Month: April 2022

Any American who is my age and hasn’t spent their life with their head in the sand is aware of social injustice in the so-called “Greatest Nation on Earth”.

Our country has a rich history of great accomplishments, of which we are justifiably very proud. Bad things, even shameful things, have occurred here as well, just like in all nations on earth.

We’ve experienced slavery, religious “witch” trials, Western vigilante justice, Jim Crow laws, real estate “redlining”, lynching, and mob violence/hate crimes against immigrants from Ireland, Italy, Germany, China, Mexico, and residents of non-Christian faiths. We have deprived, and continue to, deprive citizens of voting rights and many States have engineered laws to deprive women of reproductive rights. “People of color” have always received a different type of treatment under the criminal justice system than White Americans. Our Native Americans were treated like vermin. We’ve had Presidents who lied to us.

The United States is not perfect, not by a long shot, and efforts to better our Nation should be ongoing and encouraged by all. Our elected officials should be working to resolve our imperfections, not cast blame.

The word “woke” recently came into the popular culture. It is an African American slang term, derived from the word “awakened”, to reflect an awareness or alertness to social injustice in society. Apparently, it came into popular usage via the Black Lives Matter protests in recent years, particularly those pertaining to the brutal death of George Floyd at the hands of Minneapolis Police officers.

Apparently, many millions of White Americans who had not given much thought to social justice prior to 2020 were “awakened” when they watched on TV the police brutality against George Floyd and chase-down and murder of Ahmed Arbury by vigilantes in Georgia.  It is highly likely that these “woke” citizens contributed to the record 80 million Americans who voted in 2020 to replace Donald Trump as President.

Now, there is clearly an anti-woke campaign going on in America, courtesy of the Trump M.A.G.A. cult, the Republican politicians who are courting Trump’s favor, and of course the mouthpiece of right-wing politics, Fox News.

The idea seems to be that “wokeness” is a bad thing, that being aware of something deficient in society is wrong, and that acknowledging, or acting on, social injustice is a personal failing… that these ugly truths are not to be mentioned in polite society.

In other words, a denial of obvious systemic shortcomings in American society and government, not dissimilar to the denial by the same folks that Donald Trump lost the 2020 election by seven million votes.

There seems to be a belief that if one pretends that something doesn’t exist, then it doesn’t. In essence, there is reality and there is the reality that one chooses to live in.

However, “facts do not cease to exist because they are ignored.” (Aldous Huxley)

Unfortunately, “people of color” cannot forget or un-see their 500-year history in America. Their forefathers were unwilling immigrants: they did not choose to live in their reality, which has been a second-class citizenship even after the 13^th and 14^th Amendments to the Constitution guaranteed them equal rights and protections under the law. Politicians all over America, not just in the South, have been making African-Americans’ struggle for equality an uphill battle for the past 150 years.

Why?

Basically, because politicians need someone or something to blame for society’s ills. If a politician can get people focused on identifying a boogeyman, voters will not notice the fact that the politician is not solving problems, which he was elected to do. Crime? Blame the Blacks and the Mexicans. The economy? Blame the Chinese, the unions, and the Jews. Social awareness (“woke)? Blame the teachers, historians, the “liberal” media, the atheists, and the Democrats. Fake news? Blame the “other guys’’” news source. The January 6, 2021 Capitol Riot insurrection? It was those BLM and Antifa folks that you saw on TV, not bad-loser Trump supporters.

The current anti-woke campaign has similarities to the “Lost Cause” propaganda onslaught after the Civil War. The reality was that the horrendous carnage was caused by the Southern states refusing to phase-out slavery and attempting to secede from the Union when they couldn’t have their way. The insurrection was not a success. Defeat was not an option to the surviving Southern hierarchy, however, so they engineered a decades-long public relations campaign to re-frame the Civil War as a disagreement between States (the cause was not slavery but “States’ rights”) and the traitorous Confederate leaders and soldiers were re-cast as heroes. The real bad guys, the Lost Cause narrative went, were the slaves: they caused all the economic and social misery that the South had to endure.

So, this blatant lie that was gobbled up by Southerners then justified the imposition of Jim Crow laws which basically stripped the newly-freed slaves of their Constitutional rights and made sure that Blacks would be second-class Americans.

The Lost Cause was the reality that White Southerners chose to believe, and their children and their descendants were taught this in Southern schools. The Lost Cause myth permeated all of American society, to the point that many people in the North came to sympathize with Southerners and feel comfortable and justified in discriminating against African Americans. It is, therefore, no surprise that the fight for civil rights took over a hundred years and is still ongoing vis a vis BLM, George Floyd, Ahmed Arbury, etc.

The hard-core base of the Republican Party is used to believing things that are told to them, whether they are true or not, and prefer not to dwell on unpleasant facts. The big right-wing hullabaloo about “critical race theory” is merely a ruse to discourage a discussion of the systemic racism that clearly exists in America.

If you won’t acknowledge a problem, you won’t discuss it. If you can’t discuss a problem, you can’t solve it.

It is sad to say that the reality of social injustice in our country is being used to divide Americans into political camps: those who are aware and want to do something about it; and those who do not care to acknowledge a problem or pretend that those who dare to raise the issue are un-patriotic citizens.

“Those people are out to ruin the country!”, they say.

It reminds me of the “Red Scare” of the early 1950’s where there was a political and societal hysteria about the perceived threat of actual “card-carrying” Communists, their “fellow travelers”, Socialists, Liberals, Democrats, and other demons who were supposedly infiltrating the Federal government en masse.

The chief perpetrator of the “Red Scare” propaganda was a publicity-hungry U.S. Senator from Wisconsin named Joe McCarthy. Anyone who stood in the way of his grandstanding and lying was labeled unpatriotic at best and a traitor at worst.

“Those Commies are out to ruin the country!”

This hysteria went on for several years, there were lots of televised, sensational House of Un-American Activities committee meetings, and slimy politicians like Congressman Richard Nixon gained notoriety from the proceedings. In the end, there were no earth-shaking discoveries, the myth was shattered, and many people had their lives ruined by McCarthy’s public slandering.

Reasonable question: What is an “un-American activity”? Is belonging to the wrong political party or religion inappropriate? It seems increasingly so lately.

In the past fifteen years, we’ve seen the manufactured hysteria over Obama’s birth certificate, Hillary Clinton’s e-mails, Hunter Biden’s laptop, Trump’s “Wall” that would deter illegal immigration, and the “stolen” Presidential election of 2020. These were diversions to get people angry and excited, focusing energy on an “important” problem… that was overblown or didn’t exist.

There is a word for this: “demagoguery”. It involves a politician (or political party) appealing to the desires and prejudices of ordinary people rather than by using rational argument.

“Wokeness” is a problem if you (as a politician or citizen) are trying to hide or avoid a societal truth. Scapegoating “woke” individuals or political rivals will be successful if the intention is to scare target voters into fearing reality.

As we have seen in recent years, there are a lot of those kind of voters out there, people who will believe anything that a politician tells them. Or pretend that they didn’t hear what they heard or see what they’ve clearly seen.

How does one un-see a police officer choking to death a helpless man? How does one un-see a M.A.G.A. mob beating Capitol policemen who were just doing their jobs protecting our democracy?

Go back to sleep, we are being told.

As Voltaire said, :Those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.”

Charlie and I both swore that we’d never again live in a Home Owners’ Association after leaving Murrieta, California. But, lo and behold, we live in an H.O.A. here in Mesquite, Nevada!

I need to explain why we backed-down from our position, because it made sense at the time.

Our homes in Bear Creek (Murrieta) were each part of two H.O.A.s: a Master, which encompassed the entire Bear Creek planned golf course community; and, a neighborhood H.O.A., which encompassed a particular condominium housing development within the overall community. The Master H.O.A. provided for gated security, main roads, streetlighting, and community facilities like tennis courts, a gym, a large pool, bocce courts, etc. The sub-associations paid for landscaping, streetlighting, neighborhood parks and pools, and maintenance of common areas.

Supposedly, everything outside of the interior living space of the condominium unit and the small private-use patios was the maintenance responsibility of the sub-H.O.A. This was fine when all the units were new and there was little wear and tear. However, over the years things would break, paint would get old, wooden fascia would rot, wrought iron fences would rust,roofs would leak etc. and maintenance would be necessary. Of course, the residents who were elected to the H.O.A. Board of Directors would be loathe to increase budgets to address expensive repairs or to carry enough budget reserves for “a rainy day” so to speak. So, over time, the H.O.A. Boards developed a habit of declining to repair common area items, forcing the homeowners to foot the bill individually, particularly when it was time to sell their home.

Bear Creek is an exclusive community where property owners can afford a high level of service. The monthly fee for the Master H.O.A. was about $250 and the fee for the sub-H.O.A.s ran around $400 when we left. That’s $650 per month on top of other household expenses like rent/mortgage, food, utilities, etc.

What really chafed folks was the fact that the H.O.A.s were spending a lot of money but not adequately addressing critical needs of the aging properties. Considerable expense was incurred in lawsuits; local lawyers made bundles of money off bad decisions by the Boards of Directors. Additionally, politics reared its ugly head, pitting “estate lot” property owners against condominium owners. There was never a dull moment, and a lot of hateful things were said regularly.

Consequently, no one wanted to serve on H.O.A. Boards, so the individuals who did end up as Directors had agendas, often at odds with residents and sometimes personal.

Myopia was common. One example was our Country Club Villas sub-association Board’s dealing with a settlement from the original developer of our subdivision. The H.O.A. got almost a million dollars in damages for poor workmanship on the original streets. Instead of putting this money in the Association’s reserves, for future street repairs, the Board decided make themselves popular by using the one-time money to subsidize the next year’s budget, causing the H.O.A. monthly fee to be reduced drastically… for that year only. The next Board of Directors (including myself) was forced to increase the H.O.A. fees drastically to make the Association solvent that year. Talk about pissed off property owners: they thought we were at fault! The bottom line was that the poorly-constructed streets remained in bad shape with no money in reserve to fund their repairs.

I was eventually elected President of the Association but resigned late in my term when some neighborhood politics caused a majority of the Board to abandon H.O.A. policy to the benefit of one of their neighbor friends. Things like this continued to happen over the years, as Board members used their position to favor themselves and friends and punish people that they didn’t like. Selective enforcement of CC&Rs and Association rules was common.

As I say, we were fed up with this stuff when we left Bear Creek. As a matter of fact, it was one of the key reasons for moving from a beautiful community that we had loved for thirty years.

We relocated to Mesquite, Nevada to live in a Del Webb senior community. There is an H.O.A. here, but it is a Master Association that is responsible only for main thoroughfare landscaping and the Community Center facilities. All of the homes here in Sun City are on private lots; there are no condominiums. There are CC&Rs enforced by the H.O.A. to standardize landscaping options, fencing type (if the property owner wants the yard to be fenced) and a few other matters.

To be honest, the H.O.A. exists at this point to help Pulte/Del Webb sell homes in this community. The master plan calls for several thousand more units to be sold over the next 5 to 10 years. The H.O.A. Board of Directors currently consists of one resident property owner representative and two Directors who represent Pulte Development.

The H.O.A. monthly fee here in Mesquite is $151 and has remained at that level since Sun City began to develop in 2008.

Thus, when we moved here, we instantly saved about $500 per month in H.O.A. fees. Since we left Bear Creek, the H.O.A. fees there have gone up by another $100. It’s just incredible how much money people are willing to spend to live in Bear Creek. However, should there be a downturn in the real estate market, those condominiums will be very difficult to sell with all of that monthly H.O.A. overhead attached.

