I have, you may or may not know, an absurd affinity for tractors. Especially old ones. Particularly old ones with the name 'Massey' on them. When I was a kid, my grandfather had two tractors. A 1963 Massey Ferguson 35 Diesel, and a late 70s Massey Ferguson 265. My first hat was red mesh with an 'MF' logo patch on the front that he'd been given when he bought the 265. Somewhere there is, or was, in existence a polaroid snapshot of me, two years old and shirtless, sitting on the driver's seat of that tractor, wearing massive plastic sunglasses, because it was 1984 and I was 2 and such seemed cool to me, and a blue bandana around my neck because I had a slight drooling problem. I remember riding on the 265's rear fenders, flying down the road from our house to the cattle pasture, much to my mother's consternation.
For a few years, my grandfather owned a late '40s John Deere Model A Tricycle (tricycle referring to the front wheel set up, not the size of the machine). My uncle Moe had a 1970s John Deere. The 265 was eventually traded for a big 1594 Case made in the mid-80s, the 35 sold on and replaced by a Massey Ferguson 245. It was this one that I always worked with around the farm. The Case, in its turn, was traded for a John Deere 5300, which he still has, along with the 245, another 1963 MF 35 (bought together with the previous one, this was his dad's, my great-grandfather's, and my wife and I left our marriage blessing riding this machine a few months ago). Just for fun, my grandfather's also bought a 1956 John Deere 320, and a 1959 JD 630.
Between the 2 of us, we've given up on buying books about tractors (they are available, and regular sellers at all the best book shops, don't laugh), because we tend to have compounded more knowledge than even the books that are erroneously titled as 'complete.' We like tractors. He has a model collection of about 50 1/16 scale tractors; I have about 80.
That's because I went to work for John Deere, and all of a sudden, model collecting got easier. Consequently, most of mine are green, and I can quote John Deere company history as if it were my own. Yes, I agree, it is sick.
When I interviewed for the position at our local John Deere Dealership, the man who went on to become my boss said, "Well, you're certainly qualified, but I've got to ask, Why do you WANT the job?" Because, at the time, I'd just completed my Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing. I want to be an author, after all. Going to work selling repair parts for broken down John Deere tractors and implements isn't particularly en route to publication.
You wouldn't think.
Such was the conversation my wife and I were having about 6 weeks ago, as I was reading one of my monthly tractor magazines (there are more published than you might expect.) Her exact words were, "It's too bad you can't find a position writing about tractors. That would sort everything out." Indeed it would, but I'd already tried contacting my favourite publications, and no one was hiring. I am actually, because I'm anal, proofreading, post-publication, an alleged 'Complete Encyclopedia of Farm Tractors,' because it isn't. So far, I've found 19 brands that have been left out, and the wording throughout is horrendous. I'm correcting it in red pen and posting it back to the publisher. I know, I know, I'm sick.
When, lo and behold, jumped off the page an advertisement for this year’s Guild of Agricultural Journalists/John Deere Training Award-- a week-long, intensive Journalism Course run by a company I'm quite familiar with, training and qualifying only 10 souls per year for the hitherto unattainable table land of farming publication. I duly applied, and was notified last week of my acceptance to the course, much to mine and Katie's elation. I'll take the train down to Nottingham, of all places, in just under 2 weeks, where I'll spend the first half of the course, before being sent out over the latter half on an actual assignment. This means, theoretically, that in less than a month, I should actually be a published writer.
So, why Should an aspiring author apply for a job selling tractor parts? I've no idea. It's just what I wanted to do. All roads have their strange winds and bends...
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Saturday, March 01, 2008
Recommendations for Restless Feet
Well, it seemed strange to carry on a dialogue with ol' JW in the comments page on the previous post, in the event we either of us said something serendipitous that anyone else might benefit from, so, here's the answer I was going to give him:
Thuggery. Two G's.
But, more importantly, as to wherever to wander and wherever to roam, be it elegant or humble, as you're searching for home...
I love the UK. Scotland, obviously, has won me over (due in part to the efforts and emotions of one particular soul), but there's still enough black porter in my blood to feel a commonality whenever I hear genuine Irish music, or see a camera pan across the cliffs and fields of Eirann. The British Isles truly are gorgeous. If you ever find yourself on the northern side of the big one, call me...
I once hiked through the Austrian Alps from Innsbruck, heading towards Brenner Pass/Brenero, Italia. I didn't make it. I got 40% of the way there and crashed at a little place that I'm not even going to mention the name of, lest enough people read this to make it a tourist spot and ruin its gentle beauty. You can ask how to get there, and if I think you'll value the place enough, I'll tell ye. Alternately, look at a map of central Europe. Find Innsbruck, Austria (near the Swiss and Italian borders), then find Brenner Pass/Brenero, ON the Italian border, and draw a little arc through any of the places about 2/5 of the way from Innsbruck heading south. Any of them should be fine. Let me know which you pick.
The Balkan States, southeastern Europe, are gorgeous, and generally warmer than my locale. Montenegro, the Jewel of the Adriatic, is still near the top of my list of places to discover. Slovakia, though all I saw of it was Bratislava-- ignore the movie Hostel entirely-- was a genuinely friendly place, and realllllly cheap, as of a year and a half ago. Most of southeastern Europe has not adopted the Euro yet, and the exchange rates are phenomenal. All of a sudden, eating out became an affordable option again. There's a little cafe in Budapest, Hungary that I still have a receipt for that do a red lentil and pork shoulder stew that could make the trip worthwhile on its own.
If you've done Europe, try Thailand. I read in the paper about 3 years ago (so, figure in demand and inflation) that for about 50 bucks (£25), an elephant could be hired for a private tour of the jungles of Northern Thailand. For three days you just meander through, eating with the villagers and forest nomads that don't belong to any particular nation, merely the soil and the trees you'll find them amongst. Take some stomach capsules along, just in case.
If you're in North America, there's already enough to see. At this point, I've only been to 30 US states- all of those east of the Mississippi save Wisconsin and Michigan. The Canadian Rockies, particularly the Banff area, north of Montana, I believe, is apparently gorgeous beyond description. Be that as it may, I prefer the Appalachians, and the eastern side of the continent. This past summer I finally got to fulfill the dream of taking a road trip thru the Adirondacks, and it was everything I could've hoped for. I only wish I'd had more time. The same can be said for Maine, but if you're thinking of going there, contact SOMEONE in the state first and ask what pest season they're in the middle of, before you go. On that same trip, I passed through Boston about Breakfast time, and, wanting to support the local economy, was in search of a good mom-and-pop shop to dine in, but couldn't find one. As I was stuck in traffic, I just looked for a truck that appeared to belong to a working man-- the kind of feller that pours concrete, builds cabinets, or demolishes things. I found one almost immediately, and hollered thru our open windows and four lanes of traffic what I was after, and he responded, "Get in behind me by the next light-- I'll take you exactly where you want to go, and it'll be right near the interstate when you're done." It was a meandering path to find the place, but sure enough, there was a little cafe that still looked like it did when it was built during Prohibition, run by an immigrant Greek and his wife, who were some of the friendliest folk I've met, save the chap that introduced me to them. I wanted, on that trip, to cross over into Canada and see Prince Edward Island-- also top of the list-- but alas, as always, there wasn't enough time.
I still recommend the Great American Road Trip as one of the greatest adventures to be had. Pick some obscure festival or occurrence and take the most extensive, least time-efficient route to get there. (Katie and I went to the National Farm Toy Show in Iowa last November, and turned a 9 hour drive each way into about 30 hours driving. We recommend Traer, Iowa for those looking for the quintessential American small town, and the Pizza Ranch in Independence, Iowa. Have 'The Prairie'.)
Drive the Blue Ridge Parkway, particularly around Boone, NC. I think that's about mile marker 300, give or take a dozen. Be sure and drive over the Linnville Falls (or Gorge?) Viaduct around Grandfather Mountain. Go to the visitors' center and be impressed by the magnitude over what technology just allowed you to do.
Find a local swimming hole and go skinny dipping at sunset. Heck, this is March. It's windy. Fly a kite. Eat local. Join a harvesting circuit. I still wish I'd done that when I had the chance.
