The “I” of Life’s Storm

 

Preface: For the past twelve years, I’ve called four social network communities home… have befriended countless bloggers who’ve frequently expressed their dissatisfaction with life… two of them at the point of wanting to end their own lives. In both instances, we, their friends/followers, had hopefully, permanently, comment box counseled them into changing their minds; persuaded them to choose life. Even so, I’ve oft wondered about the (not so) strong silent types, who’ve never blogged their cries for help.

If you are someone who is suicidal, know that help is always available. Crisis Center telephone numbers, worldwide, can be accessed by CLICKING HERE.

I’m also presenting the following, hopefully helpful, “real feel” fiction. Written in the more gender neutral, first person singular, this might facilitate everyone seeing life through my protagonist’s eyes?

Of course it’d be far too easy to misconstrue the “I” word to be referring to me, so let me emphasize that it’s my main character who is suicidal. That said…

Let our (your?) story begin…

Part One

Preface: My warmest wishes and welcome to all on this brand new day. I’ve committed my story to this word document in the weeks leading up to my demise. So sorry my tripping down memory lane must start off on a rocky road but trust me, there’ll be several unexpected detours before story’s end. That said…

Throughout most of my life, I was assaulted in various ways. Childhood’s playground bullies mercilessly, verbally punched me out. Adolescent skin problems “punched” me in the face. Adulthood’s workplace time clocks punched me out, too, by enslaving me; emotionally shackling me to non-union, non-living wage, life sucking, dead end jobs; my labors being absolutely alien to my more creative talents.

Not the best way to get into a “I love life”, “let’s party hearty” mood, eh?

Indeed, each post-workday “happy hour” involved crying in my beer. Misery loves company they say? Don’t count on it! In fact, many a time I drank alone; sometimes to excess. Although I had escaped alcoholism, chronic depression did set in. Eventually, a suicidal death seemed to be the perfect gift for the person who, at first glance, seemed to have nothing.

It had been on the day just prior to what might’ve been my last day on Earth, when I got the opportunity to take a second glance. It had been my own mother, who had, unknowingly, come to my rescue.

On that pleasantly sunny, summery, late August afternoon, she had phoned me; asked me to stop by the old homestead to help my father complete some much needed, routine household maintenance. Needless to say, I’d do anything to help my folks. And I’d be totally competent, too, since my handyman dad had successfully taught me all he knew.

Fortunately, it had taken several hours to complete these mundane tasks, for it was while we chatted, at times even reminisced, where something far more meaningful had occurred; my realization that I could never abandon my aged and ailing folks. Suicide averted postponed.

However, it was many years after my folks had passed away when I began to suspect that helping them had been my only purpose in life; discovered that my having been selfless to a fault was at fault; had played a significant role in creating my self-destructive state of mind.

You see, while being their caregiver, I had neglected to take care of myself; had let life’s parade truly pass me by. Family, friends and old co-worker contacts were long gone. Worst of all, I hadn’t paid enough attention to a potential soul mate; thereby squandering my last chance for love, marriage and parenthood?

Topping my list of worsts, this time around, there could be no eleventh hour communing with my parents to snap me out of my deep blue funk. Or could there?

Part Two

On yet another pleasantly sunny, summery, late August afternoon, I found myself, once more, plotting my own death. However, it was while tying up many of life’s loose ends (in particular, loading up the recycling bin for the very last time), when I just happened to pick up a still unread, three-month-old newspaper. Despite the fine layer of dust, a front-page story headline instantly grabbed my attention.

The reportage focused on a suicidal person who had had an “exit Earth” MO eerily similar to mine; that troubled soul winding up a paraplegic who retained just enough awareness to realize the old reality had been far better than that new, bedridden alternate reality.

Stunningly, that story had not ended there. That newspaper had a very specific dateline; none other than the anniversary of my late mother’s birth! In jaw dropping disbelief I realized that, once again, my mom, even in death, had, somehow, found a way to save my life.

Knowing I always did my best thinking while traipsing through wilderness settings, in the weeks ahead, I set forth on many sunrise, Sunday nature walks. With autumn rapidly approaching, I eventually revisited my favorite park; where a recent springtime windstorm had toppled a centuries old oak tree.

