A Small Request

Dear Reader(s),

First, thanks so much for reading my little blog. I appreciate it. 

I'd like to ask a favor of you. Next time you say your evening prayers, please ask the Dear Lord Above-- or the Giant Oak Tree or Who/Whatever to whom/what you pray/reflect upon at the end of the day-- to look out for Mr./Ms Low-Man-on-the-Totem-Pole-Who's-Tasked-with-Reading-my-Little-Blog. It's come to my attention that he works in a hostile environment. 

His co-workers have been asked to spy on him, to note changes in his behavior such as his desire to vacation in uneducated and uncultured Southern States, to perk their ears up when he utters unfamiliar terms such as "bush hog," and to note that on his lunch break, rather than playing on his iThingy, he's taken to frequenting antique books stores in search of Common Sense. His co-workers are to report their findings on his abnormal behavior to the Officials in Mosc Washington. He could get in serious trouble.

I know what you're thinking-- okay, that's a lie, Mr. LMONTPWTWRMLB knows what you're thinking, I can only imagine, given my limited surveillance resources. I imagine you're thinking

"How ironic!"

"He has no shame. He deserves to work in a hostile environment."

"Why should I care? I take my life into my own hands every time I read your stupid little blog, Marica, because there's always the chance you're blogging about guns or some crappy old Revolutionary history instead of food and gardens. And he knows it! He's probably spying on me right now. Maybe I should stop reading your stupid little blog."

Now, before you go off half cocked-- which, if you know anything about revolvers, is no way to go-- consider a few things.

You're right! (Except for the part about not reading the blog.) It is ironic and he has no shame. So why should we care? 

 
We shouldn't care that he's up to his neck in student debt, is in a heartless relationship which will never lead to a crappy old fashioned home cooked family supper, and works in a hostile environment. He brought these things on himself. He made choices.

We should care because every time he sees a photo of the dogs in the pasture, he wonders what it might be like to be as free as they.

Think about that. Mr. LMONTPWTWRMLB wonders what it's like to be a dog in a pasture, running and playing free inside five fenced-in green acres with a pond. 

We should care because every time he sees a photo of a bunch of guys shooting guns on the range, he wonders what it might be like to experience a true guy thing. 

Think about that. He has never once felt the kick of a 12ga shot gun. He's never once nodded in prideful approval of his own tight little grouping. And for sure, he has never once dined on home BBQed ribs after shooting with his guy friends. 

Every time he sees a photo of one or more of The Girls engaged in an intense lazy weekend game of crappy old school Nintendo or shirt tie-dying or baking or just hanging out here at the Farm-- there are too many photos to sort through--he wonders why he only sees his family at Christmas National Gift Day. (Maybe that's for the best since none of them can get along, anyway.)

So say a little prayer for him tonight. Poor fellow. He wishes he was as free as the dogs. And that's a good start.