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Heard From A Friend

David West — Mon, 21 May 2012 23:37:55 GMT

Memorial Day weekend is in view, it's close to 80 degrees outside (though I would not be surprised to see some snow over the weekend, such is life at high altitude) and motorcycles are running around everywhere. In the past few days, I heard from one of my best friends after several years of silence. Not his fault, just wasn't the time where he could contact me and I am happy that now is the beginning of that time. Both of us spent many years in a world of evil, I am glad that he will also be free from that. Hell is not a good place to be. He will be in a stunning new life before long, just as I am now.

Without the technology that most of us have now, none of that conversation would have been possible, I'd have gone on in my new life only remembering how very important that guy was to me, not learning the good news that his life is going to be so much better. I remember going to his wedding, how very happy he was to have found such an angel to spend his life with, all the strange and fun things that he and I did together, like shooting machine guns and going to Scotch tastings, and how much he supported me when I was going through this most recent - and last - evolution of my life. Virtually nobody else did that.

Unfortunately, there are still a few friends of ours remaining in Hell, I pray that they, too, will be able to escape and move forward. The money and the toys are not worth the loss of one's soul. Only friends are worthy of a part of your soul.

So, to my friend: I hope to see you in a couple years if not sooner, we will catch up on great Scotch whisky and great Bourbon whiskey and debate verses from the Bible while knowing that neither of us knows a damn thing, and that's all good. God tells me that Goldie is doing fine, playing with my first Barney, a little Boston Terrier that I miss very much. They are both probably laughing at what you and I will say or do next. God does have a sense of humor and that's why dogs do, too. Thanks. You made my year. Love you.

Fierce Looks Just Like This

David West — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 23:27:23 GMT

Early this afternoon I went to a seminar on birds of prey. The naturalists from the Black Hills Raptor Society brought four birds with them, a red-tailed hawk, a kestrel, a screech owl and a great horned owl. The first three were kind of as I expected them to appear, regal, stately or pick your own words for how they look. The screech owl, all 5 ounces of him, was rather cute. It is the great horned owl that surprised me.

I've heard plenty of them, seen a few at night from some distance as the big owls make virtually no noise when flying, so it's a glimpse in a flashlight beam. I spent so much of my past life studying what makes someone tough or tenacious or a survivor. The great horned owl surpassed all of those. That owl didn't like us people much, it was obvious that he only tolerated the guy holding him (the guy wearing a whole lot of leather protecting his arm) and after hearing that the owl regularly killed 20 pound turkeys and skunks and mice and anything else he felt like eating, I realized I was looking at one of the supreme predators of the animal world. It seems great horned owls have very little, if any, fear of people. If I looked like that owl, I'd fear just about nothing.

Perhaps if we are in a position in life where we need to be tough or we need to survive, we can learn from the instincts of that big owl. One thing the naturalist said was that the owl doesn't back up, if it picks its prey, it attacks, kills and eats it. Job says in one of the verses of the Bible that he is "a brother to dragons and a companion to owls." It seems to me Job was in good company while surviving what Satan was doing to him. I didn't know how good until today. People talk about putting on their "game face" and taking on whatever is bothering them, but they sure do not have the look, no matter how determined they try to appear, as the calm certainty in the amazing eyes of the great horned owl.

Just something to think about. I am glad I'm not a mouse.

John Halverson of the Black Hills Raptor Center with Icarus, a great horned owl.

Halloween

David West — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 19:25:49 GMT

My favorite holiday for years, as a child I loved to decorate the front yard with skeletons, pumpkins and other spooky things in preparation for Halloween. My brother and his family still have a big party on or near All Hallow's Eve. I even got a tattoo on Halloween some years back. It's a time to dress up and be somebody else other than whoever you really are. Since I've been trying to come up with some way to know who that latter person is, I've concluded that there may be some importance in what one has spent the most time doing during a lifetime. There's a concept stated in some book expousing that if a person does something for 10,000 hours, then he or she is an expert at whatever that activity is. I don't know whether that's true, I've spent years practicing with a guitar but still can't play the damn thing. For the moment, though, I'll go along with the notion that time spent has some revelance to what a person is good at or at least values doing. Had I spent the entire month of October every year for the past 40 years decorating for Halloween, then that must have been very important, and I'd be a Halloween expert or something.

I know a single mom who's devoted herself to her daughter, anyone who knows her also knows what's most important in her life. Another person loves her pets, making sure that for over 30 years, her menagerie has the best care possible. These kinds of people may take a day off once in a while, or once a year, to dress up and be someone else, but it won't change what is so important to them that they've spent years to it. While increasingly rare (or perhaps now impossible), I think there are many positive things to be said for those who have worked for the same company for 20, 30 or even 40 years. It seems like there's less permanence in anything than there once was, but someone willing to devote a lifetime to anything is a person with a lot of innate value. It might be that people now just choose to move on or say "no" or do whatever they do to make a change, but I admire those who have the ability and fortitude to do anything long-term. I think it would give one a sense of stability, one persona, rather than a closet full of past costumes.

Happy Halloween.

Thirty Years of Harley-Davidsons

David West — Fri, 28 Oct 2011 20:54:07 GMT

This fall I have several anniversaries to celebrate, the oldest is buying my first Harley in 1981. It was an FXB Sturgis model, basically a Super Glide or Low Rider but with twin belt drive, an 80 cubic inch Shovelhead engine and four-speed transmission. After an air cleaner change and some carburetor jetting, I installed straight pipes and had the very loud bike that I'd wanted since first seeing a Harley-Davidson as a little kid. The Motor Company has come a long way in 30 years. Back then, though, they hadn't even started trying to improve quality and the motorcycles were proof. They often didn't start or they broke down. Parts fell off, oil leaked out. I carried a lot of tools and plenty of spare parts.

My bike had both electric and kick starting, which was good since about half the time, the tiny battery and anemic starter only clunked when the start button was depressed. There were plenty of opportunities to attempt kicking the big engine to life, but doing so took a fair amount of spiritual intervention through prayers using rather forceful language directed at bikes in general and my bike in particular. If the engine didn't then fire, I'd get the bike into third gear and nod at my lady of the moment, who would then push me and the bike until there was enough ground speed to release the clutch and get the engine running.

Harleys of that era vibrated. Violently. Rear-view mirrors were useless. Numb hands were common. Every fastener regularly came loose. Loctite became a trusted friend. Bulbs failed often, an early lesson learned was that a high and low beam auto headlight could be substituted for the Harley's lamp. I will now take a moment to apologize to all of those people in eastern Pennsylvania in the 1980's who found their cars with non-working bulbs. The bike's ignition coil vibrated so hard that the mounting bracket broke. This happened so often that I carried a spare bracket. I could swap it for the broken one and then reweld the broken part and be ready for the following week.

