“It’s not gardening season anyway.”

Yes folks, that’s what I was told when I asked why my gardening column wasn’t appearing in it’s regular spot in the local paper. I was also told that strict space limitation requirements were being put into place that would, figuratively speaking, shove my column out into the cold gray snowy and lonely winter landscape!

My column has appeared regularly for the past seven winters and even though some may think that “it’s not gardening season anyway” there are many interesting things to be said about the winter landscape. The simple explanation is this: the editor of the paper is pissed off at me and is getting revenge by not publishing my articles. I have upset someone and I think it’s caused them to omit my column. Of course proving such an accusation would be next to impossible. But it’s probably not an uncommon consequence when editors and their freelance writers get into a disagreement.

I suppose it’s time to move on, seven is my lucky number and the new year is only days away! My writing is good enough for any newspaper, gardening magazine, or book publisher and if it ceases to be included in my hometown newspaper, I’ll find a new home for it!

Why you’ll never win an argument with your wife

I’m utterly amazed at my brain’s inability to grasp the fact that it (i.e., me) will never EVER, EVER be able to win an argument against the brain of a woman (i.e., my wife). Try as it might, with all those millions of neurons firing every which way, it’s just a helpless, hapless and hopeless attempt. It’s kind of explained in the video below, but to get the full gist of it, you must: a. Be married to a woman. b. Been married to a woman. c. Argued with a woman. d. All of the above.

Even before the argument starts, I know I’ll not win. Shortly after the disagreement presents itself  my brain is telling me to shut up. “You know you’re not going to get anywhere!”  And yet, I do it anyway. Why? Male competitiveness of course,  fueled by that ever present hormone we store in endless quantities – testosterone. I’ll keep doing it, and I’ll keep losing, but it doesn’t mean that I’ll stop wishing for a win.

 

Censured

I suppose you can’t make everyone happy all of the time. That’s old news anyway, and I highly doubt that any of us really try to please everyone. But just who are we supposed to please? Mom and Dad? Brother and Sister? Aunt or Uncle? Employer? Employee? It’s actually quite difficult to know, although staunch Christians and other God-fearing folk would probably say that you’re supposed to please God and all the other pleasing will take care of itself. Okay then.

What about displeasing? Who does all that? We do. I have, recently. Want to hear more? Too bad, this is my blog and I can rant and rave all I want. You’re most welcome to leave, but I’d rather you didn’t, or if you do, at least be courteous and leave a short comment telling me….well, never mind, just leave.

I infuriated the editor of the paper I write for, and according to her I also slammed the paper in the process. I did all this without even naming the paper or its editor, but I’m so good at it that it was displeasure to the Nth degree, and evidently I dolled out enough of it to put my job as a columnist for the paper in jeopardy. What was the displeasure? I voiced my opinion on a subject publicly (via Facebook). But wait a minute….isn’t there something in the Constitution about freedom of speech? Or does that not apply when the opinion you voice is about something that is published in the same media that you are also published in? I suppose it produced a conflict of displeasing interest.

I hope to continue writing for the publication that I unknowingly slammed. I suppose only time will tell.

Until then, please please me and yourself by listening to the pleasing sounds of my band Mandolin Whiskey, just click here and click the play button.

A Memoir? Perhaps.

I think I need to write it all down for those that’ll be here when I’m gone. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll get it completed before I take off and submit it for publication somewhere. After all, I am a writer, or at least schooled a little bit in that field of study. Unfortunately, I can’t find a full time job as a writer, so I struggle along doing freelance work as it becomes available. I’m kind of afraid to start writing about my life, afraid that what I say won’t sound too good. But I’ve been told that those types of sounds are what most people want to hear. I should probably do some research first on how to go about writing a memoir. When I was in college there was mention of memoir writing, but no actual writing of one; our class read Gerda Weissmann Klein’s memoir (called Holocaust literature) – All But My Life (Copyright 1957, 1995 by Gerda Weissmann Klein). I should read it again before I start mine.

Gerda’s preface to All But My Life:

As I finish the last chapter of my book, I feel at piece, at last. I have discharged a burden, and paid a debt to many nameless heroes, resting in their unmarked graves. For I am haunted by the thought that I might be the only one left to tell their story.

Happy in my new life, I have penned the last sentence of the past. I have written my story, with tears and with love, in the hope that my children, safely asleep in their cribs, should not awake from a nightmare and find it to be reality.

My Nightmare.  Maybe that’ll be the title of my memoir. Sounds scary doesn’t it?

Numb It by Honeyhoney

I think it’s time for some Really Good Stuff! Musically speaking.

 

The end?

It’s not so easy to understand what happens after you take your last breath. Most Christians believe that after you die you go to a place where God lives called Heaven, if you’re worthy, and if you’re not you’re destined to a place where Satan lives called Hell. Some believe there’s a place in the middle that holds those who need to be polished up a bit before they’re admitted into Heaven. I guess such a middle place as that isn’t needed for those bound to Hell.

I’m thinking about death because I lost my mother this past July and more recently an ex-wife that I was married to for 7 years. I suppose it happens to everyone, those living anyway, that when someone close to you, or someone you had a connection with dies, it causes an internal alarm to go off, a signal that the end is inevitable.

Death is a big intimidator, an unknown that you’ll never be able to discover until after it’s captured you. Can it even be known then? What if you don’t believe in God, Heaven, Satan, or Hell? Do those who don’t believe in an afterlife cease to be when they’re dead? And who’s to know if believers are rewarded or penalized. Is my Christian faith strong enough to make me unafraid of the Big Intimidator? It’s being put to the test now that’s for sure.

Life after death is an oxymoron.

Light at the end of the tunnel?

Seasoning

What you’ll see at a farmers market (click on the photo for a larger view).