EVIDENCE THAT ALIENS VISITED MAGNOLIA !!!

Today,  October  15,  2015,  Rise`  went  out  into  our  yard,  and  was  astonished  to  find  a  huge,  mysterious  black  monolith  there,  which  she  dared  to  try  to  touch !!!

A  note  was  found  with  the  monolith ...

... and  this ...

Themes from Star Wars (and other movies and shows)

Muse "Exogenesis:  Symphony" w/ orchestra

Metallica "Orion" w/ cello ensemble

David Bowie "Space Oddity" with strings

The Beatles "Here Comes the Sun"

Richard Strauss "Also Sprach Zarathustra"

Pink Floyd "Brain Damage/Eclipse" w/ orch, brass, and choir

...  which  can  probably  only  be  decoded  by  going  to

AUDUBON  HIGH  SCHOOL

AUDITORIUM

SATURDAY

OCTOBER  17

6:30  P.M.

Admission  is  FREE

It's  after  the  fact,  but  all  in  my  family  were  astonished  at  how  many  did  NOT  remember   the  2001:  Space  Odyssey  monolith ...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9woRJ7-mD7Y

THE BLUE BIRDS WHO LOVED ME

Years  ago,   though  we  had  Inky  the  cat  guarding  our  property,    we  had  zillions  of  birds  around  the  property.   

Inky  actually  attracted  mockingbirds.  While  bluebirds  were  smart  enough  to  stay  away  from  Inky,   mockingbirds,  though  nesting,  say,  200  feet  away,  would  see  Inky  as  a  threat  to  their  young  high  up  in  the  trees,   become  outraged,  throw  away  that  discretion  which  is  the  better  part  of  valor,   and  start  to  aggressively  buzz  Inky  and  then  zoom-in  toward  her  like  Stuka  dive  bombers  lining  up  for  a  bombing  run.

Inky,  for  her  part,  loved  it  when  the  mockingbirds  harassed  her.

The  mockingbirds  would  fly  in  closer  and  closer  and  closer,  while  Inky  sat  as  still  as  a  stone  in  a  photograph,  pretending  to  studiously  ignore  then.

I've  even  seen  Inky,  as  she  strung  the  mockingbirds  along,  allow  them  to  land  on  her  head.

Finally,  when  she  was  certain  that  a  particular  attacking  mockingbird  was  over-confident,   she  would  spring-up  and  snatch  the   bird  out  of  the  air.  So,  our  yard  was  constantly  littered  with  mockingbird  feathers.

Bad  for  the  bird.  Presumably,  good  for  the  species.  Under  Darwinian  logic,   the  surviving  mockingbirds  would  tend  to  be  those  genetically  pre-wired  to  be  more  cautious  around  cats.

Our  son  Reid  will  have  something  strong  to  say  about  this  in  response.   He  thinks  that  semi-domestic  cats  are  a  disaster  for  wildlife  --  that  cats  have  no  predators  decimating  their  numbers  in  the  urban  landscape,  while  they  decimate  everything  else.

However,  even  if  that  is  so,   cats  on  the  loose  are  still  a  necessary  evil.   Their  main  quarry  are  rats  and  mice.  Rats  and  mice  who  find  ways  into  the  walls  of  our  homes  have  to  be  stopped.   Traps  and  poisons  just  can't  do  the  job,  especially  with  rats.    Not  only  are  rats  individually  highly  intelligent,  but  because  they  are  an  extremely  social  animal,    they  actually  pass  knowledge  of  what  is  dangerous  in  the  landscape   on  to  their  family  members.   I  have  seen  proof  of  this.  If  you  put  out  a  rat  trap  with  peanut  butter,  you'll  get  a  rat  within  24  hours.  But  if  you  then  put  out  a  rat  trap  with  peanut  butter  in  the  same  vicinity  again,  every  single  time  your  next  trapped  animal  won't  be  a  rat.  Every  rat  in  the  family  suddenly  associates  the  smell  of  peanut  butter,  and  the  rat  trap  shape,  with  death,  and  so  stays  away.  And,  no  matter  what,  you  don't  want  poisons  around  your  property.  Everything  eats  them.  And  because  they  are  slow-acting,   the  animal  does  what,  after  eating  the  poison?   It  goes  home  and  dies,    and  if  home  is  inside  the  walls  of  your  house,  you'll  find  yourself  wondering  why  your  house  smells  like  a  dead  body.

Okay.  I'm  ranting  about  cats  and  rats  again.

One  of  the  animals  which  mockingbirds  aggressively  attack  is  their  distant  cousin,  the  bluebird.    Mockingbirds   win  the  dogfights  with  bluebirds  every  single  time,  driving  the  bluebird  parents  away  from  the  bluebirds'  own  nests  full  of  newly-hatched  chicks.  I've  seen  the  mockingbird-versus-bluebird  dogfights   again  and  again.   

We  came  across   bluebird  nests  with  chicks  orphaned  by  mockingbirds   in  the  low-hanging  branches   of  the  oak  tree   we  used  to  have  on  our  property,   in  the  vines  on  the  fence,  and  in  the  grape  vines  to  the  left  and  right  of  our  Jackson  Avenue  door.   (Every  time  birds  nest  in  the  grape  arbors  at  the  door,  we  all  go,   "Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!"  because  we  feel  like  we  have  a  hospital  nursery   at  our  main  door,  and  feel  conscience-bound  to  go  out  only  the  back  door  to  avoid  disturbing  nature.)

Now,   one  of  the  things  we  quickly  discovered,  with  those  orphaned  bluebird  babies,  is  that  the  Wives  Tale  analysis,  to  the  effect  that  baby  birds  which  haven't  yet  bonded  with  their  parents  bond  with  the  first  living  thing  they  see,   is  essentially  true.  

When  our  boys  were  very  young,  we  used  to  read  to  them  the  P.D.  Eastman  picture  book,   "Are  You  My  Mother?,"  where  this  stupid  baby  bird  searches  everywhere   or  his  mother.

Well,  bluebird  babies  really  do  do  that.  And  once  they've  bonded,  its  permanent.

So,  one  Saturday  morning,  when  I went  out  to  do  the  lawn,   I  heard  birds  peeping   away  on  the  pavement  behind   me,  only  to  discover  that  a  nest  full  of  baby  bluebirds,  probably  orphaned  a  day  or  two  before  by  a  mockingbird,  were  standing  behind  me,  waiting  to  be  fed!  "Oh,  no!"  I  thought.  "They've  bonded  to  me!"   

If  I  moved  forward,  they  happily  hip-hopped   after  me.

If  I  went  up  the  steps  to  the  door,    they  followed  me  up  the  steps.

If  I  went  into  the  house,  they  even  followed  me  with  the  fearlessness  of  complete  innocence  into  the  house!

I  called  a  vet,  to  gain  insight  into  how  to  save  their  lives.  The  vet  said,  "Try  mashing  worms  and  feeding  them   with  a  toothpick.    But  you  have  to  kind  of  feed  them  all  day.     They  are  far  more  work  than  a  human  baby.  Good  luck!"    Click.

I  tried.   I  honest-to-goodness  tried  really,  really  hard.   I  built  a  nest  for  them  in  a  shoe  box,  which  they  loved.      I  went  out  and   collected  worms  in  the  wet  dirt  beneath  matted  leaves,     and   prepared   a  live  "worm-arium"   --  a  bucket  of  moist  dirt  filled  with  hundreds  of  live  worms  --  so  that  I  did  not  have  to  filch-around  in  the  dirt  outside  every  feeding  time,  which  was  all  of  the  time.

But,  try  as  I  might,   the  little  ones  started  becoming  listless,  and  began  dropping-off,  one  by  one.   Whichever  one  of  our  boys   took  an  interest  at  the  time  --  I  forget  who  --   helped  me  with  the  traditional  Catholic  cigar  box  burial.

"THANK YOU FOR SAVING MY DOG -- BUT NOT MY CHILD !!!" (WARNING: LANGUAGE, SEXUAL SITUATIONS)

This  is  my  favorite  true  story  out  of  all  of  those  posted  so  far.  A  year  ago,  it  met  a  cold  reception  on  line.

The  names  have  been  changed,  here,  in  order  to  protect  the  guilty  --  and  me.  (I  don't  want  the  crazy  people  I'm  talking  about,  here,  suing  me  just  for  telling  the  truth.)

The  homes   around  our  intersection,  here  on  Warwick  Road,   had  always  been  somewhat  famous  among  Borough  officials  for  housing  some  of  the  prettiest  ladies  in  Magnolia.  One  fire  company  chief  told  me,  "Pete,  you're  wife's  a  beauty,    and  then  there  was  Melony  across  the  side  street  from  your  house,  who  has  been  replaced  by  Melody,  Grant's  wife.   And  across  Warwick  Road  there's  Nora!  Whew!   Did  you  ever  see  Nora  outside  the  house  mowing  the  lawn  in  her  bikini?!"

Yes,  I  had.    Every  red-blooded  American  male  within  a  100  mile  radius  had  seen  Nora  mowing  the  lawn  in  her  bikini.   But  the  life  of  the  couple  with  the  beautiful  wife  who  did  the  lawn  in  her  bikini  was  a  lot  more  complicated  than  anyone  knew.

When  my  wife  Rise`  and  I  first  made  the  acquaintance  with  their  family,  I  actually  tried  to   befriend  the  husband,  Bob.  It  was  he  --  not  the  pretty  little  thing  that  did  the  lawn  in  her  bikini  --  who  first  attracted  my  attention.

He  was  the  hardest  working  human  being  I  had  ever  seen.  Always  working,  working,  working  at  home,  when  he  wasn't  at  work.  

But  I  quickly  discovered  that  he  wasn't  interested  in  doing  anything  with  any  man  friends.  What  he  wanted  to  do,  when  he  wasn't  at  work,  is  stay  at  home  and  control  his  wife.  He  micro-managed  her  to  a  shocking  extent,  whenever  I  was  over  there  in  their  house  trying unsuccessfully  to  get  him  to  do  "man  things"  with  me,   like  traipsing   through  the  North  Jersey  woods  looking  for  antiquities  with  me  and  my  oldest  son,  or  watching  a  B-1B  Lancer  bomber  at    the  Millville  Airshow  do  a  flyover   in  a  vapor  cone  and  listening  to  its  sonic  boom  --  that  kind  of  "man  thing."

In  short  order,  his  wife  was  more  of  a  friend  to  me  than  he  was.   Nora,  it  turned  out,  had  genius-level  intelligence,  in  my  estimation,  but  an  astonishingly  low  level  of  education,  knowledge  and  experience.

Finally,  one  day  we  were  invited  to  a  party  over  at  their  house.    

At  all  times  during  the  party,   Bob  was  shouting  instructions  at  Nora,   telling  her  to  do  this  and  do  that,  to  wait  on  guests  while  he  stood  there  doing  nothing  but  talking  to  guests.    As  poor  Nora  rushed  to  comply,  she  passed  by  me  with  a  really  big  bowl  of  cheesy  dip,  tripped  on   someone  else's  foot,  and  fired  the  bowl  of  dip  all  over  the  front    of  my  trousers.

"OH,  NO!"  she  exclaimed,  "WHAT  HAVE  I  DONE???!!!"    She  rushed  into  the  kitchen  and  got  a  bucket   of  cold  water  and  some  clean  rags,  and  rushed  back  and   got  on  her  hands  and  knees  and  started  to  humbly  and  elaborately  clean  my  trousers.

"Oh,  this  isn't  necessary,  Nora,"    I  laughed.    "Relax!  I  live  across  the  street!  Let  me  go  home,  take  off  my  shoes  and  socks,  hose  off  my  pants  leg  in  the  yard,   change  into  another  pair,  and  send  these  to  the  cleaners!"

Bob  yelled  to  me  from  across  the  room,  "PETE,  YOU  SIT  THERE  AND  YOU  LET  HER  CLEAN  YOUR  PANTS!   SHE'S  A  CLUMSY  MORON  FOR  DOING  THIS  TO  YOU!"  A  controller  shouting  orders  at  the  guest  to  force  the  guest  to  participate  in  controlling  and  punishing  his  wife.

I  couldn't  take  it  anymore.  

I  said,  out  loud,  very  calmly,  "Bob,  you are my  friend.  But,  you  the  one  who  did  this.  You've  been  shouting  out  orders  to  Nora  all  night,    to  'hurry  here  and  do  this!'  and  'hurry  there  and  do  that!' while  you  just  talked  to  guests,   and  she  has  been  rushing  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,    to  please  you  -- but  it  was  the  hurrying  you  demanded  that  caused  the  accident!     It's  okay!  It's  okay!  It  was  an  accident!  Nora  didn't  do  anything  wrong!  These  things  happen!"

All  of  this  time,  Nora  had  been  down  on  the  floor,   cleaning  my  pants  leg.  I  was  mortified.   And  I  didn't  like  the  fact  that  her  rag  was  getting  close  to  the  goo  spilled  onto  the  crotch  of  my  pants.    I  grabbed  Nora  by  the  shoulders  and  helped  her to  her  feet  and  I  said,  "Listen,  Nora,  it's  time  Rise`  and   I  got  back  home,  anyway.  It's  okay!  No  harm  done!  Really!  No  harm  done!  I  live  such  a  boring  life  that  this  was  excitement  for  me!"  I  shook  Bob's  hand  and  said,  "Listen!  This  is  okay!  This  is  what  friends  are  for,  Bob!  So,  please  don't  blame  Nora!"  We  left.   Later  that  night, as  I  lay  in  bed,   through  our  open  bedroom  window,   I   heard  Bob  across  the  street  screaming-at  and  berating  Nora  for  hours  for  being  "a  clumsy  idiot,"    and  I  felt  so,  so  bad  for  her.

