For you who have so kindly asked, "Where the freak ARE you these days?", I've been working on custom-written and illustrated books for kids of all ages. It's a new venture for me, and, dudes and dudettes, it puts the "tired" in retired! But I love it.
In the meantime, how about politics nowadays? Can you even believe we elected these loons, or are considering electing the latest crop of loons?
I mean: the congressnuts from my own Pretty Puzzling State of Utah are Jason Chaffetz and Mike Lee, and that adorable living fossil, Orrin (I'll say anything the tea party wants me to say) Hatch (formerly knownn - oooh about 40 years ago as Mr. Term Limits). Chaffetz wants to declare incredibly beauteous spans of wild federal land in this state as "excess" and sell it off for drilling, "development", and so on. Follow the money on this one, kids, and see where it leads. Mike Lee wants to have a Super Pac (remember, corporations and other entities are "people" now according to the Supremes) while IN OFFICE to raise untold, unimaginable amounts of money to support whomever he decides is worthy.
OMG. I mean, seriously???
Well, must say adieu for awhile. Thank you all for your more than kind remarks. I do intend to write again in the space. Go in peace.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
Jon and Chief
The other day I saw a bright chestnut Quarter Horse gelding with 3 white stockings who reminded me of Jon Martine's horse, Chief. I haven't thought about Jon and Chief for a long time; they were part of a free and wild and adolescent life I left behind in Southern California for a more sober, reflective adulthood in northern Idaho, made poignant by the return, after 17 years, to three distinct seasons with all their attendant emotions.
Jon was part of our Black Mountain Road group of riders, all women except for him, who feared no steep climb or descent, no dimming evening, no weather, and seemed then possessed of infinite time to spend with our horses. We might start out on a morning, ride all day and see no one. Our canyon, Penasquitos - which means "The Little Cliffs" - was for the most part empy then of everything except deer, coyote, rabbit, bobcat, rattlesnake, lizard, vole, field mouse, a few stray cattle, and the ghosts haunting the adobe ruin of the ranch house that first housed the Spanish lords of the land grant.
Some days, our laughter and the hoofbeats were the only sounds save a whisper in the eucalyptus leaves. Our horses caught our spirit, and loved to run. Sometimes we were bucked off in the general ruckus and riot, but we got back on. When we returned to the stables, we'd cool our horses, bathe and curry them, check their hoofs for stones, turn them out to take their dust-bath, then loiter in the shade by the creek and talk.
Jon's wife didn't ride, didn't care for horses. We saw her once in awhile at a barn cook-out, but I remember not knowing her well, for she seemed to prefer not being known by us. We were Jon's friends, and Chief was his best friend - a tall gelding with a mane and tail almost gold, and a sweet yet feisty disposition. Chief would carry Jon anywhere Jon asked. Jon loved that gelding. Hindsight being the bugger it is, I think now that perhaps he loved Chief as much as he loved his wife, and yearned for the life he had with the horse and his horse companions to somehow magically meld with the domestic life his wife wanted him both to have.
Our wild bunch signed on for the annual week-long Penasquitos trek from the canyon up to Mount Palomar. The trail had once been called "Nigger Nate Grade" after the man who had called himself the "first white man on the mountain," though he was a black Westerner. As I was riding with the trekkers, and as I was (and to my best knowledge, remain) a black person, the trail's name was hastily restructured to "Nate Harrison Grade." Our bunch snickered about it, but pretended we knew no other name, political correctness not being our forte long before the term had come into such tiresome use as a way to make people keep their bloody mouth shut.
I still remember Jon and Chief crossing one of the shallow, wide waterways on the journey up. The day was California-hot, we were just out of the avocado groves around noon, and thinking about laying up for a half-hour or so. Everyone had conditioned their horses all summer in preparation, so I daresay we were more in need of a blow and rest than they were. The group would stop after crossing the water.
"Jon, Chief's gonna roll!" we cried, as the chestnut stopped midway and began to paw the water, sending spray everywhere. Jon did not believe us, until Chief's front legs buckled and down he went, Jon and saddle and saddle-bags and all, on his side in the cool, cool water. Jon looked comical, sitting on the dry topside of his basking horse - we all laughed till the tears came, Jon included. A slight-built, thin man with a slight, thin black moustache, he had a wonderful smile that changed a habitually rather anxious face to a handsome one.
As long as we'd been horsing together, we didn't know Jon was hypoglycemic until half through the descent back toward home, after a couple of days spent horse-camping on Palomar. He began to sway in the saddle, Chief doing his best to stay under him, as a good horse will when it feels the load on board shifting in an unusual way, but Chief was starting to be frightened.
I stopped my reliable Appaloosa in front of Chief to present an obstacle to any forward sliding, and two of the other gals pulled up on either side to catch a rein each and steady Jon in the saddle. With Chief stopped, we got him on the ground. He explained weakly about his hypoglycemia; he just needed something to eat. Candy bars, granola, oranges, and I don't know what all else, appeared all around from the other riders. Horse people do tend to look out for one another, at least rough riders outside the over-heated ego festival you may find at some high-end, high-stakes horse shows.
I guess there was more than hypoglycemia that we didn't know about Jon. Less than a year later, he shot himself to death at home, timing it to be sure his wife would be the one to walk in on the horror. The shock to our riding bunch was such that we could barely speak of it to each other. We could say his name, and nothing else.
And there was Chief. Bereft. Grieving. There was Chief, in the permanent care of one of our group - Jon's wife wanted nothing to do with him, made it clear she had no interest in what happened to him. She never came around the stable to talk to any of us. We, including poor Chief, must have represented to her all that had been wrong, missing, broken, between Jon and her. If she would just have spent more time here, someone said, she would have understood it was only about the love of horses, not about other women trying to lure her husband away. It was only about the horses.
But I guess Jon thought he had to choose. And he could not.
So when I saw that bright chestnut gelding the other day, I thought about Jon and Chief, and the tyranny of having to choose.
Jon was part of our Black Mountain Road group of riders, all women except for him, who feared no steep climb or descent, no dimming evening, no weather, and seemed then possessed of infinite time to spend with our horses. We might start out on a morning, ride all day and see no one. Our canyon, Penasquitos - which means "The Little Cliffs" - was for the most part empy then of everything except deer, coyote, rabbit, bobcat, rattlesnake, lizard, vole, field mouse, a few stray cattle, and the ghosts haunting the adobe ruin of the ranch house that first housed the Spanish lords of the land grant.
Some days, our laughter and the hoofbeats were the only sounds save a whisper in the eucalyptus leaves. Our horses caught our spirit, and loved to run. Sometimes we were bucked off in the general ruckus and riot, but we got back on. When we returned to the stables, we'd cool our horses, bathe and curry them, check their hoofs for stones, turn them out to take their dust-bath, then loiter in the shade by the creek and talk.
Jon's wife didn't ride, didn't care for horses. We saw her once in awhile at a barn cook-out, but I remember not knowing her well, for she seemed to prefer not being known by us. We were Jon's friends, and Chief was his best friend - a tall gelding with a mane and tail almost gold, and a sweet yet feisty disposition. Chief would carry Jon anywhere Jon asked. Jon loved that gelding. Hindsight being the bugger it is, I think now that perhaps he loved Chief as much as he loved his wife, and yearned for the life he had with the horse and his horse companions to somehow magically meld with the domestic life his wife wanted him both to have.
Our wild bunch signed on for the annual week-long Penasquitos trek from the canyon up to Mount Palomar. The trail had once been called "Nigger Nate Grade" after the man who had called himself the "first white man on the mountain," though he was a black Westerner. As I was riding with the trekkers, and as I was (and to my best knowledge, remain) a black person, the trail's name was hastily restructured to "Nate Harrison Grade." Our bunch snickered about it, but pretended we knew no other name, political correctness not being our forte long before the term had come into such tiresome use as a way to make people keep their bloody mouth shut.
I still remember Jon and Chief crossing one of the shallow, wide waterways on the journey up. The day was California-hot, we were just out of the avocado groves around noon, and thinking about laying up for a half-hour or so. Everyone had conditioned their horses all summer in preparation, so I daresay we were more in need of a blow and rest than they were. The group would stop after crossing the water.
