Posted by: Don Bemis | August 6, 2016

My political diatribe (the last, I hope)

Dr. James Dobson is a respected Christian child psychologist.  I am a Christian who usually (but not always) votes Republican.  I don’t feel compelled to vote for Donald Trump, even if Dr. Dobson and a host of others endorse him.

Christianity, Islam, atheism, and all other religions are afforded equal protection under our Constitution – on paper.  The reality is that liberties Christians have enjoyed are being taken away.  The erosion has accelerated over the last several years, but Republicans are not immune to the same temptations as Democrats.  Mr. Trump proposes to deny entry and religious protections to Muslims.  Christians can expect the same treatment as soon as our concerns irritate him.

A Democratic Presidency can only continue past practices if Congress allows it.  If Republican Senatorial and House candidates can demonstrate integrity to oppose their party’s choice for President, they may yet hold Congress.  They were not chosen by the Republican Convention.  If Clinton wins the election, a Republican Congress could continue to restrain Presidential excesses to some degree.  If Trump wins, he will see to it that opposition in his own party is removed, as shown by his stance on Ryan, Kasich, and McCain.  There will be no stopping him.  Ditto for the Democrats, if they take both the Presidency and Congress.

Adolf Hitler ran on a platform of morality, “making Germany great again”, xenophobia, and fear.  Does this sound familiar?  Although some Christians supported him, Christianity was repressed shortly after he was elected.  There still were some churches, but they were forced to support the government.  Dissidents were removed, jailed, or worse.  To this day, the story of Christian resistance is papered over by memories of the acquiescent “churches” that Hitler ruled.

If there still are free elections in the United States in 2020, a disastrous experience with the Trump administration could backfire not only on conservatism and the Republican Party, but Christianity.  France, maybe the most secular nation in Europe, is an example.  The Catholic Church and the Monarchy were so intertwined that the French Revolution swept one away with the other.  (Mexican church-state relations are not much different from France, for the same reasons.) 

Political parties are not Constitutional entities.  The dismal choices that both major parties made this year cry out for reform in the selection of candidates.  Be sure, though, that leaders of both parties will fight for the status quo.

Finally, Christians, remember who we are.  We are ruled by the Triune, Eternal God of the Universe, regardless of whom is President at any given time.  The Bible says nothing about “Conservative values” or “Progressive values”.  The early Church flourished in the face of gross sin and murderous hostility.  Even if the Church were outlawed tomorrow and we were threatened with extermination, the Lord still would prevail.  He has promised.

Posted by: Don Bemis | December 10, 2015

View from Room 19149


I have six days off.  Last week, as we were taking Lois’s mom back to the airport, Lois asked me, “Do you have any plans for next week?”

“Not really.  We could spend a night at the Palmer House.”

“That sounds good.”

There were 22 people in our house for Thanksgiving.  We had a great time, but a bit of quiet sounded like a good idea afterward.

The Palmer House is the second largest hotel in Chicago, in the Loop near the Art Institute, Orchestra Hall, and Millennium Park.  The original Palmer House opened thirteen days before the Great Chicago Fire and lasted for thirteen days.  It was rebuilt shortly afterward.  The “modern” version was constructed during the Roaring Twenties.  The vaulted lobby ceiling is painted with classical scenes, naked ladies, and other ladies with wardrobe difficulties.  Bertha Palmer, the first owner’s wife, believed romance was good for business.  There’s a sculpture of Romeo and Juliet (clothed) inside the main entrance for that reason.  Bertha probably had the romance in mind, not associated poisonings and stabbings.

Bertha also invented the chocolate brownie.

Famous entertainers – most of them dead now – performed in the Empire Room.  It’s still there, and we peeked in, but there were no famous entertainers living or dead.

On Tuesday morning, we drove ten miles to Bangor, ate breakfast at the train station, and boarded about 7:40 Michigan time.  We arrived in Union Station about 9:30 Chicago time.  We walked eight blocks to the hotel, dropped off our backpacks, and ambled three blocks to Marshall Fields.  The owners think it’s a Macy’s since they bought it, but it’ll always be Marshall Fields in Chicago.  It’s like the Willis Tower, which we all know is really the Sears Tower.

I had selected the room online after checking Google Earth for the best potential view at our price.  Room 19149 is a corner room with windows on two sides, facing away from the lake.  We got kind of a reflection of the sky over the lake.  Thanks to taller high rises, you can’t see the lake from the hotel.

We had a noontime dinner at Russian Tea Time, a block from the hotel.  The food was great, as always.  They have really good vegetarian dishes, but we were feeling carnivorous.  Lois had Moldavian meatballs, and I had pork strudel with kielbasa.  We both got beets, of course, and tea. And more tea.  If your cup goes down an inch, a waiter swoops in to top it off.

After we slept off the lunch, we wandered to Millennium Park to see the Christmas tree and the Bean.

On Wednesday, we mostly skipped breakfast and had a big lunch at Lockwoods in the hotel.  The return train would leave at 6:30, so there would be no time for a leisurely dinner.  Then we walked back to Union Station, stopping off now and again at a tea shop, bookstore, or clothing store.  We also visited a hundred foot tall baseball bat sculpture in front of the Social Security building.

But first, we bought a rolling duffel in Target, where Carson-Pirie-Scott used to be.  The things we had acquired were getting a bit heavy for an eight block hike.

The weather was perfect.  It was a good thing, because we walked about five miles all told.

We got back home about 10 Wednesday night.  We’re already thinking about what we would like to visit next time.

Posted by: Don Bemis | November 30, 2015

The Refrigerator Carol

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge in a pear tree.


On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge sandwich ‘neath a pear tree.


On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge salad with a pear vinaigrette.


On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge casserole with a pear slice.


On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge quiche with a pear glaze.


On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge loaf with a pear sauce.


On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge soufflé with a pear dressing.


On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge pudding with a pear gravy.


On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge and pear smoothie.


On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A partridge ice cream with pear topping.


On the eleventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A pair of partridge bone toothpicks.


On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me

A gift card for Mister Steak.

Posted by: Don Bemis | October 11, 2015

Michigan Midges

It was such a beautiful day that Lois and I walked to the lake and then downtown for lunch.  Bugs were the only problem.

On nice, breezy days (which this was), Michigan midges swarm the beaches.  They aren’t everybody else’s wimpy little insects, but man-eaters.  Shortly after I took this picture, the uppermost midge snapped a person right off the North Pier.

20151011_135121 (2)

Posted by: Don Bemis | June 8, 2015

What do you get when you cross a beaver and a giraffe?


Posted by: Don Bemis | May 31, 2015

Michigan Fauna Update

I took down the raccoon demoralizer an hour ago, but first I jiggled a string to test it.  It would have scared me if I were a raccoon: crashing buckets and lots of water, not to mention a spider web of strings.

We shouldn’t complain too much about the raccoon.  It could be worse.  A bear recently mistook bird feeders for bear feeders a couple of miles from town (they sound sort of the same if you’re hungry enough), and a security camera thirty miles south filmed a cougar dragging a deceased deer. We don’t know if it plans to mount the antlers or not.

And the mermoles bagged their first mole of the season last night.

Posted by: Don Bemis | May 30, 2015

Revenge of the Moles

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my Raccoon Behavior Modification Kit.  Nothing has happened since then.  Maybe it worked.  The best I can figure, the raccoon watched me build it, laughed, and said to itself, “Silly human!”

Eventually I will take it down, and the raccoon will reclaim our deck as a toilet.  Unless, of course, it decided to find a more convenient facility.  From what we heard the night it went up the wall, that spindly ivy ladder was not an easy climb.  You can sympathize if you’ve ever been stuck in a traffic jam while your kidneys are working overtime.

We still have a raccoon, but it’s gone on to bigger crimes.  That’s where the moles come in.

