Panama (Part 1)

 

Find the province of Veraguas. It is the only province with exposure to both the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Find its bottom panhandle or tail. Follow that down almost to the bottom tip. I am there, on the west side of the peninsula atop a high hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

 

My plane had landed on a balmy Tuesday afternoon around 2:00 PM. I cleared immigration and customs with perfunctory nods and caught a taxi to Grand Terminal de Transit, near Albrook Mall in Panama City. The driver had asked for $35. I said I’d give him $30, and off we went.

 

Once at the station I went to the window labeled “Santiago” and purchased my express bus ticket for $9. Panama uses U.S. currency. The country mints its own coins (though I understand they accept U.S. coins as well). Getting to Santiago was the first leg of my journey; my friend would then pick me up the following day to complete the second leg of getting to his place, located in a remote area.

 

I was directed to the right bus, checked my bag, and climbed aboard, sitting in the front seat across the aisle from the driver. It seemed I was the first one on the bus. This meant a wait of perhaps 20 minutes while a handful of other passengers trickled in. Soon we were off, pushing westward through the city traffic.

 

When the bus started off the boy attending the driver asked me if I was going all the way to the station. I answered that my destination was the Hotel Plaza in Santiago. I didn’t know at the time if the bus stopped wherever a passenger wanted to get off. Neither did I know if our bus passed my hotel on its way to the Santiago station. So I had prepared something in Spanish ahead of time: “¿Pasamos el Hotel Plaza?” (Do we pass by the Hotel Plaza?—if the answer was yes, then I would say—“Por favor, indique el Hotel Plaza cuando lo pasamos.” (Please point out the hotel when we get there.) I’m not sure the attendant understood. But after I repeated “Hotel Plaza” a few times he wrote something down. So I thought he finally understood my final destination.

 

Santiago is the capital of Veraguas Province and is located more or less just above the top of the tail. The “express” bus traveled down the PanAmerican Highway, two lanes going each way divided by a median strip. It would pull off to various stops along the way to pick up more passengers. And indeed, the bus would stop to let anyone off at pull-offs if they wanted to disembark before the Santiago station. My friend here had told me that I might wear something warm because the air conditioning can get a bit chilly. So I kept my light green Peters jacket with me. Sure enough, I had to put it on later during the four-hour ride.

 

There was a window curtain. I pushed it forward to watch the scenery go by as we barreled along. It varied, from thick leafy greenery to dusty bus stop corrals set amid jumbles of roadside shanty-businesses or weathered and stained concrete structures. As the bus would stop I’d watch the folks, searching their faces, and I looked to see how they moved their bodies and reacted to things around them. Of course I had an eye for the ladies.

 

At one stop stood an exceptionally beautiful girl with long, black, flowing hair. She wore blue jeans and a white and pink, floral-patterned halter top, exposing her lovely shoulders. She smiled a few times acknowledging our driver (no spring chicken). They seemed to know each other. The driver soon asked her if she was coming aboard and she replied in the negative, adding something I could not decode.

 

There were children too, some in school uniforms, and parents carrying sleeping kids in their arms. Young guys hung out here and there or walked along, streetwise and very aware of their surroundings. Everyone was just going about his or her daily business. Sometimes hawkers would come aboard the bus trying to sell dried banana snacks or agua while passengers loaded in. In most of them I sensed a solemn, work-day routine. They seemed simple and relatively carefree, exhibiting a sort of floating sociability among their compatriots. And I saw no purple hair or tattoos or body piercings. These people hardly went-in for such pretentious frivolities.

 

I sort of sat there in a daze watching it all go by. I had eaten no breakfast (except of course my tall steel mug of coffee) and I declined the airline snack-food along the way. I had a bag of almonds in my bag (along with two pounds of Quartermaine’s finest house roast) but these were packed away and stowed. I had decided to fast throughout the day. It was a good thing I had because there was no bathroom on the bus and it made no comfort stops during its four-hour journey.

 

Around 6:00 PM the sun was setting. The bus traveled on for maybe another hour. By my estimation we were quickly approaching Santiago. Sure enough, as I looked out from my perch I suddenly noticed some large letters that spelled out SANTIAGO. Then, not but a few blocks after that, my eye caught the sign of my hotel, Hotel Plaza. Obviously the bus was moving on. So I blurted out to the driver, “Aqui, señor!—Hotel Plaza.” He was unprepared to stop but slowed down considerably and inched over to the next pull-off. He seemed a bit irritated. The young attendant came forward and he too seemed a little confused. Of course I was confused too because I thought they knew where I had wanted to get off. As it was, I got off, picked out my bag but from the stow area, then had to walk back about a quarter mile, feeling lucky that I had seen the sign at all. The boy said something in Spanish while giving me my bag. I had no idea what he was saying, so I just said “Adios!” and humped my bag back along the road.              

