When the Lilacs Bloomed

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

Oh, so where were you when the lilacs bloomed?

 

Were you pushing your children to study hard……study hard……STUDY HARD AND THEN EVEN HARDER!!!—for the final exams that were soon to ensue?

Did they bitch and groan and complain vociferously, pointing out the many consecutive months they had already been forced to attend school?

But it would soon be over–just a matter of weeks, perhaps even days.

While fragrant lilacs bloomed luxuriously on the periphery of your back yard.

 

Were you busily preparing your son or daughter for confirmation, culminating the many hours of preparation they had already poured into this worthy endeavor?

So proud of them, yet sadly heedful too of their ascendance one step closer to adulthood and total independence.

Snapping a surplus of pictures of her as she posed confidently in the chilly early morning mist.

While resplendent lilacs flourished in the near background, creating the perfect backdrop for a pluperfect occasion.

 

Were you busy constructing flower bouquets to deposit on significant others’ graves for an early Memorial Day?

Visiting the hallowed sites of deceased relatives, and then solemnly reciting a litany of prayers for their long-departed souls.

Giving thanks for the loved ones who you felt so incredibly blessed for having graced your life, while silently gushing appreciation also for not having been asked to prematurely join them.

While lilacs blossomed majestically on the lonely fringes of the graveyard.

 

Were you still a pubescent boy growing up on the farm?

Frantically searching verdant pastures and sporadic woodlots for that young heifer that had gone off to calve for the first time.

A healthy length of baling twine protruding from your back pocket, just in case the young bovine needed assistance in delivering her divine cargo.

Heaving a monstrous sigh of relief when you ultimately found this exhausted heifer, a strapping newborn calf energetically sucking from her engorged udder, while hideous pinkish/purplish afterbirth dangled forlornly from her swollen vulvae.

While lilacs blazed a radiant lavender from the tranquil farmstead in the far-off distance.

 

Or were you on the other side of life–tottering off with your cane to attend a granddaughter’s wedding, your ever present pill-pack safely in tow?

Two youngsters so madly in love they couldn’t even wait the few extra weeks until the traditional month of June to formalize their union.

Struggling mightily to enjoy the ceremony, even as your bladder–unfairly compressed by an insanely enlarged prostate–screamed for relief, your hearing aids whined and malfunctioned, and your heart fibrillated wildly like a hummingbird’s wings.

While those omnipresent lilacs flowered in symphony from the straight-as-an-arrow treelines flanking the quaint country church.

 

Oh, so where were you when the lilacs bloomed?

 

During that special, magical time of year……the very heart of May.

When school is winding down and glorious summer is prepping for her grand entrance in a mere matter of weeks.

When last winter has faded into a distant, hazy, repugnant memory, while onrushing summertime seems to stretch forever in the distance.

When love is so prominent in the air as to be nearly palpable, and every park is brimming with youthful doe-eyed couples clutching hands, exchanging amorous glances, and feeling the primal urge to procreate.

When the sun is rising earlier each morning and setting later each evening, and the possibilities immediately before us seem as expansive as those rapidly lengthening days.

When the weather dramatically morphs from the cool, dreary raininess of April into the seductive, intoxicating heat of June, affording a momentary bridge that graciously unifies the two feuding seasons.

When the world stops to catch its breath before plunging headlong into summer, together with the profusion of wretched excesses that accompany it….…and the horizons in every direction a person looks distend on forever and anything and everything seems possible.

 

Oh, so where were you during those few quixotic weeks in the heart of May—when the lilacs bloomed in all their wonderful, iridescent glory?

 

Now it is early June–a trifling few weeks later–and the lilacs no longer bloom.

Their beautiful purple, pink, and white petals have settled into the soil, no longer enriching the surrounding air with their wildly aromatic redolence.

Now the lilac bushes have retreated back into their pedestrian role of drab, utterly forgettable green shrubs—begrudgingly relinquishing their temporary leading man status for the boring character actor they embrace the other fifty weeks of the year.

They are no longer beautiful, they are no longer noteworthy, and they do not elicit affection or emotions of any kind.

They are ordinary—Yes, that’s right–totally ordinary!–and thus do not warrant further remark in this poem.

 

But then again…….so is life now, in this bucolic first week of June.

Summer vacation has begun, so that means Labor Day and the start of another monotonous school year for the young lads and lasses lurks ominously over the not-so-distant horizon.

Confirmation has been over for weeks, and that large cash windfall you fell into as a serendipitous benefit has long since been spent on middling-quality CDs, boring uninspiring movies, and I-tunes cards with ever-shrinking balances.

Memorial Day is only ten days in the rear-view mirror, yet the visceral closeness you felt to your deceased loved ones on that special day has evaporated into the hot summer air, and the cemeteries are now as lonely and desolate as would logically befit a subterranean refuge for rotting human cadavers.

That energetic calf was quickly stripped away from his mother and crammed into a small pen in the back of the barn, then given bland milk replacer from a bucket as a feeble substitute for the succulent colostrum which resided in his mother’s udder immediately after birth.  The uncomprehending cow wailed mournfully outside the barn door for two subsequent days, but her broken heart has since come to pass and she has moved on in life.

 

And the old fella? 

Yeah, yeah, you know…….that old fella who was attending his granddaughter’s wedding against his better judgment?

Well, fate dramatically intervened in his life shortly thereafter too–his superannuated ticker finally succumbed to exhaustion one afternoon and stopped working altogether–and the poor bastard now resides as a new guest in that aforementioned cemetery.  But you’ll be happy to hear the young newlywed couple is jubilant and starry-eyed and thriving, and still fully immersed in that euphoric embryonic stage of matrimony where they’re consummating their marriage vows every night of the week on whatever flat surface might be available to accommodate their hormone-fueled whims.

 

Oh, so where were you when the lilacs bloomed?

 

That transcendent two-week period in the midst of May when all things seem possible.

When the world stops to catch its breath, and the splendiferous beauty and mesmerizing aroma of the humble lilac bush rules the Universe.

It is a wonderful, elegant, and enchanting occasion then—that special time of the year.

 

When the lilacs bloom……..

 

But then one hot, gusty afternoon, the lilac bushes reluctantly dropped their fragrant petals in the face of a strong southerly wind.

June came to us brazenly and suddenly and rudely that day….…and the world packed up and moved on.

• …..and the long-awaited day finally arrived like a prophet bearing gifts, yet she found the anticipated elegance and pulchritude of that lonely, beleaguered day fell far short of her lofty expectations. Her admittedly excessive enthusiasm was dashed.   Disappointment reigned supreme.  The day felt rather ordinary, vapid…..not that much dissimilar from any of the others which had preceded it.  And right then and there she was struck by an epiphany, one that would stick with her as her constant companion for the remainder of her days on Earth:  Every day IS exactly the same in character as the one which comes before it–twenty four hours in length and bounded by the sun’s appearance and subsequent disappearance on each of its ends–and thus it was entirely up to her to shape the thing in the manner in which she would like to see it unfold.  It was the substrate, the putty, the globby paper mache; she was the sculptor assigned to oversee this construction project on a regular, ongoing basis.  And with this life-changing realization came some overdue peace of mind–a natural tranquilizer which would help define her disposition and outlook on life from that pivotal point forward…..

• I have scarcely any regrets regarding the things I did or at least attempted in my lifetime–including the myriad ill-advised misadventures and fiascoes, the questionable items I sometimes purchased, the places I went–admittedly at times dubiously inspired and insipid and ordinary, the sundry people I met along life’s serpentine pathway–admittedly all not of sterling character……the many times I failed at ANYTHING I have valorously attempted. What I do regret, however, are the adventures and life experiences I did NOT pursue, the coveted items I did NOT purchase for financial reasons or otherwise, the potentially charming places I did NOT go despite chances to do so, the people I did NOT have the privilege of meeting in spite of multiple opportunities to connect with them.  In short, I…..I do not regret any of the events festooning my life or the direction I have chosen to take it, and my biggest regret at this well-past-halfway point of time is that I did not seek to expand upon my desires and did not vigorously pursue other life opportunities in whatever venue they may have manifested.  Been less cautious, in other words, and more open to risk-taking and adventure.  Attacked life, rather than constantly defended myself against it like it was some sort of ravenous predator.  Embraced life at ALL times, instead of pushing it away when it might have felt constricting or slightly dangerous.  LIVED life to its utmost, rather than to have obsequiously allowed it to unfold in front of me as though I was a disinterested bystander.  Everyone pays homage to “living in the moment” and living life to its absolute fullest, but how many of us actually do that?  Only a tiny percentage, if I were to wager a Las Vegas caliber bet.  So your money runs out prematurely?  At least you spent it joyously and on unforgettable experiences that can never be stripped away from you.  So that new “friend” of yours turned out to be a despicable person and someone who more closely resembles an enemy than a true confidant?  At least you gave the person a chance, you learned from the experience, and they left no indelible harmful mark on either your body or your soul.  The time you wasted fecklessly pursuing that disappointing vacation, vocation, or new avocation that in the end turned out to be something you didn’t really like?  It was inarguably better spent in that fashion than in just lounging around on your living room sofa watching old television reruns while chowing down on Pringle’s potato chips.  Life is meant to be LIVED, in other words, not merely endured, and the richness of your life can best be measured by the number of times you chose action over inaction, aggressiveness over passivity, adventure over the status quo, and intrepidly advancing forward over reflexively retreating like a fear-stricken coward.  We are perpetually lectured by every clergyman and self-help guru and social scientist and so-called “expert” that life is a gift–And who among us can argue otherwise against such obvious, elementary “advice”?—yet referencing now your own personal experiences, aren’t the best gifts those we take out of their boxes right away and use extensively, as opposed to those we tuck away on a high shelf in the bedroom closet for safekeeping and thereafter use infrequently, if at all?  Life definitely IS a gift, yes, but only if we choose to use it.  Because if we don’t–If we choose to regard life as an exceptionally fragile item that must be sheltered and guarded and protected at all times and at all costs–then we are discarding the very principle that makes sentience and being human so utterly special in the first place.  Akin to an old Maytag clothes washer that seems to run on and on and on forever, life is an entity that should be used long and hard and extensively.  Babying life, pampering life, and conserving life in order to theoretically preserve it and extend its warranty…..those are “actions” that do not lead to a happy, satisfying long-term outcome.  Life is best when used rigorously and to its fullest extent, and you don’t accomplish this objective by habitually holding back good-sized chunks of it in the name of caution and frugality.

Note:  The following essay was written by Joseph Blahnik, edited by Frederick J. Blahnik, and is excerpted from the autobiographical tome “A Family United Amongst Itself”.

 

Celebrating Catholic Confession (The old-fashioned way!)

By Joseph R. Blahnik

Okay, Readers, let’s first set the scene before we get going here on this true tale:  Early spring–late March or fresh into April–circa 1965, a Saturday,  middle of the evening, the rural Louis and Mary Blahnik household located near the town of Spring

Valley in extreme southeastern Minnesota, which in turn is the furthest north province in the United States’ agricultural midsection, various members of the Blahnik family are gathered in their unkempt kitchen enjoying a liquor-fueled good time. 

Reeadyyyyy…….okay….…ROLL THE CAMERAS!!!!!

Jim had just taken Dad to Confession down in Spring Valley, which many of you probably already know is an ironclad obligation within the Roman Catholic Church during the Easter season.  So in the face of Mom’s insistent previous “request”, spiritually lackadaisical Dad finally relented to her prodding and listlessly succumbed to this yearly duty.  Oldest brother Jim was ordinarily Dad’s chauffeur for the short trek into Spring Valley, in light of the fact Dad could not drive himself owing to his major and permanent lower extremity weakness resulting from his heroic bout with polio in the autumn of 1950.

“He (Jim) became uber-aggressive and oftentimes hostile after quaffing but a few drinks.”

Anyway, some (Most?) years the contrite and newly sin-free pair would stop at a local bar to do a little “after Confession” celebrating with alcohol.  Such was indeed the case on this particular day and Easter season; after pouring out their litany of accumulated sins to an eavesdropping priest ensconced in his darkened adjoining cubicle, the father-son twosome–now unburdened of  all their indiscretions and thus in a cheerful frame of mind–made their regular tavern stop and hurriedly swilled several beers before heading for home.  But bless their altruistic hearts; those two voluble rascals were still obviously touched by their brief brush with Christian principles and were feeling uncharacteristically charitable and thus bought and brought home with them plenty of strong “refreshments” from the Spring Valley Liquor Store in order that

“…..Jim seemed to be feeding off his(Fran’s) anger…..”

the rest of us in the Blahnik family could join in their pre-Easter bacchanal.

After we all drank a few beers and were starting to feel loose and pleasantly lubricated, I suddenly felt an irresistible urge to dance, and the radio in the kitchen of our house was serendipitously tuned to a good Country and Western music station.  Consequently, I started dancing with younger sister Dorothy in the cramped quarters of our messy kitchen and was having a merry old time with the smiling lassie.

Little brother Fran was also helping himself to some of the beer that night……probably way too much as events later demonstrated!  The reader must remember that he was just a young fellow back then–somewhere in his mid-teens–and not too big for his age either, so his alcohol tolerance level wasn’t very high.  Keeping that thought in mind, Fran likewise had a troubling habit of getting mad and irrational quite easily after consuming only a modicum of liquor.

I have never been drunk, but I’ve often been over-served.   —George Gobel

My style of dancing could get pretty wild and uncontrolled back in those halcyon days of Elvis and Andy, and I recollect a semi-drunken Dad made a sarcastic comment with regard to my unconventional form.  For some peculiar reason, this made Fran inordinately angry.

Now you have to understand that Jim fell victim to the same malady as Fran when it came to drinking:  He became uber-aggressive and oftentimes hostile after quaffing but a few beers.

Hence the situation rapidly developing right then was an undeniably volatile one; Fran was already wild-eyed and pugnacious, and Jim seemed to be feeding off the little shit’s anger with each ensuing second as well.  I could see Jim was on the verge of losing his temper and guessed that next he would probably do something outrageously stupid, therefore I started to get nervous.

REAL REAL NERVOUS!!!!! 

In fact, I could tell my older brother was teetering on the brink of fisticuffs, so I decided to walk into the bathroom to allow the two ornery inebriates some time to settle down a bit and collect their bearings.

Did I say walk?

As soon as I headed off in the direction of the bathroom, Jim tore off after me with a furious, crazed look in his eyes.

Walk—–HELL!!!!!

“I took off running like a scared rabbit then…..”

