Crawfish

Tonight, if I had my rathers and could choose any place and any food, I know exactly where I’d be and who I’d be with.

And I know already, that my friend Jesse is gonna say, “I thought I told you to come over to Louisiana the next time you ate that.”

And I know, that if it were in my power, I’d be there with him, but it ain’t, and I haven’t eaten what he says is good yet, so I’ll go with what I know is good, even if it isn’t good by his standards.

Anyways. 

I’d call my sister-in-law Sharon, tell her to go pick up Mom-in-law, and I’d tell them to start moseying in a southwesterly direction and me and my wife would do likewise, except we’d go southeasterly, not that it matters to you.  I like their men and all, but what I’m thinking about this time doesn’t concern them, and they’ll have fend for themselves I guess.  At least until we get back with our leftovers and such. 

Because this meal won’t taste right if we don’t go back and do it just like we did one other time.

*****

It’s been about a year ago now, that we were in Wichita on sort of a rarified pleasure trip that involved taking care of two precious little souls whilst their Mama got through some Doctor visits with that good hubby of hers.

The question came up, towards evening, of what was for supper.

Someone mentioned a restaurant that specialized in seafood, and we all said we’d go for it. 

I went there with the intention of maybe some fried catfish, or perhaps some shrimp.  Either way seemed good to me.

But when we got into the joint, Taylor (Dad of the little tykes) asked me if I had ever had crawfish.

I said no.  I also asked myself quietly if I had the strength to do this. 

He was a pretty good salesman, showing me how to order and all, and telling me how good they were and everything, that I ended up with a low country boil plate with half a pound of shrimp, and half a pound of crawfish.

Shrimp are amazing.  For sure if you eat them down south with folks who know how to boil them up.  And I know enough about shrimp by now that I usually peel them first before I try to eat them.

Crawfish are a whole ‘nother story.  Especially considering some of the stories I had heard about them previously, such as how they were tossed in the kettle live, and you ate the tail and the tail was right close by the ‘you know what,’ and many and gruesome picturesque approximations were made concerning what the tail may have encountered as the crawfish endeavored to extricate himself, whether inside or outside.

But Taylor has always been one to inspire confidence, and he didn’t seem to bother about the stories that went around and proceeded to show me how to eat those things, or at least what part of them to eat. 

My first go around, that evening, gave me a fair impression, although it seemed then like a lot of work.  Enough so, that I had them another time at a place not far from where I had them the first time.  The second time I was sufficiently impressed.

And that’s been the problem now.  Every now and again I get a hankering for them.  And once I get that hankering, it’s like there is a slow, torturous gash that starts cutting itself into my belly, begging me to satiate it with more of them. 

And so, like I said, if I had my rathers, I’d get me down to Juicy Seafood in Flowood, Mississippi with the aforementioned folks.

Because, you see, it was like this. 

Dad in law in was in the hospital, and none of us could go see him since it was so late in the day. 

Mom looked so tired, I almost didn’t suggest it.  But when you spend the day in the hospital or nearby it, you start feeling like you need a little something to change the scenes. 

And since it was just me and those three ladies, I told them I was down for seafood at Juicy Seafood.  I really don’t know what they thought, it not being your general lady thing to do when you are just one guy and three ladies like that, but it seems they were desperate enough that they took me up on it without giving it much thought. 

They got shrimp and fried catfish.

I got sweet southern tea and crawfish. 

And even though the restaurant gave me this cute little bib to wear and these pansy plastic gloves to put on my hands, I forsook all. 

Because, it like the Tanzania gal who sat beside me on the plane said, “Food just tastes so much more nutritious and all when you can eat it with your fingers.” 

And believe me, that food was some kind of nutritious. 

So, if I was there again tonight, with those fine ladies, I’d convince at least one of them to order fried catfish, and I’d go with the crawfish and sweet southern tea. 

And I’d order the crawfish just as hot, spicy-wise as I did last time.  Enough so that I’d have to filch a bite of catfish every now and again to cool down. 

