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Sunrise Whispers and Coffee Rituals: Tales of Love and Texas Prairie
Here we stand, united and strong after the verdict. Snooks has reached her plateau, and her resilience has been truly remarkable. The brightest aspects of her personality—the boundless cheerfulness, her graceful acceptance of the present, and her unwavering love for routine—continue to shine brightly. These qualities are more than enough. I am blessed to have my dearest Snookums by my side.
As we sat down for our morning coffee ritual today, I realized the opportunity to explore new delights to accompany our coffee. Cakes and cookies may lose their freshness, but the joy of our morning routine remains as vibrant as ever. The ritual has transformed into a celebration of my complete and wonderful Snookums.
Comparing my life to the anger and resentment directed at a small nation by a group driven by hostility towards Jews, I am reminded of the peace and contentment in our lives. I greet each day with a heart full of contentment and bid farewell with serenity.
The time for engaging in a crusade has passed for me. My world has become a serene acre of Texas prairie, where I cherish the beauty of the present and appreciate what lies before me. The tumult beyond this peaceful perimeter is beyond my concern. My purpose now is to ensure that Snooks never feels alone. I extend my heartfelt apologies, Israel, but it is others who must carry that banner now.
In this daily journal of sunrises and sunsets, I extend to you the warmest wishes for a beautiful morning. May the beauty of the day unfold before you, bringing you peace and joy.
“Morning Musings: A Journal of Press Insights and Meditative Reflections”
This morning began with an important event on the horizon – Snookums’ cognitive test. The anticipation and concern for her well-being lingered in the air. It’s a crucial day for us, as the test results would be compared to the data from the previous year, offering insight into Snookums’ cognitive health and progression.
The weather matched the mood, a somber and gloomy backdrop to the day. The gray clouds seemed to mirror the anxious thoughts swirling in my mind. It was difficult to shake off the sleepiness that clung to me, likely due to a restless night filled with a mixture of apprehension and hope.
In the larger world, the situation in Israel weighed heavily on my heart. The ongoing conflict brought a profound sense of sorrow and worry. I fervently hoped for peace and strength for those enduring the challenging times. My thoughts extended to all affected by the conflict, wishing them safety and a path to resolution and harmony.
Despite the heaviness of the morning, I greeted the day with a wish for a good morning to all. It’s in these small gestures of kindness and hope that we find the strength to face the day’s challenges and uncertainties.
Days Unmarked: Chronicles of Monandæg
Monday, or Monandæg, named after the Moon, signifies the start of a new week—the second day on the calendar. Yet, in my life, it lacks the structure of routine or the rituals that mark other days. There are no distinctive meals, no prescribed day of rest like the “LORDS day.” Instead, golden daylight filters through my blinds, a daily occurrence, warming and greeting us.
In this rhythmless existence, I’ve adapted. I’ve become akin to a floating leaf, guided by the winds of time. Days come and go without much fanfare. I might realize it’s Monday when I reach for my coffee cup and glimpse the set Shabbat table—then I know it’s Friday. But generally, days blend into one another, marked only by the changing landscape of life.
On the white board, I jot down special visits and events. Linda’s cousins coming to Waco, a medical procedure for me, tests for Linda, an appointment with the neurologist. The rota of life moves forward, with little remark or celebration.
Nevertheless, I hold on tenaciously, aware that it’s too early to give up the ghost. The winds of change blow, and events unfold. In distant Israel, a war rages—an unfortunate but anticipated chapter in a long-standing conflict. The expectations are that it may persist for weeks, until eventually, calls for peace will surface from the Muslim side. The Palestinians, in their struggle, have unleashed a potent force fueled by ancient grievances and hatred.
As I contemplate these events, I foresee a grim fate for the Palestinians. They are entangled in a web of history and hostility, and it appears that this chapter will not end favorably for them. Though Israel may face future challenges, this doesn’t seem to be the prophesied time of encirclement. We’ve heard tales of wars and rumors of wars—it’s a complex and uncertain world.
Pickle Chronicles and Pacemaker Prowess: A Sunday Morning Saga
Ah, Sunday morning – the day the news turns into a rollercoaster ride of emotions. Picture me, wearing my ‘serious news-watcher’ hat (it’s imaginary, by the way), with a side of sadness as I tune in to the happenings in Israel. And you know what’s also happening? The American press is so busy chasing down the orange guy’s peccadillos that they’ve lost sight of the real show in Israel. Talk about a plot twist!
Let’s rewind a bunch of years. Remember when Bibi, the Israeli maestro, had a chat with Yasser Arafat, the Palestinian bigwig? Bibi basically said, “Hey, if you’re thinking of playing the hostage game, know this: I’m no Jimmy Carter.” Spoiler alert: Arafat got the message and the kidnappings dwindled.
But when it comes to hostage-taking, Iranian terrorists are the undisputed champions, and Hamas? Oh, they’re just their sidekicks, like the Robin to Iran’s Batman. I’m hoping Bibi won’t get sucked into playing ‘tit for tat.’ Let’s hope he rocks the situation better than a yodeling pickle at a pickle party. Bibi’s got the skills – no Jimmy Carter vibes here!
Now, shifting gears from international pickle drama to the beautiful day outside. Can we talk about the weather, please? It’s like the weather gods decided, “Hey, let’s make it a perfect ’70s day.” Meanwhile, in the house, it’s a sleeping-palooza as I sneak off to my studio for my daily dose of morning coffee.
Social media adventure time! But alas, all I stumbled upon was yet another assault on pickle people. We’re talking pickle teddy bears, pickle heads (move over, Mr. Potatohead), a stuffed dill, and even a comfort dill. And hold your applause for the pièce de résistance – a yodeling pickle. Yep, you read that right. It’s a whole pickle symphony in a jar! I found myself in a bit of a pickle, you might say. I promised no political arguments, but this pickle passion was a bridge too far. I kindly set the record straight and moved along, embracing peace like a pickle in a jar.
(https://riversworld.live/2023/10/08/i-knew-i-shouldnt-have-but-i-did-anyway/)
Switching tracks – Amber’s concert adventure! Last night, Amber had a blast at a music concert near Dallas. It’s a bit of a schlepp, but hey, music makes the journey worth it. It got me reminiscing about the good ol’ days when my friends and I would cram into a beat-up jalopy and embark on a 2000-mile trek to a music shindig. Ah, the memories – a mix of fun and a sprinkle of misery. But you know what? I’m content to watch concerts from the comfort of my couch these days.
Health update time! The healing journey continues, with its own Netflix series of ups and downs. Last night, we had a thrilling episode – the wake-up-in-pain, stagger-to-the-kitchen-for-drugs, eat-something-dramatic segment. But guess what? The pacemaker didn’t pull a taze move on me. Small victories, right?
This week’s schedule? Let’s just say it’s like nailing jelly to the wall, but we’re getting there, one wobbly nail at a time.
And there you have it – the Sunday morning saga, sprinkled with a dash of pickle drama and a dollop of healing adventures. Good afternoon, world! 🌞
Whispers of Dawn: A Chronicle of Tranquil Mornings
This morning enveloped me in a cocoon of gentle slumber, where the soft dozing and occasional nudges from my anxious canine companions created a tranquil sanctuary. The autumn day unfolded with an eerie stillness, a departure from the usual symphony of insects, frogs, and birds. In this quietude, the rustling leaves orchestrated a delicate dance as the zephyrs playfully chased one another through the trees.
Last night’s rest granted me a reasonable reprieve. Sleep has always been my refuge from pain—a sanctuary where I can momentarily escape its clutches. Today is Shabbat, a day to set aside worries about incomplete chores and the looming clutter, to immerse myself in a sanctuary of peace.
However, beyond this personal retreat, the world churns with unrest. News arrived of an attack on Israel, claiming the lives of a hundred souls. Bibi, in response, declares war. History has shown the grim outcome when such declarations are made. The air is heavy with surprise, for support for the Palestinians is at a low ebb. It seems a desperate move, perhaps an attempt to rally local support, but the consequences remain unknown.
As I woke from my reverie, I rediscovered the forgotten massagers by my bedside and in my studio. These humble devices proved to be a blessing, their gentle touch easing the persistent aches, granting moments of respite. Five minutes of massage equaled three hours of peaceful slumber, a precious exchange.
In the midst of this tranquil morning, the lives of those around me unfold. Amber, my dear niece, embarks on a musical journey at a festival. Bruce, battling his own trials, shows a glimmer of improvement after an extended period of struggle. George, my great-nephew, is hard at work, a reminder of the rhythms of productivity. Their bustling lives, intertwined with my quietude, create a comforting tableau. It’s a reminder that life continues its ever-changing dance, and today, I find warmth in this realization.
As I pen down these thoughts, I acknowledge that this narrative may be trite, perhaps even self-indulgent. Yet, the commitment to share a piece of my life every day drives me to embrace imperfection. If my words do not ascend to the heights of great prose akin to Henry James, so be it. In the end, it’s about expression, connection, and the simple act of greeting a new day.
Good morning!
I’m on the mend!
In the realm of midnight’s eerie hush,
I rose from melancholy’s lingering crush,
A quest for nourishment, my belly did churn,
A simple remedy, it was my turn.
Boiled eggs, a humble start,
A breakfast choice, a work of art,
And pickles, brined and oh so fine,
Together they danced, a taste divine.
Cracked the shells, a culinary delight,
Eggs and pickles, in the moonlight,
Savory and tangy, a peculiar pair,
Banishing my sorrow with culinary flair.
As the flavors mingled, a symphony played,
My taste buds rejoiced, woes gently swayed,
The yolk, a sunbeam in the night,
Melting away the shadows, oh so bright.
Pickles crunch, a lively cheer,
In this gastronomic dance, we drew near,
A newfound joy, a lighthearted spree,
In this oddball duo, happiness I did see.
So here’s a toast to eggs and brine,
Rescue team of the midnight dine,
Bringing joy and appetite anew,
In a whimsical dance of flavors, true!
A Woman of Valor: A Confessional Chronicle
Sunday. I’ve survived. It’s a relief after the harrowing events of Friday night. Though I’m still catching my breath and my digestive system is protesting loudly, I’ve found a sense of calm amidst the storm. This week, I’m scheduled for the installation of a Dual Chamber Pacemaker, a procedure that holds hope for restoring my breathing and improving my overall well-being. I certainly hope so. I am incredibly weary.
Two score and three years ago, I met the love of my life during the early stages of my middle age. We were enveloped in a whirlwind of around 100 friends who constantly entered and exited our lives, some swiftly and others more gradually. It was a dynamic and ever-changing world for us.
On the day we announced our decision to marry, almost all of them advised Snookums against marrying me, and their concern was genuine. I was a wreck, struggling to navigate the free-spirited era of the ’60s. In fact, I was a mess, broken and fragmented. Yet, she married me, bought me a bright yellow pickup, and sent me south with the instructions to call for her once I found work.
She transformed me into a man. A line from a poem in the book of Proverbs, the 31st chapter, often resonates with me, titled “A woman of valor,” where the author proudly extols his wife. One line that particularly strikes me is Proverbs 31:23:
“Her husband is known in the gates, when he sitteth among the elders of the land.“
This verse epitomizes the respect and honor a husband receives due to the virtues and excellence of his capable and courageous wife, as described earlier in Proverbs 31. I haven’t needed to seek a woman of valor. I already have one. We vowed at the beginning that divorce was not an option (murder, however, wasn’t off the table), and all we asked of God was to allow us to grow old together. And here we are.
Something prompts me each morning to remind Snooks of how she sculpted a man out of a bundle of imperfections. Her short-term memory may falter due to the stroke, but the memories of our marriage remain vivid. Perhaps, one of these mornings, the words will find a permanent place in her long-term memory.
I’m uncertain about who will go first. Few are granted the privilege of choosing their moment to depart. I would prefer she precede me, as I understand the profound grief that follows, and I would spare her that pain. But whatever will be, will be. Blessed be He.
In the movie “Les Misérables” (2012), during the scene where Jean Valjean is on his deathbed, he imparts, “To love another person is to see the face of God.” This profound line encapsulates the theme of love and redemption, a theme Snookums has played a pivotal role in my life.
Like Valjean, I haven’t always been the man I should have been. Yet, she consistently overlooked my shortcomings and steered our lives back on course, never to bring them up again. This unwavering support has empowered me to stand among godly men. I didn’t earn that right—it was bestowed upon me.
So, the wheel of days continues its relentless turn. Someday, it will all crumble into unimaginable sorrow for those unfortunate souls who remain. I’ve read the book, and I’m grateful I won’t witness that day. I cling precariously to a belief. I had previously written that it was all in vain, but that was a thoughtless and despairing remark. I deeply repent for my words.
Later this month, Snookums will reunite with her cousins, likely for the last time. I am comforted by the thought that she will have this final opportunity. The aunts and uncles are no longer here. Her brother and sister reside half a continent away. She laid her mother to rest and left everything behind to follow me.
In this moment, I am both cleansed and heartbroken.
Good morning.
J’ai des Regrets: Reflections and Resolutions in My Morning Journal
This morning, I find myself cringing at yesterday’s self-serving and maudlin post. Some of my medications seem to make my emotions run amok. Typically, I am not that emotional. Aging is undoubtedly challenging, a sentiment we all share, but it’s no reason to derail as I did. To those I cut short and unloaded on, I sincerely ask for your forgiveness. Upsetting anyone or limiting responses was not my intention. Such posts should remain in my private diary.
Today is a new day, and it began reasonably well, albeit a bit sleepily. I stretched and disconnected myself from all the biological tubes, then shuffled into the kitchen for a bit of coffee and cake with Snookums. She seemed cheerful, and her memory was better than usual today. We discussed some news items, and her perceptiveness stood out.
Later, I made my way down to my studio, only to cringe once again at yesterday’s post. There wasn’t much else worth noting—news, blah; video games, blah; weather, mild.
Today is a day of introspection and regret. I’ll strive to keep my emotions in check and return to my old stoic self.
Good morning!
In the Shadow of Atropos: Meditations on Aging and Grief
Today I woke late. But there is no reason to get up early these days, so learning that an occasional morning off isn’t the end of the world. I don’t know how I You-Tube video today of a guy who goes around restoring forgotten and overgrown grave sites, but there it was, and I watched as he cleared off the overgrown graveyard in some unknown cemetery in Oklahoma. Apparently, it was a family site as well as a community grave, and it had some eternal funding for cemetery maintenance that disappeared with the last caretakers death around 1940.
There were ornate stones, one of a log tree that had been cut short meaning that the person died in their 20’s. There were some with lambs on them meaning children who died young or in childbirth. There were husband/wife stones. Some stones were pushed aside and became enclosed in tree trunks, and it would be impossible to read them without cutting the tree apart.
Then the vanity of it all fell like a leaden cloud on me. I had a Solomonic moment. The original Hebrew for this is “הֲבֵ֤ל הֲבָלִים֙ הַֽכֹּ֔ל הָֽֽבֶל” which is transliterated as “hevel havalim, hakol hevel.”
“הֲבֵל” (hevel) means “vanity” or “breath.”
“הַֽכֹּל” (hakol) means “all” or “everything.”
So, “הֲבֵ֤ל הֲבָלִים֙ הַֽכֹּל הָֽֽבֶל” translates to “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity” in English.
I sit here heartbroken and unconsolable as I watch the woman of my youth wither, and not being of any real help to her at this point. You-Tube videos keep her entertained in the days, and her old routine of watching the evening news feeds takes the evenings. We have a small moments of lucidity and laughter in the mornings with our coffee, and for brief moments throughout the day.
Soon, the inevitable happens, and Atropos snips our tread free of the fabric of life. Maybe believers in Messiah give me a little grace as I resort to pagan beliefs as a rhetorical and whimsical device, and not a theology I believe. But today I am feeling small and overwhelmed, and the old Greek myths sought to explain the unexplainable to a populace that had no hope.
Truthfully, I am not without hope, nor am I in despair. But for this moment in front of the unblinking cyclops where I pen my thoughts, I submit to sadness. We will probably be interred in urns, and in a few short years, we will be forgotten just as those graves that bravely but uselessly faced death. We simply cannot contain the memories lives of all those who have passed, nor should we.
VIVI, NON VIVI, VIXI.
“I was alive.”
“I am not alive”
“I have lived.”
Inscribed on ancient Roman headstones and memorials. Soon Linda and I will pass into that long good night. My hope is in a resurrection where I’ll see her once again in her old beauty. Many of her friends have passed into the long sleep, and none are left who bring her joy. She walks that final mile alone and uncomforted, and I mutely watch.
My hope is to not pass until she does. I would spare her the awful grief. But that is not my choice. Others will dictate that event, and I can’t prevail against it.
Weep with me if you will, but do not console me, for I am inconsolable.
George Fowler
Thursday, September 28, 2023
Journal: Bring on the latter rains
The morning dawns damp and gray. The first of the fall rains landed with fury and lightning. Spent most of the night comforting dogs until the last boomer rolled by at 3am. In this part of the country, much will green up, but a few of the trees and plants mark the season by the length of day. We get unusual combinations of autumn rusts and reds, with the bright greenery that this land always impresses me.
We had a two-year drought some years back that killed trees and dried up the land. Then a wet spring came, and suddenly it was like there was never a drought. The land turns feral and lush at those times.
It is a bit dank in my studio, but I think I’ll leave the AC off for awhile and pretend that I am a native here, hardy and adaptable to the changing climate. Sometimes I think that the Texan toughness is real, and other times it is mere swagger. But there is a resourcefulness that amazes me.
I have many chores today. Lab tests, cleaning and straightening, and the ever-monotonous round of bill paying. But I think I will spend some time just reflecting and letting my world return to normal after my duel with Thanatos this weekend. I almost let him win, but oddly, in surrender, I find strength. I relish every easy breath I am given. Being able to sit up without nausea. To get up today and waken it properly by starting the coffee, opening the drapes, taking a mountain of medicines and injections and finally settling in to finish off that second cup at leisure.
Snooks is sleeping late this morning, and I’ll just let her sleep as long as she wants. The dogs disagree, however. They keep coming in and telling me that woman is still in bed, and they don’t like the change in routine. I just pat them on the head and admonish them that life is just hard somedays.
I made a stab at the news this morning, but I am caring less and less these days. I have fought for what I thought was right, but now I am powering down. Maybe I’ll sell off some guns, but not all. I am not retreating, just holding the beachhead.
I am not real happy with the shocker thingy they are implanting in me, but I have taking the attitude that they can have one more shot at it, then it is enough.
Anyhoos. A few more computer chores, then a short drive to the vampires at the local clinic.
Good morning.
Rusty's Armory 