Go outside and do something. On purpose.
Jake, come visit.
Love y'all.
Jeffro
Thuggery. Two G's.
But, more importantly, as to wherever to wander and wherever to roam, be it elegant or humble, as you're searching for home...
I love the UK. Scotland, obviously, has won me over (due in part to the efforts and emotions of one particular soul), but there's still enough black porter in my blood to feel a commonality whenever I hear genuine Irish music, or see a camera pan across the cliffs and fields of Eirann. The British Isles truly are gorgeous. If you ever find yourself on the northern side of the big one, call me...
I once hiked through the Austrian Alps from Innsbruck, heading towards Brenner Pass/Brenero, Italia. I didn't make it. I got 40% of the way there and crashed at a little place that I'm not even going to mention the name of, lest enough people read this to make it a tourist spot and ruin its gentle beauty. You can ask how to get there, and if I think you'll value the place enough, I'll tell ye. Alternately, look at a map of central Europe. Find Innsbruck, Austria (near the Swiss and Italian borders), then find Brenner Pass/Brenero, ON the Italian border, and draw a little arc through any of the places about 2/5 of the way from Innsbruck heading south. Any of them should be fine. Let me know which you pick.
The Balkan States, southeastern Europe, are gorgeous, and generally warmer than my locale. Montenegro, the Jewel of the Adriatic, is still near the top of my list of places to discover. Slovakia, though all I saw of it was Bratislava-- ignore the movie Hostel entirely-- was a genuinely friendly place, and realllllly cheap, as of a year and a half ago. Most of southeastern Europe has not adopted the Euro yet, and the exchange rates are phenomenal. All of a sudden, eating out became an affordable option again. There's a little cafe in Budapest, Hungary that I still have a receipt for that do a red lentil and pork shoulder stew that could make the trip worthwhile on its own.
If you've done Europe, try Thailand. I read in the paper about 3 years ago (so, figure in demand and inflation) that for about 50 bucks (£25), an elephant could be hired for a private tour of the jungles of Northern Thailand. For three days you just meander through, eating with the villagers and forest nomads that don't belong to any particular nation, merely the soil and the trees you'll find them amongst. Take some stomach capsules along, just in case.
If you're in North America, there's already enough to see. At this point, I've only been to 30 US states- all of those east of the Mississippi save Wisconsin and Michigan. The Canadian Rockies, particularly the Banff area, north of Montana, I believe, is apparently gorgeous beyond description. Be that as it may, I prefer the Appalachians, and the eastern side of the continent. This past summer I finally got to fulfill the dream of taking a road trip thru the Adirondacks, and it was everything I could've hoped for. I only wish I'd had more time. The same can be said for Maine, but if you're thinking of going there, contact SOMEONE in the state first and ask what pest season they're in the middle of, before you go. On that same trip, I passed through Boston about Breakfast time, and, wanting to support the local economy, was in search of a good mom-and-pop shop to dine in, but couldn't find one. As I was stuck in traffic, I just looked for a truck that appeared to belong to a working man-- the kind of feller that pours concrete, builds cabinets, or demolishes things. I found one almost immediately, and hollered thru our open windows and four lanes of traffic what I was after, and he responded, "Get in behind me by the next light-- I'll take you exactly where you want to go, and it'll be right near the interstate when you're done." It was a meandering path to find the place, but sure enough, there was a little cafe that still looked like it did when it was built during Prohibition, run by an immigrant Greek and his wife, who were some of the friendliest folk I've met, save the chap that introduced me to them. I wanted, on that trip, to cross over into Canada and see Prince Edward Island-- also top of the list-- but alas, as always, there wasn't enough time.
I still recommend the Great American Road Trip as one of the greatest adventures to be had. Pick some obscure festival or occurrence and take the most extensive, least time-efficient route to get there. (Katie and I went to the National Farm Toy Show in Iowa last November, and turned a 9 hour drive each way into about 30 hours driving. We recommend Traer, Iowa for those looking for the quintessential American small town, and the Pizza Ranch in Independence, Iowa. Have 'The Prairie'.)
