BERNIE YOU FOUGHT A GOOD FIGHT, BUT...

The Democratic convention is over and except for outrageous things that Trump might say over the next three months, I am not interested; especially in the day to day, hour to hour pole numbers of the opinionated masses of people who believe the earth is six thousand years old, don’t believe in science, and have not a clue what they are opinionated about.

At my age I don’t want time to pass any faster, but I will be glad when the election is held and behind us.   This has gone on too long and I am saturated.

I do have a thought on Bernie Sanders.   I could have supported Sanders; but I thought he turned out to be a petulant old man – old man yells at clouds – at the end of the Democratic convention. 

The choice is either Trump or Hillary, and I thought his endorsement of Hillary was lukewarm.   He could have done a hell of a lot more to quell the dissenters at the beginning and during the convention.   To me, he actually seemed pleased that a hardcore following of his candidacy was vocal and disruptive.

Every time the camera went to him he looked like he had his ‘It should have been me’ face on. 

What a disappointment he turned out to be – at least for me.

the Ol’Buzzard     

VOTE TO LEGALIZE POT IN MAINE

To hell with the Presidential election: support legalizing pot in Maine in November.   That way if Hillary doesn't get elected we can spend the next four years stoned.  




the Ol'Buzzard

THE IDEALISM OF YOUTH

After watching prerecorded programs to avoid the Democratic Convention, quite late last night my wife switched to MSNBC in time to catch Michelle Obama’s speech and Bernie’s closing.   After the closing, some of the Bernie supporters were interviewed, and there was a theme in common: they were young and they were idealist. 

It didn’t surprise me that Bernie’s young people all said they couldn’t vote for Hillary.  

We have all been there.   The world seemed so black and white and answers seemed so obvious when we were young adult.   

At that age the world is about you - it's for you.  You are in awe of how misguided older adults behave and how obtuse your parents are – and you are not going to be like them now that you’re are grown.

Young people haven’t yet realized that the world is not black and white but shades of grey.  They haven’t been knocked back by adult responsibilities. 

It is only after you find out that the thrill of relationships is short lived, that babies cry through the night, that baby shit is stinky mustard yellow, that money is required for housing, food, car payments, insurance, medical bills, clothing, and that that money doesn’t come from mom and dad - that you have to earn it.   It is only after you have been knocked back a few times that you have made your bones as an adult.

 

Don’t get me wrong; I am not decrying young adults.   The idealism of young has brought about great changes in society.  The generation of the sixties with drug, sex and rock and roll brought about positive social change, as did the young people that demonstrated and bled during the integration of the south.   If it weren’t for the idealism of youth, which makes them easily manipulated, there would be no cannon fodder for the military. 

So Bernie’s young people cried in the audience and they can’t bring themselves to vote for Hillary.   They don’t understand yet that the world does not rotate just for them, that what they want does not drive the universe.  They can't see past their own egotism that a no vote for Hilary is an own-goal for Donald Trump.   

That you can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes you just might find, you get what you need.  

   

Not bad for seventy year old rock band musicians.

the Ol'Buzzard

ARRRRR MATEY, WE'LL HAVE THAT SONG.

I have to admit, I didn't watch the Republican National Convention. It is my understanding that from the beginning to the end Republicans pirated the songs that opened, closed and highlighted their proceedings.    Some song writers and performers have complained,   

Here is a clip from John Oliver's This Week Tonight on HBO.






the Ol'Buzzard

GIVE DADDY A HUG

I don't post often about current politics because I think there is a chaos factor that drives it.   But, did anyone notice the hug the Donald gave Ivanka at the convention.   He held her by the solders then let his hands slip down to her hips.  I'm am not saying he wasn't expressing fatherly love and honestly cares for her, but his way of dealing with women is kind of creepy when it caries over to his daughter. 

The news mentioned that Trump seemed to be holding his wife at a distance to keep her from hugging him - which would have taken the focus away from Himself.

the Ol'Buzzard

ESKIMO ICE CREAM

There comes a point in aging where you realize you have more past memories than future.  You accept your aging and your limitations, and if you are fortunate enough you may have real adventures to relive.   

Yesterday I wrote a post on blueberry.    I included some pics of my wife and our time at one of the Native villages in Alaska.   I mentioned that after the elementary kids picked blueberries and cranberries they returned to the classroom and made Eskimo Ice Cream.

The people of the far north brave winter conditions with subzero temperatures in the range of 40 to 50 degrees below zero.  At these extreme temperatures fat in a diet is critical.  Because caribou, that migrate through these northern regions, is lean meat, these northern Natives have for generations depended on seal, and whale to supply their fat needs.

 

Whale fat, or blubber, is considered a staple by these coastal Natives and it is often eaten fresh, frozen, boiled or fermented (an Eskimo delicacy called Muktuk.)    It was these northern people that originated Eskimo Ice Cream.

Oil and lard from the whale fat was hand whipped into a frothy consistency and berries added – later, with the incursion of ‘whiteman,’ sugar was added to the mix.

 (Note: whiteman – pronounced as one word, and the equivalent gussak are used by the Eskimo as a derogatory term for Caucasians.)

The last village my wife and I worked in was in southwestern Alaska on the Kuskokwim River.   These were Yup'ik people.   Once coastal, these people, had moved inland along the river to be near Russian trading post.   Here moose, caribou, musk ox and bear were plentiful and there were massive summer salmon runs to supplied ample protein for humans and dogs.  

Over the generation these river Yup'ik lost their dependency on whale and seal fat, but still retained their cultural connection to that food.    Now, here in the inland, whale fat has been replaced by Crisco and Wesson Oil in the making of Eskimo Ice cream.

