The house is in order, the firewood is stacked. The windows are trimmed. Nebraska winter. Traveler's, come to Nebraska in the winter. No kidding. It is beautiful. There is a quality of light here on the high plain that is beautiful and rare. Afternoons near sunset with the sun way down in the south, a glowing red, a sailor's warning; You do have to risk freezing your buns to see it. Of course that is one of the things Nebraskans like about our state. We have a longer life expectancy than nearly any other state, because we are tough out here. I am half Swedish. I can deal with the cold. Come hike our rivers when they are icy and gray,
Is there ever a day that is not beautiful? Seriously. I've heard people say that gray days just make them shrivel up. Gloomy. BS. I love them the best. The trails are empty, like a winter park you have all to yourself, no shouts of feral humans through the trees- Escaped trail ride horses running amok, northern mallards riding down before a front, the deer at the refuge so thick they have to reduce the herd by half, the graze line apparent even on the trees, when they are eating bark, times are tough, the wild dogs who are tossed out of their cars on the river road and try to make it through the winter, packing up with other outcasts, they will not be there when the spring comes, dwindling slowly; I always carry a big stick with me, they would not attempt an attack, I believe, but I feel better with a staff, like a shepherd, I guess, a half wolf drover, the duck blinds are under construction, goose season starting soon, might have to move them if they drop the water up at Gavins point. There are a few old men who come to the river every day, have for decades. I talk to them. I am becoming one of them. A time will come when I will not head for the rough trails. That day must be postponed, I want to be a 90 year geezer with a bit of fire left in my eyes, a sign of growing still apparent, a love of the river undiminished.
November 2nd, 2005. All Souls day. It is the tradition today to think of someone who is departed, someone who raised you, nourished you, talked of important matters with you.
I wanted to discuss the Internet. A valuable tool, certainly- the ability to post a message like this and instantaneously reach potentially every cyber traveler in the world. Amazing. Type something in to Google and have access to every encyclopedia ever written- Marvelous. Order a book or a CD, buy a car! Incredible. But oh the chaff you have to winnow through- My wife and I visited an Internet chat room when we first got this computer- We were first shocked at the content- but then a IM popup appeared.
"What is that?"
"It's a message."
"From who?" Now, my wife is asking me, a guy who is notorious for spending an hour revising a piece and suddenly losing all traces, a guy who tries to change the computers sound scheme and winds up turning off the sound entirely.
"Could be one of the people on this forum."
"What do you do with it?"
"Click on it."
"Do it." I click. We are barraged, assaulted by an endless stream of porn sites- I try clicking on windows shutting them off and they reappear fast as I click and more besides. ""Turn it off!"
"I'm trying." Finally the computer screen freezes up and I have to reboot. These completely vicious companies will launch spyware, they will freeze up your hard drive, like the Windows 1 platform that eroded so severely in one year that I had to replace it with the Windows 2 platform, which thankfully offers better protection against these goons and gargoyles.
So now I really only visit one forum. It is sort of a composite for me- it is moderated so the posers who are completely out of line (there are many) can be removed. It is devoted to comments and discussions about Bob Dylan. ( my favorite song writer) Go to www.expectingrain.com and click on discussions.
The downside of this is, of course, the futility you sense in the lives these poster's lead. They squabble back and forth, pretend to be intellectuals, (some of them are, but without direction it is a curse for them)
One asked what is happiness? Had no idea. A young man, very bright.
So I do not go there so often. Left wing zealots who advocate assassinating the president of the United States, right wing loonies who see conspiracy everywhere- moderation. We cannot change the world in a day. We can only contribute as we can, to our neighborhood, our church, our families. Live in the now. Be simple. Dragging the dead weight of yesterday, and attacking the ghosts of tomorrow. Pointless. Futile.
If you find yourself blaming and excluding- you have lost the balance. and that is where happiness lives.
I'm preaching. where does that come from?
July 14th is my biological mother's birthday. She is the character, Ellen Erickson in Raincrow. Happy Birthday Mom. Why don't we talk anymore?
11-17-05 There is snow on the ground. My 51st winter. My wife asks me- "What is the purpose of leaving music on, in the study, when there is no one to listen to it?"
Good point. I am tempted to say, "If a tree falls in the forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?"
Which of course is baloney. I like baloney.
It is my white noise. Having that aural space occupied ; even when I am off- grocering, raking, de-icing, somnambulating, circumnavigating, postulating, pontificating, or putting the house in order. As I see fit. My vision of order is of course different than hers- or yours, or anyone else's. that is the way of it. I subscribe to chaos theory with some embellishment- relief, as it were. Clutter? The depths of my soul, might be clutter to someone.
I'm old school/ I want the old time feeling. this world is morphing to a place that is unrecognizable to me. Will I be left behind? I hope so. I'm OK wit dat. I want to play Hank and the Stanley Brothers. my tunes- my buckets got a hole in it. I want the old school- It is not a sacrifice, it is inevitable.
A Mr. George C. Looney sent me an e-mail and pointed out that Baloney is spelled Bologna. He is of course quite right. However, on this web site the baloney contained within is baloney baloney, not bologna baloney. My baloney is my baloney, whereas your bologna is your bologna- and never the twain shall meet.
November 30th, 2006. Last day of November. A biting cold morning, 10 degrees. The beginning of winter. There is skim ice on the city park lagoons- I used to go ice skating on them. I recall years when they were frozen over with thick enough ice to skate by Thanksgiving. Old man stories. I remember I used to go places with my dad and be so embarrassed as he began to tell these lengthy stories to total strangers we met at the boat ramp or the bar or the golf course. I'd cringe as they went on and on. I didn't understand grownups. What could be interesting about their old stories. Why did they listen to old Harley anyway?
Well, I've become him, for better or worse. Mr. Storyteller.
I talk to old friends. Some of them are from the hood. They ask me about my kids. "How long has it been since you've talked to them?"
"Five years for the oldest and youngest- 2 years for my middle boy." Hell he's not a boy anymore. He turns 21 next February.
"No! You can't be serious? 5 years?"
"Yeah. Not my decision."
Sugar Baby- Love and Theft- Bob Dylan
I got my back to the sun 'cause the light is too intense
I can see what everybody in the world is up against
You can't turn back- you can't come back, sometimes we push too far
One day you'll open up your eyes and you'll see where we are
Sugar Baby get on down the road
You ain't got no brains, no how
You went years without me
Might as well keep going now
