Good Morning Guardians of the Asylum,
I understand most everyone reading this support hose will more than likely dismiss this accounting as piffle without truth. Your cynicism being justified, yet there are times and situations where anything but the truth will not do. The story I’m about to unfold falls into the ‘sad but true’ file. Yet I believe it serves to enlighten if not provide a clearer picture of our collective tendency to mean well.
‘Dictionary. Com’ defines refuge as:
ref -uge: (ref-yooj)
noun, verb,— uged, uging
1. shelter or protection from danger, trouble, etc.. i.e., to take refuge from a storm
2. a place of shelter, protection, or safety
3. anything to which one has recourse for aid, relief, or escape
As we get along in years forging success, licking the wounds of failure, or putting one’s family safely aboard life’s rich pageant, every man and woman is entitled to his/her place of refuge. This is a special place free from turmoil and stress and is unique to one’s personality.
Most times we’re reluctant to share our safe harbor with others simply to protect it from inconsiderate nitwits bent on soiling your place of rectitude and clear thinking. These spoilers of good things (and you know who you are) will never accept your place as holy ground and always willing to desecrate it. This place could be a living room, coffee shop, library, or even a bar because they’re as individual as we are.
To aggravate the situation ‘Cush’ found his way over and immediately took the floor. As usual, the topics centered on the union, the price of pot, Walleye, and his Aunt Myrna. Prior to his arrival, there was an excellent interchange regarding global warming that was now ‘Cushed’ asunder. What happened to my refuge?
Looking back, during the time directly after Blondie’s closed its doors I happened upon a little place not far from where I live. The Magnet Inn is a little run-down bar, but the wait staff is friendly, the beer is cold, and they have a good jukebox we’re able to play a bit too loud. After a couple of visits, I decided to make it my new refuge.
I got acquainted with the other day-drinkers (drunks) and appeared to have made a good decision. However several weeks ago I committed the cardinal sin of telling one of our own about the place, and while uninvited he decided to join me throughout the week ever since. Knowing I’d broken the first rule of refuge, it didn’t take long for the chickens to come home to roost.
Before I could close my tab and escape, Cush pushed his way past the wheelchair guy and three blind people and tripped over a cane sending him flying! Oblivious to what he’d done to my place of refuge; Cush blathered on and on but surprisingly won over the regulars; instantly becoming one of them!
With backslaps and knuckle-bumps all around he certainly was a hit, but they honestly don’t comprehend the hell coming their way. I predict Cush’s continual banality will ultimately backfire and the crowd will turn on him.
A good old fashioned ‘tar & feathering’ or public flogging is in order.
But knowing I’d defecated in my flat hat (AGAIN) and revealed my sanctuary I have only myself to blame. Decency aside, I hope we can learn from our mistakes and keep sacred ground sacred.