A humid haze early yesterday reduced the mountains east of me to two dimensions. As I crested the road, I was struck by how much taller they appeared, and closer.
I was bound for Flippin, part of my sultry-weather scheme to get shit done before the day’s heat kicks in. I have that luxury, unlike the dozen or so electricians, plumbers, HVAC pros, and other working men patronizing Casey’s while I was there.
I made the trip without Smudge. Better to leave her back in the cabin while it was still cool, I figured.
This particular heat wave is happening over the year’s longest days, and temps aren’t dropping much during our abbreviated nights. We don’t get a chance to recover when the coolest it gets is the mid-70s and there’s barely nine hours between sunset and sunrise.
Besides, it’s only June — none of us is acclimated to conditions like this.
The sweat is real.
Every morning, I focus on getting Smudge and me as cool as possible and staying that way as long as possible. We’ve started moving into the bedroom sooner, too, rather than waiting ’til it starts to warm up and trying to maintain something resembling comfort.
There’s no denying that it’s unpleasant. My job is to prevent the inescapably oppressive heat from jeopardizing her health or mine.
You say you love the baby
Jim Croce, “Which Way Are You Goin’?”
and then you crucify the man
“Commitment issues.”
You’ve heard that phrase. Whether it’s confessional or accusatory, it’s about the inherent inability (or outright unwillingness) to maintain, to follow through, to stick with.
I have commitment issues.
It’s not that I can’t or won’t commit. Quite the opposite — my problem is that I believe in keeping promises.
No, I don’t have a spotless record. But in principle and at my core, I’m an absolutist when it comes to commitment.
I’ll use the dearly departed Scout as an example. When I made my original commitment to her, she looked like this:
That was easy, all cuddles and snuggles and puppy breath. Sure, she had a few accidents while housebreaking. She was a chewer — my Bluetooth headset, baseboard molding, and on and on. But a puppy is easy to love, and Scout was easier than most.
Fast-forward 14-plus years. In the last weeks of her sweet life, my elderly girl Scout looked like this:
I carried her outside and back in for weeks and weeks. I held her upright while she drank at the water bowl. When she’d stumble and fall, I’d pick her up and place her feet under her so she could walk. And a lot more.
All the while, she was happy. She was, in fact, visibly grateful.
My commitment to Scout wasn’t conditional or situational. It was unequivocal. It was forever.
Anything short of that, in my world, isn’t a promise.
And that’s my commitment issue.
Twice in my life now I’ve applied the same values to marriage. Twice I’ve stood the inevitable imperfections and certainly contributed my own, none rattling my commitment.
Both of my marriages have ended (or are ending) in divorce. Neither was my choice.
So what’s my point?
I don’t have one, actually.
All I know for sure is that I can only be who I am. When I choose to commit, I don’t look for an exit. I’m not open to better offers or budged by the tug of a different life. My promises don’t crumble under the weight of change or difficulty — they rise.
That’s me. That’s what you get.
I wouldn’t’ve thought it possible, but on Wednesday afternoon The Mountain was covered briefly by thick clouds and got a few drops of pop-up rain.
Then again, if you’d told me five years ago that I’d be living a solitary life on a sun-baked mountainside in The Ozarks, I wouldn’t’ve believed that, either.
Miss Smudge and I had our best (least miserable) day yet in the cabin. Conditions helped. Making adjustments helped.
It turned into a beautiful evening on The Mountain.
Finally today, on a matter of absolutely no significance to anyone but me — and it is, after all, my blog — I’ve come a long way toward reducing the glut of sauces, spreads, and dressings taking up space in the cabin’s fridge. I must’ve moved 30 partly consumed bottles and jars across the driveway last month.
Once I finish my inventory-reduction project, I’ll stock what I eat — two mustards (French’s yellow and store-brand horseradish), two ketchups (Melinda’s jalapeño and Red Gold), two salad dressings (Italian and ranch), one BBQ sauce (whatever strikes my fancy when I need some), and two jams (huckleberry and strawberry).
I’ll keep a jar of prepared horseradish (not horseradish sauce). If I bring in steak sauce — and I probably won’t — it’d be Heinz 57 or HP.
No mayo and no Miracle Whip.
I’m more accommodating of multiple salsas, but two open jars (in the refrigerator) is my limit. I’m inclined to finish what I start.
When it comes to hot sauces, however, all bets are off — I like to have a variety, and they don’t need to be refrigerated. Sriracha, chipotle, Tobasco jalapeño, and green habanero are my go-tos.
There’s been a lot of that sort of winnowing lately. This life is more my own every day.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable