Casa Hogar – Helping the children

My good friend Nick Medoza, and excellent electrician, invited me to drive down with him to Tijuana, to spend some time with the children in the Casa Hogar Orphanage. We all piled into our cars and shortly after 7.00 a.m. we were on the road. In a few hours we were crossing the border into Mexico. Our arrival at the children’s home on the southern hillside of the city was greeted with a shower of shouted welcomes and cheers, and we all received warm hugs of welcome from these delightful youngsters as we climbed the stairs beyond the iron gates from the dusty dirt street.



















My mission was to give dental advice and an examination to all who wanted it. I talked to an attentive audience about the importance of brushing and flossing, and was pleasantly surprised by how well they listened as my words were translated. Then I examined some on the children, and was able to make some treatment recommendations. I wanted to use x-rays and treat, but that I cannot do in Mexico.



















Pastor Freddy Duarte and Eva Morales, are doing marvelous work devoting their lives to helping this little band, saving “Just a few star fish”, but each one will have a life that is much better for it.



















When the dental exams were over we all trouped out and convoyed to Parque Morelos and there we played ball games and barbequed their dinner.



















After prayers of thanks, we said good byes, and then caravanned back to wait in line for an hour watching the hawkers and beggars as we queued up to present our passports and cross back into the United States. The contrast between the chaos of Tijuana and the order and cleanliness of the United States is dramatic.



















The children at Casa Hogar need help: Casa Hoar Eben-Ezer, Tijuana , B.C., Mexico.

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A tribute to Ann FitzGerald Skipper

A tribute to Ann FitzGerald Skipper
1925 -2009

It is with great sorrow that I have to report of the demise of my dear friend Ann Skipper, who had been suffering from Alzheimer’s for some years and sustained a severe stroke late last December. She was eighty four and passed away on the 30th December. The humility and lack of fanfare typical of the family resulted in my not discovering the truth of it until now, June 2010.

After a very full life raising four boys as the wife of a schoolteacher, Ann took up Scottish Country Dancing, and became an accomplished teacher in the late 1970s. In 1983, Ann and I met at a Highland Games in Costa Mesa as a result of an introduction made by the Broadcaster Tom Girvin. She rapidly endeared herself to me and inspired me to take up Scottish Country Dancing. From that point on Scottish country dancing was a regular activity in the Clan MacLeod Society in Southern California. Together we started a dance team who came with us to the Clan MacLeod Parliaments in 1986, and 1990. In 1986 we published our first book on Scottish Country Dances that relate to the Clan MacLeod, it was called “Dances of An Island Clan”. This book was really successful and helped to inspire lots of McLeod’s across America and beyond to take up Scottish Country Dancing, and five teams were formed in the United States. Here in California the McLeod Rant was one of the most successful dances held each year.

Ann and I continued to gather dances related to the Clan and for the next 10 years worked on producing another book. As the dance teams were formed, Ann took over their coordination and became the Dance Mistress to the Clan MacLeod. In 1991 the “Ghillie Guide” was published, a small booklet with a wealth of information on the nuances of dance steps, figures and terminology needed to understand the many dances we were discovering. As dancing became popular at Clan ceilidhs Mrs. Skipper met the need for simple dances for these occasions and published “Clan MacLeod Dances For Ceilidhs” in 1993. A year later in 1994, “If the Ghille Fits…” was published, and together with“Dances of An Island Clan” it makes a unique repository of knowledge of Clan MacLeod dances and history.

It is not possible to begin to communicate the extent of the commitment and devotion Ann Skipper directed to her labors on behalf of Scottish Country Dancing, and especially to the Clan MacLeod. She was inspired in the Milligan tradition and was tireless in her work. Her academic research resulted in her readership at the Huntington Library here in San Marino, California. In 2000, as if to welcome the new Millennium, Ann published her crowning glory “Best Foot Forwards” a collection of twelve of her own dances each designed to emphasize a particular dance figure she wanted to teach. This little booklet alone represents an enormous amount of work, and places her in the ranks of the great Scottish Country Dance choreographers of the twentieth century, many of whom she new personally.

Ann stepped down as Dance Mistress to the Clan MacLeod in 2002, and in the letter to her from John MacLeod of MacLeod he wrote, “I must thank you very much for all the work you have done on the dance scene in clan MacLeod. You have been most successful in your role as teacher and enthuser and the clan is in your debt. I am sure that the heritage of dance will live on.”

Her four sons Tim, Andy, Brian and Paul, her husband Peter, the many grand children and a myriad of dancers around the world will mourn the loss of this “best of mothers and wonderful American lady” who is much loved.

Dr Neil Stewart McLeod FSA (Scot.)

Happy in America

I grew up in Africa, I’ve been to Zanzibar
I’ve seen the great Rift Valley, and it’s western rim so far,
I’ve stood on Table Mountain with Cape Town down below
A sight I’ll long remember and think about ..although...

I’m happy in America, America for me,
The land that flies the Stars and Stripes, home of the brave and free
And should my memory wander and hanker for old haunts
It’s the notion of how much I’d lack if I weren’t here that daunts.

I was born in Oxford City famed for mist and spire,
I know Scotland’s Western Isles, The land of Heart’s Desire
I traveled to Bologna to Napoli and Rome
But though I’ve loved them all at times, I do not call them home.

There’s no place quite like Rio with Christ’s statue so tall,
Few natural wonders impress like Iguacu Water Fall.
New Zealand is so beautiful, Australia’s got a reef
With the most amazing creatures in the waters underneath.

Oh! I spent time in London, that’s a city I have known,
I’ve crossed through France and taken luncheon at Chalon sur Saône
I call the world my oyster and round it I may whirl,
But when I’m done I’m headed back to claim the greatest pearl.

I’m happy in America, America for me,
The land that flies the Stars and Stripes, home of the brave and free
And should I chance to wander and take a final fling
Doubt not that I’ll be back again, America I sing.

Memorial Day 2010

On Memorial Day the Boy Scouts help us remember the fallen by planting flags on each grave in our National Cemeteries. Although this picture taken with my son is a few years old now, it captures the sentiment of what we value most and what needs to be treasured in this great country the USA.

Dentist | McLeod Neil Dentist, West Hollywood, CA

Dentist | McLeod Neil Dentist, West Hollywood, CA

Cricket Song

In Kenya the call of the crickets is a well loved bush sound, which for many was a sign of safety and peace. The crickets would chirp away all night unless something approached. Then all would be still and alert, ready for the intruder. Many settlers have them as their ‘watch dogs’, and they would awaken if the song stopped.

God’s Wee Watchman

Who is God’s wee watchman
Chirping through the night?
Who lets us know that all is safe
That everything’s alright?
Is company when we’re wakeful
Who softens night like dew,
Who lulls to sleep with singing
Oh little cricket, it’s you.

And should you stop your singing
And all the dark is still
We’ll wake and lie there listening
And hold our breath until
The comfort of your laughter
Dispels the fear of harm
Oh little cricket it is you
Who signals the alarm

Cat Gone

Too late to the rescue
Too slow out of bed
I heard the Coyote howling
Jar my dreaming sleep with dread.
I heard the mournful mewing
I knew it was too late,
By letting her be out at night
She kept her date with fate.

This was not the first time,
And it won’t be the last,
The neighbor dog’s gave the alarm
The time was coming fast.
I didn’t rise to face him
Bare footed in the chill
To make him drop the sad remains
And drive him up the hill.

Too late to the rescue,
Too late out of bed
I heard the Coyote howling,
I knew the cat was dead.
It was just a little feral
Not a real pet
But when I heard the meow I knew,
It’s too late for the vet.

The Tower of Babel

The iPad, Apple’s new toy, is truly amazing. And if you are into recording stuff there is an application called StudioMini XL (oxymoronic - extra large for the iPad as it was originally designed for the iPhone).

I just laid down three tracks for one of my mother’s poems.

Click here to play the song






















There is an interesting story that goes with this poem. In the city of Nairobi, midst the filth of the central bus station, there was a row a stinking lavatories propping each other up. They were long overdue for demolition when this poem found a place in the East African Standard. Shortly afterwards they were pulled down. I particularly liked this poem and composed a tune to go with the words.

Slaying Haggis Again

In 2010 the tradition has continued. The calendar was packed, four venues and fourteen haggis slain and two Immortal Memories of Robert Burns and all in eight days.

It started on Friday 15th, when the president of Rotary International, John Kenny, was being the key note speaker for the Rotarians at the Bonaventure Hotel in Downtown Los Angeles. Retired Chef Ivan from the Tam O’ Shanter Inn and I were there to “see to” the Haggis. A retinue of attendees were gathered up to follow the piper round the room as we paraded Scotland’s famous sausage. Amongst this throng was a Sikh, who previously admitted when challenged, that he was not a good Sikh and that he would drink his dram whisky. The general incongruity added to the fun of the moment when he sampled the first breath from the disemboweled sausage, “Warm, reekin’, rich!”

On the 20th and 21st at the Tam O’ Shanter, Lawry’s landmark restaurant, Burns’ Night was held in spite of the rain, and at two seating on each night we slew twelve of the haggi. It was there that my new friend Bernadette Hayes recorded the footage that forms the basis of the YouTube video. Burns’ “Address To A Haggis” is followed by “Horace” the Terry Jones’ Pythonesque irreverent explanation of the contents of a haggis.

Friday 23rd found my bonnie bride and I dining at the Athenaeum Club, the exquisite faculty club for California’s premier science academy, Cal Tech. The setting and the fare were wonderful. Chef Kevin’s haggis was opened to a gasping crowd. Nancy gave the toast to the Queen, and I proposed a toast to the Immortal Memory and preceded it with a discussion and recitation of “Death an Dr Hornbook”

The footage below was captured at the Tam O’ Shanter by “Lady Liberty” the twitter alias for Bernadette Hayes. We had fun and now so can you.

Thanksgiving Poem

Here is my Thanksgiving poem with pictures:

Tusker Larger - from Chip Hammack

Tusker Lager - a very fine beer
for William “Chip” Hammack 1954 -2009 who passed away too young

He was a member of the Executive LeTip of West Los Angeles, the networking club that I love.























William "Chip" Hammack



I was raised as a kiddy in Kenya,
An urchin in khaki and grime,
Where crawling under the floors of the club
Seemed to us quite a lark at the time.
There were cigarette boxes and matches
Razor wraps by Gillette that were blue,
Bottle caps of all flavors and spent bullet shells
Discolored by the damp and the dew.

Above was the bar of the Club House
A Kericho town watering hole
Where away from the heat with the weight off their feet
Folks would sew back their body and soul.
Permeating the cracks in the floor boards
From the bar where the Bwanas stood near,
Was the tinkle of glass and the roar of a laugh
And the wonderful smell of warm beer.

That smell of the brew got my notice
I wondered just how it would taste,
And though years in a row would come and would go,
The memory did not go to waste.
For many more later in Ojai
To see Kenyan friends in that vale
I stopped at a duka to buy me a tupa
And found Tusker Lager for sale.













What a fluke to find that very bevy,
I liked it well from the word go,
I flipped off the top, took a swig with the froth
And one whiff made the memories flow
From then on that beer was a favorite
Tusker became my new bent,
And if I had the chance at a party or dance,
I brought it wherever I went.

But I found the supply was not constant,
Sometimes the shippers went dry,
So I kept my lids peeled as I passed town and field
For some place that had a supply.
Well one day I met with Chip Hammack
A vintner who also sold beer,
He wasn’t averse to dampen my thirst,
And that is the reason I’m here.

Chip was an affable fellow,
He had oodles of charm and a smile,
When I asked if he had Tusker Larger
He just beamed and said “Might take a while!”
Then what do you know two hours later,
He called me, his voice like a reed,
Singing “Doc, your in luck I’ll get Tusker,
“Now how many cases you need?”

That was it, Chip and I became buddies,
He kept me in beer and in wine,
He’d pick out a mixed case of specials
So the grog with our grub was sublime.
But it grieves me to think of him gone now,
God calls the best folk away young,
So raise your glass high, wipe the tear from your eye,
To Chip Hammack whose song has been sung.

Dr Neil Stewart McLeod -10 .7.2009

























Neil with brother Alan "Bundu Saints" 1957

Swahili words used in the poem

Bwana - master
duka - a small shop
tupa - a bottle
bundu - the African bush

Islam - Telling lies doesn’t change the truth

My poem in tribute to the 911 disaster has hit the thousand mark on YouTube for the number of viewings, and the emails have poured in expressing thanks for the effort. One comment however, that was left on my Blogspot, deeply disturbed me, and I feel forced to make a public rebuke to its author.

Shahid, a proud to be Muslim Fundamentalist male of 24 years of age, in Lahore, Pakistan, left a note saying, and I quote,
“hey, 9/11 was fake daram, they plan by your secret angancies and moosad.”

Shahid, you are wrong, and if you adhere to your ignorant beliefs you will die wrong.

His link will take you to his site which is filled with vileness. His point is that he believes and spouts the myth that the towers were brought down by our own American agencies.

At a time when Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad is making hateful and ignorant remarks denying the Holocaust, we should be warned that these extremists needs to be isolated and feared. The 1945 evidence supporting the facts of the holocaust are undeniable. It is deplorable that the elected leader of a nation can mouth such wicked lies repeatedly. We cannot let our guard down.



I therefore draw attention to what Winston Churchill observed in 1899 when a correspondent in South Africa and what is published in “The River War”.-Sir Winston Churchill (The River War, first edition, Vol. II, pages
248-50 (London: Longmans, Green & Co., 1899).
1 November 2005 - Australia

“How dreadful are the curses which Mohammedanism lays on its votaries! Besides the fanatical frenzy, which is as dangerous in a man as hydrophobia in a dog, there is this fearful fatalistic apathy.

The effects are apparent in many countries. Improvident habits, slovenly systems of agriculture, sluggish methods of commerce, and insecurity of property exist wherever the followers of the Prophet rule or live.

A degraded sensualism deprives this life of its grace and refinement; the next of its dignity and sanctity. The fact that in Mohammedan law every woman must belong to some man as his absolute property, either as a child, a wife, or a concubine, must delay the final extinction of slavery until the faith of Islam has ceased to be a great power among men.

Individual Moslems may show splendid qualities, but the influence of the religion paralyses the social development of those who follow it.

No stronger retrograde force exists in the world. Far from being moribund, Mohammedanism is a militant and proselytizing faith. It has already spread throughout Central Africa, raising fearless warriors at every step; and were it not that Christianity is sheltered in the strong arms of science, the science against which it had vainly struggled, the civilization of modern Europe might fall, as fell the civilization of ancient Rome.”

























Winston Churchill 1899 in South Africa

9-11 Tribute Poem on YouTube

Yes I took a break, but I have been busy. 911 came and went, and we have been dealing with a post flood experience at my dental office. Burst pipes above brought ceilings down and required a complete upheaval to restore the workspace.

While this was going on I made a presentation to the Executive LeTip of West Los Angeles, our hundred member breakfast networking group to commemorate the September 11th atrocity. The presentations centers on a parody in the Dr. Seuss style of a poem called "Blank The Binch".

Justin Sloggart of “Six 14 Productions” and his brother Bill made a video of it, and posted it on You Tube.





