I often get crazy ideas. Sometimes I carry through with them and sometimes I don't. The most recent one I followed through with was restarting my exercise regimen. Ever since I started, I have been looking for a reason to quit. Since I can't come up with a good one, I just keep doing it. I wonder if the word exercise comes from the word "exorcise." While I have only experienced one of the two, I am almost sure they are both equally unpleasant.

I have started my walking routine, along with some limited stretching and outdoor work. As I reported before, my body doesn't know whether to rejoice or go on strike. I donÕt know what I am trying to get in shape for and I don't know that it really matters. Perhaps I am doing it to relieve stress, but scheduling a time to exercise can be pretty stressful.

I seem to feel better after I exercise. Actually, that is a lie I have been telling myself. The truth is, most of the time I exercise and feel worse. It makes me hot, sweaty and sore. In other words, it is remarkably like work, another task that can be unpleasant at times.

The only difference between work and exercise is that I usually have fun working. I sometimes wish I could be like others and just join a basketball, baseball or softball league.

Then again, I never played basketball when I was younger and now I don't think I could; I like baseball, but there isn't anyone to play it with and no one will stand anywhere near the plate while I pitch for some reason.

As another means of exercise, I could walk and golf, but I know I won't do it. Those carts are parked right next to the club house and I always end up riding in one for some reason. I think it is because carts have cupholders for a cold drink, while if you are walking you have to carry along a cooler to have a cold drink. If I had to lug around a cooler, I would be too tired to golf.

I also don't like to feel pressure from behind me when I golf. I am bad enough without worrying about holding up a good player's game. I always look back and see them standing at the tees, leaning on a club and watching me. Nobody wants to be seen hitting the world's worst golf shot over and over and over, but if you get behind me on the course, just be prepared.

It's not that I am embarrassed, it is just that I am slow. And that is in a cart. Can you imagine how slow I could be if I were walking?

This might be the time to mention that I can quit complaining now: My back quit hurting after a few days. Isn't anyone going to offer me cheese to go with that whine? I bet I will be a little more careful in the future about what I try to do. When I feel that "Here I come to save the day" junk coming on, I am going to "exercise" my willpower and not my back. That way I might be able to fight off the urge to permanently injure myself through over-exertion.

I recently had a visit from a friend of mine who is an artist. He does wood carving, engraving, burning and other interesting things. I started to ask him to make me a sign for my gate post at my place in Virginia, but I didn't know what to put on it. He also suggested that I use some of the big logs I have left over to carve myself a totem pole. I explained that I have all the artistic ability of a communist dictator. I told him I would think about the sign. It seems mostly rich people name their homes - names like Cherry Hill Plantation, Chinquapin, Bellview Manor.

You don't ever hear about poor people naming their homes. Perhaps their houses aren't big enough to carry such a plaque. You know, if the name was too big, it might turn the trailer over. Poor people name their cars. I wonder what that says about society? I don't know, but I am going to go get in old Bessie and head back to the trailer this evening.

Besides, even if I decided to tack a name on the place, I couldn't call it a plantation and it sure isn't anything fancy. I crossed Ruby Ridge off my list. Junk Car Estates just doesn't have the same ring to it, does it? If I plant pecans, chestnuts and almonds, I could name it the Nut Farm. But I have a tree under almost every sunny spot on my land. I guess I'll be the only nut on the farm. Even though I didn't come up with a name, I do have my own signs out.

They all say "Posted." They really are ugly signs - big yellow plastic monstrosities with large black letters that say things like, "No hunting, fishing, flying, walking, breathing, backpacking, hiking, roadside shooting, target practicing, killing, wounding, maiming, swimming or playing. Don't even look over this way."

A simple "Keep Out" won't do in these politically correct, lawsuit-oriented times. Folks tell me that a man can dig a hole on his own land and some idiot can come fall in it and sue him. Boy, that makes sense.

Just thinking about is so stressful, it makes me want to exercise. Yeah, right.

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