 

Winding my way down the long entranceway I felt relief that I was about to check in. I had already dug into my bag for a few mouthfuls of almonds but I was looking forward to a good supper. I entered the officina and handed my pre-printed reservation and passport to the woman there who smiled warmly and welcomed me in Spanish. She booked me into Rm. 4, then handed me the key and the AC and TV remotes. I thanked her and gladly handed the TV remote back to her. Non merci!     

 

It was no hi-rise. The room was the fourth in a long line of cabañas, each with a driveway for parking. All of them were on ground level. It was all white inside and very clean. On the wall between the two double beds hung a framed picture of a pink lotus flower. I settled in a bit, then set out for the restaurant. (I’ll try not to get bogged down in tedious details.)

 

I entered the hotel restaurant, sat at the counter, and began a conversation with the waitress. She handed me a menu and I ordered a cold beer and something that looked interesting called chiletas, I think. It turned out to be two nicely prepared pork chops with a sweet orange sauce, thick potato fries and a small salad. I soon ordered another beer as I noticed the wine. Soon I chose a cabernet from Mendoza, Argentina. It cost $18. I asked her if she would like a glass. She answered, “No puedo.” I can’t.

 

As I worked through my plate of food the waitress seemed interested in trying to communicate with me. There were no other customers there. Her English was about as good as my Spanish. I learned that her name was Ilka. She was 30-years old and a single mom with a six-year old daughter. She asked me how old I was, guessing that I was maybe 50. I said that I am an old man. But she said I didn’t look like an old man. The more wine I drank and the longer she stood there doing some paperwork while we shared our thoughts, the more I began having “thoughts” about her. About then, a fellow came out of the kitchen, the cook maybe, and was fiddling around nearby. She said that they close at 9:30. Before long it was closing time. I finished the bottle and decided to turn in. I paid the check, tipping her well, and then, wishing her well, I turned around and left.

 

The night was spent in clean fresh sheets under a white comforter. I slept like a dead man until about 4-something. Then I got up and took 600 milligrams of ibuprofen. I would have made my coffee but I had no hot water kettle and no cream. So instead I went back to bed for a few more hours. Around 7 AM I made my way back to the restaurant where they filled my 16 oz. stainless steel mug with steaming coffee.

 

My friend, Clyde Whelen, wouldn’t arrive until about 10:30. Until then I surfed some of my usual sites and went for a walk. I felt kind of suspended, with pangs of alienation (being in an alien nation) and I wanted to get out of there as soon as I could to begin my planned adventure in Quebro (pronounced “kay-bro”). That’s the name of the district where my friend had established his homestead-far-from-the-coming-catastrophe. 

___________

 

I was wondering whether I’d recognize Clyde. We had only hung out for a few days back in late March of 2015. That was in Cuenca, Ecuador. We were both using the same dentist there to remove our mercury dental fillings. In talking we had discovered that besides being attuned to this particular insidious form of poisoning we shared other interests concerning how humanity has been hoodwinked and enslaved. So we had kept in touch by email over the past three+ years.

 

I had been privy to the discovery of his property from the beginning. Here’s the realtor’s old link to the property: https://www.panamarealtor.com/property/4377 And here is a link to the seller’s own website that had advertised the property: https://panamaazuerolandsale.wordpress.com/

 

The initial sale price was $340,000. Clyde got it for $210,000. He had asked me to come in with him in a kind of joint venture to further develop and live on this property. I had offered a very guarded and conditional “Yes.” This trip was for the purpose of exploring the property and the area with a view toward considering it as my own place of refuge. But please note: It is not for myself that I would do this but for future generations of loved ones: my granddaughter, Faith, and my nephews and nieces (and their progeny). Should the state of things get so bad that life become intolerable in the states (and especially near any big cities) this place might offer a much needed refuge. (That, of course, presumes that it would still be possible to find air transportation out.)

 

When a white Toyota Hillix 4x4 truck pulled onto the hotel grounds and passed by the officina where I was sitting I knew it was Clyde. When I saw this wiry frame-of-a-man climb out and saw his face I immediately recognized him even though we had met only briefly. After a hearty handshake a few words, I wasted no time throwing my gear into his truck. Off we went to buy some staples at a supermarket named Rey and home improvement items from Panama’s version of The Home Depot, called the Do It Center. According to Clyde he intended to stock up on stuff in Santiago that he can’t otherwise get closer to his home.

 

At the Do It store we had an awkward encounter with a clerk when Clyde was trying to determine the best insecticide for ants. He was a young guy and slow to respond to our pigeon-Spanish prompts. We eventually managed to settle on what seemed like the optimal choice. After a few other items we were just about ready to check out.