While seated on a nearby bench, listening to the white noise of a babbling stream and the off in the distance church bells ringing, I marveled at the persistence of life. In barely two Earthly seasons, this once mighty, towering oak’s still viable root system had transformed that massive stump into a densely leaved shrub. If a mindless tree wanted to live why shouldn’t I?

Turned out someone else shared similar feelings.

Part Three

“That oak just won’t give up,” the approaching, cheerful sounding voice first stated and then asked, “OK if I join you?” Looking up, I replied with my smile and vertical nod. We quickly exchanged introductions and other pleasantries; eventually conversing as if we’d been lifelong friends.

Was it just my imagination or was love at first sight, maybe even love eternal, in the air? Were my feelings mutual or destined to be unrequited; nothing but wishful thinking? Well, it didn’t take long to find out. One year later, with that surviving oak’s lush foliage providing Mother Nature’s backdrop, we were exchanging our out-of-doors “I dos.”

Within that short span of time, my spouse’s circle of friends had become my own; two of them proving to be valuable literary contacts; folks who could and did transform my ages old writing career fantasy into my new reality. Indeed, this freelancer’s essays were getting published, regularly, in a slew of e-mags and in print periodicals.

Before we celebrated our third wedding anniversary we had, twice, become parents. What a joy it has been to eyewitness our own combined, microscopic DNA manifesting itself in macroscopic ways; allowing us to observe all the developmental stages of our children’s lives; their imaginative, carefree, pre-school playtime; their scholastic and extracurricular successes; their career triumphs; their seeking and finding soul mates, falling in love, marrying and starting families of their own.

On yet another pleasantly sunny, summery, late August afternoon (now decades later), I realized how the thinning calendar was analogous to autumn rapidly closing in on my own life.

Part Four

While gazing out our bedroom window, with the sun sinking beneath the horizon, I considered how we all start out restricted to the confines of the womb and our eventual cribs; how (if all is well) our first baby steps, in time, become steady enough to take us wherever we choose to go. Naturally, life’s circle inevitably winds up closing in on itself. First we’re limited to sticking around in our hometowns. Next we stop venturing past our neighborhoods and yards. Towards the end we become shut-ins rarely leaving our hospital / hospice guard railed beds; those, which so closely resemble our days of yore barred cribs. At the very end our remains/cremains wind up in our tombs. As for our souls? Well, what we believe or choose not to believe is left up to each individual.

And, indeed, with old age asserting itself, my final days were now closing in. Just as with newborns, my sleeping hours were beginning to far outnumber my wakeful moments. At that juncture I could no longer be seated at my computer keyboard. I’d have little choice but to merely envision how my final moments of life would be playing out.

I did ask my spouse to read my story after I had died; to comment on, and edit these final paragraphs wherever necessary; i.e., to tell you all how close my predictions (which now follow) were to the actual occurrences.

Spouse’s Commentary: In all honesty, I did read my beloved’s fine essay well in advance. It was my heartfelt intent to ensure my spouse’s final moments would meet (perhaps even exceed) as many expectations as possible. True it’d be impossible for any mere mortal to confirm every element but, my being a spiritual person, I harbor no doubts. That having been said, let’s continue.

Concluding Part Five

Just as my physician had surmised, with only the minimal administration of meds, my natural death’s final moments were now playing out as an eyes-wide-open, relatively pain-free, peaceable cessation of life; where my loving spouse, children, grandchildren, relatives, friends, colleagues and other well-wishers had all assembled to see me off. We fondly reminisced and even managed to crack a few jokes.

Indeed, from my having so selflessly “been there to the very end” for both of my parents, all of that good karma had now come back to me; more than a thousandfold.

As a stray tear of joy streamed down my nine decades, wrinkled cheek, I could taste its saltiness on my lips. With a sense of awe, I gazed upon the vast sea of familiar faces; both earthbound and those who now awaited to welcome me in the great beyond. As my spouse leaned in for our “till we meet again” farewell embrace and kiss; our last exchanged dialogue involved the three best words two deeply caring souls have ever expressed to each other:

“I Love You!”

While inhaling Earth’s sweet oxygen for the very last time, I could feel my facial muscles forming my wide grin. I did experience one final, unexpected sensation; my shudder of horror as exhaled my very last words:

“Oh, the truly marvelous, joyous life I had, twice, nearly thrown away!”