Drive the Blue Ridge Parkway, particularly around Boone, NC. I think that's about mile marker 300, give or take a dozen. Be sure and drive over the Linnville Falls (or Gorge?) Viaduct around Grandfather Mountain. Go to the visitors' center and be impressed by the magnitude over what technology just allowed you to do.
Find a local swimming hole and go skinny dipping at sunset. Heck, this is March. It's windy. Fly a kite. Eat local. Join a harvesting circuit. I still wish I'd done that when I had the chance.
Go outside and do something. On purpose.
Jake, come visit.
Love y'all.
Jeffro
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Reflections of a Restless Mind
I can go to the pub of an evening and have 2 pints (that's a quart, one quarter of a gallon) of 5.5% alcohol content Cider, beautiful cider, and not feel remotely tipsy.
Should I choose to drink something a bit more refined, 2 glasses of red wine, quaffed quickly enough, will make me smile more than normal, from about halfway through the second glass. To be fair, the only time this has happened, Katie and I were out with her folks, and I'd been drinking too slowly and had to take down the second glass lightning quick as we were heading out.
I had 12 ounces (12 freaking ounces! that's 3/4 of a pint) of coffee, with milk, at 3.30 yesterday afternoon. 12.5 hours later, it's 5 a.m. and I haven't yet been to sleep, save for maybe 2 or 3 imperceptible dozes.
Freaking Crap.
While we're on the subject of my wonderful metabolic processes, we had orange sweet peppers (capsicums) in our dinner tonite. I love the taste of peppers. Fried, grilled, with onions and meat or on their own with other veg, I love peppers. My stomach and I disagree harshly on this point. Sometime late, late today, a fair 24 hours after eating them, the lower half of my torso will raise its angry little argument. 24 hours.
If I go for an exhausting bike ride, or go work out at the gym (don't laugh, there was a time), at any point on any given day, I will feel fine the next day. Not a trace of soreness. I feel it the day after the day after though, and usually with accrued interest.
And, to top it all off, ridiculous me, I can be happier than any one person has right to be, and say nothing about it, but give me 30 seconds of discomfort, and I'll feel a desperately urgent need to broadcast it to the masses...
Y'all have a great day.
Multiple drowsy smiles,
Jeffro
Should I choose to drink something a bit more refined, 2 glasses of red wine, quaffed quickly enough, will make me smile more than normal, from about halfway through the second glass. To be fair, the only time this has happened, Katie and I were out with her folks, and I'd been drinking too slowly and had to take down the second glass lightning quick as we were heading out.
I had 12 ounces (12 freaking ounces! that's 3/4 of a pint) of coffee, with milk, at 3.30 yesterday afternoon. 12.5 hours later, it's 5 a.m. and I haven't yet been to sleep, save for maybe 2 or 3 imperceptible dozes.
Freaking Crap.
While we're on the subject of my wonderful metabolic processes, we had orange sweet peppers (capsicums) in our dinner tonite. I love the taste of peppers. Fried, grilled, with onions and meat or on their own with other veg, I love peppers. My stomach and I disagree harshly on this point. Sometime late, late today, a fair 24 hours after eating them, the lower half of my torso will raise its angry little argument. 24 hours.
If I go for an exhausting bike ride, or go work out at the gym (don't laugh, there was a time), at any point on any given day, I will feel fine the next day. Not a trace of soreness. I feel it the day after the day after though, and usually with accrued interest.
And, to top it all off, ridiculous me, I can be happier than any one person has right to be, and say nothing about it, but give me 30 seconds of discomfort, and I'll feel a desperately urgent need to broadcast it to the masses...
Y'all have a great day.
Multiple drowsy smiles,
Jeffro
Thursday, January 17, 2008
This is this post's Second Title
I write a poem every December. It's not a conscious thing, or it hadn't been up till now-- I'd given up on poetry while at the University of Arkansas, in the Creative Writing program, upon the advice of one of my instructors that pursuing poetry might deprive my significantly stronger prose talents from due attention. I wasn't going to make it as a poet, in other words. Not that I'm claiming any fortune from any other sort of writing...
Any rate, I tend to get random bursts of poetic inspiration here and there, but it seems that I only ever write any worth repeating, or even completing, in the month of December. So, having not written poetry in over 2 years, I wrote a bit of verse of near epic proportions (by my own standards) in December of '05 about my travelling companions with Topdeck Tours, mostly Australian, whom I travelled most of western Europe with in the course of 3 weeks. I repeated the feat to a lesser degree in December of '06 after skipping around the Republic of Ireland for a week with a different busload of Aussies, and I think I posted this one last year. Imagine my surprise then when I felt an undeniable urge for verse about 6 weeks ago. I should've posted this then, when it was still fresh, but...well...didn't. I'm like that, unfortunately.
*as yet untitled* (because everything I come up with sounds pretentious)
There's a closet where I like to sit
a place of calm and spectral visits.
Once inside, on one to three I wait,
depending on the opening of the gate.
David Bowie's always the first,
and looking 30 years younger, none-the-worst--
Robert Deniro stretches in relaxation;
They're surprisingly jovial in our visitations.
But lastly, thirdly, sometimes, a small jock
whose brushed up talent and bedeckled smock
enable entirely all my mingled sensations.
We talk of geography, travel, effects of beer--
whether that's the new cinnamon candle I hear,
(at which, frowning, the young boy's doubts are said-
he whose war stories hang forever overhead).
Avoiding the storm, the litte black dour dowager
weaves past thistles and into the shower.
I stand, satisfied, from our far-flung debate,
and pass my own way out of the gate.
But there they three stay until I return
and we resume the object that has been adjourned
to gladly unsling any unwanted weight.
******
If you're looking for sense, you'll probably come up dry. Katie knows what I'm writing about, and my cousin Cody might, by accident, without realising it...
Y'all have a great day.
-and rememember-
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.
PS- I never claimed to be a GOOD poet...
Any rate, I tend to get random bursts of poetic inspiration here and there, but it seems that I only ever write any worth repeating, or even completing, in the month of December. So, having not written poetry in over 2 years, I wrote a bit of verse of near epic proportions (by my own standards) in December of '05 about my travelling companions with Topdeck Tours, mostly Australian, whom I travelled most of western Europe with in the course of 3 weeks. I repeated the feat to a lesser degree in December of '06 after skipping around the Republic of Ireland for a week with a different busload of Aussies, and I think I posted this one last year. Imagine my surprise then when I felt an undeniable urge for verse about 6 weeks ago. I should've posted this then, when it was still fresh, but...well...didn't. I'm like that, unfortunately.
*as yet untitled* (because everything I come up with sounds pretentious)
There's a closet where I like to sit
a place of calm and spectral visits.
Once inside, on one to three I wait,
depending on the opening of the gate.
David Bowie's always the first,
and looking 30 years younger, none-the-worst--
Robert Deniro stretches in relaxation;
They're surprisingly jovial in our visitations.
But lastly, thirdly, sometimes, a small jock
whose brushed up talent and bedeckled smock
enable entirely all my mingled sensations.
We talk of geography, travel, effects of beer--
whether that's the new cinnamon candle I hear,
(at which, frowning, the young boy's doubts are said-
he whose war stories hang forever overhead).
Avoiding the storm, the litte black dour dowager
weaves past thistles and into the shower.
I stand, satisfied, from our far-flung debate,
and pass my own way out of the gate.
But there they three stay until I return
and we resume the object that has been adjourned
to gladly unsling any unwanted weight.
******
If you're looking for sense, you'll probably come up dry. Katie knows what I'm writing about, and my cousin Cody might, by accident, without realising it...
Y'all have a great day.
-and rememember-
Life is enjoyed most when you're laughing. Laugh hard, laugh often, and think of me.
PS- I never claimed to be a GOOD poet...
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Public Service Announcement
First, a couple of pictures:
This was taken just after our marriage ceremony at the Lothian Chamber (government office in Edinburgh), walking down the Royal Mile, the old high street of Edinburgh, towards the John Knox house and Scottish Storytelling Museum, wherein we had our reception. You may not be able to see too well, but Katie's boots are of the same tartan as my kilt: the Galbraith, that of her mother's family.
