.   He laughed but he was pleased.                
     It was about a quarter-mile hike from the beanery to our next stop; the Shell Oil Company bulk plant. This was a facility of one of my dad's businesses. A siding connected the yard to the bulk plant. As we approached, we saw two tankers parked at the receiver station, one of them attached to the station and in the process of being emptied. A cousin of my dad's operated the plant. He welcomed grandad and me and the two of them toured the plant while I climbed the tall storage tanks,all accessable by one ladder; two 50' high and one 75'high, for a little exercise, a great view of the countryside and maybe to prepare for taller tanks? Whatever the reason, I rarely went to the bulk plant without going to the top of the tanks. Calling down to grandad I invited him to join me. He declined, citing his need to conserve strength for later in our day. In truth, I really expected him to join me;he seemed to get around like a man much younger. That, his healthy curiosity and a little dash of the showman that I'd seen in him that day, had me convinced before I asked him. It turned out that I just didn't know what was still ahead of us that day...And he did.
     My dad took me to work with him often, even regularly and I loved it. My favorite was, of course,riding the"cities"with him but a close second was when he was delivering fuel and oil to commercial customers like ranches, highway construction firms, aircraft warning beacons, schools and businesses. I was little more than a toddler when my dad taught me to steer the delivery truck while sitting in his lap. Until I started school, riding (and steering) was almost a daily thing and every time that truck was used it always began at the bulk plant. So, on the day Grandad and I visited it, I'd already been there a hundred times before. Or more. Yet I did not know that our next stop, just five or six hundred feet from the bulkplant and certainly the busiest and most interesting facility of our tour, even existed. Even though I had skated on the giant ice ponds during the three previous winters at that point and on several occations had watched ice being harvested while skating but never before had ventured the 500' to the east of the bulk plant to the PFE Ice Plant.
     As we got near the plant grandad picked up the pace. We almost ran up the last flight of stairs to the loading deck. A  general discription of activities on the loading deck  appears near the beginning of this piece and is much the way grandad and I experienced  it. What impressed me was how quickly one train was filled, removed and replaced by another train, over and over again. As we made our way down the long deck, Grandad spoke with many of the "ice jockeys" at breaks or momentary pauses of the work. Everybody said that the design of the plant, coupled with the processes developed over the years to run the plant, accounted for the fact that they load maximum ice in minimum time while maintaining an enviable safety record. We spent a couple or more hours walking back and forth on the deck, talking to those who were idle for a moment, passing those in the midst of moving ice, to perhaps find them idle the next time around. It struck me that grandad seemed like someone running for office; he's smiling, shaking hands, talking fast and wearing a black suit with starched shirt and tie. But he was just learning stuff and feeling good about it. (For weeks after our visit I'd be walking down the street and some stranger with a big smile would greet me and ask how my grandad was doing.) Leaving the ice plant, we decided to make one more stop before calling it a day. Even though it was summer and not so much as a drop of water was to be found there, I thought grandad should see the place where all that ice we had seen that day was made. He was quite impressed with the size of the place and some moved by my description of some of the skating parties I'd seen on the vast reaches of clean, smooth, super-flat ice. It was such a fine surface because fallen snow was not allowed to stay. It was scraped up and hauled away as soon as the storm that brought it passed on. Of course, it was not done with the intent to make such a perfect surface for skating; removing the snow produced ice blocks with much less embedded air (and other contaminants) that could reduce cooling efficiency.
     So, content that we had seen pretty much the whole facility, we headed home. On the way, we talked about our day at the railroad. The switchman we had seen running atop the boxcars was on my mind and I told grandad that I thought that would be a lot of fun.
     "Maybe you'll grow up to be a switchman" he said.
     "I don't think I'd like that for my job but I would like to walk on top of a train, while it's still fun".
    "Well, you need to know that it's not as easy to dance onto, across and over those cars as it was made to appear by the switchmen we saw today".
    "Oh, I know I'm not ready for it now, I get pins and needles in my butt, just thinking about it now and I'm not big enough, but before long..."
     "Pretty determined aren't you?, but promise me you won't get yourself run over for lack of taking extreme caution when you are anywhere near railroad yards and rights of way. To learn the specifics of what "taking extreme caution" means, observe the yard and all that's happening there from across the street at first (maybe from the display window of your dad's hardware store) and later from the yard boundary across main street. When you feel familiar with all the things you need to keep track of at once, (anything or anyone that can move) you're ready to take your school onto the yard. if you feel confident you can stay out-from-under the rolling stock and spot the railroad bull before he spots "
     "What's a "railroad bull"?
     "And I was told you knew a lot about railroad. It's a cop, but only when on railroad property or when working on a railroad case with local police help. Altogether the railroads hire thousands of them across the country and they can turn up on any railroad property at any time."
     "Dad calls 'em "railroad Dick", like Dick Tracy, I guess. Now that I think about it, I do remember hearing him refer to "the bull" or "a bull" and wondering what he was talking about; he always referres to his prize Herford bull by name".
      "Which is?"
     "King Tut. Or was. Few weeks ago, someone left the bull pen unlatched, Tut wandered out and after dark, knocked down the fence at a spot along U.S. 40 and put himself in the path of a west-bound tractor-trailer rig moving at about 80MPH."
        "Did the driver survive that?"
     "Yeah, but he was in the hospital 'til just a few days ago; both legs broken, a bunch of ribs, head and neck injuries. Mom said he's expected to  fully recover but it'll take some time."
     "Wow, that's somethin'! What are you guys going to do for calf production, now that Tut's gone?"
     "Last year one of Tut's male calves looked very good to Luigi (Dad's partner in the ranch) so he was spared from a short life as a steer because they thought  he might become a great bull that could take over for Tut someday. I think he's probably still too young, but people like him, and now, he's really needed, so it might happen."
       We had nearly reached home  at this point and grandad hastened to complete the day's lesson. He said he didn't want to scare me but wanted me to realize how badly I could be hurt falling from the top of a boxcar even if it were not moving. Probably as bad as the guy that hit Tut; maybe worse. I told him I was always very careful, especially when doing something dangerous.He wanted to know what I do that's dangerous and I told him one was regularly crossing hiway 40. He cracked up, said I was at least more careful than Tut had been. We both had a good laugh and then he said he needed to get back to the subject of railroad bulls. First don't expect them to be as welcoming and hospitable as Mr.Notting or the porter on the streamliner; their job is to run folks off the property who have no business being there. If you are just passing thru the yard on your way to the movie or whatever, you'll never get any static from a bull, but if you're just wandering around the yard or (heaven forbid)playing in some building or (even worse) riding a passenger train without a ticket or riding a freight train while not a member of it's crew. Bad things happen to people caught at such. So if you don't stay on the straight and narrow, learn who the local bulls are and watch out for them. Out of town and in other towns' yards and the rights-of-way between, pay attention to what you're doing, for sure but,at the same time consider any stranger a bull and try to avoid being seen by them until you're sure they're not. If you are seen riding on a freight by a bull, get off the train as soon as it's safe and then get off railroad property. Unless they think you have stolen something they won't follow you off the place. But if they get a good look at you, even one time, your best bet would be to give it up, stay off rolling stock altogether (except as your dad's guest) and while crossing the yard to get downtown and back home is going to be alright, loitering or more would not. We'll talk again before I leave, he said as we reached home, but except to say goodbye, we never did. At least, not about the railroad.
     Dinner was still more than an hour an a half away when we arrived home. Grandad said that would give him a little time to practice his part in the performance by string quartette which was to  take place in our house that very evening. Minutes before, I had no idea he had any musical talent nor had I heard anything about the night's entertainment. I was right there at his side when he began his warm-up. It was obvious that violin was something else he  knew a lot about. After playing some scales and a few short pieces that were familiar to me, he stopped and asked me if I'd like to try it. I wasn't surprised that he had me playing a squaking, squeeling scale (a "c" scale I think he said it was) within a few minutes, and though I don't remember it as being fun I was once again impressed with my grandad and looked forward to the evening's performance.
     Soon after dinner, three other old guys appeared at our door, each carrying a stringed instrument. I wasn't familiar with them but when grandad introduced them , I recognized their names as those of some of our town's leading families. Their instruments looked like grandad's violin, only larger. We learned that these were a viola, a cello and a base violin (aka a base). Our house was comfortable, but not large. The quartet along with an audience of seven just about maxed our living room out and by the time we were all seated it felt very close in there. I was expecting the worst; what I had heard  from grandad, earlier, I thought was marvlous. But he was one who had many varied interests and developed skills. He had been a horse doctor who occationally treated humans, he did the mechanical work on his own cars and farm machinery, was elected to  a term as Sheriff of Deadwood,SD (but didn't seek re-election) and meanwhile, raised two boys and ten girls. He was the kind that could do anything that interested him, and do it well. But his buddies? One of them was head of the family that owned the clothing store on main st. The other two are from ranching families that had been in the area since before our little town was built. I was expecting something like a fiddling hoe-down; four violins, high tempo, high volume, low quality. It turned out that all members of that quartet were primarily violin players. they each owned only one violin (the other instruments had been borrowed from the high-school music dept.) but they were all proficient on all the instruments as was demonstrated that evening. Those four instruments in the hands of those old gentlemen seemed like a whole orchestra. They filled that room with  sounds of popular, jazz, light-classical,  and classical pieces, known to most of the audience, loved by us all. (The musicians did have a few breaks during the evening at which time audience members expressed their thanks and delight for the musicians' performances.) Thinking about it all these years later, I still come nearly to tears with the joy re-experienced.
