School Supplies

“Greetings and welcome to shopping at Smart Mart, your everything store.”

“Excuse me, I’m—ah—new at this.  Could you tell me where I can find this item on my first grader’s school supply list?”

“Certainly. Dear Human* Let me have look at your list.  Oh right. That’s at the end of aisle thirty.  Just turn right, go past the line of cashiers, take a left at aisle thirty and you’ll find what you want at the end of the aisle.”

“Thank you.”

“Hello, Dear Human,* can I be of help?”

“Yes, I’m trying to fill out my daughter’s school supply list.  She’s going into first grade, and this item is marked ‘optional,’ and I’m not sure I need to get it.”

“May I see your list?  Yes, you’re come to the right place.  Can I answer any questions to help you make up your mind?”

“Yes, it is an optional item and I’m not sure she’s old enough to need it.  And it does cost more than anything else on the list.”

“Do you have other older children?”

“No, Michelle is my oldest.”

“Then I can understand why you would be hesitant, not having done this before.  I’m sure there are other parents who have the same questions.  As parents we all want to do what’s best for our children and to keep them safe.  This is suggested as an optional purchase because six year olds mature at different rates and not all children at that age would be able to handle the responsibility involved.  Do you feel your daughter is a responsible child?”

“Oh yes.  Michelle has always been very responsible.”

“Excellent.”

“But six seems so young.”

“As I’m sure you’re aware, the law that allowed teachers to be armed has really not ended the tragedy of school mass shootings.  In fact, the teacher, armed or not, is often the first person targeted by these crazies.  And so the law in this state was broadened to allow students six years and older to be armed. Of course only if their parents desired.”

“But how safe is it for six year olds to be going around at school with guns?  Have there been any accidents?”

“None since the law was passed thirteen months ago.”

“Have any children actually used their guns in a shooter situation?”

“None as yet.  But you must understand that we don’t just sell a gun to parents and send them on their way.  The law mandates that the child complete a thorough gun safety and handling course taught by certified instructors from the American Firearms Association (AFA).  After which, the child is then licensed as a Junior School Guardian (JSG) with the city police department and their school principal is also notified.”

“Carrying around a handgun at school would be so big and bulky.  Michelle would stand out.”

“The weapons have been scaled down to fit smaller hands and there are a variety of choices.  Is Michelle petite or average or large for her age?”

“Her pediatrician says she’s in the ninetieth percentile.”

“Excellent.”

“But how many first graders are actually carrying guns?” 

“Based on figures from the police, in affluent school districts like this one, a little over half of the children.  I’ve already made quite a number of sales this school year.”

“Well——I don’t want her to stand out or to feel left out—-” 

“If it will help you to make up your mind, let me show you what we have available.  Now here’s a popular model—a Konrad School Special.  As you can see the weapon and grip are scaled for smaller hands.”

“It’s black. Does it come in any other colors?”

“It only comes in black to reinforce the idea to the child that this is not a plaything, that this is very serious business.  So no cartoon motifs either.  We want the child to realize that as Junior School Guardians they are responsible for the safety of their friends and classmates.  For an additional charge the handles can be changed to faux pearl to give the child a sense of pride of ownership.”

“But won’t it be hard for my daughter to handle?  I mean aiming it and firing it with the recoil?”

“There was a lot of thought that went into the design.  Because it is a small gun, it carries only four rounds, although it does come with an additional clip.  A special cartridge was developed by the manufacturers, the .22 Stinger.  The recoil is light but the bullet is based on the dum-dum principle that is only approved for this bullet for this use.  So it does have more stopping power that you might expect from a .22.  As for aiming, the gun has a laser sight built in and all she has to do is put the spot on the bad guy and pull the trigger.  It has been tested to be very accurate within forty feet.”

“But still, six year olds with deadly weapons—-“

“The gun safety course taught by AFA instructors emphasises responsibility and safety.  If a child horses around or is felt to be not capable of being a JSG, the parents are told that their child is still too young to continue training.  The dropout rate runs about twelve percent.  Each child is trained in simulated active shooter situations so that they would be calm and use their weapon effectively to protect their friends and class if the need arises.  And of course they get to fire their weapon so that they become used to how it works and feels.”

“You’ve given me a lot to consider.  I’ll have to think about it and talk to Michelle.  Maybe I’ll bring her down here to see for herself.  Thank you for taking the time.”

“Excellent, excellent.  I think Michelle would be interested in learning abot JSG’s.  You know, the AFA has down surveys and found that children who became JSGs had an increased sense of self-confidence and responsibility compared to children who were not.  Here is my card.  Call anytime if you have more questions.  And of course Smart Mart offers easy payment plans.”

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*In a move to become gender neutral, the usual gender specific titles such as Miss, Mrs., Ms., Mr., Sir, Madam were replaced by Human.  It was felt that Person carried a negative connotation (person of interest), and Being was too broad and had a vaguely science fiction connection.  Dear Human being the most formal form of greeting.  Less formally, Human, Dear H. or most informally DH have come into use. 

Listening to Willy Nelson sing  “Remember Me,” I wondered if the song could be flipped 180 degrees to “I’ll Remember You.”  From a plea to be remembered, to a promise to remember. 

I’ll Remember You In the Cool Of Early Morning

Music: Remember Me When The Candlelights Are Gleaming by Scott Wiseman-1940

Sung by Willy Nelson, Bob Dylan and Joan Baez, et al

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I’ll remember you in the cool of early morning,

I’ll remember you at the close of another day,

And late at nignt, when the brightest stars are shining,

Sweetheart, I will remember you.

We met when you were young and oh so lovely,

With a spirit that was strong and brave and free,

There were other men who came around to court you,

But in the end, the one you chose was me.

I’ll remember you in the cool of early morning,

I’ll remember you at the close of another day,

And late at nignt, when the brightest stars are shining,

Sweetheart, I will remember you.

To share a love that would last forever,

Vows we made, on our wedding day,

But it’s not for us to know or own the future,

It is Fate, that has the final say.

Windblown rain, sweeping down the valley,

Orange sun, setting over the sea,

Rainbow following a morning shower,

Things you loved I’ll hold in memory.

I’ll remember you in the cool of early morning,

I’ll remember you at the close of another day,

And late at nignt, when the brightest stars are shining,

Sweetheart, I will remember you.

I’ll still remember you.

Tourists

The director addressed the tour group.  “We will soon be arriving at our destination.  I want to remind you that any interaction with the natives is prohibited.  They are a young, unstable race whose weaponry. though crude, can still do harm.  Although the atmosphere contains levels of oxygen that would allow us to breath it, theirs has toxic levels of other chemicals as well as microorganisms that may be capable of causing disease.  Therefor you should not remove your protective suits that also render you invisible to the natives.  The time that you will have on the ground at various sites will be strictly enforced.  Your suits will automatically return you to the tour vehicle if it detects that you are not voluntarily returning.  As we arrive at each destination, I will provide context about what you will see and answer questions.”

The vehicle had been in undetectable mode since emerging from intergalactic drive behind the planet’s only moon.  As it began to descend towards the blue planet the passengers followed the approach on holograms, marveling as the planet’s surface details became clearer.   The vehicle paused just outside  the atmosphere giving the guide time to give a last quick orientation.  And also to issue the gravity neutral footwear since most of the tourists were from home bodies with gravities differing from Sol 3’s.

“The first stop will be at our galactic outpost that is beneath their ocean.  One of the monitors stationed there will give you an introduction to the civilization found here.  We will now proceed to enter what the natives call their Pacific Ocean, an ironic name since, as you will hear, the natives are anything but peaceful.”  Undetected, the tour vehicle now descended through the atmosphere, slipped below the water, and proceeded to the deep outpost where it mated seamlessly to the entry port.  The tourists chattered excitedly as they were escorted through a series or corridors to a conference room.

“The outpost is larger than I expected,” said one.

“I scoped for info on outposts before we left.  Since the monitors are stationed here for 3 galactic periods, it was designed to be non-claustrophobic,” answered another.  As they entered the auditorium, the forty tourists generally sat with others from their planet or moon of origin.  

The monitor was already there.  He spoke Galactic Universal with a heavy Zenobian accent.  “Welcome to our outpost on Sol 3.  I think you will find your visit to this planet extremely interesting and informative.  For some of you it will be like seeing a living ancient history of your own civilizations.  Others may be shocked to see things that their own histories never included.  The natives are of all one race differing only by the color of their casing.”  (The Zenobian then projected holograms of the various Sol 3 races.)  “As you can see, great variety.  But they are of one race because they have sexual reproduction and are compatible across their color differences.  However, and this may surprise you, they place great distinction on their casing color and have had wars and enslavement based on just that one characteristic.”

Question: “What is war and enslavement?”

“Good question.  Your Trillian history is one of cooperation since you evolved from hive-forming ancestors and the emphasis was always to work toward the collective good.  Well, that is not the case here where the importance of the individual being or clan took precedence.  And instead of cooperation it has always been a question of dominance, obtained by fighting with and killing of, the different being or clan entity.  And enslavement occurred when the defeated clan or being was forced to completely bow to the demands of the winner and became their property.”   There was a murmur of disbelief and surprise.  “I see some Yetians in the audience.  Your race went through a similar history at one time very long ago.”   The two Yetians nodded agreement, “A very long time ago,” said one with emphasis on the very.

“Something else.  The world is divided into different clans that are called nations.  There is no effective unifying order.  There have been attempts to do so, but the clan or national impulse always takes precedence.  This too has been a source of many wars.”

The Zenobian continued.  “Another thing that may surprise you.  There are still layers of culture here, from their most scientifically advanced societies to others that coexist still in a pre-metallurgic state.  And further, even within the most advanced and rich nations, there are members of that nation who are basically outcasts from the general prosperity and society.”

Question:  Don’t these beings have a code of conduct or morality?

“Sol 3 has a variety of beliefs and philosophies that, if followed as set down by their founders, would result in a truly wonderful society.  The problem is that they are not followed for the most part.  In fact, many of the philosophies and beliefs are warped by their current leaders to suit their own objectives.  It is a sad situation.”

“I see our time is up and it is time for you to begin your planetary tour, under the guidance of your leader who has led four previous groups here and is very knowledgeable about Sol 3.  There are some refreshments at the back of the auditorium.  Please enjoy them and have a most enjoyable visit to this planet.”  There was a smattering of sounds of appreciation and the sound of shuffling limbs as the tourists rose and headed to the back of the auditorium and refreshments.  As they milled around, there were murmurs of “this is going to be so great—I can’t believe that—minds blowing—glad you came now?—can I have the last one.

The group trooped back to their vehicle.  The guide said that their first stops would be in two large centers of population.  The first was London where the guide pointed out the multiracial, multicultural makeup of the population and the general prosperity as the tourists passed undetectably among the throngs.  Yes, their are racial tensions, in fact violence at times, but in general it is an example of a large city where Solians congregate to live and work.  Yes, the transportation is extremely backward with combustion being the primary source of power.  Yes, there are electric vehicles, but they are in the minority.  The congestion?  Wait till our next stop.

