THE HUMAN RACE
ODE TO THANKSGIVING TURKEYS: YUMMY-YUMMY!
Holiday turkey,
you’re such
a culinary delight.
With your meat
so tender,
we shall
gobble you tonight.
And when our tummies
are stuffed with you,
you might wind up
as a tasty stew.
If by chance you
turn greenish-blue,
we’ll have to trash
what’s left of you.
— Boots LeBaron —
THE HUMAN RACE
HOW PEOPLE IN BEVERLY HILLS REACTED 51 YEARS AGO ON THE DAY PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY WAS ASSASSINATED
(A NOTE WRITTEN BY BOOTS LeBARON TO HIS THREE-YEAR-OLD SON BRANDON ON THE DAY J.F.K. WAS KILLED)
Dear Brandy:
It’s 2:55 p.m. Friday, Nov. 22, 1963.
Although it’s the kind of day that makes life worth living — a beautiful blue-sky day in Beverly Hills — a horrifying thing happened in Dallas, Texas just a few hours ago. John F. Kennedy, President of our country, was killed while traveling in his motorcade in downtown Dallas.
Just thinking about him, I have a lump in my throat. I feel like I’ve lost a friend. We’ve lost a President who not only had the potential to be a great leader, but had a presence on television that made you love him. Who knows what history holds, but to me and your mom he was the caring, good-guy President.
Ironically, here I sit in an office at Rogers & Cowan, a large theatrical PR firm in Beverly Hills, writing a story about Cliff Edwards, who was the voice of the famous Walt Disney insect, Jiminy Cricket. I had interviewed him in his small bungalow on Sunset Boulevard in West Hollywood. He lay in bed the entire interview. Empty booze bottles were scattered all over the place. An oil painting of Mickey Mouse, signed by Walt Disney, hung over the mantel. The pathetic old guy has outlived a vital young leader. I guess that’s show business.
The devastating news was brought to me by Paul Bloch, a 24-year-old publicist who works at R&C. There was a faint smile on his lips when he stuck his head into the room and told Vic Heutschy, another publicist, and I that President Kennedy had been shot. At first we thought he was making a bad joke. I remember saying, “Who you kidding, Paul?” He wasn’t.
Instantly, I left my Remington — I’m head feature writer at R&C (Actually, I’m the only feature writer) — and walked through the offices. It’s interesting how people react to tragedy. Paul had a smile on his lips, but I’m sure he wasn’t smiling inside.
When I worked on the police-beat for the Times, covering everything from suicides to homicides, I discovered that every person copes with tragedy differently. Everybody has their own emotional time clock, and it clangs in different ways.
As I walked through R&C, alarms were going off right and left. For example: Erma Bergstrom, a white-haired secretary in her 60s, continued working with dry eyes, while a young secretary who worked at a desk next to Erma was a pitiful mess. Her mascara was running, her eyes were bloodshot, and there were tears running down her cheeks. Trying to blot them with a soiled hanky, she was weeping pathetically.
Two other secretaries, Myla Page and Greta Liebowitz, sat in the boss’s (Warren Cowan) office quietly discussing the assassination. There were no tears, no frowns, no sighs. It was if they were talking about a movie.
An hour later, Myla’s alarm triggered. Her lips were quivering, tears were streaming down her face, her nose was pink from blowing.
In Teme Brenner’s office (another R&C principal), publicists Dick Israel and Dan Jenkins were sitting in a cloud of despair. I listened as they discussed the shooting. It sounded so clinical. Jenkins said that the assassin was probably mentally deranged. Dick suggested that the Mafia might be the culprits. After a minute of listening to that bullshit, I got out of there.
Vic Heutschy, a talented publicist I’ve known since our L.A. High School days, had his own theories:
(1) A professional hit man hired by a foreign country.
(2) A Southerner who’s opposed to the President’s Civil Rights efforts.
(3) Some “glory nut” who’s out for the notoriety.
There’s a lot of sickos in this world, Brandy.
When I suggested another possibility, an assassin hired by a political party, Vic saw that as preposterous. Who am I to argue with a UCLA grad?
Myla just walked by wearing dark glasses covering a set of puffy eyes.
At lunchtime, Paul Block told me he had lost his appetite, so Vic and I left without him. We walked down Beverly Drive and along Wilshire Boulevard. We stopped by a brokerage firm to check the stock market. He had invested in Cinerama Inc.
