“It’s Good Enough for ME!”

I take stoplights personally.

Not so much signs for stopping, that seems more like taking turns.

And I’m all for that.

Stoplights, however, are a different matter.  They see me from afar, patently determined to get from point A to point B or C or even D, and they patently time their colorful little selves to flip to red just as I approach.

A cautious driver, and nearly always lawful….nearly….I’ll admit I’m not above splashing through a yellow, just to make a point.

I know that’s wrong, and I vow to explain it to the officer who questions my motives.  But truly, that outsized giant red eye atop the triad of color searches the horizon for me, heckbent on causing me to pause in my quest for destination.

Is it a technology issue?  Is it programmed to do a personal retinal scan on upcoming drivers until it sees the one, the ME approaching?

It happens far too regularly to be happenstance….stop and wait.  Stop and wait.  No one coming in any direction left, right, up or down.  And so I sit.  And I fume.  And I glare at that scarlet orb.  But I sit.

I’ve come to a conclusion, using all that time I’ve been given.  

That programmer?  That all-seeing, all-powerful perceptor, lying in wait for me at near every four-way or five-way intersection including those with left turn lane signals, merge lanes and entitled bikers in bike lanes?

Oh yeah….that would be my mother-in-law….or my second-grade teacher.

And I know I’ve been beaten.

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“It’s Good Enough for ME!”

Ponder this.

I ask you, ponder this and offer help, if you see your way.

 

Consider the fence.  

Made of pickets or slats or concrete or foam rubber or “barbed waar.”

Is it erected to keep something in?  Or perhaps to keep those on the outside….out?

Does it serve to mark boundaries or beginnings?

Is it meant to stop progress or mark progress?

And let’s not even CONSIDER the “sitters on fences” or the “straddlers of fences….” for that conundrum is beyond my capacity.

I say , myself, the fence?  It is meant for one thing….to be overcome. Climbed slowly and with care, or via a catapult or trampoline or with a running leap and outstretched limbs, hurdled and conquered and made a part of history.

Fences to you, pray tell, what are they?  Do you build them?  Do you ignore them?  Do you admire them up close or from afar?  For truly, your answer is as valid as mine!

One thing I do know, I do like seeing fences in my rear view mirror….!

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“It’s Good Enough for ME!”

Now, this muddle of quizzing and questioning and wondering has long been the centerpiece of my table.

My poor Mama.

“What ‘too big for my britches’ mean, Mama?” I’d asked after my big brother took off to school.  I’d go next year.

“Why, actin’ proud and better’n your neighbor,” she’d answered.

“Well then,” I’d asked after a bit, “what’s ‘proud as punch?’  Grandma Boyd says that all the time an’ she smiles and gives me a squeeze when she does.”

“Honey baby, Grandma Boyd means she’s plumb joyful when she sees your face!  You know how she loves you, hon!”

“But Mama!” I recall shouting, then cloudin’ over with tears, “But Mama, Brother Baldwin down to the church, he says ‘pride goeth before a fall!’ I heard him! Mama!  Mama!  Is Grandma Boyd going to fall down a deep dark hole, break both her legs, for all the pride I put in her heart?”

The clouds burst and I fairly wailed.

Mama bundled me right quick into her soft squishy lap, wiped my tears with little staccatto dots of her fingers then rocked me like a big ol’ baby.

“Oh, hon, no. No.  Bless your heart, no.  Grandma Boyd’s real careful her pride don’t spill out and hurt nobody else.  She keeps it in real tight and prays to Jesus ever’ night for forgiveness, and dogged if he don’t take it all away.”

I remember lookin’ her straight in the eye.  Sounded a little suspicious to me.

Then she said, “See, that a’way, her bucket o’ pride never washes over the brim an’ if she’s real careful, she can make it ’til her nightly prayers to dump it out and start over the next day.”

Well now, that there, that made sense.  If her bucket don’t spill, she can keep on bein’ proud of me ever single day, then dump her bucket an’ do it all over the next.

‘Cause she’s old, you know.  I like makin’ her happy.  An’ eatin’ her chocolate chip cookies.  She makes giant ones!

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“It’s Good Enough for ME!”

Pondering yet again today.

Like all my days, actually.

I read a quotation this morning from the learned and wise Albert Einstein.  Whom, I’ve since learned, could cut quite the rug at Princeton faculty soirees.

Said he, ” It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.”

Ever so humble.  I even felt a bit of flush of self-congratulations, for yes, I do indeed run near every fox to ground.  Much to the consternation of those in nearest proximity.

I digress, for in humility lies the problem.  If Einstein’s humility breeds pride in me, was the genesis of the process truly humility?  Or generosity?  Or subtly just the opposite?

And if one advertises ones humility, can it be truly defined as such?

And truly, just what is “humble pie,” anyway?

The mind reels.

The mind reels.

You Humble Servant,

Belles and Whistles

 

“It’s Good Enough for ME!”

Ponderables.

Ponderables.

Consider this.

The Marshmallow.

Quite, I say sincerely and with only the slightest bit of jest,  a mouthful…Say it once out loud for the whole world to hear….feel how it moves around your mouth and how your jaw and tongue contort to get it said?  There is simply no way to slide that word surreptitiously into conversation.  It must be done with purpose and forethought, lest one stumble.

Then further, there’s the eating.  A gelatinous blob of white hardened foam rubber floating atop my glorious hot choco, or melted into a waxy white amoeba spread over my fine fettled sweet potatoes sends me into waves of near imbecility.

For it is this, simply this. One simple question.

The Marshmallow.

Why?

“It’s Good Enough for Me!”

Hey, Ho!

Fixin’ to get ready, and for me, that’s a durned big deal!  

Got but one thought for today…

Looked in my kitty cat’s eyes this day and there lay an evil so dense and fogged and hateful I had no choice but to look away.

So I looked away. Then back over my shoulder.

So I ask you this, I do.

What wrath has the long line of feline creatures stored up over the story of time and space to spit such vitriol our di-rection, and why do we turn right around and snuggle and kiss their little noses just to get a gutteral warning from the depths of their being?

We should be living in fear, I tell you what!  Live in fear!