That’s where I’d go tonight.  It’s like my daughter Doc said the other day when we got crawfish here in Wichita, “Okay, but sure nothing to write home about.”

I don’t know why it is, but some food you just have to eat with the right folks and in the right places.

Jane Goodall

“What can I get for you?” she asked.

“I’ll go with a London Fog.”

“For here or to go?”

“For here.”

I looked the chairs and tables over.  There were some comfy, neighborly looking chairs sitting by the back door alongside some windows that were letting in capricious sunlight.  I thought about taking one of them, but someone was blogging nearby, and I remembered when I sat in one of those chairs last time, they hadn’t been as comfortable feeling as they looked.

I meandered to the front door; it wasn’t too busy, and there were a couple of spots there that would work.  I thought about the bar.  It faced a blank wall.  There was plenty of room there, but it didn’t feel right.

And then I spied it. 

A high table and chairs in a secluded area, not occupied. 

Except I still don’t know how to get myself slid up to the table on those highchairs, for sure if you are sitting against the wall and another chair is against you on the other side.  But I hopped and skipped it into place, reveling in my spot even if the artwork neighboring my table wasn’t my choice, being more of the abstract kind.

I pulled out this machine, opened it, and about then my London fog arrived, full to the brim in an oversize cup. 

She arrived about then, and took a seat at the next table.  We smiled at each other, and I thought to myself that if Jane Goodall lived in Kansas, this could be her sitting across from me.

Except she was a lot prettier and younger looking.

Five minutes later, he arrived.

They exchanged pleasantries; I took my first sip of my London, and lost focus on everything for a bit; it was that good.

When I came back to, they were talking cooking and he was showing her some pictures of a couple of meals he had recently made. 

She was enthused with it and told him so.

I wasn’t long in catching on that she was his counselor of sorts and they had met here to talk about how he was doing with the divorce he was going through.

She was so kind.

She gently led him through his problems, always with an understanding ear, but also with little positive comments here and there that encouraged him to keep going, both in his dialogue, and, later I knew, in the real world.

And they were making progress.  He was speaking favorably of making his way back into life; she, guiding him to each waypoint.

I was typing, (not about them) and swinging my legs from my highchair, generally soaking it all in, including my London fog.

But then something changed with him. 

He went from somewhat cheerful and accommodating to dark. 

He started circling, round and round. 

It seemed he was hyper dialed in on the process that the judge would use on the divorce. 

She asked him about a certain point of what he was saying, trying, I could tell, to get him to stop circling. 

He got angry and his tone got snappy. 

She backed up and asked him to explain it all to her so she could understand the divorce process, even though that knowledge to her was meaningless. 

I saw the line go from the apex down to a point not far from the level where they had started when they were talking cooking on the figurative line graph in which I was plotting their progress. 

But she was okay with that.  Because it was still progress.

And then the thing that caused him to start circling got blurted out.

“We always fought on navigation,” he said.

“You mean like when you were driving?”

“Yes.  We would be driving along, and I would tell her where I thought we should turn, but she wouldn’t have it.  Said when I talked like that to her it was disrespectful.  She could tell me what she was thinking, but I could never tell her what I was.”

“So, it was navigation that got you.”

“Yes.  We always fought on that one.  We could get along just fine on most everything else.”

My London had chilled measurably by that time; so had my estimation of him. 

He kept whining about his wife and how she had mistreated him.

I had to restrain myself from getting up, stepping over to his table and saying, “Sir, please. Can you try a bit harder to be a little more open minded?”

Because he was 65 and couldn’t reconcile navigation with his wife that he had been married to since their twenties. 

And because there were people in my life who were dealing with death and heartache that would have welcomed a chance to have a disagreement on navigation with their loved lost, had it been possible.

I’m sure there were other things in the picture that he didn’t mention which also magnified things. 

But right then, I had a hard time keeping from circling him myself.

Instead, I shut this computer down, cased it in my trusty backpack, and slung it over my shoulder.

I stood just for a second by my table, and she looked up at me with those kind, now a bit saddened eyes.

I locked my eyes with her and said, “You sound like a very kind woman.” 

And she giggled. 

Like the little girl she used to be 60 some years earlier. 

It seemed the least I could do.

Come Away

I remember all the times he came to my rescue; still does in fact. 

Times when he showed up without my asking him, just to help with the day.

I remember how so often he’d show up almost immediately after I had asked for help. 

In those times, I envision him running to me.  Leaping over anything in his path and taking advantage of any jumping off point to shorten the distance between us. 

I envision him leaping from mountain top to mountain top, skipping from hill to hill, faster than the wind.  Faster than light. 

I remember how he always arrived.  Never out of breath; never needing time to recover. 

He jumped right in on my project like it was the first of the day for him, but I knew it wasn’t.  And while he helped me, he somehow made me feel like I was his best friend, had always been in fact, that he’d run the mountains again, any day, just to be with me and help me.

I think of the times he came running to me when I never asked him to.  Times where it seemed like the thrill of being together lent urgency to his feet. 

Those times were different.  The times when I didn’t ask him to help me. 

He stands there, right outside my house.  I see him smiling at me through the glass windowpane of my door.  He holds the door open, standing behind it; he invites me to go with him for the day. 

He tells me of things he wants to go see; landscaping and gardens that are exquisitely beautiful.  He tells me of wonderful meals we can share together.  He says he’ll pay for everything.  He invites me again to come away with him for a while. 

But I stand inside my door. 

I’d like to go with him.  In fact, this isn’t the first time I’ve refused him on such an offer. 

It’s just that I have so much going at the moment. 

Schedules that have been in place for over a year.

It’s tempting.  I know I’d love a day off from all the stress.  I know I owe it to him for all the times he has helped me.  But I hardly feel like I can this time. 

He waits a bit longer, smiling his welcome. 

“Come away with me?” he asks. 

Song of Solomon 2:8-13

Two Questions

How old are you? 

What is your definition of a friend?

I’ve asked the first question to several people in a little different way than they perhaps are used to.

I don’t ask them how old they actually are; for sure if they are a woman.  I rather put it this way. 

“What age have you been for the last while?  Do you stay current with your age, or have you ever stayed locked at a certain age?”

Now, with that info, I’ll ask you again.  “How old are you?”

For years, I was sixteen.  Then after a while it changed to somewhere in the twenties.  For some reason, I skipped the thirties entirely.  (I’m guessing it had to do with certain teenagers and my close proximity to them.)  Now, I’ve been 44 for the last couple of years. 

I asked the clerk at Walmart this question and if she knew what I meant.  “Oh, for sure,” she said, “I was thirteen for the longest time, then bumped up to nineteen.  I think I’ll be nineteen for quite a while yet, by the way I feel, even though my real age in getting close to 30.”

Some folks I ask, especially the men, give me a strange look and try to put a little distance between themselves and me.  I can’t say I blame them. 

I’ve pondered it myself.  What makes a person’s age memorable?  Is it a life event?  Does it have to do with how settled one is with themselves and their place in life? 

I haven’t been in seriously deep water for years now, but part of me still thinks I could be sixteen when I’m around a pool, measuring my steps to the end of the diving board, backing up and running out with one long leap at the end and launching up and out effortlessly, dangling weightlessly at the top of the arc, then down into the depths . . .

But I think if I tried it in real life, certain handicaps might come into play; gravity may be a thing to be reckoned with more so than before, for whatever the reason.

Now, on to the friend question. 

I hope to tie these two together yet.

Sure, we could look up the definition of friend and get the exact meaning of it. 

But what is your definition?

I think back to when I was younger.  Friends were a commodity that had high value.  If you were friends with THE TOP DOG your value was intrinsically more than, say, if you are friends with just a number of guys. 

In other words, you limited out with ONE friend. 

Not several.  Hardly even two, because then you had to SHARE your friend, and he might suddenly like the other person better than you, and then your self-value would immediately plummet to rock bottom.

Unless, of course, sometime later in the evening, TOP DOG happened to glance at you.  You could allow yourself a few points of self-worth then. 

I don’t think I’m the only one who had this mentality when I was younger.  I’m suspicious everyone sort of goes though a phase of being friend stingy, and I’m equally suspicious that phase is during some or all of the teen years.

But do friends ever lose their high value if you spread them out a bit and have quite a number of them?

I’m not friend stingy anymore; rather, I’m guessing I’m friend greedy nowadays.

I’ve come far enough to realize that a life without friends is a lonely one.  And I’ve also come far enough to realize that having more friends is better than having only ONE friend. 

And here’s where the age question comes back in.  Does it matter what age my friends are?  I’ve heard it said that when we are in a group, we naturally gravitate towards the folks we feel least threatened by. 

What does it say when I find myself carrying a conversation with 2-year-old Ishmael?  (I love to touch his light roast coffee bean colored skin and tight, curly hair.)  Does it mean I’m a 2-year-old when I talk to him?

Or what if I enjoy going for a ride with my friend Dallas, as he shows me some of the history of this area?  He is 40 years older than me.  Am I 86 years old on that ride?   

Toss the age question out, if you will. 

I’m glad I have friends that vary in age.  Makes life much more interesting.

Like my friend Amber, who is 16, and with whom I share a twosome writing group.  Who more than likely will do a better job than I did at our shared assignment of writing something with the word coffee in it that can’t reference the drink and must be in adjective form.

All is Calm, All is Bright

I stepped outside this morning. 

A couple of inches of freshly fallen snow blanketed the ground.

Everything was so calm and bright.

I know that in a couple of hours, the wind will come up, and the temperature will rise.

By this evening, the pristine world I looked upon this morning will have returned to its dormant gray and two-day old coffee brown colors. 

But just for a bit, I caught a glimpse of Christmas this morning.

A glimpse of little children who are eternally happy; where they run free all day long and never get tired.

A glimpse of quiet times, sitting nearby a loved one, where words are too feeble to describe what we are looking upon.

Where music becomes visible, as it dances up, and runs along the top of the walls, then leaps down to the courtyard below and courses through the singing happy throng, skipping out among the hills, and, in a burst of euphoria, joins other music that continually encircles the dome.

Family gatherings, where each one is loved and included, and time together never gets long.

Where, just over the next hill, I know another joyous reunion awaits with other friends I haven’t seen in a while.

Because all are friends, all are family.

It comforts me somehow, to think that those who have left us recently are celebrating an eternal Christmas.

Where all is so calm and peaceful.  All is so perfectly bright and whole.

School Daze #4

School Devotions.

He talked about coyotes and the Big Dipper.

First, he told us how the animal kingdom has a very distinct pattern and regularity to it. 

He said that coyotes will always take the same trail at the same time each night. 

He told us that when the coyote is taking his trail, it will put its feet into the same footprints it made the first time it walked the trail.

He said you can set your time by when a coyote takes to the trail.  (I know he’s right, because sometime later, for about three months during the wintertime, our dog would light up at 1:20 a.m. exactly every night.  I never looked, but the way he barked told me it had to be a coyote crossing the yard.)

He talked about the stars and explained where some of them were.  He talked about how you could tell seasons by certain constellations; like when Orion starts to become visible, fall and winter are coming on. 

Next, he talked about the north star, Polaris, and about the two stars on the cup side of the big dipper that isn’t attached to the handle.

He told us if you lay a long ruler or straight edge along those two stars, the line will land in the North star.

He told us it’s like that line is anchored in the North star, and the big dipper rotates counterclockwise one time around the North star every twenty-four hours.  He said if we imagined a huge clock face out there in the sky, that we could tell approximately what time it was by where the big dipper was on the clock face.  The big dipper’s handle, he said, would be like the hour hand on a clock.  

He told us if the animal kingdom and the stars were so orderly and on time, then surely, we humans could be as well.

*****

He asked how many of them liked to play softball.

At least half or more did.

They talked about what they liked and didn’t like about it. 

He said he didn’t like it when people roamed way out past the baseline when they ran the bases.

Someone else said they didn’t like it when the runner tried to steal and the baseman threw to the next base, and then the runner turned back and they threw back, and how sometimes it would go on and on, back and forth, and waste everybody’s time.

They talked about the rules and how much fun it was to catch a flyball. 

Then he suggested they play softball, right there, for devotions.

(He had talked to a few of the adults previously telling them his game plan.)

The students looked at him incredulously, especially one young girl with big blue eyes and straw-colored hair. 

He showed them he had the bases there, a couple of bats, and a few gloves. 

He had them move their chairs out to the sides of the room so that the podium where he was standing would be home base, and right out in front, and right beside the young girl with blue eyes and straw colored hair, who, incidentally, was so disbelieving as to what was taking place that she completely forgot to move herself or her chair, pitcher’s mound would be.  So, the pitcher had company, she was sitting just to the right of, and securely on pitcher’s mound the entire time.

His nephew was visiting; he is the big, burly type.  He was named pitcher.  She looked up a long way from where she sat and her eyes darted from him to home plate where a motely team comprising a few students, himself, the cook, and a couple of school board members was assembling.

The outfield formed up once the bases were in place, and the game was on.

Except there was no ball. 

That was the point, he told them.  They would play without a ball.

“How will we know where it is?” someone asked.

He told them it was wherever anyone’s imagination placed it. 

“So, then it can be anywhere or everywhere?” they asked.

“That’s right.  That’s the whole point of our devotions,” he said.

The pitcher flexed a few times.  The batter up to bat taunted him. 

He let fly with the ball, and the batter swung and took off.

“NO WAY,” shouted the ump.  “You missed.  That was a strike!”

“Huh uh,” shouted the runner, rounding 1^st, “It’s clear in the grandstands.  You missed it.”

The pitcher allowed a couple more runs and then the cook was up.

She’s a spicey one, that cook, and with brow set and bottom lip clenched between her teeth she took careful stock of each pitch, finally swinging with tremendous force upon one of her liking. 

She was off, oblivious of the hullabaloo and pandemonium surrounding her hotly contested hit.  When she finally pulled up to a stop on third, everyone was arguing about everything.  She, not to be outdone, shook her finger at the whole world and told them to all calm down, she knew exactly where the ball was, and she was on third fair and square.  The ump tried to tell her differently, but one glare from her and it was all over.

By this time, the blue eyed, straw-colored hair girl was looking quite disconcerted with all the action swirling around her, so he called the game to a halt, and everyone moved their chairs back into their respective places.

He said that the ball is like respect, and when we lose it, or don’t feel like sharing it with others, or respecting another’s opinion, nothing goes right.

Common Decency Picture

I “saw” this place for the first time about two years ago. 

Even though I have driven by it for forty some years, I had never noticed it.

The morning I saw it, I was travelling eastward into a sunrise that was still a few minutes away.

I suppose the mute lighting and the fact that I was alone played into my impression somewhat. 

Since then, I look at it every time I go by.  I imagine it to be close to 100 years old, but who knows?  I’m guessing I’d have to interview quite a number of old timers to get to the bottom of its story. 

And more than likely, its story isn’t anything outstanding. 

But to me, it has two stories.

If you look southward, it is juxtaposed by the towering new windmills that run day and night to bring electricity to this country and the broken down windmill is partially hidden behind the tree.  A whole ‘nuther story could be written about that view.

If you look northward, you see prairie land that stretches on into infinity.

It is the northward view that you see in that picture. 

I strikes me, then, that common decency is a lot like this place.  We may not remember so well the details of what someone did for us, but, like this old place, the ghost of it remains long beyond the life of the person and that moment when their life intersected with ours. 