"Jon, Chief's gonna roll!" we cried, as the chestnut stopped midway and began to paw the water, sending spray everywhere. Jon did not believe us, until Chief's front legs buckled and down he went, Jon and saddle and saddle-bags and all, on his side in the cool, cool water. Jon looked comical, sitting on the dry topside of his basking horse - we all laughed till the tears came, Jon included. A slight-built, thin man with a slight, thin black moustache, he had a wonderful smile that changed a habitually rather anxious face to a handsome one.
As long as we'd been horsing together, we didn't know Jon was hypoglycemic until half through the descent back toward home, after a couple of days spent horse-camping on Palomar. He began to sway in the saddle, Chief doing his best to stay under him, as a good horse will when it feels the load on board shifting in an unusual way, but Chief was starting to be frightened.
I stopped my reliable Appaloosa in front of Chief to present an obstacle to any forward sliding, and two of the other gals pulled up on either side to catch a rein each and steady Jon in the saddle. With Chief stopped, we got him on the ground. He explained weakly about his hypoglycemia; he just needed something to eat. Candy bars, granola, oranges, and I don't know what all else, appeared all around from the other riders. Horse people do tend to look out for one another, at least rough riders outside the over-heated ego festival you may find at some high-end, high-stakes horse shows.
I guess there was more than hypoglycemia that we didn't know about Jon. Less than a year later, he shot himself to death at home, timing it to be sure his wife would be the one to walk in on the horror. The shock to our riding bunch was such that we could barely speak of it to each other. We could say his name, and nothing else.
And there was Chief. Bereft. Grieving. There was Chief, in the permanent care of one of our group - Jon's wife wanted nothing to do with him, made it clear she had no interest in what happened to him. She never came around the stable to talk to any of us. We, including poor Chief, must have represented to her all that had been wrong, missing, broken, between Jon and her. If she would just have spent more time here, someone said, she would have understood it was only about the love of horses, not about other women trying to lure her husband away. It was only about the horses.
But I guess Jon thought he had to choose. And he could not.
So when I saw that bright chestnut gelding the other day, I thought about Jon and Chief, and the tyranny of having to choose.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Lady Fruitcake & the Energy Spiel
Tallyho - Michelle Bachman, my dear Lady Fruitcake, is off again. First it was $2 a gallon gasoline that President Bachmann would bring back, now she's dropped into the eternal uber-conservative's fantasy of Infinite Domestic Energy Through Better Extractive Industry. See following quote.
"The United States is the number one country in the world for energy resources," the Minnesota congresswoman (Ms. Bachmann) told a central Florida town hall meeting, arguing that in shale deposits alone the U.S. easily outstrips the total oil supply of Saudi Arabia. "That doesn't even include ... all the oil in Alaska."
Never mind that working a shale deposit require millions of gallons of water and even further energy expenditure to wring from the groaning earth some few tablespoons of very crude oil which may arguably power several camping lanterns in the United States for a day or two. I exaggerate for effect, but you get the picture.
They want to start sucking out shale oil right here in my Pretty, Great Although Slightly Wacko State of Utah. It's a desert, part of the dry and getting drier basin and range system so memorably written of by John McPhee in his book, "Basin and Range." We're already about to go to war with Nevada over their plan to siphon the water from under the Snake Valley, thus causing it to either collapse into the mother of all sinkholes or else blow away and deposit several feet of dust on the Salt Lake Valley (where, let me tell ya, we got sufficient problems already with chunky air).
Here's what it looks like so far...
Isn't that special??? Utah is justly renowned for rugged, wild landscapes, both desert and mountain. This here operation somehow just does not quite sing "tourists - ka-ching!" to me, but hey I'm just a crabby old lady.
Here's some more - tar sand operations in Canada? Got ugly?
For more skinny, together with righteous outrage, go here (they are smarter and better-informed than I am): http://www.theecologist.org/investigations/energy/304963/tar_sands_tearing_the_flesh_from_the_earth.html.
Lady Fruitcake wants all of y'all to share these wonders! Isn't she the bee's knees, and a real Suzerain of Short-Term Gain, to be followed by long-term and likely unending regret? So sad when one can only hope that the outlandish Bushoid likes of Rick Perry will eclipse this very dim bulb.
Then, of course, there's Mittens Romney in the wings. This is a down-and-dirty blues song without end. I mean, I've been reasonably good, so the rest of y'all must have done something really really really bad for it to come to this. I do believe it's 5 o'clock somehwere, so if you will excuse me...
