J. S. Oppenheim — All Together

I’ve had three days, and I think that’s long enough to get over myself (and whatever it is that’s been bothering me and whose details I shall not divulge).

I am a free man!

Hot danish and Pete’s coffee — “Major Dickason’s Blend: Rich, Complex, Full Bodied: Deep Roast” — help with the old “Ya hah!”

And the old “Oh no!”

It seems “Major” Elbert Dickason set out out with $10,000 and a partnership to build and till a patch of Wisconsin land.  After clearing and building and working furiously to make a buck, he found himself forced to sell his share to the partner for $200, and he left town penniless.

Wow.

I know how to do that!

Seriously, I’m cringing at the thought of shelling out another $80 for ink cartridges so “Big Bertha” (HP B9180) can continue checking out her nozzles while I decide — or settle into — what I’m going to be when I grow up now that I kind of have.

Sort of.

At that most tender age of 57 — complete with a lazy cancer, mallet finger, nose hairs, receded hair line: all that comes with standing out in the wind and growing older (better: okay: “older better”) alone — I’m feeling more settled in than settled down.

But back to many moons ago: Dickason with his $10,000 cum $200 grub stake repaired to new available Wisconsin land going for $1.25 per acre, laid out a community, built a cabin that became a hotel, and founded and named a town that became a county seat: “Wyocena”.

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Historical Marker Society of America.  “Major Elbert Dickason: ‘Dickason’s’.”  Last modified November 21, 2012.

Rawson, Helen J.  “‘Major’ Elbert Dickason: The Founder of Wyocena Township.”  Wisconsonian, July 1999.

Wisconsin Historical Society.  “Wyocena: It Came To Him in a Dream.”  Odd Wisconsin Archive, October 1, 2009.

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Hmm.  A man might learn a few things by merely having chosen the right bean bag.

Thanks, Pete’s.

The splint comes off about the middle of the month, and then I should be able to hold my cameras without giving my patrons (or passersby) The Finger; also play my guitar (without looking heroic — “wow, man, did you see what he did to his hand?”); also hold a pen (even if I don’t return to journaling in cursive).

As regards pioneering (cyberspace) here by an as yet undeveloped woodlot and exurban apartment | squire’s margin on the eastern edge of western Maryland, I had last night for company, from the sound of it, a squirrel and mice, keeping toasty behind the drywall.  Such scratching and peeping make not for a good night’s sleep, but for being awakened by a small animal or two in the middle of the night: Walt Mitty here might call it practice.

It’s not too late.