There’s an early morning light rain falling, the first in a couple of weeks. It seems to have dampened the wish to hoot on the part of our local great horned owl, who is usually doing just that at this time of day. The ash trees in the back yard have released half their leaves, which means I can’t see the grass any longer. For whatever reason all of the houses in our area have five foot fences out back, including ours, which means that any leaf that falls in our yard stays in our yard.
In the past, I used to enjoy it when a windy day would carry my leaves over to a neighbor’s yard. It relieved me of one of the chores I like the least, which is raking. Two strokes of a rake and my lower back is already sending distress calls to my brain which go something like this: CONTINUE AT YOUR PERIL! If said neighbor were to complain I would shrug my shoulders and say It’s only natural, Bubba, the leaves fall and the wind blows. Not my fault.
Of course, he would say much the same thing when his oversized canine would leave piles of feces so high they blocked the view in my front yard. It’s only natural, Jon, I feed the dog and that’s what happens. Not my fault.
But don’t get me started on Coloradans and their dogs. The average number of dogs per capita here in Paradise is 3.7. In our part of town, where many residents are senior citizens, the dogs are mostly of the miniature variety.
You know, the fluffy kind where you can’t tell which is the head end unless you can locate the eyes of the creature, and which are genetically engineered to bite the ankles of strangers.
So the community walking path out back is filled with older folks with leashes in their hands. If you follow those leashes down and the light is just right, you can often actually see a dog on the other end. Should you also happen to be taking a walk at those times, the first inkling that a dog is present might be a sharp pain in your Achilles tendon and when you turn around there is what appears to be an empty leash racing away from you.
******
From The New Yorker
******
Let’s see now. Russia is still trying to devour Ukraine, the Israelis are about to erase Hamas and much of the Gaza strip from the face of the earth, and we are once again heading for a government shutdown. Surely these upheavals alone would demand the best effort by our elected officials. But wait … nothing is happening. At least, nothing that requires the House of Representatives’ participation. I am no political scholar, but the problem seems to be that the majority party in the House is headless.
And it happened through the process of self-decapitation, which is quite an achievement. But in doing so it has made itself entirely useless as a governing instrument.
There was a famous chicken in Fruita, Colorado, back in 1945, which survived 18 months without a head, but I think we should regard this as the exception rather than the rule, and begin looking for a replacement for the Elephantine Party or at the very least a new symbol for the tattered remnant of the existing one. I submit the graphic above as candidate for that new symbol.
******
Every decent man is ashamed of the government he lives under.
H. L. Mencken
Never more true than today.
******
In Thursday morning’s Times of New York I discovered a reason to visit the state of Alabama. It is the Freedom Monument Sculpture Park in Montgomery. At a time when political revisionists are doing their level best to make it seem that slavery was not such a bad thing, really, to find that there is a place where this part of our history is faced straight on I think is hopeful for America’s future.
******
Yesterday noon I received a couple of immunizations, one against the flu and the second was a version of the anti-Covid vaccine. This morning I feel moderately unwell, with two very sore arms, a slight fever, and a rather whiny outlook on life. For whatever reason the woman administering the flu shot couldn’t get the needle in deep enough on the first two tries. She asked me if I had scar tissue at that place on my arm, because that had never happened to her before. I assured her that there was nothing there but normal flesh, and it had never happened to me, either. I did share that I go to the gym regularly and it is possible that the culprit is my amazing muscle tone. She looked doubtful. On the third poke in it went.
My courage when dealing with medical procedures is just enough to cover one try at an intramuscular injection. Two is off into the moderate unknown, and three contains the possibility of my total mental collapse within it. I had resolved that if the third time was not the charm she would have to wrestle me to the floor to do a fourth attempt, and although she was a sturdy young person and would probably have won the contest, the whole business would have looked pretty unseemly there in the pharmacy area at City Market, what with a geezer being carted off in a straight jacket, clothes askew and sweating and all.
But … no drama, ultimately. A lost opportunity to make the local news and be briefly famous. At this age I am almost immune to embarrassment, so I fear not the press.
******
******
From The New Yorker
******
Little Home In The Valley 