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“Thou shalt write each and every day. The profound and the mundane, thou shalt write of it.”
If I took a picture of the view out my window this morning, you would think it was a spring picture full of bright greens and golds. But it is a deceptive fall view with the trees going through their second growth cycle. Most deciduous trees in this area go through two growth cycles, so stately looking live oaks and the scruffier burleson oaks grow twice as fast. But when you step outside, the fresh breeze sucks the delight right out of you as it merrily clips along at a chilly 52°.
I hesitantly scanned the newsfeeds today, and thankfully there were no new horrors, just the tragic aftermath of the old ones. All the bombings, wars, earthquakes, hurricanes and wild fires seem to indicate a world in distress. But it isn’t the first time in history that the world went mad. Things really can get worse.
So, with those cheery thoughts I sip my morning coffee and organize my thoughts for the day. I am unable to change those events, nor protect myself from them, and I must find my joy in the midst of woes, for such is the lot of mankind. The saga of the new A/C installation continues, so I shall call the installers again. And if necessary, again after that.
It has been a busy time for the dog rescue / transport community, and I have had to turn down several transports. I always feel bad when I do, but I am not the Mother Teresa of transporting. I cannot dedicate my entire life to it. I have one run on the docket for Friday, and a tentative one on Tuesday, and that is just about going to eat up my transport budget.
And the job jar overfloweth. I need to do some prioritizing on that.
But first things first. The coffeepot is not yet empty …
“Thou shalt write each and every day. The profound and the mundane, thou shalt write of it.”
And it was evening, and it was morning. The first day.
A quickly passing squall left the stoop to damp to sit in this morning, so I sit in my cozy but messy studio to sip coffee and consider the world through my PC monitor. I think we have flogged Harvey Weinstein sufficiently, but I doubt that our ever-vigilant press is done with him.
The Kurds are showing unusual strength in dealing with independence. Even Iran fears them. I can’t help but think it is because they do support Israel, though I do think their zeal is more politically driven than ideological. Still, Israel is the place to look when fighting a war when you are surrounded by the enemy.
So I turn from world events back to my usual self-absorbed musings. Soon Snooks will be wondering where her brunch is, and I am still in PJ’s. Enya plays in the background, mostly for Kippur da Budgie’s benefit. She needs noise, and I desire silence. Enya is soft enough that I can bear the intrusion into the cottony softness of my morning reverie.
I have gone back to the beginnings in my cerebral life. The beginnings of faith. The beginnings of Scripture. I want to hear once again that voice that quickened me those many long years ago. Knowledge is wonderful stuff, but experience is what secures truth.
So I thumb my nose at Saint Paul. I’ll return to a milk diet and a time when God moved mightily within me and demons ran from me. Of course, there were people who didn’t see the fire in me, just the obnoxiousness, but I have acquired a few manners since them.
Maybe after I am on this milk run awhile I will return to the Sod (סוֹד), the deep, the esoteric. But I am weary of digging for treasures. An old pragmatic sage I once knew used to say that if a mystical thought can’t get you to work on Monday morning, it is idle speculation and not contemplation. Well, you would have had to know him and been there.
And I have run out of time. I can stall no more. Time to mix up some waffle batter and drop it in the waffle iron.
“Thou shalt write each and every day. The great, and the mundane, thou shalt write of it”
The first crisp morning of the year greets me. It is 58° but sunny and clear. The weatherman says it will warm up to the mid 80’s later in the day. So, 2017 skips merrily along to its end.
My typing hand is a bit sore today. One of the ‘puppies’ I was transporting nipped me after it ran into a thicket dragging the poor handler behind it. I couldn’t just leave the dog to escape, so I went into the thicket to get it. It was scared to death, of course, and nipped the back of my hand. It was a warning nip, not a bite, but my paper thin old man’s hands don’t take much abuse, and it tore the surface skin back to a patch about the size of a quarter.
But I wasn’t going to let the dog escape, and we drug/drove the dog back to the other transporters car, got it in and tied down. None of the four pups was very well socialized, and that greatly concerns me. They were over 20lbs and cannot go to a family with children nor to an unskilled trainer. They will weigh 80lbs when they are grown. But Cap’n Rescue got them onboard, drove them to the next hand-off, and got them transferred, so my part in the saga has ended.
My understanding of the news is very shallow at this point. I spent much of my life trying to stay informed about the issues and mores of the world, but today I am just a headline junkie. The headlines float by like the thoughts of mad-man. A Hollywood mogul’s sexual predations are revealed. Shock, shock. A crazy dictator of a nation that should have been handled by Harry Truman, Dwight Eisenhower, John Kennedy, Richard Nixon, Gerald Ford, Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, George H. Bush, Bill Clinton, Barak Obama and Donald Trump, hasn’t been taken care of. Everyone has an opinion on what should have been done, but are a bit wobbly on what should be done.
California has devastating fires, and the eco-Nazi’s are saying they aren’t to blame. Hurricanes Harvey, Irma and Jose hit the USA, and others hit the Caribbean and Central America. Mexico is still cleaning up from a disastrous earthquake.
And l look out my window at the brightly lit fields and trees, robin’s egg blue skies, and mild temperatures. In the background, Kippur da Budgie burbles, and in the far reaches of the house I hear Snookums rattling pans and talking to dogs. The level of human misery is so very high in the world, and here I sit in beauty and prosperity as the clock ticks. The contrast is not lost on me.
EdwardsDesserts.com user submitted the following:
First Name: Russell
Last Name: Armor
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Comments: I have ever loved your lemon meringue and key lime pies, but now they are a rare treat for me. So a special occasion arose and I picked up a small box of lemon meringue for me and the missus. It was excellent, as usual, but I noticed that the pies are much smaller than they used to be. That was a disappointment, looking at that tiny slice of pie sitting forlornly in a sea of pie plate. I think I would have rather paid more and received a nice full sized slice of pie.
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Subject: RE: Edwards Online Customers
Thanks for reaching out to us to let us know that you had a concern with our Edwards Lemon Meringue Pie Slices. We apologize and have sent this information to our Quality Assurance Teams.
We will also be sending you a letter with a discount coupon. You should receive it within the next 2 to 3 weeks.
Let us know if we can assist with anything else. If you would like to reach us by phone we are available Monday – Friday 8:00am – 5:00pm CT at 800-544-6855.
Thank you for your prompt reply. I am sure that the Quality Assurance Team will decide to bake their pies in bigger pie plates now. Alas, I think that your coupons will only purchase another tiny slice to sit once again forlornly in the center of my dessert plate. But I suppose that is the sacrifice we have to make in this new era of less for more. Perhaps in the meantime, Quality Assurance can put the tiny slices in bigger boxes, maybe sitting on an inexpensive paper doily or something to give the illusion of size. I don’t suppose they will need reminding to PhotoShop® the pie onto a smaller plate so that it looks a bit larger on the box.
Once again, thank you for your time and patience
Thou shalt write each and every day. The great and the mundane, thou shalt write of it.
A muggy, somewhat cool morning greets me out on the stoop this Monday morning. I waited a bit before coming out here to write my five hundred or so words chronicling the day. It was a good decision this sleepy morning. Last evenings sleep was interrupted by Jenna, my huge white something-or the other, having a running seizure. They aren’t as frequent as they used to be, so we weren’t sure whether she was having a seizure, or simply heard something outside that needed barking.
But Tic, our recent addition came in the bedroom looking very distressed, so Snookums took the duty of checking it out. I didn’t return, so I finally got up to look for the two of them, and they were in my studio. For some reason, Jenna usually heads for that room when she is seizing.
Jenna recovers from seizures rapidly, however, and so we returned to bed, only to have indigestion wake me about an hour later. So up again, take a Tums, and go into the studio to wait for the magic. One of my home remedies for indigestion is a deep tissue massager and I keep it plugged in and ready by my $49 executive chair. While waiting for it to perform its magic, I answered a few posts from overseas friends and rude comments from my political sites. Politics is not conductive to sleep, unfortunately, so I was up two hours before the yawns caught up with me and I could return to bed.
So that is why you are getting less than my best writing this morning.
The morning has a feeling of sadness to it with the weaker sun and fall breezes rustling the leaves. A mourning dove coos its dirge from a distant field where cattle are still fattening up, and my babbling little waterfall adds to the hushed feeling by masking the traffic going by. The sadness is sort of an old friend of mine, usually settling into a deep gloom by Thanksgiving and staying with me until Easter time. It isn’t the type of depression where you want to kill yourself, but I do tend to spend a lot of time in navel gazing.
