One Day Mansion, the Next Day Flames

Hugh Hefner is dead.

I was disturbed when I read about his death. What a contrast there must be, between yesterday and today. Yesterday his life was a succession of group sex romps with beautiful twentyish women who were willing to do anything to please him. Today, in all likelihood, he’s burning in hell, with no hope of escape. Yesterday, he was wealthy, and oddly, respected. Today, most likely, he has nothing but pain and derision.

I can’t say for sure that Hefner is in hell, but what are the odds that he accepted Jesus and repented before he died?

Most people don’t know what his life was like, but insiders have revealed things. One young lady described his bizarre sex life. Playmates would show up in his bedroom, partially undressed, and Hefner would lie on the bed, under the influence of a male enhancement drug. Hefner would call the dance, and all the women who had decided to have sex with him that night would do his bidding.

Obviously, the women were under pressure to have sex. It’s odd that he was never sued for harassment.

Hefner was completely depraved. His existence was just a series of bestial debauches. He did nothing but satisfy his flesh. He might as well have been a goat or a rat.

The crazy thing is that we liked and respected him. We thought it was fine when he appeared in TV shows and in movies, as a sort of avuncular sage.

I remember watching him on The Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Remember that show? It was about a young man who was moved from Philadelphia to Los Angeles to escape bad influences. He was taken in by relatives who supposedly had a wholesome and productive way of life. His uncle was a respected judge, and they lived in a mansion. The show was held out to promote solid values.

In one episode, Will and Carlton visited the Playboy mansion during a party. They were surrounded by nearly naked girls. The American public didn’t rise up and ask why a TV network was giving a free 30-minute ad to a pornography company. Why not? How did we get so numb?

Most people don’t consider Playboy pornography. It features naked women (and sometimes men) in erotic poses. That’s pornography. Somehow, we have raised the bar and decided it isn’t. We think pornography has to be more extreme in order to count. That’s insane. You don’t have to have donkeys or bullwhips to have pornography. When did we decide Playboy was something else? Sure, it had some well-written articles. So what? What if peep shows posted articles in their lobbies? They would still be what they are.

In 1987, Eddie Murphy went to a Playboy mansion party in the movie Beverly Hills Cop II. He said all sorts of filthy things at the party. When he finally ran into Hefner, he let him know some of his guests were criminals. Hefner was portrayed as moral authority. He talked down to the criminals, with an air of supreme righteousness and confidence, telling them they had to leave the party. There was no Hannibal Burress moment. No one said, “Yeah, but you’re a pornography kingpin and pretty much a human trafficker, so…”

Playboy is filthy pornography, and Hefner was a vile degenerate and a lost soul. Playboy is not cute. It’s not okay. America has lost its bearings. We can’t see the obvious. No wonder this country is so screwed up. No wonder our enemies have so much power over us now. We think we know everything. We’ve decided sexual sin is virtue. We’ve cut off God’s help.

I’m not a great advocate for sexual purity. I don’t have a great passion for it. But I know someone who does. His name is Hugh Hefner. If he could speak to us from hell right now, he would beg us to clean up. The thought of other souls joining him in eternal agony and humiliation because of his idiotic influence would tear his heart apart. His guilt is already more than he can bear, and the knowledge that he is still helping other people follow him into the flames surely makes it worse.

I’m sorry I did so much to contribute to our casual attitude toward sexual sin. I am partly responsible for the success of losers like Hugh Hefner. I went along with the program. I didn’t think.

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe God managed to reach him.

Not likely.

This Place Rocks

Things are settling down here. I am learning new things in prayer, and I am trying to apply them. The unexpected financial drains are easing, the hurricane cleanup is getting easier, and I am starting to feel at home on the tractors.

Speaking of feeling at home, Ocala is suiting me better and better. It’s the craziest thing; I wanted some acreage, and I have it. I wanted tools and machinery, and I have them. I wanted to be around people whose mindset was more like mine, and I’m among them.

Back in Coral Gables, I used to get up and throw on Carhartt work pants and sneakers, grab my carry piece and my folding knife, and go about my day. I do those same things here, but because this isn’t Coral Gables, these things don’t make me weird. No one says, “Wow, you have a truck.” Everyone dresses pretty much like I do. I’m amassing a collection of ball caps (because you can’t wear bluetooth hearing protectors with a cowboy hat), and now I look like every other ball-cap-wearing Southerner in the county. The only thing missing is a can of Skoal, making a round bulge in a back pocket.

Come to think of it, people don’t seem to dip snuff here. Good for them. The spit is disgusting, and when you get Skoal cancer, they remove your face from the nose to the neck.

It’s very strange, being able to go outside without feeling I’m under scrutiny. Most of the time, people can’t see me when I’m outdoors here. I don’t have to worry about Jehovah’s Witnesses, blacktop gypsies, or fake Omaha Steaks drivers. The only leaf blower I ever hear is my own. I never hear a three-minute ear-splitting blast from a roach coach horn. I never hear the sound of my neighbors dragging their lawn waste onto my property.

If it weren’t for the ravenous bugs, I would be able to relax completely here. Irma produced a mosquito tsunami, and it will be a while before it subsides. Today I surrendered and Off’d myself before leaving the house.

Yesterday I went outside and shot 50 or so rounds without alerting anyone, calling the Sheriff, or asking my neighbors’ permission. It feels so natural. It’s how things worked when I lived in Kentucky. I hate suburban life.

Now that my feet are starting to touch bottom, it won’t be long before I start visiting churches. The feeling of fitting in will surely increase. I won’t drink the prosperity Kool-Aid, but I’m sure I’ll meet people who think it’s perfectly normal to wake up on a Monday morning and spend three hours in prayer.

Wow, I just got a big break. I received two offers on my dad’s yacht. I have been dying to get rid of it. We tied a lot of cash up when we bought this house, and we need to dump the excess baggage. On top of that, we could use the slip rent. I was starting to think the boat would never sell.

We offered it for a certain price, and nothing happened. We put it up for sale near the beginning of August, and nothing happens in Miami in August. We got one bad offer. Then Irma hit. She tore up the boat’s ancient canvas and messed up the tuna door, and we had no hull insurance. My dad didn’t carry it, and when I found that out, I decided not to renew it. We were going to be rid of it in a few weeks. What were the odds a storm would come through?

I thought we were going to get around $20000 less than the figure I originally wanted, but today the broker called and said someone is offering $2900 more than what I expected to clear. I said, “Take it. Take it. Take it.” I am not going to be greedy. I want that boat gone, I want the slip rented, and I want to sell it for a 1031 exchange next year. Or maybe I’ll just continue renting it, if the rent is good. I don’t think it will be.

I have that feeling you get when a big weight is taken off your shoulders. Shaky and drained. Thank you, God. That boat had become a curse.

Why did the boat sell all of a sudden? I think I know. The other day, I got a miracle healing. I wrote about it. It wasn’t a big healing. I blistered my finger, and the blister disappeared overnight. The way I prayed for that healing was unusual. First of all, it was very fervent, because I hate burns. Second, I kept praising and thanking God “because it’s done.” I kept this up for a very long time.

It worked for my finger, so I did it with the boat, today and yesterday. I also did it with the house we’re trying to sell. After prayer today, I expected to hear news about the boat. And I did.

I also ask for the following things for the people on my prayer list: I ask God to send people and spirits to pay us, to give things to us, to do our work for us, to give us advice, and to fight our battles. Today the broker said he had personally fixed up the boat’s batteries so he could get the generator and starboard engine running (an unpleasant job), and he wants to rent the slip for us with no commission. He isn’t required to do any of those things.

Now, will God come through on the rental house? If so, I will be too happy to live. That house has been an anchor around my neck. I never wanted it. My sister ruined it and forced us to take it over. My dad, frankly, was extremely unpleasant while I was getting it repaired. The contractors were liars and idiots. I want to see that house sell. NOW.

Oh, man. My cell phone just dinged. The pole saw I ordered is ready at Home Depot. I was about to go anyway, for mailbox letters, malathion, and maybe hydraulic fluid. This is perfect. That saw will bring down strongholds. There are things I just could not cut with a regular chainsaw.

I am giddy. Time to hop in the SUV (because the truck needs an alignment), cruise to Home Depot, pick up my goodies, and relax.

I’ve been cursed, and I’ve been blessed. Blessed is better. I hope my testimony will help you find relief.

Got a Little Present Yesterday

I keep forgetting to write about this: I had an extraordinary healing this week.

I was cutting a fallen oak tree, and I kept getting Spanish moss in the sprocket. That meant I had to take the saw apart and remove the moss. While I was doing this, I burned the ring finger of my left hand on the hot muffler.

I was definitely burned. I had a blister. It was very obvious, and it hurt.

A few years back, I burned my hand in my shop, and I got healed. I started commanding my flesh to be healed and so on. I used my faith. The pain went away, and although the skin had been discolored and ready to blister, nothing happened. In the end, days later, a tiny bit of skin smaller than the letter “o” on the page of a book flaked off. That was it.

When I burned my finger on the saw yesterday, I remembered that. I claimed my healing in the name of Jesus. I asked God to make it so. I kept thanking him, because he had already done it.

I was annoyed, but I remembered thinking it would be worth it, if God had allowed me to be burned so he could heal me miraculously.

When I went to bed the next night, over 24 hours after I burned myself, I suddenly remembered the burn. I hadn’t thought about it all day. I had forgotten I was burned. The room was dark. I started feeling my finger. I couldn’t tell which finger had been burned.

I turned on the lights and went to the bathroom. I put on some reading glasses. I still couldn’t tell which finger had been burned. I couldn’t remember whether it was the ring finger or the middle finger.

The next morning, when I looked at my fingers very closely, I saw a faint red area on the tip of my ring finger. That was where the blister had been. The skin wasn’t loose, the way skin on old blisters gets. There was no pain. There was no numbness. When I showered the next day, the skin didn’t peel off.

My finger is totally normal. I don’t need a Band-Aid. Everything is fine. I have never had a blister go away before. I don’t think it’s possible, because the skin that forms a blister is destroyed. It can’t recover, because it’s dead.

I felt I should put my testimony on the web. Having an annoying burn healed is great, and if God is willing to heal a blister, he is also willing to heal cancer and every other physical problem.

Maybe I’ll upload a picture, but you won’t see anything, because I’m healed.

It’s funny; I was thinking about the difficulty of dealing with skeptics. I was thinking about how hard it would be to answer people who say, “If Christianity is so great, why is it that so much of the time, it doesn’t work?” And then I remembered the burn and checked my finger, and I found that Christianity HAD worked. The Bible promises healings, and I had received one. Not my first, either.

I love it when God does things like this. Nothing is worse than physical problems that cause pain and limit your actions.

Even Trash-Burning has a Learning Curve

I had another challenging day today. I don’t want to list everything I’ve had to cope with, but I can mention a few facts. For example, my dad’s boat is in a marina. The marina’s electrical stuff was submerged during the tropical storm surge. The marina has no power. Someone has to go start every boat’s engines to keep the batteries charged, so the boats have juice to run their bilge pumps…or they’ll sink. And I’m 300 miles away.

Stuff like that.

Also, I set fire to myself. I finally lit up the multi-ton pile of dead wood out in the pasture. I tried lighting the dry leaves on the branches, but they pooped out. I decided to try accelerating the fire with gasoline.

Don’t start with me. I have burned gasoline many times. I have never seen it explode. The way it did today. At me. I had no way of knowing that was going to happen.

I put about half a cup of gas on the pile, and I used one of those long barbecue lighters to light it. I held my hand way out there, to maximize the distance. The pile went WHOOOF, and a big fireball shot out at me.

I lost all the hair on one ankle. I had to drive to the house to see if I had eyebrows. It was pretty stimulating.

Gas doesn’t do that when you set fire to it on the ground. Something about the limbs and leaves got it excited. I suppose they helped the fumes evaporate and form a cloud.

Next time, diesel. That will be tomorrow.

My friend Amanda didn’t have power this morning, so I invited her and her sons to come over and use the washer and dryer, not to mention the pool and shower. That worked out well. Amanda is an old hand at the farming game, and she had good advice regarding the burn pile. Too bad she wasn’t there when I lit it.

She and her kids kept my dad amused while I worked, and her sons piled up a bunch of branches so I could pick them up with the tractor. I don’t think they’re in love with farm work. When I went to see how they were doing, the youngest said, “Can we be done now?”

Amanda and I toured the farm on the golf cart and looked at the trees that still need to be dealt with. Some of them won’t be accessible for days because there is standing water in a few places. It rained like crazy during the storm.

I figure I have 3 trees that need attention soon. They’re lying across fences, and my neighbors will eventually want that fixed. The rest can wait. Who cares if an oak falls over in a pasture? Big deal.

Life is getting straightened out.

I won’t lie. I’ve had a lot of stress and worry. God has given me great tools to deal with these things, but this has been a very special couple of months. It’s as if Satan is extremely angry that I escaped Miami, so he is throwing whatever he can at me. The movers screwed up royally; half of the furniture is still in my garage, and they left a bunch of tools in Miami. My dad took an overdose of blood pressure pills and forgot where he was, so he had to be hospitalized. The house’s main AC died and had to be replaced. Hurricane Irma.

I keep telling people I’m waiting for the earthquake.

Anyway, I generally cope with worry very well, but this has been a new level of aggravation, and things keep coming up to distract me and prevent me from praying.

It will get better. And when it’s over, I won’t be in Miami. I will still be free from the stench of Dade County. Man, that place stinks. I wish I had left in 1970. How different my life would be, had I been raised among better people. But then I was not ready for it. I didn’t deserve it. It would have been wrong to inflict me on Ocala.

Tomorrow the burning and sawing resumes. Pray I don’t roast myself again.

Work is More Fun Than Play

I am almost too wiped out to blog. That’s saying a lot, since I write for recreation.

Yesterday God gave me a miracle. I found a decent small chainsaw in the Ocala area, available for store pickup. This week, that’s about as easy as finding a bar of soap in a room full of Bernie Sanders supporters.

I was checking various sites to see how fast I could get a small saw. I have a big saw coming Monday, but I’ve learned that big saws are not for small saw work. Big saws are heavy and awkward. Little saws won’t cut big trees as well, but they’re easier to use on limbs and so on. I have an abundance of big trunks and small limbs to deal with.

I may as well pass on what I learned, since someone else may find it useful.

There are apparently three levels of chainsaws. First, there are really expensive chainsaws you should only buy if you plan to use a saw every day at your job. Forget those. Then there are solid saws that cost considerably less. Then there is crap from China. You don’t want crap from China.

Yesterday I visited Rural King, which is like Tractor Supply’s mother, and they had some good saws, but the small saws they were selling were dubious. They had Poulans, which everyone on the web seems to hate.

I don’t know anything about the high-end saws, but I learned a few things about the second tier.

A lot of people like Stihl, which is German. Are they actually the best, or is it that closet-Nazi chic that makes BMW buyers so gullible? I don’t know.

Another popular brand is Husqvarna. This Swedish company makes lots of stuff. They used to make motorcycles. I don’t know if they make them today. The problem with Husqvarna is that some of their lower-end saws are…crap from China. Or at least crap that isn’t from Sweden. Evidently, you have to be careful and check the labels.

Echo is the Japanese company that ruined life on earth by inventing the leaf blower. That’s the word on the street, anyway. They make very nice saws. You can get them at Home Depot, unless you’re me and you need one to clear away tropical storm debris. It’s surprising that Home Depot sells something nice.

Here’s another brand: Jonsered. It’s Swedish. The main reason it’s Swedish is that it’s really Husqvarna. If you buy one, you will actually see the word “Husqvarna” on either the saw or stuff that came with it. Jonsered is sold at Tractor Supply. I don’t know who else sells them.

Why Husqvarna has a separate brand selling the same things is not clear to me. Maybe some of their saws simply identify as Jonsered.

I was fooling around on the Tractor Supply website, and it unexpectedly told me I could pick up a Jonsered CS 2240 locally. I figured it was a mistake, but it was worth a shot. I ordered it, and the order went through. I figured I would get an email the next morning, telling me the saw didn’t really exist. I assumed someone at the store would sell it to his beer buddy and tell me to get lost. Miraculously, I received an email saying the saw was ready for pickup.

