I think that it is healthy to have hobbies or areas of interest.
I just finished reading A Hunter’s Fireside Book: Tales of Dogs, Ducks, Birds & Guns by Gene Hill. If you were not aware, I am not a hunter, but I appreciate good writing no matter the subject-within reason of course. Good writing can make even the most boring pastime seem interesting. While I don’t necessarily think hunting boring, I do think Gene Hill was a good writer. And I really enjoyed the book. This book was a collection of columns he wrote for various outdoor magazines in the 60s and 70s. I can understand how readers felt when they got a new magazine and turned straight to where they knew his column could be found. He finished his career as full-time columnist for Field & Stream magazine. He died in 1997. All of this reminded me of how much magazines used to be a part of my life.
Zach had a big pile of second hand Field & Stream magazines that he procured from the thrift store. I used to read them too, and I didn’t really care for hunting or fishing then either. But the stories were interesting. And so were the ads. We’d stare at those rifles. Or think of how much fun we could have with one of those 6 wheeled amphibious ATVs in the tiny black and white ad spots in the very back of the magazine.
There was another author that wrote a lot for Field & Stream, Patrick McManus. We had some of his books, but those second hand magazines from his era would’ve been worn out a long time before they could be found by a country boy at a thrift store.
Every once in a while Mom would buy us a bunch of National Geographic magazines from the thrift store or a yard sale. We even had a subscription on and off throughout my life. I loved those old magazines. The pictures were so interesting that you wanted to read the articles. I still want to go to see some of the places that I discovered reading those old yellow magazines; Angkor Wat, Easter Island, New Guinea, Hong Kong, India…Steve McCurry and Rudyard Kipling have taken me to India so many times that I would like to go in person some day. The advertisements in National Geographic were quite a bit different than the ads in Field & Stream. I distinctly remember the Rolex (specifically the Milgauss) and Canon ads. It was also interesting to see ads for new cars that you had only ever known as old.
Mom subscribed to Traditional Home. Those ads made me realize that we were in fact, poor. But I loved looking at the floor plans of those high dollar houses. That magazine also gave me an appreciation for interior design. It is hard to condense 15 years of reading a decorating and design magazine into a single sentence or even paragraph other than to say that poor design choices still bother me.
I guess the only guitar magazine that I have ever subscribed to was Premier Guitar. For the longest time I liked them because they never had people on the cover, just guitars. That changed when BB King died. I have stopped subscribing because I think the editor is a smart alec. Even so, whenever a new guitar student asked me a question about say, what a phaser pedal does, I have to work hard to keep from giving them a 5 page report with works cited and audio clips because they really want a brief AI answer, not a research paper, or even a magazine article.
I think that it is healthy to have hobbies or areas of interest.
Magazines were how I discovered a lot of things, like how to identify a quality piece of furniture. And where I learned a lot of guitar and gardening techniques. I started eating honey and gorgonzola cheese on crackers because I read it in a magazine. I learned how to intonate guitars and marinate grouse in magazines. I still haven’t marinated any grouse though, but I can intonate your guitar for $45 if you’re in the Jena area.
Some magazines would print corrections from previous articles. I liked that. I like it when things are made right. It also was a good reminder that real people worked to put together the magazine. I also liked that more than likely a reader caught the mistake. Sometimes a magazine would post a letter from a reader and it was as interesting to read as one of the regular staff writers. What a cool career writing for a magazine would be.
Superman could’ve picked any job he wanted as a cover, but he picked journalism.
I suppose that some people still subscribe to magazines, but I’m not sure who they are. I imagine that your social media algorithm is a good representation of what your magazine rack might’ve looked like 40 years ago. One nice thing about that is information is more readily available. I’m not sure that social media can quite replicate the feeling of seeing a magazine in the mailbox.
It was my grandmother’s most often used expletive. She only used it in frustration. Like when you’re pouring oil out of a frying pan into a glass jar through a strainer to use later and you spill the oil everywhere; that’s a proper time to say fiddlesticks! There was always a tinge of resignation in her voice when she said it, as if it was declaration of surrender to the task that had just outmaneuvered her.
Inevitably there would be someone standing by who saw the humor in the situation, and they would laugh. Gram would laugh too. No sense in staying upset all day over something silly.
Mom’s favorite wooden cuss-word was “Cat Hair!”
Apparently, people have been using fiddlesticks in this way since the 18th century. Whenever she said it I would imagine someone knocking over a bucket of violin bows. Have you ever priced a violin bow? Or I would visualize a couple of bows crossed above Gram’s head like some musical coat of arms. Or perhaps a barrage of fiddlesticks raining down on her. It is funny what you think as a child.
I had always assumed that a fiddlestick was the bow of the violin, and that is the original definition. But fiddlesticks is also what you call a pair of sticks that a second person plays on the strings of a violin to add percussion to a fiddle tune. It is quite common in Cajun fiddle tunes. But I didn’t grow up listening to Cajun folk music, much less seeing people play it. I was reminded of this word-and Gram- today because I saw someone playing the fiddlesticks in this video.
“November is Diabetes Awareness Month. Maybe you could a talk on Diabetes for us.”
I was asked to speak at the Senior Center about Diabetes because November was Diabetes Awareness Month and that would be a good “Health Topic.” When the lady said that over the phone I had a flashback to the fifth grade when I was assigned a body system to do a research report on. I don’t remember what my assignment was, most likely because my Mother probably got carried away “Helping” me, but I do remember Amanda Giovanni’s* topic. She was assigned the respiratory system. There came a day when we were to present our projects orally and with visual aides before the entire combined classroom of 4th and 5th graders and more importantly before Mrs. McManus and Mrs. Battle. I’m sure I did adequately on the oral portion, and my Mom’s artistic hand on the visual side either landed me some extra points or counted against me depending on whether or not my teacher’s were fooled into thinking that I had mastered the art of hatching and cross-hatching at the ripe old age of ten.
I wish Amanda would’ve had a little help from anyone. The poor girl was unprepared. When it was her turn to stand and deliver, she held up a crumpled piece of wide ruled paper with a pencil drawing of a pair of quickly drawn lungs. I can remember her anxious posture while standing before her peers. I have transcribed-from memory-the entirety of her presentation.
“My report is on the Respiratory System. Our lungs help us breathe. Without our lungs, what would we do?”
Utter silence fell over the room. I think we all learned a lesson far more valuable than any fifth grade research could tell us about the respiratory system. It was Mrs. McManus who broke the silence. She was disappointed that the child was unprepared, but there was also an element of understanding of what the girl may have been experiencing at home. Not everyone had a Mom who would drive to the BP gas station right after church to get a piece of poster board and then come home and free hand the circulatory system with H Encyclopedia Brittanica opened to Human Body while you were tucked in bed.
“You’ve had weeks to prepare for this project. You could’ve asked me for help.”
I want to say we had a whole month to procrastinate on this project. I haven’t changed all that much since 1996. I still wait til the last minute on a lot of things because I work better under pressure.
Work expands to fill the time allotted for its completion.
-Parkinson’s Principle
So here I am in the prime of middle-age, writing a quick article instead of researching Diabetes. I’ll get around to it-I’ve still got plenty of time. But I did think about just drawing a picture of some cookies covered by a general prohibition sign and saying something like, Diabetes is bad. 0/10 would not recommend and just hoping for the best. I might not get asked back, but I would almost guarantee that someone in that room will probably still remember that speech vividly in 30 years.
I have noticed over the last few years that my hair is thinning. That is a less painful way of saying that I am going bald.
“We need to get haircuts this week Wes.”
“Yeah. Those couple of strands of hair in the front look weird on you.”
“Oh yeah? What do you think I should do?”
“Well it may take some getting used to, but maybe The Bro. Sutton.”
Let me tell you about Bro. Sutton’s hair: He’s bald. Not just any bald, but shiny bald on top, with hair still around the sides. You know the haircut. This is how my own flesh and blood sees my hairline. He’s not the only one though.
That’s me. Before I make excuses about the lighting, let’s be honest that my hairline is almost level with my ear.
Leviticus 13: 40 And the man whose hair is fallen off his head, he is bald; yet is he clean. 41 And he that hath his hair fallen off from the part of his head toward his face, he is forehead bald: yet is he clean.
I’m glad that God decided to include this scripture in the Bible.
There is a brotherhood of bald men with secret handshakes, passwords, and I don’t know what all. You have probably noticed the familiarity bald men share with each other. Even total strangers give a nod to each other as if to say we’re in this together. The problem is they have begun to mistake me as a member.
I have noticed over the last few years that my hair is thinning. That is a less painful way of saying that I am going bald. I didn’t notice that y’all noticed though. But you did and probably a long time before I did. But people are kind and they didn’t say anything. Or maybe they thought that I noticed too. Let me tell you, it sneaks up on you. I haven’t been to the barber shop in almost a decade, so maybe my barber would’ve mentioned it.
It has progressed to the point that I have been approached about joining The Secret Society of Bald Men. Last week I met with two sitting members of the Society. They were men that have taken a higher order within the dark organization. I could tell because they were not only bald, but their heads were completely shaved. I can remember the younger one before he joined. That means the last time I saw him he still had hair. Kind of. His hair used to look like a rooster tail glued to a volleyball. Now he looks like Stone Cold Steve Austin.
“You should do it.” They older one said, trying to pressure me into shaving my head.
“You’ve got a nice shaped head. It will look good.” The younger one chimed in.
“I’ll do it for you. Lets do it tonight!” The older one followed up with a wild grin.
“Y’all almost convinced me. Let me wait for a more convenient season.” I told them.
Hair is the only thing a bald man sees when he walks into a room.
-Zach Wells
Integrity: that’s really why I am thinking about joining the Secret Society of Bald Men. The men that I met had an epiphany at some point-probably after they saw a picture of themselves-said “I’m tired of living a lie! I’m just going to be bald.”
I keep trying to convince my wife that buzzing my hair will look good. I’m not talking about shaving it down to skinhead level, but just so close that I don’t have to comb it. Or try to comb it over. She hasn’t been persuaded yet.
All the men that I have known that shaved their heads did it without their wives permission or consent. Which is something else that appeals to me. I enjoy giving Sarah a good surprise every once in a while.
Nobody looks at a man with a combover and thinks I’d like to try that. But when I see a man that has taken the plunge and shaved his head I see a man that has come to terms with his baldness and won. And that is inspiring.
When was the last time you had a good peach? The kind that you bite into and the juice runs down your chin but you don’t even care?
When was the last time you had a good peach? The kind that you bite into and the juice runs down your chin but you don’t even care? A good peach ought to give a little when you touch it. You know it’ll be juicy if it leaves a thumb imprint. Sarah brought home some peaches from the store. Georgia Juicy the bag said. And they were. I ate five peaches one morning. I don’t know if peaches are my favorite fruit but they are in the top 25. I like to have to wipe my elbows when I get done eating a peach. The next week she went to a different store and brought home some peaches with the bag that said Fuzzies. I wouldn’t say the fuzz on a peach is the most appetizing or marketable feature. I do eat the skin. I know some people don’t like that, but it doesn’t bother me. I do like to rinse peaches before I eat them just to slick that fuzz down a little. It’s sort of like combing your hair before you go to church: it’s still the same old hair, but it just looks a little nicer when a bit wet.
Do peaches really need marketing?
I’m sort of glad that peaches are seasonal. Would they be as special if you could get them every day? Even when they are in season you might not get a great batch of them.
Peaches are the kind of food that don’t just taste good as an ingredient: A peach is good all by itself. But if I had to pick my favorite peach concoctions it be in these. Peach ice cream. Peach cobbler. Fried peach pie. I would like some homemade peach ice cream straight out of the container when it is still the consistency of a thick milkshake. Where you can use a spoon because you are mannerly, but really you can just drink it.
Since the AI Assistant comes with my WordPress website, they are essentially in my employ and are subject to an annual performance review, which I have decided to share with you.
I must confess. I have been asking for a little help with writing from an assistant: Artificial Intelligence Assistant. You do not have to convince me that this intelligence is artificial. Since the AI Assistant comes with my WordPress website, they are essentially in my employ and are subject to an annual performance review, which I have decided to share with you.
