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I had another epiphany while peeling the final
six logs on my house addition. My frequent wow
moments occur because I am amazed by the tiny things
most people dismiss as routine. It is great having a
simple mind. For the finishing trim on my new dining
hall I chose densely limbed tree tops as the
branches can either be cut flush leaving luxurious
dark knots, or they can be left longer as pegs on
which to hang western memorabilia. For reasons
subdivision folk will never understand, I wanted to
give my new mess hall the rustic feel of sitting in
a barn. A busted sawbuck packsaddle tree hangs from
one branch; the casualty of my father backing the
pickup through the barnyard by Braille. Scanning the
rearview mirrors to avoid obstacles is useless in
the ranch pickup as my mother tore the mirrors off
while backing through the timber several years
previously. She found the pickup slips right through
the forest once the mirrors are ripped from the
doors.
On another peg hangs a collection of rusted steel
traps; perhaps one of the very traps with which I,
as an eight-year-old boy caught the predator skunk
which had been decimating our chicken flock. I would
have lost that battle had it not been for the
valiant efforts of my younger brother, Blaine, and
this story is detailed in Volume II of Ramblings of
a Conservative Cow Doctor. Fifty years later, when
he gets wet, Blaine still smells like a skunk.
Next to the traps hangs a bridle with a bit made by
my father-in-law when he was in high school. He is a
fairly skilled craftsmen and he designed the shanks
to resemble the profile of a nude female leg. I
believe it to be an accurate rendition of beauty
standards of the late 1940s, but it is hard for me
to reconcile a post-war baby boom with women whose
legs look like grazing bits.
Sorry, I rambled a little, now back to my logs. My
shoulder muscles burned as I sliced the drawknife
through the biggest branches; a repetitive action to
which I am conditioned. This yearlong project has
knocked 20 pounds off my frame yielding two obvious
benefits: One, crouching down on your hands and
knees fertility testing bulls is much easier if you
leave your belly back home. Two, I am running faster
than any time in my life. Out of curiosity, I pulled
up old race results and compared my current running
pace to other age groups and this sparked my
epiphany. Growing older is mandatory; getting old is
optional.
Setting aside obvious exceptions, many aging changes
begin by choice. God designed humans with incredible
adaptive features and as German philosopher,
Friedrich Nietzsche said “That which does not kill
you makes you stronger.” When we overload our system
it begins to fail, so if you worship at the altars
of the fork, sofa and television you will get old
far before your time. By extrapolating from my race
data I created a theorem suggesting every pound
above your ideal weight adds a year to your
perceived age. For example, a 45-year-old who is 20
pounds overweight will feel and run like they are
65. My weight-to-age model is more a scientific fact
than man caused climate change; a myth advanced by
scientists whose opinion is secured by the highest
bidder. If your political beliefs stem from the
liberty side of the spectrum you should take my
theorem seriously because your life is about to be
turned upside down.
The recent IRS scandal shows the ruling class will
unequally apply tax law so as to crush opinions
outside state approved thought; an oppressive
technique soon to be applied to healthcare. Once
they have squashed America’s current medical care
delivery system; replacing it with Obamacare, the
ruling class will completely own the unwashed. As
demonstrated in the VA scandal, who is treated, how
they are treated, who lives and who is steered
towards government assisted suicide will be
decisions handed down from the health boards of the
IRS. If you are a freedom-loving, Christian
conservative you best enter this progressive train
wreck in top physical condition or you will never
make it out alive.
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