Riding back then was all kind of an adventure, since the start of a ride was no guarantee of how the trip would end. Still, that bike took me to some great places with great people. That first Harley and the two that followed it are all gone now. What remain are memories of riding each of them, whether it was up into the northeast, down the Blue Ridge Parkway, or all the way out to Sturgis. Each machine ended up having a history, a time in my life with associated places and people. My current Harley (it's number 4 for me) doesn't feel like there's history yet, it's a 2010 and I haven't ridden it far enough or long enough to establish many memories with it. The only personal evidence of its ownership is a reproduction of the tattoo on my back that's painted on the motorcycle's oil tank. To its credit, this bike has already attended two Sturgis rallies and it's patiently waiting in my little shed for next year's rides. I think it is a year and a half old and 30 years old at the same time. Considering that, I realize I've been wrong. This bike already has history, 30 years of it.

An October Morning

David West — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 20:37:02 GMT

There are cattle grazing outside, their black hides contrasted by the white snow that both covers the ground and clings to each needle on the pine trees. Tiny flakes continue to fall from the low clouds that envelope this high country. The air feels damp, as if the moisture can't decide whether to remain frozen or arrive as droplets of water. The beef drift north from the hill to the west and down into a valley, eventually I will see them on the mountain to the east since they seem to enjoy their daily trek from one side of this dwelling to the other. Perhaps some deer will take the place of the bovines in the small window here that reveals the outside world. It may be that the deer have already arrived. Unless I spot an ear moving, I often don't even see the deer at all. The only visible activity at the moment comes from a little red squirrel searching for pine cones. The squirrel usually will stand up and chatter at me gazing from the window, but today the snow on the ground seems to have given the tiny red gatherer a greater incentive to work rather than take a conversational pause. Inside this little place, the old furry dog naps on the wood floor. She occasionally awakens and raises her shaggy head, gazing around the room, probably making sure that all is quiet as usual. And she finds that to be true, a typical morning in these mountains.

Typical but still somewhat odd, as in many ways the things in this structure in which I live are not of the current century or even the last one, it's more like much of the old west still remains. Not in every way, there are nods toward technology: light bulbs, an electric heater, LP gas for a small stove, running water, a good roof that doesn't leak. I compare these luxuries of the modern age as I take inventory of the room while refilling my fountain pen and pouring another cup of very strong black coffee. There is a key-wound clock on the wall, a saddle sits in a corner, a rope, chaps and spurs nearby. True artwork even graces one wall, a grand friend who is an artist brought me a painting she'd done of a cabin not too far from here. I really enjoy seeing her depiction hanging over the desk. My friend's husband said it was perfect for here, as he'd framed the painting with wood from an old outhouse. I'd agree, it's perfect.

Not all in sight is authentic to the old west period, of course. I readily admit that my lever-action rifle leaning against the saddle and single-action revolver hanging by holster and gunbelt near the window are both chambered in 44 Magnum, a caliber unheard of in the days of horse and wagon, though maybe originally thought about many years ago when Elmer Keith first began reloading the 44 Special. A 12 Gauge pump-action riot gun gathers dust by the door, my acknowledgement that mountain lions live here, too, just as the dust on that shotgun confirms my thought that it's rather unlikely I will have any close-range lion problems (but not impossible as a friend's trail camera photos clearly show a big cat not too far from here). At the moment, with eight wild turkeys outside the window, I'd bet that any lions are elsewhere. If I'm mistaken, it could be that mountain lions heard the same thing about wild turkeys that I did, the turkeys are awful to eat since they taste like the pine cones that they constantly ingest.

There's a Bible on a shelf and a Lakota peace pipe and medicine pouch hanging next to the Bible (I might as well be on good terms with God and Wakan Tanka, though personally I think they are one in the same, but in any case, I'd rather not get either arrows or lightning bolts shoved in my rear end). A big Bowie knife takes up most of a table, I really have no idea why except that it looks good right there and I'm too lazy to either carry the thing or find a more permanent spot for it. I suppose that knife is the beginning of my decorating career. I suppose the metal tray of loose tobacco and the stack of cigarette papers lend the place an air of authenticity, but I must admit that I need to replace the cheap disposable lighter with a box of wooden matches for a true sense of old-west realism. Other than the lighter, I'm relatively satisfied that most of what is visible could at least at first glance fit into 1885 rather than the current year.

I suppose this home is decorated with mostly cowboy gear, though I'm really not a cowboy unless that term could be used with a person who lives out here, wears western clothing and owns an iron horse. Long ago, I had a lot of things with that particular horse's brand on them (Harley-Davidson) but those things are part of the past rather than the present, the bar and shield tattoo on my right arm thankfully excepted. I choose to use the word "decorated" to describe what is in my view rather than more accurate terms like "piled up everywhere." Decorated gives the impression of intentional, as if my pitching a coat and hat on a chair was a deliberate act intending to make the scene reminiscent of a museum display rather than a bunkhouse, though in time I may be able to come up with a concept which I'll term "bunkhouse decor" and then take some photos for a large-format coffee table book that nobody will look through anyway.

As the snow continues to swirl around, I roll a cigarette and walk outside to smoke it, immediately learning that the jacket I am wearing, made of plastic fibers in China rather than wool (it was advertised as wool, too bad I never checked the tag until now), something from my past life complete with fancy camo pattern and hunting logo, is useless in this climate and contributes nothing to my own warmth. I decide to donate it to the old dog for a bed. The lesson here is to wear wool or be cold. It's too bad that like most clothing available now, finding wool items made in this country, or much of anything made in this country, has become difficult or impossible, at least locally. After several searches in a few nearby towns, I gave up trying to find some leather gloves made in the United States. At least I did find some imported by a company based in the United States, though it was sad to see that the old glove company Wells Lamont had turned to overseas sources.

I guess that's my complaint for today, something to do with imported junk that isn't as good as what used to be made right here. I wonder if anything is truly made right here. I guess I was, but that was long ago in both years passed and lives lived. I dig out an old USA-made Filson sweater (new production is all imported) and attempt to discuss this problem with the dog, but she offers no advice. Maybe tomorrow I will come up with something else to whine about and my furry friend will again act like she is listening. She probably won't have much to say tomorrow, either. No matter. She knows I don't complain often. We have food, it's warm and quiet in here and beautiful outside. Considering those blessings, it may take me quite a while to think of something else that's bothering me. I tell the dog and she just wags her long tail and goes back to sleep.

Snow Flurries And Wild Turkeys

David West — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 22:11:59 GMT

It is nice to be back up in the mountains after about a month of traveling, didn't realize just how much I miss these high hills and the peace that they give to me. Counted over 60 elk in a valley down below, then made it home and awoke to snow flurries a few mornings back. Glanced out the window while pouring a cup of coffee and six wild turkeys were pecking along outside. Yes, it's already cold here but the temperature seems to match the solitude. Time to store cotton shirts away and put wool shirts out, finish a rifle I've been slowly working on in case some hooved food appears outside and generally make sure all is ready for the winter.

When I lived in the modern world, I'd have said it is quiet here. Now I know better, listening to crows, coyotes and other critters talking while the wind gives the pine trees their own voices. Linear thought is replaced by circular feeling, a sense that all of nature here is interconnected. It feels like snow is coming. The little red squirrel who lives in an old shed out back races to store pine cones before the white flakes arrive. No other weather forecast is necessary. I just start to know a few of these things. But, I'd been puzzled by some of the animal behavior I'd seen and was surprised to hear what others had to say on that subject, making me realize I still have far to go in order to understand some of what the natural world is trying to tell me.

As the seasons changed from warm to cold, I first noticed how the coyotes started banding together in larger and larger packs. My guess was because the coyotes could hunt deer or elk better in groups, and there seemed to suddenly be deer and elk all over the place, even standing around my little "home" as if I did not exist. I thought it must be what those animals did as the temperature dropped, perhaps moving into this high little valley, or perhaps I'd blended into the landscape so well that my presence no longer mattered - a rather egocentric viewpoint, as if I mattered. I was to find that I do, but for reasons that at the time I'd not have grasped.

A few weeks passed with the coyotes, elk and deer behaving the same way. I was in town one day and mentioned this to some people who have lived here all their lives. They said there was a mountain lion near where I live. The coyotes get together because an individual coyote is likely to get killed by the lion. And the deer and elk are herded up around my place because I am there. They sense that it's safer around me because I would keep the mountain lion at a distance. Rather than me being invisible, I have become part of their world, an important part it would seem. I was told not to be shocked if I ended up with quite a group of grass-eating critters nearby this winter. As long as the lion remained, its prey would gather around me.

I didn't hear any scientific reasoning or biological concepts stated by anyone with an alphabet after their name, only that the animals just know and that is all. These aren't things that stand based on western cultural demands of proof, examined in such minute detail that there is no longer a "whole." This knowing (at least to native cultures like the Lakota people here) is just accepted fact and no proof is needed. The proof is here by its own volition. Things happen for reasons, both seen and unseen by us, more questioning means less knowledge. Another comment was that all things are interconnected because the Creator wants it that way, it is what it is.

So, the Creator wants me to live in a shack in the mountains this winter so that the elk and deer feel safe? "Yes. That's your purpose now. Accept your purpose, the Creator gave it to you. It is a gift. Stop thinking so much," was one reply. Stop thinking, learn to just know and accept. That's a more enlightened and refreshing view of life than anything I've ever heard. Another person said, "Nature will tell you what you need to know. Take the time to listen." That feels like good advice, I believe I will try to follow it.

A Bucket List

David West — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 18:40:02 GMT

In early 2009, a friend asked me what I had on my bucket list. I, of course, had no idea what she was talking about, I tended to live in the world of guns and nothing else so had never heard that term. She patiently explained how some people have a list of things that they wanted to do before they die. Things to do? My list at the that time was of things I wanted to own. A month or so later, I'd revised my list as best I could based on what she'd told me, that in her mind the list should be of things to accomplish rather than just have. I did not do a great job, there were still some possessions but also some places I wanted to see. My friend again talked about the importance of goals in life and what she thought they should mean. To her, a goal on one's bucket list wasn't to own another wristwatch or motor vehicle. While she has had no contact with me since then (a smart lady who knows crazy people are strange), I often think about what she attempted to teach me.

It seems to me now that a bucket list reveals a great deal about the person who wrote it - I was wanting things, then a slow shift toward a few experiences which I have since been able to do. At present, I really have no list, it is more some intangible goals that would have seemed stupid to me a few years ago, a focus on inward quality rather than outward quantity. These days, I'd like to have Jesus Christ with me always, let my friends and family know how much I value them, appreciate seeing an elk grazing in the mountains, laugh at being caught in the rain while riding a motorcycle.

Those are things worthy of my bucket list. I've already seen all the places, shot all the guns, owned all the toys. All that past list taught me was how shallow a life I had been attempting to live. Thank you, my friend, for this lesson. I may have finally learned it. I know you will likely never see this but if you do, then at least you will know that I have tried to pass it along to a few others. I hope you are having a wonderful life.

Defining Moments

David West — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 22:04:06 GMT

If you could go back in your past, would you change anything? It's a common question, many answer that they would not, as the past has created who they are in the present. If you decided, however, to make some change, at what point in the past is that accomplished? I think in each life there are particular moments when one decision or action can cause subsequent events to unfold for years. These instances need not be dramatic, at the time one may not even know that such a decision is right in front of the individual. I also think that the most important aspect of one of those moments is that the decision made reveals one's character.

Not quite ten years ago, I was working with two people who became close friends, both with me and with each other (a short time after the moment that I'm going to describe happened, my friends married each other). They were both knowledgeable about the company's products and loyal to both the company and its customers. One day me and my friend were summoned into a conference room where our boss told us that he had just fired our female friend because she had questioned his "authority." (This was rather typical behavior from our boss, a person who stood on others' rather than his own merit - or lack thereof.) My male friend immediately put in his notice of resignation. I, on the other hand, only said to him that I could not quit my job as I would lose my house. In one defining moment I had sold out my friends and become what I most despised, a shallow, greedy member of corporate America.

While I realized some time later that our boss had expected me to quit, and when I did not, it took him another year to demote me. But, I'd already damaged myself through the one decision I had made. Shortly after my friends married, she was diagnosed with breast cancer and subsequently died. And how rude it was to see my boss show up at her funeral with his false, baseless concern. At least he was consistent. I had thought that I was better than that, yet I'd shown otherwise - in one moment. Had I stuck with my friends at that instant, it is likely that my life would have turned out much differently as in the years since I'd not have had to deal with that boss and knowing that I'd sold myself. Maybe I'd not have eventually lost all of my life either. I shouldn't have been upset by that boss. He was only a tiny parasite feeding off a greater evil: greed. He's still a worthless parasite, but that's only my opinion and I truly believe that he has a fan club who would come to defend him if anyone dared to disparage his character. Hey, they all need money, too.