"The United States is the number one country in the world for energy resources," the Minnesota congresswoman (Ms. Bachmann) told a central Florida town hall meeting, arguing that in shale deposits alone the U.S. easily outstrips the total oil supply of Saudi Arabia. "That doesn't even include ... all the oil in Alaska."
Never mind that working a shale deposit require millions of gallons of water and even further energy expenditure to wring from the groaning earth some few tablespoons of very crude oil which may arguably power several camping lanterns in the United States for a day or two. I exaggerate for effect, but you get the picture.
They want to start sucking out shale oil right here in my Pretty, Great Although Slightly Wacko State of Utah. It's a desert, part of the dry and getting drier basin and range system so memorably written of by John McPhee in his book, "Basin and Range." We're already about to go to war with Nevada over their plan to siphon the water from under the Snake Valley, thus causing it to either collapse into the mother of all sinkholes or else blow away and deposit several feet of dust on the Salt Lake Valley (where, let me tell ya, we got sufficient problems already with chunky air).
Here's what it looks like so far...
Here's some more - tar sand operations in Canada? Got ugly?
Lady Fruitcake wants all of y'all to share these wonders! Isn't she the bee's knees, and a real Suzerain of Short-Term Gain, to be followed by long-term and likely unending regret? So sad when one can only hope that the outlandish Bushoid likes of Rick Perry will eclipse this very dim bulb.
Then, of course, there's Mittens Romney in the wings. This is a down-and-dirty blues song without end. I mean, I've been reasonably good, so the rest of y'all must have done something really really really bad for it to come to this. I do believe it's 5 o'clock somehwere, so if you will excuse me...
Friday, August 26, 2011
Corn Stalks
Home-grown corn is sweet, soon gone. The flavor and the smell, the texture of the silk and the husk remind of infinite childhood summers, family cook-outs - innocent days. You twist the ears loose from the stalks; they're warm from the sun. You peel a little husk off and shake out the earwigs who wriggle in their weird earwig scuttle back into the hot shade of the corn rows. You carry the ears into the house, bathe them in cold water to keep the sugar up. If you are not cooking them right away, you lay them in the sink under a cool, damp towel.
Ears of fresh corn are special, delightful, easy on the soul.
The stripped corn stalks are not like this. As they dry under the white-blazing late-summer sky, they begin to whisper, to rub their long, browning tillers together like wizened witch hands. When you are out by the picked cornfield at night or before first light, you stop and listen, thinking some small creatures are running through the field - mice, voles, young raccoons, the feral cats. But there are no creatures, only the corn stalks. No matter how practical you consider yourself to be, no matter how brave you are certain you would be when confronted with the absolute and unknown Other, a primitive tremor from the reptile remnant in your brain snakes along your spine.
What are the corn stalks talking of in their dry, dry, voices? Perhaps they resent the taking of their children to feed your appetite. They don't know or remember that you gave them life when you sowed the seed, nurtured the seedlings with sweat and water, protected the field from devouring insects, from fungus, rust, and rot. They think that they owe you nothing, and they do not like you.
Under a full moon, you can see them moving - even when the night is dead-still, their shrivelled leaf-fingers rub, rub, twist, twine, wring. Our children, our children, they ceaselessly rasp. Our children.
When the time comes to mow down the yellowed stalks, take them beneath the earth whence they emerged in a springtime that seems years past now, in the crisp of autumn, there is one last long cry from them. Even over the tiller's grind, you will hear it and the reptile in you will shiver.
Some say all our lands are haunted by the beings of all species who came before, were mowed down, turned under, slain and forgotten. Few now can hear the murmurings. Those who plant corn and walk the emptied fields by night hear all.
Ears of fresh corn are special, delightful, easy on the soul.
The stripped corn stalks are not like this. As they dry under the white-blazing late-summer sky, they begin to whisper, to rub their long, browning tillers together like wizened witch hands. When you are out by the picked cornfield at night or before first light, you stop and listen, thinking some small creatures are running through the field - mice, voles, young raccoons, the feral cats. But there are no creatures, only the corn stalks. No matter how practical you consider yourself to be, no matter how brave you are certain you would be when confronted with the absolute and unknown Other, a primitive tremor from the reptile remnant in your brain snakes along your spine.
