THE ANCESTRAL TRADITIONS

Yesterday evening when I stepped out with my pipe there was moisture in the air, thin fog drifting in. Low mid-fifties. Which possibly is not the normal situation at this time of year, but because for some reason I feel the temperature more acutely than when I was in my twenties and thirties I am more aware of such things now. Not nearly as bad as the elderly Indonesian woman downstairs, who is temperature uncomfortable eight months of the year. But whenever I complain about how cold it is, I sound like a kvetchy old geezer.

So I don't.

On the other hand, if I pretend that everything is lovely, it's just perfect weather, absolutely perfect, I remind myself of the old man in the 'bring out your dead' scene in Monty Python's Flying Circus' Holy Grail.


"I'm not dead! I'm getting better! I don't want to go on the cart.
I feel fine. I think I'll go for a walk, I feel happy, I feel happy!"


I don't think I'm fooling anyone.

My DNA hails from a frigid swamp on the banks of the North Sea, and New England. So I'm built to endure this chill. Why, my ancestors suffered worse. By their standards this is perfect for hunting down the wild cheesecake, slaughtering it, and feasting on the creamy flesh! Yoicks and tally-ho!

If you ever wondered why you don't see cheesecake in the wild, now you know.

It took hours of standing up to our thighs in freezing water amidst the reeds with a whistle and a patient hound, waiting for flocks of them to fly overhead, unsuspecting. Sometimes making prolonged strangulated quacking sounds on special whistles.


One good shot, and they'd drop the whistles.


There is cheesecake in the fridge. I'll have some when I get home tonight.
With a cup of coffee before going to bed.



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