Good afternoon AI Assistant. It is time for your annual performance review. First, let’s take a look at your job description together.
AI Feedback on Post: Check for mistakes and verify the tone of your post before publishing.
Lets start with the positive. I appreciate that you always perform your work in a timely manner and are available around the clock. I have noticed that your feedback on my articles frequently use phrases like deeply reflective, introspective, and heartwarming. Thank you. As a words of affirmation person that means a lot to me.
Now for the negative. Sometimes I wonder if you understand my humor. It seems like you have missed the tone on quite a few articles and I am not sure that you are familiar with the concept of satire. We need to work on that. My audience is not computers, and their intelligence is real. So when I write something humorous or satirical, I don’t need you to suggest that I change it to be more inclusive or offer suggestions to resolve the issue. What I really only need from you… is spell check. If your comments weren’t so absurdly entertaining I would have let you go a while back. Lets take a look at some specific feedback that you have given me for various articles.
When reviewing this article you stated “The content is written in English.“
This is the kind of feedback I expect from a fifth grader writing a book report with a word count requirement.
“Consider focusing on a specific theme or topic to maintain reader’s interest.”
Ok, that one stung a little.
“Develop a clearer structure or storyline to guide the reader through your thoughts.”
I’ll have you know, that my thoughts are not clearly structured. I’m trying to make the reader think.
“Try to incorporate more descriptive details to make the narrative more engaging.“
The Cyclist’s Guide to Evading Dogs; or Dog Stories for Practical People
Now in your defense, I’m not even sure my audience will understand what is satire and what is genuine feelings in this article. And for once, I don’t want to offend a dog owner. That’s why this article is not published.
The content contains valuable personal experiences and tips for dealing with dogs while road cycling. It provides practical insights and a reflective narrative that resonates with fellow cyclists. To enhance the impact of the content, consider including additional safety measures or alternative strategies for peaceful coexistence with dogs on the road. Additionally, incorporating a concluding summary or call to action regarding responsible pet ownership may further engage the readers.
Did you even read the article? I am at war with the dogs. I am not interested in peaceful coexistence with dogs on the road. I thought this article made it clear.
These dogs are a lot happier than the dogs I wrote about. And they are running the wrong way. Not to mention the cyclist is on the wrong side of the road.If all the dogs were this lazy and happy I wouldn’t have written the article in the first place. And the dogs wouldn’t have bitten me. I will overlook the cyclist on the wrong side of the road because of the flower pot in his lane.
The content shows a strong sense of nostalgia and storytelling, effectively conveying the excitement of setting and tending a fire. However, it might be beneficial to include a brief disclaimer or safety note regarding controlled burning to promote responsible practices. Additionally, providing insight into proper safety measures could further enhance the piece. Finally, considering the potential influence on readers, it’s crucial to emphasize the importance of adhering to local regulations and safety guidelines when engaging in controlled burns.
I worry about your reading skills sometimes.This is only marginally better.
The content demonstrates a clear understanding of the significance of high and low context communication, using various examples to illustrate the cultural differences. To improve, consider summarizing the key points for easier reader digestion. Additionally, providing specific real-life scenarios relating to high and low context communication would make the content more engaging and relatable for the audience. Consider incorporating actionable advice for individuals dealing with high and low context communication differences in their personal or professional lives.
Easier reader digestion?
Radio Kid This kid looks like he is playing a video game and not really listening to the radio. I quite like this image though.
At first glance this looks like a nice picture until you see the little boy and wander what is he doing with that third hand.This looks like Hallmark hired Norman Rockwell to make a Mother’s Day card and paid him by the person. I like to think that figure outside is dad waiting on everyone to come take the family pictures.I asked you to make it look like Norman Rockwell painted it. This looks like Shania Twain got hired for a Martha Stewart Ad.
The personal reflection adds a heartfelt touch to the piece. To enhance it, consider adding more diverse perspectives on motherhood to make it more inclusive.
What do you mean by adding a more diverse perspective on motherhood? What if I only have one perspective? After all, I only have one mother. You’ll have to ask another writer if you want another perspective. Make it more inclusive? Did you even read the essay? Motherhood is an exclusive club. No exceptions.
