My Christmas Story.......................Good Grief.

I typically abhor Christmas, and the holiday season in general. I run from it. Ask my sisters, many are the stories of me running cursing and screaming from their houses because I just couldn’t handle making the sweet tea, or going out for ice. I’m not kidding I wish I was, but I’m not. I’m a holiday jerk. This year, as I’ve aged to the ripe old age of 43 I may be reconsidering some of these long held/bull-headed thoughts I’ve had over the years. Basically, I’m tired of being a selfish butthole.

First, lets look at the Peanuts Christmas Story. I was raised on this show. I missed it once, and I cried so much, and there was nothing mom or dad could do; it was horrible. The Peanuts Christmas Story is near perfection. It still amazes me on so many levels. How did “they” allow this subversive message out? The networks must have been insane. This is one of the things I absolutely love about Christmas. Charlie Brown is one of my heroes. In spite of certain failure and disaster, he muscles up and gives it his all. Charlie Brown is like us, he’s got no money and is caught in large world that’s hard nearly incomprehensible to understand. This makes his struggles seem not only real but epic. His efforts to find the perfect tree for the Christmas Play are akin to the Labors of Hercules. If Charlie Brown had a tatoo it would probably say something catchy like, “Don’t Give Up the Ship”. Christmas and Peanuts go together like pecans in pie.

I’ve spent Christmas’s all over the world Spain, Afghanistan, Knoxville, and now Iraq. But the  ones I remember the most fondly are in Cowan, Tennessee. We always, cut our own tree. Dad would usually go riding around in the woods and grab a Cedar Tree off the side of the road. Dad liked the Cedar cause it smelled so good, and didn’t get sap everywhere. Later, when I was in high-school me and mom went Christmas Tree hunting. We’d drive around some Cowan backroads and found a nice one. Me and Mom got out of the car, and were sizing it up. Just as I was ready to go to chopping with my trusty Boy Scout Hatchet Mom says, “Garry what’s that over there?” “Oh, that’s somebody’s house, and it looks like were standing in their front yard.” I replied. We back out nice and slow. We drove down the road and turned off onto a dirt road. We drove down a hill and around a little bend. Parking the car we got out and surveyed the landscape. Lots of fine Cedars to choose from. All of sudden, there’s blue lights! An unmarked police car is coming right at us with the blue dash light blazing. Mom screams, “Ahhhhh!!!” I’m totally confused. Then out jumps my buddy Eric grinning from ear to ear. “Gotcha!” I nearly pee my pants. Mom made him stay and help me chop down the tree. The tree is key. I still have a lot of the old faded decorations we had as kids.

Carroling, we always we went carroling. I pretended to hate it. We’d get out of school to walk around Cowan and sing. We always sang to the retired people and shut-ins. They loved it. Sometimes they’d have a cookie for us, but mostly just big smiles. My favorite song was, “Bring me some Piggy Pudding and Bring it right Now!” I would be scream-singing this at the top of my lungs. It was so funny. Luckily, our audience was largely hard of hearing. My teachers however, were not and I received more than one “stink eye” over my poetic license. It would be cold, we’d be out walking up and down the streets singing to homes and the local businesses. Afterwards, back in our classroom, somehow Hot Chocolate would be waiting with one of those extra-large marshmellows floating in the middle of it. We always had a big Christmas Tree in the classroom, and made the decorations for it out of construction paper and popcorn stringers.

Christmas plays, as a child I started out as a mere shepard, clothed in my Dad’s blue tartan robe. One year, I got to wear the electric blue terry cloth rob, and let’s just say it was badass. I was the ELECTRIC-NEON-DREAM-COAT-TECHNA-COLOR-SHEPARD! I liked being the shepard, nobody expected much, you just stood there next to the plastic sheep. Good times. Of course, I was always aggravated I never got picked to be Joseph. Dane Myers always got to be Joseph. Jealousy ran through my veins like sausage gravey over a homemade biscuit. Honestly, I was really jealous. However, one year I got to play the mean inn keeper. The one that “has no room”, that was me. So I’m in my cardboard inn, and Mary & Joseph (D.M.) walk up and ask meekly, “Do you have a place to for us to stay?” My cackle was heard echoing through the entire church, AAAAHHHHAAAHAHAHAHAAHAA…………….I’m 10 years old. “Room! Room for you!” I bellow. “We don’t serve your kind kind here!” I sneer as only a 10 year old child reared on the full-measure of 80’s sit-coms can sneer. My church is cracking up and laughing. Mary & Joseph are truly laughing and horror stricken at the same time. I’m laughing so hard on the inside, so hard. The Church Play Director, doesn’t know what to think, she just shakes her head. God Bless her soul for putting up with me. I was, and am a complete lunatic. Afterwards, all the old guys in the Church were patting me on the back and laughing congratulating me on a stellar performance. I imagine they were problably quite sleepy until I started yelling and making a scene.

My last Christmas play was “Mistletoe Macho”. It was a train wreck.  We were all frustrated hormonal teenagers. Because of my previous  shenanigans I had somehow moved into the lead role of “The Mistletoe Macho”. I never looked at my lines and had the poor Choir Director in tears. No really, at one point she was crying telling me how awful I was. She wanted to cancel the whole thing, but that wasn’t an option. Everyone else in the play went to the rich private school, Saint Andrews Sewanee up on the mountain. They were all in Drama Class, and took French and Latin. There was no way I could compete with that! So I just didn’t take it seriously, but somehow on performance night I managed to make it work to much appluase and laughter. Afterwards, I apologized to Cyntheia, our wonderful Choir Director.

What is Christmas without food! I was always the kid that liked to eat, still am. I eat my stress. I eat, and swallow my stress and anxiety to keep it deep inside where no one can see it. I would highly recommend this as the preferred method for dealing with lifes tribulations. Holiday feasts are mighty to behold and better to paratake. My Mom would always go above and beyond. Here repretoire was extensive. She made the best chocolate chip cookies. Especially, these Date-Nut-Ball things that were just amazing. Mom made it all. Here recipes were tried and true, perfected over decades.

Christmas dinners at my parents house are some of my happiest memories. My nephew Randy and I were invariably racing trucks through the house. The older folks would try relaxing until it became too much, and we were told to either go outside or locked in a room until we’d worn ourselves out. Christmas dinner involved the one time a year I saw my Dad pray in public. He always had a gift for words, and his offerings of thanksgivings and blessings were one of the few peaceful moments the busy little house on Hines Street ever experienced. My sister Faye, always had this amazing orange cranberry sauce. Glenda would bring pie, she makes the best crust ever. One year, around 1980 Mom had an organic impulse. Dad had to go and buy a live turkey. He kept the poor thing in the trunk of the car all day, till the fateful hour. When Dad opened the trunck out it popped in a flurry of feathers and squaks. Running all over the yard and neighborhood until they got it corned in the garage with the ax. Then, off came its head, no telling what the neighbors thought. Then Dad had to pluck it, he conned Faye into helping him pluck the bird, it was back braking work. Finally, Dad built a fire in the  backyard, and rigged up the old cast iron cauldron over my swing set. It was a Shakespearean Tragedy and Tom Turkey the star. “Double Double Toil and Trouble Fire will Burn and Couldron Bubble!” Then he gave the bird a good scalding to get the feathers off. Mom was never so happy. It was good eating too. When the Shores go Organic, its gonna be interesting for sure.

          Christmas morning, I always had a pile of toys. Thinking about it now I understand how much my Dad had to work to make that happen, and I feel guilty for being the kind of kid that had to have a bunch of toys to be happy. My Dad never had anything, and never wanted anything. He raised his kids, he wasn’t perfect by any means, but he hung in there when many people would have run away. Mom and Dad would stay up late cookinng the turkey and wrapping presents while we kids slept, or tried to sleep. I remember the day my brother got his 30-30 Marlin Hunting Rifle. I would get the same rifle in honor of him years later (I still have it). Christmas was the day we’d all sit around our tiny house and enjoy each others company. Somehow I always ended up with a toy race track. It had controllers and you’d race these electric cars around the track. Me and dad would play that thing for hours. I had one that was Star Wars themed and Dad would always be Darth Vader, and he would win. Luke Skywalker rarely won when my Dad was behind the wheel of his Tie-Fighter. It would make me so mad. We would have so much fun. It was one of the few days everyone seemed relaxed. Mom and Dad were glad to have pulled off another Christmas making there kids happy. My Mom and Dad worked so hard to give us stuff, stuff in hindsight I didn’t really need. Looking back on it all I am grateful for all they gave me. They gave me a safe childhood, and I was loved and cared for. That is no mean feat. It’s funny, I know people who’ve had money and wealth their entire lives. I’d not change places with them for one minute. This is what Christmas means to me, it wasn’t perfect. But it’s what I had, and that’s all I need.

 

 

 

 

OF SALAMANDERS AND DAYS GONE BY..........MARCH 2015

 


 “The walking of which I speak has nothing in it akin to taking exercise, as it is called, as the sick take medicine at stated hours …but it is itself the enterprise and adventure of the day.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walking

The Cumberland Plateau
Photo courtesy of Jeanell Weintraub

March is here, the weather is milder and the rain is pouring. The plateau is soaking it up, overflowing, the creeks which have lain dormant are now actively running. Flowing over and under rocks and debris, the air is alive with the smell of rich decay. You can smell the forest on the wind. Busting down the trail, wind in my lungs the smells are amazing. This is my land. I am a son of the plateau. My father would bring me up to the mountain as a kid. We’d mostly go up to Morgan’s Steep or to The Cross and go for hikes, where he’d identify trees for me. He would rattle off their names like you would the names of your favorite nieces and nephews. He knew them well. We’d walk around, usually wearing identical hats of the camouflage/hunting variety. My favorite was a sporty one that was two-sided. Camouflage on one side Blaze Orange on the other, for hunting of course. I’ve never been much of a hunter, mostly just walking for me. Outside in the sun, wind, and rain. It was here on the Plateau where I learned to walk, truly walk. Walking not to reach any particular destination, but to ramble, explore to see what’s out there in the unknown. Walking in and of itself is ultimately divinely gratifying. The Domain, located at The University of the South in Sewanee, Tennessee has left a strong indelible print on my life that continues to guide me to this very day.

            Today is a great day, with all the rain everything looks like it’s been scrubbed clean. 

The Perimeter Trail Sewanee TN

The forest is bright, the browns and greens are popping and the sky is blue. The temperature is mild, shirtsleeves of course. My favorite place right now is out by the Forestry Cabin, where I then proceed to tramp and tumble down the Perimeter Trail. The trail circumnavigates “The Domain” of the University of the South in Sewanee Tennessee. It’s perched in a small corner of The Plateau conveniently located within six miles of my home in Cowan. This trial in its current form has been around since the mid 1980’s, I remember them completing sometime around 1992 or thereabouts. The Trail goes for around 20 miles or so, but it is cross-cut, intersected, and supplemented with so many other side-trails, old logging roads, and foot paths. You could lose yourself for years just tramping up and down this geography. It may be laid out on the map one way, but once your boots are on the ground, your experience may be different. Maps and compass are the tools of the trade for exploration. However, they are no substitute for wander-lust and strong legs. Otherwise, all your equipment will simply gather dust. Tennyson in his great poem Ulysses writes:

“Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
it may be that the gulfs will wash us down

It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles”

