After the recent onslaught of cruelly cold temperatures and an inch of snow, no wonder President Trump questions global warming. I could use a little global warming at times like these.
So let our Yankee transplants get their jollies by jeering or laughing at Southerners’ mostly mythical inability to cope with snow. Admittedly, the snow is pretty, much like a facelift from Mother Nature, covering the Earth’s blemishes, smoothing out the wrinkles of time and neglect inflicted on the planet.
As I gazed out the window, encouraged by the bright sunlight glistening on the snow, I remembered the classic description of a real snowfall described in “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” by Dylan Thomas:
“Our snow was not only shaken from whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely white-ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunderstorm of white, torn Christmas cards.”
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Our first and, I hope, last, snow of the year was merciful to us in contrast to the horrendous and deadly attacks on other areas.
Two mourning doves perched on the edge of the half-frozen-over bird bath, tentatively sipping the icy water.
They then sat peacefully side by side, fluffing their feathers against the freezing weather.
Then the female turned and pecked her mate on his head. He moved over a foot or so. She followed and pecked him again.
I wondered what the fellow had done to warrant the assaults. Had he failed to take out the garbage? Or hadn’t replaced the cap on the toothpaste tube? Had she recently discovered there was another female in his life, perhaps that colorful rufous-sided red-eyed towhee – that at that very moment was pecking away at the bread crumbs my wife had placed atop the patio wall?
I’m looking forward to the upcoming tax cut that Congress is giving us. How will I ever be able to spend such leftover largesse after the millionaires and billionaires get their hefty cut?
After all, it hasn’t been long since my Social Security was upped by a net increase of $7 per month. Let the good times roll!
During my granddaughter’s visit abroad, she visited England’s Stratford on Avon home of William Shakespeare. I told her about the Bard’s last will and testament that I had read recently on the internet.
The most fascinating item in the will was the bequest to his wife of “the second best bed.” I have wondered for years who inherited the best bed. His mistress?
Perhaps some Shakespeare scholar can enlighten us.
The Grinch who stole Christmas was a piker compared to the thief who stole the Baby Jesus from the waterfront park nativity scene in my daughter’s home town of St. Petersburg, Fla.
Almost a week after Christmas, my daughter and a friend were dining at the Vanoy Hotel when they discovered the missing doll near the hotel.
From the photo she sent, I concluded that surely the Baby Jesus was a lot prettier than the earthly replica.
When you are having a bad hair day, check out a volume of Ogden Nash’s poetry. I guarantee that your spirits will be lifted. Try this:
The turtle lives ’twixt plated decks,
Which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle,
In such a fix, to be so fertile.