Rites of Passage

 I don't know when or how it happened, but I've been keeping some sort of record of things since I was a youngster. It seems it has always been a natural tendency of mine to jot down things in words, drawings or both and in these latter years I've discovered that it's become a kind of vouge thing to do either in an attempt at lay people indulging in more creative habits or as a type of  popular, therapeutic self-care. It's become more prominent in the mainstream, in no small part, since the advent of social media because so many "gurus" of mindfulness suddenly appear out of nowhere as "experts" on ways to release one's demons through journaling , to use a popular term. 

It brings to mind the Barbara Mandrell hit from 1981, I was Country when Country wasn't Cool because all the newly discovered ingenious methods of healthful practices are things I've been doing for decades. Stopping just short of saying I was bullied for it, I took much kidding and razing throughout the years for doing such things. The harassments continued even well into adulthood. Now, with a nod toward Ms. Mandrell,

Look at everybody trying to be what I was then.

I confess my pride about how It gives me sense of victorious satisfaction to know that the things that the undesirable people in my past who often tyrannized my preferences by chasing me down hallways after school to rip up my collections of drawings and notes or who took the books I was reading and ripped the pages out of its binding, are the ones now trying to mimic me, even though they would never admit it. Okay, so maybe it could be described as bullying but it was at a time when bullying was seen as more of a rite of passage.

Who am I to Argue

 There was once a prospector of long ago who had set up camp for the night after a hard day of prospecting. He was frying bacon and brewing coffee over his campfire, anticipating a lovely dinner under the open, star filled sky among the soothing sounds of crickets when he heard a rustling in the brush getting closer and closer.

By and by, a sizable, thickly bearded man dressed all in leather emerged riding a grizzly bear which he was controlling by a tight grip on his furry neck with his strong, large hands. He rode right up to the camp and said in a gravelly voice, "I'd be obliged for a swallow of coffee".

Not being one to turn away people in need and taking into consideration the riders imposing size and roughness, the prospector agreed and the stranger, without getting down from the grizzly, reached for the scalding hot coffee pot, grasped it with his bare hands and poured half of its scalding contents down his throat without a wince. He wiped his mouth with his leather sleeved arm, replace the coffee pot onto the fire and said,

 "Many thanks. I hate to run off so rudely but there's a man chasing me and he's one bad son-of-a-bitch."