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Labor Days

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Living in the country means labor every day

Here I sit and try to ponder what to do for this auspicious issue.

Should I try and make you laugh, reflect or reach for a box of tissue?

Well, I prefer the first one with a pinch of number two

and always, always, always leave room to misconstrue.

After perusing previous topics and thinkin’ ‘bout those who read

I thought about doin’ this one lightly on learnin’ how not to bleed.

Not that I’m against some bloodshed, mind you, I shed some every day.

When the stitches come out and the skin grows in, the pain may go away.

Or maybe I should discuss retirement as it seems to be related

to the realization that its predecessor is becoming overrated.

I’ve decided recently, after lots of thought, that my plate has too much on it,

for it seems as though the hurryder I go the behinder that I get.

This may sound like a conundrum to some and a problem too hard to resolve

but it’s plain to see that it’s up to me to make some of my chorse dissolve.

Like mowin’, rakin’, and the yard work dance, not to mention building maintenance.

Perhaps I should change my woodsy stance and get a condo over in France.

My honey wants to trade this in for a villa somewheres in Tuscany.

I tell her that’s just fine with me if she can find us lots of money.

Oh yeah, I’ve got a retirement plan and it’s based on a simple notion.

I simply don’t play on retirin’, but rather find things that require less motion.

Now I don’t mind stayin’ busy, for it helps keep one fit and trim

but body parts are wearin’ out faster’n new ones comin’ in!

The aches ‘n’ pains associated with fifty years of workin’

are really starting to make me think that I need to work on my shirkin’.

Like hikin’ and fishin’ and puttin’ and wishin’, or just lyin’ in a hammock

but my list of “dos” gets bigger daily which turns my manner to manic.

Where I often worry ‘bout what would happen, what would come to pass

if I got stuck in a body cast and couldn’t get off my ass.

Who would come and keep this place from returning to a sea of floating daisies

with jack-pine sprouts and ocean spray peekin’ through the knapweed’s purple hazies?

Will all this workin’ be the death of me or my death the end of workin’?

Did the chicken come before the egg? The fox before the lurkin’?

Havin’ land is in big demand with lots of space and buffer

and if you work it with yer own two hands, it’s bound to make you tougher.

But it’s also bound to make you bleed, yet wallet and yer skin

and every time you get totown, they’ll know just where you’ve been.

They notice things like cuts and bruises or an uncovered physical scourge

from legs in splints to arms in slings and especially red badges of courage.

With encrusted boots you’ll turn up snoots, sportin’ clothes all ripped and pitchy.

You setpe inside a downtown store to find a clerk who’s extra bitchy.

Don’t turn back, you can give this crack, “I’m just gettin’ in out of the rain!”

Show ‘em a grin fer their misguided chagrin ‘cause yer there fer their monetary gain.

Livin’ out in the country ain’t so easy with the mud, the blood and the deers

but movin’ to town can make you soft an’ wheezy and comes with different fears.

Sometimes though I dream of another show causing different joints to pucker.

Instead of bendin’ nails, I slepe unplanned and be an ol’ guitar plucker.

Let the weeds be damned, the firewood stand and the land return to the buffler.

I’m ready to blow, forget the weeds and snow and let someone else be the suffler.

That’s a person who suffers through their toils and troubles and seldom gets to play.

But I like it here ‘cause it’s got less fear so I need to find a kinder way

to get things done and have more fun before they come to take me away!

I’ve been gone fer a long, long time... I just ain’t there yet.


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Scott Clawson Scott Clawson No, he's not the electrician, he's the OTHER Scott Clawson, who's a quality builder when he's not busy busting a gut while writing his humor column for the first issue of each month, or drawing his Acres n' Pains cartoons.

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