We choose.

    Welcome aboard, dear reader.

    I suggest taking care, for a wind seems on the rise this week.

    It could also be that I ask a little more, or far less, of myself than others. From here, there seems no sure way for me to tell.

    Instead, while cutting this trail, I also built, and strictly kept, a few simple rules. That, often, kept me from behavior and action which might otherwise have cost those things no prize can restore.

    Though, as said before, and many times, mistakes made along the way are both plain, and plentiful.

    The biggest part, for me, is moving forward.

    Here, I call it rolling with the flow. And thus, I do not argue with the routine course taken by the ruthless arrow of time.

    For, while my work focuses on telling how it was, my life is about whatever will be.

    And so, rarely, if ever, will I take a step believed to lead the other way.

    Some claim this rigid penchant for moving on has cost far more than mere words can tell. But here, keeping true to oneself, has ever been key to winning a thing valued most in these parts.

    Because, above all, respect for the self, is hard won.

    Here, nothing is worth the sacrifice of it.

    Though I have, from time to time, wished there either was or could be. But neither addiction, money, pleasure, nor romance has proven as treasured.

    Despite the pirate’s well-earned rep as a widely traveled libertine, long committed to living a life based as much on freedom as anything else he should find.

    Besides that, I also care little for opinion, aside from my own.

    Some will say I always placed far too much store in the beliefs of such a cantankerous and uncompromising man. And that I will also, one day, pay for my pleasures, in heartache and rue, along with the so-called error of my ways.

    Now, having lived at least twice as long as I had either planned or imagined, a time for settling past accounts, it seems, has arrived.

    Or so I am told.

    From here, it looks much like the same old. A chance to do the right thing. As usual, trying to figure out what I believe that is, must first be discovered.

    This time turned out simple enough.

    So, now, I am far more than pleased to be granted a chance to later do right by those I have, without intent, earlier wronged. And, in any way possible, I am dedicated to doing that.

    That is, of course, within the bounds my philosophy allows. For my life is dependent most upon the few and simple rules which guide my living.

    And, closer to the end, I am grateful most to have cut this trail. Much as I am pleased not to have sold short to save myself from it.

    By now a long sober judge, the verdict of guilty, is here embraced with what we once called an illegal smile.

    I also own a greatly satisfied mind. And will ever live as a proud papa. Who nowadays looks forward, and most, to the joys brought by grandchildren.

    The writer, meanwhile, must continue his work.

    As the time is nigh. We, along with him, will spend these last weeks before sitting down to do that, alone at Pajama Flats.

    Cold weather is common to this time up here. It gets severe enough on many days to easily freeze the ink of any pen. But the Chinook winds that are sure to shortly follow, will also soon thaw the hardened heart of the dissolute writer.

    And it turns out, his favorite time to work is when the world is covered in ice and snow.

    I do not know why that might be. As said before, my part is showing up, ready to bleed. The rest is up to him.

    To me, in that way, writing most recalls parenting. It does, for me, anyway. Because I have no actual idea about what makes either work.

    Likewise, my worth as a first mate was disproven long ago. Thus, I have, and for many years, traveled here or there, as captain of this pirate’s ship.

    Nor will I deny enjoying the gig.

    Some of us, or so it seems, prefer being alone much of the time. By now, I see no reason to explain further. If you are one of us, you will, eventually, learn it.

    If you are not, you likely already did.

    I have also been told, by people who are supposed to know, that my preference for solitude might be a mild form of mental illness. Avoidance is the ever-so-modern term I hear applied.

    I call it life as a writer. Or, if pressed, that of a recluse. But one supposes I may be biased.

    After all, around here, I know myself to be responsible.

    Despite what the swiftly rising powers of the nanny-state now claim.

    Here, the world is not to blame. Only I am responsible. For me. As are each of us, accountable to, and for, ourselves, and our behavior. Because of that, the answer, to everything, each day, looks back at all of us from every mirror.

    And, lucky for me, that is the way it was, is, and ever will be, in these parts.

    Because I get what works, for me. And running this crew seems best.

    Neither will I deny the assorted costs that come along with the deal. As I also lived and breathed, it seems plain enough that none of us rides free.

    Besides that, when one is gone, it soon gets rare to wonder how long you have been away.

    Though even a hard-hearted writer, on a semi-regular basis, wants for company.

    As a libertine, meanwhile, will, by routine, need the same.

    And yes, I would agree this appears the lifestyle of a rogue. Perhaps even more so from afar.

    But around here, life is what we choose to make it. And, as things turned out, one less ordinary came along with that approach.

    As far as I am concerned, that sums it.

    Though, from the outside looking in, I get how such a scene might be kooky enough to make most people want to run away.

    What is also a fact? The trip comes without a guarantee.

    Here, uncertainty is more than usual.

    The uneven routine, nonetheless, is much prized.

    Likewise, to those in the know about us, many of the world’s common pleasures were exchanged for devotion to the writer’s work long ago.

    Everything else, for better or worse, places second around here.

    I have, if only lately, been forced to both acknowledge and accept what a scumbag of a person that sometimes makes me. And now, must continue with the work I say makes this life worthwhile, despite it.

    To do so, I cannot take a step intended to go against life’s flow.

    No matter if I should want to or not.

    For in this life, there are those who accept us, just as we are. As, just as surely, there are those too, who choose otherwise. We accept these judgements, despite the pain sometimes caused by them, without question, as best for their makers.

    Before moving on with this life, as we here, long ago decided to live it.

    But, as said before, none of us rides free. So, nothing less than lingering years of anguish sometime results from such losses.

    The writer hopes they might improve his work. But for the rest of us, cutting a trail through the stuff comes at a steep price. And living with the results of his careless choices can often seem like a bridge too far.

    So, we say in these parts, that is life.

    As likewise, what stands in the way, becomes it.

    Next, a few weeks of quiet are on the way for the blog. As the writer now enters the last stages of readying for work, and needs to collect and dedicate his energy to the soon to be job-at-hand.

    I will get in touch with you here when there is news to share about ‘Refugees of Confederation’.

    Meantime, dear reader, we send best wishes for the holidays and a happy new year to you and yours, from this wandering pirate of the prairie and his rakish crew.

    Thanks for your holiday eBook pre-orders. Remember to click the ‘Buy Books’ link at the top of this page to place your gift orders today.

    Thank you, once again, for being here. And for sharing this with anyone you think might like to read it.

    Peace and love,

    TFP

    December 18, 2021