The table of Christian Things.
tweet thisFiled under: Deep South, education, Everyday, faith, humor, life, theatre
On some mornings, as I’m entering the Town That Was, aka Scooba, I have a small (though at one time it was) visual delight, usually, to my right, just as I bump over the railroad tracks, situated all alone in front of what may very well be a defunct fire station. And this is what my small (though at one time it was) visual delight consists of: a faded tent, no doubt purchased “as is,” from some desperate funeral home, I imagine. Beneath the tattered green fabric sits a cheap a la Fred’s-Giving-Away-the-Store-again! plastic table precariously atop four brittle fold-out legs. Adorning this table is a...
You can’t kill a Honda, unless you’re an 18-Wheeler.
Mornings make me nervous. I wish that they didn’t. But they do. I wake up with such issue with the Day, every single day. It doesn’t matter if I’ve had three hours of sleep or a hundred. And I don’t settle down until after 2:00, usually…on bad days 4:00. I think it’s because I’ve lost my mornings. That's what it feels like. I mean, I wake up knowing I have a drive ahead of me just to get to my office, a drive I’m beginning to hate with the heated passion of a thousand burning suns, and it’s caused me to reevaluate what I do...
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