There is a special place within my mind where none may enter but me. It’s a haven rife with color and life yet devoid of human eye – save mine.

Its mid-autumn, the beginning of the Cleansing Time when Nature, in her wisdom begins to sweep away that which must reincarnate to nourish the earth below me. While I, seated upon an outcrop mere feet above crystal clear brook watch rafts of amber, crimson and ochre drift lazily to the vermillion lake. My back resting within the arms of aged oak – I feel its life flow and hear its wisdom upon the wind.

Around me, life scurries and flies in preparation for the Resting Time when all things shall dream of tomorrow. I hear the winged ones calling their friends to travel while the four legs prepare dens and burrows for the long sleep. The six and eight legs now long hidden awaiting the warm days to return.

The air is brisk with scents of the forest – reminders that life continues.

Here, in my solitude the pains of my body may not enter while the pains of my mind begin to heal for this is my Crying Time. The tears of my shame and lost memories will join the crystal waters of the brook, perhaps to be carried away upon the rafts of another time.

It is my Healing Time!

How Do I Know?


Refugee v Immigrant v Invader

In this age of turmoil the Americas, Europe and Scandinavia are confronted with a dilemma of unprecedented and urgent need thrust upon them from several directions by fanatical religious organizations and corrupt governments that are brutally competing for control in the Middle East. All to what end?

On the battlefields and city streets opposing forces strive for dominance by killing, maiming and butchering other combatants and innocents – so called collateral damage. In some instances, the murder of innocents is choreographed for sheer terror effect. For what reason?

These are not battles for water or food nor are they for land and resources! These are battles for power, control, dominance and supremacy over minds and bodies, the greatest treasures I can think of.

There are those who would try to equate events of today with those during the Nazi era and WWII. They may be correct up to a certain point, after all in the beginning Hitler was adulated as the savior of Germany but it ended when the German forces suffered defeat after defeat against allied powers. But before that happened, he was able to systematically murder millions of people he felt unworthy of life. His motivation? He saw them as inferior and there, at least for me the similarity starts to come apart.

The radicals on both sides of the coin in the current Middle East conflicts are using precisely orchestrated and publicized murder and mass murder as a psychological weapon to defeat the minds of both their enemies and the innocents. Terror, pain and horrible death awaits those who would defy the new order.

Thanks to the ineffectiveness of governments who have declared against this evil tide but done very little a tsunami of humanity is on the move. Daily, thousands of innocent people rush towards safe borders to escape the pain and suffering of starvation, thirst and brutality. Risking everything for a better tomorrow they walk carrying their young, infirm and aged, perhaps to reach the green horizon before death overtakes them.

These people are refugees: “A person who owing to a well-founded fear of being persecuted for reasons of race, religion, nationality, membership of a particular social group or political opinion, is outside the country of his nationality and is unable or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to avail himself of the protection of that country; or who, not having a nationality and being outside the country of his former habitual residence as a result of such events, is unable or, owing to such fear, is unwilling to return to it.” Refugee Council, PO Box 68614, London, E15 9DQ. They’ve fought the hard battle to get to the hope of safety and a future but there is still one more step – asylum.

The Oxford Online Dictionary defines asylum as: “the protection granted by a nation to someone who has left their native country as a political refugee.”

Another term often heard if “Asylum Seeker”. The United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees position is:

    “The terms asylum-seeker and refugee are often confused: an asylum-seeker is someone who says he or she is a refugee, but whose claim has not yet been definitively evaluated.”

    I strongly believe in this position so long as it’s a women, children, elderly
and the infirm first formula but from what I’m seeing and reading it is tragically not.

“Senator Cruz speaks to the makeup of the so-called refugees, noting that one estimate pins the percentage of military/terrorist age males among the population at 77% and notes the likelihood and reports that there are a significant number of ISIS terrorists included in their ranks.”

    Do we stop this influx by adopting an immigration only policy?

Immigration is the movement of people into a destination country to which they are not native or do not possess its citizenship in order to settle or reside there, especially as permanent residents or naturalized citizens, or to take-up employment as a migrant worker or temporarily as a foreign worker.” Wikipedia

Immigrant is defined by the Oxford Dictionary as “a person who comes to live permanently in a foreign country.” Although there is a difference if duration of residence between the definition of Immigration and Immigrant both would seem to apply.

I believe that immigration is an earned privilege and the only people with a legitimate position against it are the First Peoples – indigenous people. Unfortunately for them, they had a non-existent immigration policy, a misfortune that has cost them dearly over the centuries. That is my fear now!

Certain members of our government have determined that we should accept illegal immigrants, forgive them their crime and offer them the same benefits our needier citizens get. Furthermore, they want to import “refugees, asylum seekers” and immigrants from the Middle Eastern conflicts and do the same sans any legitimate form of vetting process. As part of that process they are bowing to the questionable demands for religious exceptions such as not wanting to be fingerprinted, no photographs and no background checks. This making a complete mockery of our national security and lawmakers.

What is my point?

Is this an infiltration of invaders? If so, covert identities are important.

“Invader”, the last word in my title is defined by the Oxford Online Dictionary as: “a person or group that invades a country, region, or other place…”

“As a member of the true religion [Islam], I have a greater right to invade [others] in order to impose a certain way of life [according to Sharia], which history has proven to be the best and most just of all civilizations. This is the true meaning of offensive jihad. When we wage jihad, it is not in order to convert people to Islam, but in order to liberate them from the dark slavery in which they live.” Saudi legal expert Basem Alem, March 2009.

How many of these “refugees” are answering this call?

One of the national news TV stations just showed another video of what they referred to as “refugees” landing on the shore of a Greek Island in a large, inflatable rubber boat similar to ones I’ve seen in military training articles. What was most interesting to note was that with the exception of two healthy looking young females the boat was filled with several well-built and healthy appearing young, healthy men in their late teens to early thirties. I got a little jealous of the nice clothing and expensive looking cell-phones they were using to take selfies but that stuff is for younger people not us old guys.

I have to admit, I did start to wonder what I would do if I met one of these people on the street. I like to be polite so I’m wondering do I call him Sir, Mr. Refugee or say welcome immigrant or do I report an invader? It all seems so confusing to me.

My fear is not making the correct choice before it’s too late.

Native Peoples Club Article




Here in East Central Missouri and West Central Illinois, where once proud peoples built the Mound City at Cahokia, IL, hunted this land, farmed its fields, fished the rivers and lived their lives in harmony with nature we seem to have suffered a tragic loss.

    I am a full time student at Meramec Campus, St Louis Community College in Kirkwood, MO., a suburb of St. Louis, MO. When I registered for classes I became curious about the origins of the name, Meramec. I knew it was also the name of nearby river but no one actually knew what it meant or its origins. Having spent some time as an investigator before retiring, I decided to find out. It took me a matter of minutes, not hours, not days, not years but minutes to learn that Meramec is an Algonquian word meaning “Ugly Fish”. It seems the native peoples named it for the catfish which is an ugly fish to some, but great eating to most. Irrespective of its meaning, Meramec is a Native Peoples’ name which has lost its meaning in our present cultures as have the contributions of the people who created it. I find that to be very tragic.

    With that discovery in hand, I explored the Meramec campus for anything that might say, Native Peoples are here. The only thing I found was a painting in the entry hallway to the President’s office. If memory serves, it was a Cheyenne warrior on horseback overlooking a prairie – I’m still looking for that prairie here in foothills of the Ozark Mountains. I’ll get to finding the Cheyenne after I’ve found the prairie.

    My search for classes offering Native Peoples in this area was just as unproductive. The course catalog listed three offered by the Anthropology Department but when I went to registration they said, huh? Literally, the lady said “huh”? She had never heard of any classes relating to Native Peoples being currently offered. She did however give me the name of one of the Anthropology professors who taught them at one time. I got to talk to him briefly before he retired and discovered that he had been actively involved in several archaeological digs at ancient Native Peoples settlements and hunting camps in and around St Louis over the years. He told me the classes were not well received by students because they may not have related to present day people. He felt my idea of forming a student Native Peoples Club could be a positive impetus and perhaps even bring pre-Columbian history to life on the “Ugly Fish” campus.

    I immediately started talking up the idea of a Native Peoples Club on campus to anyone who would listen. Reception was at first cool but during the last semester it began to blossom and we hope to produce a large bouquet by the November, Native Americans Month, 2014.

    Now one might ask why we didn’t name the club the Native American Club. Here’s a good answer for you: “Why would any Native of South, Central or North “America” even consider identifying with a 15th century Florentine merchant because an ignorant arrogance of a German? Read on:

    “It is an irony of history that the name “America” did not come from Christopher Columbus. That distinction belongs to a German writer of geography.

In a further twist of events, America was named after Amerigo Vespucci, a 15th century Florentine merchant who owned a business in Seville, Spain, furnishing supplies for ships, preparing them for mercantile expeditions.

How do we explain what seems to mock the reality of history?

Stirred by the achievements of Columbus and envious of the reputation his discoveries brought, Vespucci endeavored to cultivate Columbus’ friendship and trust.

Seven years after Columbus’ first voyage and while Columbus was still alive, Vespucci accompanied an expedition that consisted of four ships. They sailed past the eastern coast of South America, and visited Trinidad, which Columbus had named the preceding year. On his return to Europe Vespucci wrote letters with glowing descriptions of the newly discovered countries. He called the lands he had visited a “New World.”

Some years later Vespucci’s letters were published and read by Martin Waldseemuller, a noted geographer, and by Mathias Ringmann, a schoolmaster. Recently arrived from Germany to the province of Lorraine they were attracted to the town of Saint-Die because of a newly established print shop. Both men were engaged in working on a reproduction of Ptolemy’s treatise on geography, to which they were adding a preface.

After reading the account of Vespucci’s travels in “Quatre Navigations d’ Americ Vespuce,” they decided to incorporate Vespucci’s voyage into the treatise. Ringmann, acting as editor, wrote in his introduction:

“There is a fourth quarter of the world which Amerigo Vespucci has discovered and which for this reason we can call ‘America’ or the land of Americo.”

Apparently ignorant of the discoveries and achievements made by Columbus fifteen years earlier, Ringmann continued:

“We do not see why the name of the man of genius, Amerigo, who has discovered them, should not be given to these lands, as Europe and Asia have adopted the names of women.”

Their work was published on April 25, 1507 under the title “Cosmographiae Introductio.” It marked the first time the word AMERICA appeared in print.”

Ellis, Edward S., Library of American History, Cincinnati, Ohio, 1895. Steele, Joel Dorman and Steele, Esther Baker. A Brief History of the United States, 1871 Patton, Jacob Harris and Lord, John. The History and Government of the United States, 1876 Montgomery, D.H. An Elementary American History, 1904.

    For me, this entire article is a study in white European arrogance and ignorance – an insult to the Native Peoples who have been living in this hemisphere for thousands of years prior to the arrival of any Europeans. I will not add to that insult by referring to them as Native “Americans”. They took their names from the earth and sky, not from a German schoolmaster.

    We elected to identify the Native Peoples as THE NATIVE PEOPLES in the hope of encompassing all who were (and are) here and contributed so much to our world. It is our hope to honor them by sharing their knowledge, skills, philosophies and memories.

    We need help to do this. We need good advice, direction and, when possible affiliations.

    Some of the activities we are considering include:

        Lectures and classes on contemporary life for Native Peoples.

        Art and craft shows and sales to introduce contemporary Native artists.

        Sponsor story tellers both for registered students and the public.

        Sponsor guest speakers on various contemporary issues affecting Native Peoples

        My personal favorite Native Peoples lunches – fry bread tacos are aces!

    Bring to life the Native history an area that was a hub of civilization (Cahokia Mounds)

    once larger than London, England.

    The most important thing we want to do is bring Native Peoples’ presence back to the area.

    Their absence is a void desperately in need of filling for we are all related.

    We need your help and ideas to attain and maintain our goals.


    R. Nyk Lindsoe

    President, Pro-Tem

    Native Peoples Club

Meramec Campus

St. Louis Community College




Happy Mother’s Day – Your loving adopted son.

This is the very first essay I have ever written. It was an event I was involved in many years ago.

Let me know what you think.


Your loving adopted son.

Sunday, three A.M. a full moon illuminates a forest alive with night creatures. Their eyes aglow as if in wonderment as our emergency beacons pierced their world. Only the sounds of our engine broke the silence as we raced through the night. No need for the siren. We were ten miles from nearest major road, fifteen from any community and hadn’t seen another vehicle since leaving the hospital garage.

My partner, a trainee scanned the road ahead for sign of our contact, while I wondered what we were rushing into.  Our only information was a call received by the dispatcher requesting an ambulance to an isolated rural area. The caller did not reveal the nature of the emergency and his location directions were vague. He said someone would meet us on the main highway. That made me nervous! I decided to radio the dispatcher for police assist. Unfortunately for us, that meant a town constable at home in bed twenty miles away. On the plus side, the dispatcher at the time was my wife.  As she still liked me back then, she decided to request assistance from the Sheriff’s office and two other police departments from adjacent jurisdictions.

