In Case You've Wondered

My blog is where my wandering thoughts are interspersed with stuff I made up. So, if while reading you find yourself confused about the context, don't feel alone. I get confused, too.

If you're here for the stories, they can be found by clicking the labels button "stuff I made up".

One other thing: sometimes I write words you refuse to use in front of children, or polite company, unless you have a flat tire, or hit your thumb with a hammer.

I don't use them to offend; I use them to embellish.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

Bolide or Satellite?

I was outside and something caught my attention. Looking to the south, I saw what looked like a fireworks rocket about 15 degrees above the southern horizon. Within a few seconds, it grew larger; it now appeared to be the size of about 1/10 of the size of a full moon. It was a bright orange, and lasted about two seconds longer. I figured a thin band of cirrostratus clouds were obscuring the object, or it went back into space. It was small, either due to distance, size, or both.

I continued watching. Looking overhead, it reappeared and it was now obvious it was falling apart. Several pieces broke away and continued streaking across the sky. The colors of the objects ranged from orange to white. Some almost immediately burned out and the speeds were random.

Eventually, only one object was left, which continued to the north and eventually disappeared; a bright orange; about 20 degrees above the northern horizon. After a long time, I heard some dim thuds, which were the objects breaking the sound barrier.

Bolide? I don't think so. I'm thinking a satellite; probably military or foreign, considering the polar orbit and various colors of objects burning up in the atmosphere. I'm betting we'll never know.

This happened at a little after 3:00 am on 2-28-2013, in case someone is interested.

update:  It was a Chinese rocket. My suspicion of a man made object was confirmed. If you've never seen such a thing, it's damn interesting to watch.

Today Will Be Busy....

...and it's already started.

I usually don't write words of encouragement, or impart happy advice, but today I'll make an exception:

"Don't be so open minded your brains fall out"

There you go; words of wisdom for your Wednesday.

Tuesday, February 26, 2013

No Big Soda Delivery on Pizza Night

The new law to take effect on March 12 in New York City means that a 2 liter bottle of soda can't be delivered with a take-out pizza.  Can you say ridiculous? Good, I knew you could.

Diplomacy and Condiments

John Kerry is the new Secretary of State, which means he's at the top of the list for replacement of the President if things really get out of hand.

I don't like John Kerry. He's a career politician and, as far as I can see, is in it for the power and money. Even worse, he's supposed to be the biggest ambassador for the U.S. and I don't feel he's even close to being an example of the majority of the citizens in this country. That's bad. His views are from a lifetime of wealth, which doesn't coincide with the experience of most people that make this country work. His thoughts, and actions, will not be for something he doesn't understand and his being in a position of representation will lead foreign leaders, with a life of hardship, to not respect someone that had few moments where daily survival was a constant reminder of how tenuous life can be.

Personally, I don't think this will end well. At a time when the U.S. needs to be respected, we've sent another person to be derided and insulted. The perception will be that the U.S. is weak, and the perception will be accurate. Our politicians, and bureaucrats,  have given up what makes this country great for a pittance and a life in a place that is destined to be changed by an unhappy citizenry. While they clamber for something that only exists by the will of the people, the people they ignore are becoming more angry.

Monday, February 25, 2013

Meanwhile, At The Oscars

Michelle Obama appeared at the Oscars and presented the award for "Best Picture:. I wouldn't really care, because I don't give a rodent's fanny about Hollywood, but I'm thinking some of my tax dollars paid for the plane ride. That's a pet peeve I've held for years. Taxpayers dollars are not for personal use and that includes everyone, President and family included. If they want to pay for their trip out of their own pocket, get after it. Just don't insult me by living a lavish lifestyle on my dime. I've worked too hard and the insult is taken to heart.

Sunday, February 24, 2013

Like Pulling Teeth

I've been writing a book for over a year. It's reached a point where the characters and events have left me at a loss.

Today, I started working on the next chapter, which may pan out, or be thrown away like a few before. It's a daunting task, for some reason, but I'm determined to finish, since I've written the last chapter in my mind at least a half dozen times. Getting there is the challenge, but I won't be defeated.

Sequester Politics

The sequester is scheduled to happen on March, 1 this year. After all the hype, tooth gnashing and posturing, the actual cut in spending is a little less than 3%, which equates to spending 97 cents of every planned dollar of expenditure.

I don't know about you, but inflation, increased prices and the lack of a raise in years makes that cut look puny and inconsequential. I've had to cut a tremendously larger amount in percentage, just to survive.

So, while the politicians want to play with nonsense, real people are suffering and will suffer more due to the fact that the bosses in Washington rarely, if never, cut their own personal favorite expenses. They'll continue with their perks and live in a city that no more represents the rest of the country than a broomstick represents an oak tree. Most of them, and the President, have no idea how angry the taxpayers have become. I think they better start paying attention.

