Some wearing of the green.

 We recently passed another milestone on the calendar, a holy day for some of us of Irish heritage; good old St. Patty's Day!

My memories run very favorable as it was a celebration day in our family, at our school and community, one brimming with happiness for residents of Irish descent.

Our elementary school made it a big event, decorative school rooms all loaded with cardboard shamrocks and images of leprechauns with their pot-o-gold and everyone expected to show some wearing o' the green, even the Italian and Polish kids were Irish every March 17th.

Our school would have an evening program where all family members and friends were invited to attend.  A small auditorium packed with revelers invited to sing along as the students would take the stage doing assorted Irish skits, dancing the jig and singing Danny Boy.

I even got to sing along as a member of an Irish quartet belting out songs like Molly Malone, My Wild Irish Rose, Harrigan and our all time favorite Mrs. Murphy's Chowder (second favorite after Danny Boy. Having to say that to avoid being doxed by the Irish Community).

I often think back to my Irish ancestors wondering how difficult it must have been for them coming to America with all their hopes and dreams as the early generations struggled living in poverty, in shanty towns, working in the coal mines of Shenandoah and Tamaqua Pennsylvania knowing that dreams for their future generations would be better than what they experienced and giving their sons and daughters the hope to begin moving forward in a land that truly provided that opportunity.

As I age, I understand more of why my Irish mother would not denigrate her heritage but would insist that we think of ourselves as Americans first and foremost, and leave the past to rest because that is what she was taught by her ancestors.

These Immigrants believed that their future was in this promised land and we all needed to embrace flying the American flag proudly, perhaps displaying some green on St Pat's Day and singing the Nation Anthem loudly...and on the 17th maybe some Danny Boy.

Our ancestors believed in assimilation, working hard, learning the language and believing in contributing to the betterment of their new land.

Yes they wore and still wear some green of St Patty's Day, but the red, white and blue year round. 

Hopefully all immigrants do likewise.

It's all about the evil K word

It's Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the Lenten season as all dutiful Catholics flock to church to have their foreheads marked with ashes, in the sign of the cross, to signify their mortality and to show your buddies from yesterdays Fat Tuesday celebration that you're sorry for whatever you did last night...and maybe you're trying to change and won't repeat this behavior until next Fat Tuesday, promising God confession for this Saturday.

Ashes are usually placed on the forehead in the sign of the cross, but sometimes the person doing the application is not as skilled as others. The woman who applied mine today was quite short in stature, barely able to reach the head of a six-footer. 

I had to almost touch my toes or she would have anointed my navel. 

I didn't receive a cross, mine was just a large dot with her thumb print.

I just thought that since I was third in line she had not been able to hone her ashes skills but I watched the rest of the congregation in her line and she really had not improved.

I don't believe I saw any crosses, mostly dots, smears and commas.  I even believe I saw a question mark or two.

I any case, after Mass I was able to shop at the local Mennonite supermarket occasionally being told I had dirt on my head by kindly old ladies wearing nets on theirs.

It's customary for Catholics to "give up" something during the Lenten season. There are the usual's, candy, alcohol, smoking, not using obscene hand gestures in traffic, the list can be endless.

I quit smoking over 30 years ago, no alcohol since my AFIB diagnosis 6 years ago, candy is not really an issue but there are many other vices, too numerous to mention, that I could apply this year.

It's not uncommon to choose something that may be too easy to forego, items already avoided on a regular basis; Liver, Rap music, your crazy relative with Trump Derangement, that list too is endless.

Over a year ago my considerate, but insane wife, came up with a brilliant idea. We would watch this documentary she heard about called "Forks over Knives". In a nutshell, you give up all foods that taste good and begin a life style that will allow you to exist far beyond that of mortal men.

Just think you get to consume an endless number of tasteless delicacies and convincing yourself they are absolutely delicious while you exist for more years than Methuselah.

I think this was the original model for Hell, if not Purgatory.

Goodbye pizza, cheese, ice cream, chips, pretzels, cakes and pies...hello rice and beans, fruits and vegetables and more than enough flatulence to clear a neighborhood Christmas party.

But after all, I am told its beneficial to my Endothelium , I don't know what that is but my wife uses that word like a mantra.

Well she has been about 99.9% successful thus far..me about 75/25.

I am not telling you percentage-wise which is which, but pepperoni pizza, Freddy's custard or a good Philly cheesesteak do call to me on occasion. 

