Saturday, September 04, 2004
Redneck relaxation technique
By The Erudite Redneck
OMMMMMMMMMM, y’all, OMMMMMMMMMM.
OMMMMMMMMMM, y’all, OMMMMMMMMMM.
That’s me tryin’ to chill out, which does not come easy at all. In fact, just about nothin’ tenses me up faster than somebody tellin’ me to relax. Makes me want to bonk ‘em on the head.
Relax?!? Who’s got time to relax??
About 900-something miles into the 3,600-mile mad dash Dr. Erudite Redhead and I took from Oklahoma, through the Texas Panhandle, up and across Colorado, up and across Wyoming, over to South Dakota, back over and up to Montana, and back to Oklahoma, in July, in nine days, in a pickup truck, She Who Is My Wife was heard to utter, bewilderingly, after lookin’ hard at the itinerary I’d hornswoggled her into, “But, when are we gonna have time to relax?”
It was a “vacation,” after all, but only right then and there did my bride of purt’ near seven years and I realize we had radically different ideas about same. To me, a vacation is something on which ones does. To her, a vacation is something on which one is. In other words, time off is meant to be filled with active verbs for me, plain ol “to be” ones for her.
“Relax?!?” the ol’ Erudite Redneck sorter bellowed, in a motel room in Colorado Springs, way too far from the house to consider turnin’ back. “Relax?!? We can relax when we’re dead! I’m on a mission!”
True story. And yep, we were both tireder when we got home than before we left. But that’s what a vacation is for. To me. She Who Is fussed and carried on some, but we did what I set out to accomplish – and that particular placement of personal pronouns is on purpose. We’d gone on several trips of her own design; this was the first one that was all Erudite Redneck-inspired:
The ultimate destiny was the Little Bighorn Battlefield, in Montana, 20-odd miles north of Sheridan, Wyo. The little “town” of Garryowen – named for the Irish tune that Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer almost always had his regimental band play as they headed into battle – and the Crow Agency, about 2 miles north, both claim the site.
The mail comes out of Crow Agency. Garryowen actually has true claim to where Sitting Bull’s camp was on June 25, 1876, the day Custer’s ego, a tectonic yet temporary shift in attitude among the Sioux and Cheyenne, and the shifting winds of domestic U.S. politics all came together in an almost mystic cyclone of fate, dust, misfortune, blood, Indian rage and guts to claim Custer and all of his men in the famed and vaunted Seventh Cavalry.
Between January and May, I read no fewer than 20 books on all aspects of the Indian wars, the damnyankee president grant’s “peace policy,” white migration west, gold lustin’ and every other aspect of the era and events surrounding Custer’s demise. Not until we climbed out of the truck and I stood on the very ground of the battlefield did I “get” the fighting of that day and how it played out. Well worth the trip.
Devil’s Tower. Black Hills. Badlands. Mt. Rushmore. Pike’s Peak. Bent’s Fort, a rebuilt 1830s tradin’ post in southeast Colorado. Black Mesa, the highest point in Oklahoma, at the very northwest tip of our Panhandle. All were stops on the trip. But seein’ where Custer fell, especially with all the background on it now clutterin’ up my head, automatically replaced my first time in Washington, D.C., as my favorite trip anywhere, ever.
Dang it. I have done let myself work up something of a mental lather, just thinkin’ about all that stuff and writin’ it up – writin’ after all, bein’ a form of work, even for people who aren’t bad at it – and please don’t mistake this here for anything but the pure-dee ramblin’ it is.
Give me a minute.
OMMMMMMMMMM, ah say(?), OMMMMMMMMMM.
OMMMMMMMMMM, ah say(?), OMMMMMMMMMM.
Startled She Who Is awhallago with that. I was in the front room, testin’ out my baritone, and she was in the bedroom gettin’ read to go to the Super Wal-mart about 150 yards away from the house, which is sweet. I mean, if I have to live in town anyway, I ain’t gonna grumble too much about there bein’ big stores, and cars and people in it. Which is why people who live in town, and complain about the attributes of livin’ in town, can just pipe down. Likewise, people who move to the country and complain that there are big tractors in their way on county roads and nasty ol’ cows everywhere can hush. Just pick yer dadgum bed and lie in it.
Anyway, “OMMMMMMMMMM, OMMMMMMMMMM,” I said(?) in the front room. Then, “OMMMMMMMMMM, OMMMMMMMMMM,” I said(?) halfway down the hall. Then, “OMMMMMMMMMM, OMMMMMMMMMM,” I said(?) at the bedroom door, where she looked up as I came in declared that she was sure hopin’ that it was me makin’ them sounds but she wadn’t sure.
Well, of course not. She’d never heard ’em comin’ out of me before. See, I can’t remember the last time I got up on a Saturday morning intendin’ to relax. And I really don’t know how.
The yard will still get mowed. The week’s mail will still get gone through. Might go ahead and run to the office and do the couple hours worth of paper shufflin’ I couldn’t get done yesterday. But I will endeavor to do it relaxingly, not stridently.
Standin’ behind my Weber Kettle™ grill (I am a believer) as the beer-soaked brats cook up, then, reclinin’ in the recliner watchin’ Oklahoma State whup UCLA on the TV, then headin’ out to Central State to watch them boys whup Abilene Christian – all that will help me chill out, most of it not bein’ anything resembling work or worry.
We’ll see. It does not come naturally to me. Just don’t anybody tell me to relax and maybe I can pull it off. This is me talkin, though. OMMMMMMMMMM, I’ll swan, OMMMMMMMMMM. OMMMMMMMMMM, oh my soul, OMMMMMMMMMM.
END
OMMMMMMMMMM, y’all, OMMMMMMMMMM.
OMMMMMMMMMM, y’all, OMMMMMMMMMM.
That’s me tryin’ to chill out, which does not come easy at all. In fact, just about nothin’ tenses me up faster than somebody tellin’ me to relax. Makes me want to bonk ‘em on the head.
Relax?!? Who’s got time to relax??
About 900-something miles into the 3,600-mile mad dash Dr. Erudite Redhead and I took from Oklahoma, through the Texas Panhandle, up and across Colorado, up and across Wyoming, over to South Dakota, back over and up to Montana, and back to Oklahoma, in July, in nine days, in a pickup truck, She Who Is My Wife was heard to utter, bewilderingly, after lookin’ hard at the itinerary I’d hornswoggled her into, “But, when are we gonna have time to relax?”
It was a “vacation,” after all, but only right then and there did my bride of purt’ near seven years and I realize we had radically different ideas about same. To me, a vacation is something on which ones does. To her, a vacation is something on which one is. In other words, time off is meant to be filled with active verbs for me, plain ol “to be” ones for her.
“Relax?!?” the ol’ Erudite Redneck sorter bellowed, in a motel room in Colorado Springs, way too far from the house to consider turnin’ back. “Relax?!? We can relax when we’re dead! I’m on a mission!”
True story. And yep, we were both tireder when we got home than before we left. But that’s what a vacation is for. To me. She Who Is fussed and carried on some, but we did what I set out to accomplish – and that particular placement of personal pronouns is on purpose. We’d gone on several trips of her own design; this was the first one that was all Erudite Redneck-inspired:
The ultimate destiny was the Little Bighorn Battlefield, in Montana, 20-odd miles north of Sheridan, Wyo. The little “town” of Garryowen – named for the Irish tune that Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer almost always had his regimental band play as they headed into battle – and the Crow Agency, about 2 miles north, both claim the site.
The mail comes out of Crow Agency. Garryowen actually has true claim to where Sitting Bull’s camp was on June 25, 1876, the day Custer’s ego, a tectonic yet temporary shift in attitude among the Sioux and Cheyenne, and the shifting winds of domestic U.S. politics all came together in an almost mystic cyclone of fate, dust, misfortune, blood, Indian rage and guts to claim Custer and all of his men in the famed and vaunted Seventh Cavalry.
Between January and May, I read no fewer than 20 books on all aspects of the Indian wars, the damnyankee president grant’s “peace policy,” white migration west, gold lustin’ and every other aspect of the era and events surrounding Custer’s demise. Not until we climbed out of the truck and I stood on the very ground of the battlefield did I “get” the fighting of that day and how it played out. Well worth the trip.
Devil’s Tower. Black Hills. Badlands. Mt. Rushmore. Pike’s Peak. Bent’s Fort, a rebuilt 1830s tradin’ post in southeast Colorado. Black Mesa, the highest point in Oklahoma, at the very northwest tip of our Panhandle. All were stops on the trip. But seein’ where Custer fell, especially with all the background on it now clutterin’ up my head, automatically replaced my first time in Washington, D.C., as my favorite trip anywhere, ever.
Dang it. I have done let myself work up something of a mental lather, just thinkin’ about all that stuff and writin’ it up – writin’ after all, bein’ a form of work, even for people who aren’t bad at it – and please don’t mistake this here for anything but the pure-dee ramblin’ it is.
Give me a minute.
OMMMMMMMMMM, ah say(?), OMMMMMMMMMM.
OMMMMMMMMMM, ah say(?), OMMMMMMMMMM.
Startled She Who Is awhallago with that. I was in the front room, testin’ out my baritone, and she was in the bedroom gettin’ read to go to the Super Wal-mart about 150 yards away from the house, which is sweet. I mean, if I have to live in town anyway, I ain’t gonna grumble too much about there bein’ big stores, and cars and people in it. Which is why people who live in town, and complain about the attributes of livin’ in town, can just pipe down. Likewise, people who move to the country and complain that there are big tractors in their way on county roads and nasty ol’ cows everywhere can hush. Just pick yer dadgum bed and lie in it.
Anyway, “OMMMMMMMMMM, OMMMMMMMMMM,” I said(?) in the front room. Then, “OMMMMMMMMMM, OMMMMMMMMMM,” I said(?) halfway down the hall. Then, “OMMMMMMMMMM, OMMMMMMMMMM,” I said(?) at the bedroom door, where she looked up as I came in declared that she was sure hopin’ that it was me makin’ them sounds but she wadn’t sure.
Well, of course not. She’d never heard ’em comin’ out of me before. See, I can’t remember the last time I got up on a Saturday morning intendin’ to relax. And I really don’t know how.
The yard will still get mowed. The week’s mail will still get gone through. Might go ahead and run to the office and do the couple hours worth of paper shufflin’ I couldn’t get done yesterday. But I will endeavor to do it relaxingly, not stridently.
Standin’ behind my Weber Kettle™ grill (I am a believer) as the beer-soaked brats cook up, then, reclinin’ in the recliner watchin’ Oklahoma State whup UCLA on the TV, then headin’ out to Central State to watch them boys whup Abilene Christian – all that will help me chill out, most of it not bein’ anything resembling work or worry.
We’ll see. It does not come naturally to me. Just don’t anybody tell me to relax and maybe I can pull it off. This is me talkin, though. OMMMMMMMMMM, I’ll swan, OMMMMMMMMMM. OMMMMMMMMMM, oh my soul, OMMMMMMMMMM.
END
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Well, that's enough relaxin'. This is why I hate to "take it easy." When I slow down, I get down -- and I don't mean "and boogie." Sigh. Here I am with a big ol' case of melancholia. But, Go Pokes, and Go Bronchos; UCO was puttin' the whomp on Abilene Christian to the tune of 49 to 10, I think, when I left at the beginning of the fourth quarter. Weak, melancholic :-)
Well, I see you were correct in OK State whuppin' UCLA. That's okay--I really don't like football, anyway. ;)
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