Riverside Rambles

Before I moved to Hannibal I had led a relatively sheltered life; I had never witnessed a fistfight or been involved in any violence other than the slaughtering and butchering of domestic animals.

I never did get any sleep last night. Why? To put it briefly, my new tenant Sharon and her boyfriend Luther had a bad night, and thus so did I.

I was drifting off to sleep just before midnight when I heard a door slam and some yelling and screaming coming from down the hall. “Oh, what now!” I thought wearily. I padded down the hall and listened at Sharon’s door. They were going at it hammer and tongs. I wasn’t about to get involved in their troubles at that time of night. I called 911 and reported a domestic disturbance.

I let the two young cops in and said “In there”, pointing at one of Sharon’s doors.

One of the cops banged hard on the door with his fist and shouted “Open up! It’s the police!”

So they really do say that!

The cops each stepped to one side of the door, flanking it. I felt like I was in a police show on TV, a surreal feeling. Sharon let them in and I went back to bed.

As the early morning hours crept by I’d just about fall asleep, but then I’d hear footsteps in the hallway, a door closing, and more arguing from the unhappy couple. It was distracting. It had just gotten light out and I peeked through my door curtain and saw that the hallway was empty — but then I heard some shouting and scuffling on the stairs which lead to the street door. I put my shoes on and went down the hall to investigate. The street door was standing open and Sharon and Luther were madly fistfighting right in the doorway. She’s a small woman, a foot shorter than Luther, but she fought ferociously, giving roundhouse punches to his face and the side of his head. He got a few punches in too.

I was appalled. I certainly wasn’t going to try to separate them, as that’s never a good idea.

I went back to my room and called 911 again. Those two cops could come back and handle this situation. I made one more futile attempt to get some sleep, but my curiosity got the better of me. I looked out a window and saw that the two squad cars were still parked out front. I walked down the hall and one of Sharon’s doors was standing open. She was sobbing as she talked with one of the cops.

I went downstairs to the sidewalk and enjoyed the morning coolness. After a while the cops came down and one of them took me aside. They always talk to people one-on-one.

I said “Well, did you get things worked out?”

“Yeah, I think so. She has a few bruises and she’s still shook up. Of course, Luther fled the scene before we got here. I know Sharon, by the way. She’s a good girl, really, not like some of the scum we have around here. She just has a way of picking out bad boyfriends. Now as for Luther, you might consider a restraining order if he gives you any more trouble.”

“I thought she would have to do that!”

“It’s your property, so you have a perfect right to get one for the whole building. Just go to the sheriff’s office downtown; it’s in the courthouse.”

I said “Thanks, guys, for helping out!”

I went on back upstairs. Sharon’s door was still open. SHe came out in the hall and gave me a hug.

“Larry, I’m so sorry to have dragged you into this!”

“Me too!”

I explained to her that I was considering a restraining order. She said she’d think about it.

I then said “I just can’t have this kind of crap going on here! Don’t let it happen again! If you feel the need to fight do it somewhere else, okay?”

“Okay, Larry. Oh, I’m still all shook up. I’m going to bed…”

“I’m needin’ some sleep, too.”

“Thanks, Mr. Larry!”

“See ya.”

I headed back down the hall and went back to bed. I never did get any sleep…

Larry

Wednesday afternoon I went out to the back porch to hang out a load of laundry. This is one of those mundane tasks which can be approached with differing attitudes. You can try to extract some pleasure from the job, enjoying watching the clothing flapping in the breeze, or you can regard it as bothersome drudgery. I try for the first option when I can.

As I clipped the clothing to the line strung between the porch posts I noticed that my dog Tucker was nowhere to be seen. He must have gotten through the high fence which separates the two halves of the courtyard, my larger section and Ted’s. Ted’s dog Blue was still in his pen, so Tucker was off on his own and was doubtless having a good time.

I went out on two forays into the streets and alleys of the neighborhood but Tucker had evidently ventured further afield.

