Surviving

Feeling the warmth of the sun on a cloudy day. A glimpse into a blind billy goat's unique, ever changing perspectives.

2018 01 15 Hitches and Glitches January 15, 2018

Hello.

I know, I know, it’s been a long time since my last post, and although I’m sorry, I’m happier that some of you might have stuck around. Fact is, with all the hitches and glitches, well, it’s a good feeling to be writing about anything.

I’m still trying to figure out what happened to 2017, and here I go, getting ready for the spring semester at school. With the recent cold snap, this winter is seeming to go by slow, but when the calendar speaks up, it’s a different story, so we’ll just settle down and try to enjoy the ride.

I did have quit3e a ride just before Christmas, with health issues causing me to spend a couple weekends in the hospital. It was a hitch and a glitch, and it was a little dicey there for a bit, but with some quick medical treatment and plenty of love and support, here I am just as ugly as ever. grin

Seriously, I ain’t getting any pertier, but I am still moving forward, even though it might be through the fog.

Another one of those glitches? Perhaps just another one of those dang hitches? What ever it is, here I go, and there you are. What a coincidence.

So, lol. Dontcha just love it when someone starts off a sentence with the word, “so”? It’s like they’re getting ready to read down through a grocery list, or they’re about to tell you the different steps to making a peanut butter sandwich.

Is it grammatically correct to start off a sentence with the word, “so”? Everyone does it. News broadcasters, sports announcers, faculty on campus, leaders and followers, and I’m left scratching my head, wondering why.

And here I go, getting older by the minute, and uglier by the hour.

True story. grin

Thanks for stopping by again, and I do hope you all had a wonderful holiday season.

Don’t look now, but 2018 is off to a rip roaring start!

Take care, and be well.

dp

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2017 09 01 Hi Maintenance September 1, 2017

Hello September. And that’s it. That’s all I got for you. Oh ya. I see you sitting there, all fat and sassy, but all I really feel like saying to you is, you got some nerve! Who do you think you are? Hmm? You think you can just stroll in and shove August to the side? Do you know how rude that is? Did your mother teach you any manners?

Oh ya, that’s right. Your mother is Mother Nature, and I keep forgetting she doesn’t need an excuse to do anything. I think she raised her 12 little high maintenance months the same way that Father Time raised her, or were they cousins or something?

Anyway, it is the start of fall, and today it sure does feel like fall. A low pressure system blew out to sea overnight, and man is the chill blowing in from the west. Safe to say, Fall is only three weeks away, although Summer is trying to fool us.

Yes, it’s me again, and yes, it’s been some time since my last blog post, and yes, I am sorry, but I haven’t felt like doing much writing these past few weeks. I better get my butt in gear, because next week is the start of the fall semester at school, and there’ll be plenty of writing to do. I’m taking two communications classes this fall, and between talking and writing, there’ll be plenty of communicatin’ going on.

Ok then. I hope you’re all doing well, and that you’ve had a great summer.

Take care, and God bless the lot of ya’s.

dp

 

2017 04 20 Poetry, Colors of Spring April 20, 2017

Well this past Easter Sunday it looked like spring was here to stay put, but oh how this Maine weather can turn on a dime. It snowed today, and rained, and the raw chill to the April air reminded me once again where I live. Now, don’t get me wrong, as I love living in Maine. Heck, it’s all I’ve ever known, but it seems the older I get, the older I get. Grin

The colors of spring have a habit of arriving on time, although it seems a little late some years. With those colors come so many characteristics that lend to the array of imagination and reality. Nature comes in many forms, and as the colors hold their own story, so too do the bright eyes and bushy tails that scamper around from color to color.

Oh ya, don’t forget the flyers. How could we ever forget the magnificent flyers of the skies.

I wish you all a colorful April day, and may there be many more to follow for you all.

This poem is my submission for April the 20th. NPM is still going strong, and BOE is living, writing proof.

Deon

***

Colors of Spring

Crocuses breathe a sigh of relief
Daffodils trumpet their call
Daisies and tulips paint a scene
A colorful canvas stands tall

A woodchuck yawns away his rest
A pole cat waddles by
A chipmunk hangs upside down from a tree
The osprey soars out with a cry

Starlings line up and head on north
The flight of the geese is heard
Humming birds dart and dance about
The recipe of spring is stirred

 

02 17 17 Anybody Know Why? February 17, 2017

I still like to write, but I ain’t writ much since Christmas. Anybody know why?

I started another semester of school four weeks ago. I didn’t get too excited about it. I usually do. Anybody know why?

