My Work

Friday, February 19, 2016

Will It Ever End?

It’s along about this time that winter’s intrigue, that is, beautiful snow, delightful crystals of ice, frosty windows, and flocked trees, begins to wear on the psyche, and thoughts of spring are more likely to be at the frontal lobe. Yes, it’s that time of year when the weatherman on the TV turns into an ogre discussing the next series of low pressure systems, when you just put on the second set of windshield wipers frustrates to the point of cursing (oh, my), and you are so tired of lugging in logs for the fireplace, that you bellow to the sky

Will It Ever End?

It’s been about nine weeks since the winter solstice, and that means we’re about five weeks, maybe four and a half if we pretend some, before the vernal equinox and blessed spring. Here at the old J Bar P, the mud is deep, but despite the temps below the freezing mark, grass is giving it a go. The chickens like the extra amount of light and are giving more eggs (we don’t artificially light their cottages). So, it might be time to just remember how nice it was when Winter was a positive word and influence on our lives.

Over the river and through the wood,

To grandfather's house we go;

The horse knows the way

To carry the sleigh,

Through the white and drifted snow.

Lydia Maria Child (1802-1880)Flowers for Children, "Thanksgiving Day," 1844-1846
Now, that didn’t hurt at all, did it. So, put another log on the fire, break out those worn out winter boots, and remember how much fun it was during those first few storms of the season, when the Austrian Pine stood tall and proud, draped in a foot of snow and icicles hung from the eves. We’ve been thinking bad thoughts about winter for a couple of weeks now. How about a frivolous thought about the season?

When all aloud the wind doth blow,

And coughing drowns the parson's saw,

And birds sit brooding in the snow, 

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl.

Because of a wonderful winter’s load of snow in the high country of the west, there will be weeks of skiing left, we’ll have water for our crops, soon we’ll have the fly rod in hand knowing those pesky trout are firm and fat in their cold water dens, and seed catalogs will fill mail drops by the ton.

Yes, Virginia, it’s still winter, but too, as was once said, this too shall pass.

Until next time, read good books and stay regular

Johnny Gunn
Member, Western Fictioneers
Member, International Thriller Writers
Will you join me on facebook from time to time?
Or Tweet with me, darlin’?

Saturday, February 6, 2016

A Time For Celebration

According to those that maintain these records, George Washington was born on February 22, a long time ago, and when we travel through the area encompassing the original thirteen colonies, we find that he slept, away from home, as often as possible. For many years, Americans celebrated Washington’s Birthday on his birthday, kind of the way we celebrate our own birthdays.

Then came those with deep sensitivities, worrying about all the other presidents’ personal worth. Are those dear dead presidents feeling left out, unworthy of a birthday celebration, with cake, ice cream, hot dogs, baseball, and Chevrolet? Honest Abe had his day, February 12, but Martin Van Buren didn’t get special treatment. Neither did old Calvin C.

“Well, that’s just terrible,” said the sensitive ones. So, now, all of our calendars still reflect February 12 as Lincoln’s birthday, and February 22 as Washington’s, but now, we have the third Monday to celebrate Presidents’ Day, because as we all are imminently aware, the bounty of the nation rolls on the greased wheels of the retail market.

Thus, the three-day weekend, in which we do everything possible to celebrate the birthdays of each and every president. By spending money, of course. Don’t forget all those hot dogs and Chevrolets.

So, this leads us to a time of reflection, a time to ponder the other three-hundred-million of us whose birthdays are not celebrated by the masses. Where are the sensitive ones now? How horrible it must be for those three-hundred-million not to have their birthday recognized on calendar faces, not to be sung to, danced to, not to have billions of hot dogs eaten, and two Chevies purchased.

It’s time for a change, past time, if you really are a sensitive one. Therefore, I ask, ever so humbly, that we set aside a third Monday, I think April would be a good month for that, to celebrate Americans’ Day. We can, everyone of us, take the day off to reflect deeply, maybe even genuflect deeply, our contribution to the magnificence of America, and eat cake and hot dogs, go to a ballgame, and buy a Chevrolet.

Until next time, read good books and stay regular

Johnny Gunn, member, Western Fictioneers
Will you join me on facebook from time to time?
Or Tweet with me, darlin’?