Dear Blog Reader
I hope that this finds you doing well. It leaves my hand is
a state of unease. Each year during early to mid-October the wooly worms come
out. Last year the peak coincided with the Hilly Hundred and it was a goo bath.
I would say a blood bath but woolies are filled with goo. They were thick on
the road, getting out of the cold damp grass heading for the warmth of the
pavement with a sun that was slanting more and more to the South. They
presented their short plump bodies up for destruction by the hundreds.
I would be ashamed to admit that I wantonly swerved down the
road like a drunken sailor with a squish-squish here and a squish-squish there
shortening the already short lives of these cold weather prophets. I would be ashamed
except for the fact that in retrospect I enjoyed it. The enjoyment increased
with every inch of snow and ice, subzero wind chill, and polar vortex that was
visited upon my Indiana home. So they are coming out again. And with the
prognostication of another bad winter on the way, I have decided to dispense
with the false angst. I predict that I will squash their little black and brown
fur covered bodies with glee and sweet anticipation.
It is difficult being a prophet. The little people hate you
if you’re wrong. The big people hate you if you’re right. Really the prophet is
usually just a little person who can’t keep his mouth shut. Jerimiah? Little
person who ended up in a dungeon because he let the big people know that they
were going on a bit of a walk about to Babylon. Chicken Little? Little person blighted
by acorns and gravity, trying to let the king know about the sky and
unfortunately, and misguidedly, missed the true evil and led several other
little people over to the fox’s house for supper. The wooly worm? Many legged
little person trying to warn us of deep snow and bone chilling cold
unfortunately wandering into the path of a mean and vindictive cyclist.
I started this blog two weeks ago looking for prophets and
have been completely overwhelmed by their voices. Prophecies of Ebola, ISIS, upcoming
polar vortices have overcome my ability to write a simple blog. Recently, I
have written about pictures and memories; the importance of young men’s
influences on young boys. I like writing about those things. They are good
blogs. They give me hope. Nothing about ebola or ISIS gives me hope. My dreams
and thoughts have turned dark.
In fact, I must confess about a small bedroom quirk that I
have has been exacerbated by the portents of tough times ahead. Don’t worry, the
sharing of this has been approved by the Lovely Miss Beverly. I am a pillow
grinder. I can take a perfectly plump pillow and after a few short months it
will be reduced to the thickness of a very thin waffle. You probably didn’t
know that there was such a thing as pillow break down. You may believe that
pillows are a closed system; fluffy stuff enclosed in an impermeable case. Fluffy
stuff that simply needs a bit of fluffing every few weeks. I am here to testify
that it isn’t so. In certain extreme cases the fluffy stuff can be transmuted
into unfluffy stuff leaving your pillows the thickness of a tea bag.
You may be wondering what strange forces could be breaking
down pillows at such an alarming rate. I am afraid to say that it isn’t the
extreme density of my brains overwhelming the fluffy fibers or supernatural
brain wave activity that vaporized fluffy fibers with their intensity;
supernatural brain wave activity that my superior intellect generates even when
I am asleep. No, it is a mechanical grinding; a bending and twisting, smashing
and wadding brought about by deep subconscious angst breaking out to the
surface of my sleep. These prophesies of doom have certainly had a negative
effect on my poor pillows. In fact the twisting and bending a couple of nights
ago resulted in a pillow braid by morning. That will leave a sleep crease on
your face that doesn’t work itself out until about 10 a.m.
I long for those Halcion days of summer? Those days when the
only thing that we had to worry about was “do we have a cooler big enough for
an effective ice water challenge?” Those days seem long gone. Who knew that
while we were pouring water over our heads, thinking up new and inventive ways
to keep the same old thing repeated over and over from being boring, a
miniscule virus would be incubating in the West African population. Or that a
militant Islamic virus would have lain dormant until the perfect opportunity to
break out and appear to be mounting a successful region wide caliphate, or that
our many legged friends would be wandering across the road in their darker than
usual coats.
The toughest part is all of the noise, or to quote the
Grinch “oh the noise, noise, noise, noise!” Not only do we have the prophets of
doom out there telling us of bad things to come but we have the sirens of sweet
telling us don’t worry be happy. Everything will be okay. We can stop Ebola
with our world class medical system. We can bomb ISIS to smithereens and keep
our boots off the ground. It is unusual to have two bad winters in a row. Each
side clamoring louder and louder trying to out shout the other side. Each side
selling their version of the truth or selling their side of the wished for
truth.
That is the problem with living through prophecy. Too many
voices are selling their version, are wooing an audience, and are looking for
power over the little people. What are the little people to do? First, let’s
take a deep breath. Second, let’s take another deep breath. Let us keep our
eyes open, talk out the fear, and take a true stock of the situation. Let us
not listen to the prophets of doom or the sirens of sweet for a while. They
have had their say. The messages are not changing. It is time to see what the
due course of time will bear out. Then, let’s wash our hands just in case.
Take Care
Roger
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