And this is us at home a day or so later, recovering.
Any rate, as hinted above, your Public Service Announcement for 13 January, 2008:
The United Kingdom Highway Code Number 206 states:
Drive carefully and slowly when [among other things] turning at road junctions; GIVE WAY TO PEDESTRIANS WHO ARE ALREADY CROSSING THE ROAD INTO WHICH YOU ARE TURNING [emphasis mine].
I offer up this bit of British legalia in response to an occasion underwent this evening by my self and spouse.
After an evening out with some friends, my poorly sighted self was escorting home my legally documented visually impaired, registered partly-sighted wife, when we were ignored crossing a road junction by first a middle-aged man in a large, dark blue or green estate (station wagon), and then quite nearly taken out by his daughter, following along in her silver Renault. She may've indicated she was turning into the lane we were currently navigating the exact middle of, but as her speed had not been decreased for the maneuver, we didn't have time to notice. I'd assumed she would stop and give us the right of way, and was quite surprised when I realised she had no inclination of the sort. Katie didn't see her until the car's headlights were reflecting off my glasses and the neat little nylon bits on my shoes, at which point, the vehicle was so close, that I swung the bag I was carrying out of the way, and kicked my forward leg up as a very meager means of defense. Even my enormous shoes wouldn't've stood up to the momentum hurtling towards us.
We were missed, but only just, and the look of angry incredulity on part of the driver was almost laughable. I was still in something akin to shock, having never been mown down by a Renault Clio 1.8 before, a block later, when a vaguely familiar estate wagon pulled in front of us blowing his horn. I asked if we could help, and he immediately launched into an attack of my assault on the car that had been following him (no relationship mentioned as yet). At this point, I let Katie, who has memorised statute 206, take over. He argued his point, saying it was WE who needed to go home and read the highway codes, and eventually drove off in a self-righteous, lower class huff. We'd scarcely recovered that disagreement when the silver Clio pulled up and demanded "Did my dad stop and talk to you? Am I going to get an apology?" which brought a laugh out of myself, leading her to recant her version of her father's irate and insulted, if somehow less intelligent, argument. Katie again assumed control of the inquest, stating clearly from 206. This was met by an ill-chosen expletive, which we laughed at, far worsening the mood of our automotive assailant, who drove off in a similar rage.
So, lest you have any similar incidents, let me state once more, British Highway Code 206: Drive carefully and slowly when turning at road junctions; GIVE WAY TO PEDESTRIANS WHO ARE ALREADY CROSSING THE ROAD INTO WHICH YOU ARE TURNING [emphasis, again, mine].
On lighter notes:
My wife asks I issue a further statement related to the anecdote recorded above, that all Scottish women are not so ill-bred as to hurl expletives thru lowered car windows at wronged and innocent pedestrians. Quite a lot of them, my favourite one included, are outstanding, honourable members of society.
Even lighterly, a specific howdy to my buddy WillieJake- d'ye know that it was 2 years ago today, if not yesterday, that we met in a hostel in Barcelona? You're response to "Where're y'all from?" ("Florrrrda") is still one of the sweetest greetings my ears've ever heard.
The other night, Katie and I were watching a recorded live set by one of our favourite English comedians, Bill Bailey (standard guest on "Never Mind the Buzzcocks", starred as 'Manny' in the BBC comedy series 'Black Books.). One of his bits included picking on books and television shows with titles along the lines of "1,000 Things or Places to See or Do Before You Die"... not so much as while you're alive, but certainly BEFORE you die. His point was that perhaps we're telling time in the wrong direction.
Which, as you might suspect of me with my soapbox blogging style, got me to thinking...
Great things tend to happen, it seems to me, while you're purposely living, not so much as when in the expectation of demise. You'll be happier when you're trying to be, than when you're worrying about your personal stopwatch.
One of the greatest memories of our married life thus far for Katie and I occurred at our wedding reception, about 7 hours into marital bliss. The meal had been eaten, a great many of the guests had already left, and those still present were clumped in small groups exchanging memories and exaggerations, or playing dominoes. We had an iPod linked into the cafe's sound system, and the song currently playing dawned on the whole group in the sort of way that 19 or 20 people would all notice a fresh breeze-- not simultaneous, but nearly. And, one by one, almost the entire room began singing together to Roger Miller's "King of the Road." Roger was my grandmother's cousin, so it's always been a favourite of my family, it's certainly a favourite of Katie and hers, and was apparently known to all but about 4% of our wedding party. What was more startling was the way we all reacted to the sight of each other singing unashamedly outloud-- we kept on. This shall remain one of the greatest moments of my life.
Ever read Thoreaus's 'Walden'?
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear..." It's most well known quote is his conclusion that "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. "
The general, compliant public tend to be resigned (Thoreau also expounds against resignation in the above passage) to whatever is, and however they perceive it, and such is as reality shall definitely be. Thoreau's great fear is that he, or anyone else, might try to eke out an existence, without a life being involved. That we might die oblivious to anything greater than the immediate, and immediately satisfactory. Think, do, experience. (To tie this vein, albeit weakly, to the original gripe of this post, If you don't take the time to learn the law, you'll convince yourself what it ought to be and absolve yourself of any mistakes).
So, to conclue this inadverent sermon: don't worry about what you have to do BEFORE You DIE, I encourage you to seek out ways to prove you are living. I do not have a comprehensive list, either for myself or anyone else, but I will offer a few meager suggestions:
Adopt, don't buy, an animal. Eat exotically. Tickle, or be tickled, senseless. Sing outloud. Loudly. Endulge in sensual pleasures. (Katie's perpetual resolution) Read a book, watch a documentary, learn something. Ride a bike, celebrate an anniversary (of any sort you can conceive), do something.
Y'all have a great week.
Jeffro
Incidentally, if anyone knows how I can widen the text margins, decreasing the girth of the blue columns here ----->
and
<---- over here, so that the body of my post isn't 9 and a half old English furlongs in length, I'd be most grateful.
This was taken just after our marriage ceremony at the Lothian Chamber (government office in Edinburgh), walking down the Royal Mile, the old high street of Edinburgh, towards the John Knox house and Scottish Storytelling Museum, wherein we had our reception. You may not be able to see too well, but Katie's boots are of the same tartan as my kilt: the Galbraith, that of her mother's family.
And this is us at home a day or so later, recovering.
Any rate, as hinted above, your Public Service Announcement for 13 January, 2008:
The United Kingdom Highway Code Number 206 states:
Drive carefully and slowly when [among other things] turning at road junctions; GIVE WAY TO PEDESTRIANS WHO ARE ALREADY CROSSING THE ROAD INTO WHICH YOU ARE TURNING [emphasis mine].
I offer up this bit of British legalia in response to an occasion underwent this evening by my self and spouse.
After an evening out with some friends, my poorly sighted self was escorting home my legally documented visually impaired, registered partly-sighted wife, when we were ignored crossing a road junction by first a middle-aged man in a large, dark blue or green estate (station wagon), and then quite nearly taken out by his daughter, following along in her silver Renault. She may've indicated she was turning into the lane we were currently navigating the exact middle of, but as her speed had not been decreased for the maneuver, we didn't have time to notice. I'd assumed she would stop and give us the right of way, and was quite surprised when I realised she had no inclination of the sort. Katie didn't see her until the car's headlights were reflecting off my glasses and the neat little nylon bits on my shoes, at which point, the vehicle was so close, that I swung the bag I was carrying out of the way, and kicked my forward leg up as a very meager means of defense. Even my enormous shoes wouldn't've stood up to the momentum hurtling towards us.
We were missed, but only just, and the look of angry incredulity on part of the driver was almost laughable. I was still in something akin to shock, having never been mown down by a Renault Clio 1.8 before, a block later, when a vaguely familiar estate wagon pulled in front of us blowing his horn. I asked if we could help, and he immediately launched into an attack of my assault on the car that had been following him (no relationship mentioned as yet). At this point, I let Katie, who has memorised statute 206, take over. He argued his point, saying it was WE who needed to go home and read the highway codes, and eventually drove off in a self-righteous, lower class huff. We'd scarcely recovered that disagreement when the silver Clio pulled up and demanded "Did my dad stop and talk to you? Am I going to get an apology?" which brought a laugh out of myself, leading her to recant her version of her father's irate and insulted, if somehow less intelligent, argument. Katie again assumed control of the inquest, stating clearly from 206. This was met by an ill-chosen expletive, which we laughed at, far worsening the mood of our automotive assailant, who drove off in a similar rage.
So, lest you have any similar incidents, let me state once more, British Highway Code 206: Drive carefully and slowly when turning at road junctions; GIVE WAY TO PEDESTRIANS WHO ARE ALREADY CROSSING THE ROAD INTO WHICH YOU ARE TURNING [emphasis, again, mine].
On lighter notes:
My wife asks I issue a further statement related to the anecdote recorded above, that all Scottish women are not so ill-bred as to hurl expletives thru lowered car windows at wronged and innocent pedestrians. Quite a lot of them, my favourite one included, are outstanding, honourable members of society.
Even lighterly, a specific howdy to my buddy WillieJake- d'ye know that it was 2 years ago today, if not yesterday, that we met in a hostel in Barcelona? You're response to "Where're y'all from?" ("Florrrrda") is still one of the sweetest greetings my ears've ever heard.
The other night, Katie and I were watching a recorded live set by one of our favourite English comedians, Bill Bailey (standard guest on "Never Mind the Buzzcocks", starred as 'Manny' in the BBC comedy series 'Black Books.). One of his bits included picking on books and television shows with titles along the lines of "1,000 Things or Places to See or Do Before You Die"... not so much as while you're alive, but certainly BEFORE you die. His point was that perhaps we're telling time in the wrong direction.
Which, as you might suspect of me with my soapbox blogging style, got me to thinking...
Great things tend to happen, it seems to me, while you're purposely living, not so much as when in the expectation of demise. You'll be happier when you're trying to be, than when you're worrying about your personal stopwatch.
One of the greatest memories of our married life thus far for Katie and I occurred at our wedding reception, about 7 hours into marital bliss. The meal had been eaten, a great many of the guests had already left, and those still present were clumped in small groups exchanging memories and exaggerations, or playing dominoes. We had an iPod linked into the cafe's sound system, and the song currently playing dawned on the whole group in the sort of way that 19 or 20 people would all notice a fresh breeze-- not simultaneous, but nearly. And, one by one, almost the entire room began singing together to Roger Miller's "King of the Road." Roger was my grandmother's cousin, so it's always been a favourite of my family, it's certainly a favourite of Katie and hers, and was apparently known to all but about 4% of our wedding party. What was more startling was the way we all reacted to the sight of each other singing unashamedly outloud-- we kept on. This shall remain one of the greatest moments of my life.
Ever read Thoreaus's 'Walden'?
"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear..." It's most well known quote is his conclusion that "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. "
The general, compliant public tend to be resigned (Thoreau also expounds against resignation in the above passage) to whatever is, and however they perceive it, and such is as reality shall definitely be. Thoreau's great fear is that he, or anyone else, might try to eke out an existence, without a life being involved. That we might die oblivious to anything greater than the immediate, and immediately satisfactory. Think, do, experience. (To tie this vein, albeit weakly, to the original gripe of this post, If you don't take the time to learn the law, you'll convince yourself what it ought to be and absolve yourself of any mistakes).
So, to conclue this inadverent sermon: don't worry about what you have to do BEFORE You DIE, I encourage you to seek out ways to prove you are living. I do not have a comprehensive list, either for myself or anyone else, but I will offer a few meager suggestions:
Adopt, don't buy, an animal. Eat exotically. Tickle, or be tickled, senseless. Sing outloud. Loudly. Endulge in sensual pleasures. (Katie's perpetual resolution) Read a book, watch a documentary, learn something. Ride a bike, celebrate an anniversary (of any sort you can conceive), do something.
Y'all have a great week.
Jeffro
Incidentally, if anyone knows how I can widen the text margins, decreasing the girth of the blue columns here ----->
and
<---- over here, so that the body of my post isn't 9 and a half old English furlongs in length, I'd be most grateful.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)