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This is the post excerpt.

Walter

There’s some of you out there, perhaps a good portion actually, who know Walter.
Related in some form or fashion, if not distance kin then at least good friends of the fellow.
I first read about Walter way back in school. Read a book about him,”The Life and times of Walter Mitty”. Although our names spell different, we’re blood bound through and through.
He commuted to work as many of us do, he’d miss his get off point, bus stop, or train station, whatever the case may be. All because his mind was elsewhere. I think we can relate. In grade school one of my teachers early on told my mom I was forever gazing out the windows. Yes, Walter and I go back many years.
That’s where voyages begin actually. Even if they be of a few days duration, the imagination is sparked or set afire and go we must. Some even go so far as building a specific sailboat for a specific event. There’s plenty of the Mitty folk who’s done the Texas two hundred in craft especially built for the event, another is the Everglades Challenge, there are more as well.
Of the Mitty clan, I suspect they’re one of the few family’s that can cross all boundaries of every nation on earth and people group ever to exist. This Mitty clan I also suspect may very well be the only clan that allows others entry irregardless of place of birth. It shouldn’t outta be but that’s the way it is.
Walter’s done some microcruising as well. A friend of his, years ago, lived aboard a 12 footer for a spell, another older gent I read about with one leg gone lived aboard his twelve as well, under a bridge, sold bait after having rowed out to obtain it.
These dreams we hold don’t have us yearning to live under bridges, safe to say, but those bridge type certainly had dreams we could relate to at one time or another. The voyages of the dreams , truth be known, are just the thing that spurs many on to accomplish the unaccomplishable, or so their told. You can’t do that! How are you going to eat? Where you going to live?
I met a fellow sailor who took his many years of experience backpacking, along with another friend of similar knowledge, and were dropped of in the wilderness as if they were whisked off the street. Only the clothes on their backs and the knowledge in their heads to see them through for a month.
Where did it start, this dream to do such a thing? To sail the tip of South America, to Kayak the west coast of the America’s, to sail across the bay to the next harbour? Uncle Walt, the inspiration of so many known, and the unknown of many more.
To all the relatives of Walter Mitty, arise and offer a toast in his name. May his name ever be an inspiration.

Michael j beebe

Willy

Willy

   I first met Willy just before, well months before actually, 

when Mr. Harvey rolled through Rockport and hung around for a few hours, that was a nasty hurricane. I’ve written about  Willy in the past, only then I knew him as Clyde, same fellow, different moniker.

   Just recently he’d stopped by the house and I’d had lay’d down for a nap. “Willy’s at the door!” Linda said, “should I let him in?”

   “Who’s Willy? Was my reply. Seems as if he’s always went by his Nick-name; the reason I only knew him as Clyde is because I sold him a MacGregor 21, a short time before Harvey showed up. The paperwork being put in Clyde’s name.His up beat attitude is what stayed with me. Devastation all around but his 21 footer came through without a scratch. 

   Perpetually broke, living on SSI for many years, single, he’s known the hard life. He moved the MacGregor to a nearby lot, and he lived on site in a tiny shed, maybe 8×10.

But he had hopes. One of those hopes was putting that Mac in the water and renting it out. Well, that didn’t work out so well. Ended up he was kicked off the property, the owner and he had a falling out and Willy was served with papers, in short, to keep his distance. 

   Willy was back to square one. Living in conditions most would abhor, his smile was still infectious. He’d come by the house that day a few months ago, on his bike, Willys 65 years young. Asked about a refrigerator he’d seen at our old place, wanted to buy it if it still ran. 

   “Willy” I said, “for you it’s free!” His eyes lit up again. The next day I happened by the house and Willy was there with another fellow, a younger fellow in his early twenties. Seems Willy had talked him into helping him cart the fridge on a hand truck tied to a bike. 

   “Willy, let’s put that thing in the truck, along with the bikes and the hand truck. I’ll give you a lift.”

   Several months before someone had given me a 21’ sailboat and trailer, some repairs, much cleaning needed, I’d gotten the boats title free and clear, the trailer’s paperwork was a nightmare. Explaining such to Willy, I then asked him if he wanted the sailboat and trailer. “Oh yes!” He said, no second thoughts. Said he’d pay later. “No, no.”

I said, “no money, this is a freebie”.

   The young friend of his has a girlfriend who showed up with a small U-Haul truck. A phone call from Willy, and we met at the house. Hooked it up and away they went. 

