Predators

just a passing thought:

Antelopes and Warthogs have predators:
Lions and Leopards !

Ground Squirrels and Field Mice have predators:
Hawks and Foxes and Jackals !

Mankind has predators:
Mankind !

Bertstravels
thinks that this is a crying shame.

In the shallows...

More "Green on Green"

...without words...

Old Timer

There is a car ralley in Bleiburg, today, limited to so-called "Old timers" , mostly Porsches.
Christin's son, Axel, dug out an ancient Lambretta,  built in 1951.
This makes this thing 64 years old, but one push on the starter petal and, see there, she purred like a kitten.
Maybe not "purred", exactly, but she ran without a rattle.

The Lambretta is older than the driver.

Don't ask me

Don't ask me why some of the text of the preceding posting came out in black... I tried valiantly to change it to the normal white printing on black background...
didn't work.

Bertstravels

Laudato Si

I have tried valiantly to read with sustained attention the Encyclical entitled „Laudato Si“ recently issued by Pope Franciskus. 
I must admit that I may have missed many details but I hope to have gleaned the major issues which Franciskus addresses most eloquently.

If I may summarize the message of this Encyclical in as few words as possible, I would simply state that it deals with „climate change and environmental damage“ to the world for which mankind, and mankind alone, is responsible.

In particular it seems, according to this lengthy Essay, that a very specific group, namely the rich societies of the Western World bears most, if not all of the blame, and Franciskus lets us get a glimpse of his very left leaning political stance.

The fundamental problem seems to be unarguable.

The number of scientists claiming that there truly exists „Global Warming“ and that there are indisputable signs of „Environmental Damage“ is far greater than the number of „naysayers“ .

The real question to which the world needs to address itself is: „what are the causes of this serious problem and what are the solutions.“

In paragraph 50 of this Encyclical, the Pope states that one must not blame the increased population number, but the world needs to eliminate the „extreme and selective usage of products by a few.“

He then continues to state that it would be impossible to bring the world's entire population onto the standards of the few privileged people in the Western World, and castigates the wasteful usage of all resources by those privileged few.

I completely disagree with Pope Franciskus when he claims that the increase in the world's population should not be considered a cause of either Global Warming, nor for the extensive Environmental Damage suffered by our Earth.

The most populous countries in the world i.e. China and India, as well as many other so-called „third world countries“ still burn coal and wood in great quantities, contributing generously to the production of CO2 and other „hot house gases“.

Everybody who knows me must be aware that I am not a scientist.

When, however, I look at the information below, I cannot accept the claim that the number of people inhabiting this earth is not the reason for what ails it, but rather, the uneven and unjust distribution of the world's products is the true cause of the problem, which all of us, but more so our children and their children will have to deal with.

The graph below shows the increase in population from about 500 Million in the year 1.300 to the staggering number of 7 Billion in the year 2000.

The increase is but slow from 1300 to 1800, but then the number embarks upon a precipitous rise until we are now approaching a population count of 8 billion earth citizens.

During the last 50 years (approximately), when the gathering of such statistical information was more accurate then it was in the time span 1300 to 1800 the population increase was as follows:

1950     2.5 billions

1960     3.0 billions

1970     3.75 b illions

1980     4.5 billions

1990     5.3 billions

2000     6.0 billions

2010     7.0 billions

Given this information ( and the Pope can google things just as well, or better, than I can )

how can he maintain that to blame population increase is simply an attempt to legitimize current distribution of wealth ?

Here is part of what he said:

50. Instead of resolving the problems of the poor and thinking of how the world can be different, some can only propose a reduction in the birth rate. At times, developing countries face forms of international pressure which make economic assistance contingent on certain policies of “reproductive health”. Yet “while it is true that an unequal distribution of the population and of available resources creates obstacles to development and a sustainable use of the environment, it must nonetheless be recognized that demographic growth is fully compatible with an integral and shared development  To blame population growth instead of extreme and selective consumerism on the part of some, is one way of refusing to face the issues. It is an attempt to legitimize the present model of distribution, where a minority believes that it has the right to consume in a way which can never be universalized, since the planet could not even contain the waste products of such consumption. Besides, we know that approximately a third of all food produced is discarded, and “whenever food is thrown out it is as if it were stolen from the table of the poor”. Still, attention needs to be paid to imbalances in population density, on both national and global levels, since a rise in consumption would lead to complex regional situations, as a result of the interplay between problems linked to environmental pollution, transport, waste treatment, loss of resources and quality of life. ( bold print mine )

With this paragraph alone the Pope reveals himself as being 

positioned politically left of the Left of Centre and looses 

credibility in large measure.

He considers problematic the existence of an imbalance of 
population density, but not the increase in population itself.

How blind can he get ?

Or is it not blindness, but deliberate misrepresentation of 

obvious facts ?

Since members of the Catholic Church tend to be 

encouraged to have and many in deed do have larger 

families ( Franciskus is one of five children ) it would be 

difficult for the Pope to speak out against population growth.

As long as the use of condoms or „the pill“ is considered a 

deadly sin, the Catholics and their Pope will not contribute 

their share to an effort to control this obvious population 

explosion.

Is it fair to ask if almighty God, ( if there is one ) seeing his 

creation threatened by the stupidity and avarice of man,

should do something to protect his work ? 

Or maybe he looks upon his entire creation, the Universe, 

and sees the Earth, an insignificant planet, as not a worthy 

object of his concern.

Bertstravels

unscientific opinion is that both issues must be dealt with.

If this doesn't take the cake !

This simply has to be one of the all time „hard to believe“ stories !

Now pay close  attention, or something might slip past you !

In March of 2015, a couple of months ago, Pope Franciscus, visited the City of Naples.

There he spoke to a group of Seminarians and gave them, I'm sure good advice, like:

„Don't join the Priesthood unless you are sure. If you are not certain of your calling, wait a little, and join later.“ 

Great advice if ever I heard one.

Then there was a Holy Mass, presided over by Naples Archbishop, Crescenzio Sepe.

He, the Archbishop, brought out a vile containing some reddish dust, which was identified as the dried up blood of Saint Gennaro, a former Bishop of Naples who was beheaded in 305 AD.

Pope Franciscus „venerated and kissed“ this container and :

see there !!!

Half of the dried up blood became liquefied. In other words: The dust which had been in this hermetically sealed container since 305 AD, turned into liquid blood.

( The Catholics are great magicians when it comes to blood:

There is the Eucharist, where red wine turns into the blood of Jesus and here we have dried up blood in a sealed container for 1,710 years and because the Pope „venerated and kissed“ it, it turns to real and true blood of holy Gennaro.)

Immediately, Crescenzio Sepe, the above referred to Archbishop of Naples declared this happening a miracle, performed by the Pope.

Now I am not certain about the Pope's reaction:

He is said to have made a joke of the fact that seemingly only half of the powder turned into blood. He is reported to have said: „Maybe Saint Gennaro does not love us enough, so that only half of his dried up blood liquefied, and we must pray some more.

I have a question: Was the Pope so embarrassed about this theatre, that he tried to make light of it, or did he truly believe that what he saw and heard was real and just had to be perfected by additional prayer ?

At the end of this tale we hear that this „miracle“ happens at least three times each and every year on specific dates, and in fact has happened as often as 18 times per year.

I understand that for a person to become a Saint, at least three miracles must be ascribed to him or her. It seems to me that despite Crescenzio's speedy pronouncement, Franciscus will have to do better than turn dust into blood, considering that it happens at least thrice each year.

Aren't they ashamed of themselves ?

Flowers from the Petzen

While  I was up there taking pictures of the Mountain Rescue team, I also photographed some flowers which bloom especially beautifully in those upper regions.
Unfortunately I do not know their names. 
I am obviously not a botanist.

Die Bergwacht ! - The Mountain Rescue Team.

Founded in 1896, the members of the Bergwacht are engaged in "search and rescue missions" in the mountains of Austria almost year round.

Austria wide there are nearly 12,000 volunteer men and women.

The "Section Bleiburg" has 32 unpaid members who yesterday celebrated the 50th anniversary of the commencement of their selfless activities.

My camera was there:

The first plateau, which can be reached via cable car, and in the background

the rock massive of "The Petzen"

The emblem of the "Bergwacht", the mountain rescue team.

Freddy Marolt,

one of the long time members of this noble organisation.

"Mitsch" has also been a member for more years 

than he cares to admit.

This day he spent selling chances to raise much needed funds

for the operation of the Bergwacht, Bleiburg.

Franz Moser, the leader of the troop hugs Christin

who is the "patron of the flag"...

a much honoured position within this organisation

16 members of the Bleiburg group.

A view from the plateau down into the valley.

The Ladies' Choir sings Carinthian songs in honour of this 50th anniversary celebration.

Bleiburg's steeple dead center of this image.

Many visitors donned original native costumes

and wore their original native beards.

Some of the visitors attended the 11 O'clock Mass

celebrated in the church - chapel situated on the Plateau.

You cannot get much more "original Carinthian"

than this visitor to the beer tables.

One last view onto the valley below.

The Family

My family in about 1969.

