Reinke Faces Life

The 1957 Hungarian Pie Plate

Dearest Emily,

Miss you. Love you. Be back soon.

Well, as soon as I get the travel permits. I have so much to tell you.

Grand cousin’s estate is now settled here. It was very simple as expected. The family will now know what he was doing for the last 35 years. The weirdo was inventing. It turns out he was instrumental in Vermont Independence. Sounds a little Communistic but he’s a “Hero of the Revolution”. There are a lot, but his speciifcally has ribbons and clusters that I do understand. Nor remember. I’m told its among the highest.

The arrival was interesting. Crossing the border on our side, I had to <***** REDACTED BY HOMELAND SECURITY *****> but once on the other side all I had to do was lick my thumb, press a button, my picture was taken, and the machine dispensed the equivalent of our green card. Their’s is gold, issued by an insurance company, and acts as a real time credit card. Cousin guaranteed the whole family. So it also issued me some various denomination paper and gold coins. If allowed, I’ll bring some home for you to see. <***** WARNING BY HOMELAND SECURITY — foreign money may not be imported; it’s taxed at 100% *****> We should all come for a visit if we can get permits. <***** WARNING BY HOMELAND SECURITY — entire families are not permitted out of the country together *****>

Cousin invented a novel solution. Remember he was always concerned about what would happen if New Hampshire succeeded? Would the Federal Government roll tanks? Of course, the answer was yes. We know how well that worked out. <***** REDACTED BY HOMELAND SECURITY *****> He invented a distributed solution and wrote an IPAD app for it. Basically, the app was like FourSquare where “friends” voted on picture. Threat or no threat? No one is sure where the app is hosted or how it runs, but if enough votes are cast, this think called a “turtle” drops in and soon after things start to appear. Most common is what the natives call “pie plates”. They come in like frisbees. If a tank rolls over them, bang. One less tank. Any attempt to move them, bang. People can step on them; cars can drive over them. They are targeted on the tank. Should the tank fire on and destroy the turtle. One on the pie plates morphs into a turtle. Once targeted, most tank crews abandon the tanks and walk back to the border. Never did find out how the local got rid of these road blocks. They are all over the state on almost every road.

Cousin had a bunch of other inventions — the P51 Mosquito that would do the same thing to something flying, the Red Baron Butterfly that would protect people, and the 1911 R2D2 that would attack troops with a 10 shot 45 cal hand gun. All controlled from the same app. <***** WARNING BY HOMELAND SECURITY — non approved material is not importable – for your own safety *****>

He’s famous here and infamous on our side.

As you know they have no patents here, but some how his company, no corporations here either, is very profitable. It’s invented a solar power unicycle that is quite fun. I’ll bring one home.

If it wasn’t for my love for you, I’d stay. Be home soon. Waiting on approvals and reeducation.

All my love,
Ricardo

p.s., Cousin would be so pleased. Ferdinand and Ferdinanina are now a very popular name for children here. He got his wish — namesakes.

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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Advocacy

*** begin quote ***

Advocacy by an individual or by an advocacy group normally aim to influence public-policy and resource allocation decisions within political, economic, and social systems and institutions; it may be motivated from moral, ethical or faith principles or simply to protect an asset of interest. Advocacy can include many activities that a person or organization undertakes including media campaigns, public speaking, commissioning and publishing research or poll or the ‘filing of friend of the court briefs’. Lobbying (often by Lobby groups) is a form of advocacy where a direct approach is made to legislators on an issue which plays a significant role in modern politics.[1]

*** end quote ***

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patient_advocacy

*** begin quote ***

A patient advocate acts as a liaison between patients and Health Care Providers to help improve or maintain a high quality of health care for the patients. The terms patient advocate and patient advocacy have a broad range of usage and may be applied to the actions of many different individuals and organizatons. The patient advocate may be an individual or an organization. Patient advocacy organizations are often non-profit and focus on one aspect of health care or a specific disease. There are also governmental agencies that study and ensure compliance with government regulations or help individuals get information, financial aid, or help with interventions to allow improved health care for the individual. Some patient advocates work for the institutions that are directly responsible for the patient’s care. Many health care professionals see themselves as advocates for their patients. In any case, the Patient Advocate is a vital instrument to both patient and physician in the optimal delivery of health care. There is currently no curriculum, certification or standards for becoming a patient advocate. A Patient Advocate need not be in the health care profession and may simply be a concerned citizen, supportive neighbor, friend or family to listen, take notes and help the patient communicate, understand, remember and cope with an often confusing and fearful process.

*** end quote ***

1. Awareness
2. Organized data collection
3. Roster of Doctors and Pharmacy information
4. Drug lists (including brand name and generic name, dosages in plain speak, who ordered when, who stopped it when, why is it being taken specifically)
5. Readings and Lab Reports
6. Itemization of major events with description
7. Injections, Immunizations, Transfusions, Infusions, and Procedures
8. Ledger for medical expenses
9. Correspondence
10. Archive for all of the above

It’s import to keep authentic holographic notes in a bound book. You need some type of a numbering system to refer to document into your bound book. The exception to the hearsay rule is recrods kept in the normal course of events.

As far as litigation is concerned, fuhgeddaboudit! (translation from the Brooklyn dialect: “forget about it” with a sneer.) Unless they have killed you or crippled you for life, it’s just not worth the effort and expense.

# # # # #

Occupant (An Index Card Novel)

The fat old white guy injineer read the letter again for the umpty umpth time. “Greetings Citizen: Congratulations on your Eightieth Birthday. Please report to the Shady Oaks Rest Home at 0900 hours for your Retirement Induction Ceremony. Blah, blah, blah.”

He’d lose his house, his truck, his money — pittance as it was, his pension, everything. The State would take care of him. It was general knowledge that once you were useless, you were sent to the equivalent of a death camp.

He had some other ideas. All along this Road to Serfdom, he’d had other ideas. He’d always admired Harriet Tubman.

#-#-#

In the early days of hope and change, like mind individuals formed the modern equivalent of the French Resistance. As they shuttled escaped POWs and downed Allied fliers back to England, so to a Renaissance Underground Railroad formed in the once free USA. The fat old white guy injineer was a “station master”.

Each Tuesday, morning, the garbage man came to collect his trash. Because of the handicapped symbol painted on his driveway by law, his can was collected from beside his house and returned there. Carelessly, of course. The can landed on its side. The top next to a big pine tree. The fat old white guy injineer’s grandmother planted it there decades ago. She called it “her freedom tree”; she too was a refugee. Weren’t we all at one time or another?

As soon as it was dark, the can “birthed” an inhabitant who took up refuge under the tree. The fat old white guy injineer had carefully and considerately and charitably left some scare food, a gallon of water, and some blankets under the tree.

The next day, a tradesman came with a big truckload of baled hay. He carefully loaded the the fat old white guy injineer’s pick up truck with a small load. One bale was left ajar at the base. Yes, you guessed it. The “pyramid” had a secret space. That night, the inhabitant, or inhabitants, moved from tree to truck. The lone bale was fitted in by the fat old white guy injineer.

#-#-#

At the tunnel’s check point the fat old white guy injineer heard the command: “Your papers, please, comrade.”

He turned over his universal tamper-proof id card, he passport for interstate travel, his economic activity permit, his environmental impact permit, his gas ration card (to demonstrate he’d paid his fuel tax), and his prepaid tunnel tax.

With a smile, the fat old white guy injineer said to the guard: “Por su frio?” and exposed a small bottle in his pocket. “Con sugaro?” the guard asked. “Si!” was the response. In an oft practiced motion, the guard returned the forms to the pocket and the bottle wrapped in currency disappeared.

The journey resumed.

#-#-#

It was a crappy little town called White Horse Station. It truly was a “station”. At the end of a long windy road, more of a path, the truck came to a stop at the edge of a meadow. A shepherd with a flock contained by a single dog waited patiently.

As the fat old white guy injineer extracted the bale and his cargo, the shepherd came over to help. Two funny whistles and the dog cut out five sheep and began to herd them towards the far end of the meadow. “There’s your guide”, the shepherd laughed. “And, if the border patrol gets you, he won’t talk.”

Together the two new refugees took off after their guide dog who was patiently waiting for them to catch up. Was the dog thinking “these new shepherds are slow and dumb.”?

#-#-#

The sign over the gate said but one word: “Freedom”. There was a small line shack with an older than dirt gent sitting on the porch. He yelled “Hello. A minute of your time, friend.” The two refugees, tired from their hike, sat on the steps.

“Wait here, your ride will be along shortly. Here’s your citizenship cards!”

They looked at two unalterable id cards like the ones they had in the USA, but the new ones just said “Occupant”. He laughed at them: “It’s a joke, friends. Welcome to the Free State of New Hampshire.”

The fat old white guy injineer’s ordeal was over. He was free.

# # # # #

Words of Whizdumb (An Index Card Novel)

The fat old white guy injineer was a real tin foil hat to the end of his days.

He’d become one in high school, after reading about the “Winds Code”. It had been introduced in the Congressional Investigation of 1945. Even to a rank novice, a mere babe, he’d blown right through that deception. After that, he was a nonbeliever. He later absorbed Stinnett’s work.

Along the way, President Kennedy was assassinated. It wasn’t until much later that he dabbled in guns. It was then he learned first hand about how unreliable a Carcano was.

After that, he was a Truther, a Birther, or whatever -er was ever offered for consideration. He believed nothing. Except maybe the fact that no one ever spoke the “truth”. And certainly, no politician or bureaucrat.

+++

He wasn’t looking for his own conspiracy theory. He was just the below-average fat old white guy drifting through life. And, as an engineering student, he muddled through all the courses — math, physics, chemistry, strength of materials — to name a few. He drifted through the military with a stop at both NASA and NSA. He had a few jobs on Wall Street. He few jobs around NYC and the suburbs.

Along the way he collected souvenirs. And, he even wrote an obscure novel that he self-published. All his friends rolled their eyes at “a future alternative history”.

+++

The fat old white guy injineer was in a frenzy. It had struck him like Saint Paul on the road from Tarsus. A few chemical tests of his brick from 9/11. An photo identification analysis of a picture he’d taken in Princeton. Water analysis of some stored bottles on the porch of his Mom’s downtown apartment. Several late lights surfing the net.

+++

He put it all on a web page. He’d emailed it to every email address he had.

Then he sat back to wait.

+++

“Is it done?”

“Yes!”

“Clean?”

“Neat and clean!!”

“And, the material?”

“All the primary evidence!!!”

“Secondary?”

“No, sir.”

“No? Explain!”

Now sweating, “Sir, it was the encrypted page that alerted us. Ever since the Patriot Act 1, we have been scanning the net with our allies in the various ISPs. The code was unbreakable. That’s what brought it to our attention.” Now really sweating. “It was obviously a book code. And, it didn’t match any of the Library of Congress books. That was the key that put the investigation in overdrive.”

Grimacing, the sweaty man knew this wasn’t going to be taken well. “The ISP gave us the identity. It didn’t take long to track him down. He didn’t use any attempt to hide like the Onion Router. Or post from a hacked account. It was really quite easy to find him. Amazon’s sample look gave us enough text from his pathetic story to decrypt enough. That’s the story. The ISPs recalled many of the messages. We nuked the web page. Google cleaned its caches. Lulu and Amazon nuked the book for sale. So while secondary evidence is not totally clean, it’s clean enough.”

“OK!”

+++

The mail that day delivered a printed copy of the webpage to several people.

The thin old Luddite friend of the fat old white guy injineer looked at the page of gobbledygook. Sad about the untimely demise. It was another crypto challenge from his old friend. the last one. He was enough of a crypto nerd to know it was a book code and he knew what book his old friend had used. Now if he could just find it.

The mail was also delivered in Iowa; two letters addressed to each of the two twin children — just babies — who were heroes and heroines in the fat old white guy injineer’s book. The babies’ dad put each letter with each twin’s autographed and dedicated book in their memory chests. Like a hope chest for when they grow up.

+++

The nation’s sheeple slumbered. Never knowing that another disturbing -er had been avoided. Suppressed.

Or had it?

# # # # #

Just “Warm” the Water (An Index Card Novel)

Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

—- Arthur C. Clarke

# – # – #

The fat old white guy injineer, his tall lanky Luddite friend, and his two lovely apprentices has miraculously survived “the troubles”. Who cares what “the troubles” were particularly. They found themselves now on an island with a high water table cutoff from the Disadvantaged Urban Yutes, the Golden Horde, and the various “protective gangs” that use to make up gooferment. A rag tag village had sprung. Fish from the sea, truck gardens galore eked out a modest existence. It was not a rich lifestyle. But a healthy one. And, sumptuous when you compared it to the “main land”. When you Got Out Of Dodge, sometimes you met “interesting” people along the way. Some survived the contact and lusted over “the riches” on the island.

From his long ago science background, the fat old white guy injineer did his best to contribute to the island. Some project were obvious, solar stills. Some projects were obtuse, alcohol stills. And, some were just down right strange; like rolling even thinner sheets of a strange material on plywood one foot square squares. A dollop of special water under the foil and glue around the edges. They were deployed around the island. The beach area had them in a bizarre checkerboard fashion. And, at the town hall a “special radio” transmitter and an old “wake the dead” klaxon were installed. The islanders were instructed to be one foot away from any square if they heard the banshee wail. And, prepare to defend their island if they did because it meant invasion.

# – # – #

The fat old white guy injineer went to his eternal reward. And while we can wonder what it was and muse on the fact that we will all get one. That’s not essential to the story.

What is essential was that a lot of the science knowledge had been lost during “the troubles” and its aftermath. One can legitimately wonder if the human race had peaked.

# – # – #

The remainders of the Golden Horde, the Disadvantaged Urban Yutes, and what was left of the Gooferment’s Navy came up with the idea of “rafting” to the island. Sections of 4×8 backyard fence were transported to the shore. It was a warm summer day with a gentle breeze. It was less that a mile to the island. A swarm of hundreds of these raiders assembled on the beach. (There was a tremendous die off from “the troubles” and its aftermath. But some how cockroaches always survive.)

The activity was noticed by the island’s peaceful residents. Weapons were few and far between. The knowledge how to use them was even scarcer. The residents gathered at the town hall and prayed to the pictures the fat old white guy injineer had left as documentation of how to use his creation.

When a watcher ran in from the beach to report that the invaders had landed, an elder pulled the “magic” handle. A loud annoying klaxon blared out over the island.

# – # – #

The invaders were cold and wet from their swim. A raft isn’t a boat. They assembled into squads and were ready to loot the riches of the island. Kill the men; rape the women; and enslave the children.

(Nice fellows!)

As they walked up the beach, they heard the “magic” klaxon. But it made no impression on them. Some dirty jokes were made.

Then one of them stepped on a strange piece of plywood. And screamed like a stuck pig.

Soon, there were more screams.

As their feet and lower legs were instantly frozen solid. Ever had frostbite? The pain is excruciating. When the invaders fell, they often fell on a piece of plywood. Hard to live with a frozen solid heart.

Confusion reigned. You didn’t even have to step on the plywood. Even being close was good enough.

And another change happened. The sandy soil became like quicksand. And, only the wood floated. Bodies with their wooden tombstone attached sunk in the sandy sea. Not all the bodies were dead when they sank. The sand silenced the screams.

# – # – #

Eventually the village elder was getting a headache from the noise. He shut off the apparatus. The tribe went out to meet their fate. But the invaders had disappeared.

As the sand returned to normal, the sunken tombstones rose to the top. Their dead attachments buried deep. The checkerboard was restored. The squares had an attraction for each other.

The villagers went back to eking out their peaceful existence. The legend of the “sandy defenders” was started. Reenforced by skeletons that eventually were exposed on the beach.

Eventually the wooden squares were worshipped as gods. Not as impressive as the Easter Island Tikis, but worshiped all the same.

No one was left, who understood; it was science.

# – # – #

When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right. When he states that something is impossible, he is very probably wrong.

—- Arthur C. Clarke

# # # # #

http://science.slashdot.org/story/10/02/06/0718206/Israeli-Scientists-Freeze-Water-By-Warming-It

“As reported by NPR and Chemistry world, the journal Science has a paper by David Ehre, Etay Lavert, Meir Lahav, and Igor Lubomirsky [note: abstract online; payment required to read the full paper] of Israel’s Weizmann Institute, who have figured out a way to freeze pure water by warming it up. The trick is that pure water has different freezing points depending on the electrical charge of the surface it resides on. They found out that a negatively charged surface causes water to freeze at a lower temperature than a positively charged surface. By putting water on the pyroelectric material Lithium Tantalate, which has a negative charge when cooler but a positive change when warmer; water would remain a liquid down to -17 degrees C., and then freeze when the substrate and water were warmed up and the charge changed to positive, where water freezes at -7 degrees C.”

# # # # #

Sometimes It’s A Gun (An Index Card Novel)

The poor fat old white guy injineer had his home. Modest. Unpretentious. He prepped as best he could. He wasn’t handy. He wasn’t Supreman, Batman, or even Robin. And, certainly not rich. No Caddie survivalist; he had some food, water, and weapons put aside. He provided for his extended family as best he could. His big concern was the Golden Horde overwhelming them. It was truly something he could do something about. After all he was a smart injineer.

It started with a hunting cart, a gas cylinder, and a memory of how one of his long passed uncle’s neighbors scared crows. Controlled gas explosions directed by a tube. When the birds became to accustomed to it, a self-adjusting valve changed the pitch. From Boom to Bang.

# – # – #

The S did hit the F. His extended family assembled at his “retreat”. Stuff was working out for them. The the MZBs began to circle. Conventional rifles drove off the scouts. That scared the poor fat old white guy into action. He rolled out his Domesday weapon. Their lives would depend upon an untested after thought memory of times past.

He handed out make shift Darth Vader helmets and foam temporary ear plugs. The teenagers thought it was dumb; the younger boys were kool with it. The babies were hard. Eventually everyone was protected.

# – # – #

The local gang linked with two neighboring gangs with promising a “fat target” with women and girls. It was an easy sell. They gathered up for a straight bull rush up the dead end street and driveway. There was a little gas grill at the head of the driveway. Unconcerned, the rush was on. There was no firing from the house or grounds. Perhaps they residents had evacuated.

Half way up the driveway, they heard a small bang. Then, a HUGE one. At two meter intervals in the attacking mob, men and women collapsed with blood streaming from their ears. At five meter intervals, eyes exploded outward as interocular pressure surge in harmonic resonance. In the twenty five meter arc, attackers collapsed like pole axed from strokes caused by rupturing cranial blood vessels.

It was over in minutes. Those retreating blundered right into killing zones. When the “weapon” ran out of gas, (it had no shut off) the poor fat old white guy emerged from the house and switched to the alternative cylinder and was ready for another wave. He replaced the empty propane grill cylinder. There were a dozen ready to grill or defend. He looked at the bodies and wondered how he’d clean them all up. Guess his supply of garbage bags would have to be body bags.

# # # # #

Eventually, order was restored. The “authorities” came to investigate how three gangs were wiped out by one household. They were looking, of course, for “weapons violations”. There had to be automatic weapons to be seized.

As they walked the street, it was interesting that arcs had been created bulging in the asphalt. They arrested everyone in the house. Even babies. For officer safety, of course. Their search went on for several days. Even to the point of bringing in metal detectors. Other than a few odd casings, they found nothing.

Autopsies of the “victims” showed no bullet wounds and that many had died of “natual causes”. The “authorities” were mystified. The residents were released. With out apology or comment. But with a warning, that the “authorities” would be watching them. Their guns were not returned.

The poor fat old white guy went back to his home. Amused, but safe. And, he still had his “gas grill”. He wondered if he could make it portable. Holster-able?

# # # # #

Kids, Fear Santa Claus! (An Index Card Novel)

Before the Third American Revolution, Santa Claus delivered presents to all of the good boys and girls in the world, and coal to the naughty children, on Christmas Eve. After the Third, Santa morphed into a villain who took away bad people, including children. For Moms in the new America, he was the new bogeyman. Children knew the story and passed it by word of mouth.

# – # – #

The fat old white guy had died of old age. His fat old white house, sitting near the famous ravine, was taken as a historic site. A pedestrian walkway bridge replaced the old one. Also preserved was a replacement of a Christmas decoration, Santa and his sleigh. A marker told the tale.

“In the desperate days of the Third Revolution, Federales and Foreigners tried to impose their will on the Good People of New Hampshire. Here was fought the battle of Santa’s Bridge. It was a pivotal battle in the war that convinced the Blue Hats that they could not pass over this bridge at any cost, by any tactic, and, by extrapolation, could not win. … …

# – # – #

The lines had become static. Technology replaced by well-equiped well-fed conscripted Blue Hats from strange lands in a war of attrition with starving ragged patriots of all ages. The war was televised by CNN trying to propagandize the rebels. They forgot that there was little behind the rebel lines. Especially, working TVs. Or power.

On the front, Geography was key. The ravine anchored a line; that line grew organically into a front.

With TV cameras rolling, a Blue Hat officer gathered some children hostages and began to cross that bridge. The rebel forces didn’t fire. At the end of the bridge, that cunning officer waved his men forward.

From the house, rifle fire erupted. One by one, killing the children. There was no doubt as their little bodies exploded in bits and pieces. Finally, with no hostages at risk, the rebel lines opened up. That officer was killed as well.

The Blue Hat high command was convinced. Despite the CNN coverage showed the rifle fire coming from Santa. But no propaganda could erase the fact that everything would be sacrificed for liberty. In a short time, this war, like so many others, was ended. The rebels “won” their freedom on the little children’s bodies at that bridge.

# – # – #

… … … An unknown patriot killed four little children being used as a shield and saved the position. The brutal killing was caught on video and was called the massacre at Santa’s bridge.”

# – # – #

No one talked about it. But it was seared into the new country’s folklore. “Better dead than red”, “Live Free or Die”, and “You’ll have to cross Santa’s Bridge” took on new meaning. Santa was re-tasked as Liberty’s defender and the enforcer of good behavior on children everywhere.

# – # – #

The fat old white man died and, with him, the identity of the child killing patriot. Shunned in the years after the bridge battle, he was a reminder of that sad event. In his last will, he asked the question: “Do the armchair patriots have stones to do what is needed to defend liberty? I did, and make no apology. Sic semper tyranis.”

Do you?

# # # # #