I only play classical music in my car because I am the fire-breathing poster child of road rage. The great composers keep me sedated and less likely to hurl obscene epithets and empty fast food containers out the window at stupid drivers. I cannot tolerate those uncivilized boors who can't seem to pick a lane and stay with it, their cell phones glued to their stupid pointy ears. They should have their bare buttocks caned, all of them, only mideastern disciplinary measures will suffice here.
The Iowa drought continues. Someone with a questionable sense of humor emailed me this picture and it was titled, Iowa's new rain gauge. And you just know that's a Budweiser cap. Friend James zinged back, "they could also do an Iowa porta potty, an empty beer bottle filled with you know what." And he's an old Bernard boy at that and I tell him, it's a good thing to have classy friends. Once again, the bottle would be Budweiser.
Our lawns crunch when we walk on them, like tredding on really frozen snow and they would reduce your feet to bloody rubble should you go barefoot. And the only gardens in my neighborhood that look healthy belong to my father. Watering is his new mission, his Ex Calibur, his Holy Grail so to speak. Sonny needs projects, a schedule of regular, unwavering tasks, something he can talk about later. Without this he would be reduced to a dry husk of a man and none of us want to see that. He planted a ton of hostas on a hillside and now he awakens every morning with only one desire, to have a hose in his hand. He has built a rather ingenious little fence around the plants not wanting our hired lawn-cutters to mow them down but no one is mowing this grass, the little fellers stopped growing weeks ago. He has rigged up carefully spaced buckets with holes in specific areas to allow the water to trickle out slowly and not be rushed away to the bottom of the hill. There is a soothing symmetry about the design of his work, a touch of Da Vinci, a mind launched and unfettered. If given enough time and space Sonny could design a cathedral out of Popsicle sticks and rubber bands.
The Iowa drought continues. Someone with a questionable sense of humor emailed me this picture and it was titled, Iowa's new rain gauge. And you just know that's a Budweiser cap. Friend James zinged back, "they could also do an Iowa porta potty, an empty beer bottle filled with you know what." And he's an old Bernard boy at that and I tell him, it's a good thing to have classy friends. Once again, the bottle would be Budweiser.
Our lawns crunch when we walk on them, like tredding on really frozen snow and they would reduce your feet to bloody rubble should you go barefoot. And the only gardens in my neighborhood that look healthy belong to my father. Watering is his new mission, his Ex Calibur, his Holy Grail so to speak. Sonny needs projects, a schedule of regular, unwavering tasks, something he can talk about later. Without this he would be reduced to a dry husk of a man and none of us want to see that. He planted a ton of hostas on a hillside and now he awakens every morning with only one desire, to have a hose in his hand. He has built a rather ingenious little fence around the plants not wanting our hired lawn-cutters to mow them down but no one is mowing this grass, the little fellers stopped growing weeks ago. He has rigged up carefully spaced buckets with holes in specific areas to allow the water to trickle out slowly and not be rushed away to the bottom of the hill. There is a soothing symmetry about the design of his work, a touch of Da Vinci, a mind launched and unfettered. If given enough time and space Sonny could design a cathedral out of Popsicle sticks and rubber bands.
1 comment:
Awesome. Maybe once winter sets in he'll do just that.
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