–Elmer Kelton

 

Pard, come on in an’ help me out.  No, it’s not the coffee; it’s ready to drink.  But sometimes this new lingo gets me right confused and discombobulated.  I know that the liberals usin’ their postmodern lingo is out to deconstruct the language.  Words no longer mean what they once did, and there are new words and new meanin’s to old words comin’ all the time.  

       I was readin’ about the Park Service doin’ away with many of their livin’ history programs.  Instead they are goin’ to begin to build what they’re a-callin’ a “culture of experimentation.”  Yep, experiment with history, or are they goin’ to rewrite it the way they see fit?  What’s that they’re offerin’, no teachin’ in the schools today–Critical Race Theory?  That’s part of this culture of experimentation.

       Get yurself a swaller, whilst I tell yuh what I heard the other day.  Liberal women are celebratin’ “Women’s History Month”, yet this same group has trouble definin’ what a woman is.  They need to retake Biology 101, if they ever took it in the first place.  Hmmm, come to think of it, how will they be teaching biology and anatomy now?  Guess they’ll call it Biology 101: Culture of Experimentation.  Sure glad we don’t have cinos to experiment with, we have the honest to goodness black brew. 

       Part of all this is that thing called, “WOKE.”  Man-oh-man, if ever there was a demonic movement that is it.  Goodness, instead of bein’ woke, they’re sound asleep to the things of God and proper morals.  Anything is right if’n it fits in with their agenda.  I read the other day that West Point, and yuh better hold yur cup tight, has dropped their slogan–Duty-Honor-Country.  How absurd!  It is bein’ replaced by what is called, “Army Values.”  One general said that the old slogan is incorporated into the new one.  Hmmm, seems to this ol’ fence post that “Army Values” could mean whatever or whomever has the power to enforce its meanin’; it is such an ambiguous term.  Imagine an army of soldiers who are so confused they don’t even know what gender they are, and they are the ones to defend our country, much less values.

       Instead of WOKE, we need to wake up!  At least, you an’ me, we know the practical things to do–reach for the coffee, the Bible, and keep our guns handy.  Listen, Pard, go back and read about those who sleep in Proverbs.  We normally think of that as natural, physical sleep, but could it go deeper?  A little spiritual sleep, a little moral slumber…yuh get the picture?  Yep, WOKEness is upon the country, an’ I think of those words of Paul, “their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened.”

       Feelin’ better now, the confusion has left for I realize that this ol’ world is in trouble; it’s a good thing that we have the Lord and can fully trust in Him.  He’ll be takin’ care of us, even if’n yuh forget to check yur cinch.  An’ what’s over the Great Divide is much better than anything we can imagine.  Now, that don’t mean we shouldn’t be aware, an’ takin’ percautions.  Keep yur weapons handy an’ ready, be wary as yuh go ’bout yur daily duties, stand firm in the faith, and be obedient and trustin’ in the Lord.  Oh, ‘fore I forget, my new book is now on the market–“Last Stage to Laramie.”  Do yurself an’ me a favor an’ pick up a copy on Amazon.

       Vaya con Dios.

                         –D.C. Adkisson  (Mal de Ojo)

 

Mornin’, Pard.  Hope the coffee’s strong enough for yuh, this mornin’.  I’ve got a new blend, and only used it once so not sure how strong to make it.  I tried it once, and it needed a little more “umph” so I added another spoonful for the brew.  It’s from a local boy who’s startin’ a business.  I admire his gumption so I purchased a bag.

       Pard, the missus made some good gallimaufry this week.  Ha, yur reaction made me smile.  What’s that?  If’n yuh can’t pronounce it yuh don’t eat it.  Ha, don’t blame yuh there, Pard.  That’s a new term for me.  I was doin’ some relaxin’ readin’ this week, and it showed up.  When I looked up the meanin’ I found it meant, just like yuh said, watch out what yur eatin’ ’cause yuh don’t know what’s in the pot.  Really, it’s the same as hash, or what the Cajuns call gumbo.  Most folk don’t realize that gumbo isn’t necessarily what yuh find on the table of fine dinin’.  It’s whatever those poor bayou runners could find durin’ the day to throw in the pot.  Sometime yuh don’t want to know.  But mix it all together an’ usually it taste mighty fine.  I remember Pappy makin’ “camp hash.”  We were up at the fishin’ camp, and the last day, he threw everythin’ left in the skillet.  Not bad, not real cuisine, but it did the gizzard an’ other innards good.  Whether it’s gallimaufry, or gumbo, or even plain ol’ hash we need to be thankful.  Why, I recall one of them forty-niners back in Californy days askin’ a Chinaman was the food was called to which he replied “chop suey.”  The miner then asked, what does that mean in plain American?  “Hash,” came the reply.  So count yur blessin’s for the hash the Lord gives yuh.

       How’s the coffee, Pard?  Stout enough fer yuh?  Weak coffee would be tofu touted out makin’ believe it was steak.  Maybe next week we can discuss the new steak, if’n it can be called that, which is totally artificial.  Yuh think, it all started way back when they developed Astroturf for ballfields?  I remember Dick Allen sayin’ that if a horse can’t eat it he don’t want to play on it.  Artificial this and that, and now… Well, I’ll save it.

       I do want to mention, go ‘head, I don’t mind yur slurpin’ I can talk over it.  Tomorrow’s the missus’ birthday.  Whoooeeee, a milestone!  I surely thank the good Lord ev’ryday for Him a-blessin’ me with her.  By my side, now for the long ride.  The bumps in the road, and the long downhill stretches, she’s been a good un.  He knew good an’ well that she was the only one that could put up with me.  Oh, plus did I ever tell yuh, she can really make a good pie!  An’ I don’t want to be remiss, my youngest daughter celebrated a birthday last week.  

