I was in an ugly frame of mind this morning: another year
older, eye swollen shut from a wasp sting, and a list of “must do” items a mile
long. The bi-annual ordeal with time change has begun, and, furthermore, it’s Sunday.
On top of all that, I’m scheduled for an overnight trip this
week. That means I’ll have to pack a bag, wear a suit, and sleep alone in a
galaxy far away.
If that doesn’t suck enough, I need to patch a hole in the
roof of one of the buildings at the farm. Along with the “year older” bit, the
height at which I become debilitated from fear of heights is a foot lower, now
standing at six feet—two feet lower than the roof.
Just thinking of the national news creates ten percent rise
in my blood pressure.
The devil on my left shoulder began to list my shortcomings.
- I’ll never write like John Steinbeck.
- I’ll never play guitar like Steve Davison or Mike Benetz.
- I’ll never create woodworking masterpieces like the fellows
at the hardwood store.
- I’ll never be elected to the Piddlers’ Hall of Fame unless
I drop my remaining consulting work.
- I’ll never finish Finnegan’s
Wake.
- I’ll never convince some of my friends to use The Sermon on the Mount as a voter’s
guide.
- I’ll never give Scarlett Johansson a case of the vapors.
Wait a moment!
That's when I woke up. I looked into the sleeping face of the prettiest woman in my world. A soft glow surrounded that face like a thin gauze pressed from fairy dust. She smiled in her sleep and whispered "Matthew McConaughey" but I knew she was thinking of me.
I smiled. Another year older and another year wiser and less likely to panic over what someone possessing high power tweets. America has survived worse.
Music? If it still makes you smile, to hell with fame and fortune. And the most important thing about woodworking is not making masterpieces, but not cutting off your fingers.
That's when I woke up. I looked into the sleeping face of the prettiest woman in my world. A soft glow surrounded that face like a thin gauze pressed from fairy dust. She smiled in her sleep and whispered "Matthew McConaughey" but I knew she was thinking of me.
I smiled. Another year older and another year wiser and less likely to panic over what someone possessing high power tweets. America has survived worse.
Music? If it still makes you smile, to hell with fame and fortune. And the most important thing about woodworking is not making masterpieces, but not cutting off your fingers.
Voting? The arc of history will flow back to justice, peace,
and compassion, just you wait and see.
Another year older, but not another year deeper in debt. Our
investment portfolios have risen steadily since the Great Recession and we’re
currently taking profits in prep for the next GR, or, as we financial gurus put
it, “when the chickens come home to roost.”
I’m too old for the draft, but also more advanced in my knowledge
of avoidance should we actually achieve the current goal of a two-front war.
The bone spurs only bother me at heights above six feet, and helicopters go a
lot higher than that.
The three of us are in good physical condition for our ages,
and we all still enjoy a glass of wine, a good laugh, and happy music.
With these thoughts a’swirling, I went to the bathroom and
stared at my swollen face. It stared back and said “Just remember, this face
once snared one of the most beautiful girls in Arkansas."
True that.
Then I walked to the table and fired up the trusty old
computer. Lo and behold! That great teacher and writer: The Journalist Sonny
Rhodes, had lauded something I wrote.
 |
| When you're loved by someone like this, you have a damned fine life. |
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