“Uncle Joe and The Tunnels of Nith,” the newest Uncle Joe story and the tenth tale in the series, has published and is posted on the Homepage.
Be the first in your house, the first on your block, the first in your town, the first in your state and the first in the country to read this never-seen-or-read-before adventure.
Hurry go see. Joe there be. With new me. Who me be? Read and see.
Discover more with “Uncle Joe and the Tunnels of Nith.”
Grandpa Jim
It has been just over a year since the last and ninth Uncle Joe story was posted right here on the official home and only source of Uncle Joe Stories.
You may remember “Uncle Joe and the Flying Fortress.” If not, you can find the story under the “Uncle Joe Stories” pull-down tab on the homepage. That 9th and last-released Uncle Joe story issued just before Halloween 2013, and it involved a sighting near Birome Creek.
If everything goes as planned, the tenth and newest Uncle Joe Story will issue here, tomorrow on our Halloween 2014, and it may include a sighting of another kind near Birome Creek. Like the previous nine tales, this 10th story is a completely original writing that has never been seen or read before, and like the other nine stories, it can only be found here.
Keep your fingers crossed and your eyes focused toward this web site.
Truly, you never know what you will find in an Uncle Joe story.
I think Joe was amazed by what he found in this one.
I’ll be reading with you as the ‘morrow dawns.
Or, for our readers in Asia/Pacific areas,
As the evening enfolds before us.
Until the next story, then.
Grandpa Jim
For some, the “Big Four” of health problems, those that pose the most concern and present the most worry, are identified as: Stroke, Heart Failure, Cancer and Diabetes.
I hope you have never have any of the Four.
The Guna people of Panama and Colombia appear to have a very low occurrence of the Big Four. Guna are reported to drink up to 40 cups of cocoa a week. Some feel there is a strong link here, and one that should be considered by more than the Guna.
I am looking at a bar of chocolate from Switzerland. On the back, under ingredients, it says “cocoa butter.” The on-line dictionary defines “cocoa” as “a chocolate powder made from roasted and ground cocoa seeds.” There’s that word: “chocolate.” No one knows for sure where the name chocolate came from, but everyone knows chocolate is sweet and wonderful and made from cocoa. Cocoa is the root and well being of chocolate and the source of its many beneficent qualities. Watch the 2000 movie “Chocolat” and see yourself the joys and benefits of cocoa turned chocolate.
Science is catching up. Scientists been studying, studying chocolate, studying cocoa.
In cocoa and the chocolate in my pantry and on your counter is an antioxidant. Don’t throw out the chocolate! Antioxidant is not a bad word. It means “anti” for against and “oxidant” for oxidation or oxygen, against oxygen. Don’t stop breathing! Oxygen is OK, and other oxidants are OK, most of the time. What happens is that oxidants sometimes steal from other things in our bodies, good things, stable things. They take away electrons from the good things and make them upset and unstable and radical, free radicals. As we get older or something weakens our systems, oxidants hold greater sway and free radicals appear more often and become less disciplined, they misbehave more, and this bad behavior can trigger strokes, heart failure, cancers and diabetes. We need something against these free radicals and the bad oxidants who led them astray. We need antioxidants.
Some scientists recently made a bunch of healthy people, aged 50 to 69, drink a whole bunch of chocolate, the average of about two-thirds of a pound of dark chocolate or seven full-size bars a day. Actually, it wasn’t that good. (I would have signed up had it been.) The scientists made the test group drink a mixture containing an antioxidant found in chocolate called “epicatechin.” That’s a big name for a complicated molecule. A better name might be “home-room mother.” Well, that teacher’s aide sits those misbehaving free radicals down and gives them a new electron of their own. The kindness is too much. The radicals settle down, behave normally and refuse to be lured away again by those bad oxidants. Madam Antioxidant, Home Room Mother Epicatechin, not only returned the room to normal, the students are performing like they did in the old days.
In the real study, our “senior” subjects, and I quote from yesterday’s paper, “performed like people two or three decades younger on the study’s memory task.” Go see that movie “Chocolat” again. Cocoa really is a fountain of youth, an antioxidant to be admired and savored — although I can’t say I would recommend seven bars a day.
We can say the active ingredient in cocoa did improve the brain function of the study participants.
The newspaper went on to state: “The findings support recent research linking . . . epicatechin . . . to improved blood circulation, heart health and memory in mice, snails and humans.” I didn’t know mice and snails had a fondness for chocolate. I am certainly on the human side, and I second those findings.
Science still has a way to go. The Big Four are still the Big Four. Still, it is heartening to know an effective treatment may be only steps away.
See you later. I think I need an antioxidant.
Where did I put that medicine?
One bar should do.
Grandpa Jim
Nothing stays the same for long.
2014 looks to be a good example of just that.
Worldwide, September 2014 was the hottest month in 135 years of recording temperatures – since 1880. January through September 2014 tied with 1998 as the warmest first nine month ever measured thermometrically – meaning you could go outside and watch the high red line rise on the porch thermometer. The Earth is on a roll up, with no end in sight.
At this rate, 2014 will be the hottest year in human history.
Not in Minnesota. Relative to average temperatures for the year thus far, Minnesota, USA, is the coolest place on the Earth in 2014. My sister in Minnesota told me something like that, and now I have confirmed it. There is a lesson here that she has been trying to teach me for years: Listen to your sister. Truly, 2014 may be a record-shattering year. I’m listening.
Other places are also not that hot. For the USA as a whole, September 2014 was only the 25th warmest of record. California set records up. Minnesota, as noted, is setting a record low. North Texas and Dallas fall somewhere in the middle, with no records showing. Truly, the world is a mixed place of extremes and not-so extremes. However, when you put them all in a bowl, stir, dip your spoon, lift, blow gently and sample – yes, it is hot, and, to the senses, the hottest ever.
Does that mean we have global warming? Certainly, incontrovertibly and experientially, we have change. As the statistics show, we have change in the climate over a measured period of time. So, we have climate change, which we have had since the beginning of measuring. Perhaps, we have climate change that is representative of a trend in global warming?
Arguments don’t always convince. This can be argued to be a penchant of the species home sapiens. Don’t tell me, show me. This is another enunciation, I think, of the same apparent and possibly shared tendency. If I can’t touch it, can it be real? Approach everything with a grain of skepticism.
Is it a hobgoblin? Could it be a mischievous creature creating a superstitious fear, a bogeyman in the closet causing us to pull the covers over our heads and hide until dawn? I don’t know. These may appear timely thoughts at this Halloween of the year. For sure, the hobgoblins are about. I saw one lit on a porch in the cool of this morning’s walk.
The world has not set a worldwide record for cold since 1916 — except for Minnesota, of course. For all the places of the earth as a whole, the recent records are predominantly hot not cold.
Death Valley, California, is the hottest place on the planet. On July 10, 1913, the thermometer hit 134 degrees Fahrenheit (56.7 degree Celsius). One hundred and one years (101) years ago, Death Valley had its hottest day. It’s been cooling since, highs only in the 120’s F (low 50’s C). Is this that mixing-bowl effect: many other places are hotter, and, upon average, it is the globe that’s warming — except, of course, near Furnace Creek in Death Valley? I’ll let you sample the mix and decide, but you may want to consider a somewhat cooler place.
How about Vostok Station, Antarctica? Russia has a facility there. On July 21, 1983, the hardy scientists in residence recorded a natural ground-level temperature of -128.6 F below zero (-89.2 C). Now, that is sitting down and freezing in place cold cold cold. Thirty-four (34) years ago, the world may have had its single coldest day, though that year as a whole was not one of record chill.
If you can’t convince one audience, move to another or a different subject. That may be an additional axiom of good argument. It certainly can be a crowd pleaser.
Don’t go to the same well too often, or sample the same fare too quickly.
If at first you don’t succeed, try try again — but perhaps not right away or with the same folks.
Take a breather. Take a deep breath.
Enjoy today for today. Let tomorrow worry for itself.
We’re not there yet. There’s always time for one more slice of pie.
Ala mode, of course — delicious hot pie with scrumptious cold ice cream atop.
Now, that’s a change of global proportion. I think I can manage the warming and cooling of those two together.
Food does have a way of making friends, building bridges and mending fences – around the corner and around the globe.
Enjoy,
Grandpa Jim
In the USA, the end-of-year festivities begin with Halloween in October, progress to Thanksgiving in November and crescendo with Christmas in December.
In the far-old days, say 30 or 40 years ago, holiday lights were reserved for Christmas and went up, at the earliest, the day after Thanksgiving. In the far-far-older days, say 50 or 60 years ago, the lights of Halloween were bonfires of dried leaves.
Fire is one of the oldest of man’s inventions, and light is the oldest of his entertainments.
Today, in this thoroughly modern incandescent and LEDed era, the colored lights appear earlier and earlier, and they appear where light has never been seen before.
The Halloween of my childhood was a night of costumed children and tasty treats, with a tiny trick added for fun. There was little preparation or exterior decoration. Now, across the street, for over two weeks, perch a vast array of smiling, frowning and frightening pumpkin faces – all lit from within. Through the window glass of that house, orange-bulbed wreathes flicker and sparkling ghost-like eyes twinkle. Down the street, the fronts of other houses are pumpkined with assorted fall presentations, each adorned with glowing, glittering and captivating lightings of its own.
To me, Halloween has become the first and earliest lit of our fall festivals. People want to start the party and lighten the darkening days. We, in this country, have no grand tradition of Octoberfests. So, the night of ghosts and goblins is a natural fit to brighten the streets and lift the spirits in the waning of days. I find the effect not scarifying, rather an inviting and comforting neighborhood parade into the holidays.
In the nearing future, my senses heighten and I begin to detect the spiced smell of pies baking for the Thanksgiving feast. Thanksgiving is a timeless holiday. It has acquired few additional trappings in the span of my years. It is, as it has always been, a meal with family and friends — if perhaps the largest such repasts of our year, with great cooked beasties and uncountable accompaniments and sweets that would make any Who proud and a welcome guest. Just the other day, I was at a laughing Grandmother’s house where she, the matriarch of culinary creations, was eyeing the very large pumpkin by the fireplace and commenting how soon she would convert the massive vegetable into delice-defying fillings for an army of pies. Mouths watering, we listened in rapt and attentioned anticipation. The great feast approaches. Thanksgiving is the day of the most eating, followed by the most quiet snoozeful resting, of the year. We give thanks for each.
Around the corner is Christmas, and that corner seems to be taken more quickly each year.
Turning the corner in my car only yesterdays ago, I saw the men at work. Lights there were, reds and greens, being applied, installed and positioned down the driveway and along the eaves. A gasp escaped my mouth. Could it be? Yes, they had done it. In the midst of the orange, brown and blacks of scarecrows, jack-o-lanterns, broom-sticked ladies and spider-laden gauzes, before even the pies had found their fillings, an early bird had gotten the worm. They had captured the prize. They were the first on the street to decorate for Christmas.
But . . . not to light — not as yet. Even in the elation of first installation, the residence has refrained from overstepping the seasons. At evening dark, the bulbs have not been electrified. In small victory, tact has, for a time, triumphed over tendency. The victor’s laurel is theirs. We begrudge them not that. Yet, we appreciate the small grace to allow a step-wise approach toward year-end and an appreciation of each holiday for its own.
In their ways, the days of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas offer much for little expended. A light there, a pie here and a gift under a tree are sufficient. For the more exuberant, decorate with glee. We do appreciate the efforts. We love to walk and drive the colorful lanes and visit the bright-lit shops. The days are better for the efforts, big and small. The seasons are best for the memories, made and remembered, that last long after the lights have been taken down and the pie pans stored in their cupboards for next round.