  A. Tennyson – Ulysses

 The Cumberland Plateau, named after William “The Butcher” Augustus, Duke of Cumberland 

who defeated the Scottish Clans at the Battle of Culloden Moor. It was the humble Dukes treatment of the wounded that earned him the nickname “The Butcher”. April 16^th 1746, the Battle of Culloden Moor resulted in a devastating defeat for the Scottish Clans fighting under the Jacobite banner and secured the House of Hannover to the English throne for years to come. The Scottish defeat sent many fleeing across the sea to the new colonies where they found refuge and new life in the land named after a hated foe.  Geologically the Plateau is a mighty wonder. Millennia ago, the Middle Tennessee area consisted of a vast inland sea ringed with marshes and wetlands. Over the years sediments were deposited and layer upon layer of sandstone, coal, and limestone were laid down. During this time, movement of the Earth’s plates caused this “Appalachian Basin” to rise higher and higher. Over eons, this created a plateau that stretchers from modern day Southern New York all the way to North Alabama. This became what we now call the Cumberland Plateau. This geography is home to an immense diversity of plant, animal, and recently human species.
      My life’s experience with the Cumberland Plateau is entwined like a mighty grape vine with the Sewanee Perimeter Trail.    The Perimeter Trail first appeared on the planning books in 1984 and after many spurts and stops was officially completed in 1992. A healthy donation from Albert Roberts III of St Petersburg, Florida allowed for its completion and continued maintenance. The trail had been there before any of this official work commenced, but it was poorly mapped and lacked coherence. Signs now point the wanderer to various look outs and points of interest. The trail side maps are done in bronze for longevity. However, these are looking a little long in the tooth and show their age accordingly.
     The Perimeter Trail was established as a means to identify, unite, and map existing trails into a trail system that would be maintained for generations. Much of the trail system incorporates older trails, man-ways, game trails, and fire lanes. Notably, the Civilian Conservation Corps built several sections including the Arcadian, Corso, and the Shakerag Hollow trails, during the Great Depression of the 1930’s. The trail today is well marked, maintained, and attracts not only University students but folks from all over the county and beyond.  The trail snakes, winds, and circumambulates out and around The Domain of the University of the South for 18 t0 20 miles.    
     The trail provides me with continued activity and thought. I am a devotee of its circuitous paths and trails. Running the path is a tonic for my soul. Except for the time I ran into two unleashed dogs. Not so funny, my favorite line for this is, “Oh they wouldn’t bite you.” How am I supposed to know this? I was already plotting my escape, giving them some loud shouts, staring them down, and generally making a spectacle of myself. Luckily their owners appeared around the bend. I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t say what was on my mind, because it would not have been polite at all. I kept on trucking down the path.
     Usually I park my BRIGHT RED FORD BRONCO out by the gate which takes you out to the Olde Forestry Cabin. I run down the path. To my right is mixed hard woods of varying ages and species; to the left is a pine forest of some age. Their uniformity gives rise to suspicion of something deliberate. In the middle of the Pines is a clearing. In the clearing, someone/somebody has deemed it imperative to erect a weather station. The clearing is strange, encircled as it is with tall dark foreboding pine trees. It’s obviously of druid cult origins who used it for arcane rituals to communicate with beings from beyond space and time is unquestionable. However, the Elder Gods, The Crawling Chaos, and the Black Goat with a Thousand Young (too much H.P. Lovecraft as a child) have all been banished, replaced by the gods of science, research, and technology. The clearing is now simply a weather recording station, which it does so with calm scientific efficiency.  Just past the druid circle I go left and plunge at headlong full sprint down the Perimeter Trail. Foot catches root, then I’m tumbling and rolling as I continue down the trail, righting my trajectory, checking my zeal, and slowing the pace I marvel at the creation that unfolds.  The great plateau is worn and eroded, its rock exposed like bare skin. I marvel at the sandstone veined with minerals and ore, the lichens and moss clinging tightly. Stripped Wintergreen peaks out from the leaf litter, the smells on the wind. It’s all there. It’s all so incomprehensibly vibrant, a man could spend his life exploring and learning here and still only barely scratch the surface of understanding.