     The next few days my little brother and I went with mom and grandad to favorite spots in the area around our town; a picnic ground in a canyon along the river, some mining claims recently staked by my dad, a not-quite-dead "ghost" town that was on grandad's "to-see" list. An area especially rich with sealife fossils, (lotsa  these on the great basin's floor.)
     There was a larger town just twenty-five miles away from our little town. We had plenty of bars and churches but only one movie theatre, one hardware store, one clothing store (which included the only place in town to buy shoes) and one lumber yard. It, the other town, had two or three each of many businesses and a population twice that of our town. We made two trips there during grandad's visit; the first to explore the place and the second so he could say goodbye to folks he met while exploring.
     That night we took grandad to the train. Dad had arranged with the conductor of that day's "Overland Express" ( an SP streamliner with about the same comparitive relationship to The City of SF/LA as a Bently automobile has to a Rolls Royce) to carry grandad to Ogden, UT (the next passenger T-town) free of charge. This was common practice, since railroad employees and their families rode free.
     Grandad left me with plenty to think about. I half-expected that he might mention my interest in playing on the moving railroad to my mom, but she never said anything to me about it and if he had, she certainly would have forbade such activity from the git. I was already forbidden to even cross the highway, then a sliver of two lane blacktop which,even then I found easy to safely traverse. When I mentioned my desire to grandad,  I figured that ,if he did mention it to her, I would say that I was only pulling grandad's leg and really would never even consider doing something so foolhardy, etc. etc. It probably would have worked, too. She liked that "jumping instantly to her side and her point-of-view"  kind of response.
     I started spending so much time at my dad's hardway store that Louisa (the sweetheart-mgr. of the store in dad's absense) asked me if everything was alright at home, probably thinking I was hanging out there to avoid my mom, but that was never clear. I told her I was trying to learn more about how the railroad works. Considering that my attention was almost always pointed in the direction of the yard when I was at the hardware store, (at least since grandad's visit) my answer didn't prompt more questions. I observed the action in the yard for the next many months; at first not able to  see much of anything that I thought required "extreme caution" but after a time I came to understand that with all that was happening at once in that yard, certain survival would require a kind of perpetual "red alert" consciousness whenever on railroad properties, whether yard or right-of-way. Grandad had pretty much said as much if not quite so specifically. Just after my eighth birthday I moved the base of my observations from dad's store onto the railroad yard and right-of-way. Not loitering, but passing over or thru the yard and it's facilities ,I was keeping track of rolling stock  and people while practicing extreme consciousness until it was second nature. That accomplished, I was able to comfortably move about the yard and  I began to focus mostly on the methods used to mount and dismount rolling stock (when it's rolling).
     I said before that I don't recommend giant stepping so I'm certainly not going to provide you with instructions. If you are determined to try it, I suggest you learn how to do it survivably on your own. Just follow what my  grandad told me to do and with a little luck you might well do it and survive it.
     I well understood how to mount and dismount rolling stock before I thought I was big enough to try it. I had seen it up close and from afar, rolling and stopped. Every engine,tender,boxcar, gondola,tanker,flatcar and caboose was fitted with at least one ladder on each corner providing easy access to all areas of each unit. Most all of the trainmen and switchmen I studied mounted and dis-mounted the ladders as though they'd all been taught by the same safety manager.
     I was getting a little antsy. On my 9th birthday, my candle blowing wish was that I could walk atop boxcars before turning ten. Two or three months later, riding to the next town with my mom, we came to, a place where the highway and railroad parellel each other with only about 200 feet between. Otherwise involved, I was unaware of the train's near presence unil it's whistle was sounded. Looking out, the first thing I noticed was FIVE KIDS WALKING ALONG THE TOP OF A BOXCAR!!! The next day I went onto the right-of-way west bound, walked well beyond the town limit and waited for a train. Soon the leading end of one approached, passed me and stopped about 500' beyond me. No bulls in sight, I clambered up the short ladder of a flat car loaded with some kind of farm machinery and took a seat in a spot that was both comfortable and suitable for hiding. When the train started moving, I got up and started, slowly and very carefully to walk toward the engine over a dozen or more flatcars loaded like the first one. I had no reason to expect that the kids I'd seen the day before would be on this train but I was definitely on the lookout for them. They could very well have been on that train and I missed them for being too chicken to actually get on top of a boxcar. My plan had long been to ride the train back and forth a few times in safer, sheltered lower places (like the one I found on the first flatcar) and work up to running atop boxcars. Having come thru the series of flatcars, I climbed a ladder on the first of a string of boxcars. From near the top of that ladder, I could see that no one was on top of any of that train's boxcars, ahead or behind.
     I wanted to ride the train the next day, but a friend who was one of my former baby-sitters told me that Mercury was retrograde and would be for a few more days so she was postponing some event that she had mistakenly scheduled in that aspect. I hadn't mentioned my plan (she probably would have told my mom) but I thought it best not to tempt fate and decided to wait the few days before getting back on the trains.I wonder if she's still into Astrology.
     The next time on the train I was not interested in finding the kids I had seen on top of boxcars some days before. AS soon as the train stopped, I jumped on the nearest flatcar, walked to the first boxcar and went immediately to the top and, before the train started moving, I started walking toward the engine which was about 20 boxcars  ahead. Reaching  that point, I sat on the end of the catwalk overlooking the back of the engine and tender. A great spot for view, but when the train moves the engine releases a huge amount of thick, black smoke and water vapor. It's best to have a few dozen cars between you and the engine, especially if you're on top of the train. Even the slightest cross-wind can turn the smoke completely away from the train but watch out when it's still.
     Well, I had a heck of a day that day and many more of the same sort followed over the next couple of years. At one point, during one summer(never in winter) I'd go stepping ON TOP OF BOXCARS four or five days a week, sometimes twice in a day. I couldn't get enough of it. And it was so good to me. It was great exercise,physically and helped develop coordination and timing. Up to the last day I did it, I hadn't had one mishap getting on or off the train, was never(so far as I know) seen by a bull or any member of any crew, never came to the attention of any authority, including my parents and never, ever told anyone else about that part of my life. Immensly entertaining to me , I felt most people would think it hair-brained stoopud itty. Though he didn't say so, I think grandad agreed.
     That last day was kinda sour from the start. I woke from a dream in which I had been flyjng along a few yards above a freight train, gazing down at the cargo being whisked along below. Glancing up, I see that I'm only about 100' from impacting the mountainside a few feet above the tunnel opening. I thought to fly up but woke up instead.
     Walking to my mounting spot, I encountered a rattlesnake and in my panicky reaction I fell on a track and sprained a hand breaking the fall. That was the first rattlesnake I'd ever seen outside captivity and the only other one I've seen since was maybe fifty feet off the trail and not interested.
     Getting on the train my foot slipped off the ladder and a rung badly scraped my shin, so that I needed to make a bandage of my t-shirt and prop my leg up to stop the bleeding. I realized then that there'd be no stepping that day. It would be hard enough to get off the train and get home without re-starting the bleeding. This train was not scheduled to stop in the next town so began accelerating before I dismounted. When I did we were moving, I thought too fast, and the landing surface was pavement, but I jumped and  somehow managed to come to a stop vertically aligned. Even at some speed, it's easier to get on the moving train, than to get off. And getting on the moving train to take me back to our little town was effortless.
     I was still thinking about how many days might pass before I'd be healed enough to go stepping again when my usual jumping-off point was reached. We are way too fast. By then,I probably had successfully dismounted a hundred moving trains, not scheduled to stop but expected to slow considerably on their way thru our town. But this seemed faster than any of them. I was telling myself that I had to get off this train and I was right; no telling where you'd wind up the next time it stopped. I took the ladder to the bottom rung, turned to face the direction of travel squarely, pushed away from the car and jumped forward. Almost instantly I was on my front-side, sliding at a good clip on top of the crushed rock that swaddles the track ties. There were no broken bones but, only my face and about four square inches of the balance of my front were left unabraded. When stopped, I laid there a while, rolled onto my back and eventually, sat up, stood up and walked home. On the way I wondered how I'd explain my condition. Really I was in the deepest doo and had no idea how to deal with it. But, as I turned the corner onto our street I saw no car in our driveway! Lucky  devil! A note on the message board says: "Gone shopping. Should return about five. Love Mama."
     That gave me enough time to shower, bandage my wounds, dump my torn and bloodied clothes and put on fresh clothes before she returned. Checking myself in the mirror, I noticed a cut on the bridge of my nose and figured she wouldn't. But I was wrong; when we had finished putting away the the shopped articles, she asked "What happened to your nose, honey?"
     "I don't know, mom. Too close to the Grindstone, maybe?"

