My Life in Kenya and the Rest of the Universe

Short Book Review: Money and the Meaning of LIfe

2012-01-10T11:35:00.000-05:00

I am currently reading Jacob Needleman's book, Money and the Meaning of Life, published in paperback by Doubleday, 1991.

Mr. Needleman explores, from a personal point of view, the relationship between money, the inner self, and the outer world.

One of his points seems to be that, while money is an important, and sometimes dangerous, factor in our existence, it is also sometimes misunderstood and assigned either too much power, or the wrong role in lives.

Money, in Mr. Needleman's view, is actually an outgrowth of the need for man to create a better, more connected community but, in the modern world, often leads one astray.

A good read, though a little turgid at times.

I do recommend "Money and the Meaning of Life" by Jacob Needleman.

I also recommend the following for those interested in this area:

Magic, Myth, And Money: The Origin Of Money In Religious Ritual

I See Dead People....Too

2011-11-27T10:32:00.000-05:00

Years ago, I taught people to drive big trucks. In most cases, there was a certain amount of fear involved...which I thought was a good thing.

In fact, during orientation, I would talk to my students about what we were about to do over the next few days, and then ask, "Anybody nervous?"

Every once in a while, I would get somebody who said, "No! Not me."

I usually stood up at that point and offered to get them another instructor.

It was a dangerous thing we did, and I wanted people who respected that.

As instructors, we got safety reports from the company and tended to keep our eyes and ears open for safety matters.

One point was interesting to me.

New drivers had the most accidents, but "experienced" drivers tended to have the worst accidents.

You see, new drivers were scared of everything that might happen. They were worried about doing the wrong thing. What they were often intensely worried about was hurting someone...not themselves, but somebody else.

Experienced drivers tended to throw the rulebook out the window and drive based on the idea that they knew everything they needed to do. That's one of the reasons they had high speed, expensive, accidents with lots of death and destruction.

I had one student who was doing well until the day we hooked up a trailer and started pulling it around Dallas. His ability to handle the truck became worse and worse.

Finally, I had a talk with him.

Know what he said?

"Don. I see dead people."

That's a quote, by the way,

This was after the move "Sixth Sense" with Bruce Willis, had come out, so, at first, I thought he was just using that line from the movie to make a point.

After a minute, however, I began to realize that this guy probably had never even heard of the movie.

He was simply stating what was weighing on his mind.

He was scared to death that he would be the cause of someone else's death or injury.

I see dead people too. I have seen bodies covered with a blue tarp on the side of the road. I have attended funerals for people who made the wrong decision.

It makes me think.

That's often why I do the things I do...right or wrong, by the way...the dead people I have seen.

That's also often why, after the first rush of anger at someone else's thoughtless or dangerous behavior, I remind myself, that they have not seen what I have seen. They have not had the opportunity to learn what I have learned.

I hope that I'm too "experienced" with life to have most of the small accidents that newcomers to the game tend to have. I also hope that I have experienced enough life to avoid the bad ones...if I just stay "scared" enough.

I've seen enough dead people.

Finally Retiring...the Hard Way

2011-11-14T08:00:00.000-05:00

Gave my notice the other day. I've only been working a couple of days a week anyway. However, my wife and I sat down and looked at everything that's happened and where we were financially and figured out that we could do it.

Actually, I will miss "going to work"...and the money, little as it was, of course. However, I hurt too much and have to take a fairly strong pain pill sometimes to get through a shift. Also, since my wife went into cardiac arrest recently and got a defibrillator implanted, she cannot drive and is afraid to be alone.

Can't blame her.

She is disabled and has always had a fair number of medical appointments, but there will be a few more for a while. And, with me being diagnosed with prostate cancer recently, I now have medical issues of my own, including my old friends arthritis, high blood pressure, and atrial fibrillation.

Time to stop and smell the roses, even if somebody else has to plant them for us.

Money will be tight, and my ADD/ADHD style of money management won't make it any looser, but we should be able to hold out.

Wish us luck!

Ygnition Cable Sucks. Yes, It Is That Bad!

2011-10-12T08:08:00.000-04:00

We moved into our current apartment at Westdale Hills in Hurst, Texas. last December. The only cable provider here is Ygnition. At first, we had the basic cable package, and were not overly impressed. Service was too spotty, but, it was all that was available. After a few months, we upgraded to a premium package. Since then, we have had extended outages almost every week. We now know the two local Ygnition technicians (who are very nice, by the way) by their first names and even have one of their personal phone numbers on our cell phone. We see them at least once a week, and each visit generally means one of us is tied to the apartment for the day. After several weeks of this, and complaints to the apartment management as well, we have decided to cancel Ygnition and just get the local channels. We are also considering moving from Westdale Hills when our lease is up, as they don't really seem to care about their tenants.

I have a friend, by the way, who told me that he was ready to move from his last apartment because THEY only had Ygnition and he was fed up. Shortly before his lease ran out, they changed cable service and he stayed there.

Ygnition cable service is really, really bad.

Me and the Snake Eaters - I Report for Duty

2011-09-20T18:08:00.000-04:00

Okay, there I was at the Fort Stewart NCO Academy at TAC-X training area. It was my first day on the job, and, as was common in the army, we were going to do PT.

I had been told that all the other cadre had been hand-picked by the Post Commander General Vaught, and the commandant, First Sergeant (P for Promotable) Julius W. Gates. I had also been told that, except for the cooks, the cadre was made up completely of people recruited from the Ranger Battalion in Savannah.

I was the member of the cadre who was NOT a Ranger. I was warned that expectations would be high as General Vaught had a personal interest in the 24th Infantry Division/Fort Stewart NCO Academy.

Rangers! Snake eaters!

Okay, they were tough and had one hell of a rep, but so what?

We were going to be running a school to train everybody....combat arms to typists. Why worry about how Rangers did things? I was an accountant/administrative specialist and was in pretty good shape. I could run a couple of miles and had no real problem with PT.

Not that this assignment was going to be a piece a cake, but I should do okay. Heck! With my background, education, training, and experience, I should turn out to be a pretty valuable part of the team.

Okay, let's get this PT session over with and get to work!

I am not sure that even the best explanation of the facts of life could have prepared me for what happened over the next hour, but I am almost glad that my day started in ignorance.

You see, this particular morning was what was known as "Commandant's PT". PHysical training was going to be led by 1SG(P) Gates...who was a Ranger...did I mention hand-picked by the General?

Maybe there was a reason he was selected....such as being one tough son-of-a-bitch.

"Commandant's PT" was another term for "Hell".

I Think I Saw My Father's Gun Last Night...

2011-08-09T19:20:00.000-04:00

When I was a boy, my father had a Smith & Wesson Model 2, Top Break revolver which had belonged to a relative of his who had been a policeman in Atlanta.
After he died in August 1981, my mother gave it to me, along with several other guns he had bought and a couple of his rings, including his Knights of Columbus ring.

When I was about 10 years old, I dropped the revolver and broke off part of the hammer spur.

In the 1980's, while stationed at Fort Hood, Texas, a family member needed some medical attention, and not all costs were covered by the military system. I did not have a lot of money at the time, so I pawned almost everything I had of any value to try to take care of them.

I figured I would never see any of the stuff again, but, the other night, while searching onine, I found a Smith & Wesson Model 2 with a broken hammer spur which had been auctioned in 2006. I have no way of knowing if that gun was my father's, and no way of knowing who bought it. All I can do is keep looking and hope it comes up for sale again.

The Rumba Bar, Munich - Annie the Prostitute Has a Lonely Birthday

2011-08-08T19:42:00.000-04:00

When I first hit Europe in 1967, I was exploring a new world in more ways than one. One thing I learned was that sexual mores were a bit different in Europe. To a young man of my age, this was a good thing.

I was also learning how great German beer can be, and I set about trying it in as many forms and venues as possible.

