An Orwell Experince

Sometimes, after I've spoken to a few customers, I feel as if I'm living within a George Orwell novel.

It is not a pleasant experience.

I'm telling 'ya folks, people out there are hurting.

Stephen

It's Cool and Damp

Today, and I like it.

It appears my muse has slipped away, taken a vacation, skipped town. I write best at home. There I have a laptop which gives me comfort when I slip back into my old chair.

The chair, a recliner, is of ancient mahogany constructed around the turn of the last century and its arms have been worn smooth and give the texture of silk and its cushions form perfectly to my body and I like that old chair. So there.

Anyway, here, as I was about to say, it's tough to write. There's the darn doorbell, the tick of several clocks, like little time-bombs which bounce from eardrum to eardrum, and the almost constant traffic noise. I mute the television. It's locked on Bloomberg. The scroll at the bottom keeps me informed of the movements of gold and silver and any likely attempts made against our country....but, it draws my attention and strangles my feeble attempts to compose.

So here I sit, blank. I wish for my old mahogany chair and the silly little laptop and the silence of home just so I can write this piece I've had hidden in the back of my mind for months. I know, for sure, if I make any attempt to slip it from my fingers to this keyboard the bell of this shop will, ding.

Then, it'll be lost.

I do not sit and write long hand notes, nor drafts. When I write it's a one time deal. I write in one long, albeit jerky, session. Its now or never for me.

Notes, little post, aren't so bad. A customer walks in, I stand, and return several minutes or hours later and, ping, back to the subject like nothing just happened. Doesn't work for longer word painted pieces.

If that last made sense to you let me know.

My pretty friend, DFW, came by for a visit recently and we discussed this subject. I believe she understands too but I'm not sure...at least she enjoyed my coffee and that's something, anyway.

There, I've written a post.

Stephen

When Thanksgiving Arrives

I believe I'll make a mess of this...

Southern style turnip greens, stewed with salt pork, beef base, a bit of sugar and cider vinegar. Serve with cornbread and pickled onions and pass the hot pepper sauces at the table.



Ya'll come, 'ya hear...

H/T, Deep South Dish

Stephen

Twice A Month

I sit and pay my bills. It's a real pain in the butt. Sadly, it's also a real reflection of the rate of inflation.

I've written checks at a steady pace for two accounts (my business and home accounts) for the last three hours. One of those checks was for our local newspaper, a write off for me, and I came close to just throwing the statement in the trash can. A one year subscription (weekends included) cost me just shy of three hundred dollars. It wasn't all that long ago I'd write the newspaper a yearly check for one eighty.

Our transportation cost has also increased to the point I might ask the wife to walk to work....what's a twelve mile jog gonna hurt a pretty woman, heck, she's young. Between the two of us our monthly fuel bill averages three hundred and fifty dollars. It's ridiculous. And, hey, I don't blame the oil companies. I lay the blame on the government and its asinine regulations.

I cringe when I enter the local market to shop for our weekly groceries. Prior to the current mini-depression I kept monthly records of our food purchases. No longer. Its just too darn depressing.

What's the answer you ask...good question. I don't know. Sure, live frugally. Stay out of debt. Save money. Been there, done that.

My advice. Keep your head down and stay off the radar, because sooner or later the poop is sure to hit the fan and it will be awful.

*****
(edit) click here and read the headlines.

There....my gentle rant and rave for the year is finished.

Take care,

Stephen

Thanks & Welcome

To my new friend and follower, BadgerMedic. My friend I promise to always answer your comments so feel free, anytime, to drop a line.

Again, thank you and welcome to my humble blog.

Stephen

Rambling, with light rain

I can hear it...the light rain. Its a soft gentle patter. My coffee is hot and the shop is quiet, which I like before the hustle of the work day.

When one sits in the dark with the glow of only one small light and shuffles through the newspaper as a cup of coffee steams on the desk and the only noise is but of the few vehicles that pass outside it gives one time to think. Which, in and of itself isn't all good.

Well into my paper, this morning, I found myself half asleep. Seductive, rain and warmth. It eases you into a state of well being which frees the mind into deeper wells of uncertainty. Then, anger, if you allow it.

I refused and begin to plan my menu for Thanksgiving. Then it occurred to me my meal preparations should be altered from the norm and limited for only two. It'll make for a lonely table. Still I'll tend to my stock and plan my purchase of a fresh turkey and take as much care with the meal as usual.

*****

An apology is in order as I've been remiss in my updates the last few days. Over the weekend Sweet Wife grabbed me by the ear for daily road trips. She decided I was in need of additional restoration projects and since it's almost impossible to find camping equipment in this city (city boys don't like the outdoors) she said we should search the country.

She wore me out. 

Picture this - A flea market stall crammed full of junk, odd glassware and broken children's toys and old cardboard boxes filled to the brim with garage sale leftovers and rusty broken tools and dust and dirt coated clothing, six bins of yesteryear golf irons, and on every item a price tag worthy of Macy's.

Near the rear of the stall I find a high shelf. Scattered within the kitchen bowls and broken wall clocks are six dirty but still usable gas pressure lanterns, all worthy of restoration.

I reach and take one lantern. Its red and the globe isn't cracked. I like it as its a single mantle. No price tag. To my left are two old men seated on milk crates. I glance over and asked, "How much?"

The old man shifts and strains his neck upwards so I bend a little and show him the lamp. He grunts and said, "I don't know let me find the owner. He's in the other stall."

Sweet Wife is deep into exploration. I wait and watch as the shoppers move along the main hallway. There are pretty country girls dressed for winter even if the day is slightly warm. Asians with pull carts filled with vegetables and I can smell the sweet aroma of baked cookies and kettle corn. I like flea markets.

After a few minutes the owner of the merchandise appears and before I have a chance to say a word he yells, "Hey, that's expensive and you can buy it if you have the cash."

I instantly dislike this man.

Me, "How much?"

"It depends on the date. I price 'em by their age."  I take the lantern and look at the base. Its marked '3-66.' March 1966.

Again, "How much?"

He reaches and takes the lamp from my hands, holds it high and says, "Forty-nine dollars." I offer fifteen. The owner, a balding pot bellied gentleman of perhaps fifty-five does a Fred Sandford intimation. An act worthy of Broadway.

I wait.

Then, "Do you know how rare this lantern is? Its worth at least forty-nine dollars."

"Fifteen dollars. If you'd like, make a price on all six and I'll take them off your hands."

The two older men behind me mumble. Sweet Wife has now moved into position next to me and has placed an arm on mine. She tiptoes and whispers, "Stay calm."  

I thought, 'I am calm.' The owner, "Hey, I'm a Coleman expert. Been repairing them for thirty years."

I smile and say, "I've been using them for fifty."

Quick as a wink he came back, "One hundred and fifty dollars for all six, and I've a few more in my other stall. Even got a heater. My price on the heater is forty-nine dollars too. He likes the number forty-nine.

He leaves and returns with a Coleman 502 one burner camp stove. "See here, a heater." I don't correct him and made my offer on his entire stock of pressure lanterns and his 'heater.'

Sweet Wife has gradually worked me, by gentle tugs, towards the exit. His prices are high retail, high.

We walked. After a while she said, "I'm sorry, Honey. I know you liked them." I smiled and said it's fine. The man really doesn't want to sell his wares. He has an emotional connection to his stock. I bet he collects them and they're his show pieces."

Her, "True, that and he was an arrogant butthole."

My wife, she's bright lady.

*****

Later, at the same flea market I followed my nose to a mid-aisle stall where I find a table covered in plastic bags of cookies and banana bread and loaves of buttery delight. A nice slim man with an Indian accent stands and gives out samples.

He has peanut butter and oatmeal raisin and so many others I lost count. All freshly baked early that morning. He explains to me he's a chef - aren't we all. The Chef hands me a business card and explains he teaches the culinary arts at a local college but bakes at home to supplement his income.

Best damn cookies I've eaten in many many years. He offers me a plastic grocery bag and I begin to fill it. I'm like a kid in a candy store. Sweet Wife begins to worry and ever so often, "Honey, that's enough."

The Chef and I discuss his methods, the lack of state laws which give him the freedom to sell his baked goods at the market. He said business was good even though he only markets his cookies and cakes weekends. We discuss the underground economy and the market. We both agreed. Nice man.

Behind my back Sweet Wife had removed several dozen of my treasures. She allowed me the peanut butter and oatmeal....and one loaf.

I ate well on the drive home.

(Please excuse my lack of edit. I'm just too busy.)

Stephen









  


 

Matt's Back

Quick, run over and say hello to Matt, he's back. Hurry he might decide to leave before you have a chance.

He's, here.

While you're dinking around the net stop a moment a say a quick pray for Tam. As mentioned by Matt she has a problem and sure could use a bit of help. Besides, she's special.

Just home after a road trip and I'm too whupped to write. So ya'll take care out there.

Stephen