Sunday, September 08, 2013

Miss Catherine


A good friend of mine, a successful song writer and former Nashville resident, Herb McCullough, wrote and posted this story regarding his experience as a Hospice volunteer. This story speaks to my heart and makes me feel inadequate in many ways.

Miss Catherine

Tired and retired after 30 years in the Nashville song-writing business, I moved back to Florida with Joann in the fall of 2004. In the next year and a half we were confronted with the aging, the illness and the eventual death of Jo’s parents and my Uncle Herb (yep, I was named after him). We were blessed to have that time with them and immensely grateful for the amazing support of hospice.

So, it seemed appropriate for me to sign on as a hospice volunteer, and I’d been giving my time as a substitute courier, with limited patient interaction, for nearly a year when I received a call from the volunteer coordinator, telling me a patient had requested someone to play piano in her home. When I mentioned I didn’t play piano, the coordinator responded, “So can I tell her you’ll sing her some songs next week?” I still don’t know why I did it, since I’d previously resisted bringing music into my volunteer efforts, but I reluctantly agreed to give it a try. Just before our call ended, the coordinator added, “Uh … this patient has a reputation as being a bit of a curmudgeon, but I’m sure you’ll win her over.” 

Thus began my new roll in life … sharing my songs with hospice patients and their families.
As I drove to her house, I reviewed the information I’d received from the office on Patient # ____: Female, 86 years old, diagnosed with esophageal cancer, severe osteoporosis, arthritis, possible Parkinson’s causing continued shaking in right hand. She was in constant pain, was unable to swallow solid food, unable to walk without assistance, was house bound, lived alone and had no family. And, of course, her prognosis was “terminal”.

I tried to smile as I arrived, guitar-in-hand, on-time for our scheduled appointment and was met at the door by a home care nursing assistant who led me into the living room. At one end of that room, perched in a large chair, was a severely bent woman I would come to know as Miss Catherine. She was wearing heavy makeup, large, gaudy jewelry, a wild, primary-colored floral print top, and shiny, bright yellow slacks. To complete her eccentric ensemble, she wore seashell-decorated gold slippers on feet which didn’t quite touch the floor. 

Just as I was thinking, I like this woman, and before I could introduce myself, she demanded in a deep, gruff, cancer-ravaged voice, “Where’s your piano? I requested piano.” 
After telling her my name, I explained that I was a songwriter, and had brought my guitar to share some songs if she’d like, or, I suggested, we could just visit for a bit.

Again in that rough voice, she commanded, “Get your guitar, then!”


As I knelt down and opened my guitar case she commented, “I don’t much like men with beards.” 

Frustrated and running out of patience, I turned to face her, and, as politely as possible, asked if she’d like me to leave? She looked straight into my eyes and, with a twinkle in hers, said, “Sing one and we’ll see.”
As I sat on the floor and shared that first song, a slow, smooth one, I could see her tired body relaxing, and I noticed her hand gradually stopped shaking. When I finished, she flashed a lovely smile and said, “I hope you wrote more than one.”

For nearly two hours that day and nearly every Friday from 4:30 to 6:30 or so for the next eleven months, I shared about every song I’d written with this wounded, perfectly flawed human being. She loved music! I learned that until arthritis and osteoporosis ravaged her body, she had played piano, banjo and guitar from an early age. We shared stories of life, love, loss, hopes and dreams. On more than one occasion, she confided that she didn’t fear death, but was haunted by the thought that no one would remember her when she was gone.


The last time I showed up to visit, Miss Catherine was sitting in her chair, wearing a house coat and plain bedroom slippers … no makeup, no jewelry and no smile. I was aware of her declining strength and vitality over the past weeks, and realized she was obviously too weak now to dress for our visit. After apologizing over and over for not getting “all dolled up”, she said, “Sing one”.


I sang my heart out that day, and before leaving, I gave her a big hug and told her I loved her. She told me she loved me. We thanked each other. l was not ready to say goodbye and didn’t want to hear her say it, but she did just that as she told me she knew she’d be gone before our next Friday visit. 


Miss Catherine passed away a few days later, and the next few Fridays found me at 4:30, on my porch, with my guitar, singing and longing to hear her say, “Sing one.” 


