It comes as bad news indeed that the world will end Saturday, at least according to an overly moralistic California Baptist minister, and we know how seldom people like that are dead wrong.
There’s never a good time to be reduced to cinders — we can only assume we’re talking hellfire and concordant damnation — but springtime in Newfoundland seems inordinately cruel and inopportune.
This week the buds broke through on my plum trees, and I was looking forward to seeing how my new apple tree had survived its first winter within leaf-spitting distance of the North Atlantic. I had planned to add a cherry tree to my blossoming orchard this Father’s Day, but, alas, none of us will live to see it.
An all-loving God should have the decency to end it all on a blustery February day, rather than in late May. Granted, we could have snow or sun Saturday, but we’ll never know, now. No need to pack for either eventuality this Victoria Day long weekend, because it’ll likely be over before you hit the overpass to the underworld.
There is so much left undone, and unseen. As a province, we are entering, what, our third or fourth spring as a have province? But rather than being able to enjoy our newfound wealth for a few more years, come Saturday we will discover — as rich people have throughout the ages — that we can’t take it with us.
We will never know what great and grand deeds might have been accomplished by Senator-citizen-Senator Fabian Manning.
We won’t ever find out what Danny Williams will do next.
Nor, most disappointedly, will we get to pay higher utility rates while subsidizing the power bills of people in Nova Scotia and the U.S. Northeast, and then argue for
the next two generations about whether the Muskrat Falls deal or the Upper Churchill deal was worse.
At dawn Saturday when the sun’s rays strike Cabot Tower, it will signal an end to the human experiment. Lord knows, it’s too soon — 2,011 years wasn’t nearly long enough to see whether good truly would triumph over evil.
Ready for spring
A world-ending apocalypse during a midwinter blizzard would at least have had the benefit of cutting short our misery. But in the midst of spring, Newfoundlanders (and, a few weeks hence, Labradorians) can enjoy the fine God-given life for which the Almighty is so justly famous.
The gardening stores are open and bustling.
I already stocked up, having not paid close attention to the fact the May 21 mayhem was this coming Saturday.
I’m in the midst of pruning the plum orchard. I’m undecided between red or brown brick to fix up my fire pit. I have a stone step to build on our walkway.
I had thought I’d won the battle against the rat — or rats — that began haunting the chicken run a month or so ago. A treat of poison had seemingly taken care of it. But there was a rodent redux this week, when a hole leading to their lair once again appeared smack in the middle of the chicken run.
This time, I’m thinking a bucket of water and the hard end of a shovel is the way to go. No need to worry about accusatory exclamations from the animal-rights crowd, because after Saturday everything and everyone will be dead, anyway.
Which raises a curious question: will there be animal-rights protests in the afterlife? If God slaughters every seal on the planet, the PETA people will surely protest unto eternity.
Just in case Sunday comes and we’re all still here, don’t throw out this week’s flyers. They have great bargains on grass seed this time of year.
Brian Jones is a desk editor at The Telegram. He can be reached by email at firstname.lastname@example.org.