The Native Iowan

It’s a big topic. If not the biggest topic.

The meaning of life.

The measuring of life.

A friend used to speak of “life’s rich pageant”.

Today is a clean up-after sorta day. Many projects on the go, many maintenance items dangling from the to-do list.

Tractor and buggy and bush fires and mowers (yes, plural) and jobs little and big. Life as an ol’fart is pretty bizzy.

I tend to use the mornings for busy time. It’s cooler, I’m stronger. One thing I find as I age is I do tire reasonably quickly. I do though have stamina and can often carry on longer than is really good for me. As my mother has said, “Getting old aint for sissies”.

The weather has been “heavy”. Very heavy. The clean-up is huge. It’ll take a while. And thats OK. No herd on the grass means no need for fences, which means better sleep.

How many out there have been on small vessels (or large vessels) when the chain drags? Its a one-of-a-kind “thing”. The sensation plus sound (or lack ther-off) can be spooky. Many of an ol’ swabby wakes in their sleep, in a sound bed, on land, to the horror of the anchor dragging.

I hear thunder in the distance. I know a storm cell flew by and hit south and east of us. But we were left unmolested.

Somewhere in my past, somewhere in my memories, I hear a voice telling me that … “…the meaning of life is collecting stories…”. What did the voice mean, then, as it was said? Who was it? Sounds like Wally Sanger, but I could be wrong.

My memories can be blurred. I need to work to find clear memories, and if you were with Wally Sanger, way back when, your memory was impaired by association.

And the beat goes on…

Big smiles