We Got Trouble!

“We got trouble, folks, right here in River City, trouble with a capital T and that rhymes with D and that stands for Dimwits.”---Mr. Natural

So now the Beast arrives as was foretold in the gospels and his worshippers flock to him.  He has made their basest instincts respectable like never before and they rise like wildflowers in the desert after a first rain.  In previous times, they were embarrassed to display their hatred for niggers, spics, queers, ragheads, kikes and tree huggers, but the Beast has made it all acceptable.  Burn, baby, burn, in the truest sense of the word.  Where can we buy one of those neat sheets with eyeholes?

But the True Believers are not enough.  To rule the world, the Beast must recruit the lazy, the foggybrained, the weakminded who’ll do anything to be popular with the crowd.  “I try to stay out of politics” is the chant of the cowardly.  They’ll leave all their thinking to their pastor, Fox News or the loudmouth on the corner.  More recruits for the Beast, but still not enough.  He needs the critical Undecided Vote.

You hear it over and over again.  “I just can’t make up my mind” between Attila, the Scourge of God and Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.  Yeah, it’s a real poser, that one.  Is your brain made of spaghetti squash?  There is reliable information out there in the world and it’s not difficult to discover who is the shit and who’s the shinola.  Make an effort.

Oh, but what about those creepy immigrants and the economy?  The economy is just fine, thank you, and a Congressional panel led by a conservative Republican wrote an immigration bill satisfactory to everyone but the Beast, who squashed it because it didn’t suit his purposes.  Let’s get real here---all this talk about policy is just so much fluff.  The Beast is in it for power and glory and money.  The Beast is in it to stay out of jail.  And that’s where he’ll put you if you don’t get out of the way.

The real sermon on the mount is this:

“Assholes of the world unite!  This is the best chance you’ll ever have to shoot a few deviants, lock up the liberals, put women back in their place and royally piss off George Clooney.  If we have to rip up a few Constitutions to do it, too bad.  Just follow me!  Onward to glory!  Oops, just one second while I bugger this pangender floozie….”

And hey, Puerto Ricans---have they got a deal for YOU! 

Sisyphus Is 84

“Last night, when we were young
Love was a star, a song unsung,
Life was so new, so real, so right
Ages ago last night.”---Frank Sinatra

Sometimes I feel like a scout sent out by slightly younger friends to gauge the landscape, look for Indians, find a pass through the mountains and report back.  Octogenaria, we are warned, is a prickly place full of highwaymen, dense forests and strange diseases where crusty humans go to die, but they said that about Septuagenaria, too, and here we are.

When one is old and wise to the ways of the trail, he is expected to pass down what wisdom he has accumulated in his time on this mortal orb to less experienced hikers coming up the mountain.  That doesn’t mean anyone is likely to heed his advice, but some of us are traditionalists who believe time-honored rituals must be adhered to.  Nobody cares, of course, what a piccolo player thinks about raising nutria for fun and profit or what a priest thinks about marriage, but there are some common suggestions which apply to everyone, and among them is this:

Listen.  “Listen to the sound, listen to the sound, listen to the tune that the wind brought down.  Listen to the old time sound of the fiddle telling of a place you never have found.” (Dillards)

The world is a chattery place, full of nonsense and distractions, generic advice you don’t need, advertising you don’t want, self-serving simpletons who just want to bend your ear, fill it full of fatuous fripperies.  It makes a person wish for invisible ear plugs or the arcane ability some people claim to let things go in one ear and out the other.  But just when it seems safe to drop out, a true gem passes from the lips of another, something that will rescue you from confusion, steer you in a better direction, teach you how to operate your tractor more efficiently, and it might come from unlikely sources.

Most people would rather talk than listen, but nobody learns much when they’re talking.  Listen with the intent to understand, not with the intent to reply, like most of the talk show guests on television.  Bernard Baruch famously remarked, “Most of the successful people I’ve known are the ones who do more listening than talking.”  And Doug Larson correctly told us that wisdom is the reward we get for listening when we’d have preferred to talk.  Sometimes the rewards are incomprehensibly great, like that moment in 1968 when my cosmopolitan early girlfriend Claudine Laabs told me, “Bill, you just have to stop wearing big white undies.”  A whole new world opened up in just seconds.  So pay attention.  You never know when the next Claudine will come along.

Do What You Say You’ll Do

Your word is a contract with someone else, a compact that you will perform as agreed to at a certain time or place.  It begins with small things like being on time or agreeing not to buy  any more potbellied pigs.  Reliability is the precondition for trust.  Do not make excuses like, “But I’m only five minutes late, that’s virtually nothing” or “Petunia was lonely so I had to buy a Porky.”  Wrong.  You broke your contract and revealed you could not be relied on in the future.  In addition to keeping your word, you should also hold others to the same standard.

In Subterranean Circus days, I didn’t have a ton of rules for employees, but one I did have was that noone could be late.  The first time a worker was late, he or she was sent home with the admonition to cogitate on how much they valued the job.  The second time, they were gone for good.

Now, virtually everyone who worked at the shop was appreciative of just being in such a place, let alone being paid to show up, so there were exceedingly few rulebreakers.  Alas, there’s always that ten percent.  One feisty young lady turned up a few minutes late on her first day and was shocked to find herself sent home to reevaluate her priorities.  After a week of adhering to the rules, she found herself waking late on a Monday morning, still stoned to the gills with about ten minutes to get to work.  She roused her roommates in a blind panic, they sped across town breaking speed limits left and right and shoved her in the Circus door one minute early.  She staggered up to me and croaked, “No rules about being marginally unconscious, right?”  Surprisingly, the girl worked there for several more years and was a big asset.  More surprisingly, in 23 years no one was ever fired at the Subterranean Circus for being late.

Just Do It

When you’re old and rickety, there’s always an excuse for stasis, like “The weather outside is frightful, but in here it’s just delightful.”  The old sacroiliac is acting up again, driving at night is a crapshoot and you never know what you’ll run into west of Jonesville, so better not take any chances, right?  Not right.  Whatever happened to that guy who set the record for consecutive days streaking down University Avenue?  It may be a jungle out there but that doesn't mean you have to lock the doors, pull down the shades and wait for the clip-clop of the Grim Reaper’s pale horse.  If you can travel, do it, and no whining please.  Daniel Levine, the pride of Savannah, Ga., is 80 with Parkinson’s and he’s running off to Amsterdam.  Last year, it was Italy.  So what if somebody occasionally has to pick you up and steer you in the right direction?  That’s why they invented the Boy Scouts.

If you want to live to a ripe old age, find things you look forward to, like your monthly tryst with Sadie O’Grady, the first week of football season or the Flying Pig Parade.  Head off trouble at the pass with the annual physical exam, CBC, lipid profile and the rest of the long grey line of medical revelations.  Walk.  Swim.  Join Richard Rahall’s Bicycle Rangers.  Lonely?  Buy a large, economy-sized lifetime membership to Heartwood and you’ll always walk on, walk on with hope in your heart and you’ll never walk alone.  If you’re lucky, you might even find a sympathetic broad to butter your toast in the morning, like Will Thacker did.