We are pretty happy here with the minimally-intrusive H.O.A. that we have. I have had some beefs with the Board about neighborhood issues, but overall the H.O.A. keeps out of the way and lets us live a happy life here.

That may change down the road when Pulte Development winds down construction here and more homeowner representatives begin to dominate the Board of Directors. Then, Sun City will likely suffer from the same myopic politics that most H.O.A.s encounter.

Thankfully, we’ll probably be dead by then.

Governor Ron DeSantis of Florida has been on a campaign in the past year to “out-Trump” the former President.

Hardly a day goes by that the Florida Republican doesn’t say something outrageous or propose some kind of draconian policy to suck-up to Trump’s fanatic MAGA base.  There is no doubt that DeSantis is running for President in 2024.

And he will probably win.

Joe Biden and his Democratic teammates have done nothing to excite voters in a positive way. On the contrary, they have seemed impotent to combat inflation, deter Chinese or Russian aggression, or come up with any substantive policy initiatives to stimulate the 80 million voters who helped the Democratic Party win the White House in 2020.

Let’s face it, the majority of those voters weren’t enamored by crusty, old Joe Biden. He was, however, not Donald Trump, who had proved to be a horrible President. Pretty much anyone that the Democrats would have nominated was going to win… because he or she was not the incumbent.

In 2020, Donald Trump lost the popular vote for the Presidency for the second time. He is a narcissistic guy who likes to hear himself talk, surrounds himself with unqualified imbeciles who will cheer him as he speaks, and has no regard for the Constitution of the United States. In four years, he demonstrated his lack of qualifications for public service. And, on January 6^th, 2020 he led an attempted coup to keep his job. He lost that engagement, too. He is, simply, a loser.

It is highly unlikely that the Republican Party is going to nominate a guy to lead their 2024 ticket who is not respected by most Americans.

Governor De Santis doesn’t have all that baggage. Additionally, he is quite adept at taking advantage of public “outrage” over scandalous issues both real and imagined. In politics, he is what is known as a “populist”: he identifies with peoples concerns and fears and acts upon them. DeSantis is the cleaned-up, respectable version of The Donald. His candidacy will play well with the MAGA cult and also Democrats and Independents who don’t think the current Administration knows up from down.

The Nation is veering to the right, not because “conservative” ideas have more value than “liberal” ones, but rather because the Democratic Party is in a 24/7 slap fight and is doing nothing to defend itself. Right-wing activists are playing hardball, working to tilt the playing field back in their direction by gerrymandering, tightening voting rules, capturing control of State offices which control elections, and so forth. This is the only way that the Republican Party can combat demographic trends which favor the Democrats.

They are making lemonade out of lemons.

Most likely the 2022 midterms will cement Joe Biden’s fate as a one-term President. If the Republicans make significant gains in the House and re-gain control of the Senate, Biden’s Administration will be a “lame duck” one as early as New Year’s Day, 2023. The Republican Party will, accordingly, spend the following year and a half objecting to anything Biden wants to do and will busy itself with all manner of sensational legislative fact-finding hearings designed to embarrass and humiliate Democratic officeholders and aspiring candidates.

I may find myself voting for DeSantis in 2024, but only if he cuts the umbilical cord to Donald Trump. There is no place in American government for that guy. He is better off scamming people out of money, groping women, and making preposterous statements to his fan club on Fox News. He probably enjoys his current role of Republican “kingmaker” to actually running for President again, although nothing is impossible considering that guy’s enormous ego.

The likelihood that the next Administration will have to deal with ongoing civil unrest is high. That’s what happens when downtrodden people are disgusted by their government. Most Americans are moderate to liberal politically, so there will be lots of unhappiness when the next Republican Administration and the right-tilting Supreme Court try to jam conservative ideas down the Nation’s throat.

President DeSantis, if that happens, will have one heck of a difficult job.

Today I spent some time on our property inspecting the landscaping and getting rid of the invisible electric shock barrier and rabbit wire mesh (which we used to train Vinnie to stay in the backyard). He got an “A”, by the way.

All of the plants seem to be healthy and the drip irrigation system seems to be doing its job. Temperatures are ranging from the high 60’s to high 80’s lately. It’s “growing time”.

Lots of wind lately. That’s something which was a surprise to us when we relocated to Mesquite. Recall the old Western song, “Tumblin’ Tumbleweeds”? There’s a reason that those tumbleweeds are rolling through the desert: it’s friggin’ windy all of the time! There’s a light breeze just about every day and winds of 15 to 30 mph are common on several days of each week. On occasion, the wind blows harder than that. A couple of years ago, we experienced winds of over 50 mph for a couple of hours. It was nasty: lots of trees in the area had broken limbs and some were uprooted. About a month ago there was a dust storm for a day; those really suck.

One unfortunate aspect of the wind is the effect it has on our beautiful Palo Verde trees. These green-trunked specimens with lacy foliage bloom in mid-April each year. The flowers are yellow and the effect is quite beautiful. The only problem is that the blooms are quickly blown off the tree as soon as the winds reach 20 mph or so. So, we only get to enjoy the beauty for a few weeks each year.

Virtually all of the cactus varieties put out beautiful blooming flowers each Spring, but those flowers only last a few days to maybe a week, at most. Just enough time for the bees to get to them so they can do their jobs.

The breezes kick up dust and pollen, causing many people to suffer from allergies. Poor Vinnie, our rescued Boston Terrier: he has allergies, and his eyes are always red and swollen despite his daily dose of antihistamine, tetracycline ointment, and eye drops. Poor guy.

He does enjoy our backyard, though. Lots of things to smell, to pee on, and to dodge while chasing his sisters Baby and Bonnie from one spot to another.

We have a lot of “pointy” plants on our property that the three dogs must negotiate. They are pretty successful, although occasionally we will hear a yelp or have to pick fine cactus spines from their coats. A couple of weeks ago, Baby got something lodged under the skin of a hind leg and we had to have it surgically removed. It was probably a cactus spike, we were told. Another several hundred bucks donated to Virgin Valley Veterinary.

