Author Archives: Rolf Margenau

Das Ei

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There is an unusual structure in the Bavarian National Forest south of Munich, close to the Czech Republic border. It’s called das Baum-Ei (the tree-egg, in German), an architectural delight that summons hikers, wanderers and architects from around the world.

That part of the forest is almost only hemlock trees, which are thinned frequently for the health of the forest. About fifteen years ago, foresters found a novel use for all harvested timber. They milled it into planks and studs and built a thirty-five-foot elevated trail for almost a mile through the forest, ending in a huge wooden egg that stretches 145 feet toward the sky. In precise German fashion, the path is called a “Baumwipfelphad”  or Tree/treetop/path.

Still ardent hikers then, Nancy and I stayed for a week in a village near Das Ei, intending to explore the forest. In a grassy square in the village, there were three posts holding wooden arrows pointing in all directions. On each arrow was written the name of the trail and its length in kilometers. A good thing was that we still thought in miles, so our kilometer hikes seemed pleasantly short.

The Baum-Ei was too far away to walk, so we took a bus to a small log building amid a hemlock forest. A forester provided a map and pointed us toward steps leading to the treetop path. The pungent scent of hemlock, woody, slightly sweet with a hint of spice, enveloped us, refreshed us. We looked down to the tops of the trees, where spring growth showed bright green against the darker needles, a beautiful puzzle.

Too soon, we arrived at the Ei, at the edge of the forest, with farmland and meadows in the distance. The path continued inside the wooden egg, winding gently upward in a gradual slope until we reached the top. The view was spectacular from any side. Hemlock forest stretched toward distant mountains on one side, and farmland, red-roofed buildings, and tiny villages dotted the bucolic landscape under marshmallow clouds. That justified our trip.

The weather held for the rest of our visit, and we picked a trail at random daily from the arrows in the village square. That forest trail was not as well kept as in the hemlock forest, with washouts here and there, but still a pleasant walk. After about five miles, we came to a meadow and a small Gasthaus that featured another German marvel. Surrounded by people at wooden tables on a terrace outside the building was a boulder the size of a school bus. Squarely in its middle, about five feet from the ground, protruded a white handle – a beer tap.

A young woman handed us traditional beer steins and pointed to the white handle. Ice-cold delicious beer poured forth. Just the thing to make two hikers remember how thirsty they had been. I searched in vain for pipes or other external connections, but none were to be found. That beer boulder remained a mystery for the rest of our trip.

The thing was, every time we decided on a new path arrow to follow, it ended up bending toward that same Gasthaus with the boulder. The beer boulder.

Sometimes, unrelated and unexpected experiences from a trip are locked into your memory. Like Das Ei and the beer boulder. It was a glorious trip.

Do Gray Whales Laugh?

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Every year, gray whales leave their feeding grounds in the Bering Sea to travel a 12,000 miles round trip to calve and breed in Baja California (Mexico) lagoons. They usually begin their southward trip in September, arriving in Baja in late December and begin their return to the Arctic in about April. It is the longest migration of any mammal,

Gray whales can reach 40-50 feet and weigh over 41 tons when fully grown. Newborn gray whale calves are about 15 feet long and weigh 1,500 lbs.

As we left San Diego heading for Scammon’s Lagoon (Laguna Ojo de Liebre) in Baha, I was excited and anxious. We were going to invade the whales’ playground in skiffs about as long as a whale calf. I had images of Moby Dick and maritime carnage as we crossed the border and headed south in my friend’s well-appointed van.

My wife, Nancy, and daughter, Lisa, were my companions. Their research showed that 41-ton whales were friendly, and that experienced guides would take us into their midst in their pangas. I dug deeper and learned that gray whales, like humans, preferred either their right or left side. They fed by getting on either side near the ocean floor and scooping up edibles in their gigantic mouths. The favored side scraped the ocean floor, so cuts and scars developed there, and barnacles were worn off. One could tell which side a whale favored by looking at its sides. I couldn’t wait to share this trivia and impress my relatives and fellow travelers.

We donned life jackets, climbed into our panga, and our guide revved the motor to begin the journey. It was a sunny morning, and the lagoon stretched out before us to the horizon. We saw what looked like black logs floating on the water; spikey, dark objects like huge cypress roots; and miniature rainbows where the sun caught the spray from whales spouting. As we moved on, the guide briefed us on the whales’ migration pattern, how they were thriving since whaling was outlawed, and trivia, including how they favored the left or right side. I became grumpy. He stole my expected moment of glory.

That didn’t last long. We were now amid a pod of gray whales. What we thought were logs turned out to be 50-foot whales hanging out. Cypress objects were whales pointing their noses to the sky. Our guide stopped the panga, and we sat in the water surrounded by gray whales, waiting.

Big mama
Petting Zoo

A gray lump broke the water three feet from where we sat and rose slowly to reveal white patches and barnacles on a huge leathery head. Her penetrating blue eye, the size of a saucer, transfixed me. She moved her head to inspect each occupant of the boat, then slowly disappeared into the water.

A few minutes later, another, smaller head appeared at the bow of the boat. It was a calf, wanting to be petted. It made its way along the side of the boat as we reached out to pat and stroke this amazing creature. It crossed the boat’s stern and returned to the bow, allowing passengers on the other side to have close contact with a whale. The calf stayed for a while at the bow, accepting caresses, then submerged.

Hi Baby!

As we all chattered about this wonderful experience, the mother returned. As before, her blue eye was just a few feet from us. She stared at Lisa and Nancy, sitting by the edge of the boat, then submerged. A moment later, a cascade of water rose at the side of the boat, dumping gallons of seawater on wife and daughter, soaking them to the skin. Blue eye reappeared, observing the results of her prank. We couldn’t see her mouth, of course, but that eye was smiling as two wet humans laughed at mama whale’s joke.

I wonder, do gray whales laugh?

Snatching Defeat

Posted on by under Life Hacks

A few days ago, after the first snowfall of the season, I watched our two 20-pound dogs navigate this new winter wonderland. A light rain followed the snow, creating a crust of ice on top. The dogs would take a few steps on the crust, then break through and flounder. They treated it as a new game, and we had fun watching little dogs jumping and wallowing in the snow. 

That made me recall an incident years ago with Honey, our 120-pound yellow labrador retriever.

But first, some background. A friend who operated a dog shelter where we had adopted dogs in the past called me and said she had a 6-month-old Labrador pup that had failed two attempts at adoption. Apparently, she was mistreated and was fearful of everything. “Rolf,” she said,” I think you are the only one in the county who can train this dog and make her better.”

Ignoring this outrageous flattery, I immediately went to the shelter to meet her. She was a 60-pound puppy who wanted nothing to do with me, but I sat with her a while and handed over an occasional treat. When she came to me looking for more, I decided she was redeemable, and we took her home.

It was not a promising beginning. The first thing she did when we introduced her to our kitchen was to snatch my laboriously constructed black forest ham and Swiss cheese on rye sandwich with butter and mayo from its plate and run to a corner to devour it.

But, after almost six months of twice daily training sessions, Honey became an obedient, loveable and loving, big dog.

Now, here we are living in a house surrounded by lawn and many trees with Honey and Dodger (another rescue Lab-Rottweiler mix). They both love to chase squirrels up trees, but Honey is particularly dedicated. I look into her deep brown eyes and wonder if she has tasted squirrel. I can’t tell.

It is a snowy winter, and the big dogs love playing in it. As here recently, there is a soft snowy base under almost half an inch of ice. When Honey charges after a squirrel, she breaks through the ice and flounders. The squirrel skims over the top and turns around to snicker before climbing a tree. This continues more than a week.

Then there is new snow. Almost two feet. No ice on top.

I watch through the kitchen window as Honey slams through her dog door to stand on the porch and survey the property for squirrels. There is one, not ten feet away under the bird feeder. Honey is in hot pursuit. But this time, she is bounding, and the squirrel is floundering.

In a blur, Honey catches the squirrel by its tail. It’s like a furry gray pendulum hanging from her mouth. Both animals seem to pause, deciding what to do next. The squirrel figures it out first. As it swings up toward Honey’s face, it latches on to her black nose and bites as though its life depended on it.

Honey yelps, drops the squirrel, which runs for the nearest tree, and I see a splatter of Honey’s blood on the snow.

Later, as I treat her nose and look into her mournful eyes, I explain she did what we all do, snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

Left foot forward, Part II

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What was but an incident is turning into a saga.

Yesterday, my friend Tom, chief of all things culinary here, cut through the middlemen and asked me directly what Nancy and I, still quarantined, wanted to eat today. He, himself, planned to deliver our meals.

Before continuing, I need to explain that we have two dining areas here. One is on the third floor where we have a dining room with tablecloths and a bistro without tablecloths. They function with a kitchen built 30 years ago for about 160 guests. Now there are twice as many residents who are supposed to be served by the same kitchen. However, I digress.

The second dining area, a new Marketplace on the first floor, serves more modest food cafeteria style.

The thing to remember is that the third floor serves dinner only on weekdays, and the Marketplace serves lunch and dinner all week, except that weekends it is mainly breakfast. They call it brunch. Sometimes, on special occasions like Christmas and New Year that this year fell on a Sunday, we get a fancy brunch. I know. It’s hard to keep all this straight. Imagine what it’s like for old people who can’t remember what they had for breakfast anyway.

If you are still reading this, just remember my main point. Lunch comes from downstairs and dinner comes from upstairs (or downstairs).

Now that that’s understood, I wrote down for Tom yesterday that we each wanted a small soup and a cheeseburger for lunch (from the first floor) and a porkchop with special sauce and sides for dinner (from the third floor). This morning, the third-floor restaurant manager asked what we wanted for dinner tomorrow. We each wanted the special brisket and beef hamburger, please. With onion rings.

We were only slightly concerned that we hadn’t heard from the first floor about tomorrow’s lunch when Tom delivered today’s lunch – one large, tasty mushroom soup and one cheeseburger. Close to what we ordered, so, what the hell, Nancy ate the soup and I ate the cheeseburger.

About 3:30 PM, Tom called to ask if we hadn’t ordered the pork roast for tonight. I confirmed we had. Well, he had two brisket and beef hamburgers for us. With onion rings. I explained that was tomorrow’s dinner. But it became tonight’s dinner.

There’s nothing like following a cheeseburger with a brisket and beefburger.

Please don’t bother me tomorrow morning. I’ll be researching door dash and Uber eats.

Left Foot Forward

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One of my favorite uncles had a saying that goes, “Sometimes in life you start with a left foot forward and stumble all the way home.”

I just had such an experience. When I thought things couldn’t get more screwed up, I was proved wrong.

Nancy and I have enjoyed good health for the almost two years we’ve lived in our life care community. We’ve made friends, enjoyed the facilities and settled in comfortably. A week ago, however, we were diagnosed with RSV, a highly contagious bug that can be hard on the elderly (which I ruefully confess we both are). As a precaution, we were quarantined for two weeks, which means we can’t visit the main buildings, including the dining areas.

Our Wellness Center said that, as quarantined people, Nancy or I would get a call each evening asking what we wanted delivered the next day for lunch and dinner. No such calls arrived during our first two nights of quarantine. So, I called the Wellness Center each following morning with these results:

Morning one — “They should have called. I’ll call them. Someone will call you back.” A male voice did, asking what we wanted for dinner. I asked, what about lunch? Oh, that too? OK. So, we ordered lunch and dinner, which were delivered in a timely fashion.

Morning two (Saturday)– “They should have called. I’ll call them. Someone will call you back.” A female voice called about 11 AM, asking what we wanted for dinner. I said we don’t want dinner. We are preparing our own. We each want an omelet with toast for lunch. What kind of toast? We described it. OK.

When no lunch had arrived by 2 PM,  I called the Wellness Center again.  “It should have come. I’ll call them. Someone will call you back.” A female voice soon called back, and I asked about lunch. “Lunch??? Oh, I see. No, it’s too late for omelets now. What else can I get you?’ We settled on soup and a sandwich, which soon arrived.

 At about 5 PM our doorbell rang. I sprang to answer, but the person had disappeared. There was a white bag by the door. It contained lunch. I had no way of giving it back.

Pacific Northwest

Posted on by under Travel Stories

We were eager to reactivate our wanderlust after staying put during Covid-19 for over two years. So, we accepted an opportunity to cruise the Snake and Columbia rivers in Washington and Oregon on a paddle-wheel steamer in early August.

That trip had been on our bucket list for many years. Captain Meriwether Lewis and Second Lieutenant William Clark led the Corps of Discovery into the lands in the Louisiana Purchase in 1804, searching for a northwest passage to the Pacific, and journeyed down the Columbia River to reach their goal in 1805. They never found a passage, but their extraordinary exploration was critical to the geographic and scientific understanding of our new land and the indigenous people there.

The explorers’ journey began on the Missouri River, at 2500 miles, the longest in our country. It originates in Montana and flows into the Mississippi in Louisiana. The Corps went north on the mighty river and, on the advice of local natives, followed a wilderness trail from the Missouri to the Columbia River and sailed it west to their goal. We would begin our trip on the Snake River, a mere 1078 miles long, beginning in Yellowstone National Park. The Columbia is 2000 miles long, beginning in the Rockies in British Columbia. Our voyage would begin on the Snake River and connect with the Columbia a few days later.

The length of these rivers impressed us and helped us understand how important they were for transportation in the northwestern parts of our unknown country.

We arrived after dark in Spokane, Washington, rested for a day in the city and headed by bus south to Clarkson to board the American Express. In bygone days, Nancy and I camped out on the Olympic Peninsula and looked forward to seeing the green forests we knew in eastern Washington as well. Not so Low hills covered with wheat rolled by our windows for over 100 miles. There were a few trees around the farmhouses.

On our first full day of sailing, we took a jet boat up the Snake River to Hell’s Canyon, so named because getting through it with a loaded barge was like going through Hell. Our 30 mph trip was exciting, but we noticed the high water mark was 20 feet above water level—an unwelcome reminder of the long drought affecting our precious water supply.

We enjoyed our cozy 170 square foot cabin with a bathroom so tiny you had to step out to change your mind. Shipboard food, service and entertainment were fine and stops in the towns along the way were interesting. Our cruise included daily local bus trips with a local guide who explained points of interest.

Mount Hood from the Columbia River

We soon reached the Columbia River and were truly following the journey of the Corps of Discovery. On the top deck, we watched the shore slide by, now green with trees and summer colors, and signs of modern developments like bridges, docks, hydroelectric dams and other ships. In places, the river was four miles across. We had visions of the explorers in their small boat navigating this beautiful yet unknown space.

On our last day of cruising, we reached Astoria, Oregon, on the Pacific coast. The Columbia River Maritime Museum there was entertaining and informative. The day was overcast, as usual for the area this time of year, but the views from a high point were spectacular.

The next day, after 8 days aboard, we flew home from Portland, Oregon. It was a delightful trip that we finally checked off our bucket list. We suggest adding it to yours.

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The longest Day of the Year

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June 21st was the summer solstice in North America, the longest day of the year with at least 16 hours of daylight. That is enough time to look back a few months and catch up.

For years I’ve managed a website that updates my literary work and provides links to my books, critical commentary and other matters involving my writing. The same information is available on my Amazon site, which also prompts the visitor to buy one (or even, God forbid, more) of my books.

About a year ago, Nancy and I moved to a life care community, primarily to be in a place that could provide any care we needed as we aged more. We don’t need that care yet and have found many new ways to fill our days. I decided I didn’t need to waste my time using a program I didn’t fully understand writing about my stuff that Amazon already had. So, rolfmargenau.com is, like me, retired. You can still find my books on Amazon. As a gentle hint, you may discover them by clicking the cover of my most recent novel below.

Covid ended travel to exotic and/or exciting places we explored and photographed, and we are still leery of foreign travel. We have taken brief trips by car from Kirkland Village and flew to California for a grandson’s wedding. But my camera trigger finger still itches, so I point my lens at things that interest me in Bethlehem. Here are pictures from early spring.

Smoke from the massive fires in Canada arrived in Bethlehem in early June creating a Smog we’d never seen before here. Air quality was poor, but the sun was unique — blood red.

Now we are in summer, with clear air and blooms abounding. Some of the early ones are here:

Love to hear from you. Leave a reply.

Rolf

Thoughts about Hubris

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We’ve heard and probably used expressions like “she has a swelled head,” and “he’s getting too big for his britches” to describe someone who is overconfident or arrogant, traits that often lead to a lack of self-awareness and self-defeating behavior. That’s a definition of hubris which, if it becomes all-consuming, can lead to an individual’s downfall.

In ancient Greek tragedies, the main characters who display hubris usually suffer gory deaths. Plots highlight seriously dysfunctional families, where a father might kill his wife, irritating his children who slay him, squabble among themselves, and do away with each other, while one of their cousins kills his mother, providing the opening act of a fresh tragedy. It became well known that it is best to avoid hubris.

Ancient Romans were not keen on hubris and sought to remind their heroic leaders of their need to be humble. Hollywood has portrayed that in swords and sandals spectacles where the conquering general returns to Rome in a parade featuring captured treasure, slaves, enemy commanders in chains, and brave legionnaires. The general drives a golden chariot, and a slave stands behind him, holding s golden crown over his head. He’s whispering something in the general’s ear. “Memento mori.” Remember that you are but a man.

Like most, I’ve had my moments of hubris. Fortunately, my wife and three daughters formed an anti-hubris squad, forcefully confronting my moments of arrogance and self-importance, deflating my hot air. Sometimes it worked. Maybe a slave would have been more effective.

Beginning our trek to Chavin de Huantar

This is a preamble to a story about a glorious moment of hubris shared by my wife, one of my daughters, and me. It happened in the early 1980s when we were all in good enough shape to enjoy mountain trekking. Our objective was Chavin de Huantar, an archaeological site in a 10,000 foot high valley in the Cordillera Blanca about 270 miles north of Lima. It held a flat-topped basalt pyramid originating from before 1,000BC that contained a huge stele and many skulls and crossbones carved from white stone. It was designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and had been visited by few gringos, other than archaeologists. Getting there wasn’t like discovering a new world, but we thought it would be very cool.

The trek would take five days, and we had to navigate a high pass about 17,000 feet high. We had only three days to acclimate ourselves to the altitude and were prepared to suffer some on the trail. The third morning we saw the high pass silhouetted against the startling white mountains of the Cordillera Blanca, about 2500 feet above us. The sky was crystalline blue, clouded by our breath. The trail up was easy. The elevation was not. Our guide called out “arriba.”

Huascaran, the highest mountain above us on our trek

The problem with high altitude trekking is getting enough oxygen into your lungs and blood from the thin air to let your body function well enough to go on. We had no oxygen, so at about 16,000 feet our thought processes slowed, and we did our best to concentrate on which foot we needed to raise next to get to the pass. It appeared we were moving through chest-high water, and the pass was moving away from us. Yet, at noon, we reached an open field there.

The ancient pyramid

Our guide passed around a thermos of tea, and we felt ourselves recovering from our recent efforts. We were surrounded by glistening Andes mountains, deep blue skies with marshmallow clouds, standing in a meadow of tiny yellow orchids. We conquered the mountain. We were masters of the Andes. Hubris? You bet. Buckets of hubris. Slathered in hubris.

At that moment, a black and white border collie appeared from nowhere and ran full tilt to Nancy, jumped up and bit her in the right buttock.

It didn’t break the skin, but it punctuated that moment with a powerful reminder of our humanity.

I wonder how the Romans would have done if they just used a border collie.

Scorpions

Posted on by under Life Hacks, Uncategorized

A few years ago, in trying to explain how culture and environment influence a person’s attitude toward punctuality, I began a chapter in one of my novels like this:

“The people of the Amazon in Peru have a unique relationship with time. In the equatorial expanse of the jungle, there is little change in weather, seasons, sunrise, and sunset. Time seems to glide by slowly, accommodating itself to the languid ways of the region. Or, perhaps, the languid ways of the region reflect the almost imperceptible way that change occurs. The Amazon cares little about that. The river rises and falls twenty or more meters throughout the year, but the water level along its banks and on the hardwood stilts supporting homes by the river seems to move hardly at all from day to day. Dugout canoes glide almost effortlessly along, so low in the brown water that only surface tension keeps water from rushing in. The lush foliage challenges the observer to count its shades of green and hides the way into the jungle, only hinting at the dark, impenetrable wall of intertwined vegetation just a few meters from the river’s edge. Enormous trees, buttressed by wall-like roots, gradually rise above the jungle to offer support to the thousand species of birds in the region. The strangler fig takes its time as it slowly reaches upward to surround a tall tree. It dies in its grasp and crumbles away, leaving the delicate latticework of the fig to host the birds that don’t notice that the tree is gone.

“The people of the river live in slow time. If fish do not bite today, they probably will tomorrow. If the river transport boat is a few hours or days late, that becomes an opportunity to chat with the neighbors, maybe make new friends. If it rains too hard to gather building materials from the jungle, it is fine to wait a day. Perhaps a cousin, uncle or sister will be here to help them. It is, of course, important to have a job, to make a living, to buy rubber boots, cell phones, headlamps and machetes. However, the jungle offers much for the taking – food, shelter, charcoal to sell, exotic barks to cure many illnesses. It is, of course, important to have a job. But even without a job, one can survive. There is no need to rush.”

Here is a seemingly unrelated story on which I’ll comment later.

A scorpion came up to a bullfrog, sunning himself on a log by the river. The scorpion said, “I need to get to the other side. I’d be very grateful if you’d give me a ride across on your back.” The bullfrog replied, “No way! What if you decide to sting me as I swim across?”

“Why would I do that? Then I’d drown. Don’t worry. I won’t do that.”

Relieved, the bullfrog let the scorpion climb on his back and swam into the river. Halfway across, the scorpion stung the bullfrog powerfully in the neck.

With his last breath, the bullfrog asked, “Why did you do that? Now we’ll both die.”

“I know,” said the scorpion. “It’s just my nature.”

Another anecdote defines the apex of punctuality. A German business associate picked me up in his Mercedes at my hotel in Munich for a two-hour drive to a meeting in another town. Construction delayed him, so when we hit the autobahn he cruised at 150 kilometers or more per hour. We arrived at our destination five minutes early, and I complimented him for being on time.

“To be early is not to be on time,” he said.

I inherited the punctuality gene, probably from German ancestors. Even though I understood the nature/nurture influence on people’s approach to punctuality, I tried to resist feelings of disappointment, anger, or rejection when others were tardy. I developed strategies for herding three teenage daughters to appointments, visits to relatives, and flights on time. Mainly, it involved lying about departure times. I also tried economic determinism and docked allowances for the pain and suffering my wife and I experienced because of their lateness.

Over time, I recognized that, though they hadn’t inherited the punctuality gene, my daughters had other admirable qualities that I lacked. I’m tying to emulate one of them—patience.

Yet, there are many of us who are slaves to our punctuality gene.

I guess that’s our nature.

Conundrum

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I am cataloguing unexpected moments that created indelible memories and influenced the way I see the world. Looking back, events that seemed anecdotal at the time grew in importance as they resurfaced, forcing me to reconsider them, perhaps learn from them. Here’s one I am thinking about now.

On a lush spring morning in Beckley, West Virginia in the early 1980’s, I was discussing a client’s purchase of coal mining rights and tipple fees with a local lawyer. It was a friendly negotiation, and we had lunch together at his club, a reserved table at a busy diner on the main street, with a view of the town square and courthouse. The courthouse steps filled with excited people halfway through the meal, and a waiter soon came over to announce that Clem was acquitted. Conversation in the diner paused, then rose to air brake volume.

The lawyer excused himself, chatted with a new arrival at the diner, and returned to tell me this story. I don’t remember the exact words, but it’s accurate and has the additional benefit if being mostly true.

The defendant in this murder case was a young man, born and raised in Beckley, who followed his family tradition and worked as a coal miner. He was a star football quarterback in high school, an accomplished hunter, and generous to a fault, always willing to share what was in his well-stocked game larder. He lived with his parents when he began working in the mine and helped with family finances. After a while, he found a run-down cottage on a knoll overlooking evergreen timber lands and a pond. It was close to town and bordered little used railroad tracks at the bottom of the hollow.

Clem bought the cottage, fixed it up, and decided the one thing it needed was a girl from town that he’d known since high school. Busy as he’d been working and helping his parents, he wasn’t aware that Lilly was involved in a series of romances in town, none of which resulted in a diamond ring. She said she loved the cottage and him, and they soon married.

A witness at the trial confirmed that Lilly had a flexible approach to marriage vows and a continuing attraction to one of the McMillan boys. He and Lilly decided they would both be better off without Clem, but with the cottage.

Lilly told Clem she was going to visit her mother for a couple of days, and the McMillan boy with two brothers and a friend decided that a good time to visit Clem would be real early the next morning.

Clem admitted Lilly’s departure was unusual, mainly because she couldn’t stand her mother, and had a nagging doubt about her fidelity because she always had a headache or something when he felt romantic. Without thinking too much about it, he camped out on the hill above the hollow that night to enjoy the full moon and soft breezes. He took along his deer rifle.

At about one o’clock, Clem noticed four figures carrying rifles silhouetted against the moonlit silvery rails at the bottom of the hollow heading toward his cottage. He rubbed some spit on the front sight of his Winchester so the reflected moonlight would help define any available target. The figures below rushed toward his cottage with rifles raised. They were as clear as fireflies at dusk.

The coroner reported that of the three McMillan boys, two were shot clean through the head and one through the chest with .30-30 rounds. The friend, Jake Miller, was shot through the left buttock, mainly because he was running away down the tracks. He testified at the trial about the night’s proceedings and noted that his left leg didn’t work so good anymore.

The prosecution said it was out-and-out murder, and the defense said it was preemptive self-defense. I had never heard of such a defense before, but that didn’t bother the jury. They acquitted Clem.

The man my lawyer friend spoke with was a juror. He explained that the McMillan boys were trouble since Jesus was a pup. They’d caused more misery, heartbreak, and ruin than befell Sodom and Gomorrah. Those boys deserved killing. Aside from being in the right, the jury believed Clem had provided a public service. If they could, they would have awarded him damages, but that just couldn’t figure out how to do that. They decided on a speedy acquittal instead.

I admit to being bemused by this story. Had rough West Virginia justice prevailed? I thought considered the facts of the case. Clem had gone to the top of the hill that night on a hunch and was safely out of harm’s way from any attack. The local jury was influenced by the McMillan boys’ past misdeeds, but they were dead and couldn’t defend themselves. The defense lawyer made up a non-existent legal excuse to bamboozle the jury. Was this justice or the act of vigilantes? Was this a precursor of what passes for justice in some jurisdictions today?

Answers are not coming easily.