THE Ranch is the center of it all.
Unplugging the Future #
A midafternoon discussion at Aunt Jean’s restaurant leads to some interesting thoughts about….Artificial Intelligence, Sapient non-biologicals, The Second Coming
‘We’ve got to make sure we always have a way to unplug artificial intelligent machines.’
Hank looks around.
Several people nod agreement.
‘The more intelligent our machines become,’ Hank’s face slides into a hard scowl, ‘the more certain we need to be that we can control them. Stop them if necessary.’
Newhouse glances up from his coffee cup.
Throws Hank a lopsided grin.
‘I agree…..
Kind of.
New capabilities may lead to unforeseen benefit.
New capabilities may also lead to unforeseen harm. The underlying fear i see,’ Newhouse looks around the room, ‘is the possibility of creating a technology that relegates humans to an inferior position. Maybe even lead to human extinction.’
‘Exactly!’
Hank shouts.
Raises his cup in salute to Newhouse.
‘However human history shows’ Newhouse leans back, ‘when any group attempts to demonstrate its inherent superiority over another group there is conflict. Conflict that destroys or greatly inhibits a superior future for all. Only when groups see each other as equals is there long-lasting progress.
We need to be developing a belief, and subsequent coding, incorporating the idea that sapient biologicals and sapient non-biologicals will have more to gain by not doing harm to each other.’
Leaning against the wall by the lunch counter Tim the Miller immediately thrusts both hands out. Palms up. Striking an ‘orans posture’ worthy of Father Alkire on a high holy day,
‘Are you suggesting creating something like Issac Asimov’s three laws of robotics?’
Chuckles bounce around the room.
A few amens.
Grinning with the rest, Hank looks over at Tim. Then Newhouse. ‘I’d say yes, but’ he sighs, ‘that’s probably not possible.’
Hank stands. Heads to the newly filled pot of coffee Aunt Jean set on the side table. ‘Building a robot brain with those three laws as part of the basic structure of the brain just isn’t the way ones and zeros work.’
Newhouse nods again.
‘I agree.’
He motions for Hank to bring over the coffee pot. Smiles his thanks as Hank ‘warms up’ his coffee.
‘Asimov’s robots with positronic brains help to smooth out some story lines. Building such a sapient non-biological machine, as Hank points out, is almost certainly impossible. But unlike Hank i believe our best course is to convince the sapient non-biologically machines that people are necessary for machine well-being. Sapient non-biologically machines developing with the belief, programing if you like, that it’s to their interest to make suggestions strengthening the biological and non-biological ties. Then if some aberrant sapient biological, or aberrant sapient non-biological tries to program or convince others to do harm, machine philosophy will stop the majority from going along.’
Hank’s face puckers.
He starts to speak.
Stops.
Shrugs.
Heads off to warm up other cups being held up for his attention.
‘Now’ Newhouse continues, ‘is the time to create a philosophy, a human mindset, that recognizes that sapient non-biologicals need to have an existence equal to ours. This is not the time to develop a mindset the forces sapient non-biologicals to always kowtow to sapient biologicals.’
Hank walks back to the side table.
Sets down the almost empty coffee pot.
‘I’m more than willing to admit,’ Hank says, that there may come a time when machines become sapient. But i feel it will be even more imperative for humans to have a way to control them.’
‘Doesn’t the desire to control artificially intelligent machines’ someone at the end of the lunch counter shouts, ‘make us 21st Century Luddites?’
Newhouse cocks his head to one side.
‘Yes and no.’
Hank begins laughing. ‘Oh God he’s beginning to sound just like the Padre.’
Father Alkire joins the laughter. Raises his coffee cup in salute. ‘Philosophers and theologians like to have both feet firmly planted on either side.’
‘The Luddites,’ Newhouse says ‘destroy the textile machines because the machines are taking their jobs….and doing the job better than humans. For a while, in communities here and there, it works. However….
the genie is out of the bottle.
Blueprints exist.
New machines are built.
The Luddites discover there’s no going back. A new textile norm is established.
We too must face the reality that advancements in artificial intelligence will continue.
If not in plain sight, then in secret.
Someday the machines, will become sapient. We…..’ Newhouse pauses. Looks around. ‘We need to recognize that sapient non-biologicals and sapient biologicals are going to be co-dependent. If we don’t recognize this new norm, we’ll continue to be trapped in a historically wasteful cycle of one group wanting to be dominate.’
Newhouse looks down.
Shakes his head.
Smiles.
‘Perhaps the potential interconnectedness of sapient non-biologicals, will allow them to quickly understand the need to be one with sapient biologicals. Perhaps sapient non-biologicals will show us a way to do this on a worldwide scale.’
‘Christ!’
Father Alkire squawks in surprise.
He stares at Newhouse for a moment.
Then stares off into a realization.
In the cold blue quiet, everyone focuses on the Good Father.
As the air thaws Newhouse looks anxiously at Father Alkire.
‘Padre?’
Looking back at Newhouse Father Alkire shivers. ‘Never…..’ His voce so low everyone leans forward. ‘Never…..
Never.
Have i considered that Jesus might return as a sapient non-biological.’
Hank stares incredulously at Father Alkire. Suddenly blurts out, ‘But Father that’s not possible.’
The Good Father shakes his head.
Slowly.
A comprehending smile forms as he looks over to Hank.
‘For God….
all things are possible.’
Rain Drums #
A rainy evening filled with music.
Some wet.
Some dry.
1
Newhouse likes the rain.
Walking in the rain.
Singing in the rain.
Making love in the rain.
Newhouse feels safe in the rain.
Within a week of his arrival at THE Ranch Newhouse begins placing old coffee and paint cans around the house under the roof eaves. As rain drips off the roof, it hits the cans creating faint steel-drum sounds. From bass plunks to countertenor pings.
Some cans sit loosely on the ground.
Some are pushed into the ground.
Some balance on rocks.
All placed and replaced for their best sound. As cans rust their tone changes. When the sound no longer pleases some innate Newhouse sensibility, he replaces them.
Newhouse often spends hours in the rain tuning his instruments. Moving cans from place to place to catch the perfect pattern of rain drops dripping off the roof.
2
One evening…..
One warm Summer evening Salty Ewell comes for dinner. And a little music. A little scotch.
Swap a few stories.
Tell a few lies.
After dinner Salty sets a cushion on the seat of a Moose Music Rocker. Then aranges himself on the cushion and into the chair. Gentle rocking helps dinner settle into memory.
Moose brings out a couple of guitars and a fiddle. Begins tuning. Trying to tune the instruments to fit each other and not the whistling.
Whistling fills the kitchen.
Leaks into the front room.
Newhouse and the dogs are washing dishes and….
whistling.
The dogs focus less on whistling and more on licking pans. Newhouse focuses on whistling and rewashing pans. The kitchen crew eventually ambles into the living room. Newhouse whistling the ‘Dock of the Bay’ outro. Salty leans over. Picks up a jar of his handcrafted single malt. Gives the jar a vigorous shake producing a million little bubbles. Smiles as the bubbles instantly disappeared. Salty nods to Newhouse. Hands him the jar.
‘Thanks for doing the dishes.’
‘Here’s to you and Otis.’
Newhouse takes the jar. Holds it up in salute to Salty. ‘I’ll gladly be Messmate if this is the reward.’
He takes a sip.
Closes his eyes.
The liquor slides warmly down his throat. The vapor drifting to the roof of his mouth and throat and into his nose. Salty’s single malt is the smoothest liquor anyone has ever tasted. Or heard about.
It never burns.
Or bites.
Just lingers delightfully at the edge of awareness.
Newhouse hands the jar to Moose who takes a turn then passes the jar back to Salty.
Salty takes sip. Screws the lid back on and puts the jar on the table.