How many pointy plants, you ask? Well, most desert flora has spines, points, stickers, sharp edges, etc. to keep the thirsty and hungry animals, reptiles, and birds from eating them. The only things that don’t deter starving varmints in our yard are the lantana and the ice plant, the latter being the food of choice for jackrabbits who live in the rock wall adjoining our property.

Here’s some of the sharp, pointy stuff that we are keeping alive with our drip irrigation system:

It’s amazing that our three dogs and ourselves are not in the “emergency room” once a week for impalements!

I guess we’re experienced desert folk after several years.

Come visit us in Mesquite, Nevada!

Today is little BonBon’s second birthday!

It seems so long ago when I drove about 40 miles with a friend to pick up our new puppy. She had been driven cross-country in an RV from the breeder back in Ohio.

The little tyke cost us a bundle compared to the other three Boston Terriers that we’d known: Booger, $800; JayJay, $300; Baby, $900, BonBon… $4,000! She was also the tiniest, expected to weigh only about 16 pounds at maturity.

The Manning pack, Booger and Baby (JayJay had crossed the Rainbow Bridge by that time) welcomed little Bonnie into the house with open paws. They quickly taught her everything that she needed to know: where to pee and poop; the use of the doggie door; the meal schedule; where the toy box was; and, of course, how to beg for treats and scraps.

Both Booger and Baby brought forth their maternal characteristics to help BonBon feel comfortable and safe.

That didn’t help much when a neighbor friend dropped Bonnie and broke her right femur. The mournful howl from that injured pup haunts me to this day. A couple of thousand dollars later, BonBon had a surgically-repaired leg and was racing around the house in short order.

Now, about 1-1/2 years later, all the dog has to show for the traumatic event is a white discoloration on her leg. Other than that, it’s as strong as her other limbs.

Bonnie is different from the other Bostons that we’ve had. She’s super sweet, has the uncanny ability to smell lost items (usually toys and bones), is tenacious when trying to recover them, likes to hide out in her little “cave” when she needs some alone time, and prefers “keep away” to “fetch” when playing with a ball. BonBon expects her toys to be available after breakfast and will get in my face and stare at me if I don’t put the toy basket on the ground. In this way, she is the spokesperson for the Pack, insisting on their right to play when they want.

The dogs play continuously when they aren’t napping. By the evening, we are tired of all the activity and noise, so we go around the house, pick up all of the toys, put them into the toy basket, and place it on a table, out of reach. Then, we sit down on the sofa to enjoy TV. Almost immediately, BonBon will begin a hard target search of the Manning estate, looking for toys that we missed or, more likely, that she stashed in concealed locations during the day. Invariably, we will be enjoying a TV program when we will notice BonBon gnawing on a bone or teasing the other dogs with a toy. It’s annoying but precious at the same time.

She likes comfort. Almost every day, after I make up our bed, she jumps up onto it and buries herself in the accent pillows, making a mess out of the bed. She does the same thing in the guest room. In the living room, she likes to perch up on the top of the sofa back, to give herself a bird-eye view of the activities.

Bonnie is also our pickiest eater. Booger used to be like that: on most days, she’d gobble up whatever was put in front of her; on others, she’d pick at her food and maybe only eat a bit. As opposed to JayJay, Baby, and now Vinnie, who live to eat, Booger and BonBon eat to live.

Bonnie adapted well to RV life on the road and loved the beach in Coos Bay. She accidentally learned how to swim there, when she raced out into the ocean and realized that she was in over her head. She also learned the rules of “staying” in our patio area while off-leash and very rarely wanders off the artificial grass. She’s a good dog.

Bonnie got a wonderful Christmas present this past December when we decided to adopt Vinnie.

The two of them are almost the same age, have the same amount of energy, and love chasing each other about the property. They have been BFFs since the get-go, although she also has a very tight bond with Baby. She’s lucky to have both a sister and brother who love her.

Not much is certain in life, but it is highly likely that Charlie and I will be able to enjoy BonBon for the rest of our days. That’s a lot of love that we can look forward to.

This afternoon we are going to play “Easter Egg Hunt” with the dogs to celebrate the big day. We will hide treats around the house and set the three dogs loose to find them. I’m predicting right now that the Super Sniffer, little Bonnie, will win the competition.

Happy Birthday, BonBon!

I was minding my own business yesterday (Easter Sunday) when my neighbor Dale asked me if I wanted to go for a ride in his ATV. I said, “Sure, thanks for asking!”

Dale recently bought a Polaris General off-road machine. It is the Hummer of ATVs, with an 82” wheelbase, 38” tires, four seats, all the technology, and cost about $45,000. I felt like Schwartzneggar riding that thing down the street.

Little did I know that our “ride” was to be an expedition with a couple of other ATV pals of Dale. We met down the street in their neighborhood: Brent and Don (who goes by “Jersey”, because there are several Dons on his street). My two new friends also had fancy Polaris ATVs, although not in Dale’s class.

Mesquite is a paradise for hikers, golfers, and ATVers because of the scenic beauty. The town allows ATV’s to traverse several streets without Nevada licenses in order to get to the BLM lands on the city perimeter. On the east are the Virgin Mountains and the Grand Canyon Parashant, to the south are the Mormon Mountains, to the north is the Arizona Strip and Virgin River Gorge, and to the west is the 500’ tall mesa that overlooks the city.

We headed east toward Virgin Peak and veered right up Cabin Canyon. I then found out that our destination was a cell tower about ten miles away at an elevation of 5,400 feet. Dale’s land yacht could barely fit on some of the ATV trails, but the ride was comfortable. “Jersey” led the motorcade: the guy is a speed freak and was often a quarter mile ahead of us. Luckily, Dale’s rig has a display that can track other ATVs, so we knew in advance which way to turn.