The next stop was Kolkata.  The reaction of the tourists to the crowding, sheer destitution and poverty was stunned, silent, disbelief.  The guide let them recover from their initial shock before he spoke.  This, outside of a war zone that we will also visit, is about as bad as it can get.  This is an example of a city failing its inhabitants.  Yes, there is a government, but there is also a belief system that reinforces divisions of their society called castes stymying upward movement from lowest layers of society.  Note the vast distance between the most prosperous and the most impoverished.  And their own city government?  Their government finds other priorities.  Why don’t other nations help?  There are non-national groups that do try to provide aid, but what help other nations provide is just a small patch on the problems.  

A somber group of tourists reboarded their vehicle.  Now you will have a treat.  A pyrotechnic display as one of their space rockets is launched.  

A supply rocket to the orbiting moon station was being launched.  With flames, smoke, thunderous noise and vibrations that they could feel even within their protective suits, they watched in awe.  I have never seen any thing like that, exclaimed one.  That’s how they lift off their planet?  How incredibly wasteful, said another.  Thats what all our far ancestors did when they first entered space, said the guide, except for the Eutopians who discovered early what we now use and bypassed the rocket stage.  The three Eutopians waved their upper extremities.

The  tour went on.  First to a war zone where they did not disembark.  The guide explained the paradox of fighting and killing over natural resources while expending them prodigiously in the conflict.  Will the natives ever progress out of their warlike mindset?  Hopefully before they discover the intergalactic drive.  That is why there is a monitoring station here.

Then to a vast jungle where reforestation efforts to undue the harm of years of deforestation were being implemented at last.  Why didn’t the natives just not denude their jungle in the first place?  Probably short sighted individual greed.  And disbelief in what their scientists were telling them.  

The tour paused over raging forest fires, over a large island that had once been thickly glaciated, and then hovered over the tips of islets that were the remnants of island nations, submerged by the rising seas. They watched a tropical hurricane move over land and leave destruction in its wake.

The tour concluded and the vehicle returned to space, where the guide conducted a debriefing.  You ask if the planet will survive?  The planet will of course still be here physically, circling its sun. .Probably the natives will not be wiped out.  Whether their civilizations will survive is unknown.  Why don’t we help them?  The policy of the alliance is let each planetary race work out its own destiny and to interfere only if they become a threat to another planet.  The natives are a highly inventive race and we can only hope that they will be able to save themselves in time from their own follies.  

This concludes our exo-cultural tour. I hope that you found it mind-widening and provocative and will recommend it to those you know.  We will be sending out info on our next cycle of tours shortly.

Stepping Stones

When we were younger—not young, just younger—and you were two, maybe three weeks old, Abu (grandmother) carried you in the crook of her arm and exclaimed with delight, “She fits just like a loaf of bread!”  It was a cold December, but a warm Christmas, followed by a quiet New Year as the new millenium dawned.  I wasn’t much help during that visit.  I tried, by taking the big, white dog for walks, but if we got too far from home, she would just sit down and not budge until I turned back.

We stayed four weeks, to return in the spring when there were walks in the wooded park.  And the big, white dog would bark and strain at the leash to chase squirrels while you, bundled up, rolled along in the stroller.  We would grow to know that park well, and would return again and again on later visits.  And sometimes Uncle A would also be there.

When you started to walk, you would help push the stroller along the paths until you decided you would rather ride.  In later years you would skip ahead of us on walks, perhaps stopping to play on the equipment in that small playground.

You were shy when you first enrolled at Montessori.  Sometimes Abu and I would go with your mother to pick you up.

Later when you entered middle school, Abu and I would walk over to get you and we would stop at Jamba Juice on the way home.

There was that Christmas at a ski resort with the entire family, when I watched you dad offer support as you cautiously circled the skating rink.

Then suddenly you were graduating from high school.  The ceremony was at night in a continuous, cold rain and your parents, Uncle A, and I sat on hard bleachers, thoroughly soaked, while you and the other four hundred seniors with wet, limp gowns went up one by one to receive you diplomas.

College came that fall.  You made new friends, studied, worked jobs, shared apartments. made road trips, and grew into being yourself.  

And then, college was over. Last week was graduation, this time on a bright sunny afternoon.  Your mom, two uncles and I, with two of your friends cheered loudly when your name was called and you walked across that stage.

This fall you will be back in school all the way east in New York.  You decided to follow your heart and enroll in culinary school where you will learn the techniques and arts of the kitchen.  To slice, season, saute, stew, roast, and perhaps bake the perfect loaf of bread.

A Human Author

Welcome to Current Topics, where you will always hear electrifying talks on subjects of immediate interest.  These talks are being recorded for later access on our site.  Our speaker today is Robyn Byrd who will describe how she became a most unique best selling author.  Without further ado, Ms. Byrd.

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  Well, best selling if you can say that of an author whose output is counted in double digits.  To explain that, I’ll start at the beginning.  I was a script writer for studio productions, both television and movies.  The Writers Guild strike of 2023 was prolonged and ultimately resolved but to neither side’s satisfaction. slide—here I am on the picket line.  Studios already made extensive use of CGI or computer generated imagery in films and had even tried to do a full-length film—that was Polar Express, a Christmas movie—completely computer generated, but it met with a mixed response because the process was not mature at the time.  So given the writer’s strike, it was understandable that the studios would think about producing scripts using AI.

From the writers’ standpoint, when word of these early trials got out, it was betrayal.  A breaking of a long-held unspoken understanding with the studios.  From the studios’ standpoint it was economics.  And guess who eventually prevailed?  Right!  

But it wasn’t just the studios.  Change was occurring across society.  From bank tellers to legal assistants to the factory floor.  Automation and AI were replacing humans.  And yes, authors.  When a publishing house—I know, not many left—could order a novel with a specified number of pages in the style of, say Faulkner, with a specified era and location about a specified subject and receive a manuscript that only the dedicated Faulkner scholar could tell was a forgery, well, the barn door was wide open.  Want pseudo-Agatha Christie?  No problem.  A lost Steinbeck manuscript?  Can do that.  Of course there was still room for the truly original and gifted voice in writing.  But for the formulaic adventure story, love story, mystery, western?  AI took care of those.

Well, I knew I didn’t have one of those gifted, original voices.  And I was out of the job that I knew and loved.  I looked around and realized that almost everything was mass produced.  But there seemed to be a high end market for things that were scarce and original.  Art of all kinds was still being bought.  Hand crafted furniture—the one of a kind piece that demonstrated the owner’s status and taste.  The hand knitted sweater.  Things that bore the touch of a human mind and hand.  And who were the people who could afford these objects?  The technocrats, the money people, the creative people, the CEOs and the entrepreneurs—people who worked mostly with their minds and not their hands.

My friend, Henry Clay, is a potter—well, he calls himself a ceramicist when he talks to clients.   He’s been doing very well making one of a kind dinner services, selling at selected outlets catering to the one percenters. slide—here’s Henry at his wheel and—slide—here he is with one of his dinner services—  A light bulb went off.  Henry works with mud.  I work with words.  What if I wrote and then hand produced a limited number of works of fiction?  Like original art prints.  Would there be people who would buy them to display on their one of a kind coffee tables? 

Writing stories was no problem given my background, though they tend to be heavy on dialogue.  I already had the basic necessities.  Laptop, laser printer.  I just needed to acquire the skills and tools of book binding, the more hand crafted the better.  Found a mentor and learned the trade.  slide—John Inkstone has been binding and rebinding books for forty plus years—And acquired the tools.  You can find almost anything online, which seems ironic given what I was trying to do.  A friend who’s a printmaker agreed to make a print relating to the story for the front piece, for a small percentage of the sales.  slide—this is Jonny Tu with the print she did for my first book—Found a source of natural fabrics for the covers.  Depending on the story, I will make different covers.  For example, denim if it’s a blue collar story; tartan if it’s set in Scotland; black silk for a bodice ripper.

The initial trial run was of twelve, that I took around to galleries and interior decorators and explained what I was trying to do.  slide——And this is the first copy of that run—I was thrilled when I was able to place ten on consignment.  Then I waited.  If this didn’t work, it was back to the unemployment line.  

When word came of the first sale, I was ecstatic.  The other nine sold within a month.  I felt that I was on to something.  The next run and all subsequent ones was of forty.  I had no trouble placing them. And they sell.  And that’s my story.  In a world flooded with machine-made objects, there is a desire, a need, to possess something made by another human being.

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We do have some time for questions.  

Yes.  The woman in back in a purple blouse.  Why a run of forty?  I didn’t want the series to be too large, like say a hundred.  That would detract from the idea that this is a limited edition.  Oh, and I number the books on the title page like prints.  I also include a pair of white cotton gloves with each copy to reinforce the idea that what the reader holds is of value and should be handled with care and respect.

The man with a beard in front.  Did I consider setting type rather than using a laser printer?  No.  I don’t have the skills and that would frankly be just too much work.  But an acquaintance is handwriting his books on handmade paper.  Needless to say, his calligraphy is beautiful and his truly one of a kind books are priced at ten times or more than mine.  Yes, much like what the monk scribes did.

The woman on the aisle in yellow.  How do I determine my price?  I talked to gallery owners to see what limited edition prints were selling for.  And then set a median figure.

Why not in bookstores?  Because I’m selling these as original handcraft or artwork and they would be out of place among the best sellers and popular books.

The man in front in the Hawaiian shirt.  Do I still use and compensate my artist friend?  Yes.  Jonny silkscreens forty prints that relate to the story, numbers and signs them, and I pay her five percent of the net sales.

Sorry, but I’m being signaled that that’s all the time we have.  Thank you for your interest and your questions.   I’ll be happy to stay around afterwards and talk. 

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On Memorial Day, this is for the classes of 1950 and 1954 and 1958. My classes sequentially in Honolulu and Cambridge and Boston.

Where Have All The Flowers Gone

(adapted from Pete Seeger)

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright in the morning sun,

Long time ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

When will they ever learn, when will they ever learn?

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Where have all the young maids gone?

Long time passing.

Strong and graceful, without fear,

Long time ago.

Where have all the young maids gone?

Grown grey and tired, long in years.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

————-

Where have all the young men gone?

Long time passing.

Swift and certain of their dreams.

Long time ago.

Some are gone and some remain,

Moving slow with aches and canes.

When will they ever learn, when will we ever learn?

————-

And where have all the children gone?

Long time passing.

Full of wonder, spirits free.

Long time ago.

Where have all the children gone?

They’ve grown to be like you and me.

When will we ever learn, when will we ever learn?

————-

Where have all the flowers gone?

Long time passing.

Bright—in the morning sun,

So long ago.

Where have all the flowers gone?

Faded, scattered every one.

What did we ever learn, what did we ever know?

What did we ever know?

Hero Hunt

He crouched, head down, clutching his sword, hoping to blend into the bushes around him as he heard the hunter tracking along the trail above.  The hunter moved past and he waited a long time before cautiously raising his head, lest the hunter had doubled back in the hopes of luring him out of hiding and ambushing him.

Song was to die for treason.  He dared to speak out publicly and to write that the regime was wrong to spend so much on weapons and so little to improve the lot of the people.  That the Supreme Leader, Defender of the Realm, should change his priorities and place the welfare of the common people first.  And so he was sentenced to die by slow hanging.  His cell was filthy, meals less than meager, and frequent physical abuse by the guards a given. 

Two days before his sentence was to be carried out, he was taken from his cell to a small barren room where a black suited man was seated behind a dingy table.  The guard stood by the door while the man spoke, “You do not deserve this, but I am offering you a chance to avoid hanging for your treasonous actions and live, if you participate in the Hero Hunt.”

Song’s mind raced.  A chance to live?  A hero hunt?  “What…,” he finally said.

“Rich capitalists pay the state for the privilege of hunting down and killing condemned vermin such as you.  If you can avoid being killed for three days, then your life will be spared and you will be expelled to another nation.”

“And if I don’t accept this offer?”

“Why then you will be hanged in disgrace as scheduled.”

“I have no choice, it seems.”

“Good, you will participate in the next hunt.  You will be moved to a cleaner cell and be given a better diet until the hunt.  The filthy rich capitalists want to get their money’s worth by having a good hunt against a worthy quarry which means someone who is strong and physically healthy.”

The guard opened the door for the man in black and, as he rose to leave, Song asked, ”How many have survived the hunt?”

The man smiled thinly, “I shouldn’t answer your impertinent question, but I will.  None.  But  there is always the chance that you may be the first.”

Curry had inquired out of curiosity.  A skilled hunter, he had participated in several Combat Hunts involving armed androids, but the novelty and challenge had worn thin.  Then he heard of “Hero Hunts.”  It sounded too outlandish to be true.  A hunt to the death involving real persons?

He was scheduled for an orientation video conference to learn more.  His contact was a beautiful woman, age about thirty, who spoke accented but fluent english.  “Yes Mr. Curry, that is correct.  The hunt does involve humans.  They are prisoners, usually male, who have already been sentenced to death for the most heinous crimes.  Murder, rape, rape-murders, vicious assaults.  The scum of the earth.  They volunteer to participate in the Hunt as a means of redressing their debt to society.  As the hunter, you would be doing no more than bringing them to justice.  And if you are a good marksman, as I assume you are, then you would be granting the prisoner a quick and relatively painless death rather than one by hanging,  From your inquiry questionnaire, I see that you are a veteran of the android combat hunt where the quarry is armed with a handgun.  The quarry in our hunts is also armed, with a traditional three foot short sword.  So there is some element of danger to you since the prisoner is highly motivated to survive the three day duration of the hunt.”

“What happens if he does survive?” Curry asked.

  “If he does, his life is spared and he is exiled to another country.  Also, there is no refund of the entry fee if that happens and the hunter does not score a kill.  Any other questions?  No?  Then I will check back with you in two days about your decision.”

Curry was a decent man and he wrestled with the idea of hunting down another human and killing him.  It was true that the person he would pursue had already been sentenced to death for some terrible crime.  He deserved to die.  So as the hunter, he would only be carrying out a death sentence that would be done without him, he rationalized, and in a more merciful way.  Even so, could he really be an executioner, really shoot another person?  He’d heard the phrase somewhere that man is the most dangerous game.  Now there was a chance to find out.  His inner hunter won out over his inner humanist.

The woman called back and the contract was signed.  “Don’t worry about not speaking our language.  You will be equipped with a bilingual translating collar that will do simultaneous translation.”

“Will the quarry also be equipped with one?” asked Curry.

“Yes.  In fact that will be your hunt trophy.  After the kill, his collar will be mounted for you to display.  And you will be celebrated as a Hero of the Nation.  We will arrange for your transportation and hotel so you need not do anything further except to pack and decide on your weapon of choice.”

Early one morning, Song was brought to the same room where he elected to be a quarry.  The Hunt Master waited.  “Song, the hunt begins tomorrow.  You will be taken to the hunting preserve immediately so that you can familiarize yourself with the terrain ahead of the hunt.  We do not want the guest hunter to find the hunt too easy.  Otherwise they would leave disappointed by the lack of challenge and tell others which would be bad for future business.  We have ready for you a grey jump suit, a pack with rice balls for your meals, a translator collar that will be locked in place around your neck, and a short sword that you can use to defend yourself.   Should you kill the hunter, you will not be punished.  Now go and make the hunt interesting tomorrow for our guest.”

He was immediately locked into the back of a prison van and, accompanied by two heavily armed guards, driven into forested rocky hills.  “Do not try to escape, one of the guards said.  The perimeter of the hunt area is marked by a highly electrified fence and under observation at all times.  Also, if you should somehow get past the fence or gate, an explosive charge in your neck collar will explode.”  The guards unlocked the gate, pushed him through, relocked the gate and left.

After the sound of the van faded, Song was struck by the quiet.  Only sounds of nature.  Wind ruffling tree branches, bird calls.  “Hello, he shouted but there was not even the hint of an echo.  Well, I’d better get started exploring, he thought.  The preserve was a rough square, 1.5 kilometers to a side.  There were a few deer trails and others that looked less permanent, remnants of past hunts perhaps.  He didn’t dwell on that thought too long.  The perimeter fence was painted bright red and Song followed it along two sides before realizing that he also needed to explore the interior.  The preserve was dominated by one high point, a rocky hill bare at the top overlooking the rest of the area that was mostly forest.  From the top Song noted several open areas below to be avoided.  He found two small caves.  Too obvious, not suitable for hide outs.  The underbrush had leafed out, this being early summer, and Song realized that not only did that make movement through it slower and noisier, but that he would leave a trail that would be obvious to a skilled hunter.  Wait, Song thought, perhaps I can turn that to my advantage.  What if I tramp out some trails like a sort of maze coming off the main trail?   That may confuse the hunter and buy some time—I need to stay alive for three days.  I’d better get to work while there’s still day light.  Song laid out some trails that ended blindly and others that doubled back on themselves, working until it was twilight.  He ate two rice balls and drank from the canteen that he’d filled from the stream running through the area.  The hunter may watch along the stream for me to come for water.  Now better sleep while I can.  But sleep did not come easily.  