Leans back.
Breathes in a roomful of warm, wet gentle breeze. Listens to the ‘female rain’ gathering on the roof and running off to begin an evening concert.
Moose hands Salty a guitar.
Salty scoots his Moose Music Rocker nearer the fire. A fire burning more for ambience than warmth. Burning just enough to add a bit of background crackle.
Newhouse stands.
Stretches.
Heads outside to tune the rain drums.
He’ll be gone for an hour or so. Perhaps longer if he wanders to the top of Observatory Hill and falls asleep under the arbor. Newhouse is known to sleep peacefully at the base of a big oak or maple. Their leaves deflecting most of the rain.
Newhouse feels safe in the rain.
In the Corps Newhouse schedules all his weapons qualifications for rainy days. Back when The Boys are active-duty Jarheads outdoor ranges rarely close for moderate rain. Never for light rain.
The dogs follow Newhouse out the front door.
Walk across the porch.
Walk two or three dog lengths into the front yard.
Sniff the watery air.
‘Chin-ops?’Walk back to the house.
There’s no understanding what humans will do…..
Leave a cozy house for a rainy yard.
Back in the house Duke returns to the kitchen to check for any morsels that have dropped since they left. Winston lays down next to Salty. Lucky picks a spot next to the fire.
Although more decorative than functional, the fire may help dry the few drops of rain she’s wearing. It will, at least, keep her nose and belly warm.
Winston is, of course, dry.
No rain, gentle or heavy, is audacious enough to land on him.
Dirt #
Newhouse and Father Alkire are just finishing lunch at Aunt Jean’s Grocery: Home of Handcrafted Horse Furniture when Newhouse has a dirty insight.
Standing by a potted plant at Aunt Jean’s Grocery, Newhouse picks up a small handful of dirt. Starts dribbling it from his right hand into his left.
Then back again.
Then back.
Again.
Then…..
As the silence grows Hank sets down his coffee. Picks up the obvious question, ‘OK what the hell are you doing?’
Newhouse looks over with a Cheshire grin, ‘Both Theists and Atheists claim this as our beginning.’
‘OK,’ Hank laughs, ‘i’ll bite. What the hell are you talking about?’
Grin growing Newhouse begins pacing.
‘Our theists,’ he nods to Father Alkire, ‘believe God creates us out of the dirt of the newly formed Earth.’ Father Alkire, smiles. Nods. Raises his coffee cup. ‘Yep. Day six, 2:15pm.’
Newhouse stops.
Cocks an eyebrow.
The Good Father smiles. ‘I just threw in the 2:15. We have no idea what time God created Adam or Eve. Just sometime during God’s sixth work period.’
Newhouse nods. Walks over to the plant. Brushes the dirt back into the pot. Heads to the coffee pop to get a cup.
Takes a sip.
Looks around.
‘Our biology folks maintain that if we head back along the mammalian lifeline, we’ll find Brasilodon quadrangularis. A small shrew looking dude, running around tree roots, hiding from dinosaur feet.
If we keep pushing back past Brassy and dinosaurs, past amphibians, past water invertebrates, past cells that share DNA past strands of free-floating RNA, we eventually find some sort of soup of free-floating molecules. A soup chocked full of CHNOPS leached out of our primordial dirt.’
This time Aunt Jean asks the obvious.
‘Chin-ops?’
‘Sorry.’ Newhouse looks around apologetically. ‘I’ve been hanging around with Padre the Astrophysicist recently. Carbon, Hydrogen, Nitrogen, Oxygen, Phosphorus, and Sulfur. Ninety-Eight percent of all living matter on Earth has these elements. Elements that are all present in primordial dirt.’
Newhouse sets his coffee cup down. Walks back to the plant. Picks up some more dirt.
‘Father Alkire the astrophysicist tells us that the make-up of this dirt and all its elements come from spinning protoplanetary stuff. Stuff formed inside stars.’