I found a chocolate bar in the fridge that I didn’t know was there. This would usually cause me to smile and go, Ooooooo. I didn’t do either of those two things. Anybody know why?

I got one of my favorite sandwiches from Subway this afternoon, which usually tastes really, really good. Today it tasted like rubber chicken. Anybody know why?

If it sounds like I’m a little down, a little depressed, a little sad, a little off track, a little befuddled, a little flustered, a little blue or a little bayou then perhaps I am.

Anybody know why?

I know one thing, and that’s that I have seen my shovel in my hands more times this past week than I can remember for a long, long time. I’m glad I had a shovel to put in my hands, but to tell you the truth; I would have preferred to see it in someone else’s hands.

Do I sound a little agitated, a little frustrated, a little pissed off, a little perplexed? I know one thing. My mind is in a frozen state of white out, and I think I need me some more cow bell.

Anyone know why?

The dryer just made a ding noise, which means that the load of wet laundry is probably all dry, which means that I should open the door of the dryer, put the clothes in a basket, take it out and put it on the kitchen table and put the clothes away.

This is not causing me to feel overly joyous or incredibly uplifted.

Anybody know why?

 

2016 12 16 Holiday Poem: The Tipping Stick December 16, 2016

A dozen or so years ago, my family and I went down east Maine over Thanksgiving. My cousin’s family were into the wreath making business back then, and on one November’s morning, my cousin’s husband asked my son and I if we would like to join him to go tipping. This was the task of collecting tips from the branches of fir trees, to use for making wreaths. The trick was to only snap off a short part of the tips, so as to leave the trees in good shape to grow and keep supplying tips for the seasons to come. Upon snapping the tips, you would stuff the tips down onto a long stick until it was filled from top to bottom, approximately six feet tall. The Tipping Stick had a rope tied on one end that was used to secure the tips to the stick. Hauling a couple of these out of the woods was quite a chore, seeing as how the sticks, when filled, could weigh roughly fifty pounds each. .

I didn’t do too well tipping, I mean, I collected the tips fast enough, and filled a tipping stick or two, but I was snapping the tips too long for making really good wreaths. They required those making the wreaths to snap them again to bring them to the correct length.

The line in the poem referring to the Empty Rings is describing the steel rings that are used to make the wreaths. Until the tips were collected and taken to the wreath making shop, the empty rings sat stacked up in a corner, all alone and patiently awaiting the arrival of the fresh tips.

Anyway, a few years ago, we lost the best tipper that down east Maine ever knew, and this poem is dedicated to him.

***

The Tipping Stick

A Poem dedicated to Si

Trudge on, into the wood at daylights first call

The smell of the morning fir awakens the spirit

Daydreams of autumn unfold onto a shimmering dew

Eyes from the trees build with curiosity from above

Daylight’s growing rays scatter through branch and limb

With sticks at hand, and readied, the gathering begins

Through, over, around, into, under and beyond

Snap and pull, twist and push, pack and stack

Pausing to listen, the harmonies of the winds continue their song

Grace from high above settles a comforting hand onto the morn

Footsteps crisp with crackling leaf echo through the rolling wood

One by one, the tipping sticks fill with scent and shape

A white tailed gaze sends a charge through the heart

Tiny, scampering feet bring a warming smile

Morning doves and jays dance their chorus through the fir

Woodpecker and chick a dee tag along with familiar tune

Chilled breeze through the autumn wood bids a welcoming call

White birch lean in as they watch with curiosity

Morning shadows shorten as the day grows tall

Heavied sticks carry with them the magical smells of the season

Empty holiday rings patiently await the scented harvest

Hearty smiles reward and praise the morning’s heavy chore

As the sticks are emptied, the wooded fir sings out again with its beckoning call

A chilled November breeze welcomes the tipping footsteps once again

 

2016 12 15 Holiday Story: Benny’s Stool December 15, 2016

Benny’s stool was his favorite stool, probably because it was the only one he ever had. It was a perfect sized stool, as it allowed him to comfortably slide his legs underneath the work bench. So many of Benny’s dreams reminded him just how special his stool was, and so many of his dreams reminded him of many a day where he sat on his favorite stool, doing the things that he loved to do.

He was sure that there were millions of other stools in the world, just as sure that he was that many of those stools had found as great a home as his had. He sat on his very own stool, with his legs tucked down underneath, and his hands clasp together in front of him upon the smooth surface of the work bench.

