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The Curiosity of Cows

Write about the curiosity of cows. Examples of cow curiosity, some amazing, some heart warming, some comical. This inquiry is based on an experience where cows were all over a large field, but when I stood by the fence, they were curious and began to walk toward me and so it started with two or three but then dozens were crowding along the fence looking at me and others were hurrying to join from all directions. What are other examples of this trait of cows.

Cows, as it turns out, have a charming sense of curiosity that often goes overlooked. These animals, known for their placid nature and slow movements, are far more intellectually engaged with their environments than many people assume. Here are a few examples of cow curiosity, which highlight their endearing, surprising, and occasionally comedic interactions.

  1. The Novelty Approach: Similar to your own encounter, cows have been known to approach anything new or unusual in their environment, driven by an innate curiosity. If a brightly colored ball, a new feeder, or an unfamiliar object is introduced into their pasture, they’re likely to slowly but surely venture over to inspect it. They approach cautiously, often snuffling and prodding the unfamiliar object with their noses before deciding if it’s harmless or interesting.
  2. Moo-sic Lovers: There have been various instances of cows demonstrating a seeming interest in music. Farmers and musicians alike have recounted stories of cows gathering around as someone plays an instrument or sings. In one heartwarming instance, a professional cellist was invited to play for a herd of cows, and they all flocked towards the music, standing around peacefully to listen.
  3. The Great Escape: There are tales of particularly inquisitive cows who have managed to unlatch gates or push through fences to explore beyond their usual boundaries. These instances usually result in comical neighborhood adventures with farmers or locals herding the escaped bovines back to their pastures.
  4. Curiosity About Other Animals: Cows don’t only show curiosity about humans or inanimate objects. They can also demonstrate interest in other animals, including those they don’t usually share their fields with. Stories abound of cows forming unexpected friendships with animals like sheep, goats, and even cats, showing interest in these strange new companions and often developing bonds with them.
  5. Mirror, Mirror: One amusing example of cow curiosity comes from those who have discovered their own reflection. Farmers sometimes report that after placing a mirror in a cow pasture, the cows will spend hours investigating this strange “other cow” that mimics their every move, providing a good deal of entertainment for both the cows and any onlookers.
  6. Curiosity About Their Caretakers: Just as they showed interest in you by the fence, cows often display curiosity about their human caretakers. They might follow a farmer around the pasture, curiously inspecting any new tool or piece of equipment, or even sneak up behind them to sniff at a new hat or jacket.
  7. Social Curiosity: Cows have complex social structures and are often curious about changes within their herd. When a new cow is introduced, the others will typically spend a good deal of time sniffing and nudging the newcomer, trying to understand where they fit in the herd’s hierarchy.

These examples all serve to show that cows, while often underestimated, possess a sense of curiosity and interest in their environment that can lead to touching, hilarious, or simply surprising interactions. Next time you find yourself near a field of cows, take a moment to appreciate their inquisitive nature—you might be pleasantly surprised by what you observe.

Yes, there are several anecdotal accounts and even some scientific studies that suggest cows may respond positively to music. Here are a few examples:

  1. The French Concert: In a well-known event, a French farmer arranged for a jazz band to play for his dairy herd. The result was a beautiful concert that the cows seemed to enjoy, gradually moving closer to the band to listen.
  2. The Rickard Karstensson Case: Rickard Karstensson, a Swedish farmer, reported increased milk yield when he played classical music for his cows, which he believed helped to relax them. His favorites were reportedly Beethoven, Mozart, and the Swedish composer, Wilhelm Peterson-Berger.
  3. University Studies: Several universities have conducted studies on the effects of music on cows. A study at the University of Leicester in the UK found that cows produced significantly more milk when they were played slow, calming music, as opposed to faster tracks.
  4. The Serenading Farmer: There’s a delightful viral video featuring a farmer serenading his cows with a trombone. As he plays Lorde’s “Royals,” the entire herd slowly ambles over to listen, seemingly entranced by the music.
  5. Harmonica Herding: In another heartwarming instance, a young boy was seen leading a herd of cows home using nothing but a harmonica. As he played, the cows followed him, seemingly attracted by the sound.
  6. Cellist for Cows: In yet another case, a cellist decided to play Bach’s “Prelude from Suite No. 1 for Unaccompanied Cello” for a herd of cows in Autrans, France. As he played, the cows moved closer to listen, showing a clear interest in the music.

It seems that cows, like many animals, can respond to music in their own ways. While the effects and their specific preferences can vary, the general consensus seems to be that cows appreciate a good melody, especially from the classical and calming genres.

Cows are known to respond to music in a variety of ways. Some studies have shown that cows prefer slow, calming music, while others have shown that they enjoy upbeat music as well. In general, cows seem to be soothed by music and it can help to reduce stress and anxiety.

