Author Notes

Wisdom of Jimmy B. Tester

“An unbroken string of days is all that brought us here. Eat some, sleep some, drink some, fuck some and fight some and here we are. An army of scoundrels, like me, like you, pulling’ and pushin’ and sellin’ each other to the highest bidder. Ain’t no allegiance.

There ain’t no plan, never was. No tremendous and awesome high-up power a savin’ ya from Hell’s fury and fire! Just all of ya in it, pushin’ fer what helps you and fuck everyone who ain’t like ya.”

“I learn’t this early on and I know’d they’s money in it. Preachin’ come easy to me boy. Ever man got his ass saddled down with guilt. A man stole some, er fucked somebody he want ‘spose to, or he finds his ass caught in a lie. Ain’t no feelin’ worst than when you know’d ya been caught in a lie, and the waitin’. The waitin’ is the worst.”

“Every man what ever put on a pair of pants got some guilt eatin’ at him. Ya just got ta dig a might ta find it, then offer a way to save his broke-down ass and he’ll foller ya like damn pup—and throw his last dime in the collection plate. Good money in salvation, boy. Damn good money. “

“That’s all we is, boy, just scoundrels fuckin’ and fightin’ and one day rolls inta the next and ya end up right smack here where ya have been all along.”

Who’s Zoomin’ Who?

This year, 2020, the US government has spent at least $1.5 TRILLION on the military. At least $2 TRILLION on corporate bailouts to already rich corporations, and another $1.5 TRILLION to artificially keep the stock market numbers high.

That’s $5,000,000,000,000, American.

Our kids are being educated using free apps from Zoom and Google Meet.

Many, many kids have no access to high speed Internet or decent computers

Ponder that.

Education should not be an afterthought if we hope to maintain any standing in the world.

I sound like a broken record. This is really how it starts, how the end starts.

The Work

I loved the farm and loved the farmer and hated the work.

Ain’t nobody ever said they liked that work, that wasn’t lying.

Nobody ever liked near electrocution, every day, trying to outsmart a fence that’s would knock a goddamn cow on his ass. Nobody ever liked cleaning corn out silage. Nobody ever liked being the 1968 designated dead turkey chaser; head-first jamming a squawking, kicking bird into that galvanized steel funnel death chamber, then chasing him around the barnyard, often slipping and falling and catching the headless bird, in a fresh pile of cow shit.

After six decades of living and five-and-half working, ain’t not a fucking thing harder than haying in July; nothing, but the only true peace I’ve ever known was standing next to short-cut and empty field, sunburned and dehydrated and exhausted, knowing that work was done.

I hated the work, it’s lessons, the journey, but knew the farm was worth the work.

Soldiers in the Road

She was an ordinary, quiet, and plain old woman, but her modesty and simplicity betrayed a wisdom and vision that only comes from years of listening more than speaking. The dirt under her fingernails expressed a truth that no man could contest.

She rocked back and forth in her chair, the dry wooden boards of her porch squeaking to her rhythm. She spoke of these waning September days, running Hell-bent into the cold of October. I watched her old boots and dirty socks move in time; they make an odd fashion complement to her old flower-patterned cotton dress.

“Was a time,” she began to speak, “When this was when we took a rest, we’d get dressed up nice and fine and go dancing, and we’d eat off fancy China plates. That’s before all the money was gone, and the soldiers come through taking everything they could eat or steal or fuck.”

“This time of year, the hay is in the barn, and the apples is in crates and all them winter squash and potatoes is down in the root cellar, and a body could sit back and enjoy the fruits of our summer and look forward to the next year.”

She pauses as another caravan of heavily armored trucks loaded with men in uniforms rumbled passed her porch, kicking up flumes of heavy red dust. The dirt made the old woman cough and swear, and she stood up, walked out to the road and raised a fist, a few soldiers laughed. She picked up a rock and threw it, but the trucks were long gone, and the rock rolled away and off the road and into the knee-high grass.

Sitting, again, and using her palms to scuff and beat the road dirt from the pretty marigolds and bluebells on her dress, she said, “There was a time, ‘bout now in the year when the fields was all gold and dry, and some was full of pumpkins, and every tree, especially them maples and oaks was the color of fire: all oranges, and reds, and one could look back on the harvest and forward to a bit of rest. Now I can’t see back nor front, I’m just looking down and wondering how it all come to this so quick.”

“Was a time,” she spoke quietly, with a fear in her voice, “When I’d take comfort in seeing them soldiers. That time has passed.”

The Light in August

Listening to Dylan’s Forever Young and sliding my hand into what must certainly be the last of many bags of summer’s cherries. Late August cherries are not as sweet as June cherries, and the flesh is thicker and pulpy, less juicy.

Pondering, as I do every summer after the meteors come flying Perseus, did Faulkner write about the lengthening shadows of August, or was there more to it. For me, that was always enough.

August and the reckoning that the best days are again in the rearview mirror.