boom

     boom came to my hospital room after my horrendous car wreck as i lay recovering from a broken jaw.  my mother was there when he arrived, sports magazines clutched in his massive paw.  boom was an ex vikings linebacker, big, solid and hard as nails.  he was a bouncer in one of the gin mills i frequented in those days.

"here. these are for you," he mumbled, pushing the pulp into my lap.  "you need anything, you call boom.  hear."

with that he retreated.

like some of my other guests he frightened my ma.

aerostar

     i had a friend who owned an aerostar - a sleek, twin engined, very fast, prop plane.  we used to fly to atlantic city, to gamble, some evenings after work.  it took twenty minutes from new castle county airport, where he kept her, to bader field on great island, just west of the resort.  there was a small administration building where we checked in...outside there was  usually a cab idling to take us to the casino of our choice.

     one night we flew over but on arrival things seemed quiet - the "office" was dark and no cabs were sitting at the exit door.  we hadn't known, or realized, that the city had closed bader so had to make our way to the boardwalk on foot...it took us longer to get to the craps tables than the duration of our flight.  i also remember on our return, taking off into a light north east breeze, that the air conditioners atop the trump tower seemed very close to our landing gear.

     the last time i made the trip we ran into snow on our way home.  in the landing lights, at a hundred plus miles an hour, the flakes were enormous, beautiful, and slightly ominous.  when we arrived at new castle county airport the main runways had been plowed - but not the taxiways.  as a consequence, when we turned off to head for the administration building we immediately foundered and sat, stuck in the snow, until a plow arrived to tow us, slowly, to safety.

i don't remember whether we won or lost - but i suspect the latter.

goddamn

the warmongers....they are beating their drums again.

  think of the travesty of iraq.  god knows how much of our nation's treasure spent , how little gained, and the fiscal cost... for naught.  the country is in turmoil yet...turmoil of our making.  and afghanistan...what a disaster and a lesson not learned.  the brits couldn't tame it - the russians left with their tails between their legs, and we have been pounded for ten years - and counting.

  now comes syria with all the possibilities of mayhem it represents - and the drums are sounding.  we CANNOT put troops on  the ground there...even if our ally, israel, is attacked.  materiel support...okay - naval blockades...okay - drones...okay, but keep our service men and women out of harm's way!

  this is a changed, and ever changing, world...we'd better learn well that religion and tribal affiliation are key to the upheaval we are currently experiencing - and will continue to be so for the foreseeable future.

  i am not optimistic.

caviar, smoked salmon, and oysters

     caviar...twice a year - a mother of pearl spoon - birthday and christmas...sancerre...or champagne if you prefer....

     smoked salmon...quarterly - toast points, diced onions, capers, and a lemon...chilean sauvignon blanc....

     oysters...monthly - plump and salty, in mid afternoon...a little vodka, and bed....

chokoloskee

     swan and i went to chokoloskee one fall to fish for snook with gil drake, our key west friend and tarpon guide.  ed watson's ghost stalked us the whole time we were there.  we had both read peter matthiessen's novel KILLING MISTER WATSON and part of our interest in the fishing had to do with visiting the scene of the killing - which actually took place in front of ted smallwood's store, not far from where gil docked his boat.

edgar, ed, e.j., jack watson - call him what you may - was a formidable character in southwest florida in the early years of the twentieth century.  he came to that part of the country via south carolina and oklahoma - where it is said he had killed belle star.  he farmed - successfully - an old indian mound at chatham bend just south of chokoloskee and, rather than pay them at the close of harvest season, killed several of his farm hands. some number of other murders or disappearances were attributed to him as well.  he so terrified the locals that, at last, they shot him down in a group as he was coming ashore to purchase supplies.  much murkiness surrounds his killing - certainly enough to support his ghostly presence. 

the people of chokoloskee are not particularly friendly - especially to yankee fishermen and i suppose that helped with our feeling of dread.  gil took us by the chatham bend homestead - nothing remained, he said, but the cistern.  i knew from my reading that the government, when it created the park had burned down all man made structures within its boundaries but that did nothing to dispel the willies.  i felt like a kid on his first halloween.

we didn't catch many snook - though we both developed bursitis in our casting shoulders skittering our flies in under the mangroves hour after hour.  we certainly felt mister watson's presence, menacing even today, a hundred years later.    

a useful phrase

    


          "...i'll warm your biscuits...."


as in, "if you don't stop that, i'll warm your BISCUITS...."

                                     or

         "you can bet i'll warm YOUR biscuits...."



use it any way you'd like, just give me credit, please....ANON.

garissa

     the little town in northeastern kenya was hot and dusty as we pulled in from the south in july of 1971.  the main street, the only street, was quiet in the midday heat, the odd mongrel dog peering at us from the meager shade of a storefront overhang - a rooster scratching hither and yon, cackling loudly as our three vehicle entourage pulled to a stop in front of patel's general store.

the day before we'd flown from nairobi to malindi on kenya's east coast, occasionally idling on one wing over tsavo's elephant herds - "that's what we're after boys - a big tusker," shouted glen over the engine's clamor.  at malindi we joined the trucks for the trip north to cross to the tana river's east bank at garissa.

we passed through garsen, heading north to galole where we planned to fly camp - sleep under the stars - before pushing on.  in the morning we kicked aside the thorn boma surrounding our beds [to keep the lions at bay], had a quick coffee and were on our way.  rumbling through numerous little villages with names like makere, wenje, and bili [swahili for two], we eventually arrived at mr. patel's establishment.  after gassing up, swallowing some of mr. patel's sweet indian chai and whistling up the boys [some of whom had gone to get their backs straightened at the local whore house] we  swung east, crossed  the tana and turned south - our objective was hunting block 16a - elephant territory.

i tell this tale because garissa has lately been in the news...as the center of a somali/kenyan war.  the territory we hunted - east of the tana - has long been  disputed.  the somals claim it as theirs - the kenyans likewise.  i don't know why either would want it, it is godforsaken - dry and flat, bush covered with only the odd water hole breaking the hard desert country.  a few somali bomas dot the area.  nothing else but elephant and a gaunt lion or two populate the place.  the elephant gave rise to poaching gangs of deadly efficiency in the late 70s and shifta, somali thugs, ran raids in the old days into kenya - and mr. patel's store [as he so fervently swore] -  from time to time.

now there is a full  fledged war raging and garissa is at its center.  at the moment kenya holds the advantage, but if al qaeda sees a reason to enter on the side of the somals things may change.  god help mr. patel and his chickens should that occur.