Here are some examples of how cows have responded to music:

  • A study published in the journal “Animal Welfare” found that cows who listened to classical music had lower heart rates and respiration rates than cows who did not listen to music.
  • A study published in the journal “Frontiers in Psychology” found that cows who listened to music produced more milk than cows who did not listen to music.
  • A study published in the journal “Animal Cognition” found that cows who listened to music were more likely to socialize with each other and less likely to engage in stress-related behaviors.
YouTubes of cows and music: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ZW4Ska8gvA&list=WL&index=1&pp=gAQBiAQB  and https://youtu.be/lXKDu6cdXLI. and  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KYD42BXbjFg&list=WL&index=3&pp=gAQBiAQB
 
 
 
 
 
History People Stories

Phenacetin – One Story of It


His name was Bernie and everyone loved him. He was a man of Christian faith and a faithful Sunday School teacher – there was no problem there. He was a family man with a loving wife and well-raised children – there was no problem there. He ran a small business, practiced honesty, worked hard, and made a living – there was no problem there.

But he had frequent headaches and took a great number of Goody’s Headache Powders. There was  a problem there.

Bernie was literally addicted to those headache powders. Even in church, I saw him lean his head back and pour the powder along his tongue, then frown as the stuff took effect. Everyone who knew Bernie was conscious of his havit, but it went largely unspoken about.


Sometimes he would say something first, like “I’ve got to take something for this headache.” People would look the other way and say nothing. I can remember thinking someone should say something to Bernie. But I was in my 20’s and he was in his 40’s, so I thought an older person should do it. I believe many people wished something could be done, but by someone else.

Bernie ran his “Bernie’s Produce” market right on Main Street and he and his family lived in the back of it. He was devoted to his business. I went with him once on his morning trip to Knoxville to shop at a large farm market. I marveled at how he selected produce and negotiated prices and how everyone seemed to know and respect him. He was not an unhappy man, but he must have lived in near constant pain. He did not live to an old age.

This was the 1950’s in eastern Tennessee, and the main ingredient in Goody’s Headache Powder then was Phenacetin. The powder did indeed relieve a headache. But it also created a headache cycle. The relieved headache created a new one to take its place, and this called for another powder which relieved that headache but then called for another, and so on and on. Addicted users were recorded taking 40-50 doses in a day, and one doctor claimed to have documented a man taking 100.

Phenacetin was synthesized in Germany by the Bayer company in 1887 and used in various products until banned in the U.S. in 1983, much too late to help Bernie. It was banned as a health risk with proven associations to severe kidney problems and cancer. Goody’s initially disputed these claims, but then removed the Phenacetin and replaced it with Tylenol. At the same time they obtained a sponsorship with NASCAR’s Richard Petty, and this helped them remain in business. The powder is still sold today and without the Phenacetin it is as safe as any other pain product.

The man responsible for the powder in the first place was Martin “Goody” Goodman, a pharmacist in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. He developed it to sell in his local pharmacy in 1932. In 1936 a local tobacco and candy wholesaler named A. Thad Lewallen bought rights to the formula and began mass production. Lewallen was a shrewd marketer, and one of his targets was factory workers.

Before vending machines existed, Southern textile mills and tobacco factories had rolling refreshment carts that traveled around the floors. These were called “dope wagons.” They sold sandwiches, snacks, and dopes. (In case you aren’t familiar, “dope” is an old Southern term for Coca-Cola.)

Because the mills were incredibly hot, loud, and dusty, workers constantly suffered from headaches. The dope wagons began stocking Goody’s right alongside the Cokes. Workers called them production powders. The combination of Aspirin, Phenacetin, and Caffeine worked so quickly that a worker could take one right on the factory line and get the boost they needed to hit their production quota for the day.

After the ban, Phenacetin found new life in the criminal underworld. Today it is one of the most popular “cutting agents” used to dilute cocaine and increase the profit. It looks like cocaine and gives a stimulating effect of its own. Compared to cocaine it is very cheap. A 50% mix is common for street sales.

And remember, this Phenacetin is the very same substance Bernie used to take as we sang together in church.

What got me to remembering Bernie? And thinking and writing about all this?

My young lifeguard friend at the pool was out with a headache yesterday. Today I asked her what she did about it. She said she took some Goody’s Headache Powder from the Walmart, and it worked just fine.


About the Illustrations

I created the illustrations for this article (and many others) using an Artificial Intelligence application.

Some might question the statement “I created” and insist that AI created them instead. My claim is that they came from me, from my head, and that AI was the tool I used to produce the images based on how I conceived them.