I shall not name them, since those who know, know!,

Those who do not know, could not possibly be interested in names 

of persons they do not know.

The Peacock

I suspect that once before I have posted this picture of a ripe Milkweed plant, bursting with seamen, 
It is one of my most favourite images and, since this Blog is conducted more or less for my own amusement, I am posting it again:

"Der Pfau" is German for "The Peacock"

Last year this picture was exhibited in a photo exhibition in Klagenfurt

and I would love to tell you that it won First Price.

However, it only got an "honourable mention" (4th place)

 and hung in the gallery for a month.

When I compared it with the prize winning entries I thought: 

"The fix is in"

but then I realized that everybody, 

except for the First Price Winner thought the same.

It's funny, in an exhibit of 50 pictures, 49 exhibitors think that they have been misjudged and only one of 50 believes that 

"justice has been done."

As I have asked the viewer so many times before: 

Look at it in the largest possible format.

You'll like it and you will probably agree with me

that 

"The Fix was in"

******

so at least thinks 

Bertstravels

another excerpt from "The Deserters"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Only in July and August, when the sun is high, the chestnut tree, which stands in the middle of the courtyard of the ‘Kaserne’, the army barracks, gets a few hours of sun light per day.

It is a stunted, crippled tree and only the best spring seasons bring a few blossoms.

Blossoms like Christmas trees with all white candles. Then in autumn gnarled chestnuts, horse chestnuts, mind you, lie between the cobble stones, the cobble stones pushed upwards by the stubborn roots. From year to year the tree looks as if it is about to give up. Wrapped in shadows, most of the time, no sun, little rain , no hope, no birds, no songs, no love, no sun, no love, no hope.

Swift clatter of boots criss-cross the courtyard of the barracks day and night. The barracks built of grey stone, three stories high, four squat structures at right angles, forming a perfectly square courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard stands the stunted, crippled chestnut tree, still fighting against all odds, still breathing, although strangled, still growing, or is it? Still surviving and still there.

Inside the buildings, for more than fifty years, recruits have been taught the fundamentals of their trade. Sergeants and Officers, spit and polish Officers, loud-mouthed drill Sergeants, suave and gentlemanly Officers, brave Officers, cowardly Officers, comradely Sergeants, brutal Sergeants, in a frustrating effort to teach slow-witted farmhands, lazy, goldbricking small-town boys, some of the dubious virtues, some of the questionable values, they hold so dear.

When really, all they have to do is open the grimy windows and tell their recruits: “Look! Look down there. ..in the middle of the courtyard…see that crummy chestnut tree? That’s a soldier!”

But not one of them, in all the years, has ever thought of it. Not one of them has ever opened a grimy window. The textbook tree just stands there, neither use nor ornament, and still does not give up from year to sun-starved year.

                   ****************************

Kasernenstrasse leads in a semi-circle around three sides of the barracks. In summer it is a nice and shady road with chestnut trees on both sides. Full grown and thick-leaved trees and in the fall the children come with gunny sacks and four wheel carts and collect the dark brown chestnuts bursting from the pale green thorn-studded, prickly skins. The chestnuts have a wide variety of uses: Propelled from slingshots they are not as deadly as stones and produce a lovely sound on impact. They can be strung on cord and make a necklace of any desired length. They can be hollowed out, so that only the brown, tough, almost wooden skin remains, one small hole punctured from the side, insert a reed, you have a pipe with which to smoke the dried-up chestnut leaves. Best of all: A large, shiny, glistening chestnut can be carried in your trouser pocket and when the loneliness descends, you can rub it gently between your fingers. You can pull it out and look at it, and turn it round and round and look at it and rub it gently with your thumb. Then you can put it back into your trouser pocket and you can walk home, whistling, because you know the chestnut in your pocket belongs to you and no-one knows that you have had it for six weeks and no-one knows it is a lucky charm. A chestnut, rubbed gently with your fingers, helps you think and know things.

On the south side of the Kaserne is a small parade ground. A six foot high wall of brick, joined to the barracks, surrounds it. At the very top of this wall barbed wire is strung on iron rods. No-one in, no-one out.

“Military Area” reads the sign and “Keep Out.”

Erich Krueger can get in. Through the front door, through the dark, round-ceiling, cobblestone-floored, windowless, dark damp hallway. Right in through the heavy oaken, black-nail-studded front door. Right in, across the courtyard, now with the stunted, crippled, sun-impoverished, leave-less, naked branches hopelessly reaching, chestnut tree.

