I saw in the night, and behold, a man riding on a red horse…
—Zechariah 1:8
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The big storm hit last Sunday night. Sheets of snow, bitter howling winds, roads drifted shut. A winter mess, up and down the east coast. March, raging in like a lion. Even so, there was some humorous stuff in the news, if one looked for it. And humor, after the great March blizzard in the year of Our Lord, 2009, is a beautiful thing.

It must be tough these days, to be an environmental activist. You know the kind. The person who marches about the city streets and demands the government do some-thing to curb global warming. The person who upends cars and smashes the storefront windows of evil capitalists. Maybe starts a fire or two. And then goes home and feels he’s done something to make the world a better place.

The Greenies plan a big event every few months, seems like. Here and there, in the cities. There was one in Seattle awhile back. A horde of maggot infested hippy types assembled from all across the country. From all points, by train, plane, hitchhiking. In their tie-dyed T-shirts, jackets emblazoned with Peace signs, clutching their raggedy backpacks, they came, determined to warn us all of impending doom.

But lately, they’ve encountered some difficulties. Seems like every time they amass for another big rally, the weather refuses to cooperate.

It’s hilarious, really. Poetic justice. And it happened again last weekend in D.C. A large protest was planned, complete with marches and all kinds of banners. Go Green. Green jobs. And all kinds of other lunatic gibberish. I don’t know, Obama might even have planned to address them, lending his messiah-like demeanor and credibility to the cause. But alas, right on schedule, as if summoned by God, a huge blizzard unleashed and swept through the region Sunday night. A big chill. Eight inches of snow. Paralyzed all movement on Monday. Including all but shutting down the marching wackos.

And so it’s gone, lately. It must be disheartening to be green. Must be hard, to roust yourself from whatever little rat hole you call home (rented, no doubt, from an evil hard-hearted landlord who actually demands the rent on time), brave the winter weather, gather with other like-minded shreds of human debris, and see it all fall apart because of the cold weather. It must be hard to dial up enough energy to go out and warn the shivering ignorant masses of the coming global heat wave, when the masses could imagine few things more attractive than emerging from the frigid deep freeze that has plagued us all these many months and won’t go away.

But you’ve got to hand it to them, the marchers. For persistence. They keep regroup-ing and coming back for more. Summer, winter, frost and heat. Nothing deters them. Watch for them again around July, when it’s 100 degrees and the pavement’s melting.

One can’t help but wonder. If all those people directed their energies at something productive, if they held real jobs, if they’d relax instead of shaking down and demon-izing the actual producers, what could this country be? Not that such a thing could happen. These people are militant, angry, loud, and destructive. And determined to spread their Green gospel, by persuasion or by force, whichever is necessary.

I’m not saying the earth’s climate is not changing. Might well be. It has in the past, no reason to think it won’t in the future. But I utterly reject the notion that human activities are causing the changes. It’s a silly, arrogant thing to believe, that we are. And there’s absolutely not a shred of scientific proof out there. Not a shred. Just a bunch of computer models, combined with hysteria, and a lot of “suggestions” from elite busybodies on how to fight global catastrophe through higher taxes and a green life style.

It’s a bunch of hogwash, the whole thing. And it’s not about saving the earth. It’s about power and control.

Under Obama’s core socialistic beliefs, the Greens will get a sympathetic ear on the broad strata of their kooky, destructive agenda. New laws, higher taxes, carbon credits, twisted pigtail light bulbs filled with lethal doses of mercury. It’s all coming, and will run its course. The wolf is prowling at the door. We are entering Atlas Shrugged territory here. It’s too late now to turn back.

I try to ignore it, mostly, the hysterical noise, the apocalyptic scenarios, and just move on with my life. But it’s becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. “Green” stuff jumps out and slaps you when you least expect it.

Last weekend, I traveled to West Virginia to help Dominic Haskin, one of our top customers at a builder’s show at his local mall. Drove in Saturday morning and returned Sunday night. Because of the distance, it was cost effective to rent a car, instead of driving Big Blue. So I called Enterprise, as usual. A mid-sized car. No problem, they said.

On Friday afternoon, I drove over to pick up the car. As usual, I would switch out my truck, just leave it parked there on the lot. The slick young man behind the counter had the paperwork ready. He seemed a bit edgy, too eager.

“All we have is a Toyota Prius, a hybrid.” He said brightly, cheerfully. “Should be fun to drive.”

I gaped, then recoiled. A hybrid. One of those green cars I’d scorned and excoriated in the past. Right on this site. No. I couldn’t drive one. I wouldn’t.

“I can’t drive a car like that,” I answered. “I’ve got a reputation to protect here. Don’t you have anything else? A mini van? Station wagon? Perhaps a Hummer? Even a compact car? I’m not unreasonable. Anything, just not that hybrid.”

“It’s the only rental vehicle on the lot,” he said. Clearly a lie. Or maybe not. “You’ll like it. Gets fifty miles a gallon.”

Miles per gallon were the least of my worries. I’m a pickup guy, but have nothing against real cars. Last year I’d traveled to this same show in a powerful Dodge Charger. Great car. I’d gladly settle for one again.

“If it’s the only car you got, it’s the only car you got,” I said resignedly. “Let’s check it out.”

We walked out to the lot, where the little “green” car sat parked. Clearly a hybrid. Aerodynamic way beyond the point of ugliness. Bright red. Looked for all the world like a large jelly bean on four little wheelbarrow tires. Oh well. It would have to do. I’d only need it for a few days. Surely I could survive the shame of it all for that long.

The slick young counter guy opened the car door and showed me how to run it. No key, you just insert a plastic contraption and push the “start” button on the dash. Even then, nothing happens, except the dash lights up and blinks and flashes like a Vegas strip joint. Push lever on the dash for forward and reverse. And off you go.

I glowered at the car suspiciously. Small, just barely enough head room for me. After grumbling a bit more and signing the papers, I was on my way. The car slid seam-lessly and soundlessly onto the street. I punched the accelerator, the tiny engine hummed to life and the car surged forward. It had kick. A combo of battery and engine. The gas gauge showed half a tank. I stopped and topped it with all of five gallons. Must be a ten gallon tank.

I drove back to the office and loaded my show supplies. My co-workers hooted louder than they did at my PT Cruiser a few years back. Ira in a hybrid. Like oil and water. An unmixable mess.

And so it happened the next morning that I loaded my bags and got out of Dodge in a little red hybrid, on four chintzy wheelbarrow tires. A “green” rider on a red horse. No sword, but peace did not ride with me. Longing for the solid height and feel of Big Blue, I hunkered down low over the steering wheel, wearing dark glasses. So as to remain unrecognizable, at least on my home turf. I considered wearing my little black fedora, but decided not to. The Prius surged along, eerily quiet. Like a little rocket ship dodging asteroids, I weaved about, shooting past large tractor trailers and pickups and cars. Fielding disdainful glances all the way.

Had I only known, I could have zipped right on down to D.C. and joined the protest march. I had all the credentials, if not the spirit.

The two-plus hour trip was uneventful, and by the time I arrived, I was pretty comfortable with the little jelly bean. The gas gauge hadn’t moved much, about a quarter tank. Dominic met me at the mall, and after casting dubious glances at my vehicle, politely choked back his laughter and any snide comments. After all, I was there to help him.

The show was surprisingly busy, considering the tense economic times. We bustled about, chatting with many prospective customers. That evening, Dominic and his wife Jamie took me out to eat and later to see a live country band at a club. Where Jamie succeeded in dragging me out onto the dance floor a time or two. Hadn’t done that in years. West Virginia people work hard. And play hard. I fell into bed at my motel shortly after midnight, exhausted.

Because of the threatening snowstorm, I left Sunday afternoon for home. Made decent time darting through the heavy Sunday traffic. Skedaddled along ahead of the snow and arrived home safely an hour or two before the latest March storm unleashed upon the area. The next day I dug the jelly bean from a snow bank and returned it to the lot. The car hummed quietly and eerily. I happily boarded Big Blue and returned to the slick roads in a real winter vehicle.

The experience wasn’t entirely negative. The ugly little car got to where I was going, and back again. Something tells me we’ll see many more such vehicles in the future. I don’t have a problem with that, as long as it’s from free market demand. But it won’t be. It will be mostly driven by governmental bullying. With one of their own in the White House, the Greens aren’t going anywhere, regardless of how many blizzards stifle their marches. Not until an overburdened populace rises up and kicks them where it hurts. And sends them packing back to their rat holes.

Until then, we’ll have to put up with’em. Like I just did.

We pause now to observe the passing of a milestone last week. Paul Harvey passed away, at age ninety. I had wondered where he was lately. His Paul Harvey News had quietly disappeared from the airways. Drifted away. Now we know why. The man was laid up, approaching death.

Almost everyone alive, at least in this country, has heard Paul Harvey speak at one time or another. His great calm booming voice, chuckling now and again at the appropriate spots. He was the most trusted man on radio.

I mostly enjoyed his “Rest of the Story” programs. Always interesting, with startling endings, he cranked them out by the hundreds over the years. He is irreplaceable, even though his son, Paul Harvey Jr. has attempted to carry on the Rest of the Story episodes. It’s not the same. Paul Jr. tries to emulate his father’s delivery and voice inflections. It’s impossible. And mildly irritating. Only reminds me of how much I enjoyed the real thing.

