what about bernie?

FROG HOSPITAL -- December 29, 2015 -- unsubscribe anytime
What About Bernie?
By Fred Owens
Bernie Sanders has a wife, Jane Sanders,  and the NYTimes has a story about her . She seems like a good sort. Makes me want to vote for Bernie.

Hillary Clinton is going to bring out her husband Bill as her not-so-secret weapon. Bill Clinton is a major liability to her campaign  -- he has so much baggage and he supplies major insult material for  Donald Trump. Trump versus Clinton will get nasty. Cover your ears.

I support Bernie on the basis of character and decency. He's a pretty square guy, and not mega-rich like the Clintons. But I don't endorse Bernie's socialist agenda, and I end up back in Hillary's camp because her middle of the road position is similar to my own view.


Bernie Sanders, if elected, will be the President of the Way It's Supposed To Be. Hillary Clinton, if elected, will be the President of the Way It Is.

Let me explain that. Americans are supposed to love trains and use public transportation, and that will wean us from fossil fuels and reduce congestion.  That's the way it's supposed to be. But Americans don't love trains, they love cars. That's the way it is. Look out the window -- this isn't Europe. Let's make America a better country, and let's start by loving it the way it is.
Enough of that.

Cold and Dry in Santa Barbara and Still No Rain. I planted garlic on Saturday. I should have planted the garlic in October when the soil was still warm. That's what the book says, and the book is right. There is nothing more discouraging and defeating then gardening advice from the experts who write these books. Screw 'em.

Or these lame-brain tightly-scheduled pruning manuals. Oh no, you're not supposed to trim your forsythia until AFTER it blooms. And if you have no life, you can follow that schedule. But if you do have a life, then you trim the damn forsythia when you get around to it, and you will have my complete support in doing so..

The good books and the good garden masters encourage you to learn by making mistakes. Prune! Plant! Dig! Sow! Rake! Fertilize! All that. It won't always work, but so what!

The very best gardeners and farmers are not really smarter than you are, but they have that one supreme quality -- they never give up, they just keep going. And this coming year of 2016 could be the best year ever.

The Bus Book. It will not take me very long to re-write this novel, called the Bus Book. I threw out Chapter 2 and that was the only big problem. Now I need to re-write the beginning of the book -- the first few pages. This is key. I was browsing the fiction section of the bookstore last week, viewing the opening paragraphs of authors I admire, looking for an idea to steal.
I have no title for this book. I am unable to do that. I will ask my First Readers to suggest something.
Anyway, all this will not take a huge amount of time. Estimating to finish the work in mid-January.
I Only Work for Nice People.   I have a part-time business doing gardening work for people in Santa Barbara. Here the ad I run in Craigs List to drum up business:
I only work for nice people and I give them excellent service. I will be kind to your small children and your pets. I will respect your property and your privacy.

In January we prune the roses. I have some experience in rose work.

January is also a good time to plant bare-root roses and fruit trees. La Sumida Nursery has a good stock of those plants.

Any potted plants can go in the ground now, and transplanting also works best this time of year -- when the weather is cold and the plants are dormant.

This is a good time of year for me to spread mulch on your garden. I can arrange to have it delivered or you can do that yourself. Mulch slows evaporation, smothers weeds, softens the soil, and adds organic matter as it breaks down. Adding mulch is a no-brainer. And new mulch makes your garden look beautiful.

I bring my own hand tools and prefer organic methods. I have local references, and I will give you an honest deal.

I don't mow lawns as a regular service, but if you are in a pinch and if you have a working lawn mower, then I can do that too. I am also glad to help you clean out your garage and do basic chores, as needed.

I do volunteer work at the Mission rose garden and at the Mesa Harmony Garden.

Give me a call if you are interested. I will come and see your garden and we can make a plan.
Happy New Year. I am so grateful to have friends and family -- some close by, some out there in the world. I am so thankful to have such a lovely girl friend -- Laurie Moon is the very best of the best of the best, and her two lively daughters Mariah and Shannon are extra good.  My two wonderful children Eugene and Eva are all grown up and doing well. My siblings Tom, Carolyn and Katy are so kind and careful.
Special Thanks to all Faithful Frog Hospital Readers and Subscribers. You are the best, and you make every news letter a love letter as well.
Be well. Take Care. All my best to you and yours.
Fred

Frog Hospital Subscription Drive.   Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going.

So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….
Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,
or
Send a check for $25 to
Fred Owens
1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Hitchhiking with Larry

Wabi-Sabi. Here are a couple of videos to serve as an antidote to Trump Fever. The first one is a Zen Humdinger starring Robert Sund in a walk-on role. Robert was a poet and he died in 2001, but we don't forget. And Fishtown is still there, if you know how to find it. This is called Wabi-Sabi.

The second one is to get you dancing. It is the Jerusalem Steel Big Band playing their version of the Happy Wanderer. Everybody join in to sing Val-da-ree, Val-de-rah, Val-de-ree, Val-de-ra-ha-ha-ha. You gotta love this one.

Yes, there is a cure for Trump Fever. Get your relief today.

Gun Control.  Charles Blow writes a column for the New York Times. He favors gun control and has the mighty power of his newspaper to back him up. But read this column -- where he talks about his own brother, who is a gun collector. And his brother takes him to a gun show to see all the weapons, and they have a civilized debate about who gets to own and use what weapon. But Charles Blow can't even convince his own brother to change his mind.

I have plenty of friends, gun-nuts on the one hand and peace-niks on the other hand. Nobody has changed their mind. A discussion on this topic is not fruitful, not at this time.

Roger Cohen also writes a column at the New York Times. Cohen is my kind of guy -- spends a lot of time in Paris, owns property in the south of France, living the life. He fears the rise of Donald Trump. He speaks of the decadent Weimar Republic that led to the rise of Hitler and says it can happen again in America, so we have been forewarned.

Roger Cohen is a good and forceful writer, but is he really my kind of guy? His life is utterly foreign to me. I don't spend time in Paris. I don't own property in the south of France. What do he and I have in common? Very little. Still, I would rather live in his world than in a penthouse at the Trump Tower.