He picked a spot for the night on a small rise off aways from the gate area but where he could still hear an arriving vehicle.  An hour after sunrise, he heard a Land Rover pull up to the gate.  He heard the Hunt Master say before driving off, “Good hunting, Mr. Curry,” and his heart rate increased and his palms felt clammy.   

Now it begins, he thought, as he watched Curry start up the trail to the top of the hill.  He’s getting the lay of the land.  I need to stay well hidden and motionless while he’s up there.  Song had decided that his best chance was to carefully follow behind, since the hunter would be looking forward most of the time.  He saw Curry stop to look at one of the false trails he’d laid the previous day, and then move on.  Not going to waste time on an old trail.  

Curry set up his shelter at the top of the hill and sat down with binoculars to first methodically scan the entire preserve.  He placed a perimeter alarm so that his quarry could not sneak up on him at night.  Song watched from below and was getting a cramp from lying motionless when he saw Curry stand up, pick up his carbine and start down the hill.  Looks like he is going to search the terrain on foot.  I’ll follow him quietly.  Curry stopped suddenly from time to time to listen and Song had to stay alert to stop moving whenever he did.  Song remained undetected for the first day.  

The second day began with Curry again surveying the area from the top after sunrise.  Later he found where Song had slept and had also relieved himself.  I think he’s on to what I did yesterday.  I’ll try going in the opposite direction from him.  He almost ran into Curry but heard him coming in time to duck into cover.  With luck he was undetected but it was a close call.

On the third morning, Song was up before sunrise.  So was Curry with his binoculars to visually sweep the preserve.  The sun was rising when he saw Curry pause his scanning and look back in his direction.  Curry stood and started down from his camp.  Could he have spotted me?  Did my glasses reflect the sun?  Why didn’t I sleep on the east side?  He felt the icy sweat of fear and began to move as quickly and with as little noise as he could.  This time Curry had no trouble finding and following his passage through the brush until he finally saw a figure dressed in grey moving ahead of him.  As Song began to cross one of the clearings, Curry called out, “You might as well stop and end this chase.  I have you in my sights.”

Song turned, breathing hard, clutching his sword.  He saw that Curry had his carbine trained on him and briefly wondered about charging him.  To go down fighting.  Curry wondered the same and kept his finger ready to pull the trigger.  But Song decided, I’ll not die like a desperate cornered rat.  He stood up as straight as he could and flung the sword aside.  “If I am to die, I’ll do it like a man.  Go ahead and shoot if you must.  Aim well.”  

“Before I execute you, tell me what terrible crime you committed to receive a death sentence. Murder, rape, assault?” Curry asked.  

“I was sentence to death for treason by publicly saying that our Glorious Leader should put the needs of the people first instead of the army.”

“Wait,” said Curry, “ Say that again.  You aren’t a violent criminal?”

Song repeated what he had said, then asked, “Is that what they told you?”  

“Yes.  That I would be carrying out a just sentence by executing you for violent crimes.”

“Well if you believe that go ahead and do it without further questions.  You will be called a hero, for ridding the realm of me and my ideas.”

Curry lowered his carbine, “I can’t kill a man because of his thoughts.”  He walked warily towards Song still holding his gun at the ready.  He bent and picked up the sword.  “Tell me about yourself.  What’s your name?”

The next morning the Land Rover returned with the Hunt Master.  As he got out he saw Song and Curry standing side by side waiting.  He frowned, “You are a poor hunter, Mr. Curry.  There is no refund for an unsuccessful hunt and there will be no Hero Certificate or trophy.”

“Oh I think the hunt was quite successful,” said Curry.  “And I think I found my trophy.”

“And I met a hero,” said Song. 

Fable

You want to hear a story to kill time while we wait?  Might as well.  We got nothing else to do.  

Okay. The story starts with a man walking on a beach, late in the afternoon an hour before sunset.  Where was the beach?  It really doesn’t matter as far as the rest of the story goes.  What was the man doing there?  Maybe he was getting in some exercise to build up his appetite for dinner or maybe he was just looking for shells or pretty beach glass or maybe he just wanted to set his mind at ease—I don’t know; he was just there.  What was his name?  I guess we could call him John if you like.  

So John—happy now?—was walking along the water’s edge, but not in the water, scuffing up sand as he went, when he spied a long barnacle incrusted green glass bottle, newly washed ashore.  How did he know it had just washed up?  Because it was still wet.  Oh. 

That’s been in the water a long time John thought as he stooped to picked it up, planning to pitch into a beach recycling container.  Huh, he observed, it’s still stoppered in spite of all the time it’s been in the sea, and with a bright gold stopper at that.  Could it really be gold, he wondered?  Why did he wonder that?  

Well he thought that it might be gold because gold doesn’t corrode in salt water.  So to go on with the story, Jim—Wait, wasn’t his name John?—oh yeah, thanks—John gave the stopper a little tug, but it was really stuck.  He didn’t want to break the bottle so he worked very carefully, giving the stopper little tugs and twists until finally he felt it start to turn and then it came loose and he held it in the palm of his left hand.  It’s pretty heavy—I bet it’s really gold he thought excitedly.  

