Breakfast when I was a kid was simple and consistent, pretty much the same every day. I arrived at the kitchen table to find a tall glass of whole milk, a shorter glass of orange juice (Birds Eye “Orange Plus” or Minute Maid from frozen concentrate), a plate with two slices of buttered toast (usually raisin, cut on the diagonal), a spoon cradling a tiny red gelatin capsule (an Upjohn multivitamin) and an empty bowl.
What filled the bowl was the only thing that changed over time. During my high-school years, it was Kellogg’s Raisin Bran. Before that, it was hot Quaker Oats, to which I added milk (whole) and sugar (real).
I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to get back to having oatmeal again for breakfast. A bowl of hot Quaker Oats falls squarely into the “comfort food” category, and it comes to me at a time of day when I could use the comfort.
It’s summer, so to avoid heating up the kitchen, I’m making it in the microwave. Starting in the fall, I’ll do it properly — in a saucepan on the range top.
Oatmeal, like those vintage Revere Ware pans I’ve returned to, transports me to a simpler life and personally less turbulent days. They’re both good, and they’re both enough.
Yesterday’s “Skill of the Week” infographic from The Art of Manliness again caught my attention — “The Best Order to Stack Burger Toppings”:
Maybe you’ll find that interesting, or at least entertaining. Maybe not.
If you’re looking for a truly useful skill from AoM, travel back with me to 2014 and “How to Poop Like a Samurai.”
I’m totally serious (and so was the article). Click on the image. You’ll thank me later.
I had reason to go to town Monday morning. Following are images I snapped on my way home.
The section of the county road that traverses the bottoms is one of my favorite passages locally — driving east, a rocky slope rises off my right shoulder, while beyond the fields to my left is Crooked Creek.
The sky appealed to me yesterday. I stopped in the middle of the road and took a picture, looking northeast.
As a kid, I always marveled at my elders’ “hunter’s eye,” the ability to see — at great distance, mind you — wildlife where I saw nothing but grass, brush and trees. They’d trained themselves to discern color, pattern, shape and movement that didn’t match the surroundings.
For them, growing up in the ’20s and ’30s and ’40s, it was in no small way a survival skill. They didn’t need fancy binoculars — only their eyes.
I’ve gotten better at it myself over the years. Yesterday, for example, I thought I detected slight movement to my right, a hundred yards off the gravel subdivision road. I brought the truck to a halt and took a picture.
Turkeys. I zoomed in.
Three adults. I didn’t take the time to count the young’uns — obviously, a whole bunch.
A few minutes later, at the far end of a neighbor’s pasture near the base of The Mountain, I saw a flash of color that was out of place. Again, I braked to a stop.
And again, I zoomed in on what I’d seen from several hundred feet away.
I guess my vision for this sort of thing is improving. Living in a wild place the last two years has a lot to do with it, I’m sure.
Make that now four straight days with rain. A pleasant start to Monday (67°F overnight) became a mostly cloudy morning, and just before noon it got very loud and very wet.
During the storm, lightning struck two spots near the east end of the property.
The rain gauge south of the cabin recorded 2.25 inches from Sunday morning through Monday at 2pm.
Yeah, that’s a new gauge, another surprise uncovered while cleaning out the camper.
Fifty feet to the northwest, the old gauge showed that The Mountain had received considerably less rain over the period, about 1.5 inches.
I won’t argue that either instrument is more or less accurate than the other. We got a couple of inches, give or take.
Variable clouds and a high in the mid-80s presented Miss Smudge and me with an enjoyable day, both indoors and out.
“Are you worried that some people think you’re putting up a false front?” a friend asked me last week. The question was genuine, well-meaning and, in my opinion, reasonable.
The point is that when I say things like, “It’s great to be here” or “These are the best days of my life,” it may be perceived as nothing but a show. My friend wanted to know if I’m concerned about that.
No, I’m not.
I guess the first thing you should know is that very few things truly concern me these days.
Yes, I miss Scout terribly, but I cared for her to the very end and I still have Smudge to love on. Yes, it gets hot in the cabin, but thanks to a friend’s help, it’ll be much cooler very soon. (Stay tuned.) Yes, I still must navigate the final stages of the divorce between now and September 25th, but I attend only to what I can control, day-to-day.
How others perceive me doesn’t make the cut.
Most important, I really am happier than I’ve ever been. It is great to be here. These are the best days of my life, which tomorrow enters its 69th year.
When I talk about all that, I’m not trying to convince you of anything. I’m simply reporting the news.
My friends, I’m right where I belong. I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. I wouldn’t trade this life for another, any other. I won’t go backward.
Believe it or not.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable