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So what does this day mean to me now that one half of our population hates the celebration. The one that entire political party hates the duly elected President so much that it steals their joy and they loudly proclaim their disdain for those that do wish to celebrate it in an effort to share their discontent. Yet they call that democracy … I think I’ll have none of it.
They can yammer and pul all they want. I am inured to their surly mewlings. I’ll set the banner on the porch today and remember a god who generously set me in the midst of such wealth and comfort. The poorest among us live in such comfort in comparison to the truly poverty stricken in the world.
Does God love me more than them? I think not. But I’ll wager any of them would trade places with me in less time than it takes to say “We hates that Trumpses, we does, my precious!” *gollum!*
Carp away, my grumbling compatriots, if I can call them my compatriots. Maybe prisoners of unwarranted wealth would be a better description of this society of pampered malcontents. Fie on them, I say!
Good morning, and Happy 4th, if you are so inclined.
If not, enjoy a perfectly miserable day …
Mr. Bladder nagged Mr. Sluggard out of bed this morning. Another night of thunder boomers and terrified dogs. Mr. Sluggards wife comments on how calm the dogs were during the storm, but she slept through most of the fidgeting, slobbering, panting, fits and starts of a terrified dog as each wave of rain passed overhead. Tic finally found refuge with Annie on my daybed where they huddled together for several hours. But ‘Becca da Beagle slept through it all too.
I finally dozed off, only to wake at 4am to turn off the lights. I need to keep them on when lightning is lighting up the windows. Jenna the Moose has epilepsy, and the flashes upset her more than the noise. Turning on the lights mitigates them somewhat.
But I am up, Mr. Bladder has settled down, and the warm coffee infuses my soul as I sit here collecting my thoughts on this Monday.
I need to finish swapping out the tires on between two of my mowers, replace a pinon bracket on one of them, bring one in out of the rain and blow off the mowing debris so that the mower deck doesn’t rust through.
Long term I want to sort the tools in the shed, and get rid of those I will probably never use again. But mostly, it is just to get the mowers all working again.
But I don’t let such thoughts interfere with my coffee sipping.
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 …