Being stationed only about 35 miles south of Munich, it was not unusual for me to wind up there with others who were interested in the seamier side of life.

That's how I came to be a welcome regular at the Rumba Bar on Goethe Strasse, just around the corner from the Munich train station.

Now, I was still a kid from the sticks and the first night there, being surrounded by prostitutes who were trying to convince me I was the hottest guy they had ever seen was a heady experience. However, at the moment I just wanted to drink beer and figure out how the game was played.

First of all, the girls were all a bit surprised at how politely and respectfully I treated them. Then, I noticed that one of the girls at the bar was crying.

I asked why she was crying. One of the other girls told me her name was Rosie and she was crying because it was her birthday and she was having to spend it trying to pick up guys in a bar. On an impulse, I told the girls I was talking to that I would be right back.

There had been a flower seller at the train station which was a little over a block away. I walked down there and bought a small but pretty bouquet of flowers. I then marched back into the bar, walked up to Rosie, handed her the flowers, and wished her a happy birthday.

The look of surprise on her face, followed by the realization that somebody really wanted her to feel special on her birthday, no matter who she was or what she was doing, was priceless. Immediately, she put her arms around me and kissed me, and most of the other girls followed.

The "party" didn't last long, however, as the owner, Eddie, who used to be a jockey, and, I later learned, carried a knife...and was good with it, made it plain that the girls needed to "get back to work".

However, from that time forward, I was always welcome in the Rumba Bar, and even Eddie eventually let me know that he respected me for the way I had treated Rosie and always treated his girls.

I went back to the Rumba Bar many times in the three years I spent in Germany, and was always welcomed, and treated, just a little bit differently than the other customers. It was a dive and the people there might have been from a different strata of society than I was accustomed to, but I was always welcome and treated like a friend (a paying one) when I was there.

Pierre Terrail LeVieux, seigneur de Bayard

2011-01-25T11:25:00.004-05:00

by Donovan Baldwin
http://nodiet4me.com

"Le chevalier sans peur et sans reproche."

He was a knight of France in the 15th and 16th centuries. The Chevalier de Bayard was also considered to be the epitome of chivalry and was held up as an ideal for knights of the time, and for many others since.

He was so esteemed by the people of his time that the french phrase quoted at the beginning of this article, translated as "the knight without fear and above reproach", was used to describe him. For himself, Pierre Terrail LeVieux preferred the simple appelation, "le bon chevalier"..."the good knight."

A warrior respected and looked up to by other warriors of his time, both comrades and opponents, he was also known for his wit, intelligence, and kindness. On one occasion, when wounded, he placed a homeowner and his family under his protection as he recovered from his wounds in their house. One of the most skilled commanders of the age, he won battles not only by his own skills as a warrior and commander, but by the fruits of an espionage organization he fostered.

His personal valor came never in question. In one famous battle, he, with twelve other French knights, won in battle against an equal number of Spanish knights. Another tale has him single-handedly holding a bridge against 200 Spaniards.

So respected was he, not only his by countrymen, but by foes as well, he was twice released after being captured simply out of respect for his valor and his reputation. One time, he was asked to give his word to refrain from returning to the battle for at least six weeks...which he did.

In an era when mercenaries were the rage, and it was not the least bit uncommon to change one's loyalty at the drop of a plume in order to pursue one's own goals, the Chevalier de Bayard remained loyal to his country and his king until his death in 1524. Even as he was dying, he reproached an old comrade-in-arms, Charles, duc de Bourbon, for fighting on the other side.

The other day, my wife mentioned to me that so many of us live lives sheltered from the realities of existence that we lose the connection we once had with life itself. Once we had to feed ourselves, protect ourselves, and choose life-or-death roles that we would play out in society. We made decisions knowing that we would have to live with the fruits of those decisions, unable to quickly and easily change plans. There was a time when the common options of life exposed us to the opportunities for fame and/or fortune or for death...or worse.

These days we worry about which video to rent, watching horror movies to get our kicks. Most of us fret about losing our hair or our figures more than losing our lives, while holding firmly to beliefs and positions which profit us rather than the world in which we live.

In his times when death, disease, or dismemberment was a reality of daily life, the Chevalier de Bayard remained faithful to his faith, his country, his king, and his honor. He was known then, and still remains, "le chevalier sans peur et sans reproche".

I wonder what will be said about you and me when we are gone.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Donovan Baldwin is a 65-year-young amteur bodybuilder and freelance writer currently living in Stone Mountain, Georgia. He is retired from the U. S. Army after 21 years of service and is a University of West Florida alumnus (BA Accounting 1973). He writes frequently on health and fitness and occasionally on other subjects as well, as witness this article. He has a blog titled Fitness After 40 at http://fitness-after-40.blogspot.com.
Originally published on SearchWarp.com for Donovan Baldwin Sunday, January 03, 2010
Article Source: Pierre Terrail LeVieux, seigneur de Bayard

2010-12-13T23:20:00.002-05:00

by Donovan Baldwin
http://nodiet4me.com

I am 65 now, and, on Sundays, I take my 92-year-old mother, who no longer drives, to church. Normally, I dress well, as one should when going to church with his mother, no matter what his age, but today I have chores elsewhere afterwards and will not have an opportunity to change, so I made some concessions.

One concession was the shoes.

The ones I was going to wear this morning looked a little bad. They were supposed to be black, but had acquired a patina of age and disuse, plus a smattering of some unidentified white liquid from some previous task.

So, I got out the little shoeshine kit.

That was the first memory.

The first thing I saw was my father's "black" shoe brush. He died back in '81, but I still have all his shoeshine stuff. I knew it was his "black" brush because the label said so!

It was probablhy sometime back in the early 60's when my mom gave my dad the Dymo LableMaker for Christmas. He proceeded to go around the house labeling things. Until my mother moved out of the house in 1983 after his death two years earlier, one kitchen cabinet still had a label which told the world, with a proud red, though fading, label, that it was, indeed, a "KITCHEN CABINET".

Not all his labeling was done as a joke, however. Two things I still have are his two shoe brushes labeled "BLACK" and "BROWN" so he wouldn't accidently pick up the wrong one and ruin his shine.

However, that wasn't the extent of my memories. As I thought of the home where I grew up at the corner of Cary's Lane and Bayshore Drive in Warrington, Florida, and my normally staid and stolid father's sometimes whimsical humor, I smelled the shoe polish itself.

The smell, the spreading of the polish, and the buffing of the shoes triggered a kaleidescope of memories of an unknown number of shoes and boots shined during my 21 years in the military. Attached to those memories were places I have been, sights I have seen, and people I have known over the last 44 years.

In seconds, I traveled to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, to Monterey, California, to San Angelo, Texas, and from there to Bad Aibling, Germany. I crossed the ocean four times, went back to California and Germany again, and eventually returned home.

I saw the faces and heard the voices of Kevin, Bill, Frank, Olga, Wanda, Danka, Alex and a myriad of others whose paths had crossed mine on the way to wherever they are now. I remembered snow and sunshine, orchards and deserts, oceans, lakes, rivers, streams, and roads...lots of roads.

So much had happened in my life.

It only took a few minutes, and the memories began to fade as I finished shining my shoes and sealed polish, brush, and dauber back in the plastic case and put it back in the closet.

It had been a pleasant trip, a sad trip, and more interesting than anything I have seen on TV for years.

Later, when I took my mother to Mass, I thought of all the Masses I had attended and served as an Altar Boy at St. Thomas More in Warrington..and the funerals.

Time to change the channel, I guess, but who needs TV if you have shoe polish and some memories?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Donovan Baldwin is a freelance writer currently living with his wife, dog, and memories near Dallas, Texas. He is a University of West Florida alumnus (BA Accounting 1973), and is retired from the military after 21 years of service. He has been an accountant for the Florida State Department of Education, a Fiscal Consultant, a Business Manager, and has held various other positions, including being a trainer for a major national company. He offers a line of do it yourself legal software which can be seen at http://legalhelp.xtramoney4me.net.