Our first stop was Beer Can Fence, which is located in the mountains about ten miles from civilization. It is a popular spot for hikers and off-road enthusiasts, as is evident by the hundreds of aluminum can that are attached to the barbed-wire fence that keeps free-range cattle in their wildland “pasture”.

Many of the cattle that forage in the Virgin Mountain area are owned by the Bundy family. They are famous for fighting the BLM over “range fees”, the nominal amount that the Federal government charges businessmen who use BLM lands to make money. The Bundys, most famously Cliven and Ammon, have gotten into armed confrontations with Federal agents in the past. They just don’t want to pay fees to the Feds because, according to them, citizens already own the public lands. A couple of years ago, Ammon led a confrontation in Oregon that ended in a shootout, killing one of the protestors.

One of Bundy’s cows was grazing on the wrong side of the fence when we got there. Someone had left open the road gate, a very discourteous transgression by some doofus ATVer or hiker. We tried to shoo the cow back through the gate to no avail. She will probably hang out near the gate until one of the ranching crew rounds her up.

While hiking, I have talked to some of the ranch hands about “open range” operations. They tell me that the cattle will eat anything in the desert except cactus, Creosote bush, and Cat’s Claw. The cows instinctively head toward the water trough in the evening, where the ranch hands have left salt and some hay.

From there we headed up to the cell tower. It was a long, windy, and dusty trek. Once there, we had some cold drinks, told stories, and looked at the scenery. Virgin Peak was just east of us and about 3,000 feet above us (we were at around 5,000’).

Funny but true: our cell phones wouldn’t work while standing right under the friggin’ cell tower!

From that point, we headed back down the mountain through magnificent rock canyons and Joshua tree forests.

We met up with some other ATVers at Arch Rock where I took a couple of photos.

Then we headed over to the “Boiler”. This is an old railroad engine boiler that was placed out in the desert by the Bundy’s as a water reservoir for their free-ranging cattle. The big, rusting metal thing looks totally out of place in its desolate surroundings but serves its purpose, I guess.

The BLM lands below the Virgin Mountains have been prospected for spring water for many years by the local ranchers and they are ingenious at tapping into invisible sources and piping the precious liquid downhill to sumps, metal containers and such where the cattle and wildlife like deer, mountain lions, and such can wet their lips.

Thank goodness we brought plenty of beer and soft drinks with us, because it was hot and dusty out there!

What I (and Charlie) originally thought was to be a brief spin around the community turned out to be a 5-hour excursion into the desert and mountain wilderness. It was a great ride and I met some new friends.

A nice Easter present, for sure.

Charlie and I watched a movie last night that I had already seen once but wanted my wife to experience it. It was called “Whiplash”, and one of the featured actors was J.K. Simmons (the wise Farmers’ Insurance spokesperson), who won a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for his performance.

Whiplash is a very tense, upsetting movie about a drummer prodigy at a prestigious music academy who is pushed to his absolute limit by a hard-driving, sadistic teacher (Simmons). The brutality of the “instruction” is stomach-turning and the effect on students is disturbing. In fact, one commits suicide. The culmination of the drummer’s education occurs when he is, seemingly, set up to fail by the instructor but triumphs instead. “The ends justify the means”, I guess.

I’ve done some teaching over the years, but I’ve never resorted to bullying and humiliation to achieve results. It’s just not my style. Then, again, maybe I wasn’t effective enough: maybe I didn’t drive my charges to their absolute best?

I recall being “pushed” by athletic coaches in my youth. I was a natural athlete, to some degree, and I didn’t have to work too hard to succeed. That changed when I went to high school. I ran into a couple of coaches who weren’t satisfied with my natural ability and wanted me to push myself. I didn’t realize at the time (my Mom fibbed my birthdate on my kindergarten admissions application) that I was the youngest Freshman at my high school. Therefore, I was the least mature, and didn’t handle well coaches who got in my face about technique, hustle, attitude, etc. I reacted by quitting the football and baseball teams in a huff. (The sad thing was that they were my best sports!) I eventually got Varsity letters in basketball and cross country, probably because I ran into easy-going coaches who found a way to get the best out of me.

I was a swimming instructor back in the day when I was a lifeguard/manager of a public pool. Success there was measured in avoiding drowning (for beginners), mastery of swim strokes (for intermediates), proficiency (for swim team participants), and lifesaving skills (for Water Safety Instructors). No one ever drowned on my watch and some of my students went on to save drowning kids in pools and at the beach. Mission accomplished, I suppose.

When I hooked up with Charlie at age 25 and inherited her four young boys, I also assumed the responsibility for educating the young lads. For better or worse, I was raised “old school” by my Dad: i.e. carrot and stick. It was the only method I was acquainted with, so it was employed on my youngsters. For the most part, they were willing participants in the adventure, learned right from wrong, learned how to treat their brothers and acquaintances, and learned how to respect their elders. All of this was reinforced by the lessons learned at school, of course. Transgressions were dealt with by corporal punishment, restrictions, and such, which is the way I was taught.

My style generally worked: the four boys all turned out to be good citizens and productive members of society. With some false starts, all of them found their perfect life partner and are now doing well financially and family-wise. They’ve all made mistakes, of course, just like everyone else who has ever lived. Have they made the most out of their lives? I don’t think so, and it’s probably my fault for not pushing them harder in their studies and providing better advice on becoming adults and assuming responsibility for their actions.

I was a manager in a huge bureaucracy for decades and had to pass along my knowledge and wisdom to scores of college-grads who were just starting up the corporate ladder. I never thought of myself as an educator while I was doing my job, but I had expectations of my subordinates which I expected them to meet or exceed. Most of them did, which might reflect on lessons that I passed along or the fact that I hired good people in the first place. That is probably the highest skill of a manager: finding the right candidate in a pool of hard-charging, often exaggerating, hopefuls.