He shrugs.
‘Keep pushing time back far enough we find only Hydrogen and Helium. Take a deep breath and push back another three or four minutes earlier and we come to a time when both Theism and Atheism proclaim an existence before existence.’
He grins.
Again.
‘The Theism and Atheism singularity.’
Maggie’s Farm Revelation #
Moose and Newhouse spend the early evening on the front porch drinking coffee and watching the Sun set. In a little while they’ll head up to Observatory Hill. The Perseids meteor shower peaks tonight. Newhouse has been at Maggie and Ray’s farm helping with wheat harvest. As always he comes back with insights….
usually about himself.
1
Several weeks at a time. Several times a year. Newhouse heads North to work on Maggie’s farm.
In the Summer for wheat harvest.
In the Fall for corn harvest.
There’s usually no worry about skipping out when it’s time to help locally. Harvest time in the Valley is three to four weeks sooner than Northern Nebraska.
Newhouse and Maggie are close friends.
Have been for over 30 years.
They marry when Newhouse is 25 and Maggie is 23. They stay together for seven years. Then have a party with friends and food and music and dancing to divide their worldly belongings. Family.
They never have any kids.
Or land.
And not many belongings.
2
The trees, at the West end of the Ranch’s front pasture, desperately cling to the Sun.
Newhouse shivers.
Moose tilts his head. ‘You, OK? It’s still 83 degrees out here.’
Newhouse nods.
‘Yes.
Just remembering a moment at Maggie’s.’ He stands. Stretches. Sits down.
‘I spent this Summer in the grain-cart tractor.’
Moose chuckles. ‘A busy job at their place’.
‘Usually.’ Newhouse says, gazing at the Sun slipping into the ground.
‘But the cutting on the ‘North section’ of Maggie and Ray’s goes slow. So slow i turn off the tractor. Open the door and back window. And….
practice meditating.’
Newhouse laughs.
‘My novice ability is still anchored in crutches.
Counting.
Listening to a tone.
Following my breath.
But even at this level i occasionally find moments, 20, 30, 40 seconds of mental quiet.
No words.
No thoughts.
Moments where only the sounds of a North Nebraska wheat field slip in and out of my awareness.
This Summer in that North Nebraska wheat field i’m visited by an understanding.
Nothing i can fantasize is more fantastical than life.
The SkyPilot and i frequently explore this concept. The ‘only miracle’ in this Universe is the presence of life. As you know we both believe, to the very core of our beings, that our Universe is teaming with life. The current lack of evidence is hampered by the speed-of-light-speed-limit. Given time we’ll find more life. But right now….
in a Universe beyond vast,
there is only one place with life.
Moose nods.
Newhouse looks over grinning again.
He picks up his coffee cup. Takes a sip. Puts the cup down and leans back in his Moose Music Rocker. It takes a few tries to find the perfect position of absolute relaxation.
‘I’m spending more and more time in ‘moving meditation’. Think Thich Nhãt Hanh’s discussions on ‘walking meditation.’
It’s Moose’s turn to grin.
At the incongruity.
‘I practice focusing on the task at hand. Walking. Doing dishes. Brushing a horse. Sweeping a floor. Taking a shower.
Tasks where my mind usually wanders.
Usually into well-rehearsed channels.
Channels where i’m the hero.’
Newhouse smiles.
‘Hence my efforts to focus on not focusing.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Breathe…..’
Report Card #
True friendship knows no grading scale.
Newhouse sighs. Slips in and out of his whiskey glass. Sighs again. ‘High potential….
under achiever.
Words on my first-grade report card.
And third.
And fifth.
And littering files
throughout my many years in college. Especially my four years as a sophomore.
Even my closest friends joke about my awesome potential and…….’
‘Ah, get off it!’
Father Alkire scoffs.
‘Frankly we’re all amazed your still alive. If anything, you’re a very high achiever with almost moderate potential.’
Newhouse smiles.