I don’t know that there is any right or wrong answer to my question of correlation.  And I’m not sure how much a person should wig out trying to find clues and metaphors to everything we see in life.  But sometimes, we see something for the first time, and it has meaning to it.

Oh, and for those who don’t live in this area, here is the southward view.

Common Decency

Indulge me if you will, and allow me to open my dark saying upon this electronic harp.  And while it may not be the same kind of harp as a man by the name of David used some years ago, nevertheless I think it will suffice to convey the tone of my meditation.

Not all shopping cart stories are created equal.  Realizing that, I think I can take permission and tell you mine, even though my friend Sarah did a very fine job of telling hers not so long ago on her blog. 

I was parked in row 12, waiting for my good wife to finish up a few odds and ends on her shopping list and decided I’d run in and quick grab a couple of things I needed.

It was a windy day.  Enough so that carts didn’t stay put, caps didn’t stay on, and car doors needed to be opened in a synchronized way or a) a small wind tunnel would ensue if both were opened at the same time, blowing all the stored contents out naked into the wind, or b) the person on the wrong side of the vehicle ran a good chance of getting their fingers mashed in the door as it came shut with extra force because of above said wind tunnel.

I was on my way into Walmart when I came even with him.  He wasn’t from a windy country originally, as both his skin color and actions with his cart told. 

He was a mere 30 feet from the front doors of the store, and a good 60 feet from the nearest cart corral.  The decision seemed easy to me; run that cart back in and be done. 

But no. 

There was a yellow steel post pylon right there.  He was trying to park his cart alongside it, rather, in the middle of nowhere, and the wind kept taking his cart as soon as he let go. 

He’d let go, and hope.  The cart would start leaving.  He’d catch it and bring it back to the post.  I could have told him if he’d park it broadside to the post, and broadside to the wind, he might have better luck than going alongside the post and with the wind, but, I didn’t.

Because by then I was angry. 

I have seen so many carts running AWOL in my day, eventually slamming with 40 m.p.h. force into the sides of cars and I sort of lost my cool that day. 

I stepped up to his cart, as he gave one last feeble attempt at parking it and grabbed it just as it was leaving.  I (okay, I’ll admit it) was angered more by the fact that he didn’t see me grab it in a not so kindly way.  I was pious, pompous, and mostly provoked all at once for a bit there, as I whisked that cart 30 feet up to the store and rolled it into the area where all forlorn shopping carts wait for their next dance partner.

*****

It was only a couple of days later that I was in town again, this time to pick up a trailer load of solar modules. 

After I was loaded and boomed down, I saw I had a low tire on my trailer.  Low enough that I didn’t want to travel all the way home; I knew with as much weight as I had on that it would blow.

The place where I had grabbed some air on a previous trip was packed full; I knew I could loop in there, but the exit strategy was left wanting.

I saw another place just a couple of blocks over.  I remembered this was the place that had all the nice sayings on the sign outside.  The last one had read, “If God has a refrigerator, your picture is on it.”  I figured the guys there must be decent, so I pulled up alongside.  The guy I met outside acted a little somehow about airing up my tire.  He said he didn’t know if he could do it.  I didn’t know what he meant for sure; like, did he not have the mental acuity to?  So, I said, “Well, there’s your air hose, I’ll just run it out myself and air up my tire.” 

He said no, I needed to ask another guy who was just then walking up.  I told him what I needed, and he said, “Sure, as soon as this car moves, we can air up your tire.  It will be $5.”

$5

To air up a tire.

I’m still surprised and happy to say I didn’t blow my own tires at his remark, although I had to counsel quite sternly with myself to keep it from happening. 

*****

Since when, I’d like to ask, has it been okay to charge for common decency?

And who, I’d like to know, said it was okay to depart from an age-old command to ‘treat others like you want to be treated?’

I’m guessing no one person is responsible for the answer to either of those questions.

I’m thinking this attitude and behavior has been lurking around ever since a man and his sweetheart, whom, as I recall, where living in a garden at the time, had a little contention on what they should have for supper.

It looks like, in a sense, covid 19 had a way of exposing this despicable trait in the human race.  Multitudes, it seems, townsfolk who we thought were good hearted and decent, have succumbed to the easy way, the selfish way.

Just the other day, we got a freq drive that we had ordered.  It had no screen readout when we booted it up.  When we called about it, the guy acted terribly concerned, saying there were only two in the U.S. and how it was so hard to keep them around, and yet he never offered a helping hand even though he had sold it to us.  It was up to us to source a fix.

Okay.  I’ll stop harping on this. 

There’s a little saying that I remember reading when I was a wee lad.  It talked about being quiet enough in my mind to accept the things I couldn’t change, change the things I could, and having wisdom to know the difference in the two.

I challenge myself then, to look for areas that I can change.  Even in the smallest things.  Like my attitude about the guy with cart.  Perhaps that’s a good place to start.  I can’t change the folks intent on leaving their carts where they wish, but if my attitude is in the right place, who knows what opportunities will present themselves to me.

And. 

If you ever happen by my place with a low tire, I’d be most pleased to air it up for you. 

I’m quite sure I’ll be happier than you when you leave.

Because that’s how common decency works.

I Saw it All

She is eight years old. 

Her blonde hair is neatly combed back with a braid starting just in front of and above her right ear.  It swoops elegantly back, down, and then back up to her left ear where it terminates in a fashion that only her mother could know how to do.

She sits with her legs crossed and scans the room demurely, with the poise of a lady.

*****

He is 22.

He glances around and back, and their eyes meet.

She knows she doesn’t have a chance with him, but his dark hair and who he is overrides that question.

“Hey,” she says.

“What’s going on?”

“Not much, when did you get your haircut?”

“Yesterday.”

“It’s so short!”

“Nah, I like it that way.  Worn it like this ever since I’ve been back from India.  It’s how they cut it over there.”

“Whatever.  What did you think of our skit at school the other evening?”

“It was good.  I liked it.  Just can’t remember if you were in the house where everyone got killed or in the other one.”

“You should come to my place sometime.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know, just should.”

“Okay.  Maybe.  But I’m busy almost all the time so it might be a while.”

“Why?”

“Cause.”

“Whatever.” (very affected eyeroll)

And then she happened to look over and a bit back and saw me, his Dad, and realized I had seen it all.

And she saw I was laughing so hard that tears were beginning to form at the edges of my eyes.

And then she realized how it all must have looked and started laughing too.

And then her Mom caught a vibe from her, even though someone was sitting in between them.  Her Mom kept looking at her, trying to pick up what was going on, but she played dumb, which made me laugh even harder.

So, I covered the grin that I had been trying so hard to keep from splitting into an outright earsplitting smile, and tried to control myself.

And I told her, that this was church after all, it was Sunday morning in fact, and it was her Grandpa, no less, who was preaching right then and we should pay attention to him.

Of course, all three of us were at least 20 feet apart, and no actual words were spoken out loud.

Just eye language and thirty seconds.

Dear K1, K2, and K3

I was gone this morning, taking booster cables and the battery charger to Bryce, who was working about ten miles away.  He couldn’t keep the trencher running; when I left, we had it going, and he was back to work.  (More on that place and what happened there yesterday later.)

Made another stop that took about an hour and finally neared home.  Figured I should pick the mail up if Mama J hadn’t already.  I could see by the tracks that the mailman had been there, so pulled up and . . . Hooboy!

There were a number of checks for work we had done in there, a couple of bills, and two other pieces.  One from Little Falls, N.Y., and the other from Michigan. 

I knew right away what was in each one.

And I knew right away which one I was going to open first, except I didn’t want to right away, ‘cause I wanted to keep it for as long as I could.

The package from Little Falls was addressed to me. 

Me personally. 

So was the package from Michigan. 

The package from Little Falls looked like it could possibly be a correspondence from some nice young ladies I got acquainted with about 3 years ago.  (At least it seems that long to me, since we last were together.)

