Forty years ago today man landed and walked on the moon.  What an amazing triumph that was for humanity.  It’s hard to believe that it has been that long and even harder to believe that we’ve not been back since December of ‘72.  I was still in diapers when Cernan and Schmitt of Apollo 17 launched off the desolate lunar landscape for the last time.

We learned a great deal in low earth orbit, but it is time that we return to that bright lunar orb hanging so precariously in the night sky.  I hear people ask why we should bother going back.  I usually answer with a question.  When you gaze up at the moon on a clear night, do you not wonder in amazement.  Do you wish you could wander across its craters in the blistering heat of the day cycle?  Mind you, you’d be dead within a millisecond without a space suit not to mention the boiling temps of day and the frigidness of night.   

The moon was and is a stepping stone.  We need to start leaping across the giant pond that is the cosmos.  We are resilient and smart little feckers.  If we work together, we can widen our scope and really shake up the place. 

Anyone have any memories they would like to share? 

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Wednesday afternoon I was in city centre doing a quick walkabout to stretch my legs.  As I sauntered past the white collar littered promenade at lunchtime, a crowd of suits sped past me.  One of them pushed me and my camera gear up against a brick building facade.

Normally, I would have brushed him off as an eejit and went on my way.  But, I had something eating at my gut, so this little incident sent me slightly over the edge.  I have nothing against people in suits.  I have a lot of suits.  I enjoy looking professional, but being that I’m a country boy, I am much more comfortable in denims and a t-shirt.

“What is your problem?” 

He turned around, looked at me, whispered something to a cohort, laughed, and continued on his way.

Just the mere mannerisms and holier than though attitude infuriated me further, so I bit my bottom lip and lectured, “Between me and my family, we pay over a ****** ******* dollars to this state alone every year, so as long as I’m following the laws and mores  of our wee society, I’ll walk where, when, and how I want…I’d be more careful of who I knock over, if I were you”.

“Oh Yeah?”  He enquired whilst cockily crossing his arms and snickering with his twenty something pals.

“Yeah”, I boldly stated.

“Who’s your father then, tough guy?”

““*** Davis.”

“The *** Davis?”

“The one and only”, I answered whilst sighing.

“You’re kidding me, right?”  He jokingly asked whilst destroying a piece of gum.

“No.”

“*** Davis has no son…he has three girls.  I know him.  My firm, *********, does work for him”, he laughingly hollered as a crowd gathered.

“He has six children, whether you know it or not”, I muttered while turning to walk away.

“If I were you, I’d be more careful about lying to make yourself feel big", the chump yelled whilst pushing his comrades forward.

The English lady from the coffee house that I was standing in front of patted me on the back and told me not to mind him.  I had a café noir fuelled walk and went home.

Later that night, I was sitting here at my desk fuming about what the bloke said.  As hard as it was to swallow, it was almost the truth.  I had not talked to him in months.  We had a wee bit of a falling out over a wee money issue.  I had called his phone on numerous occasions and left messages trying to rectify the situation, but to no avail.

I went to the kitchen cupboards to fetch some Earl Grey and there peering out of the dark recess was a brand new bottle of a precious beverage from Ireland.  I grabbed one of my grandfathers favourite glasses and the green bottle.  Humour flowed from a TV show I rarely miss loosely based on the FDNY as well as the bottle. 

A crack of thunder rattled the windows, as I searched the darkness for the incoming light show.  The rain had lightly been pelting against the office window all night.  While trying to grab a ciggy and a light, I stumbled a bit not realising how much I had consumed.

I stood at the back door and gazed out into the blackness of the garden.  While smoking that one ciggy, a thought popped into my bevvied head.  So, I grabbed my keys and phone and headed out the door. 

I ran from one wet street to another until I approached the main thoroughfare.  Soaked from head to toe, I stopped and gawped at the quarter moon peering through a gap in the heavy mist.  I gazed at the moon, while standing on that sidewalk, enquiring as to why things are the way they are.  Then, a suburban whizzed by covering me in road muck.

So, I decided to run to the 24hr bistro, encountering heavy raindrop laden puddles, like broken mirrors illuminated by lightning strikes along my path.  When I got to the bistro, one of the waitresses that I know offered me a towel to dry off and brought me a cup of coffee.  She asked if I was alright, and of course, I said I was fine.  She knew better because I never show up in the middle of the night.  She told me to call Red, an off and on again petite amie.

