Random bits and pieces today.
Yesterday, while expressing my lifelong dislike for all things Muhammad Ali, I said, “I hated the showboating.” Nothing sabotaged my love of sport so much over the years as athletes calling attention to themselves, especially in team sports.
Yeah, Billy “White Shoes” Johnson, I’m lookin’ at you. You, too, Mark Gastineau.
These contrived displays, this showboating, unravel the fabric of competition and — almost as much as participation trophies and putting up Christmas trees before Thanksgiving — contribute to the decay of our society.
“Act like you’ve been there before!”
Cincinnati Bengals head coach Paul Brown to rookie tight end Bob Trumpy, who’d just embarrassed himself by celebrating his first touchdown in an exhibition game (1968)
Ask anyone who has the good fortune to be enjoying their golden years — having a life’s trove of memories is wonderful, but recalling them accurately isn’t always easy or certain.
I’m beginning to question my ability to remember.
It’s not as if I think I’m displaying the early signs of dementia. This is a very different kind of doubt — I was blessed (and cursed) with a memory that’s both photographic and audiographic, so sharp that some people (including Deb) find it disquieting.
Names and faces. Facts and figures. Encyclopedic. Transcriptive.
I feel it slipping away.
Fortunately, I have friends able and willing to correct me when I err. I don’t harbor the kind of ego that resents that, either.
But hey, I still can run the intellectual obstacle course called Life. I’m okay. This is just part of aging.
It’s been awhile since I last posted the Arkansas Forestry wildfire-danger map. These days it’s pretty boring — all 75 counties are in the green, and none has a burn ban in effect.
That’s a very good thing.
When Deb and I left for the laundromat this morning, however, the air was thick with smoke. It collected in every valley and draw visible from our homestead.
About the same time, Deb’s cousin texted her and asked if we knew what was up. We decided to postpone laundry and investigate, driving west instead of east.
It didn’t take us long to pinpoint the source — a little less than a half-mile down The Mountain from our cabin, neighbors were conducting a pretty significant burn along their private road.
It appeared to be well-managed, so we turned around and headed for Gassville, as planned.
We weren’t alarmed. We truly weren’t even concerned. We were simply aware. That’s how we operate up here.
Deb and I had just pulled our laundry from the dryers and were folding clothes when in walked the woodcarver we’d met there a week ago. He flashed a big grin, held up an index finger and said, “Don’t y’all go anywhere — I have somethin’ to show you.”
He went out to his truck and returned with the beginnings of a small black bear that Deb had asked him to carve for us.
“See?” he said, still smiling. “I didn’t forget about you!”
People, this is just the coolest thing.
With an hour to kill between laundry in Gassville and curbside pickup in Flippin, I decided to drive north on Arkansas Route 126 to Midway. There I’d turn southwest on Arkansas Route 178, coming into town the back way. The ride would take us across the White River at Bull Shoals Dam.
Once we were over the dam in Marion County, I pulled off on the lake side. We took in the scene and snapped a few pictures, then drove across the road and repeated the ritual on the tailwaters side.
The second stop was more visually impressive — the massive concrete structure, its 17 spillways idle and dry this afternoon, the river glistening over 250 feet below.
Looking downriver, the scene was an Ozarkansas postcard. In the distance, the long ridge of Hall Mountain — Home.
A little trivia — the headwaters of The Mighty White are in northwest Arkansas, from which they flow north into Missouri before turning south and east toward the Mississippi, 772 meandering miles from their origin. At the spot where Bull Shoals Dam impounds the White River, it’s flowing west-southwest.
The back seat of the Silverado was packed with clean laundry, including four winter coats, when we arrived at Walmart — no room for groceries inside the truck today. They’d all have to go in the open bed.
And that’s fine, of course, for most things. But flimsy plastic bags do a poor job of corralling glass jars of pickles and bags of tortilla chips.
I opened the tool box and pulled out something we rarely use — a couple of collapsible bins, just big enough and just stout enough to keep our bagged provisions from rattling around.
They’re great. I’m glad we have ’em. Consider that a recommendation.
Yeah, our sunsets are back.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB