It's deer hunting weekend again. I've Windexed the fly poop off at least the insides of the windows, hooked up the propane stove in the corner, and hacked back some of the prickly ash that snags my trousers as I am getting to The Tower Stand, which is the name this stand has come to be called.
Along with the usual claptrap that comes in the mail disguised in brown "Official" envelopes, there was one last week that looked real tempting. As a rule, pitching that stuff is fun. Some admiration is due to the ingenious fashions in which those folks sending out mail solicitations and advertisements get us to open them up.
For those of us born in the forties, one of the most amazing advances we've seen in our lives has been dentistry. Florides, brushing education, braces, check-ups—today's kids all keep their teeth forever. Back then, all our parents seemed to accept that false teeth were inevitable. They all had them. Cursed them. Scraped on them with knives. Put them in a drinking glass by the side of the bed when they went to sleep. Nothing about losing your teeth seemed attractive. Plus I heard you couldn't play the harmonica without your teeth.
Everything seems different, doesn't it? At first I was thinking about the weather, but that's not the only thing that seems different. Maybe it's because none of us are getting any younger, which means we're getting older, which means we see winters, summers, springs, lots of things, with eyes that are different. Smarter, one would hope. But where was hope when we were snowed on in April? Yeah, right.
A wood tick fell onto my arm from the driver's side sun visor in my car on the way home from work. I hate wood ticks. I don't really understand why they were invented, either as part of God's plan or Darwin's. There are creatures that fit nicely into either of these; some of them fit nicely into both. Then there are wood ticks.
There are several things you have to know before I tell you about a dream I just had, because dreams are usually odd regurgitations of stuff. First is the fact that we have a lot of Amish around here now. They trot their horses along their way on the highways and byways. (Some folks might complain that they don't pay any road taxes, but come to think about it, I don't pay any on farm tractors, either, and they're much harder on roads).
General Electric the washing machine was coughing so hard that I could hear him clear upstairs. That tubby square gut of his was acting like a megaphone. The entire house was vibrating at levels measurable by seismic detectors clear to the coast. I raced down the stairs. I was shocked when I turned on the light. General Electric the washing machine was as white as a ghost. (You do have to be an expert to tell. After all, he's painted white.) "Are you alright?" I asked him.
Maybe it started with the clock telling me the time. Clocks are important to us. We don't realize how important they are, until we realize that we are running out of what they tell us. So clocks, being as they tell us time, must therefore talk to us, whether we hear it or not. When a clock first spoke to me, that was the moment when I realized that there was a whole universe of stuff out there that could speak to me, if I listened.
(Every once in a while, I run this old column. I wrote it 23 years ago when my prostate and I had just turned fifty. Those were the good old days, although at the time I didn't know that. The point is: Today is one of tomorrow's good old days--enjoy it.) When I grow old, don't be surprised if I start to do things differently.
I was in Norway a couple of years ago, which means I am uniquely qualified to provide the opposite view to President Trump's wishes for Norwegians to emigrate to the USA. He thinks they should come here; I think they shouldn't. I think they're better off where they are. So here are as many reasons as I can think of why they should stay where they are.