LIFE ON THE EDGE, or, Where the Hell is My Bottle?

"Some think this world is made for fun and frolic, and so do I, and so do I.
Some think its' made to be all melancholic, to pine and sigh, to pine and sigh..."

So where do I fit in to that song, I wonder? I guess, like most people, I am somewhere in the middle. I have to much to do to be in favor of forever games, but I certainly am not one who embraces melancholia either. But, at times, they both do fit. And I can fit comfortably into either whenever I so desire.

I, at times, become despondent over the condition of the city that is so near and dear to me. Nothing, it seems, they do ever turns out right. They say they have no money. We know they have not nearly enough police, their fire department is getting ragged, their streets are dirty and in need of repairs, the sewer system is abominable, half the people are right and half are wrong and neither side stays the same but shuttles between one position or the other daily.
If they were accomplished politicians that would be one thing, but they are not. I have offered the saddle I bought for Lyndon Johnson, but no one will sit still long enough in it to use it effectively. What saddle, you ask? The one that you can set on the top of the fence. And when the wind blows one way, the saddle turns that way, until the wind blows the other way and then it goes that direction. See, you shouldn't have asked.


At other times, the city's situation is so damned tragic, that I just have to laugh at it. Back in April and May, the mayor, a two-term incumbent said he was forming a group to study his possibly seeking a third term. That is not funny. He, at the same time, indicated that he felt he would run again. In late September, he announces that he has not made up his mind yet whether he will seek a third term. Then in November he says he will. The sob knew in April that he was going to run and didn't have guts enough to stand by his own pronouncement in September when the heat was being applied to him for some of his actions and inactions. But when it blew over, yeah, man, he's off and running again. You have to laugh to keep from crying.

And I've been a little down in the mouth lately because Hootie has been on an extended trip down south. He picked up this other bird named Lorena and took off for Nashville, Knoxville and the Great Smokies. But you know Hootie, he's so damned lazy that he won't even fly around the house to catch his supper and this Lorena bird seems about the same. So they had me take them down to the interstate, and wanted me to wait until they caught the kind of ride they wanted. So I sat in the truck and watched them for a while. Hootie refused to stick up a wing and so did she. Well, hell, I guess I can understand that. I couldn't even see them most of the time myself, so how could another driver do so? And their sign was way too small, with way too much writing on it. "Non-migratory birds wish to migrate down south where the orange blossoms smell sweet." Now, how in God's name do you get all that on a 3 x 5 card and expect anyone to be able to read it? Anyway, it was in his writing which is not even good hen scratching to begin with. It looked more like a map of downtown Ripley, without Highway 21 or the interstate, maybe even like the back end of West Hamlin.

Just about the time I got to sleep, here comes this old wheezer of a pickup, must have been sixty or seventy years old. Wire wheels, narrow tires, 2 x 2 stake bed, a couple of bales of hay under a tarp, held down with three spare tires and wheels, making the godawfullest racket you ever heard. And it wasn't on the interstate, neither. Hell, it would have been blown away by the first Chevette or Pinto that came along. Not waving goodbye or even saying dog, Hootie and Lorena jumped that sucker and burrowed down under that hay and I haven't seen them since.

That was about a month to five weeks ago, back when it was hot.


Day before yesterday, I was putting some wood into the house for the fireplace and saw something out of the corner of my eye. I looked around and it was gone. You know how that is? Happens every now and then to you, too? Well, I wasn't going to let it bother me, but after I got the fireplace loaded up and the hole in the bricks where we store extra firewood loaded too, I thought I'd go out and start up both the trucks, since they hadn't been started in a while. I sat down in the new one and fired it up. As I was getting out to go back to Leapin' Lena to start her, I saw an owlet fly overhead. And then another one. And then another one.

Now these were not babies. They were owlets that were fully fledged, probably seven or eight weeks old, give or take a week or so. They were flying in a squared circle around my house, acting like they were looking for something or waiting for something, or someone. And, I just wonder, is Hootie back? Is Lorena with him? Are these her fledglings that she had out of wedlock and has tricked Hootie into becoming their Dad? Am I going to have the whole damned troop to bother with? Am I going insane? Or just insane with worry?

This is not something I can just laugh off (see, by God, I did get back to it, didn't I?) I think I'll go drop off into some really deep melancholia, about three fingers worth, neat, and straight out of the bottle. My friends never let me down, you know, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels, Sweet Gypsy Rose...and they all have such lovely bottles...

Five of 'em. Oh, God. Five of 'em. It'll be all over the walls the chairs the rugs. My wife will kill me for sure. Maybe just three more fingers...

Maybe if I work it right, we can have owl for Christmas dinner instead of turkey, this year? Hmmmm.....