Some of you may have noticed that I have not posted in a while.
Some others of you may be reading this and saying, “Eh? What? Who is this Boff character? What’s he on about? How do I get him off my feed?” You might even be shaking your walking stick or ear trumpet in the air angrily. And, really, who am I to interrupt your yoga exercises? Downward dog on, my friend.
But, yes, it has been nine days since my last post. There are many reasons for that. Some of them are even good reasons. I wish I could remember what they are. But, as always, the foremost reason is that I live such an incredibly boring life, that it is an intense uphill struggle to find something to write about. I suppose I could write about my intense struggle up the hill, but it is not as interesting as it sounds. It is like trying to describe fog to a blind person. Who is also deaf. And a cadaver. Yes, I could describe the fog, but what is the point, really? It only makes the cadaver wish I would go bother someone else.
But in addition to that, this time I had an actual reason for not posting. That is, I spent a few days up in Pennsylvania visiting my daughter. I had a wonderful time, even though the weather was quite chilly. I didn’t mind. I thought the weather was very seasonable. It hovered around 35 F (2 C) the entire time and there was almost always a good stiff wind of about 20 MPH, making it feel much colder. It made walking around Intercourse or Bird In Hand a beautiful experience.
It is how I imagine the very first settlers felt during their first spring in Amish Country, PA. I can just picture Jebediah pulling his North Face jacket a little tighter around him as he stood outside the glass blowers shop, contemplating the ten thousand dollar vase. “That would make a fine milking urn,” he might have said, admiring its variegation. “But ol’ Bessie’s liable to kick it over and then I really would be crying over spilled milk.”
I admire the Amish a great deal. Not the ones that sell souvenirs at the tourist shops or who appear on appalling “reality” TV shows. I mean the real Amish. The ones who eschew electricity and modern ways. The ones who work the farm with horses or mules. The ones who hang their laundry on the line to dry. I think they must live lives of quiet satisfaction and peace.
Of course, if I were to become Amish, I would not survive the first winter. They would find my frozen body, still sitting on the milking stool in the barn, where’d I’d tried to figure out how to milk a cow without the benefit of a YouTube video.
Anyway, I’d like to write more, and I probably will in the coming days, but it is nearly time for Johnny Carson to come on the telly and I need to reheat my coffee in the microwave. Who says I can’t rough it?