Books for Everyone!

Father’s Day & Summer Solstice 2021

Don’t Re-do: DO

This year, Father’s Day and the Summer Solstice arrive on the same day. Rise and shine!

Yesterday morning, I looked over 268 pix online of an estate sale in Grass Valley, CA. The time capsules and time trips — to those benevolent 1970s — were not the most uplifting start of my day. But I reviewed them anyway.

Dear Husband later went to the dust-mite cosmos and bought a few very vintage, Made-in-the-USA tools and implements, including a Boot Jack — which is not to be confused with the jackboot.

The act of removing a boot from the foot used to be a fine art, back in the day when a pair of boots was made of American cow leather by cordwainers, or bootmakers, in America. Bootmaking was, in itself, a fine art in this country. That craft is returning to the hills and valleys of the fruited plain, bit by bit. I’d have to say that even the trade of fashioning bits for the horse is starting to surge out West, maybe even in the horsey hills of the East and the South.

It’s hard to say what all is making a come-back, a huge return to this nation. The list is endless.

Dear Hubby and me, we saddled up in the afternoon, to go to our occasional meal-splurge, IN-N-OUT Burger. As a matter of habit, I now do not even contemplate actually going INTO the eatery. This burger joint no longer expects me, or anyone, to dine-in. The cheerful, polite and friendly cashier. at the Drive-Through Window, handed us two Lap Mats, which we accepted in a cheerful, polite and friendly manner.

The Lap Mat, pictured here, is where vintage meets historic! It hails from those halcyon days of the Bicentennial Year in The USA: 1976. The map, in California, indicates unrestricted travel on something once known as “The Freeway”. After I’d moved to California in 1979, that concept — of The Freeway — was nearly unteachable to my relatives in the Northeast who had experienced only toll roads and the highway that costs more every year.

For me, 1976 included the summer of 1976, which was the Bicentennial Summer in D.C. That time period was replete with news and theories about the Legionnaires Disease in Philadelphia, PA. The greatest epidemiological puzzle of the century prompted my tightwad boss in Quigley’s to turn off the antiquated air-conditioning unit amidst the jungle heat. Sweating bullets while cashiering was preferable to being cashiered out by deadly microbes and the unsolved mystery of the killer fever.

Leaving the Swamp Killer Fever and data gone berserk behind me, far far behind me, I’ve moseyed on aways to encounter, yesterday, the IN-N-OUT, or OUT-N-OUT, Burger Lap Mat. I found the existence of a Lap Mat interesting. It was something I’d never heard of, although I am aware that the Lap Dog, especially of the media species, has been around for centuries.

It’s my opinion that We, the Royal We, in California, have not ever been supplied with Lap Mats in the Drive-Thru. It is, however, nearly mid-June 2021, and the good-natured employees of this wildly popular restaurant have stoically, even blithely, accepted their summer fate:

Slapping on the stifling fabric face mask that inhibits air flow, traps CO2, and is completely worthless against the spread of any Chinese virus.

I wonder if even tuberculosis could stay trapped outside of that mind-control device. Inside, yes; but in the air out there, the unknown will continue to scare the wimps forever.

The patients of Doc Holliday reputedly did not like his coughing on them while he pulled a tooth or two, and so he took up his other stock-in-trade, playing cards. (He did quite well at gambling.) Can you imagine a lunger even gaining entrance to any enclosed place today?! Brunhilda Karen awaits him with tonged-mask and forked-tongue.

My mask-boycott started in March 2020 and it continues to this day. That stance is now a fixed part of me!  So is not eating out in a diner, watering hole, or fancy-dan ristorante.

The last time I entered an eatery for indoor and unmasked dining was in early December 2019.  The food was excellent at my favorite Il Fornaio.  Little did I know during those culinary moments that I was doing my part to reach herd immunity in Placer County.  I presently do Il Fornaio at home.  The meals are much less expensive that way.  As an added bonus, I need not pay any attention at all to the vindictive philippic by the wuss attention whore, Tinpot Gavin, clucking out his mask-bearing serving suggestions to the Broken-State Citizens:

“You must wear the mask at table between bites — to chew.”

Gavin is on the upchuck-menu now, even though he persists in cackling about a vast right-wing conspiracy against him.  Once a victim, always a victim, of his own overblown hair and ego!

Flu season used to be no big deal every year in this country.  Of course, every autumn brought a new bumper crop of conspiracy theories about the Feds trying to get rid of the geezers through a systematically contrived antidote for the exotic viral killer.

Who knows if the 2021/2022/2023/2024 flu seasons will warrant even more capitalist cronyism, unconstitutionality and lies in America from the elected frauds and fabricators, especially where wearing fabric over your face is concerned?

I’d prefer the government skunks to wear FULL-face masks, in keeping with the spirit of banditry; but their rampant narcissism prevents such gracious behavior before a public that largely ignores them.

I consequently cannot ignore reality.

This morning, I stated to Dear Husband: “We can’t redo last summer. But we can DO this summer.”

That truth is true of any summer, any year, any lifetime. It’s true of any season and of any day. Realistically speaking, I can say that there are no re-writes of the past. That verity may be one factor in my having become a writer. History is not revised; it’s relived for the ignorami who defile it!

For the rest of us, history gives; it does not take. It presents to us endless avenues to the future. There are, currently, an infinite number of ways awaiting us to discover the joys of today; and to leave behind the sorrows of yesterday. It’s not disrespectful to the fallen and the dead and the half-destroyed if you determine that your life must be the beacon of hope that got doused for those undeserving victims.

Of the deserving victims, I say, let them find their deserving destinies all on their lonesome own. That fitting end is their fitting end.

Me, I’ve got salads to make, cakes to bake, shishka-bobs to bob and bar-b-que, and gardens to grow. I aim to grow along with those flowers.

Be the friend that someone else could not, or would not, be to you. Savor the sweetness of a genuine smile, and jettison the fake grin and the oily overtures of a slyly-conned camaraderie.

Within the past few years, I’ve been more an observer than an active participant in hoeing down the heresies of an entire cadre of sanctimonious phonies. I’ve been wondrously inspired by the sincere intensity, and the intense sincerity, of so many millions of citizens who pulled on their boots to begin the long march to reclaim liberty in this nation. Those troopers of the present are teaching this seasoned campaigner bolder seasons and unimaginable campaigns - just waiting to emerge in the America of today.

I salute those younger Americans, one and all, for making the cutting-edge of tomorrow from the sharpened steel of battles of yesteryear. This summer, they, and I, and all of the other patriots, are doing whatever the summer demands of us to do.

Those commands are many, and they are magnificent. Summer is a splendid sortie - toward autumn, toward that rich harvest, toward the cornucopia in a land of plenty. And “plenty” does not necessarily mean wealth or mammon.

“Plenty” is the glimmer of sunlight on a sheaf of wheat, the wind rippling the blue-green water of a lake, the sway of pine treetops ‘midst the coming storm, the golden shimmer in the smooth skin of a burgundy plum, the soft touch of the smile that is a father’s love for his newborn son.

Plenty, and plenty of sunlight, are what get it done.