To get my feet back on the ground, I called Stuart Welch, former owner of the Rexville Store in LaConner, Washington. Stuart has the answer to any question you can ask. Maybe not the right answer, but "I don't know" is not in his vocabulary. Stuart fears the rise of Ted Cruz more than he fears Donald Trump.  I'm not sure why -- he said this at the end of a long conversation on other matters. Stuart probably has a good reason for fearing Ted Cruz, and I will keep that in mind.

But -- this goes on and on because I know a lot of people -- Elaine Kolodziej is my former boss, the esteemed publisher of the Wilson County News in Floresville, Texas. She favors Ted Cruz above all other candidates, and she is one smart cookie.

Now to get this all mixed up -- Stuart Welch is well acquainted with Elaine Kolodziej in Floresville, Texas. That's because Elaine, for many years, has sent a courtesy copy of her weekly newspaper to the Rexville Store in LaConner, Washington. And Stuart likes to read her newspaper, although his politics don't jibe with Elaine's politics. And I will take credit for introducing these two vital people to each other, pro-Cruz and anti-Cruz.

So there you have it. I myself with will vote for Hillary Clinton. She's okay.

Hitchhiking with Larry. Here is an excerpt from a book I am writing. Tom Blethen left his job at the mental hospital in New York in February of 1973. He was hitchhiking to Texas to get some fresh air. He camped on Padre Island, but the mosquitoes and the humidity drove him batty. Later he went to Austin and had a good time....

He partied for a few weeks, on the town, a guest of the good people of Texas who seemed more than willing. Food here, beer there, plenty of pot, sunshine and sweet ladies. He took to being pals with Larry, a guy from Arkansas with a twang as thick as peanut butter -- even though it was an embarrassment -- not Larry’s twang, but his age, easily 30. What were the two of them doing in this college town? It wasn’t like they tapped you on the shoulder and said you were too old. Heck, there were graduate students older than 35, and superannuated panhandlers going gently into the night. Maybe no one else but Tom noticed, but he and Larry were getting past this.

A tornado leveled the small town of Marble Falls, out west 60 miles from Austin. They saw it in the paper, talking at the coffee shop.

“Larry, we ought to go out there. We could help clean up the mess, just do it to be good citizens, if they paid us, even better.”

“Well, we’re just fucking the dog here,” Larry said. He had a big grin, all the time. Teeth with no future, a scrawny build and no education.

Decided and done, they got their packs and hitched out to Marble Falls, wandering through the small downtown, the whole town with its guts spilled out in the street. Nobody was around, which surprised them. They walked slowly, awed by the destruction.

“Look at all the washing machines and furniture in that store,” Larry said, point at an emporium with the roof gone and plate glass windows all smashed.

Just thinking about those goods might have triggered an almost violent response from the sheriff’s deputy as he came roaring up to them in his Ford Victoria. He screeched to a halt, jumped out of the car leaving the door open, and marched towards them, in a blinding white starched shirt, holstered gun and shining boots.

“What the hell are you doing here?” The deputy said, loud as brass.

“We…”

“You’re going to turn around and get out of this town as fast as you can walk. I don’t care where you’re from, but you don’t belong here. Now git.”

Tom and Larry stood there like idiots. Larry’s shit-faced grin made the deputy even madder -- but he couldn’t help it, he was always grinning.

“You goddam hippies better start running or you’re going to jail,” the deputy said, hand going near his gun.

Tom acted fast, grabbed Larry by the shirt, and they began to dog trot back out to the highway, their packs bouncing on their backs, panting, a quarter mile, than slowed a bit to a fast walk, not talking, clearing the edge of town, past the houses, out to empty fields by the highway, then slowed to a ready walk, but kept going a good mile before they stopped for a smoke.

“Geez, we were gonna help,” Larry said.

“Yeah, we weren’t doing anything wrong,” Tom said, but he had figured it out. “It’s they were scared. You saw all that stuff lying in the street. That’s everything they owned, and they didn’t know us from thieves.”

“Well, they could have asked us. They could have checked us out. We didn’t mean any harm. It was going to be one brother helping another.”

“But they were scared. That’s why the deputy was so up tight”

“I don’t want their fucking stuff,” Larry said.

“Doesn’t matter. We ain’t wanted. Let’s get back to Austin.

“I tell you, I’m never coming to a place like this again. Stupid rednecks.”

“Wrong place, wrong time, that’s all,” Tom said.

That's all for this week. Thank you for reading my words. I really appreciate that.

Frog Hospital Subscription Drive.   Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going.

So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….
Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,
or
Send a check for $25 to
Fred Owens
1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105


--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

President Obama tells us to be calm

Terrorism

By Fred Owens

President Obama addressed the nation Sunday night. He wants us to calm down and be patient. I am already calm and patient, so I skipped his speech. I spend a lot of my time in gardens, in parks, and on farms -- those are very calm places. I suggest you spend more time outdoors, you will not only feel safer, you will actually be safer.

And just to make a political comment -- I do not care if you feel safe or do not feel safe. That is no concern of mine. I do care very much if you are safe, or if you are not safe. Is that too picky?

Speaking of terror, I realized that my knowledge of Islam has expanded a hundred fold in recent times. You all know the difference between Sunni and Shia. And you learned that difference sometime after September 11, 2001. You may know that a Pakistani is a Moslem, but not an Arab. You probably know that the Saudi Arabians practice a very stern version of Sunni Islam.

Islamic terror has become the teacher about Middle Eastern ways. That is not a good thing at all. We're learning about Islam from fear, not from admiration.

You can arrive at a point of admiration, but it was fear that got you started.

I notice this difference because of my genuine delight in learning about the cultures of people around the world -- Jewish life, Buddhist chants, African dance, Latin food -- all a delight, all to satisfy my curiosity. But not Islam -- I approach that topic defensively.