Several moles and a vole came to a watery end last year in the fishpond, presumably enticed by shimmery golden mermoles.  Late last fall, we brought both mermoles (a.k.a. goldfish) inside so they wouldn’t freeze, and they spent the winter in the library.  Sort of a fish Florida.  Fish are sociable creatures, and they’re willing to accept people as funny looking fish as long as we feed them.  Whenever I sat in front of the computer, they’d bang their heads against the nearest wall of the tank to shame me into feeding them again.  It generally worked.

Now it’s spring.  Squirrels skitter, birds chirp, and mosquitoes spawn.  We got the pond pump running and took our finny friends outside.  All of the mosquito wrigglers were gone in three days.

Then tragedy struck.

Lois and I went out yesterday morning to say hi to the fish, but there were no fish!  The pond was empty except for a few inches of sludge and dead leaves in the bottom.  The growling pump was slurping air.  The top of the fountain was knocked sideways, and virtually all of the water in the pond had been pumped over the edge.  A tiny golden glimmer in the muck revealed the resting place of one mermole. The other was missing entirely.  The best we could tell, a raccoon had gone fishing.

How do you get attached to a fish?  It happens.  I ran a couple of inches of water into the sludge pit so I could clean it out later.  Then I headed into the basement for some leftover cement to make the fountain untippable.  If we did not repair the damage and get new fish, mosquitoes would carry us away.

Half an hour later, I went back out, and a fish was swimming back and forth.  So I added more water.  It was city water right out of the hose, and the chlorine might be a problem, but chlorinated water is better than no water at all if you’re a fish.

Then I pulled the pump from the muck and started scooping with a kid’s beach shovel.  One scoopful wiggled.  It was the other fish.

Today it is raining.  Hard.  They say we may have flooding.  The fish think it’s great.

Here is what I think happened:

As soon as the moles discovered that the mermoles were back, they contracted a raccoon to take them out.  While he was at it, he could empty the pool.  Life would be happy for everybody but the mermoles.

It was a failure.  Mermoles are tough to kill.

Posted by: Don Bemis | May 25, 2015


(I entered this story in a writing contest for a fund-raiser to restore the South Haven south pier head light.  The story didn’t win first place, but it was published anyway.  Here it is, slightly altered.  That’s the trouble with stories; they’re never quite finished.)


(c) 2015 by Don Bemis

It was a perfect day for a sunset.  Scattered purple clouds trimmed with red and gold drifted high above sparkling waves.  Vapor trails streaked the bright August sky like comets bound to and from Chicago.  If one looked closely, one might see the flash of reflected sunlight from an airplane at the point of a stripe.

Cruisers and sailboats dotted the lake.  The Friends Goodwill presided over them, its puffed sails and flapping pennants dark against the sky.  The long, low line of the pier, topped by black filigree of an iron catwalk, directed eyes from shore to the red South Pier Light.  On shore, photographers lined the bluff and the beach forty feet below.

Clusters of sightseers ambled westward on both the North and South Piers, drawn like moths toward the setting sun.

I was a moth that day.  Family friends, up from the Southwest, had to see the lake.  We walked out the South Pier, grownups to the right along the channel rail, and kids chugging like a train down the middle beneath the catwalk arches.  Fishermen sat along the left edge, casting out and reeling in, but rarely catching anything.  Ducks in the channel congregated below anybody willing to toss food.

We finally reached the pier’s end.  Seventy miles to Chicago, ninety to Milwaukee, and nothing in between but water.  To the left, more water.  To the right, the river channel, North Pier, and water.  Half a mile behind, South Haven.  Looming over us, the light.  A hundred or so strangers milled about, conversing in multiple languages.  Garb ranged from barely legal to Old World All-Encompassing.  Irrespective of dress, arms waved cellphones like amulets, catching pictures.

“Where do all these people come from?” our she-friend asked.

“Kalamazoo.  Indiana.  But Chicago, mostly,” I replied.


“For this.  This, blueberries, and ice cream.”

She wasn’t convinced.  “You can’t get blueberries and ice cream in Chicago?  They could watch a sunrise from Navy Pier for a lot less money.”

“True, but our sunsets come at a more sensible hour.”

