Signal Hill Musings

by Tom Shafer

April 19, 2024

Are you kidding me?? There’s no such thing as an “average solar eclipse.” And no, the little NASA experiment near Chincoteague Island in Virginia (firing rockets into the atmosphere during the event to test and analyze changes in Earth’s magnetic and electric fields) did not produce unseemly rituals performed by “Masonic, Satanic, Esoteric, Gnostic, Brotherhood of the Snake and other occult-like groups” — as claimed and promulgated by idiotic online influencers. And no again, the eclipse did not usher in a new world order as right-winged (or Reich-winged?) conspiracy blowhard Alex Jones theorized. Actually, given the state of our planet right now, perhaps a new world order, a nice, healthy one, would be a refreshing change of pace.

Now that the long awaited solar eclipse of 2024 has come and gone, of course, I’m depressed. I had impatiently anticipated this event since I witnessed the 2017 eclipse (then in Eddyville, Kentucky, and of which you can read about under the Naturelated tab sporting the title “The Coolest Thing Ever Seen!”). But now that the sun and moon are back to normal, what astronomical happening will quench our collective thirst for an encore? Yes, we will experience all of our typical meteor showers (the Eta Aquarids in May, the Perseids in August, and the Geminids in December being the best), and we do have a couple of comets to look for (Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS should be naked-eye visible from late September through mid October — if it doesn’t crumble to pieces as it traverses our solar system). Then, the harvest full moon will undergo a minor partial lunar eclipse on Sept. 17, where the moon will graze the Earth’s dark shadow from 10:12 to 11:16 p.m. But at its peak (10:44 p.m.), only 9% of the moon will be eclipsed, so it will look like a dent or tiny nibble has been taken out of the top of the moon. Cool, I guess, but not solar eclipse cool. I suppose I will have to suppress my celestial excitement until a full lunar eclipse occurs on March 14, 2025.

But the April 8th, 2024, total eclipse DID eclipse all expectations! Fortunately, I didn’t have to travel this time and was able to experience it fully in the comfort of my backyard. Again, for the uninitiated, a total solar eclipse occurs when the moon passes between the sun and Earth, completely obscuring the face of the sun. As the moon begins this passing, it appears “to take bites out of the sun” until it is gone at a moment called totality. At this time, the sky appears darkened like dusk or dawn, so stars are evident overhead and wildlife is briefly confused, thinking and behaving as if nightfall is approaching. During totality, the sun’s corona is visible, its rays radiating outward in hues of yellow and orange. Just before and just after totality, a phenomenon called Baily’s beads occurs, where the moon’s surface of mountains and valleys juxtaposed against the disappearing sun create a rippling effect along the edge of the eclipse. And, approximately ten to fifteen seconds before and after totality, a “diamond ring” becomes visible: as the sun “disappears” — then “reappears” — it dazzles like a diamond set in a ring. The path for a typical solar eclipse can be from 75 to 150 miles in width, and depending on the viewer’s position in the path, he or she can experience a few seconds of totality up to seven minutes. I experienced two minutes of totality here where I live outside Yellow Springs, Ohio, while others in the Miami Valley experienced up to four minutes.

I viewed the 2017 event with my eyes only (in four minutes of totality I took three quick photos with my phone’s camera), but I wanted to capture this one with my Nikon camera while concurrently observing it through my Celestron reflector telescope. I also utilized my Celestron solar binoculars, with which I often inspect the sun while scanning for solar flares and sunspots. For several days prior to the assigned date of the eclipse, the weather forecast was not a favorable one, with many computer simulations predicting clouds and potential thunderstorms. But as the weekend progressed, the prognostication continued improving, and Monday dawned clear and bright with only a hint of high cirrus clouds overhead. Fortunately for us, this weather held for the rest of the day.

What follows (in sequence) are the photographs that I took throughout the entirety of the eclipse. Enjoy!

Sadly, the next significant total eclipse for America won’t happen again until August 12, 2045, and Ohio won’t witness another one until 2099. If I’m alive and still kicking somewhat, I will perhaps travel to catch the 2045 eclipse (Arkansas or Florida would be my picks). And, for a little more perspective about these types of events, our country has experienced just twenty-one total solar eclipses (now twenty-two) since its inception! I have to admit that it would be nice to glimpse that twenty-third one. Just one more reason to stay alive!

by Tom Shafer

March 1, 2024

So, meteorological spring commenced on March 1st, as it does every year, but “spring” in Ohio is being redefined as our climate continues to warm. I noted last year when reporting on the first annual crocus sighting — which I will get to — that I rarely wore a heavier coat during that winter. In fact, last year we experienced the second warmest February ever here in Dayton — including the warmest average high temperature in recorded history (51.9° F). That trend carried through to this year, and though the average high was only 46° by comparison, we absolutely shattered the record for average nighttime low temperature with a 37° aggregate (the previous record had been 32° in 1998!). Providing more evidence of regional warming, ten of the last fifty Februaries have witnessed average high temperatures of 45° or better, while the previous hundred Februaries totalled only four. Perhaps I should be donating my winter coat to a Goodwill further north.

Anyway, many of you are aware that I have been tracking the beginning of spring with a singular purple crocus that has taken root here in my backyard. When I first noticed it back in the mid-twenty teens, it was blooming in mid-March, but in subsequent years it began flowering earlier and earlier. Then, last year it blossomed on February 26, a full week before any previous year. So, yesterday, I was not surprised to witness this leap year gift:

It looks a little freezer burned, likely the result of some wild temperature swings in the last half week or so. And actually, these weather changes produced some early morning fireworks (complete with a 4:45 a.m. tornado warning) on February 28 as two tornadoes (an EF-1 and an EF-2) ripped across our area, both very close to our stately manor. My home weather station even recorded a wind gust of 91 mph as the front moved through. Tornadoes are a rare phenomenon in Ohio in February, but with climate changing, this may well become the norm. Unfortunately — or fortunately depending on your point of view — winter itself is shrinking right before our eyes.

Hopefully, like the proverb teaches us, with March roaring in like a lion, it will exit like a lamb.

Welcome Spring!

by Tom Shafer

January 13, 2024

Okay, I don’t need to tell you that we are suffering polarization in almost every aspect of our lives, from social to cultural to political issues — even to what foods we like and our favorite sports teams.  And some of you might be thinking, “What can we do about it?”  Well, I’m here to tell you simply this: I want to make it worse.  Because it recently dawned — really mooned– on me that our moon, the Moon, doesn’t have a name.

Now, you are probably asking yourself, “Wait, it does have a name — and you just used it!”  But technically, that’s not quite right.  According to National Geographic, “a moon is an object that orbits a planet or something else that is not a star.”  NASA states that moons are “naturally-formed bodies that orbit planets, also called planetary satellites.”   The word “moon” is merely a generic term, a common noun if you will, that refers to a general person, place, idea, or quality — and not a specific or proper one (like Pacific Ocean or Ohio River or Rocky Mountains or Vin Diesel).

Additionally, to this date, the NASA/JPL Solar System Dynamics team has validated a total of 290 moons in our solar system alone — most of them named.  And none of them are christened Moon — except ours.

Saturn may have as many as 146 moons — the most in the solar system — and sixty-three of them are officially named.  Jupiter boasts seventy-nine moons, of which fifty-three are certified and named.  All twenty-seven moons of Uranus (BTW, Moons of Uranus is a great name for a philharmonic-punk band) are officially designated, twenty-six of them after Shakespearean characters (like Ariel, Oberon, Puck, Cassida, and Juliet).

The biggest indignity in this planetary — or moonary — scofflaw is that even non-planet Pluto has five titled moons — including Hydra, Charon, and Styx from Greek mythology.

Some of you may be thinking that I am making a moontain out of a moonhill, but I beg to differ.  Imagine the utter chaos at a dog park if every canine was named Dog.  And how confusing would it be for motorheads if all automobiles were called Car:  “I love the new Chevrolet Car — oh, and the impressive Chevrolet Car!  But I hate the Ford Car, and the new Hyundai Car is downright hideous!” 

This could even be potentially dangerous if it were injected into the pharmaceutical world: “Grandma, did you take your Drug and your Drug and your Drug?  Nooooo!  You can’t take your Drug with your Drug after eating grapefruit!!”

So clearly this is a problem.  But I’m not here just to point out the problem; I’m here to propose a solution.  We need to Name the Moon!  And an election, a world-wide election, would be the most democratic way to get this done.  

Human beings love elections, and I can already envision world-wide campaigns for various names: Selene (Greek goddess of the moon), Jericho (Hebrew for moon), Ayla or Aylin (Turkish for moon), Luna (Spanish and Italian for moon, and also the Roman goddess of the moon), Chandra (Hindi and Sanskrit for moon), Mona (Old English for moon), or Hina (the Hawaiian moon goddess).  There might even be a campaign for the name Keith — after the late drummer of the Who, Keith Moon.

What could go wrong here?

Oh, and just in case you were wondering, our sun, Sun, doesn’t have a name either.

You’re welcome!

by Tom Shafer

October 4, 2023

I was sitting on the back patio a couple of nights ago with outdoor cats Boots, Rainbow, and Luna, fresh from an enjoyable vacation to Colorado, when four of our resident bats began swooping and diving in the backyard.  For the next hour or so, I viewed their antics with equal parts amusement and wonder.

Of course, being late September pushing October, I knew that these nightly visitations would be coming to an end very soon.  Here in Ohio, we do have bat species who migrate to warmer states and Mexico, but the vast majority of them hibernate, and hibernation begins when their food source, mainly insects, disappears.  Because of our chillier nights, insect population has begun to dwindle significantly, and it won’t be long, perhaps mid-to-late October, before their numbers decline enough to send the bats to their winter slumber.  

But here in the backyard, my bats weren’t worried about sleeping – they were desperately trying to fill their bellies!  In rapidly waning light, the bats navigated the gloaming by utilizing their echolocation, high-pitched clicking noises which produce sound waves that bounce off of nearby objects.  On two occasions, individuals dove within a couple of feet of my head – and I was thankful that they were feeding on the last of the seasonal mosquitoes and not me!  

Remarkably, a couple of our little friends have likely lived with us since we moved here in 2014.  They were quite visible back then, enough so that I quickly installed a bat house along the border of our woods for them and others.  Unfortunately, I have never seen any bats in this little home. But, because they can live up to thirty years (though twenty is more the norm), I like to think that at least two of them have been with us from the beginning.

And if you are wondering what kind of bats are residing here, so am I – though I do have three distinct possibilities because of their smallish size, their brownish fur, and the habitat they have chosen (a forested area – with nearby stream – that is also semi-residential): the little brown bat, the evening bat, or the Indiana bat. Until one lands on me to allow for further inspection, I am left only to educated speculation.  

This is also mating season for bats, so some of the evening activity – wing-flicking and specific vocalizations – may be precursors to the reproduction process.  Due to delayed fertilization, any ovulation and fertilization that occurs now won’t be fully realized until spring when females will birth their “pups.”  Though completely helpless at birth like most mammals, the pups will be almost fully autonomous within four to six weeks.  And, in case you were wondering, yes, like most mammals, bats do have belly buttons!

Again back in my darkening yard, the four bats continued their assault on unsuspecting insects.  As they tracked and pummeled their prey, these insectivores were easily reaching speeds of sixty miles per hour – and some species have been clocked at close to a hundred mph! With a waxing quarter moon rising in the east, I vacated the outdoor world confident that the bats would continue to fill their bellies.

As winter approaches, I have no doubt that I will see my little friends in the spring.  These unique mammals – the only ones who can fly – have a safe life here in country suburbia, with few if any predators (except the disease white nose syndrome – though that is more prevalent with bats who congregate and hibernate in large colonies).  I know that these critters often get bad reps from misinformation (like blood-sucking and rabies) and unfortunate YouTube videos, but I absolutely appreciate their unique qualities – and their ability to perform as nature’s best mosquito repellent.  Go Bats!

by Tom Shafer

July 28, 2023

I hope we can still turn it down now. And, though I seldomly-to-never agree with former Arkansas governor Mike Huckabee on policy issues, his stance on global warming is spot on: “The most important thing about global warming is this. Whether humans are responsible for the bulk of climate change is going to be left to the scientists, but it’s all of our responsibility to leave this planet in better shape for the future generations than we found it.” Amen, brother Huckabee!

by Tom Shafer

July 14, 2023

A couple of amazing space images were revealed to the public this week, and I couldn’t resist posting them here for your perusal. One comes from the James Webb Telescope that orbits our earth and transmits remarkable pictures of our universe, including objects that are too distant, too faint, or too old (in universe time). This one is local, as in our own solar system, and frankly, it needs no formal introduction.

This new image of Saturn not only provides a more detailed view of the planet’s ring system, but it also captures four of its moons – including Dione, Enceladus, and Tethys. And, frankly again, this representation looks more like an artist’s rendering than a photograph! If you would like to learn how this portrait was collected (and to see better close-ups), click here to access the NASA James Webb Telescope webpage.

The other image is easily the coolest GIF ever created, and comes to us compliments of the European Space Agency’s Mars Express spacecraft, which is now permanently planted on Mars. The craft just celebrated twenty years of space duty, and to commemorate this significant anniversary, the team in charge of the program decided to turn its camera toward Earth and the moon.

This image clearly illustrates and exemplifies the sheer distance between Mars and Earth, and exhibits just how impressive a technological achievement traveling to the Red Planet really is.

The team intentionally tried to draw a comparison to the famous Pale Blue Dot photograph taken of Earth from NASA space probe Voyager I in 1990 as it exited our solar system — a request made by famed American astronomer Carl Sagan — an image that moved him to reflect on our fragility here with three famous sentences — and just six words: “That’s here. That’s home. That’s us.”

A statement from the Mars Express team is not as succinct, but it lays out directly this moment’s inflection point for our planetary home:

“On the special occasion of Mars Express’s 20th anniversary since launch, we wanted to bring Carl Sagan’s reflections back to the present day, in which the worsening climate and ecological crisis make them more valid than ever. In these simple snapshots from Mars Express, Earth has the equivalent size as an ant seen from a distance of 100 meters, and we are all in there. Even though we have seen images like these before, it is still humbling to pause and think: We need to look after the pale blue dot; there is no planet B.”

I truly wish that all of us could at least agree to this.

by Tom Shafer

July 2, 2023

I love nothing more than to slip into the hot tub just after a nice thunderstorm has rolled through our area.  

Now, that’s quite the hyperbolic statement, but hyperbole has taken a significant hit in the age of Trump.  I actually love many things more than popping into bubbling, warm water after a storm.  But caught up in a post-Trump world, even a wordsmith like me can let down his guard and slip into hyperbolic malaise.  Given that the greatest hits of hyperbole according to Trump (“I alone can fix it,” “everything is rigged” or “everything is a scam,” something is “the best it’s ever been,” another thing “is a total disaster,” “I’m a very stable genius” — think “person, woman, man, camera, TV”) are now entrenched in verbal and written etymology, perhaps I can be forgiven for my most egregious error ever.

Anyway, this entry is not about Trump or hyperbole — it’s about thunderstorms.  And, everybody loves a good thunderstorm! — sorry, more hyperbole, and no, everybody does not love a good thunderstorm.  My cats, in general, hate them, and so do lots of non-cats.  But I find them fascinating and am drawn to them like moths to a flame or kids to cotton candy.  

Last night’s storm blew in quickly and was gone less than an hour later.  Before the sun set and as neighbors were sparking a splendid fireworks display in advance of Declaration Day, low gray clouds were scudding in from the west, precursors to Mother Nature’s more impressive fireworks that would follow.  Then, just as the artificial pyrotechnics were ending, low gutteral booms could be heard in the distance, undeniable signs that our weather was due for a change.

Of course, that thunder was generated by lightning which wasn’t quite visible yet.  The creation of lightning is complicated, but is not unlike the little zap you might get from touching a doorknob after shuffling across some shag carpeting.  That “shuffling” creates a “static charge” on your skin, and static charges are constantly seeking escape and will do so (that “zap”) when they find another thing (that “doorknob”) which conducts — or receives — electricity.

Inside a cumulonimbus cloud, winds are very turbulent, and many water droplets at the base of the cloud are lifted to the upper heights (as high as 65,000 feet!) where colder temperatures freeze them.  As these frozen drops fall, they collide with other droplets heading up (shuffling), and electrons are stripped off in the process.  Once the bottom of the cloud becomes negatively charged enough (as compared to the positively charged top), that imbalance (like a static charge) starts looking for an escape route, and when it finds one (the doorknob), ZAP!, a bolt of lightning occurs.  

Sometimes that escape happens inside the cloud or with another one nearby (cloud to cloud lightning), and other times that negative charge in the cloud seeks a positive charge on the ground, perhaps a tall tree or telephone pole or building (cloud to ground lightning).  Either way, the result is an electrical discharge that produces nature’s most impressive and powerful energy source — enough energy, at least 1.21 gigawatts worth, to power the flux capacitor of a DeLorean that will take you through a wormhole Back to the Future!

Now, the thunder that you hear is fashioned by the lightning itself.  The flash that you see is incredibly hot, as much as 50,000ºF, and as it explosively heats the air around it, a shockwave is produced.  As the air cools, it contracts rapidly, which creates that familiar CRACK sound, and the rumbles which follow are audible proof that the column of air is still vibrating from the initial shockwave.  

Back in my hot tub, I wasn’t thinking about any of this science.  I was merely enjoying an incredible light show Mother Nature style.  And, in case you were wondering, I was perfectly safe soaking in my bubbling water — which is actually a good conductor of electricity.  Because light travels faster than sound, I could estimate the distance between me and the storm by counting the number of seconds between a flash and its companion thunder.  It takes about five seconds for sound to travel one mile, so the thirty seconds that I counted told me the storm was at least six miles away.  So, I was relatively safe — barring some rogue, human-seeking thunderbolt!

Because our weather here is entering an unsettled period, we have quite a few chances for thunderstorms over the next week or so, and I look forward to more light shows starring the dynamic duo of Lightning and Thunder.  In fact, one of those storms is rumbling into our area right now, so I need to consult my NOAA (National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration) weather app to see where it is and when it may arrive.  For those of you who are like me, I wish you a happy thunderstorming.  The rest of you are more than welcome to join my cats under the bed! 

by Tom Shafer

May 11, 2023

After watching the Trainwreck Trump Town Hall (which is how it should have been promoted and billed) last evening on CNN, I so desperately wanted to pen a few words about the disgraced, twice-impeached, treasonous, sexual abusing ex-president, but I vowed last year that I would waste no more time thinking and writing about him.  However, when two-thirds of the Republican electorate apparently is still supporting him after ALL of his exploits, transgressions, and illegal activities, I feel compelled to say something.  But, I am not going to spend much time musing over him because what needs to be said has already been said — many, many, many times — including by me.  So instead, I reached back into my cobweb-addled brain, which reminded me that I already had a perfectly worded response to last night’s horrific, disinformative (yep, a new word) sideshow.  Three and a half years ago (and right before Christmas, I might add) Christianity Today had finally had enough of Trump’s antics and published an op-ed calling for his removal, essentially scolding his supporters to “remember who you are and whom you serve.”  I applauded CT then for being among the first to strongly condemn the President, and publicly thanked them with my own words (tagged to my Not Politics?! tab) — which I will repost here.  You’re welcome.

Thank You, Christianity Today

by Tom Shafer

December 23, 2019

Thank you, Christianity Today.  A prominent Christian voice has finally spoken from the wilderness, indicting Trump’s serial lying, immorality, and degradation of others.  And it’s about time.  Will any others step up??  Would you like some reminders as to why?  Thought you’d never ask:

“Just kiss (women).  I don’t even wait.  And when you’re a star, they let you do anything.  You can do anything . . . grab them by the pussy.  You can do anything” – recording of a conversation with then Access Hollywood host Billy Bush in 2005.  Just the first of many ways that Trump shows his regard and reverence for women.

$130,000 – payment made to silence porn star Stormy Daniels, who, not surprisingly, did not stay silent.

 “I’ve said if Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her” – statement Trump made about his daughter on The View.  If this isn’t bad enough, he also rhetorically queried Miss Universe (while watching a sixteen-year-old Ivanka host the 1997 Miss Teen USA pageant), “Don’t you think my daughter’s hot?  She’s hot, right?”

“. . . shithole countries” – a reference to poor African countries and Haiti, when confronted with a bipartisan plan to cut visa lottery numbers by half but focusing on bringing in more refugees from those areas.  Trump commented that he would like more immigrants from Norway instead.  BTW, Norway is 83% white, making it one of the whitest countries in the world.

Trump University – a now defunct real estate training program that utilized misleading marketing practices and aggressive sales tactics to bilk millions of dollars from unassuming students.  Though Trump insisted that he would never settle lawsuits brought against the organization, he did (as he always does), to the tune of twenty-five million dollars – after winning the presidency in 2016.

Trump, during a stump speech, mocking and jerking his arms, “Now, the poor guy, you ought to see this guy, ‘Ah, I don’t know what I said, I don’t remember, I don’t remember, maybe that’s what I said’” – about Serge Kovaleski, New York Times reporter who suffers from the disability arthrogryposis, which visibly limits the functioning of his joints.  And charity for all . . .

Kids in cages – how Trump’s immigration policy affected border policy.  Detention centers, at the direction of the White House, erected wire cages to contain immigrants seeking asylum along our Mexican border – including children and babies. Is that how Mary and Joseph would have been treated by Trump’s America when they were looking for a place to give birth? Imagine the rebel Jesus, as a baby, living in a cage.

“You had people that were very fine people, on both sides” – stated during a press conference about the Charlottesville Unite the Right rally over the proposed removal of a Robert E. Lee statue.  During a standoff between protesters and white supremacists, James Fields deliberately drove his car into a crowd of people, killing Heather Heyer and injuring nineteen others.  I suppose to Trump, James Fields is a “fine person.”

“He’s not a war hero.  He was a war hero because he was captured.  I like people who weren’t captured” – explaining to the Family Leadership Summit in Iowa during the 2016 presidential campaign why he didn’t think John McCain was a war hero.  McCain, a former Navy pilot, spent five plus years in a notorious North Vietnamese prison, the Hanoi Hilton, during the Vietnam War.  BTW, Trump received five deferments during the war, four for education, one for bone spurs.  Remarkably, his debilitation doesn’t keep him from the golf course: as of the beginning of December, 2019, he has played 241 times since his inauguration, or approximately twenty-two percent of his days in office.  And remember, as a candidate, Trump claimed that he would be too busy to play golf – an obvious condemnation of President Obama, who played 333 rounds in his eight years, or approximately three percent of his presidency.  Oh, and in case you wanted to know, 37% of Trump’s rounds have occurred on the Sabbath. By comparison, Trump has attended church services less than five times.  I love raw numbers!

3 – the number of marriages for Trump.  Just counting, not judging.  Remember, I love the numbers.

“I could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn’t lose voters” – statement made at a Sioux Center, Iowa, campaign rally in January, 2016.  What Christian talks this way?

Model Heidi “no longer a 10” Klum; actress Rosie “fat ugly face” O’Donnell; New York Times columnist Gail “face of a pig” Collins; Miss Universe winner Alicia “Miss Piggy” Machado; media mogul Arianna “unattractive” Huffington; adult film star Stephanie “horseface” Clifford (better known as Stormy Daniels); and former Hewlett-Packard CEO and once presidential candidate Carly “Look at that face! Would anyone vote for that?” Fiorina – just a few of the terrible (and may I note, non-Christian) things he has said about women.

“My whole life I’ve been greedy, greedy, greedy.  I’ve grabbed all the money I could get. I’m so greedy” – a fine statement if you are Gordon Gekko in the 1987 film Wall Street, but not necessarily a good one for a presidential candidate – in 2019!

“Teenage mothers [shouldn’t] get public assistance unless they jump through some pretty small hoops. Making them live in group homes makes sense” – after a statement like this one, I hope he gets an opportunity to live this way pretty soon, perhaps in his own individual cell – er, I mean room.  You can really feel his compassion for the poor and struggling here.

Campaign finance, ISIS, Facebook, drones, construction, technology, the economy, border security, Cory Booker, TV ratings, taxes, football, nuclear arms, trade, the courts, infrastructure – all of the subject matters/things of which Trump claims to be an expert, as in “I know more about Cory (Booker) than he knows about himself.”  Oh, and this is a condensed list.  Hyperbole aside, you just can’t make this stuff up!  Humble is not a word that comes to mind here.

15,413 – the number of lies delivered by Trump (inauguration through December 16, 2019), according to fact checkers at The Washington Post.  So, given that there have been 1060 days in that time, he is prevaricating at a rate of 14.5 per day.  I’m not sure what the record is, but this has got to be close – especially for an adult.  I’m sure the overall record is currently being held by a twelve-year-old boy in San Fernando, California (and please, no insensitive comments here – I was going for a joke and chose San Fernando out of thin air.  I should have written Springfield with no state).

“I am the chosen one” — OMG!  Literally. This statement is okay if you are Harry Potter and are joking with your friends in the library at Hogwarts (HP and the Half-Blood Prince), but no President should say it – even if he is defending his stance on trade with China. Ah, the humility!!!

Oh, and if you Christians have been counting here, Trump has broken only nine of the Ten Commandments.  I am giving him the benefit of doubt with regard to honoring his mother and father.  I truly hope he has at least done that.

I leave you two biblical verses that I think best support and speak truth to that Christianity Today editorial:

2 Peter 2:1-3: But false prophets also arose among the people, just as there will be false teachers among you, who will secretly bring in destructive heresies, even denying the Master who bought them, bringing upon themselves swift destruction. And many will follow their sensuality, and because of them the way of truth will be blasphemed. And in their greed they will exploit you with false words.

And,

2 Timothy 3:1-5: But mark this: There will be terrible times in the last days. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of godliness but denying its power. Have nothing to do with such people.

This heathen wishes that you Christians would reclaim your Christianity and reject the false idol who is Trump.  Merry Christmas.

by Tom Shafer

May 7, 2023

Over the winter of 2022-23, I embarked on forging a trail along the creek that defines the eastern border of our woods.  In the years we have lived here on our property in the center of Greene County, Ohio, I have cleared and refined several paths on the bluff above the creek, but I had never formally created an easy route down to it, nor a passage along its slow, meandering waters.  I wasn’t very far along in the process when a philosophical passage from noted writer and non-conformist Henry David Thoreau popped into my rather large noggin, a passage that I shared with my American literature students for many, many years. 

When Thoreau was twenty-seven years old, he realized that he was essentially — in today’s parlance — lost.  He had graduated from Harvard College, spent a couple of years teaching (unsuccessfully), and worked as a surveyor, but he was dissatisfied with the misdirection of his life.  With inspiration likely spurred by neighbor and mentor Ralph Waldo Emerson, Thoreau built a small ten by fifteen foot cabin near a pond on Emerson’s property and endeavored to live there in near isolation to “find himself,” and to discover meaning in life.  In a book he would pen about his experience there, simply called Walden, he summarized his experiment with these now-famous and galvanizing words:  “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

In no way am I comparing my “experiment” with Thoreau’s, but a lesson he learned rather quickly was one I experienced as well, and one that speaks to human nature of every time period in history — then, now, and tomorrow.   

Thoreau was noted for his nonconformity, even in his own time, and he explained his nature in his own inimitable way: “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”  So, imagine his horror (okay, that may be a little overly dramatic) when he himself fell prey to the shackles — and comfort — of conformity just walking about in his wooded abode:  “I had not lived there a week before my feet wore a path from my door to the pond-side; and though it is five or six years since I trod it, it is still quite distinct. It is true, I fear that others may have fallen into it, and so helped to keep it open. The surface of the earth is soft and impressible by the feet of men; and so with the paths which the mind travels. How worn and dusty, then, must be the highways of the world, how deep the ruts of tradition and conformity!”

As a purely coincidental note, I am transcribing this while listening to the British coronation of King Charles, perhaps the most perfect example of our rutted history on earth. 

Back to my own story and back in my own woods, the first order of business for this new trail was to engender a safe transition from the bluff to the creek, so I utilized a pair of trees and some climbing rope to fashion a swinging handrail down a natural wash to the valley floor.  From there, I began removing shrubs, downed trees, and other obstacles above the creek bed, using the unwanted debris to generate “natural” piles for usage by my feathered friends and other small mammals that populate our woodland.  After several days, the pathway started to take shape, and I was pleased with the final product.

Immediately, I introduced my three outdoor cats — Boots, Rainbow, and Luna — to the new trail.  If you have read a few of my other entries, you are aware that I walk my cats daily, much as you might walk your own dogs.  I grew up with dogs, but at my wife’s insistence early in our marriage, we became cat people.  Still, that didn’t necessarily mean that I had to treat these cats like cats.  So, for almost forty years, I have attempted to “train” my cats to be dogs — of course with limited to no success.  However, over time, these three have been more-than-willing companions on frolicking excursions through the woods.

And now, we had a creek to play in!

But what happened with Thoreau happened with me as well.  It is probably a couple of months since I completed my little project, but if I were to walk you along that path now, you might think that it had been there forever, that Native Americans, early settlers, and animals routinely traipsed along the creek, using the water for its necessary and life-sustaining qualities.  Based on the volume of artifacts and relics I have found on the bluff and in and around the creek, a trail (or trails) must have existed at one point, but it (or they) were slowly erased as large-tract farms were created here after the Ordinance of 1787 established a government for the Northwest Territory and opened the lands to fee simple ownership.  

I know that Thoreau’s message about the path from his door to his pond is more metaphorical or allegorical than physical, but that’s what popped into my brain — of which I have very little control.  

Of course, he’s right about the “worn and dusty” highways of the world and the deep “ruts of tradition and conformity.”  I have been railing against the stranglehold of conformity since I was first introduced to Emerson and Thoreau when I was a snot-nosed fifteen-year-old student in Jack Farnan’s American literature class nearly fifty years ago.  But even with recognition of the limitations and failings of conformity, it is strangely difficult NOT to fall prey to its adherence and compliance.

And I have evidence in my own woods — and my own life.

by Tom Shafer

March 16, 2023

Okay, so that’s quite the headline for a piece of writing — though some of you of a certain age may have, like I did, reflexively broken into song, hearkening back to a simpler time when the family gathered around a 19” black and white television powered by diodes and other vacuum tubes to watch the cultural phenomenon known as Hee Haw.  And I have to admit that I could just as easily titled this “Gloom, Despair, and Agony on Me.”

Except that I didn’t.

Anyway, it may be revelatory to some of you that I am currently undergoing therapy for my brain, which technically isn’t quite correct since I am not receiving transcranial magnetic stimulation — at least not yet.  Actually, I am participating in counseling for my emotions, feelings, and behaviors, which start in my brain.  Unfortunately, I have never been very good at managing my emotions, feelings, and behaviors and then relating them with humans familiar to me.  Instead, I have found that I am exceedingly good at revealing them to perfect strangers — or at least perfect strangers with letters like Psy.D, Ph.D, LMHC, or LPC attached to the ends of their names.

And when I say that I have never been good at managing or relating my E’s, F’s, and B’s, I mean that I have acted like they didn’t exist — at least to the outside world.  I have been VERY good at internalizing them, hiding them, and ruminating over them in my inside world, which turns out to be very BAD for the external version of me.  When I created a list of unresolved issues which I never fully addressed or confronted (a byproduct of a discussion with my current acronymed counselor), it was clear to me that I had either produced the beginning of a soon-to-be Hallmark Channel melodrama or I was finally recognizing the badly damaged refrigerator full of long-expired life items that has been strapped to my aching, twice-repaired back for many, many years.  The short list includes the inability to produce children; two painful (and unsuccessful) adoption attempts; my slow descent into being an ineffective life partner, son, and friend; the complications brought on by injuries and subsequent surgeries (nearly thirty) — including an addiction to vicodin; an early, unwanted retirement to take care of my Alzheimer’s-affected mother; then, the deaths of my father (from cancer), my brother (from drug usage), and eventually my mother after her long slog with Alzheimer’s.  

Now, I am the first one to point out always that everyone has a sad story to tell, that everyone is carrying hidden burdens, or as Anton Chekhov so succinctly put it, “Any idiot can face a crisis; it’s this day-to-day living that wears you out.”  But normal (and many abnormal) people find positive, productive ways to handle their issues or crises — from meaningful, constructive self-reflection to physical, strenuous workouts or activity to some kind of therapy to confiding in close friends and/or life partners.

And for much of my early life, I utilized physical activity as my means to a reformative end, from flag football to softball to bowling to basketball to mountain biking to hiking and backpacking.  But at age thirty-three, most of these pursuits came to an abrupt end when I tore the ACL and PCL in my left knee for a third time — while bowling!  My orthopedic surgeon performed his first ACL patellar tendon graft reconstruction (and the hospital’s) by harvesting the patellar tendon from my right knee, and after a lengthy and painful rehabilitation, I began honoring a promise that I would curtail the recklessness that had wrought damage to my body (and knee).  Ultimately, the ACL replacement was simply acting as a bridge to a total knee replacement that we hoped to hold off until I was at least fifty, so I needed to coddle and protect my newly repaired joint for as long as I could.  (Unfortunately, I only made it to forty-four.)

I didn’t realize how much I loved — and needed — all of those physical activities until I was indefinitely banned from them.  I played more golf and now rode my mountain bike on paved asphalt and concrete, but I missed the competitive nature and spirit — and sweat — of those more vigorous sports, and I especially missed sprinting the floor on a basketball court, scampering the bases of a softball diamond, and running a post pattern on a football field.  

But most importantly about this sudden lifestyle change, I no longer had the outlet that allowed me to “work out” my issues and problems — though I know now that all I was really doing then was defering them, proverbially kicking my can of worms down the road.

I should have turned to therapy at the time — I think my wife even suggested it — but I didn’t.  And, I actually had a prior good experience with it — well, sort of. 

When I was twenty-one years old, I tallied two DUIs in a short four-month window — and it could have been three (a trifecta!) in nine months if it weren’t for a kind Dayton police officer who charged me with reckless operation instead after I wrapped my Chevy Caprice Classic around a telephone pole on North Main Street in Dayton, Ohio.  And, if you were wondering what my problem was then, how I could collect nearly three DUIs in such a short period of time, did I mention that I was twenty-one — oh, and that I had a real love/hate relationship with whiskey — and myself.

The first offense rendered fairly effective penalties, including loss of driving privileges (except to school and work) for one year, a fairly hefty fine (may have been $500), and mandatory attendance at a weekend intervention program conveniently held on my college campus (Wright State University).  Unfortunately, those sanctions weren’t nearly punitive enough.

Being the slow learner that I can be, it was that second offense that finally got my attention.  First, I was treated to three wondrous nights in a Montgomery County jail.  Then, I lost all driving privileges for a year (and my car was impounded); I received an even larger fine (I think $1000); I experienced the weekend intervention program for a second time; and, I was remanded to weekly therapy sessions (a drug and alcohol addiction program) for a minimum of one year.  It was during that second intervention program that I met the psychologist who would try to fix me.

I remember that the program’s director, good guy Harvey Siegal, was very disappointed to see me back again — and so soon.  He was even more disappointed when he discovered that I was the main instigator behind an unauthorized pizza delivery to a group room at a local motel that Friday evening.  I promised that I would be a good little camper after that — and I’m sure the off-duty police officer who was guarding us appreciated the two pepperoni pizzas from Submarine House that were dropped off by a friend of mine.

On Saturday morning after our first group session of the day, I met with the moderator of that discussion, Richard (whom I will call Richard because that was and still is his name), in a breakout session.  Richard was a very genuine man who seemed genuinely concerned about me.  The group meeting — like the one I had experienced just three months prior — was a train wreck of personal, alcohol-enhanced stories, some told with a braggadocio that attempted to nullify their seriousness and severity.  I was by far the youngest person in the building, and many of the men surrounding me were serious alcoholics who had tallied multiple DUIs and whose lives seemed to revolve around getting to that next drink.  Internally, I kept asking myself what I was doing here among these reprobates and scallywags.  Of course, Richard had the answer for me. 

“I think we can save you” was his simple response when I asked that very question in our first sitting.  He explained that most of the thirty, forty, and fifty year olds in attendance indeed were hard-core alcoholics, and changing twenty, thirty, and forty year old behaviors was likened to teaching an old dog new tricks.  Learning new tricks was going to be much easier with a young pup like me.  

The rest of the weekend was pretty predictable — this was my second rodeo after all.  We participated in multiple meetings and lectures, got to see the twenty pound liver of an alcoholic (it should be three), and watched (and giggled through) the cinematic masterpiece Reefer Madness, which dramatizes (?) the effect of marijuana usage on teenagers of the 1930s.  

Then, on Sunday morning, as we were preparing to leave the motel to return to Wright State for breakfast and outtake meetings, my roommate for the weekend, a fifty-something year old man who worked in a machine shop, shared more of his own story with me and told me at the end of it, “You don’t want to be like me — or any of these other guys.  This is no way to live.”  Through dark, brooding eyes, he explained that he had effectively ruined his life, his marriage, his relationships with his children, and many of his true friendships — not to mention that the state had stripped his driver’s license forever.  For much of the weekend, we had psychologically danced around this rather direct statement, that “this is no way to live.”  In about five minutes, he had very effectively laid out the essence of the program’s message.

The very next week, I started my weekly sessions with Richard, and the short version of my first (?) year with him goes like this: 

I certainly didn’t take the counseling very seriously because I knew my problem, whiskey, was cured — I would just stop drinking it.  In my mind, I also knew I wasn’t like the other men I had shared two weekends with because I was an engineering major just one year from graduation who had a solid, post-college plan: take an engineering job out west, settle into a fulfilling, long-term relationship, buy a nice home on a somewhat wild piece of property, and produce a couple of children.  So, for one year, I talked and talked and talked, sharing with Richard everything he wanted to hear, convincing him that I was on a righteous path to self-reliance and success.  As we approached the end of our sessions, I was satisfied that Richard agreed with my own self assessment. 

To “graduate” from my court-ordered therapy, Richard and I had to appear in front of the judge who had overseen both of my DUI convictions.  I explained to him that I was a changed person, that I now had the tools necessary to take on the world in a sober and responsible way.  

When the judge queried Richard about our time together, Richard responded, “He has been telling me what I wanted to hear for an entire year,” and recommended another six months of counseling, with which the judge agreed and sanctioned.   

I was flabbergasted and angry and frustrated — and I felt betrayed!

At our very next session, the beginning of six more months of weekly servitude, I didn’t say a single word for fifty minutes — and neither did he.  We just looked at each other uncomfortably until our time ran out.  As I was getting up to leave, Richard declared that he had just added one more session onto my ledger, and further recommended that I come to our next session ready to talk or he would simply tally another one.

Clearly, my plan for clinical subterfuge had failed, but frankly, so had much of my life plan.  I had bailed on completing my systems engineering degree after a challenging and difficult internship with a very unhappy engineer contracted to Wright Patterson Air Force Base.  A girl I was dating seriously at the time left me for another engineering major, perhaps the only human I ever considered a rival.  And as my planned life spiraled quickly away from me, my love of drink swilled in to take its place.  Of course, I had kept all of this from Richard during my year of denial, instead painting the portrait of a man in complete control of his destiny.  

So, over the course of the next six months, I came clean with Richard and exposed myself for the incomplete, fragile man that I was.  For the outside world, I had always carried myself with a confident swagger that bordered on arrogance — which, somewhat predictably from a psychological perspective, masked the insecurity and self-doubt lying underneath.  We explored the root causes for my emotional and behavioral issues, and as I began to understand myself better, my life began slowly to change and improve.  I chose to complete a degree in English education after a chance encounter with a favorite former high school teacher and found a girl who didn’t seem to mind that I was damaged and vulnerable — then married me in spite of my debilities.

After six months of true self reflection, and with much assistance from Richard, I finally graduated from court-ordered therapy so that I could continue working on being the best human I could be — albeit one who was now suffering from the staggering cost of a financial responsibility bond and high risk insurance just to drive my non-impounded car.  

So, I am back here in present day after that longish stroll down Amnesia Lane, and in many ways, I’m still like that twenty-one year old version of me, trying once again to figure out who I am.  One would think that a nearly sixty-two year old man would have had all of this figured out by now, but like I mentioned earlier, sometimes I can be a slow learner — especially on big life issues.

Now, you may be wondering about that title and how it fits into this multi-layered storyline.  Well, my current counselor knows that I’m a writer, and at the end of our last session — and after a last flurry of discussion about my guilt and attempts at redemption — he suggested that I write about it.  So, really, this is, in essence, the product of a homework assignment.  And, I had to provide a little (okay, a lot of) back story to complete it.  

When I was working with Richard, guilt continually revealed itself as one of my more substantial problems: guilt stemming from transgressions during my teenage years; guilt from being a negligent son and brother; guilt from being an imperfect and careless friend.  Richard finally asked if I thought there was anything I could do about these feelings that so permeated my emotional life.  I remember telling him that apology is the only true counter to guilt.  Of course, Richard had a better word for it: redemption.  So, redemption it would be.  

At Richard’s suggestion, I made a list of people, friends and family and neighbors, that I had slighted in my past, and over the next few months, I sought each of them out to offer an apology for what I had done to them.  The vast majority of my efforts were warmly received, and I was forgiven for my misdeeds and lapses in judgment — though frankly, many of the supposed “crimes” could not be recalled by my “victims.”  As it turned out, some of these trespasses that I had been obsessing over had long been forgotten — just not by me.

So that’s where I am right now, working on redemption once again, trying to find and live the best version of me once again.  For most of you, that might seem like an easy thing to do, but I like to complicate the easy and challenge myself when I really shouldn’t.  But in my defense, guilt and shame are powerful opponents, and on most days, I am ill-equipped to take them head-on, and instead, find myself chipping around their edges — hoping that my work will lead to selfless anonymity.  Because if novelist Walter Kirn is right (from his article “The Mother of Reinvention” in The Atlantic, May 2002), “It’s no accident that most self-help groups use ‘anonymous’ in their names; to Americans, the first step toward redemption is a ritual wiping out of the self, followed by the construction of a new one.”  

Suddenly, I hear faintly familiar music in the background, and a voiceover proclaiming, “Gentlemen, we can rebuild him . . . Better than he was before.  Better, stronger, faster.”  I don’t know that I could possibly be stronger or faster like Steve Austin (think The Six Million Dollar Man television show from the 1970s), but I definitely want to be better.  I suppose that is the best I can hope for.

by Tom Shafer

January 27, 2023

So, if you’ve read the ABOUT Signal Hill tab, you know that I am a collector of things.  Now, this is a longtime affliction, one that I acquired from a notable collector himself, my father.  My father’s collection resided in half of the unfinished basement at my childhood home, and it was extensive and eclectic: old metal tools, exotic wooden fishing lures (and more pedestrian rods and reels), military stuff, antiques of all sorts, rocks and lapidary equipment, and toys.  These were organized into sections and boxed (if possible), and for the most part, he did little with them — except to add new-old items when he recovered them from a garage sale or local auction.  He also collected coins, stamps, and knives, but these smaller artifacts were hidden in his large bureau and bedroom closet.

From a very young age, I was well aware of his “crap” — what my mother called his hoard of things — and liked ogling them myself every chance I could get.  Most of these objects were off-limits to me (unless dad had them out), but that didn’t stop me from snooping around and stealing looks at them.  Doing so in the basement was easy enough, and when adults were elsewhere, I would open his old wooden chest to look at military articles — old medals, compasses, some clothing, even ammunition — or pull down boxes to peruse his polished and unpolished rocks or old toys.  

But getting to his coins, stamps, and knives was much more challenging — and significantly more dangerous.  This required subterfuge of great quality and planning, and could be pulled off only when my father was at work.  

Our single story home was tightly compacted with one narrow hallway leading to three, similarly-sized, smallish bedrooms.  My parents’ room was directly across from me and my brother’s at the end of the hall, and this proximity did allow for easier ingress and egress at dad’s goodies.  Unfortunately, my potential opportunities at access were significantly tested by the position of the only chair my mother ever sat in: the corner of our living room with a clear, unobscured view to the back bedrooms.  And this was where my mother could be found nearly every moment of every day — with two notable exceptions: when she was doing laundry and when she was sewing.  

The execution of laundry permitted me a short window of opportunity because the washer and dryer were located in the basement.  I knew that I had at best ten minutes to inspect a couple of coins or knives, but typically I only counted on half that time.  However, I still took advantage of these quick in-and-outs.

Sewing, though, was another story.  For reasons about which I’ve never been clear, mom’s sewing machine was also stationed in our unfinished basement, right next to the washer and dryer.  Perhaps this location permitted mom to kill two birds with one stone (laundry and seamstress work), or maybe she just enjoyed the solitude of our somewhat creepy basement.  

So (or sew), when my mom retired to do a little sewing, I would always tag along under the auspices of wanting to know what she was creating, mending, or hemming.  She was actually quite skilled, and when we were very little tykes, she fabricated much of our clothing.  Of course, with my tagalong, I was really performing reconnaissance, endeavoring to gauge how much time her selected task might take.  I hoped she was in the creation process because that would require much more time than patching a hole in a pair of jeans or lengthening the hem on the sleeves of a new suit.  Once I determined what she was doing, off I’d run — though quietly — to my parent’s room to gawk at dad’s treasures, ancient (to me) coins, gold (or so I thought) jewelry, knives of all shapes and sizes, and stamps from all over the world.  Fortunately, I was never captured in the moment of one of these capers, though I realize now (kid goggles off) that both of my parents likely knew what I was doing most of the time.  Many, many years later, and after dad passed from cancer and while mom was mired in the throes of Alzheimer’s, I secreted much of my father’s collection to my own home — at least those items that needed protection because of their potential monetary value — and of course the things that I wanted to keep for their sentimental value.

From a collector’s perspective, my first loves were rocks and other artifacts that came out of the ground.  I had creeks and woods all around me, and I scoured both looking for Native American stone tools (arrowheads and other projectile points), shark’s teeth (what we called horn coral when I was a kid), trilobites (Ohio’s state fossil — which is a thing), and brachiopods (think clams).  I was also fond of sparkly rocks like quartz and crystals, and some of my favorite childhood memories revolve around trips to Franklin, North Carolina, to mine for gems like rubies, sapphires, emeralds, aquamarine, garnets, rose quartz, topaz, and tourmaline.  For me, there was nothing like digging a bucket of dirt, throwing a couple of handfuls into a sluice box (a small box-framed screen), and sluicing that box in a stream of rushing water (or a sluice channel) hoping to discover a twenty-five carat ruby or emerald.  We always found lots of smallish treasures on these excursions, and I actually did unearth an eye-clean (few inclusions) ruby large enough to cut and be placed in a ring that my mother wore on special occasions. 

I’m still a rockhound today and on most days as I walk my cats through our woods and along our creek, my head will be down, eyes spying mother earth for those same spoils I was seeking fifty plus years ago.

I followed dad’s numismatic tendencies and initiated my own coin collection at about the age of seven.  Predictably, I started with coins I could obtain easily, change that mom or dad received from their purchases at our local retail stores.  Dad, of course, helped with older coins by giving me some of his, mostly duplicates, and I faithfully transferred all of them into coin albums so that I could see easily what I had and what I didn’t.  Wheat pennies were still in common circulation then, so my penny album was more complete than my nickel, dime, and quarter, but I had lots of them too.  Dad and I would frequent coin shows that came through the area, and I always planned out well in advance what I needed to inch each of my albums toward completion. When I was about thirteen, Dad started giving my brother and me yearly proof sets from the U.S. Mint (all of our minted coins which have been double struck for added clarity) as Christmas presents, gifts that I still cherish. And though dad and my brother have been gone for almost a decade now, at Christmas each year, I purchase a yearly proof set to keep his tradition going.  

Today, I’m not nearly as active with my collection, and the coins I purchase are considerably more expensive and valuable.  I continue to advance my albums, but those pieces that I am seeking are rare and costly.  And now, I have a deep hankering and love for silver and gold (who doesn’t?), which makes this hobby even more exorbitant. 

Back in the day (the sixties), it seemed like every boy aged seven to ten collected baseball cards because all of us played baseball.  Of course, I now know that wasn’t necessarily true, but in my circle it was.  My proximity to Cincinnati demanded an allegiance to the Redleg team that played there, which was easy for me given that the roster was loaded with young players who would anchor the Big Red Machine juggernaut of the seventies: Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Tony Perez, Gary Nolan, and Clay Carroll.  I delivered papers for a living then, waking at five a.m. every morning to meet at the carrier’s home to gather the Journal Herald so that I could ply my trade, and much of the money I collected was misspent on packs of baseball cards that contained perhaps the worst tasting bubblegum ever developed by man.  For many years, into my late teens, I approached my hobby this way, buying cards one pack (occasionally more) at a time.  After graduation from high school, I discovered that I could actually purchase ALL of the cards at once (called a set) and for several years, I secured a yearly set of Topps cards to maintain my collection.  

Though I am no longer actively collecting (I acquire a handful a year through eBay), at least I can count myself as one of those people who DID keep his baseball cards — unlike so many who did not.  Over the years, I have heard sad story after sad story, individuals who threw them out at some point — or had parents who did it for them.  For most of my life, my cards have been packed into boxes and hidden away in the closets of the various dwellings where I have lived.  But, in the past couple of years, I have brought many of my better “stars” to the light of day and am now displaying them so that I — and others — can enjoy the memories they inspire.

My last collection is one that made little sense to anyone when I started it — especially since I was minimally eight years away from actually enjoying (legally) the liquid contained within the items being collected: beer cans.  For reasons not clear at all, at the age of ten, I began gathering them, cleaning them, and displaying them in my room at home.  I don’t recall knowing any other “beercanners” or noticing another collection anywhere else, and I only remember seeing one brand of “malted barley pop” among all of my older family members, namely Budweiser.  Plain ole Budweiser — which became the first can.  And at the beginning, this was an easy hobby; all I had to do was troll the roadways of America to find aluminum (or steel) gold.  Since my vehicle of choice was the old reliable Huffy Scout ten speed bicycle, I could easily spy discarded nuggets as I rode along.  When I discovered that Route 35 between Xenia and Dayton, Ohio, was a hotbed of abandoned beverage containers, I spent much time there trying to increase the breadth of my collection.  And though I always loved traveling to new (and old) places with my family, I now had even more reason to love it.  If we stopped for gasoline, a potty break, or lunch, I was out of the car before dad could lift the shift lever to park, running along the road or rummaging through trash receptacles looking for that region’s beers of choice.  I was able to populate my collection pretty quickly this way, but I also became aware that local antique stores retained older, vintage cans, including the elusive conetops.  At its height, this hobby tallied nearly 500 unique cans, all lovingly stacked and arranged in the basement of my parents’ home, where I slept from the age of thirteen until I left during college.  Today, I still have about 100 cans, some of which ring a table in my bedroom that holds my forty-year-old alarm clock and a not-so-vintage Kindle.

I have many more collections that I could share, but the stories attached to them are not nearly as engaging (?).  At one point I possessed about twenty-five beer signs (lighted only), of which I now boast just one.  I still maintain roughly a hundred knives, but I haven’t purchased a new one in about twenty years.  I also have a growing collection of presidential “stuff” stretching back to the mid-1800s — medals, badges, pins, commemorative coins — and am always on the lookout for more.  And, my most recent diversion, one that started about fifteen years ago, is my cluster of Native American fetish carvings, mostly Zuni, which are displayed on the mantle in our great room. 

Okay, I know that a normal person might sustain just one collection, perhaps two, but I think we’ve long established that I don’t fall into the parameters that define “normal.”  Which is okay.  Because you are likely underestimating the value, both spiritually and monetarily, of my hobbies.  In fact, if you were to stop by my humble domicile and take a gander at a mere slice of my collected prizes, you might be inspired to start gathering some of your own.  And if I were you, I’d start with rocks. They’re cheap, they’re easy to find, and they’re everywhere — all you want from a hobby.  So, good luck, and may the quartz be with you!

by Tom Shafer

October 6, 2022

Last evening, I read an interesting article in National Parks magazine about the potential for interspecies communication in the animal kingdom (“Are You Talking to Me?”, Summer 2022).  A researcher — actually a doctoral candidate — at Yellowstone National Park was processing audible wolf sounds from digital recorders placed in an area frequented by the Junction Butte wolf pack when she discovered “communication” between a young wolf and a pair of great horned owls.  Over a four to five minute period, the three animals appeared to take turns talking to one another, the wolf yipping and howling while the birds delivered their familiar “hoo h-hoo hoo hoo” response.

The article prefaces that while most interspecies interactions involve eavesdropping (usually concerning risk or predation), there is some evidence of actual communication — like the interplay between different species of dolphins or predator warnings from hornbills to mongooses.  And apparently, animals aren’t the only “talkers.”  Some trees, through a process called quorum sensing, appear to send chemical messages to other trees, even from different species, about water usage and insect threat/infestation.  Who knew?

Of course, the big question about the wolf and its great horned owl friends is this one: Was their communication intentional or coincidental?

As I have mentioned many times, I’m not a big believer in coincidence.

And, to be honest, I didn’t think that this was a thing.  Here in my own backyard, I have experienced interspecies dialogue a couple of times — including a rare polyphonic collaboration among coyotes and two eastern screech owls on an extraordinary evening just a couple of nights ago.

At the end of a long afternoon working in our woods, I drowsily shuffled to the hot tub around 1 a.m. for much-needed hydrotherapy.  As I opened the sliding door to our deck,  I inadvertently startled a young possum seeking cat food.  Because he is used to seeing me at night, the possum didn’t wander far, and once I slid into the warm, bubbling water, he returned and continued his search.  

A setting quarter moon left a mostly darkened sky, revealing a very brilliant Jupiter overhead and the striking Pleiades constellation rising in the east.  During new moon this past Friday, I snapped a couple of photographs of Jupiter and its four visible moons, on a night when the big giant was not only in opposition, but also coincidentally the closest — and brightest — it had been since 1963.  Tonight, I would just enjoy gazing at the twinkling stars while soaking the day’s labor away.  

In the woods, I could hear the skittering and vocalizations of raccoons seeking and eating birdseed dropped from our feeders and knew that they would eventually make their way to the deck where the possum was devouring cat food intended for our outdoor felines Boots, Rainbow, and Luna — who themselves were lounging in various cat houses on this somewhat chilly night.

As the teenage raccoons (who were tiny little babies back in the spring) scampered across the yard toward the deck, I saw a youngish but fully grown doe walk through a lighted metal archway that acts as an entrance to our woods.  She glided along the treeline, eventually settling under a birdfeeder where most of the corn had been tossed onto the ground by some of my more ungrateful feathered friends.  Or, perhaps these fowl were just looking out for their deer friend — possibly an example of interspecies nutrification!  I watched her nibbling the corn for a few minutes, assuming that she was one of a few deer who pop up on our trail cameras from time to time.  

Suddenly, just south about a quarter of a mile, the Little Miami River coyote pack broke into a full-throated song.  This is a nightly performance, but I never tire of their yips and yaws, and ultimately expected that a couple of other bands living nearby might join in.

Instead, from our woods, and very close, Eso, our eastern screech owl who until now had remained silent, answered with her eerie trill.

A single coyote answered with its own brief aria, which was countered with the tremulous whinny by another eastern screech owl not far to the north.

The Little Miami River coyotes exploded with a cacophony of howls and calls, and then just as abruptly as this short-lived opera had started, it crescendoed into deep silence.  For the remainder of the evening, the world remained still, but I was thrilled with this fleeting production!

So, was this an example of interspecies communication or mere coincidence?

I think you already know my answer.

Exhausted though exhilarated, I was now ready for sleep.  Just as I was exiting the water to dry off, I witnessed a long, very bright “falling star” to the southeast — perhaps an early precursor to the coming weekend’s Draconid meteor shower.

This couldn’t have been a more fitting firework finish to my night here on the Serengeti of America, Greene County, Ohio — better known as my backyard, where the animals do talk to one another!

by Tom Shafer

April 24, 2022

As the pandemic is slowly coming to an end (again), and as I watch “conservative” politicians not-so-slowly dismantle what America stands for, I now realize that we should stop pretending to portray what we the United States aspire to be and simply brand ourselves as what we are: aMErica (uh·mee·ruh·kuh), not America.

If our Founding Fathers truly wanted us to live and govern under the collective “we,” they missed the perfect opportunity to trademark us with the vision of the Preamble to the Constitution: 

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

It’s right there with the first word “we.”  Why not name us the United States of Awerica (uh·wee·ruh·kuh) instead?

Okay, so it doesn’t slide off the tongue quite as readily, but with practice, we would have been okay with it.  If we can handle “Worcestershire” and “quinoa,” we can certainly handle “Awerica.”

Of course, every American child knows (?) that our country was named after Italian explorer Amerigo Vespucci, a man who visited the New World twice (1499 and 1502) and recognized that the “Americas” were not part of Asia but were instead their own separate continents.  Then, when German cartographers Martin Waldseemüller and Matthias Ringmann were creating a map of the world in 1507, one of them (historians point to Ringmann) used Vespucci’s first name (feminized because all countries were seen as feminine – and who am I to disagree).  Other cartographers followed their lead, and well, the rest is history. 

Some researchers have even suggested that because news travelled the world so slowly at the beginning of the sixteenth century, Ringmann may not have been aware that Columbus had actually beaten Vespucci to the Americas.  Otherwise, our country may have been named Columbia or the slightly more awkward Columbusia.  And given the infamous history of Columbus’s experience in the New World on the island of Hispaniola, today we might be watching our culture unravel even further under the weight of a renaming of the country!  How much fun would that have been?

Oh, and by the way, neither Italian was first to “discover” the New World. The Natives already living here had discovered it at least 15,000 years prior (perhaps even 30,000 years), and the Vikings, led by Leif Eriksson, actually established a settlement (L’Anse aux Meadows) on the northern tip of Newfoundland 500 years before Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492. So really, we could just as easily be called Clovusia (after the Clovus people, perhaps the earliest to cross Beringia, the land bridge that once connected Asia to the Americas) or Vikingland or even Leifia.

But seriously, as we are witnessing in real time the erosion of our country and subsequent standing in the world (please read my thoughts in “Shine, Perishing Republic — and Geminids” under the For Your Consideration tab), those German cartographers got it right with the name America.  The blame then falls to our Founding Fathers, who could have rebranded us aMErica with the signing of the Declaration of Independence, right there at the advent of the aMErican Revolution (see how it works!).  Of course, in their defense, they were working very hard to keep our fledgling democracy on her feet – which was no easy task.  Remember, after the Constitutional Convention in 1787, Benjamin Franklin was asked (likely by Elizabeth Willing Powel, a prominent society figure and wife of Philadelphia Mayor Samuel Powel), “Doctor, what have we got? A republic or a monarchy?”

Franklin (now famously) responded, “A republic, if you can keep it.”

But back to my naïve notion of Awerica.  I guess I had always thought about us (the collective U.S.) as part of a whole (think e pluribus Unum, Latin for “out of many, one,” which adorns every coin minted by the U.S. Treasury).  But after the treasonous January 6, 2021, attack on our Capitol, it quickly became apparent that the splintering of our country was becoming a chasming instead, as traitors to the Constitution that day are still being viewed as patriots and heroes by thirty percent of Republicans.  Even today, “conservatives” continue that assault on our Constitution with new rules and laws that are taking us closer to 1830 than 2030, now undermining the individual rights and civil liberties, long fought for, that have protected all of our citizens and enhanced their lives.  Perhaps a rewording of that Latin definition is in order now: “one, out of many,” emphasizing the individual instead of the collective.  The word Unum, meaning “one” is even capitalized.  I should have noticed this long ago.

And actually, now might be a good time to revisit and reconsider the opening words to the second paragraph of the Declaration of Independence:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

I love these words, especially because these words represented then the beginning of a new era of thinking about how men should govern men, that power over life should reside with every man, woman, and child.  Of course, back then the words only pertained to white men who would still wield power over women, children, and all people who were not white, but these baby steps would eventually evolve into longer strides as our little democratic experiment slowly embraced all who resided in America.

But as our erosion continues with alarming speed, this “self-evident” statement needs amending, and I think I have found the perfect replacement for it, from the perfectly ‘80s movie Wall Street.  In the film, a young stockbroker, Bud Fox, full of ambition, is clawing his way up the corporate American ladder.  He convinces (through a little insider trading info) the successful corporate raider Gordon Gekko to mentor him on the finer points of making money in the market (including illegalities), all to enhance his standing as a broker among his peers.  Eventually, he does acquire the lifestyle he has been coveting (including all of the trappings), but he has also attracted the attention of the Securities and Exchange Commission for some of his questionable dealings.  In spite of some slight moral anguish, all seems to be going well, but when Gekko dissolves an airline company where Fox’s father serves as union president (the insider trading deal that first drew Gekko’s attention) – a dissolution that purges all employees and their pensions and triggers his father’s heart attack – Fox ultimately plots a scheme that takes Gekko – and himself – down. 

But back to that reconsideration of the opening to the second paragraph of the Declaration. During a contentious Teldar Paper shareholding meeting, Gekko (who owns shares but desires controlling interest of the company) concludes a speech to shareholders with these words:

Greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right, greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms; greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge has marked the upward surge of mankind. And greed, you mark my words, will not only save Teldar Paper, but that other malfunctioning corporation called the USA.

Okay, so we’ll have to rework some sections here, and leave out that Teldar Paper reference, but the essence for our new aMErica is here, especially the seven uses of the word “greed.”  All we have to do is plagiarize it (which is perfectly aMErican) and move on.

Oh, and in case you think that I am expressing myself with a little too much hyperbole here, let me conclude with the part of that Franklin anecdote that no one ever hears.  When Franklin responded to Elizabeth Powel’s question with “A republic, if you can keep it,” Powel purportedly inquired, “And why not keep it?”

Franklin cryptically responded, “Because the people, on tasting the dish, are always disposed to eat more of it than does them good.”

Here in aMErica, we have done just that. 

by Tom Shafer

February 7, 2022

I slipped into the hot tub last evening, literally, a couple of days after Winter finally displayed her full powers here in Ohio.  Winter has largely been AWOL this year, sprinkling just a couple of inches of snow and dropping temperatures into single digits only a handful of times.  Sure, we’ve had more than our fair share of ugly, damp, gray days – not unlike the coastal climate of the Northwest – but ordinarily by now we would have experienced several snow events and a few frigid nights below zero.  Perhaps this is a product of being a La Niña year and/or just another example of climate change, but either way, this golfer has appreciated the ability to play actual December, January, and February rounds in the great outdoors – and not virtually off a mat toward a TV projection in the basement of my local muni.   

The storm ended up dumping six inches of snow here, on top of two inches of sleet and ice, making streets, sidewalks, and parking lots virtually impassable.  Our area was effectively shut down for a couple of days, but now with clear weather and a warming sun and temperatures, things are pretty much back to normal – though it did take me several hours to clear our long driveway, sidewalks, and back porch area (for the outdoor cats and my nightly aquatic undertaking).

And though it was 22° on this night, with no wind it felt almost balmy.  Again, as usual at 1 a.m., it was extraordinarily quiet and for the totality of the twenty-five minutes that I soaked in bubbling water, not one car or pickup broke the silence of my rural solitude.  To the south about a tenth of a mile (perhaps above the Little Miami River), an eastern screech owl trilled and whinnied, a moment later followed by a mimicking call from another screech at some distance directly north.  This conversation continued the entire time I was in the tub, with the northern owl progressively moving closer to the southern one.  Though eastern screeches mate year round, it seems like they are particularly active here in February.  Perhaps they are romantics at heart and enjoy the merriment and ardor of Valentine’s Day.

Above me, large, intermittent cumulous clouds were slowly traversing the sky, many of them creating images for those of us who look for such things.  A full-bodied Abrahan Lincoln, arms outstretched as if participating in oratory, drifted across the Big Dipper, briefly obscuring the nighttime sky’s most prominent constellation.  As Abe slowly made his way east, still delivering his stirring soliloquy, he was directly replaced either by Hamlet dramatically holding Yorick’s skull or by an angel with a sheep sock puppet on her arm – dealer’s choice!

As I settled in the warm water, I could hear Luna and Boots chomping on cat treats I had brought out for them.  Unfortunately, Nakita was not there to join them, having passed away during the last week of January after a very short illness (FIV, the feline equivalent to human HIV).  She had lived with us for about two years, and was a constant and willing companion on daily walks through our woods.  She also loved her treats, and especially loved being petted and held, always purring quite loudly to display her love and appreciation. 

Sadly, two weeks later, one of our indoor cats, Mookie, passed away from complications of kidney disease.  Nakita’s death was truly a shock, displaying first symptoms on Martin Luther King Day, then being euthanized just three days later after her health drastically declined.  At least we had some preparation for Mookie’s death because her illness had been diagnosed back in early December of last year.  However, that didn’t ultimately make things any easier – after all, she had been a staple in our lives for over sixteen years.  Mookie was singularly enigmatic (like most cats!) in that she lived to lie and sleep on any lap but hated to be picked up and held.  She loved wet food unconditionally, and most mornings would start pawing and scratching our bedroom door at first light, desperately trying to wake us so that she could be fed.  Of course, Mookie – and Nakita – loved us unconditionally as well, and it will take a while for our hearts to heal, or at least rehabilitate a little.

As I listened to the northern owl draw ever closer to the southern one, I couldn’t help but think about the power that animals, especially our pets, have over us.  When I think about all of the trips I’ve taken to our national parks and monuments, what I remember most is watching the reactions of people seeing nature’s best offerings: grizzly bears and bighorn sheep in Glacier; wolves and bison in Yellowstone; elk and mountain goats in Rocky Mountain; prairie dogs and porcupine at Devils Tower; eagles and moose in Grand Teton; California condors and golden eagles at the Grand Canyon.  Of course, the mountains and canyons and waterfalls and lakes are also there, but those sights don’t bring park roads to a standstill – not like the animals do.  I certainly love the beauty of our national parks, but that’s never the main reason I am visiting.  I am visiting because I love, and want to see, the animals.   

Those visitations are oh so fleeting and temporary, but nonetheless are remarkably powerful.

So imagine the power of the animals who are part of our lives, the ones who are with us every day, who walk and play with us, who sleep and lie down with us, who wait for and eagerly greet us after we’ve been gone, who unflinchingly and unconditionally love us no matter what.

And, that power is undoubtedly most palpable when they are gone.

So, with exhaustion – and a little sadness – creeping in, I ultimately straddled out of the hot tub and spent a few extra moments with Boots and Luna, petting and stroking their loudly purring bodies in spite of the 20° temperature.  And in the near distance, I could hear two trilling eastern screech owls getting ever closer to each other. 

Though I didn’t stay out long enough to discover whether the owls met – and/or consummated their meeting – I like to think that they did on this night.

The power of animals. The circle of life.

by Tom Shafer

January 13, 2022

So, like many of my writings, this one begins with me heading to my hot tub on a very cold evening (about 9° on this particular night).  The moon was hiding below the horizon, allowing the stars and planets to pop brilliantly against the darkened firmament.  Orion was commanding overhead, the Big Dipper, anchor of the constellation Ursa Major (the Great Bear), dominating the eastern sky.  A few wispy clouds were slowly drifting by, and outside of my constant companion and irritating friend Tin Nitus, it was absolutely silent and still.  Well, actually I could hear the crunching of cat treats, Boots, Rainbow, and Luna enjoying a delicious, midnight – er, 1:15ish – snack, while Nakita, smartly perhaps, refused to leave the comfort of her heated bed. 

The cats finished their kibble, Rainbow wandering off toward the tree line for a late-night stroll, the others heading back to their heated homes.  Silence again descended, and I began searching the darkness for other familiar heavenly bodies: the constellations Perseus, Cassiopeia, Leo, and Gemini were in their customary winter positions, the bright stars Areturus, Regulus, and Sirius maintaining their typical stations.  As always, I hoped to catch a stray piece of space dust entering our atmosphere – a “shooting star” – but I would spy none of those on this particular evening.

In the far distance, a long way off, I heard a single coyote crooning, the yips and yaws punctuating the quiet.  A minute later, and much, much closer – perhaps less than a quarter mile away – the Little Miami band broke into full-throated song, the chorus waxing and waning, the soloists screeching above the fray, finishing each aria with a varying, pulsating vibrato.  These nightly performances are just one of the many reasons that I love coyotes.

In this moment, I was reminded of an experience I had when my father-in-law Richard and I were following the Lewis and Clark Trail back in 2009.  Because the Missouri River traverses Teddy Roosevelt National Park, we devoted one full day there, and decided to spend a little time on the Caprock Coulee trail.  Fortunately for us, the parking lot was empty (one lone car), so we knew that we would have the trail to ourselves. 

Caprock Coulee is a loop (a little more than four miles) that provides magnificent views of the TRNP terrain, especially from the River Bend Overlook (which is also a pull-off from Scenic Loop Drive) and Knife’s Edge Ridge.  The trail also traverses wooded areas, open prairie, and old stream washes, and along the way sports petrified wood tree trunks, small hoodoos, and bison – making this the consummate hike to show off what the park has to offer.

At some point, we paused for a few minutes to eat a granola bar and take a little water.  Out of the blue, Richard asked me if I had a totem or spirit animal.  I admitted that I did not – to my knowledge – but that I had always had a special affinity for coyotes.  Throughout my travels over many years – and even in the places where I lived – I seemed always to witness and experience these animals, and I could probably provide a fairly thorough list (though thankfully for you, I won’t do that here). 

Richard further explained that everyone has a spirit animal, that these animals will appear to us (in various forms) throughout our lives to assist and guide us.  He added that there were many ways to connect with one (like through meditation or dreaming), but that he felt the best way to do it was through direct connection while in nature.  And, he decided that we were going to do it now.  He had actually done this before, through meditation, and determined then that the wolf was his spirit animal, and he lived his life with the essence of that belief – and dressed the part as well, with many t-shirts bearing the image of the animal that he allied with and loved. 

Basically, we would walk (separately) into the wilderness surrounding us, stop in an area that exuded a sense of mysticism, and wait for a spirit being to select us.  He said that the animal – or bird or insect – would notice us in some way, maybe even grab our attention with unusual or atypical behavior.  Most importantly, he said that the animal would choose us.  

So, we headed off in different directions, into the stark, beautiful landscape of Teddy Roosevelt.  I chose to follow a draw for a few hundred yards, then stepped up onto a grassy area amphitheatered (another new word) by low badland hills that notably populate the park.  I found a comfortable boulder to sit on, cleared my mind as best I could, and waited for something to happen.

I didn’t have to wait long.

I had closed my eyes briefly, quickly recognizing the exhaustion that creeps in after days on the road, when I heard a stirring in the draw I had just crawled out of.  At the confluence of a large mound and the old creek bed, I spied a furtive movement, an orangish flash, and watched transfixed as a young, smallish coyote dramatically entered the amphitheater.

Fearless though a little timid, he sidled toward me, eventually stopping about twenty feet away, and warily sat on his haunches.  He remained totally still for a couple of minutes, his eyes never leaving mine.  Carefully, I reached into the backpack resting beside me and pulled out part of a granola bar I had not finished eating.  I tossed it gently in front of me, about halfway to the coyote, fully expecting that he would be startled enough to spring backward.  He did not, but instead continued staring at me – though clearly his nose had caught scent of the bar.  Gradually, he got to his feet and slowly slinked toward the crunchy treat.  When he got to it, in one swift movement, he picked it up and flung it back behind him, close to the place he’d just been sitting.  He walked back, lay down next to it, and proceeded to gobble it up in a couple of bites.  Coyote sat there for a few more moments, still intently staring at me, then, rather unceremoniously, rose and ran off in the direction he had come.  Now, I can’t swear to it, but I think he nodded to me before leaving the scene.  As for me, I cautiously stood up with the pack, withdrew toward the draw behind me, and returned to the trail.

Richard was not there yet, so I had some time to process what had just happened.  I reasoned that seeing a coyote in TRNP should not be surprising because the park is rife with them – and the fact that we had seen one earlier in the day.  But to have one walk right up to me while I was actively seeking a spirit animal – after admitting that the coyote might be my spirit animal – well, that coincidence was difficult to brush away.  Especially since I’m not a big believer in coincidences. 

Richard finally arrived back at the trail, and he told me about his experience.  When he first sat down, a fly landed on him and continued to pester him for several minutes.  He wasn’t crazy about the idea of a fly being his newest spirit animal, so once it moved on, he waited for another encounter.  Within a few moments, a beautiful butterfly, mostly black with orange and yellow markings (but not a monarch), landed on his pants, right at his knee.  It remained there for several minutes, occasionally fluttering its wings, before it eventually took flight and continued its journey.  We both agreed the fly was just being a fly and not trying in any significant way to connect with him.  The butterfly, however, was.

I then shared my story with Richard, and of course, he loved it.  He related that he had hoped my animal would be the coyote because he felt that it was a perfect match for me.  According to Native American lore, coyote is known as the trickster because of his playfulness and guile.  He is adaptable and wise, and is noted for his ability to find truth in deception and chaos.  But he is also enigmatic and presents a personality that is often difficult to categorize properly – and must constantly be vigilant of a dark side that lives to tempt him.

In many ways, that description reflects like a mirror. 

For Richard, his butterfly is symbolic of personal transformation, of the ability to experience change with grace and agility.  It is seemingly always facing renewal and rebirth, but is able to find joy in the process.  The butterfly is also a teacher, and is always tuned to the spiritual and emotional realms. 

What a perfect totem for Richard!

So, do you have a spirit animal?  Does a specific entity appear to you in times of need, to guide or advise you, perhaps physically or in your dreams?  According to Richard – an honorary member of the Lakota Sioux tribe – an animal or bird or insect is out there waiting for you, waiting to help and nurture you as you navigate this realm.  You may not be a believer, but I think that any assistance we can garner in this life is worth the effort.  You have nothing to lose – and potentially a spirit guide to gain.  What are you waiting for? Go discover your spirit animal!

This is “That’s Some Dream” by Good Old War, a song about dealing with change and life and death.

by Tom Shafer

January 6, 2022

On the one year anniversary of the insurrection, the attack on our capitol, January 6, 2021, I’d like to congratulate the one man responsible for ruining America, disgraced former president (purposeful lower case) Donald Trump.  

Those who believe I am being too extreme should return to your conspiracy silos where fester beliefs like these: that the Sandy Hook massacre (where 20 six and seven year olds were slaughtered along with 6 teachers) was staged by opponents of the 2^nd Amendment; that the Holocaust was a fabrication; that Hillary Clinton (among other prominent Democrats) was part of a cabal of Satan-worshipping pedophiles who trafficked children and drank their blood; that the deadly 2018 Camp Fire in California was caused by a space laser (a Jewish one nonetheless); and finally, that the 2020 election was stolen from Trump. 

If you listen to political pundits today (from both sides of the aisle), many will tell you that Trump isn’t really responsible for the state of our politics and democracy today, that he just tapped into a hidden world and culture that already existed.  Some even point to J.D. Vance’s book Hillbilly Elegy as an explanation of “Rust Belt America” and the belief that this microcosm of people exists everywhere. 

Rust Belt America does exist everywhere.  Many of these people feel that America has forgotten them, left them behind, that culture wars, threats to religion, immigrants, and closing factories have imperiled them and endangered their way of life. 

But so much of that is perception – and propaganda.  Yes, our world is changing – dare I say evolving – and that in itself will challenge long-held beliefs and values.  NO ONE is threatening religion – except perhaps religion itself.  Immigrants, legal or otherwise, are often the only ones willing to accept some of our most challenging jobs: harvesting crops, meat processing, landscaping and construction, house cleaning, maid and busboy work in hotels and restaurants.  And yes, factories have closed in many industries, but much of that is the result of a progressing world, both technologically and ecologically – a natural evolution that is transforming work from physical, manual labor (often dangerous) to work more suited for cerebral mankind. 

And, government has done its best to help these struggling Americans with different programs, from food and housing assistance to tax credits and Social Security.  The list of important legislation stretches back a full century: Sheppard-Towner Maternity and Infancy Protection Act (1921); Aid to Dependent Children (1935); Social Security Act of 1935; United States Housing Act of 1937; Economic Opportunity Act of 1964; Food Stamp Act of 1964; Elementary & Secondary Education Act of 1965; Medicaid Act (1965); and Personal Responsibility & Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act (1996).  Even this year’s Infrastructure Investment and Jobs Act (2021) will provide assistance with investments in increased broadband; improved water systems; revamped roads, bridges, rail, and air; and an injection of new jobs that will require little-to-no training.

However, two factors continue to challenge and endanger Rust Belt Americans: expensive health care and poor education.  Health care costs are coming down, but many families just above the poverty line simply cannot afford policies with high deductibles.  Until congressional Republicans recognize that universal health care is and should be a universal right (like most of the industrialized world), this problem will remain and linger on. 

And, being a former teacher myself, I recognize that equity and opportunity to quality education are big hurdles in many parts of our country, especially in those states where funding formulas rely almost entirely upon local control.  Until education is truly valued by American citizens (which it is not) and not seen as merely a babysitting service for eight to nine hours a day, this inequality will continue to rule the day.  The adage “you get what you pay for” can’t be more accurate in those impoverished areas where money is hard to come by and education is not valued. 

Trump tapped into Rust Belt America back in 2015, which led to his election in 2016, but the significance of his nomination and win has been greatly overblown.  Number one, he lost on the popular ballot to Hillary Clinton by nearly three million votes (66 million to 63 million), and his total was not that much greater than the two previous Republican nominees (both of whom he disparaged and belittled), John McCain (60 million) in 2008 and Mitt Romney (61 million) in 2012.  And, the people who voted for McCain and Romney, predominantly Republican, truly believed in both candidates.  Revisionist history among contemporary Republicans can’t refute these facts.  And statistically, these numbers – from 60 to 61 to 63 million – could have been predicted just by analyzing population growth in our country from 2008 to 2016.

The four years of Trump produced very little, if nothing, for Rust Belt America.  His policies always favored the wealthy, from corporate tax cuts (almost all delivered via presidential executive order) to elimination of environmental regulations (also achieved via executive order) to his Tax Cut and Reform Bill of 2017.  He did place a significant number of conservative judges throughout the judicial system, but that work was largely performed and completed by Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell – and any Republican president would have done the same.  And though he promised it, Trump never delivered on infrastructure legislation – in spite of the fact that practically every week for one full year was declared “infrastructure week.”

Culturally, Trump claimed that he brought back Christmas – as in the phrase “Merry Christmas” – which was never a thing, and he often embraced Confederate sympathizers while railing against political correctness.  And though he was “very pro-choice” and would never consider banning partial-birth abortions as late as 1999 (with Tim Russert on Meet the Press), he flipped from a pro-life stance with exceptions to punishment for any woman who attempted abortion in just two days in the spring of 2016.  And, his stances on LGBTQ issues angered many Americans, not just members of those groups.

Most importantly, during his presidency, Trump never attempted to be leader for everyone, instead choosing to govern only for his constituency.  His inaugural address, tagged the “American carnage” speech, set a tone of anger and division that would cast a long shadow over all four years.  Only after the 2018 midterm, when Republicans lost the House, did he reach out to Democrats, of course then out of necessity. 

Much of Trump’s handling of the pandemic was a joke.  Yes, he was given credit for Operation Warp Speed, a federal effort that accelerated work on COVID-19 vaccines, but any president would have pulled that lever, and of course, the real credit belongs to those companies and their scientists that made it happen.  Given that, he did little else to assist the country’s effort to wrangle the pandemic.  He rarely wore a mask and was never in favor of lockdowns, often countering and fighting regulations and advice being provided by his own White House Coronavirus Task Force.  In fact, mask wearing and lockdowns became polarizing issues throughout the country, of course stoked by Trump himself.  I have already posited that his administration (really him) was (and still is) responsible for thousands (if not hundreds of thousands) of COVID deaths.  Trump, with no science background whatsoever, also infamously promoted hydroxychloroquine, chloroquine, azithromycin, and remdesivir – even bleach injected under the skin – as therapeutic cures for the virus.  And though he eventually acquired COVID himself (as well as his wife), this did little to change his actions on helping bring the pandemic to an end.

In spite of all of this, and definitely through a cult of personality, with assistance from a prolific campaign on Twitter – which should have banned his account for egregious statements as early as 2016 – Trump convinced his base and Rust Belt America that he deserved another four years, and though 74 million followers voted for him in 2020, another 81 million had had enough, and they, along with the Rust Belt states, propelled Joe Biden into the White House. 

But the damage was done.  Though Trump lost, he had mainstreamed (and helped elect) extreme members of (and to) the House and Senate, people who in years past would never have survived a Republican primary.  People like Tommy Tuberville, Ron Johnson, Josh Hawley, Lauren Boebert, Louie Gohmert, Matt Gaetz, and Marjorie Taylor Greene.  The false utterances of Trump would now be disseminated and dispersed by these disciples and sycophants – once fringe players in the political arena – today unfortunately recognized as major voices and leaders of the Republican Party.

And, Trump had not only won over his constituents, he had weaponized them.  Because of him and his destructive rhetoric, they no longer trusted anything.  They lost trust in government and government institutions.  Trust in voting integrity.  Trust in science and medicine.  Trust in truth itself.  Perhaps worst of all, they lost trust with anyone who didn’t believe all of the big lies.  Still today, one full year after certification of the 2020 election, forty percent of Republicans believe that Joe Biden is an illegitimate president.

So, once again, I extend my congratulations to Donald Trump for ruining America.  Before you so infamously descended (poetic metaphor and imagery?) that escalator in Trump Tower to announce your run for the presidency, our country was struggling under the weight of what we wanted America to be, but we were not polarized – at least not the way we are today.  We have you to thank for that. 

And though skeptical, I do believe that we will survive you – but it will take many years, maybe decades – before trust in our American experiment is restored to the pre-Trump era.  Perhaps that is the biggest crime of all.

by Tom Shafer

December 18, 2021

So, on the thirteenth of December, I slipped into the hot tub hoping to enjoy one of our best meteor showers, the Geminids.  Because the moon was waxing gibbous (and toward full), I was not expecting to see the 150 per hour or so that I might if the moon were new, but I still anticipated a sixty or so per hour average.  Last year’s shower coincided with a new moon, so the peak night was absolutely spectacular – and actually, so were the nights leading up to it.

The Geminids are one of our younger showers, having first been witnessed (from a Mississippi River riverboat) in the mid-1830s.  And technically, we should be referring to it as an “asteroid” shower because we know now that the particles that pepper our atmosphere yearly belong to an asteroid named 3200 Phaethon.  The long white streaks appear to originate near the Gemini constellation (thus the name), which sits prominently about fifteen degrees south of being directly overhead on the thirteenth (from 11 p.m. to 2 a.m.) – making it quite comfortable to watch from the spa.

I saw two within the first minute of being in the water, so I knew it was going to be a good show.  Over the next twenty minutes, I tracked eleven more (though no fireballs!), but being slightly exhausted, I closed my eyes to unwind in preparation for my night’s sleep.  Unfortunately, my mind wandered back to news from early evening, when the house committee investigating the January 6^th (2021) insurrection at the Capitol voted to recommend that Trump’s former chief of staff Mark Meadows be found in contempt of Congress.  Not unexpectedly, the full House would follow suit the next evening – mostly along party lines.  Predictably, the news cycle had moved on from the deadly tornados that ravaged the middle of the country over the weekend.

Lately, I’ve been thinking much about our country.  The questioning of given truths.  The war against science.  Threats to education.  Polarization – with people deeply entrenched in their individual silos.  Democracy being challenged on so many fronts, from voting rights to Roe v. Wade.  Our inability to navigate and mitigate a deadly pandemic – even with vaccines and other life-protecting convalescents. My thoughts wandered to a query I’d been pondering for several years now:

Am I witnessing American decay?

The simple answer is yes.

When I was still teaching American literature, at appropriate times, I would point out to my students that the history of man is the history of fallen power, that every empire, dynasty, kingdom, or superpower eventually falls – some in spectacular fashion.  Of course, I always posited that the same would happen to us.  As a younger educator, I frequently played contrarian, the devil’s advocate, and didn’t necessarily believe a statement like that, instead hoping to spur intellectual curiosity and thoughtful dialogue.  But as I grew older and observed a changing country and world, I began to believe the truth of American decay.

Today, as I unfortunately watch the erosion of America, and all that it stands for, I can’t help but think about poet Robinson Jeffers, and particularly his poem “Shine, Perishing Republic,” one he penned in 1925.  I sometimes introduced Jeffers and his poetry to my students, delicately because his straightforward style always took direct aim at sufferable man, impolitic politics, and an uncaring God.  But I appreciated his traditional blank verse (not unlike Walt Whitman’s) and his love of nature and animals – though mostly at the expense of man himself.  And I was especially fascinated that in 1925, as our country was approaching its 150^th birthday and after our success in helping bring an end to the First World War, he was espousing and predicting demise and ruin of our republic.  Here is his poem “Shine, Perishing Republic.”

Okay, so some of you may not be big fans of poetry (like many of my students), but hopefully you can appreciate his ability to string words into pithy phrases: America “heavily thickening to empire and protest”; “life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly a mortal splendor”; or “man, a clever servant, insufferable master . . . that caught – they say – God, when he walked on earth.”

Though the images and language here can be construed as pretty negative, Jeffers does point us toward our salvation, in that “life is good,” that nature (from flower to fruit back to earth) teaches us (and America) about our mortality, that we are always “left the mountains.”  In spite of our volcanic “vulgarity,” our “decadence,” and our “corruption,” man (and America), the “insufferable master,” needs only to listen to her mother (Earth) and what she is endeavoring to tell us.

I have to admit that I have always been a bit of a closet pessimist – which might surprise many of my former students and current friends.  All of us are performance artists in one way or another, and I tend to reveal a hopeful, more optimistic aspect – though touched with a healthy amount of sarcasm.  I suppose I could blame my connection to a never-ending news cycle or my fondness for problematical, psychological novels (and novelists like Camus, Dostoyevsky, and Wharton), but I have carried pessimism for a very long time, stretching back to my youth.  Of course, I never allowed it to consume or define me, probably because I am left brain dominant, which colors me more logical and academically inclined – and more disposed toward optimism according to many brain studies completed in the 1990s.  I guess I have always tried to see the world for what it is, and not for what it can be – and I have continually attempted to retain a worldview first, not an American view.  Perhaps that worldview pushes my needle toward pessimism. 

So, even if America is a “perishing republic” making “haste on decay,” I’m really okay with that.  Perhaps we will be propelled to embrace evolution toward a more robust, progressive view of what humans (and countries) should and can be, the universists that I have written about in the past (see “I’m a Universist – and You Should Too!” under my For Your Consideration tab).  Some may insist that Star Trek was just a campy ’60s television show, but Captain Kirk got it right when he narrated before each show that we were meant “to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.” That’s the way all of us should be thinking, and where all of us should be headed.