The best neighbor… is no neighbor

We’ve been living in our home for 35 years. We built it in 1986 on about 3.5 acres of wooded land (A). In January of 2020 we purchased an additional 3 acres (B) when the lady who owned it died. Our closest neighbors (a woman and her adult daughter) have been talking about selling their home (C) for a couple of years but never seemed serious, until this year when they bought a house in “in town,” as we used to say.

One day a couple of months ago she told us she was going to put her home on the market. When she told me the asking price, I said we’d buy it. No inspection, no appraisal, no haggling. We closed on the sale yesterday at noon. We haven’t told many about the purchase because it happened pretty fast. But the first question is always, “So, what are you going to do with the property? Sell it? Rent it?” The answer is, nothing. The woman and her daughter are — in all likelihood — the last people who will ever live in that house. Why, you might ask?

Have you ever lived next to a really bad neighbor? It can make every day a living hell. But you could sell the place to some nice folks, you say. But you can’t control to whom they sell it, I reply. No, the best neighbor is no neighbor. And we didn’t buy the property for the house. We bought it for the towering, hundred-year-old oak trees. I think of it as a tiny nature preserve. The thought of someone cutting down those trees so their whiny little brats can have a swimming pool was… unthinkable. Or coming home to that TRUMP 2024 sign every day. Or their pit bull terrorizing our dog. No way, Jose.

To my way of thinking, we don’t really own the land. We own the privilege of living on it. Or saying who does or does not live on it. But we are nothing more than temporary stewards. And as we enter our Golden Years, Barb and I place great value on privacy. How does one put a price on something so precious? Oh yeah, did I mention the quiet? You can hear your heart beat. And at night the only light you can see is a yard light a mile or so away.

So we called the propane people to come get their tank. A plumber will winterize the house. The phone and electric are disconnected. And we’ll start giving away the appliances. What remains will be a big old storage building I’ve been calling The Annex.

This chapter is just beginning so watch this space for updates.

Drone Romance


“Directed by speculative architect Liam Young and written by fiction author Tim Maughan, In the Robot Skies is the world’s first narrative shot entirely through autonomous drones. In collaboration with the Embedded and Artificially intelligent Vision Lab in Belgium the film has evolved in relation to their experiments with specially developed camera drones each programmed with their own cinematic rules and behaviours. In this near future city drones form both agents of state surveillance but also become co-opted as the aerial vehicles through which two teens fall in love.”

Indians weren’t real

Growing up in a small town in the 1950’s, I had a Davy Crockett coonskin cap and rather amazing “Indian” war bonnet. Don’t recall who gave it to me or why.

Native Americans (don’t think we ever heard the term back then) were mentioned in our history lessons but rarely and inaccurately. The American “Indian” simple wasn’t real to us. Mostly they were the bad guys on TV and in movies. Tonto one of the rare exception.

My thanks to John Robison for sharing photos from his mom’s scrapbooks.

Memories


To some extent we are the sum of our memories. Or it feels that way. But neuroscience tells us that every time a memory is recalled, it is recreated by the brain, slightly different each time it’s retrieved. So, a memory of a memory. Of a memory. Imagine each memory as a photo in a shoebox. Everytime you pull one out, it’s just a little bit different. We’re not bothered by this because we are unaware of the change. We have no memory of the previous version. Neuroscience also tells us we are able to recall only a fraction of our experiences.

My conclusion: We are not our memories.

So who/what am I? Perhaps the most important question one can ask, and that few ever do. Are we our thoughts and feelings? If so, what are we in those rare moments when we are not thinking or feeling? I like Sam Harris’ description of such mental objects as “temporary patterns of energy.”

Gravel road


One of the best features of where we live is the gravel road that leads to our place. It comes up a moderatly steep hill and dead-ends at our driveway. It can be a booger in the winter and bone-jarring after a good rain. The roads are owned — and maintained — by our homeowners association so we all kick in to a road fund a couple of times a year. A few neighbors have lobbied for paving but it would cost a fortune and most of us are fine with living on a gravel road. A feature, not a bug.

Living at the end of the road, at the top of a hill, there is never any traffic. If I see or hear a car or truck it is a) someone coming to see us, b) someone coming up to turn around, or c) someone who is lost. I wouldn’t know how to put a price on that.

Birthday party circa 1957


The mother of my friend John was a dedicated scrapbooker. I believe this photo actually appeared in the local newspaper (it was that kind of small town). It was taken at John’s birthday party, probably 1957.

Top row, R-L: Chris Jones, Otis Mitchell, Joe Browning, Jim Blankenship, unknown, David Covey, Steve Watson
Bottom row, R-L: Jim Robison, John Robison, Steve Mays, Terry Hunter, unknown, Jane Robison

Kovid Karma

(The Denver Post) “Conservative firebrand Bob Enyart, the pastor of the Denver Bible Church and indelible talk show host, has died from COVID-19, his radio co-host announced Monday on Facebook. […] Enyart and his wife refused to get the vaccine due to abortion concerns, he said on his website. In October, Enyart successfully sued the state over mask mandates and capacity limits in churches, a rare legal victory against broad public health mandates instituted during the pandemic.”

“On his old TV show, Bob Enyart Live, the host would “gleefully read obituaries of AIDS sufferers while cranking ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ by Queen.”

Enyart is the sixth conservative/anti-vaccine talk show host to die of COVID in the past six weeks.

Lemmings

Everyone knows about lemmings. Something frightens them and they head for the nearest cliff, plummeting to their death. Each following the guy in front of him because… because that’s what lemmings do. But what about the guy in the middle of the pack who doesn’t want to go over the cliff?

“Hey, everybody! There’s a cliff up ahead. I was there just yesterday and it’s a long drop!

Nobody listens or they don’t believe him.

“Excuse me, coming through. Pardon me… I just need to get to the edge of the herd. Don’t push! This is my stop!

The U.S. response to COVID is a bit like this. A lot of people trying to avoid the cliff but can’t get to safety in time. The rest hurtle off the cliff.

Excuse me, coming through.