Wrap'd

Once again the stories arise about the practices of American slaughterhouses that are raising quotas so fast that they don’t allow time for the animals that are used for food here to die before being cut apart. This last article I saw was in the Washington Post Weekly in June, 2001. Reporters do a horrible but necessary service to the world to bring such practices to the world’s attention and then it becomes a universal imperative that requires response from every person on the planet, every animal, every bird and insect, every plant, tree and bush, every rock must cry out against this ultimate insult of greed. Here is one of my responses in a poem:

WRAP'D

With clanking chain and shrieking rumble
and the cows that bellow loud
Oh the pigs do squeal
and they both cry tears
as they move on down the line
cut apart
while still alive
cut apart
before they died
eyeballs rolling, tongues out-thrashing
squealing, crying as they’re cut apart
alive so quotas can be met
and terror fills the air

Shopping carts that squeal and rumble
as they move on down the line
with corn flakes here, orange juice there
and cow remains all tightly wrap’d
in plastic, neat with feces, dirt
and terror also caught
and tightly wrap’d,
fancy and convenient,
so easy to take home

Expensive tires squish through the rain
and move on down the line they
carry home the nation’s bounty
Food for commerce, food for children,
but seldom ever food for thought
Harried mothers unwrap plastic,
cooking cow-parts for their family
setting on their kitchen counter
meat that’s filled with unseen terror
and feed their children silent screams.

© John Womack, 2006. All Rights Reserved.

Craven Gap, NC

Late in the afternoon of the last day of winter, warm sunshine lay on the side of the mountain. Its pleasant light brightened the branches of sleeping trees, and reassured a lone hiker that winter was finally over.
But then the sun fell quickly from the sky and a breeze swept across the trail stirring leaves and raising a surprising chill out of the earth. A strong gust slipped through the hikerÂ’s jacket and under her blouse.
Uneasily, she zipped her jacket, reached for her cap and gloves and turned to head for her car.
The shadows on the trail quickly darkened. A ferocious wind raced up the pathway, hiding it and hurling leaves into her face. The wind began a low howl as it rose into the tree tops, and the hiker suddenly knew that her jacket would be no match for this cold night. She began desperately running for her car, still half a mile away.

As the trail and forest grew dark, bitterly cold air rushed out of the frozen earth, devouring those soft breezes which had occupied the mountain for the past two days. The icy wind roared up out of the frozen rocks, slashing and twisting and bending the trees, whipping their tops and sending leaves and needles swirling headlong, stinging the frozen skin and numbing the mind with its vastness and intensity. Great frozen strength penetrated the universe. Winter had come again, reclaiming its mountain kingdom - reigning again - ruthlessly, righteously, implacably, eternally sovereign - never to leave again! Then it was no longer just the wind which was howling and roaring, but all the creatures and trees, the rocks and hills, the entire world was screaming and crying with shock and agony on this, the last night of winter, 1991.


Morning finally comes and the hiker returns to the mountain with the sunrise, to find that winter has burst - like a soap bubble - still clinging as a fine film, scattered here and there on icy ledges and in snow-speckled hollows.
Whistles, peeps, croaks and the song of birds gently float along with the smell of earth and water on moist, gentle breezes while the cold starlight of those long winter nights bids farewell to the mountain, glinting and sparkling as it fades away under the trees and shrubs.
It is morning - the first day of spring.

©John Womack, 2006. All Rights Reserved

Oak Ridge - 2000

Sunday, August 6, 2000. A not-so-quick (three hour each way) run over to one of the most desolate and forsaken places I have ever seen. If you want to feel sorry for the planet Earth visit Oak Ridge, Tennessee. We drove through the Y-12 reactor area before the demonstrations began and felt like we had been taken to a world where everything had failed. Roads were blocked all over the place, many with signs saying that it was not safe to travel those roads. Trees were dead and dying in vast numbers. Streams had signs posted reading: “Danger! Stream Contaminated. Do not drink, fish, wade, swim or trespass!” Other signs read “Avoid all contact with the water!” Then in smaller letters: “Condemned by the State of Tennessee”. Later we joined up with Br.
Utsumi and Sr. Denise and about 250 other protesters, most of whom appeared to be Oak Ridge residents.
I left my Nikon in the car and filmed the event with my Sony camcorder. The camcorder is a remarkable tool for conducting interviews and recording events since it captures not just images but also movement and sound. Later its story can easily be shown to selected music. Furthermore, the message of the camcorder reaches it’s audience not through the museumic dust of the ages represented to many modern viewers by a slide projector, but through the power, authority, intimacy and urgency of television.
We assembled for lunch and speeches at a public park, then marched about a mile and a half down the highway to the Y-12 Reactor entrance area where we became part of an omelet-stew featuring protesters, counter protesters, police, federal marshals and some 12 news outlets including Fox and ABC, perhaps others. The protesters were generally dressed in a post-modern-hippie array of clothes (partly because of the march in hot weather). Most of the counter protesters were dressed in some form of military costume, or parts thereof. We also had a “preacher” who had come uninvited over to our side, and later we found out he had been dispatched to us by the counter-protesters. He was a young man with an amazingly loud voice, perhaps in his mid-twenties, dressed in tan trousers and a long-sleeved white shirt and he carried a bible and some tracts. He began shouting at us, asking if we were Christians. He grabbed Br. Utsuni who was dressed in his Buddhist monk’s robe and asked if he was a Christian, Br. Utsuni put his palms together, near his heart, in the nomastai gesture of respect, bowed and said “Ah sooooo!”
“Well, you’ll burn in Hell forEV-er if you haven’t accepted the Lord JESUS CHRIST as your personal SAVIOR!”
Br. Utsuni walked toward the podium The preacher followed him.
“Brother are you SAVED?” Utsuni talked to someone else about the program. The preacher continued “HEATHENS will burn in HELL!” Then he added “FOREVER and EVER!”
I went over to the counter-protesters to interview and photograph them. They had a very powerful loudspeaker system that they had aimed at us and it played martial music at full blast. One old gentleman who was confined to a chair and oxygen was (according to his wife) a former member of “Merril’s Marauders”. I did not photograph or interview him. A young man held up a sign protesting the protest in the name of “vets”. I asked him where he had served and he replied that he had never been in the military but that he liked vets. Something new in the world, I guess. A woman grabbed my arm and asked how I could side with the “heathens” - then as a small crowd of counter-protesters surrounded me she asked if I had received the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal savior. I told her that I was a native American and that Jesus had been the worst thing that had ever happened to us. The result was a min-nuclear reaction. Bibles were produced (duly photographed), scripture was quoted(also recorded). One woman was dressed in what appeared to be part of an old WAC uniform but with brigadier general stars as her rank. I noticed a submarine patch had been sewed on her uniform. When asked, she said that she had sung a song for “the navy people” on a submarine and the “boys” had “awarded “ her this patch. She sang a partial verse of “Silver Wings on My Son’s Chest”. I asked her what service her son had joined and while I did not understand her answer, I took it to mean perhaps that she did not have any children. I did not ask again but she sang on about “...America’s best...” in what seemed to me to be a voice that alternated between tremolo and vibrato. She was obviously concerned about the path in which her country seemed to be headed now. I told her I had to get back to the other group and she smiled and said “Well, I shore hope you don’t git no aids ... .” I acted surprised and asked if there was any “aids” over there and she nodded her head and said “Yep, you can count on it!” As I headed back to “our” side I was thinking “Silver Wings on Jesus’ Chest ..” That train of thought ended when a policeman stopped me to see if I seemed bent on trouble, then he let me go on. I made his picture too and he looked very somber like he was the only person there who had noticed how hot it was.
There were two speakers on our podium; one probably American, the other appeared Japanese. They spoke briefly and then showed how to do a chant in English and Japanese - “Make Peace not War! War no More!” Then a rather well dressed man took the podium and began speaking about the consequences of America’s continuance of nuclear weapon building. He talked about moral obligations, international treaties, United Nations resolutions, court decisions, and legal ramifications. Meanwhile, the preacher still wandered about with his bible. “Are you SAVED?” “Brother! Listen!” “Sister, LISTEN to me!” “Are you washed in the BLOOD of the LAMB?” The counter-protesters were playing military songs, about Anchors Aweigh, The Cassions are Rolling Along, and Off we Go ...” All this added a dimension of immortality and imputed grave importance to the speakers words. Although the music was not exactly overpowering, it was still audible and the speaker seemed to fall into its cadence so that his words seemed to march forward as if an entire nation was behind their inexorable sweep to victory, and to the measured march of “From the halls of Montezuma”, the words stepped forward from the speakers mouth “... the re-spect for gen--RA-tions will de-pend on what we do!””The BLOOD of the LAMB!!”” ... for us to walk the talk ...” “hellFIRE FOR-EV-VER!!” “... moral obligations for humanity ...eternal damnNA-TION!!! ... moral obligations... “Around the Globe ... Depart from ME ye WICK-KED ... international tribunals ... with our banners gleaming ... and suffer in HELL forEV-VER!!

