An English In Kentucky


















July 1st  2011    Tim Candler

    I do not pop from the toaster in the morning.  It's more a glaze of idea, a crooked egg or a muffin, that creeps down the stairs.  And for good reason I then attach myself to the television news and wait for someone to say something irritating or pompous.  Usually about four minutes and I am awake enough.

    When we were about the size of a squirrel, just as the dinosaurs gave way to the birds, about sixty million years ago, it wasn't food that took us from our night-time.  Nor was it curiosity, or a desire to learn, or a search for meaning or any of these ludicrous notions.  It is more likely something in the complexity of being grumpy that put us on the path to a tailless and upright existence.

     So it is as well that so many pretenders to presidential throne profess beliefs so peculiar that on these long days I am up and useful earlier and earlier.  And later I have to leave the county, go to the big town, four hours of driving through what is so cheerfully called 'holiday traffic'.       

    And then there are the good old days.  A Chipmunk burrowing in the Beans.  The curious life of Stink Bugs.  The beautiful children of Colorado Beetle.  A picturesque wilt in the Eggplant.  And the adorable little rabbit The Artist so patiently trapped and released is back and wistful for Flax, for Indian Pinks, for the smell of Lavender and for slices of Apple.

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