 I’ve been exploring the plateau and its environs for several decades with varying

The elusive Spotted Salamander

levels of intensity. It has always provided space for refuge, camaraderie, learning, and reflection. I am forever indebted and bound to this land, that my friends is a strange thing to say. But that is the way it is. Jogging down an old fire break, White Pines gracefully towering on either side the vaulting limbs intersect creating an atmosphere ethereal, holy as one of the great cathedrals of old. Alone I run the length of the road. It’s quiet with the exception of squirrels digging and jumping. I steadfastly follow the blue trail marks, and soon I’m back on the “main” road that runs through these hinterlands. There’s a University Van parked on the side of the road. Curious, I slow down and start looking around. There a vernal pool that’s formed due to the spring rains, it’s about an acre in size. These pools form during the spring, and slowly disappear over the dry summer months. The University has seen fit to ring it with tin sheeting. Interesting, hmmm.  A woman is tromping around in a pair of galoshes, she hasn’t seem me yet. I’m tempted to just continue my run and not bother her, but I’m curious so I give her my best, “Howdy there, what are you doing?” I query. Oh hey! She says. So I ask a few simple questions, and she goes on to tell me how she is out here studying the Spotted Salamander, and that this is it’s mating season in the early spring when these vernal pools form the get their mating rituals on, and lay eggs. Salamanders use vernal pools due to the lack of predatory fish which love to eat salamander eggs. The tin ring drives the salamanders through small openings and into waiting buckets. Then everyday, students come out to count and release them. The student goes on to tell me, this is her first time doing field work, and its really enjoyable, she’s from some place up North, and hasn’t spent much time outside I learn. She is finding this work very rewarding. She digs into a bucket and pulls out a Salamander thick roped, black slimy a full hand length long, it’s marvelous. I’ve never seen one of these, I say. It’s a Ambystoma maculatum and we’ve counted well over a 1000 specimens. She goes on to tell me these are mole salamanders, living the majority of their life deep in the leaf litter emerging at night to feed, and in the spring to mate. She shows me the poison glands on the back and under the neck. I tell her that I’ve been walking these trails for a long time and haven’t seen any Salamanders before today, I tell her how glad I am that she chatted with me. Bidding farewell, I try my best to file all this away in my mind for regurgitation into story form at a later date, but I’ve got a lot of ground left to cover and miles to go before I sleep.

A special thanks to the following:

The University of the South Archives – they were extremely gracious to me.

Wikipedia for photos of Salamanders (I didn’t have my camera that day)

Lance Brock – For running around in the woods with me.

Jeanell Weintraub - photograph

The University of the South Dupont Library – for books on Salamanders and 

providing information about the archives.

Happy Thanksgiving Ya'll...................................

November 21, 2015

 

The fall colors are fading and upon gossamer wings the holiday of turkey feasts approaches rapidly approaches. Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving, is a word that warms the heart of many an American. However, Fall Harvest festivals are known throughout the land, so I feel that Thanksgiving is a holiday that can be easily appreciated across the culture spectrum.

That notion is especially poignant this time around, as I am sitting in an abandoned Boeing airplane hangar in Iraq, Southwest Asia that is. For starters, let’s be thankful for the weather. At this moment I am not being cooked in the infernal oven that is Iraq, I can sit outside comfortably and engage in pleasant niceties with folks, all without the fear of bursting spontaneously into flame. Like a drunk pinnate doused in kerosene and lit on fire with a bunch bottle rockets in neighbors back yard. Never happened, I wasn’t there.  So I’m thankful, to not be subjugated to 125F heat, and when people tell you, “Oh it’s a dry heat.” At 125F, it’s hot so hot your eyeballs are cooking. That argument holds no water when its 125F.

Seriously, I’m thankful for my Mom. I love my Mom. Growing up she was the best Mom you could have ever hoped to have. She spoiled me, really spoiled me growing up. I wish I had appreciated it more, and understood things outside of my own selfish needs. I wish I’d given her and Dad more attention, but that’s water under the bridge. If I could go back in time and spend more time with Mom and Dad I’d do it in an instant, but I can’t. I miss my Dad every day, and I miss Mom to0. Soo I call, and chat her up. It’s great, and I’m thankful for the time I’ve gotten to spend with her. My advice, spend time with your folks those connections are worth more than anything you could ever buy or yearn for.