Dusk was approaching and I sat on my front stoop with the street door ajar. I was feeling despondent; my dog was gone as was my friend and tenant Curlee; he went to court and never came back.

A middle-aged black couple approached me from across the street and introduced themselves.

The woman said “You must be Curlee’s landlord Larry. My name is Sharon, and this is my friend Luther.”

“Yeah, I’m Larry.”

Sharon said “I’m looking for an apartment to rent. I’m a friend of Curlee’s and I’m willing to store his stuff for him. Could we take a look at the apartment?” Sharon seemed like a respectable woman; I didn’t detect any of the tell-tale signs which most alkies and/or druggies exhibit.

“Sure — let’s go on up.”

They looked around the small efficiency apartment and and we made the deal.

Thursday morning I walked down the hall. Sharon is my third tenant in the apartment which adjoins mine, and I have found that there is a certain etiquette involving hallway apartment doors: if one of the doors is standing ajar this is an invitation extended to me to come on in for a talk.

Sharon was bustling around, gathering up Curlee’s personal possessions and putting them in black plastic trash bags and arranging the bags under Curlee’s clothes-rack. Curlee really doesn’t have much: a bed, a TV, quite an assortment of clothing, and a few kitchen appliances and utensils.

I sat down on the edge of Curlee’s bed, and Sharon sat down beside me. I like to learn a bit about a tenant’s life and background.

I asked “So did you grow up in Hannibal?”

“Yeah, but I was living in Kirksville until recently. My three daughters live here in town and my youngest was having some relationship problems and then her car broke down. I moved down here to give her some help and support. Then my car broke down. I’ve been living with my sister but I think I’ve outworn my welcome — I need a place of my own. Now, understand that I’m the sole renter — Luther is just a friend.”

I scrutinized the woman. “How old are you, anyway?” I asked. I really couldn’t tell.

“Forty-two.”

“I would have guessed mid-thirties, maybe.” A bit of flattery never hurts!

“As for rent money, I should be getting my monthly check soon and I’ll pay you then. Okay?”

“Yeah, that’ll work.”

This business of the “monthly check” aroused my curiosity. Alimony? Disability benefits? I didn’t think that it would be appropriate to inquire.

So now it seems that I have a new hallway neighbor…

Larry

Last night I was talking with my closest friend on the phone. I was distracted by somebody down on Market Street calling up to me:

“Hey, Larry! Larry!”.

I walked down the long hall and descended to the street, talking all the while on the cordless phone. It turned out to be my tenant Curlee’s niece Mary. She was out on the sidewalk with her niece Roz.

Mary said “I have some bad news, Larry!”

I replied “Stick around for a while; I’m on the phone.”

I went back upstairs and eventually concluded the phone conversation; I have my priorities! My friend has dibs on my time. Mary is just a peripheral acquaintance.

Later, still barefoot, I went back down to the street. Mary and Roz were still out there.

Mary said “Larry, I think they are sending Curlee back to the pen. He was in court today and I think they revoked his parole because of his arrest a couple of weeks ago. You might as well turn off the power in his apartment for the time being.”

I was stunned. “How do you know this, Mary?” I asked.

“You know that woman who lives next to your neighbor Ted’s place on Downing Street? I was talking with her this afternoon; she happened to be in court today and saw Curlee being hauled away to the Palmyra jail. I imagine it was for parole violation. I thought you would want to know, you bein’ his landlord and all.”

“Oh, gosh, what about his stuff? What am I supposed to do with it?”

“My husband and I have some spare rooms, I guess we could use one of them to store Curlee’s things. I don’t know how much time they gave Curlee — maybe it’ll be in the paper tomorrow.”

I was saddened by this turn of events. Curlee was the first black person I’ve ever known well and we had many pleasant conversations. He shared food with me; an example from last week:

“Larry, I cooked up a batch of macaroni and cheese. It’s more than I can eat. Go get a bowl and I’ll give you some!”

