Proud Start -- My Early Reporting

Note: One of my favorite stories, an enterprised feature that I wrote while prowling the Banana Docks in the Port of Tampa, just after I began writing for The Tampa Times.  

Oldest Tampa radio station ministers to ships at sea

April, 20, 1972

Published on Page-1a

By DANE SUMBERG
Times Staff Writer

Nestled between two quivering antennae, Tampa's first radio station hides in a little-known, run-down shack, squealing its mysterious Morse code over the din of the waterfront.

Established in 1919 inside one of Tampa Bay Hotel's towering Moorish minarets (now the University of Tampa), WPD radio still broadcasts after 53 years to the extremes of the globe.

To the station's founder, George Warner, the raucous squawks of dots and dashes were his love, his life and finally his death in 1939 – when electrocuted while he was working on a faulty transmitter.

Fuses and grinning-dialed boxes smother the wall of the radio shack at 1330 McKay St., where it has been in continuous operation, except for the two world wars, for almost half a century.

The floor, gouged by termites and decades of weather and wear, supports an ancient, sagging table straining under the weight of years-old equipment.

As Rhea Johnson jiggles the telegraph key, prompting ear-piercing screeches, the single, funnel-covered lightbulb suspended from the sagging ceiling by a frayed chord goes dim with each dit-dah.

Appearing shabby and outmoded, the WPD radio shack serves as the ears and voice of the Port of Tampa, providing valuable communication solely by radio-broadcasted telegraphy between local shipping agents and vessels heading for the harbor.

Mainly, the agents learn through WPD when and where to expect vessels, what their cargo is and what supplies they require.

Johnson is one of the two wireless operators who work the station for Warner's widow, Mrs. Clara Lee Wood, 3410 Obispo St.

Mrs. Wood said the station vacated its lofty perch atop the old hotel after alarmed guests complained of frequent Western Union messenger boys climbing the fire escape to the transmitter, the only means of
access.

Mrs. Wood inherited the station and license, unique in that it shares with a Baltimore, Md., station the distinction of being the only privately owned radio-telegraph services in the country.

Other such services throughout the nation are either owned by RCA or ITT, but WPD maintains an affiliation with RCA because of the corporation's aid in collecting foreign bills.

Mrs. Wood said she handles the money end of the station, leaving technical aspects up to her hired operators. To her knowledge, she said, she is the only woman in the world who has the sole responsibility for running a radio-telegraph service.

Performing another valuable service, WPD's operators maintain "radio silence" twice each hour, complying with federal law which requires them to listen for possible distress signals.

Also, valuable weather information concerning the port of Tampa is broadcast several times daily for the benefit of Tampa-bound ships. The clock on the wall remains five hours ahead of local time, always giving the operator Greenwich, England, time so necessary in coordinating international radio dis-
patches.

WPD remains Tampa's only "sure way" to cut through poor atmospheric conditions, called "skip," that plagues voice transmissions, Mrs. Wood said, and added radio-telegraphy by far outreaches radio-tele-
phone.

In 1968, Warner's son offered the station for sale to the Tampa Port Authority for $75,000, and later, after interest died, to Port Manatee officials.

But, recognizing the obsolescence of the equipment and only marginal profits, all action died, and the station continued as before.

Anchored to Tampa's port through history and service, though old and shabby in appearance, WPD is likely to be heard on the airwaves for many more years to come, giving aid to Tampa's lifeline shipping in the same pioneering spirit that gave birth to modern communication.

– 30 –  

Buck Me!

 Just Horsin' Around

Growing up as a city kid in Baltimore, the closest I ever came to a horse was to see the horse-drawn produce vendors, called "arabs," in the alley behind my row house.  But the young girl living next to me had a fascination with horses.  And because my family and her family were friends, we soon came to know of her obsession.

We rarely went anywhere, so it was a complete surprise when my father announced we would be making a day trip to Chincoteague Island to visit a famous horse farm.  This is quite a drive from Baltimore.  Furthermore, it crosses the Chesapeake Bay via the Chesapeake Bay Bridge which, at the time of its opening in 1952, was the world's longest continuous over-water steel structure, at 4 miles long. 

Such a trip would take us way back in history since the family on my mother's side had owned plantations on the Delmarva peninsula from way back in the late 1600s. 

Apparently, Dad had learned that the neighbor's girl, Roberta, had read a couple of children's books about horses.  The books were "Misty of Chincoteague" and "Sea Star, Orphan of Chincoteague" by Marguerite Henry.  They delve into life on a horse farm at the Beebee Ranch on Chincoteague Island. 

We drove and drove and drove -- across the amazing Chesapeake Bay Bridge.  I'm sure I was mesmerized by the view.  The bridge was designed to allow for the passage of cargo ships making their way up the Bay to the port of Baltimore.  Somehow, we wound up at the real Mr. Beebe's horse farm on Chincoteague. 

Out in the country for probably the first time in my life, I'm sure I felt exhilarated by all the open space -- the corrals, stables, and barns.  While Dad and Mom engaged in conversation with Mr. Beebe, my brother Paul and I slipped off quietly to one of the nearby corrals. 

In this corral was the biggest horse I had ever seen.  True, my familiarity with horses only extended to Roy Rogers' "Trigger" and "Silver," ridden by The Lone Ranger.  This beauty was all black. Its back was as high as the top wood rail of the corral.  And here it was, standing right next to me.  Without fear, I climbed the rails and, in one swift move, jumped onto the horse's back.  Startled, the horse (which I later learned was a stallion) began to move away from the corral's rails and into the center of the arena.  I grabbed its mane with both hands and hung on.

And that's when it happened ... Somehow, my brother had thought it was a good idea -- since we were going to be sort of like cowboys -- to bring his cap pistol.  As the horse started to move away, Paul began to shoot his cap gun.  

The horse broke into a gallop.  I'm bouncing around, hanging on for dear life.  There was no way out!  There was no escaping it!  I was on a runaway horse and had no idea how to stop it.  The only solution: JUMP!  

Whump!  I landed in the dirt and the air exploded from my lungs.  As the horse trotted away, my parents and Mr. Beebe came running over, picked me up, and took me outside the corral.

Any memory of the episode beyond that has been erased for many a year.  I like horses; I just don't trust them.  I prefer now to admire such marvelous, beautiful animals from afar. 

Hey, Now! What's That Sound?

I got to know Bill Morris, more often recognized as "Morris of  SELBYPIC," when I was a Police Beat reporter.  I would often see Bill in the newsroom, dressed in tennis whites and an ever-present floppy blue terry cloth hat, peddling his aerial photographs.  But the first time I had serious interaction with Bill was when a massive oil tanker went aground off of Port Tampa.  

It was a slow news day, Wednesday morning, July 26, 1972. I was making my morning check calls to various law enforcement agencies, including the control tower at Tampa International Airport and the U.S. Customs service.  My job was to cover any and all breaking stories, including disasters.  Calling from the "cop shop" at the police station, I dialed the number for the U.S. Coast Guard.  The duty officer kindly reported to me that they had an oil tanker barge aground just off the channel leading to Port Tampa.  This was the bulk port at the southwestern tip of the Interbay Peninsula in Tampa (the general cargo port was officially known as "The Port of Tampa" and was located much closer to town).  

