A while ago, needing entertainment, I endeavored to write down some ‘one-liners’ from country songs that were whimsical or clever in some way.

My thinking was that some day down the road, a conversation would ensue wherein such a collection would be handy. After all, dear reader, how many times do you hear a lyric in a tune, especially country, that is so witty that you felt compelled to remember it ? You could use that one some day !

In fact, the other night, a conversation progressed that reminded me of the list I had once compiled.

I grabbed my IPad and voila, to the delight of those assembled, a compendium of quotes was randomly voiced.

Full Disclosure: Country music is occasionally crass, maudlin, even off-color. So, if your ears are virgin, you should maybe be veerin’ !

Herewith: A few of the lines I noted:

— Ain’t got time for kissin’ you, My mule done run away.

— She got the gold mine, And I got the shaft.

— She got the ring, And I got the finger.

— When the phone don’t ring, You’ll know it’s me.

— How can I get over you, When you’re still under him ?

— Well I bought the Hope Diamond, Just hopin’ you’d shut your mouth.

— I woke up Sunday morning, With no way to hold my head that didn’t hurt.

— When it rains down sorrow, It pours all over me.

Surely YOU know some good ones ! Kindly share one or two with me if you don’t mind being credited on this world-renowned blog.

Thank you in advance.

We shortened our annual stay in Naples, Florida for about the only reason we would ever do such a thing. Bidding thee Adieu Naples, until next year. What a STUPENDOUS stay it was,

Sam Dalley is now 24 years old. He first set foot on our farm when he was a junior at Delaware Valley Regional High School.

Judy became acquainted with his mom , Debi, via one local function or another. Debi happened to mention in passing conversation that she was wondering if anyone might need help splitting wood, that her son, Sam, loved to do that.

Becoming, at the time, more and more incapacitated , this was music to my ears. In short order Sam was here at Tuckaway, running the log splitter. Wow, could Sam split wood !

To make a long story short, Sam soon became my right arm here on the farm. No, that way understates it. Sam has become to both of us. He is the reason that we are able to stay here on the farm. He accomplishes just about everything that we need to get done here at Tuckaway. He is family with a little different blood.

In a beautiful ceremony, Sam got married yesterday. His fiancée, Alexis Grieco, is a local lady of unquestionable capability and eminent good looks, her folks long since our friends right here in the township.

You may start to see why this wedding was is a “must attend” and indeed, the only reason we’d ever depart Naples early.

Thank you and best of luck, Sam & Lexi. Enjoy every day in wedded bliss.

On a recent airplane flight, Judy sat across from me on the other side of the aisle. I could reach across to touch her, but she wasn’t close enough for me to understand the conversation that she was having with the fellow seated to her immediate right.

Obviously, they were engaged in vigorous chatter.

The plane landed. Passengers were beginning to stand. With my limited capacity, I guess it was obvious that I was struggling to get afoot. We were packed in like sardines, you know. A cane is hardly sufficient. A good angle wasn’t to be had.

But, Lo and Behold. The chap seated next to Jude came across the aisle, placed his hands under my shoulders and lifted me out of that seat as though I was a feather. We both thanked him , bade him adieu and departed the plane.

While pushing my chair to the airport exit, Jude informed me that this fellow was a farmer. He grows 400 acres of spinach in south Jersey.

WOW, I mused. What a missed opportunity to make some sort of wise crack about him being the real Popeye !

As I watch the sun stir a near magical glisten over the surface of the Gulf this morning, I chat with a buddy back up in Jersey who reports a brisk snow. I love snowbound magic too, but this morning I’ll take tide of the moment, especially when it’s 18 degrees in Pittstown!

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Wouldn’t ya know it. Another New Jersey blizzard.

It’s 1:30 PM. My buddy in N.J. tells me that it has stopped snowing altogether, just a dusting fell. This is typical in Jersey. It starts with a forecast three days beforehand of 6 to 8 inches. They let the huddled masses cogitate on that for a while, certainly sufficient time for everybody to work themselves into a lather.

Then they downgrade the forecast a little bit. Now they’re saying 3 to 5 inches, but it is still a menacing forecast. Commercial flights are starting to get canceled. Everyone has been talking about this “weather event” for a day or two now, so in people’s minds it has been conjured to a blizzard before there is even a cloud in the sky !

There is a run on the supermarkets over a wide swath. What would people do if they were winnowed down to their last Triscuit ? The scourge of winter is upon them. Survival hangs in the balance.

Ages hence the tale will still be told: The Plundering Blizzard of 2020.

— Look off dear love across the sallow sands

And mark yon meeting of sun and sea.

How long they kiss in front of all the lands.

Ah, longer, longer we.

Sidney Lanier

I am at once met with the inadequacy of words this morning. It has been about twelve years that we’ve come to Naples, Florida for either the month of January or January and February combined. I can comfortably say that last evening’s sun set was the most spectacular one that I’ve ever witnessed here.

It is common protocol. Folks gather their lawn chairs at the appointed hour, stroll to the beach and take in the daily wonder of the sun’s descent.

We are fortunate enough to simply step into the lanai and view the phenomenon from an eighth floor elevation. The Gulf of Mexico shore is but a hundred feet away. The softly subtle waves of blue are the lawn as far as the eye can see.

One becomes practiced at predicting the “quality” of an impending sunset by observing the array of clouds that are present prior to prior to its lordly unfolding. Last evening foretold something dramatic. It did not disappoint !

The clouds, infused with the waning sunlight, wove magical patterns of color. In whatever the direction, the scene was compelling, humbling to any soul fortunate enough to behold it.

It is nearly insulting to such a sunset to snap a photo. They are never reproduced with the quality requisite to do them justice. Their is only one solution here: this coming evening, unlikely as the notion is, you might see one better yet !

Hope Springs Eternal to the human heart.

This morning my wife mentioned a complication here in this neck of the woods. There’s not enough time to ride all the trails , she exclaimed.

Well, Hallelujah! If that’s not a horseback rider’s salvation, then what is ? Another question: How fortunate are we to be surrounded by landowners who allow us to ride the edges of their fields ?

All of these details are some of the ingredients that make Hunterdon County an equine mecca.

In New Jersey there are more horses per square mile than any state in the Union. I know not what the commensurate stat is for Hunterdon Co., but I have to believe that it sets the pace for the rest of the state.

By the way, have you ever come across equine-oriented areas in New York, Illinois, Kentucky, Virginia, California or wherever there are sprawling, well- kept horse farms ? How do you suppose real estate values fare in such areas ?

Hint: Horse presence tends to stabilize (no pun intended) or elevate those values.

There is a common, at times derisive notion that horse owners are “rich” folks. Well, guess again. Sometimes that’s true. Then there’s me; another one of those horse owners. Calling me rich is a little rich ! Remember, I grew up milking cows just like the next kid who was still kicking cow shit off his boots when he got off the bus.

And what if some nearby horse owner is rich ? Good for him. Good for her. Look what they’re doing for your real estate value.

Perhaps, dear reader, you regularly check in with my blog. If you do, I humbly thank you for occasionally scanning my meandering. Some of you have inquired as to my terminology… writer’s perch … referred to as such only through my dumb luck. It is merely an outside deck off the west end of the house at Tuckaway Farm.

Its elevation affords a view that eases a writer into a proper frame of mind, a gentle persuasion that coaxes a creative mood.

I won’t exaggerate . It’s not a door that opens to a massive expanse of farmland or a valley that descends to distant depths. Most of the farmland that the writer can see belongs to the writer. It is lush and green. It is a set stage. Its aura begets words. They need only be plucked by the author, as from a tree.

Often in the morning, a few miles distant from the Writer’s Perch, a band of visible evaporation rises from the Delaware River. Beyond this, straining eyes take leave of what become the vagaries of Bucks County, Pennsylvania.

But, hark ! I write this morning from what I’ll call Writer’s Perch South, our eighth floor condo’s lanai overlooking the ceaseless whispers of the Gulf of Mexico here in Naples, Florida. I will posit thusly: If a writer can’t write here, he perhaps never will.

The waves are gentle, not the boisterous clapping of their ocean brethren. They are subtle, making only humble gesture to who ever would behold. These waters, though a vast expanse, slide ashore with a soft approach. These waves are a delicate, rarified whisper of the world.

In her upbeat book, MOSTLY SUNNY, Fox News meteorologist, Janice Dean, refers to Multiple Sclerosis as the “you look great” disease. Nothing could be more descriptive!

Dean chronicles her battle with MS while in daily pursuit of a demanding career. Yes, her unquestionable good looks are an advantage in a business where the camera doesn’t lie, but what disadvantage she encounters with a disease that only remits when it wants to… not often enough!

How many times have I heard it myself when, in reality, I’m struggling to accomplish some day to day basics : walk, without falling down , visit, without falling asleep, stand, without having to sit down. How about moving my wheelchair without clipping someone in their ankle.

Believe me, the list goes on. I’ll spare the details. They get uglier from this point.

None of this is to say that I don’t appreciate a ton of well-meaning friends who tell me that I look great. Thank you. So do you.

I can assure you that there have been days when my looking great has not been the case. Surely I have fallen my share of times, excused myself when unable to keep my eyes open or my guts from heaving.

Yes, you look great, too. I can only pray for you that you don’t have such a hard time doing it.

For purposes of this brief little missive, the posthumous forgiveness of Eugene O’Neill for my borrowing of his book title is appreciated.

I was engaged yesterday with one of my readers (in fact, I have dubbed him my #1 reader) who remembers talk of the iceman. Bob is comfortably my senior.

You may even ask what is, or was, the iceman ? Few of us will remember the days before the refrigerator, but indeed, quite older folks did not have them. In fact, yesteryears’ potato salad was kept chilled not in a refrigerator, but in an icebox.

Blocks of ice were stored in a cabinet (icebox) that stored food at a chilled temperature. What happened in a week or so when all of the ice in the icebox melted?

Fear not. The Iceman cometh! On his horse drawn wagon, he ventured from house to house with a new load of ice blocks. If your house was included on his route today, your icebox was replenished ( with ice, not food).

Some obvious questions are evoked. Where does the Iceman get his ice in the summertime?

Refrigeration is not invented yet.

WELL, don’t think the Iceman hasn’t thought of that ! It’s why God made winter. The Iceman is out there, two horses pulling the wagon across the frozen solid surface of the river. He then saws ice into manageable sized blocks, loads them on the wagon and hauls them to his little, insulated storage building.

How is the building insulated? Insulation wasn’t invented yet.

Don’t think the Iceman hadn’t thought of that. The sides and roof of his little building are stuffed with sawdust. It’s just as effective an insulation. The ice lasted, even through Summer.

Then there is the proverbial joke about about the milkman; the kid in X or Y family who looks remarkably like the milkman who frequented local homes weekly.

Well, don’t think the Iceman hadn’t thought about that !

P.S… In earlier days, America built refrigerators as well as she did farm tractors. My folks purchased a used Kelvinator. They brought it home, plugged it in and it ran for thirty years. After that, the sold it : USED.

These wild card games preemptive to the play-offs have been wildly entertaining. The book of expected winners is, indeed, being re-written.

With my N.Y. Giants not even close to the running, watching all the other wannabes self-destruct is something that I can comfortably witness. The Philadelphia Eagles: They’re out.

Better yet, the New England Patriots: They’re out.

An ever-abiding quality of sport in general, pro or prior to pro, is that , with time, dynasties falter. Presumed winners lose . Competition raises the level of performance. If it doesn’t, the team goes home.

This has been fun !

THE GOLDEN GLOBE AWARDS

On to entertainment of a different color, a more sordid one at that.

They drip with elitism, with hypocrisy and self-seeking ostentation. They are pablum for the masses. What is “golden” about them remains unclear, however.

Oh! Now I get it. What is golden is the ceaseless parade of female presenters who have just outdone one another in their quest to show more “boob” than the next one. Artfully done, ladies. You have shed light on one the most profound truths to intrigue mankind for centuries: women have breasts.

At any rate, my dear wife tuned in with the masses last night and added, by a single notch, to the ratings of the show. I happened by and joined her momentarily.

Here was a surprise: it took more than three minutes before one of the vacuous, sparsely clad starlettes to begin spewing one of her painfully liberal talking points. Here I had no idea that the Golden Globe Awards doubled as a rally for the Democrat party.

Silly me for even stopping to watch. Good Night, Jude.