There was only one. There will never be another.

The good thing about a March blizzard: the snow doesn’t stay around long. As I post, most of it’s gone, melted away. May the warm sunshine come to stay.

This weekend, we all lose an hour as daylight savings time kicks in. Don’t be late for church on Sunday. Or use it as an excuse to sleep in and claim you forgot to turn your clocks forward. Especially if a boring preacher is on tap.

Bumpety-bumpety-bump went the wheels of the cart, and
the tired old bunny grumbled again.

“What did you say this time?” asked Billy Beaver.

“Oh, nothing.”

“Yes, you did. I heard you grumbling.”

“Well, I just said that this bridge underneath us is bumpy.
It shakes me all around and hurts my tail.”

–Excerpt, children’s story: “A Ride to Animal Town”
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I’m in a grumpy mood this week. Generally irritated at life. And since that’s where I am, I’ll be a grouch. And grumble. Be forewarned.

Lately, there’s been lots of drama skulking about, here and there, demanding lots of attention. Stuff going on. Entirely too much. On the peripheral. And, boom, front and center. Real crap, most of it. From old sources, and new. It’s draining. I can’t do much about it. Except vent on the minor stuff. The major stuff, well, it’s currently not vent-able. Might never be, except maybe to my counselor.

My conclusion: problems not faced and resolved in their infancy inevitably expand to vast looming mountains, shrouded by roiling storms and great deadly thunderbolts. Always. Seems to be some sort of law.

I should go to Florida, I suppose. As any sane person would. Where some of my friends are hanging out right this second. Probably some who are reading this, even. Basking in the sun and soaking up the fine warm weather. Pitying us shivering morons up north.

In my running around years, I made it to Sarasota twice. In 1981, I was down for almost a year, staying through the summer. Not exactly a picnic, the summer weather. Hot doesn’t describe it. And later, in early 1987 for a few months. Worked for Dennis Borntrager, the mason contractor, both times. In those days, I lived on a shoestring budget, traveling and working. Existed on that hard thin line of barely making enough to survive. But somehow always getting by, saving enough to move on to the next destination. A rolling stone, I gathered no moss, except in experiences.

I haven’t been down since February, 2007, just over two years. When some pretty ugly stuff hit the fan. Not that the specter of those memories is keeping me away. And not that that I don’t have lots of invitations from my southern friends to come and stay awhile. But I’m the kind of guy who gets stuck in stubborn routine, and if that means waiting out a particularly long harsh winter, so be it.

Meanwhile back here at the ranch, the winds raged for about six straight days in the past week, as the endless winter drags on. One of the longest in my memory, or maybe I’m just slipping in old age. No such thing as Indian summer this year. (Or is that a politically incorrect term these days?) We got blitzed with winter in early November. And it’s hung on since then, vastly overstaying its welcome. Cold, snow, cold, snow, cold, cold, cold. Incessant, day after day, week after week. It’s enough to drive a normally sane person stark raving mad. Stir crazy. Loopy.

Of course, today, the day I post, it was a balmy sixty degrees for the first time in months. But I’m not fooled. It’s a trick. Winter is NOT over, by any stretch. I hear rumblings of a big snow storm this weekend.

So I sit and stew. Feel grumpy. And sluggish. The dry desert season in sports has descended in a great cloud of gloom, as it always does this time of year. The long slog through winter into spring. No football to watch, since the Super Bowl a few weeks ago. Baseball still a distant spring dream. Only basketball remains, and I cannot force myself to watch that awful game. (And all you fanatical Hoosiers, save it. It IS an awful game.)

I usually have a game on TV as I’m writing of an evening. Keep tabs on things out of the corner of my eye. Stop, relax and watch the replays of a particularly outstanding play. In this dry season, I’ve been reduced to watching the Smoky Mountain Knife Works a couple evenings a week. Good ole southern boys, with their lazy drawls, hawking expensive collectible knives. It’s amazing, what’s out there. And actually pretty interesting, although I have not yet been tempted to call with credit card in hand.

To top off my bad mood, Fred the Curmudgeon has retired. Again. This time I think he means it. A huge loss. Whatever anyone thinks of the man and his views, one thing was true. He could write. Beautifully. Concisely. Brutally. Incisively. I’m running out of adjectives here. No one, and I mean no one, could skewer Washington and the fat cat politicians better than Fred. Or anyone else he set his sights on. Now he’s gone. I’ve lost an old friend, feels like.