When I heard a big barge was aground there, loaded with 268,000 gallons of highly explosive gasoline, I notified the City Desk at The Tampa Times.  The city editor was interested and wanted me to get a deadline story in, if possible.  Thinking big, I knew that the best story would be seen from the air.  

Page One -- In Time For Home-Delivery

My next call was to Morris.  "There's a large crude oil tanker aground in the channel leading to Port Tampa," I told him.  Without skipping a beat, Bill told me to meet him at the small, nearby airport on Davis Island where he kept his plane.  I had never flown with Bill, despite the many stories about him and his aerial acrobatics that circulated in newsrooms at both The Tampa Times and Tampa Tribune. 

It was a short drive to Peter O. Knight airport.  Bill had given me the number of his hangar, and it was easy to drive down the rows of planes inside corrugated steel structures. 

I can clearly remember pulling up to the hangar.  Bill had already pulled the plane, affectionately known as "Nancy," out of the hangar.  I pulled up in my car just to the side of the tarmac.  I was struck by the sight of some sort of door leaning against the wall.  Unconcerned, I greeted Bill and he ushered me into the front seat, on the left side of the plane. Bill's seat, on the right, had no door.  I said nothing as we taxied out of the hangar area and onto the north end of the north-south  runway.  Before I knew it, Bill was throttling up, ready for take-off.  Releasing the wheel brake, Nancy jumped forward, hurtling  down the runway and going airborne just as the runway ended at water of Tampa Bay. 

Because it was my first time flying in a small plane, I had no idea what to expect next.  Bill was on the radio, not only clearing his take-off with the authorities at Peter O. Knight, but he was soon speaking to military air traffic controllers in the tower at MacDill Air Force Base.  The conversation was along the lines of "I'm flying about six-feet above the waves off the end of the air force base runway," where Vietnam-era Phantom F-14s were often taking off.  Bill was a blood-brother of the Air Force guys, having served in the South Pacific during WWII.  They immediately cleared him fly under the end of the runway, since it was the most direct route to the grounded tanker.  Bill had regularly greased the wheels by sending the tower crew photos of the planes on the runway whenever he was allowed to overfly the base.  It was a special privilege, extended to Bill.  Because they respected him, completely. 

I was spellbound to be flying at that level, just above the whitecaps, looking at the tip of the AFB runway.  Before I could gather my thoughts or say anything, Bill pointed Nancy's nose skyward and started to make wide, spiraling circles to gain to gain altitude.  Up and up we went; the objects on the ground getting smaller and smaller.  In less than a minute we were high above the peninsula and looking directly down on the stricken ship. 

Once at the desired altitude, he promptly pushed the plane's throttle all the way in, cutting back to an idle.  Next, he heeled the Cessna all the way over to the right.  Reaching into the back bench seat Bill  grabbed the heavy, motor-driven, 2-1/4"-format Hasselblad camera.  Letting completely go of the plane's steering yoke, he slipped his hands into straps of the camera's machine-gun grips.

While the engine roar was replaced by an annoying, continuous "maaaaaap, maaaaaap, maaaaaap" sound, Bill was hanging out of the door, ripping off dozens of photographs. 

I did not know what the noise was, but I was anxious.  OK ... more than anxious as the plane glided silently (no engine roar) in a downward spiral.  With the deadline looming, there was precious time to be scared.  In one swift move, Bill tossed the 'Blad into the back seat, righted the plane, opened the throttle wide and headed back the way we came.   Once again, under the fighter jet flightpath and in sight of the Peter O. Knight runway, Nancy was anxious to get back to her hangar. 

Bill landed effortlessly, quickly taxiing to the hangar.  I was off to the newsroom to file my story while Bill was headed to his house where he would process the film in his darkroom.

The story of the grounded fuel tanker, complete with a spectacular aerial photograph, made it for the 11 a.m. home-delivery deadline  I could finally breathe easy.  It was only then, when I related my experience to fellow news reporters and photographers, that I found out what the bothersome noise was, coming from Nancy's dashboard.

"That's the stall-warning buzzer, Dane," they said.  There were laughs and rolling eyes.  The plane, with me and Bill in it, was simply falling slowly out of the sky -- and onto the front page of The Tampa Times. 

Alone -- And Scared

I met Beth when I started at USF in the fall of 1965.  We were part of a close-knit college crowd that stayed together loosely over the years.  In or around 2010, I was living in Texas and got a Facebook pop-up from a "Beth Walker."  I didn't recognize her married name, but we soon realized we had been friends way back when.

 

I was traveling between Texas and Florida, trying to see the last manned space launch.  While visiting with friends in Stuart, Beth reached out to me via computer and I suggested she come down and "hang out" with us.  She did, and the rest is history.

 

You see, after traveling back and forth for a number of years, Beth and I decided to be together for the rest of our lives.  And to take care of one another forever.  I moved back here to her beautiful property here in Odessa, although I've always thought of myself as a South Tampa boy (Hyde Park and Gray Gables, and the bay side of Westshore just south of Euclid).

 

I sold my house and most of my belongings and came to live with Beth July 3, 2016.  We were our own best friends, mainly because most of my Tampa friends either still lived south of Kennedy or how moved elsewhere.  In a way, we started out isolated because this is four acres of country, fronting on Lake Hiawatha.  There are nearby neighbors, but no one I could really call a "friend."

 

Beth had been a lifelong smoker but had stopped cold turkey about 3 years ago.  Still, they had to arthroscopically remove a wedge section of the lower lobe of her right lung in December 2018.  When January rolled around this year, I beseeched Beth to schedule her annual follow-up tests.  But she procrastinated -- and then the virus hit in March.  She finally pushed on and got the tests.

 

It was about three weeks before the 4th of July weekend, on a Sunday night when she received her test results online.  They were not good.  There was something growing again in the lower right lobe -- and it hadn't been there a year ago.  That meant it was growing fairly quickly.  

 

The very next day we went to the scheduled appointment with her lung surgeon.  Getting right to the point, he said he wanted to go in and arthroscopically remove (as in the past) the entire lower lobe.  The recovery, he said, would be fairly quick since the procedure was not too invasive.  He wanted whatever was in there OUT.  And so surgery was scheduled July 6, just after the holiday.  But what had changed was hospital visitation: it was now prohibited.  We went to get her COVID-19 test the week before and then showed up at 6 a.m. on Monday.  I pulled down Beth's mask, kissed her warmly on the lips, told her I loved her and whispered encouraging words.

 

It would be the last time I saw her alive.

 

She went under the knife around noon, but things went awry quickly.  The surgeon encountered so much scar tissue stuck to the lung that he had to open her up with a foot-long incision, remove a large rib just below her breast, and start cutting away the lobe from everything that had somehow grown attached to it.

 

Unbelievably, she called me that night, exhausted.  "I'm tired," she said.  "And I'm having trouble breathing."  My reply was to say something encouraging, like "Of course, look what you've just been through."  I told her to try to get some rest and I would call the hospital early the next morning to see how she had made it through the night.

 

The next day, I called bright and early but couldn't get anyone to answer until around mid-morning.  I got ICU nursing first, I think, and they said that they would be getting her up in the recliner and having her breathe into the spirometer to improve her lung capacity.  And then I talked to Beth once more.  She said, "I'm tired and I'm scared."  It was heart-breaking that I could not be with her. Again, I pleaded with her to get some rest.

 

The nurses said I would be contacted by a nurse and a physician late that afternoon.  But as the day wore on, there was no phone call.  Living out here in the country, I decided to take the car up the long driveway to get the mail and to stop by the old, broken-down barn where we feed a small colony of feral cats.

 

As I stopped the car to feed her little family -- she did love them so -- the phone rang.  It was the surgeon.  "Beth as taken a turn for the worse," he said.  She was unconscious, they had had to intubate her and put her on the ventilator.  "Her lungs filled up with fluid," the surgeon told me.  "We could hear her gurgling from across the ICU, struggling for breath."  He went on to describe some medical conditions, but when he used the term "ARDS," my ears perked up.  I had been reading about ARDS in conjunction with COVID-19, and I knew it was not a good sign.  I stopped the surgeon and said, "If this is possibly end-of-life, I need to be there."  He was silent for a moment, thinking.  "Yes.  We can make that happen now."  He said to head for the hospital.  Before I got to the house, just a few hundred yards down the drive, the phone rang again and it was the nurse.  "Just come to the emergency room entrance and we'll bring you right up, " she said.

 

How scared Beth must have been.  So all alone.

 

I went into the house.  I had been using a couple group text messages to update Beth's closest friends on her condition, and I sent out a message that alerted them to the fact that Beth was in trouble and I was heading for the hospital.

 

I got in the car and headed straight for AdventHealth North Pinellas.  I was in downtown Tarpon Springs when my cell phone rang.  "Where are you?" said the nurse.  "I'm just five minutes away," I replied.  "Oh, OK.  Just call us from the parking lot when you get here and we'll get you right up."

 

At the hospital, a nurse just going on shift -- who wasn't aware of Beth's situation -- took me up to ICU.  She started to bring me into ICU but we were stopped.  "You can't bring him in here.  He has to talk to the surgeon first," they told us.  I was taken around to the waiting room where the surgeon arrived within a couple of minutes.  The first thing he said was, "You need to sit down."  Just like any nightmarish movie ... only it was real.

 

"Beth has expired," he said.  He went on to say they had been trying to revive her for the past two hours.  Her heart and stopped and they could not restart it.

 

I was taken in to her, they closed the curtains around us, and I took her cold hand and held it.  I talked to her and cried softly.  I stood up to kiss her on the forehead and -- she was still warm.  I touched the side of her neck and it, too, was warm. I knew at that moment, that when they called me in the car, that they were trying to notify me she had passed away.

 

I sat with her for about 20 minutes, gathered up her belongings, and headed how via the back roads of Keystone.  I don't know how I made it home.

 

And so, here I am today, totally alone.  Out in the country with just a few neighbors.  Unable to go anywhere because of the coronavirus.  And dealing with the death of the woman I vowed to care for for the rest of her life.

 

My heart is broken and I move like a zombie through the hours of each day, stuck in the house that was for a few months our coronavirus prison.  I keep thinking I'll hear her voice or see her coming through the door.  But isolation is my sentence.  How long must we suffer?

 

 

Written with care and emotion,

I am ...

(Email written Aug. 19, 2020, to a local newspaper reporter wanting stories about COVID-19 isolation.)

---

Good Morning, Vietnam!

I certainly wasn't happy about getting orders to Vietnam.  Aware that a high percentage of GIs who were drafted were put on the front lines, I tried to reduce my risk and limit my exposure.  After much thought, my college roommate and I both enlisted at the same time in the U.S. Navy Reserve.

After flunking out of two colleges, I was afraid of losing my military service deferment.  The war was dragging on, with no end in sight.  The newspapers were filled with stories of U.S. firebases being overrun by Viet Cong.  I was no hero and not ready to give my life up for some cause I didn't fully understand and appreciate.

What I could appreciate was the fact that I came from a nautical family.  On my father's side, men had gone down to the sea in ships for generations.  Dad was, in fact, a Danish sea captain -- with permanent captain's licenses from Denmark and Panama.  Also, I was a card-carrying member of the U.S. Merchant Marine, having shipped out on the S.S. Bradford Island sailing coastwise on April 28, 1966.  I grew up on the Tampa waterfront and was comfortable around ships.  What could be more natural?

I figured I was insulated from the war zone.  I didn't think about the massive warships we had off the coast of Vietnam, pounding away with 16-inch guns, or the "brown-water Navy" comprised of river patrol boats (PBRs) and various kinds of landing craft.  No, I was focused on getting that "Mediterranean Cruise."  Ha!  What a joke.  And, what a fool I was.

First off, after graduating from a two-year "junior" college, I returned to my hometown and re-entered the university as a junior-level student.  But I started back to school at the same time I committed to six years of military service.  The Reserve obligation was actually only two years of  "active duty."  You attended meetings once a month for the first year (which would take me through my junior year in college), then you reported for active duty.  After that, you were supposed to do two more years of monthly meetings followed by one year of no-drill/no pay.

I was "on board" with this arrangement, as you might say.  Regular Navy, as well as other military branches, required a four-year stint -- all active duty.  If I got that "Med Cruise" like I wanted, it was going to be a sweet deal.

July 1, 1968, was my date of enlistment.  I had to attend "boot camp" for two weeks in late August of that year.  I had 12 months to get my junior year of college done and I buckled down -- sort of.  There were the occasional late nights out in the "hippie" bars near the university.  Things were looking up and I was beginning to think I had made some smart decisions.

One day, while living at home with my parents and going to school, I went outside to the mailbox.  When I came inside and opened a fancy-looking envelope (like the kind you get with an invitation in it), I started to laugh hysterically.  My startled mother became alarmed and asked me why I was laughing.  "I just made the Dean's List," I said, incredulously.

You see, I had never expected to become a decent student, much less make the Dean's List.  My track record was horrible and all I wanted to do was make sure I wouldn't flunk out again and get drafted into the Army or Marines.  Reading the card, at that moment I seriously doubted I had made any smart decisions.

I finished my junior year -- and the next letter I got was from Uncle Sam, saying "C'mon on.  Time to go."  I reported for active duty in Charleston, SC for active duty on July 10, 1969.

I remember Charleston was a sweatbox.  Hot, humid and lots of thunderstorms -- much like Tampa.  Each day we'd get up, report for some ridiculous work detail to kill time and go down to look at the bulletin board to see if our orders had come in.   Day after day, sailors were getting orders to PBRs!  That's right, river patrol boats deep in the interior of Vietnam.  Now, this was something I had not planned for.  A week passed and then there were a few days when the orders slowed down.  Nothing was happening.  SOMETHING was happening.

Then came the morning when I, with a group of anxious sailors, jockeyed for position to see the board.  There, at long last, was my name.  Next to it was the place where I was supposed to report for duty.  It said "Danang, RVN."  I must have reread it five times.  My heart must have sunk.  Later, after returning home, I would joke with friends that the Navy had apparently begun naming ships after cities in Vietnam because I couldn't believe I was going to Vietnam and not some ship.

When you get sent to Vietnam, you first get some special training.  They send you to "Counter-Insurgency School."  The point is to train you for if and when you get captured.  Because the Navy felt sorry for me -- you know, I may never come back -- they gave me three weeks of leave to be with my family before reporting on August 26, 1969, to Little Creek, VA -- a Marine base.  There the Marines ran us ragged, trying to harden what looked like Pillsbury Doughboys.  We learned how to shoot M-16s, M-79 grenade launchers, M-60 machine guns and 50-cal. machine guns.  And we got physically fit.