I can’t call Curlee at the Palmyra jail. He might call me, or write me a letter. He knows the address, as it was his for several months. It’s just a shame, really, as Curlee was just weeks from being off parole. He simply messed up his life again, all from hanging around with the wrong people.

Larry

The culture of Japan is fascinating, as it developed in parallel with the European and American cultures for centuries with very little contact between the three.

While we in the U.S were still eagerly burning through the abundant natural resources of this vast continent, which seemed inexhaustible until recent decades, the Japanese had already tapped out the resources which the relatively small island chain had to offer. These days Japan sucks in resources, whether they be fish, grain, minerals, oil, or timber, from quite a broad area. Remember how WW2 in the Pacific started? Japan was wanting to control the Asian sources of crude oil. Here’s a recent article which I found intriguing. The Japanese tend to take a longer view than Americans do; they are willing to make investments in commodities which might disappear in the coming decades. In some cases the return on the investments might accrue to a company or descendants rather than to the actual investors:

Mitsubushi Hoards Frozen Bluefin Tuna

Here’s the first paragraph of the article:

“Mitsubishi, Japanese mega-conglomerate, was alleged to have started hoarding thousands of tons of bluefin tuna just as stocks of the fish plummet worldwide. This raises eyebrows and a wave of concern spread out globally. It is observed that if the fish goes commercially extinct, the company is hopeful that it can turn a hefty profit from its frozen bluefin cache. It is fact that bluefin is one of the world’s most endangered fish, and is expected to go commercially extinct by 2012 if drastic measures aren’t taken to stem overfishing.”

Take a look at the link above for more info.

With apologies to the shade of Gelett Burgess:

I’ve never seen a Sitka Spruce,
but I’d really love to see one.
But I can tell you, anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one.

Some years ago there was a story making the rounds of the American stringed-instrument-making community. The gist of it was that enormously old and girthy Sitka spruce trees from coastal Alaska were being sold to Japanese firms at bargain prices. This process was facilitated by regrettable U.S. Forest Service policies which favored clearing out the “over-mature” trees to make room for new plantations of trees which could be used for plywood, toilet paper, and such products after sixty or seventy years.

We’ll never see the like of these trees again, except in a few protected reserves. The old-growth Sitkas commonly reached trunk diameters of as much as fifteen feet and some were over 700 years old. Sitka spruce wood is ideal for stringed-instrument soundboards and it was once used for airplane propellors. The wood is strong but light in weight.

So what were the Japanese firms doing with these Sitka spruce logs? I can’t confirm this definitively, but the story was that the immense logs were being floated across the Pacific Ocean, weighted down, and then sunk off the Japanese coast. Another example of the Japanese long-term view; “This action might not benefit me in my lifetime, but my children or grandchildren will surely be able to sell these trees when there are no more virgin Sitka spruce groves left!”

Larry

Saturday evening I was browsing the web; I’ve found it to be a quicker means of keeping with up with current events, both political and scientific, than watching TV. TV news broadcasts seem to move at a glacial pace, bits of information stretched out by bothersome commercial breaks which I mute.

The phone rang. I picked up the phone and a feeble-sounding female voice said:

“Hi Larry, this is Roberta Hagood. How are you doing?”

“Pretty well; how nice to hear from you!”

Roberta Hagood and her deceased husband Hurley retired to Hannibal back in the 70s after years of living in California. They became Hannibal’s prime historians and published several books which I eagerly read. After Hurley died Roberta sold their house and for several years she has lived in her own room at the Willow Care home here in town. Over a year ago I visited her at the home with Hannibal resident and commenter here George Danforth.

Roberta said “I’m almost 99 years old now, and I don’t write much any more.”

“You and Hurley wrote more than anyone else ever has about our local history! I certainly don’t blame you for slowing down! Your books are a great resource for anyone interested in Hannibal’s past.”

“I do like to look through my Hannibal scrapbooks. I happened across some printouts from your web-site that Joan Ryan sent me — there were some really nice photographs! Did you ever learn anything more about the Civil War artillery training by Union troops down at the base of Lover’s Leap?”

