Post by Leslie Sarkany on Nov 17, 2014 15:37:04 GMT -5
Optional soundtrack
The Bluenoser awoke to a midday darkened room. A day off. He knew what was to come. His bones moaned. The unstoppable urge that could not be purged. Such is the scurge of a digaholic. A quick look out the picture window of his abode confirmed the reason for the darkened mood he was in.
Looking in the mirror was a face. A face lined from the hard years spent out in the sun,years on the streets, years in the rain. Years spent digging. The pull was too strong and after a cup of coffee the digaholic donned his hat, grabbed his aging Freedom 3 Plus and limped out the door knowing he had once again given in.
At the field the machine was encased from coil to arm rest in a clear plastic bag. He swung. A practised swing honed by the many years. The downpour continued. The digaholic dug while a cascade of rain ran down his backside. Niagara nose flowing from the front. Determination...that thousand yard stare!
Saddened. Thoughts of youth spend in school yards. Summers in fish plants and ball fields. Coins tossed here and there. No challenge as they lay on the surface. Debris laced the school yard. No pride. With each coin tucked into the pocket of his long coat the digaholic gathered another piece of garbage. Trip after trip to a nearby garbage bin. Some piece of mind. Two bits....bend out of shape like he was.
A custodian approached him. A concerning scowl! A showdown. Not to be but a quick chewing of the fat , a thanks for taking care of the trash and a hasty retreat to the building. Bounty. Quota. Driven. The digaholic needed quota. 72.....no more groaned his weakened knees....no more. Splashing his way back to Nogo he rode off into a sunset......that was not there.
The Bluenoser awoke to a midday darkened room. A day off. He knew what was to come. His bones moaned. The unstoppable urge that could not be purged. Such is the scurge of a digaholic. A quick look out the picture window of his abode confirmed the reason for the darkened mood he was in.
Looking in the mirror was a face. A face lined from the hard years spent out in the sun,years on the streets, years in the rain. Years spent digging. The pull was too strong and after a cup of coffee the digaholic donned his hat, grabbed his aging Freedom 3 Plus and limped out the door knowing he had once again given in.
At the field the machine was encased from coil to arm rest in a clear plastic bag. He swung. A practised swing honed by the many years. The downpour continued. The digaholic dug while a cascade of rain ran down his backside. Niagara nose flowing from the front. Determination...that thousand yard stare!
Saddened. Thoughts of youth spend in school yards. Summers in fish plants and ball fields. Coins tossed here and there. No challenge as they lay on the surface. Debris laced the school yard. No pride. With each coin tucked into the pocket of his long coat the digaholic gathered another piece of garbage. Trip after trip to a nearby garbage bin. Some piece of mind. Two bits....bend out of shape like he was.
A custodian approached him. A concerning scowl! A showdown. Not to be but a quick chewing of the fat , a thanks for taking care of the trash and a hasty retreat to the building. Bounty. Quota. Driven. The digaholic needed quota. 72.....no more groaned his weakened knees....no more. Splashing his way back to Nogo he rode off into a sunset......that was not there.
nice Clad take.