The Navy must have really felt sorry for me because they gave me another week's leave for a final goodbye.  I said farewell to my friends and parents.  It wasn't tearful, I don't think.  I can't imagine what my mother must have felt.  I recall standing in the living room, dressed in my crisp Navy whites.  My mom took my picture.  I smiled.  I went to the airport.

In those days, the military chartered civilian passenger jets to move their troops around the country and in and out of Vietnam.  My Tampa flight landed in L.A. where I hopped a chopper for Norton Air Force Base in San Bernardino.  I climbed aboard an American Airlines 747, bound first for Hawaii, then Guam, and finally Danang.

The flight was long and grueling.  I remember the stewardesses were nice, probably feeling sorry for us.

On touchdown October 3, 1969, I couldn't see much.  We walked down the plane's stairs into a bright, sunny day.  It was beautiful.  There wasn't much to look at.  The terminal was an open-air wooden structure built by the Americans for troop movement.  I must have been in a fog, but I somehow got my seabag and followed directions with a bunch of other GIs.

I walked up a ramp into what almost looked like a cattle trailer, painted Navy grey.  Pulled by a semi-tractor, we proceeded to wind our way through the crowded streets of Danang.  There were seats all along the edge of the trailer, with hand-holds much like subway trains.  The door was still open on the side, and I could see the scenery moving by in an almost dream-like stream.

In traffic, we came to a stop.  I could see out the side door.  Just a few feet away there was a young Vietnamese girl, wearing the traditional straw hat.  Wow!  I was really here.  These people were beautiful.  I was sure they were incredibly grateful for another truckload of soldiers, all willing to fight and die for Vietnam's freedom.

"Hey, Baby-san," yelled one GI from the cattle car.  "Boom-boom?"

Little did I understand the slang, the lingo, the obscenities that GIs would use to address the locals.  Nor could I believe how adept the little girl, working tirelessly in her garden beside the road, was with spoken English.

"Fuck you, GI," she yelled.  Besides being fluent in English cursing, so too was she adept at finger gestures.

Good Morning, Vietnam!  My life was about to change -- forever.

The Brutal End

I was moved to tears.

I had been driving the sidestreets somewhat off the highway, trying to get a decent photograph of a tattered and torn American flag, flying ever so proudly in the wind -- despite its deplorable condition. 

My search led me to a feeling much deeper than the anger I felt upon seeing the stately symbol.  I felt the deepest sorrow.  And I felt helpless ...

What I saw was something I never expected to see, and I only glanced it for a second.  The flock of vultures had surrounded what I believed to be the carcass of an animal that hadn't made it across the street.  It's an area of development -- tens of thousands of new houses and commercial development along the fringes.

The poor animals who had formerly called the placid pastures and cypress swamps their homes were being displaced at a furious pace.

I was struck by the thought that it was the inevitable final chapter -- where one animal must be sacrificed so that others will continue to thrive.  But I cried out loud when I came abreast of the dark feast.  The vultures were greedily picking apart the body.

But for a brief second -- my heart stopped -- when I saw the raccoon raise its head, to itself witness its own end.  How terrific, horrible.  I could feel their beaks slicing through my heart.

I wanted to stop the car.  Get out.  Put it out of its misery.

But I did not.

Stunned, I drove ahead, turned the corner and drew a deep breath.

I'm so sorry, my friend.  May you find peace tonight.  I cannot unsee his brutal end, and what it may portend.

Shouldn't "Sexual Harassment" Be About Sex?

I find myself confused these days because of all the allegations in the news of sexual harassment.  I'm almost afraid to express my opinion on the subject.

It's no secret that a man has to walk a fine line in the workplace.  This has been the case for a couple decades, at least.

With fondness, I remember when a woman in the office -- right in the middle of the workplace -- pulled her blouse up to her armpits for me.  To say I was shocked is an understatement.  As I whipped my head around to see if anyone had been watching, I realized that apparently she had already done so.  I guess, with the advent of cubicles, people could easily be shielded from much of what goes on in the office.

And there was the time at the tennis courts when, as I climbed the stairs to the pro's office, a lady player said to me, "Nice legs."  I was pleasantly surprised.  But, really, I thought nothing of it.  Now that I think about it, she may have been eyeing a different part of my anatomy.  Tennis shorts were, well, short back then.  And, I guess some would say, quite revealing.

Harassment?  I don't think so.  There was no touching, true.  But sexually charged for sure.

But there was also the time, now so very vague, when I must have complimented a female office worker on her appearance.  I am certain I said nothing untoward.  Perhaps a word about a nice dress or her looking particularly nice that day.  It wasn't until hours later that I realized I had made a grave mistake, and that my comments could be misinterpreted as "suggestive" or even "harassment."  I anguished over what I had done and apologized to her in private the next day.

I get what groping is.  I am quite sure it is the inappropriate and often rough and forceful handling of another's sexual anatomy.  To be specific, I believe that anatomy to be breasts and crotch area for women.  I had never had to think about how that might apply to men, but I would assume that also meant the crotch area.

Here's the thing.  The genitals and female breasts are "sexual organs," aren't they?  I mean, they do have erectile tissue.  They do respond to sexual stimulation.  What I'm having trouble with is the butt.  The buttocks.  One's ass.

I was reminded that one's appreciation for various parts of the body is a strictly personal thing.  Certain segments of the population have an affinity for the posterior.  (I'm having disturbing flashes of Kim Kardashian, who's stern requires emergency flashers.)

I can see how "cupping" or "grabbing" anyone's butt would be harassment.  Really I do.  But the butt is not some sexual appendage -- no matter how much today's popular culture would make it out to be.  In point:  "Baby's got back."  "Shake your booty."  However, I have a tendency to think that one's behind has become de-sexualized.  Just go to the beach.  Men and women both bare their derriere without a thought.  If it's out there for all the world to see, how is it any different than a shoulder, an elbow or knee?  You can "sexualize" these appendages if you want.  But I would not.

I am appalled by the number of females coming forward and complaining that men have "touched" their butt.  Hey, lady.  It's your butt.  Nothing more, nothing less.  The touch may or may not have been inappropriate, yeah.  But a touch is not harassment.  I hate to see someone's life shattered because of an "innocent" touch.  If, however, the intent was to push on, to "test the waters" or -- worst of all -- begin applying leverage to gain sexual favors, I have a big problem with that.

Now, I'm in no way advocating that all of a sudden it become socially acceptable to touch another person's ass.  Football and other sports butt-patting aside, it's just an area of the human body that is normally kept out of sight and rightfully ascribed to as "private parts."  But it does not fall into the category of "sexual."  It is neither used for procreation nor is it a specialized organ for the nourishment of an infant.  In terms of output, when compared to the genitals or breasts, the buttocks is pretty disgusting.

So, I'd like to see "sexualization" of the butt stopped.  And maybe we can go back to when I was a kid and one's ass was nothing more than the butt of a joke.

Never Miss An Opportunity To Meet Someone New

Today I spied someone anchored off the edge of the property, just over on the neighbor's side. They fished for at least an hour, which was unusual, because most lake fishermen drift by the lakefront quietly, tossing their lines into the lake grass.  But this person anchored and was casting with a small rod out toward the center of the lake.  I was curious and walked down to meet Ralph, a black man, who was catching brim.  Most were too small and he was throwing them back.  But every cast brought back a fish, almost immediately.  

