If I were a rich man

There are only a few people on this planet who know exactly how tough it is to be a billionaire. Of course, they would never admit it, but you can tell. It’s in the way they talk and walk, how they dress and keep their fingernails clean. It’s how they smile so bigly to cover up their misery. 

Let’s talk cars. An ultra-rich billionaire can choose to buy and drive any car their heart desires. Fast, vintage, futuristic, armored, amphibious. Oh, so many choices. Want to add any extra features? How about all of the extra features? It doesn’t matter. I’m buying this car just to sit in. Do you take cash?

People like me (non ultra-rich billionaires) have it much easier. Got anything on the lot? Not picky on colors. Basic trim. Used if you got one. Scratch on the back bumper? No problem. How much down? Ouch. Can I pay it out? Say, over 10 years? Ok, let me talk it over with my wife.

Let’s talk groceries. I doubt ultra-rich billionaires shop for their own groceries. They have people who hire other people to shop for groceries. Ultra-rich billionaires have no idea how to choose a ripe watermelon or know how many eggs you have to break before you can make a perfect omelette. They couldn’t find the eggs if you gave them a map.

People like me (non ultra-rich billionaires) know the cashiers, stock people and personal shoppers by name. We know exactly how to smell a mango for ripeness. We could find the boxes of gluten-free pasta with our eyes closed. They’re on aisle…hey, wait a minute. Have they rearranged the store again? 

Let’s talk job security. If an ultra-rich billionaire had to turn in a list of five productive things they did this past week or else lose their ultra-rich billionaire status, they’d be hard pressed to list anything more than “I made and spent a ton of money.” You mean you didn’t develop a cure for cancer? Nope, but I bought the company that’s at the forefront of finding the cure. You mean you bought it and poured a ton of money into making life better for humanity? Nope, I fired 90 percent of the staff to cut costs. You mean you fired our only hope? Look, they were mostly sitting and looking through silly microscopes all day. I want doers, not sitters and lookers.

People like me (non ultra-rich billionaires) are starting to make lists of our daily accomplishments because we’re now in constant fear our significant others are going to send us an email telling us to justify our existence or else.

“Let’s see. I mowed the yard, walked the dog, went grocery shopping, volunteered at the food bank, and wrote a couple of silly poems. I do much more than just make money. I turn simple living into an art form. So you’ll keep me for another week?”

If I were an ultra-rich billionaire, I hope I’d be kind to others, as well as helpful, giving, forgiving, considerate, compassionate and soft hearted. Your car broke down? Have one of mine. You lost your job? Let me buy your groceries this month. You need a backer for new cancer research? Count me in.

But people like me are never ultra-rich billionaires. We’re too nice. Not in anyway cutthroat. Our smiles mean “Howdy, friend. Want to come over for supper?” and not “Wait until you read my latest post on social media and discover I just fired you. Oh, to be a spider on the wall.”

Proof: out walking the dog.

Standing with Ukraine

I learned the Ukrainian national anthem several years ago after the country was invaded by Russia. I learned it on the instrument I just so happened to have on hand at the moment. My Clarke penny whistle. Today seems like a good time to hit the play button again.

Winter 2025, Part II

Oh, to be a brown bear. Curled up like a ball under a warm blanket, waiting out the winter. Keeping an eye on the coffee maker. Not caring one iota about the day’s political scenery. Binge watching all 80 episodes of “Schitt’s Creek.”

Wednesday, 19 Feb, 6:30 a.m. — It’s 20 degrees outside. There’s white snowy stuff on the ground. Since two of our cats were begging to go outside, I let them. The short-haired Siamese came back pretty quickly. He’s now curled up on the couch. The long-haired Tabby is still outside. No doubt he’s found a warm spot under the house.

