Wise men are gifts. Oops, I'm NOT excluding women here. Consider both sexes lumped together. Whew, I'm tired already. Maybe I should take my nap and start over! In fact, the most famous wise men in history probably needed to bring women along on their journey to see the newborn savior. Perhaps then they would have gotten there on time instead of meandering around in the desert hauling all that gold, frankincense and myrrh around thinking they knew where they were going.
By the time you read this, the end of summer will be peeking over the seasonal fence close by. It won't be a full head shot, just eyebrows and wisps of hair blowing in a wind that suggests summer and the leisurely reading that comes with it, is coming to an end. Of course with global warming the season may be stretched; yellowing leaves won't quite be ready for raking any time soon.
When reading an article in the Pioneer, the last thing a subscriber wants to hassle with is poor grammar. It grates, interrupts, and distracts from the message a writer/reporter tries to convey. When someone has a great idea and puts it down on paper, unless they are a certified genius or Avant-garde author or poet, sticking to the rules of composition serves everyone. Then there is the person we call the Grammar Nazi!
I bleed a lot. It comes from medications that make it easier for the red stuff to flow through the highways and byways of the body. You don’t want blood to slow down or clog in all those arteries, veins and capillaries. It needs to keep moving. There is downside however to all these chemicals on board . . . if you’re a klutz.
“Would you go down to the basement and bring up the 6-pack of Blue Moon?”
Let me tell you of a Common Man. A person who is rarely acknowledged in this era of the Uncommon Man, men and women driven by mendacity and greed. No, the person I speak of was a gentleman in the truest sense, an individual of integrity and compassion.
I play Russian Roulette. It’s not the kind where you put a bullet in a gun, rotate the cylinder and pull the trigger, all the while swilling bad Vodka and ambivalent about the outcome. And it’s not like the grim scene from the “The Deer Hunter,” that still hangs in my mind, set during the Vietnam War, where Robert De Niro dances on the edge of despair. No, mine is much more benign. I play a game of chance in the University of Minnesota Duluth’s parking lots.
The door swings open. The low-slung, wine-colored Tesla is at rest deep in the shadows of the garage. The soft, supple leather welcomes my posterior by starting a fan underneath my derriere, cooling it on a warm summer day. The car knows I'm here. It positions my arms and legs in a way that ensures appropriate accommodation, it's memory flawless. The glass roof slides back effortlessly, the headrest rises to cradle my head. I push the stalk on the column to engage drive, glide from the darkened garage and spring down the driveway, a subtle awareness has come to life.
Christmas comes and goes. Families gather, interactions warm, sometimes rewarding and occasionally conflicted, and kids go nuts.
"Don't make old people MAD. We don't like being old in the first place, so it doesn't take much to tick us off." This sign caught my eye recently in an appliance parts store as I tried to make sense of a home repair. As they say, "The road to perdition is paved with good intentions!" The sign was spot on, especially when the project went south.