       Yuh be sure to check yur cinch, I want yuh back so’s I can bend yur ear some ’bout that artificial stuff yuh might have been puttin’ down yur gullet.  Until then…

        Vaya con Dios.

                         –C.J. Petit  (South of Denver)

 

Mornin’ to yuh, Pard.  Don’t yuh be frettin’ none, I wouldn’t offer yuh no day’s old coffee.  Nope, mine is directly off’n the stove, hot, strong and ready to swallow.  Now, I didn’t bother with listenin’ to no jawin’ and lyin’ the other night.  Didn’t figure my gizzard could take it, and no amount of coffee would be able to wash it away.

     I’m speakin’ of the State of the Union.  I’m sorry Pard, I read where David wouldn’t take a hand against Saul, but this fellow portrayin’ our President just riles up my innards something fierce.  Yuh want to talk about the state of the Union, well, come along with me to the grocery.  Just let yur eyes gander at the price of a steak.  Why a week ago, I posted that the missus and I both had filet mignon for five dollars.  Now they couldn’t even sell a piece of gristlely meat for that price.  I know, I know, that was a few years back, but even so, Pard, the economy is in poor shape.

     It isn’t that it looks bad, unless yuh check yur wallet or glance in yur bank account.  It’s goin’ up in every direction.  I was just checkin’ my house insurance, up three hundred dollars from last year.  I happened to be gettin’ the steel mount some work done on it, and just glimpsed at a set of tires–$1300.  Instead of a steel belt, they must have some gold mixed in with it.  Sooner or later somethin’ has to bust wide open.  Yep, we still have the goods, at least for now, but can we afford it.

     That ol’ crooner, Eddy Arnold used to sing, “I don’t have a dime in this old worn out jeans, so I’ll stop eatin’ steak and go back to beans…”  That’s not sayin’ that steak is a regular fare for the supper table, but yuh know what I’m a-sayin’.  Pard, go ‘head and drink, don’t be lettin’ by jabberin’ cause yur coffee to get cold.  That would be like listenin’ to that speech all over again.  Speakin’ of that, and that we’re all doin’ well, I heard that there’s a new definition for the “status quo”–that’s you and me, Pard.  Today’s meanin’ speaks of the state of the union, the status quo is now defined as “the mess we’re in!”

     I keep tellin’ yuh, more and more we best be trustin’ in the Lord.  Ain’t no man gonna get us out of this mess.  He won’t have us eatin’ no feathers, and if need be He might even send some of that manna down from above.  He’ll see us through, don’t yuh be forgettin’ that!  Yuh pack yur gun, be wary of yur surroundin’s, stay away from cinos, and check yur cinch, and yu’ll make it through another week–Lord willin’.

        Vaya con Dios.

                    –Lou Bradshaw  (Palouse)

 

Get in here, Pard.  Don’t let the wind blow yuh away!  I don’t see the trees swayin’ so I reckon yur safe this mornin’, but yuh never know, one of them mighty gusts could come up at any time and then yuh’d be in a fix.  Hmmm, course lookin’ at yur girth yuh might only weave a bit.  March, the windy month.  Whooeee, that wind can blow.  We was in Wyomin’ once and low and behold, the wind didn’t blow.  First an’ only time I was ever in Wyomin’ without some kind of wind.  Yuh see, Granny was with us, and she didn’t like the wind, not even a breeze, for some reason it bothered her physically and the good Lord saw fit not to have the wind blowin’ that day.

       Pard, the coffee’s strong this mornin’.  Can yuh smell it?  Ahhh, it’ll get yuh goin’, those innards of yurs will be singin’ happy tunes.  I was thinkin’ Pard, I do that once in a while, that there are all sorts of things brought in by the wind.  There are winds of glad tidin’s and winds that speak of bad omens.  There are winds that will blow yuh off yur feet, and not necessarily the natural type.  There are winds of adversity, and winds that bring the dust a flyin’.  There are those massive tornadoes, then there are the little dust devils that twirl round and round.  There are howlin’ winds, and there are the soft gentle breezes that sure lighten up the soul.  Then there are those blue northers that can sweep through and worry on the bones, but just as quickly there can follow a warm Chinook.  Yep, Pard, yuh just be ready, for this is March, the month of the winds.

       Ahhh, coffee sure hits the spot this mornin’.  I saw a photo recently:  “hot cakes and coffee–10 cents.”  It was not that long ago–1949.  I can remember when coffee came with a meal, it was part of the bargain.  Another little piece of nostalgia, when I was in college we’d go once in a while to the Sycamore Inn to get a cinnamon roll and coffee.  I think it came to 50 cents or 75 cents.  I would always drink enough coffee, it was a dime, to pay for my roll.

       Drink up Pard, I’ve one more story to tell.  I wrote one day last week about work, how important it is, and that we are sore in need of good, quality workers today.  My Grandpa Jones owned a small, yet busy cafe on the corner of Arapaho and 14th Street, next to the Boulder High School.  Back in the spring of 1950, my Mom who was normally a waitress became one of the cooks as Grandpa wouldn’t let her wait tables ’cause she was pregnant with me.  The day before I was born, she fried up 150 hamburgers.  Hmm, imagine that in today’s society.  Yuh know, that’s probably the reason I like hamburgers so much.  Oh, and Grandpa’s nickname was “Wimpy.”  Some of you ol’ timers will understand.

       So, Pard, head on out into the wind.  Pull yur hat down tight, check yur cinch, be trustin’ in the Lord, and ride safe.

        Vaya con Dios.