A shuffling of cards could suddenly be heard. Cards? What’s that? A glance showed federal marshals in dark camouflage marching in military formation to a blue line which had been freshly painted across the road that led to the Y-12 nuclear plant. Now the brigadier has found a microphone and is sending out an amplified, quavering song: “Silver wings on my son’s chest ...” “God’s ONLY Son!!!” “...he’s one of America’s best ...” “Heathens will go to HELL!!!” “ ...and then you will see ...” “BURN in HELL for all ETERNITY!!” A bell sounds to commemorating the explosion over Hiroshima and drums begin a cadence which will last for more than two hours. “Dum, dum, dum, dum, dum-de-dum; dum, dum, dum, dum, dum-de-dum” It was the cadence of the march from Atlanta to Oak Ridge. “In a lake of FIIRRE!!” Now the two Buddhists begin chanting and marching toward the new blue line. The crowd surges behind them. The Japanese man is at the microphone again shouting in Japanese but his words are overridden by the preacher who is in our midst: “The Lord sayeth in I-SAY-yah...” From the counter-protesters faintly comes the tune “Over there, over there, send the word ...” , and they are now waving United States flags. “Suffer for-EV-VER!!!”
The first two protesters walk across the blue line and stop. There is a cheer from the protesters, then breathless quiet. Faintly can be heard the tune from the counter-protesters Mine eyes have seen the glory ... A federal marshal, a tall man with an enormous belly, comes up to the protesters who have crossed the line and reads a statement to them from a card he holds in his hands. There are about six marshals surrounding the two protesters and probably twelve journalists with cameras, recorders and camcorders surrounding that entire group. The two protesters are both small elderly ladies wearing straw hats, and are perhaps both in their 80’s. “Now if you don’t leave, Ma’am, I will have to place you under arrest ...I will have no choice ...” he stops and bends his head over so he can hear what she is saying. ‘ ..he is tramping in the vineyard ...” . A swarm of camera lenses open and close constantly, flashbulbs flickering. For a moment he looks like he might be talking to his grandmother; she stares straight up, her fingers lightly touching his arm, smiling, as if looking at her favorite son. He straightens up. “Ma’am, I must inform you that you are under arrest; anything you say may be held against you ...” The lenses open and close constantly as if in amazement, not believing what they are recording. The marshal looks like his lunch maybe didn’t agree with him. Several marshals help the ladies over to the shade. A roar arises from the protesters, and a clapping of hands. “Make Peace not War! War no More!” “God have MERCY on your SOULS!!!...” then spontaneously all other noise is washed away by a new song which begins from one female African-American voice and instantly swells and seemingly lifts to fill the entire world! “We shall overcome ...” .

So, two more waves of protesters were arrested, about at 30 minute intervals, probably about 20 or so in all, and the once yearly celebration segued into the one which is held every Sunday there. That’s when we walked the mile and a half back to our car. On the way, at about 5:30 p.m., we noticed a bank temperature sign reading 96°.

© John Womack, 2006. All Rights Reserved.