A  few  weeks  after  that  Rise`  loaned  Nora  a  book  from  my  library.   The  following  day  Bob  looked  at  the  fly  leaf,  saw  my  name  inscribed  there,  and  as  I  was  cutting  the  lawn   he   carried  the  book  across  Warwick  Road   at  arms  length  with  his  right  hand   while  he  held  his  nose  with  his  left,  and  dropped  it  to  the  ground  over  our  fence!  

That  was  my  punishment  for  blaming  the  spilling  of  the  dip  on  him.

I  hated  cooperating  with  a  controlling  madman's  implicit  effort  to  isolate  his  wife  from  the  neighbors.  But  continuing  to  try  to  relate  to  such  a  madman  might  have  led  to  an  incident  that  all  would  regret.  

So,  Rise`  and  I  ended  our  friendship  with  the  couple.  

Shortly  after  that,  things  began  to  change  at  the  house  across  Warwick  Road.  We  began  to  hear  Nora  screaming  BACK  at  Bob  when  he  screamed  at  her.  We  saw  that  Nora  had  somehow  finagled  out  of  her  screaming,  controlling  husband  the  cash   needed  to  buy  a  used  car  for  herself.

Finally,  she  commenced  a  sex-only  extramarital  affair  with  one  of  the  married  men  in  our  neighborhood,   involving  brief  "slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am"  trysts  in  the  "No-Tell  Motel"  "serving"  our  section  of  South  Jersey.  Remember   the  one  the  kids  from  Sterling  High  School  used  to  joke  about,  on  the  White  Horse  Pike  next  to  295,  after  the  proms?

I  can't  reveal  how  I  know  this.  It's  liable  to  get  someone  killed.    I  was  disgusted  at  Nora's  "john."  He  had  a  beautiful-but-too-trusting  wife  and  a  child,  both  of  whom  loved  him  like  crazy.    But,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  was  secretly  pleased  that  Nora  at  least  had  some  "relational  consolation"  with  a  male  outside  of  her  marriage,  since  her  marriage  provided  none  whatsoever.

I  was  secretly  pleased,   that  is,   until  one  day,  I  was  talking  to  Nora's  illicit  love  interest  over-the-fence,  as  he  came  walking  by,  pushing  his  baby  daughter  in  the  stroller,   when  Nora  came  out  of  her  house  across  the  street  in  her  bikini  to  do  the  lawn.

"Did  you  know  that  she  is  deeply  intelligent,"  I  asked,    "That  she  probably  has  an  IQ  of  about  150  or  a  160?"

"Pete,"    he  said  to  me  dryly,  "You  don't  know  her  the  way  I  do.    She  is  nothing  but  a  piece  of  c - - t."

I   thought,  "WHAT???!!!    I  had  hoped  that  Nora  could  at  least  find  some  solace  in  a  relationship  with  this  gorilla.    But  to  him  she  is  nothing  but  c - - t !!!"

Then,  something  else,  completed  unexpected,  happened.

Though  I  was  a  parishioner  and  lector  at  St.  Gregory's  Church  in  Magnolia,     when  I  wasn't  scheduled  to  read  at  a  Mass  at  St.  Gregory's   I  liked  to  go  to  7:00  p.m.   Mass   at  Holy  Family  Church  in  Sewell  on  Sundays.  I  liked  both  the  pastor  and  the  non-urban   setting,  there.  One  night,     as  I  participated  at  Mass,  I  looked  to  my  right  and  there  was  Nora.  

I  thought,    "Wha-a-a-at?  What  is  she  doing  at  this  particular  Catholic  church?  Had  she  secretly  followed  me  here?"   I  thought   that  the  lady  might  have  been  a  look-alike.  But,  out  in  the  parking  lot,  I  saw  her  get  into  the  car  Nora  always  drove.  It  was  Nora.

Once  I  had  shown  Nora  my  picture  of  the  Shroud  of  Turin,  and  told  her  its  amazing  story.    Had  this  somehow  piqued  her  interest  in  the  Catholic  faith?

When  I  saw  Nora  at  the  7:00  p.m.  Mass  at  Holy  Family  Church  again,    I  stopped  her  at  church  and  shook  her  hand  and  talked  to  her  briefly,  but  she  seemed   too  worried  about  something  to  talk  to  me  --  maybe  that  her  husband  was  stalking  her?

At  any  rate,  it  was  really,  really  neat  to  see  Nora  acting  this  independently,  about  that  most  dignified  and  dignifying  of  human  activities,  worshiping  God.

A  few  weeks  later,  I  was  outside  cutting  the  lawn  after  work  during  rush  hour,    when  Bob  and  Nora's   toddler  daughter,  still  in  diapers,   came  out  of  their  front  screen  door  onto  their  open  porch  clutching  her  teddy  bear.    As  she  climbed  down  the  steps  to  the  front  walk,  I  heard  Bob  screaming  at  and  berating  poor  Nora   again  through  their  open  windows.   I  realized  that  they  did  not   know  that  their  daughter  was  out  of  the  house.   There  was  way,  WAY  too  much  40  mph,  tail-gating  rush  hour  traffic  on  Warwick  Road  to  get  across  with  causing  a  multi-car  pile-up,  and  killing  myself  in  the  process.   

In  a  panic  I  yelled,  "BOB!  NORA!   YOUR  DAUGHTER'S   OUTSIDE,  WALKING  TOWARD  TRAFFIC!"  No  response.  Bob  was  yelling  too  loud.    I  looked  for  a  stone  to  throw  across  the  street,   over  the  little  kid's  head,  to  break  a  window.     There  were  none  around.   

I  heard  Bob  continue  to  scream  at  and  berate  Nora   at  the  top  of  his  lungs.  They  were  oblivious  to  the  fact  that  their  little  daughter  was  about  to  die.

As  their  kid  made  her  way  down  the  walk  to  their  front  gate,  I  screamed   two  more  times.  Same  result.

As  their  daughter  opened  their  front  gate  and  crossed  the  sidewalk  to  the  curb,  and  actually  began  to  TEETER  on  the  curb,  I  desperately  looked  for  a  break  in  the  speeding  rush  hour  traffic.   The  cars  were  all   bumper-to-bumper  rushing  by  at  40  mph.  I  tried  to   motion  to  drivers  to  stop,  to  let  me  get  over  to  the  little  girl.  They  either  didn't  see  me,  or  they  didn't  give  a  darn.

It  occurred  to  me  that  if  at  this  point  I  dodged   cars  to  try  to  get  across  to  save  the little  girl,  the  multi-car  pile-up  would  kill  her,  too.

And  there  she  was  on  the  opposite  curb,   teetering  more  and  more  on  her  toes.  "GOOD  GOD!"  I  screamed  to  myself  in  my  head,  "SHE'S  ABOUT  TO  DIE!"

Then  I  had  an  idea:  Become  a  monster.    

I  put  on  a  scary   face,  clawed  my  hands,    and  began  jumping  up  and  down  waving  my  arms,  screaming  like  a  monster  over  the  din  of  the  rush  hour  traffic  and  of  her  father  screaming.

The  toddler  looked  up,  shocked  at  the  "monster"  across  the  street,  and  fell  back  on  her  butt,  buying  a  few  seconds  of  safety.

I  began  screaming  some  more  for  Bob  and  Nora  at  the  top  of  my  lungs.

Just  then,    Bob  came  out  of  the  front  of  his  house,  turned  left   and  began  walking  toward  his  car   to  go  some  place.  I   screamed,  "BOB!    YOUR  DAUGHTER!  LOOK!"   He   turned  and  looked   where  I  was  pointing,  saw  his  daughter,  realized  that  she  would  die  if  he  did  not  get  her,  and  ran  down  and  grabbed  her.

Nothing  happened  after  that.  I  wondered  if  Bob  would  thank  me  for  my  part  in  saving  his  daughter's  life,   but  he  never  did.

A  few  weeks  later,   on  a  balmy  Saturday  evening,    I  was  outside  finishing  up  lawn  work  in  the  yard  again  when  I  suddenly  heard  a  strange,  loud  "yelp"   which  sounded  something  like  a  tyrannosaurus  after  it  was  hit  on  the  toe  with  a  sledge  hammer,  and  in  the  periphery  of  my  vision  I  saw  something  flying  through  the  air  on  Warwick  Road.  I  ran  out  to  the  front  sidewalk,  and  there  was  Bob  and  Nora's  dog  lying  in  the  middle  of  Warwick  Road,  breathing  quickly,  bloody  foam   issuing  from its  mouth  and  nose.   I  ran  out  into  Warwick  Road  and  this  time  I  was  able  to  stop  the  traffic  in  both  directions.  A  driver  jumped  out  of  his  car  and  went  to  pick  the  dog  up.     I  said,  "No!    Dogs  in  pain  will  sometimes  bite   if  you  try  to  move  him.  Do  you  have  a  blanket?"

"No,"  he  said.

"But  I  do!"  another  stopped  driver  volunteered.

"Do   you  care  if   dog  blood  or   other  fluids  stain  it?"  I  asked.

"It's  yours,"  he  said.

The  first  driver  and  I  folded  the  blanket  into  a  tight  stretcher,   gingerly  slid  it  under  the  dog,  and  carried  the  dog  to  Bob  and  Nora's  front  lawn.     I  then  called  Animal  Control  and  told  them  what  happened.     They  said  that  they'd  be  there  shortly.

As  Animal  Control  was  placing  the  dying  animal  in  their  truck  and  I  was  crossing  the  street   to  go  back  to  my  house,  Bob  and  Nora  drove  up  in  their  cars  and  Animal  Control  reported  to  them  that  I  had  removed  the  dog  from  the  street.

The  next  day  Bob  crossed  the  street  and  shook  my  hand  warmly,  and  thanked  me  for  doing  what  I  did  after  the  dog's  accident.

I  thought,  "What  about  your  daughter?"

He  never  mentioned  her!

THE IRISH REPUBLICAN ARMY CAME TO MAGNOLIA -- REALLY !!!

Years  ago,  Rise`  and  I  purchased  a  refrigerator  from  a  major  local  appliance  retailer.    Instantly,    we  had  a  problem  with  the  thing  --  the  soft  plastic  grommet  around  the  perimeter  of  the  door  began  to  simply  fall  off.    Without  that  grommet,  the  inside  gets  warm.    It  is  as  essential  as  the  freon-based  heat-exchanger  compressor  mechanism  inside  the  refrigerator.

We  complained  and  complained  and  complained  to  the  retailer.    Finally,  when  I  threatened  to  sue,  they  sent  over  a  subcontractor  to  do  repairs.

The  subcontractor  was  an  Irish  green  carder  with  a  beautiful,  utterly  charming   Irish  accent.  He  also  knew  Gaelic!  Oh,  man,  he  was  such  an  interesting  person  to  talk  to,  as  he  worked!  I  am   a  descendant  of  victim's  of  the  Irish  Potato  Famine,  one  of  them  with  an  amazing  story.   So,  I  felt  like  I  was  talking  to  "blood"!

My  great  grandmother,   Annie  Fuller  Mallon  Dawson,   was  just  Annie  Fuller  when  she  met  a  young  Irish  potato  farmer  with  the  surname  of  "Mallon"  --  we  don't  know  his  given  name  --  and  married  him  in  1845.  Their  home  was  probably  his  little  potato  farmer's  mud  hut  --  what  the  English  were  restricting  most  of  the  Catholics  to,  in  the  aftermath  of  Wolfe  Tone's  rebellion  in  1798,   and  Cornwallis'   subsequent  slaughter  of  the  Irish  and  mass  seizure  of  Irish  property.  There  Annie  and  her  young  husband  lived  like  pigs  --  probably  with  their  pigs!  --   but  happily,  for  the  Irish  were  known  then  for  their   virtue,  tolerance  and  Catholic  Christian  love.    English  diarists  from  the   period   express  profound  astonishment  at  the  extraordinary  virtue  of  the  Irish  during  this  period  of  great  oppression  --  preferable,  some  of  them  said,  to  freedom  and  vice  of  English  society  during  the  same  period.  (Catholics  must  find  this  again.)

In  1844,  an  American  sailor  chomping  on  a  single  American  potato,  on  his  sailboat  from  America  berthed  at  a  wharf  on  one  of  the  islands  in  the  English  Channel,    reached  a  mushy   part  of  the  potato,  and  in  disgust  tossed  it  ashore.

So  began  the  great  Irish  Potato  Famine.  As  a  result  of  that  sailor's  mindless  action,  millions  died,  governments  were  overthrown,  and  wars  were   fought  all  over  Europe.

The  potato  was  afflicted  with  Blight,  an  odd,  mold-like  potato  disease  which  ate  the  potato's  leaves  above  ground,  so  that  the  potatoes  underground   rotted.

Blight  spores  jumped  across  the  English  channel  and  began  killing  the  potato  crops  in  southern  England.

In  1845,   the  spores  were  carried  by  the  wind  across  the  Irish  Sea,    and  Irish  potato  growers  were  mystified   as  their  crops  rotted  where  they  were  growing.    Most  had  enough  savings  to  cope  with  a  bad  luck  year.  No  problem.

In  1846,   essentially  every  potato  in  Ireland  turned  into  mush.

When,  half  a  century  before,  the  English  stole  Irish  lands  at  gunpoint,    and  then  rented  the  land  back  to  the  owners  (which  financed  the  lavish  lifestyle  of  the  Lords  in  London's  West  End),   and  then  forced  the  Irish  Catholics  into  potato  farming,  by  various  laws,    the  assumption  was  that  the  status  quo  could  last  forever.    However,  suddenly,  the  Irish   were  faced  with  a  second  year   of  failure  of  the  crop  they  needed  to  succeed  in  paying  the  rents  they  should  not  have  been  paying  to  the  English  for  renting  the  lands  stolen  from  their  grandfathers  in  the  nationwide  English  "hold-up."

The  Irish  knew  what  was  coming  next.

Virtually  every  Irish  potato  farmer's  lease  had  a  provision  permitting  eviction  for  no  reason  in  particular!

Only  about  one-third  of  the  Irish  were  arrears  in  their  rent  in  1846,   after  a  year  of  potato  famine.

However,  Parliament  in  England,  in  the  guise  of  paying  for  charitable  relief  for the  Irish  Catholics,   imposed  a  shocking  tax  called  the  Four  Pound  Clause,  taxing  Irish  lazy  beds  --  the  beds  where  Irish  Catholics  grew  their  potatoes  --   at  a  rate  that  today  would  be  equal  to  $3,000   tax  per  quarter  acre  of  ground  subject  to  potato  cultivation  per  year.   The  only  way  to  avoid  paying  the  tax,  the  Lords  of  the  London's  West  End  were  told,   was  to  eliminate  all  evidence  of  potato  cultivation  --  the  rotten  potatoes,  the  lazy  beds,  and  the  mud  hovels  and  shacks  the  Irish  Catholic  farmers  were  restricted  to,  everything.

Irish  Catholic  Parliamentarians  immediately  saw  that  there  would  be  no  relief,  at  all,  for  the  Irish  Catholics  in  the  measure  --  that  it  was  really  nothing  but  genocide,  since  the  Lords  of  London's  West  End  would  obviously  evict  every  single  Irish  Catholic  man,  woman  and  child  to  evade  the  tax.     Their  objections  were  made,  and  recorded  in  Parliaments  official  record,  but  otherwise  ignored.

Protestant-ruled  Parliament  then  budgeted  for  a  massive  move  of  troops  to  Ireland.

These  troops  assisted  local  constables  in  the  eviction  of  every  single  Catholic  Irish  family,     whether  or  not  they  were  among  the  one-third  in  arrears.

Potato  Famine  4  Pound  Clause  eviction

aided  by  British  soldiers

As  first  thousands,  then  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  finally  millions  of  Irish  Catholic  men,  women  and  children  began  walking  the  roads  of  Ireland  to  their  death,   Ireland's  Protestant  overlords  passed  the  first  laws  against  Loitering  --  the  homeless,  starving  Irish  Catholics  were  suddenly  not  allowed  to  stop  walking!

The  potato  crop  in  Ireland  was  the  only  plant  attacked  by  the  Blight.  All  other  crops  did  well.  Ireland  was  actually  filled-to-overflowing   with  food  to  eat  during  the  Potato  Famine.

So,  the  Potato  Famine  victims   had  plenty  to  eat,  right?

Wrong.    The  Protestant  Lords  in  London's  West  End  had  the  Protestant  caretakers  of  their  vast  stolen  Irish  estates  rush  English  soldiers  to  every  field  and  garden  in  Ireland  where  crops  were  growing.   They  had  orders  to  shoot  to  kill   any  starving  Catholic  children,  women  or  men  foolish  enough  to  try  to  eat  the  growing  vegetables  and  fruits.

Basically,  as  the  Blight  spread  to  the  European  mainland  and  wiped-out  potato  crops  across  Europe,  the  price  of  all  other  foods  skyrocketed,    and  the  Lords  in  London's  West  End  were  determine  to  sell   the  non-potato  crops  of  Ireland,  to  maximize  their  profits,  as  a  result.

As  starving  Catholic  Irish  children,  women  and  men  endlessly  walking  the  roads  of  Ireland  to  their  deaths  began  charging  the  wagons  jammed  with  foods   the  Catholics  themselves  had  grown  alongside  their  potatoes,   the  Lords  in  the  West  End  dispatched  soldiers  to shoot-down   anyone  trying  to  eat  foot  in  these  wagons.

One  artist's  sketch  of  English  soldiers

protecting  a  wagon  of  crops  headed  for  the  docks

as  Irish  Catholics,  dying  of  starvation,   watched

Word  spread  among  the  starving  and  dying  homeless  Irish  Catholics  that  the  wharves  in  Irish  ports  were  piled  high  with  crates  of  food   awaiting  export  to  the  European  mainland  for  resale  at  high  prices,  to  fatten  the  wallets  of  the  Lords  of  London's  West  End  who  stole   their  land  at  gunpoint  and  rented  it  back  to  them.

So,  they  headed  for  the  docks,  and  the  men  organized  themselves  into  Catholic  Ireland's  so-called  Skeleton  Armies,   large  groups  of  men  and  boys,  starved  to  near-skeletal  thinness,  and  armed  themselves  with  dirt  balls,  sticks  and  rocks ...

A  good  portrayal  of  what

a  brigade  of  Catholic  Ireland's

"skeleton  armies"  would  have

looked  like,  before  charging  the  docks

to  feed  their  starving  wives  and  children.

... and  charged  the  docks.

The  English  were  ready  for  them,  however.  The  soldiers  were  lined-up  in  step  formation,   so  that   one  row  after  another  could  blast-away  the  skeletal  humans  charging  them  to  get  at  the  food  for  their  children  and  women,  much  as  you  see  in  the  1964  movie  "Zulu" ...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1csr0dxalpI

That,  basically,  is  what  happened  at  the  wharfs.

And  so,  by  mowing-down  Irish  Catholics  in  this  fashion,   the  Lords  in  London's  West  End  were  able  to  sell  their  fruits  and  vegetables  for  a  pretty  penny   in  the  markets  of  Europe.

This  is  why  so  many  Irish  Catholics,  including  my  great  grandmother  Annie  Fuller  Mallon,  who  was  widowed  during  the  Potato  Famine  perhaps  because  Mallon  very  carefully  starved  himself  to  death   to  make  sure  that  his  pregnant  wife  had  enough  to  survive,  perhaps   because  Mallon   died  in  charging  the  docks,  perhaps  because  he  died  from  some  famine-related  illness,   emigrated  to  America.     Over  here,  after  my  Great  Aunt  Barbara  Malon  was  born  to  Annie  blind  like  so  many  other  Catholic  Irish  babies  born  during  the  Potato  Famine,   my  great  grandmother  met  and  married  an  Englishman  named  Dawson,  and  the  settled  in  the  Society  Hill  section  of  Philadelphia.   

And   this  is  also  where  the  Irish  Republican  Army  came  from.

Back  to  Magnolia  and  the  Brogue-sounding  young  man  working  on  our  refrigerator ...

At  a  particular  point,   the  young  man  working  on  our  refrigerator  brought  up  something  surprising.

"How  do  you  feel  about  the  Irish  Republican  Army?"   he  asked.

I  paused  and  thought  about  my  words.  Finally  I  said,  "My  great  grandmother  on  my  father's  side,  and  my  great  grandparents  on  my  mother's  side,  were  all  victims  of  the  Potato  Famine.    We  know  how  it  all  came  about.   We  know  what  the  British  did  to  cause  the  suffering  and  death.  And  that  kind  of  thing  has  been  going  on  for  800   years.   So,  I  know  where  the  IRA  came  from.  I  can't  blame  them.   The  British  caused  the  IRA.  So,  it's  not  as  simple  as,  'The  IRA  are  the  bad  guys.'  I  know  that.    I  think  that  it  is  a  sin  to  kill  the  way  they  do.   But  I  also  don't  think  that  I  have  the  right  to  interfere."

And  thereafter  followed  an  astonishing  admission  by  the  Irish  green  carder  repairman ...

"Tomorrow  I'm  taking  an  ocean-going  tug  out  of  New  York  Harbor.  It's  loaded  with  munitions.  I'm  re-supplying  the  IRA  with  a  very  large  shipment."

An  ocean-going  tug  of  the  sort  mentioned

by  the  young  IRA  member  smuggling  munitions  to  Ireland

I  thought  to  myself,  "Well,  there's  an  admission  by  the  most  naive  terrorist  in  the  history  of  the  world!"

After  my  Irish  terrorist  friend  finished  working  on  our  refrigerator  and  left,  I  thought  long  and  hard  respecting  whether  I  should  call   Alcohol,  Tobacco  &  Firearms.  I  decided  not  to.  There  was,  for  me,  enough  cause  justifying  the  actions  on  both  sides  to  make  it  impossible  to  label  one  side  or  the  other  as  "the  baddies."  Our  British  brothers  brought  this  horror  down  upon  their  own  heads.

BABIES IN THE WOMB DO THAT, TOO ???!!! (WARNING: SEXUALLY EXPLICIT DISCUSSION)

My  shy,  extremely  religious  parents  did  a  lousy  job  in  "teaching  me  the  birds  and  the  bees."    First  I  went  to  my  father  for  information.  He  said,  "Go  to  your  mother."   Then  I  went  to  my  mother,  and  sigh,  sigh,  sigh,   she  said,  "Go  to  your  father."

Finally,  they  handed  me  a  pamphlet  called   "The  Pathfinder"   which,  it  is  fair  to  say,  essentially  portrayed  all  members  of  the  opposite  sex  as  wellsprings  of  evil  without  giving  any  information.

My  parents  just  laughed  when  I  said,  "The  guy  who  is  the  author  needs  to  be  put  on  medication."

No  further  information  was  forthcoming.

So,  I  went  to  the  next  best  place  to  learn  about  sex  --  The  Gutter.

And  for  years  I  bragged  that  "everything  valuable  I  ever  learned  about  sex  I  learned  from  The  Gutter."

And  not  only  did  I  teach  myself  about  the  plumbing,  I  also  figured  out  on  my  own  what  God's  plan  was  for  our  plumbing.

Years  later,   in  college,  I  was  dating  a  girl  4  years  older  than  myself.   We  were  having  dinner  with  her  parents   in  their  Havertown,  Pennsylvania  home.   At  one  point,  my  girlfriend  said,  out  loud  at  the  dinner  table,  with  complete  seriousness,  "I  just  don't  get  why  there's  such  a  big  fuss  over  petting!"   and  she  took  her  right  hand  and  stroked  the  hair  on  the  top  of  her  head.   I   thought  to  myself,   "Well,  now  her  parents  know  what  we  haven't  done."  I  was  tempted  to  say  out  loud,  "I'll  show  her  later,"  as  a  joke,  but  I  guessed  that  her  father  would  have  dumped  his  plate  of  spaghetti  on  me.   So,  I  just  winced  ambiguously  in  front  of  everyone.

At  any  rate,  after  Rise`  and  I  married  and  had  sons,  in  our  house  there  was  no  specific  "birds  and  the  bees  day"  for  our sons.   We  gave  them  a  constant  flow  of  age-appropriate  information  on  sex  and  relationships  in  their  lives  --  usually,   without  their  asking.    The  annoying  thing  was  when  they  became  old  enough  to  say  "no,"  and  the  learning  stopped.

When  little  Nhu,  the  Vietnamese  girl   whom  we  babysat  for  years,  became  old  enough  to  ask  questions,  I  had  limited  permission  from  her  mother  to  answer  "plumbing"-level  questions.  The  first  thing  she  asked  me  was,  "Do  babies  breathe  in  the  womb  with  gills?"

I  told  her  that  the  gills  she   had  heard  about  were  "vestigial,"  explained  what  that  meant,  and  explained  that  the  baby  gets  all  oxygen  through  the  umbilical  cord  attachment  to  the  baby's  "belly  button."   "The  baby  inhales  and  exhales   amniotic  fluid,  but  that  is  only  exercise  to  prepare  the  baby  for  breathing.  It  does  not  give  the  baby  any  oxygen."

"What???!!!"   she  asked,  "There's  liquid  in  the  baby's  lungs  in  the  womb???!!!"

"Sure!"   I  said.    "You  inhaled  and  exhaled  amniotic  fluid  when  you  were  in  your  mother's  womb."

She  fell  silent.  I  and  that  kid  were  both  lefties  who  could  almost  read  each  other's  mind.    So,  I  knew  what  she  was  going  to  ask  next.

"Do  babies  pee  and  poop  in  the  womb?"   she  asked,  "And,  so,  do  they  breathe  that  in,  too?"

Okay.  I  knew  the  answer  to  that  question,  but  I  confess  that  I  did  not  learn  it  until  1987,  when  Rise`  gave  birth  to  our  middle  son,  Reid.

Because  Rise`  and  I  used  Lamaze   when  she  gave  birth,  I  was  in  attendance  at  each  of  the  boys'  births.

When  Reid  popped-out,    the  first  thing  he  did  was  pee  all  over  the  doctor.

I  thought,  "What???!!!"

