Flying High

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I mean literally "Flying high". Carol and I have flown to various countries.

Once flying over the South American Andes, in the dead of night, I looked out the window and actually saw a red light blinking aways below the wings of our plane. The Andes are over 15,000 feet tall, and we were flying at 39,000 feet. I quickly deduced it wasn't a light on top of a mountain. Then of course I could have had one of those midnight hallucinations. I finally rested my weary brain by telling myself, "We just passed another airplane."

We flew over the Sahara Desert. Keeping track of the plane's monitor, I knew for sure I was over the desert when I took this picture.

A desert is dry. I know the Sahara doesn't have any lakes. But where do those reflections come from?

We flew over the Amazon.

From the picture you can tell it doesn't know where it wants to flow. This shot is way upstream. Many tributaries that size join in. You can imagine how big the river is 2,000 miles further downstream.

We flew over the pacific. The Boeing 747-400 flew at 40,000 feet. Below is a shot of the sun reflecting off the water.

Again over the pacific, this scene was a bit of a puzzle. Among the white clouds are also black clouds. Where did they come from? Note! The black clouds are actually shadows of the white clouds on the water.

Sometimes we fly on itty-bitty planes. Out of Caracas to Port Aiacucho (spell?),Venezuela, our team sent our luggage ahead on a truck because it wouldn't fit onto the aircraft. After our flight, we waited five days before our bags arrived. No use getting bent out of shape, at least the truck wasn't held-up and robbed.

I can assure you, the intimacy of riding on a small plane is worth the crunch. I got to sit with my feet in the cockpit of the plane.

That aircraft was fully equipped with all the newest emergency gadgets. You bet we all felt real safe seeing the flashlight hanging behind the pilot.

It plainly stated: EMERGENCY FLASHLIGHT.  Is't it a wonderful life?


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That's My Boy!

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Beisser's wisdom trade mark

At a recent family gathering, my daughter-in-law told a story about the investigating prowess of her husband.

Apparently, my son had been observing bees crawling in and out of the attic of his house through an opening between the brick facade and the soffit.

I can see clearly how the story developed.

While sleeping by his wife in their bed one night, my son became aware of a strange buzzing. It wasn't the noise of a mouse in the attic. It wasn't the heat pump running. It wasn't the toilet being stuck or a fan somewhere in the house.

Having eliminated all scenarios, he came to the conclusion that it is an active bee's hive, in the attic, directly over their bed.

When his wife awoke by the strange jostling of the mattress, she turned to see in the dim light where the disturbance originated.

There, before her blurred eyes, next to her head, were a pair of hairy bare legs, standing on the bed.

"What in the world," she gasped, as her eyes travelled up, past the bony knees, past the jockey shorts, past the ample girth, all the way to under her husbands chin. There he stood, engrossed.

Quickly he whispered to his wife,  "hush-up."

He stood, arms stretched upward, his stethoscope stuck in the ears, holding the end against the ceiling, listening, to the buzz of the swarm in the attic.

A picture forever, no doubt, in my daughter-in-law's mind.

As my Sherlock Holmes boy moved the stethoscope from spot to-spot to-spot around the ceiling, he determined the center of the hive in the attic, above the sheetrock, among the insulation.

Now, facts accumulated, he formulated his solution.

Right or wrong, the Beisser men alway have a solution. Dumb, maybe. . . Odd, maybe. . . Never been done this way before, maybe. . . . A solution nonetheless.

It is now three o'clock in the morning. 'My boy' is going to see this adventure through to the end. He goes to the basement to gather the weapons for the late night battle.

With a thin drill bit, he drills through the sheetrock ceiling, above the bed, at the predetermined center of the bustling hive. He then removes the thin 10-W-40 nozzle from its can and inserts into the hornet bomb canister. With calculated precision he sticks the nozzle through the drilled hole and lets her rip. (I mean the hornet spray!)

An instant roaring buzz in the attic conveyed a direct hit with the hornet spray.

As the critters upstairs scattered and croaked, the buzz simmered down. He turns the bedroom light off, and lays back down to sleep.

Then, a sigh of relieve, a job well done, the blissful quiet returns to the night, . . . oops, . . . a drip.

Drip . . . drip . . . drip . . . the bug-bomb-juice is dripping from the hole in the ceiling, unto the pillow, between the sleeping beauties below.

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Leftovers, Yum Yum

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I'm one who treats leftovers the same as a steak dinner. I don't want to bore you, but I remember a time when picking up the crumbs on the table, with spittle stuck to my finger, and eating them.

It pains me to see people go through an all-you-can-eat line, fill up the plate to the hilt, then leave two-thirds to be thrown out. All I want to say to them, "You should have to live in Darfur for a year."

