Can anything quite compare to the memories of small-town South Georgia Thanksgivings? * * * Thanksgivings were homecoming events. Family members, like refugees from some vast diaspora, came home again for the annual tradition. Like a pilgrimage to Mecca we came, not that our home town of Colquitt, Georgia is a Mecca, but it has …
Pro forma spreadsheet: An Excel generated financial statement populated with actual and enthusiastic hypothetical financial figures designed to extract money from unsuspecting investors and bankers. * * * Times are good, Bobby is flush with cash. But it is a fire in his pocket, burning hot, needing somewhere to multiply itself. He has an idea. …
Sunny Fall days say, “Slow down,” observe the last of the summer flowers. * * * ‘Slow down’ is exactly what this morning is about. To move any slower would invite rigor mortis to set in. And the quiet Sunday morning porch is a perfect spot for letting nature do the movement. And it’s alive …
O joy! That in our embers Is something that doth live, That nature yet remembers What was so fugitive ! William Wordsworth * * * I’m sitting in the Snip and Clip Hair Emporium, a fancy name for a ‘beauty parlor.’ I’m waiting for my turn for a haircut. It’s weird, sitting in the midst …
And the priest laid his hands upon the scapegoat’s head and said, “Good luck.” * * * It was just a goat, a common variety of goat, no special breeding. The special breeding goats didn’t occupy the common barnyard. They were bred for something different. They grazed across the fence from the manicured and pristine …
Lubrication is a simple solution to the rusty friction of life. Apply where needed. * * * Friction is a fact of life. It’s everywhere. From body joints to nuts and bolts to frozen-up friendships. Things lock up, get rusty. They need a regular lube job. The porch screen door is open. I close it. …
“I write for myself, to save what’s left of myself.” Charles Bukowski, poet * * * Today I spent the morning on the porch, under the fan, reading poetry and hoping the humidity evaporates. Not much luck. But the poetry is good even though Bukowski and many others are dead. Good poetry lives on. It’s …
Trapped by our very own words. How do we escape? * * * It can happen anywhere, anytime, all you have to do is just show up. It’s the experience of life. You try to be nice, cordial, friendly. Yet, even with caution your words can sometimes entrap you into a dilemma of our own …
If some part of the hog is not in your refrigerator or vocabulary, your lineage is questionable. * * * The hog lies there in its watery wallow, muddy from snout to tail, happy as a ‘pig in stink’ to use the vernacular. How would language express the inexpressible without the aid of this animal? …
Ruminations on the subject of routines. Love it or loathe it. * * * It’s another day. We all have them. Beginning again. We show up. Some days begin autonomously, on cruise control, no adjustments necessary. No deep cognitive thought, just rote responses, picking up where we left off yesterday. Others can begin chaotic, out …