Clyde also wanted 10 bags of Concrete mix to build a pad for a water storage barrel. Each bag was 80 lbs. In my broken Spanish I asked a clerk to help us get it loaded in our truck. Next I offered to fetch the truck and Clyde hesitated to hand me the keys until I reminded him I was a professional truck driver. I soon had it parked out front and we loaded it in with the help of the clerk.  I tipped the guy $3 and we then re-parked so we could head into the Rey.

 

In the supermercado I was elated as I browsed the aisles. I wanted to buy some postcards (tarjetas postales), asking a clerk or two whether they had any—no luck. Then I needed some cream for my coffee. There was no half-and-half, as I had expected. There was only milk and whipping cream and nothing in-between. I again asked a clerk about crema por el café. That clerk involved another clerk. Then they brought me first to the powdered milk aisle and then to the condensed milk aisle. I had some fun with them. I finally returned to the buy the whipping cream saying “Fresca es mejor.” (Fresh is better.) Next I found a tooth brush and some toothpaste, both of which I had forgotten to bring. I more-or-less found them on my own. All this time Clyde was putting some choice items in his cart. Finally, I purchased a plump piece of filet mignon from the butcher. And as I placed it in the cart I told Clyde, “We’ll eat like kings, at least while I’m here!” Clyde smiled and we soon finished up and headed for the cashier.

 

The trip to Clyde’s homestead was two hours down a pot-holed road. Just over half way we stopped in a town to buy a few more assorted food items. Clyde told me the grocery store is owned and run by a Chinese family who had been here since coming to work on the Panama Canal when it was first built. We soon scooted out of there and continued on our way another 30 or so miles toward his home-on-a-hill. So far, so good.        

Male Elders

My Dad had class. His kind of star quality shined quietly and sure. Throughout his life he met all challenges, intelligently, dispassionately. Whether it was dealing with Mom’s deterioration, various traumas visited upon him by his kids (not the least of which was me), or financial strains, he always kept his poise and equanimity. His patience, like his hospitality, was legendary. I never heard him complain about the psychedelic music blaring on the radio as he drove me somewhere; and to my friends he was ever the accommodating and cheerful host. He was a man of great faith—a faith that showed he knew his own limits, a faith that knew how to unblinkingly dispatch unnecessary worry to a power greater than himself. Never preachy, still, he displayed an ethical certitude about things in a way that epitomized and defined his generation. His voice came through to me in the letters he wrote to me over the years. It was a voice that was an eternal flame of hope and kind encouragement, as I bungled from one venture to another.

Yes, in the late ‘60s and ‘70s I proved to be quite the bungling fool as I inched my way forward in life. Our whole family was coming apart then due to Mom’s Alzheimer’s. And this was occurring at the exact same time society was unraveling. By the early ‘70s, I for one was on a rough and rocky road indeed. 

 

In early August, 1974, President Richard M. Nixon resigned. At that time I was half renting/half squatting in a room at a beach house on 7^th Street in Bethany. It was being rehabbed by Chris Minnick, an upper classman I had known at Gonzaga. As I recall, I had ridden out there on my blue, 350 Yamaha YR1 motorcycle. It had recently rained. On the way, as I was crossing over some railroad tracks, my bike skidded and I almost lost control. I think I threw my leg out to keep from falling over—or maybe I just threw my weight to the other side. Anyway, I could have been severely injured but I managed to right myself and just kept on going. Such were the haphazard, care-free days of this 20-year old.

Nixon had been the adversary of our family hero, John F. Kennedy. For the Susses Nixon represented everything that was old-fashioned and stupid. And in 1974 I remember taking sides against Nixon regarding the Watergate fiasco. Like almost everybody I knew, I unthinkingly believed the media narrative. (At the time, only insiders could have known any better.)  And so Nixon’s resignation seemed like a good thing to me at the time, though I was also kind of “ho-hum” about it. Beach bum that I was, I was too distracted at the time to dwell on it much.

I recall that in the foyer of Minnick’s beach house were a bunch of discarded paperbacks. I picked up one, Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov and really started getting into it. I remember identifying somewhat with the Karamazov brother named “Alyosha.” I was about the same age as this character and I admired in him the same sort of ideals to which I too aspired!  As a result, I couldn’t put the book down. But it is a long novel (as all of Dostoevsky’s novels are) and I still had a long way to go when I returned home.

When I got back, my grandfather asked me if I would drive him down to Orlando, Florida. He wanted to check on his house down there and also wanted me to help him with any repairs it might need. I agreed and within a day or so we left, with me at the wheel of his black 1965 Lincoln Continental, albeit without a radio. (My grandfather had disconnected the radio right after he bought it; I thought it was because he wouldn’t stand for the “noise” of what was being broadcast, though he never admitted any particular reason to me for doing so other than saying he “didn’t like it.”)     

