Joke Time

This is WitchWoman's and my favorite joke. An elderly couple is rocking on the front porch. The lady stops, looks at the old man, and says: One of us needs to die so that I can go live with my sister. Rat-ta-tat... thank you... I will be here all week...

Strange signs

I am perplexed by strange signs that appeared today. These are signs that might portend something is out of the ordinary in Welch. The first was at breakfast. I cracked a particularly large brown egg that I gathered from my chickens early this morning. What appeared but a two yoke egg. It was delicious. But, does it mean something? Two-yoke eggs are fairly rare. Here I picked one out of the morning haul and was treated to this pleasing sight. Surely this must mean something good. Then, a little after 7 am, the ever-faithful and vigilant Daisy, veteran guard dog she is, raised all sorts of hell when workmen appeared on the highway side of the property. Naturally, I hiked up to determine their intent and method. Come to find out they are from Charter Communications and are installing fiber optic cable up and down the highway. In a few short months, I will have high speed internet, multi-channel cable and crystal clear telephone services delivered to my home should I decide to subscribe. Internet is a problematic feature out here in the country. The way I access the cyber-super highway is through an air card for which I pay a premium each month. Even then, the air card provides weak connectivity and is not reliable. Access to high speed fiber optics will be a welcomed addition to country living. The third and final sign occurred a few minutes ago as I was enjoying an adult beverage on the back deck while delighting in a chorus of frogs and crickets as the fireflies buzzed in the pasture. I thought for a moment that there was lightening in the distance but there is a distinct lack of clouds this evening. After an initial moment of confusion, I remembered that workmen are putting the final touches on a cell tower at the other end of the big curve on the highway. Less than a quarter of a mile from my house, a new tower now stands and atop it is a beacon. What I thought was lighting is that very same beacon putting out a warning flash to air traffic. For me, it was as if a storm was brewing. So, what to make of these strange occurrences? Double yokes, fiber optic connectivity and improved cell telephone services. Is change crashing in on Welch? Is the world turning without me noticing? Is it the end or the beginning? If you get up every day and pay a little attention to stuff happening around you, it is amazing what you will find. I guess I should include in my list of astonishments today that I found the corn I planted three weeks ago is coming up as is the okra. Neither was expected. In fact, I discovered the corn sprouts when I was preparing to replant the rows. There it was, about an inch high, green and fresh, full of Nature’s desire to live on. Same for the okra. I have never been successful in producing much okra. If even half of this survives I will be wrapped up in the stuff in a month or so. What to make of all this? A priest of mine years ago told me that the early church never questioned miracles, rather they focused on what they meant. By contrast, modern man questions the very existence of miracles. I am not saying that what happened today was miraculous. I just wonder what all these strange things mean.

Expecting too much

In my morning prayers this morning at Mass, I asked that God give me a word of direction for my life. I petitioned the God of Hosts to give my priest, the very lovely Father Al, the words that would give me direction, words that would set my path on the right path. After my prayers, I settled in for the appreciated and comforting liturgy. To my surprise, Father Al did not deliver. There was nothing in his homily that spoke to me. It was all about mothers and Moses’ mother and Solomon and stuff that did not speak to me. It was most disappointing to me. After Mass, I realized that my “demand” that God perform was arrogant, as usual. I am left to my own devices, just as God intended. All I really want is some direction. But, supposing that it would come to me serendipitously is absurd. Father Al had no idea that I had laid such a burden on him nor would he have responded if he had. To carry the disappointment even further, The Old Goat assumed that I had forgotten about him today. He drove to my house to ask about lunch. At the same time, I was preparing sauce for spaghetti, from scratch. He was convinced that I had forgotten him. It demonstrate show I don’t get much credit for the care I provide him. The Old Goat transmits his wishes through Tinker who seems particularly attuned to his needs. I guess I never developed the sensitivity to TOG’s inner most thoughts. Nor do I plan to develop such sensitivity. One of the ladies in my church used eggs she bought from me to make deviled eggs. She brought them to church today and after Mass a number of us boys gathered around the snack table to scarf up the delicious offerings. The deviled eggs and the finger bologna sandwiches went fast. Pretty good stuff. Making deviled eggs out of really fresh eggs is difficult. The lady who made them told me that she punches a hole in the eggs before she boils them. That way, they peel easily. I will give it a try. You try it and let me know if it works for you.

Authentic Men Hall of Fame

One of my favorite former students and I began a conversation years ago about authentic men. It seems to me that the dialogue began about the same time that the term metrosexual was making its debute. The student and I were reacting to a minor, almost inperceptible, academic dust-up over the future of boys and the general resignation that the era of "real" men was over. John Wayne was dead. Gary Cooper was dead. Teddy Roosevelt was dead. At the time, the most "manly" men on the scene were Bill Clinton (he of $200 haircuts), Bob Dole (he of Viagra fame) and Sean Penn (a terrific Harvey Milk). The result of our conversation lead to the proposition that there had to be authentic men to serve as role models for the rest of us. Characteristics of the authentic man would include the ability to survive on one's wits without crying like a school girl. The authentic man knows something about tools and how to use them. He knows how to clean up. He does not present tatoos as the best means of enunciating his world view. He does not behave as a knuckle-dragging bafoon. He usually avoids face paint, anything camo, and NASCAR. Mostly, he likes to test himself, to find out the depth of his spirit. He is not necessarily committed to making the world better. In fact, it might be that the authentic man turns his back on the world and lives reconciled to forces of Nature that are not silly, petty or cheap. To date, there are seven inductees into the Authentic Men Hall of Fame. The first member, unanimously elected, was

Henry David Thoreau. The second class included

Constantine Shanklin (actually Nevil Shute, Shanklin's real life counterpart),

Earnest Shackleton and

John Muir. Inducted since are

Capt. James Buchanan Eads and

John Wesley Powell. Our newest member is

Dick Proennecke. Nominations are welcome but please understand that my former student and I reserve the right to reject any nominee. When I mentioned the Authentic Men Hall of Fame to WitchWoman, I got an ear-full. She did not like it one tiny bit. And, after kicking my ass for a while, I finally conceded that it should be the Authentic Person Hall of Fame. Which means that I am automatically disqualified for induction to the Authentic Men Hall of Fame. There is no room in the Authentic Men Hall of Fame for a milk-toast who folds like a cheap suit case when challenged by a stinking woman. I don't know much about sociology. Never took any courses in the discipline. But, I believe our society will reap different fruit than expected from nuturing a generation of boys without manly men as heroes and role models. I am at the age that I no longer care if I am viewed as a neaderthal. Maybe I am listening to too much country music -- no gender confusion there -- and trying to live a simple life but it seems to me that Walt Kowalski (from Gran Torino) would be more valuable to society now than Chaz Bono. Make sure you hear what I am saying. I am not talking about sexuality. A manly man is about attitude. Making sexuality the defining characteristic that categorizes us is short-sighted. A gay man who can fix a leaking drain, prepare a tasty dinner, act to protect his home and loved ones, and mets his social obligations is as eligible for induction to the Hall as a straight dude who does the same. Sexuality is a convenient label employed by the lazy. More than anything else, what I am saying with this post is that there is no reason to apologize for being a man. There are differences between the sexes. Good. Variety makes for a more interesting life. Strong men will make strong women. Just as the tide raises all boats, honoring the best of men does not diminish any women. In fact, it has nothing to do with women. Imagine that, I can use this phrase that I have wanted to use for most of my adult life: "hey, it ain't about you."

Emily is dying

One of the Bronte sisters is dying. It is Emily but, I admit, it is difficult to tell them apart. She is hold up in the house, sitting on her perch with eyes closed. She is slowly fading away. I made the rookie mistake of naming my chickens. The three Orpingtons I named the Bronte sisters. They are big-breasted, Rubinesque, lusty, and always looking for a quick snack. Good layers who produced big, fat brown eggs. Now, Emily is dying. When chickens are dying, they remove themselves from the flow of events in the hen house. Sometimes, they will hid their heads and crouch in a corner. They quit eating. They don’t drink water. When I went into the house on Sunday I found Emily disengaged, glassy eyed, and looking as if she had given up. I knew in an instant that it was over for her. She was saying her good-byes. She continues to remain detached and sinking today. I expect her to die within the next 48 to 72 hours. I have buried a number of aged chickens who died in the same way. I prefer this to me chopping off their heads. Old birds have lived long enough to deserve more respect than ending up in a stock pot. I am sorry to see Emily go but I prefer she have her end in her way rather than mine. When she passes, I will dig a grave near the stream that feeds the lake and place her in it. The Old Goat says that animals don't have souls. He learned that from Jimmy Swaggert. As far as I am concerned, I will bury Emily and I will ask God to accept her into His hen house, trusting that He recognizes her authetic heart and genuine nature.