What are the corn stalks talking of in their dry, dry, voices? Perhaps they resent the taking of their children to feed your appetite. They don't know or remember that you gave them life when you sowed the seed, nurtured the seedlings with sweat and water, protected the field from devouring insects, from fungus, rust, and rot. They think that they owe you nothing, and they do not like you.
Under a full moon, you can see them moving - even when the night is dead-still, their shrivelled leaf-fingers rub, rub, twist, twine, wring. Our children, our children, they ceaselessly rasp. Our children.
When the time comes to mow down the yellowed stalks, take them beneath the earth whence they emerged in a springtime that seems years past now, in the crisp of autumn, there is one last long cry from them. Even over the tiller's grind, you will hear it and the reptile in you will shiver.
Some say all our lands are haunted by the beings of all species who came before, were mowed down, turned under, slain and forgotten. Few now can hear the murmurings. Those who plant corn and walk the emptied fields by night hear all.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
A New Meaning for Rockin' Chair
Sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll - that's what geezers and geezettes my age grew up with. Freedom Riders, We Shall Overcome, Summer of Love, Woodstock (well, my mama wouldn't have let me go anyway - my job was pulling down the good grades...), Joan Baez, extreme hair, and all that. And now we are retired, about to retire, thinking about retiring, to that Ole Rockin' Chair.
But the rockin' is different than what our parents and grandparents did; we are rockin' to Golden Oldies radio, resurging vinyl, and to Beatles, Stones, Creedence Clearwater tribute bands, and to new kidz like Beyonce, Kanye, Garth, Mariah, the Righteous Babe, and all that. Still crazy after all these years, and still rhymin' with Simon, emoting with EmmyLou, diggin' on Dolly (the original self-made power woman). Duuuuuuudes!
We who survived, through luck, pluck and by the skin of our teeth, should know by now that the music is not enough. There's STILL something happening here, and what it is is becoming extremely clear. Greed-heads, liars, controllers, fools, pimps for God, and out-and-out loons are trying to rule the world and they really do not care who or what they destroy in the process of establishing their Evil Empire, wherein the rest of us will be 21st Century serfs expected to pull our forelock, bow, and acquiesce. The bread and circuses handed to us are electronic - silly toys to keep us chained in maxed-out-credit-card Hell and distance us from one another and from the horror outside the window. Throw that crap away unless you're using it to foment dissent, otherwise it's just Anti-Social Media and a waste of our precious time - don't think twice, it's not all right. Talk to someone face to face; you will be astonished to find he/she is human, just like you.
I would like to hear a Roger Daltrey primal scream from us 60s leftovers; we should be mad as hell and unwilling to take it anymore. If you're going to stand up for the vulnerable, the helpless and hapless, the animals, the forests, the rivers and streams, the farmers and ranchers (should we really pave it all and depend on a country whose name we cannot spell to feed us, really, should we??), the very air we suck down ever so many times a minute - if we are going to stand up, the hour is getting late so let's do it.
99% of the politicians are wearing the Emperor's new clothes and this should be pointed out daily and fearlessly, with regard only for facts as opposed to rumors and lies repeated so often they're taken for truth, and with a real (not fake Beck/Palin/Bachmann/Romney/Perry et al.) moral outrage. Follow the money and shine a light on its nasty source.
Get the rockin' chair rockin'. Remember what it was like to take situations in hand and go for broke. Don't be afraid; we're old - what can they do to us?
"We have nothing to fear but fear itself." ~ Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
But the rockin' is different than what our parents and grandparents did; we are rockin' to Golden Oldies radio, resurging vinyl, and to Beatles, Stones, Creedence Clearwater tribute bands, and to new kidz like Beyonce, Kanye, Garth, Mariah, the Righteous Babe, and all that. Still crazy after all these years, and still rhymin' with Simon, emoting with EmmyLou, diggin' on Dolly (the original self-made power woman). Duuuuuuudes!