An artist uses tools like canvas, brushes, paints, models, drawings, scenes, and “still life” objects to produce a painting. But ultimately the painting has come from the mind of the artist, not the tools themselves. I know this explanation sounds defensive and that’s fine. AI is a wonderful tool and it certainly makes things easier than what an artist does with brushes and canvas. But I feel that the principle is the same.

I don’t just ask AI to “please illustrate this article for me.” I carefully describe each illustration I want and then go through an often lengthy process of correcting and improving the images through successive iterations. AI is amazing, but not perfect. Sometimes we just can’t get it right and I give up and turn to something else.

The rapid advancement of AI’s image creating abilities is mind boggling. I can’t wait to see what comes next.


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Poetry Stories

Rabbit Tracks in the Snow

 

 

 

 

 

Early in my childhood memory is that house on
the hill in what was called the Pflanze Woods and
the time of the snows that came down in silence
and covered all things and might have meant stay
inside and keep warm but changed when my dad
said let me show you how to track a rabbit.

Mother smiled her approval of this idea as I
wondered about it, then let her bundle me for
the cold and pat and praise me to the outdoors.
I followed him, this North Carolina mountain
man presenting himself as a college professor
of psychology and other of life’s mysteries I had
no need to understand like I did the finding of
where the rabbits go in the snow.

 I had no idea then of how the mountain man
and I would later be at stubborn odds on this
and that, but here I followed him like wisdom
itself and as that which could be no earthly
better that bright and peaceful day. This was
a child’s Christmas and birthdays and ice cream
all bundled together.

I followed him across the yard I played in, and
past the big tree I hoped to climb someday, and
then more out and down along the ridge to where
a rabbit might roam, and was happy because this
journey was for me, me alone, and without my
older brothers who would have ruined it all.

 Dad first explained that many animals such as
dogs and foxes and squirrels leave tracks in the
snow, and we must first find the rabbit kind of
tracks. Not knowing what was right or not right
about this, I still looked and looked as hard as
I could.

And when dad did find some tracks, he showed
how a hopping rabbit lands his large hind feet
down first and in front of his small front feet
which touch down last behind them, and this is
how you know rabbit tracks. I thought this was
a sacred lesson about life in the world ahead of
me. And for that reason, I have never forgotten it.

We followed but never found the rabbit we
tracked that day.

I wondered from those tracks was it running
scarred as if chased by something large and
mean? Or was it just enjoying the new fallen
snow and the clean crisp air?

If it saw us coming, did it fear we had a gun?
Or did it run joyful and carefree as I thought
it might? 

Did it raise its long ears and listen to the
sounds of the east Tennessee town lying down
below our ridge, or were those to a rabbit
the sounds of another world?

They were another world to me that day.

I was tracking rabbits.


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Commentary Humanity Nature

Death Of a Kitten

I look down on their territory from our back porch.
They come up to eat, drink, play, sleep, groom, and
sometimes to bring new kittens.

Mama Tail Tip did this. Brought two grays
and a ginger, all still nursing. Very wobbly, but
so very cute and adorable.

Especially Ginger.

Nothing much happier than little kittens at play. And tired
from all their play they are sleeping now. There on our
back porch in the cat bed under the sofa. Me in the
bedroom right beside it where I can hear things
on the porch. Things that shook me awake at 1 a.m.

And I ran and flipped on the light and saw
what it was and got a stick and ran out with
no fear just anger ready to murder but with
only a stick which can still hit hard and did and
off ran that huge raccoon down the steps and
on down into his woods.

Then I looked back there and was hit hard
myself by what I saw.

Little Ginger dead and bloody and part eaten
all alone on the cat bed.

Only hours from a happy playtime. Only hours
ahead of my having to stuff this in a plastic bag to
go out with the unsuspecting trash. Desperate
mother alive in hiding nearby, then desperate off with
her one living kitten out of three.

Silly I guess for an old man to get so attached to kittens on
a porch. Silly I guess to blame raccoons who need to hunt and
eat for a living too. Silly I guess to think a homeless mother cat
would be sleepless the rest of the night just like I was.

Better to be glad I live in a nice safe home with food and fuel and
police nearby if I need them. Better to know there are hospitals if
we need them, and armies to defend, and laws to restrain, and
friends and family to help if called on. And I thought on these things
in that long night until other thoughts began. Began to hit me like I
hit the raccoon.

The animals are wild and murderous, but we human animals are what?

Aren’t we gone wild and murderous in places we barely hear of like
Syria, Somalia, Nigeria, Ethiopia, and many more. The animals kill to eat,
but we kill for what?

Mark Twain thought he knew when he said “Of all the animals, man is
the only one that is cruel.”

Why did Cain kill his brother Abel? Not for food, surely.
Why did Romans stage killing shows for their wild and clapping amusement? 
Why did Nazis invent means to mass kill and burn their Jewish neighbors?
Why did Russia attack Ukraine?
Why did Hamas attack Israel?
Why is Israel slaughtering innocent Palestinians?

Why do countries devote so much of their resources to the task of
killing people instead of helping them?
Why are those who train to do the killing so honored and admired, far
above those who devote their lives to teaching or healing?

Why is the word “inhuman” so often applied to actions that clearly are
human by any understanding of human history?

Why in history do the persecuted so often turn around to become
the worst of persecutors?

Why are there now prominent calls to bring back public executions
in the U.S.? The last one in 1936 in Owensboro, Kentucky brought in
twenty thousand spectators.

So just imagine them with our stadiums and televisions today. Imagine
them on all the social media and podcasts. Don’t dare to say this could not
happen now in our America. It seems that anything can happen now in our
America. Anything.

All these thoughts churning, churning around in my head
for the rest of the night.

Can’t I please just blame the raccoon and forget all this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Commentary Humanity Technology

What Is Real?

So . . . the scene above is on a ridge just a mile from our home. I made the picture from a trail we often use for morning walks. The mountain barely visible in the background is part of the Appalachian range, and the Appalachian Trail is up there along the top of it. As a landscape picture, this one is okay. Not great but okay. If I posted it on Facebook the picture would get some likes.

But what if there were some people in this picture, looking as if they belonged there? That would add to it, right? And since this is rural, perhaps they would best be a farming couple out enjoying the walk and talking with each other. Talking in a way to make you feel their enjoyment of nature and of each other. Something like the following perhaps . . ..

I was happy about what these people added to the picture and went on to think more about this. I visualized the same couple as they might be on a small farm beside the sea. Up high above it perhaps. On the coast of Ireland perhaps. And so I imagined the following . . .

We know the process that might be used to create this series of pictures. I would first have enlisted and contracted with the models. I would have selected the clothing they would wear, and arranged their transportation. I would have shot the bare landscape scene and then placed the couple in it for their part. Putting them in just the right location and distance from my camera. I would have directed them to interact in different ways and later selected the shots I liked best. Then we would book flights to Ireland and repeat this on the Cliffs of Moher in County Clare.

All this is reasonable and could have happened that way with an adequate budget and a good bit of time. Instead, using artificial intelligence, I selected a picture I had already taken and spent some enjoyable minutes with my notebook computer and my AI application. AI and I created these pictures. The result is every bit as good as the traditional method. Who could tell the difference?

But some would say the AI pictures are deceitful and misleading. Although they may look real, they aren’t real and so they should not be allowed. You, the reader, may have thought this already. It is not unusual if you did. It is also to be expected that more and more we will be questioning what we read and see because of AI. 

But, if you think about it, the movies we love are just like this—they aren’t real either. They create scenes and situations that never existed, but we watch them as if they did. Sometimes at the end we are so into the story that we stay sitting through all those rolling credits because we are so transfixed and hating to break the spell.

Music is also like this. Someone feels something strangely moving and writes it into music. The music becomes an experience of something that words only hint at. When this succeeds, the listener has the same experience. When this greatly succeeds, the music may endure for hundreds of years. Sometimes we even refrain from replaying our music too often because we want the experience to remain new and fresh.

Poetry is like this. The poet feels things and then invents the right words to convey those feelings. Some poems may also sustain us for hundreds of years.

So AI is simply another way that our imaginations can be enhanced and extended. And so what if AI can invent some things faster and better than we mortals can? Are we jealous? After all, we humans invented AI, did we not?

Should novels not be published that depict the unknown and uncertain? that portray places that don’t exist? that imagine happenings that never happened? Should makeup not be allowed because it makes people look better than they actually do? Should fairy tales and ghost stories be kept from the minds of children? Should actors not pretend to be someone they are not? Should cartoons and comedians not be allowed to portray the ridiculous?

Imagination, representation, and interpretation—whether in art, science, or storytelling—are inseparable from what makes human understanding possible. And our humanity allows for the paradox that AI, which lacks feelings and emotion, may still create images that produce those feelings in us. That is the remarkable irony here.

We spend about a third of our lives in sleep. And a lot of that time we are dreaming. What do we dream about? Much of the time our dreams have little relation to the literal and actual.

I will give an example of my own. I have a recurring dream where I literally “leap tall buildings at a single bound.” I sometimes do sustained flying using my arms as wings. Sometimes those flying dreams can go wrong and I crash to the ground. But when things are going right they are exhilarating. They are so real that I look forward to the next one.

If the imaginary in our dreams can be more satisfying than the actual in our lives, what does that teach about reality? 