Sunday, August 25, 2013

A Once Famous and Notable Cahokia Resident


Most of you are probably not aware but there was a most noted and celebrated gunsmith, Philip Creamer, who once lived on the Quarry Road outside Cahokia, Illinois (my home town) and was once known as “the most celebrated gunsmith in the west.”
 Following is a recorded account I have edited and a picture of the home that many of you will recognize and was taken apparently after the fire:


In the late 1790s, Philip Creamer was a trained gunsmith living in Taneytown, MD, where he built rifles in the famous Emmitsburg school style. Soon after settling the estate of his deceased father, around 1805, he relocated to the frontier region of St. Clair Co., IL, near St. Louis, MO. There he not only built and repaired guns for local settlers, but numerous account entries for his work are found in the ledgers of the influential trading firm Bryan & Morrison, which was located in nearby Cahokia, IL. This was the same outfitter who collaborated with and supplied Manuel Lisa’s 1807 expedition, and there is a strong possibility that some of the guns they provided Lisa were locally manufactured by Creamer. In fact, it is strongly believed that Creamer may have played a significant role in the initial design and development of what would become known as the famous St. Louis plains rifle especially because of his role in supplying firearms to some of the earliest Western expeditions.



By early 1809, William Morrison, co-owner of Bryan & Morrison, along with other prominent local citizens, including the fur traders Jean and August Chouteau, Ruben Lewis (the brother of Louisiana territorial governor Meriwether Lewis), and William Clark (U.S. Indian agent and Brigadier General of the Louisiana territorial militia), had joined Lisa in forming the Missouri Fur Company. At this time, Bryan & Morrison’s Cahokia store ledgers not only indicate that Creamer still made and repaired rifles for them, but that through them he was likely supplying rifles to the men of the Missouri Fur Company as well.

It was also during this time that Creamer made a brace of fancy pistols for William Morrison’s own personal use. As a trader with powerful Eastern connections, Morrison could have ordered pistols from virtually any maker he chose. The fact that he opted to arm himself with a set crafted locally by Creamer is a very strong endorsement of the gunmaker’s growing popularity and skill.

With such endorsements, Creamer’s reputation quickly spread throughout the frontier. It was soon a colloquialism that a man of dependable reputation and character was “as sure as a Creamer lock.” This in turn earned his work a special place in the hearts of gentlemen who were compelled to defend their own reputations on the field of honor. Men about to engage in such affairs were known to seek Creamer out beforehand so he could personally put their pistols “in the most perfect condition” for dueling.

Sometime, presumably between 1817 and 1824, a local collection was taken up and Creamer was persuaded to make a pistol for the then Secretary of War, John C. Calhoun. It’s a matter of record that Calhoun not only accepted the gift, but that he was so taken with its workmanship and quality that he wrote to personally inquire about Creamer and how he had learned to make pistols like that. Creamer absolutely refused to reply to Calhoun’s inquiry on the grounds that he was “no showman or stud-horse to be advertised.”

Calhoun would go on to serve two terms as the Vice President of the United States. First, in 1824, under John Quincy Adams, and again in 1828 under Andrew Jackson, so perhaps it is no coincidence that Old Hickory would have been familiar with Creamer’s work or that he would eventually come to own  a fine set of dueling pistols made by this celebrated gunsmith. Although Jackson’s set was eventually separated, one of the pistols made by Creamer is now in the possession of The Hermitage, Andrew Jackson’s home and museum just outside Nashville, Tennessee.

This house was built by Creamer shortly after he arrived in Illinois from Taneytown, MD, in about 1806, and is where he and his family lived until about 1816. Their home was located just north of the small American bottoms town of Dupo, in St. Clair County, located about a mile southeast of Cahokia, IL. According to authors and Creamer researchers Curt Johnson and Victor Paul, the Creamer house in Dupo is built to nearly the same dimensions as similar houses in Taneytown. Remarkably, (as late as the 1990's) the building that originally housed Creamer’s gun shop also remained standing, although at some point it had been converted to a chicken coop.

Even after miraculously surviving the epic Mississippi River floods that inundated the region over the years, the Creamer house and gun shop seemed destined to rot and ruin, that is until they were obtained from the land owner and donated to the Lindenwood University and Historic Boonesfield Village, located in Defiance, MO. In 1997, the Village oversaw the careful and systematic dismantling of the buildings, and facilitated their relocation to Defiance where they will be reassembled and restored. Taking its place among the other historical restorations at the Village, the Creamer gun shop will once again be a working gun shop with a full time traditional gunsmith on site.

