A big 15th Happy Birthday goes out to our niece, Abby June Bug, down in Laurel, Mississippi. (Check out that beautiful strawberry cake Miss Jody made her granddaughter.)
January 26th, 2021 - Tuesday morning12 degrees/partly cloudy/calm winds
Pentoga Road
It's hard to believe Abby's growing up so quickly. I remember when she was just a little thing, bee bopping and y'all'ing all over the place, just cute as can be. She still y'all's and bee bops, but little Abby June Bug has grown into a beautiful young woman. I'm going to get Mississippi Brother Garry to put a fifty pound cement block on his granddaughter's head to keep her from growing up so fast.
Happy birthday, sweetheart. Aunt Sargie and I love you.
Moving on...
I'm in mourning. An important part of my life died, well, wore out, the day before yesterday. It was my belt, the kind that straps around one's waist.
I'd never had a really good belt until this one was purchased almost forty years ago. With four young boys at home, money was a scarce commodity. The boys' mother was a stay at home mom, I was teaching school for a whoppin' $7,000 a year and played in a band on the weekends to help pay the bills.
My previous "plether" belt, an imitation leather strap made from plastic that I'd worn since high school, had finally cracked and worn out. It was time for a new one.
I think we paid $5 dollars for my new belt. Made from real leather, I remember standing in front of the rack debating if it was worth spending the big bucks.
The rest is history.
The belt was worn as I educated thousands of munchkins over the years. It was used to help strap in supplies in our old pickup, keeping them from falling out as we bumped along some very remote roads in the big woods of Maine. It even assisted once in securing a canoe riding on top of the truck when a strap broke during one trip.
My belt went to Alaska with me, traveling, flying, and boating, to the most remote villages in the state.
Where I went, so did the belt.
I once wrapped it around the leg of a large moose I was dressing out, the other end fastened to my snowmobile, as I repositioned the thousand pound animal from its side onto its back. In later years, the belt made a stringer and was jammed through the gills of a giant halibut and used to tow it back to land.
When coming across a desperate fellow, an Inupiaq Eskimo, that had come close to cutting his leg off with a chain saw, the belt served as a life saving tourniquet.
But best of all, my beloved, real leather, forty year old belt, kept my drawers from falling down around my ankles.
I was fastening my pants the other day, cinching it tighter, when I felt the leather let go. After nearly half a century, the buckle had worn through the strapping. Its days of waistline usefulness had drawn to a close.
I know I should just throw the belt away, but I can't and will be stored somewhere in the shop. No doubt, when the time comes after I'm gone, my sons will be going through my things, come across the piece of leather and wonder why in the world their father would keep such a thing.
It's dumb to mourn something so mundane as a simple belt, but when I wrap what's left of it around my hand, I not only see, but can almost feel the past, four little boys, memorable times at the camp in northern Maine, giant moose and halibut, and hundreds of journeys across the entire state of Alaska.
You see, I can't throw it away. In that worn out strap of leather lie countless memories of my sons, my journeys, my life.
On another note:
Monday dawned clear and cold.
What to do. Hmm.
Today looks to be a quiet one on Pentoga Road. I'm heading out the door at first light for my morning walk. After that, I'll throw caution to the wind, except for driving a brad into my thumb, and meet head on, whatever the day has to offer.
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