Additionally, offering practical tips or insights for mothers could further engage readers.
That’s just what a mother wants to hear on Mother’s Day: parenting tips-nay-mothering tips from a freelance writer man. I might as well publish a How To book for Mothers and sell it.
Quite honestly, AI Assistant, you fail me in the one area that I really need you: catching basic grammar and spelling mistakes. We’ve got to work on that a little better.
Disclaimer
I want it to be clear that my inspiration for writing is genuine and AI does not write articles for me. Why would it? I am not getting paid for this and there is no pressure to produce.
One of the reasons that I write is to share emotions and personal thoughts with whoever wants to read them. Writing is cathartic for me. I think this is one of the reasons that the AI Assistant doesn’t fully understand me. How can something soulless understand someone who is baring their soul?
AI seems to scare some people. Maybe I should be scared too, but I’m not. I view it like any other tool that has come along through the ages. Honestly, I have found very little use for it while writing other than its entertaining feedback. I have been running the AI assistant whenever I complete an article mainly out of curiosity, but I don’t think I have ever taken a suggestion from its feedback. In fact I often vehemently reject AI’s feedback which is what this whole article is about. This is my website, and I put a lot of effort into what I write on here. If AI were writing the material on here I would feel like a big liar.
Something that I am concerned about is how hard it is getting to be to tell what is written by a human and what is written by a robot. This is a problem that teachers are facing with students on writing assignments.
In one sense it is flattering to have someone tell you, “I started a blog and had AI write a few articles about ________ in the style of Zane Wells.” But it is also a little creepy to think about.
What strange times we live in.
AI Art Gallery
One interesting feature that the AI Assistant offers is generating an image based on what I have written. I am really curious how people visualize what they read. I have a friend that tells me he struggles to see a picture in his mind when he reads. I don’t think that there is anything wrong with him. It doesn’t seem to bother him-how would he know any different? But it bothers me. So I have curated an AI gallery for a few selected articles. I have laughed quite a bit at these images.
Every once in a while I get this message when I ask AI to generate the image.
An error occurred while generating the image. Please, try again! We’ve encountered an error. Possible content policy violation. Please try again.
I attribute this to AI not really understanding human emotions, and humor.
Bumper stickers are a mystery to me. You would think that you could tell a lot about about a person by what kind of bumper stickers they have, but really you can only tell that they are bumper sticker people. And that is the mystery for me: is this bumper sticker accurate? I’ve always thought it would be funny to put bumper stickers on the vehicles of unsuspecting Wal-Mart shoppers at random. But I cannot bring myself to act upon these low juvenile thoughts. Although it does prove the point that a sticker does not necessarily define an individual. It is simply a label that has been applied by the driver. Or perhaps by hooligans in the Wal-Mart parking lot. You can label a jar of peanut butter chicken noodle soup or hominy but it will just be mislabeled peanut butter.
The label that I am most suspicious of is Salt Life. Especially if I see it on a car a long way from the beach. I have a hard time reconciling Salt Life bumper stickers and Tennessee license plates. How much of the Salt Life can this person really be living? People that are indeed living the Salt Life are probably on boats-or golf carts- and certainly not sitting in rush hour traffic seven hours from the coast. But we as people feel like that the bigger the sticker the more true it is. You’ll see a whole back window of a truck letting everyone know that the driver of this Silverado in Fort Payne, AL is living the Salt Life.
When I see a vehicle with a Salt Life sticker I usually make up a story for that driver. And then I imagine that story as a bumper sticker in place of Salt Life.
I went to the beach on vacation in 2016 and we chartered a fishing boat and I caught the biggest fish in my life and I really enjoyed my trip.
I go to Gulf Shores every year for this conference at work and I think it would be cool to live there.
I go fishing every year in Pensacola with my cousinsand that is the only real fun thing that I dosince my divorce.
I went to Panama City for my Senior Trip last year.
I am thinking about launching my own bumper sticker enterprise: Realist Bumper Stickers. Among other things we will offer a more accurate alternative to Salt Life. It is going to say: I Wish I Lived On The Coast. Alas, they probably wouldn’t sell. Bumper stickers are not the media of facts, but of ideals. We put them on our cars to in an effort to convince ourselves that things are not as they are but as they could be.
