Signal Hill Musings

by Tom Shafer

January 27, 2023

So, if you’ve read the ABOUT Signal Hill tab, you know that I am a collector of things.  Now, this is a longtime affliction, one that I acquired from a notable collector himself, my father.  My father’s collection resided in half of the unfinished basement at my childhood home, and it was extensive and eclectic: old metal tools, exotic wooden fishing lures (and more pedestrian rods and reels), military stuff, antiques of all sorts, rocks and lapidary equipment, and toys.  These were organized into sections and boxed (if possible), and for the most part, he did little with them — except to add new-old items when he recovered them from a garage sale or local auction.  He also collected coins, stamps, and knives, but these smaller artifacts were hidden in his large bureau and bedroom closet.

From a very young age, I was well aware of his “crap” — what my mother called his hoard of things — and liked ogling them myself every chance I could get.  Most of these objects were off-limits to me (unless dad had them out), but that didn’t stop me from snooping around and stealing looks at them.  Doing so in the basement was easy enough, and when adults were elsewhere, I would open his old wooden chest to look at military articles — old medals, compasses, some clothing, even ammunition — or pull down boxes to peruse his polished and unpolished rocks or old toys.  

But getting to his coins, stamps, and knives was much more challenging — and significantly more dangerous.  This required subterfuge of great quality and planning, and could be pulled off only when my father was at work.  

Our single story home was tightly compacted with one narrow hallway leading to three, similarly-sized, smallish bedrooms.  My parents’ room was directly across from me and my brother’s at the end of the hall, and this proximity did allow for easier ingress and egress at dad’s goodies.  Unfortunately, my potential opportunities at access were significantly tested by the position of the only chair my mother ever sat in: the corner of our living room with a clear, unobscured view to the back bedrooms.  And this was where my mother could be found nearly every moment of every day — with two notable exceptions: when she was doing laundry and when she was sewing.  

The execution of laundry permitted me a short window of opportunity because the washer and dryer were located in the basement.  I knew that I had at best ten minutes to inspect a couple of coins or knives, but typically I only counted on half that time.  However, I still took advantage of these quick in-and-outs.

Sewing, though, was another story.  For reasons about which I’ve never been clear, mom’s sewing machine was also stationed in our unfinished basement, right next to the washer and dryer.  Perhaps this location permitted mom to kill two birds with one stone (laundry and seamstress work), or maybe she just enjoyed the solitude of our somewhat creepy basement.  

So (or sew), when my mom retired to do a little sewing, I would always tag along under the auspices of wanting to know what she was creating, mending, or hemming.  She was actually quite skilled, and when we were very little tykes, she fabricated much of our clothing.  Of course, with my tagalong, I was really performing reconnaissance, endeavoring to gauge how much time her selected task might take.  I hoped she was in the creation process because that would require much more time than patching a hole in a pair of jeans or lengthening the hem on the sleeves of a new suit.  Once I determined what she was doing, off I’d run — though quietly — to my parent’s room to gawk at dad’s treasures, ancient (to me) coins, gold (or so I thought) jewelry, knives of all shapes and sizes, and stamps from all over the world.  Fortunately, I was never captured in the moment of one of these capers, though I realize now (kid goggles off) that both of my parents likely knew what I was doing most of the time.  Many, many years later, and after dad passed from cancer and while mom was mired in the throes of Alzheimer’s, I secreted much of my father’s collection to my own home — at least those items that needed protection because of their potential monetary value — and of course the things that I wanted to keep for their sentimental value.

From a collector’s perspective, my first loves were rocks and other artifacts that came out of the ground.  I had creeks and woods all around me, and I scoured both looking for Native American stone tools (arrowheads and other projectile points), shark’s teeth (what we called horn coral when I was a kid), trilobites (Ohio’s state fossil — which is a thing), and brachiopods (think clams).  I was also fond of sparkly rocks like quartz and crystals, and some of my favorite childhood memories revolve around trips to Franklin, North Carolina, to mine for gems like rubies, sapphires, emeralds, aquamarine, garnets, rose quartz, topaz, and tourmaline.  For me, there was nothing like digging a bucket of dirt, throwing a couple of handfuls into a sluice box (a small box-framed screen), and sluicing that box in a stream of rushing water (or a sluice channel) hoping to discover a twenty-five carat ruby or emerald.  We always found lots of smallish treasures on these excursions, and I actually did unearth an eye-clean (few inclusions) ruby large enough to cut and be placed in a ring that my mother wore on special occasions. 

I’m still a rockhound today and on most days as I walk my cats through our woods and along our creek, my head will be down, eyes spying mother earth for those same spoils I was seeking fifty plus years ago.

I followed dad’s numismatic tendencies and initiated my own coin collection at about the age of seven.  Predictably, I started with coins I could obtain easily, change that mom or dad received from their purchases at our local retail stores.  Dad, of course, helped with older coins by giving me some of his, mostly duplicates, and I faithfully transferred all of them into coin albums so that I could see easily what I had and what I didn’t.  Wheat pennies were still in common circulation then, so my penny album was more complete than my nickel, dime, and quarter, but I had lots of them too.  Dad and I would frequent coin shows that came through the area, and I always planned out well in advance what I needed to inch each of my albums toward completion. When I was about thirteen, Dad started giving my brother and me yearly proof sets from the U.S. Mint (all of our minted coins which have been double struck for added clarity) as Christmas presents, gifts that I still cherish. And though dad and my brother have been gone for almost a decade now, at Christmas each year, I purchase a yearly proof set to keep his tradition going.  

Today, I’m not nearly as active with my collection, and the coins I purchase are considerably more expensive and valuable.  I continue to advance my albums, but those pieces that I am seeking are rare and costly.  And now, I have a deep hankering and love for silver and gold (who doesn’t?), which makes this hobby even more exorbitant. 

