Friday Fast Flying For Fun Fantasy Firm-Held, Fulsome Fists Fighting Find Freedom’s Fewer Friend,

Which translated from the alliterative language of opening salutations means: Flash Fiction is in the fray and flashing on its way — to you.

A new short story of flash fiction should be published right here quite soon — I’m hoping hours or no longer than tomorrow noon, but maybe sooner soon.

In style, “flash fiction” is a made-up (fictional) story of extreme brevity. There is no set definition of how long the shortened beauty must be, and certainly no proscriptive of what content or costume in what length it must wear. This group of writers will say no longer than 1,000 words, the critics over there will go 2,500, and the masses of readers land somewhere between the two. Suffice to say, the fewer words the better, if you can get the meaning, and in reading find the content appealing — or at least that to draw a smile and corner a muffled laugh.

To change the subject from that of your near-awaited attention (the story of flash fiction you soon will see), Chapter 1 of the novel is still in the works and about through its first draft run. The question I face is one of serial publication here, starting with Chapter 1, before the rest of the book is done. To do or not to do? If I do, the first chapter may be rewritten as we move forward and the rest of the chapters develop to bring the story to fruition and its final fated scene. I am challenged by the challenges of this overall approach, or failure to approach, the thing until it all be completely done. Sometimes, uncertainty in the future is certainty in its present place. I believe I believe that, but you’ll have to wait and see.

So say tuned — as always I know you are attuned with ready will and waiting view. You never know what might happen and appear on this, the scene, to be seen, and in what form, time and place found, that it too may be viewed.

Though the words be long to this point in prose, the flash fiction will be short in its pose, and soon in words right here for you to hold.

Thank you and good waiting to us one and all,

Grandpa Jim

Pluto.

Pluto is a good planet and he just keeps coming back home – despite what the supposed experts would have us believe.

In the February 2013 issue of National Geographic, Astronomer Alan Stern goes on record rejecting the 2006 demotion of Pluto from planet to dwarf planet status.

Good for Alan.

Dr. Stern seems a space nut. He hails from St. Mark’s School just up Preston Road here in Dallas, spent time at the University of Texas in Austin and the University of Colorado in Boulder, collecting all the requisite degrees. He almost flew on the space shuttle. Teacher, researcher, businessman, he is now the lead scientist for the New Horizons mission to Pluto.

New Horizons is a robotic spacecraft that is reported to have left Earth at the greatest ever launch speed for a man-made object. (One wonders what non-man-made object has or should be leaving our planet at a faster speed – a suggestion is made below.) So, there is New Horizons zipping off across the solar system, already crossing the orbits of Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and Uranus. All things considered, it should fly by Pluto on July 14, 2015. Folks, that is a long way and a long time going for a brief one-day visit in outer space. One wonders why the speed racer can’t stay about a bit longer, take in the scenery at a more leisurely pace, and send a few more picture postcards back with funny little sayings below the photos of the sights.

When our Achilles-fast probe was launched, Pluto was classified as a planet. “No longer shall it be,” said the International Astronomical Union in 2006. “Pluto is a dog, and such it shall be – forever and a day, so we say.” And, with that, the IAU demoted poor, kind, persevering and robber-catching Pluto to a dwarf planet. The effrontery and canine-ill-disposed guile. How could they? Have they never read and rode with Mickey and Donald on an adventure with Pluto in pursuit of the crooks. To appreciate the system-wide concern the demotion has engendered, see the We-Love-You-Pluto-The-Planet blog post of September 13, 2012.

To his credit, Alan Stern has said, “No.” He is on record that New Horizons is off and flying to the ninth planet, to Pluto, and it is a planet. Pluto is not and will not be treated as an object of diminished status, despite the popular abuse of some scientists, whatever their individual and mad pursuits may be. (One might wonder if those more outspoken Pluto-demoters may not be the non-man-made objects that should be leaving our sphere at an even faster speed – Bon Voyage, we say, and off you go.)

New Horizons is the fastest and fleetest, and it will be the farthest reaching and seeing. With its own eyes and those of its scientists, the mission will recognize and establish Pluto for what is and has always been – the proven and peer companion of the other eight planets. To us, on this the third blue planet from our sun, Pluto is a dear friend who has never failed to encourage with his simple deeds and humble demeanor. We stand to the night skies, fists raised in solidarity, and state our belief that no matter how small and distant you may be, it is the heart that matters most. You, little Pluto have that, and you have ours.

Thank you, Dr. Alan Stern, for standing firm and holding your ground.

We are confident that Pluto will hold his – he always has.

Onward, we say to New Horizons – the sky is yours.

See you and the photographs in 2015.

A picture is worth a 1,000 words.

Won’t you agree?

Grandpa Jim

Is Easter early or late this year?

Early.

Why?

Good question. Easter can be early or late because it is not a fixed-date holiday.

Why not?

Good question. Easter has no fixed date because it is a “moveable feast.” In religious circles, a moveable feast is a holy day whose date moves on the calendar of days. The date for Easter is calculated each year to be the first Sunday after the first full moon after the vernal equinox, with “vernal” meaning springtime and “equinox” meaning equal day and night. So, when the buds start bursting on the trees and the wild flowers start blooming in the fields, you know spring has sprung. Next, check the morning paper for when the hours of daylight and the hours of night are as close together as they get, equal, the equinox. That night, wait until the sun has set, go outside and look up at the night sky. Do this each night until you spy the full moon. It can be a little tricky to determine when the moon is actually full, but do your best. Ok, there it is. Now, look at the next Sunday on the calendar hanging in the garage. Bingo, there it is, the next Sunday is Easter — right on schedule. Now, go out and buy the dye for the eggs, the baskets for the candy and a new outfit for yourself and everyone else. This should all work fine if your church is using the Gregorian calendar, but if your religious affiliation uses the Julian calendar, it is a bit more complicated. Be sure you have the calendar for your particular denomination in the garage and double check the date there.

Ok, I see the date for this year on the calendar. It is March 31^st, right?

Right, if you are a member of a Gregorian-based religion. It would be May 5^th if you are a Julian person looking at a Gregorian calendar.

Can we just stick with my calendar? I got it at the mall, and it says March 31^st for Easter.

Sure, stick with it – I always go by the mall calendar myself.

Is March 31^st early or late for Easter?

I was wondering when you get back to that. March 31^st is early.

How early?

Good question.

Do you have to say “good question” every time I ask a question?

Good question. Sorry, no. I don’t have to say “good question.” What was your question?

How early is Easter this year?

Good question.

Do you want to be here for Easter?

Huh. Oh, I get it. It’s a bad habit, I know. Why do you have that baseball bat in your hands?

Good question.

I get it. Right, back to Easter.

For your sake, I suggest you proceed quickly.

Yes. The earliest date for a Gregorian-based Easter is March 23rd. For the 250 years from 1875 in the past to 2124 in the future, Easter occurs in March only 55 of those years, or about 20% of the time – 1 out of every 5 years. In that time period, March 31^st has 9 Easters, exceeded only by March 29^th, with 10 Easters.

Good. Now, tell me about April.

April is the most popular month for Easter, with April 4^th and April 17^th being the most popular dates having 11 occurrences each over the 250-year period. Almost 80% of the time Easter is in April, with the latest date for Easter being April 25. So, the time from the earliest possible Easter (March 23^rd) to the latest (April 25^th) is 33 days. For some that may seem a very long time to wait for a hollow chocolate bunny to arrive on a bed of shredded plastic straw, but remember Easter is early this year and so are the candied eggs and marsh-mellowed chicks.

But, that’s not what Easter is really all about, candy and eggs, early or late, is it?

Good . . . point. You are making a very interesting and, I think, important . . . inquiry.

Thanks, and will I see you there, at Easter, I mean?

I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Hope to see you too,

Grandpa Jim

Hoecakes, Johnnycakes, Cornpone and Hushpuppies

“Don’t mess with my Johnnycakes, you sneaking ole’ cornpone of a Grandpappy. You can have a hushpuppy. Now, get on out of the kitchen before I take this spatula to ya’. Can’t get no peace ‘round here these days. Get going quick there. Land of Goshen, what’s a body to do.”

Long before Columbus, Native Americans were growing and grinding corn, adding a bit of water and a pinch of salt, and forming a cake which was fried over an open fire. With the arrival of the Europeans to the Atlantic shores, indentured servants seeking a new life cleared the land and worked the fields to repay their passage and earn their freedom. Those workers were hungry. One day, a kind-hearted Indian offered a worker a cake of fried cornmeal. Before you could say “Algonguian,” those field hands were mixing up the corn mush themselves and frying the paddies up on the blades of their hoes. Well, a certain foreman was watching. That boss man on his fancy horse laughed at the hoecake a certain field hand by the name of Johnny was having for lunch. Now that Johnny was a smart one — he could tell one end of a hoecake handle from the other, and then some. Johnny added a pinch of sugar to his cakes and he reached up and offered one to the overseer. The smile back earned Johnny light duty in the cook tent and the early repayment of his debt. The Johnnycake was born to move west and south with the pioneering families to the culinary delight of a new and growing nation.

Johnny joined the migration. Some years later, Grandpappy Johnny was making lunch for his fellow travelers. He’d just mixed up a batch of Johnnycake batter when he noticed Grandmammy’s big ole’ cast iron frying pan hanging from the side of the wagon. They were part of a wagon train heading down Louisiana way and they had quite a few mouths to feed. Well, that Johnny was always a thinker. He grabbed that big old pan and poured in the whole mess of cake mix. Grandmammy turned, saw, took up her rolling pin and was headin’ over to give Grandpappy a what-ya-think-ya-doin’-fore-I-crack-yer-skull, when she stopped and watched. Johnny cooked up that whole big batch of corn-pour-pan quick as a wink, flipped ‘er over on big rock and cut up pieces enough for everyone to enjoy – with a big dollop of fresh butter each. That whole train of folks was lickin’ their lips and saying that corn-pour-pan was the best yet. Johnny – seeing the rolling pin in Grandmammy’s arms — said right quick to one and to all that it was Grandmammy’s idea and wasn’t she the smartest to come up with the new “cornpone” way to cook them cakes for a crowd. Johnny always had a way of mixing things up, but cornpone sounded better than corn-pour-pan to all there present, and it was easier to say. Grandmammy, she got this big grin on her face, and she walked over and gave Grandpappy a kiss right in front of everyone and called him her little cornpone. The name stuck and ever after folksy Grandpappy Johnny was poked and called you old cornpone.

Before long, Johnnycakes and cornpone had become the stable fare of meals served in fields, on trips and even in fancy parlors and restaurants. The lowly cake and pone were everywhere – especially after Grandpappy’s new idea of adding a little bakin’ soda so the cake and pone would rise a bit and be a tad lighter. The rough and ready dish had become gentrified. Befitting its wider acceptance, the cake and pone were called simply cornbread, and Johnny and his folksy cornpone ways faded from the general memory.

For his part, Johnny was quite content to be forgotten and let the new bakeries do the work of feeding a nation now reaching to connect the coasts. Besides, he was busy enough as the proprietor of a stylish, popular and successful restaurant of his own in the booming river town of New Orleans. He still liked to experiment. It was his blood. He just couldn’t leave well enough alone. Sitting watching Grandmammy at the stove there with the pan of hot grease for the fish, with that bowl of his new sweet rising cornbread mixed up in his lap, he just had to take a bit of the mix, roll it in a ball, and throw it into the grease – when Grandmammy’s back was turned. She heard the sizzle, popped around and was about to pop Grandpappy when she stopped. That ball was floating in that hot grease, looking so crunchy and golden brown. She couldn’t resist. Grandmammy took her spoon and flipped that fried ball to cool on a towel. She carefully lifted the still-warm sphere to her lips, took a bite and chewed slowly. Grandpappy was about to say something, when Grandmammy gave a contented sigh, pointed that big spoon at him, and said with a smile, “Hush Pappy.”

That night at dinner, the new balled and deep-fried cornbread was a success as an accompaniment to the fried fish and other seafood dishes that were Grandmammy’s specialties. The customers loved the taste and the shape. Many dined with their pet canine friends at their feet, and the patrons could not resist tossing the deep-fried cornbread balls to their little puppies and saying at the same time, “Hush puppy.” To which, Grandmammy laughed, because she knew the name was really “Hush Pappy,” but Grandmammy was just as smart as Grandpappy, and they both knew the customer is always right.

A meal with cornbread is a meal with fun. Don’t forget the Johnnycake, or a big slice of cornpone, or some of those newfangled hushpuppies for yourself and your friends — two-footed and four-footed alike.

And, thank you Grandmammy, for letting Grandpappy keep on experimenting.

He is one smart old cornpone,

Grandpa Jim

My granddaughter Katelyn is 8.

Today, I had lunch with her at her school. The mascot of the school is a Bronco, a wild half-tamed horse. A Bronco is very fast. A tortoise is a turtle. A turtle is not fast. In a race, who should win ?

Before you answer, let’s look at that number 8 again.

Eight is a very interesting number. If you turn 8 on its side, it’s the symbol for infinity – this symbol ∞. See, it’s a side-wise 8.

Infinity and its symbol, ∞, refer to and look like something without any limit. Start anywhere on the side-wise 8 or infinity symbol ∞ and start going, and you’ll come back to where you started, and just keep going, and going, and going, forever. That’s infinity, no end. Our word infinity comes from the Greek word apeiros, which mean endless.

Back to that race between the tortoise and the Bronco, do you think it could go on forever, be endless, be infinite?

Zeno thought so.

Zeno of Elea was a Greek philosopher who lived in southern Italy about 2,500 hundred years ago. He’s best known for his paradoxes, Zeno’s paradoxes.

A paradox is a statement that seems absurd (untrue), but it may express a possible truth. The word paradox is composed of “para” for contrary and “dox” for opinions. Where contrary opinions both seem to be true, you have a paradox.

Zeno was very good at paradoxes. Perhaps his most famous is “Achilles and the Tortoise.” Now, Achilles is a famous Greek hero of the Trojan wars, and he was very strong and a very quick runner. Here is what Zeno said about a very quick runner like Achilles:

“In a race, the quickest runner can never overtake the slowest, since the pursuer must first reach the point where the pursued started, so that the slower will always hold the lead.”

That’s absurd, we say loudly. It’s simply untrue. The faster runner always wins the race. I saw it on TV. How can you say that, Mr. Zeno? It’s a paradox. I hold a contrary opinion.

And, here is what Zeno would say to you.

I’ll give you Achilles for your team’s runner – we’ll call your team the Bronco Team. From the Trojan Wars, you know Achilles is fast. I’ll take the tortoise for my team – the Zeno Team. All I ask, for the Zeno Team, is that you, the Bronco Team, give our turtle, the tortoise, a head start of 100 yards. Agreed?

Sure, why not, this will be over in a blink, a cake walk.

The gun goes off. The turtle takes his time and finally reaches the 100-yard mark. Our Achilles takes off like a hare, a very fast rabbit, and reaches that 100-yard mark in no time at all. But wait, the slow tortoise has now advanced a little farther down the race track. No problem, our hare-like Achilles zips to the spot. But wait, the turtle is now a little farther ahead. “I’ll catch him,” our rabbit-fast Achilles shouts and races to where the tortoise just was. But, the turtle is not there. He’s moved a little more ahead. And so it goes on and on to infinity. There are an infinite number of points Achilles must reach where the tortoise has already been. In this very logical and ordered way of looking at this race, Achilles never overtakes the tortoise.

“In real life, it is not so!” you yell. “It’s not true.”

Maybe there is more than one truth here, and they just appear to be contradictory.

