Black Friday and the Walking Dead

The morning sun, bright and strong, gilds the leaves of the Japanese
Maple outside my window; the same one split nearly in half last year by
our October Surprise snowstorm. A thin mist rises from the frost covered
grass, subliming upward and disappearing only a few feet above the still
green grass, the leathery oak leaves un raked yet, but sure to go when I
can get my grand son to pay them some attention. I’ll go and make myself
another cup of tea in a little bit, and begin the day.

Across the country the day has long ago begun for thousands, millions of
frenzied bargain hunters and wearied workers. Awake through the night
they toiled and bought, bought and toiled, and still while outside the bright
sun brings beauty, they inside our million climate controlled and “Winter Holiday” gayly decorated malls, serenaded by “seasonally appropriate music” shop on, slog on, grimly determined to finish, finish, finish. What should be joy is slave labor.

I puzzle what makes so many of us give up sleep and leisure for a bargain of dubious worth when so much more is available as gift and free.

Why? Might it have been because they don’t care for bright sunlight,
gilded leaves, gentle mists in the morning? I can’t accept that. I’ll
believe they are simply affected by some sickness that blinds them to
beauty, and hope they may be cured. And, I will give thanks that on this day
and the one to follow I will neither shop nor work in a place filled with
shopping hordes, more animated than the Walking Dead, but to my way of thinking with probably not as much useful purpose.



6 responses to “Black Friday and the Walking Dead

  1. Peter something about this brought mind the opening lines of Wilfred Owen’s “Dolce et Decorum Est”, to wit:

    Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
    Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
    Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
    And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
    Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
    But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
    Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
    Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

  2. Ah, that is sadly true. Sci-fi and me don’t agree.

    • It was a big deal in certain quarters in the 60’s. Heinlein was a good writer. Not an Asimov or a Bradbury, but a good writer.

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