He noticed the bandage on his right pinkie. The candy canes seemed to dance as he slowly removed the finger wrapping. With a smile, he saw that the injury had healed quite nicely, so he didn’t return the bandage to his finger. Instead, he looked up at the enormous clock on the wall above the third floor balcony railing. He noticed that it was three minutes to the hour, so he quickly slid his stool back, stood up, turned and dashed to a large waste canister along the wall of the very long, very high room. Making his way back to his stool, he sat and slid forward until his legs once again snugly fit under the bench.

He looked up to notice a dozen pairs of eyes staring directly back at him. Smiling, Benny clasped his hands again and looked back up at the very old clock.

One minute to.

The room was as quiet as a church mouse could ever have hoped to be.

With a startling toot of a whistle on the wall, the room suddenly burst to life with a hustle and bustle rarely seen south of the north. Benny looked down the work bench to his left, then to his right. As far as he could see, hands became alive with precision of craft. The noise soon became a sweet harmonic symphony that filled Benny’s pointed ears with a familiar, friendly tone.

He looked down to the bench surface in front of him, and smiled. Reaching out with his right hand, he grabbed a wooden mallet and pulled it close to his chest. Spinning the tool in his hands, he again looked down the table to his right.

One more time, he smiled.

The worker to his right, whose name was Huey, placed two wooden pegs inside two hollow holes, on one wooden surface, of one side, of one wooden object. Pushing the pegs into the holes as far as he could, he then looked to his left, nodded to Benny and slid the object right in front of him.

Staring down at the small wooden structure, Benny licked his lips and flipped the object onto its side. Cocking his head to the left, he spun the wooden item a quarter turn and then grabbed his wooden mallet with his right hand. Firmly grasping the object with his left hand, he carefully tapped the wooden pegs deep down into the holes, until they became flush against the surface of the object.

Feeling the ends of the pegs with his fingers, he smiled and quickly slid the wooden toy truck to his left, towards the one named Mo.

Benny nodded to Mo, then reached up to adjust his peppermint hat. Feeling comfortable again with the fit, he turned his gaze back to his right and clasped his hands once again.

With mug in hand, the bearded one slowly walked up behind Benny, leaned over, placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered in his ear.

As a smile slid across Benny’s glowing face, the bearded one squeezed his shoulder and smiled as big as the North Pole.

As Benny’s eyes continued growing as large as a full arctic moon, Santa leaned back, ran his hand down his thick, white beard, looked up over the top of his spectacles and down the long, busy work bench. He smiled and took a long, savory sip from his timeless mug of hot chocolate.

The busy sounds from the working elves rose up and echoed throughout the tall room as Santa turned, chuckled and slowly made his way down the long line of skilled workers.

A large chalk board hanging from the tall wall behind Benny read, “3 Days until Christmas!”

Making his way down to the end of the work bench, the bearded one turned, raised his mug and shouted, “Merry Christmas Everyone!”

The room grew quiet, and then with a collective, arctic roar, the entire elfin workforce turned to the ancient Spirit, raised their hats and shouted in unison, “Merry Christmas Santa!”

Again, the room quieted as the giver of the gifts turned and silently slipped out through the heavy wooden doors.

The smiles made their way up and down the long line of workers as they stared at one another.

With an amazing holiday rush of precisioned movement, the room became alive again with the hustling bustle of the Christmas spirit.

Smiling, Benny licked his lips, adjusted his stool, grabbed his mallet and quickly began tapping down onto a fresh pair of wooden pegs.

 

2016 12 14 Christmas Poem: Two Steps Back December 14, 2016

Two Steps Back

He stands as still as a nutcracker soldier
Arms at his side, his eyes move up, and down, and up again
His attention focuses in on the detailed brilliance
Way down deep in his footy pajamas, his toes start to dance

Taking two steps back, he regains his soldier’s stance
With a wandering gaze, his eyes grow wide
He starts to reach out, then quickly pulls his hands back
The mesmerizing brilliance is reflected in his curious hazel eyes

An ornamental story unfolds before him
Hand crafted whispers cast down their spell of seasonal magic
Nestling in deep, the colored lights illuminate his inquisitive soul
The gaze of the brave young soldier starts to move up and down again

Closing his eyes, he inhales the holiday scent
With careful precision, he slowly reaches out
Holding his breath, he gently caresses a mirrored orb
With a rush of emotion, his hand slides back down to his side

Again, his eyes dart back and forth
He breathes in deep
Slowly stepping back, he stares up at the lighted star
Breaking out in his patented smile, he turns and dashes out of the room

With a dazzling brilliance all its own, the Christmas tree smiles back