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...
If you were to ask me, and I'm pretending that you are…
Filed under: Deep South, education, faith, family, language, writing
I have a friend, back in Indiana, who once accused someone of living of life marred by a ridiculous philosophy: that of the Bumper Sticker. I'm not entirely sure, but I feel that the credit for this sentiment really belongs to Carrie Fisher. But since I don't know Carrie Fisher, not really, I'm going to give it to Christian. He's close enough to count. I'm sure there are plenty of us who actually live a similar life, myself included, even if we're not overly aware of it, along the trench lines of the Bumper Sticker philosophy. I mean, who doesn't love a well-placed pun? I...
I would have prayed, but I had to merge.
This morning, as I made my way down the Trail of Tears to the town of Scooba, I passed a man in a reddish-shall-we-say-bleeding-into-burgundy Chevy Aveo...reading a book. While he drove. We were heading into that infamously, always congested section of highway right outside a town, or village, or tribe, known simply by the wooden staked sign, signaling both the start and the end of what appears to be a mostly dirt road, bearing the mysterious name of Wahalak. For some reason, and I feel that voodoo has a large part to do with it, they simply cannot get this portion of the road...
That'd be on account of my "driver's lung."
I'm entering Week 3 at the new job, and the question I get asked most frequently isn't about the co-workers. That question ranks around #2, or #3. The one burning thing inquiring minds want to know is How Do You Manage That Long, Awful Drive? It's an hour in to work, and an hour home, though the drive home seems much quicker. I'm not sure why. Anyway, I thought about that question this morning, when I was stopped, yet again behind a truck hauling half a mobile home. We were squenched over on the right side of Highway 45 (not Highway 45 Alternate)...
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