Some people do not understand that it is not only rude to yell at people you do not know, but it can also be bad for one’s health. And I’m tired of being yelled at and too damned old to put up with it to boot.

Being a sunny and warm morning yesterday, I decided to take Buddy for a walk. We followed the sidewalk to the far east end of our street, where it dead ends.

There are two barriers there to keep motor vehicles from passing. However, it does not stop off-road motorcyclists, bicyclists, or people on foot from going beyond them.

As I stood looking at how the construction of the new homes was progressing, this 30-something man suddenly started yelling at me from his porch for “trespassing.” With my PTSD triggered, I turned on him in the most unchristian way imaginable.

“If you don’t change your tone and stop yelling at me, I’m gonna come over there and cut your effing tongue outta your empty head,” I said. “I’ve lived on this street for 23-years and been in that field more times than the number of days you’ve been living in your house. So shut up and mind your own business.”

He’s only lived in that house for a couple of months. And this isn’t the first I have heard of him yelling a people, especially youngsters.

Without another word, he went back inside and closed his door. Quite possibly the most intelligent thing he could have done.

Best walk ever.

Fellow blogger Allen Rizzi posted a few days back about Don Williams. One of the songs he listed was “What Do You Do with a Good Ol’ Boy Like Me.” While it was released in March 1980, I never heard it until about two years later.

What fighting-hole I was in at the time, I cannot recall. What I do remember is that I was in a foreign and hostile land, homesick and that the family of my childhood was gone because of divorce and I plagiarized the lyrics to fit my life at the time.

When I was a kid, Momma would come put us to bed,
With a figure of Jesus on the cross above our head.
Then Daddy came in to kiss his little men,
With beer on his breath, a Louis L’amour in hand,
And he talked about honor and things we should know.
Then he would leave, quietly walking on tip-toe.

I can still see those tall Redwood trees creating awe
And those Darby boys, the ones in my memory raw,
William O. in Arkansas.
I guess we’re all gonna be what we’re gonna be,
So what do you do with silly little boys like me?

Nothing makes a sound in the night as the rain does,
But you ain’t afraid if you’re washed in the blood like I was.
The smell of the salt air from that green Pacific sea,
K-P-O-D kept me company
By the light of the radio by my bed,
With Jack London whispering in my head.

I can still see those tall Redwood trees creating awe
And those Darby boys, the ones in my memory raw,
William O. in Arkansas.
I guess we’re all gonna be what we’re gonna be,
So what do you do with ignorant boys like me?

When I was in school, I ran with a kid down the street,
And I watched him burn himself up on emerald weed,
But I was quicker than most, and I could choose.
I learned to talk like the man on the radio news.
When I was eighteen, lord, I hit the road
But it really doesn’t matter how much I know.

I can still see those tall Redwood trees creating awe
And those Darby boys, the ones in my memory raw,
William O. in Arkansas.
I guess we’re all gonna be what we’re gonna be,
Yeah, what do you do with a U.S. Marine like me?

Yeah, shame on me for stealing the lyrics, but I knew I would never try to make money off of it. Later, I admitted to Mr. Williams in a radio interview what I had done and how his tune and my rework of the moment got me through some rough times.

His response: “Mercy.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “I’ve been banned from social media because I don’t want to worship ‘Saint Floyd of Fentanyl.’”

My Cousin Elmo says, “A big nose is no excuse for not wearing a mask. After all, I still wear underwear every day.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “Jus’ had my first shot. Gonna have a second as soon as the cocktail server comes back.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “I never realized how long a minute was until I started exercising.”

It has been at least twenty years since I have read “Riders of the Purple Sage,” by Zane Grey. It is a great book, full of adventure, and fills one’s head with all sorts of imaginings and pictures.

One thing the book is not – sexual. I hate seeing reviews where the person pulls a word like ‘undulate,’ and turns it in some creepy term with sex-ridden overtones. My opinion is that the person doing the reviewing ain’t been laid in a while, so everything they see, touch, smell, or hear is all about the sex they ain’t getting.

Opinion aside, purple sage is a real thing. I bring this up because, with the first drizzle of spring rains in the high deserts of Nevada, the sage is blooming.

Usually, a dull brown with very little going for it in color throughout the year, sage is generally only good as shade for the rabbit and the snake. And once lit ablaze, it burns quickly, giving off a thick creosote smoke.

My favorite is the naturally occurring wild variety, with its thicker stock and branches, rather than the domesticated sage, which is whispy and thin. With its blooming comes the annual sneeze-fest with the accompanying runny nose, watering eyes, and scratchy throat.

But if you’re fortunate enough to go where the plant grows free, you’ll see acres, upon miles of purple sage clear to the far horizon. It is akin to an ocean of azure, only this sea is an undulating purple.

Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.

budding aspen tree
is not very interested
in birds in its branches

My Cousin Elmo says, “If I want the opinion of someone who chases a ball for a living like LeBron James, I’ll ask my dog.”

My Cousin Elmo says, “So if I wear two pairs of swim trunks, I can pee in the pool all summer, right?”