Originally published on SearchWarp.com for Donovan Baldwin Sunday, July 04, 2010
Article Source: A Simple Act Breeds a Sea of Memories

Decisions

2010-12-07T20:52:00.002-05:00

The "bad" thing about most decisions is that we will often not know if they were a "good" decision or not until some time after the effects of the decision have been fully felt.

In fact, we may never reach the end of those effects.

While not every decision is earth-shattering, some can have a lifetime of repercussions, and taking the time to determine what we truly desire to achieve can be of paramount importance.

For example, if you had asked me back in the 60's, 70's, 80's, and even the 90's what I wanted out of life, somewhere in there would have been "a lot of money".

However, when I finally got around to examing my true desires, wants, and needs, I discovered, that I didn't really want the money. What I wanted was what I perceived money to be capable of getting for me.

I wanted the freedom to live my days as I wished. I wanted the liberty to do what I wanted to do, and not have to go to some job which held little interest for me and function as told by someone who I had little or no respect for, but whom I had to please in order to get the few things I could get with whatever was earned by my subservience.

As an accountant, I was trained to view profit and/or loss as a factor of revenue and expense. If you wanted to increase profit, for example, you could either increase revenue or decrease expense.

For some reason, that lesson took a while to be understood as it related to happiness, freedom, and the joy of living.

Many people, as I once did, take the attitude that you need to get more in order to be happy, successful, or "rich".

However, if being happy, successful, or rich is examined deeply, you begin to realize that these things do not depend on a quantified amount of how much of something that you have. They depend on having enough of what you need to get what you want.

This is where decisions can come in.

If you decide that you must "have it all", or as much of "it" as possible, you run a good chance of being disappointed and living a lifetime of regret for the decisions you have made which have not delivered your heart's desire.

However, if you realize that you can be happy, successful, or rich with less because you use whatever you have more wisely and make decisions which allow you to live in a manner of your own choosing, you will enjoy life much more fully and fulfillingly than the richest millionaire who depends on the amount of money available to him to provide cheap imitations of the rich reality you truly possess.
================
Making decisions

The Walls of Life

2010-12-06T22:27:00.002-05:00

Anytime you start to place philosophical boundaries on something, you become a target.

In this article, for example, I going to discuss what I call the three walls of life. It is within these walls that we live our lives, and the very existence of these walls influence our decisions.

Some people will say that they see four, five, six, or twenty-five walls. some will say that they see only two. Some will say that while maybe there are three, they believe that I have named them wrongly and should have called them....

Well, maybe they will be right, or maybe they will simply be seeing things a little differently than I do.

As my friend, Al, use to say, "It's all good!"

At least in this case.

After all, it is just a discussion, and I am just presenting my viewpoint. I hope I am right. I like to think I am right.

I have been wrong before, however, and will be again. Maybe this is one of those times!

Anyway, as I see, there are these three things which have been erected around us and which influence our decisions and progressions...and regressions.

Either we turn away, try to climb them, attempt to push them away, gather them to our bosom, or carom off them. The surround us and by their existence define ours.

They are:

1. Who we are
2. What we have to work with
3. Mortality

We are man or we are woman. We are old, or we are young. We are brave, or we are cowards. We are educated, or we are ignorant. We are believers or we are infidels. There are many such factors which help decide who we are.

One word often used to describe at least part of this is "paradigm".

A paradigm could be defined as our view of the world.

The first time I heard of the word, "paradigm", the speaker told the following joke to illustrate its definition.

One Autumn day, a cab driver from the city, tired of all the furor and uproar of his daily existence, decided, on his day off, to take a ride in the country.

As he was enjoying his peaceful jaunt on the back roads amid the woods full of trees with leaves of red and gold, he approached a curve.

Suddenly, a car came around the curve apparently out of control and headed for his car. At the last moment, the other driver regained control and passed by, barely missing the cab driver's vehicle. As she passed, the female driver stuck her hand out the window and yelled, "Pig!"

The cab driver, trained by hours in city traffic, immediately stuck his hand out his window and, giving the universal gesture which means "you are number one" yelled back, "Cow!"

With that resolved, and his peaceful day in tatters, the cab driver rounded the curve and ran into a 600 lb. pig.

The cab driver was a man who assumed, based on his knowledge of life. the manner in which he lived, and his own experiences, that someone narrowly missing him and yelling, "Pig!", could only be a total idiot who needed to be put in his or her place. The cabbie had no paradigm which allowed him, a city feller and a stranger in the country, to imagine that he was actually being warned of imminent danger by someone who cared about his safety.

I often hear people say, "It is what it is." He was who he was, and that established a boundary.

Sometimes, in spite of being a certain person with a certain point of view, training, education, mental ability, or some other attribute allows us to modify or even transcend the basic "who" we find ourselves to be. Sometimes, the skill is actually physical, as in the case of an athlete whose life would be bounded by ignorance, or some other limiting factor, but who is able to escape because of something that genetics, hard work, or plain luck, has placed at their disposal.

It works the other way as well. Perhaps the person has the seeds of greatness in some field of endeavor but they are never allowed to come to fruition because some skill, art, or aptitude leads the person along another path.

However, sometimes, greatness intervenes and attribute combines with ability to create something wonderful and fine which gives the human race a luster it often fails to achieve.

Unfortunately, who the person is and what they have to work with, no matter how they lie in relation to each other, will eventually touch mortality. That cold side of the triumvirate which molds the destiny of mankind will cause the good, the bad, the indifferent to suffer the same fate...cessation of existence.

Unless, something within the triangle is passed on to another.

That is the one way to escape and evade the walls of life which bind and confine us. Sometimes it happens by chance. In that case, we, or a portion of who we are, becomes a building block of the future. Sometimes, we choose to pass on something within the walls of that triangle. Sometimes we choose to pass on something great and good, sometimes small yet fine.

What would you choose?

I guess it depends on who you are, what you have to work with, and when mortality ends the game.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Donovan Baldwin is a 65-year-old accountant, amateur bodybuilder, freelance writer, certified optician, and Internet marketer currently living in the Atlanta, Gerogia area. A University Of West Florida alumnus (1973) with a BA in accounting, he has been a member of Mensa and has been a Program Accountant for the Florida State Department of Education, the Business Manager of a community mental health center, and a multi-county Fiscal Consultant for an educational field office. He has also been a trainer for a major international corporation, and has managed various small businesses, including his own. After retiring from the U. S. Army in 1995, with 21 years of service, he became interested in Internet marketing and developed various online businesses. He has been writing poetry, articles, and essays for over 40 years, and now frequently publishes original articles on his own websites and for use by other webmasters. He has posted a series of articles on The Law of Attraction , and other self-improvement issues at xtramoney4me.net/internetmarketing/reviews
/law_of_attraction_articles.

Accepting Criticism

2010-11-23T20:34:00.003-05:00

By Michael Angier

There's an old adage that goes like this: to avoid criticism, say nothing, do nothing, be nothing. If you want to get ahead in the world, you'll have to do all three. So you should expect to be criticized.

The key is to discern what is helpful criticism (most isn't) and what you need to shrug off.

The ability to be unflappable in the face of criticism requires a healthy self esteem, self confidence and a tough outer shell. I call it having a thick skin and a soft heart. The trick is to never mix up the two.

If you're never being criticized, judged or disparaged in any way, you're likely not doing all that much and you probably need to move up a few notches on the "Go-for-it-Scale'.

All criticism should be listened to, but not all of it is valid.

A friend of mine used to say, "If one person calls you a horse, well that's just an opinion. If two people call you a horse, you may want to stop and think about it. If three people call you a horse, you may want to start shopping for a saddle."

Action Point: If you trust the source-or you're getting the same criticism from several people-consider the validity and take corrective action when it's warranted. If it's not, thank the person for sharing, and forget about it.

Recognize that everyone has their opinion and that you don't always have to defend yours. "Let the dogs bark; the caravan moves on."

Michael Angier, founder of SuccessNet.org, recently released the New SuccessNet Resource Book--the Top Must-Have Tools, Products, Services and Resources for Running Your Business Effectively

This $27 eBook can be yours now at no-cost. And most of the over 100 resources are FREE to access and use.

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Article Source: Accepting Criticism
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Accepting Criticism and the Law of Attraction

The Big Red Dog that Owned Me

2010-11-14T12:03:00.004-05:00

In the mid 1950's, the diocese of Mobile deicded that a new parish was needed in the Warrington, Florida area. It would be located between Barrancas Avenue and Bayshore Drive, just a few blocks west of the old Bayou Chico bridge, which no longer exists.

A small, snuff-taking priest named Father Jules Keating was assigned to the new parish, St. Thomas More, and took up residence in the new rectory. Until its restoration and revival as a rectory, the dilapidated old home had been the neighborhood "haunted house". It took a brave soul to enter within its walls, and we normally contented ourselves with chucking rocks through the few shards of glass which hung stubbornly in the windows.

Outside the back door was a pile of sheetrock which someone had gutted out of the building, and on this pile grew some of the biggest, juiciest blackberries ever shared by man, boy, and bird.

Father Keating had one worldly possession of which he was inordinately fond...a pedigree Irish Setter bitch named Helen, I believe. Shortly after arrival, she gave birth to a litter of little red fur balls. Two died and were given appropriate burials with all rites due the adopted offspring of a Catholic priest of the Irish persuasion.

Father Keating once asked my mother if she wanted one of the puppies, to which she replied in an emphatically negative manner.

"That's funny," he said, "Both your husband and your son told me that your family wanted one!"

In accordance with my mother's wishes, all the puppies were allotted to other members of the parish, much to my chagrin. However, a few months later, Lt. Commander Ken Lake, one of the recipients, got orders transferring him to Norfolk, VA. He had a chance to take a look at the quarters he and his family would be occupying and determined that he w0uld have to find a home for the puppy he had gotten from Father Keating.

The "puppy" was now several months old and was a big, gangly, happy-go-lucky full blooded Irish Setter named, "Sean".

Sean and I grew up together, and, unfortunately, I was in a dormitory at Florida State University when he finally died.

For many years, he and I wandered the beach near to our home. He was curious about everything. He used to wade out into Pensacola Bay and walk around with his head under water. I finally waded out beside him one day and learned that he was following crabs who were quite incensed at this canine intrusion into their environment.

Sean was Irish through and through. He was beautiful, and he made Big Red look like a skinny punk dog. One day when some scenes from "Wings of Eagles", with John Wayne, were being shot down Bayshore Drive. Cary's Lane, where I lived, was the first major road to Bayshore Drive from Barrancas Avenue, and cars came down to the corner where our house stood, and turned onto Bayshore all day long.

One of the cars which stopped at the corner was a big black limo, and a big man rolled the window down and spoke to Sean for a moment. My mother said the man looked a little like John Wayne. Who knows. Everybody seemed to have a moment for Sean.

The night he died, I was in Tallahassee at Florida State University, and my father was in the hospital. My mother called Father Keating to see if he could send the janitor down to help bury Sean where he lay. The janitor was out that day, but Father Keating said he would get it taken care of. My mother had errands to run, and when she returned, Father Keating had dug a hole in the corner of the yard to hold both him and Sean.

They rolled the body into the hole, and Mom asked if the priest was going to say a prayer for the dog. He replied, "No. I'm going to say a prayer for you. You need it more than he does."

Beach Bum in Training

2010-10-31T18:50:00.002-04:00

I grew up in a house at the corner of Cary's Lane and Bayshore Drive in Warrington, now West Pensacola, Florida. Pensacola Bay was only a couple of hundred yards away.

For all my boyhood years, I had full run of the beach and the adjoining woods. I was Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn all in one. No one lived between me and the water except one man and his wife in one house, and he didn't care.

I had a dozen different ways through the woods and to the water, and I knew a few dozen trails and paths within.

The best and biggest blackberries in Pensacola grew in a huge tangle just a few yards from the water's edge. Mullet jumped and the occasional porpoise rolled. Huge mahogany logs would break free of the rafts of logs being towed from ships at anchor to the lumber company which lay off the Bayou Chico.

My paper route lay by the water, and the last paper I delivered each morning was to the man who tended the drawbridge over the Bayou. The bridge is now gone, as is the railroad bridge which used to allow the train to go out to the Pensacola Naval Air Station once a day.

When last I was in Pensacola, there were wall-to-wall homes on the beach, and the woods were gone. My boyhood home has been remodeled, and a high fence prevents me from even seeing the window of what used to be my bedroom.

All my friends are gone and the beaches all have high-rises on them. I cannot even find the spot at the Santa Rosa Island end of the bridge over the sound where my father hung his cast net on a sunken boat.

Yet, I still long to wander. The army sent me to Europe and across the country. My job as a truck driver allowed me to cross and criss-cross the country many times. For the moment, I am tied to a reality, but someday, I will walk the beach again, if only in my mind, and ride the trees in the eye of the hurricane.

The Self-Made Millionaire

2010-09-07T15:19:00.003-04:00

People who "become" millionaires, other than those who win the lottery or have a rich relative die, usually follow some pretty simple models. In Who Makes a Self Made Millionaire, I discuss this subject.

Suggested Reading
The Millionaire Next Door
Rich Dad Poor Dad: What the Rich Teach Their Kids About Money-That the Poor and the Middle Class Do Not!
The Richest Man in Babylon: Now Revised and Updated for the 21st Century

Andy Griffith Tomorrow

2010-06-26T11:06:00.002-04:00

My wife has taped (DVR'd) "No Time for Sergeants" with Andy Griffith. I know what I'll be watching tomorrow.

My Assault on the British Empire

2010-06-21T19:03:00.004-04:00

In the 1980's, I was stationed in Karlsruhe, West Germany. It was an easy drive into France, and my wife of the time and I often dragged the kids over there, usually to see a small town whose main attraction was its pottery.

One day, we realized that it was not that far to drive through France to Calais, and from there to London. I have loved English literature with a passion since high school, and was also a dyed-in-the-wool Sherlock Holmes fan as well.

Having once had the opportunity to attend a presentation by Basil Rathbone had helped cement that link. Someday, I'll comment on that day. It's worth it.

However, back to 1981+/-.

In order to get a longer visit in, we decided to leave on a Friday after I got off work. After all, it was not that far from Karlsruhe to Calais...at least in our minds. Therefore, on Friday evening, we loaded the kids in the little white Opal Kadett and headed out.

The plan was to drive through the night, northwest through the city of Saarbrucken in France and on to Calais. The problem was that I got confused and headed southwest towards Strasbourg instead. The fact that Strasbourg was also in France didn't help much when we finally figured we (I) had been driving the wrong way for several hours.

We picked the fastest route we could find and headed northwest. At first, we made good time on the French version of the Autobahn or our Interstate system. After a while, however, we came to realize that every now and then, the French expected you to pay a toll for using their highways!

We only had a few Francs with us, and these began to rapidly diminish. To make them disappear faster, I had to buy gas at a Shell filling station in the middle of the night. The station was closed, but the owner lived in the building and I was able to awaken him and somehow informed him of my plight, and he sold me some petrol.

I figured out that you could get off the toll road from time to time and drive through small French villages and get back on for long stretches to save money. Going through these villages at night was like going back in time.

We arrived in Calais just barely in time to catch our ferry to Dover.

I had read Caesar's Gallic Commentaries in Latin class in high school, and was historically impressed at the fact that the ferry stopped to turn around in sight of Dover's cliffs. I could believe that I was seeing almost the same sight that Julius Caesar had seen so many centuries before, and from almost the same spot in the English Channel.

The drive on the motorway from Dover to London was relatively uneventful, and I even got used to driving on the left...until we exited into London itself!!!

Every brain cell involved in the left lane vs. right lane problem quit and was not seen again until we were back on the Continent.

We did not know where we were going to stay in London (with three kids), and finances were very limited. After driving around long enough to nearly cause a dozen accidents (sorry...American), I finally parked the car in a garage under Westminster Abbey.

We walked around for a while and saw Big Ben and Trafalgar Square, but we were hungry (I was also exhausted as I had driven all night), and we went into a sandwich shop, possibly on Tothill Street. The proprieter let us know that there was a small tourist hotel run by the Salvation Army a few blocks away which was clean and neat and very reasonable.

The hotel was exactly what we were looking for, and I walked back to Westminster Abbey to claim the car and drive around to the hotel.

Ever driven in London? Forget the left-hand thing. All streets had once been cart tracks or cattle trails, and apparently none of the cows or their drovers had ever been to my hotel. Eventually, I gave up, parked the car back under Westminster Abbey again and carried the 200 lbs of luggage the three-quarters of a mile to the hotel...where I collapsed.

The next morning, after a pretty good English breakfast, included in the price of the room, of course, we gathered our courage about us, walked the mile-and-a-half back to Westminster Abbey, reclaimed the car, and set out to see the city.

After about an hour of driving and with absolutely NO IDEA of where we were on the map...or even how to get back to Westminster Abbey, we asked a London Bobby for assistance.

Really, they out to require that cops speak English in that country!!

We drove on as lost as ever, but eventually ran into a road (and nearly several other drivers) which we recognized. We drove in front of Buckingham Palace and I made a left turn into oncoming traffic...for the fourteenth time.

Once all the shouting and cursing subsided, I carried the car on my back to the parking garage at Westminster Abbey where it stayed until our departure.

We walked along Whitehall to Trafalgar Square and walked over to Buckingham Palace where we were ripped off by a con man, and a lovely gentleman he was. We wandered up Baker Street, past 221B, the fictional home of Sherlock Holmes. We visited Madame Tussauds Wax Museum and a department store near Piccadilly Circus.

Finally, the morning of departure came.

Bravely, I walked the two miles back to Westminster Abbey to fetch the car and pick up the luggage and the family at the hotel. You know, I think I actually saw it, the hotel, down a street as I wandered cursing and muttering to myself up and down streets which never reached MY destination.

Finally, in defeat, I parked the brave little Opal Kadett under Westmister Abbey and walked the three miles to the hotel and carried the 400 lbs of luggage back to the car.

We only got lost two or three times and only had one or two near fatal crashes on the way back to Dover. Being once again in France, where I did not speak the language, I felt at home because I could at least drive on the "right" side of the road without endangering life and limb of all concerned.

The trip back to Karlsruhe was uneventful and I am glad that I went. My first trip to London is still one of the high points of my life and my experiences there inspired me to write a poem.

In London a driver,
Must have endurance,
Insanity in his family,
And lots of insurance.

Donovan Baldwin

A Hick in 'Frisco

2010-06-14T08:19:00.002-04:00

It was 1966 and, after two months of army basic training at Fort Jackson, SC, I was sent to heaven. Actually, Monterey, California, which remains one of my favorite places on earth to this day.

There I was, a kid from the sticks turned loose in Babylon!

Having read ever issue of the teenage boy's version of Boys Life, i.e. Playboy, I was aware of the existence of a hedonistic, modern version of Sodom and Gommorah a few miles north of where I found myself. Even the words which formed its name conjured up dreams of freedom...which, of course, included free sex!!!

After all, the topless craze, and the hippie craze, was in full bloom right there in San Francisco.

"Are You Goin' to San Francisco", was a popular song. All the big names seemed either to be from there or appeared to consider the city by "the bay" some sort of Mecca for fun, expansion of one's self, and free love.

Sure, there were all kinds of things to see in San Francisco, Golden Gate Bridge, Golden Gate Park, Chinatown...the list seemed endless. However, for a hormone ridden kid from nowhere, Pensacola, Florida, there was only one place to go...

NORTH BEACH!!!

That's where the topless bars were. That's where the women performed, the women I had already seen bare breasted in the pages of Playboy.

I already knew the names of the clubs; Big Al's, The Condor Club, and Off Broadway. I also knew the names of some of the women who performed there...women who not only had their naked pictures shown in Playboy, but who had been written about in Time, Newsweek, and other, more respectable publications.

Hey! I was a kid whose biggest moments had been shaking hands with Doc and Kitty from Gunsmoke (Milburn Stone and Amanda Blake), and watching live performances by Ace Cannon and the New Christy Mintrels. My sexual experience was a little slap-and-tickle with a couple of girl friends. I had seen New York City, thanks to my sister and brother-in-law, who lived on Long Island, and driven past the hotel in Manhattan where the Beatles were staying.

I was ready for some real life adventure!!!

My mom had sent me some of my clothes, including the ghastly, brown, hick-from-the-sticks, three-piece suit off the rack at Sears on Palafox in Pensacola. Now, thinking back on that suit, I am reminded of Red Skelton's character, Clem Kadiddlehopper.

However, in those days, I thought that suit portrayed a worldly, sophisticated, individual...somewhat like the Simon Templar (The Saint) character I had been reading about for years.

Let's not even mentio the basic training buzz cut which was still growing out when I finally took the Greyhound (got that...sophisticated guy, three piece hick suit, buzz cut, greyhound bus), and headed for San Francisco.

I did get to see the Golden Gate Bridge, and I found a hotel room near Chinatown and took a walk through that famous area, but I was waiting for the night.

That night, wearing my heavy brown wool suit of armor, and carrying a few bucks, which rapidly disappeared as "covers" and "minimums" were met, I made my way through Sodom, excuse me, San Francisco, and turned dreams into reality...which, as usual, did not match the dreams.

Oh, I got to watch Yvonne D'Angers' act (term used loosely) at Off Broadway, and almost tripped over Carol Doda as she came out of The Condor Club pursued by reporters asking questions. I apologized for almost stepping on her, she smiled, but did not reply. I saw various young (again used loosely) ladies (ditto) in various states of undress undulate entertainingly, or not, and even had a topless shoeshine, which I had seen written up in some magazine or another.

I had no real adventures, other than satisfying a young man's lust for the view of acres of female flesh, and, on the bus ride back to Monterey the next day, I decided that I was glad I had gone, but wouldn't do it again.
================
Thinking of traveling to San Francisco? I have started a small travel website. Click here to check it out.

Ich bin nicht faul, Herr Porzig!!

2010-02-15T22:06:00.003-05:00

In grade school and in high school, my teachers regularly complained to my parents that I "did not participate", did not do my work, came to class unprepared, and did not perform to potential.

Sometimes when I did "participate" or try to perform to "my potential", I was told that I should sit down and shut up because I wanted to talk about something that was not under discussion at the moment. On one occasion, a nun told me that I was wrong about something, and, when I looked it up in a dictionary and tried to show her that I was right, she refused to admit that I had been right and she had been wrong.

I learned that I was smart but not very good at learning, at least not in a classroom setting. I learned that most people did not want to hear what I had to say, especially if I was right.

I also figured out that I wasn't the usual student.

Eventually, I wound up in the army and they decided that I was smart enough to go to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California to learn German (1966-67). It was great being in Monterey, but the learning part was hell. I managed to get through, but was lousy at German. Just barely passed.

One German instructor, Herr Porzig, a one-armed Prussian, often said to me, "Du bist faul, Herr Baldwin. Du bist faul." when I did not have my assignments memorized to his level of expectations.

I don't know what I could have done if things had turned out differently, but I do know that a few days ago, a doctor diagnosed me, at age 65, as having ADHD, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, a condition which can cause great difficulties in learning. It can be traced back to my childhood, and I have wondered for years but never discussed it with a professional.

I just assumed that everybody was right...I was a dreamer and somehow just lazy, even tho' I have received several awards for my actions over the years.

The doctor put me on a low dose of medication (Adderall) for ADHD, and I have noticed almost immediately that my mind is clearer and my reaction to life is more definite and certain.

Herr Porzig died a few years ago, I hear. I wish I could tell him, and several nuns, that maybe I wasn't just lazy.

Recent Diagnosis Explains a Lot

2010-02-12T09:34:00.003-05:00

I have been meaning to ask a doctor about a particular condition for years, but always forgot. That was part of the problem. I forgot a lot of things...all my life. I hated being in classrooms even tho' I loved learning. I would zone out of important meetings, even interviews, in just a few minutes. I started project after project and the next day couldn't even remember what I had intended to do.

I once had to explain to my first wife why the garbage can was in the bedroom. I was taking out the garbage and something else captured my attention. I forgot about the garbage can until she brought it to my attention!

Long talk with the Doctor, tentative diagnosis...ADHD (Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). She started me on Adderall. I began with the first dose yesterday. It took a few hours, but, for most of the day, I felt more awake, aware, alert....and focused, than I could remember ever being, at least consistenly, since first grade.

Wish I could have gone through grade school, high school, and college feeling like this (took my second dose about an hour ago). I probably would have graduated from FSU rather than flunking out due to lack of interest. Well, if that had happened, I would not have met the woman I love. Just wish I could have had both worlds.

My Sister's Grave

2010-02-06T12:08:00.003-05:00

I often think of my sister, Katherine Elizabeth Baldwin. I guess that's a little strange because I never met her. She was born prematurely around 1950, and the methods for saving preemies that saved my grandson, Niko, were not available back then.

She was buried in St. John's cemetary in Warrington, Florida, in an unmarked grave, because my parents could not afford a headstone at that time.

I remember visiting the grave a few times with my parents. At first it was easy to find the small, child-sized mound of dirt which marked the spot where she was buried. With time, we had to search the area where we knew the grave to be to find vestiges of her resting place.

Eventually, nature took care of that and her grave could no longer be found.

I have often wondered what it would have meant to have a younger sister.

Being the only boy between two girls might have been a bother, but having someone else to take the heat of being the youngest kid in the family might have had some positive effect. On the other hand, middle kids often feel neglected.

Who's to say.

Anyway, at the age of 65, I miss this sister I never knew who would be about 60 years old herself. It would have been fun to watch her grow up and, at least for a while, be the older brother.

Oh well. Life does not always answer our desires.

However, if she could not live her own life and make her own friends, at least perhaps a few people might read this and know she passed this way. I'm sure she would have been a good sister.

Lessons from the Army - The Motor Pool Walk

2010-01-12T09:47:00.004-05:00

I was thinking about something this morning as I was writing a comment for my blog, Fitness After 40, and it triggered a new line of thought.

I was writing about safe driving for seniors, and that reminded me about when I was a truck driving instructor, then when I was a truck driver, and then when I was in the Army. That led me to the motor pool walk.

My wife and I call this a "rabbit trail". It's more representative of my thought process than hers as she's much more focused than I am, but we both realize that the subject is about to change when one of us looks at the other and says, "rabbit trail".

Anyway, in the Army, I spent a lot of time in motor pools, checking on equipment, training or supervising soldiers, or as an equipment operator myself. They can be dangerous places if you are not paying attention. That is why a company commander I served under, or perhaps it was a first sergeant, stressed what he called "the motor pool walk".

Basically, for safety's sake, you keep your head up, your eyes moving, and pay attention to all that is going on around you.

This was a good lesson for me in many aspects of army life, not just the motor pool. We did a lot of dangerous things, and simply paying attention was worth the effort when you consider the alternative!

Later, in the civilian world, I became a truck driver for a while and eventually a truck driving instructor. Once again, as I moved through equipment yards, strange facilities, truck stops, and even over the road, "heads up and eyes moving" was a good mantra.

When you read or listen to motivational speakers, they too often describe in their own way what I would define as "the motor pool walk". When we as soldiers had to move across an open area, some target or goal would be selected to walk towards, but it would still be necessary to look around to see what was going on and identify any potential threat or danger. The person looking at his or her feet was almost certain to veer off course and more likely to wander into a dangerous situation.

As I aged, I became aware that it was a little more difficult to walk, drive, even concentrate (although that has been an ongoing problem of mine since grade school). However, I reverted to consciously imposing "the motor pool walk" as a condition of any activity, and it helped immensely. I also learned that many seniors who are experiencing loss of balance often have a habit of looking down at the ground in front of them.

Not only does this hamper their ability to move safely and surely at the moment, but studies have also shown that it actually contributes to poor balance and more frequent falls. As the studies of mental exercise progress, it has become obvious to many researchers that keeping your head up, eyes moving, and thinking about what is going on around you actually helps the brain retain its ability to make decisions, problem solve, improve balance and keep you out of trouble.

It's amazing that one little lesson can last so long and have such a profound affect on one's life.

Lou and the Shelf Stretcher

2009-12-28T21:58:00.003-05:00

In the early 60's, before I went in the Army, and in the late 60's, after I got out, I worked for Delchamps grocery in Pensacola.

After I got back from the Army, the Delchamps folks took me back and put me on the night stock crew at their Mobile Highway store, out near the Circle. Shortly after I started, the stock crew chief, Larry Poole, took a transfer to another store, and I became night stock crew chief. It was while working there that I took part in one of the few practical jokes I ever helped pull.

Since night stock crew only took a few hours a week, most of the night crew, including myself, worked stock during the days to make our 40 hours. I often worked with a guy named Doug. Doug was, well, to put it mildly, a little nuts.

One day a new bagboy was hired. His name was Lou, and you couldn't hope to meet a nicer guy, but he was naive. To the bagboys, stockers were a step up the food chain anyway and a couple of steps short of management.

One day, the manager, Kenneth McLemore, also a nice guy, but not the least bit naive, was out of the store for a few minutes. As Doug and I walked up to the front, we noticed Lou bagging groceries for a lady. We were in the elevated office with a clear view of the checkout. Doug picked up the microphone and paged, "Lou. Come to the office when you're finished."

Lou came up right away, and Doug said, "Lou, I noticed you put the eggs and tomatoes on the top of the bags. They might fall out and get broken. You need to put them in the bottom of the bag and put a couple of things on top to make sure they stay in."

Lou listened intently, but with a confused look on his face. "I thought we weren't supposed to do it the way I did it!"

Doug asked angrily, "Are you questioning me?"

Lou immediately said, "No, Doug. I guess I was confused."

He went back down to help another customer. I watched him while Doug looked for some supplies. Finally I picked up the microphone and paged, "Lou. Please report to the office, now."

Doug looked up. "Now what?"

I replied, "He put tomatos in the bottom of the bag and was putting cans on top...just like YOU told him. If Kenneth finds out...."

Just then, Lou came back into the office. Doug explained that he had just been joking, and told Lou to go back and fix the lady's bag. Lou came back over and he started explaining how we knew so much and he was still trying to learn everything. He went on to say that he wished that he could get off the front and help us work stock.

Doug looked at him and then winked at me.

"Lou, do you want to help us out?"

Lou nodded.

"Well, Don and I need to set up a display up front here, but we need a shelf stretcher. Would you go in the back and get us one?"

Lou was off like a shot. He was back in a few minutes, with a worried look on his face.

"I looked all over the stockroom," he said, "but I couldn't find anything that looked like one."

Here came my contribution,

"Hey, I think I saw it back in the incinerator room."

Back in those days, we burned the excess boxes and other garbage.

Lou headed towards the back again.

Now, it was Summer in Florida, and we had used the incinerator that morning, so the incinerator room was sweltering AND FILTHY! You could not move in there without getting soot all over yourself, and we wore white shirts!

While Lou was in the back, the store manager, Kenneth McLemore, came in the front door. Kenneth always wore a gold blazer and looked starched and neat. He had worked his way up from bagboy to store manager, and he was a great guy, but he ran a tight ship...no nonsense.

We were ready to split to the back and pull Lou off the hunt for a shelf stretcher, but Kenneth caught us by surprise.

"What are you guys doing hanging around up front?"

Before we could answer, Lou came up, red-faced, dripping sweat, and with soot all over his clothes, face, and hands.

"What's going on?" asked Kenneth with a little edge in his voice and a slightly brittle smile on his face.

Before we could answer, eager Lou piped up, "I was helping Doug and Don set up a display. They asked me to find a shelf stretcher for them." All this with a happy smile on his face.

Kenneth looked at Doug, looked at me, back at Doug, and said, "Come up to my office, now!"

The jig was up. Kenneth was going to fry us. Doug, Lou, and I began to follow him. Suddenly he stopped, turned to Lou and said, "Lou, the reason you couldn't find a shelf stretcher in the back was because I lent it to the manager of the Red and White Grocery by the McDonald's on Navy Boulevard. Do you have your car here?"

Lou nodded.

"Okay," said Kenneth, "I want you to drive down to the Red and White and tell the manager we want our shelf stretcher back. He was supposed to return it last month. Make sure you let him know how mad I am that he didn't return it."

Lou nodded again and bolted out the door, a man (boy) with a mission.

Kenneth headed for the office with us in tow.

"I'm going to get you guys for this!" but he was smiling.

He pulled out the phone book, found the number to Red and White, and called. He asked for the manager, and once he got him on the phone, briefed him on what was going on.

After hanging up, he turned to us and said, "He's going to give Lou a hard time and will call us back."

A few minutes later the phone rang, and Kenneth talked to the caller for a while. It was obvious that it was the other store manager with his report.

After he hung up, he said, "Lou got there and gave him my message and he told Lou to tell me that I was crazy and that he had returned the shelf stretcher weeks ago. He added a few obscene remarks about me and Delchamps and told Lou to get the hell out of his store.

A few minutes later, Lou pulled back into the parking lot and rushed into the store with a woeful but angry look on his face. Lou was a good guy, and somebody like that talking that way about Kenneth and Delchamps really upset him.

Kenneth played with him for a couple more minutes and then let him in on what had happened. At first, Lou was upset, but after a while, he began to talk about how the joke had been on him.

Several years later, I stopped at a Delchamps store in Gulf Breeze (now known as Bruno's), and the manager was, you guessed it, Lou. Delchamps went out of business several years ago, and I don't know where anybody is that I used to work with, but I can still see everybody's face as Lou walked up covered with soot, eager as a puppy, as Kenneth realized what was going on.

Did I Really See a Ghost at the Winchester Mystery House?

2009-11-22T16:47:00.002-05:00

Okay, I give up. I've been trying to get started on this for days, but each time, I come up with the same problem. My logical mind says to start at the begining, but my freewheeling mind says, "No way, Bubba!"

I simply will not be able to make this chronological, so the stories will come as they come...no sequence, rhyme, or reason. One time we may be in 2007, as today, and the next we may be reviewing my parents' lives in the late 1930's...or earlier.

Anyway, in April, 2007, my wife and I took a trip in our Prius Hybrid from Texas to California and back. We were gone for three weeks and visited friends and family and went to places we had wanted to see.

One of these places was the Winchester Mystery House in San Jose, California.

We took the standard tour, which is done with a group of people who are led through the home of Sarah Winchester and given little talks by the guide at various points.

Our group was small, and within a few minutes, I had a pretty good handle on who was with us. Everybody was normal, except possibly me, and nobody stood out.

At one stop, we were gathered around the guide, listening to his presentation. As I glanced over the small group, I noticed a lady standing on the outer edge of the other side of the semicircle we had formed. She caught my eye because I had not noticed her before, and her appearance really should have caught my attention earlier.

She was very short, as was Sarah Winchester. She was an older woman with a round, ruddy face, and she was wearing a brimmed flat hat such as I had often seen women wearing in pictures from the late 1890's and early 1900's when they were outside...gardening, perhaps. It looked a little like Zorro's sombrero.

I gazed at her for a moment, wondering why I had not noticed her before. I glanced back up at the guide, and then looked back at her....

She was gone.

There was no exit she could have gotten to in the couple of seconds I had looked away, yet when I had seen her, she was as real in appearance as anyone else in the group.

I did not tell my wife about her until after the tour, and she is certain that I saw a ghost...probably of Sarah Winchester herself.

Me? I have no idea. It's just something which happened to me on my journey through the universe.

Did I see a ghost? I personally don't believe in them, but acknowledge that I have no corner on wisdom and knowledge.

What do you think?

Looking Back - With Google Earth

2009-11-08T16:25:00.005-05:00

My wife and I both have itchy feet. Mine are itchier than hers, and probably smell kinda funky too!

That's probably why the two jobs I have enjoyed the most in my entire life were soldier and truck driver.

I know, the guys from the Florida Jobs office, whatever it was called back in 1962 came out and gave us all kinds of tests at Pensacola Catholic High. They told me I had an aptitude with words, but should stay away from anything that required manual dexterity.

I can't say that they were wrong, because as much as I prefer doing things that require activity, at least as opposed to sitting in an office behind a desk, I tend to bang myself up more than others around me doing the same thing that I am.

I even cut my finger on an orange peel the other day...but that's another (very short) story.

As a soldier, I have done, as the saying went, "more before 9AM than most people do all day". In fact, sometimes I did so much for such a prolonged period that I could not have told you which day it was!

By the way, there was only one time in my life that I not only did not know what day it was but whether it was morning or evening, and that was January 1, 1967. I had only been in Germany for a few months and spent the night at the NCO club drinking champagne and German beer. When I got back to the barracks, someone challenged me to chug cheap German rum out of a bottle down to a mark they had put on the label.

The rest is history, but for for the next couple of years, we could point out the dent in the wall locker where my head hit.

Anyway, back to my life in the woods and on the open road.

I probably enjoyed being a truck driver more than being a soldier, and both beat the hell out of being an accountant...which a piece of paper from the University of West Florida says I am!

So anyway, my wife has gotten hooked on Google earth, and this afternoon, we toured Monterey, California. We tooled along 17-Mile Drive, and looked at the Robert Louis Stevenson house. Then we went over to Carmel and tried to find Lulu's House of Silk, a great little shop we went into in 2007, the last time we went out there.

We used to drive for Schneider, so, since we were in Califonia, we took the Google Earth express over to Fontana, California and looked at the Schneider operating center we had been in and out of so many times. We discovered the dinky little truck stop on the corner where we used to weigh our loads was now a sleek and shiny truck stop, but Cherry truck sales is still on the corner diagonally accross from Schneider.

I took a quick Google trip over to Germany, to Bad Aibling, and looked for the barracks where I used to live (67 to 70), where the aformentioned falling down thing happened. As usual, one memory revives another, and I can remember....

The Rabid Hedgehog - don't ask
Beer Deliveries
The Girl I Loved Madly Who Worked in the Snack Bar - but did not speak English...or German
The Count, or Graf, Riding His Horse Around the Perimeter of the Post
The Mad Bull
The Kriechbaumer Gasthaus
The Only True Case of Levitation I Ever Saw
The German Cop with the Machine Gun
The Spinout in the Gym Parking Lot
The Upside-Down Car (x2)
And all those nights at the NCO Club....I wonder what ever happened to Sascha and the Metronomes!

And other things.

The Events at Fort Hood, Texas

2009-11-06T08:22:00.005-05:00

Sorry if today's entry is a bit disjointed and without purpose, but I felt a need to write on this subject, but did not really know what to say.