Back in the day (the sixties), it seemed like every boy aged seven to ten collected baseball cards because all of us played baseball.  Of course, I now know that wasn’t necessarily true, but in my circle it was.  My proximity to Cincinnati demanded an allegiance to the Redleg team that played there, which was easy for me given that the roster was loaded with young players who would anchor the Big Red Machine juggernaut of the seventies: Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Tony Perez, Gary Nolan, and Clay Carroll.  I delivered papers for a living then, waking at five a.m. every morning to meet at the carrier’s home to gather the Journal Herald so that I could ply my trade, and much of the money I collected was misspent on packs of baseball cards that contained perhaps the worst tasting bubblegum ever developed by man.  For many years, into my late teens, I approached my hobby this way, buying cards one pack (occasionally more) at a time.  After graduation from high school, I discovered that I could actually purchase ALL of the cards at once (called a set) and for several years, I secured a yearly set of Topps cards to maintain my collection.  

Though I am no longer actively collecting (I acquire a handful a year through eBay), at least I can count myself as one of those people who DID keep his baseball cards — unlike so many who did not.  Over the years, I have heard sad story after sad story, individuals who threw them out at some point — or had parents who did it for them.  For most of my life, my cards have been packed into boxes and hidden away in the closets of the various dwellings where I have lived.  But, in the past couple of years, I have brought many of my better “stars” to the light of day and am now displaying them so that I — and others — can enjoy the memories they inspire.

My last collection is one that made little sense to anyone when I started it — especially since I was minimally eight years away from actually enjoying (legally) the liquid contained within the items being collected: beer cans.  For reasons not clear at all, at the age of ten, I began gathering them, cleaning them, and displaying them in my room at home.  I don’t recall knowing any other “beercanners” or noticing another collection anywhere else, and I only remember seeing one brand of “malted barley pop” among all of my older family members, namely Budweiser.  Plain ole Budweiser — which became the first can.  And at the beginning, this was an easy hobby; all I had to do was troll the roadways of America to find aluminum (or steel) gold.  Since my vehicle of choice was the old reliable Huffy Scout ten speed bicycle, I could easily spy discarded nuggets as I rode along.  When I discovered that Route 35 between Xenia and Dayton, Ohio, was a hotbed of abandoned beverage containers, I spent much time there trying to increase the breadth of my collection.  And though I always loved traveling to new (and old) places with my family, I now had even more reason to love it.  If we stopped for gasoline, a potty break, or lunch, I was out of the car before dad could lift the shift lever to park, running along the road or rummaging through trash receptacles looking for that region’s beers of choice.  I was able to populate my collection pretty quickly this way, but I also became aware that local antique stores retained older, vintage cans, including the elusive conetops.  At its height, this hobby tallied nearly 500 unique cans, all lovingly stacked and arranged in the basement of my parents’ home, where I slept from the age of thirteen until I left during college.  Today, I still have about 100 cans, some of which ring a table in my bedroom that holds my forty-year-old alarm clock and a not-so-vintage Kindle.

I have many more collections that I could share, but the stories attached to them are not nearly as engaging (?).  At one point I possessed about twenty-five beer signs (lighted only), of which I now boast just one.  I still maintain roughly a hundred knives, but I haven’t purchased a new one in about twenty years.  I also have a growing collection of presidential “stuff” stretching back to the mid-1800s — medals, badges, pins, commemorative coins — and am always on the lookout for more.  And, my most recent diversion, one that started about fifteen years ago, is my cluster of Native American fetish carvings, mostly Zuni, which are displayed on the mantle in our great room. 

Okay, I know that a normal person might sustain just one collection, perhaps two, but I think we’ve long established that I don’t fall into the parameters that define “normal.”  Which is okay.  Because you are likely underestimating the value, both spiritually and monetarily, of my hobbies.  In fact, if you were to stop by my humble domicile and take a gander at a mere slice of my collected prizes, you might be inspired to start gathering some of your own.  And if I were you, I’d start with rocks. They’re cheap, they’re easy to find, and they’re everywhere — all you want from a hobby.  So, good luck, and may the quartz be with you!

by Tom Shafer

October 6, 2022

Last evening, I read an interesting article in National Parks magazine about the potential for interspecies communication in the animal kingdom (“Are You Talking to Me?”, Summer 2022).  A researcher — actually a doctoral candidate — at Yellowstone National Park was processing audible wolf sounds from digital recorders placed in an area frequented by the Junction Butte wolf pack when she discovered “communication” between a young wolf and a pair of great horned owls.  Over a four to five minute period, the three animals appeared to take turns talking to one another, the wolf yipping and howling while the birds delivered their familiar “hoo h-hoo hoo hoo” response.

The article prefaces that while most interspecies interactions involve eavesdropping (usually concerning risk or predation), there is some evidence of actual communication — like the interplay between different species of dolphins or predator warnings from hornbills to mongooses.  And apparently, animals aren’t the only “talkers.”  Some trees, through a process called quorum sensing, appear to send chemical messages to other trees, even from different species, about water usage and insect threat/infestation.  Who knew?

Of course, the big question about the wolf and its great horned owl friends is this one: Was their communication intentional or coincidental?

As I have mentioned many times, I’m not a big believer in coincidence.

And, to be honest, I didn’t think that this was a thing.  Here in my own backyard, I have experienced interspecies dialogue a couple of times — including a rare polyphonic collaboration among coyotes and two eastern screech owls on an extraordinary evening just a couple of nights ago.

At the end of a long afternoon working in our woods, I drowsily shuffled to the hot tub around 1 a.m. for much-needed hydrotherapy.  As I opened the sliding door to our deck,  I inadvertently startled a young possum seeking cat food.  Because he is used to seeing me at night, the possum didn’t wander far, and once I slid into the warm, bubbling water, he returned and continued his search.  

A setting quarter moon left a mostly darkened sky, revealing a very brilliant Jupiter overhead and the striking Pleiades constellation rising in the east.  During new moon this past Friday, I snapped a couple of photographs of Jupiter and its four visible moons, on a night when the big giant was not only in opposition, but also coincidentally the closest — and brightest — it had been since 1963.  Tonight, I would just enjoy gazing at the twinkling stars while soaking the day’s labor away.  

In the woods, I could hear the skittering and vocalizations of raccoons seeking and eating birdseed dropped from our feeders and knew that they would eventually make their way to the deck where the possum was devouring cat food intended for our outdoor felines Boots, Rainbow, and Luna — who themselves were lounging in various cat houses on this somewhat chilly night.

As the teenage raccoons (who were tiny little babies back in the spring) scampered across the yard toward the deck, I saw a youngish but fully grown doe walk through a lighted metal archway that acts as an entrance to our woods.  She glided along the treeline, eventually settling under a birdfeeder where most of the corn had been tossed onto the ground by some of my more ungrateful feathered friends.  Or, perhaps these fowl were just looking out for their deer friend — possibly an example of interspecies nutrification!  I watched her nibbling the corn for a few minutes, assuming that she was one of a few deer who pop up on our trail cameras from time to time.  

Suddenly, just south about a quarter of a mile, the Little Miami River coyote pack broke into a full-throated song.  This is a nightly performance, but I never tire of their yips and yaws, and ultimately expected that a couple of other bands living nearby might join in.

Instead, from our woods, and very close, Eso, our eastern screech owl who until now had remained silent, answered with her eerie trill.

A single coyote answered with its own brief aria, which was countered with the tremulous whinny by another eastern screech owl not far to the north.

The Little Miami River coyotes exploded with a cacophony of howls and calls, and then just as abruptly as this short-lived opera had started, it crescendoed into deep silence.  For the remainder of the evening, the world remained still, but I was thrilled with this fleeting production!

So, was this an example of interspecies communication or mere coincidence?

I think you already know my answer.

Exhausted though exhilarated, I was now ready for sleep.  Just as I was exiting the water to dry off, I witnessed a long, very bright “falling star” to the southeast — perhaps an early precursor to the coming weekend’s Draconid meteor shower.

This couldn’t have been a more fitting firework finish to my night here on the Serengeti of America, Greene County, Ohio — better known as my backyard, where the animals do talk to one another!

by Tom Shafer

April 24, 2022

As the pandemic is slowly coming to an end (again), and as I watch “conservative” politicians not-so-slowly dismantle what America stands for, I now realize that we should stop pretending to portray what we the United States aspire to be and simply brand ourselves as what we are: aMErica (uh·mee·ruh·kuh), not America.

If our Founding Fathers truly wanted us to live and govern under the collective “we,” they missed the perfect opportunity to trademark us with the vision of the Preamble to the Constitution: 

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

It’s right there with the first word “we.”  Why not name us the United States of Awerica (uh·wee·ruh·kuh) instead?

Okay, so it doesn’t slide off the tongue quite as readily, but with practice, we would have been okay with it.  If we can handle “Worcestershire” and “quinoa,” we can certainly handle “Awerica.”

Of course, every American child knows (?) that our country was named after Italian explorer Amerigo Vespucci, a man who visited the New World twice (1499 and 1502) and recognized that the “Americas” were not part of Asia but were instead their own separate continents.  Then, when German cartographers Martin Waldseemüller and Matthias Ringmann were creating a map of the world in 1507, one of them (historians point to Ringmann) used Vespucci’s first name (feminized because all countries were seen as feminine – and who am I to disagree).  Other cartographers followed their lead, and well, the rest is history. 

Some researchers have even suggested that because news travelled the world so slowly at the beginning of the sixteenth century, Ringmann may not have been aware that Columbus had actually beaten Vespucci to the Americas.  Otherwise, our country may have been named Columbia or the slightly more awkward Columbusia.  And given the infamous history of Columbus’s experience in the New World on the island of Hispaniola, today we might be watching our culture unravel even further under the weight of a renaming of the country!  How much fun would that have been?

Oh, and by the way, neither Italian was first to “discover” the New World. The Natives already living here had discovered it at least 15,000 years prior (perhaps even 30,000 years), and the Vikings, led by Leif Eriksson, actually established a settlement (L’Anse aux Meadows) on the northern tip of Newfoundland 500 years before Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492. So really, we could just as easily be called Clovusia (after the Clovus people, perhaps the earliest to cross Beringia, the land bridge that once connected Asia to the Americas) or Vikingland or even Leifia.

But seriously, as we are witnessing in real time the erosion of our country and subsequent standing in the world (please read my thoughts in “Shine, Perishing Republic — and Geminids” under the For Your Consideration tab), those German cartographers got it right with the name America.  The blame then falls to our Founding Fathers, who could have rebranded us aMErica with the signing of the Declaration of Independence, right there at the advent of the aMErican Revolution (see how it works!).  Of course, in their defense, they were working very hard to keep our fledgling democracy on her feet – which was no easy task.  Remember, after the Constitutional Convention in 1787, Benjamin Franklin was asked (likely by Elizabeth Willing Powel, a prominent society figure and wife of Philadelphia Mayor Samuel Powel), “Doctor, what have we got? A republic or a monarchy?”

Franklin (now famously) responded, “A republic, if you can keep it.”

But back to my naïve notion of Awerica.  I guess I had always thought about us (the collective U.S.) as part of a whole (think e pluribus Unum, Latin for “out of many, one,” which adorns every coin minted by the U.S. Treasury).  But after the treasonous January 6, 2021, attack on our Capitol, it quickly became apparent that the splintering of our country was becoming a chasming instead, as traitors to the Constitution that day are still being viewed as patriots and heroes by thirty percent of Republicans.  Even today, “conservatives” continue that assault on our Constitution with new rules and laws that are taking us closer to 1830 than 2030, now undermining the individual rights and civil liberties, long fought for, that have protected all of our citizens and enhanced their lives.  Perhaps a rewording of that Latin definition is in order now: “one, out of many,” emphasizing the individual instead of the collective.  The word Unum, meaning “one” is even capitalized.  I should have noticed this long ago.

And actually, now might be a good time to revisit and reconsider the opening words to the second paragraph of the Declaration of Independence:

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.

I love these words, especially because these words represented then the beginning of a new era of thinking about how men should govern men, that power over life should reside with every man, woman, and child.  Of course, back then the words only pertained to white men who would still wield power over women, children, and all people who were not white, but these baby steps would eventually evolve into longer strides as our little democratic experiment slowly embraced all who resided in America.

But as our erosion continues with alarming speed, this “self-evident” statement needs amending, and I think I have found the perfect replacement for it, from the perfectly ‘80s movie Wall Street.  In the film, a young stockbroker, Bud Fox, full of ambition, is clawing his way up the corporate American ladder.  He convinces (through a little insider trading info) the successful corporate raider Gordon Gekko to mentor him on the finer points of making money in the market (including illegalities), all to enhance his standing as a broker among his peers.  Eventually, he does acquire the lifestyle he has been coveting (including all of the trappings), but he has also attracted the attention of the Securities and Exchange Commission for some of his questionable dealings.  In spite of some slight moral anguish, all seems to be going well, but when Gekko dissolves an airline company where Fox’s father serves as union president (the insider trading deal that first drew Gekko’s attention) – a dissolution that purges all employees and their pensions and triggers his father’s heart attack – Fox ultimately plots a scheme that takes Gekko – and himself – down. 

But back to that reconsideration of the opening to the second paragraph of the Declaration. During a contentious Teldar Paper shareholding meeting, Gekko (who owns shares but desires controlling interest of the company) concludes a speech to shareholders with these words:

Greed, for lack of a better word, is good. Greed is right, greed works. Greed clarifies, cuts through, and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Greed, in all of its forms; greed for life, for money, for love, knowledge has marked the upward surge of mankind. And greed, you mark my words, will not only save Teldar Paper, but that other malfunctioning corporation called the USA.

Okay, so we’ll have to rework some sections here, and leave out that Teldar Paper reference, but the essence for our new aMErica is here, especially the seven uses of the word “greed.”  All we have to do is plagiarize it (which is perfectly aMErican) and move on.

Oh, and in case you think that I am expressing myself with a little too much hyperbole here, let me conclude with the part of that Franklin anecdote that no one ever hears.  When Franklin responded to Elizabeth Powel’s question with “A republic, if you can keep it,” Powel purportedly inquired, “And why not keep it?”

Franklin cryptically responded, “Because the people, on tasting the dish, are always disposed to eat more of it than does them good.”

Here in aMErica, we have done just that. 

by Tom Shafer

February 7, 2022

I slipped into the hot tub last evening, literally, a couple of days after Winter finally displayed her full powers here in Ohio.  Winter has largely been AWOL this year, sprinkling just a couple of inches of snow and dropping temperatures into single digits only a handful of times.  Sure, we’ve had more than our fair share of ugly, damp, gray days – not unlike the coastal climate of the Northwest – but ordinarily by now we would have experienced several snow events and a few frigid nights below zero.  Perhaps this is a product of being a La Niña year and/or just another example of climate change, but either way, this golfer has appreciated the ability to play actual December, January, and February rounds in the great outdoors – and not virtually off a mat toward a TV projection in the basement of my local muni.   

The storm ended up dumping six inches of snow here, on top of two inches of sleet and ice, making streets, sidewalks, and parking lots virtually impassable.  Our area was effectively shut down for a couple of days, but now with clear weather and a warming sun and temperatures, things are pretty much back to normal – though it did take me several hours to clear our long driveway, sidewalks, and back porch area (for the outdoor cats and my nightly aquatic undertaking).

And though it was 22° on this night, with no wind it felt almost balmy.  Again, as usual at 1 a.m., it was extraordinarily quiet and for the totality of the twenty-five minutes that I soaked in bubbling water, not one car or pickup broke the silence of my rural solitude.  To the south about a tenth of a mile (perhaps above the Little Miami River), an eastern screech owl trilled and whinnied, a moment later followed by a mimicking call from another screech at some distance directly north.  This conversation continued the entire time I was in the tub, with the northern owl progressively moving closer to the southern one.  Though eastern screeches mate year round, it seems like they are particularly active here in February.  Perhaps they are romantics at heart and enjoy the merriment and ardor of Valentine’s Day.

Above me, large, intermittent cumulous clouds were slowly traversing the sky, many of them creating images for those of us who look for such things.  A full-bodied Abrahan Lincoln, arms outstretched as if participating in oratory, drifted across the Big Dipper, briefly obscuring the nighttime sky’s most prominent constellation.  As Abe slowly made his way east, still delivering his stirring soliloquy, he was directly replaced either by Hamlet dramatically holding Yorick’s skull or by an angel with a sheep sock puppet on her arm – dealer’s choice!

As I settled in the warm water, I could hear Luna and Boots chomping on cat treats I had brought out for them.  Unfortunately, Nakita was not there to join them, having passed away during the last week of January after a very short illness (FIV, the feline equivalent to human HIV).  She had lived with us for about two years, and was a constant and willing companion on daily walks through our woods.  She also loved her treats, and especially loved being petted and held, always purring quite loudly to display her love and appreciation. 

Sadly, two weeks later, one of our indoor cats, Mookie, passed away from complications of kidney disease.  Nakita’s death was truly a shock, displaying first symptoms on Martin Luther King Day, then being euthanized just three days later after her health drastically declined.  At least we had some preparation for Mookie’s death because her illness had been diagnosed back in early December of last year.  However, that didn’t ultimately make things any easier – after all, she had been a staple in our lives for over sixteen years.  Mookie was singularly enigmatic (like most cats!) in that she lived to lie and sleep on any lap but hated to be picked up and held.  She loved wet food unconditionally, and most mornings would start pawing and scratching our bedroom door at first light, desperately trying to wake us so that she could be fed.  Of course, Mookie – and Nakita – loved us unconditionally as well, and it will take a while for our hearts to heal, or at least rehabilitate a little.

As I listened to the northern owl draw ever closer to the southern one, I couldn’t help but think about the power that animals, especially our pets, have over us.  When I think about all of the trips I’ve taken to our national parks and monuments, what I remember most is watching the reactions of people seeing nature’s best offerings: grizzly bears and bighorn sheep in Glacier; wolves and bison in Yellowstone; elk and mountain goats in Rocky Mountain; prairie dogs and porcupine at Devils Tower; eagles and moose in Grand Teton; California condors and golden eagles at the Grand Canyon.  Of course, the mountains and canyons and waterfalls and lakes are also there, but those sights don’t bring park roads to a standstill – not like the animals do.  I certainly love the beauty of our national parks, but that’s never the main reason I am visiting.  I am visiting because I love, and want to see, the animals.   

Those visitations are oh so fleeting and temporary, but nonetheless are remarkably powerful.

So imagine the power of the animals who are part of our lives, the ones who are with us every day, who walk and play with us, who sleep and lie down with us, who wait for and eagerly greet us after we’ve been gone, who unflinchingly and unconditionally love us no matter what.

And, that power is undoubtedly most palpable when they are gone.

So, with exhaustion – and a little sadness – creeping in, I ultimately straddled out of the hot tub and spent a few extra moments with Boots and Luna, petting and stroking their loudly purring bodies in spite of the 20° temperature.  And in the near distance, I could hear two trilling eastern screech owls getting ever closer to each other. 

Though I didn’t stay out long enough to discover whether the owls met – and/or consummated their meeting – I like to think that they did on this night.

The power of animals. The circle of life.

by Tom Shafer

January 13, 2022

So, like many of my writings, this one begins with me heading to my hot tub on a very cold evening (about 9° on this particular night).  The moon was hiding below the horizon, allowing the stars and planets to pop brilliantly against the darkened firmament.  Orion was commanding overhead, the Big Dipper, anchor of the constellation Ursa Major (the Great Bear), dominating the eastern sky.  A few wispy clouds were slowly drifting by, and outside of my constant companion and irritating friend Tin Nitus, it was absolutely silent and still.  Well, actually I could hear the crunching of cat treats, Boots, Rainbow, and Luna enjoying a delicious, midnight – er, 1:15ish – snack, while Nakita, smartly perhaps, refused to leave the comfort of her heated bed. 

The cats finished their kibble, Rainbow wandering off toward the tree line for a late-night stroll, the others heading back to their heated homes.  Silence again descended, and I began searching the darkness for other familiar heavenly bodies: the constellations Perseus, Cassiopeia, Leo, and Gemini were in their customary winter positions, the bright stars Areturus, Regulus, and Sirius maintaining their typical stations.  As always, I hoped to catch a stray piece of space dust entering our atmosphere – a “shooting star” – but I would spy none of those on this particular evening.

In the far distance, a long way off, I heard a single coyote crooning, the yips and yaws punctuating the quiet.  A minute later, and much, much closer – perhaps less than a quarter mile away – the Little Miami band broke into full-throated song, the chorus waxing and waning, the soloists screeching above the fray, finishing each aria with a varying, pulsating vibrato.  These nightly performances are just one of the many reasons that I love coyotes.

In this moment, I was reminded of an experience I had when my father-in-law Richard and I were following the Lewis and Clark Trail back in 2009.  Because the Missouri River traverses Teddy Roosevelt National Park, we devoted one full day there, and decided to spend a little time on the Caprock Coulee trail.  Fortunately for us, the parking lot was empty (one lone car), so we knew that we would have the trail to ourselves. 

Caprock Coulee is a loop (a little more than four miles) that provides magnificent views of the TRNP terrain, especially from the River Bend Overlook (which is also a pull-off from Scenic Loop Drive) and Knife’s Edge Ridge.  The trail also traverses wooded areas, open prairie, and old stream washes, and along the way sports petrified wood tree trunks, small hoodoos, and bison – making this the consummate hike to show off what the park has to offer.

At some point, we paused for a few minutes to eat a granola bar and take a little water.  Out of the blue, Richard asked me if I had a totem or spirit animal.  I admitted that I did not – to my knowledge – but that I had always had a special affinity for coyotes.  Throughout my travels over many years – and even in the places where I lived – I seemed always to witness and experience these animals, and I could probably provide a fairly thorough list (though thankfully for you, I won’t do that here). 

Richard further explained that everyone has a spirit animal, that these animals will appear to us (in various forms) throughout our lives to assist and guide us.  He added that there were many ways to connect with one (like through meditation or dreaming), but that he felt the best way to do it was through direct connection while in nature.  And, he decided that we were going to do it now.  He had actually done this before, through meditation, and determined then that the wolf was his spirit animal, and he lived his life with the essence of that belief – and dressed the part as well, with many t-shirts bearing the image of the animal that he allied with and loved. 

Basically, we would walk (separately) into the wilderness surrounding us, stop in an area that exuded a sense of mysticism, and wait for a spirit being to select us.  He said that the animal – or bird or insect – would notice us in some way, maybe even grab our attention with unusual or atypical behavior.  Most importantly, he said that the animal would choose us.  

