… and it’s back to Sunday in my weekly Rota of days. The First day in my tradition. It is cloudy, 49° and a gentle breeze. Guess that I had best drain the hoses and disconnect them from the hydrants sometime today. I like to save that for last because Snookums fills the birdbath each morning, and that saves her from lugging water from the house. We get a lot of enjoyment from its location just outside the kitchen window.
[Delete snarky political commentary]
And waffles today. Maybe for a change I’ll just make plain old waffles … no pecans, no blueberries … and maybe a couple of sausage links if I still have some.
It looks like a very short missive today without the usual political rant. I need to work on that more. But Snook needs her breakfast today, so perhaps I should just do that.
The temperatures went down to 40° last night, making for a cool gray dawn with a gentle breeze adding to the chill. But inside, it is always a tropical 72°, and the coffee maker was wheezing and growling as it strained out its rich, dark brew. I’ll have to wait for it to finish, so I padded down to my ‘studio’ for a glimpse into the world.
Seems that most of my contacts are subdued after the rancorous election. And I have become just as intolerant of the left as they have of the right, so the dividers of people have won me over. But it doesn’t matter. I am just an old fart out in the middle of Nowhere, Texas. A crank. A curmudgeon scanning the newsfeeds and scowling at the stupidity of people who regard themselves as wise. There is no cure for that, it seems.
So I sip and watch a world that is so different than when I was a young man, and marvel. I don’t know what is in store for the next generation, but I am glad I will miss it. It aint gonna be pretty.
So with these crummy Shabbat predictions, the prophet takes another pull on his coffee and wishes you a blessed day of rest
“And it was evening, and it was morning, a sixth day”
Well, Frigga’s Day has rolled around again, according to some. And some call it the first day of the week, and some call it the fifth day of the week. And more than a few call it the sixth day. I prefer Preparation Day, for this is the day we prepare.
Normally, Snook does most of the meal preparations for the upcoming holy day. I have been hankering for beef stew however, and spent the week marshaling the ingredients. We try to have a one pot meal prepared for that day which starts this night. Yeah, it is a bit confusing. But the idea is that if everything is prepared, the wimmen folk get sort of a break on the day of rest. But wimmen seem to have perfected the art of working at resting, so many of the preparations are a bust. But we try.
Annoying music blares from the puck to cheer up the budgie and aggravate the old fart. A brisk overcast norther shakes the trees bringing a chill around the windows with it, so I drag the little space heater over to warm my tootsies.
And so another morning unfolds in my little corner of cactus paradise …
“While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.”
And so it is the first day of the week again. Waffle day, as we say in this household. And maybe beef sausages. I think I have some canned pears in the larder, and maybe they should be used up. But I can’t start until the last sip of coffee. I just realized I have another half hour of grace to prepare breakfast, being that daylight savings time is rescinded today.
Thoughts of man’s evil inclination, yetzir hara in the Hebrew, follow me today, along with a myriad of other passages of exhortation. It is a difficult struggle, and I don’t believe man has the individual capacity to rise very far above it. It is like discouraging a rattlesnake from biting.
Yet there seems to be a kernel in mankind that separates good from evil that is unlike the soul of an animal. An animal neither chooses good nor evil but is rather the penultimate existentialist. From time to time mankind hears an inner voice that commands them to choose. The key phrase seems to be from time to time. Certainly, there are directions from the holy writs in proper living and choosing good over evil, but for each of us, there is a point when where we stand before God, and it is there where we choose.
OK … that reverie is now busted.
I have many ambitions for this day … it will be a good day if I accomplish just one of them.
Shabbat dawns softly with the weakened Autumn sun, but the landscape is still green here, and the lemon-yellow sunlight mixes with the greenery in a lush texture that makes us forget that winter is at the stoop. But it is too cool to wander out on the porch with my coffee unless I bundled up, so I’ll just appreciate it from the warmth of the studio.
Sacred music is playing on the puck, but the bird doesn’t seem to mind the change, and burbles and chirps with happy glee. Shared my morning cookies with the mooches, but sneakily added one more than usual just for them. We don’t just spoil our mutts, we ruin them for anyone else.
Kosher eggs benedict for breakfast again today. I had to try out the turkey Canadian bacon that was in the bacon section of the store. It wasn’t bad at all. Some of the other ham/bacon/sausage substitutes had been disappointing over the years, but this one might be a keeper for those special brunches. I think this may be my first attempt at egg poaching in a pan. I really like creamy poached eggs but resorted to using an egg cooker to make them.
So goes this peaceful moment of coffee sippin’ and music.
He wanted to tell you
Of false accusations and shame and parting unpaid
To walk across Kansas in a howling blizzard at Yuletide
Alone, frozen in body and mind while his soul flamed with rage
He wanted to talk of a time when even Death jeered him on
To trudge to a place that was not home and knew him not
And how he hid himself in raggedness and sleaze
But eons passed, the old world changed
The words to tell you still aren’t there
For Rusty Armor is who you see
Woe to you who long for the day of the LORD! Why do you long for the day of the LORD? That day will be darkness, not light.
Gloom and damp is upon us today as a huge wave of rain passes over most of Texas and loops into the Great Lakes area. We are reasonably protected in our humble house in the vast pampas in the central part of the state, sitting on a gentle mound in the crook of two rivers.
The puck is playing Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing on Pandora Radio’s Bluegrass Instrumentals station, and the budgie sings along with the plaintive notes of a country fiddle. Super Hubby unclogs a stoppered ceramic biffy with masterful strokes on the billows plunger and returns to his morning musings and coffee sippin. Such is the life of a domestic superhero.
The synagogue shooting has me in a very sour mood. Not so much the senseless shooting, that is pretty much a given in this divided land. But the soppy vigils and tributes surrounding it. Not to mention some [EXPLETIVE DELETED] local preacherette having the chutzpah to make a political statement with Trumps visit to the congregation. Not to mention any names, Reverend Susan Rothenberg of the Unglued Church Project. Sounds more like the Unhinged Church Project. Rev Suze she bills herself. Enough said.
I have a few indoor projects that I am going to attack today, rehang a decorative mirror that leapt off the mantle and miraculously didn’t shatter into a thousand shards on the hearth, and do a little rearranging in the studio. But first I need to charge the drill batteries, and root through the misc. hardware drawer for picture hangers.
And so goes the morning.