                          End of  GIANT STEPPING




    
    
      

Visit with the Rastas at Blue Mountain part one

     Sometime in Mid-November of 1970. Bob Brower and I departed SFO for Miami, changed planes there, then flew right across the middle of Cuba and landed at Montego Bay. There, the plane was emptied of it's passengers and those continuing to Kingston (as were Bob and I) were seated in a boarding lounge and some of us were interviewed regarding the reason(s) for our visit to Jamaica as we waited for the final leg of our flight to depart. This last group consisted of Bob and I and one or two others. Our interviewers were two airport police officers who seemed bemused by our appearance, smiled all the while, asked harmless questions and were very pleased to learn that we had come to Jamaica primarily to visit the Rasta compound on Blue Mountain at the invitation of Brother Ivy. One of the officers really took to us; we were in deep conversation when we were called to our departing flight and he left the boarding lounge with us, crossing the tarmack to the  plane's  waiting staircase before he bid us goodbye. This was just the first of many instances,witnessed on this trip, that demonstrated the high regard in which the Rastas are held by the Jamaican community-at-large.

     My experience in Jamaica was limited to Kingston and areas near to it. As I recollect, the Rasta compound is only a few miles from central Kingston and that's about as far as I got from it. But everywhere I went with the Rastas they were greeted by the citizenry with the phrase "Love,Godman", to which they replied "Love". (The Os are pronounced as though a horizontal bar is above them.) I don't know for sure if this greeting is standard through out the whole country but I'd guess it is.

     At the Kingston airport our ride failed to appear. After about an hour we decided to get a cab and go to the address of our host in Kingston. Arriving there, we are told by a lady at the house that the person sent to pick us up also had some other errands and might not return for another hour or so. We opted to explore the neighborhood while waiting and told the lady we'd check back later. Walking in the area I was first struck by the volume of foot-traffic and the amount of trash everywhere. Sidewalks bulging with fast-moving, payload-carrying (on top their heads) pedestrians, occationally disgorge one or a few who have found their way impeded by the slower or the oppositely moving. Trash blanketing nearly everything beginning about two feet from the street's centerline and extending to the curb and finally across the sidewalk and up against the outer walls of buildings was just a fact of life. Short of an all-out effort led by the powers that be,nothing can be done about it. So, no worries. Bob said that given the small island, the large population, the blistering temps and the knee-deep trash, he wasn't sure he could handle being there for fourteen days.  I reminded him that we would probably spend most of our time at the compound and it is located in the mountains, high above Kingston. The setting is like a mountain park and a river actually runs thru it. I'd think it would be much cooler and I don't think you will see any trash there. He had known all of it, but the reminder seemed to help.

