The comments on the Yin Yang Conspiracy post got me thinking about this:
In 1961, at the age of 17 I took an oath agreeing to be part of a team effort to kill anyone John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and later Lyndon Baines Johnson, thought needed killing.
Everything I’ve learned about those two men during the decades since has caused me to believe both were despicable, incorrigible individuals bent on personal power and self-aggrandizement, first, with the betterment of the US public only a priority to the extent it contributed to those.
But I raised my right hand and took an oath to become the trigger-finger for anything they wanted doing, volunteered to point a rifle and kill whomever these two car salesmen cum rich-boy opportunists found more convenient dead than alive.
My thinking today is that, despite the popularity of the choice I made, despite the fact millions of other men made the same choice to abdicate their ethics, their intelligence, their judgement to those men and others exactly of the same unworthy breed, [still do so today,] it’s not a choice to be admired, praised, encouraged, or rewarded. If anything, it’s a testimony to my own shallowness, stupidity, weakness of character and obliquely, a failure of self-respect.
Today, men and women who openly vilify the President of the US, the US Congress, detest the US military command and officer corps, are nevertheless pointing their weapons at whomever those people they detest tell them to kill. And label doing so a virtue.
Aside from the fact I didn’t know enough when I took my oath to recognize what scum the two presidents I agreed to kill for were, those people serving today are in precisely the same position I was in. They’ve agreed to do whatever the dregs of humanity tell them to do, do it without question.
The main change between 1961, and 2011, is that I agreed to do it for $78 per month, whereas they’re getting paid one hell of a lot more to obey the orders about which unlucky human beings get the downrange surprises.
Think about it. Thousands of young men died, thousands killed because Richard Milhaus Nixon told them to do it. Yet Richard Nixon outranked those politicians of the time in scumhood so conspicuously he was casheered from office by the others of his club. His own peers.
In 1970, the University of Texas was squared off against itself. The frats, the student government, the sororities, the administration, the ROTC department, and the cops on the one side, and us on the other.
The Vets against the Vietnam War, the Wobblies (IWW), the Panthers, the Young Socialistist Alliance (Trotskyite), the RYM2 (Revolutionary Youth Movement faction of the Students for a Democratic Society), Weathermen (the other, more interesting side of the SDS), and hundreds of other splinter groups were taking a fair beating, though we had the numbers.
I was in the middle of all that, writing for the alternative newspaper, the RAG, and trying to get an education dovetailed with sex, drugs and Rock and Roll with helping organize an occasional riot, march or rally thrown in for good measure.
That’s when we invented the Yin Yang Conspiracy. An ad hoc political party. We ran a longhair named Jeff Jones for student body president, and we threw the bastards out, lock stock and fraternity pin. Lordee we thought we’d done something fierce, beating the system that way. Hot diggedy-damn.
Anyway, this blog entry is in memory of that microscopic triumph among people who had in common only that they opposed the War.
The Yin Yang Conspiracy. A tiny piece of winning the Vietnam War by bringing the troops home. Winning the easy way. Coming out in the open, looking those cops, those stay-at-home flag-waving patriots in the eye through their riot masks, and saying, “Enough is enough!”
We learned a lot. Surveillance, provocateurs, intimidations probably weren’t so pervasive in those days. No yes-man Congress had passed a Patriot Act, so we still had some rights and protections under the US Constitution. It would be a tougher gig today.
But, if that was now we’d be doing it again. We’d be working in both, subtle and overt ways to bring those boys home.
Trying to get them out of there before too many more get all shot up and crippled up and be completely forgotten by the patriots who are waving flags back home.
Kay, the wife side of the couple owning the cabin where I live, is part of the family owning the property adjoining the ranch where the Roswell Incident happened in 1947. Her Aunt Loretta was the step-mother of Dee Proctor, the youngster with Mac Brazel when he discovered the debris on his land.
Loretta was there when Brazel brought Dee home that day carrying pieces of what they’d found. She sat at the table with the rest of the family considering while Mac Brazel tried to make sense of it, tried to decide what he should do.
