Category: random

Tongue in God’s ear, a true story…

We have had a thermal inversion over the area the past few days leading to pogonip. Pogonip, known more widely elsewhere as hoar frost, hangs low to the ground, thick and blinding in some areas, patchy and thin in others.

Buddy and I went out for a walk in it. Eerie, especially when there are few sounds of civilization in the background.

As we crossed over this hill and dropped into the valley below to the dirt road heading back towards our home, Buddy lowered his head, his fur hacked on his back, and he growled a low and menacing growl. Instantly my spidey senses went up, and I began watching for a possible threat.

Without warning, a small figure passed beside us, about five or six feet away, walking in the opposite direction along this road. The fog was so thick that it was difficult to make out the person, other than the fact they were very short compared to my five foot seven.

“One of Santa’s helpers, an elf, or worse, a gnome?” I caught myself thinking.

They said nothing to me, and I said nothing to them. I’m not even sure this person saw us through the thick fog each of us was wandering in. A bit spooked, we practically raced home.

This morning I learned a man with Dwarfism moved in down the street from us.

Where Chance O’Gregory was sneaking off to each evening, I had to find out, and so I pretended to be asleep when he slipped from our cabin and started up the hillside towards our claim. My colleague had the same idea as he rolled from his cot, fully dressed as well.

Quietly, we followed O’Gregory into the darkness, unsure where he might lead us.

At the mouth of our mine, we saw a light glowing. We became suspicious and prepared to take action.

Once inside the tunnel, we found Chance seated at a table with three others. He didn’t seem abashed at all as we approached.

“Meet my new poker-playing friends,” O’Gregory smiled. “That’s Christmas Past, he’s Christmas Future, and this is Christmas Present.”

Each stood to shake our hand.

I drink coffee because if I didn’t, I’d be like a two-year-old with his blankie in the wash.

He is one of those Virginy City folk who picks a person whose lot he thinks is a lump of coal, then goes to work, figuring out a way to make their Christmas special. This year Alibi Ames had Brutus Howl in his sights, whose job it is to write about the goings-on of the Comstock in all of its glories and pitfalls.

Alibi does not know Brutus well, although he has seen him wandering the boardwalk along C Street late nights and always alone. He also thinks he knows what this loner will like.

He pulls a deluxe three-volume set of the 1973 edition of the Doten Journals from his bookshelf. He carefully wraps it in the pages of the most recent Comstock Chronicle, tucks it under his arm, and heads to the Union Brewery.

Brutus shows off his new acquisition the following morning.

“Those are worth more than your typewriter.”

“They are worth more than my typewriter to me, too.”

“Were they a Christmas present?”

“I think so.”

“From?”

“Who knows? Maybe Sam Baker or Santy Claus.”

When Alibi hears how happy Brutus is, he smiles and takes a drink of his whiskey-laced coffee.

Insomnia is jus’ another word for things you forgot to think of earlier in the day.

I had to get up and get going after realizing that today’s bad decisions needed my help.

Lander and Elko Counties in Nevada are talking about replacing equipment manufactured by Dominion Voting Systems.

It comes amid ongoing concerns about tampering and fraud that evidence, wholly ignored by the media and political elites, tying the equipment to Venezuela and George Soros. And like a good lapdog, the Associated Press got out front of the story by adding “claims have been largely debunked.”

Discernment counts, so please note the word “largely.”

And as if that weren’t enough, the AP also has to make sure that everyone knows the ‘Republican’ Secretary of State Barbara Cegavske has said the results in Nevada were accurate and reliable. They fail to mention how she was the only GOP candidate on the up-ticket to win reelection in 2020.

And as if this makes it all better, the AP also reports that all electronic voting machines are certified by the federal government and required to run on closed systems to prevent hacking and cyberattacks.

My final thought is in the form of a question from the movie “Moneyball,” wherein Brad Pitt’s character asks, “If he’s a good hitter, why doesn’t he hit good?” If the machines are not compromised, then why the concern about replacing them?

It was “Take Your Child to Work Day,” and I got permission to participate. We walked into the office, and I showed my son my cubical, my desk and then gave him a tour around the building, where he met all of my co-workers.

We returned to my cubical, letting him sit in my seat and play with the computer as I was finishing some paperwork. Finally, I told him I needed my chair, and he got up so that we could switch places.

As we did so, he asked, “Dad, where are the clowns you say you work with?”

From the most recent file box I’ve been sorting through, I found what might be the very first poem I ever wrote. My 10-year-old handwriting is such that I cannot tell if it is dated March 5 or May 5, 1971.

Poor Peter Cotton Tail
Robbed mother’s garden
He went to county jail
Meat pie for the Warden

Because the date is faded and my penmanship unreadable, I thought maybe I wrote it close to Easter time, but the holiday happened on April 11. Written for publication in our elementary school newsletter, it never made it to print.

Now I get why they refused.

My wife made the coffee this morning. When she handed me a cup, she winked at me. I was never so scared to drink something as I was at that moment.