Every adult American’s day should begin with coffee. And on The Mountain, every day does — hot and black, no cream and no sugar, and definitely none of that frou-frou flavored nonsense.
Yesterday’s pot was extra-special, though. I made it with water I collected Saturday at Gray Spring.
Water straight from a well, which is what I have here, beats the hell outta city water or filtered water. Spring water is best of all.
If you know, you know.
I got back to work Sunday morning. The one-day pause did me some good, I think. I was smart enough to ease back into the spring-cleanup routine rather than (foolishly) trying to make up for lost time.
There is no urgency.
Two days of unseasonably warm weather made the garden hose flexible again. I began yesterday by re-coiling it more neatly on the new hanger.
It looks better — to me, anyway — and I get to decide what matters. This does.
I spent the rest of the cool(er) morning hours limbing-up trees around the shed. It’s a job that’s been on my radar for a couple of years, and I approached it deliberately. That is, I took my sweet time.
Most of what I cut was overhanging eastern red cedar branches, most of them dead, and stubs left from a hurried round of pruning just before the shed originally was brought in. I aimed for about ten feet of clearance overhead (or whatever the 20V pole saw could reach).
I’m pleased with the result.
In similar fashion, I worked the south side of the driveway. The objective there was to admit more light, remove barriers to westerly breezes and open-up my “window” on the valley.
Again, I think it turned out well.
There are a few other places around the cabin that probably could benefit from this kind of selective thinning. Hardwoods would be involved, however, and I want to wait ’til after the leaves are out. That’ll give me a better idea of what to take.
When I dealt with the soft shed the other day, I had to account for six large plastic bins. I opened each and examined the contents — curiosity more than anything else, without purpose or enthusiasm.
I was open to being surprised. I discovered several useful items.
Notably, three dog toys — the indestructible kind, which later I ran through the washer when I did laundry. Smudgie loves ’em.
An unopened tube of Gold Bond “Ultimate Skin Therapy Cream,” labeled “Healing.” I sure could’ve used that during the dry winter months, when woodswork had my hands cracked and bleeding.
Four throw pillows, still vacuum-compressed in their original packaging, and four brand-new covers that complement the living room furniture. I had no idea they existed.
I fluffed the pillows in the dryer and washed the covers, then put them out.
Best of all, I found two pairs of jeans, worn but not worn out. I retired them a few years ago, as I recall, when I gained a bunch of weight — they no longer fit.
They fit now. Just last week, I’d torn a hole in the knee of my go-to jeans and was trying to figure out how soon I’d be able to replace them. Now I don’t have to.
The timing was perfect. Small pleasures.
I was brought up to observe The Golden Rule, that universal virtue even small children can understand. As my cognition and I grew, my instruction included another maxim we all come to know:
“If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”
On the cusp of adulthood, by then acquainted with the concept of mortality, I grasped a related aphorism:
“Don’t speak ill of the dead.”
Principles of restraint and decency have served me well, both personally and professionally. In corporate communications, I learned that often it’s wise to STFU and let storms (crises, e.g.) pass.
I bring all this up in the context of the death of Robert Mueller, former FBI director and the “special counsel” who persecuted [sic] Trump over allegations of collusion with Russia. Trump’s reaction to the news?
I don’t think it’s possible for anyone who was raised right, even the most ardent supporters of the President, to read “I’m glad he’s dead” and not wince, if only for an instant. Count me among them.
Self-righteousness aside, however, we’re only human. No one among us has learned of the death of an enemy, rival or nemesis without thinking, “Good riddance.” You know it’s true.
We don’t say it out loud. Not publicly, at least.
Trump did. He spoke ill of the dead.
That’s not cruel, craven or immoral. It’s fearlessly human.
And therein is Trump’s appeal.
If you require further explanation, you’re reading the wrong damned blog.
P.S.: Trump’s grudge is justified. Mueller richly deserved the posthumous presidential rebuke.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable