OUR SENIOR MOMENT: FATAL ERROR

WHAT"S THIS ALL ABOUT

OUR SENIOR MOMENT is a blog site by Wayne M. Patten. The intention herewith is to be serious when warranted, have as much fun as we can, bring forth accurate information not always disseminated honestly - and to poke fun at everyone's ability to have blank fruitless moments - young and older. You can participate by sending along your comments. Just keep them clean. I reserve the right to fire back :-)

Also - If you wish to contact me privately with blog ideas or a point that you would like to share here, you are welcome to email me at ourseniormoment@gmail.com.

"My mind not only wanders, it sometimes leaves Planet Earth"

(WMP)

My loyalty and patriotism is loyalty and patriotism to one's country - not to its institutions or its office holders. The country, its states, counties, cities, towns and villages are the real thing, the substantial thing, the eternal thing. America, in all its being, is the thing to watch over, and care for, and be loyal and patriotic toward - not its leaders.

(WMP)

Whom Is Controlling Whom

There is a “power-group” in every town that spends everyone’s tax dollars. There is also “always” another extravagantly more powerful group authorizing the first group to spend those millions of dollars. We call the first cohort “Voters” - the second “Non-Voters.” Staying home is an unbelievably influential act.

SO - BEFORE YOU HEAD-OUT; PLEASE CHECK THE HOLY WEATHER: (click here) http://home.att.net/~hideaway_today/t133/noah.htm

OR - JUST PERK YOURSELF UP:

http://www3.telus.net/public/a7a55952/thoughts.htm

WMP

HOW DO I KNOW, WHERE DO I GO, HOW DO I GET OFF

My younger and more talented friend, Lara Bricker, a columnist and reporter for Seacoast Media Group (Portsmouth Herald, Exeter Newsletter, etc.) once wrote,"Wayne Patten has an opinion about everything." I thought about suing her butt off then decided her impish smile and ability to make me laugh inside is more important. TO HELL WITH THE LAWSUIT! That's a good place for all lawsuits. Besides, Lara is correct. I find life exciting and interesting - just about everything interest me. And I surely have some kind of voiced opinion about just about everything drawing my attention. Especially religion and politics. This is natural for me - I favor those subjects shunned as unsafe to discuss. Oh! Well! It keeps life's currents swirling - which generates sustaining oxygen. To see Lara's impish smile go to her blog site at http://brickersblog.blogspot.com/ or click on her link above.

October 15, 2008

FATAL ERROR

Throughout America we historically refer to our Congressmen/women, Senators and Representatives, as “Lawmakers.” Consequently – these people feel obligated to write and enact laws.

Back in time, America was lawless. Now, America is law laden. Burdened. Crippled. Weighted by too many government laws. The laws of Nature say we will collapse or suffocate. As a last breath effort lets start labeling these people “Law Repealers.” Maybe We Can Get Our Individual Freedom Back!

WMP

0 comments:

SPACE THOUGHTS

You are aging, but you are not getting old - - UNLESS YOU PREFER.
(wmp)

I suspect that God created death for the same reason he/she invented weeding - to allow those young to grow.
(wmp)

Professors know no more than that which they choose. Acadamia gives them credibility.
(wmp)

The church is always trying to get other people to reform; It might not be a bad idea to reform itself a little by way of example.
(Mark Twain)

If God created Jesus and if we hve only one God and God isn't dead - How did Jesus become God?
(wmp)

Remember - Everyone seems normal until you get to know them.
(unknown)

Deism is still the greatest faith going; within it, you can not pass the responsibility for your actions onto God.
(wmp)

The noblest work of God is - Man.
Who found this out? - Man.
(Mark Twain )

THAT OLD MAN

There he is again! That old man! There. Staring at me. It’s undermining! I spoke to him several times earlier asking him to please stay out of my face. I don’t believe he will harm me but he gets in my way in a discomforting manner - now, almost every day. Strange, he has a familiar aura about him. Like - - someone I should remember from younger years. But that distance is veiled by white hair and tired green eyes looking steadily back at me like they know my total soul - my complete being, every thought I ever had, every mistake I ever made.

His face isn’t mean. It’s just hardened, baked in the sunny, icy, windy, ovens of nature. I don’t remember hurting anyone so much that they would stalk me or hire someone to do such. As days pass, this guy is limiting me. Maybe it is psychological, but, the more this guy shows-up the more worn I feel. I don’t like that feeling! Who’s doing what to whom here, I have a forty-year-old mind. I know where I’m at! I am before the bathroom vanity mirror with shaving cream on my face not recognizing who’s looking back.