Weaponry. Recent events, the killings in San Bernardino, in Paris, and at the Planned Parenthood clinic in Colorado, have intensified the debate about gun control in our country. The voices are louder, but I observe no change of heart. This is not going anywhere, not that I can tell, except people are getting more strident and that is a concern. First I thought, what could be worse than mass killings? But there are many things far worse than that. You could choke to death in the Beijing smog for starters. You could get shot six different ways if you lived in Syria. Let's ask the people in Syria if America is hell on earth. They all want to come here.

Friends in Prison. I seem to be connecting with friends in prison. Eben has been in for 15 years and this was the first time I sent him a letter. How do you write to a friend serving time? By talking about ordinary things and not making petty complaints, and by not asking questions about the crime that got him there. It is a good deed to visit those in prison, it says so in the Bible. You don't need to get into it any deeper than that. In the case of Eben, he will not see daylight in my lifetime, and how much punishment he deserves is not a matter for my judgment. I'm only his friend, and I write him letters.

Time to Finish the Book

"Tom Blethen sat at the edge of his bed reading a letter in the men’s dormitory at Rockland State Hospital in New York...................."

That's the opening line of an autobiographical novel I have written, although I might change it. I worked there as a psychiatric aide in 1973, but I was about to quit and head for Texas to get the mental hospital aura out of my system. That's the story. And I met some people along the way and stuff happened.

Most of what I wrote actually happened, but I never, not in real life, had Maria for a girl friend, so I turned it into a novel and I became Tom Blethen and he and Maria had this thing --- but that was short-lived..... it's in the book.

Except it's not finished. To finish it would require a degree of concentration that is not possible for me at this point. Maybe, if I spent six weeks starting in January, and did nothing else but finish this book -- that's what it would take.

I chose Tom Blethen as the name of the main character. Tom, because it's a family name and common to most people. And Blethen because it's a Welsh name like Owens.

Owens and Blethen -- both with two syllables, both sounding soft and easy.

I had a girl friend named Rosana Blethen in 1989. She was related to the Blethens who own the Seattle Times. Those Blethens are very wealthy and powerful in Seattle, but Rosana's father was the black sheep of the family and Rosana herself had no position of wealth of prestige for that reason.

But Blethen is a good name, so I hope she does not mind that I borrowed it for my main character..... Tom Blethen..... what do you think?

Subscription Income Reaches $600. Frog Hospital had a good year in subscription sales and we still have a few weeks left. We took in $600 which is $50 every month and almost like getting paid. The income improves my attitude in a tremendous way and I appreciate it very much.

Remember how small we are. You might like the New York Times, but try reaching them on the phone. Well, you can call me anytime, 360-739-0214. I won't pick up, I never do, but if you leave a message I will call back. Or send me an email  -- i would love to hear from you.

The Frog Hospital goal for 2016 is $5,000 in income and 5,000 readers. And the emphasis will be on gaining new readers. I would like the audience to get bigger.
Frog Hospital Subscription Drive.   Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going. So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….
Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,
or
Send a check for $25 to
Fred Owens
1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105

Thank you very much.......

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Eugene goes to School

By Fred Owens

Eugene was born in April, 1977 at St. Francis Hospital in Evanston, Illinois. We lived in a nice apartment on Clyde Street at the time, but we moved out a few months later and we kept moving all through his childhood.

Why did we keep moving, you may ask? That doesn't matter. The truth is that we moved a lot and we never asked Eugene if he thought that was a good idea. The truth is he didn't like it -- being moved, having to go to a new school in the middle of the school year.

I can see him being lead into a classroom by a smiling teacher and the teacher saying, "Class, this is Eugene Owens, he just moved here from _____ and let's give him a warm welcome." I don't think he enjoyed this ritual.

But that was later. He was born in Evanston, Illinois. We quickly moved to Long Beach, Mississippi, then to Venice Beach in Los Angeles, and then up to Marblemount in the Skagit Valley in Washington State. All that doesn't count because Eugene was a toddler and moving makes little difference at that age.

Besides that, in defense of his mother and me, Eugene was surrounded by a cocoon of constant love and attention. He was swaddled and petted and played with. We were poor, but little kids don't even notice that. He slept in a suitcase one month, in a camp by a rushing stream. It was summer and it was a nice place when we stayed there.

But we moved to LaConner after our daughter Eva was born, and we attempted to stay put, and we did stay put for several years and Eugene began school. Gretchen Robinson was his kindergarten and first grade teacher. She taught him to read and he will always be grateful for that. Then he had Mrs. Good in the second grade.

In January of his third grade we moved to Austin, Texas. He went to the Zilker School. We picked that school and rented an apartment nearby because it was integrated and Eugene would not have to be bussed across town. Bussing for integration was a bad idea, in my opinion. We could see the Zilker school by looking out across the park from our apartment window. We could see Eva and Eugene skipping across the grass to school in the morning. We should have stayed there.

By now it was 1986, and Eugene was seven years old. That summer we moved to Anahuac, in east Texas -- in a country of high heat and humidity and rice fields, and gators, and all that backwoods stuff. Eugene began fourth grade in the Anahuac School -- which featured a brand new building because the price of oil was high at that time and local schools collected a tax from local oil wells and so the schools had extra money.

As you could guess, Anahuac was not such a good place for us to live, so that November we moved all the way back to the Skagit Valley, but not back to LaConner, where Eugene was well known and had many friends. No, we moved to the nearby town of Mount Vernon, and plopped him down in the middle of the school year in the fifth grade at Madison school. Mr. Lupinacci was the principal. He was a good guy and all the students and teachers embraced Eugene with warmth and friendship.

Eugene was basically doing well in his young life, happy enough, doing his schoolwork, minding his parents, playing well with other kids. He liked playing video games at the mall, but he never cared much for sports.

That was the Madison school, but then he finished grade school and went to junior high at LaVenture. Junior high is a bad concept in my opinion. I much prefer a school system that goes from kindergarten to 8th grade. Junior high is a perfect storm of awkward, atrocious pre-teens. Eugene did not do well at that school and had very few friends. I felt bad about that. He stayed home and watched TV and read books -- lots of TV and lots of books. He seemed lonely.

In January of 1991, we moved clear across the country to Cambridge, Massachusetts and Eugene finished the 8th grade at the Peabody School. He made a lot of friends there. At his 14th birthday party that year, I took him and all his friends to the midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Show -- the kids loved it, I didn't.

He graduated from Peabody and began his freshman year at Cambridge Rindge & Latin High School. That was a rough and ready urban school, almost adjoining the campus of Harvard University -- but all the Harvard kids went to fancy private schools -- the Townies went to Rindge & Latin.

It was a rough crowd and Eugene got into trouble and was expelled late in the school year, sending him to yet another school, a small private affair set up just for those kids in trouble.

After school, Eugene hung out with his low-life street friends at Harvard Square, around the entrance to the subway. I was worried about him.

This was the only time we moved for the benefit of the children. We were losing Eugene to the street life of Boston, so we moved, again in January, 1993, to the leafy, prosperous suburb of Newton, where wholesome young high school students are simply not allowed to get into trouble.

Eugene did not like being moved. For the first time, but after many abrupt moves in the past, he burst into angry tears and shouted, "I don't want to move, I don't want to move."

I felt bad about that, but we did move, and Eugene did well at Newton North High School. The kids he hung out with were pretty decent, and I was not worried about him. He graduated in 1995.

That was 20 years ago. I am still in touch with Gretchen Robinson, his first grade teacher. She married LaConner High School teacher Vince Sellen. They are retired now and they live in Anacortes. I thank her and Eugene thanks her for teaching him to read. Eugene's mother helped a lot with that too.

Now Eugene is 38, with a masters degree in library science, and a position as a librarian in the Los Angeles Public Library. He lives with his girlfriend Erica Rawlings in a nice apartment in the Highland Park neighborhood near downtown.

He loves his girlfriend, he likes his job and he likes where he lives. I just saw him over Thanksgiving.

Good Cheer.
.
Merry Christmas everyone. Drive safe. Keep warm. Spend more time with your dog, or your cat, or your horses.

Frog Hospital Subscription Drive. Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going.

So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….

Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,

or

Send a check for $25 to

Fred Owens

1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105

Thank you very much.......



--
Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Syrian Refugees Are Welcome Here

 Syrian Refugees Are Welcome Here
I am not expressing any concern for the Syrian refugees because I am not doing anything about it. Yes, they can come here. No, I do not have a spare bedroom.
What is the point of merely expressing concern? There has been a great deal of shallow posturing on social media about this. Yes, you have a right to an opinion. But are you actually doing anything about it?
I don't care how you feel. Tell me what you are doing.
Becoming an American. Speaking of refugees landing on our shore.........It's possible to become an American, but it's never been easy. Newcomers were given the worst jobs and lived in the worst neighborhoods. They were mocked and abused and worse. People said they looked funny and they couldn't speak English and their food smelled awful. People said much worse than that, but over a period of time, we got used to them, and they became like us, and we became a little like them. But it was always difficult.....It was never easy. Immigrants today are treated with more tolerance than in years past.
Cultural appropriation. I confess. It started with pizza -- I didn't think anyone would mind. I thought I was being cool. But it got much worse. Listening to Marvin Gaye late at night, taking karate lessons, reading Black Elk Speaks, doing Zen, and not just eating salsa but talking about it like I knew the context. Finally, I asked for help.
Donald Trump. I have not figured out how to get Donald Trump to shut up.
Islam. It's all about Islam. It's all about God. It's all about religion. You can say otherwise. Say it all you want. My devoutly secular friends want it to be about "criminality" or "psychopathic tendencies" or "becoming marginalized." 
Hillary Clinton and President Obama express this idea most sincerely. Because they want it to be true. But it's not true. It's all about Islam. It's all about God. It's all about religion.
I should pretend it's not about Islam because my Moslem friends won't like me if I criticize their culture? We should mince words?
Christendom and Islam have been at odds for 1,500 years. These are competitive systems, sometimes at war, sometimes at peace. Currently we are at war with Islam. Not for the first time. We will survive. They will survive. We might even achieve a more lasting peace. I have hope of that.
But we are not friends. Not now.
Substandard Housing. When I lived in the Skagit Valley, it was always hard for me to make a living, and I had very little money and I settled for living in shacks and trailers and low rent dumps. So I lived in the great beauty of the Skagit Valley, but my own premises were really crappy...... That was the deal I made. It was like I got to live there but not live well....I'm so glad I left.
(I left out my ex-wife and my two grown children who were with me in those shacks. I might ask them how they feel about it. My ex-wife has returned to Oklahoma, back to the home town where she started out. I speak with her on the phone now and then. Susan Semple. A lot of Skagit Valley people will remember her. My son Eugene is a librarian in Los Angeles and he lives in a nicely appointed apartment in a good neighborhood  -- no shack for him. My daughter Eva lives in Ballard, in Seattle, and she is quite comfortable in her residence. She has no longing for the old farmhouse we lived in.)



Chinese Characters. Let me know if you cannot see the photo I inserted here. This is a page from my Chinese notebook. I draw the characters over and over again. Repetition leads to success. The two characters are "many" and "hand."   Together they make "many hands."  or in Latin letters "duo shou."  I have not progressed too far in pronunciation, as I am in search of a learning partner -- some Chinese student who wants to improve his English. We can make an exchange.
Laurie and I hope to visit China soon. If I learn some Chinese I will be able to read street signs and say stupid things.
We discussed Islam earlier in this newsletter. Islam and the Middle East are saturated with religion, hip-dip, wall-to-wall. China, by contrast, is the least religious of all cultures. That's why I like it. In China it's not about God and it's not about religion. That is a relief from the drumming sounds of war
Gardens. Spend more time in the garden. Go to work on a farm. These are safe places. Never a terrorist attack in these places. When traveling abroad, visit vineyards and parks. And always be attentive to your surroundings, no matter where you are.
Or you can hang out with horses.
Happy Thanksgiving. Happy thanks, everybody.

Frog Hospital Subscription Drive.   Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going.

So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….

Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,

or

Send a check for $25 to

Fred Owens

1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105





































































































































































































































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--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Eating and Sleeping

I was in Ojai last week and I stopped for coffee at the local place. You get all kinds of Hollywood types who come into Ojai -- Psychics, Aromatherapy Dreamers, Organic Pudding Salesman. All idiots, like me. Practical people go elsewhere.

Who should I meet at this coffee shop but Writer Sean Daly perched on a stool. I had not seen him in three years, since we both stopped attending Doc Murdock's weekly writing workshop, held at the Ojai Library.

I said I admired his recent novel. He said he enjoyed reading Frog Hospital. And what are you reading these days, he asked. History, I said. Captain Cook and his epic journeys. But Sean is reading contemporary short stories.

We were both sitting on stools inside the coffee shop. Stools are tippy and uncertain. I am afraid of heights and I can't enjoy coffee and conversation while perched like a bird. Besides that the coffee shop was packed and noisy at the ten a.m. hour.

I said to Sean, let's sit outside, pointing to an empty table on the patio. He said, nah, I gotta go and eat something.

This I understood. I eat breakfast every morning at 7 a.m. while watching the local news on TV, while reading the daily newspaper, while making very brief comments to Laurie. She does not want to hear my excited reaction to a news story, or my pithy summary of major events. Just the bare bones facts.

We talk later in the day. For the meal itself, today I had Cheerios with almond milk and a scoop of plain yogurt. Over that I squeezed some honey.

I need that scoop of yogurt -- need that protein.  Even so, I get hungry again at mid-morning and carry a banana with me if I'm going to a gardening job. Or crackers and cheese.

My weight is good at 175 and five foot ten inches of height. It never varies. I get exercise everyday and Laurie loves me. 

That's the program.

Sleeping. I am an excellent sleeper. I could give lessons. If I could make money teaching people how to sleep, I would do that.

Even right now, at 8:30 a.m., I feel well-rested and ready to take on the day. Why? Because I had a good night's sleep.

I get in bed shortly after ten p.m. and read a book. Ten minutes later I switch off the light. Ten minutes after that I am sound asleep. At night, with my head on the pillow, I forget my cares and woes. I am happy enough to be in a warm, comfy bed. During the day time I struggle and moan and sweat and scheme  -- all that nonsense. At night I sleep.

Sometimes I have dreams. Last night I dreamed I was at an all-day hippie party at Beth Haley's house in LaConner. Why did I have this dream? I have no idea. Dreams make no sense to me at all, except that I have them and they are usually pleasant. I knew Beth Haley's late husband, Charlie Berg, and her son, Olav Berg. Beth herself grows flowers for a living. I would often see her delivering flowers around LaConner. I was at her house once, about twenty years ago. I  have never had a conversation with her. But this is typical of living 25 years in a very small town, and seeing someone delivering flowers day after day, and year after year -- such a person becomes imprinted in my subconscious -- and sure enough she showed up in my dream last night.

Most nights I sleep soundly until about five a.m. whether I dream or not. In that early hour I begin to -- not wake up, but I am lightly dozing and moving about under the covers. Thinking about stuff at this early hour is not a good idea, and I try not to let my brain start working, but if often does. I just tell myself that any conclusions I reach at five a.m. are null and void.

I get up at 6:15, later on weekends. The point is that on most nights I get almost seven hours of sound sleep, and maybe an hour or so of light sleeping. It makes me feel like God's special child. During the day I complain a lot because things are not going my way, but at night -- sweet dreams.

And this is what I ask when I hear someone has a toothache or a head ache or minor ailment. Did you sleep well? That is the boundary for me. If you sleep well, you will recover naturally from your ailment. but if you are robbed of sleep because of pain or worry, then you need to seek help, medical or otherwise.

A good night's sleep is the measure of tranquility in your life. No matter the daily strife and conflict, if you can sleep good in your own bed, then you are truly at home and at peace.

Politics. All this news from Missouri, from Ferguson and now from the University of Missouri. It makes me think of my Uncle Bob. He lived in St. Louis. We often visited him and Aunt Clare when we were growing up in Chicago. Dad grew up in St. Louis. Aunt Clare was his baby sister. She married Uncle Bob and they lived in a tidy house in outer St. Louis with their two children, Terry and Donna.

Uncle Bob did not have a favorable attitude toward black people. He explained that Missouri was in the northern part of the South and so had southern attitudes about race, which he supported. I took note of that as a growing child when we we stayed at his home.

Uncle Bob was a lineman for AT&T, a steady job. He supported a wife and two children, owned a home and sent his kids to college. Well done, I would say.

 And he drank Pepsi for breakfast. I though that was so radical. My mother let me have Coke once a week, and here it was Uncle Bob drinking all the soda he wanted, even at breakfast. It made me want to grow up -- because if you were a grown man you could drink Pepsi for breakfast, if you wanted to.

It gets so hot and humid in St. Louis in the summer time. When trouble broke out in Ferguson this summer, I knew the heat and humidity just made it worse. It would not have happened in the winter.

I don't know what Missouri is like these days. I last visited my cousin Terry in 2004. I highly doubt he thinks the same way as his Dad about race. But it was not something we ever discussed. Terry worked for the phone company too, but he kept being shifted from company to company, from AT&T to Lucent and to other permutations of telecommunications. The old days of llifetime employment with Ma Bell are over. Still Terry made a pretty good living and owned his home and also owned a forty-acre farm out in the country where he built a cabin for weekend retreats.

This story about Uncle Bob, and his son Terry, and the generation born to Terry -- it's all relevant to the events  in St. Louis. It gives you a context. St. Louis is a rich and highly diverse city -- poet T.S. Eliot was born there, jazz great Miles Davis was born there too.

Frog Hospital Subscription Drive.   Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going.

So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….

Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,

or

Send a check for $25 to

Fred Owens

1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105

 

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

The Mad Monk Meets Gary Snyder

By Fred Owens

Hugo, the Mad Monk, broke out of the Hare Krishna Temple in San Diego. "The food was too sweet, I'm allergic to incense, and that damn song was driving me crazy."

He threw away his sandals and everything he owned but his bedroll. "I'm through with religion. I make my own path now. I find my own way," he said, to the sky.

