Uncle Sheds Fish Camp - Sandra Lynn Saxon
It’s a brisk 41° outside (for reference that’s -10° in Northern terms). Still I’m outside because it’s warmer out here than it is in my (well used to be) house. But I’m bundled up as best I can watch the good Baptist gather in their nice warm church. I suppose I could be bitter about a lot of things like our housing situation, the February weather in December, or the thoughts and prayers given by my uncaring neighbors.
From a childhood raised to uphold servitude above anything. I’ve spent nearly my entire adult life observing the utter discontent of being considered the other. From “Who are you kin too?” to having my values held in total contempt. So who would blame me for being bitter and anger. But still those voices from my past haunt me to “turn the other cheek”. Damn those voices sometimes, but at least they were sincere. Living the truth they held so Dear, not always winning, but being the better persons.
Sitting here with my back to the cold wind. My blood sugar dripping from not eating since yesterday afternoon. All my stress still pinned up releasing itself in my gut. A feeling that paralyzes me to this solitary life, I really don’t enjoy. But like my Granny Thornton once told me, “If you can’t say anything good, don’t say anything at all”. With the sun’s rays hitting my face, I think about all my ghost. Then I ask myself, what would they do? So I sit here like a good boy restraining my tongue. But not my pen.
From a childhood raised to uphold servitude above anything. I’ve spent nearly my entire adult life observing the utter discontent of being considered the other. From “Who are you kin too?” to having my values held in total contempt. So who would blame me for being bitter and anger. But still those voices from my past haunt me to “turn the other cheek”. Damn those voices sometimes, but at least they were sincere. Living the truth they held so Dear, not always winning, but being the better persons.
Sitting here with my back to the cold wind. My blood sugar dripping from not eating since yesterday afternoon. All my stress still pinned up releasing itself in my gut. A feeling that paralyzes me to this solitary life, I really don’t enjoy. But like my Granny Thornton once told me, “If you can’t say anything good, don’t say anything at all”. With the sun’s rays hitting my face, I think about all my ghost. Then I ask myself, what would they do? So I sit here like a good boy restraining my tongue. But not my pen.
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