And how does one even exist without these...that in itself is sinful.

Our Popes know about sin and they have been mostly Italian because they know the best foods are Italian. The current Pope is from south of the boarder..but tacos are good too!

I now eat more fruits and vegetables than before, even salads.

The one green I still have yet to even consider is Kale, a horrid filthy weed that is not fit for human consumption, and touted by the Endothelium cultists as the most beneficial green one could ingest, even though its completely indigestible.

You can fry it in bacon grease, smother it with cheddar cheese and onions and serve it up on an everything bagel on top of an Angus burger, down it with a Yuengling lager, and a side order of fries and it would still taste like green gritty dirt...a green gritty dirt burger!

Most people are unaware of Kales blemished history.

This is how I heard it:

Many millenniums ago God walked into a bar (yes he drinks wine, ask his son if you don't believe me) and in a far corner he spots an inebriated Satan, in his usual state of being.

Satan challenges God to an arm wrestle for his booze as he is out of money and in need of some more scotch.

Well of course God wins every game and Satan, drunk out his mind, begins a tirade of how God owns everything and Satan has nothing and if he was really benevolent he would give him something he can control. 

God pondered it for a moment and told Satan he could have control of a vile weed that grows plentiful on the earth.  It's called Kale which is an acronym for Kills All Life's Enjoyment.

Instantly a light bulb goes off in Satan's brain how he could gather it up and sell it all the while convincing the gullible how beneficial it is to their well being, just like he does when he promotes Hollywood, Social Media and the Disney channel.

There will be those well intentioned folks, like RFK jr., the Forks over Knives crowd and my wife who are truly trying to help but when in comes to kale they are partnering with spiritually evil forces beyond their control. 

So I am glad I recalled that story and now know what I will be giving up for lent...Kale it is.

 

I am calling Mommy.

 I have never been much of a test taker.

I am not really stupid, my dear sweet Mama would always tell me that I was not the dumbest person in the world, that was my cousin Clem, and just hope he don't die..

Actually for most of my schooling I did quite well but never really knew how I passed into the next grade since I tended to freeze up at test time.

I eventually finished the eighth grade right before my wedding day.  Good thing or the honeymoon would take place in summer school.

I remember a typing class in high school where to pass the final exam I had to be able to type a minimum of 28 words per minute.

I was doing great up until the final exam when i scored a negative 14 per minute.

I hardly formed any words but I had symbols and numbers mixed into the sentences.

A monkey could type Shakespeare faster than I could complete a paragraph. 

That's how bad I was.

This brings me to this past weekend when the newspaper I work for gave me a final notice that I had exactly one week to complete the online course from the HR department on how to talk nice to my fellow coworkers without causing them to tear-up.

This was a mandatory test for us all and I didn't think it was meant for me because after all, I mostly work alone and from home.

I kept forwarding it to my spam folder but there it was, it popped up again telling me to get on it.

I don't know how they were able to get it into my inbox when it should have gone directly to spam.

I think my wife had something to do with it.

Well there I was taking the course and it was all the usual, don't say this, don't touch that, address them as they want to be called (which is a problem because I can't call my best friend Jimmy by his nickname "Dorkey-Porky"), I need to address him now as James or he's telling on me.

There are so many rules and regulations now I almost have to bring along a lawyer while I work to slap me on the hand when I misbehave.

In my youth we all insulted one another and if the insultee didn't like it he'd punch the insulter in the nose.  If he wasn't tough enough he'd bring along a brother or friend to help.

You never told on him to his mother or you'd be called a sissy, a term that now will get you a visit to HR with a severe reprimand, suspension or a trip to the unemployment line and no pizza on pizza day.

HR has become the mommies of the workforce.

So at the end of the course you must pass by answering 5 questions, 4 are multiple choice and 1 is true-false.

If you fail to get the correct answer you are sent back to the video that has that section to view it again and get the correct answer.

So Question number 1 appears and I thought "Well this is an easy one". I was wrong...back to the video again.

I come back and wouldn't you know it, I gave the same answer as before.

Back to the video.

This went on for quite some time as I couldn't recall what was my prior answer...I only had 4 choices and kept screwing it up.

I thought maybe if I wrote down the answer I wouldn't repeat this but I would have to go into another room to get pen and paper and the lay-z-boy was just to comfortable to make me move.