Crisco, Wesson oil and shredded fish are mixed together - the fish to supply the missing taste of the ocean. 

Sugar is added and the mixture is vigorously whipped by hand.

Next come the berries: blueberries and cranberries.

The final product is Eskimo Ice Cream.

Probably not heart healthy; but it actually taste good. 

Just the trail of another memory
the Ol'Buzzard

ROBERT FROST POETRY and BLUEBERRY SEASON IN MAINE

Robert Frost is my favorite poet.  I like him because he tells a tale.  His poetry is not surgical metered philosophizing on love and the meaning of life, but a story of people and place.

This time of year it is Blue Berry Season in Maine and I am always prone to pull out Robert Frost and reread his Blueberries. 

THE BLUEBERRIES

“You ought to have seen what I saw on my way
To the village, through Mortenson's pasture to-day:
Blueberries as big as the end of your thumb,
Real sky-blue, and heavy, and ready to drum
In the cavernous pail of the first one to come!
And all ripe together, not some of them green
And some of them ripe! You ought to have seen!”

“I don't know what part of the pasture you mean.”

“You know where they cut off the woods - let me see -
It was two years ago - or no! - can it be
No longer than that? - and the following fall
The fire ran and burned it all up but the wall.”

“Why, there hasn't been time for the bushes to grow.
That's always the way with the blueberries, though:
There may not have been the ghost of a sign
Of them anywhere under the shade of the pine,
But get the pine out of the way, you may burn
The pasture all over until not a fern
Or grass-blade is left, not to mention a stick,
And presto, they're up all around you as thick
And hard to explain as a conjuror's trick.”

“It must be on charcoal they fatten their fruit.
I taste in them sometimes the flavour of soot.
And after all really they're ebony skinned:
The blue's but a mist from the breath of the wind,
A tarnish that goes at a touch of the hand,
And less than the tan with which pickers are tanned.”

“Does Mortenson know what he has, do you think?”

“He may and not care and so leave the chewink
To gather them for him - you know what he is.
He won't make the fact that they're rightfully his
An excuse for keeping us other folk out.”

“I wonder you didn't see Loren about.”

“The best of it was that I did. Do you know,
I was just getting through what the field had to show
And over the wall and into the road,
When who should come by, with a democrat - load
Of all the young chattering Lorens alive,
But Loren, the fatherly, out for a drive.”

“He saw you, then? What did he do? Did he frown?”

“He just kept nodding his head up and down.
You know how politely he always goes by.
But he thought a big thought - I could tell by his eye -
Which being expressed, might be this in effect:
‘I have left those there berries, I shrewdly suspect,
To ripen too long. I am greatly to blame.'”

“He's a thriftier person than some I could name.”

“He seems to be thrifty; and hasn't he need,
With the mouths of all those young Lorens to feed?
He has brought them all up on wild berries, they say,
Like birds. They store a great many away.
They eat them the year round, and those they don't eat
They sell in the store and buy shoes for their feet.”

“Who cares what they say? It's a nice way to live,
Just taking what Nature is willing to give,
Not forcing her hand with harrow and plow.”

“I wish you had seen his perpetual bow -
And the air of the youngsters! Not one of them turned,
And they looked so solemn-absurdly concerned.”

“I wish I knew half what the flock of them know
Of where all the berries and other things grow,
Cranberries in bogs and raspberries on top
Of the boulder-strewn mountain, and when they will crop.
I met them one day and each had a flower
Stuck into his berries as fresh as a shower;
Some strange kind-they told me it hadn't a name.”

“I've told you how once not long after we came,
I almost provoked poor Loren to mirth
By going to him of all people on earth
To ask if he knew any fruit to be had
For the picking. The rascal, he said he'd be glad
To tell if he knew. But the year had been bad.
There had been some berries - but those were all gone.
He didn't say where they had been. He went on:
‘I'm sure - I'm sure' - as polite as could be.
He spoke to his wife in the door, ‘Let me see,
Mame, we don't know any good berrying place?'
It was all he could do to keep a straight face.

“If he thinks all the fruit that grows wild is for him,
He'll find he's mistaken. See here, for a whim,
We'll pick in the Mortensons' pasture this year.
We'll go in the morning, that is, if it's clear,
And the sun shines out warm: the vines must be wet.
It's so long since I picked I almost forget
How we used to pick berries: we took one look round,
Then sank out of sight like trolls underground,
And saw nothing more of each other, or heard,
Unless when you said I was keeping a bird
Away from its nest, and I said it was you.
‘Well, one of us is.' For complaining it flew
Around and around us. And then for a while
We picked, till I feared you had wandered a mile,
And I thought I had lost you. I lifted a shout
Too loud for the distance you were, it turned out,
For when you made answer, your voice was as low
As talking - you stood up beside me, you know.”

“We sha'n't have the place to ourselves to enjoy -
Not likely, when all the young Lorens deploy.
They'll be there to morrow, or even to night.
They won't be too friendly - they may be polite -
To people they look on as having no right
To pick where they're picking. But we won't complain.
You ought to have seen how it looked in the rain,
The fruit mixed with water in layers of leaves,
Like two kinds of jewels, a vision for thieves.”

Robert Frost

Blueberry time always bring my thoughts back to blueberry gathering in Alaska.   We would take the young children out for a day of blueberry picking on the tundra.

The tundra was awash with blueberries and cranberries

This wonderful Native school aide always called my wife Blueberry Eyes.

Along with teachers women of the village volunteered to help

My wife

The girls always filled their baskets, the boys ate most of theirs.

The berries were taken back to the school to make Eskimo Ice cream.

Blueberry memories
the Ol'Buzzard