Clinton, South Carolina, Saturday, August 15, 2015, 1:26 p.m.
Sometimes the mind needs to be cleaned of all the items that are too short to stand alone but too long to advance by means of the social media.
My favorite items at the moment are peaches. Yes, peaches. My father sold fertilizer to peach farmers when I was a kid. South Carolina produces more peaches than Georgia, which ought to be the Peanut State if any kind of certification were required, and they’re available on the side of the road this time of year, and I love to eat one, fuzz and all, and make smoothies in the blender, and cut them up and mix them with cottage cheese. They are a source of exquisite pleasure and make being a South Carolinian almost worthwhile.
They rank right up there with homegrown tomatoes sliced on fried bologna sandwiches, with plenty of salt and pepper, and Duke’s mayonnaise, but Palmetto State peaches aren’t available as long. It’s a seasonal pleasure, like football in the fall.
Excuse me, I’m going to take a break for a peach right now.
Cancer is all around. I went to the funeral of a friend’s mother on Friday. Buddy Baker died of it. So did Steve Byrnes. Jimmy Carter has it. I got home from the Clinton High School Jamboree last night (which was unpleasant) and found out John Farrell, manager of the Red Sox, has it.
Damn cancer. Enough, already.
Just an unscientific observation. Presbyterians do mourning much better than Baptists. I judge funerals by the measure of how many cry. Friday’s funeral was joyous, warm, uplifting. A few wept. No one cried.
One of the first signs that a day is going to be a rough one is when you get your clothes out of the dryer, and, somehow, a high percentage of the shirts and pants have turned inside out.
I don’t own a typewriter — though it’s possible my old portable one is in a closet somewhere because I don’t remember giving or throwing it away — but I bought a program for my two writing apparati — this Surface and the Toshiba in the office — that simulates the sound of a typewriter while I write.
I can only use it in a Notepad file, but the cutting and pasting is well worth it.
Somewhere from the beyond, my old typing teacher, Ella Savage, smiles in spite of her disapproval of the fact that I am hunched over, my posture is bad, and my feet are not anchored.
As she must of have said a thousand times forty-three years ago, “Get ready. Feet on the flo.’ Begin.”
I’m typing. I just ate a peach. Life is good.
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