So, we headed off in different directions, into the stark, beautiful landscape of Teddy Roosevelt.  I chose to follow a draw for a few hundred yards, then stepped up onto a grassy area amphitheatered (another new word) by low badland hills that notably populate the park.  I found a comfortable boulder to sit on, cleared my mind as best I could, and waited for something to happen.

I didn’t have to wait long.

I had closed my eyes briefly, quickly recognizing the exhaustion that creeps in after days on the road, when I heard a stirring in the draw I had just crawled out of.  At the confluence of a large mound and the old creek bed, I spied a furtive movement, an orangish flash, and watched transfixed as a young, smallish coyote dramatically entered the amphitheater.

Fearless though a little timid, he sidled toward me, eventually stopping about twenty feet away, and warily sat on his haunches.  He remained totally still for a couple of minutes, his eyes never leaving mine.  Carefully, I reached into the backpack resting beside me and pulled out part of a granola bar I had not finished eating.  I tossed it gently in front of me, about halfway to the coyote, fully expecting that he would be startled enough to spring backward.  He did not, but instead continued staring at me – though clearly his nose had caught scent of the bar.  Gradually, he got to his feet and slowly slinked toward the crunchy treat.  When he got to it, in one swift movement, he picked it up and flung it back behind him, close to the place he’d just been sitting.  He walked back, lay down next to it, and proceeded to gobble it up in a couple of bites.  Coyote sat there for a few more moments, still intently staring at me, then, rather unceremoniously, rose and ran off in the direction he had come.  Now, I can’t swear to it, but I think he nodded to me before leaving the scene.  As for me, I cautiously stood up with the pack, withdrew toward the draw behind me, and returned to the trail.

Richard was not there yet, so I had some time to process what had just happened.  I reasoned that seeing a coyote in TRNP should not be surprising because the park is rife with them – and the fact that we had seen one earlier in the day.  But to have one walk right up to me while I was actively seeking a spirit animal – after admitting that the coyote might be my spirit animal – well, that coincidence was difficult to brush away.  Especially since I’m not a big believer in coincidences. 

Richard finally arrived back at the trail, and he told me about his experience.  When he first sat down, a fly landed on him and continued to pester him for several minutes.  He wasn’t crazy about the idea of a fly being his newest spirit animal, so once it moved on, he waited for another encounter.  Within a few moments, a beautiful butterfly, mostly black with orange and yellow markings (but not a monarch), landed on his pants, right at his knee.  It remained there for several minutes, occasionally fluttering its wings, before it eventually took flight and continued its journey.  We both agreed the fly was just being a fly and not trying in any significant way to connect with him.  The butterfly, however, was.

I then shared my story with Richard, and of course, he loved it.  He related that he had hoped my animal would be the coyote because he felt that it was a perfect match for me.  According to Native American lore, coyote is known as the trickster because of his playfulness and guile.  He is adaptable and wise, and is noted for his ability to find truth in deception and chaos.  But he is also enigmatic and presents a personality that is often difficult to categorize properly – and must constantly be vigilant of a dark side that lives to tempt him.

In many ways, that description reflects like a mirror. 

For Richard, his butterfly is symbolic of personal transformation, of the ability to experience change with grace and agility.  It is seemingly always facing renewal and rebirth, but is able to find joy in the process.  The butterfly is also a teacher, and is always tuned to the spiritual and emotional realms. 

What a perfect totem for Richard!

So, do you have a spirit animal?  Does a specific entity appear to you in times of need, to guide or advise you, perhaps physically or in your dreams?  According to Richard – an honorary member of the Lakota Sioux tribe – an animal or bird or insect is out there waiting for you, waiting to help and nurture you as you navigate this realm.  You may not be a believer, but I think that any assistance we can garner in this life is worth the effort.  You have nothing to lose – and potentially a spirit guide to gain.  What are you waiting for? Go discover your spirit animal!

This is “That’s Some Dream” by Good Old War, a song about dealing with change and life and death.

by Tom Shafer

January 6, 2022

On the one year anniversary of the insurrection, the attack on our capitol, January 6, 2021, I’d like to congratulate the one man responsible for ruining America, disgraced former president (purposeful lower case) Donald Trump.  

Those who believe I am being too extreme should return to your conspiracy silos where fester beliefs like these: that the Sandy Hook massacre (where 20 six and seven year olds were slaughtered along with 6 teachers) was staged by opponents of the 2^nd Amendment; that the Holocaust was a fabrication; that Hillary Clinton (among other prominent Democrats) was part of a cabal of Satan-worshipping pedophiles who trafficked children and drank their blood; that the deadly 2018 Camp Fire in California was caused by a space laser (a Jewish one nonetheless); and finally, that the 2020 election was stolen from Trump. 

If you listen to political pundits today (from both sides of the aisle), many will tell you that Trump isn’t really responsible for the state of our politics and democracy today, that he just tapped into a hidden world and culture that already existed.  Some even point to J.D. Vance’s book Hillbilly Elegy as an explanation of “Rust Belt America” and the belief that this microcosm of people exists everywhere. 

Rust Belt America does exist everywhere.  Many of these people feel that America has forgotten them, left them behind, that culture wars, threats to religion, immigrants, and closing factories have imperiled them and endangered their way of life. 

But so much of that is perception – and propaganda.  Yes, our world is changing – dare I say evolving – and that in itself will challenge long-held beliefs and values.  NO ONE is threatening religion – except perhaps religion itself.  Immigrants, legal or otherwise, are often the only ones willing to accept some of our most challenging jobs: harvesting crops, meat processing, landscaping and construction, house cleaning, maid and busboy work in hotels and restaurants.  And yes, factories have closed in many industries, but much of that is the result of a progressing world, both technologically and ecologically – a natural evolution that is transforming work from physical, manual labor (often dangerous) to work more suited for cerebral mankind. 

