I have it on good authority that the dogs were somewhat upset about the earthquake, but I haven’t spoken to them about the wind, so I don’t know what they thought about that.
I haven’t talked to Calvin the Cat yet, either, but I doubt if he …
This item is available in full to subscribers.
The Powell Tribune has expanded its online content. To continue reading, you will need to either log in to your subscriber account, or purchase a subscription.
If you are a current print subscriber, you can set up a free web account by clicking here.
If you already have a web account, but need to reset it, you can do so by clicking here.
If you would like to purchase a subscription click here.
Please log in to continue |
|
Today, I must depend completely on whimsy to write this column.
It’s Sunday night as I write this, and I am without my usual writing prompts, having been almost entirely out of touch with current events since last Wednesday, and having neglected my personal reading over the same period as well.
I have it on good authority that the dogs were somewhat upset about the earthquake, but I haven’t spoken to them about the wind, so I don’t know what they thought about that.
I haven’t talked to Calvin the Cat yet, either, but I doubt if he was much upset by either catastrophe. Sharing living quarters with three large dogs and two rather active children, he has learned to take calamities pretty much in stride — that is, by sleeping through them, preferably in an elevated spot or an out-of-the-way nook inaccessible to canines and toddlers.
Aside from those family concerns, I have paid little attention to what we in the media business call “the news.” As I write this on Sunday evening, I have no idea what went on with the Republican primary circus since last Wednesday, nor am I up on the latest economic news. I don’t even know how the Panthers’ first home football game went, although I did check out the volleyball and swimming results this evening because I have to write about them tomorrow morning. I don’t even know who sang or preached at the community worship service in the park this morning, since I was on my way to Billings about that time.
And that’s why I’m writing this piece of dubious literature on Sunday evening after seeing them off to their Minnesota home, and why I have to depend on whimsy to write it.
The kids did not inherit this dancing thing from me. I’m not much for dancing to anything, let along hymns, nor is their grandmother. We didn’t even dance at our own wedding, which was probably fortunate, since it spared my wife from beginning married life with bruised feet or a possible broken toe inflicted by my uncoordinated feet.
So, with that in mind, and because by this time all of you readers are probably convinced that I’ve lost my noodles, I think I’d better conclude this essay and give my full attention to tapping instead of typing.
Better yet, I might just quit both and go to bed. Last week was a long one, and I don’t know if I’ve actually achieved a full night’s sleep since the middle of August, so going to bed early might be a good idea.
Next time I’ll try to write a column that makes sense, maybe even a political one that will raise hackles among the conservative majority, but I’m not promising.
Whimsy is a lot more fun, especially when there are little kids involved.