I took off running like a scared rabbit then, with Jim hot on my heels bellowing unrepeatable obscenities in my general direction.  I barely beat him into the bathroom and scarcely got its door locked

“…..Jim had hauled off and in frustration punched the thick wooden door!!”

behind me when I heard a thunderous BANGGGGGGGGGG on the other side of the door.  Unable to get at me personally, Jim had hauled off and punched the thick wooden door in abject frustration!

I turned behind me to look and, incredibly–a big vertical split had materialized all the way across the panel embedded in the door’s upper half.  Mom and the girls started screaming incoherently at Jim and Fran at this juncture, and the two embarrassed miscreants slunk off outside and sat in a car until things cooled down sufficiently inside the house and they sobered up a little. Given the fact it was early spring and the outdoor temperature was still fairly cold and the ruddy-faced partners in mischief hadn’t bothered to take jackets along with them, that process only took a New York minute.

Ultimately, a chagrined and contrite Jim did work diligently to fix the door he had disfigured in a drunken fit of rage, but that aforementioned ugly split remained in the door for as long as I can remember as stark testimony to Jim’s mercurial temper after imbibing too much alcohol.

And his hand?

Yeah, you know…..the one Jim clubbed the door with??

Well, he never broke any bones in it so far as I know, but I imagine it was awfully sore for many days afterward as a glorious, painful reminder to the bombastic buffoon of the unpublicized pugilistic skills which had enabled him to TKO that thick, wooden barrier with a single looping right hook …..[1]

[1] Original, unpublished composition by Joseph R. Blahnik from 2011

Give Them Back…..

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

Melancholy……

I received my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

To joke with and talk to and spoil and stuff full of food

And pretend like things are just the same as they always were……

When they were little and helpless and all mine

But then today I had to give them back to college and society.

Of course they are not the same anymore…..

Not by a long shot!

Melancholy.

 

Melancholy……

I received my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

Gathered together our entire family to celebrate Easter

And pretend like things are just the same as they always were……..

When the crowns of their heads struggled to reach my waist and the munificent Easter bunny was as real as the stars above

But then this afternoon I had to give them back to college and society.

Of course they’re no longer little girls anymore……

No, they’re young women now–beautiful, confident young women!

Melancholy.

 

Melancholy……

I received my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

To reconnect my immediate family and to go visit their aging grandparents

And time-travel back ten years to an era when their world was immeasurably smaller, yet their aspirations still wonderfully intact

To a time when their basketball skills would allow them to be the next Jordan, their intellects the next Einstein, their ambitions the next Bill Gates

But today I had to give them back to college and society.

And then be left to deal with the fact our formerly tight-knit family grouping is slowly unraveling………

And knowing there isn’t a damned thing I can personally do to stop this relentless erosion!

Melancholy.

 

Melancholy……

I received my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

And, oh, what a glorious day and a half those turned out to be!

To reunite as a family and celebrate the majesty of life as one pulsing, homogenous, FAMILY unit

Just as in years past……

…….but it isn’t years past anymore……

I realize this the second I drop my oldest daughter off at college, with our second distaff offspring following suit two hours and a hundred and twenty miles later

And as I turn south and head down lonely Highway 52 with my silent wife and last remaining daughter

I feel a vague aching down in the deepest reaches of my heart……

Like someone or something close to me has died.

And then suddenly, jarringly, unexpectedly……I realize that something has indeed expired………

An age of innocence has passed away, never to return in my lifetime

When my three girls were tiny and sweet and eternally cheerful, and nothing would or could ever interrupt that youthful Nirvana…….

Melancholy.

 

And yet–now something has……

 

Melancholy……

I welcomed my two oldest daughters back for a day and a half

To laugh and to tease and to pretend that things are just the same as they always were

But of course they aren’t anymore…….

That world—that cruel charade, that prevailing epoch of innocence, that ephemeral minute on life’s grand carousel–is gone forever

And it now exists only in a tiny, far-off sulcus of my memory

Bearing poignant witness to a time long past……

Melancholy.

 

Melancholy……

I collected my two oldest daughters for a day and a half to celebrate Easter

And celebrate we did, I tell you!!

We celebrated and manufactured merriment like there was no tomorrow!

But that time flew by like the wings of an eternally forlorn hummingbird

And now my girls are back at college where they belong, and I am back at home without them…..

Melancholy.

 

Oh, the awful, gut-wrenching melancholy this whole deal engenders deep down in my guts!!!!!

Where Art Thou???

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

And the hounds were released from Hell, and for four straight days they sought their vengeance against us three Blahniks clustered on our non-extravagant acreage located in Pleasant Valley Township, Minnesota.  The satanic wind never stopped blowing out of the east with its signature bestial fury over that period of time—only changing direction occasionally, albeit mildly, and then only on some seeming mischievous whim–and the temperature hovered right around the Mendoza Line of freezing throughout its full and miserable duration.  Those days sans power were the very best of times for my Blahnik family…….

No, no……what the hell am I saying here?!  No, of course they weren’t!!  So much for the Dickensian bullshit and all that other clichéd crap!!!  They were in fact the very WORST of times and that is the way they shall forever be remembered in my aging memory, irrespective of the fact each of those vivid recollections will be required to pass through the cleansing, overly generous filter of elapsed time before being stored permanently, just as all past remembrances were asked (ordered) to do.  Let’s be absolutely clear about one thing right out of the chute though:  There is nothing remotely quaint and romantic about being stranded without electricity, illumination, and running water for any period of time exceeding five minutes, and never let any demented, hopelessly-in-love-with-the-past, twentieth century graybeard attempt to convince you otherwise!

And so he slipped outside his freezing house at 4:00 in the morning to take a much-needed piss, after which he walked down to the end of his driveway to survey the surrounding countryside while standing fully exposed to that demonic wind currently blasting with jet engine fury straight out of the west.  And, lo and behold, there were now two farmsteads with lights on not far off to the west—farms that might have already had their electricity restored at dusk, but this of course could not have been reliably ascertained from a distance during the light of day.  It was an encouraging sign, certainly, though one that couldn’t afford him too much satisfaction inasmuch as those house-dwellers were presently sleeping in warm beds that were situated in rooms that could be brightly illuminated with a casual flip of a switch—a couple of which were even invested with.…Gasp—hold onto your seats here and try not to exclaim too loudly, Readers!!!…running water!–while he was standing outside in the unforgiving wind seeking relief for his tortured bladder and shamelessly envying their cushy fate, even as a noisy, bantam-sized, overmatched generator with two extension cords snaking from its front side into the house huffed and puffed in the background just outside the back door to his patio and a stinky kerosene heater struggled gallantly against the harsh elements to infuse his house with a minimal measure of life-sustaining warmth.

And all the while she continues struggling to pack her few things for a life-changing odyssey out west—without the benefit of artificial light and artificial heat and artificial providence—this while recognizing the shameful artifice of Mother Nature in full concert with the overlords who command same for playing such an evil joke on her during a time of intense need.  Her days remaining in Minnesota are numbered down to fewer than two hands of extended digits now, she has a promising job interview scheduled for next Friday just after the noon bewitching hour in the far western state of Oregon, there may be a major snowstorm lurking sinisterly in the towering Rocky Mountains which she must pass through enroute to her ultimate destination, and still this freak pseudo-blizzard assailing us in the middle of April prevents her from adequately preparing for her imminent departure.  Curse this hellish weather already, and curse whoever or whatever came up with the sadistic idea of springing (Pun intended!) it on her at such an unorthodox time of year even as she desperately toils with last minute moving preparations.

And so I beseech of you, my dedicated readers:  Why do we remain huddled inside this absurdly chilly house now shorn of electricity, not unlike those shivering sparrows seeking scraps of food from barren birdfeeders out on the back deck, praying for warmer weather and an immediate cessation of the heinous winds assaulting us Minnesotans from seemingly every direction that latitude and longitude tangents are plotted.  This is, after all, mid-April that we have advanced into now, and the thought that we should be trapped inside a cold residence bereft of electricity for three days running is ludicrous even by Minnesota’s cruelly skewed standards.  Yet we are—Yes, you bet we are, you pantywaist sissies likely clothed in cargo shorts and tank-tops who are reading this sob story from warm weather utopias where your only climatological concern might be a Category 3 hurricane every ten years!!!–and as I eye the putrid shit bucket resting on the floor in the corner of the room closest to the door, I reflect on the fact that we are not so much prisoners of time as we are prisoners of unseemly time—those minutes and hours and days spent wastefully surviving the elements that undyingly seem to be on the attack here in the upper midwestern United States, as opposed to collaborating with them in a joint symphony honoring the beauty and primacy of life on Earth.

I mourn the freakish April weather, but more than that—Yes, so much more than that!—I mourn the missed opportunities, the missed pleasures, and the useless time which such vile weather fully and enthusiastically endorses.  That time shall never be given back to us to use as our hearts desire, and those opportunities for happiness have been vindictively aborted and tossed onto the past’s rapidly expanding trash heap before ever seeing the light of day.  Shame!!!!!  Shame on you for being so selfish and duplicitous, Mother Nature!!!!!  We did nothing to “deserve” this bullying treatment that you so dispassionately dish out to unwary Earthlings who through no fault of their own happen to reside in the northern hemisphere!!!!!

