Just a little more than usual
Like cereal without milk, popcorn without a touch of salt, vanilla ice cream without some sort of topping.
My brother and I spent parts of several days last week on a couple of projects at the house. We listened to tunes the whole time. It was admittedly a trip down memory lane, for the most part, but having the music playing while we were working made the tasks less tedious, and we had a good time singing along.
Music is a sensory wonder.
For the warm weather ones– Memorial Day, July 4th, Labor Day– we might get together for a cookout. We used to seek out a fireworks display on July 4, but not so much anymore.
The cool/cold weather ones– Thankgiving and Christmas– have lately been times to gather with family who comes in from out of town. At Thanksgiving, we might take in a local road race, and a big meal is often involved. All the cousins get to see each other and catch up.
A Christmas tradition of late is to head up to our son’s and daughter-in-law’s place for some gift giving and opening– especially among the grandchildren– and then we have a nice breakfast. I might try to catch a presentation of A Christmas Story during its 24-hour marathon, and seasonal tunes are often playing in the background.
On the one hand, anything that tastes good. On the other hand, things that I know are good for me. I eat certain foods mostly because I know they have nutritional value– beets and such. Others I eat because they simply satisfy a craving. Pasta with meat sauce, honey garlic chicken, oatmeal, eggs over easy, avocado toast, baked cod, rice pilaf, french fries, a grilled cheese and tomato sandwich, an occasional apple.
And popcorn.
No running, just walking. And not as often as I should. I count every step, though.
By no means, if by leader one means in the mold of Presidents and Generals or CEOs. If called upon, I can gather myself and focus on what needs to be done. I had to be a leader of sorts when I was pastoring congregations, but I was not what was known as the Herr Pastor type– the authoritarian for whom it was my way or the highway.
When someone can’t stop talking, needs to get the last word, seems to knowingly or unknowingly engage in one-upmanship, followed closely by someone who turns every conversation or activity into blood sport, who’s ridiculously intense and competitive and talks frequently about being bored.
These will have me implementing a flight response.
Decent weather, an ambitious To Do list that gets accomplished, fun visits with the kids, some well-written blog posts that reflect progress in my ability to put pen to paper, so to speak. Discovering a couple or a few new recipes that we actually try.
My ideal week would go by at just the right speed– not too fast, not too slow. It would be a week in which I wasn’t as pre-occupied with and weighed down by the state of affairs in this country, where I wasn’t as cognizant of the usual spinning of wheels, feeling like I’m wasting my days stuck in neutral, twiddling my thumbs in idleness.
It would be a week in which certain things are made clear, like finding part-time work that I could actually see myself doing.
When put on the spot, I’m finding it difficult to think of a word that fits the bill. I mutter the F-word with some regularity, mostly under my breath but occasionally out loud– when the neighbors next door decide to take a ride on their motorcycles and sit in the yard revving up the engines, making a ridiculous and inconsiderate amount of noise. I think this one would be tough to give up, though. As jarring as it may hit one’s ears, it’s one of the few truly versatile and cathartic exclamations.
In general, I guess it would be any word that ends up serving as a convenient place filler, used due to the lack of imagination or knowing other more interesting ones. Maybe “jeez,” or any that come close to taking the name of the Lord in vain.
I believe I am. A familiar, age-old story– against a brother-in-law I considered a friend. It’s colored my perception of things for almost 30 years. Sad, I know. I thought maybe it was water under the bridge, but now I’m not so sure. Again.
About twelve years ago, I made a trip to Israel, with a small group of pilgrims and seekers, which, according to AI, is about 5500 miles, as the crow flies, from where I lived at the time. We flew from Boston to Frankfurt, Germany, then from there to Tel Aviv, where we took a shuttle to Jerusalem. I used the same airports on the way back. One day early on, I called my wife from a coffee shop in the Christian Quarter, Old City, at around 2pm, and she had just gotten up at around 7am, starting her day in southeastern PA.
3 Cents' 