February 2014

I need to Update Family Friends and PHOTOS

Poster

Very Good ! Creativity - Happy - Free - HackSchooling

POW - Viet Nam Reunion

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=LemllfcAY8A&sns=em

Billiard trick shooting

Post by Escapate Hoy.

A RUNAWAY CHRISTMAS - By Bill Allen

Our best Christmas ever was painted by a runaway white and black “Commander” setter that Carl Duffield Jr. gave me. His name was “Nip”. Carl and I had a long, hilarious friendship that began when he brought George Evans to Frobisher one August. He made fun of my boots and I made fun of his hat. And, occasionally of his shags. I was especially fond of Nip, who ran off every time Carl ran him. Nothing that Lonnie Tuck or Carl’s pro polisher John Francis Brown could think of would corral Nip. Only occasionally would he point, and never would it be the release quail at the Texas Championship. Nip preferred wild quail exclusively, and he went every which away to look for them. Carl was through with the “big ol’ mass of flag” when I began to cater to him. I started with raw weenies, and after a while, I slipped him a chicken liver or gizzard. He definitely got to know who “Bill” was and would cock his ears forward when he heard my name, and then, my voice. I’m pretty sure it was at Palestine in those red clay arroyos where the main attraction was Tiny Wahoo and Dr. P. T. Kilman with Texas’ Ernest Allen and Roy Maroney dragging Tiny around the course for him that Carl got really mad while both of us were under the influence. “You so dam SMART,” he growled, “YOU run him an hour. If you finish him under judgment, you can HAVE him!!! I’ll sign him over to you.” Well I did. And he did. Not without a lot of help. Lonnie never was better. John Francis used his pickup deftly, as never before…and I have never mentioned Roy and Ernest as complicit…until now. You can guess at the motives, and there is no imagination to encompass that wild hour of delight. No game contact that we KNEW of, but I picked Nip up under judgment. Now what was I going to do with a bolting setter in the wilds of the Chattahoochee National Forest, where I lived and hunted grouse; where my best “home dogs” were a three-legged Brittany spaniel and a miniature Poodle? Clem was the Brittany and he was arsenic on grouse. Jacque was the perfect dead bird finder and retriever. Except for a gunshy pointer bitch I hunted over on the Gillis lands in the Ocmulgee valley, Jacque was the nonpareil retriever I ever saw. Sadly, we never had a Lab. Anyway the Christmas story began when Nip and Jacque adopted one another. I was plumb silly about taking wild bird dogs in the house, and that is where this slashing setter and the black poodle made up hide and seek games and wallowed together. I took Nip quail hunting one time when Lake Chatuge almost dried up and went away one November. He was gone a long time, and Clem found him and backed him on a nine bird covey. If he had not found those birds, we may not have ever seen him again. He was as handsome as his grandsire, Commander’s Hightone Beau, tail rigid and flag follicles waving everywhere. It was the best I had ever seen Nip. Jacque, a natural backer, (and smarter than any of us) looked on almost diffidently, but went to work, beating Clem and Nip to the two birds we shot. It was the beginning of Christmas week that year when a large pack of dogs following a female July hound in season came close enough to our mountaintop to attract Nip’s attention. He was in his pen that morning, but he was not at the supper dish. The next morning, Jacque was gone, obviously in search of him. Clem and Sam the Beagle were immediately chaperoned and hawkeyed constantly. Neither had ever been leashed except for post-puppy training, “whoa-sit-heel-stay”. Our mountaintop was near the north Towns County line. It was about 300 yards steeply down to U.S. 76 that led out of the county north, and back south through Hiawassee to the head of the lake where Nip had found his quail—about four miles away with either a long two-lane bridge to cross in traffic, or another three miles of still-to-market macadam through sparse settlement. For three days, the pack of dogs were seen all over this part of the county. The pack contained huge “warbeard” and “German Poh-leece” males and others numbering about 18. We saw the pack twice, two days apart and at sites two miles apart. U.S. 76 was heavily traveled by 18-wheelers, bound for Knoxville, Asheville, Chattanooga and the Greenville mill country. Less than a minute elapsed, day or night between rigs. After a week of No Jacque (He was the most important non-human in the Galaxy to Betts, her Mom Lucy, Mike, Keith, Vic and me) gloom descended. And Nip, whose reputation and past proclivities did not bode well for a return under the best of circumstances, was also heavy on my mind. A scattering of snow—just enough to cover some of the leaves— was exciting to others, but not to our home. We had not heard of a sighting in a day and a half. We scoured the countryside without unearthing a hint or clue. Christmas even night, not sipping, but gulping eggnog (with lots of “nog”) I was mournful and tearful in my chair backed against the door no one EVER used except in summertime. The television was wall-to-wall carols. Perry Como, Bing, Rosemary Clooney… Then a skretch…scrahhtrch…rattle… The door was moving against the latch-hole…skeeeereatch! I remember now how I had chills all over me, and how I was shaking all over when I opened that rarely used portal. It was stuck at the top. I SNATCHED at the knob, twisted and…and… There, his head encased in cockleburrs, his chin on the doorsill, paw improbably reaching to scratch again…was Jacque! I blubbered and shouted and Betts said I screamed “like a pig impaled”. I rolled around with my black burden on the front porch, laughing and crying and four other people trying to take him away from me…and I bumped into Nip, poor, bedraggled, soiled Nip, who was also there, returned. Neither of the animals could walk normally. How they made it from the foot of our mountain up to the porch I could not divine. Jacque’s hind legs were caught and trapped against his chest and forelegs by burrs and briars. He just relaxed and lapsed into immobility until we freed him, with many scissor cuts and electric clipper prods and strokes. Then when we could see our Jacque as a mere wraith of his past presence, it was Nip’s turn. It was easier to liberate him. He was not so strapped and unable to ambulate. He lost a lot of flair and flag. We fed them and they went to sleep pretty soon. We sang, toasted, then gave solemn thanks for what we then declare that up until then, was the Christmas of all Christmases. Maybe in a lifetime one has one such celebration of deliverance, answered prayer, unaccountable fortune and undeserved, surprising Joy. Two things I have thought about now for nearly 50 years. Who was the “leader” that found the way “Home”??? Nip was larger, stronger, and had proven stamina. But Jacque gave a primary clue to the answer when he limped and dragged his frail, hungry, exhausted body to make noise at the only door where he could have possibly been heard on Christmas Eve.

