What the Hell has the voting public been injected with? Let me count the ways, 38 vaccines against reason and common sense, then regular boosters for enhancing pathetic whining and screaming tantrums. Add to that, prescription drugs for psychosis, pain killers, a couple of after lunch cocktails and a joint of Columbian purple bud and you somehow end up with a Democratic Congressman, a Congress Women or a Congress Transvestite.
Can you even imagine what that looks like to Donald Trump? Or Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., and We The People. Probably not, especially if you got your COVID shot. It was designed to make your brain susceptible to Elizabeth Warren’s and Chuck Schumer’s hissy fits.
Mondays are a good day for opening the week like a gift. Something to unwrap and enjoy like an eclair or a cinnamon roll. Since I don’t bake, I’d have to go out to the Amish Bakery to get you one of those . Not, so a poem will have to do. You can swallow it whole or chew on it.
The trees know, and the little stream where the trout find no boundaries. The cardinals, the bluejays and the chickadees know as well. You don’t have to ask them, they give freely their gratitude in song.
Excerpt from Conversations With Sasquatch, The Encounter.
Chapter 2
Talking to a Sasquatch would probably qualify me as being a delusional schizophrenic or having some such mentally manufactured label from the Diagnostic Manual of Mental Disorders. Rest assured, I am more sane than the writers and creators of that psychiatric flap-trap. As a Sasquatch said in our first conversation a little over a week ago, “Humans are blind to the world of the Sasquatch.”
Exactly why I was chosen, I haven’t got a clue. All I know is that today I have an appointment to meet with him once again near that auspicious cedar ridge that runs along the banks of Big Creek, in Lewiston, Michigan.
I do not take this meeting lightly. The fear that was inexplicably absent during our first encounter is in full force as I lock my Mazda and begin my traipse into the greening woods.
As always, I find myself getting unwound and relaxed by the sanctuary of the forest. There is a lush carpet of fresh moss, wintergreen and huckleberry as I begin to cut a trajectory toward the ridge where I had previously shared mushrooms with a being that claimed to be immortal. As I walk, I am suddenly struck with the notion that Sasquatch might like a bag of fresh wintergreen. I, myself, love to chew on the minty leaves, which are cool and relaxing. I kneel down, pluck a new sprout and pop it into my mouth. I then gather a few handfuls of the dark green fingers and slip them into the small Ace Hardware bag I always carry for gathering purposes. I succinctly remember Sasquatch telling me that humans had once been much more attuned to the gathering of the medicinal and nutritional gifts of nature. Is it possible my penchant for such was what had drawn this Bigfoot to engage me?
I don’t know. There are doubts. I’m still feeling a bit dumbstruck and unbelieving. I have to work quite hard to suspend my recurring thoughts that Sasquatch was nothing more than a figment of my overactive imagination. Had I eaten (like some have suggested) the wrong mushroom by mistake? Was it possible I had simply hallucinated and manufactured my whole Sasquatch experience from the far reaches of a childhood memory?
Over the years, I must admit, I really hadn’t thought much about Sasquatch. I’ve had no particular reason to do so. I’m a busy person, both purposeful and happy. I think little of the past and focus on the present and the future.
As I continue my trek towards Big Creek, my childhood memory of Sasquatch floods back as if a dam has burst inside my head. I find myself emotionally present in the excitement of the time, the utter bug-eyed blinking and wiping of my eyes during those fateful moments I laid eyes on him bathing in the river near my fishing hole. I am overcome with a hot flash of perspiration. Adrenalin rushes and vibrates through my body as I re-experience running helter-skelter up the bank of the river to reach the deer camp where my father is playing poker and drinking whiskey with his pals.
I breathlessly arrive as Al Kaline is stepping up to the plate with runners on first and third in the top of the ninth in a tight game against the Minnesota Twins. My dad and his pals are glued to the tinny squawk of a small transistor radio, intently listening as Ernie Harwell sets the stage for the next pitch.
I shake my father’s arm violently to get his attention and shriek incoherently about the monster bathing in the river. My dad’s eyes blink rapidly as he slowly tries to bring me into focus. When he finally registers my presence, he frowns uncomprehendingly and remains as lethargic as a toad.
“Not now!” he grumbles.
I tug and push even harder, beseeching him to come and see the hairy man that looks bigger than a bear.
“Sorry guys,” he groans, “the young tyke is always dreaming up ghosts and things that go bump in the night.”
“No!” I exclaim, “He’s really there! He’s down by the river where the sunfish are!”
“Now son, go play. We’ll all be ready to leave in a few. Right now the Tiger’s are trying to beat the Twins. Let your dad finish his game.”
Forgotten and dismissed, I am overwhelmed by the force of his rejection and disbelief. Coming from my dad, it presses down hard on my young heart. He hadn’t even considered for a moment that what I had seen could possibly be true. I was just a kid with nothing better to do than make things up. And yes, I often did make things up, just not Sasquatch taking a bath in the river.
As I neared Big Creek I shook off the memory and began my gradual descent down the ridge toward our destined meeting spot. As I did so, the hackles on my neck suddenly stood straight up and goose flesh prickled down my arms and back. Once again, the woods fell eerily silent. All my senses snapped to the present and I reflexively reached for my absent Beretta which I had purposely left in the car.
My “Off the Beaten Path Chronicles” website is free to subscribe to and always will be. This winter I am posting weekly chapters from my book “MAGA Bigfoot”. This book is a chronicle of my recent “Near Death Experience”. You will have continual access to the entire book during this special weekly posting event.
Besides having access to my book postings, I have lots of poems and other writings for your enjoyment.
To compromise a truth with a half-truth, false data or a lie is a small death. Many small deaths add up to one big one. With each death self-doubts creep in. More misdeeds and stupidity ensue. Don’t succumb. Integrity is far more important than being liked. Truth is far more important than money or imagined prestige, truth is the strength of everything life stands for. It is your ability to hold a position in space, it is certainty in the face of deceit and your unwavering ability to confront the presence of evil. When all boiled down, truth is you.
This is the age of lies and half-truths. TV, the internet, the whole shebang. Listen to your inner compass and live life as you create it. That is the path to happiness.
The turkeys have found our tree. There was a partridge last year but he is too late to the feast this time around. The gobblers are neither shy nor subtle, they leave little in their wake but broken twigs and excrement. The thousands of little red apples are history. At least I won’t have to trim the tree next summer, they did a pretty fair job.
Author Richard Rensberry 