Sunday, January 15, 2012

Oh, Lord, won't you buy me a night in the woods!

The Vegas trip is off; seems straight gran’mas get audiences with Princess Maura J well ahead of mere Great Grandpas.... A new staging—by God Himself, rumor has it--of the old Fantasticks! opens two weeks from tonight at the Backdoor. I’ve got the Old Actor role and get to beat on Jesus.... The Big River City Home Show closes out February.... The Drafty Olde Craft Shoppe’s (DOCS) show pieces are too many hours short of being ready; and I’ve scarcely begun stripping Maura’s Cradle.... Then this old man trips up, taking out TV cable and internet connection in one fell swoop. Had to survive on FB with only a cell phone mere days before this post's deadline!

Children, this old man needs an extended weekender to hook up with his Higher Power! We are scheming for Caprock Canyons but could make do with Arrowhead in a pinch, given what Mamma always said about beggars not being chosers. We did manage to spend most of yesterday in the backyard--this writer's lifetime first camping site--playing Domestic Handyman, and I'm pretty sure I caught a spark. What is needed, though, is full blown, healing fire!

I don't mind telling you, this 2012 American Consumerism Lifestyle is damn near more than this old man can ride. Nor am I alone in sometimes feeling overwhelmed; thank you, Jesus! Sister blogger Peggy Browning the other day wrote about how her old job was killing her, not so slowly and ever so surely. Personally, this old man is fully prepared to turn in his pass and go home. But that's not my call to make, is it? We are, after all, meant to dance for as long as the music plays, are we not?

Henry David Thoreau said it best: In Wilderness is the preservation of the World. My earliest living memory of camping is my sister and I spreading a blanket between our twin beds for a tent to protect us from Ol' Griz, a four-foot-tall stuffed bear. Dear Old Dad never tired of telling how I brought both myself and cousin Frank Ed tumbling assholes over elbows down the side of Mount Scott. I suppose post traumatic stress syndrome wiped that incident from my memory.

One of these days again...soon, I pray. Meanwhile, back at the cabin.... Y'all come back now, hear?

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