A comment by John Fleming over on AD struck me this morning. I hope he doesn't mind if I copy his words:
"Some people might like it, conversing with your ghost. But at some point, either your heirs will pull the plug on your echo, or your echo will become so antique that all the new folks are not interested in what you might have said about anything. And then as Gerard says, digital dust to digital dust."
On occasion, simply heading out in some random direction from a point in the back-country brings surprises. I found this grave somewhere out in the Nevada desert. Nothing much out here but sagebrush, badger holes, and the fading ghosts of lost dreams. Any "town" that might have been nearby had fallen into ruins of less notice than this old iron fence. Any headstone or marker - like the body within - had long returned to that from which it came.
An elaborate fence, someone buried with love, care, and expense - they themselves now gone a few generations ago.
I doubt I could find it again.
But I wonder what was once here; the lives lived, hopes flourishing, a town of future substance being built ... being Nevada ... on the hopes of some mineral strike that would turn "our town" into a new metropolis.
Then the mines played out.
Genesis 3:19 “By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.”
It's hard to keep political discussions away these days. "Just because you're not interested in politics, doesn't mean politics isn't interested in you"
Headline: "Hours After Trump Paused All Arms To Ukraine, Zelensky Reportedly Ready To Sign Minerals Deal Under 'Trump's Strong Leadership'"
Did someone explain to Z that his life expectancy might be measured in days if he pissed off the US any further?
"Trump wants to announce agreement in his address to Congress Tuesday evening."
Or did the Dems put him up to trying to embarrass DJT once again?
I still say that little squirrel needs an all-expenses-paid, one-way trip to Moscow.
A sample of some obscure – and some maybe not obscure – tunes from my strange and off-the-wall collection.
Today’s selection: Russian Army Choir - Полюшко поле (aka Song of the Plains; Meadowlands)
Can't really say I'm a Russophile but I don't think of Russians as my enemy either - in spite of spending my childhood huddling under my desk to aid in identifying my burnt remains save me from Soviet nuclear attack. It's a place I'd like to visit, at least St Petersburg.
Way back when ... I was in 8th grade ... Vietnam raging and the Soviet Union evil incarnate ... I had a social studies teacher (a WWII vet) who told us that in our lifetimes, there would be a good chance that we'd see the US turn into a police state and Russia become the land of freedom. About the only thing I directly remember about 8th grade ...
While that teacher has not yet been proven correct - or incorrect, I can't say I've seen anything recently to disavow me from the notion that both countries seem to be on that path.
I'd much rather the US was "friends" with Russia than some of those we (supposedly) are friends with - say China and Saudi Arabia.
Jean asked that this be a response to ghostsniper's comments about a house he designed for Deion Sanders
I want a house with high ceilings and low floors. windows never closed, no locks on the doors. "welcome friends" on the mat, chairs stuffed and comfy fat. food in the fridge, books on the shelves. don't hesitate to help yourselves.
After leaving Rattlesnake Canyon at Pass Creek Station, the trail headed off across the beginnings of desert country. After a stretch of alkali dust came the oasis at the dreaded crossing of the North Platte, then the desolate lands subject to some of the worst Indian danger of the entire Wyoming portion of the trail - this "Central Route" being selected as less susceptible to Indian attack than the original route over South Pass to the north. The stations from Sage Creek west of the North Platte to Bridger Pass Station were often abandoned due to Indian raids; cavalry escorts from Fort Halleck in the east and Fort Bridger in the west were common along this stretch.
When not under danger from Indian attack or bandits, there was always the boredom of long stretches of rough, waterless, unchanging desert landscape to occupy oneself.
Coming up next: Bridger Pass Station to Duck Lake Station
Think cold. Think some more cold. It was even colder than that.
Must have been Christmas/New Years. I forget which way I was headed: east for Christmas, west coming home. I'll guess I was heading home.
I've been stranded more times in Kansas due to blizzards than any place in all my years in the mountains - not even while I lived in Montana; this was just another occasion. At least it wasn't Salina this time ...
Coming across US34, I got past Phillipsburg in a near-blizzard but hit the storm head-on along about St Francis near the Colorado border. Had followed a snowplow to the state line but that's where they turned around and where I discovered Colorado wasn't even bothering. Snow was above the truck door in places. The Kansas fellows told me they were giving up as well and best advice was to head south on KS27 to Goodland; they had just cleared it - I'd better get on down that way before the road closed again. I-70 runs past Goodland and I'd be able to find a place to crash where I wouldn't be stranded in the middle of nowhere for a few days if I couldn't go on.
I-70 was shut down. Not really a surprise - I've discovered that on occasion the interstates shut down before the local highways ... which may have been the reason I was on 34 instead of 70. Or maybe because I prefer 34 to 70 - I don't recall now.
I don't go out that time of year without being prepared to get stranded - sometime I may tell of the time I was caught between two major avalanches - so I spent the night in the truck. No point looking for a motel; travellers on I-70 had sucked up what was available and "The highway is closed" prices were in effect.
It was >cold< out. Sleep was intermittent; run the engine long enough to get the cab warm - and prevent the radiator from freezing. Windows cracked a bit; the cab cooled off quick. Re-start the engine. Repeat as necessary. Probably every 15 minutes to half-hour.
Anti-freeze to 20 below is not much good when it gets far below that. 35 below is what I later heard. Cardboard on the radiator time.
I have this thing for trains. Unreasonable, unexplainable, but there it is.
So along about not-quite dawn - gave up on sleep, better to have the engine running and wheels turning anyway - I wandered around the RR yard in Goodland and vicinity waiting for the gates on I-70 to be opened. The storm has passed, the temperatures dropped, and it was looking to be a glorious sunny day (and it turned out to be).
The RR left the engines running all night. Wonder why? ...
Someplace in the vicinity, I took this photo. I look at it now - maybe 30 years later - and I still feel the cold. Maybe that's just me and my memories. That stillness of bitter cold, freeze your lungs cold, squeaky snow like fingernails-on-a-blackboard cold, what-the-hell-are-you-doing-out-in-this cold. And I'm out and about taking photos instead of in some warm local breakfast joint, stuffing myself with coffee, eggs, bacon, biscuits-and-gravy.
So this being the first of March, expecting unseasonable temperatures of near 60 today here in the Idaho foothills, and winter perhaps almost over - not that it really got started this year other than a week of pogonip in December and a few inches snow for the week after Groundhog Day - I though it was time to share this picture of what I didn't experience this year.
I enjoy the memory; I don't need to enjoy the experience anymore.