“Not much; one local friend recalls finding cannon balls half-buried in the dirt and scree at the base of the bluff.”

“Hurley and I had such fun researching Hannibal history. We would drive to Columbia every now and then and scour the Missouri Historical Society archives. My sister worked there as a librarian and she’d help us out. We accumulated about 35,000 index cards, each with a reference to newspaper articles and such, and after Hurley died I donated them to the Society. Y’know, Larry, my favorite of our books was “Hannibal Too”.

“That’s my favorite too! There’s just a wealth of information in that book, more than I could absorb in one reading. I need to read it again!”

“I don’t get out much any more, Larry. I don’t drive these days; I’m just here in my room. Come visit again!”

Well, I was just touched by this phone call. I really need to visit Roberta again!

Larry

Tonight I was watching the local evening news and weather. Munching on Honey-Nut Cheerios, I was reasonably content and I intended to turn in before the sports coverage began. Then the phone rang.

“Larry, this is Ted. [Ted lives across the courtyard from me and his dog Blue likes to hang out with my dog Tucker]. I have sort of a situation going on here. Remember Annie? [Annie is Ted's ex-girlfriend who now lives with her son and several Christian separatist folks on some backwoods place deep in the Ozarks].

“Sure, I remember Annie. What’s up?”

“Well, I was up in Quincy at a blues festival and Annie showed up.”

“What the hell was she doing in Quincy?”

“It’s a long story, but she came to my building in Hannibal, broke in, and ransacked the place looking for something she had left behind. I called the cops, and we need to get into your courtyard — I think she threw her car keys over the courtyard fence. Could you let me and a cop into your street door?”

“Sure, I’ll be right down.”

I pulled on some shoes and went down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. Nobody was there, so I walked around the corner onto Market Street. Ted was on the sidewalk in front of his building talking with a young cop, the same one who investigated the rear-end collision my truck suffered some time back.

I approached the pair but didn’t get too close; I didn’t want to seem too nosey — but I am. I tactfully looked away as the cop said to Ted “We have an incident report opened, but you will have to come down to the station to file charges. We can’t do that. After 45 minutes we’ll have to release the woman if no charges are filed.”

I stepped forward and said to the young cop “Do you have a flashlight”?

“I’ll go get one.” he said and walked around the corner to his squad car, where his partner was keeping an eye on Annie.

Ted said “It was quite a scene, Larry, up there in Quincy.”

“Was this in Washington Park downtown?”

“Yeah; Annie actually hit me, and I have at least five witnesses. She had one of her dogs with her and he got all excited and bit someone on the leg. Annie took off before I did. When I got back to my place Annie’s car was parked in my spot. She didn’t hear me pull up and I watched as she wrenched the street door open. She actually pulled an eyebolt from the brickwork! She went upstairs but I didn’t want to deal with her. I drove around the corner and parked behind your truck. Then I called the police.

The cops came after a while and arrested her. In the meantime Annie had pawed through my stuff, gone out on the porch and tore the clothes from my clothesline, and let my dog Blue out of his pen. Then she threw her car keys over the fence into your courtyard.”

“Why on earth would she have done that?”

Ted answered wordlessly with that classic gesture, an index finger twirled next to his temple. This generally means “loopy”.

Ted and the cop followed me up the stairs to the landing and I opened the porch door. Tucker and Blue were out there, doubtless thinking:

“Oh boy, oh boy, Larry and Ted have come for a night-time visit! And they have a New Guy with them! What fun!”

The cop paused in the doorway. He said “Do those dogs bite? Some dogs don’t react well to a man in uniform.”

“Oh, don’t worry, they’re friendly dogs.”

The five of us made our way down the steps into the dark courtyard: two men in their fifties, a twenty-ish cop, and two boisterous dogs. The cop poked through the weeds next to the tall fence but the dogs kept getting in his way and running between his legs. Ted and I squatted down and called Tucker and Blue to us. Tucker thought :

“What a fun new game! What’ll Larry come up with next?”

