Rolling Stones

 

He looked up from his praying and saw a familiar face. The easy smile and sparkling eyes made him smile as well, despite the deep well of sorrow in his heart. 

“Thank you, Michael” he said as he embraced the old friend. 

“I’m here for you. As always. Just say the word and we can go home.” he said. 

He smiled an even bigger grin as he patted Michael’s shoulders. Those broad, strong shoulders which could move mountains and defeat armies, but would have little to do tonight, in this garden. 

“I don’t think so, old friend. I can’t leave them like that.” His voice quivered with sadness. 

Michael looked him over carefully, then sat on a nearby tree stump. He shrugged, cracking his thick neck, then rolled his head around as a tired man might. 

“I don’t see why not. You’ve taught them all they need to know. They are stubborn beings. They’re kind of dense, too, if you don’t mind me saying so. I mean, you came down here yourself to teach them. They don’t listen. You know what they’re going to end up doing to you. It doesn’t have to be this way. They deserve what they get. It’s their own fault. Why put yourself through it? Why?” he said.  

He sighed. 

“Michael. You’re not wrong. They have their problems. They just can’t focus on what’s important. In my lifetime here I’ve seen how it can be to pay attention to fulfilling those everyday necessities. It takes work, sweat and tears just to stay alive and keep those you love alive. Selfishness creeps in and makes you want more than you need. You want to save it all for yourself, and those in your close circle. They forget that their neighbor is their family, too. That selfishness overflows into the rest of their lives and makes them blind to the pain around them. That selfish attitude intrudes into every part of their life, when they allow it. They just think of it as being “part of life” when it’s the bane of their existence. They think their sin is on the outside, when it starts deep inside of them with the first time they think of “me” instead of “we”. They need to be taught, then they can repent and be forgiven. Then we can fellowship as a true family.” 

Michael sat on the rock and listened. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, his long, black hair falling upon his back. A slight breeze brushed across his face and the thin smile vanished. He opened his eyes and looked at his friend with a solemn stare. 

“They will kill you. No matter your innocence, your truth, or your message. They are heartless and barbaric and will not show you mercy. They deserve to be destroyed, not you.” 

A tear ran down Michael’s cheek, though his visage was bright with righteous anger. 

“Yes. They do. We could do that. It would be justice to give them what they deserve. But they’re my children. They have everlasting souls that would never recover. They’d be banished from me, forever. I have to do this. Some of them will understand, eventually. Enough to tell others. To tell the world that their Creator loved them enough to die for them. They’ll see me return in three days. They’ll see me go back home and they will go tell the others. Some day that word will reach this entire people. Then, when all is ready, you and I will return as we should; with power and strength. For the time being, they need to know the meaning of love. The meaning of true mercy and forgiveness. I have to show them. They need to learn from my example. Words just aren’t enough, right now. I wanted them to be, but they’re not. They have to see the love.” he said. 

Michael and Jesus stood, both with tears and thin smiles again on their faces. They embraced with pure love.  

“I’ll see you soon.” Michael whispered. “I still think you should let me and the “boys” take you home now, but you’re the Boss. You knew what you had to do all along. You just needed me to remind you what the alternative was.” He winked and disappeared into a pinprick of bright light. Then darkness engulfed Jesus again.  

He did know what needed to be done. He wouldn’t condemn mankind to eternal death and separation from him. He would give them a path for those who would follow. He’d show them The Way to eternal life, for those that would choose it. He knew it would be a painful and excruciating road for both of them. He returned to his time of prayer, preparing for his own death. 

The drops of sweat were red when they mixed with his tears and fell to the dirt. 

“And there appeared an angel unto him from heaven, strengthening him.”-Luke 22:43 

God bless Y’all.  

Real Marriage                                                                            We met when we were both in strange times of our lives. I was a full-blown alcoholic, living with my mother at the age of forty-five, and she had just spent her first summer alone and finally at peace with herself. I came to work at the nursing home as a floor technician (yes, sweeping, mopping and waxing floors, as well as taking out the trash) and she was the dietary manager, overseeing the kitchen and its staff. Yup, I was quite the catch. Her newfound peace had come about by forcibly encouraging her hubby to leave after finding certain items relating to the manufacture of do-it-yourself pharmaceuticals on the property, the kind you can’t find at the drug store. Her children were all out of the house, college and summer visits, and she managed to spend a quiet summer reading and reflecting upon how much she enjoyed not being the ringleader of a three-ring circus. Then she met me.  

I had lost a good paying manufacturing job due to being extremely intoxicated. It wasn’t my first time being drunk at work, but it was highly undeniable when I fell asleep during the shift safety meeting at the beginning of the day, my head on the table, snoring, and reeking of vodka. Even vodka has a smell if you drink enough of it. Luckily for me, and everyone else who would’ve been working near me as I operated heavy machinery, the safety man noticed (as did everyone else) and promptly tested me and sent me home without employment. As I said, I was quite the catch.  

Laura Gail had already decided that summer that she had some very simple criteria if she were to get involved with anyone in the future. 1) They had to have a job. 2) They couldn’t have an addiction problem. 3) They had to have their own place. Pretty simple, huh? I barely had that first one covered, as the floor tech position earned minimum wage. I was an alcoholic and lived with my mother, so I should’ve flunked the entrance exam to date her. Luckily, I caught her in a weak moment of her life. She was literally recovering from surgery, and had taken time off work to recuperate, when I started contacting her online (Facebook) and wooed her. She foolishly allowed me to bring pizza and beer to her place for a date. I brought a couple of DVDs to watch. Rango (the Johnny Depp cartoon) and Hall Pass, a comedy about a couple of guys played by Owen Wilson and Jason Sudeikis given a week by their wives to do whatever they want. Yup, I’m a romantic guy. I managed to get a goodnight kiss before I left. Still don’t know how she allowed that to happen. Our romance steam rolled from there.  

She was unjustly fired (over the phone) while on medical leave.  I became a supervisor in the housekeeping department. Still not sure which of those were the worse career moves.  She found an even better job later. We had our first date in the summer of 2011 and we married (soon after her recent divorce) in March 2012. The twenty-fifth of March 2012 to be exact. Fourteen years ago. We began with eight grown children (four that were mine, four of hers) and here we are today, with four grandchildren. They own us, heart and soul. I never thought she’d let me stay this long. There’s lots of serious violent felonies and major drug trafficking offenses that don’t serve as long as we’ve been together. I like to think that our love has been stronger than our desire to serve time for justifiable homicide at this stage of our lives, but I suspect she hasn’t killed me in my sleep by now because she wouldn’t be allowed to have Chapstick in county lock-up or have the ability to poop in private. Either way, I’m going to mark it up as a “win” for both of us. It must be love. 

Real marriages takes real work. You live, you fight, you talk, you work, you put up with stuff, you don’t put up with stuff, you joke, you cry, and you pray with that person every single day. And you love each other even after you’ve seen that person on their worst day, and their best day. You still want to wake up next to them. You still want to kiss them right on the lips and touch their butt. Even when they fart in the aisle at Walmart. Even when they can’t remember where their glasses are (on your head). Even when they’re mean to you because you’re breathing wrong (or just “still breathing”). You still love them. Even fourteen years later, because you know they’ll always love you, no matter what.  

You own my heart, LauraGail, and I love you today even more than when I first met you. By the way, have you seen my glasses? 

God bless Y’all. 

      The storm has passed. The cold wind blows stoutly outside still, but it’s dying down. I have to wake Gus, the three-legged farm dog, up before I’m off to bed shortly. It’s 10:45 pm on Sunday night and the cold front has billowed in. Rain, thunder, lightning and winds all flew by in a few hours. It left a quiet house, but for the snoring of Gus and the over-active wind chime outside (Gma telling us to have flashlights and candles ready, I imagine) sounding the “hey, it’s windy!” alert. It passed us without incident. I’m genuinely thankful that God saw fit to see us through without damage or injury, but I know there will be some out there that weren’t blessed in the same way. God be with you, is my prayer.  