The CS 2240 is a 40 cc saw with a 16″ blade, which means it’s light and handy. It sounded like just what I needed. My neighbors have pretty much cleared their yards, and I’ve been so busy and tool-deprived, I’m way behind. I had to get something to get me started. I can’t cut big oaks with this, but I can do 80% of the cutting I need to do.

Today I got the saw running, and I moved a huge amount of wood to the burn pile using the tractor. I would be lying if I said this wasn’t fun. I love hydraulics. They turn people into superheroes. Remember Ridley fighting the queen Alien in Aliens? That’s me on the tractor.

The saw was wonderful. The last gas chainsaw my family unit possessed was a used McCulloch, I think. Back in the Seventies. It ran okay, but it was nothing like the Jonsered. The Jonsered zips through hard oak like nobody’s business. It was a pleasure to use. It made me wonder what the big saw will be like. I’ve never used a big saw on hardwood.

I had to quit because I know nothing about small engines. I followed the manual as well as I could, but I flooded the saw and could not get it to function. The only reason I’m tired tonight is that I pulled the saw’s start cord about 3000 times. After I quit, I went on the web to find out what I had done wrong.

I found an authoritative-sounding video that said I had to take the spark plug out and dry it off, and that I had to empty the excess fuel through the plug hole. Bummer. Then I found a small engine repair guy with a much better video. I’m going to tell you what I found out.

When you start a chainsaw cold, you have to use the choke to cut back on air. You also have to squoosh the chainsaw’s priming diaphragm to get fuel to the carb or whatever. If you do either of these things a little bit too much, the saw’s cylinder fills up, and then you will be completely unable to start the saw by following the worthless manual.

To make the saw run, you have to get rid of the excess fuel. Here’s how you do it. You start it while holding the throttle wide open. You may have to yank the cord a number of times, but eventually you will blow the fuel out, and the saw will run. Forget taking the plug out. Forget waiting for the saw to dry.

Wish I had known that today. I had no idea what was happening, thanks to the manual.

It makes sense. When you flood a carbureted car, the solution is to floor it while you turn the engine over.

I have to burn my trash wood. I’m nervous about it. I’ve never done it before. I picture my face on the news, over the words “DIY ARSONIST.” I can’t believe it’s safe to burn wood near wooded areas, but apparently it is. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, because campfires are pretty common, and we still have forests.

I have what must be a few tons of wood waiting to be burned. I need to get it going because the burn area needs to be emptied so I can get rid of more wood.

I don’t see how green wood is supposed to burn, but I’ll light it and see what it does.

The bigger downed trees are intimidating. Today I looked at one that has branches maybe forty feet long and ten inches thick. One big branch points up at a 45-degree angle. If I saw that sucker where it joins the trunk, I have no idea what it will do. It may slide toward me and smear me across the ground like peanut butter. I have to decide what I can do safely and what I can’t. The Jonsered is intimidating. The big Echo I have coming will be a whole different level.

I’ve used a bigger saw in the past. A long time ago, I did part-time work for a tree service. But I wasn’t the boss. I had someone with years of experience telling me what not to do. Now it’s just me.

I’m trying to be intelligent. For example, I lift trees with the tractor so the parts I saw off will bend down, not up, when the saw goes through. If a tree bends in a V at the cut, it will pinch the saw, and then you’re done until you can get it out. I also put the tractor’s forks under heavy stuff before I cut it, so it will drop gently onto the front end loader. Today I cut a piece of wood that had to weigh 400 pounds. I can’t put that on the loader. It has to want to be there.

I am too tired to post photos.

It’s pretty cool, having a tractor, a chainsaw, and a golf cart. The tractor is useless for carrying things, so I put them in the cart’s dump bed and take the cart to where I’m cutting. Then I move the tractor there and get to work. There is nothing like having good tools. Work isn’t unpleasant when you have what you need to git ‘er done.

A friend is coming by tomorrow. I think I’ll just cram some more brush on the pile and let her rip. I don’t have to wear out the chainsaw every day. It’s going to be a while before the downed trees are gone.

Thank God I’m not in Miami. I would rather be here sweating on a tractor than doing just about anything there.

I Hate Miami More Than Ever

I am using my most precious commodity, electricity, to let you know how I’m doing.

Irma came through last night. As always, the predictions were overblown. We got considerable wind, but it was no hurricane. Not here. I lost a number of big trees, but the house and workshop are fine. We have no power, so that means no water.

My friend Amanda brought her three boys, and we all survived.

This morning I started clearing the mess. I didn’t have a chainsaw. There was a big tree across the driveway, and there was nothing I could do. I had to drive around it.

I went out on the golf cart to check out the neighborhood, and I met a neighbor, running around on his 4-wheeler with his daughter on the back. Right away, that picture is promising. It got better. He’s an ex-Marine from North Carolina. He said his house was the one with the Marine Corps and American flags out front. Okay!

He said he had a tractor, if I needed help. I said I had a tractor but no chainsaw. He said, “I have a chainsaw.” Just like that. Doesn’t know me from Adam’s housecat.

We exchanged contact info.

Amanda had to ferry her dogs and sons back to the farm where she lives, and when she came for the dog, we sat down and discussed God for a while. She told me some of the horrible things that had happened to her. Example: her parents refused to pay her prep school tuition, so her diploma was withheld for two years. She went to a crappy college, and she then applied to Harvard, where she was accepted. Her brother sat her down and said she needed to stay on the farm and look after her mom, who insists on living on the farm and telling everyone what to do even though she is indigent. The local college was good enough. Mind you, her brother is an attorney, not a mentally retarded person who bags groceries.

Anyway, we had a long and productive talk, and then I got up and went to the front of the house. I could not see the big downed tree. I went to take a look. Someone had cut it in pieces and moved them off the driveway. Yes, while my former neighbors in Miami were breaking in stores to steal $300 sneakers, my new neighbors were sneaking onto my property to clear away hurricane debris.

I texted one of them and asked who did what so I could thank them. I offered to help with whatever they were doing, but they were already shutting down. Figures. I would like to be known here for something other than stealing newspapers.

I didn’t steal newspapers. Not exactly.

There are two newspaper boxes out by the road. Ours is the bottom one. When we first came here, I took the paper from the wrong box, and I had to apologize profusely. Then a few days later, I had another newspaper problem.

I bought hurricane food. By this I mean junk food. Things you can eat without preparation. Yesterday morning, while I was getting ready for the storm, I found out my dad had been raiding the food. Great. I had to drive out and look for more. I found one gas station that was open, and I bought six double Snickers bars. Best I could do.

When I was on the way back in, I stopped by the mailbox. I grabbed the bag containing our paper. The paper boy had put it in the bag with the open side facing in, so when I pulled the bag, the paper fell out on the wet ground. I picked it up and went in the house, where I saw my dad…reading the newspaper. He had taken the neighbors’ paper again, and now the only replacement I had was wet.

I had to text them again, apologize, and let them know my dad was demented. They were very nice about it. I told them to take our newspaper at will, pretty much. This is the history I am now trying to live down.

I have learned to use the tractor. I have a few photos. I moved debris a few hundred yards, from the yard to the burn pile. Yes, I have a burn pile. I figured out what the forky thing on the front end loader is for. It’s for grabbing brush and dumping it. Yes, I just happened to move to a property that really needed a tractor with an attachment for moving trees and brush, and lo and behold, the tractor was there waiting for me.

I love using the tractor. Farm work doesn’t pay well, but on the other hand, it’s much more pleasant than office work. I have always enjoyed it. Now I’m pretty much obligated to do it, every week.

I’ll upload some photos of the tractor and burn pile.

This move has been very bad in some ways and very good in others, but whatever happens here, you could not pay me enough to get me to move back to Miami What a craphole. Excuse my language.

I’m off. If the power comes back on, you will hear more from me.

One More Day

I am still awaiting the winds of Hurricane Irma.

Today was uneventful. I bought two more flashlights, some rope, a can of WD-40, work gloves, a barbecue lighter, and lithium grease. Stuff I clearly needed. I drove around my yard picking up fallen branches and tossed them in the truck, and then I drove out to the burn area in the big pasture and dropped them there. I moved the big tractor out to the pasture and left it there so my friend Amanda will be able to put her SUV in the workshop during the storm.

The fallen branches are not from wind. There has been no wind. Ocala is a lightning magnet, and I am surrounded by tall trees that get hit a lot. Branches die and fall. Then I get to pick them up and burn them. I’m doing this so our moderate winds won’t blow them into the house.

I will not complain about that. I have a farm. I have a pickup truck. I have a burn pile. This is the kind of stuff I used to dream about. I keep thinking about Psalm 37:4: “Delight thyself also in the Lord: and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart.”

The storm track still looks pretty good for me. Miami’s somewhat-upsetting forecast has not panned out. It’s supposed to be blowing pretty good in Miami now, and I just checked and saw a figure of 9 mph. Gusts to 11, I think it said. Sooner or later, there will be wind, but I see it this way: if the forecast is wildly pessimistic at 6 p.m., it will probably be wildly pessimistic throughout the storm. If they’re predicting 74, maybe Miami will get 45.

I’m still not happy with the weather gurus. My dad’s dementia makes him forget what he knows about the forecast. The TV agitators get him wound up over and over, and I have to keep explaining what’s really happening. The hurricane is on every channel, so it’s inescapable. He has always spent several hours a day glued to the tube, and that habit is not going to change. He will be hearing about extinction-level Irma until two days after it’s over. So will I.

The ninnies who keep exaggerating the storm’s consequences should have to come here and comfort him, along with every other dementia patient they’ve upset. I’m not the only one who has to deal with this. Other people are making the same complaint.

Whatever happens will be over with in two days. I look forward to that.

I really, truly do not want to do without air conditioning and running water. There are certain minimum standards I expect my habitat to meet. I remember the times I’ve spent sitting indoors, watching drops of sweat fall off my nose, wondering when the power was coming back on. I do not want to go through that again.

I hope my tractor isn’t lonely out there.

We’re Getting Quite a Blow Here in the Living Room

My exasperation with the fake hurricane news industry is getting worse.

Here is the situation right now. Hurricane Irma, which is supposedly “bigger than Texas” is something like 250 miles from Miami. It’s northwest of a Cuban city called Moron (seriously). Texas is 800 miles wide. That means Miami should be over 150 miles into the hurricane right now. “Hurricane” means sustained winds of at least 75 mph. “Tropical storm” means 39 mph or more.

Get ready for some vexing figures.

The forecast on one site says Miami will have 25-35 mph winds today. That means 25 is the low side. Another site says 44. I checked the winds. Here is the actual figure (from a site which is predicting high winds on another page): 2.4.

That spot between the 2 and the 4 is a decimal point, not a typo.

Miami’s channel 7 is always the hysteria nerve center of Dade County, but right now, their website features some oddly comforting news. It has a page where you can see the marine forecast. During a real hurricane, seas will be maybe 20 feet high. Current figure: 2-3 feet. That is a hyphen between the 2 and the 3.

If you’re not a boater, let me tell you what 2-3 feet means. It’s ideal fishing weather. It can’t get much better.

Right now, immediately next to a city which is half-abandoned, you could sit in your boat with a case of beer and enjoy yourself, catching bonefish.

You tell me: how big do the glaring discrepancies have to get before we can call them lies?

If the forecast says 25 mph, minimum, then the wind should be at least 25 mph, right now. Minimum means “lowest value.” It should not be possible to see 2.4 mph on a day when the forecast says 25-35 mph.

I expect the wind to increase. I don’t think Miami will have 2-3 foot seas when Irma is at its closest, 100 miles away. I don’t think the winds will be down around 2.4 mph. But the weather people have presented strong evidence that the claims of 96 mph and so on have no support at all.

Is it possible they’re not lying? Maybe they’re using old data. Maybe they don’t update the local forecasts as fast as the big picture. I doubt that, however. Why would there be a difference? They know people are sitting at their PC’s or looking at their phones, waiting for news.

I smell lawyers and TV executives in all this. Lawyers always advise us to scare people as much as possible, so we can say they were warned when they sue us. TV executives want people scared so they’ll watch TV, and they don’t want viewers who didn’t prepare for storms to crucify them over coverage that was not sufficiently neurotic. The NHC brass probably pushes for overreaction, too.

I get it. People need to be awakened. They need to be sobered up so they’ll prepare. But lying after the danger has abated does not serve that purpose.

Barring a very unlikely event, Irma’s major winds will never get close to Miami or even the east coast of Florida, above the Keys. Let’s take a deep breath and face the truth: things look much better for the east coast than they did five days ago. It’s okay to admit it.

I should have done a much better job, getting ready for the storm. There is no denying that. But now that the outlook has improved greatly, I should not have to scour ten websites to find the good news, and I should not be seeing dishonest or misinformed Weather Channel personnel telling me the winds will be over a hundred mph over a hundred miles from the center of the storm.

If I were depending on TV and swallowing everything they said, I would have a very distorted picture of the immediate future right now. I would think I was in very serious trouble. I had to work to find the truth. I could not rely on the people whose job is to bring the truth to me. They are worse than useless. They make things worse.

Accuweather, which appears to be somewhat less panic-driven than the other outlets, says Miami should get eleven or twelve hours of winds over 60 mph. No mention of hurricane-force winds. I think we can cut the speeds by about 30%, to factor out the lawyers.

Miami looks pretty good, so on to Ocala. Right now, Accuweather is predicting maximum sustained winds of 58 mph for my area. Gusts could be a lot higher. They think we’ll get about ten hours of tropical storm winds. That’s not terrible. Gusts are local in nature, and they are brief. On top of that, if they’re predicting 58, we will probably see 35. If I had to guess, and my life depended on it, I’d predict that even mobile homes will make it, with a few exceptions.

It’s sad that I have to dig for the truth like this.

My friends and I are praying again today. Leah’s rental house is on track for a direct hit. I want this storm to go south and west and move farther from the coast. Join us if you will.

The NOAA discussion said the ridge that pushed Irma down was surprisingly strong. I would say that’s the result of God, reacting to prayer. Things that don’t make sense have supernatural causes. If God is willing to push Irma away from Miami, he will probably be willing to keep confounding the forecasters by pushing it away from Cudjoe Key and Ocala.

The current NOAA discussion says there is “good agreement” that Irma will follow the current track. Isn’t that interesting? Does that remind you of anything? The Beast always takes polls, because he has to guess. When God gives guidance, there is no need for consensus. He hands down the word, and that’s it. Weaker spirits and human beings have to vote and confer. When the true prophets of the Bible were in conflict with the fakers, it was generally one prophet against a herd of frauds who were in “good agreement” that he was wrong. They had a consensus. Only one individual knows where Irma is headed, unless he has told some of his servants.

The forecasters, who are, by definition, secular prophets, were in good agreement that Miami was going to be hit directly. Over the last few days, God has consistently proven them wrong. I will keep trying to persuade him to continue. This storm would look great as a disintegrated blob in the Gulf. I wish we God’s model, to put on the map with the computer models.

More blogging as news develops or fails to do so.

Irma Moved

Well, this is a good day.

I spent most of the day preparing for the guest invasion. The house was supposed to be full of kids during the storm, and my dad and I needed things, so I bought all sorts of stuff. Then my friend Amanda came by to help. We moved junk around in the garage and the workshop so she and my friend Teri would be able to park indoors, and then I decided to try to move the tractor outside. It takes up two cars’ worth of room.

Starting a Kubota is a real project. There are about ten things you have to adjust. The manual lists the whole procedure, and it lists different versions of it for different tractors. I kept looking for knobs and levers my tractor didn’t have. I still haven’t found everything the manual said to find.

At long last, I got everything adjusted so the tractor’s lawyered-up computer was happy, and it agreed to start. I moved it into the small pasture and left it there with a bag on the seat to keep rain out. There is nothing worse than sitting on a wet tractor seat and having all the water squoosh out into your pants.