I do not think of Fort Hood as home, but it was the site of my last assignment in the military. As a sergeant in the army, I spent hours in the field there, and I lived in Copperas Cove, a community next to Fort Hood, longer than I have lived anywhere else since I graduated from University of West Florida in 1973. I have had an operation in Darnall Army Community Hospital, and have supervised and trained many soldiers while there.

If I have a place I have thought of as home nearly as long as I was in my parents' home in Warrington (Pensacola), Florida, it is Fort Hood.

It is slightly strange to watch national news, or even local news here in Atlanta, and see sights that have been familiar to me for years....streets I have driven, buildings I have entered, now the center of international interest.

Years ago, I was in Frankfurt at a military building. It was 1982 when General Dozier had been taken hostage and had been rescued. As I entered the building, I saw a lectern in the center of the entry area, with several microphones and a mass of wires. It was only later that I found out that I had just missed Mrs. Dozier's press conference.

Terrorism is, as Geico likes to say, "So easy, even a caveman can do it."

I have memories of lots of places I have been, and I have touched history either before or after the fact. I have stood where Hitler stood, seen what Ceaser saw, walked where Shakespeare walked, but this is one link to history I could do without.

It is a shame when anyone dies, and just as much a shame when a soldier dies in defense of his or her country or beliefs. It is twice a shame that those who died at Fort Hood yesterday, while still "fallen warriors" had their lives snatched away by someone who appeared to be their brother in arms.

We who have worn the uniform usually recognize a bond with all others who have done so as well. When evil befalls them, it befalls us. We feel this as naturally, and often as deeply, as if a member of our family has been involved.

Whether you, as a citizen of the U.S., agree with current events in which the military is engaged is not the point. These people, many just out of high school and in what should be some of the most exciting days of their lives, have signed away control of their lives for the purpose of defending you and the benefits you presently enjoy...including the right to disagree and express your displeasure.

Treat the government as you will. Treat the soldier, sailor, airman, marine as your brother and your sister...and never betray their trust as did Major Nidal Malik Hasan yesterday. Had Major Hasan come under attack from others, American soldiers would have come to his aid. Even after he committed the actions of yesterday, he was treated medically by some of the most professional caregivers in the world.

Even after his betrayal, those who he had renounced as his brothers and sisters, believed that it was right and proper to treat him as if he were still their brother.

Perhaps, sometimes at least, soldiers exist to protect a country which can create such an attitude in its citizens.

November 5 - An Anniversary of Sorts

2009-11-05T09:10:00.003-05:00

I enlisted in the U.S. Army in Montgomery, Alabama, August 30, 1966. They put me on a bus which took me to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, where I was housed in a tent at the reception station for a couple of days until I was assigned to a Basic Combat Training unit, Company D, 3rd Battalion, 1st Training Brigade, or "D-3-1! Best damn company on the hill! Sir!"

While waiting in tent city, I began to be assimilated into the army culture. I got yelled at, got my head shaved, got cursed at, and, when I accidentally called a Drill Sergeant "Sir", got told at a very close range, "Don't call me 'sir'. I work for a living."

I also got to experience the pure joy of the army mess hall, and the communal latrine.

Actually, for basic food, the mess hall was not bad. Plenty to eat, but, as the signs exhorted, "Take what you want but eat what you take" was the rule of the day. Also, eating in silence. They had to push a lot of people through what was a rather small mess hall, so you ate your food and got out. Fortunately, at later assignments, the army actually tried to make dining a relatively enjoyable experience, and a meal with your friends included plenty of conversation for seasoning.

The latrine, on the other hand....

How do I say this?

It was a large, drafty, wooden building. There was a shower at one end...essentially a large room with several very basic (maybe that's why it was called "basic"...basic food, basic showers, basic beds, basic toilets, etc.) shower heads. The shower took up about one-third of the building. The other two-thirds was a large room with sinks along one wall, and toilets, or should I say toilet seats, around the others.

Although AT&T had not come out with the ad yet in 1966, it gives new meaning to the phrase "reach out and touch someone"!

There were no stalls, no doors, no walls separating the toilets. You sat side-by-side with, or directly accross the room from, others engaged in the same activity.

As with every place in the military, there were more signs, but the ones I remember most vividly were the ones which said something to the effect, "Stand Up Before Flushing". I wondered about that one for a couple of minutes until someone did - flush while still seated, that is.

Apparently, they took the water for flushing toilets directly from the hot water line which went to the shower.

He got up rather quickly as hot water splashed against...ahem...delicate areas. Perhaps "leaped up" would be a better description than "got up".

I will write more about basic training later, but to get back to the anniversary mentioned in the title:

I graduated basic training on November 4, 1966. I had orders to report to the Defense Language Institute in Monterey, California to study German for six months. On the morning of November 5, 43 years ago today, a hungover Drill Sergeant drove me to the airport in Columbia, South Carolina where I boarded a plane for Charleston, where I changed planes. I changed one more time, I don't remember where, but believe it was Chicago, and the third flight took me over the Rockies to San Franciso, where I changed planes again to a little puddle jumper which took me to the Monterey airport.

This was the first time in my life that I had been in an airplane, my first trip to California (of the many in my lifetime), and the first (and fortunately last) time I got airsick.

Not much of a story, perhaps, but it's mine, and I'm sticking to it.
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I never have been to Kenya in my life!

2009-11-04T10:00:00.001-05:00

My wife has been after me to write my memoirs, and this is my feeble attempt to comply with her wishes. She thinks I tell funny, entertaining, and enlightning stories about places I have been, people I have known, and things I have done.

However, I contend that while these stories can be fun, they are best for spur-of-the-moment situations where they can be used to liven up the conversation, offer a different insight, or just, as mentioned above, entertain the listener.

In fact, I cannot normally produce these things from memory...they just pop out when some receptor in my brain recognizes a link which can be exploited. Thus, friends and family, and a few total strangers, are usually warned by one of these phrases: "I know a story about that..." or "You know, that reminds me..." or something similar.

I guess it's a touch of the Irish in me that likes to tell a story. I always harken back to that "dear little priest", Father Cunningham, who used to both amuse and upset the nuns by telling us mystery stories or old Irish folk tales, when he was supposed to be teaching us religion. He often told us stories about amteur detective Father Brown, a character created by Gilbert Keith Chesterton, in that lovely Irish brogue when I was in grade school at St. John's elementary in Warrington, Florida in the 50's. It was probably those very stories which prompted me to spend hour after hour reading mystery stories, western tales, and science fiction books checked out of the Pensacola Public Library.

You see, talking about telling stories reminded me about Father Cunningham, which reminded me about "The Quiet Man" with John Wayne, which reminded me about the time John Wayne filmed part of "The Wings of Eagles" near my home in Pensacola and onboard Pensacola Naval Air Station, where my father worked for 30+ years, which reminded me of all the times I was onboard NAS Pensacola myself as man and boy, including the very spots where some of the scenes were filmed....which reminds me of my own career in the U. S. Army....

You see how it goes!

As mentioned in the title of this post, I have never been to Kenya in my life, so why the title?

In the great British comedy, "As Time Goes By", one of the lead characters, Lionel Hardcastle (Geoffrey Palmer), has written an autobiography with the uninspiring title, "My Life in Kenya". When asked in one episode what the book is about, he responds, "My life in Kenya"!

In the show, all who read the book, even those who love him the most agree that the book, about things which matter to him and which have made him the man he is, are really boring to read.

That's how this blog will probably wind up.

It will be boring for the most part, interesting or funny at some points (I hope), frightening or enlightning at others. It will allow me to write down, in some vaguely autobiographical manner, the things that have happened to me or which I have learned in my 64 years on this planet.

Well, that's enough for the first installment. I hope to add to this daily, but am sure, based on past performances, that there will be lapses in that plan.

However whichever day you choose to happen by, I will always wish you....

Have a great day!

Donovan Baldwin
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