Why aren’t schools closed, or at least delayed? I guess it all depends on the icy-ness of the roads. If they’re not slippery, the buses can get through. But there’s snow on the ground. Maybe this will be the only time I’ll have a chance to — I mean, the KIDS will have a chance to build a snowman. Wouldn’t you think…

Oh, wait a minute. The Tabby’s back and I just got a message saying school’s closed for the day! Build a snowman? No way. I’m huddling under a blanket and drinking coffee until Thursday. I sure hope the electricity stays on.

Wait a minute. Is “Schitt’s Creek” just another story about whiney billionaires who think the world evolves at their whim? No thanks! I’m not watching any news today.

Thursday, 20 Feb, 6:30 a.m. — It’s 12 degrees outside. The heater can’t keep up. All the faucets are dripping. I’ve got long johns and two jackets on. I hate to admit this but I’ve come to the conclusion I’m just a big talker when it comes to “enjoying” cold weather — all hat and no cattle, all sizzle and no steak, all puck and no stick.

I’ve always said that I much prefer winter over summer. You can put more clothes on, but can only take so much off. Well, that’s easy to say when Winter usually lasts about a week, and you don’t live where 12 F feels like a warm front.

Today’s trash day. I’ve got to decide pretty soon if I want to bundle up and haul that dumpster to the road or wait until next week when it’s a bit warmer and I can get by with just a T-shirt and shorts. I guess I better go check to see if the dumpster’s full.

Yep. Full to the top. I went ahead and dragged it to the road. I can’t feel my face anymore. 

Friday, 21 Feb, 6:30 a.m. — It’s 21 degrees outside. It’s not that I hate Winter. I just dread not knowing when the “bombs” will start dropping. One to take out the electricity. One to take out the heater. The others to blow the water pipes to smithereens. It’s like not knowing from day to day if you’ll still have a job tomorrow. It’s like playing hide and seek with the medical bills you can’t pay. It’s like being one slip down the icy steps away from being a “dearly departed.” 

I much prefer Winter when I’m inside, warm and dry. Or when it’s over.

Saturday, 22 Feb, 6:30 a.m. — It’s 31 degrees outside. The wind isn’t blowing. There are a few clouds in the sky, but I can still see a waning crescent moon. The coffee’s brewing. The cats are playing Tag. Does it feel a little warm in here to you? Or is it just me?

East Texas snow-ish kind of day

'Hope' is the thing with feathers

 I have no doubt the mockingbird was minding its own business. The last several days had been colder than usual, so it was probably on the ground looking for seeds or tiny bugs to eat. I imagine it was deep in thought, wondering how it was going to feed the kids, counting its blessings about being able to fly, contemplating its place in the universe, hoping to inspire the younger generation into making the most of the time they are given. All the while being unaware of its impending doom.

I know it was a mockingbird because its feathers are scattered all over the front porch like a pillow fight gone terribly wrong. A gift from the cat, no doubt. A white elephant present you weren’t expecting, but here it is and now you have to decide what to do about it.

It’s Saturday morning. The sun is up. Our recent cold snap is behind us. Inside, the washing machine is running and the heater just kicked on; the cat is asleep on the couch. Outside, a gentle breeze is ringing the wind chimes; above that, I can hear birds singing their wordless songs. 

Looking through the kitchen window, I see a couple of mockingbirds chasing each other like children playing tag. Oh, how much more exciting the game would be if only Ma was around. Has anybody seen her lately?

I grab a broom and head out to the porch.

The temperature is still a little cool in the shade, but stepping out into the sun is a warm handshake from an old friend you haven’t seen in ages. I have on a light jacket. No gloves. No long johns. I’m free to move around without shivering and wishing I’d stayed inside for another cup of coffee. I sweep away the white elephant and contemplate the conversation I need to have with the cat.

“Hey. Listen buddy. Stick with mice. Birds are our friends.”

“What’s this ‘our’ business? Your friends, maybe. But for me, birds are the challenge, the adventure, the Mt. Everest of catch and have an afternoon snack.”

“Okay, but how about the philosophy of ‘catch and release’? I see you playing with mice every now and then, and you just let them go.”

