Women, High Heels and the Short Man

Women, High Heels and the Short Man

When I was eighteen and a freshman in college, I got a heavy-duty crush on a young woman.  She was very beautiful, I thought so, anyway.  And, she seemed to like me.  After some months of flirting around on the issue, I finally asked her out on a date.  To which she promptly agreed.  It surprised me.  I do mean, she was very cute and I was aware a number of the other guys in the class we shared were interested in her and had tried to get her to go out.

Turned them all down.  Why me?  No hesitation, she just immediately said, “Yes.”

Hmm …  One problem; I am shorter than average for an American man, she was not only tall for an average American woman, she was like basketball tall.  I was like soccer player short.  Not skinny, just short. 

Not only was she tall, but she had a fondness for high heels.  Well, not to class.  Too much walking around for the general college student to try and wear high-heels all day.  But even without them, without the heels, she was a good half a head taller than me.  So, every day – in class – she just seemed tall, not really out of my league tall – not entirely (to my young male ego).

I show up at her dorm to pick her up and woah!, like a runway model tall.  Now she’s a head and a half taller than me.  I’m not even sure she’s going to be able to sit in my beat-up Volkswagen beetle.  (Not that she’s going to be standing up in my beat-up Volkswagen, you understand.)

I grew up short in a tall family.  Tall cousins, tall father, tall brother.  So I learned early to hold my own and I admit to having a bit more confidence and swagger than maybe I deserved according to my stature.  But still this event set me back.  I noticed it.  Everywhere we went, everybody else noticed it. 

Both of us held it together for actually several dates.  We got along great.  Had a lot in common and all that, but the social pressure – just too much.  And she wouldn’t give up the stupid high heels.  Being a tall person also meant she was not in the light weight division – I’m not either – but although she was kind of thin, body mass amounts to weight whether it’s horizontal or verticle.

This means that those shoes had to be painful to wear and they must have been squashing the hell out of her feet.  But try to get any woman who wears those things, to give them up.  What I can’t understand is that even the short women who wear them, judge a man’s height by his natural height – in just standard shoes.  Which, at the most is … say has an inch of heel.  And yet they want to be seen with a man who’s taller.  Taller than they are when they’re wearing five or six inch heels?!

Now say this young woman was five ten at the time.  I was five seven.  She wears five inch heels, which puts her at six three.  I go out and buy some cowboy boots with three inch heels.  I’m now five ten.  Just for the sake of this concept here, I add a one inch wedge inside my boots.  Now I’m five eleven.  She’s still three inches taller.  And we’re both terrible uncomfortable.

Why the hell are we doing this?  Just to look acceptable, or something, to other people?  To look cool and tall.  We still look like Mutt ‘n Jeff.  It’s unnatural and both of us are not used to it.  Wobbly … off balance … kallomping along like clowns on stilts.

She catches one of those spikey heels in a sidewalk crack and topples over, I go to catch her and I twist an ankle.  Down we go.  I break my ankle and she breaks her wrist.  (This part did not happen.) But spending a date in the ER is not a good thing now, is it?

So there is all this talk about body types for people and especially women not getting all stuck on their weight and becoming bulimic and anorexic and stuff, which I totally agree with.  A person is what they are and if it’s a little overweight, ???, just keep it healthy – right?  But the height thing?

Why ruin your feet over this tall issue and more than ruining your health over being too heavy?  So I ask a number of women friends and they said, “Because it makes your legs look better.”  “They give you a sense of confidence.”  “They’re stylish.”

Hmm … Don’t like being overweight, don’t eat so much.  Don’t like short men, don’t wear high heels.  Your legs look just fine to me.  Confidence – take a martial arts class.  Stylish (?) – can’t help you there.  Sorry.  My sense of style is jeans that aren’t  more than five days dirty. 

Why Trees Grow Tall and How to Kill a Zombie

Why Trees Grow Tall and How to Kill a Zombie

The human heart is in the thoracic cavity, enclosed and protected by the rib cage.  This is somewhere about the middle of the sixth portion of the human body, assuming Leonardo DaVinci’s math for the perfect human form, is correct.  According to his Vesuvius Man, this perfect ratio is seven times the height of the head.

Now, the body dies if the heart does not pump blood –almost.  Since all body functions are controlled by the brain and the brain is above the level of the heart; if we are to accept gravity as a given, how can a person still be brain dead and yet remain alive – or in this case undead?  O-o-o-h.  The undead….

So what exactly is osmosis?  Wikipedia is all over the place on this one.  Basically when it comes down to it, the Wiki geniuses leave it to the American Emergency Medical Response people, who define it as, “salt sucks”.  Hmmm…  And a whole bunch of math and other magical theories of science (a.k.a. facts) … mostly saying water moves between cell walls according to pressure being exerted, without the use of energy. 

Straight up – nature is not kind.  Evolution requires –requires – every living thing to compete with every other living thing to stay alive.  And, when threatened, if no other option is available, living things will adapt, invent or take the long road and evolve to beat out competitors.  Of course the first thing they want to do once they are alive, is the egotistical act of making more things like themselves, or reproduce.

Trees grow tall because they want all the sunshine they can get to feed themselves.  Each species of trees will tend to get as tall as they have to, to choke out all the other trees before those other trees grab the open sky.  Trees try to kill other trees.  Trees can develop, and often do, various means to poison insects that threaten them.  Trees can, and do, make alliances with certain insects and fungi and other organisms to deal with even worse interlopers.

And using the concept of osmosis, trees do all this without expending, or utilizing actual energy.  Because salt sucks?  Well kind of.  This is all less complicated than it sounds, or we as lay-scientists are led to believe.  Are trees, then, actually alive? Of course – except when they are dead or no longer alive.  Trees have to have fluids, nutrients, some form of creating and expelling energy, which, apparently, they have no use for.  (?)

But how do they do this without using, utilizing energy.  Are they zombies?  Good question.  Now Wikitheorem is all over the board on this one too.  It all depends on where you want to start and where you draw the line. 

If you take the African folklore route, you get a living person who is made into a sort of slave to a sort of magician, folk doctor, medicine man.  This is done using natural pharmacology (plants, herbs, bat wings, eyes-of-newt  … whatever), making them a kind of a loping, salivating slob doing whatever the witch (some say this is always done by a witch) commands them.

If you take the Haitian, Voodoo, route you get an “animated corpse”.  Or a dead person brought back to life.  And, most authoritative of all, there is the Hollywood route.  (You know you can always trust Hollywood to get the facts straight.  Right?  You do know that?)  Where zombies are made by some incredible virus.  A virus that somehow just animates itself and infects people, who bite other people because they crave human flesh – in particular brains.  The modern fact is that zombies need to eat human brains. (?)

Remember the human heart and where it’s located?  (About three quarters up the trunk of the human body.)  Without the heart pumping blood up to the human brain, it dies.  The human body does produce energy, which it uses through a number of processes to make the heart work and pump this blood.

A tree does not have a heart, but still without using energy, a tree using magical processes of physics (essentially) sucks nutrients up its trunk in order to outcompete the surrounding vegetation by growing taller. 

Whether you accept the African, Haitian (Voodoo) or Hollywood version (I am partial to the Voodoo version – I mean it makes the most sense scientifically.) in any case we know that a zombie is brain dead.  Because it is undead or pharmacologically no longer aware or in control of thought or its actions.  Sort of living brain dead, not in need of energy (like a tree).  So a zombie doesn’t need a heart.

However, in any version of our discussion, our zombie does apparently, need brains.

Why else would it crave having to eat them? (Hollywood)  So how does a zombie eat human brains?  Well, obviously it has to have teeth and/or a mouth, I suppose it could suck or gum them down even without teeth.  … Okay, it has to have a mouth.

Remove access to the mouth and the zombie is going to be dead dead.  So there you have it.  Cut off his head and he doesn’t have a mouth to eat anything, brains or whatever.  I think you probably already knew that, I just wanted to be clear on the history and science of the whole topic.

“Knowledge is power.”

Subject for another blog; wooden stakes and vampires?  Maybe.

Dale Clarence Peterson © 2014

When I See The Eagles Fly.

When I See The Eagles Fly.

I look out from my back deck.  For nearly three years I have the good fortune of a view of a small pond behind my house.  The house sits on a ridge that surrounds this pond, maybe fifty feet below.  Fairly steep climb.  Close to the pond, surrounding it, are holly bushes, which remain green all year.  Thorny, stickerly, tear your jacket and green.  A stay away from me, green.

Long ago somebody whacked a path through the holly down to the ponds edge.  My little family and I climb it enough to keep it clear from growing back.  It is a very pretty walk, or climb I should say.  Slippery on the way down, thigh burning on the way back up.

In the summer my daughter and I frequently kayak around on this little puddle of tranquility.  I keep a two person kayak in a mossy cove with a nice gentle slope to get in and out of the boat … generally without getting your feet wet.  So peaceful.  Because of the high ridge around it, the water in the pond is most often flat.   It’s protected and not actually big enough for waves of any size to build up.  Tiny ripples sometimes when the wind is from the north, but that’s about it.

At the time of this writing, the month of March, above the stripe of holly green around the shoreline, is a very tall curtain of gray winter leafless trees.  From my view on the back deck, this curtain of gray is so high that it crowds much view of the sky.  So much so that sometimes it is difficult to tell what the weather would be like if we left our little gentile spot of woods.

I can see about a third of the full pond … no that’s not right, maybe a couple hundred yards.  The pond is actually an “L” shape and we are right at the corner on the outside of the “L”.  So I can see about a quarter of the upright of the L and none of the bottom.  A thin band of deep green and a big band of wiggly tree branches of monochromatic light gray.

Very soon, another week, maybe two of this warm weather we can get here in March, a fog of light green will creep into the wall of gray around the pond.  That fog will develop into a fuller green, lighter in hue than the holly, pushing back against the death of winter gray.

Crows … I love crows.  Crows are quite brilliant (for birds) and crows are tough.  Here in the central east in the Chesapeake Bay Region, crows stay all winter.  They pick clean whatever corn grain is left on the farmlands and, I am certain, pick off any smaller woodsy rodents that dare to come above ground.

Vultures … for me it’s hard to love vultures.  Nature has not given the vulture much in the manner of beauty.  I mean, let’s be honest.  But I find I have to respect vultures.  I don’t know all that much about vultures, or crows for that matter, but vultures are a very reliable barometer of the health of a rural area.

A lot of vultures mean there are a lot of other wildlife critters in that area.  It’s just logical.  Crows will eat grain, or just about anything.  Vultures eat dead meat.  That’s it.  No dead animals, no vultures.

In this region, vultures show up when hibernating critters start milling around trying to grab breakfast.  And when skunks, raccoons, deer start having to increase their territories because they’ve eaten everything else they could find close to home.

They start having to cross roads.  WHAM!  Dead critter in the road!  Next … vultures.

That’s late winter, or early spring.

Imagine being able to take to the air and travel great distances.  Thousands of miles, to wherever suited your needs or fancies.  Really a magical skill.

Soon I won’t be able to see our little pond at all.  An almost solid wall of green will separate my view from my deck to the water.  Just a thick palette knife stroke of speckled green.  A swash of mottled texture of nature at its finest.

But this morning as I meditate on our pond, I saw the eagles.  For three Springs now a pair of eagles has come just about this same time of year.  Because the trees are still bare and the weather is warming, the eagles soar in from their winter’s roost, wherever that was, and build their summer cottage.  Usually in the same huge oak about two inlets over from my kayak cove.

I can see them glide, swoop, pivot like sky dancers against the curtain of gray bare trees.

Truly beautiful, massive birds, unmistakable Lord and Lady of the sky over this patch of water and woods.  I know warm and wonderful summer is not far away when I see the eagles fly.

Why? Why Clarence? Why/

Why Clarence?  Why?

Why do I continue to write my books and blogs and even attempt to keep up with Facebook?  When not all that many people, or friends bother to read them, or buy my books? 

Sigh … Why?  I’m not complaining, now.  No, really I’m not.  I realize that everyone is busy and I am asking them to take a step to one side, or the other, and spend a few minutes with me.  An old guy, who’s probably not all that remarkable or good looking.  Certainly no movie star or celebrity.

Some could easily say that I’m not that good a writer to bother with.  Sure, that’s a possibility, I have to admit.  This blog is certainly not going to be a biography justifying reasons why anyone should pay any attention to my efforts.  I have been remarkably lucky in everything that is valuable to me.  Great kids, wonderful wife.  My parents lived long productive lives.  Every artistic endeavor, and most other adventures, I’ve set out to accomplish, I accomplished.

I’ve traveled extensively and won a number of awards for Art and teaching and that kind of stuff.  I have not been particularly lucky at getting much recognition for the awards (recognition) or having a large number of people pay much attention to me.  Something most people would assume is something an artist would want – a lot attention that is.

So, why Clarence?  Why?

Ah, there is this little guy, deep inside, that doesn’t care.  Just doesn’t care about being recognized.  In fact I am uncomfortable with being in any kind of spotlight.  The very few times it has happened, I get all, “Aw … aw shucks … uh, thanks …”.  “Shuckidoodles …”  And I start thanking other people and shuffling around – anything to get that spotlight off of me.

Even though often, truthfully, somebody has been standing on my neck, doing their best to keep me from being me and/or accomplishing anything.  At the same time I have had some wise and wonderful teachers and friends who sincerely encouraged and helped me.  From those friends and teachers, I have learned kindness begets kindness, and have tried to use that as my modus operandi.

But I do Art because I have to.  I write because I have to.  I breathe and I do Art and write.  When I stop breathing, I will stop doing Art and writing.

Why Clarence?  Why?

My grandfather was born in the 1870’s, when nobody recorded births, especially out in rural, rural farm country.  Half the time they didn’t even bother to name a child until they got past their sixth or seventh birthday.  The baby and child mortality rate was still pretty high.  Why name a child until it became obvious it was going to actually live?

Often one, or both, of a child’s parents didn’t live all that long.  Farming men at that time were known to literally work themselves to death before they were middle-aged.  Many farming women died in childbirth or also from simply working until they dropped.

What happens when a child does make it to the start of school age?  Assuming a school was available out in backwoodsy type places.  And, their parents had died?  What name does the kid get?  Who’s going to give that child his or her name? 

Very often the local church stepped in a took care of such matters.  The church fathers assigned families take in orphaned nephews and nieces or grandchildren.  The kid was simply given the name of his or her mother or father, depending on the gender, of course.

I realize that, today, the name Clarence is not exactly in vogue.  Clarence is regarded as a kind a hick name.  Not at all cool.  Not like Brad or Lance or Jimmy-Ray-Bob.  It has taken me many years, but that little guy inside that simply doesn’t care about being in the limelight, has surfaced and decided he also simply doesn’t care about what people think of the name Clarence.

My grandfather got stuck with it because his parents had both died before he had the chance to put in a vote on his name.  So his Aunt, who had taken him in, just gave him the same name his father had.  No middle name.  No Junior business.  I get the image that when she took him to little local one-room school and the teacher asked, “Well, what is his name?”  My great-great-aunt said, “His father’s name was Clarence.”  So that’s what the teacher wrote in the attendance book.  Then he misspelled “Pedersen” as “Peterson”.

My great-great-aunt’s last name was Smith (not really), so she didn’t care; assuming she could read.  It is very likely she couldn’t.  It wasn’t unusual for many farming girls in those days. Often young girls didn't get to go to school.  (Deplorable, I must say.  But that’s the way it was.)

My grandfather was a great man and father and grandfather, so I got tagged with his name in the middle of my name.  And after all these years I have finally become adjusted to that fact and even a little proud of it.

So that’s why.