And, government has done its best to help these struggling Americans with different programs, from food and housing assistance to tax credits and Social Security.  The list of important legislation stretches back a full century: Sheppard-Towner Maternity and Infancy Protection Act (1921); Aid to Dependent Children (1935); Social Security Act of 1935; United States Housing Act of 1937; Economic Opportunity Act of 1964; Food Stamp Act of 1964; Elementary & Secondary Education Act of 1965; Medicaid Act (1965); and Personal Responsibility & Work Opportunity Reconciliation Act (1996).  Even this year’s Infrastructure Investment and Jobs Act (2021) will provide assistance with investments in increased broadband; improved water systems; revamped roads, bridges, rail, and air; and an injection of new jobs that will require little-to-no training.

However, two factors continue to challenge and endanger Rust Belt Americans: expensive health care and poor education.  Health care costs are coming down, but many families just above the poverty line simply cannot afford policies with high deductibles.  Until congressional Republicans recognize that universal health care is and should be a universal right (like most of the industrialized world), this problem will remain and linger on. 

And, being a former teacher myself, I recognize that equity and opportunity to quality education are big hurdles in many parts of our country, especially in those states where funding formulas rely almost entirely upon local control.  Until education is truly valued by American citizens (which it is not) and not seen as merely a babysitting service for eight to nine hours a day, this inequality will continue to rule the day.  The adage “you get what you pay for” can’t be more accurate in those impoverished areas where money is hard to come by and education is not valued. 

Trump tapped into Rust Belt America back in 2015, which led to his election in 2016, but the significance of his nomination and win has been greatly overblown.  Number one, he lost on the popular ballot to Hillary Clinton by nearly three million votes (66 million to 63 million), and his total was not that much greater than the two previous Republican nominees (both of whom he disparaged and belittled), John McCain (60 million) in 2008 and Mitt Romney (61 million) in 2012.  And, the people who voted for McCain and Romney, predominantly Republican, truly believed in both candidates.  Revisionist history among contemporary Republicans can’t refute these facts.  And statistically, these numbers – from 60 to 61 to 63 million – could have been predicted just by analyzing population growth in our country from 2008 to 2016.

The four years of Trump produced very little, if nothing, for Rust Belt America.  His policies always favored the wealthy, from corporate tax cuts (almost all delivered via presidential executive order) to elimination of environmental regulations (also achieved via executive order) to his Tax Cut and Reform Bill of 2017.  He did place a significant number of conservative judges throughout the judicial system, but that work was largely performed and completed by Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell – and any Republican president would have done the same.  And though he promised it, Trump never delivered on infrastructure legislation – in spite of the fact that practically every week for one full year was declared “infrastructure week.”

Culturally, Trump claimed that he brought back Christmas – as in the phrase “Merry Christmas” – which was never a thing, and he often embraced Confederate sympathizers while railing against political correctness.  And though he was “very pro-choice” and would never consider banning partial-birth abortions as late as 1999 (with Tim Russert on Meet the Press), he flipped from a pro-life stance with exceptions to punishment for any woman who attempted abortion in just two days in the spring of 2016.  And, his stances on LGBTQ issues angered many Americans, not just members of those groups.

Most importantly, during his presidency, Trump never attempted to be leader for everyone, instead choosing to govern only for his constituency.  His inaugural address, tagged the “American carnage” speech, set a tone of anger and division that would cast a long shadow over all four years.  Only after the 2018 midterm, when Republicans lost the House, did he reach out to Democrats, of course then out of necessity. 

Much of Trump’s handling of the pandemic was a joke.  Yes, he was given credit for Operation Warp Speed, a federal effort that accelerated work on COVID-19 vaccines, but any president would have pulled that lever, and of course, the real credit belongs to those companies and their scientists that made it happen.  Given that, he did little else to assist the country’s effort to wrangle the pandemic.  He rarely wore a mask and was never in favor of lockdowns, often countering and fighting regulations and advice being provided by his own White House Coronavirus Task Force.  In fact, mask wearing and lockdowns became polarizing issues throughout the country, of course stoked by Trump himself.  I have already posited that his administration (really him) was (and still is) responsible for thousands (if not hundreds of thousands) of COVID deaths.  Trump, with no science background whatsoever, also infamously promoted hydroxychloroquine, chloroquine, azithromycin, and remdesivir – even bleach injected under the skin – as therapeutic cures for the virus.  And though he eventually acquired COVID himself (as well as his wife), this did little to change his actions on helping bring the pandemic to an end.

In spite of all of this, and definitely through a cult of personality, with assistance from a prolific campaign on Twitter – which should have banned his account for egregious statements as early as 2016 – Trump convinced his base and Rust Belt America that he deserved another four years, and though 74 million followers voted for him in 2020, another 81 million had had enough, and they, along with the Rust Belt states, propelled Joe Biden into the White House. 

But the damage was done.  Though Trump lost, he had mainstreamed (and helped elect) extreme members of (and to) the House and Senate, people who in years past would never have survived a Republican primary.  People like Tommy Tuberville, Ron Johnson, Josh Hawley, Lauren Boebert, Louie Gohmert, Matt Gaetz, and Marjorie Taylor Greene.  The false utterances of Trump would now be disseminated and dispersed by these disciples and sycophants – once fringe players in the political arena – today unfortunately recognized as major voices and leaders of the Republican Party.

And, Trump had not only won over his constituents, he had weaponized them.  Because of him and his destructive rhetoric, they no longer trusted anything.  They lost trust in government and government institutions.  Trust in voting integrity.  Trust in science and medicine.  Trust in truth itself.  Perhaps worst of all, they lost trust with anyone who didn’t believe all of the big lies.  Still today, one full year after certification of the 2020 election, forty percent of Republicans believe that Joe Biden is an illegitimate president.