The surviving Jackson dueling pistol owned by The Hermitage outside Nashville, TN, is an outstanding example of Creamer’s mastery of the art of gunsmithing, and stands out as special even in that bygone age when all fine firearms and dueling pistols especially were held to the highest standards. It is also a sure bet that a man like Jackson would demand and be satisfied with nothing less than the absolute finest.

Andrew Jackson was President between the years of 1829-37 and the original Jackson dueling pistols made by Creamer were outfitted with the finest percussion locks. That’s because Creamer was one of the earliest frontier gunsmiths to specialize in making them and it’s probably no coincidence that another pair of local St. Louis gunsmiths, the Hawken brothers, were also known for their early use of and perfection of the percussion ignition system on both fancy pistols and their famous plains rifles.

In 1825, Philip Creamer returned to the east for a short time and worked at the Harpers Ferry Armory in West Virginia. Born in the town of Harpers Ferry, Jacob Hawken is also believed to have worked for the Armory from 1808 until 1816. Then Hawken went west and partnered with the St. Louis gunsmith James Lakenan, until 1825, when Lakenan died.

Relocating from Xenia, Ohio, Jacob’s brother, Sam, operated a separate and independent gun shop in St. Louis, until Lakenan died, and the two brothers entered into business partnership together. Though things would soon change, remember that at this time it was Philip Creamer who was considered to be “the most celebrated gunsmith in all the west,” not the Hawken brothers. In fact, it is believed that gun repair work was given to James Lakenan, Jacob Hawken, and then to J & S Hawken, by the American Fur Company, only because at the time there was no gunsmith at the Indian Department. Doubtless the Hawken brothers knew Creamer and his work, and likely benefited directly from his short absence.

In 1827, Creamer left the Armory and relocated to St. Louis where he was employed as the gunsmith for the newly opened St. Louis Superintendency for Indian Affairs until 1833. He remained in St. Louis until 1835 and operated his local civilian gun shop on Olive near Fourth. It is during this time that Creamer likely built Jackson’s dueling pistols. It is believed that Creamer died about 1846, but by then St. Louis boasted an influx of many fine gunsmiths, most of them following in the tradition established by Philip Creamer and popularized by the Hawken brothers.
 

My understanding is (according to the above article) that the outbuildings used by Creamer as his gun shops were reportedly purchased and moved to Defiance, Mo. However, I believe the house remained, was occupied and caught fire sometime about the late nineties but was not totally destroyed. I'm not sure about the remaining logs, etc. but I assume they were partially salvaged and the remainder burned. This is just one of the many sad stories concerning historic buildings in our area that we're not protected by the State of Illinois or any historic groups, most likely from a lack of funding or interest by state authorities.  

Monday, August 12, 2013

The Sauget Crawdad Pond


As a small kid growing up on Levin Drive, myself and the other kids in the neighborhood used to spend time at a shallow muddy pond in one of the Sauget’s fields located in a low area just across the road from their farm house on Plum St.  The house is still there and the small field that holds the pond is as well, but it doesn't always hold water like it did when I was young. This pond formed along an old creek channel that once ran from Prairie du Pont Creek which we now know as the canal which separates Cahokia from Prairie du Pont. The creek channel was a tributary that likely fed  Prairie du Pont Creek and which once ran south through Old Cahokia. In the 1800’s this low area held water year round and was probably part of what was known as Cahokia Lake as shown on very old maps. This creek/lake bed can still be traced from a low area behind my mother’s house on Water Street, across Levin Drive, across Isabelle St and along Plum St towards the village of Old Cahokia parallel to Water St and west of where the Old Cahokia Dog Track was located. It can be further traced through Old Cahokia and west of the Old Court House northward towards its original confluence with another stream that entered the Mississippi.    

The small pond was not more than a few feet deep at its center and most often dried up in the summer. Around July it was normally reduced to a soggy mud hole with a dried gumbo shoreline that the hot sun hardened and cracked into jig-saw puzzle-like pieces of clay-like tile. It was a place we spent a lot of time in the summer and was simply named “The Pond” by neighborhood kids. Even though the Sauget family would frequently plant this field around the pond they never chased us away even though we likely did some damage to the crops which were most often wheat or soy beans. There was a certain kind of tolerance for children back then that you don’t see today. Today's tolerance of children lacks meaningful discipline and structure and involves parents living vicariously through their spoiled children. Don't get me started. 

We floated on crude versions of “Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn” river rafts made out of scrap lumber, large tree limbs, old doors or anything that would float. Balance was an issue and we most often ended up in the water. We floated “boats” that we made from scrap pieces of boards that were outfitted with Tinker Toy masts and sails made from small pieces of old bed sheets or newspaper. We also waded in the mud and water. Think serious mud hole. The water was thick and murky, never clear. We would sink up to our knees in the thick gray-black mass of the ponds bottom to the point you would literally get stuck in the mud and had to pull your legs free using your arms or have someone else pull you out by your arms. When your feet came free it was with this loud sucking sound, your feet createing a vacuum as they were pulled out of the mud  When both legs would become stuck we would often fall backwards in this thick goo and until we became almost totally covered with mud.  We would get so caked with this sticky mud it would dry on our legs and hands like plaster casts. The dried covering would pull at the hair on your arms and legs if you tried to scrape it off and usually had to be hosed off with the forceful spray of a garden hose. Getting muddy and getting hosed off were both good fun. 

The main thing we did at the pond was fish for crawdads. I never in my life have seen such a large colony of crayfish anywhere since. Those crawdads were totally unlike the tiny crayfish you see in bait shops or grocery stores today. These were big red monsters. They could grow to a large size six to seven inches long or more and as they grew larger they turned from gray-green to a dark red lobster-like color and developed these large powerful claws and equally large tails. Large juicy tails I might add. The pond was loaded with them and we knew how to catch them using several methods.

The most simple was to tie a small piece of bacon to the end of a string about three to five feet long with a very small rock or fishing weight to allow it to sink. You could either hold the string or tie the free end to a short pole, stick or small tree limb. You would then “cast” the line into the water a few feet from shore and wait a minute or so. The crawdads would find the bait and grab on with their claws and begin backing away with their catch. If you felt a tug on the line you could either slowly raise the line up out of the water or inch the line to the shore. If you pulled the line too fast they would let go so it had to be pulled very slowly. If a crawdad had locked on to the bait with their pinchers they would stubbornly hang on, reluctant to turn loose of their meal, usually long enough for you to grab them as soon as their backs appeared above the water. If you pulled them slowly straight up from the water they would often cling to the bacon while you swung them to the shore where they would drop off and immediately start retreating backwards to the water. Either way you had to quickly grab them by their backs to avoid their pinchers. Those big ones could hurt you and even break your skin – and they were tenacious about holding on. Crawdads swim backwards using their tails as a powerful paddle and when they are in the water they can dart about at surprising speed. Even on land they moved more quickly backwards and you had to be quick to grab them. We usually used a metal bucket about half full of water to hold our catch. I emphasize "metal" bucket as s a point of reference. Back then plastic was a novelty and the world was better for it. 

Another method for catching crawdads was to use the netting of an old potato bag like those that came from the grocery store or other netting. We would make a frame about 12” to 24” square from wire coat hangers and loosely stretch the netting over it and sew it on with string. Then we would tie string from each corner of the square that we brought together in a pyramid shape about 12 inches up from the center of the net and tie them together adding a longer string or cord to that apex. That cord was then tied to a pole to allow the net to be dropped into the water. Also from that center point we would tie a string to hold the bait that would hang down to the center of the net where we tied on a piece of bacon. Sometimes we would place a small rock on the netting to help the contraption sink to the bottom of the pond’s edge. You couldn’t see through the muddy water, so you had to watch the bait string for movement. The crawdads would have to craw to the middle of the net to get the bait and once you saw the bait string moving you quickly raised the net and swung it to shore. Sometimes, if you were patient, you would net several crawdads at once.

That was how we caught the average sized crawdads. The most daring method and sometimes the only way to catch the “big ones” was to invade their lairs. Yes they have lairs or “crawdad holes” or burrows that can easily be identified along the water’s edge of muddy Illinois ponds and streams. I think these burrows are where the females go to hatch their young. They are identified by layered mud cones that usually rise three to six inches from the muddy shore’s surface like a miniature volcano and have a large hole in the middle. The crawdad would burrow down a foot or two deep until the lower part of the hole is filled with water. The cone was formed from the mud they removed while digging the hole.