      I used to wonder why God works the way He does, with some people in pain and turmoil and others in peace and safety. It just never seemed fair to me. One person could go their entire life and never even get a broken bone, while a small child may be struck with some illness that debilitates and destroys their bodies with much pain. Even as a child, I wondered “why me?” over even the tiniest slight that I perceived was enforced upon me, when other kids had lost parents, or had other truly traumatic events affect their entire family. My self-centeredness was just a byproduct of my youth, I know now. I’m pleased to say that I outgrew that attitude. It came through years of good, and bad, times that matured my thinking, and years of bible reading and teaching that pointed to the simple fact that “He maketh His sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.” (Matthew 5:45) In the words of the young people: it is what it is.  

      Most folks in our family love a good storm. We’re funny like that. Had it not been for the stout winds that almost took the screen door off the hinges, we might’ve all been outside watching the storm roll in tonight. Tree limbs don’t discriminate, however, when forty-mile-an-hour winds send them sailing, so we stayed in the house with our medicated dogs. They appreciated it. Discretion is the better part of valor, or so Shakespear said.  

      I don’t know what storm will roll in next, since thunderstorm and tornado season is upon us. I trust God will see us through, no matter if they skip over my family or go through them. I do know that whatever the case may be, we will still know that God is in control. Just because I don’t understand it doesn’t make it any less true. My fervent prayer for all of you tonight, as these winds howl and it sounds like God’s wrath outside, is that you and your family will endure safely. It’s the same thing I pray for my own loved ones. If, on reading this, you’ve found yourself, or if I’ve found myself for that matter, abused and injured by life, weather and circumstances, just know that the Man Upstairs sees you. Trust that He loves you and knows what He’s doing. We may not understand, but He does. Hold fast. 

God bless Y’all 

     I had breakfast at Cracker Barrel last Saturday with my nephew, Joe Porterfield. It was his forty-sixth birthday. Amazing how time gets away from us. I remember freaking out when my sister went into labor with him that day. I was still in junior high, and I was getting my stuff ready like I was going to the hospital myself. My mom asked, “Where are you going?” and I realized that they were going without me. It wasn’t about me. Wow. Looking back today, I see that it was on the day Joey was born that I actually stopped being “the baby”. Thanks a lot, Joe. Sure, my mom still calls me “her baby” even today, and I’m sixty. I’ll never stop being “her baby”. But that was the last day I was actually “the baby” of the family. I had been de-throned.  

     Joe’s a pretty cool kid. Being the first grandchild, he got quite a lot of attention. His solo act didn’t last very long, as all four of us siblings started cranking out a grand total of twelve grandchildren for our parents during the eighties. Joe had just enough of a head start to embed himself deep into Nanny and Pop’s (and all our) hearts. His sense of humor and quick mind were probably influenced by his surrounding aunt and uncles just enough to warp him towards the dark side, but he went willingly.  

     He grew up with his two sisters, Megan and Kerry, kept iguanas as pets, and loves wrestling, music concerts,horror movies (don’t ask him his favorite. It involves a human centipede-that’s all I’ll say), and Renaissance Fairs. He has a talent for telling stories that’ll crack you up and an appetite for exotic, and sometimes downright weird, foods. He’ll eat calamari from a gas station, and I consider that just asking for trouble.  

     He’s an ardent Dungeons and Dragon’s aficionado and plays twice a week even now. Ask him who the “Hezrou” are and I bet he can tell you they are “massive, toad-like demons that reek of decay and swamp gas. They are hardy, resistant to magic and possess a “stench” aura that poisons nearby creatures.” Kinda like Joe, after he’s eaten calamari from that gas station. Ugh.  

     Joe loves to go to rock concerts and “other” venues like Puddles Pity Party. That guy is a pierrot whiteface clown that sings a variety of popular music covers, as well as his own songs. He’s a bit “out there” for me, but Joe digs it.  

     Joey Dewayne Porterfield (Joey) is Mary Belle’s first grandchild, and he is now forty-six. We all have to grow up, Joe. You’ve managed to do it while keeping your hobbies interesting and your stories fresh. You’re still a pretty cool kid. Even if you did take my title belt of “the baby” like Hulk Hogan kicking out from under Randy Savage and putting the Leg Drop on him in WrestleMania V. Take a victory lap, dude. You’re a winner in my book. Love ya, man.  

Happy Birthday, Joe! 

God bless Y’all.  