After a minute or so the cop said “Ah-ha! Here they are!”, and he straightened up and showed us the key-ring. The motley canine and human crew traipsed back up the steps to the porch. As Ted and the cop descended the steps to the street I said “Good luck, Ted!” and the cop said to me “Thanks for letting us in, sir.”

Ted said “Thanks, Larry.” and they were gone.

By this time the news was over and I turned off the TV. I relaxed in bed for a while before going to sleep, letting the incidents and talk percolate in my head. This is what I think of as mental editing. I have to admit that such scenes are appealing to me; real-life dramas are so much better than passive TV-watching! As long as nobody gets hurt…

I enjoy watching a competent and diligent police officer do his job. I need to learn that cop’s name, as I’m sure I’ll run into him again. He and his partner seem to have the night beat in this neighborhood.

Larry

Today is June 12th, the day TV broadcasters are switching off their analog transmitters and going completely digital. Joan Ryan e-mailed me some material which I thought aptly summed up the transition for many procrastinating Americans, but first some background:

About a week or so ago I wrote a post featuring a nicely-executed parody of that old Don McLean pop song “American Pie”. I then looked up the original version on TouTube and listened to it. Oh, a bad move! The song got into my head and went into heavy rotation — the current term for this invasion of auditory memory is “earworm”. The original post:

Mad Avenue Blues

Joan Ryan evidently became similarly afflicted with the aural virus, and she sent me this reworking of the lyrics:

“Since I couldn’t get “Pie” out of my head for at least a week, I decided to try to purge it with new lyrics.”

The Night That Analog Died

Not too long a time ago
New digital was set to go
And if the ads had warned the people here
That on the 12th of June, O Nine
T’would be the end of TV time
But we would not have anything to fear.
The night that T.V. dies.

“Subscribe to cable”, was a choice
But also said the TV voice
“With coupons you could still survive.
Upgrade to keep your set alive.
Just come on down and we will show
You everything you’d need to know
Convert! It’s easy as a pie
And then your tube won’t die.”

I did not like the sound of that
My wife and I got in a spat
And put off what we should have done
To keep our T.V. number one
And thus on 12th of June O Nine
Which was the end of T. V. time
We weren’t attentive to the date
And sat oblivious to our fate.

Singing Bye Bye Hey! Our TV just died.
Turned the switch but the bitch just acted all fried.
My wife and my boys were looking truly bug eyed
Is this the night that Analog dies?
I really thought that stuff was all lies

We sat around the dead machine
Devising plans that were real mean
And I was thinking,”Oboy, Dude!
Tonight is it. We’re really screwed!
We should have bought converter box
For watching ABC or FOX
But thought we had more time to choose
And now we can’t see shows or news
And we will have a tale to tell
Of when our whole world went to hell
The night that Analog died.”

Singing Bye Bye Hey! Our TV just died.
Turned the switch but the bitch just acted all fried.
My wife and my boys were looking truly bug eyed
“Is this the night that Analog dies?
I really thought that stuff was all lies.”

Here’s a nice piece of verse from Joan, along with an accompanying photo:

 Worm

Their lifespan? I doubt it is very long term
Yet they fertilize flatlands as well as the berm.
Watch them wiggle their hips as they slither and squirm.
Oh no! Not a garter snake! This is a worm.

They are supple and slick and surprisingly firm
And there’s so much about them that we need to learn
For instance, what happens when worms truly turn?
Do they wreck mighty vengeance and pillage and burn?

Tormenting with worms makes some little girls squirm
Who are fearful they’ll catch some repulsive bad germ.
When they’re mad at a fellow they’ll use a worm term.
Oh, such paltry respect is allotted the worm.

I’m sure you are able by now to discern
As the lesson involved here is getting more stern
Worms should all be allotted the honors they earn.
So big kudos to you, mighty squirmy earthworm.

The World Health Organization has announced that it is now considering the swine flu to be an actual pandemic-in-the-making.

