Younger people might not understand this, but the elder among us, especially anyone living in the US or those who listened to Armed Forces Radio Network, will. Many times I would remain seated in my truck long after pulling into the driveway, waiting, listening for those nine special words.

There was a sense of wonder, sometimes astonishment and from time-to-time a great big, “I KNEW IT” at the end of the broadcast. It was hard to shut the receiver off.

Radio hasn’t been the same since Paul Harvey’s last uttering of, “And now you know the rest of the story.”

while I have been brushed aside
no longer needed or even wanted
after all, what can an employer do
do with a man over the age of 60
with a broken back, overweight,
all anyone sees is as described
they fail to see the experience
work ethic, leadership, ability
to adapt, to overcome, to learn
meanwhile, i watch with sorrow
a seventy-eight-year-old man
trip, stumble, and fall, three-times
going up steps to Air Force One
with no help, assistance, or aid
and while others laugh with delight
(there is nothing funny in dementia)
i see a man who is in need of help
like i am in need of full employment
and neither are a concern to them
humanity failing and it sickens me.

My Cousin Elmo says, “I don’t want any more help from the government. I can’t afford it.”

My Cousin Elmos says, “Saint Patrick is Italian.”

Clara stepped through the doorway, surprised by the crowd that had gathered. She walked silently through them, forcing herself to look each person in the eye.

Then she came to the bottom of the steps, where she suddenly felt faint. It was as if she had come back to her body from some spectral realm.

Slowly she ascended the stairs, counting as she did. Thirteen.

Once on the scaffold, she was positioned over the trap door. From there, she looked down on the faces of those gathered.

The ropes coils were laid across her left shoulder as the noose was tightened about her neck. It felt heavier than it looked.

“Any last words?” the sheriff asked.

Clara looked down into the faces of the many men who had visited her in the darker hours. They all looked away.

“You men oughta be ashamed of yourselves,” Clara said. “You knew what they were doing and you didn’t have the guts to stop it.”

As she spoke, the sheriff bound her hands behind her back, then a strap around her ankles.

“Now, I gotta pay for your lack of courage,” she said. “Had you did so, you’d have gotten off for defending a woman, but no, you turned a blind eye.”

The sheriff slipped the hood over her head. Clara was surprised that she could still see the shapes of the men, women, and children that had come to see her hang.

“Cowards,” she yelled, realizing she was panting for breath like a dog pants on a hot day.

The trap dropped from beneath her, and blackness filled her eyes. But in her head, she heard a sharp hum, like a tuning fork.

The sound faded into the twittering of songbirds, or perhaps angels singing. She could not tell.

That faded too.

What happened? I don’t know.

What I do know is that I am going to bed with a broken heart. My friend Connie has died, but I don’t know why.

I don’t know why.

Grief — and I cannot overcome the sadness that I’m going to bed with this night. Perhaps I shall not wake come the morning myself.

Only God knows as he is the final arbitrator of my insignificant life. If so, I love you, and you and you.

You’ve enriched my life in ways I could never express. Thank you.

Should tomorrow dawn, we shall gather in happiness.

There is nothing like being lost in a fog of one’s own making. If I were on horseback I’d give’em his head and let’em find the way home, but I’m not, so I’ll loiter here for the while.

Yesterday, I began this…

“Why do I feel the death of a person so deeply?”

It was a question raised after yesterday’s post about a friend dying. When you’ve witnessed 241 people dying in a single moment, every life you come in contact with afterward becomes that more precious, and therefore their passing becomes that more intimate.

So, yes, I feel that pain deeply.

Time to finish my thoughts…

All the fighting, the bitterness and anger, hatred, the “this” culture, and “that” culture has me on the ropes. Sadly, I’ve contributed my share to this.

Its time to say what needs said, and I think I have the perfect place to start:

1. Stop it, stop it now!
2. Because people don’t last forever, tell them you love them.
3. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

For the longest time, I’ve been in a fantasy world, believing that I could make myself immortal with my writing. But unless I turn out to be Mark Twain or something, that’ll be a big NOPE.

Hell, even Twain’s dead, getting doxed and canceled, so I’ve stopped daydreaming. Now is the time to act and think my three-step action plan could be the cure.

Life is too short to live as we’re living right now, so let’s change it. It’s not too late.

My Cousin Elmo says, “I went to Pepe LePew’s funeral after he was canceled. It stunk.”

died for liberty
stood his ground to bitter end
and toilet paper

dear leader demands
vaccine, whiskey glass now
lead bullet later