Y2K

Dec. 31, 1999. Y2K - Are we ready? As December runs down to its end, somehow the threat seems to have vanished. People I know who have bought up storage food have slacked off.
The day dawns: First report from an island out somewhere in the dark Pacific midnight.
“Nice day, and our computers still work.”
“How many computers do you have?”
“Two - but they’re both working fine.”
Well, so far so good; of course the corrolary to that is that there are only two computers working in the world right now - just like the IBM president forecast many years ago..
Midnight finds our computer still working well, our lights still on, the TV is still transmitting and receiving what appears to be a full package. We finallly head off to bed.
Next morning I walk out onto the deck - Happy New Year! And welcome to Faux Millenium! Looks like any other morning I have ever known.
Tepredaciously I turn on the computer - it works! How nice.

© John Womack, 2006. All Rights Reserved.

Blue Moon, or Risqué Moon?

Breaking News! 

This just in to Dancing Trail News Center:  Here is the latest on the REAL Blue Moon story!  The magazine, Sky & Telescope, has just had their, probably, first ever exposé in the May issue of 1999.  

It turns out that the Real Blue Moon may not necessarily be the second full moon when two full moons occur in one month!  Now, what follows in this bulletin contains graphic material and may not be suitable for all ages –  please use suitable discretion: It turns out,  according to Sky and Telescope, that the length of time from full moon to full moon is 29.5 days, and since the solar year has 365.25 days, then each year contains enough days for 12 full moons plus 11 days left over, so therefore 7 years out of every 19 there will actually be 13 full moons.  Also the Astronomical Calendar  Year, called a “tropical year”, does not run from January 1 to December 31, but from “Yule” ( December 21, or winter solstice) to “Yule”; this places three full moons in each season except for those 7/19 years (told you it would get graphic) which will contain one season which will have four full moons.   Therein lies the scientific part of the problem; the REAL problem, however is religious, and that mix-match goes something like this:   The Roman Catholic Church has decided that Easter is apparently more important than the sun, and therefore the vernal equinox will always fall on March 21, regardless of whether the sun actually crosses the equator on that day or not (people more familiar with the Roman Catholic Church than I am usually close their eyes and nod their head when we get to this part), and also that Easter MUST fall within one week after the Paschal Moon which, they say, is that first full moon after March 21.   So, ALL the moons of the year are determined by the “tropical” year (yule-yule rule) EXCEPT for the two near Easter, the Paschal Moon (the first full moon of spring) and the one before it, called (by the Church) the Lenten Moon, (and which therefore must be the last full moon of winter). These are determined by ecclesiastical, not not tropical or astronomical rules.  And, in order to keep the other main moons still corresponding to the activity suitable to them (harvest, mid-summer, long-night) whenever a season, as measured from Yule to  Yule has four full moons in it, the THIRD (not the fourth) full moon is designated as the Blue Moon.  So, now you know.  

The Jewish faith handle this problem by adding to seven out of every nineteen years, basically a “blue month”, which they call Adar.  The Islamic faith, not being especially concerned with Passover,  Easter or Christmas, ignores the whole thing, letting their calendar years rotate backwards so any given month begins 11 days earlier each year.  So, if you want to refer to a really, really, really long time, you might try the term “Islamic Blue Moon”!  

Sky & Telescope apologies for their “error”, committed 53 years ago in the March, 1946 issue, and suggests that both methods be retained, since “theirs” is certainly much simpler!  How does all this affect our current Blue Moon status? Hmmm.   That would mean no Blue Moons at all in 1999!  Next one would be February 19, 2000.  February, of course is the only month which could NEVER have a Blue Moon under the second full moon in a month rule, but under the four in a season rule, one out of every four blue moons MUST occur in February!  The others will have to be in May, August, & November.  

The official Dancing Trail policy toward this new development will be to try to celebrate all Blue Moons, whether “tropical”, "astronomical" or “ecclesiastical”. And perhaps we might call the now unauthorized, two in a month occurrence a Risqué Moon, and the new, but really older, four in a season occurrence an Out-of-the-Blue Moon.