So, if I could relive that moment, I sure would and I'd have quit that company as fast as my friend did. The past cannot be changed, only remembered in the present and, hopefully, learned from for the future, when some decision presents itself where the outcome may change most of a life. I hope that my friend has forgiven me for my lack of loyalty to her. I miss her. In the unlikely event that I am ever again faced with a similar circumstance, I know now exactly what decision I would make. Selling your soul is never a wise choice.

Age And Experience

David West — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 18:43:02 GMT

An ancient looking fellow with a long gray beard showed up yesterday driving what may be the largest backhoe I have ever seen. He explained that he needed to do some repairs on a nearby water line that feeds one of the water tanks for the horses over in the next pasture. He stopped his machine, got out and just walked back and forth for a bit, looking at the ground. We talked about the weather, horses, the usual things that people talk about way up here in these mountains. Then he climbed back up the steps into the backhoe's cab, moved the machine about 15 feet over to a spot that appeared to me identical to any other place in the field and began digging. I sat down to watch him and became amazed at how precisely he could cut a trench with his machine, the big bucket never moving more than necessary and within a few minutes he'd reached whatever he needed to find - a valve or fitting or something.

Another person had arrived in a pickup truck, who then stepped off into the hole and changed the part. Once completed, the backhoe's engine fired up and in the space of time it took me to roll and smoke a cigarette, the hole (big enough to bury a car) was filled in and the sod, which had been initially peeled off the ground, was put back in place with fast but sure strokes of the bucket's long teeth. The old man waved and drove off down the dirt road. I've watched backhoes being operated in the past, the operator banging the entire bucket and arm on everything and making a giant mess, not so this time. The guy with the gray beard definitely had many years of experience and the ability to probably out-dig and out-produce a whole crew of younger, inexperienced drivers. There are plenty of people like the old man, those who have mastered some skill or skills, having a lifetime of practice, the knowledge to do something correctly every time and the wisdom to sometimes sit back and look around for a moment before just charging in and tearing up the dirt.

Why, then, do so many companies now discard their experienced people and court only the youth, who have multiple diplomas but no real history? I have heard the excuses that older people just cost so much more regarding medical insurance (might they not be worth the cost), older people can't grasp modern management techniques (whatever those happen to be this month), older people are set in their ways and/or can't learn. Really? Perhaps the notions of "set" or "can't" are hiding something else. Companies hire the young and educated. Those people move up into positions in management, where they find they are supposed to be leaders. They make decisions and other young employees carry out the orders, sometimes blindly but without question as none of those subordinates have the experience to truly know whether any given decision was correct. The young manager is likely going to feel threatened if anyone were to actually question what's been decided. The problem for the manager is that the older, experienced people often will question, or will simply say no.

Experience and age can and often do give one the capacity for independent thought far beyond whatever is taught in some university classroom. Companies will expouse the concept that employees should be "courageous followers," and while this is taught as being a noble undertaking, reality is found to be much different. What is actually expected of a follower is agreement without question, the mindlessness of a herd of sheep. No bleating is tolerated. These same companies will put into practice the concept of mentoring, but then it's the young managers who become mentors for other younger employees. I'm not sure that there's much experience being passed along at all. Those with age and experience, those who are not sheep, they need to just go away and not apply elsewhere.

Oddly enough, sometimes those old, discarded people don't even have to apply elsewhere. My friend, a tool and die maker, recently retired early after having grown tired of the herd of young supervisors at the company where he worked. At the same time, his wife, who spent her career learning about and managing computer systems, retired early from her company for the same reason. She's since been asked back as a consultant multiple times but has decided not to bother. It seems the company cannot find anyone with her skills. Her husband is so busy now that he doesn't have time to be retired, as a lot of other "old people" are happy to pay him for his experience and ability to make machine tools correctly the first time, rather than creating piles of scrap metal.

I sometimes wonder what some of these award-winning modern management companies are going to do when all the managers look at each other and realize that there's no one left who has any real-world experience. I suspect the managers will have a lot of meetings and then find something - anything - and completely change whatever it is, with grand accolades to one and all for the progress they've made. Nobody's left who could judge otherwise, who would have the knowledge to point out that if it didn't work the last five or ten or however many times it was tried before, it won't work this time, either. I think if I were to ever start a company, I'd only hire old people and I'd make sure they all knew that when I made a decision, they would be free to say no and say it loudly if they think I made the wrong choice. Then I would be the one learning from their experience. I've already earned the old, discarded title so I'd much prefer to end up a wise manager rather than a modern one.

What I Have Missed

David West — Sun, 28 Aug 2011 22:00:51 GMT

A bit over a year ago, I left the modern world and ventured way up here into the mountains. Things are different here, much of the common things in my past life no longer exist. When I started contemplating what I have not seen or done by being here, I created a list which I kind of find interesting for what it represents and what it does not. What have I missed in the past year?

- I have not seen a single fight. I have not seen people yelling at each other. No screaming in public, no nothing. What people tend to be is polite.

- I have not had to answer a cell phone. Not only is there very little cell phone service, but there's no sense of immediacy, either. Things aren't done at Tuesday at 3:45 pm on date Z, instead they are scheduled for "in the fall" or "once it gets cold." So, how does one get in touch with someone? At the local watering hole, whenever one happens to be there.

- I have not seen a suit, dress shoes, a tie or any other article of business attire. There is nothing ostentatious here, except perhaps some of the big homes that are only used in the summer, and there are so many Chevrolet Corvettes that I finally no longer even want to own one. They must be great cars, I'll let everyone else up here drive them. I've counted over 50 at a time in the nearest little town - population under 800. It seems there are only three kinds of vehicles here: Corvettes, old Toyota pickups, giant dual-wheel diesel pickups (with a horse trailer permanently attached). The Toyotas are slow. The Corvette owners drive their cars very slowly. The big diesel drivers act like they are driving sports cars. The horses in the trailers and the dogs in the back of the big pickups don't seem to notice.

- I have not eaten at, nor seen, a McDonald's restaurant. Actually, I've not eaten any "fast food" of any kind. Fast food here means a local cafe. After many years of eating processed food, I have been amazed that a simple diet of basic items from the local grocery store, supplemented with some wild game, can make me feel so much better. I went on the all-stress diet through 2010 and lost over 60 pounds, and none of me was overweight (except perhaps my skull). I've gained 30 pounds of me back (with no fat) and am pretty close to what I'd consider an ideal weight for me. No big secret, just what I've written here. I now don't think anybody needs to eat fast food.

- No one has given me the finger nor yelled at me in traffic. In fact, I've not seen any traffic, except for a lot of motorcycles during the Sturgis rally. The nearest town has one traffic light. It is over 30 miles to the next traffic light. No one seems to be in much of a rush anyway.

- I've not seen anyone hit a child or a dog or show any manner of abuse to anything. Children don't scream and yell in the grocery store, dogs don't bark. Again, people are polite and friendly.

- I've not felt the need to carry a handgun while around other people. I do carry a short rifle quite a bit, but I'm still not used to all the wild critters up here. Perhaps everybody is polite and friendly because everybody else does carry a handgun.

- I have not encountered anyone who was drunk or belligerent or both. There are just no "tough guys" walking around trying to prove whatever it is they try to prove. A century or so ago, the tough guys got shot by polite people. Maybe that concept has carried through to the present day.

- I have not seen any kind of police roadblock or DWI check. Law enforcement officers and firemen are incredibly good-natured here. They are still of the now-forgotten opinion that ignorance can be an excuse, so they all laugh while explaining to people that one should not be doing whatever it is they are doing even though it seems like fun at the moment.

- No one has stared at me because I have a lot of tattoos. I've learned that if somebody is staring at me for a moment, they'll almost immediately say something positive about my cowboy hat or boots or something like that. Then I learn that we both like the same hatmaker or boot company. This leads to a long conversation regarding the merits of hats, boots and beer. I like those conversations.

- I have not heard a motor vehicle where the music system is louder than what I'd consider a normal radio. Nobody wears pants below their underwear, either. I'm guessing that a person wearing drop down and trip over pants would not last long in an area so full of mountain lions.

- Not once has it been hot and humid. Or cold and raining. If it's cold, it's snowing. Yet it still doesn't feel cold since there's no humidity. The snow is like dust. I still do not have a snow shovel. A broom works fine. I've heard no tornado warnings, either.

- No one has passed judgment on me, berated me for what I did or did not do, threatened me with loss of employment or possessions or anything else based on their own self-deluded status of somehow being superior to others. People accept each other up here. In fact, people still say "God bless you" when they're saying goodbye.

I guess I really didn't miss anything.

Wyoming Riding Lessons

David West — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 21:59:58 GMT

This morning it was 42 degrees way up in these mountains, some coyotes were talking out across the valley and a horse was peering in the window while I enjoyed a cup of coffee. Life on a horse ranch. My Harley-Davidson was sitting outside, not really the worse for wear after a week of running around the west. Initially, I'd intended to take off for the midwest, but once on the road, I ended up in Wyoming. I have no idea why, but in my current life I rarely have any idea about why I do whatever it is I am doing. I had planned to ride over to Rapid City and then get on Interstate 90, but once I got to the pavement from here, I thought Highway 385 would be interesting on into Nebraska and east. Once I reached Custer, South Dakota, the big loud bike went west to Newcastle, Wyoming and then beyond. For anyone who is similarly inclined to wander around in such a sparsely populated state, I learned some things from this little adventure and I thought I'd pass them along. So, in no particular order...

- An antelope on the side of the road is scenery. A herd of antelope standing on the road is scary. Running a big bike at over 100 miles an hour when encountering the herd of antelope is stupid. It places a lot of stress on things like tires, brakes and heart muscles. Not a religious person? No problem, you'll be talking to Jesus for hours once you get stopped. On a similar note, tiny brown things that dart across the road are chipmunks. Slightly larger critters are prairie dogs. Anything brown that is taller than your handlebars is a problem. When you see a whole lot of brown blurs, all of them taller than your handlebars and you're passing through them, it's time to stop and thank the Lord that He decided that there's a place on this earth for truly stupid people, and you've become a member of that illustrious group.

- The people in Medicine Bow, Wyoming will be nice and helpful if you arrive in a Chevy Suburban and you are wearing a cowboy hat. I know that from my past life, when I spent some incredibly good times just north of that town. However, the people in Medicine Bow will be slightly more cautious when you arrive on an incredibly loud Harley that has flat black paint and a wolf on the oil tank and a "Silver Dollar Saloon, Hill City, SD" bumper sticker on the fender, covered in dust and mud, while wearing a Hadji rag on your head. No, they will not be the least bit impressed that you were going over 90 miles an hour into their town just so you could keep up with the train. They're used to fast freight trains. They are not used to strange people with tattoos, three earrings in one ear and riding on two wheels, they sure will look at you as if you have four heads and are from another planet.

- It is possible to shoot a prairie dog with a Browning Hi-Power pistol while riding a motorcycle (I do amaze myself sometimes). It is unlikely that anyone can hit a prairie dog with a shot from any handgun once the dirt road suddenly drops into a creek (I'm not as amazed by this, I'm known for being an idiot). And, the water is very cold. At least I learned that at 50 years old, I can still scream like a little girl. A personal note: I know and have the papers showing that my bike is making right at 101 horsepower. That means it's way too powerful for a little old guy like me. What that really means is that riding the bike on a dirt road while shooting at anything is not showing skill, it's showing another side of stupid. However, it was fun. Dumb but fun.

- When a highway sign says "No Gas For 60 Miles," that actually means no gas for 60 miles plus another 30 miles to get to a gas station that is still in business. Harleys are very heavy, you do not want to push one. I didn't have to push mine but I think that was because I am very good at asking God for favors. What that actually means is that I am great at pleading and groveling, while learning that God does indeed have a sense of humor.

-When motoring along a beautiful road across a valley and you see big white electric-generating windmills at the end of the valley, and when the windmills appear to be spinning really fast, that is a great indicator that, yes, it's windy there and to slow down. Suddenly riding at a 45 degree angle on a flat road does not help one's sense of natural appreciation. While a situation like this can teach you that you have full control over your bodily functions, it's still not recommended. If not, have some spare underwear.

- Coyotes howling at night while you are under a tarp next to your bike and 100 miles from nowhere only sound closer than they really are. At least I hoped that was true. Grip strength is directly proportional to fear. I hope I can still get magazines into my pistol since I seem to have bent the grip frame on my gun.

- Cattle haulers drive very fast, the drivers have big Kenworths or Peterbilts with huge engines. The trailers on their trucks are full of cattle. Cattle make manure. Manure can fly out of the trailers with incredible accuracy. It won't matter that you see the projectiles coming, it is truly smart manure. Heat-seeking manure. Plan accordingly or know where there are creeks to wash your clothes.

- Giant black clouds rolling in from the west are actually a direct message from God telling you to go east very quickly. Or, enjoy the hail that you are about to receive.

If you're out riding, be safe. Some real lessons: carry twice the water that you'd planned, cover up all exposed skin, that means all. Carry a wool blanket, not only does it get cold even in the summer but a wool blanket will block hail from hitting your bike. Pack a big-caliber handgun. No people will bother you, but critters might. No varmints bothered me, but I'd have much rather have had a 45 ACP or a 44 Magnum than a 9mm. When you think you might need shelter, find that instantly. Better to sit and watch the prairie grass than ride through a storm. Thank God for such beautiful country, He created it. Stop in Buckhorn, Wyoming for some good food and cold beer. That's not too far from where I am living right now.

My next adventure is this fall but I'll be doing that excursion to Missouri in a truck. I think I won't learn as much on that trip. Perhaps that's just wishful thinking.

The Black Hills Begin To Be Silent Again

David West — Fri, 12 Aug 2011 18:52:13 GMT

Western South Dakota is usually a very quiet place, except for this past week when the overriding sound is of motorcycle engines. This morning is the beginning of the riders going back home, for long periods of time there was just nothing to hear. The Friday before the Rally ends - today - used to be the day I'd head out to go back to whatever world I thought was normal, where I'd begin to count off the weeks until the next Black Hills Motor Classic would start and I could get back up into this country.

In my present life, I sit back and watch others leave, noticing that things are slowly moving back to what normal is here. Yes, this once-a-year event doesn't officially end until Sunday, but overheard conversations on this day are about getting home rather than riding around here, horses rather than bikes, speculation on when it will start to get cold again. The local people begin to come back out from wherever they go when the crowds of bikers are everywhere, some waiting to see just how much the motorcycle parts and accessories vendors will slash prices rather than haul their wares home on Sunday, so they can buy t-shirts and whatever else to send off to friends who couldn't make it this year.

Even where I am staying for a while, the last guest took off this morning. I'll be way up there this evening listening to wind moving through pine needles and not much else. And, I'll also be counting the weeks until next year's rally. By next week, parking lots will hold old cars and cattle trailers hooked to giant pickups rather than anything on two wheels. The past two weeks have been fantastic. Seeing old friends and meeting new ones, all of us brought together initially by a common love of Harley-Davidsons, the Black Hills and this motorcycle rally. To friends old and new, ride safe. See you next year.

The 71st Has Begun

David West — Sat, 06 Aug 2011 19:08:06 GMT

Not officially, the true start date is August 8th, but for most everybody, today is when it all really begins. The 71st annual Black Hills Motor Classic - the Sturgis rally - a week of many, many bikers all converging in western South Dakota. A friend of mine who is here visiting and riding his Harley around the hills asked me yesterday, "Who the hell let all these bikers in here?" Good question. I guess they just showed up. I rode down the mountain this morning to town, where the main street is blocked off except for motorcycles, so there's bikes lined up on both sides of the street and another row down the center stripe. Local businesses have increased their hours - I got to my "office" here at the Silver Dollar Saloon to find out that they'd opened the doors three hours earlier than usual. Beer deliveries are once a week in winter, twice a week spring and fall, but daily this week. If you don't like the sound of Harley-Davidson motorcycles roaring down the roads for just about 24 hours every day, then this is not the place to be right now.

For a lot of years, the rally was the yearly high point of my life, riding these roads, listening to the thunder of all the engines, meeting people who had something in common with me, a love of whatever it means to be a biker, or at least act like one. After 30 years of riding Harleys, I no longer care whether someone is a "real" biker (whatever that means) or just another person who loves motorcycles, for one week it's for the most part just good people getting together to have a great time. Some of us just go further into the lifestyle than others. I remember when I was voted into a motorcycle club 25 years ago. I didn't even have any tattoos. Now I have a life member card from the same club and more tattoos than I can count. I wonder what drove me so strongly into this motorcycle world. Was it wanting to be independent, which is kind of the biker image, or was it was wanting to be part of a group of like-minded people? Motorcycle clubs are actually pretty regimented, much the reason that all the members who assert their independence really do look very much alike.

One of those 'I want to be different but also want to fit in' things that seem to puzzle educated members of academia who study why people do what they do. Sometimes, there's just not an answer, it's just what it is. I read somewhere that you never see a Harley parked outside a psychiatrist's office. While that may not be true, its idealistic notion is accurate. No matter the problems of life, the demons that one fights during the periods of darkness when the soul wants to just quit, the pleas to God to just rescue what's left, it's been Harleys that have always brought me peace. I'm not even sure what the pull is toward the one brand of machine above all others. Perhaps it's what I was told many years ago by my cousin, another old Harley rider. When I asked him why he rode a Harley, he said, "That's what God rides. If you were God, wouldn't you ride one?" I don't know, I talk with God a lot, but I am starting to think that God likely does ride a Harley. And I know that if I were God, I'd live right here in the Black Hills of South Dakota. I lost my past life but gained a new one. If you are up here for the rally, please ride safe.

When Societal Acceptance Of A Social Group Changes - What Happened?

David West — Fri, 05 Aug 2011 20:44:18 GMT

I'm sitting in the western end of South Dakota watching another "Black Hills Motor Classic" (Sturgis Rally) start. Virtually all of the vehicles for a 100+ mile radius are motorcycles and 99% of those machines are Harley-Davidsons. And most of the local businesses are thrilled with the money that the bikers bring with them. One place in a small town just north of here doesn't like bikers. Of course the owner will still serve them, but he's now considered some old relic of the past when bikers were nothing more than low-life trash. I remember those days from before the 1960s through perhaps the mid to late 1980s when anyone who rode a Harley had tattoos and whatever other accoutrements motorcycle riders wore back then were considered pariah. We weren't welcomed. "We" were just blue collar workers who loved big air-cooled V-twin engines and were not wanted anywhere.

What happened? I have no idea, I'm not a sociologist and can't intelligently comment on how social mores shift over time. But, something happened in the early 1990s and the people who started riding Harley-Davidson motorcycles were a different group. Professionals with degrees and money started buying the machines. Then, those in that same group (and others) started to think that tattoos were something to get. We old bikers became part of a new group, where what we'd been doing was now drifting toward some level of mainstream culture and positive rather than negative acceptance. Bikers were historically seen as rebels, yet those who were most profitable in our society were embracing that image, an image that was completely opposed to success. The biker image was some tangled group of now hackneyed phrases about freedom and life on the open road, brotherhood and loyalty to some club of like-minded individuals (an individualism that is but is not, as bikers tend to dress alike and act alike yet are still fiercely independent). It must have been that image that at least some of the "new" bikers were attempting to connect with by purchasing big, loud V-twin air-cooled motorcycles. Could it be that some of the successful people wanted an outlet for some sense of rebellion, where they could assume the persona of someone else? An image, a sense - at least for a while - of freedom that they may have lost by becoming what they are, living within current social mores that, just maybe, they sometimes question.

That's likely enough deep thinking for one day, questions without answers. I always felt that virtually all people are sociologically oriented rather than psychologically driven. But, that's just me. If you're coming to the Sturgis Rally this year, ride safe.