Friday, February 22, 2013

I'm Flabbergasted

Last week, Aewl wrote a post about a writing contest that was soon to not accept submissions. For some reason, I had a strong urge to write a short story, so I did, and was the last entry at number thirteen.


I now have an award to post on my blog, which is an honor.

Wednesday, February 20, 2013

Been Working Hard

I've been busy working hard in Galveston, Texas the last two days. I might post something about it later, but I'm too tired at the moment.

I've noticed the spammers have been concentrating heavily on my post titled "Cantaloupe" the last few days. At the rate their going, it will be the most clicked on post before it's all over. So, if you're trying to get hits for revenue, just type "Cantaloupe" in the title box and wait fro results.

Monday, February 18, 2013

When It All Becomes Unbearable

Mindy McCready took her own life over the weekend. Call it the culmination of years of anguish and the final release of pain.

If you've never had a family member attempt, or succeed with suicide, you'll never understand the devastation that's involved. Beside the deep sadness, there's the guilt of thinking you could have done more and the constant nagging thoughts of how you failed them in their worst moments of need. These feelings never completely go away and the lifetime of changes are never good.

So, my sympathy for the family. I have no advice. You're not alone with what you're dealing with and I share your sorrow.

Free Training

While many complain and demand the removal of private ownership, many teachers are taking advantage of free training and going for their concealed permit. That's a good thing. Considering that criminals ignore most laws and all politics, the best chance of survival is being armed. We need good teachers and I have the feeling it's the good teachers that are taking care of acquiring a concealed carry permit.

I'm not going to link an article. Use a search engine and you'll find this is happening all over the United States and there are lots of articles.

Friday, February 15, 2013

Caliche, Cactus, Snakes and Tarantulas

I spent the first three days of the week either on the road or at a project site in South Texas. The "on the road" part was tough. Over 1200 miles is a lot of time staring through a windshield.

The project site is in the boonies near the Mexican border. From conversations with the crew and others, the problem of illegal aliens is big in this area, since it's so close to the border. It's no uncommon on any day to hear of a half dozen that were caught during the day.

The terrain is brutal. The soil is a combination of caliche, with hardpan and numerous boulders of sandstone. Very little grows in this soil and what does is a type of cactus, or brush with thorns. Wandering in this tough terrain are deer, coyotes, bobcats, deer, snakes and tarantulas. The wildlife lives on what it can find and the water is scarce.



This photo is looking south toward the border, which is less than ten miles away. To understand the distance, look at the backhoe in the top left corner. There are rolling hills and the view on the tops of the taller hills allows viewing to the horizon. That's prickly pear in the foreground, which is so thick in places it creates an impenetrable barrier that can cover acres.

At night, the only light is from the stars, or in the distance on the numerous drilling rigs that dot the landscape.Walking without any light can lead to numerous encounters with the cactus or a bite. Rattlesnakes get big and the tarantulas are found everywhere. Making a mistake can lead to death.

Travelling across this area must be a nightmare for those trying to seek refuge in the United States.  Beside the terrible terrain, the dangers from the fauna, or flora, guarantee a need for medical care, which isn't available. Border Patrol agents find many that are willing to be caught, just for a drink of water and a ride from the hell they encountered.

This trip gave me mixed feelings about the illegals trying to get to the United States. Their efforts can only be commended. Raw determination is the only description for attempting a trip across the miles of hostile terrain. What lead to the attempt, whether through hope, or desperation, can only be described as beyond compelling. I have the feeling it's the last chance for something other than a certain life of misery for many. They're willing to risk death to prevent death.

Meanwhile, in the United States, millions flourish on the forced philanthropy by the government. They breed, get paid to breed, live a life that compares to luxury in many countries and make no effort to improve their life. We created them with "The Great Society".

So, I think those that are willing to try so hard for a chance should get that chance and we should exchange them for those unwilling to try. Maybe we can have a race. Those that win get to stay. Those that don't go to Mexico. I have the feeling those racing to the north will win every time; especially if the race is across the harsh, vast terrain of the southern border.

Thursday, February 14, 2013

Back But Busy

I'm too busy for a long post, but will eventually have some time.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Saturday, February 9, 2013

Shadows and Fog


I’d seen evenings like that one before, but never from that vantage point. I was leaning on the concrete bridge rail, 140 feet above the ship channel and watching the darkness slowly settle for the night.

I looked toward the water. The deepening darkness and low wind made it appear as though it was deep purple oil. Small ripples reflected the sky glow and the reflection of the few clouds was a scintillating, brilliant dark orange.  The surreal beauty was mesmerizing.

 In the distance, a small push boat was in the process of tying up for the night. The engines would race for a moment, pause and race again as the skipper maneuvered the fuel barge against the dock.  I could barely discern the deckhand as he wrestled the ropes along the deck.