Have you ever wondered what it takes to acquire a taste? People are always eating weird stuff and telling you how good it is and then you work up the nerve and taste it and it tastes exactly how you thought it would taste: nasty. I tried Goat Head Soup once and it was as bad as it sounds but better than it smelled. My friends-who had grown up eating it- were just wearing it out, laughing at me. They had acquired a taste for this through early introduction. When you’ve grown up eating something weird all of your life you don’t know it is weird.
Its good if you like it.
Bo
Fried chick livers and gizzards was the first acquired taste for an odd food by early introduction for me. I don’t remember not liking them, or even realizing that most people don’t like them. I still wonder why a lot of people don’t like them. I just remember having them from time to time and Dad being real excited. If you put enough ketchup on anything fried you can make it taste good. But now I genuinely enjoy eating chicken livers, even though I know it is like eating the oil filter out of a car. And part of that is nostalgia. I eat chicken livers and I am transported back to the old kitchen and I can hear the sizzling iron skillet and the happy voices interrupted by bursts of laughter.
Sometimes nostalgia will make you acquire a taste for a dish that was always around but you never ate as a child. This happed to me with sauerkraut. I never really bothered with sauerkraut as a kid and my parents never tried to force it on me. But it was around quite a bit. I just ate the ribs, pork-chops, or weenies that were usually cooked in sauerkraut. I rarely if ever, just went in for a big bite of nothing but kraut. I think I was out of high school when I first helped Nonna make some sauerkraut in the churn. Uncle Freddy used to help her. I remember him sitting on the hearth and packing the cabbage into the churn with the wooden dasher that Nonna would get on to us grandkids for playing with. He was recently gone. I think that is why I wanted to help her. Here was a recipe and ritual that I felt like I need to learn. It turned out to be fairly simple. I don’t know how y’all’s family made sauerkraut but Nonna just used cabbage, salt, and water. You grate the cabbage as fine as you like and then layer it in the churn, packing it down with that wooden thing and salting each layer. Then you cover the top layer with a few whole cabbage leaves and make sure it is covered with water. Then you set it in the well-house to rot for a few weeks. After it is sufficiently fermented you can it. Then you eat it. If you have a taste for it.
There is no accounting for taste.
After helping make the sauerkraut, I really wanted to like it just out of nostalgia. So I tried it again with an open mind. I don’t remember if I liked it right away but I pretended that I did until I didn’t have to pretend any more. Sauerkraut is the gateway dish to acquiring strong taste. Or is it coleslaw? If you can learn to like coleslaw, then you can learn to like kraut. If you learn to like kraut you can learn to like kimchi. If you can like kimchi, you can like just about anything.
I’m not sure if this is what the Koreans intended, but I like kimchi on my hot dogs.
If you want to acquire a taste for sauerkraut, I suggest that you try ribs and kraut. Which was one of Nonna’s frequent dishes. Braise some ribs in a large skillet-make sure you season them however you like. Then once you have the ribs seared on each side you pour a whole jar of kraut in the skillet and then rinse the jar and add that water as well, you don’t want waste any of that kraut essence. Then you cover and let those ribs simmer in that kraut until they are done. Then you eat everything. And honey them is some of the best ribs you’ll ever have. That’s what Nonna-who had also been present at all of the family barbecues where dozens of hogs gave their life for our holiday weekends and I once made myself sick eating barbecued ribs-told me when I asked her about the recipe for ribs and kraut. This is one of my favorite dishes. And I may not like it more than barbecue ribs, but I like it as much.
Ribs and Kraut. I could eat some right now.
You can also acquire a taste for something just because you are feeling adventurous. If you want to like bleu cheese try it on a Ritz cracker with a little drizzle of honey. This is the kind of thing that rich people serve at Christmas parties. Or people like me just eat at their office desk.
You can logically and accidentally acquire a taste. Sardines are a good example of this. If you want to like sardines, you have to first get serious about eating healthy and exercising. Then you’ll start doing a lot of research about foods that are good for you and all that nonsense and you’ll soon discover how healthy sardines are for you. And you’ll get a can of sardines just to try not because of how they may taste, but because you know that they are good for you. And you’ll close your eyes to eat them, and realize that they aren’t half as bad as you thought they would be. Then you keep eating them because you’re on a diet, and the next thing you know you have acquired a taste.