Ralph, who was acquainted with a lakefront property owner on the other side of the lake, was obviously having a good time.  He said he was catching fish to feed the homeless.  I’m going to assume that did not include him, since he had a nice aluminum john-boat with a small, electric kicker on the back.  We talked for a few minutes, about his technique, his bait (red worms), and our preferences for salt- vs. freshwater fishing.  I grew up in South Tampa, off the Bay, and knew only about dropping a line in water that was salt.  Now, living on a lake north of Tampa, I wish I knew more about freshwater fishing.  

I shared with him Beth’s story about releasing a big freshwater catfish in the lake. Interestingly, Ralph said he had never caught a catfish in this lake.  Apparently he fishes the lake often, although I’ve not seen him -- but I may have.  He wears a floppy hat with a cover over the back of his neck.  I have a vague feeling that I’ve seen him out on the lake.  We exchanged first names and Ralph offered to take me out on the lake any time I should see him. In parting, he offered to do any odd jobs around the house, saying he wasn’t afraid to do some hard work.  

I’m glad I took the time to walk down to the lakefront and meet Ralph.  You never know what opportunities you may miss to connect with others if you stay holed up, never opening yourself up to new experiences.  

Just like the other day -- when I walked up to the road-front to get the mail.  There, again, was someone I had only briefly talked to, walking his big, old Great Dane.  We had a great conversation about power outages and … Vietnam.  Turns out we were both there -- he just ahead of me, and during some of the worst fighting.  He’s a retired Master Chief in the Navy, and as a result of our newfound friendship, he offered to loan us his very cool generator the next time our power goes out and he’s not needing it.  

Sometimes I just love being an extrovert, although it’s at times painful.  But what I learned long ago as a newspaper reporter was that everyone IS interesting, has a story to tell, and loves to talk about themselves (me included, as you might notice.)

The Spider In The Nightlight

My friend appears to be doing well.

He lives inside the clear shade of the bathroom nightlight.  I think I named him Ralphie.  But that's because I name all my bugs "Ralphie."  I guess he's a guy, but I'm not sure.  Goes with the name.

I'm not sure how long ago it was when I first realized I always was accompanied when I used the bathroom.  I first noticed small, dark "droppings" on the countertop next to the wall.  They had to be bugs -- dead bugs -- or bug poop.  They would appear, even after I swept them up, directly below an outlet where the LED nightlight is plugged in.  It's one of those with the sensor that switches on at dusk.

Ralphie has hit on something good.  His cool-bulb nightlight guarantees bugs will come around at night.  And there are no shortage of bugs, apparently.  We live in the country and even the new, hurricane-proof windows have gaps around the screens.

At first I didn't think anything was alive inside the shade.  But there were, as I learned later, carcasses in there, some hung up in Raphie's little web.  I was not pleased with the bits of black inside the light, so I unplugged it and looked inside.

Nothing moved.

I was going to dump it -- clean it out with a wet wipe.  But, I thought, what if there were a live spider in there?  I honestly can cohabitate with a small spider -- as long as they stick to their territory.  I have learned this attitude from Beth, who convinced me some time ago to let a rather large garden spider run loose in the bathroom.  So if he were alive, I'd just let him harvest what stray flying insects should wind up in the web.

So, to be sure, I poked the butt-end of a toothbrush in there.  Immediately there was a furious amount of activity inside the shade.  Ralphie virtually vibrated back and forth, his little body whipping to and fro, up and down, sideways.  He was obviously agitated -- but he did not run away.  No.  Not Ralphie.  He froze.  All movement stopped.  I poked again and the agitation began again.  He is so small you can hardly distinguish him from all the little black carcasses.  But he was the only spot moving.

And still he stayed.

Someone -- or something this dedicated to protecting their franchise should not be removed.  Ralphie showed a real determination to stay where he was at any cost.  And so Ralphie the nightlight spider remains on the wall, behind his little clear-plastic enclosure, not far from my ear when I look in the mirror.

When I remember that he's there, I look over and see him (and clean up his mess).  But I'm happy that he gets to live on and enjoy his decision to be the spider in the nightlight.

Update: 6/15/17  I'm sad to report that Ralphie is with me no longer.  Hopefully, he moved on to more fertile grounds.  Realistically, he had a long and prosperous life.  Now I often glance at the empty nightlight and think fondly of my friend.

The Light At The End Of The Tunnel

As I approach my 70th birthday, I am aware that I am aware.

I am aware that I am -- old.  Worse yet, I am aware that my time on this earth is limited.  For me, the light at the end of the tunnel is red.  It's a stop light.  And I am in no hurry to, as they say, "go toward the light."

It distresses me to be thinking this way, to have these thoughts.  Although it's been coming on slowly, the awareness that there is so little time left has been nagging at me for the the last year.

There are several things that are bringing my mortality into sharp focus.

First, there are the funerals.  I retired in 2008 after seeing co-workers, some years younger than me, die of horrible diseases.  I wanted to live life -- what was left of it -- and not regret having worked right up to the day I experience a debilitating heart attack or stroke.  Recently I attended back-to-back funerals.  The first day, the funeral was for a man just a few months older than me.  Believe me, that got me thinking.  The next day I attended the funeral for the father of one of my oldest friends, a friend who is just about my age.  His father had lived to be 95 years old.  Although he was physically frail, his mind was wonderfully sharp.  I was actually jealous because -- given my frame of mind -- I couldn't see me living that long.  And I wanted to.  I still want to.

But recent medical events in my life have me question my own viability.  I won't go into all the details.  Oh, sure, I have the normal aches and pains that I imagine someone my age has.  I ruined both knees long ago playing tennis.  I tore one shoulder decades ago, falling backward in a slimy parking lot.  I tore the other shoulder -- my right shoulder -- playing ping pong.  That's right.  You read that correctly.  I literally threw my arm out of its socket.  The worst part of all this is that I am a shoulder sleeper and go back and forth, from one shoulder to the other, all night long -- waking each time I turn.

The fact that I continuously test anemic is more than worrisome.  The doctors at the VA have all but given up trying to find out why.  My primary physician back in Texas duly noted it, would mention it each time I had blood tests, and then we would not talk about it anymore.  And the fact that my father died of a blood disorder -- the swift onset of chronic leukemia -- does not give me confidence.

For most of my life I've been deadline oriented.  As a newspaper writer/editor, I tackled three deadlines daily for more than a decade.  When I set goals, I usually meet them.  But it may have been a mistake a number of years ago to set one deadline in particular.  That deadline was my death date.  I was meeting with my financial adviser and, as with any good financial plan, we needed to estimate how long I intended to live in order for my savings to be meted out without running out.

"Eighty-five," I said.  "That sounds like a ripe, old age."

Maybe 85 seemed far away when I was in my early 60s.  But it doesn't anymore.  In fact, 80 seems real close -- like that stop light at the end of the tunnel.  I get the feeling I'm managing my life to meet this final deadline.

I hate this futile way of thinking.  I feel disgusted when I wake up in the morning and realize I did nothing the day before that was remarkable.  I took up motorcycle touring in 2005 because I wanted to put something in my life that made my heart beat faster.

I am going to try harder to live my life to the fullest.  I am going to set some more goals, plan more trips, get more involved.  I no longer want life to just seep into me; I want to go out and embrace it.

Maybe, just maybe, I can change that light at the end of the tunnel from red to green.  And if not, at least I raced to the end instead of simply coasting.