12:30AM  Ring…ring…ring…ring

“Hello”, she whispered.

“Hey”, I hollered in a half inebriated manner.

“What time is it?”  She pleaded as the ruffling of covers and feathers could be heard over the phone.

“It’s 12:30.  I’m at the bistro.  I need you to pick me up so we can talk.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?”  She enquired with a bit of disdain in her tone.

“No.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Only slightly”, I uttered whilst trying not to laugh.

Click

I reasoned that she was mad at me for waking her up, so I finished my coffee.  The kind waitress offered to call me a cab, but I benignantly refused.  I took my time walking home.  The thunderous storm had passed and a murkiness thick enough to cut through with one’s body had settled in its place. 

It was around 1:30 in the morning, when I turned onto my street.  I sneakingly walked past the other houses, hoping not to wake my ever alert grandmother that lives two houses down. 

By the time I approached my front yard, the audaciousness and silliness had wavered.  I discovered a glint of something on my front stoop.  Scared, I drew closer.  A figure came into view through the vapours.  I got closer and realised it was…

It was her.  She walked up to me shivering, her countenance filled with rage and worry.

Slap

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again”, she whispered in my ear.

I had never been prouder than at that moment.  It was not my intention to worry her or anyone else, but it was nice to know that she cares.

For Her:

Freckles is a savage word.

How about dapples of lust,

Honey sisters,

Blunders of the Sun,

Love in lace,

Damsel’s shivers,

Silent baubles,

Caramel kisses,

Blotch of arcs,

Or a serene flock?

To Pops:  Happy Fathers Day, dude!  You’ll always be my pops, and I hope to make you proud one day.  A little bit of time is all I’m asking for.

P.S.:  Drinking and smoking are not things that I condone or would suggest that anyone start.  I don’t have an addictive personality, so I can get away with the occasional drink or gasper.

P.P.S.:  Most of us have father issues in one form or another.  Our fathers are our fathers no matter what.  Tis best to love them, because we never know when we or them may not wake up one morning. 

Honour thy Father and thy Mother.

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This afternoon I took my daily walk, as I always do.  After a few times around the block, I discovered a older gentleman going door to door with pamphlets.  I watched as he knocked on the doors and either handed the flyer to a neighbour or left it inside the door. 

He encountered me whilst coming back towards the road.  He slowly made his way to me, while wiping the sweat off his brow. 

“Hello, may I hand you a pamphlet?”  He cheerfully asked, as I greeted him and shook his hand.

“What is this about, sir?”  I asked whilst trying to scan the bleached out paper in the mid day sun.

“We’re trying to get the real facts out about what President Bush and John McCain have accomplished while in office”, he answered, as he smiled and continued forward.

“Ah, may I ask if you work for the McCain campaign?”

He stopped in his tracks, turned around, and replied, “No, I volunteer with a local Baptist association”.

“Well, thank you, sir…Try to stay cool in this heat…”, I responded whilst making my way towards the house.

I came in the house and laid the paper down on the desk.  I got busy doing chores and didn’t get around to reading it until about three hours ago. 

It gave legitimate facts about Bush, but what got me was the wording.  It used the words (if you want to call them that) Ya, Y’all, Darn, and Dang throughout it. 

It’s as if whoever wrote it was cogitating, “Welp, them Southerners will never understand real statistics or logical wording, so I’ll just dumb it down for them”.

Southern Americans inside the United States have the stigma of being stupid and  uncivilised.  Unfortunately due to circumstances that I could write a thousand words about, a large portion of Southern people are illiterate.  That does not mean that we are all eejits!  I rail against such notions.

I’m not mad at the man that handed me the flyer, for he was just trying to do his part for the community.  He has a right to his views as do I to mine. 

It is insulting to me and every other civilised Southern American.  Give me facts.  Give me the hard core statistics.  I’d much rather spend an hour going through a well formed report, than I had getting red faced over a thirty second scribble!

There’s one more wee thing that is bugging me.  What is a religious organisation doing dabbling in politics? 

P.S.:  I let my Uncle look it over.  As soon as I get it back, I’ll put it in this post. 

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