     I exercised for a few hours last Sunday. It was a fun workout, though. My grandson, Sammy came to spend time with us while his parents and brother went furniture shopping. Sammy will be seven years old this August, but he’s always been a fast grower and a hard charger. We played on the swing set. This meant climbing as high as we would allow him to, or as high as he could before we could stop him. He swung on the tire swing, played in the bed of my truck, in the back porch sand box, and literally ran circles around myself and my daughter, Candice. Yes, I needed back-up. Sammy is a force of nature. I love him for being so full-on with everything he does. I’m just not a fan, or regular participant, of running. I cherished every breathless moment.  

All my grandchildren make me want to be a better person. When I’m with them it seems to pull the child-like behavior out of me. I want to play. Of course I don’t have the stamina they do, or the speed, but they make me WANT to play. Their presence makes me want to be nicer, too. Sure, I pick at them, tickle them, and teach them silly jokes. That’s what Gramps’ are for. But I find myself trying harder to be a good example for humanity when they’re around. I definitely try not to cuss. I try to encourage them, and myself, to be nicer, kinder and a little less “peckerhead-ish”, even though I know they know I’m not perfect. I don’t expect them to be perfect, either. Their personalities are jumping out and they’re becoming even more pronounced individuals now, as they grow older. I hope I’m showing them a good example of what a Gramps should be. I’ve only had the job for nearly seven years, and it keeps evolving as they do, and I’ve never had one class on the subject. It’s an “on the job training” kind of position.  

As world events have seen our nation back in a shooting war in the Middle East, and federal forces have seized voter records in Georgia, and with the president talking about “nationalizing” elections under his party’s watchful eyes, I find my job as a Gramps a little harder. I want my grandchildren to hear about my love for America, the Constitution, our beloved Bill of Rights and us being “one nation under God”. As I question many of the things that are occurring, I do so out of respect for our laws, our system and the freedoms we hold so dear. My patriotism stems from all of that stuff, and I hope my grandchildren see that my speaking out about injustice, illegal acts, abuse of power, and the destruction of a two hundred- and fifty-year-old institution of Liberty, that they will understand that I am doing so for them. I want them to grow up in a country where debate and discussion are free and expected. One where they aren’t afraid to voice their assent, or dissent. Where their vote matters. A nation that has more than one party on the voting rolls. I want them to grow up in the same wonderful nation I have. One that defends the weak, feeds the hungry, builds bridges across divides, and is represented by people who will uphold the Constitution and not pledge allegiance to any one man.  

I want to show them how to be proud of their country, and their Gramps.  

God bless Y’all.  

     This weekend the United States’ Men’s Hockey Team won the Gold Medal for the first time since 1980. In a dramatic overtime win, goaltender Connor Hellenbuyck stopped the Canadians from scoring time after time, keeping the American’s hope alive. Late in the third period Jack Hughes took a high stick from Canadian forward Sam Benett that knocked out two of his teeth. He left the game briefly, only to return and score the winning goal withing the first two minutes of sudden-death overtime. It was an amazing win. These guys gave it their all and succeeded in winning the Gold. America couldn’t be prouder of them.  

     These young men and women represent all of Americans when they compete in the Olympics. They bring a wide variety of personalities, ideals, and motivations to the Games. They share one common trait: they want the opportunity to be recognized as the best in the world. They are motivated, hard-working, head-strong, and dedicated to their various sports and disciplines. They expect no quarter from the competition and give none in return. They are brutally competitive. People like Lindsey Vonn, who at forty-one years old, secured a spot on Team USA in the alpine downhill event despite having suffered an ACL rupture earlier. Unfortunately, she ended her event with a probable career-ending crash that shattered her leg. Not all winners get medals, but they’ve earned them, nonetheless.  

     When young people represent our nation in the Olympics, I expect them to show the world who we are as Americans. I believe they should reflect the spirit of American grit, determination and work ethic. Their actions, and words, should be examples to the world of what America is all about. Hunter Hess, a freestyle skier, said “It brings up mixed emotions to represent the U.S. right now. I think it’s a little hard. There’s obviously a lot going on that I’m not the biggest fan of, and I think a lot of people aren’t. Just because I’m wearing the flag doesn’t mean I represent everything that’s going on in the U.S.”   Amber Glenn, an American figure skater spoke out against her government’s LGBTQ policies during a press conference. “I hope I can use my voice and this platform to help people stay strong in these hard times.” Glenn said.  

     In reference to Hess’ comments, snowboarding superstar Chloe Kim, whose parents are immigrants, said “the issue hits pretty close to home (and) I think in moments like these, it is really important for us to unite and kind of stand up for one another for all that’s going on and I think that I’m really proud to represent the United States,”  

     I love my country. I loved my country when the Biden, Obama, Bush, Clinton, Reagan, Carter, Ford, Nixon and Johnson administrations were in office. And I love my country today, under the Trump administration. I will love my country until the day I die, because my love for America has nothing to do with one man. When I disagree with its leaders and policies and speak out, and write of my dissent, and protest injustice when it becomes policy, I am actively loving my country, just as much as when I praise it for being noble, strong and true. Not all countries would allow me to do that, while many would put me in jail, or execute me, for speaking out. Not all who wrap themselves in a flag truly love their country.  

     These American Olympians are being honest citizens when they speak their minds. I couldn’t be prouder of them for representing the real America. The one that isn’t propaganda. The one we are fighting to live with, understand, and make better. Our patriotic zeal isn’t blind, deaf, and dumb, and never should it be.  Whether they win the Gold, or not, they’re already winners. True Americans.  

God bless Y’all.  

     I’ve never been a part of a quilting bee. My first wife’s grandmother quilted, and my wife helped her with a few towards the latter years of Granny Densmore’s life. I understand that, in a quilting bee, many people work on the quilt at the same time, usually with an agreed upon theme. Many hands make short work, they say. It’s a beautiful way to make something to keep loved ones warm through generations. Everyone contributes to the common good of the eventual individual that will look at, and use, the practical item. 

     Life is a lot like that, I believe. All the people in our lives contribute something useful to us. Of those folks, some are more skilled than others. There are people who miss a stitch now and again, but the others help get us back on track. A few people add an artistic flair to the journey. They make the canvass “pop” as they are able. The panels of our quilt are like years in our life. Some may be beautiful, while others are less so. Ugly, even. Those are the hard times. They come to us all, no matter how well off we may be, because we’re all human. Old age, sickness and death come to us all. Pain is real to the rich and the poor. Nobody is immune to those things. We’re all equal in God’s eyes.  

     Our parents work on the early parts. They start us on the straight line, or not. They try, in their own way, to give us a good beginning. They teach the right from wrong, good from bad, and push us towards what they believe will be a good life. In the middle are family, siblings, and friends. Some show us how to have fun and enjoy the ride. Some get us into trouble. Or did we get them into trouble? Maybe a bit of both. It’s in the middle that we decide on plans for the long term. Or we just go where life takes us and do our best. Unfortunately, that’s most of us. Our quilt can get quite wild looking during those years. Some of those panels (years) we’ll look at much later and wonder how we ever survived them, how we got to where we are now. But we wouldn’t be where we are without them.  

     The finishing of a quilt is a special thing. Some traditions may involve the quilters signing a special panel to show who was involved. Others may include “quilting in” a special symbol, or a secret message into the stitching for the recipient to discover later. Another tradition is to immediately put the quilt to use. On a bed or as a throw in the living room to show that the quilt is meant to be of practical use and comfort. Isn’t our life a lot like that? Everyone from our parents to our friends have placed special meaning in our lives. They’ve all put their marks on us, and we’ve become better for it all. Even the dark times that leave scars will heal, and the painful mark it leaves may be sensitive, but it will be stronger in the long run. We may not know each “special meaning” until years later, but you can be sure there are lessons that can be learned. In the end, just like the quilt, we have to put our lives to use. Those hours of work and sweat put in by all of those that helped stitch us together shouldn’t be wasted. We should put our own brand of stitching into someone else’s quilt with the same love and care that we were given. After all, we’re all human and aren’t we supposed to be here for each other? We need to keep each other warm. I think that’s why God put us here in the first place.  

   Good quilting, Y’all.  

   I just watched my sixtieth Superbowl. No, I’m not old enough to remember the first few, but I am the same age as the NFL Championship game. I fixed my chili that I whip up every year at this time and sat down with my wife and daughter to enjoy the parade of commercials, patriotic opening anthem and cheer the Patriots on against the Seahawks. My team, the Denver Broncos, were whooped by the Pats a couple of weeks ago, but New England has been Chris’s team since he was a teenager, so I rooted for them. Sorry about that, Chris. I think I may have jinxed your guys.  

   The Superbowl is a truly American Event. Our national past time might well be baseball, but the Superbowl is definitively the greatest single sporting event in American Society. People from every part of America usually tune in, whether they like football or not. We take a little time to celebrate our country, our love of competition, hear good music and judge the newest commercials. Sometimes we can even guess what they’re advertising before they finish. Sometimes not. My favorite ad this year involved a humorous take on a prostate cancer blood test involving famous football players that just happen to play tight end. Yup. America and I are both getting older.  

   The Halftime Show is the premier concert that everyone loves to critique and rank against the past years within their memories. I guess my favorite would have to be Prince’s performance in Superbowl 41 in 2007. He did Purple Rain in actual rain, playing an electric guitar. In high heels. That performance, in my humble opinion, has never been topped. Before or after. It was beautiful.  

   This year the performer was Bad Bunny, whose name is Benito Antonio Martinez Ocasio and is a Puerto Rican singer and rapper that recently won the Grammy Award for Album of the Year. It’s notable that the album is in Spanish, a first for the iconic award. He sang several songs, had a very respectable dance troupe, and I enjoyed the show, even though I understood absolutely none of the words. It’s okay, I didn’t enjoy Kendrick Lamar’s show last year as much as Bad Bunny’s, and I understood zero of his lyrics either. He was rapping in English, or so I’m told.  

The decision to have Bad Bunny do the show raised some controversy, at least as far as the “Powers that be” are concerned. The President called it a “terrible choice” and an “affront” that “sows hatred” and that it was a “slap in the face” that didn’t represent American standards. Puerto Rico is an American Territory, and all its inhabitants are  
American Citizens. Just a little history lesson there. It’s kind of funny that Bad Bunny ended his set by holding up a football that said “Together, we are America” and the Jumbotron sign was lit up with “The only thing more powerful than hate is love”. I guess that kind of message would be a “slap in the face” to a person that is full of hate. I pray that our president, and our country, will find a way to love one another before next year’s Superbowl. I also pray that my Broncos will be there, no matter who plays in the Halftime Show.  

God bless Y’all. 

P.S.  A shout out to Pamela Louise Porterfield Stone on being five years older than the Superbowl! You are one of my heroes and I love you! Her birthday was on February 8th, the same day as the Superbowl this year. May this next year give you joy, health and happiness. – signed Your Baby Brother. 

Thank you!

  I didn’t play in the snow last week. We adults are most often taken over by events when a “Snowmeggedon” hits the South. There’re bread and milk to drain from the Walmart, Kroger and Dollar Generals in the tri-county area, not to mention anti-freeze, salt and ice-melt of every type to be scavenged and hoarded like it will stop the inevitable overwhelming of our warm climate natural environment. We mostly guffaw at the purchase of things like snow-chains for tires, snow shovels and gas-powered generators until the doom is already upon us. So we barricade ourselves in the house. We  eat our French toast (and snow-cream, don’t forget to make the snow-cream!), drink our hot chocolate and pray that the internet doesn’t go out until we finish the latest episode of “1000 Pound Sisters” and “Landman” And, of course, we hope the lights and heat hold up through the blizzard as well. Priorities are what they are. 

     I remember a big snow back when I was a kid in Arkansas. We usually only got snow once a year. It could happen any time from November till February, and it was usually just dusting. Just enough to make a snowball and, maybe, scrape enough off the top of our car to make some snow cream. But, heck, it was Arkansas, so what do you expect? Well, this one time, probably around 1975 because I think I was in fifth grade, we had a huge snow. Probably four, or five, inches of the best powdered snow a kid could dream of. It covered everything. We had snowball fights. We built snowmen. We made angels in the snow. We took milk crates and cardboard (who owns an actual sled in Arkansas?) and slid down the hill behind the elementary school. It was one of the best snows of my lifetime. 

