It’s morning on a remote river, fog low to the water. My canoe is repacked with maybe fifteen miles paddling downriver before dusk. I check the map and mark a few rapids that will require study before shooting. I push my canoe into the dark water. A chill is in the air.
At age 10, I delivered papers every morning. I kept one paper to read. I wanted to be a reporter and write for a newspaper.
It all started on my grandfather’s farm when I was 10 years old, during the Great Depression. When my chores were done, I dug some worms, got my cane pole and headed for the old mine pond.
It would be refreshing to have a political campaign devoid of contentious mudslinging between candidates for office.
My wife loves garage sales. Last week she found some old CDs, soft music that brought back fond memories.
I wrote an article critical of the football kneelers. I got pummeled by one reader I do not know, implying I am radical giving too much importance to a piece of cloth.
Let me paint a picture for people who believe Old Glory is unimportant.
Maybe the candidates for Governor are equally qualified but the doctored pictures used by one candidate to make her opponent appear shop-worn provided me the reason to vote Republican. I will not consider a Democrat because collectively they want me to give up my guns leaving me without protection against marauders.
Seeing multi-millionaires run, fall, get up, run, fall, get up ad nauseam with silly high-fives bored me so much I quit watching NFL football.
When the spectacle ends, they climb into luxury cars wearing flashy jewelry, drive to lavish homes, enjoy fine cuisine, dress in designer’s clothing then head out for an evening of convincing their naïve minions what princely legends they will become.
Aware of consequences early in life taught me to avoid places where alcoholic beverages are served. I know if a drunk commits a felony I could be considered guilty by association.
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