Ruminations

One:

We moved into that house in 1979. I didn't leave until 1984 when I was requested to leave "with extreme prejudice." My mother didn't leave until she died there in 2001.

But.

From 1979 until 2001, there was a dish of soap in our bathroom that was not to be used, only looked at and never touched. I'm not sure why. After Mom died and people came over for the hand clasping and the head shaking and the warm, squeezing hugs and the pats on the back, I went upstairs, to "my" bathroom to use it instead of the one below.

Of course, there was that dish of soap...I took one.

Only now it was useless. Only now it was a hardened, dust-caked rock instead of the rose-shaped soap it had been. Insoluble and filthy, it neither lathered nor cleaned my hands.

I could stop there and some would understand yet some would not. Would not see that a lifetime spent reserving things for the future, for a posterity unseen, is a fool's errand.

When you're a Mothershead now, you will use the soap that smells like trees on a hill. You will light a dusty candle before you forget where it came from. You will consume kerosene in your lanterns. You will scratch your records, and you will break your glass.


Two:

The truck's been washed twice since 2003, October, and neither time did I raise a brush or a towel against it. It's cocoon of dust outside, and the sun protection factor of empty sunflower hulls inside keep him happy and safe from the sun, and the rain, and the occasional tree branch.

Worrying about something you don't sleep with is a waste if time. The worship I see of automobiles reminds me of the aforementioned bars of soap. I know people who measure success by the dents in their trucks which may be a good bench mark for people who think more about their cars and H3's than their own kid's home room teacher's name.

My truck's stained with blood, sweat, tears, vomit, and sharpies...a rolling bulletin board like this blog. How's my driving? Call 336-382-3399.

Three:

Health care reform? I don't know a thing about it, and I suspect not many of us do either. I don't know or care what the hell's going on, BUT, I will say this. As a carpenter, it is only a matter of time before I'm back in an Urgent Care center or emergency room to have something reattached or sewn shut or plastered immobile.

I'm always shocked when I notice these places have two mindsets when approaching injuries. One is the no holds barred, pull-out-all-the-stops (yippeee!!!) it's worker's comp let's make some money. The other is, oh, he owns his own company and he's gonna pay with a check....(dammit)

The former is always at least 1200 dollars, the latter is ALWAYS 247.00 dollars...which of course speaks volumes. I've noticed Americans love to milk insurance companies...and that's the rub isn't it? Some see a free ride,a gravy train with biscuit wheels, and they jump right on...

I've never done that. I got my thumb stitched, I got my truck fixed, and I told rehab and the auto "refinishers" to kiss my ass...

Four:

Just something to think about I reckon. Use your damn soap, stop kissing your car's ass, and stop getting carpal tunnel cause you need six weeks vacation, America.