As with my own father, my grandfather McGuire also had a certain class, though it was a class of another sort. We grandchildren called him “Grandpap.” His hard, hidden strength of character shone in your face none-the-less. In fact it almost blinded you. And yet I knew him only in his elder years. By then, the vagaries of life had softened him somewhat. Still, he was hard-boiled—the product of a no-nonsense boyhood spent on the family farm. He still chewed tobacco—Mail Pouch Tobacco—(and of course spit tobacco juice) until the day he died, about four years after our excursion together. I remember that as a child I had fallen on the street and skinned the palm of my hand while running around to get into the car. When I climbed into the back seat where Grandpap was, he took hold of my palm, looked at the scrape, then spat some tobacco juice on it and rubbed it in. The shock of seeing him spit on me staunched my tears immediately.

Grandpap had a playful side too that bordered on the poetic, as evidenced in some of the letters he left behind. (Go seek them out and ye shall find this to be true.) He enjoyed a good belly-laugh. Often he would chuckle, finding humor in things when it suited him. But more than anything else, what comes to mind when I think of Grandpap was that he was simple and sensible. And he was essentially a moralist. But, like Dad, he wasn’t preachy, at least not all that much, though his temper wasn’t as controlled. If provoked he might easily bark at you. Notwithstanding his seemingly cold, hard exterior there lurked a beautiful goodness that shined through. Others I know might not agree, but I always thought so. Maybe it was the Irish in him, confounded by that stern Germanic blood also running through his veins that made him a bit of a walking contradiction. I preferred to simply think of him as “old school” in his outlook.

And so we went on our journey to Florida. It was the one and only time we ever spent together, just the two of us. I drove us down there. Then the daily work began. He organized things and sort of supervised from his fold-out chair. I remember doing some painting and some screen repair. I’ve always enjoyed staying busy and I liked feeling useful to him. In the evening I’d have a beer or two (that he would buy, of course).

Grandpap forever had his nose in a newspaper. And while he read his paper I was slogging through The Brothers Karamazov. One day an old friend of Grandpap’s by the name of Paul Onda dropped by. Onda was a stump-of-a-man, a broad-faced, hard-working dynamo. I recall he had a ready smile and a ready wit. I understood immediately why Grandpap found him to be pleasant company. I imagined Onda felt the same way about Grandpap, who also knew a lot about building and working hard and who also enjoyed a good laugh. We spent an evening or two in rambling conversation. Although I was more of a spectator than a participant, it seemed like good fellowship all the way around.

Coming back home we were traveling on a typical two-lane rural road of the type you often find in Florida, with deep culverts on either side of the roadway, i.e., drainage ditches. There was very little shoulder. It began raining hard. In fact, soon it became quite the tropical downpour. I, of course, put the windshield wipers on. But as we proceeded along, the wipers suddenly stopped working! The whole windshield became one big blur. I couldn’t see a thing. So I decelerated, and as I did so, I put on the emergency flashers and pulled gently over to the side of the road, being careful not to fall into the culvert but trying not to stick too far out into the road. As luck would have it, no one slammed into us while we waited for the rain to let up.

  

Grandpap pulled out a map and told me to head for a nearby town, pointing out the way as we went. We soon pulled into the town and found a garage. Grandpap got out and talked to the mechanic, and the next thing I knew the car was in the bay and Grandpap was in there overseeing the mechanic as he worked away on the wipers. It wasn’t long before he finished up. With the wipers fixed we started back on our way. Grandpap told me to continue on, away from the direction we had come. I said, “But Grandpap, we came in from the other direction,” and I headed back that way. In his inimitable, hoarse, scolding voice he exclaimed, “Stop the car!” So I stopped, then made a U-turn. Sure enough, he was right. The highway going north picked up on the other side of town.

 

When we arrived back in Maryland and pulled up to his house he reached for his wallet. He took out the remainder of the cash there, perhaps $30 or so, and handed it to me. I heard later from my aunt that he told her, “You know, Jack’s not as wild as I thought he was.” That was the nicest thing I ever heard him say about me and it made me feel good to hear that.

 

I can’t say I ever had a similar one-on-one trip like that with my Dad. After all, I was one of eight kids, he was a busy professional man, and most trips we took were back to his hometown of Springfield, Massachusetts, where his mother and siblings still lived.

 

My father was a Democrat, a liberal; my grandfather was a Republican, a conservative. Neither of them talked much about their political sensibilities. But I recall my father’s admiration for Franklin Roosevelt, while Grandpap thought Roosevelt was a curse upon this country (as I do). And I remember asking my Dad what left wing and right wing meant. I think he used the typical, well-worn Commie vs. Nazi analogy in the end. And when I asked him where he stood, he said that he thought it was best to stay somewhere in the middle. I don’t think I ever asked Grandpap that same question, but now I wish I had.

