My Thoughts by Earnest Mercer

Old Yellow Hand

2012-02-06T13:53:00.000-08:00

“Old Yellow Hand” a novel by Earnest Mercer
Available: Amazon.com, www.earnestmercerbooks.com, or from the author at emercer2@tampabay.rr.com
A withered old hand still with the stringy remnants of its former attachment, drops from a branch and latches onto a hiker’s scalp. Unable to free himself, he tires after the struggle, whereupon the hand wraps its gnarled fingers around his throat and chokes the life from him. This is but one of many victims of the withered old yellow hand. Many years before, the erstwhile owner of the hand, Baron Goran Goranovich, the despotic ruler of a baronage in Transylvania, is assassinated by an uprising of his oppressed vassals. To prove the baron is dead, they sever his hand, but later fearing a curse store it in an urn of preserving fluid. Two hundred years later, the urn is included in a shipment to a funeral home in the village of Gore, Virginia. When it is accidentally freed by an embalmer, the hand sets off on a trail of grisly murders throughout Virginia before miraculously finding its way back to its home in Goranovichy. A young Transylvanian Romani couple bent upon ridding the world of this monstrosity trace it back to the castle from which it came. They corner the hand in one of the fetid halls of the dilapidated castle, but find their quarry gives them more than they bargained for.

Communication

2011-12-15T06:50:00.000-08:00

Much has been written about the posting addressed below. Earlier books included: "Games People Play" Eric Bernes, "I'm OK, You're OK" by Harris, et al. My personal experiences with the subject material prompted me to write this posting when I sat through a presentation by someone who treated the topic as a new and revolutionary discovery. The related thouht to be considered when you read the narrative below is that communicatio between "right-brain" dominated and "left-brain" dominated is a struggle and special consideration is necessary or succinct communication will not occur.

After facilitating and teaching management/executive training programs for many years during which it was always stressed that leadership skills (right-brain dominated) and management skills (left-brain dominated) are not the same. Some fortunate individuals possess a balance of the two, but most usually excel in one over the other. The spark of leadership is difficult to instill if not already present, but the skills of implementation can be taught. Management skills are the result of training and experience and can be more easily taught. One example we used to illustrate leadership versus management was Adolph Hitler. There is no doubt of his leadership (albeit misguided) as he "led" the populace of Germany to become the belligerent nation we saw in WWII. Had Hitler possessed equal management skills,(or had not tried to manage the war himself and left that task to others with better management skills) quite possibly much of the world would be speaking German.
Many of our presidents (and military officers) are/were dominant one skill or the other. Ronald Reagan is depicted by many to be the epitome of leadership, but weaker in management abilities. Others use Jimmy Carter as an example of a good manager, (smart, meticulous, member of Mensa, etc.) but lacking in leadership traits. Some political pundits tend to contrast the two present day Republican frontrunners in this light.

The identification of prime examples of either leaders or managers is not a precise science, but business executives have long paid a great deal of money toward evaluating and developing both disciplines, not necessarily at the same time or the same place.

Another tough question we tackled in the afore mentioned seminars was the difference (if any) between morals and ethics.(Just for fun consider that morals are learned as a child, usually from parents and remain essentially the same over our lifetime, while ethics are inculcated when we are adults and are subject to "situational" changes over time.) I've written papers on this murky subject. Interesting topic, but difficult to obtain concensus.

Earnest Mercer
Author: "Skivvy Girl: The Love of a Post WWII Japanese Pleasure Girl"

Noblesse Oblige

2011-12-15T06:47:00.000-08:00

I remember going to the SS office to initiate my social security payments.
The pompous (ignorant) clerk stated that I would use up all the money I'd
paid in between five and ten years. Why she told me this, I don't know,
probably it was on her teleprompter menu. I told her what she said was
nonsense, but saw no need to argue with a nitwit. The calculations below
are not mine, but they check out mathematically (if certain variables are
accepted) and this was why I told the clerk what she was spewing was
nonsense. Furthermore, those LWL's(a.k.a. Left Wing Loons) who rail against
changing SS rules to allow the option for partial investment in markets do
so under the NOBLESSE OBLIGE concept that individuals are not capable of
making their own decisions, but must have the omniscient nobles or
government bureaucrats to do so for them.

"Remember, not only did you contribute to Social Security but your employer
did too. It totaled 15% of your income before taxes. If you averaged only
$30K over your working life, that's close to $220,500. If you calculate the
future value of $4,500 per year (yours & your employer's contribution) at a
simple 5% (less than what the govt . pays on the money that it borrows),
after 49 years of working you'd have $892,919.98. If you took out only 3%
per year, you'd receive $26,787.60 per year and it would last better than 30
years (until you're 95 if you retire at age 65) and that's with no interest
paid on that final amount on deposit! If you bought an annuity and it paid
4% per year, you'd have a lifetime income of $2,976.40 per month.

Earnest
Author of "Skivvy Girl: The Love of a Post WWII Japanese Pleasure Girl"
www.earnestmercerbooks.com

How to Shine in the Job Interview

2011-12-07T14:17:00.000-08:00

How to Shine in the Job Interview
By Earnest Mercer
The author earned a Bachelor of Professional Studies and a Master of Business Administration from Pace University of New York. His career spanned 30 years with IBM Corporation with assignments in several U. S. locations as well as Japan, Hong Kong and South Africa. After retiring, he worked as a human resources consultant to U. S. companies in South Africa, Hong Kong, China, Korea and the Czech Republic. After serving in various community and civic organizations, he took a position as an adjunct instructor with Webber International University in the Graduate School of Business. He was conferred an honorary Doctor of Business Administration for his innovative work there. He has written numerous essays, white papers and training modules, and has collaborated on books related to personal training and development. He has conducted hundreds of interviews with job applicants for many different companies in many parts of the world.

The following interviewing tips have been accumulated from years of experience.

I. First Impressions
First and often lasting impressions are formed during the first few minutes of an interview. Studies have indicated that within a mere ten seconds interviewers begin to make judgments about the interviewee’s professionalism, social status, intelligence, and even morals. (Yes, I know that it isn’t supposed to be this way, but it is.)
II. Focus
Interviewers tend to focus on what they see (dress, eye contact, body language) on what they hear (grammar, syntax, tone of voice) than on actual content of the interviewee's delivery, at least at first.
III. Assessments
Interviewers tend to believe that those who care about themselves (as demonstrated by their personal presentation} are more likely to care about the performance on the job. Make those crucial four minutes count: Look your best. Clothing consciousness is seen to indicate one’s self esteem and one’s level of professionalism. Avoid faddish style of dress, extreme hair styles, non-standard faddish speech. (Don't try to make a "statement" of your personal views) Your personal presentation must convey the message that you are competent, reliable and authoritative, not a person easily swayed by passing temporary fashions. It is wise to obtain a copy of a company’s annual report and pay attention to how the employees featured in the document present themselves. It is a good idea to dress for the job you want. Remember, nothing succeeds like the appearance of success.
IV. Work on your body language.
Numerous studies indicate that about seven percent of any message about our feelings and attitudes comes from words we use, 38 percent from our voice and a startling 55 percent from our body language. Don't let your body language emphasize what you think is important as it may be insignificant to the interviewer. It is a well-known fact among interviewers that when body language conflicts with oral communication, trust the body language. Practice tempering your tone of voice, facial expressions, posture, eye contact and gestures. You must not seem too desperate for the job, or too eager to please. Eye contact is important, but don’t stare and don’t make it an issue rather than a supportive factor.
V. Speak in a positive vein.
Avoid negatives of all kinds unless it is absolutely necessary to the point you are trying to make. Generally, people do not like to hear negatives and the frequent use of non-affirmative language may be interpreted as pessimistic and arrogant. Say what you mean and make sure that both your choice of words and body language project a positive attitude. If you have been fired from your last job, don’t try to place the blame on someone else or factors you couldn’t control. While your termination may have come about because of circumstances you couldn’t alter, it does little good to dwell on these causes. Simply state the facts and move on to your next point.
VI. Social Skills.
Interviewers look for people who are comfortable in different social settings—people who are likely to “fit in” the social environment of the company. An important aspect of exercising one’s social skills is stay abreast of current events; read at least one daily newspaper, a weekly magazine so you can hold your own in topics of the day. But, don’t set yourself up as an expert based on limited knowledge or other false analogies. (Just because you are Japanese, doesn’t make you an expert on Japan or its culture and business.) It is advisable to read the sports page even if you are not a sports enthusiast as (at least in the U. S.) the brief discussion of sports current events is frequently used as an icebreaker. If you are from a different culture than that of your interviewer, you must make a special effort to avoid cultural traits that may be commonplace in your culture, but unpleasant or even insulting in a different environment.
Summary:

Don’t:
Make the application of the above rules of interviewing an affectation. Practice until they become natural.

Assume that what you think is important is important to the interviewer.

Blame others.

Attempt to become “friends” with the interviewer, be friendly, but stick to
the business at hand.

Appear to be desperate or overly eager. Focus on the mutual advantage to
the company and yourself if employed.

Do:
Leave your fads, extreme apparel, and personal accouterments at home. Be on time and dress professionally.

Make sure that your words and body language agree. Practice in front of a mirror. (Good public speakers practice thusly for hours and hours.)

Remember that first impressions are formed in the first three or four minutes and are hard to change.

Start with a firm handshake (don't try to show how strong you are) establish eye contact(don't stare) and project friendliness, but avoid over familiarity.

Use the interviewer’s last name during the interview preceded with the appropriate honorific, Mr., Mrs., Ms., or Dr., until asked to do otherwise.

Ask questions about the job and the company, but stay away from questions on personal issues (yours or the interviewer's). Avoid rhetorical questions meant to impress the interviewer.

Final Note:
During my interviews with dozens of applicants, I looked for a "real" person, free from artifices and pretense; one who focused on their achievements that relate to the position for which they are applying.

National Budget

2011-04-20T11:18:00.000-07:00

I doubt if many will argue that the only way to handle the excessive spending and massive debt facing the U. S. is to establish a finite budget that is stringent enough to achieve the goal. Now, if this is done the next task is to decide how the finite "pie" is to be divided. How much will we spend on defense, public welfare, education infrastructure, environmental pursuits, developing alternative energy etc.

Each time there are demands by those seeking to either maintain or increase their allotment, they must also advocate which other segment of the pie should be reduced in order to accommodate their demands. So when teachers, for example, bemoan the slashing of education funds, they should then advocate the reduction of, say, environmental protection, military spending, endowment of the arts or some other piece of the pie. Likewise, for those who are adamantly opposed to funding the growing piece of the pie, e.g., Medicad, must be willing to take cuts in other areas.

The other alternative to robbing Peter to pay Paul is, of course, to raise taxes to produce more revenue or make the pie larger. But I think all will agree that this approach has serious limitations. Taxing the rich at a much greater rate than the middle and lower income people is not a viable alternative. There are simply not enough rich people to offset the exponentially increasing spending. And since almost one half of our citizens in the lower tax brackets pay no taxes, those in the middle income bracket will necessarily be taxed at a greater rate. Bear in mind, that the top two percent of the rich already generate 75 - 80 percent of tax revenue; there is a limit to the positive effect to the reduction of the debt. Remember, the basic premise of socialism/communism is to take from the rich and spread the wealth among all the people. (Including the 47% of the population that pay no taxes now?)

Therefore, it seems clear to me that the only real way of attacking the problem of ever escalating national debt is through establishing finite limits to the size of the pie. Now go back to the first paragraph.

Skivvy Girl: The Love of a Post WWII Japanese Pleasure Girl

2011-03-24T12:23:00.000-07:00

I have just published my latest book, Skivvy Girl, on Creative Space and Kindle. I'm working on providing access via other ebook platforms. I will be posting comments on my email: emercer2@tampabay.rr.com, my WEB site: www.earnestmercerbooks.com, Facebook, and Twitter.

Skivvy Girl is a poignant story of a Matsuyama Yoshiko, a seventeen-year-old that turns to prostitution for sustenance after be left destitute by the death of her father on Iwo Jima. She undergoes an initiation that will bring tears to your eyes, but survives to eventually meet a kindly young American sailor with whom she forms a relationship that lasts for the duration of the sailor's assignment in Japan. They face incredible odds for a lasting romance, enduring language problems, cultural differences, military regulations, and natural calamities. In the end, their karma cannot protect them from the ultimate disaster.

Readers can purchase the book from Creative Space, Amazon, Kindle, and directly from me via email or telephone (863-967-2077). Ordering directly from me will save postal expense and tax.

Current Events

2011-03-15T08:06:00.000-07:00

BLOG

My friends understand that my political views are generally to the conservative side. In order to cement that perception, I’ve listed my views on current events:

1. I support Governor Walker’s position in Wisconsin, as well as the governors of Ohio, Indiana, and Florida. Governor Scott of Florida summed up my bent thusly: People must understand that we can no longer support the entitlements they have become accustomed to. (Quotation marks not used as I am paraphrasing his remarks.) Retirement pensions should be paid into by all workers and not subsidized by tax revenue.
2. I think that people have lost much of the self-sufficiency of the early settlers and now depend on others far too much. This psychological shift from independency to dependency accounts for the growth in welfare rolls, the unsustainable costs of Medicaid, and unemployment compensation.
3. The Koran teaches violence and lack of tolerance. Much of the turmoil in today’s society has its roots in Islam. In my view, moderate Muslims do not stand up to the radical faction, therefore justifying the condemnation of the entire faith by many. This position may apply to the African-American bloc as well. Remember, incarceration from this group for exceeds its percentage of the total population. The position held by some in this group that descendants of slaves should be given special privileges has been obviated by actions of last four decades.
4. The hue and cry of many pundits and letter-to-the-editor writers denigrating the “rich” and bemoaning the treatment of the “poor, old, and sick” vis a vis the fair tax concept forget or deliberately ignore the fact that the top two percent of the rich pay almost 50 percent of the income tax revenue in the U. S. while 40 percent of the so-called oppressed group pay no income tax. They also tend to forget that most charities are supported by the rich.
5. I do not support the U. S. intervention in foreign affairs when that entails the use of American armed forces. The involvement in Iraq, Afghanistan, and Pakistan should not be halted abruptly, but disengagement should be implemented as soon as practical. Future engagements should only be instigated when the safety of the U. S. is threatened directly. These conflicts have become too costly in both lives and funds. The track record of success whenever the U. S. tries to intervene in other countries’ social conflict is poor to say the least. Case in point, Viet Nam. The United Nations was created to police threats to humanity and should be forced to assume that role or be disbanded.
6. Abortion laws should be re-worked to deter, not support indiscriminate aborting of viable fetuses. I do not ascribe to the overriding theme that women have a right to control what happens regarding their own body. After all few people I know support suicide. Above all, I do not support to abortion clinics, no matter what name they operate under, being supported with tax revenue.
7. I support raising the age for maximum benefits of Social Security, greater penalty to those who opt for earlier retirement, application of need analysis to wealthy recipients, and SS tax being applied to all levels of income. My position excludes deserving SSI recipients. I also support the voluntary privatization of Social Security.

Skivvy Girl

2011-02-22T14:46:00.000-08:00

I copyrighted a historical novel about a young Japanese girl, who in post WWII, was forced into prostitution in the port city of Yokosuka. The book, entitled: Skivvy Girl: The Love of a Post WWII Japanese Pleasure Girl, will be available in March of this year. Matsuyama Yoshiko, the protagonist, is a composite of the young girls entering into prostitution during the 1950s. She abhorred the life of a prostitute, but after barely subsisting on the meager pay of a job sorting rotten vegetables, she reluctantly chose being a "skivvy girl", as the prostitutes were called in military jargon, over suicide. Arriving in Yokosuka, the site of the largest naval port in Japan, penniless and friendless, she was befriended by a skivvy girl who took her to a skivvy house. The mama-san agreed to take the naive country girl into her tutorage and train her how to "accommodate" customers. The training was rigorous and her initiation was horrendous. The seventeen-year-old virgin was beaten and violated in the most brutal manner. But she survived and began to accommodate her customers in such a way as to build up a substantial clientele. One day a young American sailor chanced to visit the skivvy house where Yoshiko worked. They formed a bond that lasted over the next two years. Their affair suffered from language problems, cultural conflicts, unplanned separations, and the vicissitudes of a violent nature. But the survived only to face unsurmountable odds when the sailor's assignment ended and he returned to America. Despondent and determined not to return to the sordid life of a skivvy girl, Yoshiko returned to her home village. Luckily, she found employment at a newly started ceramic plant. She prospered and when her lover returned to Japan eight years later, she agreed to resume their relationship. Their blissful life was ended when fate intervened and presented them with obstacles the could not overcome.

Skivvy Girl is a compassionate look at the life of thousands of young Japanese girls during and immediately after the military occupation in the 1950s. The reader of this new book will empathize with both the skivvy girl and her lover. It will be nearly impossible to put the book down before reading it in its entirety.

Go to my WEB site, www.earnestmercerbooks.com, and order the book for your infinite pleasure, whether or not you are of the age depicted in the storyline.

You may order the book from me directly by email: emercer2@tampabay.rr.com, or by telephone: 863 967-2077. I'll send you a copy postpaid for $15.95.

Burma AKA Myanmar

2010-07-07T10:43:00.000-07:00

Not many Americans get the opportunity to visit Burma AKA Myanmar; not many Americans want to visit the communist country run by a totalitarian dictator.
A few years ago before retirement, I visited Burma because IBM had nineteen employees still struggling to operate a tiny unit-record (no computers) office there. The employees were grateful for my daring to come see them, and I was grateful for the opportunity. The government would allow citizens to leave the country, but they weren’t allowed to come back. So the nineteen employees would not leave.
Getting into the country, past customs and immigration, was tedious at best and nerve-wracking at worst. My wife went with me and had her customary travel jewelry with her—she had to list every piece and declare a value-in pencil on a sheet of foolscap. She was warned that each piece must be accounted for on her departure, and that any jewelry bought in the country must be declared and a heavy duty paid thereon.
The hotel we stayed in had been built by the Russians and was dilapidated, but the only show in town. The swimming pool was one of the most disgusting sights I’ve ever seen. Needless to say, despite the hot humid weather nobody was brave enough to jump in the mess. One of the grand old world-class hotels—one that entertained many famous people, including Ernest Hemmingway—the Strand was now a derelict of its former grandeur.
We knew that the public water supply would be unsafe, but hoped that the hotel maintained a filtration system. But when I saw the hotel attendant go outside and fill the so-called safe water pitcher from an ordinary faucet, I broke out my bottle of iodine pills to purify enough water to brush our teeth. We only drank beer, that we hoped had been pasteurized.
Rangoon, once known as the “pearl of the orient” was now a crumbling reminder of the once resplendent city. The government, having no funds for upkeep (or anything else, but the Army it seems) simply let the jungle begin to take over. Normal systems didn’t work: garbage was strewn everywhere, electricity was sporadic, and air-conditioning was non-existent. Hordes of flies were everywhere, making dining a constant battle to keep them away from the food.
I was told that the day after the military coup, shop owners told me that they were either to leave their businesses or become clerks working for the government. Those shopkeepers in ill favor with the military weren’t given any choice—they were simply told to vacate their stores and not come back.
The dictator, U Win, would not tolerate any disagreement with his personal dictates. He once had his armed palace guard chase several intrepid expatriates congregated for a Christmas celebration from the hotel into the streets for making noise that disturbed his sleep.
The main tourist attraction in Burma was/is the collection of temples, usually seen on National Geographic travelogues. These gold-leafed structures are sad reminders of their once resplendent iconic presence; now with virtually impenetrable jungles for backgrounds. Visitors must remove shoes before entering the holy areas, but much like other parts of the city, care must be taken to avoid stepping in stuff that might remind one of walking barefoot through a cow pasture.
An intrepid soul might hire a taxi for a visit to the vast opium poppy fields along the border with Thailand and Cambodia, but the risk of being shot with a poison dart from the hill tribes was not insignificant; that is, unless you advertized that you were there to buy opium.
The citizens we met were friendly and hospitable, the food was delectable, and shopping was a tourist’s paradise. Precious stones, particularly rubies were inexpensive and plentiful, but the duty on exiting the country was prohibitive. To hide these stones from customs lackeys was an easy way to rot in a Burmese jail—one could not count on U. S. diplomatic help, as there was no American embassy.
Most readers will have read or heard about Aung Sang Suu Kyi, the popular leader of people striving for a democratic process. She has been under house arrest for over twenty-five years. She turned sixty-five years old this year.
So, I leave you dear reader, with the following admonitions:
-don’t drink the water-take purifying pills along
-delcare all purchases and pay the exorbitant duty
-don’t go wandering about in the environs of the hill tribes
-read up and adhere to the law of the land, no matter how abhorrent

U Win is long since dead, but his son has followed in his father’s footsteps.

Travel to Borneo

2010-05-18T12:26:00.000-07:00

Borneo, the home of P. T. Barnum’s “wild man of the jungle,” mysterious head-hunters, the Phantom-that-never-dies, and the richest man in the world; sorry Bill.
The “wild man of the jungle” of Barnum’s Greatest Show on Earth was an “orangutan”. “Orangu” mans “jungle” and “tan” means man, so Mr. Barnum used a little imagination when he plastered this sobriquet on the poor caged animal. Anyway, the orangutan is a kind of ape that looks more like a person than chimpanzees and gorillas and often acts with more sense.
The Borneo orangutans used to come out of the jungle and attend local dances, but the village boys didn’t like that much, so they told Barnum that he could have all of them if he wanted. Orangutans really could dance, but they didn’t know the modern styles so the girls just laughed and made fun of them. That’s why they have such a doleful look on their faces, which by the way may account for the strong resemblance to my uncle Ezekial Hammertong who lives in Cottonpick, Alabama. Uncle Hammertong was a bit hairy, with long arms, walked with a stoop, and never did fare well at dances. Of course, people in Cottonpick had never heard of an orangutan.
Now, a word about the mysterious headhunters of Borneo: They are mysterious because it is a mystery why anyone would want to fool around with them at all, much less inquire about their hobby of collecting heads. They don’t shrink the heads they lop off their enemies, who by all accounts may be anyone with a head that would look nice hanging in the hunters long-house. Their cousins in Africa and down in South America figured out a way to shrink the heads and put them on key chains so as to cater to tourists that don’t have a whole lot of room in the luggage for souvenirs. But, the head-hunters of Borneo don’t bother to shrink them; they just skin them, hang up the skulls and brag.
The island of Borneo has a sultanate, called Brunei, two more (called “states” now) belonging to Malaysia and a large section called Kalimantan that is claimed by Indonesia. It was from this latter section that the head-hunters mainly collected their trophies.
Some of you not-as-young-as-you-once-were readers may remember the Phantom who was featured in a comic strip in many newspapers in years past. He was a bona fide do-good-combat-evil sort of fellow who wore purple body tights, sported a Lone Ranger type mask and carried two humoungus .45 Colt automatics which he needed because everyone tended to laugh and point their fingers at his purple tights until he waved the .45s around. He often rode a great white horse bareback and walked funny because riding without a saddle made his rump sore all the time.
The legend got started when the King of Malaysia awarded a foreigner a sultancy for as long as he lived. So the foreigner devised a scheme to keep the title forever by donning his purple tights and mask, adopting the name Phantom-Who-Never-Dies, and when he got too old, dressing his son in the same purple tights and mask thereby maintaining the legend that the Phantom lives forever.
The richest man in the world is the Sultan of Brunei that sits on top of a humoungus oil supply. The Sultan provides for all welfare of his subjects so there are no taxes for them to pay, all government services are free, and all his subjects live happily ever after. He is so rich that the members of the United Nations go out their way to keep him happy so that he doesn’t buy the whole organization and auction it off.
Now that you have a little history and culture of Borneo, you are ready for travel tips. When you are ready to visit Borneo, start in Brunei and see how a country is run by someone richer that a dozen Bill Gates. All government services are free to the citizens of Brunei and everything is really clean and spiffy. Remember though, Brunei is a Muslim country so you need to be careful not to offend locals by ignoring Muslim traditions which include removing your shoes and covering your head if you are a woman when visiting their mosques. If you mess up there, you may be tied to a stake so the locals can chunk rocks at you. Since the mosques are open on all sides which allows bugs to enter, I suppose the name for the little buzzing bugs that bite are called “mosquetoes”.
Next, you should visit the Malaysian state of Sabah where you can look for the Phantom or buy souvenir purple body tights to raise the envy of your neighbors back home. The urge to be the only guy in the neighborhood with purple tights and Lone Ranger mask is overwhelming. That’s why they sell so many of these things. Of course, you cannot bring back a white horse or twin .45s, but that’s just as well, as walking funny back in the old neighborhood wearing purple tights might give your neighbors the wrong idea. And if you were wearing .45s someone would likely haul out the old 30 ought 30.
The next place to visit is the Malaysian state of Sarawak where you will find nice beaches, great bargains in the open-air markets and some real exotic food. The piece de resistance (which means in French, “even if it sounds or looks disgusting, eat it anyway.”) is a local soup made from home grown veggies, fertilized by carabao pooh and which contains two varieties of worms; a large white one with a black head and reminds me of my fish bait. This worm is particularly succulent; the other is the bamboo worm that you must extract from its home in a bamboo shoot after it is cooked in the soup. It is skinny as it lives in a skinny shoot, but is just as succulent as the white one.
Don’t expect to find anything from a hog though, as the Muslims shun pork of any kind. The Koran, which is a lot like the Old Testament in the bible, warns against eating pork, but doesn’t say anything about eating worms.
If you like spicy food, you can get some homegrown black pepper (it grows on a tree, by the way), except that it isn’t black, it’s white. The locals don’t care for the black part of the peppercorn; they use the outer white portion, just the opposite of what those “strange folk do in Europe and America.”
Another interesting thing is that it is bad manners to point with your index finger (or your middle finger, for that matter). You are supposed to point with your thumb.
Next on your itinerary is what you came for in the first place, a visit to the headhunters of Borneo. The trek into the deep jungles where they live is accomplished by riding in narrow dugout canoes poled, dragged and sometimes carried by two natives. If you are concerned that they may be headhunters, ask them for their identification cards. They will show you an embossed card clearly stating “The bearer of this official identification card is not presently a head-hunter of Borneo. The skull hanging from his neck was purchased from a real head-hunter”.
The river on which the hollowed-out tree trunk starts is fairly big and fairly deep, but soon becomes a small shallow stream. You may have to get out of the boat and wade every now and then. If you pick up a leach or two, don’t worry as this is a recognized treatment for certain blood diseases, and they won’t suck out enough blood to really matter anyway. Save the ones you unstick from your legs though, as the natives use them to add flavor to their soups. Just kidding, folks, they use them in their blowguns when they only want to stun small prey. So, if you see a native with a big black blob on his tongue, you know that he didn’t blow before the leach latched onto his tongue. Their traditional lore states plainly, “If a leach latches onto your tongue before you can blow it out of your blowgun, don’t mess with it.” Roughly equivalent to our “If the shoe fits, wear it”.
On arrival at the heat-hunter’s village, you will be ushered to a special foreigner’s house that resembles the natives’ “long-house” except that your long-house is really short. You will be assigned a pallet, a mosquito net and a flashlight in case the generator fails, which it will surely do. Your meals will be cooked in your short-house, but you are advised not to look on the process too closely and never, never ask, “What in the world is this in my soup?” To do so, in a headhunter’s village is really risky on two fronts; first it could be taken as an insult justifying adding another trophy to their collection, and second they may actually tell you what’s in the soup! After settling in, you will be invited to review the collection of skulls the warriors have accumulated over time. Then you may be given the opportunity of taking target practice with a poison-dart blowgun they normally use to kill monkeys. Be careful that you put the dart with the sharp end pointing away from you so it doesn’t end up on your tongue, and don’t aim it toward any of your fellow travelers. Even though the natives would be quite happy to salvage the head of a tourist, it isn’t considered good form in headhunter circles to end up the journey with fewer tourists than they started with.
In the evening you may visit the village long-house. It’s called “long-house” because it is long. Each time a bride and groom join the clan, they just add a room or two on the end of the existing structure. So over time, it becomes long, so they call it a “long-house”. I don’t know if in the beginning, they called it a “short-house”.
After a couple of days and nights (Nights are particularly interesting as the beasts of the jungle prowl around making scary noises and all you have between you and them is a mosquito net.) you are ready for return to civilization. The two native guides, or their substitutes if either of them has contributed to the collection of skulls, will round up all the touristers, count noses to see if as many are ready to return as started out. If there is a shortage of noses, they will change the number that they recorded at the outset of the trip so that they can account for everyone when they check in with their supervisors back where they started. It is a good idea to make sure that the guides record the number of tourists in ink at the outset because it harder for them to change the count.
If these tips don’t stir your blood to book for a trip to Borneo today, you may be among the tourists who really do not care to parade around your neighborhood in souvenir purple tights, mess up Muslim tradition, eat worms and white pepper, pick leaches, point with your thumb or contribute to headhunters trophy collection. If so, keep checking my BLOG for additional travel tips that you probably won’t find in tourist brochures.

First Person Story-Japan

2010-03-15T12:30:00.000-07:00

I joined the U.S. Navy fresh from high school at age 17. The Korean Conflict had just begun and a navy recruiter promised I’d be assigned to Naval Intelligence if I signed up immediately. I was trained as a radio intercept operator, went to school for the Russian language and was sent to Japan to monitor adverserial nations. I arrived there in 1951, just before the military occupation officially ended, thereby qualifying me to wear the Occupation Ribbon.

My first duty station was in Yokosuka, followed by Chitose on Hokkaido Island and Kami Seya, a village among the rice fields near Yokohama. I worked in one of two tunnels equipped with the most modern communications monitoring equipment at the time. The structures were covered in reinforced concrete several feet thick. My group had evacuation priority just below women and children-because, I suppose, the navy had so much invested in our training.

It was heady stuff for a boy of seventeen, being 10,000 miles away from Auburndale, Florida, a small town in the middle of the state. I had migrated there in 1935 with my parents and younger brother during the Great Depression.

The little more than two years I was assigned to Japan provided me with a lifetime of memories, some of which I’ve included in my memoir, "The Misadventures of a Country Boy". When I arrived, the country was economically prostrate after the large companies had been shut down for their support of the war effort thereby eliminating thousands of jobs. Many breadwinners were killed in the Pacific battles leaving their families destitute. As a consequence, hundreds of young girls turned to prostitution. They were known as “skivvy girls” in military jargon.

One of my earliest memories was viewing the throng of girls soliciting in front of the navy base. These unfortunate girls, plying their trade for about $3.00 for a "short-time", were on the lowest level of the prostitution hierarchy ranging from the geisha to street-skivvy-girls. Girls working out of brothels called “skivvy houses” ranked in between.

During my stay in Japan, I visited skivvy houses where I taught English in exchange for learning Japanese. While doing so, I heard life stories from many of the girls: why they became prostitutes, how they often suffered brutal treatment by their customers, were exposed to venereal diseases, and had to fight continuously for survival in the callous world of prostitution. When they lost their youth, there was nowhere for them; the skivvy houses would dump them, they couldn't go back home to their village, Japanese men would have nothing to do with them, and since the girls rarely accumulated enough money to keep them from poverty, they usually had a miserable old age.

I left Japan in 1953, but carried the memories of that era in my head for over fifty years finally putting it to paper. My manuscript relating many experiences of that time, particularly the plight of the young girls is being reviewed by publishers at this time. Hopefully, it will be published soon.

If you're wondering, my wife of 55 years holds no uneasiness for the escapades of a teenage boy she did not know in a foreign country so many years ago. She has been invaluable in the construction of the manuscript: "Skivvy Girl: The Making and Redemption of a Japanese Prostitute.

If interested, go to my WEB site: www.earnestmercerbooks.com for a synopsis, or contact me via email: emercer2@tampabay.rr.com

USS Indianapolis

2009-03-29T11:28:00.000-07:00

Before recounting and offering insight to one of the saddest episodes in Naval history that occurred in the closing days of World War II, a brief backdrop of the incident.
On a clear moonlit night, the American naval vessel USS Indianapolis was struck by two torpedoes from a Japanese submarine in the Philippine Seas. The ship sunk in the Marianna Trench, the deepest place on planet earth at c. 39,000 feet.
The initial explosion killed 300 sailors and cast 900 more into the shark-infested waters. Over 580 of the seamen either drowned or were killed by sharks that harassed the floating men for four days and nights. By all accounts the sailors had clung on floating debris, some with the support of life vests in the sea for this period of time were found and rescued quite by accident when a cargo plane discovered the men bobbing in the sea below. Because of radio silence, the secretive mission and the swiftness of the sinking, no one knew of the incident or the exact location of the ship. The loss of life was the worst from a single incident in Naval history.
The Indianapolis was on a top-secret mission under the command of Captain Charles B. McVay. She was unaccompanied, without effective submarine imaging equipment, and under orders to maintain radio silence. The ship was to deliver parts and the uranium projectile for the atomic bomb “Little Boy” to Tinian, a small island in the Mariannas group that was close enough to mainland Japan that airplanes could reach inland targets and return without refueling. The bomb was to be assembled on Tinian, loaded on the Enola Gray, and later dropped on Hiroshima. After delivering its secret cargo, the cruiser was ordered back to Guam and subsequently to Leyte. Underway, with standing orders to zigzag in waters where enemy submarines might be located, the ship’s captain, Charles B. McVay failed to implement this maneuver. Two torpedoes from a Japanese submarine commanded by Mochitsura Hashimoto struck the ship, causing massive damage, loss of life and subsequently sinking the American vessel.
Captain McVay was court-marshaled for disobeying orders and gross negligence by the Navy for failing to evade enemy fire. Despite support from many men under his command and the supportive testimony of the Japanese submarine commander, McVay was convicted and demoted. He committed suicide in 1968. He was exonerated in 2000 by Congressional resolution that declared “the American people should now recognize Captain McVay’s lack of culpability for the tragic loss of the USS Indianapolis and the lives of the men who died.”
Now a strange twist evolves regarding the tragedy (detailed in an article in the Smithsonian, by Jennifer Drapkin and Sarah Zielinski, April 2009 issue).
Donald Olson, an astrophysicist at Texas State University has applied his expertise to solving numerous historical mysteries, such as whether the “yellow orb” in the famous painting, Girls on the Pier, by Norwegian painter Edvard Munch represents the moon or the sun, and why the object is not reflected in the water along with other images in the painting, the exact location of where Julius Caesar’s fleet landed during the invasion of Britain in 55 B.C., or why U. S. Marine landing craft despite extensive research and planning were stranded on a reef 600 yards off the coast of Tarawa leading to the deaths of 1,000 marines that were forced to wade ashore under withering enemy fire, and many other historical ambiguities.
When Dr. Olson applied his vast knowledge of astrophysical phenomenon, and his considerable intellect to the sinking of the U.S.S. Indianapolis, he concluded after reading survivors’ accounts, researching weather conditions and analyzing astronomical data at the time of the attack, that the submarine had located its target precisely when the cruiser was in the glittering path of the moon’s reflection, allowing the Japanese to see it silhouetted from ten miles away, but obscuring the submarine from the Americans. And as mentioned above, the ship had no effective submarine detection devices. Olson maintains that once the Indianapolis was seen in such conditions, it was doomed, regardless of any maneuvers Captain McVay might have employed. This position was corroborated by testimony from the Japanese submarine commander who said that once the ship was spotted there was no way it could have escaped.

Sources:
Smithsonian Magazine April 2009 Issue
Wikipedia Encyclopedia

Jumpstart Your Career

2008-09-23T11:32:00.000-07:00

Synopsis:
After competing in the business arena for over 50 years, much of that time organizing and facilitating employee/management development seminars in over a dozen countries, I documented the best ways for someone to get ahead and put it in my book, Jumpstart Your Career. The target audience is first and foremost those just beginning in business at or near the entry level and those that are contemplating doing so. Others may find the book a refreshing reminder of those theories that have worked (with omission of those that do not)
Facilitators will find the book is a good substitute for a syllabus supporting training and development programs. Readers can: Improve their writing, listening and presentations skills, learn how to get in tune with their bosses and others learn how to shine in interviews and how to make smarter decisions. Following the wholly empirically develop guidelines in this book will jumpstart your career; I guarantee you will find it the best $12.95 you’ve ever invested!

Order directly from me at: emercer2@tampabay.rr.com (Quantity discounts available)
Also available from: Amazon.com

My Biographical Information

After high school, I served an enlistment in Naval Intelligence during the Korean Conflict. After an honorable discharge, I spent the next thirty years climbing my career ladder in IBM. I’ve earned a Bachelor of Professional Studies and a Master of business Administration along the way. Following my tenure with IBM, I served as a consultant for American businesses in Hong Kong, China, South Korea before taking a teaching position at Webber International University where I was conferred a Doctor of Business Administration for my work in Webber’s MBA program. After five years, I retired from Webber and have been writing ever since. Jumpstart Your Career is my third published work of nonfiction.

