The Horse Which Wouldn’t Drink Whisky

Variations on a theme: hootch and hustle. Well done! Enjoy, you winners of the seat-i-want game as plied not just in Sanford, Florida.

WORLDLY LIFE

It was a cold autumn day. A traveller arrived at a small country inn. He felt tired and cold and wanted to warm himself near the fire. He left his horse in the yeard and entered the inn. But when he entered the hall, ha saw that there was no vacant seat near the fire.

Suddenly he had a brilliant idea. He turned to the landlord and said:

“Take some whisky and give it to my horse.”

“To your horse ?” asked the landlord, “But your horse will never drink whisky.”

“Do as I tell you,” said the traveller.

All the people, hearing this, at once ran out into the yard to see the horse drink whisky. When there was nobody in the room, the traveller sat down comfortably near the fire and warmed himself.

A few minutes later the landlord returned and said:

“I was sure that your horse…

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“Last Time Jackson Saw Me”

Last time Jackson saw

me – Sattidah mawn downtown*

had ants in mah pants!

 

  • (Jackson, Mississippi, that is.  I was driving my blue beastie 1971 VW Superbeetle from Sanford to Norman, Oklahoma my last year as an active duty Marine, going to visit Roger Rapping Stone and his owner Annie now Goss whose marriage I helped turn topsy by forgetting where I hid my shoes, so we had the wedding all barefooted in Honolulu’s oldest chapel and the preacher doffed his shoes, too.  But back in Jackson: I had driven through the worst ‘lectrical storm ever coming out of New Orleans and saw big bastard bolts strike either side of the small hill the interstate bisected as I hunched my head lower just below the directing wheel…gads, was I scared.  So scared that just a few hours later as the sun was up just enough to enlighten Jackson on Saturday morning that I realized I hadda pee.  Just on the outskirts, mind.  So I hopped out, hid behind the car and the overpass railing and let water.  And got back in and drove through the Saturday morning just moving downtown up high on interstate overpasses that stretched on and on and on and…Oh! Damn! What’s this… Fire from my britches.  I knew instantly what is is.  Fire Ants!  Freakin’ Fire Ants flinging formic acid everywhere and causing me to halt atop on of those continuous overpasses, just overlooking a big downtown open block turned into a farmers’ marked it looked like.  I quick stripped out of my Levis 501 jeans and shucked my tee shirt – what? no shoes? Who drives in the south in shoes? Hideous things.  So, there I was in my skivvie shorts whapping away at the guard rail with my blue jeans, hopping about on one foot and trying to swipe those terrible black torments off my chest and arms and face and  hairy (not so much: remember – still active duty Marine) while I notice a couple of kids tugging on their momma’s arms to get her to watch the funny young man beside the blue bug beating his jeans on the railings.  What a sight! Mamma quick grabbed both boys and marched them around away from my shame and I blessed her silently.  And continued my crusade!)

“Just Natural Progression”

Eagles fully fledged,

their ‘coop’ already is flown:

that means Ospreys next!*

 

  • (Bald Eagles and Osprey, the natural top-o’-pyramid predators avianly hereabouts, follow with Eagles first and Osprey next in nesting, mating, birthing and fledging their young.  The Baldies left their nests months ago – about mid- to  late-May.  Now as I walk across the four-laned US Highway 17-92 – also called French Avenue hereabouts in Central Florida’s fine town of Sanford – I look up at a lightpole and see and hear an adult osprey feeding its young from a recently-caught fish.  Eagles need tallish pine trees both for nests and upon which to roost; ospreys, however, are much more practical. second- and third-floor slanted rooftops, telephone or light poles and even a couple of stadium multi-banked lighting arrangements.  The feathered former lizards are a lesson in how we all need each other to survive.  I could exist without predatory and scavenger birds – or any birds whatsoever…for a while – but why would I so want.  Even the ant what crawls up my hairy bare leg and finds its way to my hairy below-chinland beard more often than not gets a lifting finger and a little flick elsewhere, closer to where the crumbs got off-brushed onto the patch of rockingchair-ruined grass I call a lawn.)