We still have about three weeks—if not more—of summer left, but there’s an unmistakable whiff of autumn in the air, at least here in the Sandhills of Nebraska. Autumn’s the best time of the year to be in the Sandhills, when the temperatures are the most agreeable, and the scenery’s at its annual best.
There’s nothing like autumn in the Sandhills of Nebraska; it’s the time of the year when one’s the most happiest, gloriously happy, to be alive.
I didn’t participate on conservativecave as much this year, as registered members—but not primitive lurkers—know why. There’s the feeling that one’s getting stale and dull, past one’s prime, like the Bostonian Drunkard on Skins’s island. Also all the dissension among decent and civilized people here, who
need to be united as never before, has been disheartening.
And of course the matter of health, which causes a significant shift in one’s priorities and activities.
I suspect thundley4 would be impressed; off the internet, and using black ink on white paper, I’ve written a great deal about my experiences in the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants, there being a significant difference in quality as compared with what I wrote about it on the internet.
There’s hardly any comparison at all; whereas my internet writings have tended to be quick, careless, sloppy, and slapdash, this stuff is evolving as sharper, more intense, carefully crafted, and may I boast, damned near professional writing.
If I have my way—which I might, or might not, have—it’ll never appear on the internet, only in solid hardbound books.
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The heart attack, which struck out in the middle of nowhere during the middle of the night in May 2015, caused that change in priorities.
It was caused by 37 years of chain-smoking 2-3 packages of cigarettes a day (towards the end, though, usage withered down to about a package a day), as I’d been doing it since a teenager of tender years, and vigorously so.
The heart attack was one of those cases where the heart-beat rate soars way up into three figures, while at the same time the blood pressure drops to the basement, and ultimately lower than that.
It was really weird, that otherwise peaceful dark night. People around me weren’t even aware I was having a heart attack—I didn’t want to attract notice to myself—until two medics, sirens blaring and lights flashing, showed up and slammed me down onto a stretcher.
And then at the hospital—I was conscious, utterly conscious, coherent, and competent, the whole time—the cardiologist and I carried on what seemed an Aristotlean discussion. It was so remarkable that eyewitnesses to the event—of which there were several—still talk about it sixteen months later.
The cardiologist carefully carried out his professional responsibilities, outlining to me what “might†happen if I
didn’t let him do this thing or that thing. And I carried out my obligation to myself, outlining what “might†happen if he
did do this thing or that thing.
In the end, I guess I proved myself a competent person, as he did as I requested. He could go in to explore, to look around, to see how things were…..but he couldn’t tamper, change a thing in there.
Some insist that was a bad idea, not doing anything, but as events have since proven, sometimes
doing nothing is the best thing to do. Time will tell.
It’s been sixteen months, and after all the initial damage, there’s been no further deterioration. It’s not great, but it’s not getting any worse.
I immediately quit smoking, and
mirabile dictu, it took no effort at all. I just quit, and that was that. I hang around with people who smoke, but I’ve never had any urge or compulsion to resume. It’s as if I’d never smoked before in my life. And to think it was once one of my greatest preoccupations in life.
I dropped some weight—not particularly necessary, but it happened anyway—and get tired sooner than I used to, but considering all, God has been extraordinarily good to me, even (as of right now) the throat and lungs coming up clean.
But, I’ve always insisted franksolich is the luckiest person I know; many others who sinned much less, came up much worse.
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This summer passed as other summers, which have been written about and so no point in repeating oneself; the usual contingents of freeloading old hippies and primitives showing up to camp on the river (this is private property, and so one may legally consume booze on it).
The neighbor’s children, who were so delightful as kids, are now teenagers, and all which
that encompasses. They think franksolich has turned into a grouchy old man, but that’s not true—I’m the same as I ever was; it’s just that
they changed.
