Yeah, on the road! Pastures look good.
Look at that lush pasture!
Dang windmills, blagh. Nice native grass there. Winter wheat looks good. Oh, yeah, feedlot. I need to try that cafe there. More good grass. Hmm, playa’s a little dry. Wheee!
Down the cliff we go!
Down the escarpment and still in Texas. Yipe! Gotta play dodge-truck. Those guys are nuts and I’m getting away from all three of them. Continue reading
The route is Amarillo to Albuquerque, via I-40. The season is mid-autumn. Stream of consciousness.
Brown and flat flat flat. Brown. Ewww, cows! Brown and flat.
Flaaaaaaat. And brown.
Hill! Brown and lumpy. That’s not really a mountain, why do they call it a mountain? Is there ever any water under this bridge?
A few years ago, at a church that shall remain nameless, the director decided to add some new anthems to the mix. This is always an interesting process, especially when the music comes from outside the choir’s usual milieu. In this case, it was a song that about half of us had sung elsewhere.
Urban tractor? Or Urbane?
So, there I was, parking in the back lot at the grocery store. When I looked over and thought, “Nice little tractor.”
“Huh wha—? Tractor?”
There sat a very nice small tractor in solitary splendor in the middle of a little patch of vacant lot well within the city limits. I have no idea who owns it or what it is doing there.
Your guess is as good as mine.
I did remember to get everything I went to the store for, in case you wondered.
My schedule is rather frenetic this week, so please pardon this rerun.
[Blogger note: This is a humor piece. I am very much aware of the modern saints, the martyrs of the Coptic, Chaldean, and other Christian denominations currently being persecuted around the world. May their faith inspire all, believers and non-believers, who honor truth and mercy.]
Growing up in a blend of Protestant, Catholic, and Jewish traditions, I figured out pretty early that sainthood was overrated. Trying to keep those white robes white, and standing around all day doing G-d stuff without getting cookies or punch or donuts and other nibbles afterward? No, thanks. Once I learned about the martyrs, well, forget sainthood! That’s icky. Or so my 9-year-old self decided. At that point, I’m sure Mom Red would have affirmed that sainthood was not something I needed to worry about in any way, shape, or form, as I’d probably disqualified myself many times over.
Over time, I discovered that the saints of the 1950s US Roman Catholic Church weren’t all there was (yes, black patent shoes do reflect up). You had warrior saints, some of whom had been dropped by the church for conduct unbecoming while off duty (aka the legends are rather more legendary than is considered reasonable). There are Protestant saints beyond the basic 12+1, although I’m still not sure about Martin Luther, Phillip Melanchthon, and the founders of Concordia and St. Olaf Colleges being among the 12 Apostles. Or Augustin of Hippo, Jean Calvin, and John Knox, for that matter. 😉 Continue reading
Mrs. Botanica: Everyone have their jackets on? Good. This way.
Small herd of life-science students debauch into the tall grasses beside the school to collect samples. Many of the students are wearing fleece coats. A few have the brand-new official heavy jacket (to be worn when fleeces are too light but it is not parka weather.)
Mr. Long-Slavic-Last-Name: How many pounds this year?
Mr. Dvorak [sipping large drink]: Hmm. Two. I don’t know if the new jackets work as well as the fleeces do.
Mr. L-S-L-N: Hadn’t thought of that.
Cut to the next morning, when Mrs. Botanica is in the workroom making copies. As I pass by the doorway, I hear, “After three years I should know better. They’ll be picking seeds and twigs out of those fleece jackets for the rest of the week.” Fr. Pax makes a sympathetic noise and I keep going.
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