“Oh. I understand now. Admit it — you didn’t like the present. I swear there’s no pleasing you.”

The sun comes up, the sun goes down. The moon, in waxing crescent, peeks through the leafless trees; Venus is bright in the southwest sky, and happy to share its space with Saturn; Jupiter is high above; Mars is off to the east; Uranus and Neptune, even though they are quite shy, also take part in the parade. 

The planets, in their own way, smile and wave at the crowd, throw bead necklaces and candy to the children, and put on a show well worth remembering. It doesn’t matter that the planets don’t even know we exist. We know that they exist, and that’s good enough.

And the world begins another spin around the neighborhood. Today we’re expecting cloudy skies and light rain. It’s still chilly out, but bearable. A gentle breeze is ringing the wind chimes, the cat is asleep in its bed, and the dishwasher is finishing another load. Above all that, I can hear the birds singing their wordless songs, sounding to me like Emily Dickinson’s poem that begins, “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” Without even wanting anything in return, they give me hope that tomorrow will be a better day.

Another Happy Valentine's Day

I went for a short walk this morning to ponder just how far away Galaxy GN-z11 is from my living room couch. To be honest, I was trying to work out how to celebrate Valentine’s Day knowing that my wife loves getting a giant box of chocolates but can’t eat any of them. I was hoping communing with the universe would help me solve this little dilemma.

At 31.96 billion light years from Earth, GN-z11 is one of the furthest galaxies that humans have ever discovered. It is 25 times smaller than our own Milky Way Galaxy, has only 1 percent of our mass of stars, but is forming new stars almost 20 times faster, making it bright enough for scientists to see.

Me and my Valentine.

It would be nuts for me to invest in an expensive telescope to try and see GN-z11 because it’s just too far away. Maybe a heart-shaped box full of cashews (she loves unsalted cashews) would do the trick.

Back in April of 2017, a team of international astronomers pointed their telescopes toward the center of Galaxy M87 (a mere 57 million light years from Earth) hoping to capture an image of a black hole. After two years of collecting, processing, and analyzing their data, the team released its findings to the world, giving us the first ever photograph of “Powehi.”

Technically, the black hole’s name is M87*, but Larry Kimura, a Hawaiian language professor at the University of Hawaii at Hilo, dubbed it “Powehi,” a word that comes from an 18th century Hawaiian chant. It means “the embellished dark source of unending creation.”

A Valentine’s trip to Hawaii might be nice, but baking a Spam and pineapple pizza might be easier on my pocketbook. Either that or serenade her with “Love Me Tender” on ukulele. Hmmmm…something to consider.

In 2006, NASA launched the New Horizons spacecraft from Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, sending it on a mission to explore the edges of our solar system. It flew into the Kuiper Belt and sent back the most detailed photographs ever taken of our former ninth planet, now a dwarf planet, Pluto.

It’s not hard to imagine how upset Pluto might have been concerning the demotion, but it’s been a good sport about the whole rigmarole. It even put on a good show as New Horizons zoomed past taking photographs of its surface – photographs that included a nitrogen ice-covered basin in the shape of a Valentine’s heart.

I would love to take photographs of Pluto’s heart. What a romantic gift for Valentine’s Day that could be. But the cost of a camera that would allow me to do that would be extremely steep. Tea. She likes herbal tea. Put some in a basket with a heart-shaped bow on top? Maybe.

As far as we know, humans are the only sentient creatures in the known universe to block off a day specifically for giving heart-shaped boxes of candy and romantic cards to people we truly care about. We spend millions of dollars each year on these gifts hoping the gesture will accurately reflect our love for another.

To my loving wife: If I were able to purchase the fanciest box of chocolates that money could buy and write the sincerest love verse that any poet could compose, you would be no closer to knowing just how much you mean to me than humanity is to being able to see beyond the edges of our universe.

So, Susan, thanks for being my Valentine for the 40th time. I hope this story makes up for me not lassoing the moon for you.