Here is Amanda with the tractor. Proof that it moved.

At some point toward the end of this, I realized it was after 5 p.m., meaning the National Hurricane Center’s 5 p.m. update was posted. I checked my phone. Hurricane Irma’s forecast path had moved maybe twenty miles farther west! What a relief! If it keeps on this track, the area where all the stuff that belongs to me and my dad is will only get tropical-storm-force winds. That, I can handle. It won’t rip roofs off, break windows, or sink my dad’s yacht. Probably. A tropical storm is not a very big deal. Not unless it carries a lot of rain. Irma does not.

I have that feeling you get when you know the worst is not going to happen. It’s as if adrenaline is ice, and you feel it melting and running down out of your body, like meltwater running through cracks in a mountain.

I can’t say Irma is behind me. It can still change course. But it appears that God heard me and the other people who prayed. And maybe he heard Jennifer Lawrence, who appeared to blame the storm on people who voted for Trump.

I had been praying for the storm to move east, away from my personal concerns and also those of my friend Leah. I do not want to see her house in the Keys get pummeled. Now things are looking much better for me, but they are worse for her. I think the only option is to pray for it to keep moving west.

I feel like I just got sprung from death row. This storm was set up to cause me very, very serious problems. I hope God will see fit to keep pushing it away.

Thanks, if you prayed for us. Leah still needs prayer, so don’t stop. We will see you on the other side of this.

Preparing for the Blow

I just got back from K-Mart. That is very exciting, because K-Mart has bottled water. Every store in Marion County is dry, or so I thought. I went into K-Mart to buy a bread pan, and I saw big stacks of purified water in the aisles.

God bless K-Mart.

I took four cases. That’s a lot for two people, right? Yes. But it looks like there will be…let me count…twelve people in my house when the storm goes by.

My friend Amanda lives in a flimsy structure, and she has three young boys. My friend Alonzo has to work during the storm, and he doesn’t want his wife and five kids to be alone in their house in Orlando. My house (the lower story, at least) is made of concrete, so all these people will be spending the night.

There is nearly no furniture on the second story of the house. I had this nutty idea that after a week or so of settling in, I would be able to start looking for beds and so on. Then my dad had to be hospitalized, we had big problems with Atlas Van Lines, and a hurricane reared up and threatened our properties in both Dade and Marion Counties. Also, the couch I ordered arrived with forklift holes and had to be sent back. Needless to say, I am not accomplishing much RE furniture.

I suppose my friends are bringing sleeping bags and air mattresses. If not, welcome to the floor. We have a few molded lawn chairs and some rockers we are bringing in off the porches, but this house is not what you would call furnished.

I’m concerned about losing electricity. I hate life without air conditioning, and because our water comes from a well with a private pump, I would experience darkness, heat, room temperature food, and the joy of using buckets to flush the toilets. I had a stroke of very good news today. One of our neighbors works for the electric company. I am told this speeds up repairs to this neighborhood. Viva corruption, I guess.

I don’t know what to do about vehicles. I have a lot of garage space, but it’s full. I have two tractors. I’m thinking I should put one in the goat shed (don’t ask) and one in the middle of a pasture. I don’t think a hurricane will hurt a farm tractor. One of my friends just got an SUV, and the other depends on a Honda Pilot to feed her kids. I would feel funny worrying about a tractor when expensive vehicles are at risk.

My truck has an insurance policy with a $50 damage deductible. I got that after some kid shot the rear windshield out with a slingshot. I could put the truck outside and hope a huge tree hits it. New truck for $50. I don’t think the winds here will be bad enough to damage it, though, especially if it’s in the middle of a pasture. Hard to say.

I feel much better about the storm’s path, at least on my own account. They now believe it will hit pretty far west of Miami. If the predictions are right, Miami will be close to the boundary between tropical storm and hurricane. If that happens, the things that belong to me and my dad will only get winds of, say, 75 mph. That’s not good, but it beats 170, which is about what we got from Andrew.

I’m concerned about my friend Leah, who has a rental house in the keys. As Irma’s path moves west, it puts her house in more danger. On the plus side, she’s on the ocean side, and the storm surge will come from the Florida Bay side. Also, her house is on concrete stilts.

I have been fasting and praying for both of us, as well as Amanda and Alonzo. It would be nice if everyone’s property was spared.

There has been a lot of fasting this week. Leah, Amanda, and my friend Travis have all joined in. Yesterday something really crazy happened. My dad said he would fast if it would help. I did not know what to make of that. He thinks Christianity is superstition. I was stunned. I encouraged him to join us, and he fasted part of the day. We were only fasting until 6 p.m., and he didn’t know about it until after breakfast. Still! How about that God of ours?

I keep asking God to help me bring him as much pleasure as possible, and to help me avoid bringing him displeasure. The Bible clearly says our purpose is to give God pleasure; it says his pleasure is the reason he created us. Might as well be direct when I pray. Might as well confront the issue that is most fundamental to God.

This has been a very tough couple of weeks. I will not lie. We had a lot of problems we did not expect, and now Irma is threatening to obliterate a lot of our net worth. I have slept very badly. I have a lot of supernatural tools for reducing stress, but I don’t use them as much as I should, so I pay the price. Beginning night before last, I started feeling a lot more peace. Today I feel it very strongly. I hope God sees fit to continue it. If the power goes off and we end up living out of buckets in a roasting-hot house, life could be very unpleasant for one or more weeks. I don’t know what I would do. We might have to move somewhere.

In any case, God has been very kind, shifting this storm away from a city that greatly deserves it. If Irma misses our stuff, I will not waste the opportunity to prepare and strategize better.

I still have to bake bread, because buying it is not an option today. I have to take my dad to get food. I have to clean this place up. I need to check the tractor. Lots to do.

Please keep praying for us. If God doesn’t want to send the storm north into the open ocean, maybe he’ll be willing to run it through the empty Everglades, and out into the Gulf. After that, it could be driven into a sparsely populated area in Central America.

Jennifer Lawrence may have helped us with this storm. Supposedly, she suggested Irma was Mother Nature’s punishment for the election of President Trump. God put Trump in the White House to help his people and to hinder the children of the enemy for a time, so I don’t think God wants godless liberals to get away with mocking the people who elected him. They seem to love it when disasters hit conservative areas. I hope God will stand up for us.

Houston is not a conservative town. It’s minority-heavy, so many people vote for the sugar daddy party. Something to think about.

Please keep praying for us. I could use a week without a crisis.

Forget Gold; Invest in Water

I started blogging about Irma, but I have been too busy to stick to it.

I’m not sure it would be possible for a major hurricane to hit Miami at a worse time for me. We still have property there, and I am trying to sell my dad’s boat, which he keeps in the water, not in a big safe building.

Even in Ocala, which is extremely unlikely to have any major problems, the hurricane-crazy bug has bitten. I had to wait in line for 15 minutes to get gas today, and it looks like bottled water and batteries are unavailable. When I got to the gas station, some guy was putting 80 gallons in an RV, and other people were filling gas cans as well as their vehicles. Not sure if I should be angry about that.

I learned one useful thing: diesel doesn’t sell out like gas. Unfortunately, my diesel truck’s tailgate decided never to latch again as soon as I got here. I am trying to fix it. I may have to remove it. That will be fun, with no help.

In case anyone wants to help, here is what I’m praying for: I’m asking God to break Irma up and send it straight north, and for him to keep it away from the US.

Things could be worse. I could be in Miami.

Thanks for whatever prayers you are willing to offer.

By the way, people are price-gouging in Miami. What a great time to load up on bottled water and rip off your neighbors.

I always repeat something my mother told me. She said you’re very lucky if you have one good friend. I have several good friends, so I guess I’m pretty blessed.

This weekend I had to go to Miami to retrieve various things the movers didn’t bring. I also had to get my pickup truck started and bring it back to Ocala. I was not looking forward to the trip. Miami is boiling hot this time of year; it feels like the sun has turned inside out. Also, I just generally don’t want to be in Miami. I foresaw a great deal of miserable, sweaty work, combined with suffering simply from being in a rotten place full of rude people who can’t drive.