For more information, visit my WEB site: earnestmercerbooks.com

The Old Yellow House

2008-01-29T07:17:00.000-08:00

The Old Yellow House

The old eucalyptus tree stood between the old yellow house and the street curbing built during the great Florida boom of the ‘20s. The street, itself, was black asphalt, cracked and bumpy after the years in the hot Florida sun. I don’t know how old the tree was when I lived in the old yellow house, but it appeared ancient then. It didn’t look like the eucalyptus I saw in Australia in later years—the one’s that koalas like to hang out in—but far more eye-catching. I loved that old tree with its soft, spongy brown-pinkish bark and the tiny pungent fruit shaped like miniature mushrooms. Even today, I can close my eyes and smell the pleasantly astringent odor. The tree is gone now, except in my memory. Nowadays, when I have occasion to pass where it once stood, I’m engulfed in a wave of nostalgia that gives rise to the sadness of my bygone youth.
The intriguing old behemoth stood squarely in front of the house. When the wind blew, one of the three major boles bumped against the tin roof of the porch. During the storms of the annual hurricane season, the groaning of the huge limb rubbing against the rooftop and the wind whistling eerily through the shiny elliptical leaves usually sent chill bumps up my spine, and the younger us kids scurrying for the company of grownups or under the four-poster beds.
The porch that spanned the full length of the house was my domain, my retreat, my library. During the lazy days of summer, I spent hours sprawled in a porch-swing reading funny books that I traded with other boys in town. About once a week, I loaded up those that I’d finished reading and made the rounds swapping them for some I had not read. It was not wasted time as, we learned a lot from our funny books; we learned respect for the heroes and heroines that always did the right thing, about patriotism from the WWII themes in some, and about history (a lot of real history was mixed with the fiction). We indulged in the sci-fi fantasies that in many cases proved to prophetic; we saw futuristic jet-planes, helicopters, ray guns (lasers) and souped-up cars that could travel twice as fast as any we knew about. And we dreamed that one day we would drive, or least ride, in one of these amazing machines.
The old house was made of un-planed southern pine painted a dull yellow. The inside walls were bare. Frequent summer rains beat a tattoo on the corrugated tin roof that reminded me of the “Tommy-guns” gangsters used on radio programs and in the movies. There was just one floor divided into a living room, a dining room, a kitchen and two bedrooms, one large enough for three or four beds. The smaller one was where my brother and I slept. When my sister was born, she slept in the big room with my mother and dad. Then, when my youngest brother came along there were three of us in the small bedroom.
After dark, we kids listened to radio programs on a battery powered Sears and Roebuck radio and studied our school lessons by kerosene lamps in the large living room. When the weather turned cool, my dad installed wood burning stove in the middle of this room. There were only two warm places in the drafty old house during winter months, crowded as close as we dared to the wood-burner and near the kitchen stove when Mother was cooking.
Housing was hard to find. Few houses were built during the depression; nobody had any money to buy them anyway. All out effort to support the war effort delayed housing construction even more. Finally, my dad was able to bargain with a local lawyer for low rent on the old yellow house. I don’t know, maybe nobody else wanted to live in the shabby old house, but we did, and we loved it. And we got it for $10 a month!
The walls were made of one-inch thick slabs of southern yellow pine, a wood that was almost impervious to rot and insects. Batten boards covered the cracks between the upright timbers on the outside, but left gaps on the inside. The floor had been milled a little smoother. We covered it with linoleum. A lightening bolt zapped a window sill in the kitchen sometime in the past and left a circle of charred wood which we never bothered to repair. Whether we couldn’t afford to have it fixed, or let it be because of a subconscious awe, I’m not sure.
The loft was a place of intrigue and mystery. Fascinating, albeit strange, noises muffled their way from the loft through the ceiling and floated around eerily in my bedroom. At night I often lay in my bed listening to ghostly emanations from the musty space overhead. Small animals lurked in the bushes and orange grove near the house and probably some took up residence, or at least visited the loft, but in imagination, poltergeists contributed as well. My dad tried everything he knew to get rid of the vermin. He put out terrible smelling poison, set traps and even tried to shoot some with a 22-rifle. Nothing worked and I reckon the invaders were still there when the house was finally torn down.
The windows had screens! Considering the plethora of flying insects making Florida their home, screens were dearly welcomed; malaria bearing mosquitoes were fairly common in those days, and a lot of people contracted the disease. Many of the Auburndale-ites had migrated from Alabama farms where their houses rarely had screens and relied on smudge pots of smoldering rags beneath the beds to combat the hordes of nightly insects. We considered it a luxury to be rid of the stink of smoldering rags. Quinine tablets were a common household antidote. Kids were administered Groves Chill Tonic in the spring---a foul tasting liquid with clouds of quinine particles that floated about when the medicine was shaken.
Mother cooked on a kerosene stove with portable oven placed over two of the five stove burners. She baked the ubiquitous biscuits--syrup without fluffy biscuits was like Amos without Andy--to go with the home-brewed cane syrup we traded from other migrants and visitors. Actually the cook stove was fairly efficient and served many functions; not the least welcomed was to heat water for our baths during the winter. What time we didn’t spend in the living room, we spent in the kitchen, warmed by the cook-stove and enveloped in the aroma of country cooking.
Our furniture was mostly discarded or homemade hand-me-downs from kinfolk in Alabama. It was just fine though, and suited the rest of the “décor” in the rough hewn interior of our castle.
We never missed what we never had---electricity and indoor plumbing---so when providence provided them, the old house took on elegance like it had never had before. The electricians put a drop-cord from the ceiling and attached a socket to house a naked light bulb. It was switched on by pulling a string that dangled beneath the bulb. City water was brought to the back porch and no farther.

****
I think there were ten grapefruit trees in our yard. These mammoth old trees not only gave us plenty of grapefruit, deep shades during the hot Florida summer days, but were fantastic climbing gyms on which we could sit and eat fruit, swing like monkeys from limb to limb, or build tree houses copied from “Tarzan of the Apes” movies and comic books.
I built my first woodworking shop beneath this spreading canopy of leaves. It wasn’t much of a shop in the true sense, as I only had two tools—a cheap pocket knife and a small hammer—and the workbench was nothing more than a four-foot, two-by-eight board with small compartments for various sizes of nails. Nevertheless, it served my purpose just fine; the only problem was when it rained the tools and nails rusted requiring repetitive cleaning and greasing with lard from my mother’s kitchen. After several months of saving and scrimping from my pitiable earnings from various chores, I was able to buy a coping saw that opened up a whole new world of woodworking.
Mrs. Mattie Van Fleet Dickey, the diminutive sister of a WWII four-star general, taught her third-grade-boys woodworking. We begged for empty apple boxes from the All-American grocery store and used the soft white pine wood for our projects, usually consisting of animal toys. At home, I often whittled wooden guns, which were verboten in Ms. Dickey’s room, and airplanes patterned after the WW II war planes in the comic books. I continued to scrounge the apple boxes for my hobby for many years afterward. The smell of northern white pine wood still stirs my nostalgic memories of Ms. Dickey and those childhood days.
****
When I was about five, a couple of my buddies and I decided to plant a garden. Each of us managed to wheedle a nickel from our parents to buy some seeds from Hancock’s Dime Store. The only problem was that when we got to the store, my buddies decided that we would swipe the seeds and keep the money. I was against the idea, but was overruled and we pocketed some seed packets without paying for them. We planted our garden, but I couldn’t keep the theft out of my mind and my conscience finally drove me to confess a few days later. I couldn’t sleep. One morning about 3:00 a.m., bawling like a baby I owned up to stealing the seeds. One thing all of us kids had was a conscience. We figured that it was God’s punishment that our garden never sprouted anything.
****
A four-acre citrus grove came with the house, mostly orange trees, but there was one row of tangerines, and as I mentioned earlier, grapefruit trees grew in the yard. A Japanese persimmon, a hybrid grapefruit/lemon and a mulberry tree rounded out our fruit orchard. I’ll write about the persimmon tree in a minute, but just in passing I’ll mention that I used to climb up the mulberry tree and eat the fruit. I don’t know if I was supposed to do so, but I did after shooing away the birds and brushing away the ever present worms that loved the fruit as much as I did. And, the huge, bumpy-skin hybrid lemon was so sour my mouth still draws up thinking about trying to eat the fruit. My favorite fruit was the Japanese persimmons that grew on a scrawny tree at the edge of the yard. It was an integral part of the old yellow house aura. For the reader not familiar with a Japanese persimmon tree, let me explain its unique features. It does not resemble the native persimmon trees at all, and the fruit is as different as a tangerine and grapefruit. The tree itself is, as I said, was scrawny, and when the limbs were laden with the fleshy fruit drooped almost to the ground and seemed continually in danger of breaking off. In some years, when the fruit crop was plentiful, I had to scrounge up something to prop the lower branches.
The persimmons were scrumptious and those that could be salvaged from the hungry birds, opossums, raccoons, and marauding teenager thieves were savored by us or sometimes sold to the All-American grocery for a nickel apiece. During the height of the season, I had to hurry home from school to protect the fruit from kids passing by on their way home. Without my protection, they would strip the persimmons in just a few days. Though I threatened the potential filchers with my slingshot and bellicose language, I never actually shot at any of them. I still miss the emaciated little tree and look for any sign of it as I pass the area these days. Of course it is long gone, but I look anyway.
Another basis of pride and joy on our property was an outhouse built under President Roosevelt’s Works Projects Administration (WPA). This toilet sat regally on a slab of concrete about thirty yards from the house. Its solid structure was a source of awe for all of us as it contrasted mightily with the somewhat haphazard construction of the old yellow house. Visitors often asked how we rated such a fine outhouse. I could never answer them, but I remember that during the lean depression years of our early life in Auburndale, my dad took a job with Roosevelt’s reconstruction project called the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) The CCC was responsible for building bridges, forest ranger cabins, state and federal parks and campsites, and many other projects that are still used today. Not the least of these undertakings was the fine WPA toilets that dotted the rural areas of the U. S. It is well worth the reader’s time to “Google” “CCC” and read about this army of men desperately needing work during the Great Depression and their wonderful contributions.
****

