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This is a mostly true story, I had to change some of the characters and timelines to protect the identities because most of the people are still living. I posted this on multiply some years back, and post it here as sort of a self-revelatory piece. Abortion is not a comfortable subject, and I am conflicted. This is a painful coming of age story.
The four of us had become inseparable that last lazy summer of school. Little did we suspect that our tiny clique was about to be ripped apart. Danny had told me of his plan to win Patsy over, even though she and Larry were fast and intimate friends. At least what we called intimate back in those halcyon and innocent days. She and Larry got the back seat on trips to the drive-in movies, and we had a pact to not look. Still, the little…
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… a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together …
An obscure passage in the book of Ecclesiastes that has perplexed scholars and sages, yet it echoes clearly in my mind with meaning. My time to cast away stones has come, though I may have hesitated too long and now may have to leave that to others.
Some days you wake up and the world is just fine, and this morning was that exception. Dawn broke and I awoke feeling great. Distant news of a long-ago school friend brought back warm memories of summers wadding in the cat tails along the Rio Grande river and just generally being away from the ever watchful eyes of adults as I read through the newsfeeds and social sites this morning. It is a morning of reflection.
But soon, duty will call because this is waffle day. And grocery delivery day. And put the new tractor together day if I can locate some missing tools.
However, for this moment I am at peace, coffee cup at hand, thoughts in my head, and view a world out this digital window.
It’s Mōnandæg, or Monday as we have anglicized it. The second day of the week in my tradition. But my tradition also says the Moon was created on the fourth day, so it is a little odd that the Norse would think it was on the second day. Maybe they didn’t have a Book of Beginnings. So goes an old man’s musings as he sits down to herald a new day.
So, on this day when God invented atmosphere, clouds, rain and oceans, I gaze out my window at the freshly mowed verges as the puck plays music for da budgie and write a morning coffee post. I always feel like I’ve done something important when everything is mowed billiard table flat. Funny that I would retire to the wild lands, and then try to civilize it …
Snookums new riding mower is on the way and will arrive tomorrow, one riding mower is repaired, and one has parts on the way. Eighty bucks worth of small parts. But without good working machines, we’d live in high brush, cockle-burs, thorns and rattlesnakes. So, we mow. And mow. Then mow some more.
But early mornings are mine to savor. Coffee, bare feet, sometimes a cookie, music, and an electronic window into your world. I see that you aren’t dressed for the day either.
And preparation day rolls around again, but this time I sort of got caught up on my mowing, so I can rest this weekend with a sort of clear conscience. Snooks will bake challah and make up a one pot dish for the Shabbat. I will sit in my air-conditioned studio and look out on the freshly mowed fields with a sense of accomplishment. But it wasn’t all my doing. One neighbor came last week and mowed the verges, and another came this week and weed-whacked the edges so all I had to do was mow the middles.
Little acts of kindness like that make me feel less like an island and more of a part of something, though I admit I am not the easiest person in the world to do things for. I do miss my independence, but some of the little chores just wind me. A poison ivy patch has sprung up in the front yard, but the task of dragging out the sprayer, mixing the cocktail and pumping the blasted thing up can take me a whole day to accomplish. But it needs doing. And a fresh tree stump is awaiting the weed burner to burn it to the ground and make sure the roots are dead.
But 50 years from now, no one will miss the tree stump, a new owner will put in a Chinese garden or some other civilized horror, and life will go on … unless Messiah comes first. One can always hope.
So, armed with a fresh cup, I peer out my electric window into your world, and out my glass window to a brave new world …
Writing is easy. Making sense when you write is hard.
~My adaption of the time worn saw.
Thursday, May 30, 2019. The real Memorial Day before we bastardized the memorial into a three-day holiday of excess.
I don’t know how many of these coffee posts I have made in the last few years. A coffee post is an indulgence rather than a work. I have grown weary with them, but they do serve to keep my fingers on the keyboard as I attempt to capture you for the 30 to 90 seconds it takes to read one. But I need to do more than capture you when I write. I need to hold your attention and not abuse the investment in time you make with me.
For that, I feel guilty. I do squander my readers times with predictable old man musings. I dash them off with nary a thought given to the value of my readers time. But the truth is my life is uneventful. I rise. I eat. I retire. And sometimes life intrudes with its tragedies.
I try to make sense of life as ponder endlessly on life and death, while old Thanatos breathes heavily upon the left side of my neck. A great man is admired by his accomplishments, even if those accomplishments bring on more misery than they do good. I am sure that a lot of people wheren’t so thrilled with Alexander the Great’s military genius, nor of his legacy. Yet he is rarely portrayed as a tyrant and a villain.
Hevel havalim hakol hevel. Vanity of vanity, it is all vanity.
Enough for the day is sufficient evil.
Yeah. I pretty much conclude the same thing as Solomon and Messiah. Enjoy the work of my hands, and enjoy the wife of my youth. Everything else is vanity, even trying to make sense of life or trying impress my readers.
Morning dawns, and I roll over and go back to sleep and reawaken at a more decent time of morning.
Rough night last night with geezer ailments. But that slice of cold pizza and a glass of milk at 2 am didn’t help them much either. I knew that was going to hurt later, and I wasn’t disappointed. I don’t know why I do that to me.
Old Bucephalus, my antique Dodge Grand Caravan is in the shop for a new battery, oil change and tire rotation. It has so many little things needing fixing, like loose weather stripping and such. It is a shame that I neglected it so, so I resolve to do better. Sans solemn oath, of course.
Can’t avoid hearing about the recent Kabuki dance between Trump, Pelosi and Schumer. The press reports the theater as if it was a real happening instead of a staged event by unskilled actors. I am tired of the symbolic crap. It is time to act like statesmen instead of cheap-assed politicians. But who really believes that will happen? So, it goes on. These are the people who really think they “lead”. The only reason they have followers is out of idle curiosity.
So this missive goes.
A late good morning!