James M. Redwine

Personal Fun

A Wee Philosophy

by Leave a Comment

Peg & Jim Redwine at the Scotland Border, 2017

Robert Burns (1759-1796), Scotland’s best-known poet and farmer, was ploughing his field one day when he upended a mouse’s winter nest. The poem Burns wrote in the original Scots language, “To A Mouse”, is as difficult to decipher as Peg and I found trying to comprehend conversations when we visited Scotland. Therefore, I will cite the English version that in part says to the “Little, sleek, cowering timorous beast”:

“I’m truly sorry man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
And justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes you startle,
At me, your poor earth-born companion and fellow mortal?
….
But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes of Mice and Men
Go oft awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain .…”

Then Burns turns his thoughts inward towards his own fate:

“Still you are blessed compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But Oh? I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear.”

In other words, the mouse may have lost his present home, but it is not burdened with regrets from the past or dread of the future. Shelter alone is the mouse’s concern, but Burns is chained to past misfortunes and the possibilities of future disasters, much as each of us humans are. The mouse’s loss of a temporary home pales in comparison to mankind’s sentient reality.

Gentle Reader, you may wonder what these two conflicting perspectives have to do with anything. Of course, you may not even take note. However, to me the dilemma between the Wee Beastie’s loss of a nest and Burns’ acknowledgement that “ignorance may be bliss” came clearly into my mind when Peg said, “Jim, I smell a dead mouse in the kitchen”. Naturally, the onus was upon me to answer for the mouse’s demise and alter any more future consequences. I am married; I know the drill.

My first response was my fallback position for all domestic quandaries, I ignored it. Unfortunately, Peg was not willing to let nature deal with nature so waiting until the smell was gone was not feasible. Then I searched for a mouse corpse in the usual places, such as under the kitchen sink or near the pantry, nothing. Next, I checked around the outside of our log cabin to see if there was an odiferous source in Peg’s dried flowers, nope.

All easy solutions failed me. The dreaded, “Jim, someone (me) needs to crawl under the house to see if some animal (we have lots of them) died there and is rotting away”. Oh, the glories of flashlights, facemasks, knee pads and possible confrontations with Big Foot or perhaps an upset skunk. I donned my gear and armed myself with a large trash bag and a short-handled shovel.

After about an hour of banging my head and digging up suspect piles of damp dirt I declared a truce with Ma Nature and told Peg I thought the smell was well on its way to dissipation so we should just hang on awhile. You might already know how that resolution was received.

Time Is On Our Side

by Leave a Comment

Over the two or three hundred thousand years we homo sapiens have created and destroyed countless cultures there has been a recurring philosophical debate over whether time is linear or circular. Do things occur once or do events repeat themselves? Is life finite or eternal? Will we find life after life has always been the great mystery. Most people are hesitant to test their hypothesis whichever they believe, hope or dread. Also, most of us who puzzle over the conundrum of time, who are most of us, agree with Viking Cruise Line Chairman Torstein Hagan who says, “Time is the only truly scarce commodity, so spend it wisely”.

Of course, whether we are investing our time or squandering it is about as difficult for us to determine as The College Football Playoff Selection Committee found the choices of which teams should be one of the twelve chosen to vie for the national championship. But one choice was as non-controversial as history made it absolutely phenomenal: THE Indiana University is not only IN, it is at the top of the class!

Photo by Peg Redwine

I attended my first class at IU in the autumn of 1963 when the United States Air Force sent me there for foreign language training. That was my introduction to IU’s reputation as the doormat of college football. By the time I had completed my law degree in Bloomington in 1970 I fully understood. Each year began with hope and ended with despair. We almost always found a new way to snatch defeat from the jaws of a narrow victory. Regardless, Peg and I fell victim to each ray of hope engendered by the rare bright spots such as the 1967-68 Rose Bowl; we lost. She and I were born too late to celebrate the 1945 championship season; well ok, Peg wasn’t even born yet.

As you can tell, Gentle Reader, in the 130 years of IU football the field has remained quite barren. Yet, Peg and I always donned our cream and crimson along with our rose-colored glasses. We just knew if we lived long enough time would reward us. It only took from 1963 to 2024-25. Now, what are we to believe about eternity, if there is such a thing?

At the IU Bookstore. Photo taken by Peg Redwine

 

Let’s Hear It For Misanthropy

by Leave a Comment

Peg and I have given up requesting a restaurant table to ourselves. Regardless of the genre of eatery, the maître d’hôtel or greeter or simply the seater demands that we be seated among people we do not know or choose to associate with. The restaurant may have twenty empty tables but we are commanded to sit cheek to jowl with groups of strangers who do not appreciate our presence either. Our options are to spend our precious time and money among people we do not know and will never see again or to leave and buy groceries for a meal at home.

And should we be so fortunate as to find a sparsely occupied area when we arrive, the very next party to enter the establishment will be seated right next to us even though there may be numerous empty tables across the room. Usually such interlopers will be loud, boisterous and saddled with toddlers who spend their time letting their parents or grandparents know how unhappy they are.

Having been a waiter myself in various establishments in various locales, I know it requires very little extra effort to serve parties a few extra yards apart. In fact, I always preferred a little extra space between my customers who appreciated the same.

Another phenomenon I have noticed when dining out is that servers demand that we pay personal attention to them when all we want to do is enjoy our chosen company, order our meals and ask for the check later. We cannot reasonably do anything about a bad meal except not come back, so why are we asked ad nauseum, “Is everything okay?” If it isn’t, will we be reseated by ourselves? And why do the waiters or waitresses demand eye-contact and verbal responses? How about just a little privacy? With even a hamburger costing $40.00, is a little peace and quiet out of the question?

Of course, the real problem is not being seated cheek to jowl in restaurants, but being constantly accosted by other humans who are in constant fear of being judged irrelevant and, therefore, ignored. Everyone wants their own space and time, but they resent it if the rest of us want the same thing. Most people would rather be horsewhipped than be deemed insignificant. It is preferable to be abused instead of dismissed.

Even when Peg and I visited the two-million-acre Yellowstone National Park in early May when hardly anyone else was anticipated to be there, as we were enjoying the grand solitude of awaiting the eruption of Old Faithful, a bus load of clamoring tourists arrived. They exited the tour bus like a hoard of yellow jackets with cameras. Then as Peg stood trying to watch Old Faithful erupting, a man, without saying a word, leaned his elbow upon her shoulder with his camera in hand to video the event. It is fortunate for him the national parks prohibit guns.

Gentle Reader, you might ask why those who prefer some space and privacy ever leave home? It is because modern society gives us no option. In a world with over 8 billion people crammed all over it, any respite from the cacophony of clanging culture is like a poultice of blessed ointment, a surcease of soothing balm from Gilead. But, one can only escape into Amazon for so much. Some things in our lives require forays where providers require our physical presence. Those halcyon days of family doctor house calls, home repairs, disaster recovery and neighbors fixing our fences without notice are gone with the arrival of the questionable benefits of electricity.

Where are the neighbors and friends who, much as ideal children are neither seen nor heard until and unless they are truly essential. Is it not bad enough that we must fight our way through crowded streets, jostling airport queues, sardine seating on multi-hour flights and put up with clowns who pay for seats at ballgames and concerts then never sit down even if they are in a front row?

And who are the sadists who design airplane seating with three seats and four armrests? If we are required to pay exorbitant ticket prices we should, at least, never have to share armrests with total strangers. One row of only two separate seats ought to be mandated by federal law. Plus, the overhead bins should have available space for the maximum two passengers per row carry-ons. Don’t the people who design airplanes ever fly themselves?

Assigning blame for those who demand we are subjected to unwanted socialization is difficult. It may have begun with grade school curricula that force six-year-olds to mingle even if bacteria are the only thing truly exchanged. Or, perhaps, our own parents are to blame for constantly placing us in social settings where the supposed benefits are sharing and familiarization even if what is shared is contact with unwashed comrades. Do adults have such little faith in children they fear their individuality?

Of course, what most of us would love to avoid is the insipid political philosophies of those with whom we disagree. I suggest it is time the TV pundits and gratuitous sociologists who keep harping on “togetherness” simply shut up and leave us alone. I for one would be happy to afford others their clearly illogical political positions if they would reciprocate.

In conclusion, Gentle Readers, whether you are customers or providers, let’s just strive to leave others alone and hope they do the same.

P.S. from Peg: “Geesh, what a grump? Which side of the bed did Jim get out on this morning?”

Sláinte

by Leave a Comment

Isle of Skye, Scotland 2017

Not long ago Peg and I visited the Isle of Skye in Scotland. We took a bus ride to the small town of Portree and chuckled when we were let off near an intersection with a sign that said, “Caution, Elderly People Crossing”. The sign had a drawing of a bent at the waist old woman holding onto an even more acutely bent old man leaning on a cane. It looked strangely familiar.

Portree is the capital of the Isle of Skye. It has a little more than 2,000 residents, most of whom pretend to speak English, but who really communicate among themselves in Scottish Gaelic. Alcohol is available as long as you do not order “Scotch”. The Scotch drink is “whiskey”. The locals are reservedly polite but do not hide their bemusement at American tourists, especially if the tourists resemble the Elderly Crossing signs.

Just as many other societies, the Scotch have an arcane yang and yin approach to regulating the use and abuse of alcohol. At our hotel the tiny bar was intimate and comforting. Dark walls and heavy wooden furniture were accented by the lone barkeep who was obviously accustomed to explaining the local customs to hapless American tourists. He was of ruddy, bewhiskered visage and a roguishly engaging attitude. He was reminiscent of the 19th century immigrants who brought their Viking-like culture with them to America. Peg and I were his only customers that bleary afternoon after our bus trip. He put on his best Scottish brogue to disguise the true meaning of his responses to my haltingly timid order for a double shot of Bailey’s as though I were addressing Cerberus guarding the Bar. He scoffed, rolled his eyes and his tongue then condescendingly informed me it was illegal to buy a double for one person. Then, with a twinkle he said, “Now, should you wish to buy a single for your wife and a separate single for yourself, that will work”. So, even though I had already ordered a “Scotch” for myself and received a primer on it being properly called a “whiskey”, I ordered as instructed.

