Author: Jim Tatum

By the end of last weekend, Monday actually, every  appendage of my body was sore. Even my hair hurt. I’m getting too old for this.

I know I’m a lucky man. The luckiest: my wife obviously loves me. Why else would she put up with me?

“Well I just blew into town about an hour ago; took a look around see which way the wind blows…”             Jim Morrison

Occasionally, there are times when one just runs out of things to say. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. After all, Confucius, or was it Mark Twain, said, “It is better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”

On rare occasions, I am dumb enough to get into political discussions. On even rarer occasions, someone will ask me why I don’t run for office.

I don’t know what kind of mental image that conjures for you, but hopefully, you’re not as twisted an individual as me.

My buddy motions to me, a finger to his lips, even though no one is home.    “What,” I hiss back, in all my ten-year-old impatience.    “Look,” he whispers excitedly, pointing to his dad’s sock drawer.    “What is it?”

It appears they have a phobia for everything. I looked mine up; it’s called coulrophobia – fear of clowns.

Once in a great while, My Beloved gets into a bit of a funk, just as we all do. So I try to jockey her out of her bad mood, usually with a flurry of bad jokes, noisy puns, suggestive expressions, and an occasional goose, whether it’s Christmas or not.

It’s been awhile since I’ve been on the Edisto River. But it runs through me in ways I cannot explain.