nobody asked…

On a recent day when I, of course, did not have the camera with me, I saw trucks with signs on their sides reading…

Fruitticher

Any guesses?

Noah’s Ark

At the time it was raining cats and dogs, two by two. Very appropriate…

Electric Drain Cleaning

Hmmm… I can’t remember the last time I had my electric drains cleaned.

Integrity without knowledge is weak and useless, and knowledge without integrity is dangerous and dreadful. — Samuel Johnson

Having neither knowledge nor integrity makes one a member of the Bush administration. — Winston Rand

Think you know this oldie but goodie?

1. Finish the line by filling in the blanks:
Deepening shadows gather spendor ____ ____ ____ ____.

2. Name of the song? _________________

3. Recording artist that first had the hit? ___________________

Google it if you must, but if you’re over 50 and have to cheat, shame on you!

November 28, 1925, saw the birth of The WSM Barn Dance, first aired on WSM, 650 AM, in Nashville, Tennessee. A couple of years later, the program was renamed by its founder, George D. Hay, a radio editor for the Memphis Commercial Appeal, as The Grand Ole Opry. The show’s first performer was “Uncle” Jimmy Thompson, who claimed he could “fiddle the bugs off a tater vine.”

Still going strong after 81 years, still packin’ ‘em in on Friday and Saturday nights, The Opry is one of those uniquely American treasures that everyone should experience at least once before checking off the planet.

The Opry is THE reason Nashville earned and proudly still wears the title of Music City, USA. But Nashville is so much more than music. Y’all come on down, ya hear…

Recently Em over at Notes From My Corner had a post about what he called a gigantic leaf in his yard.  From his comments, I assume the tree was unknown to him and not a permanent resident of his New England property. Being familiar with sycamores all my life because they grow wild around the South, and actually having a small one of about 40 feet in my back yard, I promised myself to show Em what a real sycamore leaf looks like. As you can see from the yard stick laid across it, this baby is about 13 inches across. Unless Em has extremely large hands (shown in the photo on his post), this one dwarfs his nice specimen.

Some cause happiness wherever they go; others, whenever they go.         — Oscar Wilde

So there I am, filling my tank again, pumping gas while thinking of important things, like whirrled peas, the sanctity of familial relations in a society gone nuts, what to blog about next… Like you, I usually perform  such routine, mundane chores while taking a brain trip to parts unknown … daydreaming … escaping for a few minutes alone with my very favorite person. The silence was broken by a sound that could come only from a chariot of the gods.

This pulled up to a pump next to me…

MASERATI GranSport

Well, not this one. I was too weak to get the camera from the back seat, but one like this in a midnight black metallic, which Maserati calls Nero Carbonio. They even have sexy names for paint colors. As I regained some modicum of consciousness and control, I noticed that every other male over age 2 was also mesmerized by the Maserati. Most of them were drooling and dribbling uncontrollably on their T-shirts. This is Franklin, TN, mind you … not Munich or Zurich. This is an upscale, sophisticated, educated, wealthy community. And yet, a Maserati sighting is an uncommon experience.

The GranSport is not a largish automobile (never call it a car!), being just 178 inches in length compared to a Chevy Malibu at 188 and a Nissan Sentra at about 180. Weight-wise, however, the operative word is mass, due to the 4.2 L 400 HP V8 power plant and the safety features demanded by an automobile designed to cruise at top speed of 180 MPH on the European Autobahns. Curb weight is listed as just over 3700 pounds, compared to the lightweight Sentra at about 2950.

No, this is not the James Bond automobile … they were Aston Martins, Bentleys, and a few others. I did read or hear somwhere that a Maserati was driven by Bond, James Bond, in one movie, but I have been unable to confirm that fact. Not only would Bond, James Bond have delighted in driving it, but Q would have taken special pride in his hight-tech modifications such as rocket launchers, satellite telemetry and surveillance systems, etc.