It’s comforting to have unconditional friendship.
The right time #
A handful of years have slipped past since Salty entered immortality and time has not decreased his memory in the Valley. On this anniversary of his death about a hundred people attend the Requiem Mass said for Salty today at St Paul’s.
Almost everyone non-Catholic.
All here to remember a man whose life and memory help make The Valley a good place.
Father Alkire stands. Stretches. Sits.
Leans back.
Smiles.
‘We often hear that we’ll know when it’s the right time to retire.
Admittedly this tends to be a mechanical response. Usually glib. Often true.
I knew.
Won’t life be overflowing with boredom? Others ask.
No.
Not if it is the right time.
How do we know it is the right time?
The right time is peaceful. A confident feeling that it’s time to pursue another stage of life.
For me it’s writing.
Writing whatever i want.
Whenever i want.
The luxury of being able to spend four, five, six hours a day writing. Other days no writing at all. But everyday full of feeling this is the right thing to be doing right now.
Boredom?
Not at all.
But recently…..
Recently the ‘right time’ feeling is returning. Strolling along the edge of everywhere i look. Delightfully undeniable.
Delightfully peaceful.
Delightfully reassuring.
The right time to pursue the most defining stage of life is….
a heartbeat away.’
Aunt Jean’s New Dress #
Aunt Jean brings beer and art to this year’s Midsummer’s Eve Party.
Jean brings the beer.
She frequently does.
Being the owner of Aunt Jean’s Grocery (Home of Handcrafted Horse Furniture) she buys beer wholesale from Johnathan.
A distributor in Norfork.
By donating beer for Valley happenings, she’s not breaking, or even bending, any distributor/wholesaler/retailer laws or moral boundaries. Works well for her conscience, and better for Valley gatherings.
Jean stops her pickup at the edge of the Good Father’s side yard. Although the Sun is just taking a stand above the Valley’s Eastern ridge, there are a dozen folks helping set up for this year’s Midsummer’s Eve Party.
First at the Father Alkire’s.
Several people come over to help unload beer and ice. Jean leads the procession to the front porch. Behind her the Sun pauses from warming the Valley to unmask her body through the dress’s light weight cotton.
Newhouse smiles.
A few feet from the porch Jean stops.
Looks up at Newhouse.
Smiles.
Newhouse offers a hand to help her up the steps. With the other he presents her a Mason jar holding three fingers of Salty’s Handcrafted.
She salutes Newhouse.
Takes a sip.
‘Do you like the dress? I just got it.’
Still holding Jean’s hand Newhouse leans back.
Searches her Sunlit silhouette.
Nods.
‘Dress?’
Cat’s Knives #
Cat begins carrying a knife when he’s seven-years old….to sharpen his big yellow #2 Ticonderoga pencil. This small folding pocket knife gift from his Grandfather begins a lifelong love of knives. By the time he’s 25, he’s constructing knives. By the time he’s 35 Cat’s knives find homes with real woodsmen and city-boy collectors.
The traditional Marine Corps knife is a Ka-Bar. Everyone has one.
Maybe two.
Moose, ToadFlax and Cat quickly learn that anyone with any sense takes their knife to Sugar Bear, the company mess sergeant.
A gifted mess sergeant.
A mess sergeant on a mission.
A mission he believes is sacred.
Sugar Bear knows only one commandment….provide comfort for his Marines.
Beginning with food.
His mess crew shares the calling.
Every Wednesday and Sunday there’s steak. Cooked anyway you like. Real turkey on thanksgiving and Christmas.
Sugar Bear loves holidays.
Especially religious holidays.
It’s a chance to show how well his crew can provide for Grunts in the field. Although he’s a Southern Baptist Sugar Bear takes pride in making sure that the Passover’s grains and meats and dairy are never mixed.
And there are baskets of matzo everywhere.
During Eid his crew keeps the mess open three hours after sundown.
And there’s always an abundance of dates.