Then we visited BOAC where your mother works at the front desk as a ticket agent. She was all chocked up. Your mom and I had an argument this morning. I was angry as hell at her. But after the news about Kennedy, the anger vanished.
Funny, I can’t even remember what we were fighting about.
Vic and I walked across the street to a restaurant. It was so crowded we went to Blum’s. There we bumped into Paul. Apparently his appetite returned because he had an awful lot to eat.
Maybe that was his time mechanism registering.
The streets of Beverly Hills appeared less crowded than usual at lunchtime. There were very few pedestrians smiling. One well-dressed middle-age guy was red faced and laughing. Who knows why?
After lunch, I left Vic and Paul and walked up Canon Drive to Dr. Hoffman’s office. He’s a cardiologist. Two week ago he put me on a diet and told me to start working out. I lost ten pounds. I’m down to my fighting weight: 190.
When I entered his office, the reception room was filled with older people. I was the only person under 50. As the doctor was examining me, he told me he was angry and depressed. If he knew he could contact all of his patients, he would has closed the office.
After checking me over, he told me that I’ll live and not to come back. I stopped at the pharmacy and asked the price of a fancy pack of licorice. The pharmacist told me have one on him, “no charge.”
On the way back to Rogers & Cowan two ladies walked by. One was wearing a gray fur stole. Her hands covering her face, she was wracked with sobs. Trying to comfort her, her companion guided her along the sidewalk. A lot of people loved John F. Kennedy.
I was feeling pretty good when I got back to the office. But when I opened the door, I was hit by gloom. Mechanisms were triggering right and left. That was 4:45 p.m.
Vic, Paul and I talked about Kennedy’s successor. Not that I am an authority on politics, I said that I was afraid that if Sen. Barry Goldwater became president, we would be in World War III. I’d probably vote for Nixon ahead of Goldwater or Rockefeller. Vic agreed about Goldwater. And if I remember our conversation, he wasn’t impressed with Rockefeller either. Rockefeller is a mushmouth. He just doesn’t impress me. He certainly doesn’t have the appeal that Kennedy had.
Vice-president Lyndon Johnson was sworn in on the plane and I heard his speech on TV after he landed in Washington D.C. It was
brief and ended with: “I will do the best that I can do. I ask your help and God’s.” Nobody in the office was overly optimistic about the future of our country with Johnson at the reins.
Anyway, Brandy, tomorrow is Saturday and we are going to buy you your first bed. You’ve been sleeping in a crib for almost three years.
It’s now 5 p.m. British Overseas Airways Corp. (BOAC), where your mom works, locked its doors about 1 p.m. today. But JoAnne will probably have to work until 5:30 p.m. Then we’ll pick you up at nursery school and maybe go for dinner at the El Cholo. How will that be?
Your dad, Boots
(This is one of many human interest stories in Boots’ book, “THE HUMAN RACE,” available on Kindle and in paperback on Amazon)
THE HUMAN RACE
MEET SUZIE, A HORNY SPINOSAURUS FROM EGYPT
Meet Suzie The Spinosaurus
My name is Suzie. I’m bigger and more voluptuous
than a Greyhound bus. Paleontologists gave
me the name Apatosaurus aegyptiacus. I prefer
Suzie. Some 90 million years ago, during
the Cretaceous period, I hung out in the
river beds of Egypt in northern Africa.
And that’s where they dug me up in 1912.
Interested in my measurements? I’m 50-feet
long. That adds up to a statuesque 6-to-7
tons of girlishness. Scientists say that
I was the largest of predatory dinosaurs and
the only one of my kind who thrived in water.
Problem with having webbed feet is I could
never wear stilettos. My favorite tidbits
were huge fish, alligators and turtles.
You might say that among dinosaurs, I was one
primeval cutie who didn’t need eyelashes to
flutter or pouting lips to entice boys.
It was my glistening seven-inch fangs and
flirtatious glances that turned them on.
My fashion plate was my six-foot sail-
like fin that sprouted from my back.
Girls envied it. Guys adored it!
surprisingly, I don’t miss the days of my
youth when my species were struggling for
survival. It didn’t come close to what you
power-hungry, self-righteous Homo sapiens
must cope with in today’s troubled world.
Don’t take my word for it. Just read the
news or watch the talking heads on TV.
There were no mortals anywhere when this
horny Apatosaurus was on the prowl. What
does that tell you about your superiority as
Earth creatures? Evolution might be fascinating
to ponder. But it doesn’t guarantee perfection.
— Boots LeBaron —
(Boots’ book, THE HUMAN RACE, contains essays, light poetry and many human interest stories about life, faith; you name it. Buy his book on Kindle or Amazon in paperback by clicking the link below)
THE HUMAN RACE
ASTROLOGICAL FORECASTS YOU WON’T FIND IN
THE journal SCIENCE OR ON TV’S BREAKING NEWS:
Aquarius: Today you will bring tears
to the eyes of those you are close to.
Take a mint. You have halitosis.
Aries: To fill the emptiness in your
life, buy or adopt a dog. It will give
you what humans aren’t capable of: True
love, absolute trust and a sloppy lick.
Pisces: As a senior citizen, beware
of a sudden change in the attitude
of your adult children. They are
turning into your parents.
Taurus: Tonight, your best cure for insomnia
is to make love to your sex-deprived mate.
As the aligned planets declare: Don’t
procrastinate, you’ll rise up to the challenge!
Gemini: If you’re suffering with a
four-hour Viagra erection, don’t call
your physician. Planets are affirming
that today you’re blessed with the op-
portunity to satisfy the needs of many.
Cancer: Especially today, don’t fall
in love with yourself. You’re not
worth it.
Leo: Now is the opportune time to
take credit for the marketing ideas
created by your assistant.
Virgo: You can’t afford to become enraged
at the man who’s having an affair with
your wife. He’s your employer!
Libra: For the sake of sanity, don’t ask your
secretary to bring you coffee, lie to your
wife or take his laundry to the dry cleaners.
She knows you for what you are:
A CHAUVINISTIC HORSE’S ASS!
Scorpio: Warning to passionate lovers.
In the heat of the night, don’t forget to
turn off the electric blanket.
Sagittarius: Stay calm when you take your written
driver’s exam. If you sweat, the ink on your palms
will smear ruining your chances to pass the test.
Capricorn: Thanksgiving, Christmas and Hanukkah
revellers, brace for a hurricane during the holiday season!
You’re mother-in-law’s coming to town! She was
the out-spoken one who felt you weren’t good enough
to marry her child. So when the doorbell chimes, be
forewarned. It ain’t gonna be Santa.
— Boots LeBaron —
THE HUMAN RACE
A WORLD WAR II ROMANCE THAT BEGAN
AT THE MAJESTIC BALL ROOM
It was a night in November 1944. Rain was pelting the sidewalks, lightening was sparking across the Pacific Ocean, and World War II was raging when two 18-year-old kids — a sailor on shore leave off the USS La Grange and a 10-cents-a-dance girl — danced their first dance together.
Jack Perry, a tall rawboned signalman soon to head off to war aboard the attack transport, had ducked out of the storm into the Majestic Ballroom. It was a legendary haunt at The Pike, an amusement park in Long Beach, California where big bands played and servicemen swayed and jitterbugged with girls for 10-cents a dance.
Across the packed ballroom floor was Ruth Balding, a statuesque blonde. She had blown her first paycheck as a bank trainee on a coral-colored gaberdine dress with gold-rimmed buttons running down the front.
A couple of hours earlier she sat alone in the garage of her parents’ home in nearby Harbor City crying. The storm was ruining her life. She loved to dance. Besides, she wanted to show off her pretty dress that cost a whopping $28. At the last moment, a friend gave her a lift to the Majestic.
And that’s when the shy swabbie, who grew up in Ajo, a tiny copper mining town in Arizona, forked over a dime to dance with the daughter of a shipyard worker. Although Jack couldn’t jitterbug, one ten-cent dance ticket led to another. And another. And they fell in love.
But that’s not the end of the story.
Several weeks later their romantic interlude ended when Jack shipped out headed for a war in the South Pacific which included the invasion of Okinawa. Months later, measured by a stack of censored love letters, the USS La Grange pulled into San Francisco Bay.
As the ship’s launch, loaded with sailors, neared the dock, there was a lone woman standing there to greet it. A teary-eyed ten-cents-a-dance girl named Ruth. She had taken a Greyhound bus to San Francisco, talked her way past the shore patrol, and stood alone, shivering in the cold, waiting for the sailor boy who couldn’t jitterbug. The one who, despite kamikaze attacks on his convoy and the fear of death, wrote all those bushy love letters.
On November 3, 1946 they were married. Now in their 80s living in Torrance, California, the love affair continues. “There isn’t a day that goes by — with the exception of an occasional catastrophe — that Jack doesn’t make me laugh,” said Ruth. “Happiness. That’s what love is.”
— Boots LeBaron —
(This and many other human interest stories
interspersed with poetry and essays are featured
in Boots’ current book, THE HUMAN RACE
by Boots LeBaron available on Kindle and in
paperback on Amazon)
THE HUMAN RACE
FROM GEN. MacARTHUR’S WAR TO HELPING A POOR KID
“Respect the living, pray for the dead,
and try to honor those you leave behind.”
Vince Migliazzo,
World War II Army Medic
Many years ago, a poverty-stricken teenager named John Arrillaga who had nothing to wear for his senior class photo at Morningside High School in Inglewood, Calif. So vice-principal Vince Migliazzo not only gave him the shirt off his back, but removed his tie and blazer in exchange for the youngster’s letterman sweater, which he wore for the entire day.
The irony: John Arrillaga is now a billionaire. And he won’t let Vince forget it.
At a recent high school reunion, the real estate mogul reminded Vince of his act of benevolence and asked the retired educator, “What kind of shopping mall can I buy you?” Of course, he was joking.
“No big deal,” recalled Vince who’s now in his late 80s. “John and his family were surviving on bags of potatoes.”
America was in the midst of World War II when Vince at 18 was drafted into the Army. Serving as a medic, he first experienced the fear of death when he came across the bodies of four dead GI’s on the beach. That was during the 1944 invasion of the island of Leyte in the Philippines.
“Until that moment,” he said, “life in the army for me was like being in the Boy Scouts. After a while, you kind of learn to blot out the bad stuff and just do your job.” Yet he still remembers the stench of death, the cries of wounded soldiers.
In the midst of a crowd of GIs and Filipino fighters, Vince witnessed Gen. Douglas MacArthur’s historic return to the Philippines on Oct. 20, 1944. The general, he recalled, came off a stranded whale boat (landing barge) and waded ashore at the Island of Leyte’s Red Beach. Despite periodic sniper fire, MacArthur climbed onto the bed of a signal-corps truck and made his memorable speech: “People of the Philippines, I have returned. By the grace of Almighty God, our forces stand again on Philippine soil.”
Vince recalls the general’s speech actually began with: “This is the voice of freedom…” Although he didn’t witness the “reenactment” of the arrival, the scuttle-butt was MacArthur waded to shore a second time up the beach from the original site later that day or the following day. “But I didn’t see it,” he emphasized.
But he did witness the ravages of war. In Ormoc, where two regiments of the 24th Infantry Division bore the blunt of the battle of Breakneck Ridge, in three weeks 700 Americans were killed.
In Carigara, a northern coastal town in Leyte, as the war raged around him, the young Italian-American medic helped deliver a baby girl named Leah Cabales. For decades after the war he communicated with the girl and her family.
During the battle of Jolo, an island in the southwest Philippines, just before he was struck in the back by shrapnel, Pvt. Jiminez, a mortally wounded buddy, fell across him. “When I went to push him off of me, my hand sunk into the cavity of his wound. I’ll never forget feeling the warm blood.”
The lesson he brought back from the war was this: “Respect the living, pray for the dead, and try to honor those you leave behind…”
Former Tech Sgt. Vince Migliazzo, a Purple Heart veteran, is one of a dwindling number of living World War II infantrymen, many whom seldom speak of the painful experiences they encountered so many years ago.
“Every person, young and old, who goes through the hell of combat, whether it’s World War II or in Afghanistan, must live with those memories for the rest of their lives.”
Whether you’re giving a student the shirt off your back, trying to save the life of a dying GI, helping deliver a baby in a combat zone, or “just” carting bodies from ravaged battlegrounds, the realities of self-sacrifice remain forever imbedded in the hearts and minds of every person regardless of their silence.
Vince and his wife, Beverly, reside in Los Angeles. They have three children and seven grandchildren.
THE HUMAN RACE
NATIVE AMERICAN WANTED TO BE HERO LIKE ANCESTORS
Despite a day of living hell and an adulthood surviving as a wounded World War II veteran with an atrophied right arm and a brace on his right leg, Chief George (Tall Sun) Pierre stood tall and courageously unrelenting against the unmerciful winds of life.
The fiercely proud full-blooded Okonogan Indian and a longtime friend of mine, died in 2011 (suffering from prostate cancer). He was the hereditary chief of the 11 Colville Confederated Tribes, a 1.5 million-acre reservation on the Columbia River near Spokane, Wash.