Unseen By Choice - Similar Social Stories

David West — Tue, 02 Aug 2011 18:36:13 GMT

After my last post, four very nice people disagreed with me regarding having nothing else to say. I guess they are all correct since I spent this morning thinking about the past few days, conversations and an article I read about success.

I watch the old furry dog chase a squirrel up a tree and then she lays down in the sun, tail wagging and content with her life. Finally I am beginning to understand that should be a content life, it is enough. No riches or things or greed or whatever else makes one a success in modern society. Of course, while living inside society's rules, one shouldn't think these thoughts, might be labeled as an outcast or crazy and then some doctor will prescribe pills to make sure that all the thinking stops. If that fails, once in a while life fails as well. I suppose the truly insane sometimes just decide that life's answers are not inside society at all and they abandon it. I moved to a desolate but beautiful place where, while I have virtually nothing, I really do not have to watch people destroy each other based on the power of wealth or the immorality of culture. I have become nobody. Not seen, not noticed. The rest of the world can move along past me down below, where people can continue to impress each other with what they own. I know, I did it for years. It never really worked. At least now my own insecurities have been replaced by a peaceful understanding that the sun coming up over the mountain should be enough.

Something that has surprised me is that there are other crazy people like me, those who also just said no to whatever life had been doing to them and they dropped out of the world to find something else. I spent the past few days wandering around in a small town not far from here, watching the tourists, looking at motorcycles, listening to people, seeing some local residents who I have met over the past year. I noticed that many of the locals are not really so much different from whatever I have become. One old biker, I learned, used to work for a corporation in Colorado. He said he had worked there for years, had the big house and cars and everything that is supposed to denote success. Now he has a Harley and lives in a little camper up in the hills. He said he has never been as relaxed in his life. Another person (yes, another Harley rider as those with bikes and tattoos do tend to stick together) said he was a doctor at a hospital in Denver, but after some years of success, he didn't feel very successful. He lives in an RV now and just rides his bike a lot. He said he's "finally happy."

I must have run into half a dozen of those kinds of people, who had decided to just opt out of their past lives. And this past Sunday a friend showed up who worked for a company for 25 years, rotating shifts in a factory, until one day he'd had enough of night shifts and he retired. He never did get caught up in buying stuff or whatever else money is supposed to provide, he told me once that he just never felt the need for anything besides trying to be a kind and gentle person. I wish I had lived my past with his wisdom. He has always been one that no one really notices, yet he has lived a grand life enjoying all of it. I read this article about what it means to be successful, it sounds like the author has indeed found success while still living within society. For some of us, it has taken a total shift to some remote place, maybe not yet fully understanding what success is but knowing what it was not. Not toys or titles, rather perhaps some greater sense of truth that a few of us seek up in the mountains. I think the old furry dog already knows all about life and success, she waits to see whether I will also learn as well. Then we can both sit under a tree and be content.

There Is Nothing Else

David West — Sat, 02 Jul 2011 15:05:33 GMT

Awakening from a lost past in a surreal present, I realize that I really have nothing more to say out here in the world of modern technology and the internet. I started this blog a few years ago, thinking that I knew something and others might find it interesting. I have since learned that I knew so little that I should have just kept my mouth shut (which is my current personal rule, as I bet in my present life I do not say 50 words in an entire day). So, no advice, suggestions, proverbs or predictions, because whether it be from one's own actions or those of people you do not even really know, life can be completely altered until it's not even recognizable as any part of a reality once taken for granted, despite what you read or think you're prepared for. Thus, I no longer see any point in trying to comment on what goes on in the bizarre world that most people choose to accept.

I believe this: treasure your friends, if you have any. There are damn few friends. If you ever get in a position where your life has come apart, you'll learn just how few. Not much else matters. Those few people really do matter. Everyone else can just go away and believe me, they sure do run away. It's kind of like having a lot of tattoos. If somebody looks at your ink and immediately dislikes you, that's fine, you wouldn't have liked their company anyway. If you knew 100 people, be happy that one remains with you. The rest don't matter.

May life reward you with peace and wisdom. Peace comes from your soul at rest. Wisdom comes from experience. Once you have enough experience to learn that you have a whole lot more to learn, you'll be wise enough to allow your soul some rest and you can ultimately be at peace, at least for a while and maybe for a long time. That is the ultimate goal and there truly is nothing else.

Random Thoughts From A Fool

David West — Fri, 01 Apr 2011 17:27:00 GMT

Once I realized that it's April 1st today, I began trying to recall what was happening one year ago, but my journal doesn't even have any entries for the entire month of April last year, and journals from earlier years are not available to me. So, that leaves today as the first foolish day that I can remember. Hopefully, I'll move through this day as less a fool than whatever I'd been in the past. Since there's incredible solitude where I sit right now, there's been time to really focus on the once important pieces of life that strike me now as only the blind follies of an idiot who was in search of a village.

Possessions. I have so few now but still too many. By this fall, I'd like everything I own on this planet to fit in a pickup truck. That way, there's not much to have to take care of and nobody can have the leverage over me of being able to make me do one thing or another just so I won't lose inanimate objects. It's difficult to enjoy life when you spend every moment afraid of losing things, then awakening one day to see that none of the things really mattered. They just have to be moved and stored and guarded and protected. Yes, of course I miss a lot of the past items but I'm still here without them. I once had a giant library of books, each storing knowledge that I could reread as I chose. I have a few dozen books now but mostly just read the Bible. It seems to be enough.

Stability was another part of the past. Life was pretty stable on the outside but so mentally unstable on the inside that the external did not really matter since I rarely saw it. At present, I never know how long I can stay in one place, whether some relatively minor illness will become one that stops my life (as there's no money for any kind of medical care nor do I have much trust in the medical profession) or if some other external calamity will do away with what little remains of my physical universe. But, since my mental stability has finally returned to at least some degree, however debatable, it's now only a matter of adapting to whatever happens instead of living in fear that something will happen. At least if something occurs that I cannot survive, there won't be a giant pile of stuff for somebody else to have to deal with, either. Maybe it's foolish to have no plan at all for life, but with years of plans and ideas and goals in the past all gone away, I wonder why I expended so much effort on them. The big mountain right behind me at this moment is the same as it has been for many years, it's not scurrying around planning. Maybe it's just patient and whole and at peace.

The present is usually filled with events that a fool can enjoy, like the bighorn sheep and the deer running past the windows, the birds landing on the eaves to peer in here, chipmunks racing past the dogs (who always seem to be just at the very end of their leashes). Someone recently asked me about cell phone coverage over on this side of the big mountain, I said I had no idea since I didn't have a cell phone. I sure received the look of one who must be a fool at that moment. Or an email asking if I would be at a certain place next fall and I could not even reply as to what state within these United States I would be in by then. With my foolish thinking, I do have moments of strange clarity, like when I realized that there is a bizarre similarity between some things and maybe I'm a true fool to even ponder these. For example, I have read a lot about the Lakota people who once lived in these Black Hills of South Dakota. Their life was one of seasons, they'd do something in the summer or fall. When I now hear from different people, only those in the motorcycle culture, the "bikers" respond with 'I'll be over there this summer' or 'see you on the gulf coast this fall.' There are no real dates or months. Life lived in the present, only vague ideas about the future. Perhaps that's why I have still tried to keep my motorcycle, one of the very oldest ties to my past. Or, maybe a lot of fools ride Harleys. If so, I am part of that club.

Today is the day for us fools. Go do something foolish, like enjoying this very moment. Life is short.

The View From My Window

David West — Fri, 04 Mar 2011 15:55:00 GMT

After a long evening of contemplating what options are available in my life, I awoke to new snowfall up here in these mountains. There is something serene in seeing the pines white and still, realizing the rock bluffs are not watching fuel prices spike upward as the world seems to become more crazy every day. This place is not one of calendars or appointments, rather, it's of seasons. In the greater part of my past life, everything just had to be finished yesterday. Now, all things are finished eventually. I could scurry around chasing thoughts, but if those ideas are not part of God's plan, I will only be running in circles. Gained wisdom brings with it a tenfold increase in patience, time that once was fought now is appreciated, as without the time to actually see the beauty of this place, one could never learn to take the time to see anything at all.

Years ago, I would ride my Harley-Davidson on a big highway to work, and once the day was finished, I'd ride home on a different route so I could go through Valley Forge National Park. I'd often stop to look at the huge trees there. On weekends, I'd ride to a motorcycle club out in the country, the clubhouse was in a beautiful location, especially during the fall when the leaves would be in vibrant colors. That was 25 years ago and I am not only still a member of that club, but I still miss that place and those people. While riding through North Carolina one summer, I stopped at a tiny local cafe for lunch. This was back before doctors and attorneys rode Harleys, so I was not always welcome everywhere. On that day, though, I enjoyed outstanding fried chicken and great conversations with the people there about their state and its history. From getting caught in thunderstorms to riding in the snow, every day was an adventure. I was young but knew how to see.

Somewhere through time, I lost that ability. Insignificant things became more important than just living, what I was doing became greater than what God had placed all around me. When vanity overtakes giving thanks for what is greater than the self, it's no wonder that blindness is the result. Can anyone really buy the ability to look out off of the Blue Ridge Parkway into the valleys below, knowing that the view is there not for profit, but for understanding that God created it? Modern marketing, the advertising of useless things that supposedly would bring happiness through ownership, closed my eyes to just reading my Bible and riding a big V-twin motorcycle. It has been a journey of over 20 years to learn what I once knew. Now I have my Bible and a Harley-Davidson and not much else, but those are more than enough possessions. I look forward to each day, holding the promise of new sights and new friendships.

Whatever life holds, it should be lived, not overlooked.

It's Not Just The Place, It's The People

David West — Wed, 23 Feb 2011 18:40:00 GMT

In my past life, I used to spend a lot of time at a big cowboy saloon in a little town. Over a period of years, two other saloons were started in surrounding areas. Today, the last one of the three closed. The one that I frequented was only open Friday and Saturday evenings. It became the highlight of my week to leave work on Friday and head right there. Live bands, great bbq and most of all, great people. In time, those visits were the only good part of my life at all.

The place itself wasn't really significant. Rather, the friends I met there - everyone who worked there and all the local people who also stopped by - made it what it was, a few hours to forget about life outside and spend time laughing about nothing, bright moments in my otherwise world of darkness. The only decisions requiring any thought there were whether to have another adult beverage and whether to stay for the band.

During the summer, my old blue Harley would take me to that saloon, sometimes encountering both rain and sun along the way. Upon arrival, the parking lot would have the usual assortment of Harley-Davidsons and pickups, patrons would walk outside occasionally to gaze at the storms moving past. Once inside, the rain didn't matter. It was seeing those friends, listening to their stories of both good and bad things that made up their lives, a relaxation brought on by being around those who you have come to love and trust.

The place didn't make all that good happen, it was just a hub for the people there to be good people on their own. I hope someone in that small town can create another place like that, where my friends will be able to gather and be themselves. I'd ride the 1,000 miles on my new Harley just to visit. And I might not leave.

Remembering A Few Furry People

David West — Mon, 31 Jan 2011 17:32:00 GMT

It took me quite a while, but I finally remembered the names of the "furry kids" that I used to spend my time with back in my past life. At least the ones who were still living - many passed on before them and I can't recall all of those, nor do I have any photographs to remind me (of dogs or anything else). There was a big routine when arriving home of opening kennel doors and gates, hearing the dog door to the outside fenced area bang back and forth and refilling feed and water bowls.

The dogs had most of a two car garage, complete with heat and air conditioning, not too bad for critters. When we first installed the dog door, by building an entire wall in the space of one garage door, that seemed to be a great achievement. Except for that first night when I realized that the banging dog door was directly below our bedroom. But, eventually I didn't even hear it. Odd, though, that if there was not a dog snoring in bed next to me at night, I'd wake up.

On weekends, if the weather was decent, some of the little people got to go outside into another fenced area, the play yard. They'd run around sniffing at everything, the males sure to mark their territory and they sure had a lot of territory. Gus, a pretty good sized Boston Terrier, generally went with me over to a concrete retaining wall, where he'd sit on top of it and act like he was king of the world. Abbie, a tiny Jack Russell Terrier, would immediately jump to the top of a doghouse so she could keep an eye out for things to bark about. Meanwhile, Gracie, a little white furry Lhasa who also happened to be deaf, would find a spot for a nap - oblivious to the vocals coming from her house-mates. Those were enjoyable moments for me, far away from a strange reality that was my own life.

These days way up here and 1,000 miles from my past, there's three dogs. A tiny girl, a medium-size boy and a big furry lady. I spend a lot of time with them but since I didn't raise them, there's a different connection than the children of the past. Still, it's comforting to see them here and they all enjoy getting outside to chase rabbits and bark at bighorn sheep.

I don't think I'll ever get another dog for myself. The last one I did get, I couldn't take care of as I couldn't take care of me, either. Thankfully, he now has a happy new home. Dogs give us love without conditions, but we should return the favor by giving them a life of stability and peace.

For many years, I liked dogs much more than I liked people. Maybe I still do.