–J. V. James  (Old)

 

Pard, whatcha goin’ t’ be doin’ on Monday?  Watchin’ the eclipse?  Don’t yuh be a-worryin’ none, for it won’t be the end of the world as some folks are a-sayin’.  But be careful Pard, I’ve heard some say that it yuh drink coffee durin’ the eclipse yuh might start to sweatin’ and wash yurself away.  In fact, there’s some out there that declare that if’n yuh got an itch and spill coffee durin’ the eclipse the next mornin’ yuh’ll wake up covered in warts.  Don’t know for sure–just a-sayin’ for yuh to be careful.

       Pard, yuh remember that eclipse back along the Gunnison when we was bein’ beset by a horde of evil?  It wasn’t an eclipse of the sun, but more of good and godly principles, kinda like we’re a-seein’ now in this country.  We was sittin’ there, sorta like the feller above.  Listenin’ to the rush of the water, a warm fire blazin’ away, and a pot of coffee ready for the drinkin’.  If’n I remember it right ol’ Tom was gettin’ ready to throw a line out in the river to catch a mess of trout for supper.  It was then that a feelin’ of downright evil came on us.  The air was thick with the imps prancin’ around.  Ol’ Tom near broke his rod throwin’ it down and landin’ on it with his knee.  It was a rough go for a spell, but we prayed, and prayed, until the air cleared and all was fresh again. 

       Yuh know, there are times when yuh just can feel evil, and other times when yuh can see it plain on a face as a child lickin’ the frostin’ bowl.  This eclipse ain’t no hoodoo, but it’s another sign of the times.  What was it the Lord said, there’d be signs in the heavens?  Yuh best be ready for them, for they’re a-comin’.  So many things happenin’ so fast, so Pard, take time to enjoy yur coffee.  Look up, and grab holt of new hope the Lord will be comin’ soon.

       Coffee’s good ain’t it?  Smooth, makes the ol’ gizzard sit up an’ smile.  Gettin’ a little nostalgic with what we’re a-talkin’ about, and readin’ what ol’ J.V. wrote.  Nice sittin’ here, lookin’ out the kitchen window, but my, wouldn’t it be grand to be along some stream up in the high lonesome?  Bacon, or trout, fryin’ in a skillet over a fire with a pot of coffee there for the pourin’.  Most likely, Pard, those days are over, but my, didn’t we have the times?  

       Be thankin’ the Lord for the hope He has given us, and for the times we shared.  And, Pard, yuh best not be mountin’ up durin’ the eclipse.  Yuh jist might not be able to see well enough to tighten that cinch.  

        Vaya con Dios.

                        –Louis L’Amour  (High Lonesome)

 

Pard, how many times have I done that?  Leanin’ against a rock, or back propped up against a tree.  Sometimes just sittin’ on the bank of a lake fishin’, or ’round the campfire–mornin’, noon, night, or anytime in between.  How many cups have I shared with pards over the years in similar circumstances or just as we are now, sittin’ ’round the kitchen table.  Good times, good fellowship, good coffee.

       I often think of that Saturday after the crucifixion, the day of quietness, at least in the natural realm.  Just think, Pard, those ol’ boys, and the ladies around them thought they were alone, that their world was a-endin’ when in fact it was really just beginnin’.  Once, in the eyes of the world they were common people, but now, though they didn’t realize it yet, they were children of the King–royalty.  If’n ol’ Peter would’ve known that then, whooeee, but the Lord knew they had to go through a time of mournin’, of drought, of missin’ His presence.

       Let me be passin’ on a story I read this past week.  Sorry, the source slips my feeble mind, but I want yuh to be thinkin’ on it.  Go ‘head take a deep swaller, I’ll wait ’til I see it runnin’ down yur gullet.  Here goes–  There was a Navajo Indian in Arizona on whose land oil was discovered.  He became a very wealthy man, but wealth did not change him.  He went on livin’ just as he was before.  The money piled up in the bank, but every now an’ then the old man would visit the bank and say to the banker, “Crops all dried up; sheep all dead; cattle all stolen.”  The banker knew exactly what to do.  He would take the old man into the vault, sit him at a table and place several bags of silver dollars in front of him for him to count.  After a while the man would come out and say, “Crops fine; sheep all alive; cattle all back.”  

       Good coffee…oh, let me tell yuh the jist of the meanin’.  See, if’n Peter had realized that Saturday, that dark, quiet, and fearful day, that he was buildin’ up an account in the heavenly bank, he wouldn’t have been so fretful.  Pard, we can do the same.  If’n yuh get down and out, yur lower lips sore from yur boots a-steppin’ on it, go count yur blessin’s in yur heavenly account.  My, don’t yuh know we have resources that we haven’t even considered.

       Yep, Pard, tomorrow is what is called Resurrection Sunday, so today, instead of mopin’ ’round, drink some coffee an’ start lookin’ at yur blessin’s.  The Savior has done risen, there’s no need to be wonderin’ ’bout that.  He’s alive, today an’ forevermore!

       Now sayin’ that, don’t go out an’ be doin’ somethin’ stupid with the Lord’s blessin’ and for mercy-sake, check that cinch before mountin’ or yuh just might wind up sittin’ next to yur heavenly account.

         Vaya con Dios.

                          –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.