Then he looked down at his bare feet and his dirty toes. "Feet, take me further. Take me wherever you will."

Off he went to the north. We met him in Santa Cruz. We were staying in a cabin by the creek, under the redwoods. Someone gave us a box of Swisher Sweet cigars, so that's how we met the Mad Monk -- he smelled us out.

"Call me Hugo," he said. "Can I have one of those cigars? I'm dying for a smoke. Yes. Thank you. Hare Krishna. I'm going to Grass Valley to meet Gary Snyder. God told me to go there. I don't believe in God anymore, but I still get messages."

We were not ones to ask him why or to pass judgment. Many seekers passed our way in that summer, 1975.

Hugo is going to tell the rest of the story -- the complete version -- and he will send it to me some day.... but basically, he never met Gary Snyder. What happened is that he got as far as the park in the town of Grass Valley, where he reposed a while, having a smoke, and sitting on his bedroll.

"Minding my own business. I mean this is America, but the cop rousted me and I took issue. He said show me your ID. I said I'm Hugo the Mad Monk and I mean no harm to anyone. The cop said don't get smart, show me your driver's license. I said I don't drive. Okay, then show me your social security card. I don't have one, I don't work. And no library card either because I don't read. But you ask me who I am and I just told you. I'm Hugo, the Mad Monk and I mean no harm to anyone."

"Get in the car."

"Fine. No problem. You meet good people in jail."

The charge was Failure To Identify.

"I was in for seven days," he told me later. "The food was terrible, I never met Gary Snyder, but the fellows I met in the tank, they were all right. It was a blessing. Do you have any more of those cigars? I'm dying for a smoke. Thank you. Hare Krishna."

Forty Years Pass. I remember this story because Gary Snyder, the poet, is coming to Santa Barbara in two days and we bought tickets to hear him read. It's forty years since he wrote and published his poem and manifesto called Turtle Island.

Now Snyder is an old man. He's 85. I wonder how he is doing. I remember reading Turtle Island forty years ago. I took it all in. Nature! Pretty much how I was thinking, but Gary Snyder said it better.

Turtle Island was his re-imagined name for North America, as if the forested continent was sprouting on the back of a giant turtle, and the giant turtle was paddling slowly across the universal sea.

Well, put that in your pipe and smoke it. Plenty of people did. That was forty years ago.

Where are we now? And why would Gary Snyder know any more than those fellows in the Grass Valley jail?

I called Hugo and left a message. He lives in Florida now, so he can't come to the reading. He's still mad in that joyful way, so it doesn't really matter whether he comes or not.

Bear Paws. This is my drawing of a bear paw, copied from the Turtle Island book of poems. I know nothing about bears or whatever they do in the woods. Let me know if you can't see the photo. Sometimes the G-Mail photo option doesn't work.
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​

Rain. It's going to start raining today. This is really, finally, the end of summer heat and the beginning of winter rain. So many trees are dying, so many trees can barely make it one more day, but if it rains they might come back to life. We hope.

Shark. Peter Howorth, the marine biologist in Santa Barbara that I trust, explains the shark situation. We have a lot of sharks now, biting surfers and kayakers. He says it's not the warm water that brings them, and it's not the cold water, and it's not the presence or absence of seals for sharks to eat.

He says, and of course he could be wrong, that we have an abundance of sharks now because shark fishing was banned in 1994. It takes 10 to 15 years for a great white shark to mature enough to predate on people, and now we have a lot of sharks since fishing for them was banned.

Howorth, living a peaceful life, wishing to stay out of politics, does not draw the obvious conclusion -- we should resume shark fishing.

Politics.  You probably like the Mad Monk story better than hearing about Hillary Clinton or Marco Rubio. But we are all God's children. All beautiful souls, all marred and conflicted, the rich and the poor, the healthy and the sick, the peaceful and angry ones.

Ahhhg! You're right. I can't stand politics these days.

Gardening. I darn near got heat stroke on Saturday morning. It was too hot and I was working too hard. I was drinking water, but not enough, and it should have been ice water. And I was working too fast and lifting loads that were too heavy.

Why did this happen? Because it was such an ugly garden. Overgrown, trashy, neglected, dusty, weedy. If I worked furiously I could make it all beautiful again. WRONG. Always work slowly. Always love it how it is. You don't fix it, you're just there, and your first rule is Do No Harm, not to the garden or to yourself.

The slower you work, the more you get done. This is true. Because when you work slower, you make fewer mistakes and you don't break any bones, or smash any irrigation lines, or dig up the wrong plant. When you work slowly you do a better job.

But I forgot that on Saturday morning, and I worked myself into a lather.

Garden Update. Today is Tuesday, three days after the Saturday disaster.  The weather is much cooler. And I have a much better new customer to work for -- I spent four absorbing hours pruning 24 rose bushes. I did light pruning, then scooping out the old dead rose leaves around the base of the bush to expose the topsoil, then forking in a handful of organic rose food on each bush, then spraying all 24 bushes with a natural insecticide to ward off those pesky little green caterpillars, then giving each rose a bit of water. Well done -- I said to myself. This is the way it should be. Sustainable effort and ready to go again tomorrow.

Frog Hospital Subscription Drive.   Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going.

So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….

Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,

or

Send a check for $25 to

Fred Owens

1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105

 

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Santa Barbara

By Fred Owens

Everybody likes Santa Barbara. They come here to visit and they say, "We had such a good time. It's so beautiful."

You should come to Santa Barbara this winter. You can pick oranges and persimmons off the tree. And we have really good strawberries too.

Santa Barbara has plenty of problems too. Of course it does -- this is planet Earth after all --- but it's so nice in Santa Barbara that I can't work up the energy to complain. When I lived in LaConner all I did was complain. Go around town and complain. Nothing was ever like I wished it to be. Then finally, after way too many years, I came down here for the sunshine and the waves and the beaches and the mild winters and there's nothing to complain about.

Houston, Texas.  Let me see if this makes sense to you. The first time I went to Texas was in 1967. We were hitchhiking through and we stayed over with friends at Rice University in Houston.