I  said,  "Wait  a  second,  doctor!!!  He  can  pee???!!!  Can  babies  pee  in  the  womb?"

"Oh,  yeah!"  he  answered.  "Of  course!  Much  of  the  fluid  in  the  womb  is  pee!  A  little  bit   of  it  is  meconium  fluid,  from  the  bowels,  which  is  sterile!"

"But  the  baby  inhales  and  exhales  that  stuff!"  I  objected.

"The  pee  from  a  baby  in  the  womb  is  very   clean.    And  the  sterile  meconium  from  the  bowels  is  not  a  problem  unless  it  is  very  concentrated.  So,  no  problem,"  the  doctor  answered.

"But  the  amniotic  fluid  smells  so  sweet!"  I  objected.

"Like  I  said,"  the  doctor  answered,  "The  baby's  pee  in  the  womb  is  very  clean."

When  I  left  Rise`  and  the  new  baby's  bedside  at  the  hospital  to  go  to  our  Jackson  Avenue  home  that  cold,  snowy  day  to  check  on  Rise`'s  daughters  and  to  tell  them  and  the  neighbors  about  Reid's  birth,  as  I  drove  up  to  our  house  I  saw  our  9  months  pregnant  neighbor  Janey  (who  lived  with  her  hubby  "Doc"   in  what  is  now  Briggs'  house)  gingerly  stepping  through  the  snow  to  get  to  her  car.

"Hey,  Janey!"   I  yelled,  "Do  you  know  that  warm  feeling  in  your  heart  when  you  get  pregnant?     Well,  it's  not  love!"

MAGNOLIA'S "TANK MAN"?

Some  might  remember  "tank  man"  from  China's  1989  Tiananmen  Square  protests,  in  which  a  lone  anonymous  student  was  photographed  putting  himself  at  risk  by  stubbornly  and  with  raw  courage  standing  in  front  of  --  and  stopping  --  a  column  of  tanks  advancing  upon  the  protesters ...

Around  the  same  time,  I  had  the  fortune  --  or  misfortune  --  of  being  Magnolia's  "tank  man,"  in  connection  with  the  commercial  development   of  Somerdale's  Lion's  Head  Plaza  strip  mall.

Lion's  Head  Plaza  really  had  little  to  do  with  Magnolia  Borough.     The  developers  had  one  problem,  however  --  between   planned  Lion's  Head  Plaza  and  the  all-important  White  Horse  Pike   was  a  strip  of  Magnolia  between  150  to  250  feet  wide,  depending  on  where  they  placed  their  access  road  --  now  Coopertowne  Boulevard  --  from  the  White  Horse  Pike  to   Lion's  Head  Plaza.

Beginning  in  January,  1987,  I  was  the  Magnolia  Councilman  in  charge  of  Building  &  Ordinance  --  which  made  me  the  Councilman  on  the  Planning  and  Zoning  Boards.

So,  I  convened  a  meeting  of  the  Planning  Board,   the  Police  Department,   the  Code  Enforcement  Official,   the  Fire  Department,   and  the  developers'  attorney  and  engineer,  to  discuss  that  access  road  from  the  White  Horse  Pike  across  Magnolia  to  the  Somerdale  Borough  border  and  then  to  Lion's  Head  Plaza.

Various  issues were  discussed.  The  Police and  the  Fire  Departments  recommended   a  traffic  light  at  the  confluence  of  the  White  Horse  Pike  and  the  access  road  to  avoid  daily  auto  accidents.  The  Lion's  Head  developers  did  not,  at  that  time,  appreciate  the  loss  of  time  which  the  applications  to  the  county  and  to  the  state  which   such  a  change  would  require.    So,  they  settled  for  no  left  hand  turns  from  the  access  road  to  the  Pike  with  a  directionalized  island  and  a  "No  Left  Turn"  sign  to  force  traffic  from  the  access  road  to  the  Pike   to  go  right,  only  --  north,  only  --  onto  the  White  Horse  Pike.  

Another  problem  arose  from  the  fact  that  originally    the  lay  of  the  land   along  the  border  between   Magnolia  and  Somerdale  Boroughs  was   actually  a  small  mountain  of  what  geologists  refer  to  as  an  "Upland  Gravel  deposit,"  about  40  feet  high  --  actually  a  sandbar  laid  down  thousands  of  years  ago   when  what  we  now  call  "the  Cooper  River"  was  a  much-more-massive  waterway  fed  by  melting  glaciers.  See

http://www.state.nj.us/dep/njgs/pricelst/ofmap/ofm52.pdf

There  you  will  see  three  pastel  purple  masses  in  the  upper  right  hand  quarter  of  the  map   with  the  legend  "Tg"   inscribed  in  each.    The  center  pastel  purple  mass   was  the  40  foot  tall  sand-and-gravel  "Magnolia  mountain  barrier"  between  the  White  Horse  Pike  and  the  Lion's  Head  development  in  Somerdale.

The  Fire  Chief  said,  "When  do  fires  occur?  In  the  winter,  when  the  air  is  dry!    When  are  roads  slick  with  ice?    In  the  Winter,  after  a  snow  storm,  or  after  freezing  rain.   So,  there's  a  respectable  chance  that  Magnolia's  fire  trucks  are  going  to  be  called  upon   to  save  lives  and  douse  a  fire  when  that  access  road  is  a  sheet  of  ice.  If  the  apse  of  that  hill  is  no  more  than  6  feet  higher  than  the  White  Horse  Pike,  our  fire  trucks  can  make  it  up  that  hill,  even  if  it  is  covered  by  ice.  Any  higher,   our  fire  trucks  are  going  to  have  difficulty  getting  to  the  fire.  People  will  die  as  a  result."

So,  as  the  developer's  attorney  and  engineer  stood  silent,  Magnolia's  Planning  Board  voted  to  implicitly  require  removal  of  enough  earth  from  the  40  foot  high  sand-and-gravel  mountain  to  permit  an  access  road  to  Lion's  Head  maxing-out  at  no  higher  than  6  feet  above  the  level  of  the  White  Horse  Pike.

I  figured  that  carving-up   a  40  foot  high   mountain  of  sand  and  gravel   was  going  to  cost  a  lot  of  money,   so   I  decided  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  developer  --  especially  on  his  engineering  company's  representative,  who  I'll  refer  to  by  his  first  name  only,  here,   "Earl"  --  who  struck  me  as  "slick."

So,   every  day,   I  drove  by  on  the  White  Horse  Pike,  waiting  for  the  developer  to  begin  carting-away  the  sand-and-gravel  mountain.

Finally,  they  had  bulldozers,  front-end  loaders  and  dump  trucks  on  site,   carving  a  roadway  --  what  at  first  appeared  to  be  a  mere  construction  road,  to  get  vehicles  to  the  top  of  the  sand-and-gravel  mountain  to  start  "shaving  it  down  to  size."