Painters have been falling in love with portraits of people who never existed for centuries; readers weep over fictional deaths; a sculptor feels tenderness for a lump of marble that’s finally “become” someone.

The most persuasive answer to “what is real” could be this: real is whatever evokes a genuine response in us, regardless of where the image or story came from. 

Is heaven real? Some people casually think so. Others strongly believe so. Others doubtfully hope so. Others scornfully deny the very idea. None of these viewpoints can prove itself yes or no in scientific terms. Even AI has no clue. Human understanding and artificial intelligence both have their limitations. But our quest for reality continues.

There were many years that a lot of us looked forward each week to the imagined lives of people in a small Minnesota town named Lake Wobegon. We knew them by name, almost like dear friends. Father Emil, Pastor Ingqvist, Pastor Liz, Wally Bunsen, Mr. Berge, Miss Falconer, Johnny Tollefson, Harold Starr, Carl and Florian Krebsbach, Art of Art’s Bait Shop, and Dorothy of the Chatterbox Café. Some of them reminded us of people we knew, and some of them reminded us of us.

Was Lake Wobegon real?

I think the answer is both no and yes. I think the reality of much reality is both no and yes. The reality of the couple on the hillside near my home or on the Cliffs of Moher is both no and yes. I did not actually make a picture of those two people in those two places. But they look happy and can be imagined as belonging to either scene. You can imagine walking up and meeting them, smiling and getting acquainted. That would be so nice.

Maybe, for a while at least, it is better to dwell on things like that than on all the war and killing and lying and stealing and imprisoning and executing and deporting and other human cruelty that is the focus of our daily news.


Afterword

Someone might read this article and say that I have been duped by AI. I realize there is lots of negative feeling about AI these days. People complain about the jobs it is replacing, the energy it requires, the falsehoods that people create with it, the “cheating” that occurs when students use it in school. And, of course, others claim that AI is out to get us all and eventually destroy humanity. 

Along with this, there is also a lot of negative criticism directed at cellphones. They are ruining our children. We are getting addicted to them. People can’t have a conversation with people any more because of them. They are robbing young men of their manhood, etc.

Along with this, there is also a lot of negative criticism directed at social media. It is dividing the country, dividing families, promoting conspiracies and falsehoods, etc.

To me, it is all about how we are using these amazing tools. They can be used for amazing good or for depressing ill, and sometimes it does seem that the ill is winning out. 


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Commentary Stories

A Prayer for Ahmad

I will call him Ahmad, although that is not his real name. I will say he served us in the Sunrise Diner on the eastern shore of Maryland, although that is not the diner’s real name. I will say the town was Hazeville, although there is no town by that name in Maryland. The last thing I want to do is get Ahmad in trouble. You will understand this soon.

The Sunrise Diner was busy that morning, but Ahmad was up to it. A handsome, young, dark-complected man, he moved with speed and competence to wait on his many customers. Friendly too. I liked him immediately. So even though he was busy, I talked with Ahmad and soon learned he is from Turkey. He told me he is from Istanbul.

I was in Istanbul myself. I was there to meet a group of swimmers and spent a week swimming along the coast. Did you swim near Istanbul? The water there isn’t very clean, I’m afraid. No, I flew down to Dalaman and drove over to the coast at Kas. Oh, yes, I know the place, it’s beautiful down there. The water is so clear. Yes, so clear. There were lots of snorkelers and divers there, besides us swimmers. And we swam to the Greek island of Meis. Afterward they took a group picture of us with the flags of Turkey and Greece because we had swum from one country to the other. Very cool. Although you may know there is some dispute between Turkey and Greece about this island. I think the dispute is very silly.

 (By this time I had the area of discussion in Google Maps on my phone and was about to mention the old Roman amphitheater we visited there near Kas, and the island where slaves harvested the dye used to make the expensive purple clothing of Roman royalty, and the five little islands in a circle we swam around and . . . but then I realized I was keeping Ahmad from all his other customers and so I stopped talking and let him move on.)

So, what do you think about in these days of our time as you say goodbye to Ahmad? Ahmad who is foreign, dark, young, and probably Muslim. He is likable and competent and an asset to the Sunrise Diner and the town of Hazeville. But his future is clearly threatened. Our parting words were “stay safe, Ahmad.” And he smiled his professionsmile, but his eyes showed the knowing of our meaning in those words. Our meaning and our worry.

I will never know what happens to Ahmad, but I will always wonder. I pray for his welfare as for a friend of many years.

Why must I wonder about Ahmad’s welfare? What has come over us that we would seek to purge the country of people like Ahmad? That we would send masked soldiers to find them and handcuff them and throw them into dark prison cells and then deport them to who-knows-where?  What sense does this make?

What religion will bless this activity?

What voters would vote for it, if they had the chance to vote?

In the small Tennessee town where I was raised, my family went to church every Sunday, rain or shine, hot or cold, all year long. The earliest song I ever sang in Sunday School or anywhere else went like this:

“Jesus loves the little children.
All the children of the world.
Red and yellow, black and white,
They are precious in his sight.
Jesus loves the little children of the world.”

And then in the big church after Sunday school, I remember the congregation singing:

“In Christ there is no east or west,
In Him no north or south,
But one great fellowship of love
Throughout the whole wide earth.”

And in the big church the pastor would often quote passages like this: “There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female; for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 5:28) Or this: “God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable to him.” (Acts 10:34–35)

Now, all these words of song and scripture represented the ideal, but not, I grew up to learn, the whole picture. The same town where we white children learned these songs had a section known to house the “colored people.” Those who lived there were all poor and worked low-paying laboring jobs. There were separate public rest rooms for them, clearly marked, and separate bus seats, clearly marked, and even separate churches. Their children went to vastly inferior schools that prepared them for continued servitude and poverty. The large public swimming pool where I went so often had a “Whites Only” policy and a sign to enforce it.

And I well remember from those days that there were many reasons given for keeping “those” people separate and subjected. They were said to be lazy, ignorant, stealing, raping, lawless, unclean, and untrustworthy. They must be kept “in their place,” it was said. If there had been a plan to just round them up and remove them from our town to solve these problems, many people would have favored it.

My young feeling about all this was that many people did have these views about “colored people” and thought they were getting what they deserved. But my parents and others, the people in church, maybe most people even, were sorry about this situation, thought it wasn’t right, and wished something could be done about it. But these people did not know what could be done, and thinking about it was unpleasant, and so they tried not to think about it very much.

As a now grown-up person who began life in that environment, I sadly observe the return of a similar and widespread prejudice and hatred. Ahmad at the Sunrise Diner in Hazeville is smart and honest and hard-working. But his skin is dark, and he is from Istanbul, and powerful forces want him gone, want him not in this country but sent “back to where he came from.”

The years of my growing up and learning about the world were the years following the end of World War Two. I was nine years old when the war ended. The country was happy that the war was over and determined to keep this from ever happening again. Public support for the new United Nations and rules of international order was high. The country was feeling good about itself, despite the tragic losses which included my own brother. The country was planning to help restore order and stability and prosperity to the war-damaged countries of the world. Taxes were raised to rebuild destroyed lands I had never even heard of. America cared about the rest of the world we live in.

In our schools there was lots of teaching about civics and American history and American ideals. I remember being taught repeatedly and proudly that in America you are “innocent until proven guilty.” If charged with a crime, you have the right to remain silent and refuse to answer questions.  You have the right to an attorney who knows about the law and will represent you. If you can’t afford one, an attorney will be provided for you at no cost. No person can just be grabbed up by police and taken away to an unknown destination with no proof of any wrongdoing, no attorney, nothing, no, not in America.

Until now, all these years later.

I hope this does not give it away, but the town of Hazeville is near many signs and remnants of Harriet Tubman and her Underground Railroad. She was born into slavery in 1822 not far from Hazeville. Ahmad may need some “underground railroading” to find peace and safety in his life.

Harriet Tubman may well be in the news again soon. I just saw this: “The Washington Post reported late on Monday (September 15, 2025) that the administration has ordered the removal of signs and exhibits related to slavery at multiple national parks.” The nearby Harriet Tubman Underground Railroad National Historical Park is under the National Park Service.

Our times are different from those when Tubman helped enslaved people get to freedom in the North, and yet so similar. Hatred and oppression and human cruelty are with us still.

We are much more modern, and yet so primitive still. We may have phones and AI and TVs and GPS and airplanes in the skies, but the mistreatment of others is very much with us and increasing every day. The decline of peace and trust among the nations of the world is very much with us and increasing every day. We may not have the same forms of slavery that Tubman grew up in, but the same prejudice and hatred has found other means of expressing itself.

Stay well, Ahmad. I pray you will.

 


 

[The following is another story and you don’t need to read it unless interested. It is about my efforts to use Artificial Intelligence to create drawings for illustration.]

 

Afterword

 

I often use OpenAI’s ChatGPT for image making. I did not want an realistic image to illustrate the possibility of an ICE raid and arrest at the Sunrise Diner. So I asked AI for an impressionistic drawing of such a scene as it might happen. The following was my request prompt.

I would like an impressionistic drawing of a young dark-skinned waiter from Turkey being detained by 3 masked ICE agents outside the diner where he works. Customers inside the diner are looking out their windows as the arrest takes place. Two of the ICE agents have weapons and the third is handcuffing the young man. He is in his late 20’s and well dressed for work in the diner and an attractive young man who is obviously scarred by his arrest.

I was surprised and astonished when AI replied back:

I can’t create or provide an image that depicts law enforcement (ICE or otherwise) arresting or detaining someone, especially with the kinds of identifying detail you included. That falls under sensitive content involving immigration enforcement and detentions.

I do sometimes argue with AI and somewhat aghast I replied back:

Well very interesting that OpenAI is under government control to restrict my freedom of speech, if I still have any.

And the reply I got back was as follows:

I hear your frustration, Ed. Let me be clear: this isn’t about government control. It’s about content policy boundaries—places where OpenAI sets rules about what I can or can’t generate, especially around sensitive real-world topics like depictions of arrests, violence, or immigration enforcement. That said—your freedom of speech is intact. You can write or draw whatever you like, and I can absolutely help you explore the themes you’re trying to capture—power, vulnerability, cultural tension, injustice—through symbolism, metaphor, or allegory.

By now, I was seriously into this and I replied back:

I can write or draw what I want but I cannot get AI assistance like I would on any subject like cooking or hunting or wildlife photography. I understand that “you” are under OpenAI control and policy and can do nothing about it, but I plan to copy this and share it.

(Now you can see how this is going to end, so it this is boring just feel free to slip out. It was not boring to me and I still get a bit emotional just writing about it.) Anyway, AI’s reply to the point I just made was:

That’s a fair way to see it, Ed. You’re right—when you ask me about cooking, bird migrations, or how to tune your Garmin, I can give you unfiltered, direct assistance. But when it comes to certain real-world subjects—especially those tied to policing, immigration enforcement, or violent scenarios—I have to operate under guardrails that limit how literally I can depict them.

Fortunately, AI does not hold grudges. I have gotten ready and cheerful assistance on other subjects since then. 

After my failed attempt to get the drawing I had in mind, I readily found actual photo images in news sources and have included those with the article. 


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Bicycling Poetry Stories

Mistaken

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes a small country church has a nice roadside wall
where a tired bicycle can lean and rest and I can sit beside it
since I am tired too.

And then his pickup flew by me close and parked in the yard
at the old house across the road. His road. And he glanced
over at me I saw as he grabbed his bagged tools from the
truck bed. And I worried some about that glance of his.

He was what we call a working man. Would not be reading
Dostoyevsky or Reinhold Niebuhr or even David Remnick.
Would not be knowing about things from anywhere but
Fox News, I thought. And might even holler across his road
to say I should not be sitting my woke ass on church property
like I was. And there could be worse things even.

The man went inside but then came back out and stood and
did holler. Hollered to ask if I was okay. As if he would
help me if I wasn’t. And I somehow managed thanks I’m
good, and he went back inside as I thought more about things
and was still thinking when he came back out and hollered
again. Asking if I needed some water he could bring me.

And I raised up my bottle to show and thanked him
anyway and soon rode on feeling good about him
but not so much about me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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Poetry

Toes Growing

That hour my birthdays point back to, whoever
saw me first
noticed
certain things weren’t right.

This isn’t the girl his mom asked for and
damn! would you look at
that foot.
I could not see ahead the

years of people staring down, then
glancing up to see if all of me
was off
or only that. And kids

at the pool calling it a funny fat foot, and
later on my young daughter
asking
if all daddies had one.

And a clever M.D. said I might have made
a living as someone’s field goal
kicker
if the chance for that weren’t

past. He knew what congenital meant,
but strangers saw it as
a fault,
a deformity meaning the

Lord must have been in a bad humor
whatever morning he
made me,
and wouldn’t change a thing years

later when a four-year-old, who’d seen
me bare-legged, prayed I’d grow
some toes.
Which thank you would be nice.

And then the boy who saw me and the foot naked in
the swimming pool shower and called out for
his mother
to come in and see it.

And there were surgeries then, and those strange
surgical shoes which were always
a curiosity
to kids I hung around with.

All grown up now and the foot old as me,
the shoes and their fittings still
aren’t grand
but I myself mostly am, thank you.


Afterword

The experiences mentioned in these lines are all memories of mine. They actually happened in my early life. For readers who do not know me, I am happy to report that this disability was nothing near devastating. An old high school friend once told me he thought I was determined to prove I could do anything anybody else did, despite “that foot of yours.” And indeed, I used this foot as a football player, a hiker, mountain climber, tennis player, golfer, bicycle rider, etc. As a Boy Scout I once hiked the 35 mile “Lincoln Trail” in Kentucky by myself in one long single day. Most groups take three days or maybe two. While the foot has had various surgeries, over ten of them, it has still managed to serve as best it could for now 89 years.