Probably my hardest tutoring job as a manager was trying to pass along basic writing skills to an underling who had experience and academic credentials (a Master’s Degree). Our basic job at the Executive Office of the County of Riverside was to provide the governing body (the Board of Supervisors) with concise reports on budgetary and operational policy issues and make recommendations. My employee was a smart guy who could gather the pertinent information, write it up in a report, and… totally exasperate the reader, because there would be no logical “read” of his report. This guy had a bad habit of disorganization in his prose. I used a lot of red ink editing his drafts, having to circle important thoughts and reposition them in the report to make sense. It was exasperating for me and for him. I basically had to rewrite all of his submissions to the Board of Supervisors so that they could understand what was being asked of them.

In my thirty-year career at the County of Riverside, that was probably the closest that I came to going nuclear on an employee (a la the Whiplash music instructor). Fortunately for the employee, he was nearing retirement and I didn’t have the guts to fire or demote him. He certainly had topped out in the bureaucracy as far as I was concerned. If I’d had more time with him, in his earlier years, I could probably have crafted him into a decent writer. On the other hand, one “can’t make a purse out of a sow’s ear”. The guy had limitations, probably as a result of being doused with Agent Orange in Vietnam. Sometimes, as a manager, you just have to play with the cards you are dealt.

At around the time when it was my turn to retire, my son Tim and wife Shanon welcomed into this world their third child who was named after their grandfather… Craig! So, we shared a bond from the beginning. And it just so happened to turn out that Charlie and I (mainly me) did a lot of babysitting and mentoring of the young lad in his first five years. Tim and Shanon lived in the same community and I had lots of time on my hands, so Craig and Craig were almost joined at the hip for five days a week. I taught the little tyke how to talk, walk, swim, do all of the rides at the local amusement parks, become observant, talk with sarcasm, get along with his classmates in pre-school, and have empathy towards others. Sure, his parents helped, too, but Craig and I developed a strong bond because of the adventures that we had together.

Craig has turned out to be a fine man: I’m very proud of him.

I would like to say that I’ve had similar good results in mentoring my four-legged friends but… who knows if they even understand what I’m trying to get them to do.

For a number of years, I had a horse named Louie. He was great guy when I got him, about five years old and proficient in most equine skills. I would like to think that I developed him into a great trail and arena performer, but the truth is that he probably just endured me. We worked a lot with cattle, and he would do pretty much what I desired (in terms of herding and sorting out cows), but I’m thinking that he went mostly on instinct, as he was a quality-bred quarterhorse. The dude would show me who was Boss when I came to the large corral to throw a rope over his neck and would simply wander away from me, making me work hard to catch and saddle him. He was schooling me, for sure. If I didn’t have carrots or something else to bribe him, I could be in for five minutes of jogging and cornering the beast.

Dogs, on the other hand, seem to want to please. They know where their next meal comes from and they don’t want to upset the natural order of things. I’ve found that teaching our five Boston Terriers basic commands, tricks, and behaviors is fairly simple. At least that’s what I thought until I ran into Vinnie, our latest. He’s a bit stubborn and has some personality issues that probably stem from mistreatment/lack of socialization when he was a puppy.

I am using the Koehler Method on poor Vinnie, which is similar in some respects to the techniques employed by Professor Fletcher in Whiplash. More stick than carrot, if you follow my drift, in the effort to focus his attention on his master (me) while out on a walk. After a couple of weeks, Vinnie is walking loosely at my side, under leash, pretending to be subservient to the Boss. However, when another dog appears in the distance, Vinnie focuses on that object and loses the bond that we had a few minutes earlier. If we get too close to the other dog, Vinnie gets amped up in a scary way, barking and lunging. I absolutely hate this kind of aggressive behavior in other people’s dogs, so steps are going to have to be taken to put the kibosh on these antisocial antics.

The local dog trainer who is guiding me in this training feels that I am not being strict enough with Vinnie and not following the Koehler Method to a tee. I’m not, I will agree, because some of the training techniques involve caging the dog and starving it of food. Sure, I agree that this would result in a more amenable student, but I have a problem mistreating an animal that I love. Mister Softie, that’s me, I suppose.

I’ve ordered a special collar for Vinnie that will “go off” (i.e. vibrate and make noise) when he begins to throw such tantrums. Hopefully, the both of us can work through this problem without much further ado. I would hate to have to employ a shock collar; it would make me feel like a Nazi Brownshirt, clubbing bystanders who fail to cheer “Heil Hitler!”.

The shame of this is that Vinnie and I are best buddies: he follows me everywhere, naps in my lap while I watch TV, comes to me when I call from another part of the property, sleeps with me at night and, lately, walks obediently next to me on-leash most of the time. On a scale of 100, he’s a 90 right now. Can we get to 100? Will we still be BFF’s?

Like the pushy music teacher in Whiplash, I just need to get Vinnie over the nextobstacle togreatness.

Just try a bit harder, Son. You can do it!

We have three Boston Terrier dogs that are treated well. They have the free roam of the house and the spacious backyard (via a doggie door), lots of places to lounge around and nap, and numerous things to play with. Life should be good, huh?

You would think so, but the three dogs spend most of their waking moments hassling each other about the same rope pull, bone, or ball. One moment it is an elk bone that they all “must” have, and fifteen minutes later they are in a loud tug-of-war over a hunk of rope or a Kong ball.

All the while there is, at their disposal, a toy bin on the floor that has numerous items in it, all of them indispensable “’must haves” that the three have argued about previously. It is as if there is a “flavor of the hour” that precipitates a battle royale. Then, they go to their corners for a brief nap, recharging their battery packs for the next three-dog scrum.

Sharing toys is not something that these dogs do well. All three could care less about the green fake bone… unless one of them picks it up. Then, the other two act put-upon, dropping whatever they are doing and rushing to take the green bone from the other one. Each one cannot abide watching another one enjoy himself/herself with a toy. Not gonna happen on their watch!

This hourly carnival reminds me of my youth, growing up with my brother Terry.

