My Comment on a Political Post

You know, as I observe the publicly displayed hysterical reactions to President Trump's Presidency as well as to the moves he is making to reboot the country in order to save it, what comes to mind during these observations is the image of a bunch of children stupidly having a group temper tantrum because their parents are insisting they eat their healthy dinners so they'll grow big and strong and wise, when the children want only their cake and ice cream. 

Screaming and crying and banging their heads on the table, hurling their plates of delicious nutritious food across the room in absolute fury and ignorance, fighting the very thing that is best for them, spoiled children only harm themselves. This is what I see when observing misinformed protesters/demonstrators bellowing in protest against what they don't even understand. 

Like watching a car crash - the scenes seem to go in slow motion and it's absolutely unbelievable. Surely they will grow up, I ponder to myself. But then I realize, surely they won't, for their leaders have captured their minds and replaced them with rotten cheese.

Spring Forward, Fall Back

Most nights my husband goes to bed earlier than I.

Considerate wife that I am, last night while he slumbered, I set ahead the main clock so he wouldn't forget the time change and be late for his early morning appointment.

Early morning, the phone rings. Wakes me from a vivid paralyzing lucid dream.

"Where's Tom?" asks the voice the other end of the line.

"I dunno," croaks I, or was it Broderick Crawford?

Tom was not in the house or on the property at all, so I presumed he was lollygagging down by the river sniffing flowers and teasing spiders.

Yep. Sure 'nuf. 

He eventually sauntered home. 

His appointment was easily pushed ahead an hour, no problem there. While he was at said appointment, I set about adjusting the rest of our clocks to accommodate the seasonal time change, noticing while doing so that the main clock I'd set ahead last night had been set back one hour. Hmm. That's odd. I know I set it ahead last night. Sanity questioned, but only for a split second.

When darling man returned from his meeting, I told him I'd set the main clock ahead and now it's back again. He looked at me, paused and perplexed, eyebrows knitted into an inverted 'v' on his forehead. Sheepishness overtook his countenance, then he began to laugh, like he does.

"Oh. I set it back."

That's all he said.

My head involuntarily began shaking back and forth in utter confusion, a common occurrence around here. Prompting him for a 'why' I was told, "I thought the battery was dead so I set it to the time on the oven."

I remain confused. The clock audibly ticks and its long second hand joltingly jabs counterclockwise with each second. How could he think the battery was dead? Plus, I'd told him the night before that a time change was occurring this weekend.

Much later in the day he added to his thoughts: "I saw that the time was different so I just thought the battery must be dead. I flipped the clock over, changed the time, and took out the batteries to see what kind they were. Then, I put in new ones. When I asked if he noticed the time was exactly one hour different, he answered affirmatively with an added, "I thought that was weird."

Oh well. 

All's well that ends well. The clocks are all adjusted, the meeting was successful, Tom had a nice walk, the sky is sunny and blue, and it's a lovely restful Sunday. 

I need a nap!

Ernest, Sylvia, and Books

A young, broke Ernest Hemingway, was loaned a few books one day by Sylvie Beach, from her famous bookshop, Shakespeare and Company, in Paris.

From what I read and hear, she was a very kind and gentle woman. Smart, too. 

Her parting words to Ernest that day as he tucked the books under his arm and headed for the doorway were to enjoy the books, and to read them slowly. 

That sentiment struck me right between the eyes the first time I read it. I sometime read quickly, as if the goal is to finish the book only to begin another. Books can be page-turners, which only fuels the rush. However, when I do remember Sylvia's words, I make myself slow down, savor the book.

What a difference it has made! The contents wash over me, immersion, the difference between a quick dip in a pool or a full plunge into a lake and a dilly dally, too. 

January is 'read books slowly' month for me. The yard is asleep, though daffodils have pushed through and are wearing soggy autumn leaf hats in their little bed. The after-holiday lull quiets the neighborhood and village and home. Books beckon.

It is my hope that you, too, will pick a good book to plunge into. A paper book, if possible, for the feel of the pages, and their smell, and the sound of them turning.

Maybe you will take the book outside, if the weather permits, or sit in a clean, well-lighted place, a hot cuppa at hand. Perhaps you'll breathe deeply, and take Sylvia's advice.

Maybe you'll think of me, doing the same. 

Perhaps the thought will curve a smile.

Now, go, tuck a book under your arm, plunge, dilly dally, and slowly read to your heart's content.

You won't be sorry.