Kings of the Rut

Darkness and Light

He journeyed from France to try to bring light into what he thought was the darkness...he may have been misguided by his Christian roots, but assimilated well with First Nations of the Okanagan.
He journeyed from France to try to bring light into what he thought was the darkness...he may have been misguided by his Christian roots, but assimilated well with First Nations of the Okanagan. | Source

I live in a small suburb of a small city called Kelowna.

The 'burb is called Rutland but we call it The Rut for short. My father and I are Kings of The Rut...King Ruts, if you will. My father loves to garden and as I write he has a hoe in hand scratching a wide line in the rich, fertile soil that looks like a wide wagon wheel rut. This is his kingdom.

I have been in the rut of depression for longer than I care to tell but not anymore...I'm writing my way out...writing my own ticket...hoeing my own row into literary infamy and celebrity humility. I've been writing for about ten years...and most of those years have seen a few hundred dollars of income so my rut of security, construction and menial labors has been a deep trench looking more like a grave than a tunnel leading to the light.

We are the kings of the rut. We bear no crowns of gold or thorns...just rocks and soil, pebbles and stone.

A mutual friend of my father's and mine once commented on a rut, "The only difference between a rut and the grave is that a rut is open at each end."

He said it ten years before his own grave was opened but I still remember what I gleaned from his statement. If you're living in a rut you have two choices...you can go back to where the rut started and take a different path or you can move ahead and hope that the mud hardens, or leads to stony ground. You can move ahead to see over the rut's edges and capture an horizon...hope for future light on the dirty, dusty and darkening trail.

My father's hoed ruts are soon covered after seed is embedded in just the appropriate spots at the appropriate distances and soon fruit and vegetable vines poke up from the former rut to bear fruit within days, weeks or months. My father's ruts bear fruits which we eat with ready appreciation. His cucumbers have taste when we compare them to store-purchased cukes. His potatoes have flavour where bland, cloned potatoes from our grocer's shelves tend to have eyes that don't see. The rhubarb is ever bitter sweet and the tomatoes are succulent and sweet.

My father is a King of the Rut.

It was he who first introduced me to a singer named Roger Miller. He sang a song which opened with lines that read, "Trailers for sale or rent, rooms to let fifty cents. No phone no pool no pets...King of the Road."

He was singing about being a bum, I discovered long after first hearing the tune at the age of seven. The tramp was living in a trailer park, or a box car...but he was a king of the road. "He was a man of means by no means."

I walk to the core of The Rut and buy my own brand of low cost cigarettes. I walk straight and tall like it is my home...for it is my home. I write for very little, I love The Rut. I am a King of the Rut.

My room is twelve by eight and my computer holds much more than four bits . I am a man of means by no means, but I am a king of the rut I was in. I have mastered the darkness and now walk in the light to become a king of my own destiny. I have Buddy Christ and other kings to silently bob and weave if I wish. To smile and wave...if I desire. I have had my winter of discontent and now I have content. I am full.

I write seeds of thought that might bear fruit but that remains to be seen. I am a celebrity that has much to be humble about...but still I walk tall. I walk to the heart of The Rut and place a slim grin on my chin for it is good to be king.

Perhaps we kings can peel cukes later this summer, peel a tomato...suck on a cherry. For my father's ruts also entail trenches that have undergone a transformation into the sky. Treelings that have borne plums, cherries, peaches and apples. He has taken wings starting from earth and touched the sky like Icarus. My father is a King of the Rut...lording his will to rise to the sky.

I write to satisfy my reader...I write to fill my rut and stretch my arms. The light sky is turning blue...I am a King of the Rut, too.

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Comments 10 comments

thevoice profile image

thevoice 6 years ago from carthage ill

terrific hub expression great reading thanks


Alison Graham profile image

Alison Graham 6 years ago from UK

Thank you for this great and beautifully written hub, you certainly have one satisfied reader here, I found you on hubhopper - so glad I did. I look forward to reading more from you - a friend once said to me 'self worth is not the same as nett worth' - you will understand what he meant.


blondepoet profile image

blondepoet 6 years ago from australia

Oh I adore the way you write and express yourself. I am just visualising the song "King Of The Road" streaming while you strut your stuff in your Dingo boots :)


Cris A profile image

Cris A 6 years ago from Manila, Philippines

This is beautifully expressed. I like the third paragraph particularly as it's spoken without a break, as if you were speaking between puffs. Thanks for sharing, at least you've found your own place under the sun and it's a kingdom no less :D


randslam profile image

randslam 6 years ago from Kelowna, British Columbia Author

Thands to Cris and Blonde One for your complimentary thots. Sad to report the Dingos wore out a while back...hope all is well in each of your realms, too. I had to add the King of the Road lyrics because the telepathy aspect of writing would lead one to hum a few bars while reading it...glad it worked...puff, puff...smoke break.


randslam profile image

randslam 6 years ago from Kelowna, British Columbia Author

Addendum to Blonde One...I replaced the Dingos with a pair of Tony Lama's boots...they've been resoled once already...lol...these boots are made for walking too.


blondepoet profile image

blondepoet 6 years ago from australia

Oh my would love to see the Tony Lamas in action..puff puff. smoke break ROFL :)


Jewels profile image

Jewels 6 years ago from Australia

I had a long stretch of depression once upon a time. It still likes to grab my ankles every now and then and endeavors to pull me into the rut without ends. Loved that quote "The only difference between a rut and the grave is that a rut is open at each end."

Great read randslam.


randslam profile image

randslam 6 years ago from Kelowna, British Columbia Author

Thank you Jewels...it was a pleasure to write something that really took very little thought...it just flowed out. And a long bout of depression is enough for anyone...keep your ankles way high so the black dog won't nip at them. That's how I do it. Thanks again for the input.


James A Watkins profile image

James A Watkins 5 years ago from Chicago

I love that Roger Miller song. And I love your play off it too. I was just now looking at Kewlona on a map. Never heard of it til today. King of the Rut, eh? Keep on ruttin'.

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