I can scarcely believe it. An essayist such as Sixweasels shares the appropriate same number of colleagues in Diaryland as I and you guys never let me in on it?
For shame. Lest there be any future mistakes, let it be known that shared favorites with such gifts should be made known far and wide. I mean, any woman with a talent for writing and a set of parents who own a bar could quite appropriately be called the perfect female.
If I was into that sort of thing, understand.
So the telephone jingles at 9 am this morning and it is, of course, Stu. Wanting to know if I'm available for a junket to the Watering Hole and a review of their heinous and imminently refeltable pool tables. Bear in mind that it's Sunday, it's relatively warm outside and the radio personna had barely gotten started on his soothing jazz program.
I was there in just under 15 minutes.
Stu had hooked up with Chief Mo and gone a-seeking the perfect breakfast on a Sunday morning, given the available choices in venue and the fact that Stu's wife had gone out of town on a daughter reassurance mission. They were well into the critiquing of Bloody Mary's when I received the call and I'm afraid I did little to slow their progress. Not that doing so was overtly important to them, of course.
There's something to be said about lazy Sunday mornings. Days that hold promise of nothing more profound than the need for additional Old Bay spice for the fish fry. Or the inspection of wax for the buffing of large and coveted automobiles.
Life shouldn't need to be much more than that. The choosing of chores not necessarily important to anyone but yourself, and the time to do them in. Critiquing Bloody Mary's, or sweeping the sidewalk, or reading ten chapters of a book long laid aside. Or 2 weeks of diary entry's by a new fav.
Or replaying the weeklong incidents leading up to a day of leisure. With someone who cares to listen to them.
It plays back like Mayberry, with the character to be Barney Fife chosen from a long list of chronic inducers of merriment, and you get to be Andy or Helen or maybe even Aunt Bee.
And then sitting on your front porch in your after church clothes and whittling at a chunk of soft pine with a knife made sharp by your own hands.
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