John was so focused on the stopper that he didn’t see a gray mist rising from the bottle and beginning to form a shape in the air above him.  He was so startled when he finally did notice it that he almost dropped the bottle.  Instead he quickly set the bottle down in the sand and retreated ten feet away.  The mist solidified into a human shape, dressed in a flowing white robe like you see Arabs wear..  A genie?  And dressed in a robe?  The genie in ‘Aladdin’ didn’t wear a robe.  Yes, it was a genie and I realize that in “Aladdin,” the genie is dressed very differently but that’s just how Disney thought genies should look,  The one in this story  had a different tailor.  Humph.

You know what come next in these genie stories.  After stretching—after all it had been bottled up for many hundreds of years—the genie smiled at John..  Why had it been bottled up?  Was it a bad genie?  No, I don’t know why it had been bottled up.  It’s just part of the story.  Anyway, the genie bowed low, then smiled at John and said in a deep bass voice, “You have my eternal gratitude for freeing me from cruel confinement.  By the rules of genie-hood, I am allowed to grant you three wishes as a sincere token of my thanks.  There are only two stipulations.  First, all wishes granted are irrevocable.  Second, all wishes will be fulfilled literally.  And third, one of the wishes cannot be to force me back into the bottle or any other container.”  Wait, you said two stipulations earlier.  Did I say two stipulations?  Sorry, my mistake, I meant to say three.

“Consider your choices carefully,” continued the genie, “For example you cannot simply wish for ‘untold wealth.’  You need to state an actual figure and in a specific currency or some other valuable commodity such as gold or rubies.  And after I have granted all your wishes, I will return to you and you must say, ‘Now I free you.’”

Did you go to genie law school? John asked while thinking, this is a really weird dream. Wonder if  I’ll remember it when I wake up.

As if it could read his mind, the genie said, “This is not a dream.  Any wish you make will have real results or consequences.  So take your time to decide because this is really happening.”

Now John was an idealist and so he sat down in the sand and began to think about what he could wish for, if indeed this was real, that would do the most good for the most people. 

Finally he said, “My first wish is for all of mankind, all humans in the world, from this day forward, to never again make war or any other conflict against each other.”

“I shall grant your wish,” said the genie.  “And I admire your idealism, but wishing for a ton of gold would be easier for me to fulfill..”

“My second wish,” said John, ignoring the genie’s comment, “Is that mankind stop polluting the planet so that the warming of our planet will be reversed.”

“That too I can grant,” said the genie.

“And my third wish is that the first two wishes shall be completed during my lifetime which will be the usual human one of seventy to one hundred years.”

“That too shall be granted,” said the genie.  “You also must have gone to law school.”

“When will you start?” asked John.

“Immediately,” said the genie.  “But it may take some time at first.  Just go about your life and say nothing to anyone about this.  I will appear before you when your first two wishes are completed.”

John put the gold stopper into a shorts pocket and dropped the bottle into a recycling bin on his way home.  Kind of a nothing start to your story.  Where’s the action?   Wait, I’ll get there.

John waited impatiently thinking that some event would soon appear in the news,  But there was nothing for a month.  

The first news report on CNN was that a severe pneumonic illness had appeared in the Australian  Outback, apparently with a 100% mortality rate.  But then it spread with such rapidity that there was no time to even characterize the causative agent because medical personal and laboratory workers who were exposed to it immediately died.  The swirling global wind currents carried the agent—be it viral or bacterial—everywhere, even to the most remote islands and Polar regions.  Within two months, earth had been de-peopled with the sole exception of John.  WTF! Where the hell did that come from?

You wanted action so here it is.  Huh!  Wait, there’s more.  With the people gone, factories stopped, there were no more cars, the burning of fossil fuels ended, there was no more plastic pollution.  And levels of carbon dioxide and methane began to fall and the atmosphere began to clear.  Of course there were a few nuclear plants that melted down, but in the long view, those accidents too would heal.

As John wandered in a daze as the sole human survivor, a lone Adam with no Eve, the genie appeared before him again.  “Your three wishes have been delivered, and now you must release me.”

“But I didn’t want them to be granted like this,” John wailed, falling to his knees.  “Please.  Can’t I take them back?”

“I told you they would be irrevocable,” said the genie.

“But by killing everybody?”

“You know the history of mankind.  There was always war happening somewhere on the planet.  This was the only way to insure that man would never again make war against himself, which is what your wish stated.  And without man, the pollution stopped.  I have faithfully carried out your wishes.  Now you must release me.”

“Go, just go.  You’ve done enough.  You are free, but please kill me too before you go.”

“Sorry, you were allowed just three wishes,” and with that the genie disappeared into a wisp of smoke.  And that’s it?  That’s it?  Everybody dead?  What a shitty ending. 

“You wanted a happier ending than peace on earth?”  

Valentine’s Day is past, but we’re still in the same month. So it’s not to late for a love song, melody based on an old Country-Western song.

DREAMS

Melody “When I Dream” by Sandy Mason.  

Sung by Crystal Gayle, Willy Nelson and others

Once I dreamt of someone, whose face I could not see,

Hoping that a girl somewhere was waiting there for me.

For I was oh so young then, and yes so very green,

To think that I could meet someone whose face I’d never seen.

But when I dreamed it was of you,

Hoping someday that dream would come true.

When we met that summer, at first there were no sparks,

The kisses that we first exchanged, seemed no more than a lark.

But friendship grew, so that—by summers end,

It seemed we could be turning into, something more than friends.

Now when I dreamed I saw your face,

All my dreams had found their place.

But gifts that youth bestows upon us, age can take away,

The bright, blue skies of springtime, became December grey.

I loved you in the spring and summer and on into the fall,

That will never change, even as snow begins to fall.