Watch it to the end and post a comment ion You Tube if you like it.

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Keep Flossing for a biting chance at life!

Wallace The Smiling Lion

For Dermot McQuarrie, of FOX Sports, who knows a good dram and the value of a good smile.

There's this lion at t'zoo up in Blackpool
Who is famous or so the tale goes,
He is large and ferocious and savage
With great scars all over his nose.

One day with the least provocation
From Albert, a dear little chap,
He snatched him through ’bars and he ate him
Leaving nought on the ground but his cap.

When the bill for the lad had been settled
There were one thing remaining quite plain,
They 'ad to do som'it quite special
To stop this from 'appenin' again.

So Zoo Keeper and t'Insurance feller
They 'ad this big meeting you see,
To decide how Wallace the Lion
Could be harnessed and kept trouble free.

They said when meeting were over
That the answer was some how to block
The size of the throat of the lion
With a grate or some big plastic chock.

They'll ave to fit Wallace with Choppers
There's no average dentist will do.
The impressions will be quite a challenge
For that lion mustn't choke or turn blue.
















And then there's the matter of timing
He'll have to be quick as a flash,
To get in and out in a hurry
Before Wallace chomps down with a gnash.

So they called up this world famous dentist
In Hollywood, land of the stars,
And explained they were having some trouble
With this pussy cat kept behind bars.

When he came he flew in on a Jumbo
And while driving him up from Heathrow
They explained there idea about dentures
But the Hollywood dentist said “No!”

I think you’d do better to crown him
Aye crowns for the king of the beasts
I’ll lengthen each nasher so a thin bacon rasher
Is all that’ll fit when he feasts.

He got right to work without flinching
Though he said that the job might be tough,
He said, “That lion’ll like thin strips of bacon,
I’ll make his teeth gap just enough.”

To start with he gave anaesthetic
So that Wallace lay still and relaxed
But while bending over to reach a back molar
'Lion gagged and then swallowed by reflex.

It would have been bad but for Sandy
His able assistant who came
To the rescue by giving emetics
So he brought up the dentist again.

He continued, ’e took the impressions,
And he made 'im some nashers so tall
That when Wallace The Lion opened widest
The gap ’tween `is teeth were quite small.















Oh! it did your heart good to see Wallace,
In his cage sitting grandly arrayed,
With a smile on his face like a rabbit,
From the teeth the dentist had made.


Neil Stewart McLeod

The illustrations were drawn by my friend and long time patient Colin Bailey, who has since past away, but whose imagination and humor live on in his drawings.

Santa's Holiday

When Santa takes a holiday he dumps the sleigh, gets in his car and heads south.

Well Christmas is over, and Neil McLeod, the famed photographer, of Merritt, British Columbia, is taking a jaunt with June, away from the cold to recover from his hard seasonal work. You may not have heard of the MacClause Clan, but Neil is a member. No kidding! he takes his work seriously. He joshed me saying he didn't think he'd shaved since some time back in the nineties.

He popped in to see us for a good Clan MacLeod welcome yesterday, and left a picture of himself at work for the record. This is the real Santa folks!























Run on Down
There are clansmen coming in,
Run to meet them, run to meet them.
There are clansmen coming in,
Run on down.
There'll be news from overseas
Of our family and their country,
There are clansmen coming in,
Run on down.

Will the piper be there playing?
Heart a beating, heart a beating.
Will the piper be there playing?
Hear the call.
Our chests will proudly swell
As we bow and bid a welcome.
Should the piper be there playing
Here the call.

And will banners then unfurl
Where we greet them, where we greet them?
And will banners then unfurl
Flying free?
Then we'll raise a dram together
To the chief and seed we share.
And the banners will unfurl
Flying free.

Then together we will dine,
Thanks be given, thanks be given.
Then together we will dine,
As of old.
Telling tales by the firelight
Singing songs and dancing.
Then together we shall dine
As of old.