This method required is digging out the hole with your hands or with a small shovel to the point you can reach down in the hole and find the crawdad at the bottom. This takes some major effort but the one at the bottom is commonly a big one. Usually the bigger the hole the bigger the crawdad. The daring part for us kids was the fact that when you finally felt the crawdad at the bottom of the hole they didn’t take to being caught so easily and would use their only weapon against you which was their claws. They would clamp down on your fingers like a small vise and it sometimes hurt like hell, but it was worth the effort for two reasons. First, reaching down the hole added to a boy’s reputation of being fearless and manly -  because only sissies wouldn’t do it. Secondly, it was sometimes the only way to catch the big red ones with the large juicy tails.

We would take them home, wash them several times and then, often using the same bucket but with fresh water, boil them over a fire in the back yard and once done, pull the tails off, shell them, add a little salt and enjoy. Yes they were good – a poor man’s lobster. I even experimented by frying the tail meat in bacon grease over a small fire right there on the edge of the pond using the pan from my boy scout cook kit. They were delicious. Probably not too sanitary but delicious nonetheless.

I’ve been back several times to see if there are still crawdads but the pond is usually dry and I haven’t seen any evidence of crawdads, however, as of July 2013 the pond is rejuvenated as seen in the picture above. Because of the wet spring it is knee deep or more in water and is about as big as I ever recall seeing it other than right after the major floods we experienced back in the forties and fifties. The pond looks good, I think I saw cat tails coming back and I’m sure the frogs and other wildlife are returning. All is well. Next time I'm up I just might ask Danny Sauget if I can walk the banks and look for pond life. Specifically, Crawdads. U-m-m-m-m! Wanna go mud sloggin”?   

Thursday, August 08, 2013

I Give Thanks

Today and everyday I give thanks for all that has been given me. I thank God, whoever or whatever that might be, for giving me life - for the opportunity to live and love on this beautiful planet Earth.

Yesterday I saw a sunset that was more beautiful than any painting ever created – a breathtaking quilt pattern of rose-pink clouds that blanketed the western sky with peace and harmony. How could anyone see this and not realize that our ability to see beauty and our ability to love could only have come from the source of life we refer to as God.

I give thanks for my health and for the health and well-being of my family and friends.

Even though there are days I suffer pain and discomfort as I age I am thankful for all the days and years gone before that I have lived free of any serious health problems or disease. When I look around and see how others have suffered I feel that I have been undeservedly blessed and protected – and, even though I was hit with the biggest personal tragedy I can imagine when I lost my wife Margaret Ann, I don’t believe God has singled me or any group of people out for special treatment – or for punishment. I don’t believe God operates as a man would, bestowing gifts and favor on those who most please him while punishing others who disappoint him. If that were the case then there are seemingly blessed people we all know who would have been struck down many years ago. Genetics apparently play a large part in determining how long we live, what disease might befall us and how we die - it's not God inserting his will. A lot of it is a roll of the genetic dice - the rest is the life style we choose. Smoker's glibly say "we all have to die of something", so they choose smoking as a way of life but with that choice sadly comes a way of death. So it is with the other addictive lifestyles of choice, i.e. food, drugs.

I don’t believe that a supreme being, i.e. God, protects me and my family above those who are innocent victims of war, vicious crime or unfortunate accident. To do so would be an arrogant affront to the highest power in the universe. God does not decide who lives and dies, not in an interpersonal way. I believe the same as Einstein who stated, “I believe in Spinoza's God, who reveals Himself in the lawful harmony of the world, not in a God who concerns Himself with the fate and the doings of mankind.”

I give thanks that I have not become consumed by desire and that I do not worship the things of this world.

I do not give thanks for any of the material possessions I have at my disposal for I realize any desire for wealth and material possessions is antithetical to any professed belief in God and lacks a reverence for God’s creation. Those who know and love God should not pray for wealth and power over others. We have become confused when we think that God sanctions the depletion of the earth’s resources and destruction of the earth’s environment in the name of economic growth and opportunity for material wealth.

Our understanding of God has become corrupt if we think God welcomes the mass production and distribution of trinkets and gadgets of no intrinsic worth, and the technology to develop greater weapons of war, worldwide communications networks and electronic devices that support and expand this mad rush to destruction.

Sadly, we have become a world predicated on the growth and multiplication of desire, exactly the thing that the Buddha warned against.