Our last conversation was on the phone. George, 85, told me he had prostate cancer. He was living in a condo in Redondo Beach, Calif. What troubled him more than the thought of death was because of his disability he feared he would never return to the heavily timbered reservation where he grew up and for many years visited frequently.
Like his father Chief Edward Joseph Pierre, the stoic-faced George had always been a warrior at heart. When he was only 16-years-old he enlisted in the Marines. “I wanted to be like my ancestors,” he said, “I wanted to be a hero.”
On November 23, 1943 (two days after his 17th birthday), he was the youngest member of the U.S. Marine’s 2nd Division assault forces. Against the Japanese-held Tarawa, a heavily fortified atoll in the northern Gilbert Islands in the South Pacific, he was one of thousands of leatherback that stormed the beach.
“For most of us,” he recalled, “it was our first taste of battle. Bombs were exploding everywhere. Heavy machine-gun and rifle fire was tearing us apart. Bullets hitting the sand sounded like a hail storm. We were dangerously bunched together, pinned behind a seawall.”
As George moved away from the group a bullet ripped through his helmet penetrating his brain. “I fell to the ground, conscious but completely paralyzed. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t even blink my eyes. I could hear my buddies say, ‘Pierre got it!'”
Had it not been for a Navy corps man who “noticed tears in my eyes and dragged me to safety,” George would have been left for dead alongside his comrades whose bodies were scattered along the beach and floating in the water.
“Here I was, a youngster, no different than the men and women fighting in Afghanistan today. A good kid. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Yet, God took away the use of my leg and arm for the rest of my life. It’s very difficult to rationalize.”
Death on the battlefield, he had told me, “is a tragedy not only for the soldier but for their families. But when you have to live with wounds like this, that calls for a different level of courage.
He was opposed to the “unjust” wars in Iraq and Afghanistan where “our kids were being killed and wounded. “The older I get, the more often I pray for our combat troops. Young people never think about being physically handicapped. There were about 16,000 men and women killed and wounded in 2o11 in Afghanistan alone.
“Maybe it was God’s will that I was struck in the brain, because I never experienced pain. Even lying there on the beach, I knew something was terribly wrong. So I learned early in life that nobody is invincible.”
Since that fateful day in 1943, George has faced life-like a true “Nez Perce Warrior” (the title of one of several books he has written and self published).
“I love my country,” he said. “I’m proud to be a wounded veteran of World War II. But life has been painful. When I walk or ride in my wheelchair, sometimes people think I’ve been crippled by a stroke. There have been times when I’d like to wrap my body in an American flag.”
It has been many years since George had worn his ceremonial war bonnet, ringed with black-tipped eagle feathers, and the white suit of leather stitched by his late mother, Mary Teresa, a medicine woman and tribal matriarch who played melancholy songs on a willow flute.
Chief Pierre, a former Congressman (1964-67) from the State of Washington, a lawyer with a master’s degree in political science from USC, was never without a battle.
One war he was constantly waging was against the silent prejudice he is intimately familiar with.
“Our society has a tendency to discard broken toys,” he said. “Many give money to help the handicapped. Yet those same people find cripples grotesque and have problems coping with the reality.
“If people could look beyond our physical imperfections they might be surprised. Life is tough enough for a person with two hands and legs, let alone, a guy like me,” he said, a faint smile crossing his chiseled lips.
“In any war where the enemy is fanatically suicidal, our soldiers are all potential targets. They know they’re facing death or some form of mutilation the minute they step outside of a secure compound. That kind of inner-strength is hard to describe.”
When Pierre was 12-years-old, he was sent out alone in search of his manhood into the Bonaparte Mountain Range, a wilderness in North Central Washington. During the ritual, he was supposed to survive for two days, then return as a man.
When he failed to return on schedule, his mother and uncle went searching for him. At high noon, they found him sleeping on a branch in a towering tree. Thus, he was given the Indian name Tall Sun.
With a hint of whimsy, he proudly proclaimed that he was “the last living Native American warrior chief.” His niece, Dr. Tracey Pierre of Seattle, Wash., said that George, who was divorced with no children, was given a military burial on Tuesday, Nov. 8, 2011, at Arlington National Cemetery.
About 25 years ago, George made me a honoray chief” of the Colville tribes. I still have the parchment to prove it. His medicine-woman mother presented me with a purple scarf chanting an Indian blessing, then gave me a tribal name: Walk in the Cloud. Eat your heart out John Wayne.
— Boots LeBaron —
THE HUMAN RACE
MARRIED 55 YEARS, GIGI’S FINALLY TURNING 39!