© John Womack, 1999.  All rights reserved

Leonid Meteor Shower, 1998

On the morning of November 17, 1998, between 1:30 a.m. and 2:15 a.m., I saw about one meteor each minute falling between periods of deep fog which drifted up the mountain.  The first meteor appeared as a great light falling from east to west.  I was reminded of a freight train that had lost its tracks and was plunging down on top of its rails into a deep canyon leaving a fantastic display of sparks,  followed by a pathway of smoke.  Then it was gone.  I waited for the awesome sound I knew would come, hands ready to clap over my ears.  But there was no sound.   A couple of Roman-candle-type fizzles followed, then a great flash lit up the eastern sky.  And another “freight train” fell into that same abyss, piercing its own halo as it arrived into our planet’s embrace, leaving its own blazing trail of sparks bouncing up and down in the turbulence of its ride to oblivion.  Silence again.  As the great rocky road of dust faded into the night sky the oaks around our house also faded into the newly arrived fog, and the lights from our carport glowed a pale yellow.

I thought back to how the great naturalist, Marie Mellinger, had pointed out at the Hambidge Center in Dillard, Georgia, last month, that Fungi was a separate kingdom, separate from plants and animals and minerals.  She told us how Fungi had joined with Algae to form Lichen, and somewhere in that trio is a mysterious combination of things we can refer to as “Life”. Algae seems native to our planet, but not Fungi. So where did Fungi come from?  Some say it may have ridden one of these great “freight trains” into the atmosphere of our planet, then, liberated from its vehicle of entry, was free to float into our own “sourdough-starter-mix”, perhaps mixing with Algae; who knows?  I had read separately that some eleven tons of meteor dust enter the Earth’s atmosphere every day.  So what is eleven tons a day times eight billion years?  Well, if you could multiply all that out you’d lose yourself in the answer.

Meanwhile, the fog drifts briefly and another meteor falls into our sky - I am reminded of a home run, hit late in a game, by the opposing team - it seems to rise at first, and rise way up and then hang for a moment before it slowly descends and vanishes - all in total silence.

Pigeon Pass Road

Went up the Reche Canyon Road to San Bernardino today and came back down on Pigeon Pass Road.  Trip over wasn’t too bad except for the constant threat of rain and the cold temperatures.  Found that I started leaving con-trails – I, not the bike – at about the 1,000 foot level. 

So it was a damp but not wet trip, almost nice in some ways, and traffic was light on Reche Canyon.  But Pigeon Pass Road was something else.   The access road, coming down Mt. Vernon Ave was closed because the new California Aqueduct was being dug right through there.   Several blind detours were needed and tried, lots of mess, mud, bricks and a good bit of confusion.

Finally got on Pigeon Pass and it was not bad.  Not at first.  But after I passed the High Grove Dump area, it turned to dirt and then went straight up.  Took one hour to cover the next three miles – most of that pushing the bike, not because it wouldn’t climb the road but because I couldn’t pedal it.   Whenever my pulse reaches 180 beats a minute I start slacking off.  It’s actually easier to ride the bike up, but the pedal schedule must be met, whereas pushing is a form of constantly falling down and constantly being supported by the bike, and that lets you choose your own pace.  Kind of. 

No one was around.  I was totally alone.  In a world that belonged only to me.  I was back in the saddle again, cruising along with a nice breeze, winding back across the canyon I had just traveled on the other side.  Beautiful. Wonderful. That was when I heard the first rifle shot. Someone was shooting back on the part of the road I had just covered about 20 minutes ago. The second and third rifle shots seemed louder than the first one.  The fourth shot was accompanied by a whistle sound as was the fifth one.  The sixth one hit the bank to my right and the seventh hit the road behind me.  Someone was shooting at me!  California! That figures!  There was a large boulder just off the road to my right and I got behind that.  A couple more shots were fired, and the bullets whistled in and impacted around the boulder.  

I noticed that Pigeon Pass  appeared to reach a leveling off part and made a turn to the right, through what looked like some tree protection.  I decided to make a run for it and did.  No more shots were fired.  I stopped at the second hairpin bend back to the right and made a photo of my bike under a tree.  

On the way down I hit speeds of 27 mph, like downhill skiing.  Then got another flat tire.  Had to fix it to get home.  Finally back at the BOQ.  

Trip today garnered 84 bike miles on a windy day that blew the clouds away, and the sun beamed down like the fabled days of old.  Here in sunny, southern California, Monday, May 31, 1971.  A day on Pigeon Pass Road.