I CONFESS TO ---

A few years ago I told Exeter Newsletter reporter, Lara Bricker, a story about my teen years that she often prods me to allow her to repeat in print. The conversation where this bit of trivia surfaced was a casual environment meant for laughter and fun. Nonetheless, Lara still occasionally needles to publish this little unimportant tidbit about my jail time. Just to be a spoiler – I deny Lara – and as I have inherent copyrights – I will share the tale with you here though:

This sorrowful drama takes place in Skowhegan, Maine, a small city located on the Kennebec River. Skowhegan is downriver and east of my birthplace, Anson, Maine, by 10 miles. The city is the county seat for Somerset County. My step-dad was a deputy sheriff of the county. The county jail was nearly centered within Skowhegan proper. I’ll say twenty-five-percent of the prison population were intentional repeat offenders. When released from jail they often headed downtown to get drunk then throw a rock through a store window or just vandalize a car or truck – or two. Some of the guys didn’t even bother with the drunkard part. After all, the idea was to get thrown back into the jail - home to these otherwise homeless souls. The jail was warm. The prisoners cooked and served their own food. The food was great, especially the jail baked bread.

When the time was available, after school, I occasionally drove down to Skowhegan jail. I liked being around my Dad and I liked the Jail Birds. Also, I had a private secret. I was drawn to that jailhouse for a definite logical reason.

My mother had the most lovable personality anyone could hope to meet. She was a darling who glowed warmth and friendship. Of course much of her happiness was because she was elated to have a perfect, handsome, intelligent, creative, redheaded son such as I. But - for all of her fine qualities and glorious gift from the Creator – Mother was short change of one talent. That shortcoming got me thrown into the county hooch-cow.

I was fortunate that I always arrived at the jail at mealtime. The food was fantastic! The jail-baked bread was out of this world. And – There – I first tasted delicious hot buttered biscuits dipped in molasses.

The permanent residents of the jail wore the High Sheriff’s and my Dad’s patients. They decided to make the accommodations less desirable. They purchased harsh color yellow paint and put the prisoners to work.

My ever-increasing visits and incredible luck at hitting the jail at mealtime were also disturbing my Dad. He told me to stop hanging out there. Several times he advised me that Mother was disturbed with my missing meals at home. I didn’t listen.

The solution finally was – father said, “If you like this jail so dam much you can stay here!” He arrested me and threw me into a cell then went home. The entire cell section of the jail was a horrible depressing yellow I had not before seen. Walls – floor – ceiling - bars. I laughed. Four hours later I wasn’t laughing. I wanted to go home – even if I did have to eat my mother’s terrible over-cooked, often burnt, cooking.

I spent the night in jail. Thereafter, I avoided all jails – no matter how much I missed good food. Oh! Those repeat offenders – most of them gave up on jails also. The next time you see a sheriff’s cruiser, pray a little prayer for me – and remember that there is no such thing as an absolutely perfect Mom. It was all her fault!!

WMP

An Excuse For The Rebel Above

Round-about 1632 the first of my family landed at Pemaquid Point, Maine - shipwrecked after dodging pirates for months. That event started the American Blaisdell clan. Now - - we of Blaisdell blood have an unruely history. After all - Ralph (the shipwrecked guy) was escaping the bullets of the King when he crashed into America. But, we cannot take anything away from the Blaisdells - the decendents shyed from oceans ever after Ralph. We have a 350 year history of merchants and farmers starting at York, Maine. My youngest daughter pictured above with her pal, dodges no light from the Blaisdell generations. From childhood she listened to little other than the hoot of her own owl. She grew to become a merchant in Mount Vernon, Washington. Along with her career she is a gentlewoman farmer. Only thing is, her hooting owl forgot to tell her it tain't too brainey to stick one's head into the mouth of an animal.

(Authored with Love)
WMP

JOHN THE FARMER

John was in the fertilized egg business. He had several hundred young layers (hens), called 'pullets,' and ten roosters to fertilize the eggs. He kept records, and any rooster not performing went into the soup pot and was replaced. This took a lot of time, so he bought some tiny bells and attached them to his roosters. Each bell had a different tone, so he could tell from a distance, which rooster was performing. Now, he could sit on the porch and fill out an efficiency report by just listening to the bells. John's favourite rooster, old Butch, was a very fine specimen, but this morning he noticed old Butch's bell hadn't rung at all! When he went to investigate, he saw the other roosters were busy chasing pullets, bells-a-ringing, but the pullets, hearing the roosters coming, could run for cover. To John's amazement, old Butch had his bell in his beak, so it couldn't ring. He'd sneak up on a pullet, do his job and walk on to the next one. John was so proud of old Butch, he entered him in the Renfrew County Fair and he became an overnight sensation among the judges. The result was the judges not only awarded old Butch the No Bell Piece Prize but they also awarded him the Pulletsurprise as well. Clearly old Butch was a politician in the making. Who else but a politician could figure out how to win two of the most highly coveted awards on our planet by being the best at sneaking up on the populace and screwing them when they weren't paying attention. Vote carefully this year, the bells are not always audible

(Contributed by my lifelong friend - Carl)

RECOGNIZE A STROKE

RECOGNIZING A STROKE

Remember the 3 steps, STR .

Sometimes symptoms of a stroke are difficult to identify. Unfortunately, the lack of awareness spells disaster. The stroke victim may suffer severe brain damage when people nearby fail to recognize the symptoms of a stroke. Now doctors say a bystander can recognize a stroke by asking three simple questions:

S = Ask the individual to SMILE.

T = Ask the person to TALK and SPEAK A SIMPLE SENTENCE (Coherently) (i.e. It is sunny out today)

R * Ask him or her to RAISE BOTH ARMS.

If he or she has trouble with ANY ONE of these tasks, call 999/911 immediately and describe the symptoms to the dispatcher.

New Sign of a Stroke -------- Stick out Your Tongue NOTE: Another 'sign' of a stroke is this: Ask the person to 'stick' out his tongue.. If the tongue is 'crooked', if it goes to one side or the other , that is also an indication of a stroke.

A cardiologist says if everyone will e-mail this message; you can bet that at least one life will be saved.

THE BEES FLEW THE COUP - OH!! - - THE HIVE

I love honey! Oh Yes! I won’t lie to you - The human honey, as well as bee honey. But I am aging now. Oh! Oh! There I go again.

Nonetheless, I eat honey nearly every day. I use it on my cereal, on my toast, any situation where I once used sugar. It’s healthy. But I think I am proof that it is fattening.

I saw on 60 Minutes that the honeybees that I now depend on are disappearing – taking off to God only knows where. I also learned that honey production is a small industry compared with bee pollination. When the nations farmers call, bee breeders/farmers truck millions of hives all around American and Canada. Most of these large beekeepers are in the southern states. Farmers from all around pay thousand of dollars to have these hot little insects’ six legs drawing their pollinating little tales all over their flowering crops. These little creatures, billions in numbers, are credited with helping produce 1/3rd of the crops we all eat. Their disappearance is one hell-of-a walk out.

I also discovered that one beekeeper from down south trucks thousands of hives to the blueberry territory in Maine. It happens I have had plenty of exposure to bees, helping move them from apple orchard to apple orchard with my pal Tom. I know they are not nearly as mean as many folks fear. I feel no fear. Just the same I can’t help laughing my tail-end off thinking about the panicky scurrying that takes place when the bee clouded tractor-trailer pulls into a gas station or motel – or more so – Wal-Mart parking lot for a nap. No lot loving for that operator.

Smiles aside, the bee fly-out is a serious matter. In 2006 one quarter of America’s 2.4 million beehives collapsed, killing billions of pollinators. Beekeepers were finding their hives empty. It is natural for bees to fly away from their hives to die. But dead bees aren’t found on the ground around these hives nor are they located within a normal distance of flight.

Thus far, cell phones are ruled out as a cause. Today’s insecticides are suspect but there is little evidence supporting the theory. A bee’s life span is six-weeks, three in the cell and hive readying to be born into adulthood, three working. Then they fly away to die of old age. Some scientist feel something is shortening their lifespan – but none as yet know what.

I’ve weighed the situation and come to a plausible solution of my own. It is that Maine syndrome. I know. I grew up there. Once you leave a little honey in Maine you just have to go back. “Maine Is What Life Should Be.”

WMP

OUR SENIOR MOMENT

WHAT"S THIS ALL ABOUT

Whom Is Controlling Whom

About Me

HOW DO I KNOW, WHERE DO I GO, HOW DO I GET OFF

October 15, 2008

FATAL ERROR

0 comments:

From Snow Covered Mountains

Too Every Nook In America

They Are Guideing Us

INTERESTING LINKS

LIKE IT OR NOT

SPACE THOUGHTS

THAT OLD MAN

I CONFESS TO ---

Blog Archive

NO HORSE SENSE

An Excuse For The Rebel Above

THE STARVING DOG STORY

JOHN THE FARMER

AMAZING TRAITS

GOVERNMENTS

CONFUCIUS SAY:

RECOGNIZE A STROKE

MICROCHIP vs HUMANKIND

FROM THE BURNING BUSH

INFLUENCED ELECTIONS

PAGANISM vs CHRISTIANITY

THE BEES FLEW THE COUP - OH!! - - THE HIVE