But  --  surprise,  surprise  --   the  developer's   contractor  started  laying  down   forms  for  curbs  up  to  the  current   elevation,  less   about  10  feet  of  material  off  the  top  of  the  hill,  so  that,  at  the  top,  there  were  10  foot  high  slopes  off  to  the  left  and  right  of  the  road  at  the  highest  point,  leaving  an  uphill  grade  ending  about  25  feet   higher  than  the  level  of  the  White  Horse  Pike.

I  thought,   "I'll  be  damned!    They're  simply  flaunting  the  Planning  Board  Plan!"

So,  on  my  way  to  court  one  day,  I  pulled  up  the  dirt  road  between  the  new curbing  forms  for  pouring  concrete  curbs,  pulled-over,  jumped  out  of  my  car,  and  yelled,  "EARL!!!"

"Hi,  Pete!"  he  said  as  he  climbed  out  of  a  little  pick-up  truck  parked  nearby,  smiling  broadly  and  offering  to  shake  my  hand.  "How  do  you  like  how  we  lowered  the  high  point  of  the  access  road   to  6  feet  above  street  level?"

I  said,  "So,  Earl,  if  I  am  6  feet,  1  inch  tall  --    and,  believe  me,  I  am  --  you  are  saying  that  if  I  stand  on  something   about   4  inches  high,    and  look  east,  I'll  be  able  to  see  over  the  top  of  the  hill  and  actually  view  Somerdale  Borough,  right?"

"Right!"   said  the  engineering  representative.

"Well,  Earl,  I  have  a  big  surprise  for  you,"  I  countered.    "I  have  a  3  foot  high  step  ladder  in  the  back  of  my  car.     I  want  you  to  stand  on  it,  look  across  the  high  point  of  your  supposedly  6  foot  high  road,   and  tell  me  the  color  of  the  car  parked  on  the  field  on  the  other  side  of  that  hill.  Deal?"

"Pete,"   he  said,  not  taking  my  dare,  because  he  would  have  needed  a  30  foot  step  ladder  to  see  over  the  top  of  the  road,  "There's  something  wrong  with  your  eyes.    Our  surveyors  guaranteed  me  that  that  road  is  no  higher  than  6  feet    above  the  White  Horse  Pike.  Look  at  it!  It  clearly  is  not  higher  than  6  feet!"

I  bent  over  and  whispered  in  his  ear.    "Earl,   cut  the  horse  shit.   Get  rid  of  these  curb  forms,  cut  the  mountain  down  enough  to  permit  a  6  foot  high  road  the  way  you  are  supposed  to,  or   I'm  going  to  seek  sanctions."

Earl  looked  at  the  bulldozer  operator  and  told  him,  "Go  back  to  work!"

The  bulldozer  operator   hesitated.    "Do  it  NOW,  or  you  are  OUTTA  here!"    the  engineer's   representative   shouted.

I  saw  that  the  dozer  operator  was  in  the  process  of  filling-in  a  3  foot  deep   gully  which  erosion  from  recent  rain  had  cut  through  their  new  road  over  the  weekend.

I  was  ready  (except  that  I  was  dressed  wrong  --  I  was  wearing  a  three  piece  suit  for  court).   I  went  to  my  car,    got   a  novel  I  was  reading,  "The  Killer  Angels"  by  Michael  Shaara,    went  to  the  ditch  in  front   of  the   bulldozer,  and  laid  down  in  it,    forcing  the  bulldozer  to  stop.

"CALL  THE  POLICE!"    the  engineer's  representative  screamed.

I  yelled,  "784-1884"  to  the  contractor's  employee,   the  number  for  the  Magnolia  Police.

Police  Chief  Hank  Jefferson  and  one  other   policeman,   I  forget  who,   pulled-up  about  10  minutes  later   and  they  burst  out  laughing  as  soon  as  they  saw  that  it  was  me  lying  in  the  hole.

"Hi,  Pete!"  Hank  smiled.    "What's  up?"

"Cute,"   I   answered.   "You  were  at  the  meeting,  Hank.  So  you  know  the  scoop:    The  road  at  the  top  of  that  hill  is  not  allowed  to  be  any  higher  than  6  feet  above  the  White  Horse  Pike.    They  say  that  it's  6  feet  right  now.  I  say  that  it's  30  feet  --  or  about  25  feet  too  high.  If  it  remains  this  high,  when  Lion's  Head  burns  down  on  some  icy  day   30  years  from  now,  people  are  going  to  die  in  it,     because  Magnolia's  fire  trucks  can't  make  it  up  the  ice."

Chief  Jefferson  turned  around  to  the  patrolman  with  him  and  said,  "Get  Tony  Cutrera  out  here."  He  was  the  Code  Enforcement  Official.  "Also,  get  the  Fire  Chief  out  here."

Chief  Jefferson  then  turned  and  saw  one  of  the  developer's  surveyors   with  a  transit  about  100  feet  away.    He  turned  to  Earl   and  said,   "You  keep  your  mouth  shut!"

A  silhouette  illustrating

a  surveyor  and  his  transit

He  yelled  to  the  surveyor,    "Sir,  bring  your  transit  over  here!"

The  surveyor  came  and  said,  "What  do  you  want  me  to  shoot  with  the  transit?"

Chief  Jefferson  said,  "I  want  you  to  tell  me  how  much  higher  than  the  White  Horse  Pike   the  high  point  of  that  access  road  is."

Obviously,  to  make  sure  that  the  subcontractor  with  the  transit  knew  what  to  say,  Earl  disobeyed  Chief  Jefferson's  command,  yelling,  "PETE,  I'LL  BET  YOU  A  THOUSAND  DOLLARS  THAT  IT'S  6  FEET!"

I  thought,  "How  can  he  be  so  childish???!!!"

"It's  21.5 feet  higher,"    the  dignified  surveyor  calmly  declared,  ignoring  the  engineer's  representative's  implicit  threat  that  he'd  better  say  the  "right  thing."  "I  shot  it  yesterday."

Chief  Jefferson  smiled.  "Okay,  Pete.  I'll  take  it  from  here.  Nice  three  piece  suit.   You've   got  some  mud  on  your  butt,  though."

And  when  Tony  Cutrera  arrived,   he  stationed  himself   at  the  Lion's  Head  access  road   on  a  folding  chair  as  the  developer's  prime  contractor   began  the  task  of  carting-away  Magnolia  and  Somerdale's  's  40  foot  high  Upland  Gravel  sand-and-gravel  mountain.

And  that's  the  true  story  of  how  I  forced  a  developer  and  his  contractors  to  move  a  mountain,  by  doing  a  "tank  man"  thing   in  front  of  a  bulldozer.