The migratory songbirds freshly (actually not so freshly) up from the South?  Gone—long gone—either through starvation or having sensibly fled these tundraesque environs once the scelerous wind began howling out of the east or just disappeared somewhere into the stygian firmament, never to be seen or heard from again this year.  How do I know this?  Because we southeastern Minnesotans sadly experienced another freak winter tempest (Yes, I know the calendar which is flipped open to the month of April does not jell with this unconventional yet obvious assertion, but it’s nonetheless undeniably true) just last year.  And the robins, which had returned happy and cheerful a good month earlier and some of which had already hatched and were joyously raising broods of fledglings, were nearly completely wiped out for the year in the aftermath of that maleficent storm.  Only one, or at most two, pairs of robins survived the bird holocaust to remain on our prime piece of bird paradise in the countryside equidistantly outlying the sister communities of Stewartville and Racine, which are perched on the busy north-south Highway 63 in the southeastern toe of Minnesota, for the remainder of last spring and summer.  But now we are facing the exact same scenario this “spring” under freakishly similar conditions:  An uber-punishing winter storm swoops down on Pleasant Valley Township out of a gorgeous mid-April milieu and ravages everything in its path, including the migratory songbird population.  My God, only two days ago the ambient temperature around here was seventy degrees Fahrenheit, the sun was shining radiantly, and the birds were singing lustily from the treetops, and now…..and now…..…THIS?!?!?!  Unbelievable, I know, yet I have been blessed (Cursed?) with two perfectly good eyes to incontrovertibly indicate otherwise.  Only the noxious blackbirds seem capable of surviving a vicious, wind-driven onslaught such as the one at hand, and a landowner’s prayers are blatantly rebuffed in this instance inasmuch as those are the only birds in our natural aviary that I would love to see destroyed wholesale.

The two pet dogs, one old and grizzled and the other naturally foolish one ostensibly in his prime?  They are as confused about the present situation as much as anyone or anything, especially the ancient, wizened pooch who has experienced fifteen previous winters and springs.  He doesn’t know for sure what is going on precisely, but then how could he possibly?  Virtually every other year winter ends and spring begins and there is no turning back this natural cycle and starting over from scratch.  But this year—again not unlike last year—winter has returned with a vengeance in the middle of April, and neither of the dissimilar dogs knows what to make of it.  Some instinctive mechanism deep inside them tells them something is not right about this weird dynamic, but reality trumps instinct every time and the outlandishly cold temperatures and the gusty, nefarious winds which never cease and the slushy snow beneath their feet feel as foreign to them in April as it would in July.  The grayish-white curs don’t know what to make of this peculiar aberration in our southeastern Minnesota weather patterns, and if they—much more closely attuned to the natural world and all its idiosyncrasies than technically advanced humans—cannot make good sense of the sorry situation, then how can we two-legged naturephobes possibly succeed in doing so?

The wife?  Mercurial.  At times patient and arrantly understanding, at other times cranky and ranting irrationally and hysterically.  She, like myself, doesn’t always appreciate the pulchritude and serenity of life in the country, and winter (Although April is most decidedly NOT a winter month, understand?!) is the season when she most frequently and vituperatively vents about the inequities of life spent on a remote gravel township road, residing on a homestead that serves as an elephantine magnet for every snowdrift that harbors even the scantest desire to colonize our tri-county area.  And this most recent freak storm only eggs her on more and strengthens her resolve to someday move to a locale where the prevailing weather systems seem more like a friend and less like an enemy.

The trees?  Ah, yes, those fuckin’, infernal mature soft maple trees that form a three-sided ring around our pastoral, two-acre oasis in the flat farmland of southeastern Minnesota.  Those abominable things never cease to be a monstrous source of consternation for me, not least of which is when the wind blows aggressively from ANY direction and then these inherently wimpy scrub trees succumb almost immediately to the buffeting and shed their wares.  Now multiply your average wind speed by a magnitude of ten and imbue this scenario with a bona fide, 3:00-in-the-morning thunderstorm when the atmospheric temperature was a precarious thirty degrees Fahrenheit, and that lethal combination of gusty winds wed to ice-laden branches rendered our entire yard a veritable slaughterhouse for the aforementioned soft maple trees; the grisly results were glaringly plain to the naked eye the next morning.  Sticks and branches of all sizes littered our yard everywhere, and one’s first impression was that our rural property had been strafed with heavy artillery fire for three consecutive hours in the middle of the night, such was the extent of the tree damage.  Well, the massive amount of natural debris lying on the frozen ground ain’t just gonna melt into the soil someday akin to the thin layer of wet snow which immediately ensued the killer thunderstorm, hence that means when this whole shit-story of a power outage calamity is over someone is gonna have to go out there in our yard and dispose of that ugly mess of sticks and branches.  Within our Blahnik family hierarchy, that assignment usually falls on my broad shoulders.  Awesome, I know!!!  Lemme tell ya, there’s nothing I enjoy more than pacing back and forth endlessly on our now-newly-sized fifty acre lawn like a man-of-arms guarding the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, laboriously stooping over every three feet to pick up sticks of all ilk and sizes for eventual burning and depositing them in a dinky wagon I pull behind me.  Yet this unbelievably tedious job must be done irrespective of my pissing and moaning and complaining, and when our ridiculous mid-April power outage is over that task will be sitting right near the top of my extensive to-do list.  Fun, fun, fun!!!  Damn right, so much fun I can’t even bear to think about it!!!!!