The package from Michigan was a disc, by the way it looked and felt.  I lost my most favorite disc the last time I played.  For some reason, I threw high (Has Lex taught you how to play yet?) and with a thing we have out here called wind, which you don’t have so much of, it lofted high and hard over to the right.  The last I saw it was clipping through the top of a 35-foot-tall pine tree, and after that, it was lost from sight indefinitely.  My game went hard right after that; So did my score.

I was really looking forward to getting that disc, obviously.  But it wasn’t the package I opened first.

First, I turned the lights on.  Then, even though I really don’t need them, I went on a search for my reading glasses.  I looked all over and couldn’t find them.  Turns out they were right there by those two packages all the time.

Next, I opened the Little Falls package.  I glanced at the handwriting first, as on old schoolteacher always must do, to see if it was neat enough.  It passed my inspection.

I got my reading glasses adjusted correctly on my nose and proceeded to read with great satisfaction.  It appears all is well in your lives, even if you have to chase the cats to catch them.  That’s normal you know, because a cat never will let you know it likes you and always has to run away a little bit to try to make it look like it doesn’t like you.  Cats and girls are a lot alike, just like dogs and guys are a lot alike.

Except.  To be totally honest, I was a little disappointed to read that your cat ate the hind legs and tail first of the rat it had caught.  Because, as you surely must know, any good cat will eat the headfirst, and only the head, leaving headless bodies to liter the yard as a way of thumbing its nose up at anything else in the world. 

You might work at training your cat in that regard.

I hope someday in the future I will get another package from Little Falls, but I don’t want to be too selfish or anything.

Lastly, I opened the package with my new disc and went outside to try it out.  It flew famously. It’s orangish in color, which may make it hard to find if the light isn’t so good, but maybe I’ll just have to be more careful with it than my other lime green one that I lost.

But I have to tell you about Bryce and Josh and yesterday. 

They were tapping into the water well system so they could get water for the sprinkler system they were installing.  Okay, so when they cut the pipes to put a tee in, the water wouldn’t stop dripping, even though they had the water shut off.  And anybody knows that if you want your glue to hold when you glue that tee in that you can’t have water dripping, or if you do, not very much.

They tried to glue it once, and it didn’t hold because of the water.  It was about then that Mama J and I stopped by to see how things were going and Bryce showed me his problem. 

“We need some bread,” he said.

I knew he did.  You probably don’t know this, but bread is a plumber’s best friend.  Stick a piece or several in the pipe that keeps dripping and it will sog up that water just long enough to quick glue what you need to, then it dissolves a bit later and all is well and your pipe isn’t plugged.  (Just be sure to flush that pipe out immediately, and not a week later, or when you flush it out a week later, you’ll puke your guts out from the smell.

I could see some bread on the table inside the house, and thought of snitching some, but what if the lady had it especially counted out for something? 

So, we ran to a nearby store that sold material and bulk food.  I walked in and said, “I need some bread.” 

They looked at me like I had lost it, because they didn’t have any bread there, and I knew it was a long shot as to whether they would have any or not.

But the funniest thing hadn’t happened yet.

We went a couple minutes uptown to a café to buy some.  By then I was on the phone so Mama J went inside to see if she could get some. 

Well, the waitresses were busy, and there was a family eating lunch there that she knew, and lo, and behold!  They had one bun left in the breadbasket on their table. 

Now think how this would sound to you if you were eating at a café and someone you knew a bit walked right up to your table and said, “Um, are you going to eat that bun?”

They looked at Mama Jan and started laughed, and then I think she realized how it sounded and she started laughing. 

I don’t think they thought she was serious, so they said, “Sure, that’s one of our boys’ bun, do you want it?  He doesn’t by the looks of things.”

Mama J said, “Sure, I’ll take it.  My boys need it to plug a pipe.”

And how do you think that sounded to someone who doesn’t know how you can use bread to stop a leak? 

The last she saw of them, they were laughing so hard they couldn’t eat.

Till next time, and know that I miss you, and Lexi–