I can’t imagine a God that is orchestrating and supporting global economics that involve crimes against humanity and the environment by those intent on gaining wealth and power at any expense, all this done under the pretense of advancing civilization and fulfilling God’s promise to man.

Also I have trouble with “God’s promise to man”. Why would an all-knowing, omnipotent God promise lowly man anything? If God made a promise to any of his creations I would think his first promise would be to those that offend him the least – and that would send man to the back of the line.

Man has searched for the meaning of life since we human animals were first capable of discursive thought. We have properly reasoned there must be something greater than us, some grand plan or intended consequence of our being. No one has found the answer that can satisfy our innate need and longing to know.

Assuming man has a purpose greater than the other creatures, which is highly suspect, I suggest that he mimic his fellow creatures by leaving the smallest footprint on the earth as possible. To honor God we should commit no violence or act of hate, we should love and respect our fellow creatures and the earth with a passion unrivaled by any great artist, and through those and other right-actions we should write our only epitaph on the hearts and minds of those we come to know and those we befriend during our journey here on earth. Mark Twain understood man better than perhaps any literary genius the world has ever produced. Mr. Clemens observed the following: "When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained." "The fact that man knows right from wrong proves his intellectual superiority to other creatures; but the fact that he can do wrong proves his moral inferiority to any creature that cannot." "Often it does seem a pity that Noah and his party did not miss the boat." And, although I couldn’t find the quote, I recall that Mark Twain said he read in the newspaper it was determined that of all the animal species to have ever existed on earth, man is the most intelligent – and guess who it was that determined that ?, Twain mused.

Where do we go from here?

I believe when the body dies it’s gone forever and is not resurrected in some three dimensional purified state of perfection. It is so imperfect and poorly designed who would want to occupy it for eternity? A benevolent and loving God would at least give us a chance to choose some other body or form.

The idea that God created man in his image is an insult to God and the most obscene example of our insidious anthropomorphic effort to create God in our image. We don’t give God much credit for intelligence and creative ability by this self indulgent and obnoxious, anthropocentric claim. Since we allow that God can think and reason with a greater power than any living thing, that alone disproves the notion. Why would an all-powerful and omniscient God choose the unpleasant, unsightly, and ungainly body of man to travel about in? Only man would saddle God with human qualities which by nature are so physically crude and easily corruptible when compared to the rest of God’s creation.

Other members of the animal kingdom are much more perfected than man. The skunk has qualities that allow them to fill their environmental niche much more perfectly than man could ever dream of filling his. Indeed so does almost every other form of animal and biological life. Only man does not contribute to the paradisiacal environment God so graciously created for all creatures of this earth. Other animals live in harmony with the earth’s environment and adapt to it in a way which benefits and restores it while man defiles and destroys it. You have to question why any omnipotent entity, the one man proposes is the creator of all that exists, would unleash an animal as vile and destructive as man on such a beautiful work of art and energy as the earth and the universe.

If in fact there is life after death (which I consider most unlikely in the manner that most theologians propose), I seriously doubt any version of these terra firma adapted physical bodies we now occupy and the mental ability that is attributable to the function of our brains will follow us. More likely, the spiritual essence that seems to dwell in each of us, without the encumbrance of man’s corruptive ego, is all that will survive.

At least that is what I reasonably expect given all that I have read on the subject written by those acknowledged to be the greatest minds in all of man’s history.

Keep this in mind, our ability to reason in the manner that we do is a system developed by man and is structured by use of words developed to communicate and describe thoughts and by use of a numerical system in the form of numbers and equations assigned to observations that can be replicated – and to theories based upon these observations. What we refer to as knowledge, which is only man’s experience of his/her environment is constantly growing and transforming.

And, to add to the complexity of this amazing world we live in, we must never forget that everything is constructed of atoms swirling and colliding together, constantly in motion. In one sense, the floor we stand on is no more solid than the air we breathe and we don’t actually experience anything first hand. Everything we experience and accept as “real and tangible” is first collected by the five senses; visual, olfactory, auditory, touch and taste, this information transferred through a highly complex system of electro-chemical signals and reactions organized in the brain and referenced by our training to reflect an “image of reality”. This image to a large degree is a result of or perceptions of the world which is shaped, taught and assigned us from the minute of our birth by our environment, parents and teachers and is in essence what the Hindu spiritual masters of long ago referred to as Maya or illusion.

Therefore, more accurate than theoretical, life is but a dream.