Needless to say it took me almost 3 hours that day, and that was day one.

I returned the next day to finish the test. I got 2 answers right on day one, 3 more to go.

I know this was serious as my HR department must have been monitoring my efforts.  I kept getting emails from them asking if it was really me taking this test or did one of my youngins get hold of my tablet.

They even sent one of those 12 block puzzles where you had to check off the blocks that had a traffic light or bicycle or something. to prove you were not a robot.

After 8 attempts they sent me an easy one; check all boxes with the color blue.  All 12 had blue so I finally was allowed in.

Well I had 3 questions to go and somehow I got the next one correct on the first try.

They immediately emailed me a gold star that said attaboy...keep going.

Wouldn't you know it the next question was the true-false one.

Now just think about this, if I got it wrong and had to go back to the video, I could easily get it right the second time...correct?

Nope, But I was able to get it correct after another 4 attempts.

Just then the phone rang and it was Chris, the HR department head who was either a cis female or cis male, or a trans, I couldn't tell by the husky voice. 

Chris must have been using the pronoun "they" because Chris kept asking if I was really an employee because "they" wanted to know.

I assured Chris I would complete the course within the next 2 hours since I had only one more multiple choice question to answer.

So I eventually finished and they emailed me my certificate of completion.

Right after that my Mama called.  I was afraid she was going to tell me my cousin Clem died but she just wanted to talk.

I told her all about the events of the day.

After we hung up she called Chris and gave him/her/they the whatfor.

Chris called me back and called me a sissy.

Guess what, Chris now gets no pizza on pizza day.

 

It all begins with St. Anthony and then the fish sticks

 I was born and raised a Roman Catholic, somewhat of an enigma for one who lives amongst mainly Mennonites, and evangelical Protestants and just around the corner from the Amish.

More and more citizens are escaping the confines of city life for the cozy, easygoing life afforded them in Pennsyltucky and other countryfied counties on both sides of the Mason-Dixon line. Needless to say many are Catholics.

It once was a rarity in our parts to ask directions to the nearest Catholic Church without receiving the one word answer; "Huh"?  It was possible to get a  response like " I've heard of one of them churches in Picklersville. If you want to get there head 20 miles south then 13 miles east.  Don't know the name of it, I think its something like "Saint something or other". But good luck and have a safe trip. And by the way, if you change your mind we have a wonderful Assemblies of God church just down the road right next to the Baptist church and a Methodist church a little further down across from the Mennonites. We have even let in a United Church of Christ, but we don't really talk about that, and way back in the woods there is one of them Kingdom Hall Witness churches.

I have learned a lot about our non-Catholic brethren, especially being married to a life long Baptist for over 50 years. Even though she has not really attended a Baptist church for nearly 30 years, she still wears the badge and she does spend time each day in prayer and scripture reading, and communicates with God throughout the day. Her spirituality is applauded and unwavering.

I wonder if one day she would consider becoming a Catholic as she does attend weekly mass with me, but like a dutiful Protestant  she remains seated during the kneeling parts and doesn't cross herself.

Trying to interest a life long Baptist to Catholicism is like trying to befriend a feral kitten. It's a continuing process, leaving a little tidbit at the back door each day until one day you get to actually pet the furry little thing. In the case of a Baptist its a long journey before they realize Catholic Mass does not entail worshipping Marian statues or we're not selling indulgences at the door for a price of admission

For most these steps usually take time, for a life long Baptist they can seem like an eternity.

I tried little things over the years to help interest her to a possible Catholic conversion, explaining that St Anthony helped her find everything she has misplaced (He practically is on call 24/7 at our home) to feeding her fish sticks every Friday because as we all know Catholic girls all love fish sticks.

I don't know how the fish stick craze began. Growing up we always had fish on Fridays, Fridays were meatless. Flounder was a cheap fish to buy, and easily fried and served for a family of 8 on a tight budget. The issue of properly de-boning usually ended up with one of us requiring a Heimlich maneuver at the dinner table. Thus the introduction of fish sticks.

I think she has somehow begun to accept the idea of the communion of saints as hardly a day passes when I have to say to her " say the Saint Anthony Prayer" because of course something is always getting misplaced.

Recently a set of keys was discovered in my truck, an item I swore was lost in her car.

The Saint Anthony prayer was prayed by me at that time and nothing happened until now.

I don't know why it took almost a year for the discovery but I am thankful.