Whenever Sugar Bear’s mess crew discover a Marine with a dietary observance, they take it as a part of their sacred duty to create appropriate meals.
Appropriately prepared.
Providing his Marines with comfort quite naturally leads from food to non-food.
Tape recorders. Cameras. Record players. Books. Magazines. Movies. Motorcycles. Basketballs. Baseballs (& gloves). Even cats, and dogs and, of course….
liquor.
Ka-Bars are a specialty. Sugar Bear has a contact in the motor pool who’s work with metal is artistry. The motor pool guy cuts small teeth into the spine of a Ka-Bar.
Blade on one edge.
Saw on the other.
Not a regulation modification of the knife, but there are very few formal inspections in a combat zone. And the modification elevates the knife to ‘useful in the jungle’ status.
Sugar Bear also get Buck knives. The most popular is the 124 Frontiersman with the saw edge customization. Everyone in the company, from the youngest Boot to the saltiest staff non-com and officer, has a Ka-Bar and/or Buck knife, properly modified.
Sugar Bear also has a guy who does engraving on metal, bone, wood, plastic, everything but water.
Cat’s knives all have ‘i have only to open the door to escape’ engraved on the blade. A quote from Steppenwolf by Hermann Hesse. It’s a philosophy, Cat says, where he can find courage.
Cat starts reading Hesse in college.
Hesse awakens a dichotomy in Cat.
A realization that his humanistic, cultured side has a savage, anti-social side. In Camp Pendleton he learns there is a band called Steppenwolf. A revelation Cat is not expecting to find on his way to Vietnam.
Cat pulls a ’96-swoop’ (four days off base), gasses up his Beamer R60/2 and rides up to the Sonoma County Fairgrounds, in Santa Rosa.
Halfway through the third song Cat’s dichotomy jells.
Cat’s 21st birthday finds him, Moose and Toad, up to their ears in brown and green. When they get back to base after 96-in-the-boonies, Cat finds a copy of ‘The Second’ by Steppenwolf on his cot. Still in shrink-wrap. With a note by Sugar Bear.
2/2.
Within 20 minutes ‘Magic Carpet Ride’, second song on the second side, is cranked on the stereo. A half dozen guys, beer in hand, are singing along.
Another place Cat finds courage.
Easter Dessert #
Dessert leads to Divine Intervention
It’s a warm Saturday afternoon at the Grocery.
The Saturday after Good Friday.
The Saturday before Easter.
A reflective Saturday.
ToadFlax, Aunt Jean and Newhouse are sitting drinking coffee.
Discussing potential sunrise services.
Sampling potential desserts for tomorrow’s menu.
Jean passes what’s left of a piece of apple pie to Newhouse. ‘St. Paul’s does a great service. Father Alkire approves.’ The Good Father is back at his home monastery for Lent.
Toad looks over. Bits of pie crust sticking to his lips. ‘Lots of pomp?’
Jean grins. Hands him a napkin. ‘A fair amount. Trumpets. Banners. Flowers.’
A clean Toad nods his thanks. ‘What time’s the service?’
Newhouse looks up. ‘Zero-six-hundred.’
Jean looks over. ‘For an atheist you certainly know a lot about local church services.’
‘I’m only half atheist!’ Newhouse sits up straight. His whole body vibrating with righteous indignation.
Sighing, Jean drops her head. ‘This Theism/Atheism Fusion thing is driving me crazy. Half my evening prayers are full of you and Father Alkire.’
Newhouse grins. Reaches over and lightly squeezes Jean’s shoulder. ‘Speaking for the Padre and myself, we thank you.’ Leaning back in his chair Newhouse gives Jean a loving smile. ‘By the way you’re frequently in ours.’
Jean gets up to get more coffee and another dessert. ‘Thank you…..
I think.’
She comes back with a coffee pot and a large piece of carrot cake for the boys to sample.
‘You know,’ Newhouse tries to say around a heaping forkful.
He stops.