I am deeply grateful to him for the influence he’s had on my own writing. Since starting this blog back in 2007, I think it’s safe to say I’ve found my writing voice. No small thing, that. It had eluded me for years, decades even, when I hardly wrote at all. With the possible exception of Thomas Wolfe, Fred Reed has impacted me more than any other person. Now and again I’ll go back and re-read some of his old stuff, just to get a feel for his style again. Perhaps one day I can take up his mantle and be known as Ira the Curmudgeon. I would carry such a title with great pride. But I’d have to earn it first. And I’m not there yet.

So I sit and stew some more and think grumpy thoughts. Which isn’t quite brooding, just a step above. Dream of spring and hot summer days and the thick green carpet of grass growing in the yard. Barbecuing for my friends. And think about what it would be like to hang out with Fred in Mexico, in one of those little hole in the wall bars he loves. Eating chicken wings and quaffing beer.

I think the winter weather is getting to the everyday Joe on the street. Last week one day at work, a regular customer walked in from the cold to pick up some metal he’d ordered. Hot on his heels a tall rangy redneck rushed in, steam practically billowing from his ears. The redneck approached my customer, who was standing just across the counter from me.

The redneck wasted no time on niceties. “Are you the guy driving that pickup and trailer outside?” he demanded belligerently.

My customer allowed that he was. The redneck lurched forward into my customer’s face. Loudly cursed him for cutting off his tractor trailer on the highway, a short distance away from our shop. The customer recoiled, then as stridently defended himself, and the two of them were off to the races. I rolled my eyes in disbelief. This was all I needed. Blows would come next. Whacking each other, right in my office. Seemed like the next logical step, anyway. We’d get sued, if someone got hurt. What with all those hungry shark attorneys out there.

After twenty seconds or so, I inserted myself. “Guys,” I said, loudly and firmly. They quieted briefly and looked at me. “If you have issues, take them outside.” The redneck immediately seized on that and invited the customer outside to fight. So I rephrased my statement. “If you have issues, take them off this property.”

Ignoring me, they went at it again. Blows were imminent. For sure, this time. Again, I interrupted. Pointing at the redneck trucker, I said firmly, “You. Get off this property. Now. Or I’m calling the cops.”

The redneck tried to ignore me, but I persisted. Get out. Now. He finally walked toward the door, but just before reaching it, he turned. The two of them resumed yelling and cursing across the showroom. Fortunately, no other customers were present. One more time, I pointed. “Get out now. Off this property. Or I’m calling the cops.”

The redneck stared at me, then slowly and deliberately lifted his middle finger in a grand flourish. He seemed practiced in the motion. I looked at him in disgust, and repeated my command. Again. He finally stomped out. I calmed the customer and prevented him from running outside after the redneck, who boarded his 18 wheeler and roared away.

I suspect the redneck trucker had good reasons to be irate. Furious, even. But you don’t just go bursting into a business and start yelling at customers. Not when I’m behind the counter.

The long winter drags on.

And the minor irritants roll on. I’m sick to death of the mass media coverage of the Octu-Mom, the poor woman in CALIfornia who had eight babies. Eight. At once. Just unbelievable. A welfare recipient, she somehow manipulated the system and convinced a doctor to fertilize her.

The relentless media instantly circled like wolves, hounding the woman day and night. How could she justify bringing so many more babies into the world when she couldn’t afford to feed or house them? All valid points. But the overkill has been so brutal, so one-sided, that I actually pity the poor woman.

Seems to me everyone is missing an important point. The eight little babies. They are alive, little persons, human beings. Yes, the mother was obviously troubled and misguided in her original actions. But that was then. This is now. They are here. I’m a little disappointed that local churches in the area are not stepping up and offering to help care for the babies. It’s not the State’s job.

The poor woman has received death threats. From people more troubled than she is. The public should stop raging at her and rage instead at the CALIfornia welfare system that allows such expenditures in the first place. No wonder they’re going bankrupt out there.

But all is not gloom and doom and grumpiness. Last week I mentioned that I’d never been to Holmes County, even for a visit. Since then, my friend John Schmid and I have been negotiating a time this summer when he will actually be at home for a weekend instead of gallivanting around all over the world, doing the Lord’s work. If he discovers such a free weekend, I will travel to Holmes for a visit. John has assured me that the entire itinerary will be planned, all I have to do is show up. So I’m looking forward to meeting all the fine people that John claims live there. Ditto for the food. I expect to test his hosting capabilities. And perhaps his patience.

One housekeeping note. On the Index of Posts page, I’ve finally provided direct links to each title. Took awhile, but I got it done. Should be a lot easier to find specific posts and otherwise peruse the archives. You’re welcome.