We're About 1.75 Inches...

 

...into a 3.5 inches of rainfall weekend;  I'm sick of politics and can't get anything done outside, so...

...let's talk about movies.

Hallmark movies, in particular.

I'll be honest; as much as I love Fall - cooler temps, vibrant colors, fun activities -

- that's how much I dread winter.

Yes, there are some great holidays during the winter, but when they're over - like that unwelcome house guest that doesn't know when to leave - winter still remains.

Days shorten, cold settles in and for those of us who are not winter sports fans, life turns claustrophobic as it scurries indoors.

No more working in the gardens...

...mowing the lawn...

...swinging my hickories...

...relaxing in the command center.

Thankfully, there's Hallmark to the rescue.

In a world that's increasingly angry and chaotic, Hallmark is reliably upbeat and stable: they always deliver a happy ending (with a kiss, no less).

And while you shouldn't spend endless hours sitting on your butt watching movies...

...they do provide a welcome respite from the storm.

Yes, they can be corny.

I used to be a card carrying member of the rock throwing camp that disdained the light, happy fare Hallmark represents.

But life - and age - are changing me.

In 2012 at age 75, actor Dustin Hoffman received the César Honorary Award from the French Academy of Cinema.

In his acceptance speech he became teary eyed and apologized.

"Forgive me," he told his audience, "but at my age I can cry at weather reports."

There's some truth there.

When we've seen enough, hurt enough, lost enough, a hard heart can be tempered, and cynicism can sometimes mellow into understanding.

For Karen and I, it's hard to beat a couple of hours sitting together, enjoying a well made Hallmark movie.

In fact, we'll be enjoying one together later tonight.

But first things first on this rain drenched afternoon.

There's some college football to attend to:

Go Miners!

I'm going to let you off easy on the HGU; it was another split week (5-4 loss Monday, 6-3 win Friday), so not much to brag about.

One unexpected circumstance in Friday's round:

I'd won the match by the time I parred #7 (5-2), but got careless on 8, losing the hole.

As I walked to the 9th tee I chastised myself for letting down, and then got a surprise.

From the 9th tee you can see people getting ready to tee off on the 1st hole of the 2nd course (there are 3, 9 hole courses where I practice the black arts of hickory golfery).

More importantly, they can see you teeing off and playing all of the par 3, 9th hole.

And Friday morning there were 13 golf carts all lined up and waiting at the 2nd course.

With not a whole lot to do while they wait, guess which old duffer with hickory sticks caught their attention as he stepped onto the 9th tee?

Reaching for my lofting iron, I dropped a ball and took a couple of practice swings, trying to ignore the makeshift gallery idly eyeing me up.

Reminding myself easy does it and to keep my eye on the ball, I swung away.

Imagine my relief as I watched it arc gracefully straight ahead, landing just off the edge of the green.

Hiking to my ball I told myself this next swing was the hole:

Nail it and walk off with a par;

Blow it and prove to my bored audience with their expensive bags filled with the latest and greatest of modern golf technology that I and my handful of old fashioned hickories are wasting time with "gimmick golf".

Another couple of practice swings with my lofting iron, then the shot: a little pop up from the grassy edge that landed on the green and rolled to within 3 feet of the hole.

Acting like I knew what I was doing, I reached for my putter, lined up the putt, then stroked it confidently into the back of the cup for a par.

Inside I'm doing backflips, outside I'm effecting my best imitation of Joe Cool...

..as I stroll casually off the green, relishing a small but satisfying victory for hickory golfers.

Just another day at the office.

As the rain continues to fall, I say we head for the dry, barren desert of 23 Skidoo:

decided to give our kitchen island a facelift...

...and used a rustoleum paint kit with a high gloss finish to lighten the mood a bit.

there's no better use for a kitchen island than harboring one of Karen's fabulous apple pies...1st of the season

recently found a dead chipmunk on one of my golf greens, so was ridiculously happy to see that "our" Chippy had not met an untimely end.  here he is posing for his portrait by our a/c unit.

it appears this year's corn crop is going to be a little light

great news from our local weather guru; now we're on the lookout for big male spiders trying to gain entrance to our home...

"honey, where did we put that can of RAID?"

Just before the start of my freshman year, I and a host of other athlete wannabe's reported to the high school gym for our freshman football physicals.

When my turn came, the Dr. took my blood pressure, paused a moment, then asked me seriously:

"Have you been running around the gym while you were waiting?"

I started to answer but he interrupted me.

"Because that would explain your blood pressure is high.

"Otherwise I'm going to have to fail you on your physical and you won't be able to play football this year."

Alarmed, I quickly gave in to temptation:

"Yessir," I lied, "that's what I've been doing."

I've occasionally wondered how life might have been different had I told the truth and admitted I had been sitting quietly, waiting my turn - which in retrospect, I'm certain el doctor already knew.

In any event, I played a couple of years of football, high blood pressure and all, before Dad moved us north to a tiny town in Maine where "football" apparently meant "soccer".

That put the kibosh to my dreams of football heroics.

Fast forward to the present where I still have high the same issue, though now controlled by meds.

Well, sort of.

After enjoying a donut and a cup of coffee just before bed - my 6th or 7th cup of the day - I woke up in the middle of the night gasping for breath.

Struggling out of bed I staggered to the bathroom and took my bp - 160 over 91.

Guess what I don’t drink anymore?  And I love coffee.

Just another concession to the relentless forward march of the years as old age slowly settles over me like a heavy overcoat on a hot summer day.

Some of us meet our end suddenly, but for many of us it's truly death by a thousand cuts - the slow but steady accumulation of physical issues until finally, this frail earthen vessel we inhabit gives up the ghost.

I'm reminded of King David's prayer in his old age:

¹⁷ O God, thou hast taught me from my youth: and hitherto have I declared thy wondrous works.

¹⁸ Now also when I am old and grayheaded, O God, forsake me not; until I have shewed thy strength unto this generation, and thy power to everyone that is to come.

    - Psalm 71 

Forsake us not, O LORD!

Amen and amen.

later, mcm fans...