The dullards and retards and Trump ass-kissers who keep vociferously denying climate change and insisting that these radical, ever-more-frequent departures from normal weather patterns are natural and not part of a humanity-created problem?  What stupid, ignorant, guileless, witless, inexcusably dumb bastards those people are!!!!!  Ignorance, like most things indigenous to nature, usually knows boundaries, but not in these people’s cases.  The freakish weather events we continue to experience more and more often speaks to a tremendous, ever-expanding problem, and for unforgivably stupid individuals to stand in the way of those who would like to urgently address the problem is sinful and a transgression which should be punished with banishment sans food and water to the furthest, coldest corner of our Universe, and that is only if another meaner, more hostile Universe cannot be found first.  And from that distant outpost the overly opinionated blowhards can bellow into the pitch-black skies to their heart’s content that global warming is just a devilish scheme manufactured by Washington liberals to subvert the coal industry and stymie oil and natural gas exploration off the pristine coast of Alaska.

And so we three Blahniks embody the tiniest rattle on the frank tail end of the rattlesnake, not the source of the problem this time around as was sometimes the case in the past, yet–based solely on our outlying position in extreme northeastern Pleasant Valley Township–standing last in line to be serviced and to have our power restored.  Fair?  Of course not, but why should fairness invade the world of power restoration when it doesn’t exist in any other venue in life?  We will just have to continue waiting patiently (And admittedly sometimes NOT so patiently!) to have our power restored, hopefully by this evening at the latest, and then proceed onward and gratefully with our lives from there.  Going without electricity is a major inconvenience, to be sure, but it is only that:  A major inconvenience.  There are much greater evils and adversities to be faced in life, and anyone who isn’t able to recognize this simple fact deserves to be without power indefinitely.

And then in the midst of everything else and to add insult to injury, I severely pulled the upper glute muscle on my left side while simultaneously pinching a major nerve in my hip as I lifted that deceptively heavy little generator out on the back deck, and after that I became something of a useless invalid—incapable of lifting anything relatively heavy and wholly unable to bend over at the waist without coming face-to-face with a searing, traumatizing jolt of pain that instantaneously radiated upward but mostly downward from my upper ass.  And let me tell you, what hip-slapping (Cue the pun music at this juncture!) fun and party-worthy merriment that sling of fortune was and continues to be for Yours Truly!!

                Yet my painful injury probably does represent the most appropriate anecdote to conclude this maudlin narrative “highlighting” three preponderantly gloomy days of life—my life, that is, but hopefully not yours; a gloomy truncated segment of my sojourn spent here on Earth–if indeed any stage of life should ever be snobbishly dismissed as “truncated” for fear of divine retribution…..

• ALL time spent with someone you love a lot or even a little is “quality time”; there are no exceptions to this rule. You don’t have to fly to the moon on Elon Musk’s fancy new rocket ship, purchase front row tickets to see the spectacularly talented Beyoncé perform in person at Madison Square Garden, attend the Super Bowl and sit at the fifty yard line right next to Brad Pitt, or go on an extended two-week winter vacation to the Turks and Caicos Islands to justify calling time spent with a loved one “quality” time.  ALL time is created equal (Isn’t each hour sixty minutes long?  Isn’t each day here on Earth twenty four hours in length?  Don’t the fabulously wealthy, in lockstep accordance with the pauperized, utilize identical methodology for tracking time?) and thus qualifies as quality time.  Spending a monstrous amount of money isn’t necessary to match that definition, although unfortunately a plentitude of people evidently believe such is the case and pursuantly subscribe to the theory that more is better and the most is best; anything less is cheap and not worth the effort.  Screw that!!!  Screw that with a pneumatic impact wrench torqued to 1000 ft./lbs. of pressure!!!!  Those phony idiots are just poseurs drowning in insecurity.  Time is time; how you choose to spend it and what you perceive as pleasurable is your own fuckin’ business and no one else’s!

They Eulogized Him…..

By Frederick J. Blahnik

 

They eulogized him profusely after he died, of course, said a wealth of nice things about the man personally as well as enthusiastically canonized the life he had chosen to live.

Said all the wonderful things a person might expect to hear in that sort of somber situation, plus countless more to boot.

Eulogized the hell out of him, actually, made the guy sound like the second coming of Jesus Christ if Our Most Holy and Blessed Lord had, in fact, been maybe a couple of inches taller in height, shaved more often, been able to brag of stauncher character, and could have boasted of at least a thousand more influential friends and acquaintances in high-up places.

Yes, they eulogized the poor, stiff, formaldehyde-riven son-of-a-bitch until this garishly frozen-faced corpse was nearly ready to vomit and blush with embarrassment through all of those expensive chemicals a professional cadaver handler had injected into his body to make him look presentable, even “good” (Think of the fairy tale featuring “The Emperor Without Clothes” right now when you consider what “good” means in this context, okay?!).