To come back to a more pleasing story, I want to show you a new creation I call "Chicken Cakes".

Recently, Carol and I enjoyed a rotisserie chicken from Walmart. We couldn't eat it all, most of the breast was left over.

I chopped the chicken breast to about the size of crab meat.

The left over mash potatoes were added as filler.

In the fridge was part of an onion which I chopped, added an egg to hold it all together.

Put everything into a bowl, add salt and pepper. (I also added marjoram, my favored spice). Stir it all up, make into patties, and fry'm.

Sure looks like crab cakes to me!


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Snubbed By A Mouse.

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Several days ago, I saw something move along the baseboard in the laundry room. A chubby long mouse! I went to the basement and got the trap. The same trap my younger grandsons play with by setting it, then tripping the thing with a pencil. Much to their delight.

I've been catching mice with peanut butter for many years. It is easy to put on the trap and the critters love it. . . . I thought.

I set the baited trap, placed it on a napkin, and laid it under the antique sewing machine, away from our adventurous pooch, for I know he would investigate and wind up with a mousetrap hanging from his mustache.

The first day the napkin had mysteriously shifted, but the trap still in tact.
. . . The second day a deliberate, nicely placed mouse bomb looked at me from the white napkin. It spoke volumes, saying, "Hey dude, I don't dine on smeared peanut butter goo. I'm past that stage. You know exactly what I like . . . cheese."

Well, I felt a bit indignant that the critter pooped on the serving tray of my initial offer. I vowed to not offend the pompous intruder again.

A chunk of parmesan cheese, highly pungent, sent a new signal to the snob mouse.

One the third day, there he was, having enjoyed the cheese so much that he rolled over, with the trap on top of him, wearing the whole thing like a new necklace.

After a ceremonial flush he went to join Bin Laden.

I didn't take a picture to show you, thought my words are graphic enough.

(The mouse turned out to be a vole. A short-taild rodent that follows moles and eats the root veggies in the garden,)


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Squirrels, I got your number!

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Quite a while back I bragged about out-smarting the neighborhood squirrels. Actually the feeder I built does work. The little buggers can't reach to top of the PVC pipe to pull themselves up. A good thing.

"Hello," the squirrel hollered to his friends. "A new scoop of bird seeds is showing!"

"Problem is guys, I can't reach the top." He admitted. So, he slid down the skinny pole to sit on the deck railing.
He sat there, pretending to enjoy the scenery, all the while clucking out explicits to the birds who came to partake.

First the cardinal.

Then the woodpecker. I tell you in the pecking order of dominance of the bird world, nobody messes with the peckerwood, as some folks call them. Not even the bluejay dares to go near him. I guess, one whop of that powerful beak could kill any bird.

Very timidly, the squirrel tried his luck one more time. Again he wound up on the deck floor eating the crumbs scattered from above.

Reminds me of the Rich man and Lazarus in the bible. Lazarus wound up eating the crumbs that fell from the rich man's table, as the dogs licked his sores. . . . I guess the squirrel will wind up in heaven as well, if he cleans up his language.


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I'm Off To Chase A Rabbit

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As a foreigner, having to learn a new language at 15, I find myself still learning 55 years later.

For me to encounter a new saying is kind of fun. I like to think of the origin of certain words, or a string of words.

For instance: What is a "doozy"? . . .  Why do some people get "Drunk as a skunk"? . . .  What is a "Puddle jumper"? . . . Why are some "Loose as a goose", and others get "Stoved up"? . . . Why do some folks "Cut out the light", and others "Turn out the light"?

I have a neighbor that told me he will carry his pony to our house so my boys can ride it.

Why are some folks "Off to the races"? . . . While others are "Off to see the wizard". Still others are "Off to see a man about a horse".

Some are "Off on a tangent", while never getting "Off their duff".

Some are so far "Off track", they are "Off to la-la-land", until someone turns them around to go "Off to face the music".


I don't want to go on, but this is getting ridiculous. I'm glad I didn't have to learn Chinese.

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No Shortage Of Van Goghs

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Art session begins with the chalk ledge on the white board loaded with bubble gum.

I wrote, "This is the day", the grandchildren finished the verse.

The instruction were: use your fingers only. Don't mix colors, but dab the base colors, side-by-side onto the paper. Let the eye mix the colors. The base colors were a cyan blue, a yellow, and a red. The kids were also encouraged to use white for highlights.

I love this close-up. This is a purely accidental happening. By looking at it, ones imagination is triggered.

This close-up is powerful. It smacks you in the face. It says "Hey don't mess with me!"

After one hour of fingerdippin fun the following masterpieces are making history.

Not to be outdone, the youngest of our Van Goghs shows off her rainbow and sunglasses.

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