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Commentary by William Carter: Not a Good Day

It was Monday again; something that happens with alarming regularity and, still, even after all these years, nobody’s tried to fix and all I knew for a fact right then was that seven days in the future (past?) an artillery man in the Army of Time had already fired off another Monday that was arcing its way towards us, zeroed in to splat right on top of us a week from then. I knew he was just doing his job, but would it hurt anything to misfire every once in a while and let us all start the work-week with that Saturday morning feeling

Oh, and early that morning Bear-Dog peed on my foot because I wasn’t quite awake and I have to support him now when he goes and I sensed a certain amount of glee emanating from him and I swear his shoulders were shaking in silent laughter as I grumbled and cursed as if my standing in the front yard six times a day weirdly positioned over my dog while he does his business wasn’t a labor of love, not to mention all the hours the past few days I’d been Googling dog-wheelchairs. Where’s the respect? Where’s the appreciation?

Did I mention it was hot? Well, it was, and it was muggy, too, and I’d had a headache most of the day brought on by the aroma of slow-roasted, dog pee-soaked leather work boot wafting up from my right foot and I was pretty sure there was a heretofore unknown fungus incubating between my toes all day long.

Everybody has “one of those days,” I know, but that day, for some reason, had been more of a one-of-those-days days for me than I can ever remember. It’s not just that it was Monday, either, or the heat or the being peed on; things just are, sometimes, and things just happen and I’ve always spent most of my days marveling that I’m alive and gifted with good fortune and the ability to witness – and maybe find a little humor in – everything that’s going on around me.

Not that day, though; that day I was ill-tempered and snappish and mean-natured and suspicious there’d been a secret meeting the night before where everybody talked bad about me. That day I felt uneasy; as if a change, not a good one, was coming and I felt unmotivated and I felt depressed, a feeling I am definitely not familiar with.

No, it was not a good day so, naturally, I decided to blame it on God.

Keep in mind that I’m the type of guy who doesn’t believe God cares too much or gives me guidance about what coffee cup I use in the morning or what car I drive or whether or not I order fajitas. Nor, I feel, does He give much thought at all to how many churches there are in town and whether or not I’m sitting in one and I’m almost positive He doesn’t have a favorite football team or NASCAR driver, either. God, I think, doesn’t worry about my minor woes but chooses instead to allow me to use the brain He gave me to deal with them.

I do, however, believe He appreciates a good prayer and our acknowledgement of His finer creations and other small wonders like lightning bugs and rain and mamas and fresh asparagus and sleep and new underwear, to name only a very few.

But I blamed the day on Him anyway because He’s in charge and I grumbled and muttered all the way home about the heat and my pee-soaked boot and about why I was feeling troubled when, really, I had nothing all that important to feel troubled about and I was still grumbling and muttering when I parked and got out of the truck and stood beneath an unforgiving sun looking at and whining about my weedy garden.

“God,” I whine, “why have You let the flea beetles eat my eggplants?  Isn’t it enough I don’t use pesticides…can’t you help me out just a little bit?”

The bottom leaves on my lone tomato plant rustle and Bun-Bun, Love-Weasel’s pet, wild rabbit, sticks his nose out, eyes me with undisguised disgust, then ambles away.

I part the leaves, whining and grumbling, to inventory the damage.

Tucked away, almost hidden, is the red, small wonder of my first ripe tomato of the year.

Talk about motivation.

Thank You, God.
Thank You. 
    
William Carter is a longtime Franklin city employee and published author. He may be contacted at wcarterfranklin@aol.com.
   


 

Posted on: 7/27/2013

 
 

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