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BY Davey H

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Then, ‘twas out to a handful of very small towns that country life defines;
past rows of trees with L-shaped crown
beneath the oblique power lines.
Out in the still mild wintry throes
it was the place to be;
where Davey H so often goes
with air of normalcy.
That being said, Fred,
it was still tough to get ahead.
So in his lead sled, he felt a slight pang of dread. But would not let his face turn red.
Away he sped to his fab tool shed,
from which grease bled.
Elsewhere in the news, a teenage climate activist
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was getting far too much airtime.
And let’s be clear: that air contained a relatively minute quantity of CO2, which, despite popular opinion, is NOT a pollutant.
Don’t believe that? Just ask the trees.
 
Davey then hearkened back to mentor Dan’s commentary on the supposed climate change threat. According to Dan, ambient atmospheric CO2 concentrations had reached into the thousand+ percent range at various times in Earth’s history. Disclaimer: this narrative is not to deny our quirky species’ destructive, globe-trashing ways; quite the contrary. Yes, we SUCK at sustainability, but as Dan would say – in a querulous tiny minority voice
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going up against a noisy-ass choir of true believers – CO2 is the least of our worries.
To further pontificate with redundancy, Davey H posits that nuclear weapon insanity is a larger looming threat. Look: if we ‘succeeded’ at incinerating ourselves, who is going to sweat another 2 degrees Fahrenheit? So quit frikkin’ worryin’ for now; the Duck® tape and rubber bands likely won’t come off the button-pushing prevention safety apparatus any time soon. Or will it? Nobody knows who or when. The Big Button could be activated by a pissed-off dictator and we’d all kiss our asses of normalcy goodbye. 
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So live for the moment while y’all can.
Besides, it’s Christmas time again, the UPS and FedEx vans are rolling full steam,
egg nog flows like cream,
tree decorations gleam
and Davey H joins the team.
Impeachment farcical so-called proceedings fill select mainstream media airwaves, so not all media are playing them. Cover your ears, dears, that’s what we recommend.

Greenwhile, stack at the branch, the grate Davey H finally met Sid Cromley, a local tree man, gardener and player of multiple stringed instruments. It so happened they were both sitting at (Censored) café where Davey was refraining from coffee 
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and lively conversation ensued with each dude oblivious to other patrons who may have been trying to read.
Sid opened with a welcome query that was music to Davey’s ears: “can I dump some work on ya?” Davey almost couldn’t believe it! In Davey’s experience the overarching theme in this business had been cutthroat competition from the git-go. Now here was a curious counterpoint, and Davey was ALL IN.
“Sure, man!” He said.
Ebullience bubbled from Sid and washed onto Davey H as the conversation rambled
Life, wife, gear, fear, jobs, mobs, aging joints and salient points were all touched upon,
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categorized, duly noted, and industry terms were quoted.
Sid was far from retirement; however, he was tired of the tougher knuckle-bustin’ aspects in this industry and wanted to forge a different path. He mentioned grooming a young apprentice and that seemed to be a potentiality for Sid’s continuation in the green trades.
Thus, Davey did bid Sid adieu for the day.
 
As the grate Davey H just read,
a thought, though mottled,
popped into his head:
he felt contented and happy here,
as he hasn’t relented and is still in gear
Although hopes get dented,
‘round this time of year,
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he hasn’t relented or caved in to fear.
Thus whilst hopping ‘oer some of life’s barrels, not shopping or copping
to Christmas carols,
Davey continues, though slightly  contrite,
in 100 word venues he struggles to write.
So what is that song bouncing
between these ears?
Do you hear it while flouncing
in silence, dears?
Never mind those sonic interventions;
they’re hardly worthy of any mentions.
 
A fierce series of wind gusts whipped things around the yard as Davey unsheathed his trusty pencil. It looked to be a challenging winter in the heartland regardless of what the Farmer’s Almanac might say.
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So what would they?
How much would it weigh?
they won’t truly say
what Nature will send our way.
So just go ahead: play.
Come next summer, chop corn & cut hay.
 
Wait! He slept way too late!
Now it’s out the gate for a spate;
an appointment to keep
if he’s not in too deep,
and oh, how the benefits reap!
Hell, at least he is caught up on sleep.
Now in case no one knows:
off to Lowes he goes
with ribbons and bows
before they all close.
Too bad: no more Sears.
Damn near moves him to tears.
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Yes, Sears is a closed chapter in American retail history. And though its many troubles and travails could be attributed to lack of flexibility and being handily trounced by nimble e-competitors, the specter of good old American GREED
cannot be discounted;
Sears closed its doors as the pressure mounted. Pondering these great truths
ferreted out by other sleuths
the grate Davey H
now hearkens back to his youth.
This time of year was a treasure to be cold
for Davey as an 8 year old.
The local petroleum refinery seemed to take a respite [a breather?] from its routine fume-belching
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that blanketed the region in a sulphurous rotten egg effluvium nine months of the year. No, this wasn’t Houston, TX, mind you, but petrol-ish nonetheless.
As Xmas day approached, Dad saw to it that a real tree was cut, purchased and hauled home. Looking back, it could have been Abies concolor or Abies balsamea.
Once the incandescent lights were hung, the tree came alive in a feast to the visual and olfactory senses. Heat from the bulbs enabled the release of terpenes and other aromatic resins from the sap via the needles. It almost didn’t matter if we got presents.
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Not having been born into a rich or extravagant family, Davey of course didn’t expect much. Although some other neighboring kids had minibikes and such, Davey H and his siblings would only get ordinary run-of-the-mill, stripped-down bicycles in later years; plain rolling stock with maybe two gears.
Flash to the present [no Xmas puns intended]: after another rain event,
the car with no cover had much water sent.
This was a vehicle that was quite leaky;
a thorn in the buttocks of Davey H squeaky.
Yes, you can guess and assert, by gawd,
that Davey H is a major tightwad.
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Hold on to your branches, tranches!!
Hey, if your trees are out of shape
thanks to the sleaze of an Asplundh ape,
‘tis best if you protect your trees
by saying NO to the worst of these.
 
Elsewhere in the choose, Davey H is fixin’ to go freezer shopping. The old outdoor chest freezer is showing signs of going buns-up. To his stunned surprise, those babies are not cheap! But this one was free, so it definitely paid for itself over the several years of its existence.
The old boy who had it before probably used it for deer carcasses,
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though it didn’t have that dreadful dead meat stench when Davey acquired it. The old box must be 40 years old and is dead simple: a cavernous 15 cubic foot storage serviced by one little compressor with no fan or anything else. It’s a wonder it didn’t smoke itself sooner during several torrid summers.
 
Make haste! No time to waste,
no turkey to baste,
not being chaste
with pumpkin spice taste.
Yes, that’s right: in lieu of caffeinated beverages, the grate Davey H Teechino® leverages.
It slides down smoothly
with flavor so groovy
and innocence like an old Hepburn movie.
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So Christmas crave-wrath was closing in
as folks beat a path to the bargain bin,
but not before Xmas, so says they;
no, they buy all their stuff on the very next day.
So shut off the noise, boys
it’s time to work; not play.
 
Where in cell are those children
with eyes all aglow?
Even Xmas can be a struggle if you make it so. So make it so if you should care
as Davey’s none the worse for wear.
He won’t venture too far afield;
as he hits a STOP but wants a YIELD.
And speaking of yield. . .
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he has become increasingly frustrated
with the sheer lack of time
allotted to do things that have waited.
This, oh, dear, is the shortest day of the year
But don’t frown, hunker down
or cower in fear.
We have plenty to do
for me and you
at the messy locale we call “here”.
On that note, Davey wrote
he is tickled to report
that resolving messes is a rank form of sport.
 
So the second order of business, after returning from a long jaunt in his aging anonymous year, make and model buggy – is to finally pull out the fridge,
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rake all the various and sundry widgets from atop it, dust it off and level the floor behind it.
‘Tis no mean feat by any stretch.
In fact, he’ll bleat “it will make me wretch.”
 
‘Twas the day before Xmas eve
and when Davey got started
he surely did grieve
for those dearly departed.
Then it was Xmas eve
and Davey took forever to leave;
‘twas just a work day
and that made it clear it
was not a foray into Xmas spirit.
As was referenced in preceding paragraphs, Xmas eve was no day off in any sense; in fact,
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it was just another knock down drag out toilin’ work day. The evening before was no picnic, either, as Davey tussled with balky lug-nuts whilst changing trailer #2's flat-as-all-get-out tire. Then, as if to knock at all skulls in the vicinity, the $50.00 Wal*Mart battery charger went *POOF* as if to say: ‘if you only spent fifty bucks, this is what you get’.
Well, Davey H thought to his frustrated self, ‘not so fast, Wally; I’m not shit-cannin’ you just yet’.
An incisive examination of the cheap appliance – albeit with vigorous magnification amid dwindling light – revealed a frayed power cord.
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Hah! Easy fix. Grab a decently sharp set of wire cutters, a lick ‘o common sense, halogen work light, add 3/4 hour of effort and Voila! Functionality restored.
Back fast forward to Xmas eve: (Censored) was a ghost town as Davey tooled on through en route to one more errand prior to Kerry Ambliss’s Xmas gathering. So downtrodden and disheveled was Davey that he had neglected to take in the vivid pink sunset.
On Xmas Day, ‘twas bright and clear; it
didn’t say ‘yep, Xmas spirit!’
at this fine day the masses scoff:
“Hell, hey, it’s only one day off.”
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The following passage is hereby summarily and intentionally culled from Davey’s auxiliary Scratchbook®:
“Come on, boys – let’s make some noise!
This cat enjoys the simplest toys.
Ahhh, the feline life is never a drag,
as long as you have a big paper bag.
 
Then, some sobering news came swiftly and unexpectedly: The well respected Mr. Blosky had died by his own hand.
According to non-eyewitnesses, he had been rather despondent over the loss of Mrs. Blosky who predeceased him by 14 months. Now it was time for reflection, as is the case when someone up and dies for whatever reason.
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True, Davey had his run-ins, disputes, disagreements, spats, head-buttings, arguments, and pissing contests with Blosky over the preceding two decades, but now it was all water over the dam. Two blue collar working class males were bound to have such dick slingin’ one-upmanship; it’s only natural. And one thing’s for sure: Davey H was glad beyond measure that Blosky never got violent; his enormous strength would easily pulverize most men.
Blosky was not known for moderation.
He could be extravagant when it came to purchasing equipment. More toys in the box meant more work completed – to his way of thinking.
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It has been 30 years that Mr. Blosky has been held as a Davey H acquaintance, and per usual evolution of many relations, a gulf has separated the two men, widening for the most part, but narrowing when one needed something from the other.
Blosky had busied himself most days – usually atop the ‘packerback’ loader – as he moved logs around his cluttered yard. You did NOT interrupt him for casual conversation if you knew what was good for you.
Blosky was a paradox, an oxymoron, an anomaly, an enigma. He lived and moved in a world of his own making,
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sailing on self-imposed rough seas and pulling the splinters of defeat from his leathery palms. The guy had a diverse and improbable array of skills and talents. He could SLAM pinball machines – playing hours on end, often from a single quarter. Frequently, when on spruce removals, Blosky would eye up a tree then visually dissect it well before all parts were on the ground. At that point, he would commence to craft the resultant trunk sections into functional benches by ripping the trunk longitudinally, leaving branches symmetrically on each side, then flipping the two sections to stand on their own.
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Though he was a day tripper,
he kept from the chipper
the stuff that would just go to waste;
because as you’ll see that Mr. Blosky
was stalwart and never two faced.
 