ANGRY MARINE -

http://youtu.be/sGMiQwImfFQ

CHESS - Gameknot

I have been playing World-wide On-line Chess for on Gameknot.com for several years. Here is a Status and Update of my current Standing: One more win and I'll have 2000 wins ! today is November 27, 2013

Jimmy Stewart and Beau 7.28 . 1981

The dog poem that made Johnny Carson cry . Plucked from the TV archives: Watch as actor Jimmy Stewart shares a poem about his beloved dog, Beau. By Michael Graham Richard Fri, May 10 2013 at 12:56 PM 48 Jimmy Stewart (left) reads his poem on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson Jimmy Stewart (left) reads his poem about his dog, Beau, on 'The Tonight Show' in 1981. (Photo: johnnycarson/YouTube) Back in 1981, legendary actor James “Jimmy” Stewart, the star of “It's a Wonderful Life” and too many other classics to list here, went on “The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson” to share his hobby: poetry. The piece that he read was titled "I’ll Never Forget a Dog Named Beau" about Stewart’s golden retriever. At first, the poem made Johnny and the audience laugh, but it had a very different effect in the end. Describing it can’t do it justice; it’s something you have to see — and feel — for yourself, so check out the video and read the text below. Here’s the text of the poem: He never came to me when I would call Unless I had a tennis ball, Or he felt like it, But mostly he didn't come at all. When he was young He never learned to heel Or sit or stay, He did things his way. Discipline was not his bag But when you were with him things sure didn't drag. He'd dig up a rosebush just to spite me, And when I'd grab him, he'd turn and bite me. He bit lots of folks from day to day, The delivery boy was his favorite prey. The gas man wouldn't read our meter, He said we owned a real man-eater. He set the house on fire But the story's long to tell. Suffice it to say that he survived And the house survived as well. On the evening walks, and Gloria took him, He was always first out the door. The Old One and I brought up the rear Because our bones were sore. He would charge up the street with Mom hanging on, What a beautiful pair they were! And if it was still light and the tourists were out, They created a bit of a stir. But every once in a while, he would stop in his tracks And with a frown on his face look around. It was just to make sure that the Old One was there And would follow him where he was bound. We are early-to-bedders at our house -- I guess I'm the first to retire. And as I'd leave the room he'd look at me And get up from his place by the fire. He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs, And I'd give him one for a while. He would push it under the bed with his nose And I'd fish it out with a smile. And before very long He'd tire of the ball And be asleep in his corner In no time at all. And there were nights when I'd feel him Climb upon our bed And lie between us, And I'd pat his head. And there were nights when I'd feel this stare And I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there And I reach out my hand and stroke his hair. And sometimes I'd feel him sigh and I think I know the reason why. He would wake up at night And he would have this fear Of the dark, of life, of lots of things, And he'd be glad to have me near. And now he's dead. And there are nights when I think I feel him Climb upon our bed and lie between us, And I pat his head. And there are nights when I think I feel that stare And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair, But he's not there. Oh, how I wish that wasn't so, I'll always love a dog named Beau. ********************************************** A book titled “Why We Love the Dogs We Do: How to Find the Dog That Matches Your Personality” published in 2000 contains some information on what happened to Beau, Stewart’s beloved dog. Sadly, the poem isn’t fiction. Wikipedia summarizes it: “While shooting a movie in Arizona, Stewart received a phone call from Dr. Keagy, his veterinarian, who informed him that Beau was terminally ill, and that Gloria sought his permission to perform euthanasia. Stewart declined to give a reply over the phone, and told Keagy to ‘keep him alive and I'll be there.’ Stewart requested several days' leave, which allowed him to spend some time with Beau before granting the doctor permission to euthanize the sick dog. Following the procedure, Stewart sat in his car for ten minutes to clear his eyes of tears. Stewart later remembered: ‘After [Beau] died there were a lot of nights when I was certain that I could feel him get into bed beside me and I would reach out and pat his head. The feeling was so real that I wrote a poem about it and how much it hurt to realize that he wasn’t going to be there any more.’” I’m sure all you dog lovers out there know exactly how that must have felt.

Cazanovas - 2014 Interrnational Blues Challenge PROMO

http://youtu.be/iqcD-gGnjpU I will be there ! Memphis, TN January 2014