     We wandered around the neighborhood for a while and came upon a place where the sidewalk was unusually wide and much of the area was shaded by  awnings attached to the face of a building housing a cafe. A wall about two feet tall and mostly in the awning's shade, running paralell to the front of the building on either side of the entry made a great place to sit down and rest for a bit. Before that though we just stopped walking and stood in the shade and took it all in: Hundreds of  people within a block of sidewalk, all moving fast, most carrying a burden, on the head. Before we have been stopped a minute, I spot an anomaly. Our observation point is located at an intersection of two streets so we're seeing people moving in all directions. But near none of them changes their direction of travel. But I notice one guy passing the spot where Bob and I are standing, walking forty or fifty feet away from us, making a U, coming past us again, walking  a distance from us, making another U. All the time shouting stuff I didn't understand (Though I think I did hear "Ugly American" once or twice.) Bob and I had a good laugh and sat down. The "anomaly" and we were facing each other as we sat down and though he was a good distance away I could see he was suddenly very angry. This time he did not pass us. He walked right up to us, stopped and began a class A Harangue that we came to understand was a reaction to our flaunting our freedom from need  ( in the face of hard-working people on the street who need to move fast and carry heavy burdens to survive).A little effort was required to understand him when he was excited but when he realized that we were listening to him and trying to understand he lost his anger and then seemed easily understandable. He suggested that we might be more comfortable in the cafe and out of the sight of the less fortunate. We agreed and invited him to join us. He accepted and introduced himself. His name was Martel Philips. We drank a couple of beers together and got somewhat acquainted. We told him of our coming meeting with the rastas and that a couple of the people we would soon see at the compound had visited us in San Francisco about six months ago. Apparantly, people whom Rastas befriend are held in high esteem by the Jamaican populace, even if they're ignorant of some pretty basic social etiquette, cause when this man heard that the rastas were the reason we were in his part of the world, he truly warmed to us. He said he was really among the more fortunate of his peers. His work was not physically taxing and he made a better than average income. He told me what his job involved and though I'm not sure, I think he was talking about being a numbers runner. A not difficult job that can pay pretty well...especially where there is a lot of poverty.

     Winston Warren, the man who would drive us to the compound, came into the cafe before we could start on our third beer. He was known by many, especially in this neighborhood since he had an office here. Martel (call me Marty, he said) knew Winston (and his black "S" class) by sight but had never met him. "Martel Philips, Meet Winston Warren" I said as I did the honors.

     Winston wanted to get on the road to the compound without further loss of time and Bob and I hoped to see the place in daylight  the first time.Winston, upon learning that Marty had never been to the compound, invited him to come along. Marty first declined but changed his mind when  he learned that Winston planned to return to kingston before dark.

     It was 3:18 PM when the four of us pulled away from the cafe in Kingston on our way to the Rasta compound on Blue Mountain.

It's Amazing:time flies,cars drive themselves

I was ready to write that I hadn't been to this blog for almost a month but, looking it up just now I see that it's been four days more than two months. A very busy couple of months, I'll tell you. And some day, I hope to share my experiences during those months with the reader. Something else that I hope to do sooner, rather than later, is to finish the series I had been working on in late August, titled Me and Religion. All that really remains to finish that piece are a few examples of specific praying, examined in order to learn what might go into prayers that bring positive results. Or seem to. Right now though, I am much more interested in another subject. One which was in the news a week-or-so ago. Google revealed that in recent months they have been testing, on bay area highways and byways, autonomous automobiles partly directed by their google earth program. So far, they've racked up more than a hundred thousand miles without negative incident.

I've been a fan of the idea of cars that drive themselves since my daughter (then about 8 years old) read to me about them from one of her Oz Books forty-some years ago. I have to admit that before then, I had never imagined such a possibility. But since, I've kept my eyes open for techno developments that seemed to contribute some of the parts(systems,really)needed to develope and produce such vehicles, like cruise control, global positioning satellite systems and automatic paralell parking programs. That last one really got my attention! Considering what must be involved for a car to parellel park itself, I figured we were maybe only a decade away from the availability of  totally autonomous automobiles. And, as this is written, the annual 1000-mile, cross-country, autonomous automobiles race has been run three times. I think this year's winner was a car built by the Stanford university team.

Me and Religion IV: More about prayers

     This young man had very recently been awarded a Bachelor of Divinity degree and in just a few days, was to enter the ministry at a branch of the same protestant church he had grown up with. He had always been comfortable with his faith and now felt competent to minister to the congregation before which he would soon appear. 

     There was one little problem, though. Since childhood he'd been kind of a "Freedom Nut".  He felt that just as our muscles need exercise to thrive, so do our freedoms. One freedom which he thought was sorely lacking in exercise at that time (early 70s) was the right to be naked in public. Yes, even then "clothing optional" swimming venues as well as a wide variety of private gatherings of the nude were quite common and, to my knowledge, never "raided". But the kind of public nudity he had in mind involved people going about their daily routines, sometimes clothed, sometimes not, but never prompting a laugh or a pointed finger,(though perhaps an admiring smile might occasionally be seen.)

     Our society was far from such a place, then as now.  He had come to the conclusion that we'd not be truly free until we could be naked anywhere. Anytime. He was seriously considering becoming a naked activist. He'd been praying for guidance for some weeks without anything that he might have considered an answer being received. Time was growing short: In a few days he would be ordained and once he had committed himself to that extent, he would have to stick to it and being a naked activist part-time was not likely to be ok with the church hierarchy. So his prayer simply asked which calling he should follow. "And if you really want me to be a minister, give me some kind of sign", he prayed the night before his scheduled ordination. "Your silence will be my sign to abandon the ministry in favor of naked activism".

     In the state of Hawai'i, on the island of O'ahu in a big house in the town of Kane'ohe, resided two or three dozen middle-twenties-to-middle-thirties missionaries of The Lord's Children (TLC) (not their real name) Their organization is on the Capitol Island of the state because more ethnicities are present in Hawai'i than anywhere else in the world and all of those ethnicities are represented on O'ahu. Making it possible to practice the missionary pitch in many languages to real people, nearly all of it taking place in a single city; Honolulu. Once trained, they'll go do missionary work in a country where the language they've been practicing is spoken. While in training they stay at an assigned TLC house and spend most days at one or another of the most popular tourist destinations on O'ahu, offering TLC literature to visitors in their home language, along with a few small-talk phrases and plenty of smiles.

     None of those in training were actually taught the language(s) they spoke. Only phrases needed to interrupt, greet, offer the pamphlet, wish them well and bid them goodbye were taught. The encounter with the "target", properly conducted, will include all  five steps and consume less than ten seconds, and most of the thousands of contacts accomplished are done so quite quickly and correctly. Rarely, but it seems inevitably, a trainee will mistakenly use the wrong phrase in the wrong place or a target will try to start a conversation, not realizing that the trainee doesn't know enough of the language to order soup. Very rarely a simple misunderstanding has lead to an "incident" that gets the attention of police.

