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Alicia Whitehorn.
Of blessed memory.
In a place now far away that I once called home, a beloved sister was memorialized by her adopted family. Wherever she was there was both mirth and seriousness, and I am sure that she will be remembered that way as her adopted family recounts her life. But my life as a vagabond has passed, and I shall not travel again, so my spiritual family in that far city will continue the tradition without me. I would have delighted in being there for the bittersweet time of remembrance.
I remember once traveling down to New Mexico with her and some other congregants to visit a converso congregation there, and the love they all had for her and the joy she brought … and the twinkle in her eye as she came up to me while I was delivering possibly the most inarticulate teaching I had ever presented in my life, and letting me know that my fly was undone!
And the late-night drive home singing, talking and just being with those I loved so dearly.
.הִנֵּה מַה טוֹב וּמַה נָּעִים שֶׁבֶת אָחִים גַּם יַחַד Ps 113:1
“How sweet it is to be sitting, surrounded by all of your brothers!” goes my favorite translation of this ancient passage in Psalms.
Shalom, most beloved sister. One day, others will close my eyes in this world, and Messiah will open them in Olam haBa and I’ll see you once again, Miss Priss.
Until then, Shalom, my sister.
Monday Morning Rota
Snookums rose before me today so the coffee pot was ready in the kitchen, and she was in the studio entertaining da budgie. It was a long, sleepy slog to the pot, but I made it. Then on down the hall to the studio carefully balancing the cup so that it didn’t spill on the new carpet, and plop down in my $49 Office Depot executive chair. I think I bought it in 1987 or so, and the armrests are shredded, and need to be covered with old towels to keep from pinching the skin. But it fits my bottom.
Twice a year I dig out the hex keys and tighten everything up. If I forget it, I am rewarded with the chair back coming loose and dumping me on my head. I just noticed it is getting rickety, so it is tightening time again in Texas.
And da Budgies favorite playlist, Celtic banjo, is on the google puck. The windows are still wet from the rains and dew, but I think they are over, now. Soz, I will air up the tires on the mower this week and get to mowing. I need to find someone to come by and fix the leaking tires. One more chore that has passed beyond my ability in my inexorable march to decrepitency.
But none of that before coffee.
Good morning!
A Culinary Disaster, and a Resolution
Sunday dawns gloriously wet, with dripping eaves and wet dogs wishing to share the joy. Rainy mornings need to be celebrated with soft silence and contemplation, though da Budgie disagrees with plaintive little yeeps and buzzes.
And so the week begins afresh, and my Sunday chore is online grocery shopping and planning two evening meals. My southern chicken-fried-steak was not one of my more successful creations, and I think I may redirect my efforts from southern cooking back to post war open a can and dump it in the saucepan cuisine. I just don’t have the chops for cooking.
I’ve been meditating on God’s three directives. Live. Breed. Die. They weren’t given as teachings, but oddly are all gifts, though each one has its own pain. And the pain is another one of those things that takes a whole new passel of pondering. I’d just as soon pass on the pain, thank you.
But the happy barking of dogs about to go outside with Snookums pushes the morbid meditation out of my mind, and the coffee cup needs refilling.
Good morning!
A gift from Eve
“Don’t answer the prayers of the traveler” goes the ancient prayer. Travelers don’t want rain, farmers do. Seems that I must have a traveler in my neighborhood as I watch the “Belton Sandwich” on the weather radar. Heavy rain clouds scoot on by on both sides wetting Killeen and Heidenheimer, but nary a drop in the middle. Gotta find that traveler a new route.
The sad tones “The Bonnie Banks o’ Loch Lomond” played on an electric fiddle and banjo fills the air, but what does the bird know of happy and sad songs? Banjos and fiddles are always a cause for rejoicing, and rejoice she does, and it oddly effects me.
And it’s Preparation Day again as the summer slips by and the AC hums relentlessly in the background. My Japanese/American/Swedish cousin made it to visit her American ancestors and paid her respects at the graves of her grandparents and parents. Some of her cousins made the trip with her, but it was just one bridge too far for me these days. The wandering boy with the itchy foot hardly leaves the house anymore. Birth, engendering and death were impelled, while all else was optional. I am spent of all of God’s prime directives save one, and now what I put my hand to is optional.
In each of those options is at least one challenge to choose the good over the evil. And with each passing year, that choice becomes more refined. Once upon a time evil was in the deed, but today, the evil begins in the thought. I long for the day when this gift of Eve’s is rescinded, and I no longer must weary myself in the continual choosing.
So I sip coffee, skirt the evil thought, and ponder good triumphing.
Good morning.
Banjos and Collard Greens
Tuesday dawns a pleasant 77°, but we have moved into a moderate drought as summer clips on by. But when the droughts on, I mow once to keep the fuel down in case of a wildfire, and let the land rest while I sit under the air-conditioner and listen to music. I prefer classical music when I can’t have silence, but it is a rare treat now that da Budgie has heard fiddles and banjo’s together. I exist only to start the music in the morning.
Today Snooks works at the local food bank, which means yours truly prepares dinner. Today we eat southern. Chicken fried steak, collard greens, mashed spuds, and peach cobbler. Sans banjos and fiddles, however.
And so the morning unfolds. I have the feeling that this will be a two-pot morning. Lots to ponder, and many chores to ignore.
Good morning!
… of blessed memory
The righteous perish, and no one takes it to heart; the devout are taken away, while no one understands. For the righteous are taken away from calamity, and they enter into peace; those who walk uprightly will rest on their couches.
Rest in peace most beloved sister …
A Rabble Rouses
“There’s Another Baby Waitin’ For Me Down The Line” plays on Pandora Radio this sunny Friday morning. One chocolate and one vanilla Oreo sits beside the cup waiting to be dunked into the steaming darkness. Happy dogs are shredding their toys in the living room, and da happy Budgie is singin’ to her favorite cornball music.
Soon my serenity will be shattered by the political newsfeeds and their war with a President elected by the *ahem!* rabble, but first a happy moment of coffee sipping, cookie dunking and sunrise watching.
Mornin’
It’s Wednesday already, and fall is just six weeks away. Time slips by, and the future speedily becomes the past. Yet the moment always remains the moment. Snookums leaves the home for a haircut while men and dogs watch her departure from the windows. A friend writes a poem of love lost, and I pause before responding. Not all things require a response, yet I want to say I was there.
So I pour another cup of coffee, and pull a couple of cookies from the jar to go with it and return to ponder things beyond my ken while Snooks just does life. The odd couple.
Good morning!
Gentleman at yer service, Ma’am …
I have read several friends blogs recently who are lamenting the sad state of eligible mates in the world today. The more interesting reads were from the feminine side of the conflict. I am glad I am not in the dating game anymore. I think I would fail miserably as every girls dream date. In fact, I don’t think I would make it as any girls dream date. Suave is not my middle name and a lass looking for a LTR would only consent to a continued relationship if she was in abject terror at being alone. I am like the last potato in the grocery bin when it comes to desirability.
I started listing the criticisms as they cropped up
1st fail. I drive up to the neutral meeting spot in a mommy van with peeling paint on the hood.
2nd fail. Black socks, chino’s, brown shoes, stretch belt, blue polo shirt and straw cowboy hat.
3rd fail. I would either try for a full hug, or resort to a firm conventioneer’s handshake.
4th fail. I would be afraid of even the most casual glance toward her bosom and would compensate for that by staring into her eyes, never letting my gaze drop below the nose stud while trying to hide my disgust with things fastened into snot. A lip ring would immediately cause retching at the thought of kissing someone with one.
5th fail. I would open the door for her, treating her like a subhuman that totally lacked the facility to operate doorlatches without the help of an overbearing male who stomps on a women’s soul … *huff* *huff* *huff*
6th fail. I would either be clingy as all hell or so insufferably aloof that the world would appear to revolve around me. I have no neutral gears.
… Unfortunately, I don’t have time to compile an exhaustive list of my undesirable qualities. It would be a long one. I guess I’ll just have to keep the woman I’ve got.
Catharsis
… as I look back over the years, I can honestly thank those who ran out on me at the most fragile point in my life. I would still be leaning on them should hardship once again visit me.
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