Thoroughly Modern Millie

 

Millie didn’t appreciate your letter.  She had built an elaborate web inside my mailbox and the moment the postman slid your letter into the box, her home got torn apart. 

Her kitchen is still a mess, and her family room remains crumpled into a heap over there in the corner.  I tell you, she wasn’t happy. 

Ordinarily spiders just rebuild after something ruins their home, but Millie had thought she had finally found the perfect location, sheltered from rain and snow, out of the wind and yet still warm from the sun.  With the introduction of electronic mail, there has been a substantial reduction in junk mail showing up in the box.  Really, she thought she had it made. 

Snack-size insects were still finding their way into the mailbox, so there was never any worry about going hungry.  There was no place inside where her sticky web didn’t reach.  The tiny bugs never stood a chance. 

Fortunately, she was away when it happened, so there were no injuries.  I found out when I went out to check for mail.  She had just returned from her trip out into the yard.  I opened the little door to the mailbox and looked inside.  She was very angry, standing there with her hand, and hand, and hand on her hip, tapping her foot, her foot, her foot and her foot. 

I quietly apologized and slid your letter out, trying not to cause any additional damage to her web.

 

 

Thanks, by the way, for writing.

 

 

 Z. Corwin

🕸️ A Letter for Millie (which you may deliver at your discretion)

Dear Millie,

I never meant to topple your home. I didn’t know my words would arrive like a storm. If I could have knocked politely on the mailbox door, I would have. If I could have tiptoed past your pantry, I would have. If I could have asked permission to enter your beautifully woven world, I would have.

I hope your kitchen finds its corners again. I hope your family room uncrumples with dignity. I hope the snack‑sized wanderers continue to wander in. And I hope your next web—whether in that mailbox or somewhere new—feels even more like home.

With respect, The Letter‑Sender Who Meant No Harm

101

 

I am easily bogged down in philosophical entanglements such as the Trolley problem. 

 

“Out of the crooked timber of humanity
         no straight thing was ever made.”
                                      Immanuel Kant

 

        I see much philosophy as verbal exits.  Nothing more than circular conversations leading to higher ground in hopes of keeping your shoes dry.  Non-ending searches for solutions that don’t exist, sprinkled with catch phrases that are nothing more than temporary detours.  

 

        We have built dead ends and roundabouts into our language.  Colleges and universities continue to gather tuition, reflecting the image of big business, all the time knowing the path to knowledge remains under construction.

 

        As new technology attempts to blend with ethical behavior, the trolley picks up speed and finding solutions becomes more pressing.  Eventually it is no longer people tied to the tracks but our way of life.

        ZC

 

 

 

 

       

 

 

 

Every Time a Bell Tings...

 

I believe that one of the things that make it Heaven is the absence of everyday annoyances, like whiskers constantly growing from your face.  People finally learn to be happy with themselves and with what they have.  Without our bodies there can be no disease or pain or injuries.

There is no such thing in Heaven as war or hunger or overcrowding.  No one has ever frozen to death in Heaven and there is no pain of childbirth, but simply a tinkling of a bell and another angle is born.  Your neighbors sit on porches that never require painting.  The idea of money is completely foreign, and severe weather events only happen on Earth.  How we were while alive and how we treated others – that is our permeant record and the only thing that follows us. 

Yes, there is music, although not like you think.  It is both gentle and familiar.  It is not specific to any people or culture but simply blends with the quiet that is harmony itself.

 

 

 ZC

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But he wasn't

He looked as we do.  He spoke as we spoke, in fact, most thought he was one of us.  Proficient with the language and mannerisms and knowledgeable with our individual distinctions.  He blended in perfectly, with a personality skilled in both seriousness and shenanigans.

The problem didn’t surface until his doctor told him to cut back on his salt intake.  Review of his diet shed unfortunate light on his propensity for Coca-Cola.  The consumption of which was off the charts.  Never had he been seen when he didn’t have a Coke in his hand. 

The professional guidance he was being given was completely based upon him being as we are.  But he wasn’t, and it wasn’t long before the reduction of salt in his diet began to have serious effects.  And it was on the advice of his physician that Coke disappear from his regiment.  This proved to be devastating, physically and mentally. 

His desire to please those around him led him to follow the advice given, even though he could feel the negative effects taking hold.  He knew that any attempt to convince others that his system was different than theirs would not be taken seriously, so he didn’t even try, knowing full-well he was headed for a startling diagnosis.  

