A Cleansing Allegory ...

Sometimes it just takes a rattlesnake. That’s true. One of the species Crotalus horridus (what a tacky name) can be proud. He is responsible for a major cleanup of our farm in north Lonoke County, Arkansas. How? You might well ask. Oh, he didn’t actually do the work. He just provided the motivation.

It happened this way.

It’s been a busy couple of years for us, Brenda and me. We aren’t the neatest people in the world for starters. In addition, we both suffer from Tentyseconditus. For those who don’t know, that’s a medical syndrome whereby one can pick up a strange item, one that he or she doesn’t remember acquiring, one that he or she has no idea what it could possible be used for, one that he or she cannot remember having seen before, … but … after staring at it for 20 seconds can imagine a tres charming use that it might be put to, rendering it worthy of saving.

A year ago, there were maybe 15 piles of such items scattered at various sites near the entrance to our farm. Any discussion of removal of the slightest item, no matter how rusted, bent, corroded, or absent major parts, instigated an argument the likes of which haven’t seen since Helen fled to Troy with Paris. Several new words have been added to Webster’s Unauthorized Dictionary of Profanity as a result of these discussions. So, the piles remained in place.

Grass and weeks grew up around and within the piles. A bittersweet pecan tree arose from one. Poke sallet soared above others. The piles lay undisturbed and developed a someone mocking demeanor. We simply mowed around them as best we could and discouraged visitors.

Then the snake showed up. Our dogs announced the fact by circling it and emitting, in seven-part harmony, their “snake-bark.” The snake itself stayed calm, coiled and daring a canine entry into the strike-zone. Its tail quivered that message which, translated from the original Rattlesnake, means, roughly, “Don’t **** with me.”

Then La Jefa, “The Boss” appeared, shocked at such a saucy intrusion into her yard space. The dogs parted in deference to the higher authority. The snake made the mistake of turning its narrow eyes toward her. Then it went to see Jesus, suffering an expiration from more or less natural causes.

Next, a search began for a site of origin. There were at least five piles of unclassified junk, covered by weeds and grass, that could have accounted for this herpetological nightmare.

May I proudly state that almost all the piles of trash and weeds have now been removed? A multitude of trash bags, containing the objects du hoarding, now await transportation to the county dump. Tired, sore, but proud muscles stand ready for the task. Oh, we didn’t get away scot-free. We did retain something that looks like part of an old music stand. You just never know. Also, there is a twisted object that might be one of those tools country women once used to lift hot jars from pots. “I might start canning again,” was all she said. I knew to keep my mouth shut.

The lesson? sometimes we don’t pay attention and our world gets clogged and profaned with piles of trash. They fester and grow if not stopped. They attract more vermin if we don’t stand up to the task.  Sometimes we feel it is just too great and we don’t have enough support to get the job done. We argue amongst ourselves as to the best course of action. We suffer malaise. We long for a cleansing motivator.

All it takes is a rattlesnake.

Make America Beautiful Again

Sailing To Oblivium: August 5, 2017

When I returned from overseas and checked aboard the USS Hunley for the remaining two years of my Navy enlistment, I carried my all in one sea bag.

When I moved to Little Rock to begin my first professional job, I carried everything I owned, save one sack of books, in a 1967 Chevrolet sedan.

You know those childhood dreams about a genie granting you three wishes? My first would be to live in that condition again.

How do we accumulate so much stuff? I don’t know. We buy things. People give us things. We acquire things through the death of others. Other family members and friends pawn things off on us. Some items simply appear overnight by magic, left by some invisible force seeking to add gravity to our lives. We even find things others have lost or discarded.

I have this person in my life, of whom I think highly—very highly—who can spot a wrench or other tool on the shoulder of the road 100 feet away at 50 miles per hour. The person in question acquired the skill from her father, who practiced it for over 50 years. We now have three tubs filled with such random items. A few even work.

In family fairness, I’ve been known to take a book from our condo “library” and not return it. Everyone knows, though, that books and guitars don’t count. And our best slip-joint pliers I found in a street gutter while out fat-walking.  But back to useless acquisitions.

We once lived on a wonderful block that had an alley. That alley was the social spine of our neighborhood as well as the trash collection route. People living there were known, on occasion, to peak at the “throw-aways” of others and sneak away items of some undetermined but potentially useful value. I’m not admitting to anything, but we still have an item or two obtained that way.

Flea markets and yard sales? Please don’t mention them. Every time I move some mysterious object from one place to another, I hear the words of dear friend and former neighbor Nick Nicholson, “Why the wood alone is worth the price.”

Doubtless.

Further, there is no cleansing, as there should be. The main obstacle? It’s what I call the “20-second rule” which posits that if one stares at an object for 20 seconds, even one just found 30-years since it was last seen, and whose original purpose is unfathomable, she or he will think of something for which it might be useful, and squirrel it away for another 30 years.

No, we never eliminate, we simply change storage spots. With the energy I’ve spent moving unused, sometimes unusable, items from one location to another, I could have, well hell, I could have helped renovate an historic home, learned to play the banjo, or written a novel.

Well, I’ve done those things, but I could certainly could have done them better if I weren’t caring for junk.

The problem is, any time I’ve thrown both caution and endearment to the wind and disposed of a completely useless object, I’ve needed it within a week or so.

Meanwhile the pile grows. We still have a path through the house, but it grows more narrow with each passing year. Eventually, we could become housebound.

Know what? The Russians don’t need to subvert our elections or out-bomb us. They could just hire drug-runners to change products, and instead of dope, they could smuggle in useless junk and set up fake yard sales. The country would be paralyzed in a few years.

Oh, wait a minute …

Would a clean desk improve
the quality of writing? I dunno.