thankful

Sorry I haven’t responded to all of your well-wishes. I’ve been quite under the weather lately. I’ve been in bed for three days (and, frankly, tired of it).

The fire crews on the Woody Fire were amazing. Within 24 hours, the fire was contained. The fire, while within mere feet of homes, did not consume any structures nor take any lives. The crews did an amazing job. This fire could have been catastrophic but they saved the day. Really. I think we owe them so much.

While the fire was across town from me, we have had many fires, already, in my area of town. Some burned for days. Some were left to burn because structures weren’t threatened.

While other parts of the country contend with hurricanes, earthquakes, mudslides, and other natural disasters, for us, we know that it’s a yearly anguish to deal with forest fires, especially with this drought we’re going through.

We’re waiting for monsoon season to slow all of that down but we also know that a fire is always just around the corner.

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I’d like to wish all of the fathers out there a very happy father’s day. Kiss and hug your children. Make sure they know they are loved and that you treasure and cherish them. You wouldn’t be a father without them…it’s a symbiotic relationship.

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And because I’m in the mood…

In speaking with a friend, I realized that I may not be portraying myself in the best light that I could. Perhaps I come across as distant, withdrawn, or guarded.

So periodically I’m going to write on romance and love and anything else along that line.

To get this new path off, I’ve decided to share a W.H. Auden poem that asks questions about love.

O Tell Me the Truth About Love
W.H. Auden

Some say love’s a little boy,
And some say it’s a bird,
Some say it makes the world go around,
Some say that’s absurd,
And when I asked the man next-door,
Who looked as if he knew,
His wife got very cross indeed,
And said it wouldn’t do.

Does it look like a pair of pyjamas,
Or the ham in a temperance hotel?
Does its odour remind one of llamas,
Or has it a comforting smell?
Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is,
Or soft as eiderdown fluff?
Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges?
O tell me the truth about love.

Our history books refer to it
In cryptic little notes,
It’s quite a common topic on
The Transatlantic boats;
I’ve found the subject mentioned in
Accounts of suicides,
And even seen it scribbled on
The backs of railway guides.

Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian,
Or boom like a military band?
Could one give a first-rate imitation
On a saw or a Steinway Grand?
Is its singing at parties a riot?
Does it only like Classical stuff?
Will it stop when one wants to be quiet?
O tell me the truth about love.

I looked inside the summer-house;
It wasn’t over there;
I tried the Thames at Maidenhead,
And Brighton’s bracing air.
I don’t know what the blackbird sang,
Or what the tulip said;
But it wasn’t in the chicken-run,
Or underneath the bed.

Can it pull extraordinary faces?
Is it usually sick on a swing?
Does it spend all its time at the races,
or fiddling with pieces of string?
Has it views of its own about money?
Does it think Patriotism enough?
Are its stories vulgar but funny?
O tell me the truth about love.

When it comes, will it come without warning
Just as I’m picking my nose?
Will it knock on my door in the morning,
Or tread in the bus on my toes?
Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.