It’s quiet out here and perfect for a podcast

Up until a couple of months ago, I didn’t know the meaning of ‘podcast,’ let alone what it meant to be a podcaster. Now, every few weeks, a talented young woman shows up at my house, bringing along recording equipment, a fancy microphone, and an enthusiasm for the project far outdistancing my own. I tell her every time she is in my living room that podcasts seem to be a ridiculous extension of one’s ego. She ignores me and says, essentially, just start reading, and, never being foolish enough to counter a woman who is likely brighter than I, I read. So now my voice is out there in the ether, an old man’s voice when I hear it played back, but my voice nonetheless, one that anyone who knows me recognizes instantly.

It has been quiet out here. Actually, it’s pretty much always quiet out here, the perfect place to set up recording equipment. Some folks find it a bit disconcerting. Makes ‘em uncomfortable. It mostly suits me, however, a few times a year I gleefully venture to the chaos of big cities, places filled with energetic anonymity and a miasma of danger. Then it’s back home, where the voices of coyotes and the snuffling of deer settle me.

Anyway, last week, two pheasants barely cleared the hood of my car when they arose from a ditch, and antlered deer are gearing up for the cooler days ahead when they can exert their maleness. The owls in the hollow remain, chatting most nights around dusk. My big cat Luna keeps track of all of these things, and I wish I could read her little thoughts. She is not as active as she was as a kitten; these days settling into a comfortable rhythm. At night, she curls up on my lap and is quite content being a book rest, a soft, living piece of useful furniture. The girl has been a faithful companion for more than five years, by my side through all manner of difficulties, along with the good times. One cannot ask more of a fellow traveler.

By the time this is published, I will have, hopefully, successfully completed a cardiac stress test on a treadmill. I am having to confront what writer Robert Waller called “the damnable issue of mortality,” and it’s sobering. The only upside has been that I get a lot of reading done in medical waiting rooms. In the past two weeks, I’ve worked my way through most of the works of poet Billy Collins. Not sure what the others in the waiting rooms are reading, as they all have their heads down, looking at cellular telephones. I can’t even begin to guess. This is where some might look down their imperial noses and say something snarky about cellphone usage. I’ll refrain. If the devices make life easier, more manageable, then go for it.

Physical health has been on my mind a lot in recent weeks. It’s a little disheartening, the way in which one’s future can hang so lightly upon a few words spoken by a serious cardiologist, or any physician for that matter, words likely spoken countless times to many people, words that don’t hint at Hamlet’s undiscovered country, only that we’re going to get there eventually, that place that may or may not be there after we pass from this world. I have dear friends who help me through the mental, spiritual, and physical complexities of my journey into our dark, vast health care system, but it’s not the same without the one who went before, the one who agreed to check it out for me way ahead of time and, ultimately, save me a spot. I count on her being there when I arrive.

Kurth Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County and hosts the “Rural America” podcast. It can be found at https://www.ullrichruralamerica.com