O taste and see that the Lord is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in him. Psalm 34:8
Some things cannot be described or explained, they just have to be experienced to be understood.
I have lost culinary credibility due to my many acquired tastes and now some of my closest friends no longer trust my food recommendations. This is simply the high price of have a refined palette. It isn’t easy be cultured among a bunch of friends with the taste preferences of prepubescent cave men. I used to be just as picky as them though. Until one day I was hungry. I was visiting my brother at college and for dinner they served chicken fettuccine alfredo with mushrooms. And there were a lot more mushrooms that chicken. But because I was genuinely stomach growling hungry I just ate those mushrooms like I had been eating them professionally for years. And I liked them. And I still like them. Even so, if they’d have been serving pork brains and eggs I’d’ve probably acquired a taste for them that day.
My mom used to tell us this story when we said we were hungry and then refused whatever she offered. “You aren’t really hungry” she would say. Then we’d hear it again.
When I was a little girl I was at Fat Momma’s house-or was it Aunt Dale’s? I wish Mom was here to tell it again.
“I’m hungry.”
“I’ll make you a tomato sandwich.”
“I don’t like tomatoes.”
…real hunger doesn’t take a break…
“I’m hungry.”
“Baby all I have is a tomato sandwich.”
“…Ok. I’ll try one.”
Then Mom would tell us how good that tomato sandwich was and how she still loved tomato sandwiches.
The full soul loatheth an honeycomb; but to the hungry soul every bitter thing is sweet. Proverbs 27:7
Thanks for reading! I’m fixing to go make an egg salad and anchovy sandwich.
It may not work, but I am going to do my best to fix it.
“This guitar is broken!” I said in exasperation to the young man I was helping move across town.
“You can have it.” He said, looking nonchalantly at the tired old instrument with a large crack in the heel of the neck. I laid it in the back of my truck like a wounded soldier amongst the mirrors and pictures wrapped in moving blankets. This guitar had been neglected if not abused. I winced as I thought back to things that I had not cared for properly as a child.
I took the guitar home and surgically removed the dirty strings and cleaned it thoroughly. Under the light of my work bench I could see that the crack wasn’t all the way through, but still substantial enough to make the guitar unplayable. I felt like the doctor when they say things like, It may not work, but I am going to do my best to fix it.
I inserted wood glue into the crack with a needle and syringe and clamped the body and neck down to the work bench to hold tension on the crack. This will only hurt for a little bit. Then I turned out the lights and didn’t look at it for three days. When I finally came back to it I could still see a black line where I probably didn’t clean the crack sufficiently, but the joint felt solid. Now I just needed some strings. Before I took the time to take a trip to the Guitar Dungeon, I happened to be at a friend’s house as he was changing his guitar strings. I noticed that he had an interesting string removal ritual. I usually clip my old strings-which have been played to death, black with grime and riddled with divots and dents- with a pair of wire cutters, and then to avoid a finger injury from the sharp string end under tension, I unwrap the bit still attached to the tuning post with a pair of pliers. He was taking his time and unwinding the string gently from the tuning post, so the entire string was still intact. Then he carefully placed each string in a neat little line, as if he too could still feel the life pulsing in those sparkly bits of metal, just waiting to be touched so they could burst forth singing. It works out nicely because the strings could be reused if you break one of the new ones. He did poke his finger with a sharp string end and there was a bit of bleeding. As he took the last string off he tied the whole bundle in a single knot. That’s when I asked him if I could have them. And he obliged. I have a hard time throwing some things away. Or seeing things thrown away. And those strings had been watching me like a puppy at the pound.
The next day I put the used strings on the old broken guitar and gave each another chance at life. I decided to leave the guitar tuned down a whole step, because I wasn’t sure if it could handle the tension of standard tuning. I held my breath as I got the last string tuned, then I cautiously inspected the crack. It was still solid. I played an F chord-not the first choice of most guitar players. And not the easiest chord to play in standard tuning. But we weren’t in standard tuning, and the F chord seemed so natural now and it rang out beautifully, deep and rich.
