Sweet bird of …

Sweet bird of  youth, you assured me I’d have plenty of time to accomplish all my worth goals, thank those who helped me along the way and make amenes for the unkind words and deeds I had done. But now, it appears you have flown away, leaving me with nothing but sad memories and a spotted hat.

Sitt’ Nd Thinkin’

 

 

A lot can be said for sitting. It’s the position that best allows a man to rest his body other than sleeping, and from which  he does the least harm to all, man or woman.  While sitting, he’s more likely listening to the sounds of God’s world around him, which is good.  It can  turn his thinking to the more serious concerns of life. It prompts his memory bank to spring open and turn his mind to happenings of the past,  some serious, some frivolous. It’s the kind of deep thinking a man can’t do when he’s making love or riding a bicycle.

          A man didn’t have time to daydream or ponder what might have been   when he was on the job, where he hds to push such indulgences to the side  in the face of more pressing matters, like mortgages, food and car payments.  But just because he’s older and retired doesn’t mean his thoughts are always on the straight and narrow. No, sir. When he’s alone  in a quiet place  his mind sometimes goes back to the risky, dumb things he did during his early years. He might think of  the girlfriends of his  youth that he knew before meeting his good wife, back when testosterone rushes kept getting in the way of good judgment. Maybe he thinks of  the one who got away, or the one he almost threw his loop around which would have been the biggest mistake of his life. . Maybe  he  thinks about what his narrow escapes from dangerous situations   which he brought upon himself  by poor judgement. The bad jobs he had might come to mind, or the hurtful words he said and the kind ones he did not say.  

 

Such indulgences of the mind while sitting in a quiet place can be  broken up like a window struck by a brick when  he hears approaching footsteps. He sighs with relief, happy to have blundered safely through the land minefields of his early years. He hears birds signing again and smells the fragrance of the flowers around him.

A Weed in the Field

 

 

A Weed From the Field

 

Women are the flowers in the field. Men are the weeds in it, some strong, some weak. 

Even the best men get blamed for lots of things they don’t do unless provoked. But they are what they are, which means they do fall short of the expectations of those who see life through rose colored glasses. Like weeds in the field, there are many kinds of men, too many to come up with a description that fits all

Even at his best, however, a man is a mess. He’s strong-willed and impatient. He gets dirty at work and play, and often doesn’t smell good. However, if you’re one of those confirmed optimists who still believe life was meant to fulfill some purpose other than fighting, filling one’s belly and stirring up the bed lint, you might have noticed something else under all that male bluff and bluster of some men. You might have discovered a warm, humane creature that has, at times, given serious thought to the more meaningful things of life. You might have even known one who loved the girl friend of his youth for the rest of his long life, in spite of the distractions of the natural urges instilled in him by his Maker. When I mention love, I hope you don’t think I’m talking about the physical act it that men are often accused of thinking about too much. That part can happen with any woman, is over in minutes, and often forgotten. The other part, the part that puzzles us the most, won’t let a man forget, not even after he’s old enough to know better.

Such a man is the one I’ve written about in my novel entitled Voices From a Far Field, in which many of the characters and events in it are based on my own experiences and the events occurring in rural Texas during May, 1932, in the heart of thee Great Depression.

Some of the more sophisticated town residents might have thought Heck to be as dumb as mud about some things, and would never amount to a hill of beans, but that didn’t stop him from fighting to improve his life. What is the meaning of life anyway? Does it have a purpose? Perhaps not, but if it doesn’t, why do so many folks keep asking that question?

Heck’s main purpose back then was taking care of his sick little brother, three sisters and a crippled dad by passing the hat at his Saturday night musicals. Then he would become a country singing star like Jimmy Rogers, which would earn him enough money to buy a bottom land farm and become wealthy enough to attract a proper girl to marry. Fate and a cruel rich woman didn’t give him enough time to do all of that, but e came very close to marrying a proper girl he met. It was his love for that pretty girl that almost got him killed. Gloria DeHavilland would always be special to him because she fulfilled his yearnings for beauty, tenderness and grace, and all those other things that make life better than it has to be. She also gave him his first real chance to overcome the negative aspects of his upbringing.

Some say it’s foolish to dwell on things that appear to have slipped away forever. What do you think about a man who kept on hanging on?

 

 

 

 

 

　

　

 

 

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

 

 

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

　

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