Well, I’ll admit up front that the “treasure” I’m about to tell you about, is not a treasure in the usual sense of the word. No gold, silver, jewels, etc. But in my mind and that of my younger brother what we found in the back yard of the old yellow house was nonetheless a treasure.
The afternoon was warm and sunny; the ubiquitous single-engine airplane was droning above. Although I seldom fell into the miasma of boredom, I had no really pressing activity. I spied a rusty shovel with a broken handle leaning against the yellow wall, wondered what it was doing there, and ambled over to where it was lazing. My juvenile brain turned over what interesting activities I might put the shovel to use doing. I guess I was about eight years old and had not yet conceived of the cave in the vacant lot. That came later. I leaned on the instrument and decided that despite the intrinsic dangers of my mother’s ire, I’d dig a hole in sandy soil just back of the house.
After dragging the shovel around for a while, I decided on just the right spot---right in the middle of the clearing that was our back yard. We didn’t have a lawn and our foot traffic had pretty much rid the area of any weeds to contend with. As soon as I was sure that Mother was not watching from inside the house, I hopped on the shovel as I would a pogo stick. Being a bit chubby, my weight was enough to push the instrument into the soft dirt, after which I reached up the handle as far as I could and used my weight to lever out a spade full of earth. As I stood looking at the small hole, I thought,”Well this isn’t going to be so difficult.” So, I repeated my last maneuver in the same pit.
That’s when my adventure began! The edge of the spade clanked against something hard. “Wow” my eight-year-old brain thought! “That’s got to be a treasure!” I dropped to my knees and began to scratch away the lose soil. There it was! A mottled brown and tan “thing” was just barely visible. I was as excited as only an eight-year-old can be. An hour later, sweat dripping off my naked upper body (most boys wore neither shirts nor shoes in those days) my mother stepped out on the back porch to check on my brother and me. I forgot to mention that when my younger sibling heard the clank, he dropped his examination of a ladybird crawling on a dog-fennel at the edge of the yard and started digging in my hole with me. Mother yelled at both of us, not very politely, and demanded to know what in the world we were doing digging up our yard.
“Come on over Mother, I’ve found something I think is a buried treasure.” When she saw the beginning outline of some kind of ceramic urn, she granted permission to continue.
When we finally stopped finding any more “treasure”, my brother and I had uncovered six whole jugs and a dozen or more shards of broken urns and jugs. The smallest was a gallon jug, and the largest was an urn big enough my brother could fit inside!
When Dad came home, he and Mother studied the matter and proclaimed we had found the remains of an old moonshine whiskey still. We kids weren’t sure just what a still was, but it sounded both intriguing and a little scary when we found out that a still was illegal and subject to raids by the police and rival moonshiners. There was nothing in the urns, jars and jugs so we didn’t worry very long about being thrown in jail. We used the intact earthenware for several years and reburied the broken pieces. In later years, with youthful embellishment, we told and retold the exploit over and over.
The earthenware jugs were not the only treasure we found at the old yellow house. The corrugated tin roof I mentioned above did not have gutters and during rains, the water gushed down the steeply pitched roof via narrow troughs inherent in the sheets of tin, and gouged small holes in the ground below. After a downpour, my brother and I searched these holes for pennies. Yes, pennies. And, we often found coppers uncovered by the raindrops. I never found out where the pennies came from, possibly from my mother or dad throwing them on the roof to be washed down, but neither of them admitted to doing so. One reason we believed them was that money, including pennies, was so scarce that we couldn’t imagine them throwing money around like that. The source of the “Lincolns” remains a mystery to this day.
One day a couple of weeks later, I was whiling away the time beneath the hybrid lemon/grapefruit tree mentioned earlier. The hot Florida sun was bearing down on the tree and shooting beams that streamed through the few spaces between the leaves. I had been unsuccessfully hunting birds with my slingshot and at present was at loose ends, no immediate plans for any venture. The sun caused wafting heat eddies to rise from the reflective sand around the tree, but I was relatively cool sitting in the shade. After a while, I began to feel drowsy, so I decided to get up and move around. As I prepared to stand, I felt something hard against my knee. Relatively fresh from finding my treasure in the back yard, I thought, “Wow, another treasure?” I scratched away the topsoil and uncovered a rusty pistol! My heart started thumping and my hands shook at the prospect of actually holding a real pistol. I looked in the revolver’s cylinder for bullets; there were none. Judging from its condition, it had lain hidden away in the sandy soil beneath the tree for a long time. I let my imagination run wild as I turned the weapon over in my hands. I saw right away it didn’t look like a cowboy’s six-shooter, like those we saw in the free motion pictures in town, and like replicas some of the kids slung from their hips in fancy holsters. I figured it must be a gangster’s gat.
When I tired of examining the old gun, I took it home and scraped off the rust and crusted sand as best I could. As soon as Mother saw my find, she ordered me to get rid of the thing even though it was obvious it couldn’t be fired. She said it was probably a murder weapon that was hidden by a killer and would no doubt have a curse or something attached. Or, maybe it was hidden by the same person that ran the moonshine still. I liked the latter conjecture best.
I often sat under in the shade and made up stories in which I was either a revenue agent, or sometimes a moonshiner. I could picture an overall clad “moonshiner” with a long beard, floppy felt hat and my rusty pistol tucked in a belt around his waist and a snarl on his face. I never did find out any more about the weapon and eventually reburied it where I found it. Still, every now and then afterwards, I’d retrieve my secret treasure and fantasize some more. I wonder if it is still there waiting for another kid to find. So much for the great mystery of the moonshiner’s buried six-shooter.
****
The landlord approached Dad one day and asked if we would be interested in a joint effort with a cow. The proposal was that the landlord would buy the cow and we would tend her and share the milk with him. The proposition sounded like a good deal, so Dad built a cow pen using scrap lumber and pieces of corrugated tin salvaged from a wrecked building. He did a pretty good job, at least I thought so. It seemed that Dad could do just about anything with his hands when he set his mind to it even though he only went to the seventh grade in school and could barely read and write.
About a week later the cow arrived much to our delight that is except maybe Mother who knew she would end up doing most of the tending since Dad worked all the time and my brother and I were a bit young for most of the chores. Besides, she knew as soon as the novelty wore off, we kids would lose interest anyway. Nevertheless, we thought the cow was really neat. She was a small timid red jersey that had big beautiful eyes and stood about as high as I could reach. I don’t remember if we gave her a name or not. I think we just called her “red cow”. Maybe her name was “Bessie” since all milk cows in Alabama where we came from seemed to be called Bessie.
The duties regarding the little red cow shaped up thusly: Mother did the milking, my brother and I staked her out in the nearby fields to graze and Dad took care of the feeding after he got home from work. We boys drove a stake into the soft sand and fastened a chain to the red cow’s neck. She could cover an area of about 20 yards radius, then we had to move her to another spot. At first it was an exciting, controlling a large (to us) beast, but after a few weeks the chore of leading her to a grazing spot and then moving her after a few hours became, well, a chore. My brother grew to hate the cow, claiming that she was his personal enemy and would attack him at every opportunity.
The sad part of this story was when the little red cow developed a blockage in one of her stomachs. It was a Sunday and Dad was home. I’d been indulging in my usual fantasies in the orange grove. When I heard the cow bawling, I returned to reality and started home. I emerged from the grove just in time to see a sight I never forgot. There was Dad with another man who was sticking a garden hose into the jersey’s rear end. (We had recently got city water to our back porch) The cow was bucking and howling, and occasionally striking out with one of her feet at my dad who was trying to hold her still while the other man wielded the hose. They were unsuccessful in unstopping the little heifer. She died anyway.
Dad buried the little red cow in the middling of the orange trees. (…couldn’t do that today) All else was forgotten as I cried over the passing of the little red cow. With the death of the cow, we lost our fresh milk and butter. I was glad to get rid of my chores associated with the red cow, one of which was to “churn” rich cream in a quart Mason jar until the remaining milk separated and the cream coagulated into butter. After the Jersey’s death, we had to use our scarce funds to buy milk and butter. I sadly missed the little red cow, but not the tending chores or the “churning”. We never got another cow.
****
Before the city installed a water line to our back porch, we had to get water from a hand pump located about 30 yards from the old yellow house. Drinking water was delivered to the house in a bucket and rested on a shelf attached to the back porch. Alongside the bucket, Mother placed a washpan and a family towel hanging on a nail. Whoever used the last of the water was supposed to lug another bucketful from the pump, but it was mostly my job.
The cool well water was a refreshing summer drink, but cold enough to raise goose bumps during our baths, and unbearable during the winter months. So, in the winter, I’d haul several bucketfuls to a No.4 washtub set in the kitchen by the kerosene stove. Mother would pour a kettle of hot water in the tub to take some of the chill off the pump water. After bathing we would stand near the stove to keep warm until we could dress.
During warm months, I often took baths near the pump in a washtub, usually taking a towel with me to dry and wrap around my nudity until I could get to the house. One day I forgot to take a towel and reluctant to put my soiled clothes back on, I decided to dash to the house naked. After all, I was just a kid, it was dusk, and the run would dry me. So I bundled my soiled clothes under my arm, studied the surrounding area for any living creature and finding none struck out with my privates flapping in the breeze.
I had taken only a few steps when to my everlasting mortification, two young girls happened to walking past on a sidewalk about 15 or so yards away. I don’t know how they escaped my scrutiny unless they had been walking behind a bush when I looked. They froze in their tracks at the sight of a naked boy about their age running just a few yards away. They covered their mouths, trying to stifle their laughter, but were unsuccessful. That’s when I heard the giggles; I also involuntarily froze for a few seconds, not sure whether I should cover my privates or my face. I stood, like an anatomically correct Greek sculpture, goose bumps and all for what seemed to me an eternity. Now anyone never having been a nine-year-old boy might not fittingly evaluate the level of utter chagrin I felt at the sound of the tittering. Ten seconds ticked off before I could gain my senses and hightail it to the shelter of my house. That three-minute dash home seemed to take at least a half hour!

****
People in today’s environment may wonder why my mother would allow me to learn how to smoke a pipe, especially since she was against smoking in general and strongly opposed to me starting. In the days of my youth, almost every man and most boys beyond the age of 12 smoked tobacco. Many women did too, mostly in the movies. Mother hated the smell, but tolerated it as practically all the other housewives sharing her distaste were bound by custom to do.
At a very young age, I started mimicking grownups by constructing make-believe cigars, cigarettes and pipes. After a few years, I surreptitiously graduated to actually smoking a wild weed known as “rabbit” tobacco, but that’s another story.
One day, after nagging my mother for permission to smoke one of my dad’s pipes, she said, “Fine go ahead.” I should have suspected there was something I didn’t know that caused her to relent, but I was too eager to worry about that.
I swaggered up to the shelf where my dad kept his pipes, dragged up a stool and began to examine them. I deliberated for several minutes, trying each one in turn to picture my image. I sniffed them one by one and settled on what appeared to be the oldest and most used of the lot conjecturing that it must be my dad’s favorite. Teetering on the stool, I managed to retrieve the tobacco cans. Then I grabbed several “stove-wood” strike-anywhere matches.
Clutching my treasures, matches, a can of Half-n-Half and one of Prince Albert., I hopped down from the stool and strode out to the front porch. I had already decided that the porch would be my venue of triumph. I was hoping there would be some passers-by, but nobody was in sight to witness my manly exhibition.
I pulled a rocking chair close to a post and sat down with my feet propped on the upright, packed tobacco in the bowl and tamped it down just like I’d seen my dad do many times. I was ready. I scraped the strike-anywhere matches on the post with a masculine sweep and fired up the Prince Albert my pipe. The aroma was so familiar; it was almost as if I had been smoking forever. The blue smoke curled up from the pipe in gentle whirls (It was a hot summer day with no breeze.) Before very long, the smoke wasn’t the only thing blue. My face began to turn green then an ashen blue. I found in later years that smoking a clean, dry pipe with good tobacco took a bit of getting use to, and the challenge of an old pipe corroded with years of accumulated tobacco tar was a mountain too high for many men and certainly too high for a nine-year-old boy trying to show off. I was so sick I missed my dinner. I hoped Mother wouldn’t tell my dad about smoking his pipe as I had intended to do, but didn’t because I became nauseated each time I thought about the escapade.

****
I’d never heard of Guinness Book of Records when at about ten I decided to set a record I thought I would be the most grapefruit eaten in one sitting. Big beautiful grapefruit trees shaded the yard and provided hundreds of grapefruit. Each tree’s spreading branches touching one another providing a huge canopy, not unlike a cavern. The deep shade was a respite from the hot Florida summer sunshine. This oasis was my province. It is where I spent a lot of my play-time; where any passerby would likely find me either at my workbench or perched on a sprawling limb.
That’s where I was, when I decided to set the record. I balanced in the crotch of two large limbs and began eating the big yellow Dunkin grapefruit. My legs were dangling down and my back was resting against the main bole so my hands were free. I could just reach out, grab a grapefruit, peel off the thick skin, separate the bitter membrane and eat the soft juicy meat inside. Each “plug” as we called the sections, could be separated easily and one by one I kept devouring them, creating a mound below of rind and other parts of the grapefruit I didn’t like. I consumed eighteen grapefruit before I couldn’t eat anymore! Yes, I crammed eighteen grapefruit in one sitting on a tree limb. Incredibly, I didn’t get sick, though admittedly I didn’t crave anymore for several days afterwards. I boasted a lot of my achievement, but nobody believed me. I even threw down the gauntlet and challenged my doubters totake me on in a grapefruit-eating contest. Nobody took the challenge, so as far as I’m concerned, I still hold the record.
****
When I was married, many years after living in the old yellow house, my wife and I lived in Johannesburg, South Africa. While there we noticed that the woodcarvers used a red seed with a black tip that was a good representation of an eyeball, though it gave the carved animal a look of rage or malevolence. I purchased several such carvings and took note of the similarity of the eyes to a seed that grew in Florida, that we called black-eyed-suzies. I don’t know why we called them that as I readily admit that they bore no resemblance to the flower with the same name.
When I returned to the U. S., I looked up the seed in an encyclopedia and discovered that they could be lethal when ingested! I had held dozens in my mouth over the years of my youth, so how could they be so toxic? Further reading revealed that if swallowed, they usually passed through the alimentary canal intact because of their tough outer covering.
When we were kids, we picked the seeds from their dried pods and used them in our peashooters. They were perfect and plentiful. Not only is it remarkable that the same seeds grew in both Africa and Florida, but that they served an important role in both places.
When ensconced in my secret hideout under a tangerine tree covered with the vines that produced the black-eyed-suzies, I could see out well enough to spot any marauders that might pass. And, if they did pass, I’d have a tremendous vantage point for launching my peashooter missiles.
It never crossed my mind that these pretty little seeds were poisonous, and neither did any of the other kids, I suspect. I never heard of anyone getting sick or dying from them. I guess a whole lot of youngsters owe their lives to indigestible covering. Sixty years after last shooting these little missiles through my peashooter, I still get goose pimples just thinking about it. It was just pure dumb luck that I never decided to chew any of them.
****
This section should probably carry the caption, “Don’t Try This at Home”. Leave this activity to an indestructible seven-year-old kid. I’m talking about the caves I dug in the vacant lot across from the old yellow house.
First, let me tell you about the vacant lot itself. My earliest memory of the lot was the smoking remnants of an old sawmill. In the old days, nobody could think of any use for the sawdust that was generated from sawing the trees into lumber, so it just piled up until it became too high to manage. When that happened, the sawmill owners just set it afire. Sawdust burns slowly with hardly any flame, and can smolder for months, even years.
The sawmill that operated in the vacant lot at one time was long gone when I began my forays, but smoking sawdust could still be found in spots. The only danger, as far as I know, was to barefoot youngsters, such as I, accidentally stepping on the hot ashes. The rest of the lot was covered by various weeds, including our prized rabbit tobacco. Yes, I even tried crumbling the dried leaves, wrapping them in paper torn from a grocery bag dispensed by the All-American store, and puffing the smoke. My cowboy heroes seldom smoked, but their arch enemies did, and I mimicked them by sucking in the smoke and blowing it out through my nose, but in the immortal words of President Clinton, “I didn’t inhale.”
Prickly pears grew everywhere. These small flat-growing cacti permeated the lot, and with their long sharp spikes were far more frightening to the barefoot boy than the hot ashes. The prickly pears have two kinds of thorns; one set is the kind already mentioned, the other small flexible ones that didn’t hurt when stepped upon, but could bury into the skin and fester over time. Since they didn’t hurt much, they were hard to pinpoint and extremely hard to grasp and pull out. Many youthful hours were spent in plucking these pesky little devils out of my feet, one by one.
The other plentiful flora was the wild guava bushes. In the days of my youth, guava bushes grew almost everywhere around town, and many people tried to eradicate them as weeds. I didn’t. I love to eat the fruit and the bushes provided really neat hiding places. I’ll come back to the guava bushes later.
Florida soil is sandy and can be spaded easily, so we kids often dug holes just because it was easy. One day I began to shovel near a stand of guava bushes. By the time I finished, I had created a series of small subterranean rooms and tunnels. During the digging the loose soil kept caving in. I knew that if I was caught in one of my caves by a cave-in, I could be trapped, so I shored up the walls as best I could and reinforced the roof with some scrap metal left over from the tin roof of the sawmill. As if hiding in the caves wasn’t dangerous enough, I sometimes built small fires in the main room and stuck embers in the wall to provide light. I loved my cave even if I was constantly leery of cave-ins. (I wasn’t aware of the dangers of carbon monoxide buildup from the fires.) But what the heck, nothing serious could happen to a nine-year-old.
The part of my secret cave I prized most was the tunnel that snaked off from the main room with an exit inside a clump of guava bushes. This passageway allowed me to disappear into my hole and emerge several yards away hidden from prying eyes by the dense guava bushes. Some may not realize that clandestine activity was the essence of a nine-year-old kid’s escapades.
I could, and did, dream up all kinds of fantasies associated with the cave, tunnel and bushes. I knew from my extensive research in comic books that Batman and Robin kept their paraphernalia in a bat-cave, and Superman’s parents lived in some sort of mysterious cave. Even the Green Hornet was known to store his “hornetmobile” (or whatever he called it; I don’t remember.) in a secret cave. But fantasizing was not the only enjoyment I got from the tunnel-bushes setup.
There was a sandy lane that connected downtown to the old yellow house’s lot. Not many people had cars in those days and most walked everywhere. People going to town used the lane and cut across the edge of our lot going to and from the settlements beyond. One of the uses of the tunnel was to emerge under cover of the guava bushes and make unearthly noises to scare the people walking home after dusk. My favorite targets were the drunks that staggered by the thicket. I still chuckle at some of their antics when I let out an eerie cry. The funniest times were when I pulled this stunt on one that had stopped to relieve his bladder.