So, once again, I extend my congratulations to Donald Trump for ruining America.  Before you so infamously descended (poetic metaphor and imagery?) that escalator in Trump Tower to announce your run for the presidency, our country was struggling under the weight of what we wanted America to be, but we were not polarized – at least not the way we are today.  We have you to thank for that. 

And though skeptical, I do believe that we will survive you – but it will take many years, maybe decades – before trust in our American experiment is restored to the pre-Trump era.  Perhaps that is the biggest crime of all.

by Tom Shafer

December 18, 2021

So, on the thirteenth of December, I slipped into the hot tub hoping to enjoy one of our best meteor showers, the Geminids.  Because the moon was waxing gibbous (and toward full), I was not expecting to see the 150 per hour or so that I might if the moon were new, but I still anticipated a sixty or so per hour average.  Last year’s shower coincided with a new moon, so the peak night was absolutely spectacular – and actually, so were the nights leading up to it.

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The Geminids are one of our younger showers, having first been witnessed (from a Mississippi River riverboat) in the mid-1830s.  And technically, we should be referring to it as an “asteroid” shower because we know now that the particles that pepper our atmosphere yearly belong to an asteroid named 3200 Phaethon.  The long white streaks appear to originate near the Gemini constellation (thus the name), which sits prominently about fifteen degrees south of being directly overhead on the thirteenth (from 11 p.m. to 2 a.m.) – making it quite comfortable to watch from the spa.

I saw two within the first minute of being in the water, so I knew it was going to be a good show.  Over the next twenty minutes, I tracked eleven more (though no fireballs!), but being slightly exhausted, I closed my eyes to unwind in preparation for my night’s sleep.  Unfortunately, my mind wandered back to news from early evening, when the house committee investigating the January 6^th (2021) insurrection at the Capitol voted to recommend that Trump’s former chief of staff Mark Meadows be found in contempt of Congress.  Not unexpectedly, the full House would follow suit the next evening – mostly along party lines.  Predictably, the news cycle had moved on from the deadly tornados that ravaged the middle of the country over the weekend.

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Lately, I’ve been thinking much about our country.  The questioning of given truths.  The war against science.  Threats to education.  Polarization – with people deeply entrenched in their individual silos.  Democracy being challenged on so many fronts, from voting rights to Roe v. Wade.  Our inability to navigate and mitigate a deadly pandemic – even with vaccines and other life-protecting convalescents. My thoughts wandered to a query I’d been pondering for several years now:

Am I witnessing American decay?

The simple answer is yes.

When I was still teaching American literature, at appropriate times, I would point out to my students that the history of man is the history of fallen power, that every empire, dynasty, kingdom, or superpower eventually falls – some in spectacular fashion.  Of course, I always posited that the same would happen to us.  As a younger educator, I frequently played contrarian, the devil’s advocate, and didn’t necessarily believe a statement like that, instead hoping to spur intellectual curiosity and thoughtful dialogue.  But as I grew older and observed a changing country and world, I began to believe the truth of American decay.

Today, as I unfortunately watch the erosion of America, and all that it stands for, I can’t help but think about poet Robinson Jeffers, and particularly his poem “Shine, Perishing Republic,” one he penned in 1925.  I sometimes introduced Jeffers and his poetry to my students, delicately because his straightforward style always took direct aim at sufferable man, impolitic politics, and an uncaring God.  But I appreciated his traditional blank verse (not unlike Walt Whitman’s) and his love of nature and animals – though mostly at the expense of man himself.  And I was especially fascinated that in 1925, as our country was approaching its 150^th birthday and after our success in helping bring an end to the First World War, he was espousing and predicting demise and ruin of our republic.  Here is his poem “Shine, Perishing Republic.”

Okay, so some of you may not be big fans of poetry (like many of my students), but hopefully you can appreciate his ability to string words into pithy phrases: America “heavily thickening to empire and protest”; “life is good, be it stubbornly long or suddenly a mortal splendor”; or “man, a clever servant, insufferable master . . . that caught – they say – God, when he walked on earth.”

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Though the images and language here can be construed as pretty negative, Jeffers does point us toward our salvation, in that “life is good,” that nature (from flower to fruit back to earth) teaches us (and America) about our mortality, that we are always “left the mountains.”  In spite of our volcanic “vulgarity,” our “decadence,” and our “corruption,” man (and America), the “insufferable master,” needs only to listen to her mother (Earth) and what she is endeavoring to tell us.

I have to admit that I have always been a bit of a closet pessimist – which might surprise many of my former students and current friends.  All of us are performance artists in one way or another, and I tend to reveal a hopeful, more optimistic aspect – though touched with a healthy amount of sarcasm.  I suppose I could blame my connection to a never-ending news cycle or my fondness for problematical, psychological novels (and novelists like Camus, Dostoyevsky, and Wharton), but I have carried pessimism for a very long time, stretching back to my youth.  Of course, I never allowed it to consume or define me, probably because I am left brain dominant, which colors me more logical and academically inclined – and more disposed toward optimism according to many brain studies completed in the 1990s.  I guess I have always tried to see the world for what it is, and not for what it can be – and I have continually attempted to retain a worldview first, not an American view.  Perhaps that worldview pushes my needle toward pessimism. 

So, even if America is a “perishing republic” making “haste on decay,” I’m really okay with that.  Perhaps we will be propelled to embrace evolution toward a more robust, progressive view of what humans (and countries) should and can be, the universists that I have written about in the past (see “I’m a Universist – and You Should Too!” under my For Your Consideration tab).  Some may insist that Star Trek was just a campy ’60s television show, but Captain Kirk got it right when he narrated before each show that we were meant “to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.” That’s the way all of us should be thinking, and where all of us should be headed.

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