We who survived, through luck, pluck and by the skin of our teeth, should know by now that the music is not enough. There's STILL something happening here, and what it is is becoming extremely clear. Greed-heads, liars, controllers, fools, pimps for God, and out-and-out loons are trying to rule the world and they really do not care who or what they destroy in the process of establishing their Evil Empire, wherein the rest of us will be 21st Century serfs expected to pull our forelock, bow, and acquiesce. The bread and circuses handed to us are electronic - silly toys to keep us chained in maxed-out-credit-card Hell and distance us from one another and from the horror outside the window. Throw that crap away unless you're using it to foment dissent, otherwise it's just Anti-Social Media and a waste of our precious time - don't think twice, it's not all right. Talk to someone face to face; you will be astonished to find he/she is human, just like you.
I would like to hear a Roger Daltrey primal scream from us 60s leftovers; we should be mad as hell and unwilling to take it anymore. If you're going to stand up for the vulnerable, the helpless and hapless, the animals, the forests, the rivers and streams, the farmers and ranchers (should we really pave it all and depend on a country whose name we cannot spell to feed us, really, should we??), the very air we suck down ever so many times a minute - if we are going to stand up, the hour is getting late so let's do it.
99% of the politicians are wearing the Emperor's new clothes and this should be pointed out daily and fearlessly, with regard only for facts as opposed to rumors and lies repeated so often they're taken for truth, and with a real (not fake Beck/Palin/Bachmann/Romney/Perry et al.) moral outrage. Follow the money and shine a light on its nasty source.
Get the rockin' chair rockin'. Remember what it was like to take situations in hand and go for broke. Don't be afraid; we're old - what can they do to us?
"We have nothing to fear but fear itself." ~ Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
The Best Hour
The best hour of the day is the wolf-light hour, before the sun tops the edge of the Wasatch Mountains. In the valley below, the colors are still bruise-purple, blue and slate, except far to the west over the lake, where
gold glows and the shadows have already sharpened.
In late August, the temperature outdoors is still cool, the air still stirring in its sleep at the best hour. The grasshoppers have not begun their whirring in the tall grasses along the fence-lines. Magpies back for the autumn that waits behind August's blazing mask are still silent in the big cedar. The commuter train humming along the track on the other side of the gravel road behind the barn glides past with windows lit like an earhtbound UFO - bent heads of astronauts inside, seriously engaged with important matters.
You get your horse out and mosey down the gravel road. Once the train passes, unless a freight rumbles by, the only sounds are his hoofbeats deliberate and slow; he's still sleepy. The horses at the other barns may nicker, may only stare and widen their nostrils to take you in - they know you and know you usually pass by at the best hour. Some dogs that live rough in their owner's junk-strewn half-acre backyards may bark, but without conviction. They haven't had breakfast and their hearts aren't in making a commotion; they know you, too. The barks are apologetic: I have to do this, it's my job, you know.
Where gardens are, the road is damp from sprinklers and you can smell what they are growing. The slightly bitter tang of tomato plants, the green scent of cucumbers, runner beans, and peppers, the sweetness from ripe corn that needs picking. Whiff of goat, the very particular aroma of chickens. The fusty odor of old, wet wood from tumble-down sheds leaning lazily against nothing, soon to come down in winter winds. Across the tracks, fields of pumpkins and corn sparkle under showers from walking irrigators and the arcs of water catch the coming daylight. Near the road's end, as you walk under the echoing overpass, there may be cattle already in the farthest field, ready for autumn feeding; they don't notice you.
If you keep your eyes on the yards, the barns, the fields, the road and the train tracks, you can pretend you are in the country, in a place where farm ground is sacred ground and horses are respected philosophers. Don't look too far to the north - that's where the city of Ogden sits; at night, its eerie glow below the treeline snuffs out stars you would like to see. But that's just how it is.
Things are tolerable here, as long as you get up and get out during the best hour.
gold glows and the shadows have already sharpened.
In late August, the temperature outdoors is still cool, the air still stirring in its sleep at the best hour. The grasshoppers have not begun their whirring in the tall grasses along the fence-lines. Magpies back for the autumn that waits behind August's blazing mask are still silent in the big cedar. The commuter train humming along the track on the other side of the gravel road behind the barn glides past with windows lit like an earhtbound UFO - bent heads of astronauts inside, seriously engaged with important matters.