Spar date 12/31: New Year’s Eve and some would grieve yet some would just roil and toss; but most would catch their breath and not see Blosky’s death as such an elliptical loss.
Now Blosky wasn’t rotten but will be forgotten
just like anybody else would;
but hey, what the heck?
That’s reality check
and it’s neutral – not bad or good.
Yes, that’s correct and you can’t object
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although you may want to
 but alas when you die,
oh, crass gal or guy,
the world will forget about you!
That is not to say it will be right away,
oh, no that just isn’t the case;
but heed this: once you’ve left
and life force is bereft,
you no longer occupy space.
So kudos to Blosky aplenty
as we change our calendars to 2020
.
As musician Willy Porter had repeatedly sung, “we are all falling forward.”
Oh, and by the way, Porter neglected to mention that we are also aging, decaying, declining en route to that forward tilt.
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But that doesn’t get much discussion.
Do you want to get some grimaces, squirms, poker-faced glances or generalized unease?
That’s simple: simply mention old age and its inevitable conclusion. Such delightful cocktail party patter!
 
“When I have some time,” Blosky might have said, “I’ll get help, you know, get straightened out, open up and plug in to the community.” None of those things happened because when the chips were down, Blosky was, too.
No more fuel in his tank,
an ostensible end to his strife
and self-truncated life
with no outside causes to thank.
So take THAT to the bank,
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oh, Santa’s elf;
he has noone to blame but himself.
 
Now once Davey heard
he flicked life the bird
although it was pretty uncool;
but hell’s bells, aw, shucks;
yes, at times life sucks,
but that’s not the exception, it’s RULE.
 
So not to be cynical or to inimical:
Davey still makes the rounds;
at times he’s sardonic but never demonic
and upon intoxicants frowns.
 
This just in: with lots of compliance:
a study of knots in the Journal of Science.
Of all the gall!
The article’s tucked behind a pay wall.
Out of reach. So are we f**ed?
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So much for free speech!
Today may be a good day to donate, mate.
Get stuff out of the shed, Fred.
It’s out back, Jack, so go unpack.
The ‘Live Simply. . .
So That Others May Simply Live’ philosophy
is apropos in this application, which brings up another very good point: poor Blosky. He was definitely a bit of a hoarder, and the results were all strewn about his now-dormant property. Davey H feels compelled to convey a strident swirl of emotions and bollixed-up mental states that swooped over him upon espying Blosky’s yard today. It was a terribly sad scene:
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piles of logs lay every which way as topped, mangled trees lorded over haphazard stacks of half-milled lumber, three trucks and the old ‘packerback’ – parked as if put to rest by a ghost rider. Indeed, the place reeked of ghosts: Blosky, his spouse [Censored] Blosky, their long gone pack of big black hounds and flocks of chickens. In fact, not a trace of their former magnificent chicken coop remained. It was some kind of omen: lift feet and hightail it the hell outta there. So Davey did, post-haste. Besides, it was time to muck up  – however reluctantly – some Xmas spirit.
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On that note, the ensuing stanzas bubbled forth: On the 10th day of Christmas
the gray sky gave to thee:
five cumulonimbus, six vapor trails
and a dappled sun that gave us some UV.
 
Davey then thought ‘Hmmmm . . .we could be out of luck, as the window, you see, of opportunity, has passed for this rusty-ass truck.’
Farmer Jim had wryly advised
and Davey H was not surprised
at the fact it would take more than grease
to hold that old truck in one piece.
And so what now? First off, sell the plow.
You do not need it anyhow.
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Because just as sure as no glaciers are forming, we all need to fear friggin’ global warming.
So leave it to farmer Jim
and the oh, so sharp likes of him.
What with tractor, saw, nail, hammer or screw,
he and his ilk oh, so smooth as silk
will always know how to make do.
 
Then, later on, say January 6th, Davey finally read that article on macular degeneration – the one that had been kicking around on the floor for several months. He found the time easily, while waiting for the painfully slow internet connection to allow graphic-laden page loads.
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He didn’t expect much. No real purpose would be served by getting pissed off at internet access, it being largely a waste of time anyway.

 As a rural ruminant, he was reasonably contented with reading from actual paper as opposed to a screen anyway.
So a boggy internet speed
would feed two birds with one seed:
less blue light intake on the retinae, and not so many late nights ensconced in macula-burning activities.
 
Recently, thanks to Twitter and other social media, the teen generation raised so many hackles as to make the Selective Service site crash. Damn right they’re worried.