   Willy’s back on cloud nine, just as broke, lost his ID, but he’s happy again. He’s gotten over the loss of the MacGregor, this new to him has more room, he can actually sit up comfortably. I stopped by the other day. He’d painted it. A kind of tan color. “The only can of paint around here that had enough in it to do the job!” Willy said.

   Willy’s happy, I’m happy. What’s not to like?

The old man

The old man

   He’d been around for a number of years, sailed his small boat mostly within a 25 mile radius or so. He’d venture up or down the coast from time to time, sleeping in his sailing dinghy. The dinghy was as old as he was, some say it belonged to his grandfather, it had that charm about it. 

   The kid knew, the kid knew just how old the boat was and he knew just how old the elder was as well;  and since their friendship began, the kid kept it all to himself. The kid just kind of weaseled his way into the old man’s life. Not weaseled in a sneaky way, more like how a friendly puppy finds himself in your lap all of a sudden. 

   The old man took the youngster under wing. The young-un watched, from afar, the old fellow getting his small craft ready when one day the captain of the skiff had forgotten to cast off his stern line; it happens. The kid running down the dock, lifts the eye of the stern line off the pile, the old man nods, gathering it in, the friend ship begins.

   The boy’s mother, a widow, had hoped and prayed for an older man to help the boy along. She hadn’t quit come to terms with the prayer being answered so. She hadn’t heard much of anything about him, other than “Stay away from him. You don’t want to get involved with the likes of him” 

   She listened, and understood generalities used in gossip didn’t have much substance, most of the time. She listened as well to her son, she listened and trusted the things he said about the old man. “Mom, he makes the best peanut butter and jelly sandwiches ever!” Her son was becoming a sailor. 

   The old guy didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, and didn’t cus’, at least not around ear shot.

   Word had it several years back a larger sailing ketch foundered out in the bay just about sunset, the wind was kicking up, winter had come leaving fall behind, someone said it had been foggy. 

   The ketch had hit the only shoal in the bay, the captain knocked unconscious, happen stance brought the old man along at the needful hour. He took aboard all he dared and with the captain revived now calling the abandon ship orders. The old sailor took the offload to the nearest island, setting them up with tarps for the night, as he was leaving to return to get the captain the youngest of the rescued, a small boy maybe 4 or 5 spoke up, “Mister, can you go get my grandpa? He’s still on the boat!”

   With that request the old guy set out into the night using what wits he had aboard, knowledge gained over the years, knowing as well the reef’s direction from the small island. All he had with him was the compass. It proved enough. 

   Getting close enough in the stiffer breeze, darkness now set in, the masthead light showed up all too soon like a lighthouse, although being mere feet above the water. He’d get as close as he dared, having the lone skipper come to him. 

   Skip came, though not to board the dinghy, clinging to the side, he told his story of cancer and insurance with such brevity it was very clear to the old man what the Captain wanted. Explained there in the dark wind blown night, nothing more needed said, yet the the old man didn’t want to leave the man so near in age.

   “A young boy back on the island asked me to get his grandpa.” The old man yelled above the wind. With that, one hand grasped another and two men started back to the island. 

   Wood had been gathered, a fire started, no one suffered frost bit. Before dawn the wind eased, the clouds broke, and the Coast Guard helicopter soon found the group of survivors. 

   The old man stayed behind. “I’ll be fine”. He said. The chopper left, everything much quieter now and once again alone. The fire still going, he grabbed his galley kit from the small age worn dinghy, had a pot of coffee going soon enough, some beans warmed, a handful of crackers his guests hadn’t consumed. He was planning on spending the day and another night. Knowing TV news would be covering the story that night, by tomorrow they’d be on to something else and he could go about his life without any undue fuss. He liked that idea. 

   Getting back to his mooring, a stout stake driven into the bank of a small creek emptying into the bay, he never had much of any bottom growth, high tide pushed the fresh water of the creek back up stream enough his small sailer was part time in fresh water as well part time in the salty brine. He stowed his gear, covered the sail now laced to the boom and yard, un-shipped the mast as well, laying the rig in its secured position, headed home along the foot path his feet knew only so well. 

   Back at his cottage nestled among the trees, along side that same creek which emptied into the bay where he kept his small boat. A note was pinned to the door post. It was what he thought it was, after reading he laid it on the small table of his two room home. The second room being the bathroom. Small, tidy, much like his choice of boat, nothing else needed, he was content. He’d been married, his wife had died years before, taking with her their to-be first born. The house then was larger, the plans grander, with sadness of heart he sold it all, bought the land upon which now sat his cottage, the land extended to the waters edge, giving him the safe harbour of such a simple mooring. He did’nt need else, didn’t want else. Surely didn’t want any fuss made over doing what he thought any mariner worth his salt would have done, caught in the same situation. 

   The grandfather did die, several days later, another note did say. Left much the same as the first note, pinned to the door post while he was out on the water. 

   Several years past, depending on the usage anyway. The young boy pleading for the rescue of his beloved grandfather was now twice his age, not the grandfathers mind you, the boy’s. 

   Little did the old man suspect, the lad running the dock that day was the same boy he’d met on that fateful night.

The same lad that loosed the dinghy’s stern line, the same lad who now told his mother of the best PB&J sandwiches ever. They, the old man, the boy and the mom, grew into a team, a small family. Friday dinners were offered so often the evening became a weekly event, almost. 

The book signing

The book signing 

   The table they gave me to sit at and sign the book of tales I penned over the last several years was off by it’s self in a seemingly obscure portion of the book shop. Six til closing was the slot of time given. The crowds outside on this frosty night, lined up back to the corner and down some was not a good sign.

   The soup kitchen two doors down was the crowds draw. It certainly wasn’t  what I was peddling. There we’re a few customers who wandered in, elbowing their way through the long line of destitute, hardy souls, these book worms. Some even stopped by the authors table to chat for a spell. 

   Comments were rather dry, comments mostly about the continuing hard times. That and the harshness of the coming winter, just what to expect wasn’t expected. 

   With an hour to closing, nothing sold or signed, I was told by management it’s often like this, especially so now-a-days. The door opened and in walks a young fellow, at 75, they’re easy to spot, youth,  that is. Standing just inside the door in his rumpled cloths, taking the shop full of books all in, his head stops its turning, his eyes lock on mine, and proceeds to my small nook. 

   Extending his hand, “Hello, I’m Jeremy , I’ve been reading your stuff for years. When I read that you were scheduled for this book signing I just had to come.” Taking his hand in mine we do the old fashioned thing, we shake hands. 

   “So tell me Jeremy” I said then asked, “Do you come in peace? Please, sit down, coffee?”

   We talked that last hour, and filling cups when leaving we yarned for a few more hours. It was into the new morning when I unlocked my door. Slipped into bed without stirring the wife. The dog had only lifted an eye, learning long ago what our rides sounded like. 

   Jeremy, it seemed, was hanging onto things I’d written and was in the beginning of a hopefully long venture of his own. Shared his dreams of skirting the coast, which direction? He’d make that decision in the morning. Most would try and talk the young voyager from such foolishness, going off half cocked not even having a plan. 

   We parted ways that morning, early morning after the Book Shop had closed, several hours before. Jeremy said that he would write. He did, he was faithful in his writing; many cards and letters from as many different ports. I still have them: the cards and letters. I hope one day again to see Jeremy and we can sit and talk and share both the hard times and the good. 

   And then, I’ll give him back his writings. 

Bilge pump

Bilge pump

   Well after so many years with my little 12 footer, a Lehman I call Red Top I finally installed the bugger. This came about helping Linda empty some rain barrels into the larger 250 gallon water totes. She was hauling the water by the bucket full. 

   I told her to wait on that and went over to the shop/boat she’d at First st. coming back with a 12 volt bilge pump and hooked up a garden hose and was able to save her a lot of work. 

   In searching for the 12 volt bilge pump I came across the hand pump shown in the picture. At first I was trying to figure where I could install the electric one. Then the battery and keeping it charged; on a 12 footer! Nah! I went back to the hand operated job.

   I even used it the first sail after installing the thing, twice actually. The first go round was right there at the dock, I tied up the boat, parked the truck and then set the mast. Getting in I noticed high water, uh oh! Forgot to put the rain plug back in. So then and there Red Top needed pumping. 

Happliy it worked rather well, nobody said anything, the docks were full of people coming and going.

   The wind was forecast South at 15 with gusts to 20. That puts Red Top right at the edge of needing the first reef. I decided to go for it as was. I found out later it was a bit more. Then the fun began.

   The wind being what it was from the South I left Cove Harbour on a starboard reach, wind coming over the starboard side, going down the ICW a short distance then back on that same reach; all the way to San Jose Island. First ever for me, actually, closest ever to the ranch headquarters. Pretty neat.

   Going over the spray and chop being kicked up Red Top was filling up again. Not wanting to use the sponge, I now had a bilge pump. My system still needs some fine tuning. 

   Red Top has a false floor a few inches above the bilge, with a 7” round cut out for access to the rain drain, on top of that floor there’s a 1/2” foam pad, cutting two slits in the foam pad, X fashion the suction side of the bilge pump fits nicely in it. But to operate, my right foot in along side of the pump, remember it’s blowing, the boats heeling and taking a bit of water over the rail.

   So the left foot is assigned to holding the outlet side of the pump, the left hand is holding the tiller and main sheet, steering by feel mostly, and my right hand working the pump. After a bit I was laughing at the situation. 

   All in all it was a good practice session. The whole thing brought a smile to my face. I need now to come up with a better system that holds the out flow tube. I’ve thought about a hole through the combing, but really want to give it more thought before doing such.

   I stopped at Mud Island on the way back to eat my lunch. 

It seemed even windier, and it was. I should have stopped and put in that reef, and had the wind gotten stronger I would have. 

   Coming into the dock gave me concern, as did a couple of jibes I knew were forthcoming. The jibes came off without a hitch, coming to the dock came off smoothly, once in a while it’s touch and go back out into the Harbour for another run. 

   Nice day of sailing, put in at 10am, back in at 4pm. 

At the Lumberyard

At the lumber yard 

   At the lumberyard this morning the place was practically empty, who’d a thought Saturday morning would be so. 

   My second trip in before 11am caused the girl behind the counter to comment, “You back so soon?”

“Nancy” I says, “if I remembered everything on the first trip, I wouldn’t have anything to do all the rest of the day.” She laughed as well as commenting. On that second trip one of the office girls was standing in front of the counter with an empty basket, similar to those used in grocery stores. 

   Up walks a neighbor of mine, a contractor as well, and starts kidding with the cart girl, at one time she worked the counter also. The lumberyard I grew up with didn’t have any checkout girls, the men rang you up and then went out in the yard with you and got what you came for.

   My first experience with a check out girl was in San Diego. I told the girl “This place reminds me of Mac Donald’s” 

   “How so?” Came her reply.

“Well” I said, “all you do is run this register, right?” 

“Yes” she replied.

“That fellow over there stocking shelves, he dosen’t run the register, nor work out in the yard and the yard guys never work inside the store, correct!”

“Yes, that’s true.” She answered.

“MacDonald’s, same idea!” 

   Now I can’t say if that’s good or bad, it’s just the way it is.

Another thing that’s just the way it is: my failing memory. It’s not just when I walk into another room, No sir! The memory drain follows me all around town. 

   Might as well make the best of it and get a few laughs.

Raining


Raining here lately. 

The swamp out back can’t hold any more water. 

We give the chickens PFD’s.

I told Linda go stand in the deeper pond area. 

I’ll take your picture.

She said, “No, you”

Just today alone we are forecast to get 10” to 15”. 

We’re very glad the builder of our existing house built it high by bringing in loads of sand, and then built two feet off the ground.

Got a text from a fellow sailor, “Are you out sailing in this stuff?”

I answered, “Was thinking about it.”

Linda rolled her eyes.

Ha!

   So went a letter to my brothers and sister and loved ones. I do think about sailing in this stuff. Sometimes I even muster up the fortitude and take a small sailboat out and meet the front head on. It’s not something I’d recommend, it’s more like ‘don’t do this at home’ type of thing. Yet I go, disregarding my own advice. 

   Why so? Well it brings me closer to experiencing the conditions I read about by the more adventurous. How-be-it on a much smaller scale, much smaller; I’m not kidding myself nor any others. Another thing it does, it helps me to become a better sailor; in that department I need plenty of help. 

   I’d written a story about how I’d redesigned a Widgeon 12’ sailboat built by the O’Day corporation. Just the insides, making it more user friendly for this aging body. Today at the shop, I was wishing I hadn’t put W2 out side. W2 is my second Widgeon I’m in the middle of redoing as well. In this rain I could get a lot done on it, we’re it back in the shop. I’m planning on a small enclosed cabin on the thing, all controls inside. It’d be a nice ride on days like this. That write up will be some where in the future. 

   But, until that time I’ll poke along and be very satisfied with sailing 

Red Top, my 12’ Lehman, also redone. Red Top does pretty good, from the factory he came with 81sq ft of sail, a cat rig. I changed it to a lug with 79 sq ft, and two reef points. The reef points come in handy.

   We’ve got another three days of this stuff. 

The dreams continue.

Raining


Raining here lately. 

The swamp out back can’t hold any more water. 

We give the chickens PFD’s.

I told Linda go stand in the deeper pond area. 

I’ll take your picture.

She said, “No, you”

Just today alone we are forecast to get 10” to 15”. 

We’re very glad the builder of our existing house built it high by bringing in loads of sand, and then built two feet off the ground.

Got a text from a fellow sailor, “Are you out sailing in this stuff?”

I answered, “Was thinking about it.”

Linda rolled her eyes.

Ha!

   So went a letter to my brothers and sister and loved ones. I do think about sailing in this stuff. Sometimes I even muster up the fortitude and take a small sailboat out and meet the front head on. It’s not something I’d recommend, it’s more like ‘don’t do this at home’ type of thing. Yet I go, disregarding my own advice. 

   Why so? Well it brings me closer to experiencing the conditions I read about by the more adventurous. How-be-it on a much smaller scale, much smaller; I’m not kidding myself nor any others. Another thing it does, it helps me to become a better sailor; in that department I need plenty of help. 

   I’d written a story about how I’d redesigned a Widgeon 12’ sailboat built by the O’Day corporation. Just the insides, making it more user friendly for this aging body. Today at the shop, I was wishing I hadn’t put W2 out side. W2 is my second Widgeon I’m in the middle of redoing as well. In this rain I could get a lot done on it, we’re it back in the shop. I’m planning on a small enclosed cabin on the thing, all controls inside. It’d be a nice ride on days like this. That write up will be some where in the future. 

   But, until that time I’ll poke along and be very satisfied with sailing 

Red Top, my 12’ Lehman, also redone. Red Top does pretty good, from the factory he came with 81sq ft of sail, a cat rig. I changed it to a lug with 79 sq ft, and two reef points. The reef points come in handy.   We’ve got another three days of this stuff. 
The dreams continue.

The Corner store

   This morning my wife reached into the fridge for the milk, 

‘O bummer!’ I heard her say, or something to that effect. No, no curse words, she doesn’t normally curse, al least for such so minor. She had started cooking and needed milk, and me about finishing the breakfast she had made up for me, I offered to go and pick up the milk. 

   Off I went, past the corner store, and past the newly rebuilt store and gas station on the next corner down. She prefers the newer chain of discount neighborhood stores, those yellow and black signed ones. 

   “Get the newest dated milk!” She quipped as I left the house. Usually one has to dig deep to get the freshest milk. 

Front and center, the good-til-mark read 6-28-21. Behind it the next in line read, 6-22-21, way in the back of the cold section of the display, the milk jugs were marked, 6-21-21. 

   Ha! An over worked night stocker had put the freshest milk front and center, or maybe the employee was cutting corners. Nah!

   The check out girl, maybe early twenty’s, pleasantly greeted me. Before I responded, there on the counter was a school type bell, the ones you bang on with your hand, I banged on it. There hand written note attached to the bell reading ‘Please ring bell’, so I complied and rang the bell.

   “Now what?” I said to the young clerk.

She raising both hands, smiling and says, “I’m here!” 

Then me, “It works!” We both laughed.

   The previous customer had lingered, my guess, after hearing the ringing of the bell, and she was holding the door open for this older guy, me. The clerk gave us both a salutation of having a blessed and good day.

   Back at the house, the visiting sister is having a discussion with my wife. My wife asks her sister why she wants to look at the her lips in order to hear better, (her sister is both hard of hearing and challenged in other ways).

   “If you’re like this, why do you ask questions from another room?” Said Linda. You can see where this is going. After listening for several minutes, I interrupt with a plea, “That’s too deep of a subject for a morning discussion.” Taking my clue, the subject is changed.

   All this before 9:30 am. Should be a nice day. 

Writing

Writing

   On writing, like carpentry, it goes back a long way with me. As a five year old I found a small hand saw of my grandfathers in his kitchen and started sawing away on a kitchen drawer. In first grade I read about Zeke the carpenter and I wanted to be one. 

   The writing began a few years later, just two or three years later in the fourth or fifth grade, the teacher had us write pen-pal letters to another classroom in a different state being taught by a friend of hers. It caught on. 

   In the eighth grade while at the beach with my cousin, we met some girls and exchanged addresses and the pen-pal thing went on for a year or two before petering out. I always enjoyed writing and receiving notes, cards, letters. Much more so than a phone call. Once the phone call is  over, the memory went with it, or so it seems. A handwritten letter was read, over and over again. I still reread cards and notes sent snail mail, their worth is not lost on me. 

   Phone calls are easy, a hand written something, takes a bit more effort. A hand made card, written upon and then sent, always arrives, dripping with love.

   No this writing thing goes back further than my carpentry, well maybe not further, that saw thing happened before I was able to write. I did build a napkin box for my mother while in the sixth grade which she kept for years. Had I put in the time and effort into this writing trade as I later did as a carpenter who knows where I’d be sitting. 

   Over the ensuing years I did continue to write letters, I keep journals, still. Although the earlier ones have been lost, with the memory is going, writing today helps with the diminishing returns on a body wearing out not  being able to stand up to the tasks of being a carpenter any longer, so I guess the writing thing will come to the surface as long as the mind stays sharp, that being questionable already by some. 

   Years ago, I started sharing on paper, thoughts I had while reading the Bible. Sending them out to those expressing an interest in receiving them. Three uncles always offered encouragement. The letter writing as such , being copied, hand addressed, stamped, then posted and sent, was not always well received. O well.

   At one point I’d send post cards, the plain Jane, pre-stamped, sold by the USPO. I used a drafts-mans lettering aid to help with keeping my terrible handwriting somewhat legible. I could squeeze quite a few words onto one of those cards. 

   I started putting these ‘Gospel Thoughts’ as they came to be called, into the local newspaper in the city where I lived at the time. I’d work an extra Saturday to pay for it and the writing continued. 

   Considering the pen-pals, the cards, notes and Gospel Thoughts, when a local college offered an evening course in writing post cards for business purposes, I signed up right away. The concept of the class was putting together a business advertisement that would catch the recipient’s  eye, making an impression from the start. 

   This was geared for local advertisement by businesses in the neighborhood. We were taught it had to be ‘done from the front door to the waste basket, a thirty or forty second time frame’. 

   Pithy advertising. My vision was a bit different than the others taking the class. I wanted to condense my Gospel Thoughts to the same time constraints. The understanding of the word ‘Pithy’ came from a recipient of my writing. Telling me my writing were Pithy. I had to look that one up.

   That pithy-ness, I’ve tried to carry over into my other writings as well. I’m not sure how successful I’ve been, I’ve been asked for more, more words, more, more, more. I’m reluctant to give. Very reluctant. If you’ve noticed the magazines with their full color spreads, and much fewer words, leaves little for a fertile mind. But then, their selling, I’m not.

   In doing this selling, we as a society, are being sold short, very short. Snake oil come to mind, snake oil and misquoted gems from the word of God. One being ‘money is the root of all evil’, taken as is, the rise of socialism is upon us. Taken as intended, “the love of money is the root of all evil” it’s corruption, not capitalism, that’s the problem.

   Words or pretty pictures? We know what sells, and many of us are very much aware of this.

   It would seem I’ve lost the pithy-ness somewhere in the midst of this narrative. 

   More, more, I’ve been told. 

Maybe later.

Michael j beebe

Here we arr

Here we arr

   Arr maty’s, as pirates are given to say. A few years back I saw a documentary about Pirates of the Caribbean, not those Disney types, no sir! The real deal. When their ships appeared, dread set in. Dark clouds gathered, fleeing took place and the usual cannon fodder were set out, given guns, a hand shake, and a hearty, “Go get em boy’s!” And boys they were, used in the hope of procuring a bit of escape time. 

   It was a hard life, for the pirates as well the conquered. Things progressed over the years, refinement’s set in, they, the pirates after all were rather crude; there were better ways to rape and pillage. We are civilized you know. 

   Through the sands of time, there seems to be a group of people who can’t leave well enough alone. Cain killed his brother Able simple because he wanted to worship God his way, “Able, let’s go for a walk”, Cain entreated his brother. The problem started before that actually, and the problem continues today. 

   Will the Good-old-boys save the day come this Wednesday? Time will tell. I wonder if Vegas is giving odds? 

All eyes on the man with ‘Orange Hair’, said with no disrespect, or his side kick, the VP, or the lawyers, the News media , who’s in charge anyway? 

   I’ve been taught the same God who called Cain onto the carpet is the same God who has a plan, who does as he pleases, who turns the hearts of kings as he wishes, that God; is in charge. 

   So the question really boils down , “What’s God doing? With this election, with this nation, with this world?” I surely don’t know, and neither do the talking heads: those talking heads on both sides of the fence. 

   We need to align ourselves with the God of heaven, his desires, not ours. 

Michael j beebe