Sunday, April 13, 2014

Sunday Ramble

Often when I sit to write the words fail me. I've much to say stuck away in storage but those ideas have yet to ripen, mature, thus useless. So, I listen, and wait. It'll nudge me when ready.

It's best if I just sit and listen..and record the sounds....

Mockingbirds, the steady tick of the tide clock, the old emerald windchimes dance on the breeze.

(Ping, fodder.)

The old emerald wind chimes sing as if tuned by a great pianist, notes lost to my musical ignorance. The emerald windchimes came to me long ago from a different life.

The chimes were removed from a small cardboard box and placed on a hook from the roof line of an old Victorian home built high above a cold rocky creek which fed Hammersley Inlet. From that night forward they have gentled the pathway into my dreams. Their metallic wind forced dance came and went with seasonal regularity, always there throughout the last forty years of my life.

Lost within its strings and tubes and its emerald paddle are the shadows of death, divorce, hardships and hope. Also recorded are the whispers of joy and smiles. Horrible sadness lurks within its depths, too.

Often I've repaired the emerald windchime. It hates hard savage winds. After proper repair her songs return as newly minted, and continues to record my life.

The day will arrive when I fade into the shadows of time. Upon my drift into darkness I hope a thoughtful soul continues to repair her dropped tubes and reties the odd broken string. Then to nudge her paddle and play one last tune to my memory.


It's time.  I need to slip on the boots and fire the mower and cut the grass and weeds, after I take a basket and clean the yard of pine cones and broken limbs and rake a bushel of oak leaves. The gutters also need attention. We have a bed of shrubs gone wild...should make for two hours of sweat. Bet I stir at least two wasp attacks.

I'll procrastinate until her return from church. If I'm lucky she'll ask to attend another Sunday movie which will give me all the excuse I'll need to avoid the awful chore. I've grown to hate yard work. Its tedious and returns little in value, other than a tidy lawn. If grass cuttings were gleaned as a food source I'd be far more willing to bust my butt. As it stands the waste is nothing more than compost material.

Speaking of which, it's high time I plant a bed of herbs. A few herbs love compost, other just plain old sand. My compost barrel, a contraption which requires I turn a handle and rotate the drum twice to three times weekly, works very well yet has stood silent and still for the last few years. It's paint has faded to dull green. Blame Obama. The result of a six day work week is a very sad forlorn garden.

Last week, since it's Spring, the love of my life stepped forth and cleaned a flower bed. She then discovered my stack of walkway bricks - a huge neatly organized pile of half-inch dark brown brick.  She took a wheel barrow and gave it a heavy load. Wheeled the ton of baked earth to the east side of our home and proceeded to border the bed with the brick. That evening she downed a bottle of Advil. Spring's a bitch.

But, every cloud has a silver lining. She'll forget the newly planted flower bed with its neatly arranged brown brick border. When she has fully forgotten, I'll step forward with my herbs. It'll make a fine garden.

Just you wait and see...


Friday, April 11, 2014

Ah, Just Sweat

Fact: We live in Florida, and our state is hot and humid. Air conditioning is required. If you don't believe me, try living here without it. Within a week mold will cover your walls. You'll find yourself shucking clothes the moment you walk inside the front door. Indoor pets have been known to commit suicide. The very air you breath is heavy with moisture. Step into your garage and within seconds your body glistens with beads of water. Plain and simple, it sucks.

We're on our forth day without this wonderful life saving system of Mr. Carrier. Our new five ton system was installed less than eight years ago. The compressor in our Carrier is supposed to be under warranty. As such we've had to wait until the local contractor received approval from Carrier with assurances they would indeed honor their warranty, otherwise we'd eat the bill for a new fan compressor. Our quoted estimate was a bit over two thousand dollars, not including labor, coolant, and of course, taxes. (Just received word, the part has been deemd worthy of warranty, thus saving us a few bucks.)

Here's the catch. The part is located in Orlando and if it arrives by 1500 today a fix might take place Monday. After 1500 the nice lady said possibly Tuesday. Here's the thing...the first hot humid air of the season (We're well into Summer here.) arrives, tomorrow. I shall practice the sweat drip dance and make extra ice for sweat (not sweet) tea.

Now where oh where did I hide my loin clothe.


Thursday, April 10, 2014

Had Enough?

To further your government education.

Please, take a few minutes and watch.

Big hat tip to my friend, Matt.


Not At My Door

As is my every morning habit I stepped outside the shop and sipped my first cup of coffee. It was a beautiful day of bright sunshine and cool gusty wind with a scent not unlike honeysuckle. I felt good until I heard the slap.

It was a older man, maybe fifty or sixty, and appeared to have just crawled from beneath the local park dumpster. Greasy, dressed all in black, his light t-shirt ripped; he drooled, so much so a puddle had formed between his black chucks. In his right hand he held a needle. He used his left to slap his exposed right vein. The syringe, I'm sure, held the poor old man's nirvana 

On my bench in front of my shop. Not gonna happen.

"No, not here. Move it on down the road."

I didn't yell. I simply pointed my cup of coffee in his direction and gestured. He glanced my way and reached and took his plastic bag and shuffled to his feet. He then placed the vile of death, that dirty syringe, between his teeth. Another creamy stream of slim dropped from his mouth. The old man slid his watery focus on me and shuffled toward the sidewalk.

Two steps, stop. Two steps, pause. In the meantime school children boarded the bus. Six steps later and midway my parking lot he again stopped, dropped the plastic bag, quickly removed the needle from his mouth and slapped his arm.

This time I yelled, "Get the hell away from here."

Drool dripped. Then, "Okay, you have a nice day."

They, the pimps, hookers, meth heads, crack girls, and this addict all materialize from the park across the street. I have grown to hate this park with its swings and slides and fountains. The tall pines and birds and squirrels are fine. The rest I'd blow to charcoal if given permission. I'd tear down the public restrooms with its picnic benches and little cast iron grills and especially the fountain...its nothing more than a democrat outdoor shower.

Just last week one of my friends yelled, "Hey, Stephen, you gotta see this..." I walk over, he points towards the swings. A young black woman sat on a swing with her arms wrapped around a man's waste. She held him very close. He had his shirt tail lifted, his low-rider shorts lowered to half mast and ever so often she lift her head and check the surroundings as she preformed her service. This in spite of the fact not ten yards away children played.

Like animals....well, almost. Animals at least have class.

The old smack addict slowly worked his way onto the neighboring business property and tried once more to shoot his junk. But this time he glanced in my direction. I simply yelled, "No."

He went.

I propose here and now the States issue all veterans and former military a lifetime license. This license gives discretionary powers to all holders to shot on sight any booger we deem worthy of lead poisoning. Not an open obligation. Limit the harvest to ten (10) boogers per day, with ear tags, and rollover. If said veteran only fires five shots on a given day he's then allowed to carry over the other five and tag fifteen critters the next - and so on.

 I guarantee crime stats will drop like a rock.

The poor old sod finally reached nirvana the next street but one.


Wednesday, April 9, 2014

Another Waco

This poor guys doesn't stand a chance....

The blackbooted thugs have him surrounded. Janet Reno smiles....


Someday Soon

I hope to own the complete DVD set of Justified. I'd like to kick back one day watch the series uninterrupted, front to back. Justified reminds me of Deadwood; the same grittiness but with more gun play and far less foul language.

When the show airs my sweet wife leaves the room. Don't feel bad for her, after all I stay in the same room and suffer as she sings along with that silly American Idol.

(I should be very clear here...Sweet Wife has a beautiful voice...I don't suffer her, it's the show I hate.)