The Not-So-Simple Life

Tinker's middle child, George, married over the weekend. The box scores for Tinker's kids are: 4 marriages, 2 divorces, 7 children. By comparison, the numbers for my kids are: 2 kids, 0 marriages, 0 children. Hummm. I have to remind myself that life is more than a numbers game. More than what I have yet to figure out. For sure, success is measured by accumulated assets. The guy who ends up with the most stuff wins, right? I've mentioned my on-going wrestling match with the Scriptural reference to the "lilies of the field." And, also previously discussed, Thoreau's advise to simplify, simplify, simplify haunts me. So, last week while spending some time on the Coast I had a conversation with Rick, a small business owner from Kansas. As the conversation unfolded, it was obvious that I am not making much sense. Rick questioned why I removed the air conditioners from my house. It gets hotter than Hades here in mid-summer. He challenged my refusal to use petro-chemicals on my garden. I lose a significant part of my produce to bugs, weeds and fungi. And, when I told him about my make-shift outdoor shower, I felt as if I was showing my Luddite credentials. My in-door shower works perfectly well. I have been thinking about all this stuff about living the simple life. Even though I am making a nod to the simple life, I have not made a full committment to it. I try to grow much of my food but I routinely patronize the grocery. I still use electricity and continue to watch television and listen to radio. Obviously, I fire up my computer every day. If I were to calculate my "stuff" it would not support any claim that I might make to living a simple life. This self-evaluation is disappointing. Here I thought I was making some progress to an ideal. Instead, upon serious and sober examination, the evidence produces a different conclusion. This means it is back to the drawing board to figure out what the hell I am doing. This does tell me that living a simple life is no where as simple as it may sound in theory. I spent some time with the Buddhists and now I wonder how a Buddhist would view the life I lead? Is it authentic? Is the life I lead one that rests with itself? Am I living a life of simplicity? Thing is, simplicity is not about denial necessarily. Just as the Buddhist life is not about self-denial. Rather, a simple life is about opting for different demands and priorities. Instead of fulfilling a list of chores, the simple life calls one to see the joy in elemental things. I made a note to myself this morning how it felt to fill the chickens' water jugs. The richness of the experience is made essential when it is considered in its fundamental parts. The clear, cold water, the swirl of the flow of the water, the weight of the filled jugs, the welcomed relief the filled jug brought to the chickens. They are, after all, captives under my control. I never really thought of them as such but it is true. Had I decided not to fill the jugs, another life form would have suffered from my indifference. Is the simple life not considering the discreet acts of everyday life and how they fit into a broader flow of events? It is not about rejecitng but accepting something different. A divergent path that seeks to find the joy in mundane experience. Sometimes when I am walking and I am tired, I focus on my legs and will them to move. I am exhilerated by the willful movement of my muscles and can feel my body respond to the focus I am giving it. In that instant, I am not working on a project, I am focusing on movement. At times, I swear, I can feel the blood course though my legs and can feel the tendons and muscles contract and relax as I propel myself forward. There is exquisite pain and pleasure in it. That is essential. That is real. That is simple. In all of its complexity, to take a step and move forward is a remarkable event that deserves celebration. Yet, normally I do it dumbly and without thought or recognition of its miraculous nature. What I generally do is focus on the task at hand without regard to the elemental parts that accomplish it. That is the ultimate rejection of living the simple life. It is not about things. The simple life has never been about things. It is about the mind. A person with lots of things can lead a simple life. A person with nothing can lead a simple life. Thoreau would have lead the simple life even without Walden Pond. Jesus lead the simple life even with the crowds of Palm Sunday. Ghandi would have lead the simple life even without the British.

Fat

I am fat. More appropriately, I am getting fatter. Before I went off to Iraq, I was a trim 150 pounds. Now I am a regular hog tipping the scales at 175. For years, I wore 32 waist size pants. Now I struggle to get into 36s. My God, what a blob! I can feel how fat I am. It is like I am carrying around a Mini-Me. My gut hangs over my pants, I can’t contain it. Fat, blubber, repugnant and disgusting lard, hanging off me. What happened? I work harder now that I have in years. I sweat like a whore in church practically every day. I don’t eat junk food. True, I do consume a fair amount of alcohol. How could something so beneficial be the problem? It is true that I quit smoking a few years ago and that might have contributed to my ballooning. But, this much? At one point in my adult life, I weighed in at 133. I was told once that I looked like something out of a concentration camp. Strangely, that appealed to me. During those days, I could eat anything without fear of gaining an ounce. Now, if I look at a doughnut, I gain pounds by osmosis. I cannot remember the last time I ate a doughnut. And, remember, this is the South, home of Krispy Kreme, the original fat pills. Now, if I eat a single Hersey Kiss, I will gain a couple of pounds AND get zits on my chin. True. Chocolate goes directly to my chin and erupts with a gross looking pimple. Image, a man my age with pimples? If I ever get hauled into court for eating chocolate, all the prosecution will have to do is point to my chin for the evidence. The complexion never lies. I do not like being a hog. I feel cumbersome, bloated, awkward. Since I believe we are what we eat, my weight has nothing to do with my physical labors. I have cut back on bread and pastas. I eat lots of vegetables and fruits. I avoid sweets and snacks. I try to eat a good breakfast and a modest lunch. I usually drink dinner. But when I do have an evening meal, it is usually something grilled with lots of vegetables. It hardly seems fair that I should enter my golden years as a fat pig. All those years as a slim chap now are memories. I wonder if the stores have husky jeans for old farts? Mostly, my weight is an assault on my self-image. I still see myself as a strapping blade, trim and comfortable in his skin. But, in reality, I am a hulking ogre, close to breaking into profuse sweating and grunting. In the profound words of Cosmo Kramer, “look away, look away, I am hideous…”