Shamelessly, they began to discuss their tactics and strategy. Attacking from the south -- they would use deception, surprise, and lightning speed. First on their campaign of destruction would be the Bass families that lived around Sugar and the Birch Islands.
Breathing out heartless threats, the big boned one bragged, "We'll put something on those Bass that potash won't wipe off."
The scrappy one responded, "Cuz (I don't think they are actually "Cuzins"), "We'll sore lip every Bass for 5 miles."
The baby faced one with the goatee said, "Me too!"
Like I said, he just doesn't fit in with that riff-raff.
Before I knew it, I, along with my transportation, was conscripted for the assault. Resistance was futile, because the massive one had already clamped onto my wrist like a vice and bellowed, "You take the young un'. Cuz and I are gonna' lead this rampage (now the big boned one was calling the scrappy guy Cuz -- it was confusing)!" Within minutes, Sugar and the Birch Islands came into view.
I digress . . .
Close your eyes and think of paradise -- paradise in the form of luscious green islands ringed by rugged shorelines of ledge, stones, and honey colored sand. Towering oaks, with trunks the size of the big boned one's waist, keep the interior of the islands in a romantic, mysterious, and mottled light. Visualize eagles and ospreys riding the waves of thermal breezes in an azure sky. Can you see the doe with its spotted lamb standing side by side in shoulder high grass? Listen to the plunk and splash of a beaver teasing you with a glimpse of his aquatic agility. A hundred different song birds croon for their Creator, for you, for each other.
Forgive me -- Recalling the memory of my "Paradise lost" is just too painful. I must stop. I can't go on.
Next post . . .
We approached the "kill zone." They were poised and ready -- weapons in hand (O the misery of such recollections, but my therapist tells me I need to let it all out)!