Life in the Slow Lane

There is something so aesthetically pleasing about a field of freshly baled hay. I don't know what it is exactly. It isn't the fresh mowed look, because I'm not fond of the buzz cut field. It might be the neat little "boxes" spaced at even intervals but I've seen hay wrapped in white plastic in the shape of huge wheels that I find fun to look at, too. Perhaps it is the simple fact that the bundled hay is proof of work accomplished and it gets to sit so that everyone can see it. Most things that people do disappear. The whole question of "Why should I make my bed" springs from that uncomfortable knowledge. But with bales of hay, you do the work and let it sit there all by itself and everyone can see that YOU have done your work and are just waiting for the sun and the air to finish it and while you wait, things look nice and clean and neat. Then again, maybe I just like fields of freshly baled hay because it looks nice and clean and neat.

Did you know that Hallmark is looking for greeting card writers? They have a little PDF exercise you can download from their website to see if you are cut out for the job. The only real problem is you have to relocate to Kansas City. This set me to thinking. The first thought is: What is it about Kansas City that makes a good writer for greeting cards? Also, I imagine that you could only be a card writer for about 10 months before all of your inspiration disappears and you are stuck writing cheesy poems about flowers and love. Thirdly, I think I want to start my own line of non-cheesy greeting cards. I already have some ideas. Outside: The man in the moon smiled in his sleep The stars by his side dreamed wondrous things The wind rolled over in its bed, the trees Inside: Because they were all too far away to hear your #$!!!!@!###!!!!!!! dog bark all night. Shoot it or boot it. Love, your neighbor. or Outside: On the occassion of you making dinner, I'd like to o...

Today I made fig jam. I have never made fig jam before. I have never made jam before. But today I made a small batch and arrived with approximately 5 pints of fig something. Whether it is jam is still to be determined. The good news is that today I only used a third of our fig harvest, so I will have the opportunity to try again. But since we will never be able to use it all, I plan on just passing the jars on to my neighbors with the instructions to just keep on passing on whatever they won't be able to use. You should be getting some shortly.

The other day I discovered a riveting section of the newspaper. It is in the Sports section and is entitled "Fishing." It lists different fishing places in the area and lists what kind of bait people are using at what time to catch what type of fish. Personally, I thought this was what old men gossiped when they were hanging out in the bait shop, too cold to actually get out on the water. I never imagined that I could eavesdrop on the notes of their talk while crunching my cereal in the comfort of my own home.

I once tried the supposed surefire trick of tying a string around my finger to remember an important event. I never figured out how it was supposed to be effective. I switched to making lists and notes. The problem now becomes the abreviations that I use. I have a note, right where I always look for my to do list, that says "Figure out AA." I have run through a list of possible explantions, and none of them fits. So, until I remember what "AA" stands for, I am doomed to never accomplishing my to do list. What a horrible lot in life.

I have purchased many books on line in my life. I have never purchased music on line. So I took a gander (not the male goose) at what Amazon might recommend to me in music based on my book purchases. It caused me to think deep thoughts about how someone might be able to create "Amazon Personalities" like Myers-Briggs, etc. I'm done thinking deep thoughts now.

Women are supposed to be nurturers. If that is so, how come I have a long line of accidental deaths behind me? The impossible to kill plants, which I so easily killed. The scores of fish who lived longer when I didn't look after them. The koi I pet sat, two of whom ended up in the freezer. And the most recent tragedy. Today I found a worm from our worm farm, squished because of my neglegence. Poor thing. It didn't even have a chance to fight back. We used to have 500 worms, give or take a few, and because of me we now only have 499 worms, give or take a few. So today, be good to a worm for my sake.

Today I walked my trash to the curb. Some people walk dogs. I don't have a dog. Some people walk babies. I don't have a baby. Some people walk cats. I have a cat, but I don't particularly feel like walking in place while my cat sprawls on the cement, as I have seen this method modeled. I do have trash. So I walk my trash. It actually has great benefits. If I pull it behind me, the faster I go, the less I smell it. If I push it in front of me, it provides great motivation for an anaerobic work out. It also does a pretty decent job of fulfilling the role of a rotweiler: it keeps people at bay. Maybe someday I will write a new diet and weightloss plan and call it "Getting Rid of the Garbage." The only problem I forsee is that Trash Day comes only once a week.

Grape arbors seem so romantic, a part of sunny days where the owner sits on his tiled porch, overlooking the hills of grape vines and sipping wine as a breeze plays with his graying hair. Unfortunately, someone has to pick the silly grapes. And double unfortunately, that someone is me. I once received training so that I could work in the fields here in California. I think my certification has expired now, but no matter. The grapes I have to pick aren't in a field. They are on a vine climbing up the side of my house. All I need is a good ladder and someone who wants to climb it so that I don't put myself in harms way. I'll just hold the ladder steady. Or maybe I will hold the ladder while the supporting joint unlocks and knocks me underneath my nose. Don't ask my how exactly it happened. Suffice it to know that it did. And I have the bruise to prove it. It extends from cheek to cheek and from the roof of my mouth up into my forehead. This event has brou...

Grandpa, you're driving too fast. I'm not in a rush to get anywhere. But I'm still on the freeway. I had better let those people pass me. Because I'm just sitting here, cruise control set at 50. Oh, hey. I like your bumper sticker. Don't mind me. I'm in the slow lane.