“The piece he [Mac Brazel] brought looked like a kind of tan, light brown plastic. It was very lightweight, like balsa wood. It wasn’t a large piece, maybe about four inches long, maybe just a little larger than a pencil. We cut on it with a knife and would hold a match on it, and it wouldn’t burn. We knew it wasn’t wood. It was smooth like plastic.” “According to Brazel’s neighbor Loretta Proctor, her 7-year old son Timothy or “Dee” was with Brazel when he first discovered the debris field. But he was also with Brazel when he discovered something else at another site 2-1/2 miles to the east that left him deeply traumatized for the rest of his life.” This is frequently quoted from numerous locations on the web and in books about Roswell, but it provides a good summation or paraphrase of what Loretta had to say about that part of her experience during our visit recently.
Dee [the accounts continue] never told her exactly what he saw there but did take her to the location in 1994 saying, “Here is where Mack found something else.” Dee Proctor would also duck all attempts at interview and died in 2006.
However, Dee never ducked any conversations with Aunt Loretta, nor with his step-sister regarding the incident, though he was reticent to a degree according to the two women.
The popular accounts continue: “However, other rancher children are believed to have visited the site, including Sydney “Jack” Wright, who said that two sons of rancher Thomas Edington and one of rancher Truman Pierce’s daughters got to “the other location.” Wright in 1998 would state, “There were bodies, small bodies with big heads and eyes. And Mack was there too. We couldn’t get away from there fast enough.”
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A while back Gale, Kay and I went up to Comanche to visit her Aunt Loretta for an afternoon. I’d recently read Thomas J. Carey and Donald R. Schmitt’s book, Witness to Roswell. Even though I ‘d thought before reading it the subject had beaten to death several decades ago, the book renewed my interest, so I was enthusiastic about meeting Aunt Loretta and discussing it with her, so I carried a recorder with me.
Loretta lives with her daughter now, raising goats, dancing one night a week, sharp of mind, intelligent and quick of wit. At 95, she’s a woman with a lot still to say, but careful about how she says it.
I was prepared by recent readings mentioned above, ready with questions, as were Gale and Kay, who’d also done the reading of Witness to Roswell. We sat for several hours, asked, and she and her daughter answered, sometimes drifting into nuance, squinting with loaded, pointed implication.
As we drove back Gale, Kay and I talked a lot about what Loretta and her daughter told us that afternoon. It all boiled down to what she’d personally observed, remembrances of Dee when he and Mac arrived at their ranch, asides about Dee, afterward, almost certainly still in possession of the ‘memory metal’ after it was supposed to have been all turned over to the Army. “A certain little brat kept it hidden away his whole life!” Loretta declared with a measure of smiling venom.
According to Aunt Loretta, Mac was in a quandry over what to do about the mess on his ranch. He’d heard somewhere the Army would pay a reward for anyone who found a ‘flying saucer’, but he had a lot of qualms about whether to get involved with the government. Like a lot of people of that time and that area, Mac didn’t have a lot of trust in them. A huge tract of land not far away had been confiscated from the families owning it just a few years earlier to create White Sands Proving Grounds, and the Trinity Site of the first atomic bomb detonation was just down the road and only a couple of years in the past.
There, in Loretta’s kitchen, Mac decided to go visit his wife and kids in Las Cruces for the next few days to think it over. It wasn’t until his return from Cruces he went to Roswell and reported what he’d found. Because of that delay of a week a lot of people in the Corona area knew about it a considerable while before the government did.
She’d provided a vivid description of the site, almost without seeming to realize she was doing it. The way the ridge was scoured of any plant life, the ‘remembrance’ of the ‘impact’ zone as she gazed at the wall telling about it. I came away believing Loretta probably visited the site herself, sometime shortly after the event.
But of all the questions we asked Loretta that afternoon the one thing that didn’t happen was any hint of denial of anything related to her, Dee, the events of those days as described in “Witness to Roswell”.
Whatever happened back there in 1947, there’s not much room to doubt that Loretta’s interpretation of it all doesn’t agree at all with government accounts and seems to agree in all ways where her personal experience and observations come into the events, with just about everything the ‘other side’ has been saying all along.
http://www.alienresistance.org/roswellufocrashsitephotos.htm
Edited in Preface: Someone’s told me this post is a bit grim, which floored me. That is NOT what this is all about. I might well be the happiest man on the planet, the most joyful and grateful for the roof over his head, for the animalcules, for every moment of this life I’m blessed with. I am sure as hell not complaining about the way I live in this post, not poking around looking for sympathy from anyone. There’s not one of you I’d trade lives with.
Please allow your mind to read what follows with a smile. I love this crap. This post is me laughing at myself, laughing at whatever life might throw at me, telling life, “Do your damnedest! I’ll keep coming.”
“Science,” Hydrox the jellicle cat insists, “You observe, you formulate a premise, you test the premise and revise it, then you test again. Just make damned certain it’s right this time.” Hydrox is one of the two felines indoors during cool, and especially during inclement weather. “If science isn’t cutting it try some engineering.”
He takes a jaundiced view of hiding under something to get away from thunder only to get drenched by a lousy roof repair experiment. Hydrox is attuned Level 3 Reiki.
“Reiki Masters,” he assures me, ” At least cat Reiki Masters, don’t appreciate being interrupted from doing high-minded things by getting sloshed because of criminal negligence on the part of a human being.”
Back when I was attuning him several people thought this mightn’t be a good thing. It’s been a mixed blessing.
That chimney pipe was leaking badly back when it still rained. But this repair job hasn’t had the test of a good rainfall yet.
Edit: This larger diameter stovepipe came from Habitat for Humanity Thrift Store [toward the bottom here: Curiouser and curiouser ] for a couple of bucks. If the current fix doesn’t work I’ll cut the down-end with the angle cutter to match the slope of the roof, cut the top shorter than the chimney vent and sleeve the chimney with it. I thinks it will block of a lot, if not all the pesky intrusion of rain into the chimney pipe.
As you can see, I’ve smeared tar all over the the joints in the sheet metal roof, in addition to the customized chimney. That didn’t work too well, I’ll confess. Got some other things to try though. The light brown or tan you see is the foam you get at the hardware store that is touted as being able to plug large leaks by expanding into them to fill in the space. No joy on that.
The chimney problem’s crucial. Water hitting the side of it goes inside, runs down to the elbow in the bedroom but doesn’t slow down much:
[The gray hat’s a XXXXXX John B Stetson I picked up at a silent auction a few years ago for $10. Man who owned but never wore it died and left it to me, though we never met.]
Naturally there’s a backup plan to keep water from coming down on the bed in the unlikely event it rains:
This has worked pretty well in the light rain arena. Hasn’t been tested in a bull goose honest-to-goodness wind blowing rain sideways daddy-long-legs storm.
But we didn’t reach a consensus, the felines etc. on the matter of roof repairs and leaks. Shiva the cow-cat argues, “What the hell! Here’s a perfect spot for both those indoor cats in a thunderstorm. What’s the big deal? If they don’t like it throw them outdoors with Tabby and me.
“I’m sick and tired of all the age discrimination around here in favor of geriatric cats.”
Then have a look at the positions of the three weirdest spin axis / magnetic fields in the solar system. Saturn, Uranus and Neptune:
Old Jules
8:30 AM – Just for those who think a blog entry ought to have something for everyone.
Tired of buying compressed air to blow the dirt out of your computer, watching the prices on it rise to simulate gold?
60# of pressure that doesn’t run out. Cost was $2 in a thrift store.
Computer gurus will tell you it might cause moisture to condense on the important components of your comp. Physics says they ought to be maybe right because of the venturi created when the air expands leaving the pressurized tube.
I’ve been using this one inside and outside my comps for about two years. Haven’t seen any signs of condensation, haven’t experienced any damage to the comps, haven’t spent a penny on compressed air, don’t have a bunch of empty cans lying around wondering what to do with themselves.
But that’s just me. I’m a risk taker.
It also serves as a great, compact bellows for starting fires in a wood stove.
Mama Nature after two days of brainwashing with canned thunder:
Old Jules
5:00 PM – Decided I needed to go to Kerrville for necessaries. Ended up getting a couple of watermelons from an old guy brings them up from the valley. He says it’s his last watermelon trip for the year, says they’ve gotten too high in cost down there to allow him any profit after hauling costs. I told him he needs to buy another truck and make up the difference in volume. Some jokes have been dead long enough for reincarnating them. This one fell on deaf ears. Only drew a puzzled look, as though he was considering the entrepreneural aspects.
This was hard to resist. All those foam ice chests could have kept my chickens pooping foam plastic until spring.