****
The street that ran in front of the old yellow house was named Center Street. It got its name from the huge boarding house on the corner. The old rooming house had a sign with glass marbles spelling out the name, “The Center House”. I marveled at both the unique sign and the immensity of the frame house. It dwarfed the old yellow house and every other building near it.
The Center House had a porch that wrapped around the corner of Lake Avenue and Center Street. It had a tin roof like the old yellow house. I often wondered if I could find pennies in the rain-holes below the eaves, but the owners didn’t like us kids hanging around and besides we were a bit leery of the itinerant citrus workers who lived there. They were probably honest, hardworking men trying to survive during the Great Depression, but they looked sinister (as did most strangers) to my brother and me. On Sunday’s, some of them would sit and rock on the wrap-around porch and play a musical instrument, mostly harmonicas or sometimes guitars, stopping from time to time to roll a smoke from a sack of Bull Durham tobacco. Others chewed wads from Brown’s Mule or Bloodhound plugs. They didn’t have much spare time for rocking or playing though as they worked from before sunup until after sunset, except on Sundays.

****
Everybody knows that hurricanes are a part of the Florida scene. Not many people know the thrill (brain numbing fear?) of enduring a full-blown hurricane in an old wooden house.
The family battery-powered Sears & Roebuck radio had been warning of an impending hurricane for two days—it was due to hit us this very night! Some might ask what preparations we made, but in those days nobody knew what to do. After all, it was an act of God. A few people sought shelter in whatever concrete block building they could find. There were few of these structures so most family stayed put and hoped for the best.
Winds picked up about dusk, gusts began hitting 70 plus miles per hour (officially hurricane force) and Dad came home from work to weather the storm with the rest of us. The Eucalyptus tree began to sway and bend perilously, one of the main trunks banging against the porch roof. The small funny-shaped fruits began to mix with the rain and beat a loud tattoo on the tin roof. We “battened down” as much of the outside as we could and gathered in the living room to sweat out the onslaught. By this time, we had electricity--one light hanging by a cord in the middle of the room--but we lost power right away and resorted to our familiar kerosene lamps for light. We didn’t have to worry about drinking water or meals for that matter as we still had our hand-pump and Mother cooked on a kerosene stove. The radio, of course, continued to ominously chart the path of the oncoming storm, thanks to the enormous battery that powered the receiver.
About 7:00 p.m., the full fury of the hurricane hit town. The sturdy old pine boards began to creak and groan joining the symphony of the pelting rain and Eucalyptus fruit, now bombarding the window panes as well, since they were being driven almost horizontally by the wind.
Though nervous, we kids drew on the stoic nature of our mother, and were holding up fairly well. But Dad was a nervous wreak; maybe because of the innate psyche of men to be the family protector. Anyway, with the walls shaking violently, the noise from the elements beating on the tin roof, and the howling of the wind was too much, and Dad decided we would abandon the old yellow house for a neighbors concrete block house about 100 yards up the street. Getting there proved to be an ordeal, with the wind almost carrying me away before my mother grabbed me by my collar and dragged me into the safety of the better constructed house.
When it was all over, the old yellow house stood just as we had left—no damage whatsoever—though the trees in the yard took a beating; debris everywhere. We weathered other storms while living in the house, but none more frightening.

****

The old yellow house was ugly, drafty, cold in the winter, hot in the summer (tin roof that radiated heat from the sun) and had the barest of amenities, but we kids loved it, and I still miss it. My siblings might argue that the house wasn’t really ugly as it was not much different from others around town. Besides, ugliness, as well as beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. Still, others might argue that the whole town was ugly as it had burnt down twice and reconstructed after each fire without much city planning. About 2,500, mostly Alabama emigrants, lived around the settlement and they were all dirt poor, grubbing out a living in the citrus industry or closely ancillary businesses. So the argument goes that the old yellow house was a fitting example of the times.

Old Yellow Hand: Book Review

2007-05-15T13:38:00.000-07:00

Old Yellow Hand: a review

A peasant's uprising in medieval Transylvania. The assassination of an evil old baron. A severed hand trapped for centuries in an urn. The death of an embalmer in a funeral home. Grisly murders in 1950s Virginia. These seemingly unrelated events turn on the death of the a oppressive baron and his hand severed after his murder. Once accidentally set free, acting as if with a will of its own, the grisly hand sets out to avenge the slaying of its former host. This story is about the wrath and vengeance of the mysterious killer known as Old Yellow Hand.
The story opens with the assassination of Baron Goran von Goranovich, a tyrannical aristocrat of medieval Transylvania. Disgusted with his inhumane rule, a mob made up of his vassals rose up against him. After murdering him, they lopped off his hand and impaled it on a sharp pole to show their fellow villagers the proof of their deed. They threw his body into the forest where wild animals devoured the remains. The village sage warned the assassins that everyone in the village would suffer a terrible curse if the hand were desecrated as had been the baron’s body. Hopefully to avoid the curse, the assassins preserved the hand in an urn of liquid used for embalming cadavers leaving only the baron's spectre to roam the castle.
Fast forward 200 years to a funeral home in Gore, Virginia. The urn is opened by an embalmer who becomes the first victim of the withered old hand when it is inadvertently released. Afterward murdering the embalmer, it sets out to wreak vengeance on all mankind for the heinous attack on its master. Another employee of the mortuary, a fellow Romanian named Mabad, vows to track down the murderer of his friend and countryman unaware of the nature of his quarry.
The hand goes on a rampage slaying victims first in the Virginia village of Gore, then atop nearby Great North Mountain, and finally in the college town of Briarwood. After a trail of gruesome murders the hand, following the baron's supernatural commands to return to its origins, manages to stow away in the backpack of Marissa Goran, a student at Briarwood College and a native of Goranovichy. Hidden amongst her clothing within her knapsack, it sneaks a ride back to Transylvania after the college is forced to close temporarily. The tenacious Mabad with the help of an investigative newspaper reporter manages to track the hand back to Baron Goranovich's deserted castle. There, Marissa joins Mabad and the reporter in their search. They enter the castle, face the baron's ghost and finally confront the killer hand in a life or death struggle.

An Endearing Camaraderie

2007-04-24T13:50:00.000-07:00

This posting is probably only relevant to "old time" residents or those who once lived in this delightful little town snuggled in the heart of Florida. The town was incorporated in 1925, but was settled much earlier by people who believed the climate was healthful and particularly good for lung ailments. It was first located on the banks of Lake Sanataria, now called Lake Marianna. The settlement took the same name. When the first railroad through central Florida bypassed the settlement of Sanataria, people moved to a new place near the railroad. A railroad executive's wife named the new settlement Auburndale after her hometown of the same name in Massachusetts.

__________________

“Doc” Taylor, the sometimes crusty, but always revered owner of Taylor’s Rexall Drug Store, yielded to competition and age and closed the longtime gathering place for many Auburndale residents in 1988.
One day while functioning as the Executive Director of the Chamber of Commerce, I spied a long-time resident, Johnny Summerall passing nearby. He was one of the people I remembered from by youth in Auburndale. (I had just returned to my hometown after an absence of 36 years.) We talked of old times and lamented the passing of Taylor’s drug store. Then in a burst of nostalgia, I raised the question of creating a new place for "old timers" to meet for coffee and reminiscing. Johnny agreed that such a place would be great. (I’m not sure whether he really thought it was a good idea or was just humoring and old acquaintance.)
Next, I talked to Bill Chestnut the editor of the the town’s weekly newspaper. He agreed to support such a venture and when Leon Hines, owner of the Downtowner restaurant said he would join our group of sponsors, we set into motion what would indeed become and enduring camaraderie.
Sterling Bank (now Colonial Bank) and Kersey Funeral Home came forward later with donations to take the edge off the cost to the restaurant.
We had a concept, supporters and a place to meet, so we contacted numerous old-time residents and told them of the new meeting place replacing Taylor's drug store. Bill Chestnut ran publicity in the Auburndale Star and I placed notices in the Chamber newsletter.
We expected a dozen or so people to show up, but were astounded when more than 50 "old timers" did so. They were so enthusiastic that the number continued to swell; reaching over 100 at one time. Since there was no cost for the breakfast, which was funded by the donors, word of a free meal spread among the numerous mobile home parks and we were soon inundated by dozens of freeloaders. So, we had to take evasive action. We established ground rules for becoming members of an “Oldtimers Coffee Club” and began asking for an initiation fee and levied a small charge for breakfast. That stopped the freeloaders, and the “Club” meetings settled in to between 50 and 70 (the variance is due to seasonal fluxuations).
In these early meetings, we reveled in the stories of the good old days in Auburndale. I taped many of these tales, but unfortunately the tape was lost after I left the Chamber in 1994.
After seventeen years the “Oldtimers Club” still functions! None of us thought it would survive over a couple years, but we underestimated the dedication of the wishing to meet and talk of "happenings" past and present.
Because of reasons beyond our control, we have had to relocate the meeting places, change the source of our breakfast and make other changes, but it is still the primary meeting place for about between 35 and 40 old timers every Friday morning. The stories still pour forth and are still just as interesting as they were seventeen years ago.
Some of the original supporters have moved on: Leon Hines closed his restaurant and retired, the Auburndale Star folded into the Winter Haven News Chief and Bill Chestnut moved on, Sterling Bank became Colonial Bank and many of the old timers have gone to their reward. But others have taken the place of those that have moved on: Charles Johnson has emceed the gathering for a dozen years, the Lions Club has donated space and the City of Auburndale has been a dedicated ally for many years. Kersey Funeral Home still supports the Club with monthly donations.
Johnny and Martha Summerall continue to be regular attendees along with several others who joined the Club many years ago. Walter Kersey still attends most of the time; always adding his own unique color to the meetings. The breakfast meal is prepared by Auburndale historian and native of Auburndale, Beverly Scott. She has become one of the most popular members of the club; preparing a tasty surprise each Friday morning to the delight of the old timers. She also functions as the cashier and record keeper for the group.
A typical meeting begins with Charlie Johnson rendering some pithy sayings from his little book, “Older Than Dirt”. After the invocation, a salute to the flag and a report on those ailing is solicited from members. Birthdays and wedding anniversaries are recognized with song, accompanied by the superb piano playing of Shirley Wilson. About twenty minutes are set aside for announcements, storytelling and jokes before donated door prizes are awarded via ticket-stub drawings and the meeting ends.
Anyone having lived in Auburndale for at least eight years and who pays a one-time initiation fee of $10.00 is welcome to the Club. If interested in joining, you need only attend the breakfast and mention to Ms. Scott that you wish to become a member.
I’ll try to recall and write about some of the old stories (recorded on the lost tapes) told by early members as well as some from current attendees who add spice to the weekly meetings.

Ramblings of an Aging Bloodhound

2007-03-03T12:07:00.000-08:00

Growing Up in Auburndale
Those readers who are not from Auburndale and happen to stumble on this BLOG, feel free to substitute your home town for mine.
‘Tis funny how some things stick in one’s mind and other important occurrences do not. Some events that have stuck with me through the years:
The hard scrabble life of the Great Depression; the absence of running water, electricity and using the WPA “outdoor privy”.
Attending the free show on Tuesday evenings in the vacant lot between the A&P Store and the Auburndale Pool Room. Buying popcorn for a nickel a bag when we could scrape up a nickel.
Shining shoes downtown on Saturday afternoons and evenings. Competing with about a dozen of other shoe-shiners. Sing-songing, “Nickel for one shoe, a dime for two”.
Resting in the City Park listening to yarns by the park denizens while teasing the Perry boy who sold peanuts or “Guitar” Willie who chewed tobacco, and never played his guitar.
Being the first on the scene in front of the depot after an ACL train hit Mrs. Outlaw’s ’36 Ford, killing her and injuring her kids. My first experience with death.
Riding my bike around Lake Ariana and stopping at a crowd of people ogling the body of an airplane passenger that crashed in the lake. The fish and turtles had made mess of him. My second experience with death and not a bit pleasanter.
Getting haircuts at the Park View Barber Shop and shining shoes on Sunday morning outside the shop’s front door. Hoping Mr. Hardiman's beautiful daughter would stop by.
Rasslin’ with Harold Bagley in the first grade during recess and letting him win ever now and then because he got mad if he lost often and he was tough when mad.
Counting eighteen alligators at one time in Lake Stella while walking to school by the haunted Baynard house, now known as Kersey's Funeral Home.
My first-grade teachers: the strict Miss Adams (Driver) and the pretty Miss Bunting. The incredible division of the students into Yellow Birds, Red Birds and Blue Birds.
Fussing with a girl named Ernestine Garner who criticized my crayon coloring in the third grade. I later double-dated her with Willie Jean Gibson when Ernestine returned several years later. I couldn’t believe that I did it!
Jimmy Harold and I having to help clean up a mess made in the cloakroom by a nutty classmate because we laughed so hard. The teacher refused to let the nutty kid go to the bathroom for the fourth time during the same class, so he used a bucket in the cloakroom. Bad scene, but funny to twelve-year-olds.
Falling in love the first time…with my fourth-grade teacher, Miss Carson. She had the longest fingernails that I had ever seen and she could snap her fingers as loud as a “cracker” could pop his cattle whip. Boy, was she pretty! Raven hair, dark eyes......wow! Back then, I wished I was older--not now, however.
My first girlfriend, Hazel Buchanan with whom I used to sit in the Park Theater and hold hands while her Ma and Pa watched from a few rows back.
Getting knocked out when I hit my head on the corner of a school ground bench while showing off for Hazel.
Otis Outlaw stabbing me with a lead pencil for messing with his girlfriend, Martha Watson in the sixth grade. I still have a black spot on my thigh.
Mrs. Durrance’s ruler used more to swat wayward hands of her students than measuring anything. Man, she was tough! They’d put her in jail now! She didn’t see Otis stab me and I wouldn’t squeal.
Being threatened by Billy Williamson for my attention to his girlfriend, Peggy Jolly. He didn’t stop me though. She was cute. So was another “older” woman on whom I had a crush; Juanita Cannon. Wow! What a cheerleader! Another fantasy love was the lovely Vernel Etheridge, Betty Ruth's older sister, freckles and all.
Competing with Jimmy Harold, Wilson Grant and others over the attention of Winona Wilson in the seventh-grade while overlooking another good choice, Maurceil King.
Being humiliated by "Old Spot" Smith sentencing me to the corner of the classroom for the duration of the math class for asking what possible good algebra would be upon graduation.
Being chastised by home-room teacher, Mrs. Corley for correcting her pronunciation of “Soviet”. Never could understand why she seemed not to appreciate my help. Maybe it was my lack of savior faire??
Regrettably, giving Miss Harley such a hard time in English class. I’ve found out that the importance she put on English grammar was and is one hundred percent right and I was a dumb-dumb for not recognizing it then.
Working twice as hard for Miss McBride in her algebra class because she was much prettier than Mr. Smith. What a nice person; Miss McBride that is….
Passing notes to my life-long friend and mentor Patsy Bolin in the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth etc. etc etc. She coached me with regard to learning about girls while I chased after Peggy Cooley in the sixth grade.
Being taught to slow dance at high school outings at Mac’s Beach by Patsy Bolin and Betty Ruth Etheridge to “Stardust” and other great tunes on the nickel Juke Box.
Being taught the correct “KT” (kissing technique) by Evelyn Traylor when I flunked “Post Office” and “Spin the Bottle”.
Being elected the captain of AHS basketball team when Bill Smith was kicked off the team for smoking.
Playing tackle beside Glenn McAllister on the football team. Coach Ed Crews had what he called an “A-Right” formation that played both tackles on the same side. Later Glenn and I doubled dated girls in Mulberry, Frostproof and Avon Park.
Blocking for Dean Brooks who was the best running back of the day. He made us linemen look good. And, when the rest of us had trouble winnings basketball games, the coach talked him into helping us there too.
Intercepting a pass and scoring my one and only touchdown in a game with Ft. Meade, a team we were supposed to beat easily, but was giving us a hard time. In my excitement, I almost stopped running at the other team’s ten-yard line; thought it was the goal line. I wondered why the fools from the other team kept chasing after me and all the Bloodhound fans were screaming at me to keep running.
Thanks to Mrs. Brantly’s organization, dancing in the gym during noon recess with Lola Jean Hindman, especially to “Blue Bird of Happiness”. We danced so hard in the old gym that were covered by sweat by the time classes restarted. Well, I sweated, she "glistened", as they say. No comment on how I smelled.
Dating Lavonne Quinn with her red hair, using Herbert Forsyth’s (the indestructible Clara Mae's husband) pink 1934 Ford which I used to deliver his customer’s dry cleaning. Lavonne had a fit when I drove up for our date in the shocking pink Ford that decidedly clashed with the color of her hair.
Vying with Leroy “Sasroy” Helms for “King of Stunt Night”. I think my younger brother Joel’s campaigning won the day for me by eliciting votes from his classmates in the lower grades.
My beautiful “Queen of Stunt Night” Louise Allred. And, not taking note that my lovely bride-to-be Mary Kate Griffin was a member of my court.
My lousy performance in the senior play; barely getting through the performance with Patsy Bolin’s off-stage coaching. My best buddy, Joe Etheridge, stole the show!
Senior “Skip Day” at Silver Springs. Watching Ross Allen milk rattlesnakes. And, wrapping an indigo black snake around my shoulders for photos. Donald Smith did it first and the snake didn't eat him, so the rest of us boys tried it.
My days spent shooting pool in Paces’s, and later, Ropiki’s poolroom on Pontotac Street and barely squeaking by “Moody” Wright and choking when I lost to Jimmy Harold for the championship.
Working in Fred Baugh’s Shoe Shop for a while alongside the wierd kid, Navarre DuBois; then soda jerking in Taylor’s, Jim’s, and Bowen’s drug stores. Later “trucking” fruit at the old Stuart’s Packing house. Still later on, watching a local packing house burn one night. Man, that was a fire! Lots of us thought it was perdition for sure.
Smoking cheap cigars in the city park after work at the All-American Store with Carroll Kirkland. Puffing the cigars while lying down made us dizzy, but then maybe we were just dizzy anyway. After work, we always went to the “midnight show” at the Park and later the Auburn Theater, wobbling down the aisle because of the effects of the nickel cigars.
Graduating from high school with nowhere to go until one of the Gatlin boys suggested I join the Navy. Max Haiflich, sister of Janell "Frog" Haiflich, decided to go along with me. Never saw him again after the swearing in! And, spending four years away from home between the ages of 17 and 21.
Returning to Auburndale after my hitch in the Navy and working for the Continental Can Company until a strike was called. Standing night picket duty during the strike with Mary Helen Little keeping me from getting too lonely.
Finally, taking a job putting tops on cans of frozen concentrate at Minute Maid for $1.00 per hour for 12-hour shifts; 7:00 P. M. to 7:00 A. M.
My miserable summer working at the Elwood Indiana Continental Can Company plant with several of the Auburndale “Can” guys, including Wesley Thompson, Henry Brown, Commer, Hughes and several others.
My visits to the Rainbow Club. Drinking beer, chasing girls, dancing and fighting out-of-town boys.

History: The Way it Really Was

2007-02-02T12:25:00.000-08:00

The division of the human species into two distinct groups began some 12,000 years ago when humans existed as members of small bands of nomadic hunter-gatherers. They lived on game, fruit, roots and various other items available in the mountains and woods in the summer. They went to the beach and lived on fish in winter. They did not like it much, but the mastodons were hard to kill in the winter because of their thick winter coating.
The two most important events affecting the human specie in all of history were the discovery of beer and the invention of the wheel. The all-important wheel was created by man to speed up the travel to the beer. The wheel led early man to construct roads to accommodate the new mode of transportation. Some of these roads still exist in rural areas of the United States.
The discovery of ancient artifacts such as many pieces of shards the anthropologists are always digging up around ancient beer-producing ruins confirms the theory that beer distilleries were the center of social life. These shards were the remains of the primitive clay beer mugs used by early man. Early man slapping his mug down on rock tables while watching sports created the shards. The adaptation to the wheel, building roads to get to the beer distilleries and the molding of clay beer mugs, were the foundation of modern civilization and together were the catalyst for the splitting of humanity into two distinct subgroups: Liberals and Conservatives.
Once beer was discovered, it required grain, and that was the beginning of agriculture. Neither the glass bottle nor the aluminum can was invented yet and beer tended to slosh out of the clay mugs, so they did not travel far away. While our early human ancestors were sitting around waiting for bottles and cans to be invented and drinking from fragile clay pots, they just stayed close to the brewery. That’s how villages came to be.
Some men spent their days tracking and killing animals to BBQ at night while they sat in their villages drinking beer. Slurping the beer, telling of the heroic deeds of the hunt, gnawing ribs and planning the next hunt was the beginning of what became known as the "Conservative Movement".
Other men, who were weaker and less skilled at hunting, learned to live off the productivity of Conservatives by showing up for the nightly BBQ's and doing the clothes making, firewood fetching, cave cleaning, hair dressing and organization of numerous boards, committees and study groups to divide the meat among the less fortunate members of the clan and those that could not stand the sight of blood. They also invented the concept of cruelty to animals and tended to chastise Conservatives for killing the animals they were eating. They also put forth the concept that even those that did not hunt, or anything else for that matter, should share in the product of those who produced, based solely on the premise that they too were humans.
This was the beginning of the "Liberal Movement". Some of these liberal men eventually evolved into women. The rest became known as "girlie men" by definition of some latter-day politicians. Another interesting, evolutionary side note is that DNA sampling discovered that most of the liberal women have higher testosterone levels than liberal men. This is particularly true of descendents eventually migrating to the northeast United States, though the cause of this phenomenon remains a mystery to anthropologists.
Liberals can be lauded for some contributions to the development of our present-day society. Some noteworthy Liberal movement achievements include the domestication of cats, the formation of trade unions, the invention of group therapy, the concept of same-sex marriage and the democratic voting to decide how to divide up the meat and the beer that the conservatives were providing. It is inherent in the Liberals’ creed that they have the right to govern the producers and decide what to do with their production. They also believe Europeans are more enlightened than Americans. That is why they seem to worry a great deal about what the Europeans think about what we are doing in the United States, especially in the Supreme Court.
Modern Liberals learned to drink beer from the Conservatives, but they prefer imported beer, (with lime added). They also drink a lot of white wine or imported bottled water. Sometimes, those on the outer fringe of Liberals will occasionally drink “light-beer”. They will eat raw fish if bundled on top of a ball of rice and prepared in an expensive restaurant, but when it comes to eating beef, it must be well done. Imported asparagus, raw broccoli, mushrooms grown in organic manure, bean curd (if called tofu) and French food such as snails and frogs are standard liberal fare.
Not great sports fans, the Liberals nevertheless contributed to the national pastime by creating the designated hitter rule in baseball because, to them, it wasn’t fair to make the pitcher both throw the ball and have to bat too. Liberals are great enthusiasts of lacrosse, polo, lawn bowling, badminton, croquet and ballroom dancing, but they hate football, boxing, soccer, wrestling, basketball and auto racing. They will tolerate some sports, such as tennis, ice-skating, skiing and wake-boarding. You can identify most Liberals by their chosen profession. They tend to be, personal injury lawyers, journalists, dreamers in Hollywood, social workers and group therapists.
Modern Conservatives drink domestic beer (never the “light” variety) and eat red meat with potatoes. They usually display patriotic tendencies, enlist in the military during wartime, support troops who are fighting, hate flag burners and detest celebrities who go into the enemy camp and disparage prisoners and other military personnel. They don’t believe in same-sex marriages and usually believe it is okay to display the Ten Commandants as long as the people who put them up don’t push religion too hard. Big-game hunters, rodeo cowboys, lumberjacks, construction workers, medical doctors, police officers, corporate executives, soldiers, most athletes and generally everybody who works outside of government are usually conservatives.
Conservatives who own companies like to employ other conservatives who want to work for a living, but sometimes hire liberals to fill non-productive positions to attract the money of other Liberals and to meet certain government targets established by the Liberals.
There are far more Conservatives in the United States than Liberals, but it is also true that the Liberals can make more noise, publish more rhetoric and produce more documentaries. It is a well-known fact that Hollywood, CA houses a veritable nest of Liberals. The Liberal appeal to the downtrodden, the poor, the lazy, and people with the physical affliction of a hand frozen in an outstretched position for a handout is appealing to the Liberals as long as the appealers don't come to close; certainly not live in the same locale.
Many history books fail to depict the true history of this great United States of America. This is because the history books are mostly written by Liberal academics whose main goal in life is to generate a continuing supply of Liberals by indoctrination of young students. But, somehow, the supply of Conservatives continues to survive, probably because some parents still deem it a part of parentage to teach their offspring the value of hard work, honesty, cherished traditions, God, country and family.

Country Boy Travels-Borneo

2007-02-01T06:12:00.000-08:00

Country Boy’s Travel Tips
Borneo, the home of P. T. Barnum’s “wild man of the jungle,” mysterious head-hunters, the Phantom-that-never-dies, and the richest man in the world.
The “wild man of the jungle” of Barnum’s Greatest Show on Earth was an “orangutan”. “Orangu” mans “jungle” and “tan” means man, so Mr. Barnum used little imagination when he plastered this sobriquet on the poor caged animal. Anyway, the orangutan is a kind of ape that looks more like a person than chimpanzees and gorillas and often acts with more sense.
The Borneo orangutans used to come out of the jungle and attend local dances, but the village boys didn’t like that much, so they told Barnum that he could have all of them if he wanted. Just fooling; orangutans could dance, but they didn’t know the modern styles so the girls just laughed and made fun of them. That’s why they have such a doleful look on their faces, which by the way may account for them having a strong resemblance to Country Boy’s uncle Ezekial Hammertong who lives in Cottonpick, Alabama. Uncle Hammertong was a bit hairy, with long arms, walked with a stoop, and never did fare well at dances.
Now, a word about the mysterious head-hunters of Borneo. They are mysterious because it is a mystery why anyone would want to fool around with them at all, much less inquire about their hobby of collecting heads. They don’t shrink the heads they lop off their enemies, who by all accounts may be anyone with a head that would look nice hanging in the hunters long-house. Their cousins in Africa and down in South America figured out a way to shrink the heads and put them on key chains so as to cater to tourists that don’t have a whole lot of room in the luggage for souvenirs. But, the head-hunters of Borneo don’t bother to shrink them; they just skin them, hang them up, and brag.
The island of Borneo is divided up into a Sultanate, called Brunei, two “states” belonging to Malaysia and a large section called Kalimantan which is claimed by Indonesia. It was from this latter section that the head-hunters mainly collected their trophies.
Some of you not-as-young-as-you-once-were readers may remember the Phantom who was featured in a comic strip in many newspapers in years past. He was a bona fide do-good-combat-evil sort of fellow who wore purple body tights, sported a Lone Ranger type of mask and carried two humoungus .45 Colt automatics which he needed because everyone tended to laugh and point their fingers at his purple tights until he waved the .45s around. He often rode a great white horse bareback and walked funny because riding without a saddle made his rump sore all the time.
The legend got started when the King of Malaysia awarded a foreigner a sultanship for as long as he lived. So the foreigner devised a scheme to keep the title forever by donning his purple tights and mask; adopting the name Phantom-Who-Never-Dies, and when he got too old, dressing his son in the same purple tights and mask thereby maintaining the legend that the Phantom never dies.
The richest man in the world is the Sultan of Brunei which sits on top of a humoungus oil supply. The Sultan pays for all welfare of his subjects so there are no taxes for them to pay, all government services are free, and all his subjects live happily ever after. He is so rich that the members of the United Nations go out their way to keep him happy so that he doesn’t buy the whole organization and auction it off.
Now that you have a little history and culture of Borneo, you are ready for travel tips. When you are ready to visit Borneo, start in Brunei and see how a country is run by someone richer that a dozen Bill Gates. All government services are free to the citizens of Brunei and everything is really clean and spiffy. Remember though, Brunei is a Muslim country so you need to be careful not to offend locals by ignoring Muslim traditions which include bearing your feet and covering your head when visiting their places of worship. They worship in really ornate buildings called mosques. If you mess up there, you may be tied to a stake so the locals can chunk rocks at you. Since the mosques are open on all sides which allows bugs to enter, Country Boy supposes that the name for the little buzzing bugs that bite are called “mosquetoes”.
Next, you should visit the Malaysian state of Sabah where you can look for the Phantom or buy souvenir purple body tights to raise the envy of your neighbors back home. The urge to be the only guy in the neighborhood with purple tights and Lone Ranger mask is overwhelming. That’s why they sell so many of these things. Of course, you cannot bring back a white horse or twin .45s, but that’s just as well, as walking funny back in the old neighborhood wearing purple tights might give your neighbors the wrong idea. And if you were wearing .45s someone would haul out the old 30 ought 30.
The next place to visit is the Malaysian state of Sarawak where you will find nice beaches, great bargains in the open-air markets and some real exotic food. The piece de resistance (which means in French, “even if it sounds or looks disgusting, eat it anyway.”) is a local soup made from home grown veggies, fertilized by carabao pooh and which contains two varieties of worms; a large white one with a black head, which is particularly succulent, and the bamboo worm that you must extract from its home in a bamboo shoot cooked in the soup.
Don’t expect to find anything from a hog though, as the Muslims shun pork of any kind. The Koran, which is a lot like the Old Testament in the bible, warns against eating pork, but doesn’t say anything about eating worms.
If you like spicy food, you can get some homegrown black pepper, except that it isn’t black, it’s white. The locals don’t care for the black part of the peppercorn; they use the outer white portion, just the opposite of what those “strange folk do in Europe and America.”
Another interesting thing is that it is bad manners to point with your index finger (or your middle finger, for that matter). You are supposed to point with your thumb.
Next on your itinerary is what you came for in the first place, a visit to the headhunters of Borneo. The trek into the deep jungles where they live is accomplished by riding in narrow dug-out canoes poled, dragged and sometimes carried by two natives. If you are concerned that they may be headhunters, ask them for their identification cards. They will show you an embossed card clearly stating that “The bearer of this official identification card is not presently a head-hunter of Borneo. The skull hanging from his neck was purchased from a real head-hunter”.
The river on which the hollowed-out tree trunk starts is fairly big and fairly deep, but soon becomes a small shallow stream. You may have to get out of the boat and wade every now and then. If you pick up a leach or two, don’t worry as this is a recognized treatment for certain blood diseases, and they won’t suck out enough blood to really matter anyway. Save the ones you unstick from your legs though, as the natives use them to add flavor to their soups. (Just kidding, folks, they use them in their blowguns when they only want to stun small prey. So, if you see a native with a big black blob on his tongue, you know that he didn’t blow before the leach latched onto his tongue. Their traditional lore states plainly, “If a leach latches onto your tongue before you can blow it out of your blowgun, don’t mess with it.”)
On arrival at the heat-hunter’s village, you will be ushered to a special foreigner house which resembles the natives’ “long house” except that your long house is really short. You will be assigned a pallet, a mosquito net and a flashlight in case the generator fails, which it will surely do. Your meals will be cooked in your short house, but you are advised not to look on the process too closely and never, never ask, “What in the world is this in my soup?” To do so, in a headhunter’s village is really risky! After settling in, you will be invited to review the collection of skulls the warriors have accumulated over time. Then; you may be given the opportunity of taking target practice with a poison-dart blowgun. Be careful that you put the dart with the sharp end pointing away from you so it doesn’t end up on your tongue, and don’t aim it toward any of your fellow travelers. Even though the natives would be quite happy to salvage the head of a tourist, it isn’t considered good form in headhunter circles to end up the journey with fewer tourists than when started.
In the evening you may visit the village long-house. It’s called “long-house” because it is long. Each time a bride and groom join the clan, they just add a room or two on the end of the existing structure. So over time, it becomes long, so they call it a “long-house”. Country Boy does not know if in the beginning, they call it a “short-house”.
After a couple of days and nights (Nights are particularly interesting as the beasts of the jungle prowl around making all kinds of noises and all you have between you and them is a mosquito net.) you are ready for return to civilization. The two native guides, or their substitutes if either of them has contributed to the collection of skulls, will round up all the touristers, count noses to see if as many are ready to return as started out. If there is a shortage of noses, they will change the number that they recorded at the outset of the trip so that they can account for everyone when they check in with their supervisors back where they started. It is a good idea to make sure that the guides record the number of tourists in ink at the outset because it harder for them to change the count.
If these tips don’t stir your blood to book for a trip to Borneo today, you may be among the tourists who really do not care to parade around your neighborhood in souvenir purple tights, mess up Muslim tradition, eat worms and white pepper, pick leaches, point with your thumb or contribute to headhunters trophy collection,. If so, keep reading Country Boy’s Travel Tips for other travel and culinary delights.

My Thoughts on Conscience

2007-01-10T11:46:00.000-08:00

Conscience is an amorphous concept. How can one define what this strange and personal notion really is? Some describe one's conscience as the state of knowing right from wrong, but from whence does this understanding come? And, right or wrong in what circumstances? Slaying a hated neighbor or killing our country's enemies? Condemning a convicted killer to the death penalty? Euthanasia? Abortion to save a mother? Spying on a neighbor or foriegn entity? Assassination of an enemy of State? Where do ethics and morals fit in, and what is the difference, if any?
Apparently, some people (sociopaths) have no conscience at all judging by the injuries they inflict on other members of their society. Sometimes people override the dictates of their conscience for a just and urgent cause, other times to draw attention to themselves, or to satisfy an a hedonistic urge. Still another common reason for conscience-override is greed. People who have no conscience that reflects the generally accepted behavior of the societal community in which they live must be controlled by the fear of consequence: laws, ostracism, retaliation, etc.
In the Judeo-Christian society, conscience guidelines are based primarily on the Ten Commandments. But, if that were the only source, practically everyone within this community of thought would have a conscience with similar values. Enviornmental influences such as sectarian and ethnic cultural mores also plays a part in the establishment of a conscience.
Societal groups that rely on sources other than the Ten Commandments, Japan for example, might accept the caveat agains stealing, but eschew the commandment on lying. In a small crowded country stuch as Japan, stealing is an unforgivable violation of conscience, but telling lies is a part of the daily culture. The maintenance of harmony is so important that lying to preserve equaniminity is justifiable and acceptable.
In the American Indian culture, stealing from another tribe was once considered a badge of honor, but stealing within the tribe was unacceptable. In many African cultures stealing from those richer than the thief is considered okay and lying to achieve the theft is acceptable also. Some customs in Europe hold the concept of "noblesse oblige" which requires persons of royal blood render benevolence to others of common heritage as a matter of conscience. Chinese tradition respects the concept of quong xi, which demands that a favor be repaid, a concept found in Latin countries expressed as quid pro quo.
In other cultures, Islam for example, the value of mortality itself is so low that sacrificing life on earth is believed to transport the departed person to paradise. Christian culture encompasses the belief that a deceased person's soul, if "saved", may be lifted to heaven, but the deliberate ending of a life is to achieve that end is considered unconscienable. But, how about ending the existence by withholding life support from a person whose quality of life is near zero? A case in point is the divisive viewpoint over the care, feeding and death of Terri Shiavo. Another is the refusal of Pope John Paul to allow extraordinary measures to prolong his inevitable end. The salient point in the previous examples is simply that the values of conscience are governed by many sources, not the least of which is the parent figure's beliefs.
Conscience is a learned faculty that must be taught and must be chrystlized in a child's mind by a persons of authority acting in the parental role. If conscience is not implanted by the time a child reaches school age, it is probably too late. So, schoolteachers, law enforcement personnel and while other surrogate persons can control behavior to some extent, they cannot instill conscience. The instillation of conscience in young people is a terribly important task of parents or other parent-figures. Wanton disregard for the values of the society in which a person with no conscience lives is the enevitable consequence. And while fear of consequence may provide some control, sooner or later a person with no conscience will violate the accepted rules of conduct within that societal group. Prisons around the world validate this premise.