A week or so back, I was talking to my old friend Alonzo. I met him back during my Trinity Church days. We were both armorbearers. I told him about my upcoming trip. He said he was off this weekend, and he insisted on going with me. He and his family live in Orlando. He’s one of the hardest-working people I know. He has five kids, from four years old to fourteen. He never gets to sit down. But he spent his free weekend driving 300 miles to help me retrieve things from a place he hates.

He used to live in Miami. It was not a good experience. The year before he moved to Orlando, he applied for 47 jobs and got no offers. When he decided to move to Orlando, he applied for 6 jobs in the area, and he got 6 offers. He’s black, and he does not speak Spanish. Sorry to say it, but neither of those qualities is helpful in a city where Cubans do most of the hiring. He has a good job now, and so does his wife. They live in a house, not a cheesy apartment. They have two nice vehicles.

He says visiting Miami makes him feel miserable. He doesn’t even like to go there to visit family.

Anyway, he said he was going to help me get my junk, and my law school friend Amanda donated her weekend to looking after my dad. She brought her three boys to the house, and they stayed here. She cooked and generally fretted over my dad. She brought food. When I returned this evening, there were brownies and praline pecans waiting. That’s Amanda for you.

My friend Travis is watching my dad’s house while we get it ready to rent. This is advantageous to him, because he gets free housing while he attends the University of Miami, but it’s a huge help to me. No one is going to break in with him there, and he can help me with long-distance problems that pop up.

I picked Alonzo up on Saturday morning, and off we went. We had a funny conversation as we got closer to Miami. We kept noticing the rudeness of the drivers increasing. Aloud, we wondered what acts of rudeness would welcome us to Dade County. We knew it was coming. It always does. You leave town, you relax, and then when you drive back, the tension increases, and suddenly people are cutting you off in traffic or tailgating or being nasty to you when you stop to get gas. I guess everyone says the same thing we do: “Welcome to Miami!”

He kept correcting me when I used the word “home” to refer to Miami, and I thanked him for that. Miami has never been my home, and it damned sure isn’t now.

Excuse my emotion.

When we got to the house, Travis had arranged the remaining junk as well as possible, so the house looked less like the scene of a tornado. I appreciated that. He wasn’t home, but Alonzo helped me with everything I needed to do. He helped me put two new batteries in the truck. He helped me remove all the valuable items from my dad’s yacht, which is important now that we’re selling it. He put boxes together. He organized the whole affair.

The next day, Travis, Alonzo and I spent several unpleasant hours packing things and putting them in my truck and my dad’s SUV. The sun was so hot, stepping out of the glare and into the shade felt like walking into an air-conditioned house. Sweat ran off of all of us. They never complained. Not once. They grabbed the heaviest things before I could.

We got two scuba tanks, an 80-cubic-foot C25 tank, a 125-cubic-foot argon tank, over a dozen big toolboxes, numerous rifles, heavy ammunition, cast iron cookware, stainless pots, lots of power tools, a 3-foot pipe wrench, and other things I can’t even remember. A compressor. A refrigerated air dryer. A huge phase converter in a steel cabinet.

We didn’t get to the house in Ocala until nearly 7 p.m. When I got there, Amanda and Alonzo flew into action. Amanda carried the C25 tank and the refrigerated air dryer. That startled me. Alonzo carried the compressor. I was busy myself, so I couldn’t stop them. I would turn around, and there they would be, lugging my belongings.

Loading the vehicles took several hours. Unloading probably took fifteen minutes. Even my dad got into the act.

When we were done, Alonzo’s wife showed up in their SUV with their 5 kids. They poured in. The whole house lit up. Alonzo’s kids and Amanda’s kids got along great. I showed them the pool and told them they were welcome any time their parents saw fit to bring them.

I saw my goddaughter Gabriella hugging Amanda’s son Sean like he was the greatest thing she had ever seen. She hugs everyone. I don’t know what has come over her. It hasn’t been that long since she bit me at my old church.

Everyone had to clear out in a very short time because of the hour. Alonzo and crew had to get back to Orlando, and I’m sure Amanda was ready to go home.

The house was in better shape than when I left it. Most of my crucial junk was here where I needed it. Not bad.

Alonzo insists he’s going to make another run with me. I can get a U-Haul and a hitch for the truck, and he wants to start on a Friday night and drive back on a Sunday. This is the guy who hates Miami more than I do. Maybe.

When you invest in people, it pays off. You may not be able to get a return from the people you wish would return your feelings, but God will send you people who will reciprocate. He will choose them for you, to replace the dysfunctional relatives, selfish spouses, and so on.

The Bible says we should seek to accumulate treasure in heaven. That means people. When you make a good Christian friend on earth, you create a treasure that will be with you forever in heaven. Paying off, eternally.

It’s nice to have people visit, especially when they’re real friends and not superficial business acquaintances. It warms the place up. I know of a few more who will come eventually.

The house seemed somewhat cold and lifeless when I first got here. There were a lot of disturbing, unpleasant problems to contend with, and there were only two of us, banging around in a big empty place. I started to wonder if God had really guided me here. Maybe I had chosen the house myself, in selfishness or recklessness. Things keep happening to suggest that his hand is in this move. I’m very grateful for that.

I better get in the shower. I have to mow tomorrow. And who knows what else I’ll have to do? I really hope Irma doesn’t hit Miami. I can’t even guess how I would deal with that.

God will fix it. He always does.

Make sure you invest in people. People are the only wealth you can take with you.

The New Adventures of Tractor Boy

I received a pleasant reminder tonight. You can’t enjoy living in Ocala unless you go outside.

For the last ten days or so, I’ve been living like a cockroach, shunning the light and sitting indoors, working on an endless stream of unexpected problems. I kept wanting to go out to the shop and enjoy it, but I put it off. Always busy or tired.

Tonight I got a little time to myself, and I went out to look things over. The other day I managed to get the garden tractor running, and I butchered the yard, but it wasn’t very relaxing. I was nervous about running into things, and I didn’t know how to run the machine, and then, of course, it started raining. Tonight was a little different.

The property has one side which is woods and another side which is pasture. The pasture is getting overgrown, and it makes me nervous. I don’t know anything about farming, but I know you don’t want three-foot-high grass and weeds in a pasture, and I don’t know how a bush hog will feel about cutting it when it gets too tall. There is also a small pasture behind the house, and it was getting tall, too.

I decided to mow the “road”(grass track) that runs from the house end of the property to the end of the pasture, down by the highway. After some confusion and false starts, I got the John Deere running and took off.

I don’t know if you’re supposed to mow foot-high grass with a garden tractor, but I was not ready to risk death on the farm tractor, and I figured I could get away with cutting a narrow swath. We have a twenty-foot-wide circular burn area in the big pasture, and I decided to mow around that, too, so I wouldn’t have to walk through a jungle to burn limbs.

When we bought this land, I thought mowing was one of the major down sides. Boy, was I wrong. It’s very relaxing, and it puts you in contact with the nature you paid for. I spend about two hours zipping around in my Rural King hat and my Gun Muffler ear protectors. I didn’t stop until it was too dark to mow safely. The tractor has headlights, and I actually used them.

It’s very satisfing, seeing a scary overgrowth of weeds and grass lie down in an orderly, sheared carpet of green. You can walk in mowed grass. You don’t have to worry as much about snakes and other critters surprising you. You can see where to put your foot when you walk. When you mow, you show that someone is in control and that he cares.

I learned a number of things. First of all, when you mow in a spiral, you want the grass to shoot out of the outer side of the tractor. You don’t want to shoot it into an area you’ll have to mow on your next pass. If you do that, you keep piling mown grass up in the center of your spiral, and the mower has to deal with it over and over. It kills your speed.

I also learned that evenings are the best time to mow. Either that or early in the morning. The sun is just too brutal in the middle of the day. You have to be stupid to mow at noon.

The mower gets things done a lot faster than I expected. It really cooks. I’m sure it would be even faster if the grass were lower.

I don’t plan to mow the whole pasture with a garden tractor, but I can clear the road, and that allows me to get to the far end and out the gate onto the swale by the highway. I’m responsible for that swale, so I need a path a garden tractor can handle. I do hope I don’t get pancaked by a semi while I’m mowing it.