It seems like we met
only ten short years
ago on a blind date at
a Pan Am beach party.
When we honeymooned to
Hawaii and were offered
single beds at a fancy
hotel, I hit the roof and
got us a dream room ideal
for our sentimental journey.
More than a half
century ago I fell
asleep on the LAPD
police beat after
going without a wink
for 24 hours while
JoAnne delivered our
first son, Brandon.
When our daughter Brooke
was born, she looked
like she had gone 14
rounds with Muhammad Ali.
She blossomed into a beauty.
When Beau arrived upside
down, that was some labor
of love for JoAnne.
It’s hard to believe that
we have four grandchildren
and a great Italian
son-in-law named Rocco.
On and off for 55 years,
JoAnne and I remained
best friends. Together,
we’ve had such a good time
romancing, arguing and
performing the dance
of life. Every minute
has been scintillating.
And for JoAnne, at times,
exasperating. Lucky for me,
she has been forthright and
mentally competent. I do love her.
And now on October 18, 2014,
she’s turning 78!!!
For God’s sake, Gigi, time does fly by.
Happy Birthday Honey!
Boots
THE HUMAN RACE
FRENCH AND INDONESIAN CAVE PAINTINGS PROVE
THAT HUMANS EXISTED 40,000 YEARS AGO.
The never-ending debate about the origin of our species and all living matter will never be resolved by words alone. What do you expect? It’s biblical mythology versus anthropology.
Same as politics, it would require more than a magic wand to get the human race to agree on anything. What’s scientific logic for one side is spiritual reality for another. When theists like those who believe in Intelligent Design are convinced that a scant 6,000 years ago God created man, woman and the whole shebang, why fight it. That’s their doctrine.
But if what they preach is fact, why is there a cave known as Cave of Chauvet-Pont-d’Arc in Southern France that contains more than 100 wall paintings that anthropologists and paleontologists using radiocarbon dating claim were created by human artists 40,000 years ago?
The cavernous cave, about 400 miles from Paris, was discovered by three French speleologists, or scientific cave explorers: Jean-Marie Chauvet, Eliette Brunel Deschamps and Christian Hillaire. On December 18, 1994, they found an air current coming from the side of a cliff. They dug and crawled through narrow passages and traversed into pitch-black recesses where they came across an anthropological treasure of prehistoric paintings.
On the jagged rock and limestone walls of the hermetically sealed cave, the explorers found meticulously drawn paintings and sketches of galloping horses, cave lions, bison, bears, woolly mammoths, hyenas, rhinos and an engraved owl. It was like Paleolithic man was preparing an art show some thirty-thousand years ago to prove, at least intellectually, that the Neanderthals had lost the evolutionary human race.
Sadly, there were no paintings of humans on the undulating limestone walls. One artist with a damaged pinky finger left his signature: hand prints throughout the prehistoric bear cave that was curtained in icicle-shaped stalactites hovering above floors cluttered with thousands of animal bones.
The reason these cave painters created such a show of art is unknown. But there’s no doubt that their gallery was haunted by thoughtful ghosts of the past whose artistic ability rivals contemporary painters and sketchers.
If it was possible to bring their work to “The Antiques Roadshow,” the value of their creations would leave Picasso, da Vinci and Michelangelo in the cultural dust of time.
Of course, these ancient people weren’t using brushes, palettes, tubes of color they could purchase from art suppliers the likes of Aaron Bros. or Michael’s. Their “canvas” was a slab of rock. And they worked by torch-light rather than incandescent lamp. Thomas Alva Edison wasn’t even a twinkle in those days.
Plus, they created their own colors: ocher, red, blue and shades of gray, brown and black.
Now, reports the journal Nature, there’s another 40,000 year-old cave art discovered in Indonesia by Dutch archaeologists more than a half-century ago. Finally, through a new U-series dating technique, the reddish-brown hand stencils and paintings of prehistoric animals on limestone cave walls on the island of Sulawesi are scientific time period proof of authenticity.
What more biblical mythologists biblical say regarding their
claim that God created man a mere 6,000 years ago? They’ve gotta go back to the drawing board and come up with a more logical-sounding approach. “Whoops!” won’t do the trick.
— Boots LeBaron —
(“THE HUMAN RACE,” Boots’ new Kindle and
Amazon paperback book covers life, women’s rights,
faith, business, art, showbiz and courage featuring
many human-interest stories, essays and light poetry)
Boots LeBaron's World 