 

But the germane point here is clear:  What is true?  Were all those flattering words truly applicable and accurate with regard to this ridiculous corpse lying “in state” (In a state of what?! Purgatory?!  Alarm?!  Comfort?!  Ecstasy?!  Panic?!) in a three-thousand-dollar, regally embossed, steel-made casket that’ll protect him for perpetuity from those ravenous, predatory earthworms that evidently must be the everlasting scourge of the Underground Kingdom?

Of course not…..

Death serves as the great cleanser, the great purifier, the great equalizer, the great filter.  People—even those who might be undeserving, which undoubtedly includes the great majority of us—are lionized after their deaths to the point where it becomes nauseating.   Ersatz sainthood is posthumously bestowed upon individuals who in their living years never came close to approaching that laudable standard.  Despicable louts become acceptable, ordinary people become exemplars, and good people immediately ascend into demigod status.  All simply because they died.  All because they are no longer around to create trouble for anyone.  All because…..they were once alive and now they no longer are.  Nothing more than that really.  Nothing secondary to estimable exploits on their part.  Nothing secondary to valor or unbridled courage or wanton altruism.  Nothing secondary to true, earned merit.  Death effectively cleanses people of the preponderance of their sins, and humanity’s instinctual leniency elevates virtually everyone to a higher plane of virtue once life leaves their body.  Strange, I know, but true.

But do you want to know the absolutely strangest aspect which attends this riddle?  People who are dead cannot of course fight back or defend themselves in any manner, thus they could be villainized and demonized and satanized ad infinitum with no fear of retribution.  They could be blamed for anything and everything, including the plunging stock market, the irksome food poisoning you picked up at that greasy-spoon restaurant last Saturday evening, the skyrocketing price of artichokes, the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa, this tediously long winter which has already stretched on for at least thirteen months and  counting, and even the loathsome oaf we currently have residing in the White House—who in truth if they did vote for him they SHOULD be vituperatively and posthumously held responsible for an unforgivable transgression.  Dead people cannot defend their honor, cannot resuscitate damaged reputations, cannot confront and rebut character assassins.  As such, they stand as easy targets for vengeful, cold-hearted survivors, yet surprisingly such a scenario rarely plays out.  Rather, the deceased are granted a free pass and their reputations left intact or–far more commonly as I previously elucidated–said reputations are egregiously escalated beyond recognition. These individuals become the paragons in death they never came close to approaching in life.  And so be it, I guess.  In the spirit of carrying fairness to its nth degree, better that than the opposite…..

 

Yes, they eulogized the guy profusely after he died, naturally, yet what they didn’t do was accurately identify him for what he stands for now and what he best represents at the present time sans a soul—A soul is the transcendent touchstone to consciousness and the only aspect of us which cannot be chemically categorized; therefore our soul represents who we TRULY are and not simply what we look like to others; our physical bodies are merely temporary storage containers which revert back to fundamental carbon derivatives over time following the demise of sentience–which almost certainly fled his body the second his brain ceased functioning.

And what might that lonely abandoned corpse be, you’re probably scratching your head and asking yourself right at this exact moment?

Simple…..

A year-long bonanza of “fresh” food for any resourceful earthworm that can somehow finesse its way inside a steel-walled sarcophagus.

• The wizened old veterinarian returned home at the end of a tiring day of work, all ready to eat a hearty supper and then kick back on his living room sofa to watch a good game of professional football on television. His wife was right there at the front door to greet him, smiling broadly and cheerily inquiring, “How did your day go, Sweetheart?  Was everything fine?  I bet you’re dog-tired after working so hard!!”  The aged veterinarian glanced over at her as he wearily hung his cap and dirty jacket on a door-side hook, before responding in a laconic tone devoid of emotion.  “Oh, alright I guess, Mabel…..when I spoke with you on the phone this morning I was beginning to feel a little hoarse, but after a while it went away and  by this afternoon I was actually hale and hearty and felt like a new man!”  His wife eyed him with dagger-eyed suspicion for several awkward seconds; she subsequently addressed her longtime companion in an irate voice brimming with sarcasm.  “Feeling a little horse this morning, were you?!  No wonder your attitude this afternoon reversed direction so suddenly!  Can’t you be trusted alone with farm animals for even one lousy day, Clem?!  What are you…..some sort of a livestock-infatuated pervert?!?!”

• Each day is different in some respect–that difference may be elephantine or it may be atomic, doesn’t matter–but this variance, more than anything else, is what makes life so special and endearing in the first place. Stability may be comforting and as soothing as a steaming sauna, yet it is also intrinsically yawn-provoking; therefore change of any kind is a good thing and necessary for personal growth.  Embrace any and all changes and affectionately wrap your arms around them, since life is not suddenly going to shift into reverse and zoom backwards simply because you’re feeling nostalgic and want it to.  And do remember this point in passing, in light of the fact it is the most important aspect to be taken away from today’s kernel of advice:  Whatever new change comes your way–positive, negative, or nonaligned–will only be transitory, inasmuch as there will most assuredly be something newer  and different following closely on its heels…..ad infinitum, ad infinitum, ad infinitum…..