Climb the big chestnut tree outside the south wall of the parade ground. Climb it in the summer and hide in the leaves and watch. Watch the soldiers, dirty green, march up and down; watch the drill-sergeant open his cavernous mouth; watch his face turn red; watch him point with his stiff finger and single out one of the heavily panting recruits; watch the recruit stand stiffly at attention, chest out, stomach in, chin up, eyes straight forward, heels together, toes apart forty five degrees; watch the Sergeant circle the watched recruit; watch him open his mouth and close it; watch the recruit belly-flop to the ground, scramble up, to the ground, scramble up, down, up, down, up round and round the parade ground; watch the sweat mingle with the dirt on his face; watch the wide open mouth desperately gulping air; watch the sergeant’s mouth; watch the other recruits grinning without pity; watch the victim flop to the ground, crumple to the ground, claw feebly into the ground and watch his legs jerk in reflex, and not get up….no more….watch no more; close your eyes and see him still…close your eyes.

But then climb the big chestnut tree outside the south wall of the parade ground, climb it in summer and hide in the green leaves and listen:

Listen to the brass band rehearse, as if they needed to rehearse::

“Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden, einen bessern find’st du nicht…”

Listen to the wind tear a piece from the melody, a sombre, sad, complaining melody and play with it, tear the high notes from the trumpet’s mouth:

“I once had a comrade; you’ll never find a better one….”

Listen to the second stanza and listen to yourself hum along, while you hide in the leaves of the summer chestnut tree:

“Eine Kugel kam geflogen…a bullet came a-flying, meant for you or is it meant for me?”

Listen to the big round drum: tum tum tum tu-tum…

Listen listen listen to the crack drill team rehearsing the salvos for the big funeral next Saturday; listen to the Sergeant: “Preeeeeeesent Arms!” Listen to callused hands slap slap slap on rifle stocks and rifle butts. Watch the rifles in one straight line pointing southward, right into the foliage of the chestnut tree; listen to the Sergeant bellow more commands;

Listen to your friend frantically whispering into your ear: listen to yourself say: “yes, yes, yes…great!”

Watch the grin on your friend’s face and listen to your own chuckle deep inside of you.

Look straight down into the rifles, don’t move, watch, listen, watch, listen to the final command, screamed: “Fiiiiire!”

Listen to the salvo split your ear drums; listen to your friend moan, gruesomely, convincingly moan, loud, long moan; watch him let go…down to the lowest branch, where he cleverly brakes his fall, hangs for a moment with one hand, still moaning and then lets go and still moaning falls to the ground, lands on his feet in a crouch, moaning quietly now, he looks up, beckons you madly;.. ”come down, fall down, you promised, you coward…”

Watch the soldiers break rank, run madly toward the exit door at the far end.

Listen to the Sergeant scream: “Which lame brained fuckin’ idiot used live ammunition? God dam you stupid bastards! Blind ammunition I said…

Ambulance…fast…you…private…run…get the ambulance…get a doctor…move you stupid clot…move!

Listen to the pandemonium…

Ich hatt’ einen Kameraden, einen bessern find’st du nicht.” …

The band still doesn’t know.

Climb down the chestnut tree in summer; fast, fast, climb, hurry, watch your friend take off like a rabid along Kasernenstrasse: jump from the last branch now, below the top of the wall and out of sight, hit the ground, ever so slightly off balance, sprain your ankle and feel the pain shoot through your foot, subside;

Run after your friend down Kasernenstrasse, catch up to your friend, hiding behind the big fat chestnut tree; doubled up with laughter, laughing, tears streaming from his eyes and you begin to laugh, helplessly, uproariously laugh.

“Did you see that…Did you? Eh! Did you see me fall? Did you hear me moan?

“You shoulda seen the Sergeant, turned all white, you shoulda seen them scramble in every which direction."

“Yes, I saw. I was up there with you.”

Listen to the ambulance scream down Kasernenstrasse; hide behind the tree in the deep grass in the ditch which runs along Kasernenstrasse;

Listen to the running foot steps of a flock of soldiers; suppress your laughter, roll around the ditch, look at each other and laugh…deep down…your throat and stomach hurting with the laughter;

Watch the ambulance come back, knowing it is empty, slowly, the driver scanning both sides of the road, looking for the victim;

Watch the Sergeant coming back on foot, shaking his head.

Limp home and when the ankle swells and your mother solicitously puts cold compresses on it, forget the pain, lie back and find the chestnut in your pocket, stare up to the ceiling and gently rub the chestnut between your thumb and fingers.

When your mother asks: “Erich, where did you hurt your foot?” you mumble something about stepping off a sidewalk and slip…just like that.

All the while you rub your magic chestnut.

For three more years you rub the magic chestnut.

                                   ******************

Sigurd and Steven

Steven and his uncle !

 during a vacation in August of 1969.