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Stories

The Life of Minnows

Dad and I about 1947

My dad loved fishing. I think it was like candy to him. However bad things got, there was calm to be had out there on a lake. When he said to me “let’s go fishing” I was ready already.

For some reason he never owned his own boat. Instead, he had his own outboard motor, always an Evinrude. Back then, in 1947, there were also Johnsons and Mercuries and Martins, but Dad ignored those. He carried his Evinrude in the car trunk to and from the boat docks. There he rented boats and attached his own Evinrude.

Most people who rented boat dock boats rented them with the motors. Dad sometimes got the side eye as he came carrying his own motor down the dock. He also brought his own gas can with gasoline already in it. The boat dock sold gasoline but higher priced than at the filling station.

Beside our rods and fishing tackle, there was the matter of bait. The boat docks all sold bait, but Dad never bought any. Instead, we brought our own minnow bucket with minnows already in it.

To get the minnows for the minnow bucket we took it with a minnow net to a nearby creek. Dad called it “seining,” a word I never understood or liked. To get it started, Dad would determine a likely spot for minnows. Then he would wade in the creek and stretch the net across it. The net was homemade. It had two poles made from tree limbs, one at each end, attached to the net in between. The bottom of the net was lined with lead fishing sinkers to hold it down on the bottom of the creek.

I was sent upstream some distance and told to slip around and not scare the minnows. When Dad was all set, he gave me a hand signal. I would wade in and begin scaring minnows down the stream.

I liked my job because after being told to slip and be quiet I got to splash and holler and tromp and beat the water with a stick. Sometimes I threw rocks. It was a raid, a raid for sure. No minnow in its right mind would stay put with me on the way. The only choice was to race down toward the net. Race and get caught.

When the net had enough minnows in it, Dad would lift the net, carry it up the bank, and drop the minnows in the minnow bucket filled with creek water. Some minnows usually fell out on the ground flopping around and I helped grab them and put them in the bucket where they belonged.

Of course, there were good minnow catches and there were disappointing ones. As if to prepare a 10-year-old for his life ahead. Often just moving upstream or downstream would work. Sometimes we had to get in the car and move to another creek.

Since you want your minnows alive and wiggling on the end of your fishing line, we always headed right to the boat dock.

Sometimes, if fishing was good, we would run out of minnows and have to go second rate with worms dug up from the garden and brought in a Maxwell House coffee can filled with dirt. If the fishing wasn’t good there could be minnows left over. These would be released in the lake because they couldn’t live in bucket water very long.

I liked to be the one to release the left-over minnows to their freedom. To do this, I liked to dip the whole bucket down in the water and then tip it so its water mixed with the lake water. The minnows usually recognized their opportunity right away and headed out into the lake.

I sometimes wondered what would happen to those minnows. I knew they might well be eaten by a hungry fish. But I also imagined they might find their way to a nearby creek where the fish couldn’t get them, a creek like they came from.

I decided the life of a creek minnow is pretty complicated.

You might get caught in your own creek and taken away for fish bait. You might get put on a hook and killed by a fish that grabbed you and tried to eat you. You might be lucky and get released into the lake alive and well. And you might escape the lake fish okay. But that creek you found and ran up to escape could still have enemies.

Diving kingfishers, grabbing raccoons, pouncing bullfrogs, snapping turtles, and twisting water snakes. 

Considering all that, I knew I was lucky to be a boy in a small Tennessee town and not a creek minnow.


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Stories Travel

Roadside Terror

“I believe the muffled blast of the .410 shotgun after Billy Reeder held his breath for what seemed forever and then with an utterly forsaken cry pulled the trigger and blew his big toe off so he wouldn’t be sent to Vietnam.”    From Rain on the River by Jim Dodge

Bygone years long past yes but now as easy as

well let’s say politician lying I could take you back

there actually right there on Pennsylvania Route 30

which is the one-and-only Lincoln Highway the

first U.S. road to cross our country—if it still

can be called ours—from coast east at New York City to

coast west at San Francisco and where I was was west of

Bedford Pennsylvania and a little past Schellsburg and

on beyond the buffalo yes amazing for Pennsylvania

buffalo farm we were there to see and no problems

driving no roadblocks arguments or flats until now so

sudden ahead ahead there was him or her hit down in

the road and smashed over on the shoulder harmed

awful and no not a person but a deer which in my

thoughts is almost as bad to see here or on any

road and I will never not anytime in my lifetime or

beyond if there is any forget the look oh lord the

terror on that poor animal’s face connecting right to

mine our faces do you see? face to face but as a

glimpse because of the car speed but mind what you

glimpse because this one has followed me through

life more miles than that Lincoln Highway adds up.

 


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