Internet service had been so utterly unreliable throughout
this period as to precipitate e-rage.
Outrage would be too strong a term; the aging laptop was only intermittently to
As a point of reference, we concurred that it’s nice not to have to depend on Internet
connectivity. Moreover, not having Web-based distractions certainly freed up lots
of time that could be put to good use not staring at a screen.
As a colleague once quipped, “why do you think they call it ‘The Web’?”
So it was best to get about the insouciant business of being tourists,
connected or not.
On a whim, we shunted our loaded wagon to Niagara Falls, which
SUCKED, by the way, then, responding to a compulsion, headed the spittin’
distance north of the border.
Holy shit, was THAT ever a mistake!
The booth-mounted Customs officials, by and large, are trained to be suspicious
of anyone and everything. They stare at you with piercing glassy eyeballs,
perhaps in the hopes of making you flinch or break a nervous sweat.
Should that happen, for the sake of conjecture, they would be free to search
your buggy, extricate those 2 kilos of cocaine and haul your ass in.
If only they knew. These two stodgy boomers from the beleaguered
south were only doing the Canuck thing for any or all of the following reasons:
1) for the hell of it, 2) because they love breathing exhaust, sitting in a long
line of idling traffic, 3) to dust off a meal north of the border, 4) to pay
outrageously high sales taxes on that meal, or 5) just to say they did Canada.
Folks back home wouldn’t care a whit.
Ultimately, the pictures taken of Niagara and the Horseshoe Falls would unalterably
suck, as we were facing the sun.
Meanwhile, slack at the ranch, nothing of consequence had
Peach trees, long neglected, had put on a bumper crop, which meant each one had
a broken top and many a ripened peach did drop.
Thus, for ants and yellow jackets, some moldy peachy slop!
Morale took a nosedive temporarily, but Davey was glad to get bustin’ ass for
some reason. Maybe it had something to do with takin’ after his Pa, who
“I don’t travel well.”
Unpack, Jack; cut out the slack.
Empty those cases and find for them places
or if not, throw ‘em out back.
Helen had offered Davey some barn cleanout gems out of the
kindness of her heart, and Davey, being the natural packrat he never denied
being, gladly took her up on it.
Then he noticed that table – a major league hardwood heavy-as-hell unit that
probably weighed a couple of hundred pounds.
Somewhat sheepishly, he asked after it.
“Oh, sure, Helen said, you can have it, but it IS very heavy!”
She and her hubby had slid it – disassembled, of course – up a flight of stairs
to that back room where Davey spotted it.
Now let the HAT (heavy-assed table) project begin!
table without the chairsalthough it had slid right down the
stairshad wrenched his back a bit, he swearsbut won’t
complain, for no one cares!He hadn’t called Helennor
informed her of other stuff he took,or intended to take,as he
clean-out that nook.Thus, he was able to intermittently slide in
and out of that shared driveway without pissing off the
sharers, whose funeral home wore a ghastly silence perpetually.
It was back again to that familiar place that had become so
disciplined and stringent as to engender lowered morale en route to what would
otherwise be a morale-boosting regimen of the highest order.
Slopping dishes and slammin' suds,
Davey's stern wishes saw him in work duds.
Nights weren't yet so coldas to preclude cabin bunkin',but Davey wasn't
exactly cool as a punkin'.
So he relinquished the opportunityto garner fresh air into his overworked
lungsand missed out climbing those wooden slat-rungs.
A pounding, fast-paced madness the first day,but good to be back in the fray.
Davey had been so subsumed by the frantic pace of highly
rewarding selfless service, he had completely forgotten that yesterday held the
dubious distinction of being the only spot on ‘our’ American calendar to
celebrate the worlds first trans-Atlantic slave trader – Christopher Columbus,
otherwise (at the time) known as Cristobal Colon – and the well-informed folks
at the TransformColumbusDay.org site had nailed down a few highly pertinent
points; in fact, too many good ones to name here.
Breathless thus, feeling verbose after crafting a 76-word sentence – a
coincidence by any stretch – Davey did NOT feel arrogantly proud of his race’s
Outside news was left in the dust
and that’s a good thing;
include please this LUST!
(As a point of reference, either the Boston Globe or equally voluminous New
York Times unfortunately used to arrive).
Bustin’ our asses, we were busy as hell.
Outside, dormant grasses
beneath leaves that fell.
Another day,and I’d say, “Oh, well.”
Yes, indeed, ‘twas another such day
and with great trouble, I got up,
then trudged to the kitchen to join the fray
as a semi-soft hurtin’-assed pup!
But opportunity waited
once my butt got in there
time to learn some Khmer.
The heat was on.And
so was the pressure.My 'fleet' was goneby nominal
measure.Free time outside those gates abated;fatigue and dire
straits awaited!But of course, the latter's an
exaggeration;for all that matters is one's own liberation.So
our collective free time was thus shelvedand into the cooking and
clean-fuss we delved.Manager Tom was a big f**in' guyso
to challenge him I did not even try.Because where you stand will
always dependupon where you SIT – yeah, on your back end!So
let the narrative begin:we were here to WIN!
By the venerable
Lyshinizer Davey was designated suds-buster and go-to guy for all
things sudsy, an assignment for which he rarely hesitated.Time
was when such exposures to heat, moisture and alkali chemicals
utilized in commercial kitchen sanitizing procedures and soil
extraction methods would cause Davey H's hands to break out in nearly
intractable fungus conditions, leading him to dub the phenomenon:“athlete's foot of the hand”.No, not grand.So this
particular dish-slammin' stint would last the better part of 8 days –
surely well within the confines of AFOTH avoidance.But fate
could intervene, taking Davey off the scene.
How many of you have
heard of the Where Angels Play Foundation? What about the Sandy
Ground Project?Both were founded after the mindless, reckless
shootings in Newtown, CT. And the 'sandy' part came into play on the
coattails of rescue efforts after hurricane Sandy wiped out the
Jersey coast.The thrust of this venture is to build 26
playgrounds in loving memory of the same number of lives snuffed out
in Connecticut.Here's wondering if the NRA has offered any
donations to these efforts.If they did or if they would, they
would win a smidgen of MY respect.
So I roll along in
machine of cold steel;with emotions strong, at least those I can
feel. Short, medium, long, those feelings are real.Both our
cars wander 'oer the roadperhaps due to lack of alignment;how
they dither on under appreciable loaden route to their next
assignment!They wander 'oer yonder, a pain in the ass;let
this tailgater ponder now if he can pass.This happens a lot,
these folks on our backsHow I'd love to unleash a few roofer's
tacks!Actually, I saw that happen once:the hapless victim got
four flat tires.
An interesting and
highly edifying glimpse into the history of our rapacious species was
recently broadcast over the airwaves via a few NPR stations, thanks
to the excellent sourcing of AlternativeRadio.org.David
Nibert, professor at Wittenberg University, gave the riveting talk,
which rolled on, fact-rich and at times disheartening while not
debatable.From the Conquistadors of Spainto the CAFO's of
today,humanoids endeavor in vainwhilst at work or at
play.They frequently quibble'oer what's on their
platesand on meats they nibbleduring those debates,while
shuffling papersin querulous capersto fathom how it all
This autumn it had
stayed dry enough for effective leaf cleanup so far; in fact, leaves
blew like a dream, swooping obediently at the end of leaf blower's
invisible arm. Yes, natural resources culled and utilized by man
would be a helpful medium in this endeavor.The Ginkgo held on
until the last killin' frost – date uncertain – when, after
staying green on the bottom two thirds of the crown with a little tan
at the top tips, they ALL fell down, literally overnight.So
THAT frost – not to be mistaken for a 'hoarfrost' – took out the
marigolds as well, predictably.