Those shower doors are still coming in for them I reckons, with nobody buying them. I got 20 free for building my chicken house out of, but I’m betting you’d have to pay $5 for all these until they’re ready to put them in the dumpster.
Those have collected dust, been around a while. I’m guessing a person could have them all at a righteous price as low as your conscience would allow you to offer.
Next stop:
Not much going on here.
Next stop:
A guy surely needs one of those, eh?
Didn’t buy nuffin there though. Eventually did pick off a $3 electric 6 cup rice steamer never been out of the box at Salvation Army Thrift Store.
Compulsive personality. That’s the only possible explanation I can think of for this recurring pattern in my life.
Today I had to go into Harper to pay a bill due tomorrow. I hate to make a trip in without getting full value for the gasoline expended getting there, so after I’d taken care of business I drove around the several back streets. I was craning my neck, straining my eyes, looking into the back yards of abandoned houses for a cab-over camper or camper trailer I might be able to pick up cheap as a potential way to give myself an escape route if something goes sour here.
I’ll be posting about some of that Harper thing another time. But after I finished nosing the back streets I went to the Harper Library Resale Store just because it was there. Picked up $6.00 worth of used books at 25 cents each, moseyed around and eyeballed a wireless weather station with rain gauge, anemometer, all manner of goodies for $20. But the box was open and there was dust on it.
My computer-like mind registered this and concluded it had been sitting there a while, nobody willing to pay $20 for it. So I carried my books to the register and while she counted them, “That weather station back there looks as though it’s been here a while.”
She stopped counting and looked at me grinning. They know me there. “You want to bargain about it?”
“Wulll. Actually, I’m not sure I want it. I couldn’t pay more than $10.”
She grinned and pointed to the room where it was located, started walking back there. “You’re going to TAKE $10? You ought not take $10.” Sheeze. We don’t get any weather here and who cares how fast the wind is blowing? When we got there she picked it up out of the box, frowning.
“The wind direction doesn’t work is the only thing.”
“Bobby Dylan and I decided a long time ago we didn’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”
So back to the register. $16.00. She holds up an orange card. “Do you have one of these yet?” No, I nods. “Every time you buy $10 worth of anything we stamp it. When you’ve got $10 stamped 10 times you get $10 off your next purchase.”
“Whoah! You’re telling me if I spent $4 more I’d have gotten two stamps on there?”
Smile. “Yes.”
“Okay. Let me wander around in here a little longer.”
I found four copies of the Texas Historical Review from the 1990s for 50 cents each. Then I found a pair of good sneakers that fit marked $3. I carried them back to the register. “Okay. $2 for the Historical Reviews and $3 for the shoes. Give me another stamp on that card.”
She starts adding, mutters, “Men shoes are half price today. You’re 50 cents short. 26 cents even if we count the sales tax.”
Deep breath. “I want to donate 26 cents to the library. Stamp the card.”
Speedometer cable was making noise on the Toyota when it went Communist. Maybe if the cable breaks I can attach that anemometer to the top of the truck and use the wind speed for a speedometer if I ever get the 4Runner running on pavement again.
You survival and preparedness-oriented readers might find something you didn’t already know in here to be useful. The Introduction section to the book Desert Emergency Survival Basics explains my purposes for writing it better than I can today:
The potential range of human experience includes finding ourselves in unanticipated dangerous situations. Most of those situations have been examined minutely and described in print in the form of survival manuals. Desert survival is not an exception. Excellent books are available to explain primitive survival in the desert southwest duplicating lifestyles of Native Americans a thousand years ago. That is not the intent of this book.
A few decades ago I had an acquaintance with a man named Walter Yates. Walter had the distinction of surviving a helicopter crash in the far north woods by jumping into a snowdrift before the impact. He managed to survive winter months with almost nothing except the clothes on his back when he jumped.
Walter’s experience was a worthy test of human potential for emergency survival in extreme conditions. The margin for error was microscopic. The reason he survived rested on his ability to quickly detach his mind from how things had been in the past, how he wished they were, and accept completely the situation he was in. He wouldn’t have made it out of those woods if he couldn’t rapidly assess his new needs and examine every possibility of fulfilling them. “It’s all in the mind,” he once told me.
The margin for error in the desert is also narrow. That margin is dehydration. Extremes of temperature are also a factor, but they are more easily managed than the needs of the human body for water. Anyone who survives an unanticipated week in desert country did so by either having water, by carrying it in, or finding it.
Over the years I’ve followed a number of search and rescue accounts and discussed the issue with searchers. The general thinking among those workers is that a person missing in the desert southwest should be found or walk out within three to five days. After three days the chances for live return spiral downward. Returns after five days are lottery winners. When a missing person isn’t found within a week, it’s usually because he’s been dead for five days.
This book is to assist in avoiding situations that lead to the need to survive those crucial three days, and to provide the basics of how to walk out and how to find water in the desert southwest. If you need the emergency information here it will be because you became lost, stranded by mechanical failure, or physically incapacitated. I won’t address the bugs and plants you might find to eat. If you have water you’ll survive without eating until rescue.
When this book was written I had a close association with New Mexico State Search and Rescue (SAR). I was also writing a book about a lost gold mine at the time. The State Search and Rescue Coordinator (SARC) knew about the book. I had a special arrangement with him because I was spending a lot of time in remote canyons searching. If something delayed me there I didn’t want them to send out the SAR guys to look for me.
One day in the coffee-room SARC asked me about my progress in the search and the gold mine book. I explained the lost gold mine search to him and how the information available in the past was sketchy.
“So you’re writing a book that’s likely to cause flatlanders to go out into the desert searching for this thing?”
I thought about it a moment before I answered. “It might. A lot of people would have tried anyway, but this book might bring in some who wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
SARC glared at me. His whole world revolved around flat-landers getting lost in the mountains or desert. Several times every month they’d scramble the forces to try to locate someone misplaced. Sometimes it’s a brain surgeon from Houston who got himself mis-located mountain climbing on the east face of Sandia Mountain within sight of Albuquerque . Other times a physicist from California gets off the pavement in the desert and loses his bearings. Sometimes SAR arrived in time to save their lives. New Mexico back country can be unforgiving.
“If you’re going to publish a book that will take a lot of idiots out where they can get into trouble you’d damned well better include some warnings on desert survival and how they can stay out of trouble! I don’t want to spend the next five years dragging the bodies of your readers out of the arroyos in body bags.”
That conversation ultimately resulted in this tome.
Over time it’s been expanded and rewritten numerous times to eventually become what’s posted here. Here’s the link, but there’s a new page for it on the navigation bar at the top of the page. Desert Emergency Survival Basics
O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud —
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says “I burn.”
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats’ Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.
Old Jules told me that some folks have been asking about who I am and wonder how I came to be “behind the scenes” on this blog. He asked me to explain a bit about how we met and got to this point.
We actually met in a y2k chat room. When my ex and I were researching y2k in ’98, I was new to the internet and immediately became addicted to chat, where this guy who could really turn a phrase caught my attention with his sharp, although often warped, sense of humor. He obviously was an expert about emergency preparedness and soon he and his y2k website became my number one resource.
When he got his property at a land auction in the summer of ’99, we also bought a piece of land and I went from Kansas to New Mexico for the first time to sign the closing papers. My family put up our own getaway cabin about a mile and a half down the road from his place. After three more trips to put supplies in place, I had a suspicion that y2k was going to be less of an event than had been predicted. I decided to take advantage of the chance to give my kids a taste of a life not only in a different culture, but without telephone, electricity, or indoor plumbing. By New Year’s I was there with all five of my kids, and I lived there for 4 more months with the three of them that were homeschooling. Jules and my family became good neighbors. He again became a valuable resource for us when we were studying New Mexico culture, history, and geography.
After my family reunited back in Kansas, we stayed in close contact. When I quit homeschooling and began working outside the home, he again became a mentor for me, since his career in management positions gave him perspectives that would have taken me years to learn. After my divorce a few years later we shared a house in Placitas, N.M. for a couple of years before I again moved back to Kansas. I’ve visited Old Jules in New Mexico many times, and in Texas a few times. We’ve taken a lot of day trips, hit the thrift stores, and shared our cats, music, and books. We’ve also collaborated on various projects. He’s been great about encouraging me in my art work, too.
I work two library jobs, and I’ve always had a passion for reading and writing. I’ve had blogs myself, but I decided a while ago that my own expression should focus more on my art than writing. I have other friends who are writers and I enjoy following their progress. Living on the edge as Old Jules does, with a slow dial-up connection on a phone line that I happen to know has a tree branch lying across it right now, makes it difficult for him to maintain a blog site. Since I’ve always enjoyed reading what Old Jules writes, I’m happy to help by using my fast internet connection to set up and maintain the blog. So this blog is truly a joint project. When we can, we use photos that we’ve taken ourselves, and discussing which music fits each post is one of the parts about it that I enjoy most.
Because we live 800 miles apart, we don’t actually see each other very often, so we’re grateful to live in a time when y2k didn’t bring down the grid, destroying communications and becoming the end of the world as we know it.
We hope you’re grateful, too.
Mandala 56 Addendum: Here’s a link to my Deviant Art page for those who’d like to see more of my drawings. I don’t update the page very often, but it’s a handy place to have a gallery! http://mandalagal.deviantart.com/gallery/
SOLAR RADIO BURSTS: This week’s sharp increase in solar activity has turned the sun into a radio transmitter. Bursts of shortwave static are coming from the unstable magnetic canopy of sunspot 1283. Tuesday in New Mexico, amateur radio astronomer Thomas Ashcraft recorded some samples at 21 MHz: listen. Radio listeners should remain alert for this kind of solar activity as sunspot 1283 continues to seethe. http://spaceweather.com/
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Got a call last night from Gale saying they were in Van Horn, headed home. They should have arrived around midnight, so they can take care of their own animalcules this morning.
He said the Hatch Chili Festival probably won’t be among their future plans for having a booth. Sales were flat on most of his crafts, though the Siberian Wolf fang jewelry sold a bit, and his old stand-by steak turners with elk-antler shaped handles might have brought him to the break-even point. He sounded a bit down-hearted and beat to a small frazzle. But those craft shows are a big piece of the glue holding this place and their lifestyle together.
I’ve wondered for some while how long financial ventures depending on consumers buying non-essentials could hold up in a lousy economy.
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking over the past while about various news items I wouldn’t be aware of if it weren’t for the Internet and blogs I read. It’s guided my thinking into directions I probably wouldn’t otherwise drift, such as actually having conscious priorities in my life for a while. At least sort-of priorities.
Not to suggest anyone’s a good economic prognosticator, but with all that guessing going on out there, and with what appears to be a lot of contributory factors, I probably owe it to the cats, at least, to have a backup plan. A way to get the hell out of Dodge intact if things go sour, that has room in it for four cats. If something happens to Gale or their finances, or SS is eroded by inflation, or both, hedging against the sleep-under-a-bridge alternative probably makes sense.
My obvious first priority is to get my new truck running and street legal.
But after that’s done, I’m either going to need to build a house to live in on the bed of it, find an old overcab camper to fit in it, or find a camper-trailer sitting out somewhere I can pick up for nearly nothing for fixing up to pull behind it.
I see these sitting around with weeds growing up around them a lot. I think once I have transportation I’ll have to get serious about trying to acquire one or something rhyming with it as a future place for me and the felines if the Coincidence Coordinators decide to play dirty.
I’m thinking if things get too rough I might be able to slick out further west and establish a moving circuit of campsite homes on US Bureau of Land Management and US Forestry Service lands, changing locations every couple of weeks to stay legal. The cats don’t care for the idea, but they tell me they’d agree to it if I won’t get any chickens.
I’ll probably talk more about various facets of all this in future posts. Progress reports, learnings, that sort of thing.
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Meanwhile, happy posthumorous birthday to Jimmie Rodgers
74 years old, a resident of Leavenworth, KS, in an apartment located on the VA campus. Partnered with a black shorthaired cat named Mister Midnight. (1943-2020)
Since April, 2020, this blog is maintained by Jeanne Kasten (See "About" page for further information).
https://sofarfromheaven.com/2020/04/21/au-revoir-old-jules-jack-purcell/
I’m sharing it with you because there’s almost no likelihood you’ll believe it. This lunatic asylum I call my life has so many unexpected twists and turns I won’t even try to guess where it’s going. I’d suggest you try to find some laughs here. You won’t find wisdom. Good luck.
So Far From Heaven 
