Many of you will recognize that today’s headline is a song title. And if you’re familiar with the song, then I know whose voice you hear in your head.
But ol’ Travis didn’t write it.
Often it’s illuminating to step away from airplay and go to the songwriter’s interpretation of their own work. In this case, that’d be a 2019 recording by Darrell Scott.
There’s an enormous difference between what you hear in that video and the more popular version — vocals, phrasing, arrangement, energy. Personally, it hits me in a totally different spot.
It hits me where I am today. I feel it. I live it.
When I listen to Travis Tritt, or even Darrell Scott’s original 1997 version, I hear a declaration. This later rendition feels more like a quiet conversation or a handwritten letter to a friend.
Close your eyes. Just listen.
It’s hard times in the neighborhood,
Darrell Scott
But why can’t every day be just this good?
Waking up yesterday was reminiscent of a couple of long-past summer mornings, both of them during The RV Days.
I recalled leaving Bandera, Texas after running the motorhome on 30A service for eight days in heat exceeding 115°F. Stopping for the night at a commercial campground, tethered to 50A shore power and able to run both air conditioners, brought sweet relief the next morning.
And then there was the day that the electric utility connected The Mountain to the grid. Suddenly everything in the camper could be powered at once, all day and all night. Generators were retired to emergency use only. Comfort arrived with the dawn.
Yesterday was like that.
It was deliciously cool in the cabin, at times even chilly. I didn’t have to move fans around or worry about Miss Smudge and me flirting with heatstroke. We had the run of the place all day instead of penning ourselves in the bedroom from noon on.
The constant pursuit of comfort can weaken a person, of course, and I’ve talked about that here before. It’s useful to remember, I think, that inconvenience is not hardship and discomfort is not pain.
Toughness is a survival skill. The trick is in avoiding it becoming a suicide pact.
Right now, Smudge and I are better off occupying a space that’s more livable.
Once I’d finished breakfast, I dug into regular chores and a couple of small tasks. Trash and compost went out. Dog-food canisters were re-filled from the 30-pound bag in the shed.
The air conditioner installed on Wednesday still needed a bit of attention to finish it up. First, I drove screws through the T1-11 into each side of the vertical framing — a little extra insurance.
Then I ran a fat bead of clear silicone caulk on each side of the “sleeve” where it meets the siding.
To fill the rest of the gap — top and bottom, inside and out — I’ll use foam weatherstripping. I expect to do that today or tomorrow.
Eventually, of course, I’ll trim-out the exterior to mimic the windows.
Wild potato vine (Ipomoea pandurata) hasn’t shown up this summer at the north end of the bank, where it flourished last year, or at least I haven’t seen it. I found this example just across the road.
If you saw that image and immediately thought “morning glory,” you’re not entirely wrong. Wild potato vine is part of the morning glory family (Convolvulaceae).
Each of us comes to adulthood with memories of the rituals, regimens and traditions of our childhood. We either cling to them or reject them, usually some of both.
My father, for example, brought up on a dairy farm during The Great Depression, refused to wear “dungarees” (blue jeans), because that was all he ever had as a kid. He didn’t like to eat cheese. (“It’s nothing but spoiled milk, and it smells like it.”) And he wouldn’t own a Chevy. (“Dad’s leaked oil. They all leak oil.”)
I bring this up today because I love raisins.
In every sack lunch packed for me when I was a schoolboy was a tiny red box of Sun-Maid raisins. That ounce of dried grapes was a relatively healthy choice, and far from being bored with it or craving something else, I looked forward to the treat.
To this day, I contend that raisins make almost anything better.
My maternal grandmother was famous for her Toll House (chocolate chip) cookies, rightfully so. But I’d turn down a whole plate of Grandma’s Toll House for just one good oatmeal-raisin cookie. And I still would.
That might go a long way toward explaining my breakfast choices these days.
As my Thursday afternoon wound down, I toyed with the idea of driving up to Flippin, where a “pop-up market” was taking place around Hutch Creek Sourdough. I thought it’d be fun to browse the vendors in attendance, and I might return to The Mountain with an edible thing or two.
I decided against it. Maybe another time.
First of all, I don’t have the disposable income to do something like that. I would’ve burned a gallon of gas and likely would’ve bought some pricey artisan eats. (I’d already done a fill-in grocery run to Harps earlier in the day.)
And second, it was just so damned pleasant in the cabin.
I wasn’t sweating. I looked over at Smudge, and she wasn’t panting.
So I stayed put. Yesterday was all about enjoying our life right here on The Mountain.
And what did our supper look like?
Since I no longer was concerned about the gas range heating up the kitchen, I made cheese tortellini (store brand, frozen, from a bag) with sweet tomato basil sauce (Classico, from a jar) and shaved Parmesan (store brand). Outstanding.
Smudge got an extra scoop of kibble.
Life is good.
Today’s header image — the western sky around 6:30am yesterday, as seen from my front door.
The sun rising behind me hadn’t yet kissed the landscape, but its early light paints the edges of fair-weather clouds.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable