Crying Foul

In the course of a busy life, it had been a while since I paid a visit to Uncle Bubba. He was in good spirits and told me of a recent anecdote regarding a foul cow. It was half past twilight when the phone rang. The Duke was on the other end citing that he had a cow down and asking Bubbie to go out with him to get her stood back up. He said she’d more than likely gone foul and needed help to get back to her feet. Of course Bubbie was all too eager to join his friend in another event. Hanging up the phone he slipped on his drawers, kissed Sweet Pea and walked out the door. The Duke pulled up in his GMC Sierra and Bubbie climbed up in. They had an hour ride to get out the Williams farm were the Duke leases some beautiful rolling green pastures.

The Williams farm is a long standing working farm that takes full advantage of the southern extended growing season; growing corn silage to mid summer and green beans in the same fields in late summer. The remainder of the season they alternate fields planting rye grass of which the Duke’s cattle graze and get fat. Cattle are moved from one large pasture to the next as they graze down (and fertilize) the landscape while the rye grows nearly knee high, green and strong in the adjacent dale.

Entering the property there are two very large silos that can normally be seen from a long way off, standing as enormous monuments to ancient farm gods. On this night however, these cylindrical towers had disappeared in the dark until the Dukes headlights momentarily glance off of them in the opaque distance. Driving out through resting, sleep flushed bovine, looking sleepily surprised at the whirring diesel weaving slowly past but too lazy to bother to stir, the cowboys rolled to the far side of the dark dale.

“She’s on the far side of the next pasture.” the Duke croaked. “There’s a hard road that runs along that edge of the property and some folks have moved out there over the years. They’ve moved there and then don’t like living by a farm so they call and bellyache over every little thing. It’s been some deal; we have to fight with animal rights people of all things.” The Duke says grumbling.

At the edge of the edge of the property, at the end of a narrow white beam of a spotlight they found her. She was under a stand of scrub oaks laid out prone on her side along side the barbed wire fence. As one may or may not know, cows nibble the branches off of trees at cow height which is about 5 feet high. This makes a grown man stoop to walk beneath the low limbs. The Duke and Bubbie crouched and stumbled through the dark shadows adjacent to the spotlight beam to the waiting cow. The Duke cautiously gave her the once over and looked puzzled as he checked her teeth and felt her legs. He couldn’t surmise any reason why she might be down, but she obviously couldn’t right herself. Bubbie watched the Duke perform his inspection waiting for instruction.

“If she gets up, make sure you have a clear path out of here and get out of the way cause she’ll slap run you over.”

Just then a car arrived over the rise on the hard road and turning its intrusive lights towards the pasture, ground to a halt at the fence line. An older, white-haired gentleman appeared from around the headlights in a white polo shirt and tweed shorts. Peering over the fence he was first to speak:

“Do you think you’ll get her up?”
“Don’t know yet. Who are you?” the Duke muttered.

“My name’s Buford, Buford Wilson. I’m the one that called about the cow. I live down the way, but my daughter lives right up the road here and she’s the one that saw her first and told me about it.”

“Uh-huh” he Duke grunted, still looking down at the foul cow. After a long pause the Duke slowly looked the old man up and down and then turned to face him.

“I appreciate the notification, but what I don’t appreciate is folks reporting us to the animal rights activists over every little thing!” his stern tone setting old Buford aback. “I treat these cattle better than my own kids, but sometimes the cattle biddness is a hard biddness. Sometimes a cow gets old and sick and dies; just like people.”

“Oh, I have no doubt…” Buford retorted in his most apologetic tone.

After several exhaustive attempts at lifting and pushing the heavy cow to her feet, the Duke, breathing heavy with hands on his hips stared at Bubbie in contemplation.

“I don’t know as you’re going to get her up.” Buford lamented.

The Duke grunted in disgust. It was more aversion that old Buford was still watching over them in his tweed shorts than failing at righting the cow.

“Bub, get the rope out of the truck; we’re gonna have’ta drag ‘er out of these trees where we can get some leverage on her.” the Duke spoke, exasperated. It was growing apparent to the two of them that there was something perhaps more seriously wrong with the cow than just being foul. Due to the tight quarters and position of the animal, her head facing the truck, the Duke looped the rope around her neck and Bubbie ran the other end up and tied it to the trailer hitch.

“You’re going to drag her by her neck?” old Buford asked cautiously.

“What choice do we have?” the Duke barked. “You’d be surprised how strong that thick neck is and we only have 6 or 7 yards to pull her out of here. Bubbie, get in the truck and give it a slow steady pull and if we get ‘er going don’t stop.”

As Bubbie crouched and stumbled under the shadowy low tree limbs back to the truck, he considered the prospects of the next few minutes; he smiled to himself recalling the Duke’s statement to old Buford that he treats his cattle better than his own kids. He climbed up into the pickup and turned the diesel over. Pulling the shift lever into gear he eased his foot off of the brake and onto the accelerator pedal. The truck rolled slowly forward has Bubbie craned his neck to watch out of the back window. Looking down the spotlight beam he could see the taught rope disappear into the trees. He then saw the Duke appear from the shadows, stooped but motioning to keep pulling ahead and then he saw the cow pop out of the dark stand of scrub, skidding along the ground on her side. Once free from the brush she slid easily over the dewy green grass. On the Dukes command Bubbie stopped the truck and then backed up to take the tension off of the rope. The Duke slipped the noose from the big cow’s neck and the two cowboys tried in vain to stand the exhausted cow.

As they paused, Bubbie looked up into the vastness of the enormous night sky and took a deep breath; the stars numbering in the millions. Tilting his head further back he felt so small and insignificant there in the wide open pasture, swallowed by the negritude of the warm night. He heard the cow breathing heavily and the Dukes feet shuffle across the grass.

“We’ll have to leave her here and hope the coyotes don’t get her until I can get the vet back here to look at ‘er.” the Duke said, walking back to the pickup truck.

The agricultural business can be a rough and gritty business. In Bubbie’s view, most Americans don’t even consider what sacrifice it takes to grow, nurture, and harvest the food that we eat with so much enjoyment and gluttony. While we sit in the comfort of our homes watching TV, or with our friends in a barroom or coffee shop, the farmer and ranchers may very well be working, and doing some rather unpleasant things. They serve at the pleasure of Mother Nature, no matter how seemingly fickle or cruel and at the oversight of countless agencies—both governmental and private watchdogs. Thank God for the folks who have chosen the agricultural profession; their love of nature and independently determined spirit prevails when most of us would quit.

Rah! Rah!

Rah! Rah! Its bowl time again! The sudden death end of the college football season that will crown champions and break hearts. The prognosticators will analyze and expound on their predictions as fevered as the traders on the Wall St. Stock Exchange floor. Afterward they will wax nostalgic about the greatness that could have been, but more than likely wasn’t. As we know by now, Bubbie always has an opinion and college athletics generally stirs him up. Lately, he says, he has noticed that a lot of the “professional athlete” (he rolls his eyes using that term) punk-ness and showboating has crept into the college ranks. Maybe it always has, but it’s taking away from the purity of what college sports are supposed to be all about. Sure, let’s celebrate a score, a touchdown, a field goal. But let’s stop acting out on every tackle; let’s stop dramatically pleading with the Ref on EVERY play that there should have been a penalty. Here’s an idea, hustle to the huddle, play each down to the best of your ability, when the whistle blows to end the play, hustle back to the huddle and mentally prepare to play the next play to the best of your ability. Let your actions do the talking and stop all the trash talking and the gyrating. You look like a damn fool and a cry baby. Football players should be tough. Carry yourself with class and decorum, and lest we’ve forgotten, be a good sport.

Beyond the Ride

Uncle Bubba swivels, lifting his leg back over the black seat of his mighty iron steed. He enters the shade of the garage returning quickly with a soft polish rag to rub down the gleaming sliver chrome of his now statuesque motorcycle, not moments before a rumbling high-spirited stallion. While working over his heated, ticking machine, he recalls the images that played in his mind just moments before. He rode that long two-lane highway that borders the State forest; the deer hunter’s cars and trucks parked in clumps among breaks in the trees. He remained more attentive as he rode, aware that at any moment a frightened deer may bolt across the road in a mad dash to gambol across the pastures on the other side of the highway to escape the restless hunters. They may find false refuge in the calmness of the lowing cattle in the rolling tawny fields, but they will return to the woods too soon.

Out past the silent battle ground the highway rises and falls. Behind the white cotton clouds the bright azure sky fades to baby blue towards the horizon. The air smells of earth and wholesome musty winter trees. He rode on beyond, beyond time, before his memory. Encroached upon by the greedy glut of golfing developments, with their sardined, mimicked rooftops and unnaturally green lawns; sprinkled among vast acres of sparsely scattered rednecks with cluttered, overgrown yards littered with plastic and metal monuments are the older homesteads of the salt-of-the–earth; the farmers and ranchers. Their houses, though showing their age are neatly appointed in facade signifying that their inhabitants may no longer be able to keep up appearances, yet still live with a dignified demeanor. They are of another era, when a person was considerate of their neighbors, cherished their belongings and honored their commitments. A time that understood that with out decorum, no matter how crude, chaos ruled. They relied on the earth and change of seasons for their independent survival, and knew that only with respect of all would they create the longevity to not only live a full life, but retain enough to pass on to their younger generations.

Throttling on, above the rumbling roar of his exhaust, the wind pressing against his skin; Bubbie’s heart swells in fear and hope for this country that he loves. He knows that we have become far removed from those values that he so admires in those country folk and wonders if we’ve gone too far. Have we taken away a man’s independence with too much regulation and too much consumption? We’ve definitely taken away his manhood for the sake of political correctness. Yet these folks still survive, they still exist, they still have a vote. But is it enough to hang our hope on what remains of them? With the wondrous rolling landscape spreading out mile after mile, with the hunters in the woods, the farm houses standing as sentinels over the fields, Bubbie recalls the history of the American Indian who forever lost their country and culture by losing their identity through assimilation and the eventual conquer by the white man. The same Indian that galloped across this same landscape not so many years before; that so loved the earth and sky and change of seasons; that loved his family, his home, his powerful steed; who hunted and worked the land.

His metallic statue cleaned and polished, he fires it back to life and it rumbles into the shadows of the garage. Bubbie looks it over one last time, knowing that they have many more miles to travel together, and many more great adventures to share. In Bubbie’s view, life is good.

Thanksgiving

It occurs to Uncle Bubba that Thanksgiving is coming quickly this week, and we’ve become too far removed from the source of this holiday: the Pilgrims. If one were to look up the word pilgrim in several dictionaries, one would find a common theme in the definition; a person who journeys to some sacred place as an act of religious devotion. An interesting aside is a passage found in Webster’s 1828 dictionary, referring to biblical scripture: “one that has only a temporary residence on earth. Heb.11.”

Nevertheless, our pilgrims came to America to create a new society that used the Bible as its source of values, its moral compass and government. Remember that much of the world at that time was governed by Monarchies. The new Americans' biblical interpretation, of which relied largely on the individual, was due to environmental factors such as remote and isolated living conditions and the geographical and technological tardiness of communication. This predicated the best ideals of their interactions with the Indians. To insure their best chances to survive, they had to recognize that Indians are human beings that are created by God under the same principles that they were created, to have dominion over the earth.

This individualistic biblical source also grew into the basis for our republic; from self government to our local, county, state, and eventual federal government. If we are able to self govern our behavior, our society should remain free of monarchical type federal influence. This idea can be read throughout the Declaration of Independence, but is it where we are at today?

The Pilgrims were thankful for lessons learned and friendships formed with the Indians. Their drive and determination helped to create an America built on the foundation of a Christian respect of God, our creator. The best of all American social movements started from these same principles; buying land from Indians, the Civil Rights movement, the abolition of slavery, the Bill of Rights, etc.; however our own drive and determination has blinded us to human diversity. Not all cultures hold the same values and yet we are all thankful for abundance of whatever we hold dear; be it love or money, or health, or the earth, or a personal relationship with God.

Have a Happy Thanksgiving and celebrate the day with friendship and the symbol of our daily abundance, delicious food; but carry that with you everyday throughout the year. Open your eyes and free your mind to consider new or different ideas. After all, we would not have the America we do if the Pilgrims had not been willing to do so, putting action behind their beliefs.

The New NFL

It’s been some time since we’ve heard from Uncle Bubba as he’s been harvesting his garden and hunting and just been very busy, but along with these fall events comes the return of NFL to the TV. Like all commercialized events, such as Halloween and Christmas, it has come along far too soon in the natural flow of life; showing up in mid August. But what would you expect from a committee that touts such an un-photogenic mascot as Peyton Manning. Hardly an NFL commercial or paid talking head, moron prognosticator can speak with out touting the wonders of Manning’s superhuman abilities. Here’s the thing: he plays for the Colts. There are 31 other teams in the league! Hurray for the Colts fans, but the rabid fans of the other 31 NFL teams can’t stand Peyton! But does that stop the NFL from shoving mega helpings of sappy Peyton down our gullets? Nope. And why would they? This is the same NFL that obviously, following the ill advised cues of other entertainment industry hipsters, thinks that having their addled and inarticulate players introduce the starting lineup prior to each game. Now, don’t get me wrong, Bubbie is not the most articulate fella in the world—he has been considered at times to be quite the babbling buffoon—but these college educated (?) Ebonical, English language challenged players are an embarrassment. We all know that jocks are not always the brightest bulb in the pack, but let’s leave that secret in the locker room. In Bubbie’s view, the NFL should give their audience more credit for our intelligence and sensibilities. Now let’s go hunting.

I'm gonna make it do what it do, baby.

Why do we do what we do? In Bubbie’s view, there are two reasons; because we want to and because we know how. At its most fundamental form, if we live our lives on our own terms, we make our own decisions and live with the consequences. However this gets far more complicated when we regard the feelings of others; then we have to decide if we will compromise what we do for the sake of another. Like I said; complicated.

We also do things because we know how. We have learned lessons throughout our lives and most of them are only as good as the person that taught us. And let’s be honest here, we don’t always learn our lesson the first time around. (or second, or third…) But in the end, right or wrong, we know how to do things. This often comes into play as a reactionary maneuver, especially if we run up against circumstances that we are unfamiliar with. We have habits and rely on past experience to discern a course of action. If we add instinct to the equation, things more often than not tend to turn out OK.

In discussing this with Bubbie today, he took a slurping sip off of his scalding hot cup of black coffee and reminded me that though we do what we do, and know how to do, that is not the only thing to do. And though there is nothing new under the sun, there are new things for each of us to learn and apply to the circumstances of our lives; but only if we want to.

As I left, Bubbie yelled to me, “Try something new today!”

American Rogue

Uncle Bubba loves to watch movies; all types of movies. Just the other day he was watching “The King and Four Queens” starring Clark Gable. Not particularly a great movie, as a matter of fact he dosed off prior to the end, but Clark’s swagger got him to thinkin’. Throughout our history the implied image of the American male has been one of a maverick who takes an independent stand apart from his associates. We could debate the age old question of whether life imitates art or vice versa, but in Bubbie’s view many of the characters of literature and movies have been our heroes.

One character that Bubbie really enjoys is the American rogue. This is the man that is a maverick with an uncanny ability to use strategy and competition to win his objective. Many a movie star has been cast to perform this role but none did it so well as the fellas in the golden years of cinema; from the thirties through the sixties. The obvious basis for this is what is now considered to be male chauvinism, but back then it was chivalrous audaciousness. Simply put, men were men. Bubbie thinks that Clint Eastwood was the last real man in the movies and was hard pressed to find an idol, fictitious or otherwise to replace him. Not that Hollywood doesn’t try, but forget it, society is different. Now women are equally rendered “men-like” and they just don’t have that raw chemistry of a strategically competitive nature. Sure James Gandolfini’s Tony Soprano had it, but now he’s gone too.

I asked Bubbie’s advice, if I were to be like one of our heroes, what I might do and he told me to be tough but quiet--the less said the better. Be stern but fair and above all honest at all costs. Treat a lady like a fragile, and precious treasure; use your manners. Don’t be afraid to laugh. Be proud of the American rogue.

MC Bubbie

Uncle Bubba knows a little about rap. What he knows could fit on the head of a pin. Here’s what he knows; it’s been around for a good long time now, and it’s hard to understand what they’re sayin’. It sounds like they’re sayin’ they have the most money, the best dope, the most hos and if you disagree with them, they’ll shoot you…over, and over, and over again.

In Bubbie’s view, the only thing more stupid than the rappers making their “statement” are the people that listen to it over, and over, and over again. MC Bubbie out!

The Maserati Fella

Uncle Bubba was sittin’ in the ol’ Ford at a traffic light and that guy that owns the Maserati pulled up next to him. You know the fella; he’s always looked quite a bit older for his age ‘cause his hairline receding the way it has; except for a few of them hairs making one last stand on top, the rest have retreated to form a new defensive line around the backside. His pocked complexion is ruddy and rosacie piebald. He wears them flowery Tommy Bahamy shirts over his bulbous belly and a funky lanyard on his sunglasses. You know the guy; he wears all the gold I-talian jewelry: necklaces and bracelets and such. Yeah, that feller; I’m happy for him havin’ that car ‘cause he ain’t got much else goin’ for him.

A Blue Sunflower

One of Bubbie’s sisters, Sunflower, buzzed him on the telephone to give him the 411. Coincidentally she was grooving on the same vibe as Bubbie; he could hear it in her voice.
“What’s wrong?”
“What ever happened to common decency?” she replied.
“Oh, I know what you mean!” Bubbie exclaimed, “Please, tell me what’s going on.”

She proceeded to tell him how in a series of events she had hurt feelings due to the insensitivity and thoughtlessness of so-called friends and acquaintances. She had urgently taken a friend to the hospital, the emergency room namely, and had spent the better part of the day with her waiting for an indeterminate treatment. Surely, she thought, her family members would be along to sit with her, but hours passed. When a couple did arrive, they failed to even ask if they had eaten, which they hadn’t for 8 hours; Sunflower had not left her friend’s side for a moment during all that time and was ready for a break. Unfortunately it was late and the cafeteria as well as all the local stores were closed. Feeling worn and weary she walked outside and phoned a friend who abruptly cut her short. She later found out that she was dissed for a coquettish conversation with a cute neighbor. Sunflower was blue, and hurt. Her flirty friend never even said, “Sorry.”

We can all expound countless experiences of thoughtless exchanges where we were left standing aghast; if not physically, at the very least emotionally. What has happened to common decency? Is it so difficult to be kind? No; it’s just a manner lost. Our priorities are such that they revolve around our own crass agendas. We find entertainment in “reality” TV where rude hosts find sport in villainously crushing the hopes and dreams of willing self indulgent sycophants. We spill our guts and air our dirty laundry to anyone who will sit still long enough to listen. We purge our conscience by blaming our circumstances on others. It’s the decline of our society. We’ve had rules of decorum in place for thousands of years that have been replaced by punishable offenses of broken laws. Focus on one’s self chokes the light of society. In Bubbie’s view, that’s what has happened to common decency—but there is always hope for tomorrow.

Cattle Bidness

Well them four walls of Raiford, closing in on me
Doin’ three to five hard labor, for armed robbery
I had two years behind, but I could not wait the time
Every time I thought about it, well I died some more inside
– Lynyrd Skynyrd

The Duke stopped by Uncle Bubba’s to give notice that cattle had to be moved. He has 206 head at the prison in Raiford and needed to ride out pairs and get a count to fill an order for delivery in Texas. His crew along with the inmates could work them, but an extra hand is always welcome. Raiford, located on the backside of one of the few remaining tobacco farms in Florida, and namely the prison is ingrained in a sandy prairie, prostrate, baking in the sun. The Duke’s cattle graze slowly, contentedly on large pastures surrounding the caged men soundly incarcerated. Upon early arrival the cow hands rounded up 140 head and ran them through the pens to run a count and separate the bulls and young calves.


The calves were moved to a small holding pasture to mammy up with their mamas. The remainder of the mooing, moaning, bellering bovines were moved to low greener pastures to await shipping day.






Now let me just tell ya that the melodramatic matadors in Spain feign a prosaic display compared to the uncompromising dance of a cow hand in a crowded cattle pen. And for a few hours in the sweat of a July day of dusty dirt and cattle cakes there are no inmates, just men. And the work they do is for them as much as vein things since neither the inmate nor the cowboy can truly make a material living. The cowboys' day ended late on handshakes, stories, and a cold beer. But ironically, the inmates were rounded up, counted, and put back in their pens.

To Friendship And Beyond

In the course of human relations we find a kinship to others in regard to affection and trust. In Bubbie’s view, friendship is an unspoken mutual reciprocation from associates who provide affection as well as cooperation or assistance. In general, he believes that a true friend promotes goodwill and positive support in the lives of friends. It comes from the heart. Seems simple enough; then why does it appear to be such a rare commodity? Could it be because, as Emerson stated, “Let it be granted that our life, as we lead it, is common and mean…” and in the daily scrap to get by we partake of evil customs and limitations to isolate one’s self from a corrupt community? No one will argue that misery loves company and holds a powerful attraction much like a magnet cleaves to razor sharp iron filings; try to wipe them away and heavy price will be paid. Isolation as a form of self preservation, and misery, are prevalent to be sure and to distance one’s self from these takes a disciplined desire to prevail. Friendship is waiting at the other end. In Bubbie’s view, a friend is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, courteous, kind, obedient, and cheerful; and separates itself from a mere acquaintance by actions and deeds. A friend is upright and “cuts a straight road to everything excellent…and not only goes honorably himself, but makes it easier for all who follow him to go in honor and with benefit.”


Thank you for being my friend,
Bubbie

Giddy Up-n-Go

I stopped by to visit with Uncle Bubba since it had been a while. It seems as though things have been very busy lately. Bubba has been really getting after it and was at a low coming off another busy week. We sat on the porch and he gave me his view of some things on his mind. He was somewhat annoyed that he has had to tackle many things on his own; there never seems to be anyone available to lend a hand. This may have something to do with Bubbie never asking, but I didn’t want to bring that up in the mood he was in. But one thing that he said stuck in my mind and got me thinking. He was lamenting that so few of us go out of our way or one another. We’ll entertain and help others and even offer sanctuary in our homes; we’ll do a lot for others as long as we can do it from the refuge of our own comfort zone. But honestly, how likely are we to drive a few extra miles out of our way to visit a lonely friend, especially after a long work day? Maybe we don’t care to shop, but a friend needs help picking out some special items and it requires going to numerous stores. Perhaps we don’t like in depth conversations, but someone close to us needs our ear and some sage advice. What if you had plans to go somewhere and just had to postpone it for a few hours; would you do it unquestionably and not make a person feel as though you were annoyed or in a hurry? That’s love. It may be as easy as a warm smile and is hard as taking care of ourselves so that a loved one doesn't have to worry about us.

We as organic human beings are often most in need of time, effort, and affection but if we seldom give it, why would we think we would receive it? Maybe you’re lucky. Maybe you have people in your life the treat you especially nice, you know, its human nature to take them for granted. Think about it and take the time to appreciate them by returning love with action behind it. If you’re not so lucky, consider where your thought’s points of origin lie. Like Uncle Bubba, are they centered on yourself; your busy days, your routines, your job, your days off? Perhaps in the course of your busy days you can begin to find a little time to go out of your way and do something nice for someone else, no matter how tired or busy you are. I promise you’ll be surprised how easy it is and how good it will make you feel. Live life—get out of your comfort zone and giddy up-n-go love someone.

Zeus

Uncle Bubba and Sweet Pea were relaxing on the porch when the Duke sauntered up for a spell. He was feeling a little down because one of his best bulls, Zeus had died. He asked Bubbie if he go with him the next morning to pick him up off of his neighbor’s property. They had a gentlemen’s farm and were boarding Zeus there.
“He’s a monster.” the Duke said, “You don’t just dig a hole and bury a bull of his size.”
“No?” asked Sweet Pea.
“No ma’am; but I have a few big sinkholes that have opened up in the back pastures due to this drought and we can plant him in one of those.”
“Aw, I’m sorry Duke.” replied Sweet Pea.
“Yeah, he was a good ol’ bull.” the Duke lamented.

The next morning the two amigos rode out to the ranch and picked up the great behemoth. They found him lying on his side in the shade of a large live oak. Even in death, lying down he was a black mountain of bull. They carefully loaded him gently on the trailer. As unpleasant as the event was, the Duke proficiently took care of business as always; his cordial southern demeanor always shining through. The summer day crept into a nice long afternoon with cool drinks and fond memories of Zeus.

Poison Ivy

Uncle Bubba and Sweet Pea were sitting on the couch when Sweet Pea noticed a red mark on Bubbie’s arm.
“Does that itch?” she asked.
“Huh?”
“That spot, on your arm.”
“Not really.” Bubbie says dismissively.
Mere moments later, Sweet Pea spots a couple minute bumps on Bubbie’s thumb.
“Let me see your hand.”
“What?” Bubbie quips.
“Is that poison ivy?” Sweet Pea ponders out loud.
“Oh criminy.” Bubbie grunts.

Within the next hour, several other areas on Bubbie’s body broke out in the small bumpy rash. To say that the itchiness is annoying is an understatement and one will find a multitude of spots on one’s body that suddenly itch, even though they are unaffected areas of poison ivy. Sweet Pea finds it comical that he has a break out on a part of his body that is most precious.
“Well,” she laughs, “I guess we know the places boys touch first!”

The itch gets more intense and oddly couples itself with a burning sensation. At this point, Bubbie, who has been through this many times before, knows that this is going to take days to get over. Not a fun thought; but if this is the worst thing he has to deal with this summer, he can live with it.

Cows Don't Care

While driving among miles of pasture land, Bubbie views the sporadic herds of grazing cattle. There’s something about the scenery that Bubbie likes in a nostalgic way. Not primitive but old. It could be 1950, 40, 1850, heck even 1750. And those cows—they don’t care that cars are driving by. As a matter of fact, they don’t care about us, at all. They don’t care about when we were young and other kids picked on us. They don’t care about our painful awkward teenage years fumbling through pubicly, hormone drenched phases. High school crushes, summer infatuations. They don’t care about all the lessons learned in adulthood; responsibility, good choices, bad choices and their consequences. Nope, those cows don’t care about us and our self consuming thoughts. They don’t know how important we’ve made ourselves.

Bubbie thinks that if a cow could one day talk and he tried to explain our lives to that cow, the cow would say, “You need to get a life.”

Gas Pains

So, it’s been half a year since the elections and gas prices have crept up to a new record high. Do you recall how they mysteriously dropped prior to the election and some folks said it was just a coincidence, that there wasn’t any conspiracy to help certain officials get elected or re-elected? Do you still feel that way when you’re filling your vehicle up with gas? In Bubbie’s view, this is only the beginning. As the Spring thaw allows more and more northerners to venture out and travel, thus potentially stimulating the economy, there will be a delicate ballet of gas price manipulation to raise the price to the point where they’ve squeezed every red cent out of us. Yet we still have the power to change our ways, create new habits and stop using so much fuel. What are you gonna do this summer?

A Lesson, A Reminder

Uncle Bubba is somewhat of a solitary man. It’s as though he lives his life on a different level and in some ways doesn’t need the companionship of others, yet he loves who he loves deeply and cherishes and appreciates those that he holds dear. The other day he was telling me that he has had a few run-ins recently with some folks and though unpleasant, they served as both a lesson and a reminder. Let me tell you how…

Bubbie had an acquaintance named Possum that was one of those difficult fellas that kind of chronically complains and likes to “stir the pot” so to speak. Bubbie always treated Possum well, respectfully listening to his off center ideas and at times, ravings of working things out to its logical end. Bubbie always thought it was oddly funny that Possum’s “logical end” was shortsighted; he never seemed to think that there was more than his side of the story.

So Possum had an idea the Bubbie had done him wrong over some inconsequential item and confronted him about it. Bubbie was taken aback, not only at the theatrics of Possum’s assail but also the triviality of his attack. Bubbie understood how Possum could have drawn the conclusions that he did, but it hurt him that Possum would have thought that Bubbie was anything but sincere. Still he claimed responsibility for his actions and apologized. That should have been the end of it but Possum wouldn’t hear of it; he went on and on about how he felt wronged. Bubbie decided that there was nothing left to say. He could see that Possum would never see or admit that he had culpability in things too and had hurt Bubbie’s feelings; he had all but called him a liar. He quickly parted company with Possum who was still ranting on about how he is an innocent victim in everything. Bubbie knew better, he was no liar, he was one to always be honest at all costs; it’s not the easy way, but it’s always Bubbie’s way.

In the end Bubbie’s view was that he had learned a lesson that no matter what he had said to Possum, he would never see Bubbie’s side of the story and he didn’t need Possum’s approval to validate that he was a good man. Though he had a heavy heart, he had a clear conscience which, he said, is all any body can ask for.

It also served as a reminder to always be honest, respectful and loving, not just with others but with you. Relationships are sometimes difficult and they take two people willing to meet in the middle. Bubbie said that he wished Possum only good and would keep him in good thoughts; that is all he can do. He believes that we are meant to love and respect everyone, even the sometimes “unlovable”, yet give everyone grace and space. I think I’ll take his advice.

Free Speech

In Bubbie’s view, free speech is the right of all Americans regardless of race. It has been said recently that free speech is for everyone unless your white, then one must be guarded against being perceived as being racist. This view imposes a limit to free speech, which is not the case. One can say whatever one wants; there is just a consequence to what is said. You can offend people with words. This double edge sword strikes both ways; one person or group of people cannot say whatever they want without repercussion, even if they may be on the morally “right” side of an issue. It’s each of our individual choice to exercise our right to free speech and suffer the consequences or hold our tongue for the sake of peace.

It’s critical to keep free speech free. Please don’t ever give up your right to any of your freedoms, no matter what the cost.

Imus Expound

In speaking with my friend about the recent uproar over the comments made by shock-jock Don Imus; Uncle Bubba’s suggestion is to have the African American community hold a vote under the administration of their own objective committee. They can decide their standard of decency and equality that they can all live with and uphold within their own community. Then they can offer their proposal to the Caucasian community; maybe it can be mediated by the UN or something. A negotiated agreement can be reached on the American Standard of African American/Caucasian Racism Act and we can end all of the sickening rhetoric. Wow, not bad, a peace agreement between to warring factions. What a novel idea. Then we can move on to more important things like cleaning up this country from all of those illegal aliens; oh yeah, and don’t forget about those sneaky Asians.