I guess Anthony was too busy keeping track of my wife and her antics to be bothered. 

Truth be told, most of us live in a Pennsyltucky world.

For those critics and naysayers who are not fortunate enough to know the joys Pennsyltucky has to offer, I say good...stay away and allow the rest of us to enjoy the benefits.

I didn't grow up in the rural area between Philly and Pittsburgh, actually born and raised in the city but longed for life outside when I worked summers as a camp counselor and lifeguard in the P'Tucky heartland.

Quiet, peaceful, relaxing, cool summer nights with breathable air and crickets chirping as opposed to hot and humid, sweltering heat and unbearable nights with police sirens blaring at all hours. The crowds, the rushing, the anger, who needs it.

I knew my eventual destiny would lie outside of city lights.

People seem kinder, joyful, and more apt to help unlike what we witness when we turn on the 6 o'clock news and watch the horrors that unfold in most major cities these days.

This joy is really not limited to Pennsyltucky, as I travel in country areas in other states I find kindred spirits and easier paced lives that tell me we all live in a Pennsyltucky world, at least most of us outside of the metropolitan areas.

So to the naysayers, critics and those who find their joy in ridiculing us I say stay where you are. 

You will never know and appreciate the peace and assurance we find here.

 

I was once the king of Halloween.

 It ended just a few weeks ago so I am finally able to relax at home. 

Another year and all the planning just to avoid having to shell out hundreds of dollars of cavity makers to an army of little costumed porch beggars with nothing better to do than disrupt my quiet evening looking for a sweet handout.

I always have someplace to hide out on October 31st, even if its only sitting in a Walmart parking lot playing my harmonica while relaxing in my Silverado.

Do I have a grudge against All Hollows Eve? You bet!

My disdain for this night has gone back many decades.

My earliest recollection was at my grandmothers house looking at a wall full of ugly rubber masks being told to select one to use as part of a costume.

I recall two things about this mask; it smelled really bad and it covered my entire head igniting my claustrophobia.

It wasn't called a mask, they called it a "Funny Face" and indeed it was not.

At that point I insisted that all future costumes would be "Funny Face Free".

I was quite young, perhaps only 5 or 6 years old at the time, but from then on, and for at least the next 6 years every Halloween was the same; I was a clown. 

Clown white and grease paint is something I could handle.

My mom loved clowns. While in womb she thought her first born should have a paint by numbers picture of a smiling clown over my bed.  Believe it or not I still have this piece of art in the back of a closet.  

Here it is:

In any case I eventually tired of all that makeup and so another costume was created, an organ grinder which i donned for the next two seasons.

Something changed when I was about 13 years old giving me a new found interest in Halloween.

Around the corner lived a young married couple, Lou and Ann Marie who all the kids really liked. We thought of them as the hip couple who could relate to all the kids, they were really cool.

Lou loved Halloween and we shared the same interest in the horror movies of the day, Frankenstein, The Mummy, Dracula and my favorite, The Wolf Man.

Lou showed me one of his magazines, a horror magazine with all the latest monsters and stories that would provide just enough fear that walking home in the dark heightened my imagination that evil lurked around every corner.

Lou saw in one of the issues step by step directions on how to apply realistic makeup, just like the professionals, to create a Wolf Man. Lou planned to do this for the upcoming annual event. 

He would hide in the tree outside his home and jump down just as the trick or treaters would enter his property.

I watched from afar amazed at how well it went; scaring the kids, everyone laughing and having a good time.

I asked Lou if the following year he would make me up as the Wolf Man, he agreed... and the following year he did.

It was so realistic and every home I entered I received so many compliments that I felt like the King of Halloween.

I bragged to all the kids at school the next day.

I was in the 7th grade and invited to my first boy-girl party for the following weekend. It was a costume party.  I had an interest in a particular girl and thought going as the Wolf Man would really impress her.

The problem I had was that Lou was unavailable to do the makeup, the party was Friday night and makeup took time to apply. There was barely enough time to rush home from school and get ready.  

I was determined to do it, after all puppy love was at stake.

Lou provided me with his magazine for the directions so I believed I was all set to go. I had to do it all myself as my mom was busy cooking dinner and taking care of all my brothers and sisters.

I found the leftover materials I needed but noticed there may not be enough. 

There was some greasepaint but just a smattering of hair remaining, plenty of spirit gum to use but I couldn't find the cool fangs I wore. 