     I was alone on the elementary school playground. We lived on the next block over so this place was where everyone played year-round. The playground had slides, monkey-bars and see-saws up near the old brick school, but there was a football field-sized field out in front of that, surrounded by hedges and trees. It was a great place to play. My own kids got to grow up playing on that same hallowed ground of childhood. That day, it was just me. A field of virgin snow, white, pristine and beautiful. I had been playing for a while and I was cold. The white socks on my hands (Arkansas mitten. Yeah, again-who owns mittens in Arkansas?) were crusted with frozen snow already, but I decided to roll some snow into a snowball. I just wanted to see how big I could get it. It started slow. I was down on the ground, on my knees, getting it started, as my teeth chattered. It got bigger. I kept rolling. Soon it was up to my knees and I could stand up and roll it. Then it was to my waist! Holy cow! I’d never rolled one this big. Usually the snow wasn’t the right consistency for this kind of construction. I continued to labor, sweating icicles as the ball got heavier and harder to roll. In thirty minutes time I’d rolled it all the way to the other end of the field. That little fifth grader made a snowball that stood at least a foot above his head! Yes, it was probably only about five, maybe six, feet tall, but that was huge to me! I had joy in my heart. My cold, shivering heart was bursting with pride. No structure on the face of the planet could compare to that thing. I only wished that our playground was on the edge of a hill, so I could’ve rolled it over the edge and watched it destroy cars and villages like on the cartoons I so loved. Sigh. Such is life. 

      Like I said, I didn’t get to play in the snow this week. I missed only half a day of work Monday because it took some effort to get out of my driveway. Since I work at a Rehab Hospital, which NEVER closes, I try and make every effort to be there. Lots of folks had a pretty bad time of it, so I’ll just say that I’m grateful to the Big Guy that I made it to work every day safely and my family was safe and unhurt. All that said, I sure wish I could’ve played in the snow. I sure miss that snowball. I wonder if he misses me? 

Stay safe, erbody. 

God bless Y’all. 

     Another Minnesotan citizen has been shot and killed by federal officers. He was an ICU nurse. He was putting himself between Border Patrol agents and a woman they had pushed to the ground. He was “brandishing” a cell phone and continued to video the officers until they pushed him to the ground also. He was carrying a firearm (holstered and legal-2nd Amendment rights, right MAGA?) and, as they beat the man with fists and pistols, a grey-clad agent took his gun. The video then shows us that they shot him, face down on the pavement. Execution style. The Border Patrol leader, Greg Bovino, characterized his agents as “the victims” in this incident. Strange, but that was the same way Christi Noem (Bovino’s boss and US Homeland Security Secretary) characterized the ICE agent that shot and killed Renee Nicole Good. Full of fear of being run over by a vehicle turning away from him, ICE agent Jonathan Ross shot the unarmed Good at point blank range. He then walked calmly away muttering “F**king B**ch”.   

     Christi Noem sent the governor of Minnesota a letter this past weekend, after the killing. She demanded three things from the state of Minnesota in order for her armed agents to leave the state. 1) the state turns over all Medicaid and SNAP information to the federal government. 2) repeal all Sanctuary City policies and completely cooperate with ICE, Border Patrol and Homeland Security. This includes turning over all incarcerated non-documented persons in custody. 3) turn over all voter rolls and personal information in them to the Department of Justice Civil Rights Division. All of these things violate Minnesota State Sovereignty and even federal law. All of these demands are abuse of power. It’s a fascist tactic to eliminate political opposition and control elections. Minnesotans are appalled. Kill their citizens, then demand a ransom for not killing any more of them. Chrisi Noem should be fired and charged with accessory to murder.   

     The man’s name was Alex Pretti. An ICU nurse at a VA hospital. He was no “paid protester”. He was documenting the protest. Recording with his cell phone. He was helping people being abused by federal agents. He was shot by a group of cowards in masks who murdered him, face down in the street in broad daylight. These “Proud Boys” of Homeland Security have murdered another American citizen. Their names will eventually be found out. We will not forget. Justice will find them.  

     God bless the Pretti family. God help our representatives, senators and governors stop enabling the trump regime to continue killing American citizens with impunity. Stand up, if you truly are the representatives of a democratic republic. Your citizens are dying in the streets. 

God bless Y’all.