Finale

I don’t mind admitting I’m irked aplenty by the physical limitations old age imposes.  I can’t roll boulders uphill any more like that 72-year-old guy in the photo above.  The fifteen-mile uphill hikes have leveled off by two-thirds and those clever trekking sticks are looking better all the time.  But I can still walk my morning mile in fifteen minutes with the original hips and knees intact, climb up the stadium ramp to my 54th row seats unaided and keep the fields mowed at the farm.  Strange women have stopped calling me on the phone as in Circus days, but I tell myself it’s only because they’ve lost my number.  I celebrate things like having made it to 84 with nary a single intestinal polyp and driving through Alachua County at night without killing anyone.  And I confess to snickering to myself every so often that my wife has yet to discover what a terrible mistake she made taking up with me.

When I was a young lad, I aspired to sweeping Kathleen Carroll off her feet, becoming a professional baseball player and living in sunny Florida, a magic land revealed to me by radio announcers and sports writers covering the Red Sox at Spring training.  One out of three’s not bad.  I’ve experienced the many charms of 49 states (sorry North Dakota) and despite its yokels, hurricanes and paralyzing summers, still prefer this one.

If you’re 84 and tell me you’ve never experienced a near-death experience, you’re either a big fibber or the luckiest person on Earth.  I somehow made it through high school with only one car crash, escaped college with only a few cuts and bruises after jumping off the back of a moving truck, avoided being shot during Circus days when a paranoid maniac aimed a shotgun at me, barely evaded death by heart attack and at the hands of  irate Knoxville, Tennessee football fans.  When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me speaking words of wisdom, like “You know you’re not ready to die.  You want to know what happens tomorrow.”

She was right, of course.   Fifteen years ago when I was lying sick as a dog on a cold hard hospital table with a heart rate of 20 beats a minute, the doctors came in, told me I had a bundle branch blockage (which I already knew) and asked if I wanted them to insert a lifesaving pacemaker.  Despite my condition, I couldn’t help being amused.  “Well, what do YOU think?” I answered.

While I waited, I considered my situation for an instant, thinking oh, so what if I die, what’s the big deal?  One of those momentary flashes quickly dispersed.  Almost immediately I was struck by the realization that I needed to hang around to find out what happened.  To Siobhan, friends and family, the country and Gator football.  Shallow, perhaps, but enough to snap me out my lethargy.  Perhaps this momentary indifference is why some people survive and others cash in their chips.

With that, the implant crew zoomed in, slapped the shiny new Boston Scientific device inside my upper chest and pressed down hard on it for about a week, or so it seemed.  Voila---fait accompli!  Life goes on, and with few compromises until the last couple of years.  When you’re this old, thinking about death is inevitable.  It’s an obsession with some people, which is where the meditation devotees have something to teach us.  When the night is long and sleep fails us, uncomfortable thoughts climb up off the floor and into the bedcovers and start poking around.  Don’t let them in.  Slam the doors and close the windows.  The moment will pass and you’ll be back in Salisbury Beach, six years old and riding the carousel with your mother looking on.  Hold on tight, she’ll yell to you, and you do.  You’re a good kid.  You always do what your mother tells you.

That’s not quite all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com 

 

Season Of The Witch

“It’s astounding.  Time is fleeting. Madness takes its toll!”---Time Warp

Admit it….you think this country’s on a fast train to Looneyville.  There’s plenty of evidence, after all, including a hefty percentage of the population which is trying to elect Jabba the Hutt the next president.  New genders are rising up daily, folks are eating massive amounts of kale, maniacs are shooting up the ballet and there are disturbing rumors of people willingly moving to South Dakota.  Even worse, there are no more real kickoffs in professional football---the players just have a friendly comingle, drink a little tea and start on first down.  It’s a scandal.

Before you sell all your stock in Cracker Barrel and move to La Rinconada, consider this; it’s not just us.  Sophisticated countries like France and Northumberland have been associated with lunacy and mass hysteria since Medieval times.  One famous Middle Age incident involved The Cat Nuns of France.  Life in a convent is no bed of roses with its celibacy, poverty, hard work and unquestioning obedience to authority.  Understandably, every so often a sister goes off the tracks, like the one who suddenly started meowing for no apparent reason.  At the time, cats were not highly revered; more often they were associated by the lower classes with Satan and witchery.  Before long, other nuns joined in, then the whole convent.  It eventually became chorus-like, with caterwauling continuing on for several hours a day, which the neighbors found offputting, to say the least.  When all the attempted solutions failed, the army was called in to quell the cacophony by whipping the meowing nuns into submission.  “Absolutely unnecessary” protested one of them.  “We would have been more than willing to renegotiate our contracts.”

Meanwhile, across the Rhine, a 15th-century German nun suddenly began biting the other sisters in her convent.  Before long, the behavior spread and the convent was full of crazed nuns running around biting each other.  Witchery or mere lunacy?  Word of the Biting Nuns Outbreak went international and convents as far north as Holland reported outbreaks of nun-biting.  The hysteria also traveled south and crossed the Alps into Italy.  When prayers and masses failed, the Church resorted to exorcisms and the casting out of devils and demons, to no avail.  At wits’ end, Church leaders resorted to flogging or dunking in water any nun who bit another.  After a few examples were made of rulebreakers, the nuns finally came to their senses and the biting mania finally subsided, to the everlasting regret of The Jerry Springer Show.

Still Crazy After All These Years

Think you could swallow a nail?  How about 453 of them?  One patient at St. Joseph’s State Lunatic Asylum #2 in Missouri did just that.  Then again, it is the Show Me State.  We’re not sure whether the Guinness Book of Records recognizes such feats, but if not, they should.  If Joey Chestnut gets props for gobbling down 83 very soft hot dogs, what about a guy who puts away 38 dozen big stickers?  This accomplishment is one of many enshrined at the Glore Psychiatric Museum inside the Asylum, which is sort of like a Met Museum for the disturbed.  Many exhibits at the Glore are intended to give visitors life-size visuals of what mental health treatment devices looked like in the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries and include surgical tools, doctors’ notes and diabolical equipment that will scare the devil out of you.  There is also a gallery which features offbeat and sometimes scary creative works of art by patients past and present.  But heck, you can see that kind of stuff every day at Chuck LeMasters’ house.

Speaking of lunatic asylums, as we so often do, it’s almost that time again.  Halloween, a big favorite among the insane, is celebrated full-tilt at the Trans Allegheny Lunatic Asylum in Weston, West Virginia, which provides ghost hunts, paranormal tours, a haunted house and close to 100 crazed actors trained in the art of scaring the hell out of people.  “We have a lot of support from the crazies in the community and we really appreciate people coming to see us,” says Michell Graham, Events Manager at the asylum.  “You don’t really have to be crazy to enjoy our festivities, but it helps.”

Alternatives:

If you can’t make it to your favorite asylum this year, here are a few tasty alternatives:

In Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, a 20-foot neon green witch-head balloon floats over a costumed crowd of 180,000 at the annual Sea Witch Festival.  Our favorite Wiccan, Bron Beynon of Tampa, will lead contestants in the fabled Broom Throwing Contest, which is preceded by the annual Dog Costume Parade.  Arf arf!

What started as an unfortunate tale in Manitou Springs, Colorado is now a creative ritual.  Legend has it that Emma Crawford and her coffin were washed away in a 19th-century landslide, never to be seen again.  The town rightfully decided to honor Emma in an annual Coffin Race for which teams meticulously decorate their coffins, place an Emma inside and haul ass down the street, trying to beat each other’s times.  If you’re weak, slow and unartistic, don’t give up---they can always use a few more Emmas.

If you happen to find yourself in New Orleans at Halloween, and why wouldn’t you, don’t forget the Endless Night Vampire Ball, where Venetian masquerade ball-with-vampire-court meets rock concert meets 19th century burlesque cabaret.  This beloved NOLA event taps into the city’s haunted reputation, penchant for voodoo and longstanding affinity for vampires, and inevitably falls into decadence and debauchery.  A good opportunity to flash your Steampunk garb and try a  Bloodbath Cocktail.  Maybe the only opportunity.

If you’re a history nerd, how can you beat Halloween in Salem, Mass., witch capital of the world?  Salem’s Haunted Happenings is the largest annual Halloween celebration anywhere, a month-long festival with over half a million visitors arriving to explore 17th-century Witch Trial sites as well as the infamous Burying Point Cemetery.  Highlights of the affair include the Grand Parade, the Haunted Biz Baz Street Fair and scary film nights.  “Science fiction double feature---Frank has built and lost his creature.”   

Advice For Future Corpses

Since this is the Season of the Witch and dead bodies are fair game, let’s continue with our headliners du jour, the nuns.  In particular Sister Wilhelmina Lancaster, OSB, the founder of the Benedictine Sisters of Mary, who died in 2019, though you’d never know it.  When the Gower Abbey community just outside Kansas City dug her up recently to move the body into the monastery’s chapel, Sister W. looked pretty much the same as she did while clapping erasers and twisting kiddies’ earlobes several years ago.  What’s up with that?

Maybe she just had a top of the line casket impervious to bacteria?  Nope.  The coffin had a large crack in it through which water could enter.  The Catholics in the area went nuts, hopping up and down at the apparent miracle.  Scores of rabid pilgrims descended on KC to witness the scene.  Church leaders retired to their belfries to consider sainthood.  The phenomenon of incorruptibility is not common, but there are more then 300 saints whose bodies were exhumed centuries after their deaths which showed no sign of physical decay.  St. Cecilia, the first of them, was martyred somewhere between 177-230 AD and nearly 1500 years later her remains were exhumed and her body was discovered to be perfectly preserved, as if she were asleep in the same position in which she’d been buried.

We know a lot about human decomposition because those clever forensic scientists have created body farms to study human decomp under various conditions.  Without embalming and in a neutral climate and not in a coffin, body remains liquify into a dark sludge at around 30 days.  The body will skeletonize anywhere between one month and several years, depending on the environment, burial, etc.  If undisturbed, bones will dissolve in 20 years in fertile soil, though in sand they might last for centuries.  So what keeps this from happening in the cases of Wilhelmina, St. Cecilia and many others?

First, embalming can preserve a body for long periods of time.  Second, a closed anaerobic environment will slow things down since bacteria responsible for much of the tissue breakdown need oxygen.  But a large percentage of uncorrupted bodies have no such protection.

In a small town high in the Colombian Andes, Clovisnerys Bejarano kneels before a glass box holding the petrified corpse of her mother, who died 30 years ago but looks as if she might just be asleep.  Saturnina Torres de Bejarano is dressed in the same rose-print dress and green woolen jersey she was interred in, clasping a fake red carnation in her eerily well-preserved hands.

“She still has her little brown face, her braids, her hair,” Bejarano remarked at her mother’s final resting place in a museum displaying her body and those of 13 others from the town of San Bernardo.  All became spontaneously and mysteriously mummified after death.  “When all this began, people were a little incredulous about what was happening,” said museum guide Rocio Vergara.  “But as time went on, it became more and more frequent to find bodies in this condition.”  Some even had their eyes, usually among the first body parts to decompose.

Despite numerous attempts by experts to explain the phenomenon (which has also occurred in countries such as Mexico and Italy), the reason for the spontaneous mummification in San Bernardo has never been pinned down.  There is no clear pattern to the uncorruptibles, they were different ages when they died, of no particular gender or body type.  The climate of the area is humid, which should aid in decomposition.  Locals prefer to believe that some bodies were spared because “the person was so good,” says Vergara.  “The people think it is a reward after death by God.”  Then he stands back to look at one of the corpses and his slight smile morphs into a look of concern.  “But you know, Senor, I am not so sure of that.  There are others who consider it a punishment.”  

Tales Of The Ghost Car (Best read in a dark cemetery at night by a hippie on LSD.  But you’ll do.)

It was a dark and stormy night, foreboding even for Halloween.  Lightning flashed, thunder rolled and rain pelted down to lock everyone in place.  Alas, poor Timothy, never the bravest of souls, was left on his own at a motel in the middle of nowhere after a foolish argument with his girlfriend Roseanne.  The power was out, the phones useless and Tim decided the only possible way out was to hitch a ride on the lonely road which fronted the motel.  He stood in his doorway, half blinded by the swirling storm, contemplating a dreadful fate.  Then, providence reared its head…a vehicle slowly approaching from the west, dark in color with no headlight beams to light the night.  Timothy tried to wave it down, but the mystery car had no intention of stopping.  In desperation, Timmy did a very uncharacteristic thing—he ran alongside the creeping vehicle, hoping the driver had slowed down to pick him up.  Tim was wrong.

Sopping wet, Timothy snapped open the door and jumped into the passenger seat, thrilled to be saved.  When he looked to his left, however, he was shocked to see there was no driver.  This ghost car was headed who knows where on its own power in its own good time.  The sole passenger was terrified but decided to stay put and wait for signs of electricity along the dark and spooky highway.  Adding to his discomfort, the driver’s side window was down, admitting inside the furies of the storm.  Timothy tried to raise it but it seemed locked in position.  Tim had an eerie feeling that the vehicle---and the entire night--- was laughing at him, positioning him for some dire fate.  Then something shocking happened.

Timothy’s conveyance faced a sharp curve up ahead, but showed no sign of turning.  Suddenly, a ghostly white hand appeared from nowhere and turned the wheel, then it completely disappeared.  Tim had his head in his lap, he wished to see no more of this but he felt he had to watch the road.  When another curve appeared, the hand returned and Timothy was beside himself with fear.  Was this car taking him directly to hell?  Would he ever find a way out of this nightmare?

Then, incredibly, lights appeared ahead…neon enticements from a small tavern…a possible oasis from his dastardly plight.  Salvation was at hand!  Timothy leaped from the car and ran inside the pub, grateful to be alive.  And no, the bar was not full of vampires waiting to suck the blood out of him, just plain folks like you and I.  Tim sat himself down for a bracing drink and surveyed the customers---a friendly lot, all in all, and in surprising numbers considering the brutal conditions outside.  But then, like a shot from a gun, the front door banged open and two drenched customers stumbled in, dripping wet and very angry.

“There he is, Joe!” one of them yelled to the other, pointing directly at Timothy.  “There’s the asshole who jumped in our car while we were pushing it!” 

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com  

Waiting To Exhale

Seven books of the Chinese Tao which date back to circa 400 BC focus entirely on breathing.  Yeah, we know, you’re waiting for the movie.  Even earlier, Hindus considered breath and spirit to be the same thing, describing elaborate practices meant to balance breathing and preserve mental and physical health.  The Buddhists used breathing not only to lengthen their lives but to reach higher planes of consciousness.  Many practitioners of yoga believe the breath contains the body’s life force, or prana, and that working with it can improve health and wellbeing.  Yogic breathing exercises have exhibited a powerful effect on the lungs of patients with severe asthma, decreasing the histamine response that triggers an attack by as much as 20%.  Deep breathing definitely increases oxygen levels in the body, which is essential for the proper functioning of body and mind.  Breathing exercises can also ease tension and stiffness in the body, leading to increased flexibility and mobility.  By focusing on the breath, we can release tension in the body, allowing us to move more freely and comfortably.

No, breathing can’t do everything.  It can’t cure Human Werewolf Syndrome, allow you to leap tall buildings at a single bound or turn J.D.Vance into The Dancing Queen.  But like all Eastern medicines, breathing techniques are brilliant as preventative medicine, a way to retain balance in the body so that milder problems don’t blossom into serious health issues.  For most of us, breathing is a passive action, something we just do.  Breathe and live, stop breathing and die.  But breathing is not binary and it’s not just that we do it that’s important…it’s how we do it.

James Nestor, a noted respiratory researcher, says this: “For me, the perfect breath is this; inhale for 5.5 seconds, then exhale for 5.5 seconds.  That’s 5.5 breaths a minute for a total of about 5.5 liters of air.  You can practice this perfect breathing for a few minutes or a few hours.  When we breathe like this, the circulation in the brain and body will increase while the burden on the heart decreases.  All the while, the diaphragm will drop lower and rise higher, allowing more air to enter the lungs and assisting in pushing blood throughout the body.  It’s for this reason the diaphragm is sometimes referred to a a ‘second heart,’ because it not only beats to its own rhythm but also affects the rate and strength of the heartbeat.”

Nestor should know.  Before his revelations, he’d contracted pneumonia three years running, which is death-rattle territory.  He spent most of his time at home, wheezing.  Finally, after a scary visit to his doctor, he listened to some medical advice and signed up for an introductory course in breathing.  It was there he was introduced to a technique called Sudarshan Kriya.  Here’s Nestor on the experience:

“A bushy-browed woman locked the front door, sat in the middle of the group, inserted a cassette tape into a beat-up boom box and pressed ‘play’.  She told us to close our eyes, inhale slowly through our noses, then to exhale slowly.  Focus on our breath.  I kept breathing but nothing happened…no calmness, no tension release.  After 20 minutes, I was getting irritable, even thought of getting up and leaving, but I didn’t want to be rude.  Then something happened.  I wasn’t conscious of any transformation taking place.  I never felt myself relax or the swarm of nagging thoughts leave my head.  But it was if I’d been taken from one place and deposited somewhere else.  It happened in an instant.”  If this sounds a lot like someone getting stoned for the first time, James swears there was no marijuana smoke in the room.

“There was something wet on my head.  I lifted my hand to wipe it off and noticed my hair was sopping wet.  I ran my hand down my face, felt the sting of sweat in my eyes and tasted salt.  I looked down at my torso and saw sweat blotches on my sweater and jeans.  Everyone had been covered in jackets and hoodies to keep warm but I had somehow sweated through my clothes as if I’d just run a marathon.  The instructor asked if I’d been sick or had a fever.  I told her I felt perfectly fine.  The next day I felt even better.  I had a feeling of calm and quiet that I hadn’t experienced in a long time.  I slept well.  The little things in life didn’t bother me as much.  The tension was gone from my shoulders and neck.  This feeling lasted for a few days before slowly fading away.”  James Nestor went back to the teacher’s place for another session but found only a note and a silver bullet.  “My job here is done,” the note said.  James could swear he heard hoofbeats in the distance.

Breathe Your Troubles Away

Author Kirkland Smulders, the victim of several panic attacks a day during her postpartum depression, was desperate to get a reprieve from her dilemma, which came with a side dish of relentless insomnia.  In a last-ditch attempt to avoid hospitalization, she visited CBT therapist Dr. Robin Hart, who taught her a simple breathing technique that she should start every time she felt a wave of panic coming on.  Hart recorded it on her phone and she clung to that recording for dear life.  Incredibly, it entirely altered her existence.

“It was so simple,” says Smulders, “just breathe in through the nose for 4 seconds, then hold four seconds and breathe out slowly through pursed lips for 8 seconds.  It worked!  Gradually, as I practiced the technique on a daily basis, I felt more confident I had a reliable tool to control my panic instead of letting it control me.”

Ten years went by and there were no further attacks.  When she felt anxiety rise, Kirkland simply went to her modus operandi.  She became absorbed with the science of breathing and interviewed several leading practitioners of the art.  In one of her articles, teacher Richie Bostock likened breathing to “a tool, a Swiss army knife which can be used for many different purposes: to calm us down, rev us up, increase our feelings of happiness, help heal our trauma and enhance sexual and spiritual experiences.”  Whoa!  some of our readers just woke up.

Another Smulders interviewee, Rebecca Dennis of The Breathing Tree used different breathing techniques to release what she called “stuck energy.”  “It was a form of somatic therapy which involved lying on the floor, breathing in a certain way and eventually crying a lot due to some emotional release.  Then a feeling of exhaustion but also complete peace would sweep over me and I felt cleansed, happier and lighter.”  And Tom Hanks tried to tell us there was no crying in therapy. 

Requiem For A Non-Believer

“I squeezed her hand three times, our code for I’m here, I care, I love you,” recalls Stuart Sandeman.  “I was trying to be strong for her but as I stared across the desk at her doctor, I was barely breathing.  It was only a couple of months earlier that my girlfriend, Tiff, had found a pea-sized lump on her chest.  Until that day, we’d been having the time of our lives, a couple of 30-year-olds without a care in the world.  Then, cancer joined the party and dragged the needle violently across the record of our lives.  Now, we were here sitting in silence in the oncology unit of the UCLA Medical Center in Los Angeles waiting for the specialist to give us the news.  Ultimately, we learned the cancer had metastasized, with tumors in her liver, spleen and brain.  When Tiff passed away six month later, I just shut down, bouncing between outbursts of anger and complete withdrawal.”  Sandeman wound up in a breathing workshop with his mom, a gift he’d bought her for Mother’s Day.

A smiling session leader showed him to a seat in the sharing circle.  “Jeez, I thought.  I hate this sort of thing.  They put on some New Age trance music and everyone in the room began to puff.  I opened a wary eye to make sure the whole thing wasn’t some sort of prank and saw my mom was having a high old time, so I stuck with it.”

After a couple of rounds of breathing and shaking and shouting, Stuart was more than ready to can the experiment.  Then, a funny thing happened on the way to the exit ramp.  “It was SO bizarre,” he smiled.  “Suddenly, I could feel electricity surging through my entire body, the kind of vibrations you feel when standing in front of a giant festival speaker.   A wave of emotion roared up inside me.  And then, for the first time in a very long while, I cried and cried and cried.  Not only did I feel the weight of grief being pulled off me, but I felt a lifetime of tension I’d been unknowingly carrying around just dissolve into the atmosphere.  I felt a very strong presence surrounding me and had the distinct feeling that Tiff was there.  It was weird and powerful and life-changing.”

Who could imagine that something as simple as breathing could transform a life, especially in a rigid doubter like Stuart Sandeman.  But it did.  “It became a regular practice for me.  My energy increased, my mind cleared, my fitness levels went through the roof.  Even the voice in my head began to sound a little kinder.  I threw myself into the world of breathing, studied a number of modalities.  Read research journals, hung out with consultants, yogis, healers and gurus.  ME!  And get this---eventually I set up my own small private practice with the goal of introducing more people to this life-changing power.  It was a miracle.”

Many cultures have a long history of using breathing to help people endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  The Chinese qi, Sanskrit prana, Egyptian ka, Hebrew nefesh and ruah, Greek psuche and pneuma, Latin anima and spiritus, Polynesian mana, Iroquoian orenda all highlight the importance of breathing to the body and mind and its connection to something deeper.  And none of them care whether you believe in it or not.

James Nestor's book on the new science of a lost art

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

Mr. Sandman, Send Me A Dream

If Rip Van Winkle was alive today, he’d be in great demand.  Newspaper interviews, late night TV shows, the cop on the corner, all with the same question---hey Rip, what was in that grog that put you to sleep for 18 years---we could use a little ourselves?  Americans are desperate for better sleep and they’re spending piles of money to get it.

The modern-day sleep industry, which includes everything from mattresses to wearable devices to supplements is booming, projected to take in a record high $585 billion in 2024.  As one example, the global sleep apnea devices market, just one subset of the sleep economy, is projected to pull in $13.5 billion this year.  More than a third of U.S. adults claim they slept worse in 2023 than the previous year according to a survey by Sleepfoundation.org., which posits that sleep deprivation is an epidemic affecting physical and mental health.  Just ask Michael Jackson.

Venture capital for sleep tech almost doubled between 2017 and 2021.  One third of Americans have tried a sleep tracker, according to a 2023 survey by the American Academy of Sleep Medicine.  These devices run between $200 and $300 and monitor physical signs such as heart rate and body movement overnight.  A tracker might advise that you get more and better sleep wearing an eye mask or avoiding alcohol or not watching Florida Gator football games.  The majority of people who have tried trackers claim they’re helpful and were inspired by them to change their behavior.

Meanwhile, Time magazine reports that the U.S. mattress industry doubled between 2015 and 2020.  “Smart” mattresses, which generally cost between $2000 and $5000 are a growing section of that market.  These futuristic beds offer a range of features such as the ability to monitor both a person’s body and the sleep environment.  Some can even make automatic adjustments in temperature and firmness if they sense that these factors would optimize someone’s sleep.

Other novel products such as eye masks with unique features, weighted blankets and specially designed pillows for every sleep position are being bought up enthusiastically by weary non-sleepers.  Many users report benefits, others continue to rend their garments in frustration.  The big question is Why?  What’s the root cause of increased sleepless nights?  A Gallup Poll found 57% of Americans are sleeping less because they’re stressed.  And they’re additionally stressed because they’re not  sleeping more.  Wakeful nights are more than inconvenient---they can lead to such thrilling outcomes as diabetes, heart disease, stroke, weight gain and cognitive impairment, not to mention falling down and breaking your nose.  The nation turns its weary eyes to you, Mr. Natural.  Can anyone or anything save us from ourselves?

The Envelope, Please

Almost everyone knows the routine suggestions for avoiding sleeplessness; make the bedroom sleep-friendly, go to sleep at the same time every night, avoid caffeine and alcohol at least six hours before going to bed, get regular physical exercise several hours before retiring.  All wise suggestions, but insufficient for the majority of tossers and turners.  Melatonin works for many, but is better for getting to sleep than staying there.  Valerian will help keep you asleep but has some scary features.  One morning, after a good sleep on Valerian, I was happily driving wide-awake to Ocala from home and next thing I knew I was in the oncoming lane of traffic.  It was just a second or so and I quickly recovered, but if a car had been coming from the opposite direction I might be toast.  That was the last time I took valerian and the problem has never recurred.  If you don’t drive, however, it’s not an issue and valerian usually helps.

Zolpidem is an option.  It works very quickly, usually within a half-hour, but is just a temporary solution.  The drug can be habit-forming and the user will eventually have trouble sleeping without  it.  Zolpidem also has some unhappy possible side effects, like dizziness and constipation.  As with valerian, next-day driving should be verboten.  Other sleep aids which may be purchased OTC are Diphenhydramine (Benedryl) and Doxylamine (Unisom), both with similar side effects as Zolpidem.  Check with your pharmacist to learn whether any sleep aid conflicts with your regular medications.  You wouldn’t want to turn into a frog or find yourself on Main Street baying at the moon.  If you do discover yourself doing the latter, say hello to Randall Roffe for us.

Alternatives:

Luc Beaudoin has done a lot of thinking about the sleeplessness problem and he has a few ideas.  Beaudoin surmises the sleep/wake switch in our brains needs to know it’s safe for us to go to sleep before letting us crash.  The brain reads the room, scans the activity in our cortex to see if it’s doing things that suggest we ought to stay awake or other things which suggest it’s okay to pass out.  If you’re involved in mental activity which is oriented around coherent thoughts and attempts to make sense of things, the sleep/wake part of your brain is going to intuit that it’s not safe to go to sleep.  So what might happen if you purposefully engage in incoherent nonsense thoughts and images?  Is this the Holy Grail in the search for sleep?  Your mind is blocked from engaging in worrying and sensible thoughts which keep you awake, but also enables you to access your brain’s sleep switch more directly by essentially mimicking what it does right before falling asleep.

Here is a simplification of Beaudoin’s Cognitive Shuffle strategy:

1. As you’re lying in bed, think of a random, emotionally neutral word that has at least five letters, like BEDTIME.

2. Think of a second word that begins with the letter B, like BIGHEAD and visualize that item.  Keep it up with BANANA, BEDBUG, BLATHERSKATE, visualizing each.

3. If and when you run out of Bs, move on to another letter and repeat the process.  If you’re still awake, keep it up until you have either fallen asleep or completed the dictionary.

If all this seems like so much foolishness, consider that Beaudoin and his colleagues recruited 154 university students who reported having difficulty shutting off their brains at sleepy-time.  All completed questionnaires to measure their level of alertness before going to bed, how much effort it usually took to get to sleep and the quality of that sleep.  They were then randomly assigned to various sleep strategies.  The group using an imagery-based mind-wandering strategy like the one above answered another questionnaire one month later and had significant improvement in all three areas---quality of sleep, ease of getting to sleep and mental state before going to bed.  So there.

Once all the simple suggestions for enhanced sleep have been tried and failed, it might be time to wander off into more remote pastures.  Luc Beaudoin is waiting to welcome you in.  Here, have a BANANA.

Blinded By The Light

You’ve tried everything reasonable and nothing works.  Time to climb up into the sleep attic and dig through the boxes of weird stuff.  Here’s what we’ve found so far:

Clarence in Maine swears by this one: “When I was a little kid, I thought Bigfoot was staring at me through my window at night.  If I moved even one bit he would break through and kill me, like Bigfeet do.  I would be so focused on staying perfectly still that it helped me fall asleep in a minute or two.  Okay, I was a weird kid, but it worked.”

Charlie in South Dakota used to lay awake for hours, thinking someone might break in and stab him.  One night he decided to lay on his side and turn his head to face the ceiling.  “That way if someone broke in and tried to stab me they would think I was lying on my back and only stab me in the side, not in the chest',” he reasoned.  “Once I had that covered, I went to sleep right away.”

Streetside says everybody should try being homeless for a few days.  “Sleeping conditions really suck.  You could get beat up, someone might rob you, the cops hassle you all the time and sometimes it’s freezing.  You have to find ways to get to sleep in spite of it all.  I remember stuffing bubblewrap in my clothes to stay warm and keeping an axe under my pillow to defend myself.  After a little bit of this, you can sleep through anything.  Having an actual bed is like heaven.”

Greta guarantees that meditation works.  “Most people know the drill but they give up.  I have to admit it also took me a while to get the hang of it.  You have to just empty your mind.  If some train of thought starts to invade, cast it out right away.  Essentially, just stop thinking, focus on emptying your mind.  Maybe focus on breathing.  It breaks the habit of overthinking everything, which keeps you awake.”

Eddie likes noise.  “I need a light fan blowing to keep the other noises out.  Sometimes, I need it blowing on me if I’m not in my own house to keep me cool.  White noise from the TV on an empty station works, too.  I cover the screen with a towel to keep out the light.  Then I pretend to sleep and I usually go right off.  If none of that works, well, 100 mgs. of Trazadone will do the job.  400 mgs. if you’re hopeless.

Shelley read that in World War II, the Air Force trained pilots to fall asleep fast so they’d be rested and ready for sudden missions.  “They focused on relaxing all the muscles in the body, starting from the head and ending at the feet.  I relax the muscles at the top of my head, then my face, shoulders, etc.  I don’t think I’ve ever made it past my shoulders before falling asleep.”

Molly says “No caffeine.  At all.  EVER!”  And she has a lot of company.

Jorge advises “Join the Army.  They’ll work you so hard you’ll learn to sleep anytime you can…standing…daytime….next to an active helicopter…near gunfire.  If you can find a way to sleep when people are actively trying to kill you, then dealing with the stress you get from Brenda in accounting seems pretty easy.”

And finally, this from Maria.  It works, we tried it.  “Put an album by Ian and Sylvia on your disc player, volume not too high, CD player on the other side of the room.  You won’t make it past the third song.  Works every time.”

Nothing works for everyone, but it just takes one appropriate modus operandi to send you to the Land of Nod.  Let us know what works for you.  We’ll be up at seven a.m.  Or maybe six, depending….

Rip

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com

         

Waiting For Godzilla

It’s ten a.m. on the morning of September 26 and no one would suspect a monster was lurking.  It’s a cloudy day, slight breeze, temperature at 79, a little quiet on the country roads of bucolic Fairfield, Florida.  The wife and I went next door to move any loose paraphernalia on a vacationing neighbor’s property into his garage, then took our usual one-mile walk down 112th Avenue.  A mile is plenty of time to consider the possibilities, which range from nothing untoward happening to a tree falling on the house and the cat escaping, never to be seen again.  We have a history of feline hysteria so Siobhan is taking grave measures to prevent this from happening.  You don’t want to know.

Our trees, of course have been manicured to fall outward if at all, but the Cosmic Arranger, who decides these things, is capable of dumping them anywhere he pleases.  Hay for the horses has been covered with a tarp held in place by heavy enough objects to deter a normal windstorm, but this one is anything but.  The Generac is gassed up and ready to go since it’s only a matter of time until electrical power is a thing of the past.  The horses have open doors to their stalls and can proceed as they please.  That just leaves nine finicky goats, who will be very displeased by the whole affair.  Our goats don’t cotton to water in their fields, absolutely abhor puddles and won’t stand for disruptions in their feeding schedule.  No sensible explanation will suffice, any late meals will be greeted with outraged baahing and head-shaking and letters to the editor of the Caprine Daily News.  It turns out that most goats have suffered the blight of home-schooling and have never been taught that patience is a virtue.

Quo Vadis

Dinnertime Thursday, and we all wait for guidance from our weather gurus, an odd lot with strange agendas.  The new guy at Channel 20 is stubbornly insisting Helene will barge in further east than anybody thinks.  He has a little penis-like (disturbingly curved) arrow running from the middle of the storm directly into Gainesville, although he seems willing to compromise on Cross City.  Most of the Weather Channel pros are pointing to somewhere between Panacea and Apalachicola.  A healthy number of Tallahasseeans, only 31 miles inland from Panacea are heading for whatever hills they can find.  All our fisherman friends with properties in Steinhatchee and Horseshoe Beach are cringing in fear and gnawing their fingernails to the quick.

The experts are telling anyone who will listen that this storm is a devil in disguise, not just a windstorm happy to take a large bite out of the coastline and go about its business, but one which will roar inland and keep itself together long enough to make Sherman’s march through Georgia look like the Rose Parade.  And Pedro---batten the hatches at South of the Border, it’s coming your way, too.

It’s stunning to contemplate what a tornado, flood or hurricane can do to humans and their meager creations in the blink of an eye.  One day there’s a nice little town like Mexico Beach sitting there minding its own business, next day there’s barely a trace it ever existed.  Too bad we can’t pen up all the tree-muggers and anthracite-lovers in one of these  destinations and let ‘er rip.  As a famous Cajun once said, it’s the environment, stupid.

 

Tell Us About Hurricanes, Mr. Science

 “Where do they come from, where do they go?  Where do they come from, Cotton-Eye Joe ?”

There are six widely accepted conditions for hurricane development.  The first is that ocean waters must be above 79 degrees Fahrenheit.  Below this threshold, hurricanes will not form or will weaken rapidly.  Ocean temperatures in the tropical East Pacific and the tropical Atlantic routinely surpass this threshold, and as global warming heats up the ocean waters will measure above 79 for longer periods.