In real life, Achilles and the Bronco Team win. High fives all around to the Bronco Team members!!! We won!!!!

But wait, in the real life of mathematics (numbers) and perhaps philosophy (fundamentals), the Zeno Team also wins, because, in mathematics, once you start at Point A and start dividing the distance in half from Point A to Point B, you can keep dividing the next half in half forever, for infinity. Those halves get infinitesimally smaller as you go, but, in concept, at least, you never stop dividing, and you never reach Point B – mathematically speaking.

I think that was Zeno’s point: If you look at the same race differently, you can get different results, both of which are true. Of course, the real life hare beats the tortoise, unless he takes a nap, which is what happened in Aesop’s Fable of “The Tortoise and the Hare” – that’s the real life race perspective. But, just as “of course,” in mathematical parlance, the tortoise with the lead can never be overtaken by hare – the tortoise wins.

Zeno was a smart guy. He figured out that sometimes you have to confuse people with two truths to help them see that both are true. That’s a true paradox.

And that’s what happens when you have lunch with a bunch of 8-year old Broncos.

Will wonders never cease?

Hope not,

Grandpa Jim

“Real Cowboys Never Ate Yogurt” was written across the back of the bright orange T-shirt below a sandy beach where a cowgirl napped, her hat pulled over her face, resting beneath a palm tree under a yellow moon and twinkling stars.

Pliny the Elder, the Roman naturalist who died in the eruption that destroyed Pompeii, Italy on August 25, 79 A.D., said it best: Certain “barbarous nations” know how “to thicken the milk into a substance with an agreeable acidity.” That’s yogurt, an agreeably thickened milk dish. The treat goes back maybe 4,000 years. The dish is mentioned in writings — even before those of the venerable Pliny — in India and Iran around 500 B.C. No one knows how milk was first cultured into yogurt. It is a mystery steeped in the folds and swirls of time. We suspect that the first serving may have surprised someone lifting a goat skin bag of milk for a refreshing drink only to find that the milk had spontaneously fermented with wild bacteria into a new and interesting concoction. We’ll never know who had that first taste, but after that, did it ever catch on.

The word “yogurt” is Turkish in origin and goes back to the 11^th Century where it appears in texts describing the ingestion of the now popular fermented milk by nomadic tribesman. You can see those wild horsemen racing over the steppes, goat skin bags of milk bouncing on the backs of their shaggy horses, making yogurt to share back at the camp with the evening meal. Those were the yogurt days of yore.

In 1919, a small yogurt business named Danone started in Barcelona, Spain. In 1933, some folks in Prague, Czech Republic figured out how to add fruit jam to yogurt. Unsweetened yogurt appeared in the United States in the early 1900’s, where in the 1950’s the milk preparation began to be viewed by Americans as a health food. Marketing kicked in, Danone became Dannon with fruit and jam mixed together, and more fruited and jammed yogurts from all over the world joined the rush to populate the shelves of grocers and reach the mouths of U.S. consumers. No more bouncing saddle bags of curdling milk, you can select from 17 varieties of yogurt at the local 7-Eleven and wash your curdled snack down with a Slurpee.

Enter frozen custard and the question of cowboy preference.

In 1919, frozen custard was invented by two ice cream vendors in Coney Island, New York, a location long associated with the American hot dog. Frozen custard itself is an ice cream to which more egg yolks have been added. The resulting mixture is whisked into a meringue, much of the air is removed and then it is frozen in a new and chillier way. From this process, the frozen custard is thicker, creamier, smoother and colder than traditional ice cream.

Frozen custard was introduced to the wider public at the 1933 World’s Fair in Chicago, Illinois. The Midwesterners loved it and raced home to make their own. Today, Milwaukee, Wisconsin has more frozen custard shops than any place on the planet, and the city is known as the Unofficial Frozen Custard Capital of the World.

Oh, another thing, frozen custard is usually prepared at the location where it is sold. Unlike yogurt and regular ice cream, you generally can’t get the stuff at supermarkets or through the mail. So, you see, frozen custard is something of a specialty dessert, which is not readily available over the counter or by special delivery. The dispensaries of the delight can be reached only by search-and-find efforts, and the delectable has its origins in America where it was first associated with the very American hot dog.

I think we can begin to see why the rugged individualism, hearty appetite and dreamy demeanor of the American cowboy might be associated by a smart marketer with the difficulty and delight of frozen custard versus the ready availability of curdled milk under a strange name that can be found on any old shelf.

Remember, I’m not prejudiced. I like them both and consume much more curdled yogurt than frozen custard. But, when I want a special treat, I put on my hat and boots, wander down the street and turn the corner to “Wild About Harry’s.”

Since 1996, Harry has been serving frozen custard made right there, alongside his specialty hot dogs. That frozen custard is from his mother’s recipe. Out front near the door, a giant hot dog in a bun stands on the sidewalk. The smiling face and white-gloved hands welcome folks in for a dog and dessert. For a good time now, the humble location has been a gathering place for folks from around the city and beyond. Who knows from where? When you sit down with that triple dip and look over the cup, you may even see a real cowboy. Smile and I bet you’ll get a smile back.

Oh, by the way, that orange T-shirt – it says “Wild About Harry’s” on the top.

I don’t know about you, but I’m getting hungry.

See you around,

Grandpa Jim

“Tell him the truth,” Cosmo Castorini tells his daughter Loretta as the family gathers in the kitchen for the dramatically funny final scene of the 1987 movie Moonstruck. “They find out anyway.”

Yes, they do, and isn’t that the truth?

The movie Moonstruck is full of memorable lines, like those two from the worn father to his nervous daughter. The film is a favorite, and the remembered lines drift easily into conversation — again and again. I find myself repeating the lines with a word missing or one substituted. Despite the paucity of my memory, the truth of the original statements seems to somehow find its way and reaches out to a ready audience — again and again.

Tell them truth. They’ll find out anyway.

Is the truth what we know and believe and often wish not to acknowledge and share but know it will be anyway?

It was for Cher in the movie, and she won Best Actress for its performance.

Speak the truth.

Write what you know.

Perhaps the two are not that far apart.

Let’s start with one from an older collection, “98.6 (95 Stories)”, and see what you think.

GRSMERCH

© James J. Doyle, Jr. 2013

Write about what you know.

The reason you’re not good at what you do is because you don’t write about what you know.

Don’t make it up — draw on your past, your experiences.

“GRSMERCH”

I know nothing about it, but I like the sound.

I’m sure it’s not politically correct, but I don’t care.

I will no longer be victimized by an antique totem.

When he was a scout, my father carved a totem. It was a small slightly tilting totem pole with uneven painted faces of birds and animals and someone at the top in a funny wide-brimmed hat. The carving from a single bent branch of wood sat downstairs in our house, in the basement, on a green-painted chest of drawers from the old farm where dad grew up.

For years, it was there on the shelf, not hidden away, where you could see it against the far wall when you turned from the lower step.

Near that totem, my mom played damp music with gusto on a baby grand piano over linoleumed floors beneath the drifting broken light from high narrow below-ground windows.

This was the same room where my children and their cousins built forts from overturned chairs, couch cushions and old blankets, ends anchored with pillows and shut into that old chest of drawers. Lights turned off and curtains drawn, their young imaginations crawled with flashlights to covered unseen spaces, glowing from within like stars in a limitless cave.

From where I watched on the steps, it was a tower in the ground with treasured thoughts.

I believe in GRSMERCH.

But not as much as I believe in towers in the ground.

Never stop searching for the truth and sharing it with others.

Why not? As Cosmo said: They’ll find out anyway.

And, you never know what you’ll find,

Along the way,

Grandpa Jim

“Where you going with that shotgun?”

“Goin’ talk some sense into them ateroid miners. That where I be going.”

“Harold, think sensible. What happened?”

“Look yonder there, Maud, through your kitchen winder. See that tomater patch.”

“Oh, Harold, I’m so sorry.”

“Ain’t your fault. That chunk of ateroid done smashed them tomater plants flat as fly paper. I’m headin’ to that rock refinery to have it out, me and Billy Bob.

“William, Harold. Your friend’s given name is William, not Billy Bob. And it’s asteroid, not ateroid.”

“Looks like a big rock to me, whatsoever you calls it. Remember the one that got the chicken coop. Eggs and all. Gone. Weren’t a pretty sight. They owe me.

“And, they’ll pay, Harold. They did for the coop, poor chickens, and they’ll drop a check by the house, for your plants. You know they always do. I’ll call.”

“But why and what for, Maud?  I don’t care about the money. I’m tired of the falling rocks.”

“Harold, didn’t you read that National Geographic article I put by your chair, next to the Dr. Pepper.”

“I read the pictures. Billy Ba, I mean William, he says a picture be worth a thousand of them words. Read that, he did, and stopped. Learned enough, he said. He’s got a bunch of huntin’ and fishin’ magazines, full of pictures. Ed-u-cated man, that William.”

“Where do you boys get these ideas?”

“Guys, Maud. We’re guys, not boys.”

“Boys in your Club House. That’s what you are.”

“Ice House, Maud. It’s an Ice House, not a Club House. That’s where us guys go to figure things out.”

“Which is why I left you the article, Harold. This asteroid mining is important. A big asteroid is worth over 150 times more money than an Earth rock. That asteroid has over 50 times the gold, almost 80 times the palladium, nearly 300 times the platinum, and close onto 800 times the iridium than those rocks your tractor turns over.”

“What I need all them idimum’s for, anyways?”

“Electric wiring, Harold. Computer connections, cell phones, your pickup.”

“I like my truck. Don’t you go bad mouthing that machine. It’s done us good.”

“It is a good truck, Harold. But that pickup and the parts to keep it running need those metals. That’s why those miners are out there in the asteroid belt.”

“William says that what with flinging all them asteroids down here and smashin’ up the country side, there won’t be none left to hold up that asteroid belt. Them pants goin’ fall right down and the whole seller system be made a fool of. We had a right good laugh at the seller system without its pants on.”

“It’s a solar system, Harold, not a seller system.”

“Well, that’s what they do with them rocks. They sell ‘em.”

“Yes, they do, but the asteroid belt is rocks circling the Sun. It’s not a belt. William must have rocks in his head to take up a notion like that.”

“No notion at all, Maud. William says we be upsetting the e-vironment with all this mining.”

“Land of Goshen, Harold, now you’ve gone and joined up with a passel of Green Activists down at the Ice House.”

“You got it, Maud, Ice House, not Club House. And, they call me Bubba down there.”

“Will wonders never cease?”

“Maud?”

“Yes, Harold.”

“I bought you this.”

“Harold, it’s a big heart.”

“And, it’s full of candy. Look inside. And, they threw in this card for free. Here, take it. Open the flap. I didn’t lick it. See there, where I wrote Love, in big letters. I signed right under. It was a special, at the Ice House, the candy and the card. I thought of you as soon as I saw them. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Oh, Harold. Happy Valentine’s Day to you. I love you too.”

“Oh, Maud.”

“Now, come on over here so I can give you a big hug and kiss.”

“Oh, Maud.”

“Harold, there’s time before supper for you to take the pickup and go on down to that Ice House. You can have a moon pie with your Pepper for a snack. Figure things out with the guys. Then, come home to me.”

“Thanks, Maud.”

“Don’t be late. I’m making something special for us tonight, Bubba.”

Have a very Happy Valentine’s Day; and remember, there are still cards and candy down at the Ice House. They may be half off the day after. Visit with the guys and pick up something special for that special person back home.