I stood there helplessly with the other males of the species as the gentleman returned to the cockpit and began the launch process. The deep throated,  rumbling resonance, with harmonic components of both a purr and a growl, that engulfed us has no analog. The pilot goosed it a couple of times to rev the power plant, knowing full well that his silent, awed desciples would most likely wet their pants. I did not, but I’m pretty sure that a couple of others did. Urine or otherwise, I’ll not venture a guess. A hint of a knowing smile tugged at the corner of the driver’s mouth as he roared away. Moments later, observers regained control and returned to whatever they were doing before, as if nothing had happened. We all had something new to talk and dream about. I now know where my next spare $100,000+ is going…

This from our friend Yaak over at Dry Bones in beautiful downtown Israel…

I awoke this morning with devout thanksgiving for my friends, the old and the new. - Ralph Waldo Emerson

Thanksgiving is a typically American holiday. The lavish meal is a symbol of the fact that abundant consumption is the result and reward of production. - Ayn Rand

On Thanksgiving Day all over America, families sit down to dinner at the same moment—halftime. - Unknown

From Arthur Silber, the light of reason, over at Once Upon a Time…

All sentences beginning, “What we should now do in Iraq … ” are devoid of meaning. We are in no position to do anything. We have no potency; that is the definition of anarchy…

I dropped by Joy’s place for a cup of morning joy, which she delivered with her usual grace and cheer, and found myself leaving a comment, the idea of which did not want to leave my head until it was writ. Ergo, this…

Those who venture this way regularly know that Thoreau holds a certain magnetic allure for me. Reading HDT’s work always rekindles my unrequited urge to abandon so-called civilization and live out my days on my own mystical Walden Pond. I will also admit that my body and physical condition not being what they were just a few years ago bring pause to that line of thinking. The aches and pains might well become crippling without Advil or Tylenol, not to mention the daily regimen of blood pressure medication… Oh, well… A guy can still dream… Maybe in my next life…

To survive in this digitally driven world, I have no choice but to observe the clock and calendar. For some things. My underlying makeup tends much more to the pragmatic side, a trait which I happily inherited from both my mother and father. When I was living a two-day drive from home, and wintertime travel was not always reliable and predictable, Mom would say “Come when you can. Christmas is when we are together, whether that is on December 25th or not.” I loved her for that and tried to never abuse the practical affability she extended to me. And now, many years later, I still cling to her guiding principle. So does she.

That discouse, started with a comment at Joy’s and continued here, reminded me immediately of the last sentence and culminating thought from Thoreau’s quote (below). I am well aware there are alternate interpretations of Thoreau’s words. My interpretation is mine alone. Morning and awakeness and dawning for me are not defined so much by the clock and position of the sun as by my awareness of and connection with the world and people around me and with my inner-self.

To him whose elastic and vigorous thought keeps pace with the sun, the day is a perpetual morning. It matters not what the clocks say or the attitudes and labors of men. Morning is when I am awake and there is a dawn in me.

Since first seeing this little ditty over at JohnB’s Blog Meridian, I have unearthed it multiple times in my journeys around the blogosphere. Never take any of these kinds of things too seriously, but merely as a form of occasional mild, free entertainment.

Appropriately enough, the test pegs me as Suthun. What the graphic somehow fails to properly quantify is the other contributing components. In my case, there are heavy components left over from my 20 years in Pittsburgh, Indiana, and Iowa.

I have had two dawnings that consciously brought change in some of my pronunciations. The first was in highschool where I had a role in the Senior play. Several times during the course of the play my script included the word “Italian”. As many years as it has been, I can still hear the drama teacher, Mrs. Lassiter, dramatically waving her arms to stop rehearsal, screaming “IT-alian”, NOT “EYE-talian”. That served me well, since the second baptism occurred with my move to Pittsburgh by the Bigassed International Saltmine Corp that recruited me out of college. Pittsburgh is heavily populated with “EYE-talians”, and I quickly fell in love with good Italian cooking. Pittsburghers not only have a unique accent, they almost have their own language. They use words unknown to the rest of the country, and have differing usages for some words than you find elsewhere. To get along, to survive, to eat, you have to learn the language.

In the past, my accent baffled so-called experts. But being back in my native Tennessee for 20 years has washed away much of what was superimposed by my 20 years in the North woods. Live with it long enough, some of it rubs off…

Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent. — Victor Hugo

It ebbs. It intensifies. It softens and then gets harder. It is easy and soothing and then pounding and furious. But it never stops…

The rain has been falling and puddling and running and flooding. Almost forever it seems. There are no dry spots left. Only wet spots…