We will all be there to meet them,
Piper playing, singing, dancing.
We will all be there to meet them
Run on down.
And we'll toast the time together
Say the grace and stay till morning,
There are clansmen coming in
Run on down. N.S.M. 11.8.1986.

United States Marine Corps perform free

What’s Free
"The tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants." wrote Thomas Jefferson

The Battle Color Detachment of the United States Marine Corps are to perform at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena on February 28th 2009. The performance is free and open to the public. I was asked in disbelief by Maddy Horn, a Scouting Mum, when I suggested we take the Scout to see this event, "Is anything still free?"

Can you believe that something’s still free?
Not Freedom and certainly not Liberty.
For they need recharging with blood from the vein
Of tyrants and patriots again and again.

The soldiers and airmen who keep us secure,
The life guards and sailors watching our shore,
The policemen and firemen who watch our front door
Their work is not free, that's for sure, that's for sure!

But the air that we breath and the sun in he sky,
And the pain in our hearts when a friend says goodbye
And the droplets of rain and the wind passing by,
Only they still are free, say I, say I!

FORREST

Helen Anderson MacDonald passed away June 5, 2008, at the age of 92, after complications of hip surgery. Helen is survived by her husband, Forrest, and daughters Karen M. Rosenthal and Lauren M. Cassatt and their families.








I sit and think about your news and don’t know what to say,
That won’t seem trite or empty were it said another way.
I think about the times we shared a laugh and then a drink,
But then the words you’ve written make my heart begin to sink.

I want to say a lot of things to show you that I care
To say how sorry I am now that I could not be there,
When friends and loved ones gathered round to help you share the grief
Instead of being limited to comments stiff and brief.

But Forrest I can never know the pain you feel inside,
When you reflect upon the loss of Helen, your fair bride.
I saw you two as constants by whom marriage should be scanned,
And shudder when I contemplate that life won’t go as planned.

I forward look and fear to see how fate might rule my life
And rob me at a crucial hour of Nancy, my dear wife.
Yet even now though time is brief when we have had our stay
I can but only thank God for the blessing of each day.

I have no comfort in my words to offer that are sage,
I only know that backward glances show upon the page,
That you were always good to me and brightened up my day
The same is true of Helen who now has flown away.

My Mother's Hands

The photographs were taken by Paul Lynch and Susie Wright.

At ninety three, a photograph of my mothers hands was used to decorate the "2009 The Blue Mountain Food Services calendar" a seniors calendar in Australia.


These are the hands I know and love
I’ve seen them all my life,
They’ve changed of course as time has passed
Through happiness and strife,
And even though its been a while
Since last I held them tight,
I’d recognize them at a glance
Yes, I’d know them on sight.

These are the hands my father knew
Before I was conceived,
That drew him close and clasped him
When his love was received.
They wore the ring he gave her
In the small church in Torquay,
To have and hold from that day forth
No matter what may be.

These are the hands that changed me
When I was but a babe,
The hands that cleaned and bathed me
And held me when we prayed,
And comforted when I was sad
Or bruised or cut or hurt
Or when my knees were bleeding
And covered up with dirt.

They kneaded up the baking dough,
Rolled and cut the pastry
They crimped the meat and veggies in
To make a Cornish pasty.
They stirred and beat the cream
Until the butter left the whey,
These hands did the cooking
That fed us every day.

When the night was falling
These hands tucked us into bed,
They held the prayer or story book
From which my mother read.
And should our sleep be restless
From the living room we’d hear
The plucking of guitar strings
And singing sweet and clear.

These hands dabbed the tears
When our father went away,
They scrubbed and scraped, and typed
And nursed, to keep the wolf at bay.
They washed and ironed our clothing
And should time allow they might
Tinkle out some Chopin
From the ivories at night.