 

During his lifetime Dad worked mostly for the federal or state governments; Grandpap worked in the private sector, eventually for himself. They were both good men but also different men whose distinct life paths shaped their visions and values. Their lifeways were also shaped by what they were personally able to do.

 As mentioned, Grandpap was knowledgeable about building; he had studied engineering in college and had built a few structures in his lifetime. Then he went into business, saved his money, kept his credit, invested in the stock market, and eventually became a wealthy, self-made man who often stated, "Your grandmother and I have lived under the poverty level all of our lives and we've never wanted for anything." In other words he eschewed easy credit and his life remained always simple, the antithesis of conspicuous consumption. And Grandpap's values never strayed far from his humble beginnings.

 

Dad, being the son of Lebanese Christian immigrants, came from humble beginnings himself. He exhibited basic and solid carpentry skills and he had a natural ability to draw. (I know this because of the soap box derby he built for me and my brothers, among other things, and the drawings of stuff he would do for us kids upon request.) He was a U.S. Naval Officer, a government and anti-trust lawyer, and retired as an administrative law judge for the State of New York. The home he made for us was not grand, by any means, but was a suitable testament to his professional station in life.

 

They both shared an appreciation for humor. Neither one shied away from working or complained about much of anything. They each loved their wives and were completely dedicated husbands.

In the final analysis, what I can say about them both is this: In their own ways they shined while the sun shone down upon them and I loved them. Even if it was by loose association (osmosis) I learned a lot from being around them.

 

In these days when the power of women is ascendant and the power of men is demeaned and downplayed it is more important than ever to recognize and revere one’s father, grandfather(s) and one’s forefathers as far back (and as much) as it is possible to know.

 

Operation Lemon Twist

My great-grandfather, Lemon Miller, standing on the front porch of the Somerset property.

Well, the year 2018 is drawing to a close. August, September, October, and now November have all slipped away. The old Lemon Miller property in Somerset is tucked away for the winter.  And I look back wistfully on this weird task that had engrossed so much of my energy and attention during these months.

 

The place still has no tenants save one, my cousin Patrick McGuire (who prefers to be called Pat). He continues to hobble around as he deals with his right knee replacement. Pat’s discouraged about his progress. He does little else than watch TV or go to the movies, and barely manages caring for himself and his cat, Jinksy. (His cat was aptly named—it seems like Pat’s whole life has been jinxed with bad luck in so many ways). For over three months we’ve been waiting for the plumber to knock out a list of things. We’re still waiting. Of prime importance to Pat is the plumbing and venting of a washer and dryer we’re looking to stack in his apartment.

 

Being on this plumber’s gauntlet is a uniquely irritating experience. The two available apartments can be shown, though occupancy still depends upon the plumber finishing up. The wait is really frustrating for both of us. The plumber is the only uncooperative tradesman I’ve encountered in Somerset during the whole process. His being busy is one thing, but ignoring an old customer for such an unreasonable amount of time is just plain rude. Still, no trick in the book works to get him over there. Lord knows, I've tried. 

 

The job of being a landlord is one of my least favorite roles. Dealing with tradesmen is (normally) a breeze compared with interacting with tenants. With difficult tenants a landlord needs to be mercenary, direct, assertive, and generally unmerciful. The first evicted tenant was a young couple and their three kids. They left willingly, abandoning the premises. I had little to do with them and in fact felt a bit sorry for them (even though they owed two months back rent and left a ton of debris on every level of the house).

 

The other tenant was a scheming, unworthy, slug-like woman, a drinker, and her worthless 22-year old grandson, both of whom made my job a more thankless task than it already was. These occupants were the residual from the former mismanagement of the place. They and the rest of their dysfunctional family were noisy, which bothered my cousin. We praise the heavens that they are now gone. However, she left an apartment in her wake whose tongue-in-groove oak floor was ruined by cat and dog piss.

 

More often than not, my humanity gets in the way of my duties as a landlord. And while I try to assist a tenant who is truly in need, someone who has encountered trouble and difficult times, I lose it when a tenant deceives me, takes advantage of my tendency to be lenient, and then shows no regard for the lease agreement. Still, it is my old-school values—of saying what I mean and meaning what I say—that help me to get the job done. Especially in this instance, when a tenant failed to show the least bit of proper care for a property with a certain sentimental value, patience ran extremely thin. Consequently, my subsequent determination to evict this last no-good tenant became personal.  

 

But all of this is behind me now and I must not bear a grudge. I have my judgments, both recorded. I still need to levy on them, or at least on one. I will do so, by-and-by (after my civil proceeding for damages).

 

The job of Mr. Fix-It is somewhat more interesting than that of Landlord. I learned quite a bit about how to go about it by going about it. The intricacies of this odyssey were memorialized in prior essays on this blog. Enough said, I suppose, except that now I look back and reflect on the entire drama as a whole.