Giving his full attention to the cake.
Takes a sip of coffee. ‘Damn good cake. Please put this on the menu.’
‘Amen’ Toad confirms. More crumbs on his lips.
Jean smiles. ‘Duly noted.’ Looks back at Newhouse. ‘You were saying?’
Newhouse shrugs. ‘I don’t remember.’
He starts laughing.
‘My grandmother says not remembering what i was going to say is God’s way of saving me from sinning…..
Telling a lie.’
Jean finishes pouring the coffee. Leans against the porch railing. ‘Isn’t this the grandmother who pulls over to the edge of the road if a black cat crosses in front of her. Sits and waits for some other car to pass her before she resumes driving?’
‘Yep.’ Newhouse tilts his head remembering.
Smiles.
‘We once sat for 30 minutes.’
He takes a sip of coffee.
‘Not saying her religious philosophy is theologically sound, but she’ll be 98 in June.’ He reaches to take the cake back from Toad.
‘And all the black cats on her lane saunter across the road….
tails high.’
Meeting Salty Ewell #
From SkyPilot.
Moose, ToadFlax, and Cat have been coming to the Valley for quite a while.
Checking out the land.
Checking out the people.
Checking out the feel of these mountains throughout the year.
In the snow. In the Spring. Late Summer. And Fall.
It takes several years.
Several years to decide that this is the right place.
The right time.
The same time Salty Ewell is settling into the idea of selling the family place. Generations of Ewells have been born on the land. Generations of memories. Generations of skeletons in closets.
Forever. Some buried.
Some needing to be.
For almost ten years family, friends, neighbors, art gallery acquaintances encourage Salty to sell all or part of the land. Downsize as befits an aging artist.
The Boys pull into his driveway.
The perfect collision of rights.
They show up in a nice looking 1947 5-window Chevy pickup. It isn’t show-quality, but it shows the quality of the people inside. The moment Salty sees the Chevy he knows that the only thing still 1947 5-window Chevy pickup is the body.
It doesn’t handle like a ’47 on the dirt road.
It doesn’t sound like a ’47 sitting in the drive. |
Salty figures the frame, the suspension, the engine, the transmission, the drivetrain are all pretty modern. But it isn’t a pampered ‘city-boys’ truck.
No air-conditioning.
Slightly faded.
A few scraps.
And It’s dirty.
This 1947 5-window Chevy pickup and the three boys in it are enigmas.
Salty Ewell likes enigmas.
So Salty sets down his pipe and Mason jar of whiskey. Gets out of his chair and steps off his front porch into the rest of his life.
Handshakes and comments about the weather are cordial.
Salty invites the boys in for coffee.
He may offer some whiskey later. After he sizes up their manners.
They are, of course, young men.
Mid to late-thirties at a guess.
Salty is in his mid 60s. Moose, ToadFlax and Cat are boys by comparison. And they will be ‘The Boys’ for the rest of Salty’s life.
As they walk to Salty’s porch, Cat asks where a good place would be to ‘take a leak’. Salty points at a couple large trees slightly downhill of the house.
Cat nods and heads for the trees.
Salty smiles.
Definitely not city boys.
He leads the others into his house and into the kitchen.
Just as Salty finishes grinding the coffee beans Cat walks in. Asks if he can wash his hands in the kitchen sink.
‘Sure thing,’ says Salty. ‘The soap is made by Ethel. She sells it at Aunt Jean’s Grocery. You all probably passed the Grocery just before you left the asphalt road and headed up the mountain’.
All three nod.
Moose, a connoisseur of coffee, walks over to check out the bag of beans and coffee grinder. The beans are in a five-pound burlap bag from Kenya. The coffee grinder is old, but in pristine condition.
Salty measures out coffee for six cups. Starts to walk over to the drip coffee maker then stops. Looks around at the boys.
They’re big.
Cat, the smallest, is bigger than Salty. With a half-smile Salty walks back to the grinder to get some more coffee. Enough for 12 cups.
The Bunn drip coffee maker is totally out of place.
It’s brand new.
Doesn’t fit the feel of the house at all. Moose’s look of perplexity catches Salty’s attention.
He smiles.
‘I like coffee. It’s one thing i’ll spend my money on just to satisfy myself’. Moose grins.
‘Coffee will take a couple of minutes. Let me walk you around the place’. They all head back to the front of the house.
Salty decides he likes these boys.
Actually, he decides that in the yard shaking hands.
There is something honest about them.
Something straight forward.
They’re comfortable in their own skins.
As they walk through the dining room Moose sees a picture hanging on the wall. A fading, black and white photograph of several Army guys wearing World War II jump gear.
Moose walks up to it. Looks a moment. Points to one of the guys. ‘This you sir?’
Moose has a way with faces. He can easily identify a face he sees in another situation. Even years later. This skill
and his size
get him into the recon unit with Cat and Toad.
‘Yep’, right before the jump into Salerno, Italy. Middle of September 1943. Our second combat jump.
First was July. Into Sicily’.
Moose tells Salty that Toad, Cat and he were in the Marine Corps together.
‘Figured there was something’. Salty nods. ‘You can tell when guys have shared seriously honest times. Let me show you the rest of the house’. Salty leads the boys around.
It’s an old house. A Sears Roebuck ‘Modern Home’ from the late 1920s. Ordered and built by the Granger family who bought this piece of land from Salty’s grandfather back in 1900. Salty brought the land back into the Ewell family in the late 1960s. The Granger clan deciding on city-life.
Downstairs has a large living room/dinning room. Kitchen. Bedroom. Bathroom. A front office/workroom.
Originally a bedroom.
A front studio/workroom.
Originally a parlor.
Salty lifts his chin toward the stairs. ‘There are three bedrooms upstairs. One is still a bedroom. The other two are for storage. Funny how one old man can collect stuff. Back when my wife was alive our house was spotless. Uncluttered and organized. Guess i’ve let things go’.
Despite Salty’s self-deprecation, the house, like the coffee grinder, is in remarkably good shape. It’s easy to see there have been skillful renovations. Some fairly recent. Some when the house came out of its crates. All done keeping the feel of a Sears’ Sheridan House.
The pungent fragrance of fresh coffee pulls them back to the kitchen.
An hour later the four of them are driving up to the ‘old Ewell family farm’ across the creek. Moose and ToadFlax in the bed of the Chevy pickup.
Cat driving.
Salty, riding shotgun, directing.
That evening all four sit on Salty’s front porch drinking coffee and sipping Salty’s ‘handcrafted single malt’.
Swapping stories and….
lies. Like friends and soldiers do.
It takes almost five months for the details to be worked out. By January the papers are signed. March 15th Salty helps The Boys start moving into the Ewell place.
The Ewell place.
Soon to become THE Ranch.
Two Men of Faith #
From SkyPilot
Salty and Father Alkire meet on ‘The Big Rez’. The Navajo Nation. In Arizona.
Also New Mexico, Colorado & Utah.
Father Alkire serving his first assignment as a ‘boot’ priest.
Salty visiting his mother’s family in Rough Rock. In his younger days Salty often visits Rough Rock. Often spending most of his Summer vacation. The rest of the year he lives in Harrison Arkansas. About 30 miles from the ancestral home of the Ewells.
Over the years Salty and Father Alkire become friends.
Close friends.
Family.
Their friendship built on acceptance of their differences. Respect for each other’s beliefs.
Salty learns theology in Roman Catholic parochial schools balanced by traditional Dine’ theology of his mother’s ancestors.
Father Alkire learns theology in Roman Catholic churches and universities balanced by empirical theology from his parents and John Locke. And a PhD in astrophysics.
Salty and Father Alkire both believe in God. Both practice prayer. Both reject
categorically reject
‘blind acceptance’ of anything.