The squawk of a brown pelican broke my concentration.  A small flock flew under the bridge, headed toward the bank and landed in the salt water marsh along the bank.  I examined them for a moment and returned to my observation of the evening.

To the south, I could see the solid gray of the approaching bank of fog. It would take a few hours, but not long after nightfall, the bridge would be covered and the only point of reference would be few street lights penetrating the heavy, damp blanket.

Years ago, I’d worked on this bridge. Like all bridges, it needed some maintenance, which we’d accomplished over a long week.  It gave me time to examine the bridge, which I still found amazing.

The bridge was hollow. The main center span was precast concrete sections that were buttered with epoxy and bolted together. Shipped to the site, the huge sections were lifted into place, large cables were attached to the sections and the cables were draped across the two huge towers on both sides of the channel.  As one section was added, another was added on the other side of the tower to balance the weight. Huge bolts were attached to hold the sections together, until the cables were post-tensioned with huge jacks. The joints were buttered with epoxy, which you’d never see, unless you went inside the hollow sections. From the outside, the joints were fine, barely discernible lines. From the inside, where cosmetics didn’t matter, the epoxy that was squeezed from the joints was still visible.

Eventually, after all the sections were attached, jacks were used to align the sections at the center and the bridge was finally a complete span. Cables were run in hollow tubes; both exposed and hidden in the concrete. Jacks pulled the cables to the correct tension and the tubes were filled with grout.

So, why was I here? I was the night watchman. I was retired, but I was asked to watch by the superintendent. He knew I would do what I could, if necessary, and would call if I had any problems. I had nothing better to do, and the change was good.  My only stipulation was to have someone else to help. With one lane closed on the bridge, one drunk could knock down enough barrels where I would need someone to help.

Traffic was still somewhat heavy, but would soon become light.  After a few hours, it would reach the point where minutes could pass without any cars. That’s when I felt my helper could handle his job of doing nothing well enough and I could walk through the inside of the bridge. It gave me time to examine the work, which was epoxy injection of cracks. All concrete cracks, but cracks aren’t good for the reinforcement in the concrete. The epoxy would keep the salt laden air from attacking the reinforcement and shortening the life of the bridge. They were almost through, so my job was soon to end.

I had a few minutes before my helper arrived, so I went back to watching the evening. The passing traffic stirred the damp air, which was now becoming colder. After dark, when the fog rolled in, the wind would pick up and I’d be looking for my heavier coat.

I heard my helper pulling behind the barrels, so I looked to make sure he didn’t block the access like every other night before.  I was surprised. He left the shoulder lane open and parked where he should. Maybe he was learning, although I doubted he’d remember for long.

He climbed from his pickup and slowly walked toward where I stood. Again, I was amazed a young man could be so out of shape. He was at least one hundred pounds overweight and generally kept a slovenly appearance. One shirt tail was out and flapped as he walked. The large drink he carried bore the name of the fast food restaurant where he stopped for supper. I could only imagine how much he super sized his order and really didn’t want to think about it.

He made his usual greeting, which was “Hi John.”  After that, he just stood with me by the rail and stared at the disappearing horizon. He hadn’t shaved, so the fuzz on his face only added to his disheveled appearance.

“Evening, Tink.”

Tink was short for Tinkerbelle. I was curious about the nickname, so I asked. When he was around eight years old, his mother decided he needed to understand the fine arts, so Cameron was enrolled in dance. From what I could gather, it was a disaster. His father, who was raised by an old-school engineer (who I knew from various projects), remarked how his son looked like a faggot Tinkerbelle.  It was all downhill after that. The nickname stuck, which he didn’t really like, but his usual story was about how he liked to tinker with things. I managed to get the real story when I hounded him for a few hours one night. My contention was that the only thing he really liked to tinker with had two all beef patties, special sauce and a sesame seed bun.  I guess he felt guilty.

“It looks like this might be our last night. They’re almost through and should pull barrels tomorrow.”

Tink didn’t say anything. I could tell be his expression he’d hit another quandary. He was on the second year of his first year of college.  He’d spent more time deciding on what he didn’t want to major in. At the rate he was going, he’d retire before deciding on a career.  He had decided on what careers he wouldn’t follow. The list was enormous.

“I talked with the superintendent before he left. He’s worried the fog will lead to accidents, so his instructions were to stay away from the barrels unless it’s absolutely necessary.  We can call if too many are knocked over.”

“I guess I’ll be looking for a job again.”

I didn’t say anything; I doubted he’d try very hard. From our conversations, I gathered his initiative was a little lean; unlike his appetite. 

“Yep, and I’ll be back to retiring.”

“You need to walk to the end of the setup and check the barrels before the fog rolls in.”

It was now almost dark; although not so dark I couldn’t see his pained expression. Walking to the end of the setup was over 500 feet.

“Put on your vest first and bring your radio.”

“Oh yeah; I forgot.”

I just stared at him. He looked at me with a sheepish expression and headed toward his truck. He was back in a few minutes.

“Check. Check.”

His radio was clear. I responded and he started his “long” journey to the end of the setup. The headlights from passing traffic were reflected from his vest. I’d be able to see him clearly, until he walked past the crown of the bridge. Playing it safe, I’d walk a few hundred feet behind until I could see the end of the setup. 
If something happened, I’d be able to help almost immediately.

I gave him a good head start before I followed. When I reached the crown of the bridge, I stopped and watched a push boat with a long string of barges pass underneath the bridge. They were ahead of the fog, but not by much. My guess was they didn’t have much further to go, or were planning on pushing the barges against the bank in the turnaround basin. They’d wait there until the fog lifted tomorrow.

The sound from the twin engines oscillated between a steady tone and the tremolo when the engines were out of phase. I’d heard it thousands of times before and it still caught my attention. My first experience with the sound was riding in crew boats offshore. I’d spent many hours fighting the urge to sleep as the lullaby of the engines eventually defeated my effort.

There was nobody visible on the deck of the push boat. The radar antennae steadily turned and only the navigation lights were lit. The streetlights on the bridge reflected off the damp deck and the wheelhouse windows. Behind the window were a few visible lights, which made the skipper look like an apparition.

The sound of a horn made me jump. An obviously drunk young man yelled: “Get to work” as they passed. I quickly looked down the bridge for Tink. He was walking back; they honored him with a honk and the same words as they passed.

Tink turned as they passed and kept walking. I had to give him credit for not giving them the finger and answering. Drunks were unreasonable to start with. Giving them a reason to become more unreasonable was foolish.

I was now rattled. The loud horn had placed my nerves on edge and I knew it would take awhile before the jagged edges were smoothed out again. I’d worked in traffic for too many years. I’d heard the same honk before as a driver slammed into a truck and narrowly missed the crew.

“What a bunch of asses.”

I turned to find Tink had arrived.

“Yep; it’s ladies night down the road and I’m betting there’ll be more.”

He returned to the rail where I stood and we watched the fog as it rolled in. The distant lights disappeared, a few tendrils of fog appeared in the light and the fog eventually completely enclosed the bridge. The crash truck at the start of setup was now only a dim shape and barely visible in the street lights.

We spent the next few hours talking, or making a trip to the end of the setup. Our conversations varied, and I really don’t remember much, except when I had a fatherly moment, while we discussed women.

Tink was amazed I’d been married much longer than he was alive. He asked how I’d met my wife, which I explained. We’d met while working for the same company. We were friends long before we were married, which I explained was more than important than the romance. He just shook his head and commented on how he had few girlfriends, much less one that he could marry.

“Tink, women like a man that is neat and appears confident. You’re sloppy in your habits, you don’t shave as often as you need to and being out of shape only makes you less desirable.”

I could tell I’d hurt his feelings, but I knew what I was saying was important. Maybe his father had told him the same things, but if so, they didn’t sink in. Maybe the advice of a near stranger would help. He needed all he could get.

After awhile, we just stared into the darkness. Tink eventually commented: “I’m getting hungry. Is it time?”

Looking at my watch, I realized it was a after one in the morning, so I asked: “Did you bring a lunch?”

“No. I’ll have to go get something.”

I was a little irritated. I’d suggested he bring his lunch the night before. Pulling back into the setup was more dangerous than he realized. An inattentive driver might follow him in and cause a wreck.

“Before you pull back into the setup, turn on your flashers and give anyone behind time to go around.”

“Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

I watched as he climbed into his pickup, drove through the setup and disappeared into the fog. I’d worry until he was back.

While he was gone, I ate the lunch I brought. After I finished, I stood at the rail and stared into the darkness. 

A loud noise caught my attention from above and a seagull feel onto the deck a few feet away. I was rattled again. To make matters worse, it flopped around for a few moments, tried to fly and fell over the side. I heard the “plop” when it hit the water. Looking down only revealed a roiling mass, which looked like a thick soup; the sodium vapor lights made it a sickly yellow.

The seagull had flown into one of the stay cables, which stretched above my sight into the fog. Judging by what happened, I figured it didn’t survive, which bummed me out for a few moments.

The sound of someone laying on their horn startled me. Within seconds, I looked to find Tink pulling into the setup, without his flashers. The car behind swerved to avoid crashing into Tink, hit a barrel and sped off across the bridge. The barrel hit me before I could dodge and knocked me to my knees.

Disoriented, I paused a few seconds before I tried to stand up. I knew there would be a bruise and I was too shaken to get mad.

I slowly stood; made sure nothing was seriously injured and looked toward Tink. He hadn’t noticed anything, since he was busy preparing to eat his burger and fries.  I walked toward the truck.

As I went through a few ranges of emotions, I finally settled on being calm. I walked to his truck, tapped on the window – which made him jump – and told him: “I’m going to go into the bridge and check the equipment. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

He nodded between bites and I left him to his meal.

The access manhole was in front of the crash truck. They’d placed the truck about fifty feet from the manhole and there was a small rail section around the entrance. I carefully stepped onto the ladder and climbed down into the bridge.

I shone my flashlight on the three -way switch mounted next to the short stair and turned on the lights. Instantly, the darkness was broken by the long row of lights that stretched from one end to the other on the ceiling. I could only see the lights in the section I was in, but the ambient light in the next section showed they were working, also.

I edged down the short slope to the “floor”, which was a combination of walkway, huge connection bolts and the cables that stretched through the bridge. Looking through the bridge, I could see the long row of lights that disappeared into the distance beyond the crown of the bridge. There were two other manholes in the bridge. One was as the center and the other was hundreds of feet away in the last span of the main bridge sections.

The set epoxy still looked new along the joints. Time didn’t remove the external luster of the gray plastic, which looked as though it was just applied. The epoxy had squeezed from the joints when they tightened the bolts and was left where it set. No effort was made to remove the excess, which now was as hard as the concrete it held together.

I carefully stepped across the staggered bolts and tension cable conduits. As I walked toward the end of the bridge section, my flashlight caught eyes beyond the expanded metal grating that was mounted across the access hole to the bridge cap.

Stopping, and a little unnerved, I spent a few moments trying to determine what the eyes belonged to. It didn’t take long. A raccoon had climbed the long telephone conduit mounted to the columns and was looking for a meal.  From past experience, I knew they would eat the eggs of the pigeons that nested on the flat sections of the bridge cap.

I stared for a moment and the raccoon did the same.  It moved away from the opening and back to foraging. I started examining the new construction.

Over the next hour, or so, I examined the epoxy injection locations. The cracks were almost all filled, which was the objective. The excess epoxy was ground smooth with the surface. All that was left were the injection ports on the last section, which were mounted by epoxy to the surface. Tomorrow, they’d place a low viscosity epoxy into the ports under pressure. As one port filled and the other started weeping epoxy, they’d shut off the nozzle and move to the next port. This process would continue, until they were through.  The final job was grinding away the ports with the excess epoxy. After that,  the only thing left was demobilizing. That wouldn’t take long, so they probably would finish tomorrow.

With my curiosity satisfied, I called Tink on the radio: “Come in Tink.”

I waited and tried again: “Come in Tink.”

He answered: “Go ahead.”

“I’m just checking. Am I clear?”

“Yep. You’re loud and clear.”

"Is everything okay?”

“Yep. It’s quiet”

He sounded like he’d been sleeping, which didn’t surprise me. I’d caught him sleeping at least once. He was bored and I didn’t really care, as long as I could reach him on the radio.

I decided to walk through the bridge. I’d done this before, and I always found it interesting.

The center part of the bridge had three sections. The section I was in had one end that rested on a bridge cap that rested on long concrete columns, which went to the ground. It stretched to the first of the main support sections on the side of the ship channel. The center section, which stretched across the channel, was the longest section. It hung from the main support structures.  The far end was the same. All of the main center part of the bridge was suspended with cables that ran from one section, across the main supports and to the other section on the other side. Stairs allowed inspection of the jacking points above the deck in the main support structures. Below the bottom of the precast section was inaccessible without a ladder. Even though they were hollow to right above the water line, no ladder was ever provided. If required, temporary ladders could be placed for inspection. Uncontrolled access was not considered safe, or advisable from a security standpoint.

I walked to the first access hole through the main support section and climbed through to the center span. As I crawled through the opening, I looked at the small piece of plywood that covered the manhole into the structure. If it was rotten, the drop of around one hundred feet would be more than surprising. I tapped it with my foot before I proceeded.

As I climbed into the center span and stood, I remembered why I really liked to walk through the bridge. It was amazing. The arch of the bridge was definite and the lights stretched into the distance, until they disappeared below sight. I paused and just took in the moment

The draft through the bridge was now substantial as the wind increased outside. The passing of a truck overhead, with the gentle sway of the bridge gave me vertigo for a moment.  I’d experienced this before and was glad I wasn’t prone to being seasick.  It was then I had a strange feeling.

I felt like I was being watched. Turning back from where I came didn’t reveal anything. I thought it was the raccoon back to observing from the grate. I found nothing, so I looked all around. The feeling was strong, yet there was nobody, or anything to be found. Shaking off the feeling, I continued my path through the bridge.

When I reached the middle, I stopped and looked at the plaque mounted to a small platform. Covered with Plexiglas were the signatures of all the people that were working on the bridge when they completed the center span.  There were a few dozen, with four circled with red ink. I knew the names and knew the reason.

