A Bird in the Hand is Worth a Buck Two Ninety
This, in memory of my eternal friend E. Duncan Manning, whose body left this earth 5 years ago. He's still alive in my heart, making frequent token appearances, always arriving fashionably late with only a $100 Silver Certificate in his wallet that he "hates to break just to buy lunch." I believe he'll appreciate these uniquely personal thoughts.
As I write this from Bastrop Federal Satellite Camp, I feel as if I'm between a rock and hard place. While writing can sometimes be as easy as falling of a log, I can also feel like I just fell off a turnip truck, and my ideas are drier than a burnt bush. When that happens, and I've bitten off more than I can chew, writing is like looking for a needle in a haystack, and I'm essentially left with no row to hoe. In light of these limitations, I'm very much aware of the fact that this blog must seem like a box of chocolates. You never know what you'll get.
Even so, I take heart in knowing that, even if I'm as slow as molasses and as poor as Job's turkey and couldn't go half on a free meal, beauty is still in the eye of the beholder. There is no use in sitting on the fence and crying over spilled milk. Experience tells me that only the strong survive long enough to open a 303 size can of worms, or a can of whoopass--220, 221, whatever it takes, as either is just another brick in the wall.
Come hell or high water, I want to cultivate the garden that is within and not let the grass grow under my feet, even if it's greener on the other side of the fence. I don't want to beat around the bush, as two in the White House were enough. So, if it ain't broke, don't fix it, because home is where the heart is; and if you build it, they will come, one day at a time. These truths are self evident; and I can take them to the bank, even with the cart before the horse. Yes, my fellow Americans, ask not if that same horse can be led to water, ask if he can be made to drink. Personally, I doubt it, because blood is thicker than water.
Some may proclaim til the cows come home that this entire essay is for the birds, that it's too little too late and merely represents water, going with the flow, under a bridge too far that we'll cross when we get to. But so help me Rhonda, I believe that in this great country, we can still throw pearls before swine, even swine who live hand to mouth in glass houses. So put that in your pipe and smoke it, read the tea leaves and say it with flowers because you deserve a break today. Seriously, have it your way, because it's finger lickin good.
Rejoice dear hearts, even though you may be as lost as a ball in high weeds and feel as unwanted as a whore in church. May all your weeds be wildflowers made into hay while the sun shines, since the answer my friend is blowing in the wind. Take heart in knowing that even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes, that every stick has two ends, and that pigs get fat while hogs get slaughtered. There will be peace like a river if you can remember to shake well before using, but not over an open flame, as objects in a mirror are closer than they appear.
That's all I have to say about that.
So let me make like a tree and leave you with this final eternal question. Is that a banana in your pocket...or were you raised in a barn?