Alexis waves from aquarium

 

Silverton Lodge has many attractions...feeding the rays and sharks is one of them.

Lions At Bass Pro Shops

 

No need to fear, this is a display...Las Vegas.

Ride

 

White-Tailed Kite

 

Good Morning from California

 

Nothing quite so refreshing for the spirit...unless it's coffee served in my favorite cup.

MGM Grand Lioness Takes A Drink

 

Valentine Heart

Yesterday it began, the heartbeat became personal
because I felt every beat--each rapid beat.
My chest pumps, my carotids swell,
my brain freezes and I get dizzy as hell.

I guess I'm old enough to know why,
it's the medication. I'm filled with drugs and have
to maintain my daily 'fix' for life, the doc said.

For life? How long will that be, will I be on drugs
til I die? No wonder the world is collapsing, I feel
as if we have too much stress worrying about what the
future holds, and many just give up. I'm thinking about it,
but where would that leave Pat?

She wants to get married but it's an alien thing to me.

I don't feel as if I have done her any favors by staying with her
this long, and yet it's too late to jump ship now. I'm beyond the point
of no return, heading to nowhere, feeling the heartbeat as if it were
talking to me personally. Where did I go wrong? What didn't I do right?

Thoughts on the post-Valentine's Day Crisis, Sunday morning..all because
I forgot to give Pat a card.

Damn.

Out Of The Fog

 

Last Rays

 

Taken from Simpson Park, Hemet, California with Diamond Valley Lake in the background.

Surf On The Rocks

 

Gulls and wind enhance the shot naturally.

Near Perris Landfill

 

View from road to the Perris (Ca) Dump.

View of the Diamond Valley Lake Dam

 

Taking A Break

 

After a day's riding, the cowboy takes a break, leaving his hat behind.

Hills, Tree, Wind and Rain

 

postprocessed shot of the hills in back of Barbara's home in San Jacinto, California.

Hummingbird In Meyer Lemon Blossoms

 

Photo taken at my friend Barbara's home in San Jacinto, California.

Casualty Of Katrina

 

Fishing boat aground in canal near Biloxi, Mississippi back bay where the huge 33' storm surge came through, killing several people during Hurricane Katrina, August 29, 2005. Photo taken in early October, 2005, post-processed for dramatic effect.

Autumn Leaves On Blue

 

Post-processed layered image using PaintshopPro 9 by JASC, and other filters. I like the end result. Let me know if you do by clicking on the like it or love it box.

747 At Miramar Air Show!

 

Late in the 2008 show which featured the U.S. Navy's famed Blue Angel Flight Demonstration Team, when people were departing, this amazing formation came roaring by. The Patriots FSD were escorting a privately owned (FRY's Electronics) Boeing 747 during several passes over the field; the 747 was as low as 30 feet above the runway at 275 knots!! One performance, one show, I'll never forget!

Double Lenticular Clouds on Mt. San Jacinto, CA

 

Rare cloud formation, a double lenticular atop Mt. San Jacinto, CA.

Pancakes

 

Rare Double Lenticular cloud formation resembling a stack of pancakes atop Mount San Jacinto, near Hemet, California.

Nowhere To Go

 

I went along a back road to a garbage dump near West Hemet, and photographed this couple with their dog. They were living in an adobe shack with no electricity or water, hand to mouth. They are on the path taken before during the Great Depression.

Winter Scene

 

Driving along the roads is where I get some of my best shots. I may drive onto a mountain firebreak, field roads, or just the highways. Here's one.

Fighting Spirit After Hurricane Katrina

 

The destruction along the Mississippi coast on August 29, 2005, looks much like this picture all along the 80 mile coastline. It was simply incredible. This picture is just a couple of blocks away from the beach, near the Armed Forces Retirement Home, where I lived.

AMERICAN PIE

 

Edward S. Bardwell with admirer.

February 1, 2009 Epiphany

For the past few days I have been engaging in heated jousting with some pretty stupid people at a place I knew well who were aching for a fight...and I gave it to them, wading in like I was protecting a defenseless lady. In a way I was. I really don't want to get into the details, suffice to say that it was extremely personal for me, and I traded barb for barb with at least three individuals cut of the same cloth: idiots. I was given some good advice to quit, but I didn't realize why until Mac told me the danger: before I became one of them. My friends didn't waste words with me, they scolded me like I was a wicked step-child.

I grew up with some pretty tight discipline, administered with a smoked rawhide handmade paddle by my grandfather inside the smokehouse in the near dark. Everyone in the neighborhood knew that when you went in, the procedure was to be instructed on your failings, and that the consequences would be the following: three healthy whacks on bare buttskin while bending over with your hands on your knees. One yelp of pain brought a fourth. Grandpa was pretty strict. I only went in there three times; the second time I got four whacks. I learn pretty fast.

So when my friends told me to shut up, I figured I should. I had the same type of epiphany as I did when I was ten, although this time it took a little time to sink in without the paddle. But hey, I'm 69 years young now and it's been a long time...

How time flies, and what strange events bring back fond memories of pain and punishment to teach me a lesson. All for the better...no punishment this time, and very little pain. I must be getting wiser!

Thanks, Mac, Ralph, and Wendy!

Beth from Brazil

Sights

As a kid, I used to watch Candid Camera--and now that I have my own lens (albeit the single image type) I revel in the occasional capture that is not set up, planned, or posed. One of my favorite photos is the one of two ladies in San Juan Capistrano walking their dog. The shot shows the love and concern of the two adults. I had seen them approaching as I prepared to have lunch with my girlfriend in a Mexican restaurant across the street from the old mission.

They were across the street--foolishly I had left my trusty Pentax *istDS in the car, not wanting to get salsa on it. I ran outside (as best I could, not as fleet or fit as I was in my younger years), hurriedly got into the car, retrieved the camera, and ran up the street to intercept them.

From Wildspirit Poetry, Prose, Pictures

So my capture of the year is titled, 'Walking The Dog.'

Taking Things To Heart

A thought just entered my mind a few minutes ago as I was watching a TV broadcast involving teaching grade-schoolers. Things have changed so drastically with the advent of the computer.

I remember when I was in the first grade, we had to memorize things until we knew them 'by heart.' What is the real correlation to memory and 'by heart'--is there any, or is it just a matter of semantics? Are both condemned to antiquity by the computer?

Now, no one 'memorizes' and the term 'by heart' is never heard. Everything is online. Just buzz it up, twitter it by, google it, ASK, or WIKIPEDIA or even YOUTUBE it!

Memory Lane...Cognitive or Recall is no longer relevant. Just hit a button.

I think when we committed something like the Pledge of Allegiance or the lyrics to America The Beautiful to memory that it meant a lot more than it does now.

We took it to heart back then.

A True Sea Story In The Bermuda Triangle

I was flying #3 seat (by engine with feathered propeller in photo) coming back from war games in Puerto Rico in February 1973. Our detachment had just returned from Danang, Vietnam, in December 1972. We thought it ludicrous to send us to an exercise, 'war games', from a real one.

Our flight of 7 STOOFS had just refueled at Grand Turk island in the Bahamas and were on our way to Quonset Point, R.I., our home base. I flew with the skipper, CDR Ed D. on the way down and on this flight back. He knew I didn't like to fly, and since I was the only qualified Parachute Rigger, I was 'volunteered.' I was also one of those 'volunteered' for VS-22 Det Danang.

We had been airborne for about 40 minutes heading deeper into the Bermuda Triangle (a very gray day) at 7500 feet in echelon formation, the skipper commanding the lead plane (AT112) I was in. The skipper broke over the intercom, telling me, "Pankey, keep an eye on your engine." No sooner than he spoke, the engine blew a jug and quit. "Watch for fire, Pankey," he commanded. No fire, but he actuated the bromine extinguisher anyway. Since we were loaded down with Puerto Rican Rum, we lost altitude like a rock, dropping from formation. He quickly feathered the prop and pushed the remaining engine to full throttle to maintain level flight. Even so, we dropped to 2000 feet before leveling off with an exaggerated nose-up attitude and were cruising at about 100 knots; normal cruise was about 200 knots.

NATOPS procedures dictated that with a flight emergency such as ours, we were to return to the nearest airfield and land. The skipper ignored that, not wanting to go back to Grand Turk, which had no maintenance facilities, so he violated NATOPS and headed to Homestead AFB, Fla. That really ticked off crewman Larry, who had ten years as an aircrewman under his belt.

The skipper directed AT114 to tag along with us and ordered the other five aircraft to maintain their course to Myrtle Beach NAS, South Carolina.

Flying on, the island of Bimini loomed below us and the skipper said, "Pankey, if we have to lighten load, you're out of here." (I think he was serious--because he knew I hated to fly--I was the one who packed the chutes and had jumped before, that required for my job). I told him to just drop me off over the beach, where, from 2000feet, I could see the bikini-clad beauties waiting for me. Heh heh. A fantasy of landing amongst them with a couple of bottles of rum kept me occupied until the skipper said, "we're going to make it," and we continued on to Homestead.

Coming into the pattern on one engine, the tower told us to go around and make way for a 'big boy' coming in. The skipper informed him that we were on a single-engine approach in an emergency status and demanded a straight-in emergency priority. For some reason, Homestead AFB was not notified of our emergency. The other aircraft was diverted and we were given priority for an emergency landing.

That's when the emergency vehicle lights on the ground came on and began making for the runway. Since they were activated for us, it sure did grab my attention as I thought of all the things that could happen...the foremost in my mind: the two-blocked remaining engine would seize and we would crash before reaching the runway.

We touched down uneventfully and taxied to a remote area where we met AT114 and quickly transferred cargo from one plane to the other. A couple of Air Force guys pitched in, for a reward, of course, so the transfer took a minimal amount of time, and remained undetected. That was the skipper's biggest fear, he confided later, that we would be forced to 'take the wire' and be smothered with foam, and then an investigation would ensue, which would undo his career. Thank God everyone looked the other way.

The contraband rum loaded aboard AT114, and the AT114 crew reassigned to stay with AT112 and bring it back after repairs, we took off minus ten-year aircrew veteran Larry, who threw in his wings and flew commercial from Miami back to New York's LaGuardia Field in a 707, which crash-landed!! I'll bet old Larry never flew again! But me? I flew co-pilot's seat, actually flying the STOOF (Grumman S-2F air antisubmarine squadron 22) all the way back up the coast, but the skipper took over during critical times including landing.

That was my last airplane ride. At our homecoming party a week later, liberally supplied with duty-free Puerto Rican Rum, other squadron members recalled how anxious I was boarding the old DC-6 for the West Coast on the first leg of our journey to help VRC-50 (Drifty Fifty)with VS-22 Det Danang, and bet that I was scared sh_tless when the engine blew on this trip.

I told them the truth: the pucker factor was a ten, and my eye level went up four inches although there is no vertical adjustment of the seat.

Larry never showed at the party.

Jim Pankey, USN (Ret.)
jpankey@gmail.com

 

Mount San Jacinto

I am the Queen, majestic in my white veil and flowing green attire as the winter sun rises to my eastern face;
no foul stench of the valley wind assails my nostrils, no blanket of brown, particulate-laden poisonous air gets any further than my foothills, the poor things. But with any luck they will ascend through the mess.

I feel the encroachment of the human race; they are like mites as they rustle up my flanks; some of them are good, but mostly they care not a whit what happens to me. They're not Avon oriented, I guess, but they do love those oily products which destroy them and which pronounce my own untimely demise.

There is nothing I can do; I am aging, my beauty fades---there are loyal followers who pamper me, there are still people fainting when they reach my bosom and find that mother Earth breathes and sighs. Oh, the beauty of youth is fleeting; my sisters across the globe have the same problems, although a few still have their their pert pointed pulchritudinous peaks and arrogance of youth, some exhaling the breath of fire to keep the multitudes a good distance away. Their royalty is assured for...for who knows how little precious time?

I see, more than anyone, the sooty cloak of death from the metropolis spread, the urban sprawl in the west, yet that and those terrible fires produce some beautiful sunsets for me, and I am flattered that photographers find my countenance so commanding, so alluring. They help me forget. They seem to focus more on my coiffure than the majesty of me as a whole, however, but that's just the nature of the beast, I guess.
I have given them the best days of my life, wearing a necklace of gossamer mist, my face aglow with the fading sunlight; I always look best in the evening, don't you agree? I can't help it, I'm female, part of Mother Earth, so forgive me if I blow up a little storm. You're lucky I don't let off a little steam.

On rare occasions I wear a crown, sometimes two. Those are very special to me. I embrace the photographers and they give back to me. So they are my special people, along with the poets. I may age, my beauty may fade, but I am always willing to accommodate admirers. Oh, where are those Avon ladies?

My First Bigmouth Bass

My dad took us to Alexandria, Minnesota for a week's vacation in the early '50s. He took me fishing, from a rental boat. I remember the lure: a Hula Popper.
He told me where he thought the big bass in the lake was, and how to look for the places that would provide good ambush points.

Dad pointed out a likely location, a break in the lily pads away from the huge mass of them, and told me to cast the frog design Hula Popper into the small clearing separating them and to let it sit.

I did. The Hula Popper's rubber tails (like a hula skirt, which gave the lure it's name) danced and wiggled and I could imagine a huge bass giving it the eye as it enticed him into the strike.

Nothing happened. Then dad said to just twitch the lure a little bit.

The water exploded and I was completely hooked on bass fishing!

Although the bass only weighed 2.5 pounds, it was enough to pull me in for a lifetime in pursuit of the Largemouth Bass.

December 22, 2008 11:07 AM

Snow

I wore a set of longjohns underneath my jeans and had my uncle's wool navy watch cap on my head; my mom cut two eyeholes in it so I wore it down to my neck and she wrapped a scarf around it and tucked it in to my coat. She wouldn't let me go outside without making sure I was dressed properly.

It was cold outside, but no wind. Snowflakes--big, heavy ones--fell so thick I could barely see my friends on the levee not 100 yards away. I ran out the gate, my warm breath condensing on the inside, wetting my lips.

My American Flyer sled flew down the levee dozens of times, faster than the others, and the snowflakes coated my eyebrows. It was always wet snow in southern Illinois, not the powdery stuff, since we were so close to the river, and snowballs were easy to make. Lifesized ones, too. We had a great time, zipping down the hill, running back up, zipping down again, repeat...snowballs flew at the moving targets, but no one got hurt today.

By the time mom called me I was wet, shivering with the cold, my nose beginning to run and to freeze despite the wool. I was glad she called, and I left my friends to go in for some hot chicken noodle soup. What a great morning. I prayed it would keep snowing so I could go back out after my clothes dried and the soup warmed me up. Unless I was hurt, mom would let me. So if I was sore, I never let her know it. It was fun when I was a kid.

Now I'm in southern California...and the snow is above 4000 feet. Can't quite run up that hill at all! But I remember the taste and feel of the snowflakes of my childhood. I wish I could go back to that levee of so long ago.

Life: My Favorite Hobby

We were talking about giving and receiving a little while ago, and here are my presents (giving) to my significant other:
(1) diamond pendant on gold chain
(2) gold earrings, large hoop
(3) gold earrings, medium hoop

In return, I received:
(1) Clapper Plus
(2) Handbook for Geriatrics, Treatment of Problematic Foot Odor and Care Of The Colon

Christmas 2008.

Moley Willows Corner

Moley Willows Corner

Giving

You make a living by what you get, but you make a life by what you give.

Unknown source

Trains and Planes--Christmas in the '40s

I love old steam trains and jet airplanes. Both were just coming into regular service in the late '40s, when I was still a kid, not even ten years old. Everyone still stopped and looked up at the jet trails in the sky, but no one paid much attention to the new diesel engines. Engines were still on the front of the train, and cabooses were on the rear. I had always wanted a model steam train.

Christmastime was special for the family. Although not devout churchgoers, my family (which included my grandma M who lived with us) was like most in the area, dependent upon the railroad for livelihood. I grew up with stories of adventure alongside the tracks where my dad and uncles had 'hitched' a freight to the West Coast (and Alaska) before the war to find work during the depression years. My uncles and he were borne off to fight WWII by the old steam engines. My grandpa P was an inspector for the old Illinois Central RR, whose tracks were not 100 yards in back of our house. The house shook as the GM&O Special sped by with its load of freight.

There were no TVs in our neighborhood yet, so the family gathered round the radio or the old Victor gramophone to listen to Christmas songs. Caroling was also popular and some Christmases we would be treated to a bunch of people who braved the cold to sing their carols, usually 'Silent Night' and 'Hark! The Herald Angels Sing. You know the kind. Before Bing Crosby's White Christmas. I was a teenager when that became 'the song'.

Anyway, the story of this particular Christmas morning foray was told to everyone on the morning of Christmas Day when my step-father (never called him dad, wish I would have and told him so later in life--he was a great guy who raised us the best way he could) told everyone what I had done the night before, after the tree was off. Everyone conserved electricity in those days, a carryover from the war effort.

My step-dad followed my tracks in the snow from the back door, where I had snuck out because the living room was 'sealed off at the french doors' early on. I had gone out the back basement door, around the side of the house to enter the front door, leaving a trail of boot tracks in the snow coming and going, tracking snow in all the while. Puddles of water where each boot stepped led to the tree, which was encircled by a beautiful little Lionel HO gauge model train. It smoked. It had a headlight. It had a whistle. Wow. I had a blast playing with it while eating Mars bars and cookies. I went out the front door when I was startled by a noise and went back to bed, where I'm sure I dreamed of a jet airplane, and next Christmas.

It's now 1:15am on Christmas Day as I remember this; having a glass of vanilla spice eggnog and piece of Cadbury chocolate as I write. They don't make Mars candybars anymore. Burp. Goodnight, and Merry Christmas! Oh, yes...I did get the jet airplane too!

Lost Sailor Epitaph

Seven Times The Ship's Bell Rings
Seven Stars Overhead
Seven Angels Spread Their Wings
Seven Seas My Bed

I wrote that aboard ship back in '63 for a good officer and friend, Lieutenant Commander J.T. Park, USNR, who was last seen in his F-3H Demon heading straight down in afterburner somewhere in the huge dark Pacific Ocean. His manner of leadership was not what he wore on his collar, it was more like being a friend--unlike some fighter pilots, the prima donnas we despised. John went on liberty with us enlisteds in places like Olongapo and Hong Kong. We searched the black ocean for 72 hours but recovered nothing. RIP.

Oh, by the way, there is reason to the use of the number Seven: Biblically, it meant 'many.' However, Seven Bells in this case was 2330 military time (11:30pm) when he disappeared. Seven Stars is the Constellation ORION, which has four major stars including the brightest in our night sky outlining the archer and the steed, three stars in his belt, and three stars in the dagger sheath The Hunter wears. Being a Fighter Pilot, he was indeed a 'Hunter.' Seven Angels is the protecion from the highest order he received, and Seven Seas is what the ancient world knew existed.

I was going to write about Davy Jones but since he was my boss (First Class Parachute Rigger) in Fighter Squadron 193 (The World Famous Ghostriders) aboard the U.S.S. Bon Homme Richard (CVA-31) I thought it prudent not to. That's the story, and in Navy vernacular, since it's true, it should begin with, 'Now, this ain't no shit.'

Jim Pankey, USN (Ret.)

The Wild Hatch

We're Old Hen's Brood, in Uproarious mood--
We've Emerged our Shells today!
Arrived in a Quandary, as an Old Maid's Laundry,
Instinctively at Bay:

Though we're Safe in the Yard,
Who says the Gate's Barred To Keep the Fox Away?

We Would Like To Play!

But Old Mother Hen's Wing is the Heaviest Thing
And All Our World's Her Nest,
So Who's to Stop Our Wondering,
Or Protest Our Protest?