These are the hands I know and love
I’ve seen them all my life,
They’ve changed of course as time has passed
Through happiness and strife,
And though I can not see them
I know that at the end
They will be there in Heaven
When I take the final bend.


Frances McLeod 93 years b. Circular Quay, New South Wales

Serendipity and the Plumbers Wrench

My wife asked me if I could finally fix the shower handle this morning. It is a blue job. The handle drops under its own weight and as it does so the water gets hotter and hotter and faster and faster. There is a pressure ring in the stem unit that can only be tightened with a hollow wrench stuck through the wall.

“What I need is a three quarter inch plumbers wrench.” I said to Gilbert who was standing behind the service desk at PepBoys on Hollywood Boulevard. He had a bar code tattooed on his left forearm. “It has to be open at the end so that ths stem of the shower handle can come through.” I had already been to Ferguson’s the plumbers supply that morning, and they said they don’t make that size any more. “How much are they selling you for Gilberto is it?” I asked indicating his tattoo.

“ The ones over there are what we’ve got.” Gilbert replied showing me the rack of what looked like different sized spark plug wrenches. So I picked one that was three quarters of an inch and having tried to check that the stem could go through the end by asking if I could take the plastic tag holder out of it, was told “No! You have to buy it first.” I settled and realized I would have to try to turn the wrench with channel locks hoping it wouldn’t slip on the shiny smooth side. The sprocket wrench would not fit into place when the spindle from the shower handle was sticking through it.

Are you still with me? Here comes the magic! So, I am at the checkout stand and Angie, she’s really an angel, takes my money. I ask her, “Can you get this piece of plastic out for me?”

Well she struggles for a bit and tries to push it out with her pen. I suggest a Phillips and she opens a drawer at her feet which looked like the ‘odds and sods’ drawer in our kitchen, only bigger. We are looking for a hammer and a strong rod to push the tag holder out, and there on the top of all this junk, is a plumbers wrench. It’s not wrapped or anything it’s just there with all the other tools and stuff. I reached in, picked it out and measured it. Three quarters of and inch. Isn’t that amazing?

“This is what I want.” I said. “Can I have this? Can you sell me this, you can keep the shiny sprocket wrench, this is what I need.” At that moment Gilbert came up to the checkout stand, and hearing my request said he would have to speak to the manager. So back we go to Melvin at the service desk. I explain that this tool is what I came here for, and that I have been looking for it for a while, and this is the second place I had been this morning and... “ You can have that." he said.

I am just a little thrown for a moment. These things do happen to me once in a while. You know, like when I was hoping that when I got off the plane in San Jose there would be someone, an angel, right outside the airport ready to take me over the hill to Santa Cruz instead of having to take a cab to the station and then catch the bus. Well that happened to me. The second person I asked “Are you going to Santa Cruz?” said yes. When I asked if I could share the gas money and catch a ride, they said, “Well let me just ask her. She's driving up right now.” I got that ride in a white Mercedez, and here this, morning I was being offered the very tool I need for nothing.

The Angel took my return and gave me back my money. I thanked Melvin, and he just said, “What you give freely in this life comes back to you a thousandfold.” I was struck by the prophetic message coming from this thick necked macho Hispanic who was running the Hollywood shop and had such an unlikely name. My wife is happy with the shower!



















My completed set of wrenches

Memory Lapse

You can’t be tying a string around your finger
Every time you have to remember
Why it is you went into the kitchen,
Or what is was you came into the garage for anyway.

You stand in front of the fridge,
In a room cluttered with thousands of memory joggers-
A block of carving knives, that lasting gift from your wedding,
The painted rose on a plate from a grateful patient,
A colonial tea canister from Williamsburg
With a key to stop its contents being purloined,
And the gallery of photographs held by magnets on the door,

And it is as if you were gazing at some rebuilt city,
Which has been completely redesigned
After an atomic bomb has wiped
All the definitive land marks off the map,
Wondering why you are there,
And what pressing task,
Which was screaming for attention,
Caused you to sleepwalk,
And if the tell tale signs of senility
Are already devastating your mind.

