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“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
Email Address: firstname.lastname@example.org
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.
Please follow up within 24 hours
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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 …
Preparation day arrives comes around again with robin’s egg blue skies and a mild 70° morning. I have my weekend groceries thanks to a new grocery delivery service that has started here and delivers out to rural areas. Snookums hasn’t started her Shabbat preparations yet. She has many morning chores, some we men and dogs observe, and some that are done out of our sight. But they all add up to the peace and security of the morning.
I sure do love the grocery service, and they make it like the grocery store in making sure you are also presented with many impulse items. They know me well. I am a sucker for new and exotic things, if they don’t have to be prepared before consuming them.
I see the bermudagrass is sending up seed awns. That means the nights have cooled off and the grass will go dormant. Each year I keep thinking I’ll buy a sack of field rye and sow it so we have green all winter if we get the moisture. But I usually forget, and the verges grow brown with the onset of winter.
It is a beautiful fall here, however. The leaves haven’t turned yet, and the rolling hills behind the trees block out most of the traces of civilization, reminding me of scenes from the movie “Lord of the Rings”. One neighbor has had cattle on his pastures all year. He had stopped raising cattle during the long drought, but this winter we will likely see a lot of calves as he has been taking trailer loads of heifers off to the inseminators. And I’ll stop my commentary on cattle with that little item.
We still aren’t attending services anywhere now, though we keep a membership in a local congregation. I hope to change that this winter with regular attendance. But as in all things, it seems my good intentions are one thing, and my virtuous deeds are another.
And the continuing struggle with the new air conditioner installation goes on. I think we finally solved the cooling problem, then the breaker problem, but now the heating portion doesn’t work. I think that one will be a simple fix, however. I hate being on a first name basis with repairmen.
The new development down the road must be entering its final phase. My country lane has returned to normal. Gone are the gravel trucks, cement mixers and flatbed trucks. But with the gentrification of the neighborhood comes the SUV’s and lawnmower haulers, so the original quiet during late mornings has vanished. Gone are the days when I could step out on the porch in my underwear. Ah! Sweet progress!
So’s … that’s the morning as it unfolds.
Hoping your morning is as peaceful
“Thou shalt write each and every day. The great, and the mundane, thou shalt write of it”
I missed a day of journaling, and didn’t have a valid excuse to skip a day. Playing with my virtual choo-choo’s is not a valid excuse. They are a reward for obedience, not an excuse for disobedience. However, these are my rules, not God’s, so I choose the punishments and rewards. So, what is a suitable punishment for slacking? I will have to think on that some.
It is a gorgeous view out the window. I opted to write on the studio PC this morning rather than the laptop because the keyboard is more familiar. But the water barrel waterfall is gurgling in the deep shade of the pecan and acacia tree, backlit by the yellow sun on green grass. It is almost a springtime view. But without the birdcalls, it is a bit creepy.
Tic, the latest canine addition to the family, is slowly overcoming his skittishness, and loves waking me in the mornings. But the rule is to wait until my eyes are open before jumping on my bed. He doesn’t understand the fullness of that rule, however, and a mere fluttering of the eyelids is proof enough to him that I am awake, and he can roll on me and bite me in pure celebration of the gift of a new day.
I haven’t gone through the newsfeeds yet this morning. The incessant drumbeat of hurricanes, floods, earthquakes and crazed killers is numbing my compassion. I can only observe a tiny amount of evil before I am overwhelmed by it and I become stoic, no longer reacting to the horror. I know when I finish this I will go check out the latest comments on the comments that were commented on. Not only are we informed of evil, we are tossed into its foul waters via video clips and the wailing of grief stricken survivors.
So, this little moment of banality is a blessing to me. I shall slowly sip two full cups of coffee and finish this before peeking into the maelstrom. I can hardly wait.
Perhaps I’ll punish my slacking by performing one extra chore today. It isn’t like we ever have all the chores done. The job jar overfloweth. Perhaps I should start cleaning out the old pickup truck to get it ready to sell. There goes the last vestige of my virility. A man without a pickup is a just a yankee occupying a house. But life does go on, and one must turn loose of the torch or become consumed by it. This latest killer of many sort of took the glamor away of going out in a blaze of glory.
But then, there is the ever urgent need to mow. Perhaps instead of sorting, cleaning and putting away tools, I’ll mow the west side. Maybe.
It will all get sorted out when the coffee pot is empty. Maybe.