The second ingredient is distance from the equator.  Without the spin of the Earth and the resulting Corioles force, hurricanes would not form.  Since the force is at a maximum at the poles and a minimum at the equator, hurricanes can not form within 5 degrees latitude of the equator.  The Corioles force generates a counterclockwise spin to low pressure in the Northern Hemisphere and a clockwise spin to low pressure in the Southern Hemisphere.  Didn’t know that, didja?

The third ingredient is that of a saturated lapse rate gradient near the center of rotation of the storm.  A saturated lapse rate insures latent heat will be released at a maximum rate.  Hurricanes are warm core storms.  The heat hurricanes generate is from the condensation of water vapor as it conveniently rises around the eyewall.  The lapse rate must be unstable around the eyewall to insure rising parcels of air will continue to rise and condense water vapor.

Now we’ve got one you’re familiar with.  The fourth and one of the most important ingredients is that of a low vertical wind shear, especially in the upper level of the atmosphere.  Wind shear is a change of wind speed with height.  Strong upper level winds destroy the storm’s structure by displacing the warm temperatures above the eye and limiting the vertical accent of air parcels.  Hurricanes will not form when the upper level winds are too strong.

The fifth ingredient is high relative humidity values from the surface to the mid levels of the atmosphere.  Dry air in the mid levels of the atmosphere impedes hurricane development in two ways.  First, dry air causes evaporation of liquid water.  Since evaporation is a cooling process, it reduces the warm core structure of the hurricane and limits vertical development of convection.  Second, dry air in the mid levels can create what is known as a trade wind inversion.  The inversion is similar to sinking air in a high pressure system.  The trade wind inversion produces a layer of warm temperatures and dryness in the mid levels of the atmosphere due to sinking and adiabatic warming of the mid level air.  This inhibits deep convection and produces a stable lapse rate.  Got it?  No?  Okay, “adiabatic” means relating to a process or condition in which heat does not enter or leave the system concerned.  Better?  Good.

Finally, the last ingredient is that of a tropical wave.  Often, a hurricane in the Atlantic begins as a thunderstorm complex which moves off the coast of Africa.  It becomes what is known as a midtropospheric wave.  If this wave encounters favorable conditions such as stated in the first five ingredients, it will amplify and evolve into a tropical storm or hurricane.  Hurricanes in the East Pacific can develop via a midtropospheric wave or by what is know as a monsoonal trough.  But who cares about them, right?

Galveston, 1900

Disa & Data

1.—In 1281 A.D., a hurricane killed 100,000 unlucky Mongols who were attacking Japan.  The Japanese soldiers thanked the storm gods for the kamikaze, which means “divine wind from the gods.”

2.---During the Galveston hurricane of 1900, nuns used ropes to tie themselves to rows of children in orphanages.  “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” lamented their Mother Superior.  Alas, the floodwater would have its way.  After the storm abated, the nuns were found still tied to the children, all drowned.

3.---After Hurricane Dorian swept through North Carolina in 2019, some of the locals decided to check on the famous herds of horses and cows of Cedar Island.  They were stunned to find 17 cows and 28 horses completely missing.  Later, many of the bodies of these animals washed up on shore.  The ones which didn’t were presumed to have been lost at sea.  A couple of days later, however, 3 cows were found happily grazing on the shores of Cape Lookout, five miles away.  Noone has a very good explanation.

4.---Cyclone Freddy was like The Man Who Came To Dinner….he just wouldn’t leave.  Formed off the coast of Australia in February of 2023, Freddy hung around for five weeks, taking in the sights and travelling the width of the Indian Ocean before making landfall in Madagascar.  The World Meteorological Organization confirmed in 2024 that Freddy was the longest lasting tropical cyclone ever observed.  Contacted in a retirement home in downtown Tsiroanomandidy, Freddy said, “Hey, you only live once.  Go for the gusto!”

5.---Kenny was a homeless guy who roamed the French Quarter in New Orleans in 2005, occasionally helping out at one of the better restaurants in town, being paid in fancy leftovers.  When Katrina loomed on the horizon, the owners installed Kenny inside the building so he’d be safe and could keep an eye on things.  When the monster storm hit and the city was flooded, all contact was lost and the owners assumed the worst---Kenny was out with the tide.  Ah, but no so fast, my friends!

Once the electricity went down, Kenny thought the responsible thing to do was to cook up all the food, which would otherwise spoil.  The restaurant stocked the finest meats in town and the menu there was first class, so Kenny invited a few friends over for pheasant under glass and pate de fois gras, their favorites.  He also admitted to downing a few bottles of the place’s finest champagne but promised to make it up to the owners.  Two weeks later when they were finally able to access the restaurant, there stood Kenny in all his glory, 20 pounds heavier and none the worse for wear.

Sunday Morning, Coming Down

Beguiling almost everyone, Hurricane Helene scurried a little east of the majority of predictions and blasted poor little Perry, Florida at 11:10 p.m.  With winds reaching a scary 140 mph, the category 4 storm ranks among the most powerful ever to strike the USA.  Our pals in nearby Cedar Key were left reeling, with some houses completely obliterated.  Keaton Beach, with a surge of 20 feet, was decimated.  Any building left standing was passed slowly and regarded with awe.  Power was out everywhere, of course, as unending convoys of electrical trucks from around the country poured in to tackle the forest of downed trees and tangled wires.  We lost power here at Flying Pie headquarters on Thursday night and got it back on Sunday, mid-afternoon, grateful for the gift of Generac.

True to the promise of Weather Channel, Helene savaged Georgia, Tennessee and North Carolina, where our old pal Leslie Logan was last seen on a ratty home-made raft heading due North out of Highlands.  Leslie was a good swimmer in her younger years, and very buoyant, but who knows how her aging body will stand the tests of time and turbulence?  If you see her floating by, throw out a line, she’ll be forever grateful and you’ll be paid back with a glowing smile and sumptuous baked goods.

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com     

Some Guys Have All The Luck

“Luck, be a lady tonight.”---Robert Alda

Does Luck exist?  Is it a thing, like gravity or pickled herring or is it just another myth to be winked at and discarded?  And if it is in fact a thing, why do some people win the lottery four times while others invariably drive into potholes?  Inquiring minds want to know.

Richard Wiseman thinks he’s got a handle on it.  An author and psychology professor at the University of Hertfordshire, Wiseman wrote a book about luck and in the process discovered that there really are such things as lucky and unlucky people.  “We worked with exceptionally lucky and unlucky people in our research,” he says.  “There are huge differences in their lives.  Lucky people are always in the right place at the right time, unlucky people just can’t catch a break.  I think a big part of that, though not all, is the way in which they’re thinking and behaving.”  Wiseman posits that psychological behaviors are what determine the luck a person perceives in his life.

“People who believe lucky things happen to them tend to fare better than people who feel unlucky,” Wiseman claims.  “The lucky people tend to bounce back from adversity while the unlucky ones get dragged down by failure.  The lucky people are flexible thinkers more open to opportunities when they come along.  As Seneca once said, ‘Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.’  If you feel unlucky, change up what you’re doing, take a different way home from work, change your TV shows, look for a different type of partner.  You can absolutely change your luck.”

