A mind is like a parachute,
it only works when it's open.
............................................Frank Zappa
Seems my previous post caused quite a row amongst the regulars at my sister-in-law's cafe, Clydean's Bread & Breakfast. Which happens to be the only cafe in town, meaning anybody who gets that bunch's shorts in a twist better lay low indefinitely.

Or promise to keep her mouth shut about anything that might cause Clydean's customers to discuss anything more serious than:

"Radio said the price of corn is up."

"Yup."

"Goin' fishin' tomorrow?"

"Nope."

Keep my mouth shut and my opinions to myself?
Might as well make me promise to quit breathing.

But I did...until yesterday...Memorial Day.

The day America honors those who made the ultimate sacrifice
so the rest of us can enjoy the freedom to say anything we want.
You see, before I left for the cemetery to put flowers on my dear Roy's grave, I'd opened an email from Gladys in Warrensburg MO which had this:


All during the Memorial Day service at the Civil War monument, I couldn't get that phrase out of my mind: "Teabagging 4 Jesus."

Say what???????
If one ever needed proof that Tea Baggers and Reality have never met: Here's your sign (to quote comedian Bill Engvall).

What on earth does Jesus have to do with tea bagging?

Is this woman's church short of the main beverage for the next Ladies Tea?

Is she fishing for donations of tea bags for the homeless? (Tea, after all, worked for missionaries trying to convert heathens to Christianity in far off lands. Might work on the home front too.)

Or maybe...just maybe...the woman is simply one of those misguided souls who can't express a thought without tacking "Jesus" onto it like a Heavenly Seal of Approval: "Hi, I'm Jesus and I approved this message."

Ya think?
~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ ~~
More silly photos of Tea Baggers
Till next time,
Ima@Wick's End

When my dear friend Gladys in Warrensburg MO asked my thoughts on the Republicans' dilemma with the right-wing Tea Baggers in their midst - embrace them or ignore them - Burdine Atkinson's brother-in-law Lyle came to mind.

Far as we know, Lyle isn't a card-carrying Tea Bagger, but he might as well be. Loud, obnoxious, an embarrassment at any social gathering. His priorities are money, God, and the NRA, in that order. Only marginally smarter than a rock, he believes Rush Limbaugh and Fox Noise would never ever broadcast lies.

But Lyle happens to own the car dealership between Wal-Mart and the feed store, the only dealership between here and Des Moines. So we put up with him because we get much better deals on vehicles from Lyle than we could get in Des Moines. Much the same reason the Repugs put up with Tea Baggers. Right now, it's a win-win for all. But that could change if Lyle gets greedy, or the TBs want a bigger piece of the Party's action.


Travel is fatal to prejudice,
bigotry and narrow-mindedness.
..............................................Mark Twain
I'd amend Mr. Twain's remark to 'Travel and intelligent use of the internet...'.

It is the 21st century after all. The Information Age. If villagers living in mud huts in Third World countries can access the internet on laptops and iPhones to catch up to the modern world, there's no good reason Tea Baggers can't do the same, instead of blindly following the Palins, Limbaughs and Fox Noise.

Baaaaa.

A mind is like a parachute,
it only works when it's open.
............................................Frank Zappa
It totally infuriates me when Baggers who were born and raised in the military complain about socialism when they've been the beneficiaries of it from Day One.

Same for Senior Citizens already on Medicare who "don't want no government run health care". Fine. Turn in your Medicare cards and have "Stoopid" tattooed on your forehead.

And of those who believe the record deficit is Obama and the Democrats' doing, I ask: Were you asleep during the Bush years??


Two in-depth articles on Tea Baggers:
Tea-Partying, the Myth of Intellectual Progress, Bipartisanship, and Sister Sarah

The GOP's 'tea party' dance

Also: Are We Becoming a Banana Republic?


Till next time,
Ima@Wick's End

First off, as the picture at left shows, "Wick's End" is a farm, not a candle shop. Nor did I mean to type "wit's end", although I've been there more times than I care to admit. Truth is, the name is historical, not a temporary mental condition.

A hundred years ago a family named Wickersham homesteaded a section of land on a dead end road. To distinguish them from the Wickershams a couple roads over that wasn't a dead end, locals shortened "Wickersham's on the dead end road" to "Wick's End" and it stuck. Even after the other Wickershams sold out and moved to California after one particularly bad winter. Or maybe Florida.

Either way, they bought an orange grove, and for years, a week before Christmas the family that bought their farm would get a box of oranges. Which irritated the mailman no end. Said he didn't mind risking life and limb on icy country roads to deliver "normal" packages at Christmastime, but it was downright inconsiderate to expect him to muscle a "ton" of oranges in and out of the truck. (So much for 'neither rain nor snow'...) Mighta changed his tune if the lucky recipients had thought to reward him with a orange (or six) for his trouble. Bah humbug.

Anyway, being a farmer doesn't guarantee a man will have sons, or if he does that they'll live long enough to produce grandsons to inherit the family farm. World War II and Korea eliminated the sons of Wick's End, only one of whom had the good sense (or misfortune) to marry and reproduce before going off to defend his country. As did his son, who died in a POW camp in Viet Nam.

Which is how I, the former ImaDell Wickersham, inherited Wick's End.

A fellow named Royal Winterbottom had been one of Mama's hired hands and as often happens, "Roy" and I took a shine to each other. No hanky-panky in the hayloft, mind you. Heaven's no! Mama would've skinned him alive, and then me right after. To make sure there was no hanky-panky when Roy took me to drive-in movies the summer we were courting, she went along and sat between us! It's a wonder we got married after all that, but we did. Mama even stayed in town with the old pastor and his wife so our friends could chivaree us at the farm on our wedding night.

Roy passed away too a few years ago, and in the part of Iowa that isn't Des Moines - meaning most of this great state - winters give a person a lot of time to ponder how people and situations affect one another (and me). Which is to say I've reached the age where certain things (and certain people) infuriate me no end. The current minister, Pastor Fairthy Well, recommended I see a therapist to work on my "issues" as he calls them, or take a long cruise. A cruise in the present economy? Dream on.

It was my grandson who said blogging could be therapeutic (and much cheaper than a therapist or a cruise).

So here I am.

Oh, and here's a snapshot of what we grow here at Wick's End, but if you squint your eyes just so, you'll have a good idea of what I see in the mirror every morning before I've had my first cup of coffee.

Can't guarantee a post every day. Depends on how often things get my blhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifoomers in a knot and when we can cohttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifnnect to the internet out here.

Until next time,
Ima@Wick's End

"Is this Heaven? No, it's Iowa."
(line from the movie Field of Dreams)
Photo by Helen Gunderson. Visit Helen's blog.