People used to poop beneath the stars. That must’ve been pretty. The juxtaposition of ungodly stench and heaven’s gems. And people used to wipe their butts with leaves and stuff. Scratchy. Davit’s mother, Ardemis, would tell him tales about the apple leaves and human butts when they were living near the apple orchard. Oh, how many apple leaves must have wiped a human butt. He thought of this—the butts and leaves—as chilly nighttime wind, whistling to the tune of wandering caravans groaning from exhaustion, covered up his owner’s skin with sand. His owner—called Baba by a daughter—in the best of faith had given Davit all his water that morning. Baba died because of it. Davit hoped not, but knew deep down that Baba quenched his thirst to thank him for the company. No food, no home, no daughter—sweet, sweet girl—just Davit and the languid company of his hee-haw. Now days away from home, Davit knew he needed water again but knew not where he could find it. He let out one last sad hee-haw and headed opposite the way he came, opposite the caravan, and to the apple orchard of his feasts (he always got good apples.) His jackass mind teetered, darting from the memories of men with boots and rifles ruining his mid-morning apple feast by taking his owner’s daughter, and the thirst that dried his tongue tonight. Bidding Baba farewell, he sifted sand through quiet clops and willed with all the will inside his beating donkey heart for it to rain as the caravan stragglers stepped lamenting steps past the pre-deceased Baba and Davit’s watery black eyes and cracking-dry nostrils. He stopped a moment, stood there, and looked back to Baba whose stiffening body would soon be picked clean by soldiers, looters, and by tomorrow, vultures. How one could spot a difference, Davit didn’t know. And as he stood, he felt a little tickle on his tail. The ass’s ass was smacked with—was it? Rain? Davit held his breath and tried to feel the air with every strand of hair from head to hoof. Another drop hit. And then another. And another. And for one hole minute the stars above had disappeared behind the clouds and rain gave Davit the relief of sweet hydration. Her-haw! He drank plentifully; from the sky, from his lips, from the muddy puddles gathered by his hooves. But soon, once his tongue was wet and the caravan had wet its cups, each had realized how quickly rain could flood a desert just the way a Donkey’s tears can swamp and blur the eyes. But when that fleet of pelting horrors finally abated, the skies and clouds undid themselves, revealing tapestries of stars sewn by saintly needles on the stretching fabric of the night.
I'm a moderate Independent. I base my vote on character and competence regardless of party. Independent voters make up 56% of the electorate. They are a mixed bag of conservatives, liberals and moderates. Every election since WW2 has been decided by the independent vote.
Something of note: Donald Trump has never received a majority of the vote in any of the three elections he ran in. He lost the popular vote to Hillary Clinton by almost 3 million votes, but won the electoral college. He claimed he won by a landslide. Actually he received the exact same number of electoral votes as Joe Biden. Kamala Harris lost partly because of a shorted campaign and some mistakes by the Democratic party.
There is no evidence of fraud playing a part in any of Trump's three elections. Fraud in a presidential election is so miniscule that it is almost non-existent. Trump lost 61 court cases trying to claim fraud. Almost every lawyer who works for him ends up getting disbarred or resigns or is fired for refusing to break the law.
The middle of the rainy season in the African tropics is hot and humid.
The gardens come alive and the lawn is no longer parched from the heat of the African sun.
Flowers pop up everywhere - birds of paradise fly around and the faint smell of night queen lingers in the evening air.
We’d had a problem at the house that year. The water had been cut off due to a dispute over a meter reading and so, these expats, just like the locals were forced to collect water in buckets.
The river wasn’t far away and so each day we put galvanised bins into the back of the Peugeot and drove down to the river.
There we would fill up the bins and place bubble wrap over the top so the water splashed less in the back of the car on the short but bumpy ride home.
That rainy season the back of the car stank. It never really dried out. Luckily at least windows could be periodically left open.
The negotiation skills required to sort out an incorrect water bill, when you’re white in an African country are something to be admired.
It involves long waits in queues, sometimes over several attempts and getting ready to befriend every member of staff until you find the one who can sort it.
Then you transport them to the house to check the correct meter readings and buy them lunch on the way back. This is how it’s done.
The one advantage of rainy season is funnily enough, the rain. It’s normally hot and humid in the mornings and then around lunchtime, the heavens open.
It’s a chance to refill those bins from the broken gutters on the house, without the drive to the river and the hauling of the buckets, a task which is always tough and tiring.
Eventually the water got switched back on and a sense of a gift ran through the house once again.
It’s easy to feel guilty at such luxuries but the trick is to be grateful for everything that we have.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Yes it was going to rain. We could see it coming in from the horizon, reducing visibility. But as the heavens opened it turned into an unexpected squall. The wind veered, the boat slewed and the skipper fought with the helm. The land disappeared from view and there was no horizon.
Get up on deck and put a reef in, quick, he’d said. No put a couple in, this is going to be a bad one.
I was the only other adult. Not fair to ask a cadet to come with me. I clipped on and clambered out of the cockpit and up the deck. The skipper pulled her around head to wind, which stabilised the yacht to some extent but she pitched and tossed as the waves crashed over the bow. I could taste the coffee I’d drunk an hour earlier.
When I reached the mast I tried to stand but got knocked down as another wave broke over the bow and me. I got up again, jelly legged and looked back to see five pairs of thankful but worried eyes gazing at me from the cockpit.
Just get on with it, I said to myself as the loose mainsail cracked like a machine gun. In with the winch handle, release the halyard and lower the sail. I’ve done this before but not in these conditions.
You learn things about yourself when you’re under pressure. Some not very nice - like fear.
As the yacht pitched again a waterfall cascaded out of the loose fold of sail and almost knocked me over. I coughed and swallowed half the English Channel. Fear is also a great motivator.
I managed to clip the sail into the reefing point and went through the process of tying up the loose sail and tightening up the main halyard. I suddenly noticed water had run down my back inside my foul weather jacket or was it sweat. It was both.
Just as I was taking the handle from the mast winch she pitched again and I lost hold it and it went over the side. I hung on.
Bugger it.
Job done, after a fashion, I scrambled back to the cockpit and felt my heart fighting to get out of my chest as I tried to ease my breathing.
Skipper looked at me and smiled, a sort of glad it was you up there and not me smile. They’re expensive those handles, he smirked, still she’s a bit steadier now.
It was a dark and stormy night. The cliches are pouring from my pen like sand from an hourglass, so are the days of our lives where actions speak louder than words and what comes around goes around. But every cloud has a silver lining. At the end of the day as I contemplate the meaning of my navel, it is what it is and me and you and a dog named Boo (who is my best friend) can aee that this is a win-win situation as as I realize that it was all a dream when Humpty Dumpy watched the dish run away with the spoon.
🏆🎗️🎀 Thank you very much. I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for my mother and father. I wish I hadn't found that home video when I was 12, ignorance is bliss. Everyone wants to talk about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it. If you're tired of the weather here in Tennessee don't worry, it'll change in an hour.
As the "Chosen One" I feel compelled to point out that smoking hot babe in the front row who asked me if that was a pistol in my pocket or if I was happy to see her.
And I see my friend Mike who taught me that you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose but you can't pick your friend's nose.
And I'd like to close with this - having achieved the penultimate honor on my bucket list, I know that the rest of my life will be all rainbows and unicorns.
Cathy and Tim left the bank. They knew they shouldn’t have bought the lot on the lake, but they couldn’t help themselves. They had yet to save enough for a down payment on a home, yet found the cash for a down payment on the lot on the lake. There was no home on the lot, nothing but a lonely dock the previous owner had put in. He had a boat. Cathy and Tim did not. Still, the lot was inviting, several tall trees providing shade, and a scrubby undergrowth throughout, except for a sandy beach where the lake water casually lapped the shore in a peaceful rhythm.
They still lived in the apartment they had rented two years ago. They would continue to live there until their financial situation improved. But they had reasonable hopes for that. Cathy had been promoted to manager, with only one year’s experience, at Draper’s Do All hardware store. And Tim had one year left in engineering school. Once he graduated, he could expect to get a good paying job, the start of a career. They would be fine.
They both anticipated Cathy being able to quit, or at least cut back, and then they could raise their family. Two boys, two girls, if everything went in exact accordance with their vision. No one can be sure of such things, but no harm in hoping. Some of their hopes lay within the realm of a well-planned future, and would almost certainly be realized. Some hopes, they knew, were more reliant on good fortune. Time would tell. They could live with that.
Thinking way far ahead, Cathy and Tim hoped to build a year-round home on the lot by the lake. But it was a dream home, and they knew it would not be affordable anytime soon. In two years, they would have the deposit for a house in town, and they could stay there for as long as it took to plan and build on the lake. Family first, once they had a family. But some day, some day, they would have their dream home on the lake.
In the meantime they had the lot, a place where they could camp and go fishing. They had visions of teaching their kids to fish, row, paddle, and swim. For now, having left the bank, the natural thing to do was go visit the lot. The sky was not at all cheerful; overcast gray and uninviting. They didn’t care. They had their fishing poles in the car, and a cooler with snacks, and drove the ten miles to their lot on the lake.
As they got out of the car, Cathy looked up. “This storm won’t be going around us. It’s going to rain, sooner than later.”
Tim looked up with her. “Hey, it’s only rain. We’ve been wet before. The main thing is there’s no thunder clouds. Lightning would be the only danger, and there won’t be any.”
“OK, then,” said Cathy. Let’s go fishing!”
They walked the short distance to the dock, fishing poles and cooler in hand and walked to the end of the dock.
“We should have brought folding chairs,” Cathy observed.
“We can just sit. Take off your shoes and we can sit here with our feet in the water.”
They were not great anglers, just casual fishermen. They placed lures on their lines and cast them into the lake, gradually reeling them in, in hopes of attracting some lake trout. In the clear water, they could see some smaller fish swimming beneath their feet. The larger ones would be a little farther out.
It was a strange juxtaposition. As they sat there, it could have been two hundred years ago. Nothing here had really changed in all that time, yet their life together was brand new. It felt settling, reassuring to them to be here where time made no demands. Maybe that had been the attraction of this lot, all along.
They were mostly silent, absorbing the atmosphere.
And then, rather suddenly, the heavens opened, and they were instantly drenched in the downpour.
“We need to go in,” Cathy said.
“Go in where?” said Tim. “There’s nothing here. We’re already as wet as we can get. Let’s keep fishing.”
Even with rivulets of rain sweeping down her face, Cathy smiled. “Yes. Let’s keep fishing. Rain is part of all this. No sense running from it.”
Tim smiled back. They kissed lightly and then went on about their fishing.
Donkey Tears
People used to poop beneath the stars. That must’ve been pretty. The juxtaposition of ungodly stench and heaven’s gems. And people used to wipe their butts with leaves and stuff. Scratchy. Davit’s mother, Ardemis, would tell him tales about the apple leaves and human butts when they were living near the apple orchard. Oh, how many apple leaves must have wiped a human butt. He thought of this—the butts and leaves—as chilly nighttime wind, whistling to the tune of wandering caravans groaning from exhaustion, covered up his owner’s skin with sand. His owner—called Baba by a daughter—in the best of faith had given Davit all his water that morning. Baba died because of it. Davit hoped not, but knew deep down that Baba quenched his thirst to thank him for the company. No food, no home, no daughter—sweet, sweet girl—just Davit and the languid company of his hee-haw. Now days away from home, Davit knew he needed water again but knew not where he could find it. He let out one last sad hee-haw and headed opposite the way he came, opposite the caravan, and to the apple orchard of his feasts (he always got good apples.) His jackass mind teetered, darting from the memories of men with boots and rifles ruining his mid-morning apple feast by taking his owner’s daughter, and the thirst that dried his tongue tonight. Bidding Baba farewell, he sifted sand through quiet clops and willed with all the will inside his beating donkey heart for it to rain as the caravan stragglers stepped lamenting steps past the pre-deceased Baba and Davit’s watery black eyes and cracking-dry nostrils. He stopped a moment, stood there, and looked back to Baba whose stiffening body would soon be picked clean by soldiers, looters, and by tomorrow, vultures. How one could spot a difference, Davit didn’t know. And as he stood, he felt a little tickle on his tail. The ass’s ass was smacked with—was it? Rain? Davit held his breath and tried to feel the air with every strand of hair from head to hoof. Another drop hit. And then another. And another. And for one hole minute the stars above had disappeared behind the clouds and rain gave Davit the relief of sweet hydration. Her-haw! He drank plentifully; from the sky, from his lips, from the muddy puddles gathered by his hooves. But soon, once his tongue was wet and the caravan had wet its cups, each had realized how quickly rain could flood a desert just the way a Donkey’s tears can swamp and blur the eyes. But when that fleet of pelting horrors finally abated, the skies and clouds undid themselves, revealing tapestries of stars sewn by saintly needles on the stretching fabric of the night.
I worked for the Aftyn Behn campaign in Tennessee's 7th District special election. Also, JD Vance is (unfortunately) my Appalachian cousin.
I'm a moderate Independent. I base my vote on character and competence regardless of party. Independent voters make up 56% of the electorate. They are a mixed bag of conservatives, liberals and moderates. Every election since WW2 has been decided by the independent vote.
Something of note: Donald Trump has never received a majority of the vote in any of the three elections he ran in. He lost the popular vote to Hillary Clinton by almost 3 million votes, but won the electoral college. He claimed he won by a landslide. Actually he received the exact same number of electoral votes as Joe Biden. Kamala Harris lost partly because of a shorted campaign and some mistakes by the Democratic party.
There is no evidence of fraud playing a part in any of Trump's three elections. Fraud in a presidential election is so miniscule that it is almost non-existent. Trump lost 61 court cases trying to claim fraud. Almost every lawyer who works for him ends up getting disbarred or resigns or is fired for refusing to break the law.
The middle of the rainy season in the African tropics is hot and humid.
The gardens come alive and the lawn is no longer parched from the heat of the African sun.
Flowers pop up everywhere - birds of paradise fly around and the faint smell of night queen lingers in the evening air.
We’d had a problem at the house that year. The water had been cut off due to a dispute over a meter reading and so, these expats, just like the locals were forced to collect water in buckets.
The river wasn’t far away and so each day we put galvanised bins into the back of the Peugeot and drove down to the river.
There we would fill up the bins and place bubble wrap over the top so the water splashed less in the back of the car on the short but bumpy ride home.
That rainy season the back of the car stank. It never really dried out. Luckily at least windows could be periodically left open.
The negotiation skills required to sort out an incorrect water bill, when you’re white in an African country are something to be admired.
It involves long waits in queues, sometimes over several attempts and getting ready to befriend every member of staff until you find the one who can sort it.
Then you transport them to the house to check the correct meter readings and buy them lunch on the way back. This is how it’s done.
The one advantage of rainy season is funnily enough, the rain. It’s normally hot and humid in the mornings and then around lunchtime, the heavens open.
It’s a chance to refill those bins from the broken gutters on the house, without the drive to the river and the hauling of the buckets, a task which is always tough and tiring.
Eventually the water got switched back on and a sense of a gift ran through the house once again.
It’s easy to feel guilty at such luxuries but the trick is to be grateful for everything that we have.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Yes it was going to rain. We could see it coming in from the horizon, reducing visibility. But as the heavens opened it turned into an unexpected squall. The wind veered, the boat slewed and the skipper fought with the helm. The land disappeared from view and there was no horizon.
Get up on deck and put a reef in, quick, he’d said. No put a couple in, this is going to be a bad one.
I was the only other adult. Not fair to ask a cadet to come with me. I clipped on and clambered out of the cockpit and up the deck. The skipper pulled her around head to wind, which stabilised the yacht to some extent but she pitched and tossed as the waves crashed over the bow. I could taste the coffee I’d drunk an hour earlier.
When I reached the mast I tried to stand but got knocked down as another wave broke over the bow and me. I got up again, jelly legged and looked back to see five pairs of thankful but worried eyes gazing at me from the cockpit.
Just get on with it, I said to myself as the loose mainsail cracked like a machine gun. In with the winch handle, release the halyard and lower the sail. I’ve done this before but not in these conditions.
You learn things about yourself when you’re under pressure. Some not very nice - like fear.
As the yacht pitched again a waterfall cascaded out of the loose fold of sail and almost knocked me over. I coughed and swallowed half the English Channel. Fear is also a great motivator.
I managed to clip the sail into the reefing point and went through the process of tying up the loose sail and tightening up the main halyard. I suddenly noticed water had run down my back inside my foul weather jacket or was it sweat. It was both.
Just as I was taking the handle from the mast winch she pitched again and I lost hold it and it went over the side. I hung on.
Bugger it.
Job done, after a fashion, I scrambled back to the cockpit and felt my heart fighting to get out of my chest as I tried to ease my breathing.
Skipper looked at me and smiled, a sort of glad it was you up there and not me smile. They’re expensive those handles, he smirked, still she’s a bit steadier now.
It was a dark and stormy night. The cliches are pouring from my pen like sand from an hourglass, so are the days of our lives where actions speak louder than words and what comes around goes around. But every cloud has a silver lining. At the end of the day as I contemplate the meaning of my navel, it is what it is and me and you and a dog named Boo (who is my best friend) can aee that this is a win-win situation as as I realize that it was all a dream when Humpty Dumpy watched the dish run away with the spoon.
THE END
You win the prize. For what, exactly, I don't know. But you've definitely won it!
🏆🎗️🎀 Thank you very much. I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for my mother and father. I wish I hadn't found that home video when I was 12, ignorance is bliss. Everyone wants to talk about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it. If you're tired of the weather here in Tennessee don't worry, it'll change in an hour.
As the "Chosen One" I feel compelled to point out that smoking hot babe in the front row who asked me if that was a pistol in my pocket or if I was happy to see her.
And I see my friend Mike who taught me that you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose but you can't pick your friend's nose.
And I'd like to close with this - having achieved the penultimate honor on my bucket list, I know that the rest of my life will be all rainbows and unicorns.
Have you considered going into politics?
The Heavens Opened
Cathy and Tim left the bank. They knew they shouldn’t have bought the lot on the lake, but they couldn’t help themselves. They had yet to save enough for a down payment on a home, yet found the cash for a down payment on the lot on the lake. There was no home on the lot, nothing but a lonely dock the previous owner had put in. He had a boat. Cathy and Tim did not. Still, the lot was inviting, several tall trees providing shade, and a scrubby undergrowth throughout, except for a sandy beach where the lake water casually lapped the shore in a peaceful rhythm.
They still lived in the apartment they had rented two years ago. They would continue to live there until their financial situation improved. But they had reasonable hopes for that. Cathy had been promoted to manager, with only one year’s experience, at Draper’s Do All hardware store. And Tim had one year left in engineering school. Once he graduated, he could expect to get a good paying job, the start of a career. They would be fine.
They both anticipated Cathy being able to quit, or at least cut back, and then they could raise their family. Two boys, two girls, if everything went in exact accordance with their vision. No one can be sure of such things, but no harm in hoping. Some of their hopes lay within the realm of a well-planned future, and would almost certainly be realized. Some hopes, they knew, were more reliant on good fortune. Time would tell. They could live with that.
Thinking way far ahead, Cathy and Tim hoped to build a year-round home on the lot by the lake. But it was a dream home, and they knew it would not be affordable anytime soon. In two years, they would have the deposit for a house in town, and they could stay there for as long as it took to plan and build on the lake. Family first, once they had a family. But some day, some day, they would have their dream home on the lake.
In the meantime they had the lot, a place where they could camp and go fishing. They had visions of teaching their kids to fish, row, paddle, and swim. For now, having left the bank, the natural thing to do was go visit the lot. The sky was not at all cheerful; overcast gray and uninviting. They didn’t care. They had their fishing poles in the car, and a cooler with snacks, and drove the ten miles to their lot on the lake.
As they got out of the car, Cathy looked up. “This storm won’t be going around us. It’s going to rain, sooner than later.”
Tim looked up with her. “Hey, it’s only rain. We’ve been wet before. The main thing is there’s no thunder clouds. Lightning would be the only danger, and there won’t be any.”
“OK, then,” said Cathy. Let’s go fishing!”
They walked the short distance to the dock, fishing poles and cooler in hand and walked to the end of the dock.
“We should have brought folding chairs,” Cathy observed.
“We can just sit. Take off your shoes and we can sit here with our feet in the water.”
They were not great anglers, just casual fishermen. They placed lures on their lines and cast them into the lake, gradually reeling them in, in hopes of attracting some lake trout. In the clear water, they could see some smaller fish swimming beneath their feet. The larger ones would be a little farther out.
It was a strange juxtaposition. As they sat there, it could have been two hundred years ago. Nothing here had really changed in all that time, yet their life together was brand new. It felt settling, reassuring to them to be here where time made no demands. Maybe that had been the attraction of this lot, all along.
They were mostly silent, absorbing the atmosphere.
And then, rather suddenly, the heavens opened, and they were instantly drenched in the downpour.
“We need to go in,” Cathy said.
“Go in where?” said Tim. “There’s nothing here. We’re already as wet as we can get. Let’s keep fishing.”
Even with rivulets of rain sweeping down her face, Cathy smiled. “Yes. Let’s keep fishing. Rain is part of all this. No sense running from it.”
Tim smiled back. They kissed lightly and then went on about their fishing.
What a great prompt! While it will take me a few more hours to finish this piece, I wanted you to know you took me back to Salina, Kansas in 1970.