I needed a substitute so I improvised and used a set of wax teeth from the candy store. They were somewhat different, no sharp fangs, and they were bucked teeth but they had to make do.

I did what I could, but it was far from the professional application Lou provided. 

Patches of hair all over my face and hands, spirit gum looking like I had cobwebs and sticking to anything I touched. 

Somehow I had buttons attached to my fingers. The buck teeth provided no reassurance.

I arrived at the party looking like a rabid, demented squirrel being ridiculed by my friends, not impressing the girl I had in mind, and wishing I would have gone as an organ grinder, or a clown. I slinked away quickly, my ego bruised.

I swore off Halloween for good getting my annual candy haul from the pillow cases of all my brothers and sisters.

I will say that when my kids were little, and costumed, we did the obligatory offerings as it was the only fair thing to do. 

They were out there retrieving all those Peanut Butter Cups for us to steal from them so I thought the least we should do is  offer Necco Wafers, Candy Corn and nickels to the little porch beggars.

These days not only has the cost of candy skyrocketed, even for the cheap little miniature bars we now have to buy, but our neighborhood is so packed with kids they are even bussed in from other neighborhoods to fill up those pillow cases.

I may once have been the King of Halloween but I now opt out forever.

It's just me and my harmonica, sitting in the Walmart parking lot in my Silverado and an extra hundred or two in my pocket.

 

A Thanksgiving for love of family.

Thanksgiving was always so much fun as we usually spent the day at my grandmothers home along with our cousins, about 20 of us crammed into an intercity row home for the big event.

The obligatory card tables were set up in the basement for all the cousins while the adults feasted upstairs on probably the largest turkey available.

My grandmother was a remarkable woman, one I loved deeply and because of her example I have a great love for family and family togetherness.

She was widowed at a very young age, my mother was only 3 years old while her brother was still in the womb when my grandfather died.

It was also during the years of the depression and she had limited education and no discernible skills but was determined to raise her two children in spite of the urgings of others who suggested adoption. Her love would eventually conquer all.

These were difficult times and I don't know how many today would have accepted the challenges she faced, opting out instead for an easier life. 

Her grit and determination, along with her love for her children kept her going. It was not always the easiest path but the most rewarding.

Years later her oldest sister, who was widowed and childless, came to live with her to take over the household chores while my grandmother went to work in a factory. Two very remarkable women made a home for my mother and uncle.

Her true blessings was her family and especially all those grandchildren, 13 in all, who gave her life joy and purpose.

Each and every one could claim to be her favorite, and we would all be correct.

This Thanksgiving I am thankful for my grandmother, Margaret Mary Bradley and her sister Mae Scanlan, for their love and warmth and example of what love can do for a family. My mother inherited their love and passed it down to her children so we can hand it down to ours.

May God bless us and all of you this Thanksgiving Day

My Mother, Uncle John and Grandmother circa 1944

It was 60 years ago today

It was very imposing to an 11 year old boy, standing 3 stories high a magnificent  structure built by stonemasons, Italian Immigrants, local neighborhood folk at the turn of the century. 

I imagined it was a castle.

This was my elementary school, grades 1 thru 8, 3 classes in each grade with at least 50 students in a class.

Thats around 1200 neighborhood kids, from large Irish and Italian families taught by a dedicated group of St. Joseph nuns and a smattering of lay women.

Standing alongside was a beautiful Catholic Church, similar stone assembled by the same, a tribute to beauty and craftsmanship and a proper place to house the body of Christ.

Keeping order was no easy task, often an unruly student was made "right" with a ruler smack on the hand. Ruler smacking by nuns has its own legendary tales, but truth be told I never witnessed anything more than a light smack with just enough force to say "go sit down and behave". In any case the offended may have shed a tear or two, hardly a flood. 

The demeanor of the disciplinarian was maybe a little angry, hardly enraged, regardless of the tales that are often told.

It was just enough drama to keep misbehavior in check.

On this day, in my 6th grade class, the nun told me to take this large bucket of erasers, along with my classmate John, and go down to the fire escape tower and clap them clean.

I don't recall if this was a voluntary job but in any case it provided the opportunity to remove myself from class, if only for awhile. 

This was a welcomed change.

Neither John or I had ever had eraser clapping duty before and after a very short time we found inhaling chalk dust was very unpleasant and we began to question what we had done to receive such a horrendous punishment.