At the very end of the project, at the final cleanup stage, a five man crew was involved in an accident that killed four of the workers. After they finished removing the last of the equipment from the bottom of a main center structure, the ladder they were climbing collapsed. The only survivor was the man steadying the base of the ladder. Severely injured by the collapse, he only remembered the other four were almost to the top, when he felt the ladder shift. He was hit by sections of the ladder and laid for almost an hour before they were found. He was conscious, described how he heard the last breath of his friend and couldn’t do anything. 

Some people blamed him. They said he did something to shift the ladder, since they were all known to horseplay on the job. The truth was never known and the worker spent a few years with the stigma. They found his car one morning at the top of the bridge. They found him about three miles downstream.

As I examined the names, I felt a deep chill like the temperature had dropped below freezing. For a few moments, my breath was visible. As quickly as it started, the chill went away. Again, I had the feeling I was being watched.

I don’t know why I didn’t retrace my steps, but I decided to complete my trek through the bridge. I felt I was being foolish and wasn’t going to succumb to my fear.

I finally reached the far main support structure. After testing the piece of plywood, I crawled through into the far section. For some reason, I decided to pull the plywood away and look down into the large open space below. I had a good flashlight, so it revealed what I’d seen years before.

Far below was a double stand of scaffold. Beside the scaffold were numerous scaffold frames and a few other objects too large to fit through the manhole. In the final phase of construction, some things were needed that would remain forever.  Careful consideration kept these things to a minimum, but some things were required that would never be retrieved.

As I was replacing the plywood, something pushed me away from the opening. Immediately, the lights went out and all I had was the narrow cone of light from my flashlight. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I noticed movement by the manhole. Turning my light to the movement revealed a man on his knees pulling a rope from below. As he pulled the rope hand over hand – as though he was raising something from below – I examined him closely. Something was wrong.

There was no color to the man or his clothing. He was all grays, blacks and lighter grays. The muscles in his forearms flexed as he lifted his heavy load. As he worked, I could see his lips move, as though he was talking to someone below.

The hair on the back of my head bristled. The chill I felt was beyond description and my only thought was to retreat.

Backing, I tripped over a bucket left by the construction crew. Falling, I quickly retrieved my flashlight and turned it back toward the apparition. He was looking directly at me, and spoke: “Be careful old man.”

The voice was soft and sounded as though it was from far away. Without thinking, I turned and ran toward the access ladder below the manhole in this section.

I found the manhole was closed. Pushing up barely budged the lid. Placing my back against the lid, I pushed with the strength  stark terror brings. Within seconds, I pushed the heavy lid away, scrambled through the opening and found myself on the far side of the bridge. Without hesitating, I pushed the lid back toward the opening and was satisfied when it slammed in place.

Trembling, I waited a few moments to see if the lid would rise and something crawl through the opening. 

Seeing nothing happen, I turned and ran across the bridge to where Tink was waiting.

Tink spoke as soon as I arrived: “That’s not funny.”

“What’s not funny?”

“Rocking the truck and then hiding.”

I only stared at him. I was trying to catch my breath, sort my thoughts and processing this new information. Something rocked the truck and it wasn’t me.

“I’ve been in the bridge. I didn’t rock your truck.”

Tink’s eyes grew wide as he digested what I said. Quickly regaining his composure, he responded:  “I don’t think it’s funny.”

Something in my expression must have changed his feelings. I can only imagine what I looked like, but I know how I felt. Spooked doesn’t even come close to my feelings. I was terrified and wondering what to do.

Tink’s eyes grew wide again before he spoke: “Who’s that?”

I turned and found nobody. Looking back at Tink, I realized he was now not seeing anybody either. Before I could say anything, he was gone. He reached his truck before it could all sink in, started it and raced away into the fog.

I was now alone on the bridge, mind racing and still trying to calm down from my experience. Before I could decide what to do, a police car pulled behind the barrels with the flashing lights on.

The officer pulled up, stopped next to me and said: “I’ve had two complaints tonight, so you need to stop what you’re doing.”

I was now really confused. I could only ask: “What do you mean?”

“Two motorists reported they almost hit workers carrying boards on the bridge. It’s dangerous enough working at night, without fog. You need to wrap up and stay out of traffic. Don’t make me come back.”

Before I could respond, he drove away.

For some reason, I needed to know the time. Looking at my watch, I found it was 4:00 in the morning; one hour before the superintendent was supposed to show. I don’t know why, but I decided to stay.

Over the next hour, I stayed near my pickup. I was ready to leave but unwilling to run. Any sound or movement would put me on edge.  As the hour wore on, I became less tense and found I was exhausted. 

The sound of a diesel truck forecast the arrival of the project superintendent.

“Good morning, John.”

“Good morning, Jesse.”

“Quiet night?”

“Yep; only a few drunks and hardly any traffic.”

