Musings – Thanks to Steinbeck. He’s fucking good.

Definitely go and visit this blog. Any comments or likes, please let him know.

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Time doesn’t exist. Thoughts do. In Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath I’m reminded of my opinion of Time.

Walk in my mental hallway a moment. Below is an excerpt from The Grapes of Wrath published in 1939.

“For a moment she hesitated uncertainly. “Well,” she said quickly, “why ain’t you prayin”? You’re a preacher, ain’t you?”

Casy’s strong fingers blundered over to Grandpa’s wrist and closed around it. “I tol’ you, Granma. I ain’t a preacher no more.”

“Pray anyway,” she ordered. “You know all the stuff by heart.”

“I can’t” said Casy. “I don’t know what to pray for or who to pray to.”

This is significant to me. This book was published in 1939. The great depression had destroyed family bonds attached to land that never ought to have been taken from them. What stands out the most within this small sample is Casy’s struggle with his faith…

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Yellow blaze

Dandelions never looked so good.

I think I’m done writing for the day. We just went outside to do our farm chores (poop dispersal, watering the critters, picking up the stray garbage can and lawn chair that landed beside the fence) and it is cold. And it’s only going to get colder, windier, and snowier this coming week. I think I’m looking at a snow day or two in my immediate future. Whoo-hoo! Time for a nap. 🙂

(P.S. Sorry, I accidentally posted a blank post, title only. I’ve updated since, lest anyone think I was posting an ironic comment about snow. Fingers still numb, nap still un-had.) It is time.

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Branchwater – Everett Lee, part 3

It was an old ravine where he used to dump his old truck tires and busted furniture. He buried them deep so no one would stumble upon them by accident. When he was younger, he could trot down to the ravine in no time, but the walking was slow and he had to rest twice.

Ordinary days, he wouldn’t have seen the tires poking from the dirt. The sun was usually in his eyes and he’d be listening for the sound of the creek. If he heard it running fast, he knew there might be some honest fishing ahead. But the gray of the morning and his overall apathy made his eyes wander. The wind scooped up a lot of the old dirt and opened up the ravine. If it was too much of a mess, he’d ask Bobby Carlisle to bring around his tractor and they could re-bury everything, maybe fill in the ground some. Bobby would do anything for a pull on the jug and a chance to jaw about the weather. Continue reading “Branchwater – Everett Lee, part 3”

Branchwater – Everett Lee, Part 2

Doc Stewart said it was cancer, but Everett knew what it really was: it was rotting from the inside out. Some nights when he couldn’t sleep, he could feel it settle in his bones, in the hidden meat beneath the skin. He felt it squeezing his thoughts until there was nothing but a single thought, over and over. Most doctors, he wouldn’t pay them a duck to check him over, but he knew Doc Stewart from back when. They weren’t friends, exactly, but men who knew each other well enough not to get into a pissing contest. The two shared a drink or two in the old Handsome Hotel, and the doc handed him a two-dollar cigar the morning Emily was born. If he said it was cancer, then it was probably so. After he told Everett the news and settled into to explaining what it meant, Stewart stopped him short, and asked how long. Everett, bless him, didn’t try to squirrel around the question, didn’t dither or use big words. “Maybe a year,” he said, and offered his hand. Doc had big hands, just soft enough to be a good doctor, but rough enough to know his way around a buck saw and a plank of wood. Strong hands. Everett shook with him, and offered him a glass of Kentucky bourbon once his thinking settled.

Go fishing with your old man, Em? Bright and early, before they wake up?” Continue reading “Branchwater – Everett Lee, Part 2”