My bro’ was older and bigger than me and liked to throw his weight around. If he wanted something that I had, he just took it from me. If our parents bought something for us, to “share”, I would be lucky to get a glance at it before Terry assumed full ownership. If I had the audacity to claim something as my own, my brother would simply bulldoze me. Our disagreements ended quickly.

I recall the time that we got a remote-controlled airplane for Christmas, to share, my parents said. Fifteen minutes later, we were at the local elementary school playground where Terry got the plane going, put it into at climb to 100’, and then lost control, of course. The plane hit the pavement doing about 60 mph and broke into a thousand pieces. My “sharing” consisted of helping to hastily unwrap the toy, watching Terry destroy it, and cleaning up the mess on the playground. What fun!

A few years later, when we used to vacation at our beach trailer in Ensenada, Mexico, my parents thought that it would be a good idea to have a skiff, with a small outboard motor, for Terry and I to enjoy in the small bay. We were to “share” it, they said. Ho, ho, as if! Terry glommed onto that skiff, wouldn’t let me touch the outboard motor, and assumed the role of Commodore Manning, Master of the Seven Seas. That lasted a very short time, as he beached the skiff into the rocky shore and mangled the propellor, making it useless for us.

I never got to drive “our” boat.

Baby, our almost 6-year-old Boston Terrier, is the kindler, gentler Terry of the Manning pack. She is bigger, stronger, and more agile than BonBon and Vinnie. Baby can basically take any toy from her siblings whenever she wants to, and sometimes she does. Vinnie is dumb enough to think that he can assert control over his big sister, and he often puts up a noisy fight. It’s a losing effort, if Baby so desires.

However, unlike my brother, the Boss will sometimes just go through the motions and allow BonBon or Vinnie to “win” a tug-of-war or take the prized elk bone from her. It is very generous and noble of Baby to do that. Maybe it’s the “motherly” instinct in her?

I am in my guest room “office” right now, with the three dogs lying on the carpet, snoring. They are recuperating from a 20-minute war over a hunk of bone that has been laying around the house for a week, unnoticed.

In ten minutes, they will be up again, heading off for a new chapter of sharing, doggie-style.

(Oops, correction! The three just awoke from their naps and have decided to do some rasslin’ next to me on the carpet. No toys, just bitey-face jousting and some Sumo moves from Baby. This won’t last long: Vinnie will end up pinned by Baby, for sure. However, they’re having fun, sharing their love for one another in their own way. I’m happy that they enjoy each other’s company.)

(Correction Number Two: They ran out of the room, and ran back in a few minutes later with a big, Blue rubber ball that I haven’t seen in weeks. They are now fighting over it, tooth and nail. “I must have it!”, they each demand. Ha, Ha!)

We got the news this week that our granddaughter Jessica and her boyfriend Abraham just bought a house in Vista, California. That’s great news: they both have good jobs and love each other. Hopefully, we’ll hear wedding bells soon.

Jessica and Abraham paid $500,000 for their 1,000 square foot house. Holy smokes, that’s a lot of money ($500 per square foot)! It’s also a tiny home. The saving grace is that it is located about 30 minutes north of San Diego and about one hour south of Los Angeles. Lots of jobs, good schools, and quality infrastructure. My parents lived there in their later years and loved it.

I grew up in a small house like that in Monterey Park, California, which is about 12 miles east of Los Angeles. My parents bought in the late 1940’s for $9,000 with a Cal Vet loan. I saw a For Sale ad today for a 1,200 s.f. home about a block from that house: the owners are asking $886,000 ($720 per square foot) for it! Can you believe that?

My wife Charlie and her four sons were crammed into a 1,000 s.f. home in Valinda, California (about 20 miles east of Los Angeles) when I first met them. The neighborhood was a low-class slum, in my opinion, and we could hardly wait to get out of there. Charlie sold that house after we got married in 1974 for around $28,000. A quick look-up on the Internet today reveals that homes in Valinda are now selling for between $500 and $600 per square foot. Charlie’s puny, crappy house would be worth a half million bucks to some fool right now.

Simply amazing!

Why does it cost so much for so little? The answer: there are a lot of people making a lot of money in Southern California.

Our granddaughter Jessica will probably make $100,000 this year as a Registered Nurse. Her boyfriend Abraham is a heavy-duty crane operator who undoubtedly makes more than Jessica. Her older brother Joshua, who is a supervisor at an animal medical lab testing firm, just got a raise to $100,000 per year. His Dad (our son Tim) works for a competitive animal lab testing firm as a manager and makes comparable money.

My point: There’s a crapload of money chasing limited resources in California. That’s why everything costs a lot there, including everyone’s favorite, gasoline. The average price of unleaded in California is currently $5.74.

Similar grade gas only costs $4.00 in Mississippi. But who wants to live in Mississippi?

Some people do. We watch a home improvement show called “Home Town”, which is based in Laurel, Mississippi. The house prices there generally run $100 to $125 per square foot, so a 1,000 s.f. home would cost about $100,000 to $125,000. That is about one-fourth the cost of a similar home in Southern California (like the one my granddaughter just bought near San Diego).

Why the big difference? Laurel is a city of 18,000 people, there are minimal employment opportunities there, and the weather sucks. The city is in the glide path of virtually every hurricane that heads north out of the Gulf of Mexico, the humidity in the warm months is oppressive and, accordingly, there are all manner of insect pests that make outdoor living problematic. Speaking of issues, the politics in the Deep South are off-putting to many prospective home buyers. San Diego, on the other hand, has been called “America’s Greatest City” because of its beauty, the abundance of job opportunities, and its year-round ideal climate. It’s also a “Navy town” with conservative politics, unusual for California.

I’d live there if I could afford it. (As a matter of fact, we vacation down there one month every September!)

People will pay more money to live in well-built urban areas with unlimited job opportunities, world-class medical facilities, major educational institutions, and 360 days of sunshine. Who cares if gas costs almost $6.00 per gallon or a 1,000 s.f. house costs a half million bucks?