Just by coincidence, these same friends had invited Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters to come for the weekend. Kesey and his pals were on some cross-country journey to anywhere and back again. I mean, you didn't ask dumb question like "Where ya going next?"

Kesey invited us on the bus and we rode around town for a few hours and then they went on their merry way.

Now, here's the point -- Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters were the first people I met when I got to Texas. That was my first impression. Cool people. Nice place. So I Iiked it there.

It is true -- all the bad stuff you ever heard about Texas, completely true. But I never had any truck with those idiots so I always enjoyed myself when I was down there. I am on the track of Lyle Lovett,Willie Nelson and Armadillo World Headquarters.

However, I will not even attempt to persuade other people to change their opinion about the Lone Star State -- hate it, by all means, never go there, whatever. It's a free country.

Chicago. I grew up in Chicago, on the North Shore, near the lake. That's Cubs country. Being a young boy growing up I watched the Cubs lose year after year after year. It was a blot on my youth. Last place. Every year, last place. Losers. Nice guys, but losers. I hate the Cubs. That's why I live in California. The Dodgers are winners. I saw the Dodgers on TV in 1955 when I was nine. They beat the Yankees in seven games. I saw Johnny Podres pitch to Roy Campanella. I saw Sandy Amoros make that catch.

I was nine. I didn't want to be a loser like the Cubs. Sure, you're supposed to play fair and make your best effort and all that, but every once in a while it just feels good to win. Coach, can't we ever win? I didn't like Chicago after that. I liked the Dodgers better -- sometimes they win.I'll never go back to Chicago.

Serve the People. My friend Brian Cladoosby is chairman of the Swinomish tribal community  -- that's the reservation next to LaConner where I used to live.

I know Brian and his home and his family and his neighbors. He's doing all right. I call him The Chair. We have talked a few times in his office. He lives next door to my good friends Pat and Kevin Paul.

The news is that Brian got re-elected as President of the National Congress of America Indians.

Way to go, Brian. Cool hat! Serve the people!

I only Work for Nice People. My Craigs list ad wasn't working. It said, "Experienced gardener, expert pruner, all around energetic worker, local references, reasonable rates, etc...." But my Craigs list ad wasn't getting me any new customers. My ad was no different than a hundred other guys. So I changed the headline to, "I only Work for Nice People."  It works. Now people call me and ask me to come work for them.

But it's true. I only work for nice people.

Frog Hospital Subscription Drive.   Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going.

So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….

Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,

or

Send a check for $25 to

Fred Owens

1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105

 

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Being a Gentleman

By Fred Owens

Being a Gentleman

I heard the sound of Bernie Sanders giving the campaign away to Hillary Clinton at this week's debate. He said, "We're tired of hearing about your damn e-mails." You might as well switch off the TV at that point -- all softball questions for Hillary after that.

Hillary gets the nomination, there's no point in discussing it. The election itself is not certain. The Republicans are wild with energy. That's surprising. Republicans are not supposed to be surprising.They are are heading into unknown territory with their non-professional leadership. As a writer I appreciate Ben Carson breaking taboos and saying things that I might be too careful to say  -- he makes casual references to historic disasters. You're not supposed to do that. The rules are very clear. The Holocaust is an exclusive Jewish franchise. Slavery is for African-Americans. Sexual assault is for woman. Genocide for Native Americans and so forth. Each group has its franchise.

Carson, being black, is entitled to speak about slavery, but not the Holocaust.

I guess, he doesn't know any better.

I wish the Democrats had a non-professional in the race -- a rank amateur of some good social standing. I'm a Democrat. I always vote Democratic for President, except in 1996 when I voted for Bob Dole.

I voted for Bob Dole in 1996 because ..... that's a long story, you wouldn't be interested.

I voted for Al Gore in 2000. He could have won, if Nader stayed home. He could have won if the Clintons had helped him.

My political history is not interesting. We get to 2016 and I will vote for Hillary Clinton. She owns the Democrats. There's no choice. You can feel my lack of enthusiasm.

But here's story you might like. In 1988, Jesse Jackson was running strong for President on the Rainbow Coalition ticket. He was surging for the Democratic nomination. Me and lots of other folks in Skagit County were strong for Jesse.

We went to the county convention that summer, hundreds of Democrats sitting in folding chairs, and Debbie Aldrich gives us all a lecture. I remember it clearly and I will paraphrase her words. "Jesse Jackson is a great leader and we all love him, but he can't win the election in November. We need to back a stronger and more central candidate, we need to support Michael Dukakis because he can win."

Sheepishly we took off our rainbow clothes and we all supported Dukakis, who lost and is now forgotten.

We should have stuck with Jesse Jackson. Jesse would have lost, no doubt, but it would have been way too much fun.

So know we have Hillary, because she can win.

Nobody cares about 1988. How about 1956 when Adlai Stevenson got the nomination and threw the vice-presidential choice out to the convention. Jack Kennedy fought for the VP slot but he lost to Tennessee Senator Estes Kefauver. You remember that?

I do. I was ten, and we were coming back from California on a family vacation riding in a soft-green 1956 Buick, with Dad driving and Mom swatting kids, and all the windows rolled down, going 70 mph on Highway 66 back to Chicago.

We had the VP nomination battle on the radio that summer's day and it was very exciting. That was my first political memory.

Adlai Stevenson -- I wish he was here today.

Lots of Weather in California

We could get flash floods, brush fires  and an earthquake all on a Friday afternoon. That would be the California trifecta. I keep extra water and snack foods in my car, plus an interesting novel, a change of clothes, a blanket, some duct tape and wire, and a few tools such as an axe, a crowbar and a shovel -- plus a small tarp.

The thing is -- and let's be cheerful about this -- you could get stuck somewhere in your car and all of a sudden it's your home for the rest of the day. Be prepared.

Same with your home. Keep supplies handy, bottled water and candles, etc. I make sure we have plenty of coffee and the means to cook it. The rest I can fake.

Our uphill neighbor has been shoring up his terraces with extra pilings, as if he had a premonition of stormy weather. He wants to prevent his property from sliding downhill into our property. I hope that works.  We are going to make similar adjustments, hoping to steer possible rushing waters away from habitable sheds and stuff like that.