Putting our thinking caps on, and with all the ingenuity an 11 year old boy can muster, we found throwing the erasers against the stone walls of the fire tower not only helped to clean them, we could get a chance to improve our pitching skills and chose particular stones as targets.

We found this enjoyable but soon the fascination faded as 11 year old boys can get bored easily.

Now I don't know just who came up with the new game but we soon found ourselves covered head to toe in chalk dust, laughing hysterically, as we thought it fun to have an eraser fight. 

Now young boys are really not known for their foresight, well developed brains don't arrive for at least another decade, so stupidity abounds. and that's why nuns carry rulers.

We began to realize that upon our return, covered in chalk,the remaining part of the day may not be favorable so we would delay our return as long as possible while we attempted to wipe away all the dust we accumulated.

Let's just say that idea was not working as we now looked like 2 guys wearing Casper the Friendly Ghost Costumes.

Our fate was sealed, we were doomed to a ruler smack and worse when we would arrive home and our mothers would see what we had done to our school clothes.

We both contemplated running down the fire tower and skipping the rest of the school day when a classmate was sent to retrieve us.

Walking back slowly, like prisoners heading to the executioner, we  turned the corner and upon entering the classroom we could hear a radio broadcast on the schools public address system. We looked around the room to witness tearful classmates and a very sad nun who told us just to take our seats.

The broadcaster was telling America that President John F Kennedy was shot.

Nothing else mattered that day.

 

Yeah, that's right, blame it on the chair.

 I am not a young man anymore, regardless of what my mind tells me. My body and my Cardiologist say something different.

As a kid it was always a little tough for me to stay in one place, inactivity was not something that suited me. 

Then one day a few years' ago it happened; that simple purchase that turned my whole life around.

I bought myself a La-Z-Boy and true to its name I became one with the chair.

It's not alot of fun now as sloth is one of the seven deadly sins and I know the job jar has been overflowing since 2010.  There is work to be done and I am getting some guilt and nasty comments from Jakeette, my wife of many years.

I also need to start exercising again and my Cardiologist says to begin walking.

Well walking outside may prove a little difficult at the moment, the summer weather in Pennsyltucky has been brutally hot, probably that El Nino or El Nina cycle or whatever they call it.  So I got a walking video program for my computer and I'll start slowly.

Imagine, I have to buy a program to tell me how to walk!  It's pretty basic. Lesson one is "How to get your fat butt off the La-Z-Boy and just move".

Amazing how much these computers know about us.

All I ever hear, especially on television and radio is "sitting is the new smoking".

That's why I turn off the TV and radio and just read.

I was a smoker at one time. I quit many years ago. 

I tried so often and it never worked. Every time I quit I would eat more. Then I would start smoking again then lose weight.

 I'd repeat this again and again, until I said I could do this no longer. 

I was not only a yoyo dieter, I was also a yoyo smoker.

My doctor at the time, a real skinny guy, said I should focus on the smoking and don't worry about the weight as I can take that off.

He's no longer my doctor.

I did make a choice between smoking or weight. I chose to quit tobacco.

After hundreds of attempts (well maybe not hundreds) I went to bed and had a little talk with God.

I told Him I was too tired of trying and that I asked for his help and take my habit from me.

True story, when I awoke I never again had a desire to smoke; and I was a two pack a day smoker.

That was about 30 years ago.

I was very thankful but have yet to say a prayer before bed asking the good Lord to stop my desire for a pepperoni pizza, or a trip to the Dairy Queen.

I would like to get healthy, walk more, so my prayer is to get up and move...but please Lord, don't break my La-Z-Boy in the process.

I'd like to get out of my bubble but then I'd have to leave my La-Z-Boy

 

Ok I decided to begin a blog and comment on what goes on inside and outside of my little world. 

Pennsyltucky is a term many use to negatively refer to those of us that may appear to be less sophisticated, possibly lacking in superior intelligence, a shortage of chromosomes as well as a few teeth.

We are depicted as if we are a neighborhood of porch-boy banjo players as seen in the movie "Deliverance".

That's OK by me, it keeps out a lot of undesirable "sophisticates" who will only try to take over and ruin our happy lives.

This blog (and possibly a podcast) will shed some light on my universe inside and outside of the bubble I call home.

Let the journey begin.

Pennsyltucky Jake  10-1-2023