Most people aren’t even aware that I am in such a despondent state, and that is just fine. People naturally wish to fix things if they can, and I am in no mood to be fixed. I did try the medication route once, and learned a hard lesson from it. It is much better to just let the moods come and go, and let people feel a bit peeved that I don’t react to them as enthused as they expect I should. I have had to develop a thick skin.
It has been a profitable year in that many of the mysteries of man’s relationship to his creator have been revealed. Not that those answers are of much interest to those still building families and careers. They do well to handle the daily woes in a godlike manner.
But for me, the story of mankind’s separation from his God is an intriguing one that explains in the only comprehensible way a time when mankind was a very different creature and followed another god out of the garden created just for them. Of course the garden is a metaphor, as are the trees, the fruit of the trees, talking serpents, animal naming and man talking with God in the cool of the evening. I suspect that man is incapable of truly understanding that time in his evolution when he didn’t need to know how to choose the good from the evil.
Oddly, when I try to share that knowledge, I must resort to the same sort of tale telling, and I do it fare less well that the way God tells the story. Understanding comes from revelation, not study.
But again, I muse like an old man muses, and old men muse to themselves.
As told by the light of the cooking fire . . .
Then man became a lump of clay encased animal skin rather than the light that formerly covered him. He no longer tended a garden, but rather plowed and planted in the hardscrabble outside the gates, and the breath of the divine no longer enlivened him. His life was now in blood, and when his blood was spilled, his life drained back into the ground from which he was formed.
Instead of tending the plants the Divine had sown, he now sowed seeds from an alien and barren world. Whereas the Divine watered with a mist that sprang from the ground, man laboriously watered his garden with water drawn from meager rivers and deep wells. The Divine once fed man from a fertile garden, but now man began to kill and eat the very animals he once named and ruled over.
Man never forgot the garden, however, and strove over the æons to reenter Paradise, but the way was shut. Fierce beings guarded the gates with powers far beyond the abilities of man, and the way to the gates was forgotten in the ages that followed.
But the Divine never forgot man. A gate guarded by a narrow and precipitous path leading man back to the Divine and eternal life was built in the wilderness. If a man followed the path he would be admitted into a new heaven, and a new earth. Man would shed the skin of an animal, and be once again covered with brilliance of the Divine. The breath of the Divine would replace the blood spilled on the ground and revive him.
But many will reject the path, preferring to build a path of their own choosing. They will shake their fists at the Divine and those who are on the path leading to his gate, and they will try to kill them. Their end is their world, and when they die, their blood will be returned to the ground to await a final day when they shall be called before the Divine to retell their misdeeds.
Sunday dawned early as Mr. Bladder rudely interrupted my peaceful slumber at the break of dawn. The first day of the week, or The Lord’s Day by some traditions. But for me, every morning begins the same with a staggering walk down the corridor to my studio with a coffee cup in my hand if Snookums has made the coffee, or empty handed if she hasn’t. It won’t be long before she delivers a warm cup to me in those circumstances.
It is an odd morning in that the Celtic station I often listen to is playing Christmas carols. I like them though I have a bit of a problem with much of the theology surrounding the season. But some of the most worshipful music ever written was composed around the celebration of Christmas. The morning music is a sop to Kippur da Budgie. I much prefer absolute silence in the mornings, but parakeets need noise or they grow depressed.
Weekends have become my time to be the family chef, apart from dinner on Saturday evening. We try to have a one pot meal on Friday evening that is rewarmed on Saturday to sort of keep with the tradition of resting on that day. So, part of the mornings musings need to focus on brunch. Waffles have become de rigueur, with the type of waffle being the variable. Today I think it will be blueberry Belgian waffles with whipped cream. Perhaps some orange sections if I am up to peeling them, or perhaps not. If not, probably some V8 juice.
I am finally caught up on the mowing, hopefully for the year. But with all the moisture and warmth, that is not a given. I have mowed as late as Thanksgiving in the past in mild years. I am hoping to get some field rye sowed before it gets too cold so that there will be greenery in early spring. Field rye is inexpensive, about $20 a bag from the Co-Op, and one bag covers the field nicely. The rye burns off early enough to let the bermudagrass thrive during the hot summers and provides a nice change from a dark green to a light green as the year unfolds.
So, onward to brunch preps …