“Where’s your helper?”

I paused. I wasn’t really sure what to say, but knew anything out of the ordinary wouldn’t do.

“He ate something that didn’t agree with him for lunch. I sent him home an hour ago.”

“You look tired, John.”

I imagine I did. That and still freaked out about what I’d seen.

“That’s what you get when you get old. Even an easy shift is tough.”

“I’ll leave you a message, if we need you tonight.”

“That works for me.  I’ll see you later.”

I quickly climbed into my pickup and started the engine. The windshield was covered with moisture from the fog.  Before I could run the wipers, I noticed something different on the passenger window. When I realized what it was, a chill ran up my spine.

I recognized four signatures. They were the same as the ones circled in red on the plaque. I didn’t recognize the fifth signature, but had a good idea who it belonged to. I turned on the wipers and they disappeared.

Placing my truck in gear, I checked the rear view mirrors; saw it was clear and quickly accelerated through the barrels. Within a minute, I’d cleared the bottom of the bridge, which now disappeared into the foggy darkness.

I don’t know if they needed me again the next night. If they called, I never answered; I turned my phone off. I wasn’t going back and never crossed that bridge at night again.

Friday, February 8, 2013

Where The Hell are the Unicorns?

The carrier, USS Abraham Lincoln, will not be refueled as planned, due to the budget problems facing the Navy. It's the halfway point of the career, which is when they perform major maintenance items and refuel.

So, one of our super carriers is basically on standby at the pumps. You'd think with all that deck space, they could keep a herd of unicorns on deck to supply fuel as needed.

Oh yeah. Biden got a raise. I wonder how they could afford that?

Thursday, February 7, 2013

Just Thinking Out Loud

I've had three comments on my blog today, which is okay, I guess, but one was mine and I had to delete one from an anonymous spammer trying to sell something. At least it wasn't a porn site.

Anyway, I can take the hint. It's all in my mind, but I haven't finished all the details. Hopefully, I can write it this weekend.

Liberty, Freedom and It's None of Your Damn Business

Liberty means I have freedom and I'm free from you. You can do what you want, as long as it doesn't directly affect my freedom from being involved with whatever that is.

Do you like loud music? Do you like playing it so loud your ears ring? Good, but I may not want to hear it. You have the freedom to do so, but you need to build a sound proof room and avoid interrupting my thoughts at a traffic light.

Do you like to say things that other people find objectionable? Good, as long as you don't say them where I don't have to hear them, or demand I allow you to say them in places where it's not appropriate. Otherwise, if you want to chant profanities to a deity that breathes fire, go ahead, but don't interrupt the Sunday service at the Methodist church by wearing a strange costume and shouting at the top of your lungs.


Do you think people should pay more taxes so social programs? Good, but I don't and your demand that I should affects my liberty. I pay too much in taxes and there are too many people that slush money from public coffers that have no right to do so.


Do you want to own a firearm? Good. That's a right and usually necessary, but if you like to train your dog at 6:00 am, do so away from my house, so I can sleep a little longer.

Do I own a firearm? That's none of your damn business, and if I do, why do you want to know?

So, if you don't like liberty, go soak your head. Your ignorance is yours alone and I shouldn't have to change my life to accommodate your ignorance.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Okay. So Lets Just Call and Go Visit

Earth-like planets may be next door. That's according to a news story. There might be one as close as 13 light years away.

For those that don't understand that distance: light travels at 186,000 miles per second. A light year is the distance light travels in a year. That's roughly 186,000 x 60 x 60 x 24 x 365.24, which is a large sum and when you multiply that times 13, it get's even larger. Considering current technology, the amount of time to cover that distance at our snail like 11 miles per second, which is the speed of Voyager 1, after some gravitational assists, the trip will only take about 220,000 years. We'll probably have to bring a lunch and some spare oxygen.

That's not next door, although in astronomical distances, it's like the tip of your nose.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Pushing Back

There are numerous videos floating around the internet of people promoting their rights. They're angry because politicians decided to ignore the Constitution and enact strict gun laws. Not only is the United States Constitution being ignored, similar Constitutions in states are also being ignored.

People are pushing back. They're watching politicians skating around laws, breaking laws, and ignoring the people that pay their salary, who are becoming more determined to change what they consider a direct attack against their liberty. Even the President is promoting restricting the rights of people to protect themselves and their property. He stands in front of hired policemen in an effort to bully, but doesn't realize he's outnumbered by the majority of the citizens; including law enforcement officials that are part of the community they represent. His opinion is in the minority.

Things change due to things of this nature. The bully pushes, and is pushed back. This emboldens the perceived weak person and they push back again, and again, until the bully is put in their place, knows they've crossed the line and is now forced to accept they are perceived as weak and cowardly.

Nobody likes a bully and governments that bully are the least liked.