But the key to survival in California is to have no concern for the future. Smile every day. Laugh. Go to the beach and watch the pelicans. Eat lots of avocados. We're not going to change who we are, but just get better at it.

The Edison Eye. If you ever get to the Skagit Valley visit the Edison Eye, a wonderful art gallery in the small village of Edison.

The Eye was founded by my good friend Dana Rust. He died in 2013 and I miss him.

I had a dream about him. In the dream we visited the gallery and his wife Tony Ann Rust was there to greet us, and she looked great, all smiles and freckles and red hair, and the gallery all sparkled with freshly polished wood work.

But Dana was gone, in the dream. And when I woke up I felt sad. My good friend Dana Rust is gone.

I called Tony Ann the next day and told her about the dream and we had a good conversation catching up with old times. She used to be the teacher at Head Start on the Swinomish Reservation. That was thirty years ago when my two kids were pre-schoolers.

Tony Ann is doing fine. The Edison Eye gallery is under new management and doing fine and Dana has gone fishing in heaven.

Frog Hospital Subscription Drive.   Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going.

So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….

Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,

or

Send a check for $25 to

Fred Owens

1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105

 

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital

Syrian Refugees Begging for Relief and a Warm-up for Columbus Day

By Fred Owens

Syrian refugees begging for relief. Leaving aside all the pain and suffering, death and injury, abandonment and destruction -- leaving that all aside, think of the sheer embarrassment of knowing, and admitting to your self, and describing in detail to total strangers, that your country is falling apart.

Imagine for a moment that the Syrian people love their country as much as we love ours. And they would boast of its good fruits, its beautiful vistas and its ancient heritage. They would have such a natural pride in the good things and they would invite to us to come and share it.

All that is lost now. Now they have only the embarrassment of confessing that Syria is a shambles and they must beg for shelter and safety in other countries.

But it could be worse.

Vladimir Putin wants to help. Imagine that you have a very big problem -- a mortal illness, an unpayable debt, a famine, an epidemic. Imagine some total disaster that brings you and your family to the brink of death.

Then imagine that Vladimir Putin has come to help you. "You can trust me," he says, "I only want to help."

Putin has come to Syria to help the people. God save them.

Bernie Sanders. He's too old. As Senator or Governor I'll take the chance on his continued vigor, but as President I want somebody in the prime of late middle age, 55 to 60.

I won't vote for Bernie Sanders because he's a socialist. Socialists are not bad people, but they like to form committees and have long meetings and produce volumes of new rules and policies and procedures. I have no patience for that.

Hillary Clinton. She squats in the middle of the road like a 300-pound toad. She gets my vote and I expect her to win. I want to vote for the winner -- terribly shallow of me but true. She's the safest bet. She occupies the most central position and that's where you win elections in this country.

But could she please send her husband on a long-trip to Bulgaria? I'm really tired of that clown. He had his eight years.

The President's Spouse.  The spouse of the President should occupy an utterly non-political position, to be an esteemed architect or a research scientist  -- some field of great endeavor, but not political. I only vote for one person when I vote. We can praise Eleanor Roosevelt, but we should not repeat that pattern.

Monarch Butterflies. Migrating Monarch Butterflies have been spotted in Santa Barbara. The advance guard is flitting about here and there, in twos and threes. Might there be thousands or tens of thousands coming soon? They will roost in eucalyptus groves near the marine breezes for their winter's sleep.

We trekked out to Elwood Mesa this morning for our first butterfly jaunt. None were spotted in the trees, but they are coming in a few weeks, and the only question is how many.

Hail Columbia. Frog Hospital celebrates Columbus Day with great enthusiasm. On October 12, 1492, the whole world changed and for the better.

Samuel Eliot Morrison wrote the best book on the subject.....https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Samuel_Eliot_Morison

Admiral of the Ocean Sea

The Columbus Day Parade was the great celebration of Italian-American immigrants who were, and maybe still are, quite proud of him for being originally from the Italian city of Genoa..

Many places are named after Columbus -- the Columbia River, Columbia University, the city of Columbus in Ohio, the province of British Columbia in Canada and the nation of Columbia in South America.
We might consider Columbus to be the first immigrant and rename the holiday Immigrants Day, in celebration of all the people who dared to cross the great water to find a new home.
In 1491 there were no Jews in America, no Hindus in America, no Moslems in America, no Buddhists in America, and no Christians in America, but now we are all here and that is a good thing. In 1491 there were no Africans in America, there were no Chinese in America, and there were no Italians in America, but now we are all here and that is a good thing.
It was a good thing for all the peoples of the earth to discover each other..... Prior to Columbus we were in a state of mutual ignorance. It matters little what Columbus did when he got here, what matters is that he found the way, and kept good records, and made it possible for others to make the same crossing.

We celebrate Christopher Columbus for his voyage across unknown waters. He found the way over, and he found his way back. He showed the way and millions followed.

Some people dream of a pre-Columbian purity in a realm of utter paradise, but I don't yearn for the past. I look to the future. I am inspired by explorers and discoverers and wanderers. I am descended from people who were not content to pass the time sitting under the old chestnut tree, but my ancestors looked away yonder and wondered, "What lies over that hill?"

Hail Columbia!

Frog Hospital Subscription Drive.   Your contribution of $25 is greatly appreciated. The Frog Hospital newsletter has been cruising down the Internet for 16 years now. I have tried to kill this newsletter several times – tried to stomp it out like the ember from an old campfire, or dig it up like a pestiferous weed, but it won’t die – Frog Hospital just keeps on going.

So please send a check. Your contribution keeps me from getting cranky. It helps me to maintain a detached attitude. Let’s keep it going….

Go to the Frog Hospital blog and hit the PayPal button for $25,

or

Send a check for $25 to

Fred Owens

1105 Veronica Springs RD
Santa Barbara, CA 93105

Thank you very much,

--

Fred Owens
cell: 360-739-0214

My gardening blog is  Fred Owens

My writing blog is Frog Hospital