 

 

Crisis Center telephone numbers, worldwide, can be found by CLICKING HERE.

 

 

PO’d Right Down To My D-N-A!

 

I hear you… I hear you… I hear you…

You’re as sick and tired of reading about that un-american, so-called prez as I’m sick and tired of blogging about him. Even so, I cannot let the following, specific matter slide on by. What it involves is the insufferable speech he delivered, just last Monday, at the Glen Jean, West Virginia Boy Scout Jamboree.

It did take me awhile to even figure out why, exactly, I was so upset. And believe me… this goes way beyond my being a liberal… even exceeds the fact #45’s words (which were supposed to be apolitically themed) reeked of rambling, campaign rallying tactics, shameless self-aggrandizement / compulsive ego stroking… everything teetering on the edge of self-abuse (fulfilled?). Long blog short…

My being PO’d goes right down to my literal, infinitesimal D-N-A!

Indeed, what’s been working OT, here, is my biologically programmed-in paternal instinct / need to protect young’uns from harm. What makes this even more remarkable is that I’ve never even been a father to anyone.

And from this “dad’s” POV, last Monday, #45 was abusing children / contributing to the delinquency of minors. Of course, why should that surprise anyone? After all, he’s already notorious for abusing women, ethnic minorities, non-Christians, LGBTQs, the aged/ailing AND the hard working impoverished.

The video, below, provides ample evidence of how his words corrupted tens of thousands of way too impressionable Boy Scouts. Suggestions while watching:

  1. Note how far too many of them had been swept up into mindlessly bleating out chants of “Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil!” … uh… excuse me… “USA! USA! USA!” Did that creep you out and concern you as much as it did me?
  1. Ask yourself… is not #45 the antithesis of the Boy Scouts’ core values?

“A [Boy] Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous,

kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean and reverent.”

So… would it be possible for parental instincts to overpower #45’s pungent, political stink? Could D-N-A trump D-O-N? Well, only if the parents of these Boy Scouts are as PO’d as I am… only if they use that Jamboree speech as a teaching moment… i.e., take their sons (and daughters) aside to tell them to use #45 as the perfect example… OF WHO NOT TO BE!

 

 

 

3 Stitches and 3 Plastic Cards Fixed Tom’s Thumb

 

To be sure, there’s nothing quite like that first cup of freshly brewed, morning joe… especially right after opening the coffee can for the very first time. While there’s no better way to “wash down” one’s tasty breakfast, one must never lose sight of the hidden dangers.

Dangers? DANGERS??? Really? How so?

Well, you see, I’d been rushing through this morning’s kitchen cleanup ritual when, while disposing the coffee can’s round, metal, razor sharp “inner quality seal”, I wound up wounding my right thumb.

Immediately rushing off to the bathroom, I packed off my booboo with a “ton” of gauze. However, upon noticing how my blood was rapidly soaking through, I went racing back for the kitchen ISO a sandwich sized Ziploc™ bag to fully encase all of that “pretty” red gauze. Needless to say, my injury warranted a trip to my local Urgent Care facility.

My last visit there had been for a work related injury ten years prior… so… I could take some solace in knowing that medical attention was mere minutes away and well within walking distance from my home. Since, initially, I believed my slightly panicked frame of mind might make for unsafe driving, and calling an ambulance for such an injury was unwarranted, my opting to proceed there on foot actually seemed to make the most sense. Or, perhaps, I was not making ANY sense due to all of that blood loss?

Well, I was just about to engage my front door’s deadbolt lock when that nagging little voice inside my head yelled out, “HEY, wait a sec!” Vague recollections of a recent, Urgent Care, snail mailed item now came to mind. As it turns out, I had saved myself a useless trip.

Their new digs, indeed, were now much farther away. Noticing that postcards’ 2015 postmark, I decided to phone ahead. For all I knew they might’ve been more mobile than a warzone MASH unit.

The good news: They had not “bugged out”.

The bad news: I would now need to drive there.

The good news: My familiarity with locale and route coupled with how, for the moment, I was not bleeding to death.

It was now time to give myself that “calm down, don’t wimp out, you can do this” pep talk. In short I successfully made the transformation from walking wounded Tom to driving safely Tom.

