I Thimk

When I get finished with this body I expect it will destruct in the same way as the Deacon's Masterpiece.

by Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then, of a sudden, it — ah, but stay,
I’ll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits, —
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive, —
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock’s army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on the terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot, —
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace, — lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will, —
Above or below, or within or without, —
And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
A chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”)
He would build one shay to beat the taown
’N’ the keounty ’n’ all the kentry raoun’;
It should be so built that it couldn’ break daown:
“Fur,” said the Deacon, “’tis mighty plain
Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain;
’N’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain,
Is only jest
T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.”

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke, —
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees,
The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,” —
Last of its timber, — they couldn’t sell ’em,
Never an axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he “put her through.”
“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!”

Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren — where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; — it came and found
The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten; —
“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; —
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arrive,
And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundreth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. — You’re welcome. — No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER, — the Earthquake-day, —
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn’t be, — for the Deacon’s art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn’t a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills,
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whipple-tree neither less nor more,
And the back crossbar as strong as the fore,
And spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, ’Fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys, get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
“Huddup!” said the parson. — Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday’s text, —
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the — Moses — was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet’n’-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill, —
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet’n-house clock, —
Just the hour of the Earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once, —
All at once, and nothing first, —
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That’s all I say.

Sweet!

This past winter was short but bitter. The season mostly set near record and a few record high temperatures. Actual winter for us lasted exactly two days. The cold came, whacked all our plants, and went away. My most beautiful tree, a tall citrus, nearly died. After being lush and fruit bearing from the second or third year after planting, it looked like a blight had struck it full on. Today it shows signs of recovery, but its beauty may not return.

The moringa tree kept its leaves all winter long for about three winters. The two days in question froze it to the ground. I was on the point of writing it off, when two sprouts appeared from the roots, over the past few days. So it will continue.

I have never liked Houston's weather. Take today, for instance. Storms were said to be moving in. When it all bypassed us and all was dry and calm, we went to see my daughter in her new house. We drove in heavy rain all the way. Went home in sunshine. Screw it.

Oh, the deacon went down to the cellar to pray. . . . -found a jug. And stayed all day. Ain't gonna grieve his lord till the next day...

He isn't going to be grieving his lord the next day, cause he'll have a heck of a hangover. He's gonna be grieving himself.

Thimking about getting a different desktop any day now. All of the ones I am looking at have 4 g of memory. None are the same brand as this piece of junk. All are on windows 10. I could go on indefinitely with this one, but the display driver constantly crashes. I haven't been able to upload an upgrade.

PCs are pretty reasonable today compared to 10-15 years ago.
You should get a pretty good one, cause you do a lot of writing.
I have a relatively new DELL all-in-one with a wireless keyboard which I like.
No more PCs sitting on the floor.
I have it hooked up to a Canon Pixie ip8720 wide format printer.
That's all the toys I need.

When I was a kid, my step father tended to always garden, no matter where we lived. He didn't plant in his sister's orange grove, when we lived there. But that was a different situation. He always had tomatoes, squash, cucumbers. Don't remember what else. Beets, for sure. Mom's canned beets were the best I ever tasted. She made chow chow, which I was too finicky to try.

He was not averse to pesticides. I didn't see most of his labors in progress, as I avoided him when possible. Once, when we lived near Milpetas, he planted a very long strip. After the insects began to show interest, he handed brother Roger a bottle of poison and instructed him to wait until the sun was down and then spray all of the plants, daily. The old man went off working and could not tend to it himself. For four days or so, Roger went out and sprayed the garden. I recall looking off at the horizon each time he sprayed. The sun would be resting just below the line, but for the extreme tip. Which was enough to burn the whole garden dead.

If circumstances made us to move away in the middle of growing season, my step father had a solution he applied to every single garden. He took a hoe and chopped it up. Never heard him give a reason.

Eating healthy these days. I had Cracker Jack for lunch. But, breakfast and dinner were pretty good.

Did you know cracker jack was introduced in 1896?

I could not have pinpointed the exact decade, but I knew them to be older than myself. Instead of a plastic toy inside, they now give a square of paper with information to use on line. I never have checked to find out what that does.

Here's the notice from Cracker Jack. No more prizes.


Kinda sad for the new generation of kids.

It's Frito-Lay. The original company probably would never have done that.

I got my book off to two publishers yesterday and today. Looking about for others.

I have been starting new projects, but none has jelled, as yet. I want something different from what I have already done.

Fingers crossed.

The Association of Authors' Representatives has over 400 agents. If I can figure out how to get the attention of a few it might help.

I submitted the book to a writing contest also. I like the package they award the winner. But they tried to influence me to post the full text on a free reader's site. I dodged that part.

edgar, I'm confused. Wasn't your book published? Isn't the publisher doing anything to promote it? Or is there some kind of arrangement I don't know about?

I was writing about my second book, which has not been picked up by anybody as yet.

Oh! Thanks for clarifying that for me. I didn't know there was a second book.