     Such an incident was underway the first time I visited TLC's Kane'ohe house. The house manager was on the phone with the attorney who was retained by TLC. According to him,a trainee had offended a retired Samurai warrior and his 70-year-old wife by mangling a phrase meant to wish them "top of the morning", but sounded to them like "I'd like to be on top of you in the morning". He'd been in jail all day, charged with lude conduct and the bail was too much to consider. so far, the plaintiffs were insisting on prosecuting to the fullest extent of the law. There were about a dozen of us in a round-robin discussion, when the house chairman came in and immediately asked us to give him our attention. Those in the further reaches of the house moved into the big room. "Our efforts to secure the release of trainee Will Harvey have proceeded since before nine this morning and are still underway. But we are no closer to our goal than we were at the start. We need an unfair advantage! We need a prayer with "Multiplied Effect!". At his direction we formed a circle, joined hands and counted ourselves. There were 54 of us. "Let us pray" he said.

                            end of Me and Religion IV

Me and Religion III

     Prayer. A kind of one-way wireless which, supposedly allows members of a congregation (or individuals on their own) to send personal messages to their choice of Godhead(s). Often, the message may simply extol the wonderous perfection of god, but probably most often it's a plea for sorely-needed help with a problem. So far as I know, no one has ever received any spoken  or written message in return but many, including myself, can claim that a timely change in circumstances,(post-prayer) which brought and end to the problem, amounted to a silent answer to prayers. And hey, if God did choose to give a spoken answer to our prayer, it could just be to tell us that He  would not grant our request.
     My fascination with the religious has allowed me to experience a wide variety of congregants and individuals in prayer. Some of the things I witnessed were, I think, remarkable: A minister, in church, leads the 800 of us present, in a prayer to spare the life of a highly-regarded parishioner who'd been mowed down in a cross-walk by a hit-and-run driver. I'm sure that many among us listened and followed the prayer, fervently if quietly, adding their  personal affirmation. He was loved. He was always there for the church and for any who might need his help. One might have thought that God, hearing that man's name in a prayer, would instantly order the Grim Reaper off the case.
     A foolish young man who thought he could escape with  his children, from  a boring suburb in western America to a new life in some rain-forest on some secluded pacific isle. (He said,"It seemed like a pretty good idea at the time")
Island one: Weather; hot and humid. Reception; xenophobic. Income oppertunities; open to locals only. Rain-forest prospects; dismal. And that was just the first ten days. A couple of nights later, they sat beside a road that led to a place where they'd been told they could camp for more than a few days. They were dog-tired.  For most of the last two days they had walked, carrying everything they owned. (many drivers responded to their thumbs-up entreaties with their horns, but no one stopped) They were hungry. Between them, in the past two days they had eaten only six prickley pear leaves and some  unidentified fruit that was unripe and unappetizing. It wouldn't be going too far to say that they were demoralised, since they had almost completely lost hope. Someone
said, "What if we said a prayer?" The four of them joined hands in a circle and asked for help.

                                     end of Me and Religion III

Wonder's star and Krishna IV

     Im not sure how or where I learned about scent glands in goats but I realized from the outset that we'd have to have a remote facility for the bucks

which would be born at PL. I had grown up drinking goat's milk which came from the herd kept on our family's ranch. The person responsible for the herd had no knowledge of scent glands and the bucks and does were kept together all the time. The milk was drinkable, but not pleasant enough to be called palatable and while I did occationally drink it,  I much preferred the milk of our cows. But when our first buck was born at PL, I had yet to make arrangement for his remote home. For a few months we tried to keep him down-wind of the does' quarters and as far away as would still allow him to see the does. Judging by the taste of our does' milk during those months, our plan worked. 

   But keeping him on our place and having to limit him to a smaller area than he was happy with, couldn't be done indefinitely. I shared my problem with Malou. After a couple of days, she called with the name of a man she knew who kept goats on a large place, also in Puna District about four miles from us. Later that same day, Jose and I got together. His does were two LaManchas, two Nubians  and one Toggenburg. His bucks were four of varying mixes of Toggenburg and Nubian and one LaMancha. From then, our bucks, from the time they were weaned, stayed at Jose's and his does stayed with us. Each of us fed the goats that were with us and the milk was shared. Actually, since Jose didn't care for any kind of milk (except cocanut and soy)most of it was used by us. Infrequently, he would take some milk, which he gave to friends. Jose and I are about the same age and we had entered different branches of the U.S. Military at about the same time. I stayed in the Army for one three-year enlistment, he stayed in the Navy for twenty years and retired less than a year before our meeting in Hawaii. He was then a Chief Bosun's Mate. His job involved a difficult and exacting procedure called something like "re-supply en route". As the name implies it's about a ship, "on mission" with  new orders, to be half-way around the world in a few days. There is no time to return to shore for supplies so the re-supply ship is loaded and dispatched from a port along the route of the "on mission" ship. When they meet at sea, an intricate arrangement of cables and hoses is constructed to facilitate the passage of the supplies, whether solid, liquid, or gaseous from ship-to-ship. And, it's all accomplished while both ships continue en route. He was thoroughly enjoying his "retirement". It was nothing like his life in the Navy yet very busy; most of his time he operates his florist supply business, gathering wild orchids, a number of ferns, a great number of varied ornamental greens and other plants,from private properties by agreements with owners, which he ships to florists in mainland America as well as in Japan and a few other countries.  His products appear in the priciest of floral arrangements. At his home, Jose not only keeps goats but also a bunch of fighting cocks. So he totally has his hands full, but is so well organized that he never arrives late for an appointment or is ever in a hurry. His  presence had a calming influence on most folks, including myself. Over the few years that we were in each-other's daily lives, not one cross word passed between us. 'Course, we had some common goals that by themselves helped us to define each other as friends. The day that I took the buck which was the first born at PL, to his new home at Jose's place, (and then returned home with four mature does and one near-mature doe...with three of the four mature does lactating) I'm wondering; could it be that "somebody upstairs" is beginning to warm to this heathen minister?

     That first buck, along with his  doe womb-mate were the first of Sheba's kids and the first to be born at PL. They were named Bill and Meg  after our lessor/benefactors. Their sire was a Toggenburg of unknown ancestry, whose services  had been arranged for by our neighbor  Bob, who lived about a mile away. A friend of his, who kept goats in Mountain View, supplied the buck. Since that guy's name was also Bob, it's probably no surprise that we often called our buck Bill  "Billy Buck Bob".

     Only a few weeks after Bill was moved to Jose's, Wonder came into her first heat and we began the search for a buck worthy to sire wonder's kids. We

remembered meeting some members of the Krishna Fellowship Farm at a beach park, within the first few weeks of our arrival to the Big I. We were able to contact them and we learned that they had several pedigreed bucks of different breeds and said they'd be happy to donate the services of the buck we choose. While we figured that Sheba could be bread to even a mediocre buck, given the fact of her own mediocrity, we thought Wonder (a mostly Nubian and partly Toggenburg doe of very high quality) warrented a buck of even higher quality. The advent of Wonder's second coming into heat found us with everything arranged;We would deliver her to the Krishna Farm the following day. She would be put in the pen of their most highly-regarded Nubian buck, an actual champion. We could expect conception in as little as a  minute or as much as five or ten minutes. I audibly thought it might be more likely to succeed if they were left together for several hours. "No", I was told "her heat makes her cooperative and him agressive. It really only takes a few seconds, though there can sometimes be unavoidable and unexplainable delay.Once there is penetration though,it's all over".

     Arriving at Krishna Farm we were greeted by a lady named Amber. She took Wonder's leash, bent down and gave her a hug and then led her (and us) to the Nubian buck's pen. He was probably the handsomest buck I'd ever seen. A , little small ( probably because of his young age) but otherwise he appeared to be  everything we'd hoped for. Amber opened the pen's gate, released Wonder from her leash and closed the gate behind her. "Bentley" she said "Meet Wonder". For her part, Wonder was up for it. She crossed the thirty feet to Bentley in a few seconds and immediately put her south end in his face. Bentley  put his butt  in her face and walked away. For the next ten  minutes, both of them ignored each other while they seemed to graze half-heartedly.

     When they had avoided each other for about twenty minutes, Amber told us that this was to be Bentleys first mating and it might be that his problem was that he simply didn't know what to do. After some discussion we decided to go with "Grandin", a 4-year-old champion Alpine buck, tall, handsome and

very well proportioned. We took Wonder from Bentley's pen and waited with her while Amber fetched Grandin. I had told Amber that we were particularly fond of Nubian milk since tasting Sheba's. (the first un-tainted goat's milk that I had ever tasted) and we wanted our herd to be mostly Nubian. She assured me that a doe of Nubian/Alpine heritage would give milk imperceptable from the milk of a purebred Nubian, and it will produce up to half-again as much milk. I certainly liked the sound of that and a few minutes later I very much liked the look of Grandin as he approached our little gathering. He not only looked like a champion; he acted like he knew he was one. He didn't hurry. His approach was deliberate and direct. He had no doubt about what was expected of him and he didn't hesitate in the least. The moment he was within reach he mounted Wonder and performed the requisite service. From mount to dismount, elapsed time totalled about four seconds. In

that short time,he accomplished more than the impregnation of our doe. His good work took place on the pathway right in front ot Bently's pen. When Amber led Grandin back to the common pen, Bently, finding the gate to his pen un-latched, pushed it open and proceeded directly to Wonder and did a perfect imitation of Grandin's performance of moments before.

     Most of us figured that, of the two, Grandin would prevail. He was first. And he is considerably bigger and stronger. Goats do normally have twins and

can be one of each gender or both of the same gender. For the months of their gestation we wondered which buck would be the sire. I knew it was possible for each buck to achieve conception, but it seemed to me very unlikely if also

very desirable. But on Wonder's delivery day, there they were; two does, one obviously Grandin's and the other just as obviously Bentley's. We named the Alpine/Nubian "Star" because of a white star on her otherwise black belly. The rest of her coat was white except for some black marks on her forehead  and back legs. The Nubian/Nubian was named "Krishna" ("The Black One" in Hindi)

after the Krishna Fellowship Farm and for the fact of her being all black except for  patches of white under her chin and tail. It probably goes without saying that we were delighted with Wonder's outcome.

                                    end of Wonder's Star and Krishna

Note to the reader: While my stories are based on fact, all names are fictitious. A character in one story may appear in another under a different name and some characters are themselves fictitious.

In the months to come, we will re-visit Puna Lani under the title of

                                  "Heavenly Spring"        

Wonder's Star and Krishna III

     The very next day, Bill called and said he had found a goatherd who could supply us with a dairy goat. He said he would ship her to us as soon as we let him know we had completed a shelter for her. Our own shelter was not complete but it was convenient and comfortable and most days we were able to move it closer to complete. Besides, we were well-accustomed to living in construction zones. At first, wanting to have the goat with us as soon as possible, I thought we could rope off a section of the house's main floor for her, while I completed her shelter, but with little discussion among us all, it was decided to segregate the four-legged from the two leggeds at bedtime,  from the very beginning. The single-goat shelter was located on a rock outcrop about a hundred feet from our house and about five feet higher in elevation. It was ready in a couple of days and our goat arrived in a couple more. Since she would become the queen of our herd, we gave her a queenly name: Sheba, after The Queen of Sheba. Hey, I know, Sheba was the kingdom over which that queen ruled, not her name. Even so, I think if you see a goat (doe) and hear her called "Sheba" you'll think "Queen...of the herd". Right? 

     She resembled nothing like a queen during her first nite at Puna Lani and her complaints didn't stop with the rising sun. She was away from her mama and her sisters for the first time and she missed them something fierce, day and night. The next night we put a wind-up alarm clock in her shelter and while she did cry a bit before dark  she settled down after that and was quiet 'til morning. (The ticking apparently simulates mother's heart-beat.) To me it was obvious: we needed more goats. That alone would solve the problem.  Being joined by one of her sisters or girl-friends would make it seem like home again. We planned to have a herd of 'em anyway and having two does at the start would put us there much sooner. I fully expected Bill to agree with us, based on previous experience, and he did. He called Jack, the man who had sold him Sheba and said he'd like to get another one. Jack said that he had sent us Sheba, who lacked a number of confirmation points that a good, high-yield dairy goat would have, because he had the impression we just wanted a pet/bush trimmer.  He felt bad about mis-reading our situation and told Bill he'd be happy to supply us with two high-yield goats for the price of one, to make up for for us winding up with one low-yield goat; Sheba.

     Two days later, two more goats at the airport for us. Both instantly recognizable as a few cuts above our herd queen. Her position was secure though; despite her lack of confirmation points, among the goats she maintained a haughty, arrogant manner. She was, after all, the first among them on this place and that seemed important to her; and to the other does (their acceptance of her position seemed complete). The two new does, we named Wonder and Nanny. They were about the same age, perhaps two months younger than Sheba. Wonder got her name after leading us on an all-day chase after slipping her leash when we first tried to put her in her shelter.

At one point, thinking it our best chance to trap her,  we chased her up the stairs into the house (which was elevated nine feet above the surrounding yard.) She raced across the big room and leapt through  a window covered with a bamboo/paper shade, at a point about four feet above the floor. She seemed to fly out of that room and then somehow glide to a soft landing, nearly 14' below the high-point of her trajectory. Well, she is a female and I thought  "Wonder Woman", "Wonder Doe," just plain "Wonder". 

     Nanny held the highest score among the three in confirmation points. Like Sheba, she was mostly Nubian, wearing a black coat with white flecks on forehead and undertail. Unlike Sheba, Nanny, had she  been shown at the county fair, could have brought home the gold. She was such a fine example of a high-yield dairy goat. She was also such a baby. And while "nanny" can be a name for someone who cares for a baby, it also means "female goat" so our babyish female goat was named Nanny.

     A doe can be bred with a mature buck during her second "heat". She will give birth in a few months, most likely to twins. She will lactate for many months after her kids have been weened. When she becomes "dry" she can be re-bred to start again.

     Bucks should not be kept on the same property as does. It's best if they can be kept a mile or two apart. This is due to an anitomical fact among most goats: Does and bucks alike have a scent gland, shaped something like a flattened donut, located one at the base of each horn, just under the skin. The buck's glands exude the scent, in the form of pheromones which travel on

 air currents. If they come into contact with the base of the doe's horns, pheromones will be absorbed by her scent glands and ultimately make their way to the milk which is then ruined. So while you can't have a growing dairy goat farm without the buck's services, care must be taken to prevent his contamination of the milk. At breeding time take does (one at a time)to the bucks' residence. Never bring a buck to the does' residence.

                            end of Wonder's Star and Krishna III

woman

Wonder's Star and Krishna

    After spending a couple of years exploring the mainland U.S.A. with the help of jobs in a travelling circus,and having become somewhat burned out with the whole situation, my kids and I decided to liquidate our assets and fly to the  newest and most-remote of our United States. In the succeeding year we busied ourselves combing the beaches of Oahu's nothern shores for commercially viable shells (where we were often treated to performances by astoishingly good surfers riding awesome waves). Most of the collected shells became very high quality "Puka" leis, though we did make other kinds of shell jewelry and even some pieces that were of unique type:like small-scale models of large-scale properties with everything present;buildings,trees, bushes, walk and drive ways...all surfaced with shells. Beautiful shells, each seeming to be just right for it's position.

     I'm a ptetty artistic guy. I've painted signs, built cabinets, put oil to canvas, put bailing wire to more different uses than it was probably intended...but my kids, Ruby, Sharon and Twila, then aged 15,12 and 11 respectively, were the key to our success. I would say Ruby was our de-facto manager. We all gathered and graded the shells. But Ruby, who was the first among us to learn of the shell market, had the best understanding of what constitutes a superlative Puka Lei. She did the final grading and all the selling of our products. Sharon and Twila could do it all and wound up doing some of everything there was to do and most of the sizing. That was the least challenging and most boring of our tasks: The picked,poked and cleaned pukas are simply passed through a series of tin cans, each having no lid at top and holes drilled in their bottoms which are progessively smaller than the holes in the preceding cans. You simply  pour all the shells into the can with the largest holes, and shake them some. Shells that pass through the holes in the first can will be passed through the rest of the cans' holes, one can at a time. At finish, shells contained in a given can will all be the same size. Not much fun, but we all, especially Sharon and Twila, did sizing. We'd had some rough times in our first few months in Hawaii and while we had all expected better (at least expected to find work sooner than we did) and we were all brought down considerably by our travails, I got a great boost from the strength (mental and physical)that I saw them all exhibit, every day and in every circumstance. When we were doing shells, I'd often find myself in the middle of creative activity, happily involving us all and I'd think that, after all that they'd been through it was great to see them (us, that is) having a good one.

    It got better. Before long, we realized that we could again persue the goal we had when we first thought of going to Hawaii. Which was to find a rain forest property, not yet developed,which we could lease, occupy and improve. We hoped to find an owner who would accept our improvements as full payment of the lease.The "Big Island" aka "Island of Hawaii" is the best place in the State of Hawaii to find the kind of thing we had in mind. It's way bigger than the other islands,has way fewer inhabitants and vast stretches of sub-divisions in lush rainforests, mostly the property of absentee owners. Our recent, little bit of prosperity would easily cover our move to the Big Island but we were soon to learn that finding a situation like the one we sought could be very difficult, if not impossible to achieve. In only a few weeks on the Big I we had exhausted all the leads that we had found and settled into a "wasted days and wasted nights" routine. A song containing that lyric was popular enough in that time and place, that it was heard several times each day while we paid the rent and waited for a lead to come, from out of the blue? Though it didn't appear as such at the start, our biggest break came when we managed to arrange for us to stay (rent free) in a 3 bdrm,2 bath house,in Paradise Park, for sale, vacant and located in such a remote location that vandalization was a possibility and our presence could possibly prevent such. We thought it odd when we first saw the place; We had imagined a place way out there and alone. It was only a couple  of miles off the main highway and from it, six other houses were visible. One of them was directly across the street from it. The others were on the same street but about a half-mile distant from it and the one directly across the street which was, by the way, occupied. And, until we moved in, the only one of the seven which was. When I say "directly across the street" I mean that our driveways were perfectly alined with one another to effectively form a sort of mini 4-way intersection. Probably designed for a pair of families planning to spend a lot of their time at each other's place. I hope it didn't cost 'em extra, 'cause , in the few months that we "sat" that house, not one member of either family visited with any of the other family.Not once.

     A quick comparison reveals why. THEY are Native Hawaiians of mixed heritage. (The Hawaiian Islands are home to more ethnicities than any other place on earth) In their early thirties, they are parents of a boy about 8 and a girl two or three years older. A large, hostile Doberman Pinscher bitch lives with them. She enjoys a house of her own (in the middle of the front yard)but is allowed in the main house. It is a custom home, perhaps constructed by it's occupants. Both upwardly mobile in career/business, she also active in local politics.  WE are apparent Hippies, three males (myself in mid thirties and two VietNam vets  in their mid twenties, ( travelling with us temporarily)and my three beautiful daughters. We stay rent free in a "spec" house that has yet to see it's first owner-occupant. The house has a range, refrigerator,water and power and phone connected, but is otherwise unfurnished. Karl, one of the vets in our group was accompanied by a large, white mongrel dog, which now that I think of it, was the one among us who did visit our neighbors. Or at least their pedigreed "Doby".

     It was on one such visit that Karl's dog left some solid evidence of his having been there. (though I did wonder at the time if there was any chance that "Whitee" was the only dog interested in Doby. A policeman came to their house, looked at the foreign feces, exchanged a few words with our neighbors, got back in his patrol car and backed out one driveway, across the street,  up our driveway and was met by Karl, his dog Whitee and I. All I can remember of that brief encounter is that the cop, very nicely informed us of our neighbor's complaint and requested our cooperation. Whitee responded by assuming the position and peeing on the cop's pantleg and I'm like O mGod, red sky at morning, boys! But the officer seemed to take it as an expression of affection and said something like "Oh, that's no problem, don't worry about it". It turned out that he was not unusual. Our own experiences during our years in Hawaii and what we heard from others, strongly suggested that one had to be a stand-up good guy ,fervently devoted to the "Protect and Serve" motto, totally level-headed with inexhaustable patience, a good sense of humor and wisdom beyond his years, to even be considered for a job as a cop in Hawaii (no matter which island).  Later, I'll share some of what I,ve witnessed relevant to this subject which I found remarkable and thought-provoking.
     Since our plan was to move, as soon as possible to our dream situation, we were poorly-motivated to invest any time trying to warm up ro our neighbors (as were they) espcially at that time. The Realtor whose property we occupied was just one of five such agencies now looking for the absentee-owner that would see merit in our plan so part of every day we were away, some days touching bases with those realtors, others exploring the island in search of wild fruits, in season, fruit-bearing trees and bushes to be transplanted or cloned, plants useful in construction, like several kinds of bamboo and some fruiting hardwoods that work well in furniture and some ornamental things like Money Tree and Ti plants. We had every expectation of eventually finding the right place and we wanted to be as prepared as possible when it happened. We truly had very little spare time to socialize and even less inclination. Even when we spent time at the house, our waking moments were mostly spent doing whatever processing our gathered materials might need.
     One day,during the first few weeks of our stay in Paradise Park, we noticed a lady visiting our neighbors. While both entering       and  leaving our neighbor's place she waved to us and we waved back. She visited a few times a week and did our neighbors' yard maintenance. About a week later, as she was leaving, she backed down the neighbors driveway, continued backing straight across the street and up our driveway. We welcomed her and she introduced herself. Her name was Malou. She and her husband, Donald and their two kids lived within a couple of miles from us. She was a horticulturist and did design, construction and maintenance of Landscapes. She and Ruby (our aspiring, self-educated horticulturist-to-be) hit it off from the start. Ruby wanted to learn everything Malou knew and Malou was happy to share. We also shared our story, and our goal of living on un-improved land , trading our work on improvements for the right to occupy,etc. We, of course, asked her to let us know if she found a situation that might fit our needs. We thought her a great connection, because many of her clients(who mostly lived on Big I or some other Hawaiian island) had more properties than they actually used.
     About two or three weeks after that, Malou revealed to us that when she decided that she liked us, she called her sister Meg, in Honolulu. Meg, and her husband, Bill lived in Honolulu where he worked for the Daily Advertiser. They had recently bought some propetry in the Orchid Land subdivision of Puna district, Big I. Malou told them about us and what we hoped to do. They were interested, said they'd discuss it and call back in a day or so. Malou said nothing to us about her talk with Bill and Meg until aftrer Meg called back to say "Yes, if they like the property and we can agree on specific terms, we think it might work well for both parties". So our prospect had already been sold with no effort on our part, before we even knew we had a prospect! We certainly knew we had found a great friend in Malou.
    Before the shock of suddenly and unexpectedly completing the first and most important step of our plan had worn off we were deeply involved in the preliminary work of step two. We had no time to waste; When Malou gave us the good news we were on our 408th day in the State of Hawaii and our 125th day on the Big I, and while I can't think of those as days truly wasted, they were spent and now we needed to do the work that would increase our chances of success.
                                      end of Wonder's Star and Krishna I

                                      

   

me and religion II

   It must be that I was born with a healthy scepticism regarding religion, because as far back as I can remember there is no awe, no delight, no revelation and no joy in any activity involving church. All you got was boredom, with slight amusement folded in by way of the incredulous testimonials about super-natural actors and  events. I must admit that for about two years as a toddler, a part of the Christian faith had my full attention.  Of course, I did not then know that Santa was part of church though I did know that his annual visit came the night before Christmas, and that was of course, Jesus's birthday but it was some time later before I made the connection. It was when I learned that all of the Christian children in the world expected Santa (or if not him., the local equivalent of him) that I realized (no longer just suspected) he was really just a little bite of Christian mythology for the kiddies. As an adult  everything I heard or read about Jesus impressed me. If he never actually existed; he should have. And if he was invented, his author had a great understanding of how man should be treated by his fellow man. Even when I was still attending church functions, I used to think to myself that what was said to be jesus's way, was sure a lot more people-oriented, let's say people-sympathetic than "His Church".  He loved; the church tells you how to live, what to believe, when to squat and has ways to persuade you to adjust your path to the well-defined straight-and-narrow. See"Spanish Inquisition,the"."OnwardChristianSoldiers",you know?

     I don't know if it was on a bumper-sticker or if it was in a magazine, but some years ago, I saw this: "It wasn't the Jews that killed Jesus, it was Santa Claus". And if you think about it, in many ways Santa and Jesus are in opposition. Overall Santa is there for materialism, Jesus, for our salvation. Jesus ran the money-changers out of the temple, Santa (knows if you've been  bad or good) helps parents pressure their kid to behave near Christmastime. The gifting component of Christmas was, of course about the  Three kings' gifts to the Christchild, but now we see and hear in organized Christendome television and radio shows preaching the "Prosperity Gospel", in which they invite their audiences to send in as much money as can be gathered as soon as possible. They're told that God favors those who give to "His" church and might very well play a hand in their soon-to-be-had good fortune:."..Mrs.Ginny Frautwell of Mantepika L.I. sent us the proceeds of 2 piggybanks, the currency in the big envelope in her bedroom dresser, and her savings box in the kitchen which she had planned to spend on a new cream seperator, with a grand total of $318.74. And while she's broke today, we have faith that the Lord will reward her generosity by tenfold, a hundredfold, yes even a thosandfold! Halelujah! no really, I've seen as much already. So folks, start the "surplus cash collection" in your home today. Remember, as little as a hundred dollar gift could bring you a colossal windfall". Ok,that's not verbatim, but I've just compressed it a little. It does convey the overall idea and approach.

     I mentioned earlier that I grew up in the home of the world's greatest imaginable step-dad. My natural parents seperated before I was a year old. They did not stay in touch. My New Year Resolution for the year I would become twenty-one, was to find my natural father. It took me longer than I expected but in early December of that year while visiting one of my mom's sisters I picked up information that pointed to a small, Bay Area city and  by calling 411 for that city and with the help of a 411 operator who  was personally aquainted with my father's wife, we actually got together that same day. At that time my father was 45, his wife (my stepmom) was 32 and I was 21. They had a son, aged 5. We all got along, from the start, like we were close friends who had been apart a week or two. I was offered to stay with them for a while as I went about getting a job and a place. In the following years we remained close family, though my work often cut into time that I might have spent with them. My father lived another 29 years after we met and I have many, many happy memories of our times together, but I don't remember one time when the subject of our talk turned to religion. The Lord's name may have come up, but not in a prayer: He was not the type to be conscious of a higher power with whom some might share their trials and tribulations as though that power were ever present. No, he struck me as

one, completely in charge of his life and confident that the help of a higher power would not be necessary. It seemed to me that he had held that state of mind so long that he had forgotten about higher powers altogether. When his illness was pronounced terminal he went into denial and swore he would beat it and, unlike most in his fix, he was still in denial on the day he died. Still KNEW he would beat it and, so far as I know, never called on a higher power to intercede on his behalf.
     Owing to being exposed to Judaism to some extent through Jewish friends, I'm somewhat familiar with Yiddish. In the time I spent with my natural father, I often heard him use words that sounded like Yiddish that had passed through a filter two or three generations deep. They would be like the same word, but with key vowels replaced by others. All this has led me to think that  my father's grandfather (or maybe back one or two more generations than that) left the synagogue and apparently found it unnecessary to affiliate with any religion. A few years ago I put my name in a genealogical search engine and learned that "Gideon" is a name associated with Sephardic Jews. They are the ones native to the Iberian Peninsula. And, in an un-related study, it was alledged that Sephardics are the least highly-regarded Jewish sect by Jews of other sects. Wouldn't  those held in disfavor by other members/sects of their religion be likely to prefer another faith (or none) than to be reviled in their own?  That's what  I think happened. And long enough in the past that he had no knowledge of any of it. I remember wondering about some of this stuff while he was still alive, but I never got around to forming the questions then, let alone asking them. So, they'll have to go un-answered. But, the more I learn the more convinced I am that my irreligious bent is a natural part of me. It puzzles me that with so little personal interest in religion I'm so fascinated  by others' interest in it. I do find considerable pleasure in the investigation, though.      end of me and religion II