November 19, 1620, Cape Cod: The Mayflower dropped anchor today, bringing our first settlers to this continent. Let’s all welcome them:

Yoohooo! Settlers! Ahoy, maties! Yoohoo!

The Fairmont Hotel, Dallas Texas, 1964: As perhaps you know, there is a rivalry of many years between the football teams of University of Texas in Austin (the Longhorns) and Oklahoma State University in Stillwater (the Oakies). It’s a big deal.

This year the teams were neck and neck, and the final game was held in Dallas. I drove down from Denton with my girlfriend Carolyn to spend the evening with Dr. Martin and his family for the big game.

The Fairmont Hotel is old and snooty, so that’s where they stayed. I’m lukewarm on sports, but I was looking forward to a great meal in the hotel restaurant.

We started down in the elevator.

Everyone in the elevator, honest Texans all, were all a-jabber with excitement about the game. The elevator kept stopping at floors, adding more people going down to the restaurants, looking forward to the game.

The elevator was growing packed. Folks became quieter.

The doors opened on floor three.

A very tall brunette, very stylish in a black and white dress and rather a large hat stood at the door. Pinned to her bodice was a cardboard sign.

It said, “To HELL with Texas.”

Nobody said a word, just soberly watched her. She seemed to shake herself slightly, then stepped into the elevator, and turned to face the door.

Just as the doors closed with a soft thump, from the rear of the car, a man spoke up in a friendly voice.

“Hiya, Oakie,” he said.

Will the United States ever have a balanced budget?

Never happen. That’s now how we operate. Here’s how it works …

A politician wants to get elected, so he promises stuff. Over time this tends to make us somewhat socialist, because he’s got to promise the stuff to somebody, and in appealing to voters, most of them want free stuff, so over time politicians promise free stuff for people, making us more socialist.

The politician gets elected, and in order to stay around for the second show, he attempts to give some of the stuff he promised to the people he promised it to. Whenever he is successful at giving some stuff to these people, it’s got to be paid for.

Taxes pay for the stuff the politician has promised and in fact delivered. Since taxes aren’t fun, then it’s not long before some politician, needing to promise stuff, promises to lower the taxes.

If the politician gets elected, in order to stay around for the second show, he may attempt to give the lower taxes as he promised. If he’s successful, now the lower taxes don’t pay for all the free stuff that’s now being delivered.

And the cycle goes on and on. The free stuff being given to some people, and the lowered tax rates being given to some people are in endless conflict, and the budget will never be balanced. We will always be a debtor nation, as collectively stupid as the fellow who’s paying his rent on credit cards.

Why are we a nation of credit junkies? It’s a consequence of our system. Our system relies upon a promise against the future. We are always borrowing from the future to get free stuff now. Sounds like a credit card. Looks like a credit card. I say it’s a credit card!

Of course, the gubbament has another trick up its sleeve. It prints more money. Who gets the money it prints? I haven’t got any. Have you? No, I think the gubbament uses the money it prints to pay for free stuff for some people.

In a company issuing stock, if the company issues more stock, then the shares you’re holding have got to be worth less. So it is with the gubbament. When they print more money, which *they* use, then the money you’re holding is worth less.

In this way, the gubbament can tax *more* without appearing to do so. They don’t need to *take* your dollars; your dollars just became worth less. That’s called inflation. It’s probably like blowing up one of those girly dolls.

And on and on it goes. Kinda funny, innit?

[From “Random Robert”:] A man had won the lottery, several millions, and so the press beseiged his house, and when he came home from the bar, they caught him.

They ask him what he is going to do with all the money.

“Well,” he said, “I guess the first thing I’ll do is go and pay a few bills.”

“And what about the rest?” the reporter asks.

The lucky winner shrugs. “Well, I guess they’ll just have to wait.”

Greenwich Royal Observatory, November 17, 1882: The Royal Astronomer witnessed an Unidentified Flying Object today and described it as a “strange celestial visitor — a circular object glowing green”. Shades of Sir Ernest Glitch!

London, November 17, 1988: The original manuscript of the classic novel, The Trial (1925), by Franz Kafka, sold today at Sotheby’s for 1 million, a world record for a modern literary text. Kafka had died from tuberculosis in 1924, having published almost nothing in his lifetime. He wrote most of these stories and novels while holding down a day job at the post office.

Although many literary critics have found deep allegorical meaning in these works, the rumor is that Franz and his brother used to read them aloud, and fall about on the floor, laughing. We are quite possibly indebted to Franz Kafka for the handy abbreviation “ROFLMAO”, which means “Rolling On Floor, Laughing My A** Off.” Thank you, Franz.

New Hampshire, Summer 1955: Adrienne’s mother dressed her in a leotard and pink dancing pumps, and they drove to Meadow Hearth. From the road, unseen, but rounding the footpath through the trees, they came upon the meadow.

On the far side of the clearing was the stage, with mirrors and exercise bars extending back into the room behind. The woman who ran it hauled the backdrops up from New York city. An artsy-type, wearing dance clothes and a headband.

There the little girls learned to dance. Toward the end of the long summer, a recital, and in the twilight, with the meadow filled with parents and friends, and fireflies flickering through the dark beneath the trees, the girls danced and presented their play.

Does the dance ever end?

Fifteen years ago, Adrienne told me this story, describing how magical the place was, how she sometimes seemed to see glimmering fairies brushing through the leaves, how the light was golden and the music floating across the meadow.

Ten years ago, when I came to see the house she’d rented for herself and her daughter Layla, I noticed the small sign of carved wood. Secured to a metal upright, it stood in a corner of her garden. “Meadow Hearth” it said.

And did the home become Meadow Hearth? Adrienne worked so hard, year after year, planting the bright flowers, fixing up the house. The landlords couldn’t have cared less. I moved in; her daughter moved out. There were ups and downs and a neighbor on the sun side proposing a construction project. It came time to move away.

In our new home in Mount Shasta, I notice in a corner of the garden, a small sign of carved wood. A bit more weathered now, but still proclaiming “Meadow Hearth”.

Are we in Meadow Hearth?

My personal belief is no, we’re not. I think perhaps Meadow Hearth is far away, further than miles, further than rivers, further than roads. There at the far side of memory, Meadow Hearth remains, bright, perfect, shining, as once upon a time.

But the dance goes on.