I also, have absolutely wonderfully sisters, brother, and various nieces, nephews, cousins, and in-laws. They’ve always been great to me. They treat me way better than I deserve. It’s nice to have family members you mostly get along with, sure there’s been some rough spots, but that’s part of life.

Our CF instructor Jence prepares for class.

I’m thankful for Denmark, they are Vikings. Vikings are bloodthirsty, war crazed barbarians, that once upon a time struck fear into the heart of Europe. The ogre Grendel met a Viking once, and got his arm ripped off in the process. They make Chewbacca look like a lap dog. The Vikings are fun. I’ve recently had the good fortune to be stationed with the Danish Army. They are some of the nicest most professional soldiers I’ve met. Truly, nice people, but they are also Vikings. The Vikings are fun. They have embraced the circuit training regime known as “Cross Fit” with gust-o. Three times a week they hold their ritual. I and my colleague Jerry are allowed in because my Danish Counterpart Thomas the Nurse vouches for our character, and desire to murder and pillage.  Every Wednesday we have a special happy time known as “Viking Raid”.  I am thankful for “Viking Raid”. Jence, a Viking/Certified CF Trainer describes the circuit. First, we will do 100 rows (lifting a weight or your choosing from the floor to your, shoulders) then we will run to the City, and stop at the Farmhouse (run, and do 10 burpee push-ups). Then we will run back on to the City. We will then do 200 Hammer Swings (hitting a tire with a hammer) and climb over the wall and into the houses. This necessitates 50 box jump burpees. Then we will grab our loot (weights of your choosing) and run, run, run back to the boats. Yes, we have to stop at the farm house and do burpee-pushups. Then it’s load your loot into the boat with 50 overhead presses and complete the evolution by doing 100 more rows……………….I love this, it keeps me sweating.

I’m thankful for my family and friends without them life would indeed be a bleak monotony punctuated with flashes of grotesque boredom. Not only am I thankful for friends I’m glad to be a friend. Being a friend is not an easy task. I rate my friends and family on the inconvenience scale. Essentially, how much can you inconvenience someone is directly proportional how dear they are to your heart. If someone ever says, “I can’t be bothered with that now.” Be concerned about the depth of your friendship. If they say, “Sure let’s do this, and grab some Senor Taco when were done.” Then you have found someone that is “True Blue”, well worth keeping. That’s my two cents on the subject of friendship. I can honestly say to my friends and family, you treat me better than I deserve, and I’m grateful.

Garry Shores 2010

I’m thankful to serve, growing up I was always fascinated by Dad. He had all these uniforms, and once a week he went to this place where they had a tank! (The local National Guard Armory). And he had all these pictures of him when he was in Germany, out in the woods. All my uncles served in WWII, in various positions. My Uncle Clifford was with the 1^st Marine Division and fought on Guadalcanal and Bougainville. . Where he was wounded in a mortar attack. My Aunt Rena served as a WAC Nurse and cared for the wounded returning from the Pacific Theater. I idolize my Father, Brother, Uncles, and Aunt who served. I joined the Navy in 1991 and was discharged in 1995. Rejoining as a Naval Reserve Officer in 2005 has been a life changing experience. People are always thanking for serving. Honestly, it makes me nervous. But I don’t mind, I truly enjoy serving and am thankful to have the good health to do this. Also, the support I get from my family, friends, and church is remarkable to say the least. It seems like I’m always running off leaving you guys and you’re always supporting me. As a nurse, the finest thing I’ve had the privilege to do is care for our wounded, and I couldn’t have done it without everyone’s encouragement and steadfast loyalty.

Greg Shores in the cockpit of an F18

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving ya’ll

Garry W Shores

It was a dark and stormy night............and the Komodo Dragons arrived at the doorstep.

     Standing at the Starbucks counter with elegant gift-card in hand I proclaim my order with confidence and alacrity. "I will have a large black Komodo Dragon." The only reason I ordered the Komodo Dragon Coffee is because it's called the Komodo Dragon. The Komodo Dragon is a subject that has stricken fear deep into my soul since I was small child. Standing in line I'm transported back in time. Now I'm a small child, sitting in the floor of my bedroom. My weekly reader is spread across the floor and I'm madly devouring the written word like a glutton, at the Chef Len Chinese Buffet & Massacree. I gorge myself on the words and pictures that tell stories about lands far off and exotic. Lands far from the comforts of the Cumberland Plateau and home. In this issue, there are dragons. Komodo Dragons to be exact.

     These Dragons are inhabitants of the Far East. They can weigh as much as 150lbs and dominate everything and everyone they encounter. These gigantic lizards are the largest and most fearsome of the Reptile Kingdom. Don't make eye contact, don't even try cause they will devour you. I was and still am scared to death of these fell creatures of the orient. It is said, that if you were to be bitten by the Komodo Dragon you would die of infection within a few very painful, horrifying days.

If you think that perchance I'm being mischievous or taking liberties with the truth, listen to what these experts have to say.

Auffenberg described the Komodo dragon as having septic pathogens in its saliva (he described the saliva as "reddish and copious"), specifically the bacteria E. coli, Staphylococcus sp., Providencia sp., Proteus morgani, and P. mirabilis. He noted, while these pathogens can be found in the mouths of wild Komodo dragons, they disappear from the mouths of captive animals, due to cleaner diets and the use of antibiotics. This was verified by taking mucous samples from the external gum surfaces of the upper jaws of two freshly captured individuals. Saliva samples were analyzed by researchers at the University of Texas, who found 57 strains of bacteria growing in the mouths of three wild Komodo dragons, including Pasteurella multocida. The rapid growth of these bacteria was noted by Fredeking: "Normally it takes about three days for a sample of P. multocida to cover a Petri dish; ours took eight hours. We were very taken aback by how virulent these strains were". This study supported the observation that wounds inflicted by the Komodo dragon are often associated with sepsis and subsequent infections in prey animals. How the Komodo dragon is unaffected by these virulent bacteria remains a mystery.

     After learning about these far eastern dragons and having seen one too many episodes of "Land of the Lost" coupled with reading nothing but books about Dinosaurs for the first 5 years of my reading life I was filled with a fear that perhaps these all too real animals could be living next door, or under my bed. It was like when you first learned about quicksand. Suddenly at any moment you could find your self trapped in your sand box being swallowed alive in six inches of sand. You laugh, but I swear to you on  all that is holy it happened to me at least a  dozen times one Saturday afternoon. Suddenly, I saw dragons everywhere. I had to have contingency plans. Could the climb stairs? The roof I needed to be on the roof, it was too easy for Mr. Drooling Komodo Dragon to climb into my bed and devour me as a midnight snack. Luckily I had a tree-house. There I would be safe and secure, but I would need supplies. Water, C-Rations (this was the early 1980's MRE's wouldn't be available for a few years), and Little Debbie Oatmeal Pies.

     Luckily, I told my mom. Mom then proceeded to allay and sooth my notions. Mom took all my fear and turned them on their head. She showed me quite plainly that Komodo Dragons live in Indonesia and various small islands in the South Pacific. They do not live in Cowan, Tennessee. And no, they cannot build giant bamboo canoes and immigrate to Cowan. Under no uncertain terms will there ever be large drooling infectious lizards prowling the corn fields around your house plotting to eat you.

I pay for my Large Black Komodo Dragon Coffee and marvel at the way simple things can completely take me to far off lands and bring me back home again.

Sources for Dragon Info:

Auffenberg, Walter (1981). The Behavioral Ecology of the Komodo Monitor. Gainesville: University Presses of Florida. p. 406.

Montgomery, JM; Gillespie, D; Sastrawan, P; Fredeking, TM; Stewart, GL (2002). "Aerobic salivary bacteria in wild and captive Komodo dragons". Journal of wildlife diseases 38 (3): 545–51.

Cheater, Mark (August–September 2003). "Chasing the Magic Dragon". National Wildlife Magazine (National Wildlife Federation)