Brian Fey cannot fly

AN ECCENTRIC named Brian Fey, who lives alone nearby on another mountaintop, fell off a two-story building last week in a village abutting our lake, and screwed himself up real good. He was filming a celebration called Corpus Christi.

Over 15 years ago, Brian moved down from the United States, purchased a large property on that mountain where there was already a building or two, and he established what he calls Bosque Village. His goal is “sustainable living” or something like that.

I don’t believe there is any electricity in Bosque Village except what his generator makes now and then. Brian lives without even a refrigerator.

He seems to make his living by hosting paying visitors who stay days or weeks to live the Bosque Village experience and learn about sustainable living.

Brian has no family here, no medical insurance, and little savings. He’s a good egg, and if you could toss a few bucks in the Brian Basket to help with his medical expenses, it would benefit your karma. There is a GoFundMe page that makes it easy.

Click on the link just above.

Brian has a YouTube channel. A search for Brian Fey or Bosque Village will take you there.

Visit to the post office

EVERY OTHER Saturday, around 8:30 a.m. to avoid heavy traffic, I leap into the Honda and head downtown to check the sparse contents of my post office box.

I did that today. It’s a nice drive, usually very cool due to the early hour. There’s rarely anything in the PO box, which is why I check it only every two weeks.

flat-rate-envelopeAs I pass the Best Western, there are two black folks standing in the street at the speed bump with their hands out. They are Central American illegals heading north. This is not the first time I’ve seen Central Americans at that speed bump.

How do I know they are Central Americans? Because the last time I spotted similar people at that speed bump, they were holding a sign that said so. Also, black Mexicans, not too numerous anywhere, are nonexistent in our area.

In contrast, blacks are quite common in Central America.

My mind wanders here and there during the 15-minute drive to the post office.

Yesterday I read a poll that said our nincompoop demagogue of a leftist president, whom I refer to as El Presidente Moonbat, has slipped 8 points in popularity, from 78 percent to 70 percent, still way, way too high. But another poll this morning says he’s plummeted to 47 percent. I pray the latter poll is the correct one.

He’s gutted the public health system. Violence is at record highs. Economic trust is declining. Plus, he’s vindictive and divisive. And likely wants to be President for Life. His party controls the legislative branch. The Constitution can be changed.

We’re in the middle of a three-day festival here on the mountaintop. It’s called CantoyaFest, and I’m not a fan. Traffic is awful. Downtown is sealed off.

And, worst of all, it’s a huge fire hazard.

Beautiful balloons of some questionable material are sent aloft in scores. These balloons contain actual fires. They’re launched directly over centuries-old wooden buildings. You see the problem? But we’re Mexican, and we know the Virgin Mary will keep everything under control, and so far she has. I question her reliability.

The post office box contained just two things today. A routine, monthly advisory that my corporate pension had been deposited to my bank account. And a separate promo from another bank. Both were wastes of paper and postage.

Two weeks ago, I received an IRS letter, which is not something you want to see. It had been mailed way back in May. It said I owed over $1,000, and I had damn well better do something about it. Well, something like that.

I phoned the IRS, and a nice lady straightened out the issue. I did not owe anything, an IRS error. Mail is slow to arrive, but usually not that slow. I’ve had a PO box for almost 19 years. It’s far better than counting on delivery to your door.

My biweekly post office visits are fun.

Except when there’s a letter from the IRS.

Confessions of a cracker

MY GRANDPARENTS were born in the 1890s and late 1880s, about 25 short years after the Civil War ended, and they were Southern to the bone.

They were, as am I, Georgia Crackers, but that’s not as simple a thing as you might think.

It’s popular these days to remove statues of Civil War participants, done with the silly notion they were all evil people, but they were not. Gen. Lee, for instance, opposed slavery, but he joined Confederate forces because he wouldn’t fight his native Virginia.

His dilemma was a 19th Century version of “it’s complicated.”

As a youngster I spent far more time with my maternal grandparents than with my father’s folks due to physical proximity, my mother being an only child, and my father not being overly fond of his own father, a Baptist deacon.

As a result I know nothing about my paternal grandparents’ racial attitudes, though I suspect they were extremely liberal, even from a modern perspective. They took Christian values very much to heart. There was nothing hypocritical about them.

My mother’s parents were another matter. My maternal grandfather died when I was 12, so I had little first-hand experience with him, which I did have, quite a lot, with my maternal grandmother who didn’t die till I was 22.

Of my four grandparents, my favorite by far was my maternal grandmother whose name was Osie Moree Powell. I spent weeks, sometimes months, alone with her on her South Georgia farm during school vacations when I was an adolescent.

There were two double beds in the bedroom. They were situated head to head with a small walk space between, and the two heads were beside an open window where we slept summer nights with an incoming breeze and the sound of crickets.

Confederate_Flag_3650She had two full-time employees for decades. One was the maid, Willie. The other was the handyman, Cap. They lived as man and wife in a house owned by my grandmother. It was down the road a piece.

The house down the road aspired to being a shack. Its unpainted, wooden walls were sieves, and it leaned ominously on brick footings. When I was about 15, my grandmother built them a new house almost directly across the clay road from her own home. She built this simple but sturdy house because she cared about them.

Willie was like part of our family when I was growing up, and my grandmother took care of all her needs. She took care of Cap’s too, which included bailing him out of jail after his frequent weekend benders. Cap was fond of bourbon.

My grandmother owned a Ford sedan. Sometimes, she would need Cap for a chore elsewhere, perhaps in nearby Sylvester, the town. They would get into the Ford, her up front driving, Cap sitting in the back seat, just like in buses in those times.

Driving Miss Daisy but with the roles reversed.

I cannot imagine that she told Cap to sit in the back seat, but he did, and she never indicated that he should do otherwise. It’s just how things were.

Though my grandmother was the sweetest woman imaginable, beloved by all, especially me, she reflected her times. I once asked her how she would view a daughter marrying a black man. She said she’d prefer the daughter be dead, and she meant it.

I grew up in segregated public schools. There were no black classmates though I did not finish high school till 1962, which was after schools were integrated in areas of the South. This was due in part because there simply were no black neighborhoods near me.

I didn’t come into normal contact with blacks till I joined the Air Force at age 18. Before that, my contacts were just with Willie and Cap and the occasional black kids with whom I played near my grandparents’ farm. But that was infrequent.

Moving down one generation to my parents, we find a couple of flaming lefty liberals, especially my father. My mother got that way, I imagine, because of my father. It certainly was not due to the home she grew up in.

My mother, who spoke like Scarlett O’Hara, never voiced one kind word about “the Yankees.” And my father was not very keen on them either.

I wonder how my parents, who were hardcore Democrats of the “civil rights” variety, and union fans, would view the nutty political and racial conflicts of today.

Confessions of a Nazi

Christmas 1996. That’s me seated, appropriately, on the far right.

BEING A FAN of President Trump automatically makes me a Nazi, a racist, yada-yada, according to many who vote these days for the Democrat Party. Many, but not all.

I put folks who still vote for Democrats* in one of two categories:

  1. Nasty people, a loud and sometimes violent minority.
  2. Well-meaning, naive people, the majority, calmer but out of touch.

I’m here to tell you a tale and, simultaneously, toot my own horn. Let us title what follows: Good Deeds by a Nazi. It will be fun.

In the late 1990s, I did volunteer work in Houston with two agencies. One was Meals on Wheels. Since I worked evenings at the newspaper, my days were free, so I delivered meals to the needy who, more often than not, were (egads!) black!

What was I thinking?

One in particular became my favorite, a 99-year-old woman who lived alone in a shotgun house in a ghetto abutting downtown. Even on days when I was not delivering her meal, I would sometimes stop by her house, and we would sit on the front porch a spell.

She enjoyed that a lot. She had virtually no visitors, having outlived all her friends, and her relatives were not worth warm spit.

At times I would buy her food on my own dime, and I’d wrap it in foil at her house, and put it into her freezer. Once the two of us went to a high-end seafood restaurant on the South Loop. It overwhelmed her, and most of her plate went home in a doggy bag.

I ate all mine, however. It was very good. I have a photo of her sitting in the passenger seat of my green Ford Ranger pickup on that very day. She dolled herself up for the occasion.

For her 100th birthday, I got a large number of my newspaper coworkers to send cards. Many included cash gifts. She received so many that she opened only a few. One wonders how much money she left in that pile of envelopes in her spare bedroom which was full of all manner of junk. She died soon after her 100th.

Nazi Santa.

My other volunteer post was working at an agency that employed retarded people, oops, I mean mentally challenged. It gave them a purpose and maybe they earned some cash. I don’t remember.

What we did was cane chairs.

I was one of two or three normal people who did both caning — I had to learn — and supervising of the other people, the ones down a few steps on the ladder of mental acuity.

They were exceptionally nice people. Some were only slightly challenged. Others were severely disabled.

But they could all cane chairs.

We had a Christmas party in 1996, which is when the photo was shot at the top. The group includes both the retarded folks and the normal ones. I played Santa.

It was a good time, even for a Nazi.

* * * *

* I long did, but it was different back then.

(Note: One day, making my Meals on Wheels rounds, a guy ran a red light and creamed me in my Ford Ranger pickup. The truck was quite caved in on the driver’s side, but I was not hurt. The other driver was very contrite. A year after the accident, he phoned me and asked how everything had turned out, which I thought was very nice. Another of those damnable black people too! A Nazi can’t get a break.)