Suddenly, headlights flashed in front of us. A large, dark car pulled out from the shoulder of the road, its driver waving frantically as he turned onto a narrow, gravel township road forming a dust cloud between us.

Maintaining a safe distance back, we followed the dust cloud at a slower speed allowing my partner time to note any landmarks he could radio to the dispatcher.

Abruptly, the dust dissipated revealing the dark car with its mysterious driver stopped next to a grassy open area.  A dirt drive wound its way up to what appeared to be an old basement dwelling set a good eighty yards from the main road.  We stopped a few feet behind him.  As I exited our rig in an attempt to approach and question the driver he silently pointed toward the dwelling then sped off down the gravel road.

My attention turned to the dwelling. It was built into a low knoll, had large front windows and, thankfully, was well lit both inside and out.

“Something is missing!” I whispered. “No vehicles, people, dogs or movement.”

Slowly we inched our way up the drive. When almost parallel to the dwelling, it made a sharp right to an exterior wood frame, enclosed stairway atop the knoll. There, in the glare of our floodlights lay the body of a woman. Dressed in a blood stained, pale green nightgown, her head turned away from us, she appeared to be sleeping,  but it was an illusion. An obvious gunshot entry wound to the back of her head told a different story.

Immediately, my instincts and training took control.

“Shut off all our lights, give me the radio and get your ass out of this rig now!” I yelled to my partner. “Hide in the woods beyond the tree line!” Next thing I knew he was running fast and low towards a large pine tree.

I radioed the dispatcher, “We have a D.O.A with G.S.W.!  We need help fast!”  *

Now what do I do?  Sitting in a darkened ambulance, on a small rise next to an illuminated earth  home I was a sitting duck. If the shooter was still there, one well aimed bullet could have hit me or the large oxygen tank and I’m history.

What if there are more victims inside? What if they’re still alive? Call it brave or insane, I had to know. It was my job to save lives.

Flashlight in hand, I made my way through the shadows to the stairwell. Standing to one side, I held it high above my head to disguise my position and true size as I peered through the door. Looking down inside, I saw a single, bare bulb ceiling light, a child’s bicycle in a corner and a second body at the foot of the stairs. Like the woman’s, it was face down in a pool of dark, clotted blood. It was a man with a gunshot exit wound in the back of his head.

The bicycle – is there a child here?

Against all policy, I descended the stairs, stepped over the man’s body and entered the living room to a scene of rage and anger. Furniture overturned, appliances broken, dishes shattered and personal items everywhere but no child.

Cautiously I searched the remaining rooms. I saw a life style of modest income and means but no child or other bodies. I was relieved.

Retracing my path, I exited the house to call in what I’d seen. As I reached the radio to give the dispatcher update, the dark car returned. As if in slow motion, it appeared on the gravel road and turned onto the grassy area in front of the dwelling.

Cutting my report short, I waited and watched. The car stopped and the headlights went dark. The only light was from the dwelling and beautiful, setting full moon.

I could hear the radio in the ambulance. The dispatcher telling me the closest police unit it still fifteen minutes from our location.

Estimating the distance from my position to the car at forty yards, I realized I didn’t have a lot of options.

I saw one person, the driver sitting behind the wheel staring at the house seemingly ignoring me.

Was this a neighbor, friend, relative, curiosity seeker or…?

I had to know! I couldn’t be out here in the middle of the wilderness trapped by my own fears.

Heart in throat, I walked to the car while keeping my flashlight trained directly at his face.  I got within ten feet, when he suddenly turned on the interior dome light and looked at me. He was young, late teens, early twenties, long black hair, average size and scruffy appearing. He had a strange, peaceful look on his face, a calmness as though his burdens were gone.

As I attempted to talk to him, I visually searched the interior of the car with my flashlight. He had no less than eight guns and what appeared to be hundreds of rounds of ammunition strewn over the seats.

He asked me, “Are they dead?”

I believe so.” I replied.

“Good!” he yelled as he slammed his foot onto the gas pedal and sped through the grass to disappear down the gravel road.

There was a return to silence as a soft glow in the east announce\d the rising of the sun.

It was going to be a beautiful Mother’s Day – for most.

G.S.W. = Gunshot Wound

D.O.A. = Dead on arrival