I went out the back door with my writer’s chair this afternoon, because they were still sawing down all the trees out front… and came face-to-face with a raccoon. I can’t blame him for running away when he saw me.
My home town is run, lock, stock, and barrel, by virtue-signalling greenies who pay lip service to “The Environment” even as they labor to erase it. They’ve driven all the rabbits out of the neighborhood, panicked the rats, and spooked this raccoon. All these animals must now find another place to live. If there is one. I don’t know how the deer manage.
I prefer inoffensive wildlife over nail salons; but in this town, that seems to put me into a negligible minority.
It’s never change for the better. They don’t know how to do that.
Well, they’ve sawed down all the trees. The shady spot where I sit to write my books… is gone. They haven’t cleaned up the mess yet, either, so there’s nowhere else to put my chair.
I’ve written 15 books, sitting there. I don’t write fiction indoors because a) it’s nuisance phone calls every few minutes, and b) it’s good for my soul to be out there with the birds and squirrels, grass and flowers and trees, God’s creation all around me. There’s no substitute for that.
Turning this place into a desert, one tree at a time… or, in this case, all at once.
This is what our sidewalk looks like today.
I take Patty to the hospital for her rehab. Here, the tree service is camped in the middle of our parking lot, sawing down most of the trees. All right, some of them are in bad shape and like to fall.
Back to the hospital to take her home. The session has made her cheerful. By now they’ve got trunks and limbs all over the place, so instead of getting out of the car in the parking lot, Patty takes the sidewalk. Damn. It’s blocked by sawed-off branches. Going around it she slips and falls, making a mess of her elbow.
Now it’s started to rain. Thunderstorms are predicted. I can forget about getting any work done on my book.
We’ve cleaned up and bandaged Patty’s elbow. I offer to take her back to the hospital. No thanks. To the local walk-in wellness center? No, she doesn’t want that either.
Please drop a prayer in the box for us.
Update: So we did decide to go to walk-in wellness after all, and guess what? No doctors or nurses working there today! I guess we’ll try again tomorrow.
This drawing is by Kathleen’s sister, Kerolyn, who’s only nine years old. It shows Ellayne and Jack drinking tea with Hesket the Tinker, who turns out to be a very nasty villain. Kathleen and Kerolyn live in Brazil. These are very accomplished kids!
A book for young readers… illustrated by children. Why hasn’t anybody done that before? I’d love to see that for Bell Mountain.
Girls, hang on to those drawings! Who knows? We may be able to put them in the books someday.
My friend John the homicide detective has a low opinion of people’s ability to keep a secret.
“Most of these crimes,” he says, “I have to do hardly any detecting at all. These murderers, they just can’t help themselves–they have to tell somebody what they did! They have to brag about it. And sooner or later he tells someone who turns around and tells us. And we’ve got him.”
As a reporter, I found this to be largely true. People just can’t keep secrets, even when it’s very much in their interest to do so. If they’ll brag about committing murder, they’ll surely brag about fiddling the zoning board.
Do they sometimes admit to crimes they haven’t actually done?
“Yeah, they do,” John says. “Those are the hardest ones to work out.”
Anyway, it’s worth remembering: a lot of people very seldom tell the truth.