Then picking your way back to the bathroom
You peer into the mirror
Straining for the clue,
And with an Archimedean exaltation,
Discover the switch of memory
And reluctantly admitting your humanity,
Put your day back on track once more.

Santa Cruz and Sand Castles

Just to the south of our port listing university town you come to San Jose’s seaside escape, Capitola. Not the brash broad walk on the surfers’ bay of Santa Cruz where foam clad Adonis’
sit splay-legged waiting to catch the next wave. Not the high-cliffed esplanade where dread-locked bongo-popping sixties throwbacks change their babies in the back of tired Volvos.
Not the city whose streets are strewn with gleaming handlebarred sturdy bikes ridden by stout broad armed women whose preferences and strength I would not question. No, but to the south, there is a charming almost Devonshiresque retreat, with Gayles’ Bakery to greet you as slip of the freeway, and where if you are lucky you may find a parking spot as you slip down the hill beside the creek which is overlooked by brightly colored resort homes.

The Capitola Creek is broad near the estuary and is crossed by a railroad trestle and a triple arched road bridge which join this beach town together. And each year on the Labor Day weekend a begonia festival is held, and decorated floats sail down the creek and around the lagoon for delightful entertainment and judging. Also being awarded prizes are the sand sculptures on the beach which by the next high tide will be all washed away.

The Family with Zoe Merrill on the bridge at Capitola





A Mayan Pyramid



A mermaid






















A prize winning Octopus



Two Bikers







Nessie all the way from Scotland





Buddy beating Phelps by a nose






Ancient City










A Sea lion


Phelps again

Writer's Block - What's Stopping You From Writing

Away From The Page
For Christopher Covell who hintingly suggested I might be getting further along with my writing.
Three of my four primary distractions are seated above - my children


You might think that there is plenty of time
To trot out another chapter, and get that great work,
That opus magnum completed
And be off to the next inspirational flowering
That will dazzle your fans and bring elusive fame to your door.

Not so!
For the washing up
And children’s homework are beckoning.
That broken toy, or the roses that need feeding,
The solution to a geometrical conundrum,

Or the value of X
Are all thrusting themselves forward
Demanding the last squirts of wakeful oxygenated blood
To be responsibly applied
To more pressing tasks.

Not more important,
But ahead in the line,
The litany of honey do’s
And unending parental duties
That keep me away from the page.


Neil Stewart McLeod 9/3/2008

An Olympic Memory

At Sunday School at the First Presbyterian Church of Hollywood, Lou Zamperini, the 1936 Olympic miler, came into the Two Year Olds' carrying the Olympic Torch he had carried as he ran with it for the 1984 Olympics here in Los Angeles.







Lou Zamperini running with the torch and a police escort at the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles. He also ran the torch at the Atlanta and Nagano games in 1996 and 1998






Lou is ninety two years old now, and a more vigorous ninety-year-old you will find it hard to meet. Although, ... if you read further back in my blog for September 2007 I have mentioned another. There is something truly remarkable about healthy seniors who still have a zest for life which all of us must envy. It says a lot for the human spirit that in our ranks we have individuals, like Lou, who in spite of great odds keep managing to fall on their feet no matter how adverse the circumstances they face.

You have to read Mr. Zamperini’s book “Devil at My Heels” , with its foreword by Senator John McCane, to discover how the miracle of faith over adversity worked for him. In the book he tells the tale of surviving a plane crash into the Pacific Ocean, and drifting with his crew mates until they were captured by the Japanese, only to be interned in their prison camps. There Zamperini resisted psychological pressures to participate in propaganda broadcasts at great personal cost.


Picture courtesy of John Hoffman





















Today I shook his had and held that Olympic Torch. At a time when many are watching the news from Beging it was delightful to have our own special connection with an athletic phenomenon.