You get your horse out and mosey down the gravel road. Once the train passes, unless a freight rumbles by, the only sounds are his hoofbeats deliberate and slow; he's still sleepy. The horses at the other barns may nicker, may only stare and widen their nostrils to take you in - they know you and know you usually pass by at the best hour. Some dogs that live rough in their owner's junk-strewn half-acre backyards may bark, but without conviction. They haven't had breakfast and their hearts aren't in making a commotion; they know you, too. The barks are apologetic: I have to do this, it's my job, you know.
Where gardens are, the road is damp from sprinklers and you can smell what they are growing. The slightly bitter tang of tomato plants, the green scent of cucumbers, runner beans, and peppers, the sweetness from ripe corn that needs picking. Whiff of goat, the very particular aroma of chickens. The fusty odor of old, wet wood from tumble-down sheds leaning lazily against nothing, soon to come down in winter winds. Across the tracks, fields of pumpkins and corn sparkle under showers from walking irrigators and the arcs of water catch the coming daylight. Near the road's end, as you walk under the echoing overpass, there may be cattle already in the farthest field, ready for autumn feeding; they don't notice you.
If you keep your eyes on the yards, the barns, the fields, the road and the train tracks, you can pretend you are in the country, in a place where farm ground is sacred ground and horses are respected philosophers. Don't look too far to the north - that's where the city of Ogden sits; at night, its eerie glow below the treeline snuffs out stars you would like to see. But that's just how it is.
Things are tolerable here, as long as you get up and get out during the best hour.
No Grovelling, Please: We're Campaigning...
I read the news today - oh boy!
Presidential candidate Jon Huntsman, formerly the moderate and rather sensible governor of my Pretty, Great and Rather Strange State of Utah, said out loud, in his own voice, in public, that he would probably accept if Michelle (Lady Fruitcake) Bachmann were nominated and asked him to run with her as her VP.
Gasp.
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, since we old people do forget things and get things mixed up with other, unrelated (but fascinating) things, BUT isn't Ms. Bachmann the one who claimed that sharia law was in force in "several" American cities? No names offered except for one town that didn't exist anymore, and another one that was astounded to learn it was operating under sharia law. Isn't Ms. Bachmann also the one who recently promised that, if she were President, she would bring back $2 a gallon gasoline? From whence she would bring it, economists and oil futures speculators - not to mention the Princes of OPEC - are still consulting their GPS devices and ouija boards.
I can understand that formerly sensible guv Huntsman really, really, really would like to hold national office, but oh my heck 'n hockeysticks, is he already that desperate? Even Mittens (well, what else is Mitt the diminuitive of?) would probably not sink that low. Besides, I doubt that Mitt and Michelle would be a peaceful pairing - fruitcake and shape-shifting amoebae generally don't mix...
Sorry: I just call 'em like I see 'em - there has got to be some benefit from being so old you don't give a rat's patoot what anybody thinks of what you think.
Point of discussion: Jon Huntsman, please call home - it's very important. You've left your identity on the dresser.
Presidential candidate Jon Huntsman, formerly the moderate and rather sensible governor of my Pretty, Great and Rather Strange State of Utah, said out loud, in his own voice, in public, that he would probably accept if Michelle (Lady Fruitcake) Bachmann were nominated and asked him to run with her as her VP.
Gasp.
Now, correct me if I'm wrong, since we old people do forget things and get things mixed up with other, unrelated (but fascinating) things, BUT isn't Ms. Bachmann the one who claimed that sharia law was in force in "several" American cities? No names offered except for one town that didn't exist anymore, and another one that was astounded to learn it was operating under sharia law. Isn't Ms. Bachmann also the one who recently promised that, if she were President, she would bring back $2 a gallon gasoline? From whence she would bring it, economists and oil futures speculators - not to mention the Princes of OPEC - are still consulting their GPS devices and ouija boards.
I can understand that formerly sensible guv Huntsman really, really, really would like to hold national office, but oh my heck 'n hockeysticks, is he already that desperate? Even Mittens (well, what else is Mitt the diminuitive of?) would probably not sink that low. Besides, I doubt that Mitt and Michelle would be a peaceful pairing - fruitcake and shape-shifting amoebae generally don't mix...
Sorry: I just call 'em like I see 'em - there has got to be some benefit from being so old you don't give a rat's patoot what anybody thinks of what you think.
Point of discussion: Jon Huntsman, please call home - it's very important. You've left your identity on the dresser.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)