So. Our esteemed leader here in the U.S. decided to ban CNN, MS NOW, and Politico from the White House due because of what he says is their unfavorable coverage and “fake news.” On Saturday, Betsy Klein, Senior White House Reporter for CNN, Akayla Gardner, White House Correspondent for MS NOW, and Cheyenne Haslett, White House Reporter for Politico were all stopped by Secret Service and their press badges confiscated.
Much like the dictator that tRump is enamored with, Xi Jinping of China, tRump knows that taking freedom away from the press is only the first step in destroying other democratic institutions. A move that sets the stage for authoritarian control of a country.
I honestly never thought he would take this step, but then tRump has done a lot of things I never imagined. This one, however, is such a blatant smack in the face of the Constitution that I was shocked when I heard the news late last Friday. He brags about how smart he is, but this is not the act of a smart man.
In recent months, as news about his mental decline has been talked about more and more, I’ve stayed away from the topic. Not because I don’t believe there’s a problem.
I do.
As someone in his age-range, I know that our brains lose the sharpness they once had, whether that’s due to side-effects from medications, failing health, or just the normal physical and chemical changes that occur as the years march on.
The indicators of a major problem with our esteemed leader and his ability to run a democratic government have been so blatant and so frequent, that I hoped members of Congress would grow a spine and put barriers up all around him to stop his next awful move.
End of political commentary.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s been too long since we’ve had a guest piece from Slim Randles. This is different from his normal cowboy humor, but a pleasant read nonetheless. It showcases his knack for lovely descriptions that paint a picture with words.
Enjoy!
The moon turned the horses and mules silver with its magic. It gave the packer an unspoken pleasure to look back on a sinuous Sierra snake of eleven animals stretched in a flexible line nearly 150 feet long behind him. And he looked up, straight up to the peaks of Kearsarge where the snow fields always left behind shady patches of dirty white, up where the Inyo moon splashed them with a dream brush and made old secrets come to life.
* * * *
“You’ve heard of the ghost of Kearsarge,” the old man said. “Everyone knows about her.”
The packers at the table at the ranch looked at each other and shrugged, then one asked, “What ghost?”
“Just the old lady,” the man said, with laughter in his dark Paiute eyes. “She doesn’t hurt nothing, you know. Just sings a little.”
The evening was dark at the ranch, and the table lamp splashed shadows of the assembled weary cowboys on the kitchen walls as they sipped coffee. It was always good to hear the stories the old man told, coming over from his own small cabin here on the reservation.
“I never heard nothing about a ghost lady up Kearsarge,” said the cook.
“That’s what they say,” said the old man. “Ever since there was a town up there. Used to be the mine up there, you know. Big one. Then there was a big dance in town one Christmas time, it was. Long ago. Before my time.
“Anyway, everybody went to Independence to dance, you know, except the caretaker and his wife. Avalanche got ‘em. They were the only ones. Everybody else went to the dance. Can’t remember what year it was. That mine was working then, though.”
Nobody spoke while the old man sipped some coffee. “You boys ever hear her up there at night? You can hear her. That’s what they say, anyway. Avalanche took her head off, you know. Never did find it. They say she calls for her head at night when there’s a moon.”
“At Kearsarge?”
“Yeah, you know where those old foundations are? That’s where the little town used to be. Where the stock trail leaves the Onion Valley road. Looking for her head. That’s what they say. Looking for her head.”
* * * *
The first foundations of Kearsarge glowed in the moonlight, little more than deliberate rock piles and scattered timbers now. The packer steered Brownie around one of the rock piles and left the little stretch of dirt road to follow the creek up the canyon. More foundations glowed, their old stones like age-worn teeth, and the wind came down from the snow patches cool and quiet. The packer thought he heard something, once.
Just once, but he wondered about it, anyway.
Maybe it was a night bird.
Maybe.
Looking back the way he’d come, the cluster of lights that was Independence had now shrunk to a small glowing nucleus in the moonscaped miles below.
He shivered.
Then he paused on the first switchback above the old ghost town and pulled on his jacket.
It helped.
* * * *
“Your granddad told us there was a spook up at old Kearsarge,” the packer said as they walked along the irrigation ditch one night, a time back.
“Grandpa knows a lot,” she said, squeezing his hand. “It’s probably true.”
He saw her eyes then, in the glow of a nearby streetlight there in town, as they walked. The desert night warmed them and made them both think of things long past and yet to come.
“You don’t think he was just trying to B.Swq. us into being scared?”
“Not Grandpa. He knows a lot.”
“Umm,” the packer said.
“You like him?”
“Sure. Great guy.”
“He likes you, too. He likes you a lot, I know. So does my mom and dad.”
“Very nice people, your mom and dad.”
She smiled up at him and he could see the pretty eyes again, the ageless eyes that spoke so much of generations of desert and mountain people, despite her youth.
“You like kids?” she asked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Brought to you by “The Long Dark” by Slim Randles.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That’s all from me for today folks. I’m trying to get a new short story collection finished, so that’s what I’ll be working on the rest of the day. Whatever you have planned, if it’s work I hope it goes well. If it’s leisure time I wish you lots of smiles.