High Steaks

It's not a Jingle...

It isn't a slogan,

It could be a motto...

but is sounds more like a threat.

This is the side of their carry-out container.

Not mine, but I liked it.

But there wasn't any

I am not a magician, I cannot do tricks, nor can I levitate. I say this up front so you’ll understand when I say – I am as confounded as you’ll be when you read this.  It was three days ago when it first happened.  I was walking around my house, heading for the backyard to refill my bird feeder.  During the night the deer had emptied it.  They do that.

OK, so as I’m walking I am looking at the ground.  My yard always has some kind of tripping hazards, like fallen branches, chipmunk holes or the garden hose.  Anyway, as I’m walking I feel myself lift just a little off the ground.  It startles me so I stop walking, and yet I’m still moving forward, over the ground.  I’m actually floating but still heading in the direction I intended to go.

I’m truly enjoying the feeling but at the same time feel uneasy in not having any control over what’s happening.  I’m sure that from across the street it would appear as if the wind had lifted me and was carrying me along.  Something like that I could accept, but there wasn’t any wind, not to mention, at my weight it would have taken quite a gust.  

By the time I reached the bird feeder I was again touching the ground.  Nothing was propelling me forward.  If I was to reach the feeder I’d have to take two more steps.  I did.  Walking back to my garage went normally.  I walked the entire way.

I wanted to try duplicating that experience but have my cell phone set up as I passed by.  I couldn’t imagine telling anyone what had happened without having movie proof of the experience.  I walked back and forth several more times that day but nothing happened.  I was just walking, no lift-off, no floating or magic, nothing.

Yesterday, after being reminded that if I didn’t bring the garden hose in it would freeze and most likely crack; making it useless next spring.  I took the same route as I did for the bird feeder.  I kept hoping I’d once again get to experience my little floating adventure. 

Sure enough, as I rounded the front corner of the house I became airborne.  I was maybe 5 or 6 inches from the ground, moving towards the backyard. I wanted to yell out, get someone’s attention but I hadn’t seen any of my neighbors out in this cold.  It’s a rare occasion when I see them going out to check their mailbox.  There was no one around to see me, to verify my experience.

I put this story here on my blog, still hesitant to tell people, but in the event someone out here has had a similar experience, please let me know.  I’d be very happy to hear from you and to know I’m not simply going bonkers.

Thank you

ZC

Standard Deviations

Life as a normalcy of adverse controversies plods unsteadily along in undisciplined shoes.

I have confounded all expectations simply through avoidance.

I fight with conjunctions, argue unflinchingly with adjectives and often fall short of beating verbs to the finish line.

I successfully, however, always take a left turn just before serious.

I expect deadly serious will be my last entry.  Unless, of course, I can master that avoidance thing.

Generally Accepted Nots

Astronauts

Cosmonauts

Forget me nots

(Collectively - this is a square knot) not.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow...

                 ...but not the next day, and Wednesday I'm busy.


      Friday... no, not Friday.



                               Let me get back to you






                                                    tomorrow.

Two

Nope.  Still awake.

I blame the cobbler

Florida Keys

Fishing

A Grand Slam

The Visit

The old man sat hunched over the table, going over and over the tattered map that had been folded and refolded more times than there were miles left to travel.  He tried again to click the lamp up another notch when in reality it was his  dim vision that was lacking additional adjustment.

He had made the long journey here but instead of visiting with me, inquiring how I was doing or asking what was going on in my life, he  sat the whole time silently studying  how to make his way back home.  When he did speak it was to ask if the 95 would be backed up at rush hour. 

"They're all backed up." I said.

The small red lines running across his straining eyes seemed a perfect reflection of the back roads and mountain passes looking back at him. 

I wanted to snap a photograph of his weathered hand lying across the eastern seaboard, complete with the frayed cuff of his flannel sleeve.  This was the image that would stick with me; it was the same hand that provided stability to my first bicycle, though it was now ever so slightly quivering as he worried about again driving in traffic.

I wanted to ask him why he came.  What was the point if only to sit at this table planning his return trip, but I didn't.

I snapped the picture.



ZC