Ring Them Bells

I love bells.

I love hearing bells ring.

Not doorbells because that means someone’s on the other side of my door, usually uninvited, and they want to sell me something, convert me to their cultish religion, or have me sign a petition.

Not cowbells because, well, that means cows are close by and I don’t run in the same circles as cows (I’m city, not country), though I do love cows for their leather for my shoes and belts and pants and whips, and occasionally for their meat.

Not those prissy handbells that snitty folk use to summon the help. I use an intercom instead, and if the help doesn’t hear me I just yell, and then immediately fire the help.

Certainly not sleigh bells because that means cold weather, snow, and some fat man in a red suite yelling “Ho, ho, ho” and me looking around and not seeing any ho.

What I’m talking about are the hefty bells hanging from the bell towers.


Recently I visited the mission in San Luis Obispo and was in awe of the bells. They are just beautiful.

A good bell’s ding dong-ing is like the voice of God.

So ring them bells and ring them loud and ring them often.