The popular and convenient naming of the viral disease aroused my curiosity. Why not “hog flu”? As omnivorous humans we have an odd relationship with our porcine slaves. The word “swine” isn’t used much these days except in a pejorative capacity. This is perhaps a result of the usage of the word in many WW2 movies.

Most farmers who raise hogs call themselves “hog-raisers” or “hog-farmers”. “Swine” has something of an archaic sound to it. As consumers of hog flesh we don’t say “Let’s eat some swine tonight!” “Pork” is the preferred euphemism — it removes us a step away from the origin of the muscular and fatty tissue.

The word “swine” interests me. I looked around for the Dictionary Demon but he was nowhere to be found. He’s usually sleeping curled up around my computer’s power supply. I went out on the back porch to feed Tucker and saw across the courtyard that the Demon was playing a catch-as-catch-can game with my neighbor Ted’s mixed-breed dog Blue, who is still penned up. The Demon would fly down and seize a chunk of dog-food from Blue’s food dish, and Blue would try to intercept him. It was entertaining to watch.

“Hey, Demon, come over here!” I called out. The dragon-like beast soared across the courtyard and perched on the porch railing. He folded his wings and said “What’s up, Larry?”

“Oh, I got curious about the word “swine”. Why don’t you check it out for me, etymology and definitions and such? I’ll get you a Mountain Dew if you find some good stuff.”

The Demon has a fondness for that yellow soft drink.

“Sounds like a fair deal, Larry! I’ll be right back!”

The creature flapped out across the Sea of Words. Before long he returned and dropped a bundle at my feet; it was wrapped in spirally-wrapped strips of sausage casing.

“I’m going back out to play with Blue some more! Don’t forget that Mountain Dew! Y’know, years ago I helped develop that soda recipe!”

I wasn’t surprised. The Demon takes human form from time to hime; he was a crucial figure in the Manhattan Project, believe it or not.

I picked up some scissors and cut through the sausage casing and found a papyrus scroll tightly rolled within. I spread the scroll out on a table and found these definitions, which seemed to be written with a brush with what looked like pokeberry ink:

Swine \Swine\, n. sing. & pl. [OE. swin, AS. sw[imac]n; akin to
OFries. & OS. swin, D. zwijn, G. schwein, OHG. sw[imac]n,
Icel. sv[imac]n, Sw. svin, Dan. sviin, Goth. swein;
originally a diminutive corresponding to E. sow. See {Sow},
n.] (Zool.)
Any animal of the hog kind, especially one of the domestical
species. Swine secrete a large amount of subcutaneous fat,
which, when extracted, is known as lard. The male is
specifically called boar, the female, sow, and the young,
pig. See {Hog}. “A great herd of swine.” –Mark v. 11.

Another shorter definition followed, a rather vague one which could be also used to describe certain people:

swine
n 1: stout-bodied short-legged omnivorous animals

Larry

After eight years of the Bush administration, I have to admit that I take some pleasure in watching the GOP flounder as they cast about for a party leader, someone with enough gravitas and political skill to more-or-less take the helm and set a direction.

What interests me is that most of the candidates for such leadership don’t even hold political office. Snarling and ogreish Dick Cheney has emerged from his undisclosed location these past few weeks, like Gollum venturing out of his cave, blinking at the unaccustomed sunlight, and he seems to be making an effort to talk with anyone on TV who will put up with him. Perhaps he is trying to validate a dubious legacy? He isn’t doing the GOP much good.

Then Newt Gingrich shows up — how long ago was he forced from office? Rush Limbaugh continues to bounce and bloviate. Sarah Palin gets into a trivial dispute with David Letterman over some jokes he made about her on his talk show.

It’s a political/media farce. I have some sympathy with certain GOP views, but the idea that we need less government is not one of them. People might cry and wail, but when you have a population the size of ours big government is inevitable. You might as well get used to it. A small federal government worked in the 19th Century but those days are gone forever.

Larry