On the other hand, the rising prices of consumer goods, houses, and stocks can’t go up forever: we are overdue for an adjustment. Typically, this happens about every ten years. The current economic boom has been going on (with minor blips) for well over ten years. Economists say that there is now a housing price “bubble”. The last time that a “bubble” burst was in 2008, when home prices took a 30 percent dive.

It would be a shame if that happened again, particularly to our granddaughter Jessica who just paid top-dollar for a dinky house in Southern California. If the housing market collapses, she could be looking at negative equity for many years. That’s a crummy way to start out a new life.

Whatever happens, Charlie and I intend to ride it out in comfort. Our 2,500 s.f. home here in Mesquite cost us less than $180 per square foot and we have a 3.5 percent mortgage which we can easily afford. Our only automobile will be paid off this year and we have no consumer debt.

“Under a ragged coat lies wisdom”, goes the Romanian proverb.

We’re set for the “crash” that will, unfortunately, inevitably come.

We’re still alive here in Mesquite.

Vinnie’s finished his sixth day of training today. He’s doing well, much improved from a few weeks ago. He’s now watching me pretty carefully, unlike his previous procedure of plowing ahead toward some distant goal that only he was aware of. Tomorrow, we shorten the lead, and start correcting when he is more than 5’ in front of or behind me.

The lad is being a good sport, considering the Koehler method of training. One of the requirements is that Vinnie be caged for one hour prior to training. He also cannot eat within 3 hours of the beginning of training nor within one hour of the completion of training. These stipulations seem a bit barbaric to me (and to Vinnie!). He absolutely howls when he is confined to the crate; I’m sure it reminds him of his unhappy puppy year when he had to grow up alone and in the backyard. He has PTSD, I’m sure.

I think that, beginning tomorrow, we are going to skip the encratement prior to training. He’s no criminal, he’s one of our family!

Charlie and I finished binge-watching the “Downton Abbey” series (6 years-worth!). Whew, that was a lot of drama. It was an interesting depiction of “royal” living in England about one hundred years ago, about the time that the aristocracy was beginning to crumble.

Gosh, it must have been frightfully expensive just to operate one of those castles in Europe, with all the butlers, maids, manservants, footmen, cooks, and maintenance people. Not to mention the fact that these aristocratic families seem to be constantly throwing lavish meals and festivities for relatives, acquaintances, and visitors. Where did all the money come from?

It was a strange “society” that those royals enjoyed: looking down their noses at everyone simply because of being born into privilege. The estate workers, the “in service” laborers, were really in menial, dead-end jobs, with little chance of advancing their humble existences. How depressing that must have been. In this series, which shows the world changing, several of the household staff begin to get education and can see a path to a better world in the late 1920’s. The butlers that are depicted in this series are the general managers of the household and carry themselves with an aristocratic air, as if they are royals, too. In fact, they seem to be the guardians of the aristocracy, reminding the royals from time to time about propriety and such.

Very interesting stuff if you are a student of history, like me.

I’ve been following the Masters golf tournament. It is always a wonderful experience, what with the gorgeous surroundings and the high drama. This year marks the return of Tiger Woods, who almost died in a car wreck (his fault!) about 1-1/2 years ago. The doctors almost had to amputate one of his legs. Miraculously, he recovered with the help of a team of physicians, physical therapists, trainers, and other professionals. This physical catastrophe is only the latest in his life: he’s had five back surgeries and a number of knee procedures, as well. He jokingly calls himself “Humpty Dumpty”.

Tiger’s rehabilitation has been a miracle because he deemed himself fit enough to enter the Masters tournament this year. The guy hasn’t played a round of competitive golf in 500 days and he is competing against the best golfers on the planet. Plus, the golf course is very hilly and competitors cannot use golf carts: they have to walk it. Amazingly, Tiger shot a one-under par score on the first day, bettering about 70 percent of his rivals. Simply amazing: he should get a trophy for just showing up.

After his round, Tiger was asked what his plans were for the evening. He said, “Lots of ice.”

Flowers are blooming from many of our cacti. It’s quite beautiful around here.

I’ve been practicing golf lately. No shoulder pain, whatsoever, so I will probably be playing a round in the next week to ten days… to see how bad I have become!

Charlie is one week from finishing tax season. Compared to prior years, this one has been relatively calm, from my vantage point. Of course, my wife no longer has to prepare the taxes for 40 to 50 clients while at the same time carrying on her thriving bookkeeping business. That was a real drudge in the old days, causing migraines, stress heart attacks, temper tantrums, and harsh words to the only other person in the house. Thankfully for our son Jonathan, the bookkeeping grunt work is farmed out to his home in Kentucky and my wonderful wife is allowed some peace and sanity while she casually prepares her clients’ tax filings.

As I’ve said before, Charlie’s tax work basically pays for the special treats that we get to enjoy in our retirement years. We could exist just fine on our basic income but it’s nice to be able to travel and enjoy special surprises courtesy of her office work.

She’s a keeper.

The dogs are in a confused state lately. Baby is wearing “the cone of shame” due to her tumor surgery, so she feels punished and the other dogs are a bit bewildered. Vinnie wears the goofy electric fence collar during the daytime, although it won’t be long before that ordeal is over: he shows zero interest in approaching the fence, let alone trying to escape his yard.

Vinnie is also the only dog that is getting to go for “walks” right now, as he is being leash-trained by yours truly. It is an intense 40-minutes each morning and I’m really not in the mood afterward to leash-up the other two dogs and head out of the house. Accordingly, Baby and BonBon feel neglected or gypped. I feel bad for them, but it will only be another week before we can all go on long walks together.

The weather is in a state of change as it always is in April. We get some days in the high 60’s and several days later it might be in the low 90’s. Most days are mid-70’s to mid-80’s with light to moderate winds. It is pollen season: runny noses and itchy eyes.

C’est la vie.