I had a list of things that are making us run in circles this morning and was puzzling over which strand I might pull on. I got to critical point “H” and had not even drudged up “Benghazi,” when I decided that I was full enough of it, and decided to finish the repairs to the JG’s big Ford Explorer. I was sitting in the repairee’s longue at Koon’s Ford for about forty minutes, and the nice technician came out and told me they were able to program the key fobs to operate the remote locks just fine.
And that the right rear axle seal was leaking and the front brake pads needed to be replaced. I sighed, realizing I was about to spend two thousand dollars before even getting close to lunch.
Damn. Car repairs had not even cracked the top ten irritants when I was pecking on the computer, and actually, that was the only thing that was going to mean much in the course of this wonderful Autumn day. Skies dotted with cirrus clouds, temperature just comfy-cool, and a wonderful morning for a stroll. Pity that the time and money equation never seems to balance quite the way one would like.
Anyway, by the time I managed to plod back to Big Pink I was about out of airspeed and good ideas. The idea of flogging any of the intellectual dead horses we have so thoroughly examined over the last few months was not that appealing. It was too late for a breakfast drink, and too early to start at lunch. I set the computer up on the new patio table and watched the chipmunks shuttling between their nest behind the decorative (and decaying) wooden border between the concrete and the mulch with their cheeks bulging with seeds to get them through the winter. Cute little things- not like the deranged squirrel that barked at me shrilly from the tree, clearly unhappy with my extended presence.
I scanned the Wall Street Journal article a pal sent me about the coming report of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change, which suggested that the political representatives were re-writing the Summary for Policy Makers to make sure there was enough alarm contained in the report to ensure they would continue to get paid.
I am not sure anyone gives a rat’s butt anymore, but like all knaves and mountebanks and politicians, they bear watching. But I am not going to go off on that, either. There will be plenty of time to examine why the distinguished body is even more confident they are right about climate whatever than ever before when they release the report, even if the surface temperatures have not risen since the beginning of the second Clinton Administration.
So, it occurred to me that I could write something folksy- maybe a nature vignette from the farm, like the discovery that the Mouse in the Mailbox was not Mr. Mouse, but Mamma Mouse. She had six little ones attached to her in the midst of last week’s shredded Clarion-Bugle. As was startled as I withdrew the paper and she scrambled back up the bottom fold of what was left of the front page and raced to the comforting darkness of the back of the mailbox.
Aw, too cute! I did not trouble her further, but left the flap down on front, so that if any hawks or feral cats came by at eye-level, she could contribute to the food chain without my direct intervention. I just wasn’t feeling that judgmental, though I think, on the whole, that I am opposed to mice as a general thing.
I felt bad about feeling that way for a while, so bad that Frank-the-lawn-guy called and said I had left the key turned on the new old tractor, and it was as dead as a doornail where I shut it down in the middle of the center aisle of the barn.
I wondered if I had budgeted for a new 12-vote battery, and how soon this was all going to result in shifting from Croftburn Farms organic produce to canned pet food, but, hey, it’s only money, right?
I was resigning myself to confronting all that with a firm dose of fiscal austerity, but that bores me too. Instead, I found out something new to worry about. Well, not worry, per se. It was more in the line of useful information that explained something without requiring any magical or hysterical thinking.
No, it is not a Carrington Event, the tongue of solar fire that licked out of the sun’s surface in 1859 and made the telegraphs click and clack all by themselves across North America. We just dodged one a few weeks ago; timing is indeed everything. You might want to look it up and imagine what the effects might be on our device-dependent society. But what I learned was sort of like that.
I will have to get around to that tomorrow, I imagine. Stay tuned.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303