It’s scary using the garden tractor. I have come to realize that it sounds disturbed even when you use it correctly, and that has helped. It’s hard to get used to the fact that it has no clutch. You just ram it into gear, whether it likes it or not. Also, you turn on the PTO without a clutch, while the engine is running. That feels wrong, but the manual says it’s right.

I’m nearly sure I dinged one blade when I mowed the front yard, but I have no way to get under the tractor to change it. I need a set of ramps, as I understand it.

I did everything I wanted to in the big pasture, but I left maybe three-quarters of an acre in the little pasture. It was just too dark and too late. I don’t want to drive into a hole or a stump I can’t see. I’m definitely an amateur, leaving it that way, but I can knock it off in half an hour tomorrow.

When I was a kid, my dad got a push mower and figured I would use it. It had powered front wheels, so really, you just steered it. We both lost interest, and I forgot all about it. I didn’t like it much. I was lazy, and it wasn’t fun to use. A tractor is different. It’s a pleasure to use. I thought people were nuts when they said they liked mowing, but now I get it. Mowing is fine. Pushing a heavy machine that takes two hours to finish half an acre is what’s not fun.

Maybe I shouldn’t mow the little pasture. I’m told I may be able to sell hay. You find someone who makes round bales, and he mows in exchange for part of the proceeds. I suppose the little pasture has some potential. Thing is, it makes a very nice extension to the back yard. I don’t think it’s worth it to give up foot access to it for a few dollars.

Hay could get me a tax exemption next year, so letting the big pasture grow is probably a good move.

I look forward to the cooler months. I moved at the worst possible time. It’s boiling hot during the day. Mid-90’s. A month from now, I should start to see some relief. I was here in March, and it was wonderful. There will be cold days, but let’s be serious. Forty degrees is not cold. I lived in New York and Kentucky, and I know what it’s like to have two weeks of temperatures at or below zero, with thick snow everywhere. Northern Florida cold is a joke. It will be uncomfortable some times, but come on. While I’m complaining about forty degrees, people up north will be wondering which six-foot-deep pile of snow is their car.

I should have posted some photos. No one would have been impressed, though. Because the grass was so high, it was not an elegant cut. This was not maintenance mowing. This was desperation mowing, to get the height reduced at all costs before it was too late. If I want to make it pretty, I’ll have to wait until next time.

Anyway, I’m glad I got to mow a little. I feel that God used this to remind me that things are going to be okay here. If I sit in the house and look at the computer all day, life will be depressing and empty, but if I take advantage of the things that drew me here in the first place, I’ll enjoy myself. Moving here and sitting in the house is like moving to Miami and staying on shore. The only thing Miami has going for it is the ocean, and if you don’t make use of it, all you have is a rude, sweaty city with terrible traffic, high prices, and no culture.

Pray I don’t destroy my machinery while I’m learning to use it.

By the way, I checked, and they do make gun racks for golf carts. Does my golf cart really need a gun rack? Who cares? That’s not the point. Gun racks are fun, and they make a statement. That statement is, “I am all about conservative overkill.” I almost feel like getting a Confederate flag, just to make it worse. But that would be disingenuous. I gave up on the stars and bars years ago, because of slavery.

In any case, it will be good to have a .22 or the 16-gauge with me out there. We have rattlesnakes, possums, coons, and coyotes. I don’t want to kill possums. They’re harmless, obsequious creatures. But it looks like one is pooping on my front walk regularly. Coons…I hate. The first time you pick up trash after a coon, all your thoughts of cuteness and charm will evaporate. As for rattlesnakes, they should all be killed. Let the greenies whine. Rattlesnakes do horrible things to people. Google and see what a snake bite looks like after the poison has done its work.

Maybe I’ll get to shoot a little soon. This place is perfect for practicing with the .17 HMR and scope.

That’s all for tonight. Time to shower and look forward to another day.

God Doesn’t Need our Lies

I decided to interrupt this morning’s prayers to write.

Today I supplemented my prayers with some Youtube videos. I looked for Fred Stone, a preacher I admire. Here is a video I watched. His testimony is remarkable, and because he preached for about 60 years and never made much money doing it, it’s credible.

When I searched for Fred Stone, I came across a video featuring audio of preachers talking about the selfishness of modern Christianity and the need for repentance and confession. The video was great, but one of the preachers told a story that caused me to pause and Google. He repeated the Moravian slave myth.

Here is how the story goes. Two young “Moravians” (actually members of a sect that had “Moravian” in the name) heard of a Caribbean island owned by a man who would not permit preachers to talk to his slaves. They decided to sell themselves into slavery and go to the island to preach. When they left their families in Europe, they knew they would never see them again.

Problem: it didn’t happen. It sounded fishy to me, so I checked it out. I knew white men could not sell themselves into slavery.

Here is what really happened. Two men named Dober and Nitschmann offered to sell themselves into slavery so they could work as slaves on St. Thomas and preach the gospel. Because they were white, they couldn’t become slaves. Instead, they traveled as free men. Dober worked as a carpenter, and Nitschmann helped him. Nitschmann left for Europe in a few weeks, and Dober left after less than two years. They did preach, but they didn’t give their lives away in order to do it.

Stories like this are harmful, because people hear them and think they can never serve God. I can’t imagine selling myself into slavery and moving to a bug-infested tropical island where I would be beaten and forced to labor in the sun all day, every day, until I died. If I thought I had to do a thing like that in order to please God, I would be very disturbed, because I know I’m not strong enough to do it. It would discourage me. God gave me a phrase earlier this year: “We discourage people.” It’s true. We try to bury people under burdens God never intended them to carry.

Jesus said his yoke was easy and his burden was light. I assume he told the truth.

As far as we know, Jesus only had one bad day in his entire life. We never read that he was sick, that he was beaten for preaching, that he starved, or that he had to beg. We never read that he had to work as a slave or even an oppressed employee. To me, that suggests that the more aligned you are with the Holy Spirit, the more smoothly your life will go. This has been my experience. I will be rejected, and I may be murdered some day, but I don’t expect to live in pain and frustration as a general rule.

The Bible is full of promises God has made to the obedient, and most of the promises are about his help with life on earth, not in heaven. I’m sure God will deliver you from slavery if you’re a slave when you give your heart to him. I think it would be very unusual for him to tell a person to give up an ordinary life, which is hard enough as it is, and submit to things like forced labor, beatings, incarceration, castration, complete poverty, and separation from loved ones.

We don’t have to pay for heaven. It’s not a vacation you pay for in advance. It’s a gift. God doesn’t say, “Well, Bob sold himself into slavery and died toothless and alone at the age of 76, on a tropical plantation, shivering with malaria, so now I owe him eternity in heaven.” Someone else paid for heaven. We’re supposed to obey and make certain sacrifices, but we don’t trade earthly agony for heavenly bliss. The Bible says sin, not righteousness, has wages. We earn hell. Heaven is provided free of charge. If it wasn’t, the crucifixion would have been pointless. What was Jesus paying for? His own salvation? How would that help us?

Jesus was already saved when he was crucified. He had nothing to pay for, so if he wasn’t paying our bills, what was he doing?

Why would God make serving him so hard, no one would have the strength to try?

I heard something else when I watched the video. A preacher said he went to Africa to teach about salvation and end earthly suffering, but when he arrived, he found that the people already knew about Jesus but wanted no part of him. They loved sin. Isn’t that something? You create a mission for yourself, you sacrifice everything for it, and then you find out it’s a waste of time, because God didn’t tell you to do it.

Didn’t Jesus tell the disciples where to cast their nets? Has he stopped doing that? Has he decided he wants us to fail?

As you get older, if you have any brains, you will find that most people can’t be helped. They choose not to be helped. You can give them assistance, money, and things, but they will squander them and end up worse off than when you showed up, and even then, they will refuse to change. This is not something to marvel at. It’s completely normal. It’s the way the world works. People who can be blessed are in the minority. The world is not like a store full of shiny new things that are full of potential. It’s like a landfill with a few salvageable items in it.

