I am Five Years Old!


My Blog Speaks, on His 5th Birthday…

“Momma says I am a Big Boy now and I should go clean my room. It is my birthday. I am five years old.  I don’t want to clean my room. If I clean my room I won’t be able to find my toys. Momma says I can have cake- if I clean my room. Will you clean my room?”

But seriously folks…

If my blog  was a child, he would be a rather precocious five year old. Today is his birthday, so it is a really, really special day for him. It is one of the days you might even remember when you are 86 years old and all you can remember about being five is your kitty cat birthday cake with the gum drop eyes, nose, and mouth. But blogs are not people…you have to re-post, quote, feature, or summarize a post to bring back a blog memory.

Some of your favorite posts (apart from Google’s obsession with Mister Fritter) came when I was living deep in the mountains, and had serious snow days to compose posts at odd hours like 11:30PM or 2 AM when I could not sleep because the wind was howling outside the windows and doors of my little house…and no one would be at work in the morning because no one was going anywhere in 6…to…36 inches of snow.

It was a particularly healing time for me in my life, even though I was isolated, and quite possibly because I was so isolated. Pouring out thoughts a few fingers at a time, at all hours of the day and night, can be refreshing to the spirit.

It began with a memory I had of climbing one of Ireland’s highest mountains in County Kerry with my cousins…ending with our Cork cousin leading the party out of a fog so thick I felt blinded and therefore lost…but the Corkman did not lead us astray, and we were back in a pub later, me at the crisps, and the other lads at the beer…but a rather humorous journey because we had been humoring him about the possibility of the white mist coming down and how he’d be lost and everything…and sure, we’d lead him out of there all right…

and so The Lost Kerryman (at wordpress) was born. and I determined to bring to it a bit of that same humor that has prevailed in my family.  along the way, I discovered some special friends on wordpress, kindred spirits, most of whom have gone on to another  plane of communication that does not include wordpress.

To them, and to you, my dear reader, I do appreciate your interest.

For those who have stuck by all these years, thank you. Some of you have inspired me to write similar posts, to explore similar subjects, or to boldly go where no blogger has gone before.

For those of you who have not known me, nor my blog, since I began….I thank you, and I ask you to share with me your thoughts about posts or the blog itself.

Looking forward to the next five years…

 

 

 

 

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dreams of love


parsleynaan

she’s a bit stiff around the edges….a bit pale, pasty, and tender…but I love her. her aroma sets her apart from the others. when I walk by, I cannot but stop and stare. she’s a looker, that’s for sure.

sure, she’s had her ups and downs. some says she’s a bit twisted. but I like her that way. she’s genuine, never pretentious.

I met her in a restaurant. I sat down, she sat down. we became acquainted. she was so inviting, I could not resist.

maybe I should not have invited her to sit at the table. maybe I should have behaved. but life is short, and sometimes you can miss love as it passes by. 

but now I dream of her in the night, and sometimes, I can feel myself smiling at the thought…the two of us together again…until I wake up and realize she is gone forever…

 

 

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A funny thing happened on the way to the…snowstorm?


Nearly 5 years ago…the first post

the lostkerryman

Winter in the mountains is not for wimps. It is for those, accustomed to indoor intellectual pursuit, who know how to weather a storm. Those with sense accumulate a magazine of loaded books and other low-tech learning materials. One might even say, they burrow in, content to hibernate inside, while the swirls of snow blow fiercely upon the face of the earth. And that would be just what we all normally prepare to do as winter’s icy fingers grasp the edges of our calendars…until this year.

For in the midst of solar flares from the sun, and global hot air inside various parliaments and congresses, winter failed to meet us…she ditched us for another date. Yes, she exhibited some signs of love, spitting flakes here and there, but nothing any wimp could not handle. You could say, she abandoned “tough love.” That was, until Friday night.

In the tradition of…

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Rare and fatal bleeding, or “how to order a juicy steak”


When I met my wife- the original- she could cook a steak in a frying pan without adding butter or cooking oil. She simply lit the burner and watched the blue flames heat the skillet until the steak was nicely browned on both sides….the consistency of a shoe insert.

In my own endearing way, I expressed great pleasure with her inedible creations by shoving pieces under the table for her cat, while wiping my mouth with a paper napkin. It took me months before even revealing that I actually knew the secret to making an edible steak. Of course, this would come at a price- the price was that she would have to relinquish the job of chef if I was to share this wonderful revelation. 

I do not recall her making me any more steaks…ever…

When she got pregnant with our first, she had a craving for steak. This is not necessarily a good thing for a struggling new husband, who worked like a dog for The Man….I mean, who labored for hours doing menial work that older men would not do. But, life was a bit more fair in those days when it came to getting a meal at a restaurant, especially one with a buffet.

One buffet was all the rage- all you can eat steak, with salad bar, for $4.99 a piece. These were not ordinary steaks, these were juicy ribeyes, sirloins, New York Strips, all cooked to perfection and brought to your table. The servers would explain in detail what each preparation method would entail…by showing us sample glossy photos of steaks with different strips of red, or no red at all, which must be adhered to, in order to get one’s steak.

The now familiar scale of rare, medium rare, medium, and so on was shown the customer, as if the customer were going to take a written test on the material after the meal. One could not, at that time, order a “lightly rare,” or “extremely well-done” steak. You could not “have it your way.” You could not order “a 4 inch wide red streak” in your steak or any other deviations from the photo list.

Now, some of those restaurants are closed…gone forever…and their salad bar heavens have gone the way of the Cabbage Patch Doll or the one-stringed ukulele from Odd Lots. Now, we have choices, so many choices. So many choices that one can create choices and claim they have always been choices. Like the choice to mate with furniture…or live life as a life-size Raggedy Ann Doll. So, it should not come as a surprise that food choice has entered a new frontier, where “rare” and “medium” are rarely mentioned, and new ideas of steak-readiness have invented a whole new series of phrases.

For, just like the newly discovered symptoms that appear from taking a newly advertised drug on TV, the newly prepared steak comes in a wide range of philosophically friendly cooking choices, from “lightly killed,” to “murdered in wine sauce.”

The pharmaceutical world, which rules the life of average American adults, has slipped into the food preparatory culture and brought us more than nine steak grades, from “Raw” to “Fatal.” The raw steak is organically pure with only Himalayan Pink Salt rubbed into the surface structure of the meat, while the “Fatal” is blackened on all sides, including the ends, to seal in the “taste of black death.” “Fatal” can be cooked with “Rare and Fatal Bleeding,” which is an episode that may or may not occur, if the steak is slashed at just the right angle. The purpose is to create “in cold blood” on a plate, an artistic arrangement of the finest charred yet rare steak to ever be created, mixing both ends of the flaming spectrum. 

To say it will not be your father’s steak world is an understatement; refining the steak preparation philosophy to include such choices should create a niche of steak culture the world has never seen.

 

 

 

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Pardon my astonishment


As a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool returns to his folly.

                Proverbs 26:11

pardon my astonishment, but it never ceases to amaze me…when a woman I have known well…who, in her flowering youth, speaks boldly about what she will do in the world….seeking to escape the degradation she has endured….begins her post-adolescence running from job to job, and man to man, burning through them like fire through grass and leaves….like a fireball…destroying lives and the hopes and goals of others…until sometime after menopause, crash landing a few blocks away from where she started, a reflective lesson of a life wasted on selfish ambitions, only to collapse into a state of uselessness.

no woman…nor man…should land in middle age like that. if, after 50 years, you have no legacy of love that lasts, that changes lives for the better, that reflects your creator…what in the world is your purpose in life? i am appalled at how many people i meet…who could care less what happens to their children, their wives, or their husbands…who, in their selfishness see only their own flippant desires- which sometimes are the opposite of love, hope, and peace- as their gods, their reasons for existence.

you were not created to wallow in stupidity, nor to throw sense to the wind and live with no focus on what life is all about. Nor were you meant to love half-heartedly, wounding lives in the process, while claiming that you are the one having been injured. To live in such selfishness is to live like a dog who returns to his vomit…it lacks all reasonable sense.

I am not God, so I do not know if there is any more hope for her. I pray there is. But, it does appear that there comes a time when a selfish person is given over to what will destroy them, because their minds have been so warped that they literally rage against God. 

So, while there is still daylight in this world, pray for….and confront those…headed down the road to destruction, that somehow they will come to their senses before it is too late. 

 

 

 

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random concerto # 3, by Konstatin Kaffeine, in b minor


that moment you realize… you will be up for the rest of the night…

is there no antidote?

why is there no antidote?

why can’t I have all the benefits of caffeine…no more headaches, a lighter bladder, sharpened ponderings at unearthly hours of the night…

without insomnia?

drinking too much caffeine when you are already tired is like being stuck on a twelve hour flight to the Vatican with a plane full of nuns…no way out of this sluggish spiral…

…until you crash land in your nice, comfy bed.

but first, let’s all go to the restroom…

again and again.

and again.

of course, we can solve all this….at 3 AM…by making a sandwich. Yes, a sand-which or -wich. Whichever works for you. Excuse me while I  go eat another lunch…

 

Well now, that was nice. Kind of reminded me of yesterday. Only yesterday was not a day  separated by a sleep time, a night.

it does help make me sleepy. a little bit. maybe. possibly. if I crawl into bed, maybe, just maybe I will fall asleep.

 

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New Project


 at     everydayasadisciple@wordpress.com

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Pleasantries and Pungentries


if you happen to drive on Pleasantville Road, you’ll find it is pleasantly straight. in my youth, such straightness would be appalling. Now, it is glorious. Akin to driverless transportation…pointing the car in one direction and dreaming through the next fifteen minutes…it is the future of vehicle travel- driving with the subconscious.

But Pleasant Corners Road is not so pleasant. Drive fast for a mile, then hit the brakes and swing 90 degrees to the right. Foot to the pedal and before you can count to three…swing 90 degrees left. Drive north. Straight north. But if you go far enough, you will smell the pungentries.

Maybe it seeps through the doors…I don’t know…but the smell could kill you. it is like inhaling Jalfrezi sauce at 90 miles an hour…except more pungent. As in cloves, cardamom, curry, and spices your mother never warned you about. If you are a curry virgin, beware, because you’ll never be the same again.

life changing, stimulating. pungent.

Not like a locker room full of 13 year old boys without deodorant. More like sitting on a sandy beach snoozing in the summer sun while a strange but unmistakably tantalizingly enrapturing aroma…so pleasant, it is like your first tasty kiss, your first successful romantic meal, your first turn at the wheel driving a super-fast speedboat…inhaling a fragrance, a dream. You want more. You suck in the breeze, becoming delirious with happiness…

…or at least, becoming enthralled that you just spent $7.99 on an all-you-can-eat Indian buffet the size of a pre-hibernation dinner. and it is in that moment that you realize that….all the pleasantries in the world cannot replace the pungent joys in the world.

am I hungry?

sure…

but sad. it is sunday night. and the buffet does not open on Mondays…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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A New Year in The Middle Ages


I resolve, within the hours remaining before the big hand and the little hand are both on the twelve, to (1) be soberly considering a theme for the New Year (2) be engrossed in some sort of activity that appears to be of the utmost importance, and (3) be aware of the copious amount of soup that I consumed earlier in the evening when planning the rest of the Pre-New Year’s hours and the immediately following Post New year’s Eve hours.

after all, I  am now a serious adult, in that beyond-normal-adulthood, when everything must be as serious as an attack of dyspepsia…or some other ancient sounding malady.

….such is life in “The Middle Ages,” that time of life when all the sharp ideas we had when we were 12 seem to be lost in a fog of forgetfulness, and we have to fight back against nursing passing fancies  of  what could have- should have- would have- been if we had had a moment of destiny with so-and-so, who went off to the Big City, married another man, and twenty years later got lost in the middle of Times Square on New Year’s Eve and was never heard from again…

….but may someday be found wandering around in a small New England-like town where Christmas, sleigh bells, and amnesia are common…and can be solved with a chance magical encounter with a QC magazine cut-out man (who also happens to be signed to a dubious acting contract). I, personally, have never met a woman with amnesia wandering around one of my favorite small towns, but I suppose one must find that particular place in order to escape “The Middle Ages” and find said Princess Charming, who obviously would melt in my arms like the finest butter in the whole wide world…

or not…………………………………………………………………………

suffice to say I will celebrate the New Year like a Castaway on an island using seashells as currency, rather than in a crowd of the most interesting people in the world (according to their blogs). if you do happen to see an amnesiac, an amnesia-ite, an amnesiatic …please send her my way. she may in fact be a long lost crush from when I was 12, and when she still had a perfect …sense of humor…at the time.

until then, I hope you enjoy these last fleeting minutes before it is time to get used to 2017, and all she brings.

Ah go on…have a Happy New year!

 

 

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Stalking the not-so-wild turkey


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a long, long time ago in a state of mind far, far away, things were different. people were different. even animals were different. and some of it was good. people knew to throw out expired food, smart people did not converse using infantile slang like “bae” or “vacay,” and the pope was not as left-wing as your dumbest presidential candidate.

yes, there were still clowns, and yes, many of them were in politics, but the woods were not filled with scary clowns during election cycles.

other cycles, like menstrual cycles, and motor cycles, were not wildly popular with those who did not have to mess with them.

back then, you could order a mess of beans, or go foraging for a mess of wild onions armed with your STALKING THE WILD ASPARAGUS. you might entertain romantic ideas about a creature in the woods, without being relegated to a fake news channel.

but you might be relegated to other things….like being picked last when it came to choose players for dodge ball, an aggressive sport Snowflakes would not survive during the long wintry process of choosing sides.

choosing to procrastinate in school was much easier then. the “ubiquitous they” did not inflict students with multiple remedial classes when they forgot to do their homework, lost their essay in the lawnmower, or simply decided to be an anarchist for a six weeks grading period.

still, not everything within that period was peachy keen. if you were ugly, you were told you were ugly, and to what extent. if you were pretty, every last single guy in school wanted to shove anonymous love notes into your locker (from a “secret admirer”) because as a young man it was not as painful a process to imagine yourself waking up to that face every morning.

but, there were only so many pretty girls…and someone…usually a nice guy like you…was left with the turkeys. not wild turkeys, mind you, but the kind of turkeys only a turkey could look at every morning. and you knew that if you married that turkey, you would wake up every morning to…ugly.

and hormones being what they were…back in the day before video games took away the testosterone…even a turkey had a hope, as long as she did not stumble and fall while trying to balance her weight as she clucked forward.

so the boy who was always picked last ended up being chosen last in the turkey trot of high school life, despite his efforts to avoid the tournament completely and claim celibacy and a longing for the monkhood, ended up face to face with a not-so-wild bird who teetered and tottered. Feeling sorry for the bird, the boy, feeling like a pinball wizard, decided to take a walk on the not-so-wild side.

alas, the poor hormones, completely befuddled, failed to see the truth right before their eyes. and before taming them, the boy overshot his pinball and tilted the game. the turkey saw that she was indeed ugly, but she had a great personality. unlike  the other turkeys that fought gravitational pull, she stopped eating everything in sight, became the face every boy wanted to wake up to, and ended up a beautiful princess.

so…the boy went back to the back yards in search of chickory, the woods in search or morels, and the old barn yard…in search of the wild asparagus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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