 

I refer to it as Operation Lemon Twist in honor of my Great Grandfather Lemon Miller who originally bought the place in 1921. My intention was to restore the house as close to its former glory as I could. His daughter, my Great Aunt Jenny, who resided there for over 45 years, would probably be gratified with the care I took in doing so. Lord knows, the place needed attention and getting it squared away sure put me in a twist. But it’s nice to behold the final product and to have made various personal relationships along the way with tradesmen, store clerks, the folks at the water company, the magistrate who presided in my eviction proceedings, and others, not the least of which was my cousin Pat.

 

More needs to be done, but under Operation Lemon Twist the place has shaped up nicely despite years of neglect to the exterior and the damage done by this last, thoughtless tenant. In the Spring I intend to rent what I call a cherry picker (a traveling crane equipped for holding a worker at the end of the boom) in order to wrap the four dormer fascia boards and paint the remaining woodwork that is up high. (Some photos of the place will soon be posted.)

 

There was another twist. During these past months, Aunt Janet added me to the deed as a joint tenant. She had offered the Somerset place to Pat. He seemed the likeliest beneficiary, given that he had retired there. But he declined. I double checked with him and sought out the reason. He just didn't want to be bothered. So I accepted Janet's kind offer.

 

At first I felt funny about it—further "twisted"—and wanted to keep it quiet. But I did note in my post of Sept. 5 (the first of three parts on my time there), "...the torch now seems to be passing to me." No one picked up on that. Soon I figured I was being silly to not let my siblings and others know about this gift. And once they found out, no one seemed to care.

 

Owning real property, as with material gain generally, brings responsibilities. Being pegged as an absentee landlord has never sat well with this natural free-spirit-rolling stone. As time unfolds time will tell how I fare as the latest in a chain of custodians.

 

Getting the daggone thing fully rented is the immediate concern. And so, a prayer goes out to the plumber to hasten to the task!—and to the property manager that she may soon find suitable new tenants for this stately old house in a neighborhood that has a "goin' down slow" feel to it these days.

 

As they say, if the mule don't die and the crick don't freeze the old Miller-McGuire house may yet see brighter days. I won't exactly pin my hopes on it. I'll just keep trying to do the best I can, which all anyone can ever do anyway. 

¡SHOUTERS!

Though I think Dinesh D'Souza is brilliant, there's something about him that never quite sat well with me. Now, perhaps, I may have put my finger on it. 

 

Have a look at one of his lectures here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ix4MQpz6BA

It skips/begins at about the 27-minute mark, depicting inane shouters in the audience and his reaction to them.

 

Maybe it's his often used comparison to the National Socialist ("Nazi") model. His take is more Hollywood Nazism, rather than having a more circumspect view of those times. The Germany of the 1930s was a place that was then being radically transformed/subverted by the same types of Communist-Socialist Deep State Swamp forces so detested today by true patriots. The threat was so entrenched, threatening, and out-of-control by the late '30s that active militancy by brown shirts shouting down these Commies, for example, were acts of courage (rather than the roles being reversed as they are today, wherein they are acts of ignorant servility). In other words, activism in service to righteous anger at injustice is acceptable, whereas the reverse is not. Granted, shouting down an opponent is not elegant. But it makes a statement, none-the-less, because it interposes a provocative scene that just may make people think.

 

D'Souza, like Jordan Peterson, is able to keep his cool and attempt to engage moron shouters, which is admirable and constructive. Still, his analogy to National Socialist supporters is off-the-mark to me, as explained herein.

 

In my opinion, the fine line that must be walked here is this: one must be able to discern when righteous anger is truly righteous, rather than parading its own ignorance—that's a subjective political question, on the one hand, but is also a moral/spiritual one, on the other. That is, the questions to ask are: Who has more control (political)? Is the group with more control standing up for virtue, morality, goodness, and God-given liberty (moral/spiritual)? If so, shouters are mere moronic hecklers; if not, then shouters are brave foot soldiers making a peremptory attack on evil and amoral forces. And though, as I say, it is not an elegant act, I think it is important to realize that there is a job for each of us; "different strokes for different folks." Some jobs, like shouting down lecturers, are just more tacky and rank than others, even when just, i.e., justified.

 

In America today, leftist fascism serves the politically correct, welfare state that the System pushes like an opiate via its Deep State Swamp controller-handlers. Right-wing fascism is a contradiction in terms, if by "right-wing" you mean conservatism, or the label I prefer: traditionalism. But that's another essay, another post for another day.

 

I don't know how much the "Socialist" part of the party name was meant as a ruse to placate and attract socialists into their camp when they were just getting organized in the '30s—or how much they seriously considered themselves to be socialists (albeit until the industries were freed from outside control, viz., non-Germanic volk interests, and could then manage independently again). If the latter was true, total power may have indeed seduced the state so that so-called Nazism became fascist, i.e., the state became permanently fused with corporatism.