The sensible hour arrived.  The solar orb flattened on the bottom, as if it didn’t want to get wet.  Finally, though, it touched the line of the horizon.  Slowly, but perceptibly, it began to sink from view.  One almost expected to see steam.

Halfway point.  The sky was changing color, especially the clouds. The Friends Goodwill sailed directly between sun and pier.  A hundred cameras clicked.

The sun was down to a sliver.  Anybody with a camera was hard at work, trying to capture a sensation that really couldn’t be captured.  A few folk without cameras watched the real show instead of three inches of screen.  The fishermen, paying no attention, cast and reeled, cast and reeled.

The crowd quieted.  The sun, so reluctant to get its feet wet, was even less willing to disappear.  Finally, there was only a yellow slit on the horizon, and it popped out of view.

The audience applauded.

The he-friend was incredulous.  “Are you kidding?” he asked.

“No, they do it every time there’s a decent sunset, but it doesn’t do any good.  There’s never an encore.”

“I suppose not.  What happens next?”

“Nothing. The show’s over.”

We started back toward town, but we didn’t get there.  Not yet.  A shout from the end of the pier stopped us.  We turned to see what had happened.

A brilliant yellow stripe glowed on the horizon, right where the sun had set.  It broadened and brightened until it no longer was a stripe, but the top of a shining arc.  The sun slowly rose from the lake, just as it had descended.  Minutes later, it cleared the horizon entirely.  The light and catwalk again cast sharp shadows toward shore.

Everybody was silent.  Nearly everybody stood stock still gaping at the sight.  All but the fishermen, who cast and reeled, cast and reeled.

The sun shook itself dry like a wet dog, flinging streamers of clouds across the sky.  Shadows jiggled in the bouncing light.

The shaking stopped.  The sun again started down.  First it flattened, then it dipped, and finally it winked from sight.

There was no applause this time.  People were afraid to invite another appearance.

There also were no pictures.  The stunned audience was so caught up in the event that nobody thought to take any.

And that is why nobody believes us.

Posted by: Don Bemis | May 15, 2015

Why engineers should not get days off…

The Chernobyl reactor was an RBMK.  I built my own RBMK today with four buckets and two balls of nylon string.

It’s a Raccoon Behavior Modification Kit.  We’ll see if it works.

Raccoons are intelligent, fun to watch, and disgusting.  They are housebroken after their own fashion.  A coon selects an elevated place where it can do its duty undisturbed while keeping an eye on the neighbors.  Our second story deck is just such a place.

The coon used to climb up the cedar tree to get onto the porch roof, but the tree and porch are gone now.  Last night, we heard scrabbling up the outside of our bedroom wall.  Birds nest in the ivy on the wall, so a coon can stop off for a snack on its way to or from the john.  All it needs is a big TV.

This morning, I noticed the ivy was peeling away from the wall, confirming what we already knew.

So I went to the hardware store and told them I needed noisy buckets.  They looked at me oddly, but they’ve known me for years and pointed to the noisy bucket department.  I left with four galvanized pails.

Raccoons like water, but presumably they prefer to deal with it on their own terms, and they aren’t Baptists.  The RBMK is designed so Mr. (or Ms.) Coon will encounter a string or two on the way to the pit stop.  Hopefully an unexpected immersion and the clatter of falling pails will traumatize the creature into not coming back.

I don’t want to kill the raccoon.  I only want it to kick the bucket.


Posted by: Don Bemis | May 10, 2015

Construction Zone: No Meowing

Lois thinks I spoil the cats.

We’re having some remodeling done, and it involves removal of the enclosed porch.  Earl and Underfoot are indoor cats (Underfoot not by choice), so it’s as close to outside as they can get.  They would soak up the sun, watch birds, and go nose to nose with possums through the windows.

It’s gone now.  The contractors boarded over the door and windows.  Underfoot would prowl around the door, waiting for me to open it.  Finally I did.  I have never seen such a confused, disappointed cat as the one faced with brand new chipboard.

Underfoot came by his name honestly.  He loves everybody, including the contracting crew.  So what else could I do but give him his very own Lexan-glazed sidewalk superintendent window?


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