“Top Speed Fun”

I think over again my small adventures,
My fears,
Those small ones that seemed so big,
For all the vital things
I had to get and to reach;
And yet there is only one great thing,
The only thing,
To live to see the great day that dawns
And the light that fills the world.

Anonymous (Inuit, 19th century)

It was cold last night, but I woke up warm under a wool camp blanket except for Georgia’s cold nose which nudged me to let her out to pee.  So I stumbled to the back door which faces eastward and was greeted by a stunning red, yellow, orange sunrise, as if the sky was on fire.  

In Oklahoma there are no spectacular snow-capped mountain vistas or deep desert canyons or beautiful oceans.  But even though I’m sure people say this everywhere, I believe Oklahoma has the best sunrises.    

As I have done many times, I pulled on my boots (no socks), grabbed a camera doing a double check that I had on pants and a coat this time (I’ve written about the time when I forgot everything but my camera, boxers and boots to my geezer neighbor’s amusement).  There is something golden about walking with a dog up a steep, rocky shoreline as the sun rises beautifully across the water over the distant bluff.  A flock of geese flew by so close I could hear not only their honks and “chatter” but the sensual sound of the air flowing through perhaps a million feathers similar to the soft whistling sound of wind through mountain pines boughs. 

I just made potato pancakes from a box, which don't come close to real pancakes.  But I was feeling adventurous not to mention suffering the effects of a bare cupboard at the lake cabin.  Although I’m complaining a little about the potato pancakes, Georgia devoured hers but then again she’s exuberant over just about anything.  So this morning her dry potato pancake seemed to be the best thing in her doggie teenage world thus far (she’s 2 human years which equates to 14 doggie years I think).  I realize I should break my sentences up with periods or at least a comma here and there but this morning my mind seems to be in “run on” mode.     

I had a relaxing day and night at my lake cabin sanctuary although I tweaked my shoulder removing a disintegrating boat cover from the pontoon boat.  And then when I climbed behind the boat to check the engine oil level I nearly fell in the water, which reminds me that cowboy boots aren’t proper footwear for boating.  In times like these the full effects of my “forty’s” are felt more than I’d like to admit.  I don’t use that old boat much but this year I think I will . . . just Georgia and me out there drinking cold cans of Coors while fishing for bass and crappie.  When I said “drinking Coors” I meant me not her although she probably would partake with exuberance.              

Yesterday I read through the poems in a well-regarded Poetry journal, twenty seven in all.  There wasn’t one that I liked, that imparted some kernel of wisdom or nugget of humor or even elevated my spirit just a little.  So I took a walk up the gravel road with my dog in the chilled air although sunny without any wind.  It was nearly silent except for the faint sound of raking leaves.  The dry air smelled pleasantly of smoke from burning leaves because that’s what people do at the lake in winter in their boredom . . . burn leaves while daydreaming of summer and boating and grilling on the patio. 

For some reason I thought about the slight irony of something I’d seen last week in OKC . . .  a hobo sitting on a park bench drinking a bottle of San Pellegrino.  It was obvious he was a hobo, or as many around here say derogatorily “a bum”, because he was wearing at least three layers of clothing, the inside layers peaking up through various grimy holes in his pants and jacket.  I prefer the word hobo as opposed to bum because it reminds me of that great Jimmie Rodgers’ song “Hobo Bill's Last Ride” and it also reminds me of Jack Kerouac’s early mad days of “hobo-ing” around the country with a rucksack full of canned beans, in search of a poem or a sad vision and always the next high.    

The one and only Jack Kerouac

"Hobo Bill's Last Ride" by Jimmie Rodgers: 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s_oWyC3JARo     

Through the leafless trees lining the roadside I saw a game warden pull over and scale down steep rip rap to the bottom where a dear lay lifeless, the obvious result of another tiny tragedy of evolution that the crows but not deer figured out very quickly after the advent of the automobile.

Georgia and I came back to the garage where I tried to start the Polaris Ranger to no avail . . . dead battery.  Not understanding such things she wanted to take a ride so she jumped into the back seat.  When I told her to get down she did and then landed awkwardly on her front paw, crying out mightily so much so that I thought it was broken.  I let her in the house limping along using three legs not four.  Then I heard someone from up the hill bellow “IS THE DOG OK?” to which I replied “I’m not sure”.  Well, it was the leaf raking lady.  As I turned to go inside I heard her say to her husband “I’LL BET HE BEAT THAT DAMNED DOG!” which made me feel very guilty even though I didn’t do anything.             

After that drama (Georgia was OK . . . nothing broken), I came back inside hoping to find something to read that would provide the inspiration I was looking for but didn't find in that crappy Poetry journal.  So I opened up a new book from the library.  Choosing a random page, I licked the tip of my finger and placed it down on the paper . . .      

“When you’ve spent your lifetime teaching and farming . . . [in a] high-end summer . . . resort area, it can wear you out watching people have fun at top speed.  Hardly anyone rows a boat anymore.” 
                             -from The English Major, by Jim Harrison

Which reminded me that all the “top speed” fun on this lake ended four months ago, replaced by the infrequent growl of a bass boat and then silence except for the wind whistling through brittle branches and of course the full spectrum of migrating water birds. 

It was good luck thus far so I shuffled the pages once again and select another random page and paragraph . . .

“Dad said I would always be ‘high minded and low waged’ from reading too much Ralph Waldo Emerson.”
                           -from The English Major, by Jim Harrison

This made me chuckle because I imagined my father saying this to me although he isn’t a reader and wouldn’t know Emerson from Tom Clancy.  

Hours have passed, and my dog hasn’t peed since dawn, so it’s time for another walk along the shoreline where we'll weave our way around large sandstone boulders as big as F-150s.  I’m pretty sure that upon our return I’ll not be able to resist another random turn of the page . . . a small price to pay for a little wisdom and laughter courtesy of Mr. Harrison.