 

I would say that is the case with the USA, Inc. right now, a leftist fascist fusion. But shifting the power to correct the injustice is tricky too. For example, author Ellen Brown proposes nationalizing the banks, which the National Socialists did (at least partially). If that happens what's to stop a likewise seduction by power, which would likely end up as just a transfer of banking power from "private" to "public" puppet masters?

 

We can call it right or leftist fascism if we want, but it's better thought of as simply fascism, defined as state-corporate fusion control, centralized and perpetuated at the expense of the People whose sovereignty has been stolen, subverted, and weaponized against them.

 

Government and industry are all about power and wealth. Unchecked, there is an "intoxicating, egoic high" derived from the subsequent control maintained over the People that is sadistically enjoyed by elitists in both spheres. Just how to impose "checks" on government and industry is what our founding documents and wiser laws are all about. I'm speaking of course about the Declaration of Independence, the Bill of Rights (especially) in the United States Constitution, and certain laws (if justiciably enforced and interpreted), e.g., the Sherman Anti-Trust Act, laws on legal immigration, and laws against pollution and unfair labor practices. The passing, enforcement and interpretation of laws depends upon three-branches of government properly functioning and not unduly influenced—a tall order, perhaps, but not a total impossibility.

The trick is to know when the shouters are representing the People or a corrupt System. 

 

So shout all you want, rude interlopers, only educate yourselves first as to who's who and who's doing what to whom, so you know who and what you're really shouting at before deciding to interrupt and shout down a lecturer! 

Panama Refuge

When the SHTF we need a place to go. A buddy has just homesteaded a place in Panama. It's a three-parcel property overlooking the Pacific. He's holding a hillside for me to come and build my escape dream house. As I "sort it all out" I recently wrote him the following e-letter. It begins by discussing "Faith," which one needs a lot of if embarking on such an odyssey...  

The thing about Faith is you either have it or you don't. There are all sorts of notions, theories and ideas about Jesus of Nazareth. Some are interesting to ponder. And there is the very real possibility that "Church Fathers" have twisted things over the millennia so that there are errors or outright disinformation.

I believe that humility, devotion and adoration are central to a holy life. I recall in the film Gladiator when the Roman general (played by Russell Crowe) was fidgeting around with his little household god effigies. It's as important to recognize a greater, divine power beyond one's self as it is to recognize that same spark within us. The person of Jesus made God a personal one for us all. And I believe that whatever physical things help to move us in the direction of recognizing what is sacred are good too. And so maybe building that house on the Panamanian hill is one such dedicated physical manifestation.

This brings me to The Paradox: the seeming contradiction of spiritual beings incarnated in physical bodies. All religion grapples with this  anomalous condition of humanity. Sci-fi also deals with it in various ways, as in works that explore whether an android with AI can have a soul. We know intuitively that we are more than the sum of our "parts." And after immersing myself in consciousness studies I still cannot apprehend exactly what the difference is between consciousness and Spirit manifesting as one's soul. So these are very interesting, likely unanswerable, questions that have been asked since time immemorial and will always be pondered.

Now, getting more to your email. Everything we think and do revolves around having a right intention based on a dependent perception that leads us to a certain action outcome. So let's take immigrating to the Panamanian outback as the action outcome. Obviously you had and continue to have certain perceptions which led your intention in that direction. Me too, though perhaps not as strong and not as urgent as in your case. Societal breakdown, overpopulation, corporate fascism, Zio-Illuminati Satanism infusing liberal non-values that are now running rampant, whatever---i.e., the whole world is going to hell in a hand basket. These are and have been our perceptions, which are decidedly on the mark.

We've discussed the notion of having a refuge for when the SHTF, away from cities, in a place that is self-sustainable. This is what originally drew you to Finca Bayano. (Too bad there was a fink at that finca, but that may have been a factor that put your tenacity and fortitude to the test.) In any event, you have openly offered your reasons in a very frank way and you've demonstrated that you have the courage of your convictions by following through on your plan. Your reports from the field indicate that there is a steep learning curve and that you are toughing out the difficulties while appreciating the poetic moments. And I have had the opportunity of vicariously sharing in your adventure, which I appreciate immensely.

And so, your perceptions led you to your intention and you acted accordingly. I, on the other hand, while I have the same or similar perceptions and I have developed a similar intention, it is less concrete, more theoretical; and I have not taken even an action step as of yet to realize my intention, probably because that intention is not yet fully formed. Lack of funds has something to do with it. But other factors figure into it: viz., family obligations to my wife, granddaughter, and aunt; certain cultural/logistical fears about living in a Hispanic culture; and another, more metaphysical question nags at me and here it is: is prepping like this a manifestation of the fear of my own mortality and if not, what is the more noble basis for leaving the nation of one's birth to set out into the unknown, leaving family, friends and familiarity behind?

