Gathering Light

One of the tasty phrases that Leonard Cohen left us to chew over is this one: “There is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.”

Another man named Otto von Bismarck is quoted as saying (although he many not have been the first who did): “Law and sausage are two things you do not want to see being made. To retain respect for sausages and laws, one must not watch them in the making.”

I agree with both of these guys. Sometimes there is just little too much light that gets in for that particular day.

I have friends who just love to watch documentaries that are exposés (and the streaming universe is full of such programming). These friends positively quiver at being able to relate indignantly how this or that politician has been caught out lying to us, for instance.

In my callow youth (which to some degree still persists in hidden niches in my brain, making me a callow senior as well), I was shocked one day to find that President Dwight D. Eisenhower had fibbed. He had told the nation one unhappy morning that a spy plane piloted by a man named Francis Gary Powers, and which had just been shot down over Russian soil, didn’t belong to the U.S. and he knew nothing about it. A couple of days later he admitted, when the attempts at deception were too obvious to be maintained: My bad, America, that was our plane after all.

That was the moment I lost my political maidenhead and became the world-weary and cynical soul that I am today. Since that sad time I have been lied to by every single president of the United States, and I know this because so much of that damned light gets in.

That’s why I am at least partially sympathetic to the followers of Donald Cluck when they give such astoundingly foolish answers to questions involving his probity and honesty.

At some level they know that they would be blinded by the light, so they stick their fingers, chewing gum, and well-chewed tobacco plugs in the cracks to avoid this happening. I get it. I don’t respect it, but I get it.

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We celebrated the Fourth of July this year by not blowing anything up or making any explosive noises at all. Our plan was to to get together with friends and to eat the kind of food that belongs on paper plates and is often found in your lap as a result.

There are no real bargains in paper plates, you learn early in your career as an adult. Trying to save money here is like buying the cheapest parachute you can find. Finding out you’ve made a mistake can be embarrassing at the very least.

We brought pulled pork sandwiches and baked beans as our contribution. I have recipes for both of these that are foolproof, and I am just the fool to prove it. All one needs to do is to measure the ingredients properly, toss them into the Instant Pot, and turn the blessed thing on. Magic happens, and the contents of the cooker are transformed.

It’s hard to remember when sitting on a blanket in a park to watch fireworks began to pall for me, but perhaps it was when (for the numteenth time) some juvenile delinquents ran through the crowd tossing firecrackers to the right and left of themselves and thus burning holes in the hair and clothing of the other attendees.

So on these occasions I now prefer to remain behind and spend my time in the kitchen stirring pots, thus avoiding revealing the grumpy old cynic that I am and spoiling the fun for others.

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The second day of July 1776, will be the most memorable epoch in the history of America. I am apt to believe that it will be celebrated by succeeding generations as the great anniversary festival. It ought to be commemorated as the day of deliverance, by solemn acts of devotion to God Almighty. It ought to be solemnized with pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires, and illuminations, from one end of this continent to the other, from this time forward forever more.

John Adams

Mr. Adams was only off by two days, but his heart and enthusiasm were in the right place, certainly.

By a remarkable coincidence, Thomas Jefferson and John Adams, the only two signatories of the Declaration of Independence later to serve as presidents of the United States, both died on the same day: July 4, 1826, which was the 50th anniversary of the Declaration.

Wikipedia: The Fourth of July

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This morning is another bright and sunny one in a string of bright and sunny mornings that goes back nearly two months. A bit more precipitation would have been appreciated but it has otherwise been a lovely early summer.

Our tomato plants in general resemble nothing so much as smaller versions of Audrey II, the dangerously carnivorous plant in the movie Little Shop of Horrors. This week they are showing tiny fruits.

I tread carefully as I water them and never put one between me and my escape route. I really can’t imagine a more ignominious end than being masticated by a vegetable.

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Here is our local 10 day forecast. Remember, this is Paradise, so heaven knows what the rest of you have to endure.

Every day is to be somewhere in the nineties. Dreadful. And the trend is slowly upward during those ten days. Gruesome. I know that it’s been much worse already in some places, including Texas, but Texas is being punished for being such a backward state, so that doesn’t count.

We do have quite a few visitors from Texas who come to Paradise to get away from living in what is essentially a slow cooker. They are not regarded highly by our local residents. Texans have a reputation for being awful drivers, especially among the people who love to drive Jeeps up along alpine goat trails. Apparently Texans have a habit of putting their vehicles crossways on a single lane jeep trail, blocking traffic in both directions.

There is a genre of “Texan jokes,” which are similar to those targeting ethnicities elsewhere in the country. I will share one of them with you.

An old prospector shuffled into town leading a tired old mule. The old man headed straight for the only saloon in town, to clear his parched throat. He walked up to the saloon and tied his old mule to the hitch rail. As he stood there, brushing some of the dust from his face and clothes, a young gunslinger stepped out of the saloon with a gun in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.

The young gunslinger looked at the old man and laughed, saying, “Hey old man, can you dance?”

The old man looked up at the gunslinger and said, “No son, I don’t dance… never really wanted to”

A crowd had gathered as the gunslinger grinned and said, “Well, you old fool, you’re gonna dance now!” and started shooting at the old man’s feet. The old prospector, not wanting to get a toe blown off, started hopping around like a flea on a hot skillet. 

When his last bullet had been fired, the young gunslinger, still laughing, holstered his gun and turned around to go back into the saloon.

The old man turned to his pack mule, pulled out an aged double-barreled 12 gauge shotgun and cocked both hammers. The loud clicks carried clearly through the desert air. The crowd stopped laughing immediately. 

The young gunslinger heard the sounds too, and he turned around very slowly. The silence was deafening. The crowd watched as the young gunman stared at the old timer and the large gaping holes of those 12-gauge barrels. The shotgun never wavered in the old man’s hands, as he quietly said;

“Son, have you ever kissed a mule’s ass?”

The gunslinger swallowed hard and said, “No sir… but…. I’ve always wanted to”

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