Here he is: Sigurd as a P.o.W.

As a Prisoner of War, having been captured in Monte Casino, Italy,

kept in Camp Douglas, Wyoming 

and then in Camp Carson, Colorado, U.S.A.

This picture was taken during the early Summer of 1944 

in Camp Carson, when he was just over 19 years of age.

My Brother

FOR SIGURD

Written on the plane, on September 8, 1969, carrying me to my last visit with my brother.

There was the mountain

Its peak of solid gold

Dipped in the dying sun –

There was the valley

Its bed of meadowland

And forests green

And silver ribbons – streams

There was the Man

The wanderer of darkened valleys

The conqueror of golden peaks

The Man who always smiled and lived for joy

And dreamed of life

And always lived in happiness

Who always lived in happiness so all engulfing

As the light itself when noon was high

Who touched his fellow man

And spoke directly to his soul

And made him share the happiness

Which bubbled from his smile.

The conqueror of golden peaks

Who brought the gentle light

Down to the darkest valleys

There was the Man

Who roamed the valleys,

Climbed the jagged peaks

And gave his helping hand

To any fellow wanderer

Who stood alone and said: “I can no more”

“Oh yes you can”---

The quick and gleaming smile—

the gentle tug

and freedom once again and golden peaks

as far as eyes can roam.

This final peak

Forbidding in its height and shrouded

In a cloud so black

It suffered light no more

And no man knows what valley lies beyond

“Don’t cross this mountain, Man

don’t cross this peak

to which I cannot follow”

I cry in vain

I am too late.

They tell me, though,

They caught a glimpse of you

And as you looked upon the dale beyond –

They say

You smiled

And went

And for my cries the echo is no more

And so my tears flow uselessly

And no more sun to dry them.

Flying High

Motorcross in Bleiburg is an annual event, during which young men risk limb and bone and literally fly through the air while sitting, or desperately holding on to their motorbikes.

"don't that just shake you ?"

flyin' high

Fits to a "T"

It surely is no secret that one of my most favourite places is "Algonquin Park."

Many years ago I happened upon this poem, written by Marjory Pickthall and was taken aback by the mood it creates, so much like what one might feel when camping on the shores of Misty Lake or any of the hundreds of lakes we have visited there.

The poem is Marjory's, the title is mine.

Misty Lake

WiND-SILVERED willows hedge the stream, 

And all within is hushed and cool. 
The water, in an endless dream, 
Goes sliding down from pool to pool. 
And every pool a sapphire is, 
From shadowy deep to sunlit edge, 
Ribboned around with irises 
And cleft with emerald spears of sedge. 
O, every morn the winds are stilled, 
The sunlight falls in amber bars. 
O, every night the pools are filled 
With silver brede of shaken stars. 
O, every morn the sparrow flings 
His elfin trills athwart the hush, 
And here unseen at eve there sings 
One crystal-throated hermit-thrush.

Marjory Pickthall

San Francisco and the Big Sur

Digging in the treasure chest of my electronic storage bin I find images from a visit to San Francisco and then South, along the Big Sur, one of the most impressive coastal roads in the USA.
I imagine that the sky line of this city has also changed somewhat. It was, after all, a number of years ago that these pix were taken.

Morning haze dimms the view of the S.F. Bay Bridge and

the sky line of the City.

From the hill range behind, the City presents itself.

Along the road, rock formations overgrown with moss, ferns and lychens.

 Low tide, High tide, the Pacific Ocean 

thunders against the rocky shore.

Sunbathing in the nude was known in San Francisco's coast, 

long before the first Hippies arrived.

Turk's Hat Lilly.

Just thought I'd show you the orange coloured Turk's Hat Lilly.

I think of this one as the very best image of a "Turk's Hat"  

I have ever taken.

Why ? 

The unfolding green leaves below support the flower 

in a soft and gentle way.

The Lilly is just slightly off center, seemingly floating supportless in the air, creating somewhat of a tension, while the top and the bottom of the flower are peacefully equi-distant from the frame.

So, go ahead and argue!

The  riddle of  "supportlessness" is solved 

by revealing  the strong, curved stem !

The Turk's Hat as a bud and in full bloom

Other flowers

While on our recent mini vacation I saw some beautiful flowers as well as some to me unkown ones.
For instance: I had never before seen the "Marge in the Bush" 
Here is one of them.

A  sample of  "Marge in the Bush" !

I don't remember ever having seen one, or ever heard its name.

.A "Turk's Hat Lilly"

of a colour I have never before seen.

I know "Turks' Hats" of a more orange colour.

a more common one: The Bell flower