In that same metaphysical dimension is this related concern: just as fear for one's physical well-being can fuel all sorts of actions, facing the unknown also brings up concern about the ability of one's mental resiliency to cope and the depth of one's spiritual convictions to persevere in the face of difficulties and failures. This second concern is inextricably bound up with the first.

My purpose is to establish a sort of monastic beach head (similar to Morris Berman's "monastic option") that can also serve as a refuge for anyone needing it during the calamities that we expect to come and indeed, are already upon us. For me there must be a greater purpose for immigrating there---something much greater than myself; one that assists humanity, or for starters, an optional place in which my granddaughter can grow up and thrive away from all of the shit of the modern world.

This is what motivates me. I don't care much anymore about my own physical being. And I've done just about everything I ever wanted to do in life. I still have the work of my hands---my writing and my modest abilities to create dreams out of nothing. In short, I'm a weird task specialist on a mission (as much or more than Dan Akroyd was on a "mission from God" as a blues brother). What haunts me is the thought that I may be fooling myself by constructing some sort of elaborate rationale that is clothed in nobility but that in essence is simply a Bohemian escape plan.

Your recent misadventure of having to be rescued from teetering over that cliff was a humbling experience. But it was an important one shared in by your helpful neighbors that strengthened the human bonds of friendship and confirmed that a little foresight in preparedness goes a long way. Also, having and developing this property is giving you purpose, something to do with yourself in your wise old age. That, in itself, is a great thing (if it doesn't kill you, that is).

Keep up the good work and the good fight. I look forward to getting there.

Hoping that I'm soon able and worthy enough for the undertaking,

Two Civil Wars Coming

“Billy” Eduard Albert Meier, Swiss ET contactee and author, made a prediction about two civil wars occurring in America, the first in 2020 and the second in 2024. http://www.theyfly.com/

 

With control of the House shifting to Democrats after the 2018 midterm elections Meier’s prediction is gaining traction for me. Now these slimy liars (Pelosi, Schiff, Waters, et al.) will show their true colors even more, with an effort to impeach President Trump and to block Trump’s legislative efforts to wrest the nation back from the Swamp, viz., the seditious infiltration of commie globalists.

 

Such a pushback will exacerbate tensions and widen the rift between patriots and traitors, between what is right and what is wrong for America—and by extension, the world. Had the Republicans retained control in the House things would have continued to simmer on a slow boil. But now the pot should boil over. If Meier is right, that boil-over should take just over a year or so.

 

In retrospect, this election result in the House had to be. Voting fraud by Democrats has been attenuated but not yet completely stamped out. This systemic corruption certainly exaggerated Democrat vote tallies (and representation). However, the bright side of this is that, due to their fraud and stolen elections more and more evidence is mounting for electoral reform; for requiring photo IDs, purging dead people from voter roles, and safeguarding the electoral process from other shenanigans, not the least of which is manipulation of computer votes via hacking and rigging.

 

It had to be this way. Now Americans will get a double dose of fraud from the Swamp creatures in Congress while the media propaganda machine and lefty corporate interests continue to cheer-lead them on. It will only heighten the awareness of their betrayal of the American People. Republican leaders and “woke folks” generally will, in turn, galvanize themselves all the more against the evil ways of an internal subversion that has rooted itself in our Republic since JFK was publicly slaughtered.

 

Sadly, it will take a civil-war-style purge to rebound as a nation intact. But Meier also predicts that America will lose its standing as a superpower. To me this would mean that there are very powerful foreign forces at work supporting the internal subversion that will cause great damage to the American population and infrastructure, eventually overcoming American military might. The karmic principle at work here is probably self-evident to all who have kept count of the injustices inflicted by USA, Inc. over the past half-century.

 

What toll a second civil war in 2024 will take is anybody’s guess. Justice will come in two waves. No one knows the fate of Donald Trump, the integral force behind this liberating new Movement of patriots. Depending on how soon we lose him will portend the outcome of the civil wars. I tend to doubt we will lose him soon. I hope not. Judging him by his actions, Trump is the best president America has had since Andrew Jackson. Blind and deluded citizens will meet their just ends as the pot boils over; patriots, too, will die, but not in vain! I long to witness the sword of Archangel Michael smiting Satan’s intelligence/psychiatric/AI loony bin.

 

If I’m still around in 2024 I will be 70 years-old. I’ll look back on this post then to see if I was prescient, believing in Meier’s predictions, my own reason and my gut sense. Whatever happens, oh human beans, get ready for some real wack-a-doodle trauma and, eventually, a great awakening!