Grandpa Jim
In the history of Walt Disney Productions, the biggest stars are six cartoon characters known as the “Sensational Six.” All six are animals. All, but one, speak and dress like humans. One is the pet of another. Two are the significant others of two others. Two are mice, two are ducks and two are dogs. All, but one, are anthropomorphic, having human characteristics.
Can you guess the six Disney characters?
The stars are, in order of first appearance: Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Pluto, Goofy, Donald Duck and Daisy Duck.
Mickey Mouse was created by Walt Disney and Ub Iwerks, and he is the official mascot of The Walt Disney Company. On November 18, 1928, Mickey made his debut appearance in the short film “Steamboat Willie,” one of the first sound cartoons. Boy, could Mickey move his hips and whistle a tune in that talkie. The pilot mouse would have made Mark Twain proud. Mickey’s relatives and friends are too numerous to count and are referred to simply as the “Mickey Mouse Family.” It is a fan club I am proud to be a member of. Where are my ears?
Appearing with Mickey in that first 1928 film was a pretty little mouse with a bow in her hair. The credits list the cutie as Minerva Mouse, but Mickey nervously calls her Minnie. The adventurous hero had met the mouse of his dreams. Since 85 is just an eye-blink in the years of cartoon mice, the wedding plans have not been announced, but keep watching. You never know. Oh, a curiosity in Minnie’s farmer family is that all her relatives have the initials “MM”: Dad Marcus Mouse, Uncle Mortimer Mouse, Granddad Marshall Mouse, Grandmother Matilda Mouse and nieces Millie and Melody Mouse. Now, that’s a mouseful.
Every hero needs a pet. In 1930, Pluto the Pup premiered as a bloodhound in the Mickey Mouse cartoon “The Chain Gang.” Pluto is a true dog. He does not speak or wear clothes, and he loves bones. On the animated screen, Pluto expresses a playful and persistent personality though pictures rather than prose. We love to watch him on the screen and in the books, and we’ve never had any trouble understanding what Pluto is up to and what that hound is saying. Just ask my grandkids. They all speak Pluto.
Every hero needs to laugh, and Goofy is just the ticket. This tall dog with the puzzled expression and wide surprised eyes was first reeled out to us in 1932 in “Mickey’s Revue.” Goofy’s formal name may be Dippy Dawg, and he does love a good guffaw of a belly laugh, but do not be fooled. He may be eccentric, but Goofy has a mind of his own. On more than one occasion, Goofy’s clever and intuitive hillbilly observations have helped Mickey see the light and find the way to our hearts — in the midst of the garbed dog’s otherwise comic relief.
A true friend is hard to find and worth the wait. Most ducks don’t wear a sailor suit with a cap and bow tie or speak an almost unintelligible form of gargle-ese, but Donald Duck does and he does it well. Donald first appeared by himself in 1934 in “The Wise Little Hen,” but Mickey was in the audience, and he saw and found a friend at work. Together, they starred in “Orphan’s Benefit,” with Donald the comic sidekick. The race to the movies was on. In that race, Donald Duck has appeared in more films than any other Disney character, including Mickey, and is the most published comic book character in the world, superheroes excepted. In Norway, his fans are so numerous and dedicated they call themselves the “Donaldisme.” Norway and everywhere, Donald is never far from Mickey’s side, and he has proven himself on every occasion to be a trusted companion.
Donald has a brother who married and had three sons. These three energetic young boys are named Huey, Dewey and Louie, and, boy, are Donald’s nephews a handful. Well, one day at school, Huey, Dewey and Louie meet three cute little girls named April, May and June. Now, April, May and June have a very attractive aunt, who the young boys also meet and evaluate. The thoughtful young men see and formulate a plan. Before Uncle Donald knows it, a blind date has been arranged. In the 1940 short film “Mr. Duck Steps Out,” Donald arrives, rings the bell and shyly introduces himself to Daisy Duck. The three nephews have followed, and the boys soon compete with their uncle to dance the jitterbug with Ms. Daisy. Donald and his nephews are smitten, Daisy becomes Minnie’s best friend, and we are all waiting for the announcement of double nuptials. Will wonders never cease?
In the midst of today’s tensions, it is a happy joy to remember Disney’s Sensational Six.
Hooray for Mickey, Minnie, Pluto, Goofy, Donald and Daisy.
Let’s go to the movies – I’ll bring the popcorn.
You bring the smiles and laughs.
A laugh is only a smile away.
Grandpa Jim
Ebola Virus Disease or EVD has left Africa and entered the United States. In Texas, there have been two confirmed cases. The first was an individual who traveled to the U.S. from West Africa. Sadly, this first patient has died. Our heart-felt condolences are extended to the family and friends. The second case is a nurse at the hospital that treated the first patient. Hopefully, she will recover.
The hospital is in Dallas. My doctors have their offices in and around that hospital. I say this because I would not have considered going somewhere else. While visiting a friend at another hospital only a few miles away, I was told people are avoiding the first hospital with the reported cases. “Why?” I asked myself. “And, what is this Ebola?”
Ebola is a virus. A virus is a strange thing. In this case, the Ebola virus is a microscopic string or filament that often appears in the shape of a shepherd’s staff or the number “6.” It is a short tangle of genetic patterning material whose purpose is to invade, replicate and disrupt.
Once in the body, the Ebola virus sneaks into a healthy cell, confuses the cell’s manufacturing machinery, and causes the good cell to use the virus templates to produce more bad viruses. The newly constructed viruses accumulate near the inside of the cell membrane, push the cell wall to bud outward, where, weakened, the cell bursts and releases the replicate viruses to rush at more healthy cells. This is what viruses do, and Ebola does it well, confusing the body’s immune system to think it is fighting a simple flu-like infection with fever, aches and pains, and not a massive and patterned attack.
This deception allows the ranks of new viruses time to race, reach and attach themselves to the insides of the blood-carrying vessels of the body, the veins and arteries. Once there, the viruses work to destroy the vascular system of the patient, who, at this stage, can begin to bleed or hemorrhage. Another name for the disease is Ebola Hemorrhagic Fever or EHF.
Early intervention and palliative care (treatment of the initial symptoms) can be effective in preventing the advance of the Ebola virus. It might be said that early detection and treatment buy time for the body’s immune system to recognize the veiled threat and mobilize the resources to combat and defeat the Ebola disease.
This is a battle, but it is a battle that can be fought and won. Here, there are some very positive facts to be shared and followed.
For a human to contact the disease from another human, the infected person must be contagious. To be contagious, the infected person must exhibit symptoms.
Early identification, isolation, treatment and follow-up are the steps to stop the spread Ebola. Hospitals and hospital personnel know how to do this. Communities and community personnel know how to facilitate this. Federal and state resources are ready to support these efforts.
If you or someone you know has traveled to an infected region of the world (West Africa is presently an area of concern) or you have been around someone who has been diagnosed with Ebola and you develop symptoms, keep yourself and your clothing distant from others and go immediately to the nearest hospital. The sooner the symptoms are managed, the better the chance of a complete recovery.
Start the process and stop the spread.
Contact with the bodily fluids of an infected person is necessary to transmit the disease. My reading suggests there is very little likelihood of encountering the disease in the air you breathe. Being on the plane with an infected person should not be a concern. Breathing the air on a plane with a contagious person should not be a concern. It appears you would have to somehow touch the bodily fluids of the person infected (for example, sweat, saliva or blood), either by physically contacting the fluids or touching something the fluids have touched, like clothing or bed sheets. Without such contact, there is little or no chance of the disease being transmitted.
A key here is contact follow-up. Once a case is identified, the mechanisms are in place to identify and evaluate everyone who may have had any contact with an infected person. Again, the first step to allow contact follow-up to be effective is to report the disease to medical professionals at the first possible chance of occurrence. Do not hesitate. Do no wait.
Start the process to stop the spread.
Ebola can be a deadly disease. From past outbreaks in Africa, the death rates average 50%. Much has been learned. Much is being learned. Treatments are being engineered and tested. Vaccines are being developed. Now, right now, we know what to do with the tools we have. The keys to stopping Ebola are early identification, isolation, treatment, contact follow-up and trust. We must trust our hospitals, our communities and our governments.
I plan to go to my appointment at that hospital with the first two cases. I trust the hospital and its staff, and I will work with them and the rest of my community to support their efforts.
Together, Ebola can and will be stopped.
Grandpa Jim
California is big.
Among the United States, California is #1 in population and #3 in size (behind Alaska and Texas). If it were an independent nation, California would be about #9 by economic activity and #34 by people in residence of all the countries in the world.
California is environmentally diverse.
From the rocky fog-shrouded coastline to the golden grape-vined hills to the fertile vegetable-producing valleys to the rising tree-clad slopes to the jagged snow-capped peaks and the icy-clear glacial lakes, diverse eco-systems abound and astound. The state is the most varied climatically of all the states. At some place and time within its boundaries, almost any plant will grow and thrive. And, they do. Fresh tomatoes and lettuce for your In-N-Out burger over there – perhaps the best accompanied sandwich in the land. Grapes for table and vintner up that winding road – medals dangling from the barnsides. Golden Halloween pumpkins and luscious red strawberries blink at us from their beds as our car climbs the next hill and rounds the next bend to reach and revel at a wine-country wedding.
Not all the flora is new. The trees of the state are the tallest and oldest living organisms on the surface of the planet. California redwood pines are renown for their height and girth – who can forget the Disney-like photo of a 1940’s car driving through a tunneled redwood. The old trees are today protected from such child-like antics. Today, my son texts a picture of his small son hardly distinguishable between the rough red-hued bark near the base of a forest behemoth. Over their heads, far off there, on that distant frigid peak, a scraggly straggly bristlecone pine whistles the mountain wind a lilting melody heard 5,000 years ago, when a small sprout, the seedling first broke forth from the rock.
Rocks there are assuredly and many with precious metals within. The Gold Rush of 1848 brought the nation to the California territory and paved the way for statehood in 1850. Among the prospectors was a young man from Missouri with a sense for minerals. We call him George Hearst. The Indians called him: “Boy the Earth Talks To.” And, it did. George missed that first gold rush, but in the played-out leavings of a mine, the boy saw some “blue stuff” and heard something. At a bargain-basement price, George Hearst purchased a partnership in the empty cave, which became the biggest silver strike in the West. George was rich, and he kept listening and finding more. He was now very rich. Yet, he kept his country ways – except, now he owned almost 400 square miles (1,036 square kilometers) along the coast, in the valleys and up the slopes of California.
One place, George, his wife Phoebe and their son William Randolph loved best. Camp Hill they called it. The place was close to and high above the jagged Pacific shoreline, free of the clinging ocean mists below, bright and clear in the warm California sun, a campsite of childhood wonder and memory.
Later, the only heir to a vast fortune and a wealthy media mogul in his own right, William Randolph Hearst built a castle on that hill.
On the boardwalk below, above the rocky beach, watching the flops and flips, snorts, snaps and whistles of the round long-nosed elephant seals at their slow-motion play and day, I turned, looked up and saw the white spires.
“Hearst Castle!” I exclaimed to my wife. “That’s Camp Hill!”
And, it was and is.
Later, after touring the astounding architecture and abundant art, my wife asked, “What did you like best?”
“The little boy,” I answered. “Somehow, he did it. I mean William Randolph and his architect, Julia Morgan, did. They took the best art, architecture, flora and fauna that could be found and bought anywhere in the world, and somehow they made it all into the biggest and best big-boy campsite in the universe.”
“Really?” she said.
“Really,” I answered. “I can’t imagine a greater tribute to Camp Hill and the memories it holds.”