Have a Pepper and don’t forget to say Hello to Bubba, for me,

Grandpa Jim

Readers, Visitors, Storytellers, Storyhearers, Stopbyandlookseers, Casual Acquaintances, Near Neighbors & Friends, Close Relatives, Distant Relations, Ascendants, Descendants, Net Browsers, Web Surfers, Far Neighbors & Friends, Bookworms, Webworriers, Elocutionists, Scholars, Students and Everyone Else Wherever Situated Sitting, Standing, Leaning or Reclining In Anticipation Of Things Newly To Appear,

I welcome you all to Uncle Joe Stories and ask your indulgence for what inactivity and inattention to you and yours has occurred of late.

The game is afoot.

As of 12:44 AM this morning, the first chapter of a new book is off to the copy editor for review and comment. Additional reviews are scheduled and anticipated. As soon as the responsive edits and rewrites are accomplished, Chapter 1 will be published on this web site, right here, in front of your eyes, for your reading enjoyment.

If everything proceeds smoothly, a new chapter will be posted at regular intervals – not too close and not too far apart. This is the first time I have attempted to serialize a novel in installments for you to read as the book is being produced, so I’m not exactly sure how the timing will work. The good news is that it won’t be long for the first Chapter — hopefully. So, stay tuned.

In the interim, I plan to issue about three to four new blog posts each week, if possible.

In addition, I plan to publish a new Uncle Joe story for Easter.

Thanks again for your patience,

Grandpa Jim

During the American Civil War (1861-1865), troops were supplied with canned pork and beans.

The canning process itself is somewhat older. Back in 1795, the French army offered a prize of 12,000 francs to the first person to invent a new method of preserving food. It had been recognized for some time that armies traveled on their stomachs, and those stomachs required ready and nutritious foodstuffs. A French chef by the name of Nicholas Appert stepped forward to meet the challenge. Using wrought-iron canisters (the origin of the term “can”), Monsieur Appert proved the new process in 1806 and became the Father of Canning. (There is some dispute here, and the Dutch may have invented a form of canning as early as 1772.) By whom and when, for those first cans, the soldiers had to use their bayonets to slice the metal casings open or bash the canned projectiles with vigor against unsuspecting rocks. You had to be hungry. By the Civil War, the process was hopefully more refined. The first can opener was patented in the United State in 1858. One suspects, however, that the line infantryman was the last to obtain the new invention. Pass the bayonet over here. it’s time to eat.

Today, Campbell Soup Company sells more than 100 million cans of its Pork and Beans a year. Although that is a lot of beans, it is not a lot of pork. Salt pork is apparently added to the dish for flavor, not substance. In 1996, after years of complaints, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration recognized this condition, and to settle the matter once and for all beans, the official branch of the United States Government released the following approved and stamped administrative statement: “It has for years been recognized by consumers generally that the designation ‘beans with pork,’ or ‘pork and beans’ is the common or usual name for an article of commerce that contains very little pork.” And, that, literally, is no pork.

Although the artist Andy Warhol did many paintings, individually and in groups, of Campbell soup cans, I cannot find definitive pictorial documentation that he ever painted a can of Pork and Beans, whether manufactured by Campbell, Heinz or any of the other canners fond of beans and a bit of pork. I find it comforting that Andy, one of the leaders in the pop art movement, may have resorted to the comfort of a can of warmed Pork and Beans, perhaps served over toast points, and the reason he never painted the can was that he could never find one without the lid ripped off. Knowing Andy, he probably used a bayonet.

By and away, they say you should heat the canned pork and beans before eating. Mom and I never did. I was just a kid. We’d sit at the kitchen table for a mid-afternoon treat and have a snack of a cold pork and beans open-face on white bread with some diced white onions. We didn’t know better. We just liked the taste. Mom wasn’t even a pop artist, although Dad did have a bayonet from the war.

Do you think it was his can opener? Dad started in the artillery — until they found he could sing, dance and play an instrument. Then, they transferred him to Nice in Southern France to help entertain the troops on leave. Mom was there in the Red Cross serving donuts. I bet those GI’s left the pork and beans back at the front and enjoyed some good French cooking.

Still, there is a lot to be said for beans with a little pork.

Where did I put that bayonet?

Grandpa Jim