This experience reminded me of my days as an underage American trying to procure 3.2% beer from a drive-through beer joint. It always seemed to me that the only thing the Volstead Act accomplished was to sharpen the imaginations of thirsty Americans and, according to my family’s lore, to keep my Uncle Henry’s moonshine still in business. It looked to me like Scotland had approached alcohol prohibition and regulation in a similar fashion.

Regardless, Peg did get to drown her ennui about “Elderly People”; the two Baileys did the trick. However, we both have remained acutely aware of how our strides might appear; we strive to walk straighter and more briskly, and, of course, without a cane.

Portree, Isle of Skye, Scotland 2017

Spring, Humbug

by Leave a Comment

James Taylor wrote Sweet Baby James in 1970:

“There’s a song that they sing when they take to the highway
A song that they sing when they take to the sea
Song that they sing of their home in the sky
Maybe you can believe it if it helps you to sleep
But singing works just fine for me”

If you side with those who dream of a home in the sky, paradise was populated by Adam and Eve. Their Garden of Eden was perfect but that did not stop Eve from trying to improve it. You know, kind of like some wives when spring arrives. Say my wife, Peg, for example. I can imagine the conversation between Adam and Eve.

“Adam, isn’t this idyllic? Everything is just perfect. However, that one tree needs its fruit plucked. Would you mind just keeping an eye on that serpent while you are lounging around doing nothing?”

It is theoretically possible that was the beginning of humanity’s Rite of Spring where husbands are cast out of their dens by their wives who are intoxicated from the sight of emerging buds, the feel of damp earth and the smell of humas. I am reminded of Peg’s need to transform our perfect new home with paint and flower beds. Spring should be re-named the season of restless wives and “Honey, could you?” Where in the Constitution is it provided that it is illegal, or at least, unpolitic, for husbands to prop up their feet while waiting for a fish to make a mistake?

What estrogen fueled behavior is it that prevents wives from allowing winter to gently and slowly thaw its way to autumn and football season? Or as Professor Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady asked, “Why can’t a woman be more like a man?” My guess is that Dr. Louis Leakey only found Lucy and not her mate in Olduvai Gorge because she had her husband off performing some springtime chore. Nothing has changed in a few hundred thousand years.

Now, it may not be that the female response to spring is responsible for all the world’s troubles, but I think it goes without question that Peg’s incessant activities both in our cabin and our yard interfere with my desire to fish our pond and watch Gunsmoke reruns. I will leave it to you, Gentle Reader, at least those of you of the testosterone persuasion, what else could it be?

Man’s Almost Best Friend

by Leave a Comment

You may already know that Peg and I live in an isolated cabin where our human neighbors are not close, but often other species are. We enjoy the normal reverie of our own thoughts but occasionally have our space invaded by two and four-footed, uninvited interlopers. We have had to deal with raccoons, opossums, field mice, voles, skunks, ocelots, possibly a rare mountain lion or two, crows, hawks, eagles, assorted squirrels, woodpeckers and songbirds and flocks of quail, among several others, including armadillos and curious coyotes.

During the recent snowstorms and related inclement weather, the armadillos were ascendant with holes appearing almost everywhere. Now, some folks may find all wildlife entertaining and equivalent but Peg and I carry no brief for armadillos who look like armored pigs and lack any furry cuddlesomeness.  We do have a friend who hails from Central America where, I assume, armadillos migrated from. Recently he chided me for depopulating the armadillos who tried to take over our yard. Our friend told me armadillo meat tastes like “the sweetest of pork”; I assured him we would not find a way to make the comparison.

What we have noticed however is that several non-human carnivores also enjoy an occasional repast of armadillos. Chief among those ravenous raptors are the vultures but they are in hot competition for “sweet pork” left-overs with our habitation of coyotes. Our experience has been that coyotes are not so adept at catching armadillos but they are quite efficient at eating the innards and interiors of the housing of the already dead armadillo.

We have also noted that we have a bevy of coyotes that regularly patrol our small ranch for any hapless armadillo that should find itself dispatched by some other non-coyote cause; my 20 gauge for example. The most recent evidence of a symbiotic relationship between our rather almost dog-like coyote population and ourselves occurred during the recent ill weather.

I looked out a cabin window and saw a fat armadillo gamboling in our front yard with its pterodactyl sized front claws. I grabbed my shotgun, checked it was loaded, clicked off the safety, eased out the back door and quietly moved to within lethal range. Voila! One more mess of sweet pork made available.

As it was almost dark, I decided to leave the carcass till the next day. Well, the next day the prize was gone. I rejoiced in the provenance of Mother Nature and gave the matter no more thought until two days later when Peg found a hollowed-out suit of meatless armadillo armor right outside our front door; there was no note. There was a rather neat display that to us was just like the remains of a Thanksgiving Day turkey as left by in-laws along with a bare pumpkin pie plate.

Okay, I get that some would think this a mere happenstance. But those people are not the nature lover I am. I am convinced our quasi-canine coyotes were leaving us a two-fold message:

  1. Thank you; and
  2. Keep ’em coming!