Maybe.  But how do you explain the guys below?

Strike One! 

On August 24, 1919, Ray Caldwell put on a Cleveland Indians uniform for the first time.  It was a brutally hot day, but clear as the game started.  Just waived by the Boston Red Sox, Caldwell was at the crossroads of his career and another bad outing could mean the end of his major league pitching days. 

Five years earlier, Ray was the bees’ knees, a transcendent talent on his way to becoming one of the greatest pitchers ever, but demon alcohol got in the way and knocked him out of the box.  Cleveland manager Tris Speaker, in a desperate push for the playoffs, got him for almost nothing from the Bosox and gave him one more chance.

Ray Caldwell was on his game that day against the Philadelphia Athletics, mowing down batter after batter with an above-average fastball and an elite curve.  In a pinch, he went to his devastating out pitch, one of baseball’s best spitters, still legal in 1919.  After eight innings, the A’s had only four hits and a walk and the game looked in the bag for the home boys.  A few fans headed for the exits, noting rain clouds coming in from over Lake Erie.  Then, a funny thing happened on the way to the clubhouse.

Caldwell got two easy infield outs, the latter in a now-pouring rain.  As he got set to pitch to Philly shortstop Ray Chapman, however, a violent lightning strike exploded down the middle of the field.  Chapman felt a surge of electricity go down a leg and yowled like a scalded dog.  The Cleveland fielders dove for the ground.  “I took off my mask and threw it as far as I could,” said Indians catcher Steve O’Neill.  “I was afraid the metal in the mask would get me killed.”

Five seconds after the bolt hit, everybody looked around.  Everyone seemed okay except for their newest teammate.  Ray Chapman was laying on his back, arms spread wide, out cold, the victim of a direct hit.  The players rushed over to Caldwell but the first man who touched him jumped back with a shout.  He’d been zapped by Caldwell’s prone body.  The players just fell back and stared at Caldwell’s chest, still smoldering from where the bolt hit.  The observers were terrified to touch him and nobody did.  “Ray’s dead,” one of them murmured and nobody doubted it.

Enter Lady Luck, stage left.  Suddenly, Caldwell started groaning, crawled back to his knees, then stood for his immortal sentence: “I have one more out to get!”  Nobody moved.  “Give me the danged ball and turn me toward the plate!” he insisted.  Who’s going to argue with the Lightning Man?  Everyone went back to their positions and A’s shortstop Jumping Joe Dugan came up to bat.  Caldwell’s first pitch was down the middle and Dugan laced it to third, where Willie Gardner picked it up and threw him out.  Fait accompli!

After the game, a ragged Caldwell told a Cleveland Plain Dealer reporter, “It felt like somebody picked up a board and whacked me on top of the head.  But I got a complete game win, so what the hell!”  If Ray hustled out of the locker room to the nearest bar that day, nobody complained.  They were probably all in there with him.

That’s The Way That The World Goes ‘Round

When it comes to luck, it’s hard to beat Frano Selak, often called the luckiest unlucky man in the world.  In 1962, Selak survived a train accident that killed 17 people.  In 1966, a bus he was riding in skidded off the road, drowning four, but not Frano, who swam to shore with just a few cuts and bruises.  Two years later, while teaching his son how to hold a gun, Selak shot himself in the testicles.  In both 1970 and 1973, he experienced automobile accidents in which the cars caught fire; Frano escaped without a scratch.  In 1995, he was hit by a bus in Zagreb; no sweat, just minor injuries.  A year later, he avoided a collision with a truck by swerving into a guardrail, causing Frano (no seat belt, of course) to fall 300 feet into a ravine.  Fate finally decided Selak had enough.  In 2003, he won the Croatian national lottery, earning him a prize of one million euros.  If at first you don’t succeed….

Lucky Ducks

We always try to be nowhere in the neighborhood when an Atomic Bomb goes off.  Not so, Tsutomu Yamaguchi, an employee at Mitsubishi Heavy Industries, who was in Hiroshima on business in 1945 when the first nuclear bomb was dropped.  Although he was injured, Tsutomu survived the blast.  You’d think that would enough fun for one guy, but not Mr. Yamaguchi.  After a quick recovery, he returned to the family home in---you guessed it---Nagasaki, just in time for the second whoop-de-doo.  Now, this sort of thing is enough to piss off even Mary Poppins so Tsutomo became a vocal protestor for the rest of his life.  In a memorable  comment on the matter, he once said “Well, you know, it kinda gripes my butt.”  In 2009, Japan officially recognized Yamaguchi as a survivor of both blasts, making him the only person in the world to survive two nuclear explosions.  He lived to a ripe old age of 93, just to be ornery.

It’s bad enough to be blind and deaf, but that wasn’t good enough for Edward E. Robinson.  Eddie was wandering around the yard looking for his chicken while swinging his aluminum cane when it started to pour.  Robinson took refuge under the only tree in the area, which was just too tempting for wandering lightning.  They say the odds of getting struck by the stuff are 1 in 12,000 but that day they were 100% for Eddie.  He lay on the ground for 20 minutes before stumbling to his feet and struggling back to his house and going to bed (“Getting hit by lightning can tire you out,” he later advised.)  Surprisingly, when Robinson woke up later in the evening, he could see and hear.  His stunned doctor said Eddie likely survived the blast due to the rubber-soled shoes he was wearing.  “Normally, I wouldn’t recommend getting hit by lightning,” said the doc, “but if you’re blind and deaf and can’t find your chicken….”

Everybody over seventy knows who Scrooge McDuck is.  “He’s the richest duck on the pond,” avers his nephew, Donald.  But how did he get that way?  How does a duck born in Scotland of poor but honest parents wind up in America with a money bin in his back yard?  It’s a long but inspiring story.

When Scrooge was ten years old, he was dead broke.  He earned his first dime by cleaning the mud from Butch the ditchdigger’s shoes.  Surrounded by poverty, McDuck knew early on he had to go elsewhere to find his fortune.  In his teen years, he traveled the world working and sent most of his money home.  Eventually, he got lucky, finding an enormous gold nugget while prospecting in the Yukon.  Some say he then hired a mob of thugs to chase a tribe of locals away and took over their territory.  Others argue that Scrooge was an honest fellow who “made his fortune being tougher than the toughies and sharper than the sharpies.”

Scrooge, himself, once admitted “It was just dumb luck, but dumb luck is better than no luck at all.  But I don’t care what people call it.  I love my money bin.  I like to dive into it from my diving board.  I like to burrow through it like a gopher.  I like to throw the money up in the air and have it come down and hit me on the head.  If this is luck, I’ll take all you got!”

Luck.  Fact or fiction?  Chuck LeMasters is alive.  Steve Ringer prospers.  Bill Killeen is schmoozing with Rhonda Vincent.  Marty Jourard is mayor of Seattle.  Is there any doubt?

That’s all, folks….

bill.killeen094@gmail.com