But, even my best mind over matter tactics could not compensate for everything. I couldn’t help but instantly notice something most of us so easily take for granted… i.e., how turning the key in my garage door lock and in my car’s ignition all required the use of my opposable, wounded thumb. In such situations, one certainly does feel an even greater empathy and admiration for folks who must deal, daily, with chronic disabilities.

And so… I drove off. It being post morning rush hour, I found traffic to be light.

Upon my arrival, I checked in with the Urgent Care receptionist who was repeatedly apologetic. She was sensitive to the fact that she was asking me to fill out forms while I was barely able to hold onto the pen. But, once I committed my wound ruined, horrific penmanship to paper, the other medical professionals rapidly took over.

They checked out my vitals… temperature, pulse and blood pressure. The attending physician then visually assessed everything, injected a painkiller and sutured my lacerated thumb (3 stitches). Seeing how my last Tetanus shot was ten years ago (which by pure coincidence is the “life expectancy” of such injections), that inoculation was also part of this day’s treatment.

3 stitches, 3 plastic cards (DL, BCBS & VISA), a $30 copay and 30 minutes later… I was out the door and back on the road / on the road to recovery… but not before stopping off at a nearby drugstore to replenish my sorely lacking home stash of gauze, bandages and Neosporin™ ointment.

SIDEBAR: I now remind my readers to make damned sure your First Aid Kits are well stocked and medications are not past their expiration dates. Also ensure your inoculations (e.g. Tetanus) are up to date. Lastly, always be extra careful when handling hidden kitchen hazards, e.g., coffee cans.

Now, as much as I really do respect the medical community, this Thomas’s Doubting Thomas nature did force me to consider how some of my doctor’s medical evaluations / recommendations might’ve been under the influence of Big Pharma.

e.g. #1: Even though my injury’s pain is only minor, Doc had been way too quick to recommend Vicodin™!

e.g. #2: My doctor’s concerns over my borderline hypertensive reading are likely unfounded. Even I, as a layperson, could easily spot how far too many of the recommended procedures for accurately assessing blood pressure had not been observed! And incorrect diagnoses oft lead to needless prescriptions for BP lowering meds.

INDEED… my slightly high BP reading was very likely caused by the very caffeine found in those two cups of coffee I had enjoyed at my breakfast table!

 

 

My Once Upon A Time Storybook Life

 

An old haunt of mine still exists in the heart of my lifelong hometown… the house where I had played out the first seven years of my life.

This was “The Place” where I had “busted out” from my barred, “prison” crib… to first crawl… to next stand upright and take my hesitant, initial baby steps… to eventually venture forth from my four walled interior to explore my verdant home turf and environs beyond.

Within this magical sphere was where fun cycled with the four seasons… building wintertime’s snowmen, flying springtime’s kites, igniting summertime’s July 4th sparklers… taking the plunge into autumn’s piles of raked leaves.

My yard had been my happy hunting ground for Four Leaf Clovers… where plucked Dandelions and Queen Anne’s Lace became presentable bouquets… where healthy, natural snacks got picked right off of bountiful cherry trees and prolific wild raspberry canes. This was where Robins, Blue Jays, Lady Bugs, Dragonflies, Monarch and Yellow Swallowtail butterflies all shared the same airspace.

In the waning days of this past June, a touch of homesickness had set in… fueled, in part, by how 1961’s and 2017’s days/dates line up perfectly.

On that yesteryear’s Tuesday, June 27th, it had been my family’s Moving Day… the pivotal moment when I had waved good-bye to the epicenter of my young universe to close out a truly glorious chapter of my carefree, once upon a time, storybook life.

On this year’s Tuesday, June 27th, I certainly would’ve welcomed some Sci-Fi type time travel BUT since that’s, purportedly, an impossibility, about the best I could possibly hope for was to play out the past in the theater of my mind… while paying a visit to the present-day version of my childhood stomping grounds.

Knowing that no drive-by could ever suffice, I opted to travel the road home on foot. No sooner did my childhood hood appear in the distance than the rhythmic, muffled sounds of my athletic shoes hitting the concrete began fading out… and my distant memories came flooding in.

Suddenly, I was back in my crib… feeling an open windows’ refreshing breeze… smelling the rainwater and ozone’s fragrance… seeing the lightning flashed walls… hearing a downpour on the rooftop and the sporadic rumbles of thunder mixing in with my Dad’s steady snoring. Perhaps this is a universal experience? It’s sounds just like the celebrated in story and song nursery rhyme, “It’s raining, it’s pouring the old man is snoring.”

I next recalled the countless daybreaks where I’d gleefully scamper down the stairs to switch on our Zenith™ B&W TV (first image in link is the identical model)… to zone out on op-art-esque test patterns and high pitched tones while patiently waiting for the stations to wake up and roll out their weekday children’s programs.

Amongst the affable, laughable personalities setting up shop on these kiddie corners were Johnny Ginger (who presided over the onslaught of Three Stooges shorts) and Soupy Sales (renowned for his pie in the face slapstick, choreographed “Soupy Shuffle” and interactions with puppet pet doggies White Fang and Black Tooth). To chill out, kids could always depend on the far more cerebral, dignified Captain Kangaroo (a.k.a. Bob Keeshan). Courtesy of the Walt Disney and Hanna-Barbera animation studios, Saturday morns featured a constant stream of cartoons.

Primetime fare included Ed Sullivan, Lassie, Dennis the Menace and (mythical Mayfield’s) Leave It To Beaver.

TV Afternoons were where the “faster than a speeding bullet… more powerful than a locomotive… able to leap tall buildings in a single bound” Superman flew through the airwaves… where the wisecracking Johnny Carson presided over the quiz show, Who Do You Trust… where music maven Dick Clark emceed the rock ‘n’ roll teen dance show, American Bandstand.

Taking my cue from Mr. Clark, this is where I brought my make-believe, bedroom “radio station” to life… where courtesy of my Zenith™ record player, I began spinning vinyl to blast out an eclectic mix of orchestral waltzes, jazz, rock, pop, ballads and Christmas tunes1.

My musical selections crossfaded, effortlessly, to memories of Christmases past… how, courtesy of Santa Claus’ delivery of Golden Books™, flashcards, View Masters™, teddy bears, toy blocks and train sets, Christmas mornings had lasted all day. Further sweetening our holidays were my stay-at-home Mom’s made from scratch, still warm from the oven, mouthwatering baked goods… e.g., gingerbread men, German Spritzgebäck (spritz) cookies, Slovenian apple potica and sugar / cinnamon doughnuts.

Although childhood illnesses and my tonsillectomy’s post op recovery could hardly be called a fond memory, Mom cheering me up was. She loved to tell me her highly imaginative, original, extemporaneous bedside stories as well as read other authors’ published works aloud (e.g., Margery Williams’ The Velveteen Rabbit).

And once nursed back to good health, I was back in action. Like on the day the training wheels first came off my 20” bike. As my skill and confidence grew, I’d find myself furiously pedaling up a rather long, steeply sloped sidewalk and then, on my journey’s downward leg, I’d experienced feelings of liberation and exhilaration while coasting back home at breakneck speed… waiting for the very last possible moment before slamming on the brakes.

Here was where, one wintery dusk, in a childish huff, I had “run away” from home over some trifling matter… but never did make it past the lower driveway. And once the falling snow had cooled me off, my mom convinced me to return to her warm, welcome home embrace.

Here was where the setting summer sun cast my long shadow before me… granting me the illusion that I was as tall as a grown-up… where I first observed and grew to appreciate nighttime’s four lunar phases and timeless starlit skies.

And, on a more serious note, here is where I had first heard the figurative school bell ring… where, after Mom had first taken several snapshots of me, we took a pre noontime stroll from our home to my nearby kindergarten classroom.

But my fondest memory of all was how our home had acted as a playmate magnet. With frequent visits from Johnny, Bonnie, Jimmy, Davy, Kathy and my best friend Danny, my sister and I had plenty of company.

While our playground included swings hanging from elm tree limbs, a slide, sandbox, kiddie car, trikes and bikes… such playthings were sometimes unnecessary… e.g. the day we wound up gleefully laughing our asses off while taking turns rolling down a hillside inside an oversized cardboard box. All anyone needed to let the good times roll was allowing our sky is the limit, fertile imaginations to run wild.

But, alas, eventually, all good things did come to an end. As the days began winding down within this special locale, there was sufficient time for one last blast… I hosted a party… my invited guests helping me celebrate my seventh birthday. There had been plenty of fun, games and pigging out on our banquet of hotdogs, potato chips, Faygo™ rock and rye soda pop, birthday cake and ice cream.

No kid would ever need TV land’s idyllic “Mayfield”… not when each of us could so easily replicate transcend it.

But, alas, eventually, Tuesday afternoon’s time tripping, too, began winding down. But not before I recalled the very last time I’d ever see the inside of our old home. Dad and I had returned just to ensure the hired movers hadn’t forgotten anything. It was well past nightfall and my usual bedtime… but since school was out for the summer, it hadn’t really mattered.

Dad unlocked the back door and, for the next five minutes, we proceeded from one empty echo chambered room to another. How surreal it had felt when we switched off all the lights for the last time and stepped back out into the cool night air. With the sounds of two slamming car doors and an engine roaring back to life, Dad shifted his 1953 Ford Mainline into first gear and down the graveled driveway we rolled.

It was about this time when the rhythmic, muffled sounds of my athletic shoes hitting the concrete “returned” me to 2017… well ALMOST…

I sensed two distinct, June twenty-sevenths, separated by two score and sixteen years… my past as the passenger… my present as the pedestrian were now converging. Both my younger self and I were wending our way up the very same street and were about to leave the old neighborhood.

Mom had so matter-of-factly summed up our moving day in her 1961 journal…

“The move took from 7:15 – 10:30 p.m. 3 hrs. 15 minutes. $30.00. The kids are delighted. Everyone is relieved.”

While I’d agree that, initially, I had been delighted, this giddy state of mind had prevented me from fully appreciating the whole truth. Although there was no way to actually have seen it during Dad’s and my final inspection tour… I really had left something truly irreplaceable behind…

The very best years of my entire life.

 

1Tom’s Top Ten Hit Parade

  1. Johann Strauss ~ Blue Danube Waltz
  2. Billie Anthony ~ This Ole House
  3. Elvis Presley ~ All Shook Up
  4. Bill Haley and His Comets ~ Shake, Rattle and Roll
  5. The Platters ~ Twilight Time
  6. Jimmy Rodgers ~ Secretly
  7. Sheb Wooley ~ Purple People Eater
  8. David Seville ~ Witch Doctor
  9. The Chipmunks ~ The Chipmunk Song
  10. Jesse Crawford ~ Jingle Bells

What’s Wrong With This Picture?

 

Two days ago, I read and viewed a WordPress essay where the blogger had been unduly critical in evaluating some accompanying self-portrait photographs.

True, I could’ve used the blog comment section to express how this wonderfully talented writer’s excessively harsh critique had profoundly saddened me… BUT

  1. My reaction could’ve easily been dismissed (e.g., “Oh, he’s just being nice”).
  2. Within this massive social network, comments do tend to get buried even faster than the blogs, themselves.
  3. I felt that such commentary, in my own blog venue, might be better received.
  4. Because nearly everyone (inclusive of yours truly), at some point in our lives, has been hypercritical re our own physical appearance, I deemed this matter worthy of presentation to the entire WordPress blogging community… i.e., in hopes that we might get a long overdue discussion going?

Working towards that goal…

While there’s nothing inherently wrong with us trying to look our best, we must never succumb to embracing the entertainment industry’s narrow parameters of beauty. We must never accept how their odious, meat market mindset negatively impacts humankind… targets and objectifies females far more frequently than males.

Merriam-Webster defines “meat market” thusly…

A depersonalizing environment in which people are treated as sexual or economic resources.

Oh, btw, the first known use of this expression dates back to 1896, which just goes to show us how warped and deeply entrenched this devaluation of human beings is. And to be sure, here, this dates back to the dawn of humankind!

I’d love to believe that we could blame this sorry state of affairs on our genes… i.e., the forces of nature have programmed us into being beauty biased just to ensure that only “attractive”, “desirable” traits will breed true… BUT

How could such mindlessness ever take into account how pretty faces do not automatically ensure pretty minds lurk directly behind them? To be sure, here, possessing / being possessed by “Hollywood good looks” is rarely, if ever, a prerequisite for thinking attractive, desirable thoughts.

Furthermore, do not ugly thoughts also breed true?

Hell… for that answer, we need look no further than the entertainment industry’s corporate big shots who’ve been needlessly instilling inferiority complexes amongst the masses.

AND THAT’S NOT ENTERTAINMENT!!!

I welcome your comments.

My Sanctuary City’s 5-Star Bistro / Birthing Centre

 

For the past several weeks, quite by surprise, I’ve found myself wearing a diverse array of occupational hats… e.g., proprietor/head chef of a five star bistro (which I hadn’t even known I owned)… silent partner of a suddenly “christened”, necessity is the mother of invention, birthing center… and mayor of a sanctuary city, as it were.

Now, lest I needlessly raise the hackles of overly zealous U.S. federal ICE agents and my own home state’s inspectors of eateries and medical facilities … it is with both sudden alarm and alacrity that I must point out that the hungry patrons (inclusive of a new mom) are none other than a family of rabbits. 1

Undoubtedly, these refugees had been displaced by urban sprawl… the dirty deeds of avarice driven, excessively capitalistic fools… i.e., those who have yet to “meet” a natural, pristine parcel of land that they would not hesitate to violate.

Yes, I do get it… with the level of our global human population on the rise, there is a real need to construct new housing. Even so, would not renovating rather than razing existing homes and apartments slow that sprawl and, in the same breath, be far friendlier to the environment? Would that not show proper consideration for the rabbits and other creatures, which humans are supposed to live in harmony with?

After all, every living organism has a purpose… provides a natural balance within our Creator’s (or if you’d prefer, Ma Nature’s) grand scheme. One would think that in the interest of interspecies amity, humans, allegedly the smartest creatures of all, could find it within their heads and hearts to favor the carrot over the stick?

One wonders if humankind will realize this stark reality soon enough to avert an environmental cataclysm? Time will tell… but… alas… time is also running out… rapidly.

Well, this kindly “mayor” has opted for the carrot… as it were… to welcome my newfound rabbit pals and what a pleasant experience co-existence has been for all. Each new day we’ve been sharing our sit down breakfasts and suppers together… I at my dining room table, indoors, while they’re nibbling away at whatever they choose, al fresco.

As for their specific dietary requirements, most of the lush, verdant, naturally, abundantly growing vegetation within my backyard provides them an “all you can eat” vast smorgasbord of culinary delights.

As for their delivery room / maternity ward needs, mother, instinctively, knows best.

So you can clearly see, my new furry friends are no trouble… not in the least.

Of course, I don’t take my newfound “mayoral” duties lightly. I have felt one overriding concern… namely, unless it’s found within the vegetation, itself, what and where is their water source? Albeit briefly, just as many a restaurateur would do, I did think about setting their “table” with a few shallow containers of water but… factoring in my legitimate worries about standing, summertime H2O being a breeding ground for disease carrying mosquitos (perhaps even inclusive of the Zika virus), “quick as a bunny”, I wisely nixed that notion.

Of course I had actually had nothing to worry about. If needed, located less than a kilometer down the road, there is a creek, which could amply quench their thirsts. For them, the travel time would be no prob, either. On the rare occasions where I’ve unintentionally spooked them, watching them race away in a blur, indeed, establishes how well deserved their “quick as a bunny” reputation truly is.

But even so, that short distance does seem a long way to go. Why would they prefer moving into my yard rather than dwelling closer to that stream? And why my yard vs. the yards of my next-door neighbors?

I think it’s fair to conclude that rabbits find better tasting vegetation growing within my “sanctuary city”. How could they not? Unlike far too many urbanites ISO the picture perfect lawn, I believe stinky lawn chemicals are a bane… not a boon… are likely carcinogens, too.

The perceptive nature of rabbits amply proves they are not dumb bunnies.

NOPE, such nomenclature would be far more appropriate in describing the money-grubbing, land grabbing developers, who so thoughtlessly (oft needlessly) invade and pave over natural habitats. And the same goes for the lawn chemical industry, which (soon afterwards) steps in to con ill-informed new (and current) homeowners into poisoning our entire planet.

 

1 Please keep in mind that my intent is not to trivialize the suffering of human war refugees and émigrés. Indeed, I believe this blog will demonstrate how man’s inhumanity to man knows no bounds.