Monday, February 4, 2013

Irritated Monday

I'm irritated this morning. There's a lot of things irritating me, but mostly I'm irritated because of the economy.

The media, depending on your source, is reporting it's good, but bad, however it should get better - or not. Otherwise, they're dancing around the fact unemployment is as high as it was years ago, the value of the dollar is shrinking and the only real thing to be learned from Washington politics is that they're clambering to insulate their ivory tower from the rest of the U.S. so they can keep their family business of profiting off taxpayers in the black.

Meanwhile, to add insult to injury, there's a tremendous waste of resources to enact new gun laws, when those on the books aren't enforced, only apply to honest people and the criminals have the resources to find guns in spite of the laws. They don't care. They know they deal with other criminals, so they need to be as well armed as their adversaries. Citizens who always follow the law are now being forced to decide if their ability of protection is worth the possibility of being thrown in jail for something as ridiculous as having a clip that holds more bullets than the amount dictated by a bureaucrat in Washington. Of course, criminals will have clips that hold as many bullets as they want. Their concern for the law is far less than their concern for survival.

More illegal workers are to be found daily. They've brought their families, since there's little effort to stop the activity. They're here to do the jobs that Americans refuse to do. Of course, they're usually paid in cash, by people that only perpetuate the problem, and no taxes are collected to pay for those that can live quite comfortably on government handouts, with long term unemployment checks.

So, I have a lot to be irritated about. I'm getting close to retirement age and there's no doubt in my mind that my retirement will most likely involve a pine box and a plot of ground, surrounded by oak trees. I've worked as hard in the last few years as ever in my life and I'm getting tired. I refuse to be quiet and I refuse to give up. We're getting robbed by our government and they're doing it with a pencil, which has the power of guns to force us to follow their demands.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

Definitions

Oppressive is defined as "unreasonably burdensome or severe". Tyranny is defined as: "oppressive power". So, it's reasonable to describe any form of government that forces some individuals to pay for the needs of another individual as tyrannical. Regardless of your opinion, or unwillingness to allow the continuance of a societal problem, you have only have two choices: comply, or face the wrath of the government.

So, when you go to work tomorrow, and realize there are people that have no intention of doing so, and the government will ruin your life - maybe even kill you - if you fail to give them the money they demand to support this type of system, remember it's not tyranny if you don't say something, or write those that sit in expensive offices in Washington, D.C. and ignore your plight.

Some Thoughts for Today

The Affordable Healthcare Law has a lot of opponents. Some have received exemption, or compromises on some sections, yet there are no real compromises. Most people have to pay for insurance, or pay a fine, which I'm guessing will be thrown into the public coffers, like Social Security payments, and the government will continue to borrow more money for foolish decisions; even if the expenditures have nothing to do with my health; including wasted jet fuel so an arrogant President can piss off public money for personal reasons.

From my vantage point, there are no compromises. I follow the rules, regardless of how much I disagree and face economic ruin, or imprisonment, if I fail to give the government the money. Now, I could refuse to work, become indigent and I'll have all the substandard care I can accumulate. I can become emotionally detached, find a doctor to agree that I'm disabled by my disorder and a good attorney will eventually get me a disability, with all the substandard medical care available, plus a monthly check.

So, there's no compromise. I pay, or give up my liberty. I can't disagree by withholding funds to what I consider tyranny. I'm forced to adjust my life, reduce the funds I need to survive and go along with a law that was signed by foolish Congress members that didn't even read the act. Even worse, I'll be forced to accept the lowering of health care standards, while those that write the laws are exempt, amass huge fortunes due to their office and will have the best healthcare money can buy. My insurance costs, or fines will increase, yet I will continue to pay all increases through laws they enact to prolong their lifestyle.

So, if you have any idea what I'm writing about, I hope you understand how your life, and the life of your descendants, is now less important to those that accrued power. When the money becomes less available, the cuts will start with the few that are obese, or substance abusers. Eventually, the old will be faced with the hard fact their ailments are secondary to those of somebody younger. Their importance is removed; all of their experiences in life will be expendable so those that could benefit from the knowledge can survive in a country with dwindling resources, except for the ruling class of people that are supposedly elected to represent their constituents.

Meanwhile, the general public wanders through life in ignorance. They'll watch the Super Bowl today, eat some chips, drink some beer and never realize they could change the entire direction of the United States by refusing to participate, turning off the television and writing a letter to their Congressional representatives. They control the media, yet the're willing to let the media control them.

So, this country is getting what it deserves. I'll look for other ways to make my life better, continue to write and constantly shake my head at the woeful lack of consideration by most people in this country. It sucks because you allowed it to get this way. You're being punished for your silence and can only blame yourself for your misery.  

Friday, February 1, 2013

Irony For Today

I find it ironic the man Obama choose to be in charge of defending the entire nation, couldn't defend himself in a Senate hearing.