What’s that? Off in the distance? Beyond the mountain of snow? Just pass my enormous monthly electricity bill? A hint of green? Chirping birds. A warm breeze? Could it be? Springtime? For Hitler? No!

No need to befoul my vision of impending spring with fascism. Although, if the shoe fits. Am I right? Just kidding. Things aren’t that bad. Yet. But who knows. The wealthy oligarchs are hungry, my friend. Always have been. Always will be. Human beings love to accumulate power at the expense of others. Beware!

I’m digressing again. A regular runway train.

I was writing about spring! I can almost see it. It’s been a long hard winter. Ugly elections. Raging pandemics. Enough snow to bury a short little man such as myself. But things are starting to thaw. Rays of sunlight are peeking through. Dawn is coming. And with it spring.

By the by. Do you like the picture I placed at the beginning of this blog? That’s me. All this isolation really did a number on me.

I’m just kidding. That’s not me. It’s an image of Pan. The Greek God of the wild. False god of the wild. Talk about Golden Calf. Or calves. Get a load of those legs! Don’t you love Pan’s flowing locks? Those rustics horns? I’m telling you. This year hasn’t been kind to my youthful looks. They are fading faster than you can say “vaccine!” What a winter.


Solomon and Samson have completed their first full week of in-person school in a year. Glory, glory hallelujah. The afternoons around here are so, well, quiet. What’s that sound? Nothing? Bliss. I’ve spent most of every waking second over the past year surrounded by the sweet (ugly) music of a 7-year old and a 5-year old. No wonder I’m growing horns. And hair clings to my arms like so many Covid enzymes run amuck.

“These boys are adorable,” one of the teachers told us last week. At dismissal. We pick the boys up after school. No room on the busses for them. Social distancing.

I smiled real big for this kind teacher. But she didn’t see it because I was wearing mask. Non-verbal communication is a dying art. Like bipartisan democracy. I tried to flash her a thumbs up. Not sure if she saw me.

Our boys are adorable. But their adorableness only goes so far. They are also loud, exuberant humans who need to channel their energies in a different direction. So I’m glad the boys are back in school. Back around other kids. And life around here is remarkably more peaceful than it was. It’s easier for me to write. To plan my classes. To teach. I do all of these things in my basement bunker. This is where I’ve done everything for the last year. I’m like the Unabomber, only I wouldn’t hurt a fly. Violence? It’s for the birds. And the false gods. Pan looks like he’d swallow a baby kitten whole. That’s not for me. I’m a peacemaker.

About making peace: Last week was one of the most peaceful weeks I’ve had in over a year. The boys were out in the world. And the house was calm. Springtime is coming. And it isn’t for Hitler.


But of course spring isn’t here quite yet. There’s still snow on the ground. A chill in the air. Variants of a virus that would like nothing more than to eat you from the inside out. Like Pan when he comes across a baby kitten. But there’s hope. At least it seems that way to me.

I can’t say what the future will bring. Neither can you. But a little sunshine goes a long way in putting February to bed. And a week of sending our little ones off to a real live school was good for the soul. Everybody’s soul. Parents and children alike. Go into world, boys. Make your way. Don’t hurt flies. Don’t eat baby kittens. Don’t fall for fascism. For accumulating wealth at somebody else’s expense. To quote the great Conor Oberst: “Don’t search too long for that Aztec gold. Like Old Cortez, you’re gonna lose your soul. Turn an honest man into diablo, don’t search too long for that Aztec gold.” Those are some song lyrics from an album made way back in 2010. Before I had horns. And hair growing on my arms. I used to be dashing. Now I’m wild man in Central Pennsylvania, pining for some sunshine. For a little bit of normal after one heck of a strange year. I’ll say it again with gusto. Springtime is coming. Not for Hitler. For me, baby.

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