Dalton Roberts
I am tired of living a lie. I have never told you the truth about how much I hate winter.
It seems that every year I have written about the beauties of winter. You know, how the naked trees look like Picasso paintings and similar foolishness.
I apologize. I was lying like a dog.
My intentions were good. I have always kidded myself about having control of my mind, and I was trying to help you gain control of your mind by showing off my own mind control. From now on, you are on your own. I am confessing openly and with deep sobs that my gourd, in full complicity with my epidermis, leads me around by the nose.
I took Silva Mind Control, and Jose Silva is still one of my heroes, because I think the little guy is one of the few men on the planet who has his head under his continuous control. You might say he has his head under his thumb.
I studied all the mind-control thinkers in my own Christian religion, like James Allen who wrote the classic “As a Man Thinketh.” Now I must humbly confess that I thinketh as my chill bumps dictateth.
I love Buddha. Here’s a man born to great wealth who gave it all up to find truths that would help him control the suffering on every hand, like winter winds and sleet and slippery roads. His marvelous formulae work well for me, except they do not develop any tolerance at all for the kind of cold weather we have been having.
I am not saying anything is wrong with James Allen or Buddha. They helped me quit smoking and jug-sucking, but somehow I am unable to digest enough of their elixirs to put up with Old Man Winter.
I even took Avatar from the genius Harry Palmer who has developed rundowns (mental protocols) to train the gourd to master any challenge on this planet, Jupiter or Mars. But all my rundowns for mastering winter have run down, sputtering out like firecrackers in a rainstorm. Here I lie in utter defeat, flat on my back with an icicle in one hand and a snowball in the other.
I now understand why the suicide rate in Alaska is so high. You give me several months of the kind of cold we have had and add months of complete darkness to the picture, and I would climb to the top of Billy Goat Hill and jump. I know I would roll halfway through Chattanooga, but what a sweet relief it would be. Anyway, the immortal Hank Williams accurately informed us, “You’ll Never Get Out of This World Alive.” Shortly thereafter the old boy shucked the mortal coil, and I don’t think it was coincidental that he departed on a frigid winter night.
Do not think for a moment that I am leaving you without hope or some helpful suggestions. I will rescue you with next week’s column. I will share my three secret techniques for merely making it through the winter. You won’t be skipping rope and singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic,” but I do promise you one thing: You won’t be rolling headlong down Billy Goat Hill.
E-mail Dalton Roberts at DownhomeP@aol.com