Tampa -- City of the Apes

You blew it up.  Ah, damn you.  God damn you all to hell.

These days I often feel like Charlton Heston in the movie "Planet of the Apes."  In particular it's the revelation at the end, where Heston's character realizes he's never left. Only, everything he's ever known about his world has been turned upside down.

I DID leave.  And that's a fact.  But I came back to Tampa.  I've been in Texas since 1989, and there's a standing joke that Texans inflict on outsiders.  If you're to be accepted at all, you say "I wasn't born here, but I got here as soon as I could."  That's about the only way a Texan would give you any credence.  I kind of feel that way about Florida.

On a particular day, at a particular time, I knew I belonged in Florida.  And I remember it like it was yesterday -- only it wasn't.  I was a man in my early 30s, I believe, when I was driving with the top down into the setting sun.  I was going over the hump on Gandy Bridge, with the radio blasting and the wind in my hair and face.  I was in my 1971 Olds Cutlass.

"Yeah!" I yelled, as my eyes scanned the horizon.  "I'm in Florida!  This is where everyone else wants to be."  And that feeling -- that feeling that Tampa was my home, where I was meant to be -- has never left me.

Back then, it was "Tampa town."  Traffic congestion was unheard of, unless one of the bridges across the Hillsborough River got stuck open.  People didn't actually live in St. Petersburg or Clearwater and go to work in Tampa, having to cross the bay via the Gandy or Howard-Frankland bridges, or the Courtney-Campbell Causeway.  No.  No way.  The three cities were all very well defined communities, each with a character all its own.

Today, we live in the Bay.  Quite literally, the marketing Gods would have the rest of the United States and world believe that residents live in a place called Tampa Bay.  Oh!  You mean "Tampa Bay area?"  Well then, why don't you say so?  Any map will clearly show you that Tampa Bay is a body of water, as is Hillsborough Bay, Old Tampa Bay and McKay Bay.

In this topsy-turvy world today, people young and old are fleeing Tampa to live in -- of all places -- St. Petersburg.  Hell, I wouldn't be caught dead living in St. Petersburg unless I was 65 or older.  At least, that's the way I saw it when I was young.  Clearwater was just a sleepy little town whose claim to fame was its fantastic beach.  Today, St. Petersburg's bayfront district is experiencing an incredible resurgence. Gone are the famous green bus benches and shuffleboard courts that catered to senior citizens.  Clearwater is so popular with the ultra rich that they've built walls of condominiums along the beach, screening off the Gulf waters from everyday people.  Why, even the Church of Scientology is in on the act, buying up as much downtown Clearwater property as possible to go along with its downtown world headquarters.

I live out in the country now.  Well, it used to be country.  Now there are thousands of home sites going in just north of us in what used to be pasture land.  Traffic is so bad on our east-west state road that we may have to drive back roads to a nearby intersection with a traffic light in order to be able to get onto or across the highway.  Developers are pushing elected officials to ignore planning efforts and law so that this rural area can be developed to the point where you can look in your neighbor's windows or stare at the three-story tower of town homes.

I grew up in South Tampa.  I could ride my bike down the middle of Howard Avenue, paved with Baltimore Block bricks, and never fear being hit by a car.  Today Howard Avenue is a parking lot.  In some places our wise city fathers have allowed apartments and condos to overshadow the street to the point that you feel you are in a canyon.

I was away from Florida for almost 30 years.  Each time I came back to visit I became more and more aware that "you can't go home again," as the novelist Thomas Wolfe noted.  Things change, and usually not for the better.  I'm certain young people today love Tampa Bay and all its bars, restaurants, malls and attractions.  But, if they could know what I know, see what I saw, and live the life I had back then, they would breathe a deep sigh, and dream of paradise lost.

Baltimore -- Tough Neighborhood

Do you know what my first job was?

I never really thought about it until I was watching an episode of "The Good Wife" and a black, female applicant at the law firm was asked where she was from.  "Baltimore," she replied.  "Tough neighborhood" and "You have to be tough to grow up there" were the responses from her interviewers.

To be honest, I wasn't an "inner-city" child.  But we weren't exactly out in the suburbs either.
To be sure, there were nothing but row houses where I lived -- just like downtown.  I was somewhere around the age of 10 when on Saturdays I would walk to the corner, catch a city bus, ride it downtown and get off at the Enoch Pratt Public Library where I crossed the street to go to the WMCA.

Riding the bus alone, being on my own in downtown Baltimore, and taking swimming lessons in the nude at the WMCA.  No one gave any of this a second thought.  It didn't make you tough; it's just the way it was.

As a kid, attending Northwood Elementary School, I was beat up a few times.

Once I decided to walk home from school using the other side of Loch Raven Blvd.  I couldn't resist going down the slope by the bridge over Chinquapin Run.  I was promptly confronted by the biggest kid I'd ever seen, and he proceeded to wrestle me to the ground, punching me in the face until I was able to break free and run away.  Lesson learned.

And there was the time -- again walking home from school -- two neighborhood kids caught me alone in the wooded lot next to Northwood Appold Methodist Church.  I really didn't know them except that I somehow knew they were from a nearby neighborhood.  This time, one kid -- the bigger one -- would hold me down on the ground while his little buddy proceeded to punch me in the face.

Never thought much about it.  "Tough neighborhood?"  I didn't think so.

But now that I think about it, I remember the day I got mugged.

I was too poor to get an allowance.  So in order to get some pocket change I'd walk 12 blocks to Northwood Shopping Center on weekends and station myself just outside of the door to the supermarket.  When people came out with their cart, I would ask them if I could push their cart to their car, help them unload groceries, and return the shopping cart for them.  In return, shoppers would give me a quarter, nickel or dime.  Whatever they had.

This, in fact, was my first job.

Then one day, as the sun was going down, I walked around back to the stairs up to the alley, ready to call it a day.  I had made a lot of money (or so I thought) and for some reason I decided to put it all in my sock.  It was awkward walking, I remember.

I had barely climbed the stairs before I was confronted by two kids, demanding my money.  They must have seen me pushing carts earlier.  But I turned my pockets inside out and said something to the effect of "But I don't have any money."  And I was let go -- without a beating.

"You have to be tough to grow up there ..."  Maybe so.  Just never thought much about it.

I Was The Mob's Newspaper Boy

When we moved to Tampa in January, 1960, we settled into Hyde Park, just off Howard and Bayshore.  Dad liked to call it Palma Ceia -- and it probably was, technically.  We rented a typical Florida bungalow with a large front porch at 1416 S. Moody Ave.  We were right behind Shepherd's Sports Cars, where Bella's Restaurant now stands.

In those days, I probably wasn't getting an allowance.  At age 12, I needed a small amount of cash for french fries at the drugstore soda fountain next to Bern's, or magazines about go-carts from the small general merchandise store on Howard and Morrison, where Hugo's now stands.

My bright idea was to shine shoes outside of the drugstore.  Somehow my Dad got wind of this and, without actually quashing my entrepreneurial spirit, he diverted my attention by making me a shoe polish box with a "sole" pattern on top where one would place their shoe during a shine.  I can remember Dad using a small hatchet to rough out the pattern.

But I still longed for spending money.  Somehow -- I'm not sure -- I must have noticed an adult dropping off bundles of newspapers at the nearby Lil' General store.  Kids on bikes would then come by and pick up their bundles and, after banding or folding the afternoon Tampa Times, would throw them on their paper route.  I imagine I approached the man and asked if I, too, could throw a newspaper route.