 

 ZC

 

 

 

From the back room

On Mondays and Thursdays

No matter the day

 

I walk into town

It’s a footpath away –

 

I buy up a butter, an egg

And some booze

 

I pick up a bread and yesterday’s news

 

My cabin’s decrepit

A shambles to see

 

But just out of town

It’s a castle to me –

 

I have me a table, a chair

And a light

 

And some glowie-eyed creatures

That show up at night

 

I’ve got me a pencil, a pad

And some chew –

 

I occasionally spit

After writing to you

 

For all that I have

There’s just one thing I lack

 

A friend with a pencil

To just write me back –

 

Someone with a table

A bread and an egg

 

A folded up matchbook

Stuck under one leg –

 

A friend who could write

With nothing to say

 

And send it to me

Just a footpath away –

 

Then I’d have me a tree

With an old tripping root

 

The one that I curse

When I fall on my snoot –

 

I’d have all the things

On this glorious day

 

For I’d have gotten letter

from a footpath away –

 

It’s on cloudy Wednesdays

I strike up a fire –

 

I click up the lamp

Only one click up higher

 

I take out the book

Though I’ve read it before –

 

And flip where I left off

No - one page before

 

The hero was chasing

Though he seemed to be late

 

A villain already

Across chapter eight –

 

Tuesday’s of course

I mop up the floor

 

I sweep out the corners

Like never before –

 

And I oil the hinges

That hang every door

 

I load up the washer

With colors and brights –

 

Gather my sweats, my shirts

And my whites –

 

Sprinkle in soap

As the water floods in

 

Then float half a lime

In a small glass of gin –

 

It’s Fridays, of course

That I love to see

 

The air it is fresh

The wind, it is free –

 

It’s a gift that delivers

The weekend to me

 

By Saturday night

My mind is adorning

 

The weekly events

That make Sunday Morning –

 

I arrange and embellish

I garnish and splash –

 

Add too many commas

An occasional dash –

 

I end it when I’ve

Not a thing left to say –

 

And wait for reply

from a footpath away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

ZC

 

  

Thank Heaven for Gift Shops

 There is a large hotel along the freeway.  Because they want everyone traveling this way and that way to see their lovely hotel, they place large flood light pointing up at their building.

Two things happen.  Travelers at night can easily see the hotel, and any guests inside can never fall asleep due to the bright lights flooding into their room.

Fortunately, their gift shop sold aluminum foil.

        ZC

 

Before this Blog

 Long before I started this Blog, I wrote articles for my small band of friends, it was called, Sunday Morning.  I came across an old copy of one a few moments ago and thought I'd share it with you.

Hello Fun Seekers,

          It’s almost official, which is to say, it is getting real close to not quite springtime.  There have been a few days up into the 40’s and the snow has begun to recede up onto the lawn and away from the warmth of the driveway. 

          I understand that may not mean to much to those of you living out along the coastline of this Email transmission, but for the rest of us, it is the spark of hope that we have been waiting and watching for since that last Christmas present was opened.

          Bulky winter coats will go back into the cedar closet, replaced by light windbreakers.  The snow thrower will swap places with the lawn mower and hearty soups will take a back seat to burnt things on the bar-b-q.

          Neighbors, who for the past several months held a shovel in one hand while waving a mitten of hello with the other, will soon step freely out of their houses, take a deep breath, smelling the young tulips adorning their gardens, pick up their morning paper and greet the day with a smile.

          Yeah, right.  I may have carried that a little too far.  They will still be here in Detroit, still governed by idiots, and that lame excuse for a paper will tell them how low their property values have fallen.  Nonetheless, it will soon be spring:  a time when we seem to come back to life.   We will open the house up, let the warm breeze flow through and maybe even drag the garden hose out and wash the cars.

          Dandelions will festoon the yards and there is sure to be some new insect infestation plaguing us.  One year it was ladybugs, then grasshoppers, flying ants, spiders, and then one year some weird stinky baby worms.  Once it was some moth or something that threatened to eat all the trees, then it was the dreaded mosquitoes carrying the west Nile virus.  My God, this place is something else.   And the deer ticks, goodness, you can’t forget the deer ticks.

 

          I’ll be glad when its winter again, and I can just sit inside and watch movies.   Now that’s fun.

 

 

 

 

Admit One

 

The Way We Were

         

 

 

I am Zobostic Corwin

and this is Sunday Morning

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