The world is like a filthy, stinking dumpster full of excrement and rotten meat, and we are like cockroaches that live on the outside of it. Hell is inside the earth, and its stink permeates the surface. The earth is really an extension of hell. It’s like the front porch. God has been overwhelmingly rejected, many times, and Satan is, as Jesus said, the god of this world. The earth is very, very far from God. It’s not the focus of his universe, as people tend to believe. It’s like Africa; a distant, lost, screwed-up country God visits as a banned missionary. Human beings are not God’s children, until they choose to become such. By default, we are really just stubborn monkeys on our way to hell, and God manages to turn a few of us into successful projects.

You have to be very careful with charity. You have to ask God whom you should help, because the world is packed with people who will turn you into an enabler and neutralize your very existence. The things you do for them will be nearly worthless, and you will be kept from doing things that are profitable.

I don’t want to get distracted and forget the valuable things I heard in the video. I was reminded how filthy I am. I have nothing I can hold up to God for praise. I have done so many disgusting things, I have no hope of justifying myself. I have hurt a lot of people. I have failed to help people I could have helped. I have been extremely disrespectful and ungrateful to the one who allowed himself to be tortured to death for me. Change requires an end to denial. If I want to continue to grow, I have to admit what I am when I talk to God.

I don’t want to be a Joel Osteen Christian. The burden is light, and the yoke is easy, but God didn’t endure murder in order to make my life a resort stay. I’m supposed to be close to him, and I’m supposed to welcome his criticism and instruction.

Time to finish praying. Hope I have not bored you.

Last Painful Read in a Series

It’s time to give a progress report on my trudge through the Columbia College Literature Humanities reading list.

For a long time now, I’ve been dreading Dostoevsky. He writes long, long books, and up until now, I hated the only one I had ever started. As I approached the book I’m reading now, that memory did not encourage me.

Crime and Punishment is one of the last items on my list, and I figured it would be even more boring and painful than The Iliad and the heinous, overrated, affirmative-action-receiving-for-being-Spanish Don Quixote. Surprise! Dostoevsky isn’t that bad. I would say it’s 10% less boring than Dickens, and that puts it well within the “tolerable” category.

C&P (as we Dostoevsky buffs call it) is about a guy who SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER NOW YOU CAN’T SAY YOU WEREN’T ASKING FOR IT murders a couple of women in order to get their money and valuables. The murderer is a starving former student named Raskolnikov. He kills a pawnbroker and her sister (the Ron Goldman of the story) with a hatchet. That happens early in the book, and then, I guess, Dostoevsky explores the terrible ordeal he goes through, dealing with the guilt.

The obvious problem with this story is that a person who feels terrible about murdering innocent people for small amounts of money will never commit the crime in the first place. But let’s let that slide.

Here’s where I am in the book: Raskolnikov has killed the women, and he has become physically ill from guilt. He lost at least part of the swag because he felt so bad after the killings, he didn’t care much about the loot. Again–sorry to mention it after saying we would let it slide–this is not how actual criminals think. A person like this would not murder you for money.

There are a couple of interesting things about the book.

I don’t know whether Dostoevsky gives an accurate picture of Russian culture, but I have a feeling he does, because it reminds me of things I’ve seen in news stories and articles. The people in the book treat each other like relatives. They call each other by their middle names, for example. Imagine your name is Rupert Horatio McMurtry. In C&P Russia, coworkers, people you do business with, and slight acquaintances would call you “Rupert Horatio,” as if they were your mom and you were in trouble. “Rupert Horatio, what is this thing you have done with the axe?” “Rupert Horatio, you cannot leave the house without your galoshes.” People in your extended Russian circle would be all up in your business like the hamster and the creepy Girl Scouts in the old Sprint Framily commercials.

In addition to being way too chummy when they speak, C&P Russians are very presumptuous about stepping in and helping other people when they’re down and out. They go in and out of Raskolnikov’s apartment when he’s sick, bringing him food and medical care and buying him clothes.

If Russians actually look after each other the way they do in C&P, it must be wonderful to live in Russia and have a lot of people you can rely on when you have serious, difficult problems. On the other hand, it’s nice to be able to do stupid things without having to fight a bunch of random individuals who don’t have proper standing to meddle with your life. “Rupert Horatio, what have I told you about trans-fats?” “Rupert Horatio, I see someone didn’t go to the gym today.” Too much help.

Another strange thing about C&P: in Dostoevsky’s Russia, it is apparently completely acceptable to beat women. Not just your wife. All women. You can beat your neighbor’s wife if you want. There’s a bit in the book where Raskolnikov encounters a bunch of women at some kind of social gathering, and most of them have black eyes. Dostoevsky doesn’t present it as a disturbing depiction of a sick society that needs reform. He mentions it the way you would mention kids wearing saggy pants at the mall. Just part of the scenery. You go to a party where single men and women are socializing, and most of the women have been punched in the face by the men. And they’re still at the party.

Vodka must be a hell of a drug.

I’m afraid I may know where Dostoevsky is going. Please don’t spoil it for me, because this book is not that entertaining, and telling me the ending will make it worse. I suspect Raskolnikov will never be caught. I suspect that “punishment” really means the suffering he endures because he is never punished. So far, no one has any inkling that he’s the axe murderer, and their kind attention during his illness is driving him nuts.

I’m past the point where the cops drag an innocent suspect in. Maybe Raskolnikov will have to watch him hang, and then, given his pointless waste of the things he stole, maybe he’ll confess so they can hang him, too.

The last Lit. Hum. book I read was Pride and Prejudice, which might as well have been titled Telegraphed Punch Romance, because it was always obvious how it would end. Darcy was going to SPOILER SPOILER SPOILER turn out to be a great guy, and Elizabeth was going to marry him and feel real bad about thinking he was conceited and cruel. I hope C&P doesn’t turn out the same way. Mainly, though, I hope I get through it quickly. The last two items on the reading list should be much more entertaining, so C&P is the last big push near the end of a terrible labor, in which I deliver a large, dry baby covered with velcro.

I would like to be done with this book. It’s depressing. The people are hopeless. They have no connection at all to God. No one answers their prayers. They struggle and fail, in their own strength. They live in squalor and humiliation.

My move to Ocala has had its depressing side. I’ve had the stress of unexpected expenses, and my dad has lost more of his ability to take care of himself. I still have a lot to do, with less help, just when I thought I was expected to be wrapping things up. I don’t need a depressing book, reminding me what it’s like to have lots of problems and no hope.

The up side of the unforeseen problems is that I am drawn to God by them. I know that if my prayer life is good, answers will appear and stress will fade. If my prayer life is not good, I could fall into a world of insurmountable setbacks and remorse. The strain of having no help is more than I am willing to tolerate, so I have good incentive to pray and do what I know to do.

I got myself some cheap wine and crackers, and I’m doing communion every day. I’m getting back to serious prayer in tongues. I am a bit less busy, so I spend more time with God.

Sometimes I feel I should put off praying, get out of bed or out of my chair, and get to work on this or that problem, but then I realize something: when I’m praying, I am working on my problems. Prayer, blessing, and cursing are much more powerful than effort. If I am aligned with God, no problem can withstand me. If not, nothing I do in my natural strength will help, and my problems will overcome me.

Some Christians like to say people with my attitude are “so heavenly minded they’re no earthly good.” That’s not in the Bible, folks. Elijah made the rain cease for three years by praying, and he ended the drought the same way. Try doing that with effort. Moses parted the Red Sea by standing at the shore and saying a few words. Jesus brought Lazarus out of a tomb by speaking to him. You can’t tell me effort is more important than supernatural tools. That’s pride, and pride, according to the Bible, causes God to fight you.

What did Jesus say when Martha complained that Mary was sitting at his feet instead of helping with dishes and cooking? He said Mary had “chosen the better part.”

Either this stuff works or it doesn’t, and if it doesn’t, you might as well be a Buddhist and do whatever you like. I have found that the supernatural tools of Christianity work.

It’s too bad Raskolnikov never learned about the power of serving God, but I suppose I shouldn’t feel too bad, because he had a great advantage that negates all the harm: he was fictional.

It is time to get out the cracker. I suggest you do the same!