Yet—when I dream it’s still of you,

You made my dreams, our whole life come true.

Yes when I dream it’s still of you,

You made my dreams, our whole life come true.

December came and went like a flash and I never did get around to even thinking about what to post what with family home for the first time in a year and all the Holiday activities.  And now it is January 2023,  the Year of the Rabbit by the Asian zodiac.  So no story but a series of happenings.

Insert Foot in Mouth and Bite Once Before Removing

On The Ground

“Well, why don’t you just look before you sit?” I said in response to my wife’s complaint after she sat down on the cold toilet bowl rim.  I leave it to your imagination about the “conversation” that followed, but thereafter, I always put the seat down after using the toilet.

I bought a car battery at the auto shop at Penney’s Kahala Mall.  (Yes, there once was a Penney’s where the theaters now are.)  Shortly afterwards, setting off to go to work and to take the kids to school, there was an immediate loud BOOM from the Karmann Ghia’s engine compartment when I turned on the ignition.  The battery had exploded.  

In the meantime Penney’s had closed their auto shop in the Kahala store.  So I drove out to their Pearlridge store the following Saturday and walked into the auto shop carrying the shattered battery in a cardboard box and plopped it on the counter.  The two girls silently looked at it as I explained what had happened.  One of the girls took it through a door to the back.  We heard a man exclaim, “Holy shit, annada one!”  The remaining girl looked off into space.  I took the replacement battery that the other girl brought out and left.

I was checking out at Longs when the young cashier said, handing me my receipt, “You have beautiful white hair.” I was startled.  No one had complemented me on my hair before, so I thanked her.  But then she went on to say, “But I guess I’ll have to wait sixty years for mine.”

“You’ve got that right,” I replied.

You have to know when you’ve said enough. 

In The Air

It was a UAL redeye to San Francisco, with an ETA of 0540.  There must have been a really strong tailwind and towards the end of the flight, the lead cabin attendant announced that we would be arriving thirty-five minutes early.  This meant that I would have a forty minute wait at the airport until my scheduled shuttle ride to Palo Alto arrived and I’m sure I wasn’t the only one with a pickup or transfer wait in an empty airport.  Instead of just stopping after making the announcement, the attendant went on to conclude, “So the next time you fly United and there’s a delay, just consider it a wash.”  

You have to know when you’ve said enough.

We were landing at Dresden in a Lufthansa Boeing 737.  It had been an uneventful flight, and I could see the runway coming up to meet us as we set down.  The engines suddenly roared and the plane lunged forward and began to climb rapidly until we leveled off again.  The pilot came on the intercom and gave a lengthy explanation in German.  He then said in English, “We had to go around again.”  Clearly something was lost in translation.

The end of the same trip.  We were returning to the States in a UAL Boeing 777, taking off from Heathrow.  At that time you could listen to the communications between pilot and tower on the seat audio system, and I often did so out of curiosity.  We were steadily climbing; below I could see the rooftops of London homes when there was a loud BOOM, the plane lurched to the left, and a whiff of smoke came into the cabin.  The lead cabin attendant was German and she immediately came on to say “Don’t worry, the captain has everything under control.”  But I could hear the pilot talking to the flight controllers, and while he wasn’t panicked, there was an urgency to his voice as he requested an immediate emergency return to the airport, explaining that the left engine had exploded.  This was granted, the runway designated.  We had now leveled off, and began a slow turn to return.  The captain came on the intercom, now sounding calm, and explained in the easy drawl that pilots sometimes affect, that the plane had an engine problem and he had shut down the left engine but the plane could easily fly on just one engine.  And by the way, that mist that we could see streaming past our windows wasn’t smoke, but fuel that was being dumped (over London!) to lighten the plane before landing.  There were very loud cheers as we touched down.

In the Office.

The man looked to be in his seventies when he brought a young boy in for a routine check.  They were new patients.  After I introduced myself and took a history, I complimented the man on being such a caring grandfather that he brought his grandson to the doctor.  “I’m his father,” the man said.  (Guess you could see that coming.)  “Oh, uh, well let’s go on with his exam.”

I had not seen her for a year when she brought her child in for an exam.  “Your son is so lucky to have a new brother or sister soon,” I commented.  “I’m not pregnant,” his mother replied.  I think I just went on with the exam—how do you get your foot out of your mouth after something like that?  Say sorry?  That could be interpreted as I’m sorry you’re not pregnant, or I’m sorry you’ve gained so much weight, or  I’m sorry I’m an ass for saying that.

And the diagnosis is Foot in Mouth Disease.

November—fall’s end and winter’s entry.  And some years, election month.  It’s been particularly hard recently to remember that we are not the Blue-and-Red States of America, but the UNITED States of America.

Seasons

The hills are green again,

After summer’s dry brown brittleness.

Rain soaks deep to the roots

Of dormant shrubs and grasses.

Roots swell, the grass sprouts green,

Sap flows upwards in trees, 

Pushing out tender new leaves on koa and keawe.

Winter in Hawaii.

In the Washington Cascades,

Green leaves turned yellow, then brown.

And fell away

From dark skeletal branches 

Bristling upward against a low gray sky.

The somber winter tones

Await their covering of white snow.

Only the warm touch of distant spring 

Will waken their color.

The same month– 

Yet in one place life quickens, 

While in the other it slows.

If a season can have several meanings

Can’t it be so with other things?

Sand Crabs

I’ve never seen a live one there.

Just holes they dig along the watermark.

Big holes with high heaps of sand piled seaward,

And small ones with sand out spread fan-shaped and low.

Do small hole-diggers ever get to pile up heaps?

And did the big ones ever spread their sand?

Why the different styles of digging?

It’s the same beach.