California has a new eco-system, a new micro-climate, a new fantasyland, and a new wonderland, rising in bright white spires from the land that spoke it and helped it grow: Hearst Castle.
Like Father, Like Son: The Boys The Earth Talked To.
William Randolph Hearst was his father’s son.
He listened and imagined; it grew and rose.
A new tree sprouts there on Camp Hill.
May its song reach the far peaks,
To touch the ears of a friend,
The old Bristlecone Pine.
To brighten a life,
Long & true.
Thank you, William Randolph and George,
Grandpa Jim
Horseradish is a radish.
It is not a radish for horses.
Itself, horseradish will kill a horse.
It is called horseradish because it is strong.
Caesar was strong. On his horse stopped at the bank of the Rubicon River, Caesar had a choice to make. The Rubicon separated the province of Gaul from the homelands of Imperial Rome. Caesar lifted in the saddle of his warhorse and glanced back at the legions massed behind him. To enter Italy regaled for battle at the head of those seasoned troops from the Gallic campaigns would evoke cries of “revolt” and “traitor” in the Roman Senate. To enter alone would place the future of the conqueror of Gaul in the hands of politicians. Either way, the general knew his fate was sealed. The choice was his. Ten thousand eyes watched as Caesar raised a hand, held it aloft, then slowly lowered the hand, a single finger extending toward Rome. Caesar would determine Caesar’s fate. Prodding his mount, the five-toed hoofs splashed across the Rubicon. There was now no turning back. Caesar had crossed his Rubicon.
The horse is an ancient animal. It may have been the first animal to partner with man. The matter of first meeting is consigned to the mists of time. That misty morning on the bank of the Rubicon, the horse was a worthy and trusted comrade in arms and companion in peace. The hoofs of the other warhorses were single-toed, as are the feet of all modern equine ascendants. Not so Caesar’s. Caesar’s steed had five toes.
The conqueror of the world was superstitious. To him, it bode ill to lead with a single-toed mount. The hoofs of Caesar’s horse were contoured to appear as five. At first dawn, the original horses were five-toed. At the dawn of the greatest empire the world has known, it was an ancient steed that bore the new Caesar across the stream to meet his fate and change the way of all things.
In a sense, the wild horses are gone — except one. In Manchuria, there is a horse that gallops across the steppes and climbs the remote hills, a horse whose line touches none tamed. For this horse, there is no domesticated ancestor. The Przewalski’s horse is said to be the last wild horse. What we call today wild things are often not. They are the feral descendants of those who have escaped, bred and become wild again. Przewalski’s horse is an original, an orange horse, a proud majestic animal searching the open lands for something or someone more.
In a darkened room, I read two grandchildren the story of an orange horse and its young rider. The orange horse and small girl feared each other and more the sneers of the other children and their horses. Something happened. In the open, when allowed to gallop, the two raced past the crowd, followed by the amazed trailing stares of children and horses alike. There is a wild healing spirit in the horse that draws us together. The little girl and the orange horse found that and realized how much more two could be as one.
After experiencing the theatrical production “Warhorse,” I read of the play’s beginning. A young child wasn’t talking. The boy was isolated and silent. The author of the successful book and play sought to help such children at the country estate with its lands and animals. Nothing seemed to help with the little boy. Then the writer saw the boy leave at night and followed. At the stall, the child reached up, rubbed the long head and talked freely and well to the quiet dark eyes of the horse. In the young boy’s voice, the author found his tale. I like to think that horse was orange, and the little boy who couldn’t speak was the writer seeing and finding himself.
The horse is strong. In that strength is a curious wild thing that seeks to be shared but is never completely controlled. All horses — domesticated, feral and, yes, even wild orange — never lose that freedom. I think they can’t, any more than we can fail to sense and seek what they offer so freely. Together, they carry us forward to more gladly find our fates.
Care for your friend and protect each other.
When there, do no fear your Rubicon.
We all must pass that stream.
How is each our choice.
But not yours alone.
Don’t go alone.
Grandpa Jim