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.