Once again, posts may be undependable through the first of next week. Figure if FedEx takes pains to keep you aware, it’s the least I can do. Nobody gonna miss anything much, but it makes me feel better thinking someone could, and I got them covered.
Something less than a standing ovation
Ben Awhile popped-in yesterday morning while I was trying to wrap-up my morning email. Ben’s not quite what my eldest son calls a “rainy-day bud.” That title suggests when a rainy-day bud shows-up, either it’s raining hard enough to make fishing or working uncomfortable or he’s thinking through some personal issues and needs support. I have a couple buds left me to modify that some. If neither of those first two reasons, it’s because they need a favor or my posthole diggers. Not always. Just mostly.
Ben shows up out of the blue for no real good reason. Mostly he manages that when it’s inconvenient for me but convenient for him. Well, how else could it work? In Ben’s favor is that those times, he shows up with a cold six pack and some good conversation. Makes no difference Ben knows I don’t care much for beer anymore, prefer something a little stiffer but that usually means a lot later than mid-afternoon Saturdays. It’s the thought that counts. Ben is good at handling any excess.
I’d been out investigating a barking fit by Clutch just before sunup. It’s not like Clutch to bark for no reason. He considers no-reason barking pedestrian, best left to frou-frou dogs. There was a racoon high-tailing it into the woods deciding he wanted no part of Clutch. Wise move, Mr. Bandito.
Ben showed-up sans six-pack. Like I mentioned, it was morning. Even Ben has standards. I knew it wasn’t raining, and half my portable tools are already over in Ben’s garage, so I expected something of a “session.” It was. Kinda. Didn’t look like he’d been crying, so that put me somewhat at ease as Ben started.
“Was talking with some of the boys over at the Lodge.”
“How are the boys?”
“All good. Elton goes in for second cataract surgery Monday. Elsewise all hale and hearty.”
“We was swapping jokes.”
“I was trying to recall that fairy tale poetry thing of yours. From last summer.”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Old Lady Hubbard. I’ve lost the www-thingy so I couldn’t get to it.”
“Don’t do that site anymore and pulled most of my work. Probably not there now.”
“Why’d I leave the site? Doesn’t matter much except to me, so it’s not important.”
“Can you remember it, or recite it or something?”
“Not the kind of stuff one remembers.”
“Gee, too bad. Guys might get a chuckle.”
“Things must be kinda dull around the lodge. I have it on the computer. Hang on.”
I found the old post and read him the verse…
Ol Momma Hubbard sped to her cupboard
To get a joint from her stash.
But once’t she was there, she commenced to stare,
She’d forgot what had caused her to dash.1
“Yeah, Espie. That’s the one!”
“Want me to print you a copy Ben?”
“That’d be swell. I can share’m all with the guys.”
“Watch the auxiliary isn’t hanging around.”
“Some of the women don’t cotton to racy stuff.”
“Oh yeah. Except maybe Wanda.”
“Might not share it with Ronnie Threadwhistle either. His shorts get twisted sometimes.”
I sent a copy of “Mother Goose on Drugs” to the printer. Ben and I chatted about not much of anything important until he’d had enough coffee, which was just enough out of the pot I justified making another as he headed-off to who knows where.
From the archives
Still cleaning up, and consolidating, “Easy” is an odd tiny weepy piece recently stuck out in “Poetry and Lyrics.” Might interest you. Which also says, it might not. Rocket science. Poets are “different” people. People who prefer poetry are “different” too in a similar way. Some poetry you either get or you don’t. Some is so obscure it makes my head hurt. Takes a real skill to do poetry. That, I ain’t got.
You’ll excuse me. Clutch is at it again.
1 “Mother Goose On Drugs” © SP Wilcenski 2020 (Prose 7/16/2020, redacted)