I was in luck and was granted a small paper route covering Morrison and Jetton, from Howard west to just across MacDill Avenue.  I can't remember the number of houses I had on my route; I wasn't going to get rich, that's for sure.  But I took over the route gladly, and performed my first duties as a newspaper man.

Throwing a paper route was actually a lot of work.  You had to pick up the bundle and lug it home in a canvas bag wound around the handlebars of your bike.  Fortunately for me, Dad had bought me a beautiful, used Schwinn "cruiser" with a wonderful, wide leather seat, a "springer" front end to absorb shocks and nice fat tires.  It had fine, broad handlebars, perfect for hanging the bag of newspapers.

The trick to throwing a paper route, as any kid with a route can tell you, is knowing how to fold the paper in thirds, so that it was flat.  Although we had rubber bands, we rarely use them.  You see, and nicely folded flat newspaper would sail when thrown.  And when you threw it just right you could calculate for the curve, or arc, that it was going to make in the air before landing just right on the front porch step.  Of course, any miscalculation of this trajectory meant the paper would likely land in the bushes on either side of the front door, making it necessary to stop the bike, get off, retrieve the paper and place it correctly on the stoop.

After a few months of throwing the paper route, I must have become fairly accomplished at landing the paper in the right location most of the time.  And, remember, this was done from a moving bike while steering with one hand.  Performing this complicated set of actions with impunity meant a smooth run of the route -- smooth enough to get me home before Dad arrived from work.  The evening family dinner would proceed on time.

I guess it wasn't long after taking over the route that my route manager approached me one day and told me that one house in particular on Morrison needed special attention.  It was a stately home, one of the larger houses in the well-appointed section of New Suburb Beautiful.  It was the only house, as I recall, that had two-story, tall white colonial pillars.  The red brick also set it apart from all the others since clay for bricks was hard to come by in sandy Florida.

Located on the corner of Morrison and Forest, I was now required to take a detour down the side street, turn up the driveway crowded by tall hedges on either side, ride my bike up to the small back porch and dismount.  I would, I was told, take the newspaper, open the screen door, and place it on the sill before closing the screen door.



Well, this would clearly be a disruption to the my well-defined path of travel.  I didn't want to do this.  Nobody else on my route made such demands.  I mean, I had high-powered lawyers, judges and doctors on my route.  Who, exactly, was this person that was intent on making my life miserable?

To add insult to injury, this particular customer was what we paperboys called a "pre-pay."  OK, sure.  I didn't have to knock on the front door and try to collect a month's worth of subscription money.  But that also meant that I would not be getting any face-time in order to secure a sweet tip for going through all that trouble.

"No," I told my manager.  "I'm not going to do it."  I could feel myself getting flushed.  "Why should I have to do that for just one customer?"  It was my paper route and I was damned well going to throw it the way I wanted.

After our little conversation, I'm sure I did not place the paper inside the backdoor as instructed.  And so, the next day -- as I sat on the porch of my house folding papers prior to throwing the route -- the manager pulls up in front and gets out of his car.

"Is your Dad home?" he asks as he comes up the sidewalk.  Apparently Dad had come home early from his job down on Tampa's waterfront, because I went back in the house to get him.  Dad and the route manager disappeared back in the house for a few minutes.  I don't remember even being worried as to why the manager wanted to talk to my Dad.  I hadn't done anything wrong, right?

Then they both came out to the porch.  The route manager told me that, in no uncertain terms, I would have to place that paper in the back of that house -- or someone else was going to be throwing my route.  Dad was silent.  I looked to him for support but he was oddly non-committal.  I felt the tears welling up as I told my manager that there was no benefit to me in performing these extraordinary tasks.  I was mad.  But it was to no avail.  I wanted to keep my paper route and the financial freedom it gave to me.  So I swallowed my pride.  And agreed.

We didn't stay long on Moody Avenue.  We eventually moved to another rental a block away from Grady Elementary off Henderson.  I attended Wilson through 8th grade, riding the bus each way every day.  But my paper route days were finished.

Many years later I learned that the red-brick colonial house on the corner was the home of reputed mob boss Henry Trafficante -- and it all became clear.  There was no way Henry was going to walk out into his front yard to retrieve a newspaper.  No way.  And it probably didn't take much to convince my route manager that another form of delivery would be necessary.

As a reporter for The Tampa Times many years later, I got to see Henry escorted into the federal courthouse, charged with some infraction that I'm sure he was never convicted of.  But it was then, with a warm glow of satisfaction, that I realized "I was the mob's newspaper boy."

The Limit

I got excited about weight loss the other day.

We needed to take Max to the vet.  A Rottweiler, he's a big old guy.  He's going on 12 and weighs in at 106, down a few pounds from his usual 110.

We had been in the front office for a few minutes when in came a rather skittish breed.  There was bound to be trouble so we elected to walk over to another part of the office, where we could get some separation.  (You Gotta Keep 'Em Separated.)

As we paced back and forth, we spied the electronic scale that the vet uses to weigh animals.  Beth says, "Why don't you check your weight?"  Well, I wasn't weighted down with heavy blue jeans or boots; I was runnin' light.  So it sounded like a good idea even though I had checked my weight about 5 days earlier at the house.

I climbed aboard, and turning to the electronic readout on the wall I was ... well, surprised.  At the house I became aware that I was putting on pounds and was approaching my limit.  You know, The Limit at which you just have to do something.

"One ninety nine," I exclaimed.  Quickly followed -- from me -- was the assessment of "That's not right."  It was way too light.  And I knew I couldn't have lost that much weight in the few days that had passed since I last weighed.

But I was hopeful.  Pitifully hopeful.

Then Beth brought me down to earth.  "The scale probably doesn't go over 200 pounds," she guessed.  I thought on that for a few seconds and, by gosh, I'll bet she was right.  After all, how many pet dogs weigh over 200 pounds?

Deflated, I waited until I got home and stepped gingerly upon the scales.  Uh huh.  The weight had miraculously reappeared and I slunk back into reality.  I had to "Take It To The Limit, One More Time."  But now it's time to get serious.

Reflections Upon Whale Killings

I feel the need to weigh in on the controversy concerning the practice of Faroe Islanders killing pilot whales.

First, these are MY people, so I'm a little protective of them.  I have their blood running deep in my veins.  My father was born in the Faroe Islands, and I have been there twice: once with my father, and another time to return his ashes to his birthplace.

On my first visit, we came upon a recent whale kill in a village near my father's hamlet of Nes on the southernmost island of Suduroy.  What was remarkable was the fact that there were no "bodies" of dead whales on the beach where the kill had occurred.  All that was left were the heads, spines and tails of these small, non-endangered whales.  The villagers had taken every edible scrap for their larders.  The birds and crabs would soon dispose of any leftovers.

So it's important to understand that the Faroe Islanders eat every bit of what they kill.  One could argue that Faroe Islanders -- in this day and age -- do not need to kill the whales.  But you have to remember that protein in this remote region of the North Atlantic comes mainly from the sheep they raise.  They do not grow cattle for food.  Cows provide much-needed fresh milk and butter.  Really, the only other viable crop is potato.  Fishing is a big industry in the Faroes, but the catches made from the modern trawler and factory ships is destined for export.  I'm sure some of it is available locally.  But I would imagine the price of fish is inflated simply because most of it is meant to leave the Islands.

Therefore it's logical that they should harvest a school of pilot whales that might happen upon coastal waters.  But it's not an everyday occurrence.  With its incredibly steep cliffs and rocky shores, there are only a few harbors with beaches where whales can be herded ashore.  The Faroe Islanders have been taking this "gift" for over a thousand years.  Especially in days of old, a whale kill -- shared among all the villagers -- meant the difference between good times and bad.  Even the old and infirm, the elderly who now were too far along in years to be able to work for a living, would share in the good fortune of a village whale kill.  Today the practice of sharing in the bounty continues.  Whale meat and blubber are shared for free not only with the immediate villagers, but if there is enough to go round, also nearby villages or even the entire island.  Every man, woman, child and old-age pensioner receive a portion.  The villagers' generosity is extended even to visitors who might have happened to be present at the time of the harvest.

I grow tired of the hypocrites who use terms like "blood sport," "slaughter," and "rite of passage" to describe infrequent harvests taken by the Faroe Islanders.  They take great offense to the sharp knives that slit the whales' throats and the blood in the water.  But do they consider how the beef that makes up their hamburgers and the pork that goes into their sausage is killed?  I think not.  If all that complained consumed only vegetables, I could understand their feelings -- even their outrage.  But they are too many to be true vegetarians.

Like respectful hunters or caring farmers, Faroe Islanders have always taken pride in a humane kill.  It is quick and clean.  Today a specialized blade is used that severs the whale's spine in a fraction of a second.

I ask that the Faroe Islanders be left in peace, to remember and enjoy a life and time as it once was.  It is their land, their ocean, and their heritage.

They have earned it.

Do You Tattoo?

An acquaintance of mine posted an image, and it got me thinking...

It was a Facebook card was titled "Tattooed Parents."

I made a comment that read: "But it does raise eyebrows.  Is that what was intended?"

My daughter, who is beautiful, a mother of two, and turning 25, has several tattoos.  One is rather large and covers a good portion of her back shoulder blade.  If I could have had a say-so in whether she would get it, I would have pleaded against it and the other smaller tattoos.

I, quite frankly, cannot find a logical reason for tattoos.  If the reason is because you have become infatuated with a particular piece of art or some design, why do you feel compelled to have it permanently etched into your skin?  After all, in most cases, I would guess the placement of the tattoo would not be continually visible to the the owner.  That would be because it is either under garments or it is placed so that it's not readily seen without some sort of contortion. 

Is it to be viewed only in private, for the owner's eyes only?  Or perhaps to be viewed by one's lover?

Or is the purpose and placement of the tattoo to draw attention to it and, logically, to its owner?

If either of the two reasons above are true, wouldn't that be the height of narcissism?  If it is only meant for your eyes, then I believe the answer to the above question is "Yes."  If it is meant for your lover's eyes, I also think there is a great degree of narcissism involved.  If it is meant to draw the eyes of anyone at any time in any place, then again I believe it's narcissism, and even more disagreeable for the reason that it "interrupts" not only the visual scene but it also invades the thoughts of the viewer.

I often find myself in the presence of heavily tattooed people.  I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO LOOK!  Is it a no-no to stare at a person's tattoo?  I'm unsure of tattoo etiquette... Why does the wearer get such intricate, complicated designs?  From a few feet away the design is often impossible to decipher.  Am I "allowed" or even expected to stare at the design to discern its inner meaning?  If not, then why is it out there for all to see?  In a way, it's like blatantly displayed cleavage.  You're damned if you look and you're kidding yourself if you don't.

My friend has Asian alphabet tattoos on her wrists, and she has them there to give her constant inspiration.  They are small and unassuming, and on the underside of her wrists.  They're nonetheless visible, and I can't help but wonder if they aren't viewed in the workplace by her superiors with raised eyebrows.  A calculated risk, I guess.

In the end, my feelings about tattoos come down to something my father told me many years ago.  Dad was a merchant seaman and had been since he was a young man.  Those were the days when just about the only tattoos that were worn were by merchant seamen or carnival workers.  It was an exclusive club and a rite of passage.  As I prepared to sail on my first merchant ship, my father felt compelled to give me some advice.  He "suggested" that I NOT get a tattoo.  I had always seen the obvious tattoo on his left forearm ... now faded and nearly impossible to read.  In support of his advice, he said "You will acquire enough scars as you go through life."

Publishing Gun Owners' Addresses

http://news.yahoo.com/someone-sent-white-power-paper-published-gun-permit-151541248.html

I am more than just a little concerned over the New York Journal News' decision to post the names and addresses of people locally who have applied to purchase guns.

As I recall (and this is from memory of TV reports), the paper claimed that its reasons for publishing such a list were: It was public record, and the paper "thought its readers would be interested." (my paraphrase)

In my opinion it's a blatant attempt by the Journal News to sell more papers (or obtain more Internet hits).

The horrible truth is that by identifying homes where guns are present, thieves now have a road map to a source of easy money.  I'm sure we all know that guns are readily sold on the black market where they likely will be used to commit a crime against another human being.  And there's a ring of truth in the fact that thieves, browsing the Internet for their next crime, will be more likely to visit the house next door, where the Journal News has told them there are NO guns present.

I think that if I was a thief, I might do a number of things now that the newspaper has been so helpful.  I could:

• quietly case the house with guns for a few days to see when the residents would not be at home.
• possibly burglarize the vehicle in the driveway, since it's a good chance the person who bought the gun wanted to keep it in the car.
• terrorize the neighbors next door, where there are no guns -- because you can be sure I'll be brandishing a gun.  No need to case the house to see if it's empty.

The fact that the newspaper claimed that the gun ownership information was public is no excuse.  The News, in fact, had to file a "Freedom of Information" request to obtain the data.  This information was in no way "readily" available.  You had to go after it; dig for it.  Why, the News was so driven in its desire to get Internet hits that it assembled the data into a "point-and-click" Google map.  Just mouse over the dot and you get the name and address.

Data, you see, is not inherently good or bad.  But it can take on a dark side when it is assembled into "information."  By zealously publishing the data points on a map, the data became actionable information because it was graphically displayed -- spatially.  One dot, as it relates to another, to a street or thoroughfare.

These innocent, law-abiding gun owners have now been made targets by this despicable publication.  I hate to even call the Journal News a "newspaper," because it's obvious to me that it lacks even basic journalistic ethics.

The men, women and children who live in the houses where guns are present now have a heightened chance of facing their worst nightmare -- some drug-addled thief, crashing through their front door, holding them at gunpoint while the house is ransacked in a search for weapons.  Their guns, likely purchased for self-protection, now have a more immediate need.  All because the News saw fit to identify their location.

Today there are news reports about the fact that gun rights supporters have published on the Internet the names and addresses of the news and editorial staff of the Journal News.  How horrible! When the paper first published the names, on-air reporters wondered whether it would be "turn-about fair-play" for someone to "expose" the writers and editors.  Honestly, I didn't think anyone would be so irresponsible.  But it has been done.  Also, someone has sent "white powder" to the newspaper in a further attempt to punish the errant journal.

I'm hoping that cooler heads will prevail and that all the information will be removed from public view -- journalists' and gun-owners' names.

And I would call for respectable, ethical news organizations to speak out loudly against the Journal News and its shameful expose.