An English In Kentucky


















Sunday October 21st 2018Tim Candler9


     When your gardener finally made it to the downstairs this morning temperatures were hovering around the freezing point in a manner he can only describe as blatantly flirtatious. In my own mind I realized a dilemma, a part of it wanted to get the entire thing over with and just for goodness sake freeze, bring on the Shivering Naraka and get the thing done. Another part of my mind struggled with the awesome possibility of it not freezing, let the year linger it argued, Monarchs are still around, a potted Cherry Tomato has yet to be confined to the fires of hell and everyone knows the slow, horrible, agonizing death a freeze offers a Moon Flower Vine. Well, all I can say is so much for a Loving God, gentle, meek and mild. More like a bad tempered, vengeful old narcissist with smelly feet and a drinking problem. But I will say this for him, he understands propaganda.



     Years ago, on the North American Continent, back when there was a Frog in the Moon instead of a Man made of cheese, there was a tale for us children. Consider the Sandhill Crane that come to our lake in the Spring and depart in the Autumn. One year, a younger Crane heard the older Cranes discussing the changes in the weather, they'd sniff the air, look wise and he heard them all agreeing that soon now they'd have to fly south before it got cold. The younger Crane, an independent and free spirit, thought this nonsense, he had no intention of going anywhere, there was nothing wrong with the lake and the idea of flying for thousands of miles struck him as being absurd, a long way from anything like a so called exciting adventure. "I don't care! I'm staying!" Soon he was alone, cold, frost and his lake froze. An ugly realization for him, but the thing is, without the others of his clan, he didn't know how to fly south.

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