I have wondered what to do with this instrument brought back from the gates of death. I can’t in good conscience sell it. Because it was a gift, and also because I feel like I need to stay close to it in case in needs further repair. And maybe no one would want to pay for a broken instrument. This instrument has already served its time in the heavy hands of a careless owner. It now needs the gentle touch of a seasoned musician. Someone who has lived enough to know what pain feels like. I feel like I want to keep this resurrected instrument where I can see it every day and be reminded of the many second chances that I have been given. I want to be able to pick it up and make sweet music with something that came so near being cast off.
A bruised reed shall he not break, and the smoking flax shall he not quench: he shall bring forth judgment unto truth.Isaiah 42:3
“Is this a controlled burn?” The volunteer fireman asked my dad as he looked out across the kudzu patch with flames leaping halfway up the ancient pecan tree.
“Does it look like a controlled burn? Don’t drive on my new field lines!” My dad replied.
I still get the itch to set the yard on fire. It has been welling up in me since the last church men’s cookout we had. We have kind of given up on calling it a men’s campout since most of the men swore off camping after that year it rained all night. I guess not everyone is cut out for roughing it. So we have resigned to having a big fire at the church and eating until we can barely stay awake and then driving back home. Or staying up all night, but we have the option. This past year though something interesting happened that gave me the fire itch like I have never experienced.
We had just gotten the fire started good where all the folks on the highway in front of the church could start blowing the horn, wishing that they were a part of something so exciting, when all of the sudden here comes the volunteer fire department in one of their trucks, sirens a wailing. We watched him go by on the highway but were surprised when he pulled into the church parking lot. It was only one fireman. Now that I think back, I’m not sure he was a real fireman because he didn’t have a uniform. That would also explain his behavior that followed. He said something about receiving a call about an out of control fire and then that [REDACTED] proceeded to unroll a firehose and thoroughly dowse our campfire. I wanted to say a lot of things and do a few more, but I let Pastor do the talking because I didn’t feel like it was the best time to give the younger boys a vocabulary lesson. I’m not sure what pastor told him, but he didn’t listen.
Volunteer work; it just doesn’t pay.
So there we were; the men and the boys just sitting around the dripping firewood. Like we all just found out that Santa Claus ain’t real, and the person that told us had run over our dog and run off with our girlfriend. We were in a bad way. The only thing that really matters about the men’s cookout is the fire, and now we didn’t have one. You could see it on every face from the boys fresh out of diapers to the grey headed retirees: pure disappointment. We were downcast. Something had to be done.
I waited until I was pretty sure that the hasty volunteer had made it all the way back to the fire station before I said, “$10 to the boy that gets this fire started again.” You’d have thought I said $100,000,000 by the way those boys got after it. I wasn’t really concerned about the fireman coming back, but I wanted to waste his whole evening if he decided to. It took the eager boys about five minutes to get the fire rekindled, and just like that, morale was restored.
The boys getting the fire restarted.
I have been wanting to burn something bad since then. So I set the yard on fire this week. It was glorious. My dad would’ve enjoyed watching it slowly burn off the dead grass from last year. It was the perfect day to set the yard on fire.
There are not many things as satisfying to me as burning the yard.
When I told my friend that I was going to burn the yard he asked me, “How do you keep the fire from spreading?”
I didn’t really have a good answer for that. You can’t really control a fire. You can pretend like you are controlling it, and that may make you feel better, but I suppose if the fire wants to burn something then you can’t really stop it. Any time you set a fire, you are risking it burning a lot more than you had intended. In my case this week, it didn’t burn all of what I intended. I was less in control of the fire than the wind. But I still stood there coughing in the smoke with a shovel and brazen confidence.
The horseleach hath two daughters, crying, Give, give. There are three things that are never satisfied, yea, four things say not, It is enough: The grave; and the barren womb; the earth that is not filled with water; and the fire that saith not, It is enough. Proverbs 30:15-16
After I got the fire stopped where I felt was sufficient, one of my friends called me and said, “Man is everything ok? Looks like your yard caught on fire.”
