Decortication
by Wis Guthrie
Avalon Square, Waukesha WI
Monday, December 5, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Night scene
ON A RECENT
RAINY AND SNOWY NIGHT -
FROM OUR ODD FELLOWS WINDOW
HERE AT 308 SOUTH STREET:
A nocturnal photo shows the new bead shop
hoping as all downtown merchants are hoping
hoping and hoping
for Xmas business
to materialize, and we noted that the beaders
have their front door open
to signal easy availability for customers.
"Please come in. We shan't worry
about lost heat."
Next door to the left is the RECALL WALKER office.
This is where a steady stream of 'customers'
IS materializing, for real, and far into the night
workers earnestly shuffle papers
after the bead shops and stores are closed.
It's midnight-oil time for them
in historic downtown Waukesha.
Tomorrow, 12-5-11, I work my first shift
as a volunteer at the RECALL office.
I hope to see many of my friends
on my stints,
and lots of strangers
to help reach the signature goal,
AND THEN SOME.
My friends from the IRS
I met with my Sunday morning guys
today
for coffee at Caribou in Brookfield
per long-standing tradition;
two retired IRS agents
and Uncle Norman.
Paul, former man who did the IRS'
bidding
and Frank, ditto
were gladda see me
as the survivor that
I am.
(What I yam)
Paul, no longer subject to
IRS dress codes
flaunts his freedom
this morning by wearing
his cap backwards........
Norman waves friendly,
as he has done since 1960.
BALL
'the Perfect Mason'
holds Door County cherry cider
for me
at the Odd Fellows
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Four Army kids flying a kite circa 1943
Snapshot taken on a Brownie
by kiteman's mother
It was just a random photo opp
but meant the world to me
From left, David; friend now unknown; Buddy; friend now unknown
...............
'400' poem printed in LANDMARK
Volume 42
No. 2
.................................................
Humor enjoyed this week
at The Odd Fellows Hall
That last one reminds me of this:
THE FOOL'S PRAYER
by: Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887)
THE royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.
He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the Monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin: but Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!
"'T is not by guilt the onward sweep
Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
'T is by our follies that so long
We hold the earth from heaven away.
"These clumsy feet, still in the mire,
Go crushing blossoms without end;
These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
Among the heart-strings of a friend.
"The ill-timed truth we might have kept--
Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung?
The word we had not sense to say--
Who knows how grandly it had rung!
"Our faults no tenderness should ask.
The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
But for our blunders -- oh, in shame
Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool
That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!"
The room was hushed; in silence rose
The King, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low,
"Be merciful to me, a fool!"
| "The Fool's Prayer" is reprinted from The Little Book of American Poets: 1787-1900. Ed. Jessie B. Rittenhouse. |
What are you gonna do?
4:30 AM 12-3-11
This is the city of Waukesha
An old man arises
creaks to his upstairs office
and finds this/
what's he gonna do
what's he gonna do?
(in the way of Jim Backus and his Delicious
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F2C__6gUt4Q /a reenactment)
he's going to print this out
on his space-age + printer
that's whut he's gonna do......
v.Z.
Odd Fellows Hall
----- Original Message -----From: TBORNOTB@aol.comTo: ddix1@wi.rr.comSent: Friday, December 02, 2011 11:30 PMSubject: (no subject)December 2, 2011
A Farewell from Herman Cain
My Final Thoughts
Dear Friend,
And when I say “friend,” I mean it in the normal way, not “someone I’ve been sleeping with for 13 years.” Unless, of course, I have been sleeping with you for 13 years. In that case, I do mean it that way.
It is with a heavy heart that I have decided to end my inspirational quest for the White House. After much reassessing and reconsidering, I have decided to spend more time being screamed at by my wife. And by “more time,” I mean 24 hours a day, stopping only for bathroom breaks.
But before I go, let me share with you my final thoughts on my campaign. After months of crisscrossing this great land of ours and participating in over three hundred televised debates, I am being disqualified because of an extramarital affair. And that raises the following question: are you fucking kidding me?
I mean, let’s get real. I never heard of Libya. I didn’t know whether that CNN dude’s name was Wolf or Blitz. And my only training for running the #1 nation in the world was running its #8 pizza chain. Yet none of that, I repeat, none of that disqualified me. In fact, I was the front-fucking-runner, as long as I kept my 9-9-9 in my pants. (I have no idea what I meant by that -- I just like saying 9-9-9.)
But here’s the part that really kills me. You’re kicking me to the curb because I was messing around, and instead you’re going with… Newt Gingrich? I repeat: are you fucking kidding me? Oh, I know what you’re saying: you love Newt because he’s an “intellectual.” Well, Newt Gingrich is the intellectual of the Republican field the way Moe was the intellectual of the Stooges.
And that leads me to my final point: you disgust me, America. Right now if I had my way, I’d up and move to another country. I really, truly would. Only I don’t know where any of them are, and my wife won’t let me leave the house.
Goodbye forever,
Herman
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Bull Moose
Down from the purple mist of trees on the mountain,
lurching through forests of white spruce and cedar,
stumbling through tamarack swamps,
came the bull moose
to be stopped at last by a pole-fenced pasture.
Too tired to turn or, perhaps, aware
there was no place left to go, he stood with the cattle.
They, scenting the musk of death, seeing his great head
like the ritual mask of a blood god, moved to the other end
of the field, and waited.
The neighbors heard of it, and by afternoon
cars lined the road. The children teased him
with alder switches and he gazed at them
like an old, tolerant collie. The women asked
if he could have escaped from a Fair.
The oldest man in the parish remembered seeing
a gelded moose yoked with an ox for plowing.
The young men snickered and tried to pour beer
down his throat, while their girl friends took their pictures.
And the bull moose let them stroke his tick-ravaged flanks,
let them pry open his jaws with bottles, let a giggling girl
plant a little purple cap
of thistles on his head.
When the wardens came, everyone agreed it was a shame
to shoot anything so shaggy and cuddlesome.
He looked like the kind of pet
women put to bed with their sons.
So they held their fire. But just as the sun dropped in the river
the bull moose gathered his strength
like a scaffold king, straightened and lifted his horns
so that even the wardens backed away as they raised their rifles.
When he roared, people ran to their cars. All the young men
leaned on their automobile horns as he toppled.
Some are dead, and some are living*
Pictured above
JOHN TYSON AND WIS GUTHRIE
circa 1970
John was an art professor at Carroll College
Wis was the chair of the department
Our mutual friendship was deep
and covered many events
some good, some bad.
John died at age 52 circa 1982
On the day he died
he waved at me as I drove
east on Arcadian near the root beet stand.
John was going into the Blackstone Bldg
and it was to be my last sighting of
a bosom friend.
He died later in the day
pounding in some real estate
stakes for his girlfriend, Gudron,
a serious consort.
John and I in our thick catalog
of similar interests enjoyed the
music of the blind guitarist/singer
Jose Feliciano.
I still treasure the33 rpm
Feliciano recordings now committed
to internal computer memory.
*Here's one song,
IN MY LIFE
from the records we nearly wore out:
There are places I'll remember All my life, though some have changed Some forever, not for better Some have gone and some remainAll these places had their moments With lovers and friends, I still can recall Some are dead and some are living In my life, I've loved them all But of all these friends and lovers There is no one compares with you And these memories lose their meaning When I think of love as something new Though I know I'll never lose affection For people and things that went before I know I'll often stop and think about them In my life, I'll love you more Though I know I'll never lose affection For people and things that went before I know I'll often stop and think about them In my life, I'll love you more (lyric by Jose) .................... Dee informs me there are some Congregational Church Holiday Sampler booklets found on the church premises that will be put out on the harvest table for people to pick up and enjoy - maybe leave a small contribution - or to just take. The names of the recipe givers are noteworthy. 'Some are dead and some are living.......' |
Included are recipes from Kathy Danielson, Cathy DeGroot, Beth Yahr, Bonnie Camp, Bev Bradford, Cleo Glasenapp, Jean Zellmer, Joyce Barron, Sue Orlebeke, Lucy Haylett, Ruth Hale, Peggy Butt, Jeanne Zellmer, Judy Clements, Florence Roberts, Kathy Bruning, Susanne Carman, Shelly Schwingle, Betty Charmak, Ann Miller, Mary Estenik, Helen Curley, Steve Hale, Marge Bassuener, Priscilla Circle, Ina Guthrie, Sandi Custer, Mitzi Keadle, Dorothy Bettinger, Alice Waschow, Dawn Weideman, Jean Schauer, and Leigh Wellford.
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