ATM’s have taken over many of the functions of a bank.They are in countries all over the world and you can get cash in countries where no one speaks English and all the writing looks like hieroglyphics. The ATM’s accept debit and credit cards, let you make deposits, check balances and transfer money across accounts.They are open twenty four seven and have small service fees considering the service they provide. There is a phone number to call if something goes haywire but we all hope we don’t ever have to call the 800 number because help will never arrive.
This simple, hand penned sign, by the ATM, is a plea for help. It was left leaning against a wall behind a trash barrel, so one guesses the author got some money and took his Sis for a nice meal.
The writer of this sign says your money will be spent on food rather than drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, or other vices.
Whether we should trust him, because he asks us too, is a great leap of faith.
Why they left their sign remains a mystery.
The only thing that seems questionable are the letters, ” No B.S. ”
I wouldn’t have out that in there if it was my sign.
Bazookas are old technology but World War 2 vets will tell you a thing or two about their effectiveness in the war they fought in.
This plastic army man, with his bazooka pointed at me,his helmet securely fastened, his feet planted and secured by a heavy application of scotch tape, looks at me with a stern no nonsense attitude.
Mounted atop the snack bar register, he is protecting the money, and, throws me back to grade school days when we kids actually played with these Army men, taped firecrackers to them and stood back as they were blown up with the striking of a match.
These days, Army men still wear uniforms and helmets, but they have put their bazookas in museums. Army men, these days, are likely to be killing people with their computers, sitting in a room thousands of miles from the battlefield.
This cash register is protected, and, at night, when employees have gone home, this army man goes to the refrigerator and helps himself to a beer.
Fighting makes one thirsty.
The season of spooks and goblins, pumpkins and puritans is approaching.
Our local Home Depot has dedicated a few aisles and displays to Halloween and Thanksgiving and looking for some utility wire and masonry nails to secure a few plants to a block wall, so they will grow straight and be out of the pathway to the back of the house, I am greeted by grisly figures.
There are ghosts peering down from higher shelves, opening their arms and long thin fingers to grab me as I walk underneath. There are green skeletons and little girl apparitions in white dresses that I wouldn’t want knocking at my door any time of the night, or day . All of the props in this Home Depot holiday section are properly scary but not too scary to make little kids cry. This season I will not have candy and treats for those who come knocking. Most parents take their kids to school or church functions where it is safer. It is hard to figure how a predominantly Christian country, like ours used to be, could market and perpetuate Halloween on any scale.
Even more grisly than these blown up spectacles is what comes on the news.
The development of new and more destructive weapons is still on going. Wars and revolutions play out around the world as men and women make and enforce rules that everyone has to obey. Television commercials promote drugs, lawyers, doctors, the need for insurance, the need to buy services you didn’t know you needed. Homeless legions beg on the streets and take handouts without a thought of how to get off the street. Wall street rolls in money created by a government and financial system that rewards them for their efforts and keeps working men and women in minimum wage jobs, always competing with shadowy workers from other countries who are here with or without paperwork, keeping business profits high.
There is much to be scared of in this Devil’s playground.
Somehow, I don’t see much reason to celebrate Old Scratch.
Elevating him and his minions to holiday status to sell merchandise seems a bit short sighted, but altogether human.
My garage is the most recent resting place for artifacts from 803, where us kids grew up.
Smaller things have been boxed up to be gone over when brother’s are able to come to Albuquerque to go through photos, letters, correspondence, old coins, mementos from our parent’s trips, political pins, old books and magazines, items of clothing that don’t fit any of us.
These larger artifacts are all that keeps me from using my garage and photos have been emailed to see if the guys want to take any of these larger items to their homes before they are donated to charitable organizations that handle stuff people don’t want or have a place for.
Seeing these items out of their original places in 803, our childhood home, is disconcerting.
What is more difficult than disposing of stuff is dealing with memories
How we hold thousands and thousands of memories between our ears and still function is a miracle.
Memories remain more important than stuff.
We can share our memories but we can’t give them away, trade them for a newer model, or sell them at the flea market.
As soon as we say we haven’t seen deer in a while, we spot a small grouping at an opening to one of the small canyons breaking away from this larger canyon we are trekking through.
This family unit are still a short par 4 away. They are looking back at us, ears cocked, knowing we were here long before we spotted them. They are large animals with delicate faces, soft lips, long tongues, long thin legs that don’t seem they could support their bodies, large large eyes and ears.
We pause and get photos but this is a job for a DSLR which I didn’t bring because I wasn’t expecting deer. Getting zoomed in, without losing focus on this old I Phone, I take a few shots for the Scotttreks scrapbook.
In this natural setting, the animals are majestic.
It is bow hunting season in Albuquerque and it is shameful that some of these animals will go down because they have horns on their heads.
When the American prairies were covered by huge buffalo herds, the Plains Indians would say prayers before riding into the sea of buffalo and bringing a few down. I say a little prayer for them this morning as the sun comes over the Sandia’s and the humming of freeway traffic grows louder.
I wish these guys and girls good luck and pray hunters forgo hunting season for NFL football and golf with the boys.
We, the ultimate predators in this world, are far too many.
Nature will find a way to deal with our numbers.