Archive for the ‘humor’ Category
On Invisibility and Malted Milk Balls
Yesterday I was in a small country store studying chocolate labels like a pharmacist—dark chocolate, no salt—because loving someone long enough means you know exactly what they can and can’t enjoy.
While I was at the counter, the owner, the finest example of a grumpy old man that I know, and I—an apprentice grump—were grumping about feeling invisible.
You reach a certain age and the world doesn’t quite look at you the same way.
Then I glanced at the two women behind the counter and said, “You know who else feels invisible? Women.”
They smiled. Not bitterly. Just knowingly.
And I said, “When you become an old man, you finally learn what it’s like to feel like a woman.”
I gathered my purchases, turned toward the door, and announced to the entire store:
“Wait. Where are my balls?”
Malted milk balls.
Today, on Valentine’s Eve, I’ve discovered a new problem.
I now have to hide my balls from my wife.
Marriage is humbling.
Roundabout
A funeral procession circled the roundabout, bound for the cemetery. An impatient driver nosed in, cut between the mourners’ cars, and darted out the other side. The only one not in a hurry was the passenger in the hearse.
We pretend life gives us two choices: hurry, or not. Yet most of us choose hurry and excuse it with refrigerator wisdom: Stop and smell the roses. We don’t. We grumble at those who slow us down, and bristle at those who outpace us.
They say we live in constant change. I wonder if nothing changes—because we never pause to notice. Children leap from infancy to adulthood, and we miss the quiet growth—or quiet loss—of the spirit. We hurry to work, hurry home, hurry on.
And then, in the end, we arrive at the one appointment that never runs late.
The God who receives us is never in a hurry.
Chores Not Done
The air, thickened and over-warm, cautions against exertion. A brief and once beguiling call to fix up, repair, restore is but a whimper. In a sparse corner of my imagination I hear that whimper and recoil. It’s too damp and the soon-to-fall rain dissuades me from sawing wood or clearing debris. I retreat to the table where a seat awaits. The air inside, comparatively cooler, is seductive. I shall not work says my first yawn. Indeed not, says the second. I’m done, says my nodding head.
Boredom Is Not a Birth Defect… It Could Be Congenital, Though…
Not too long ago I listened to an interview with James Taylor and he attributed his creativity to boredom. I guess I haven’t been bored enough for a while now? Today to add a new post to my blog I am leaning on the extraordinary creativity of a friend whose effort to invite a date to the school prom suggests that he is must suffer from congenital boredom (if Mr. Taylor is correct). PLEASE watch this:
For shame….
Thanks to The Christian Gift for a great shot.
The maple I see from my window is clearly embarrassed by the pending nudity of limbs and branches. She is blushing. It must seem odd to her, having nurtured the tree since spring, to now abandon her perch and leave the tree free from her calming presence. If only she could know nor’ easters to come are the sum of the great northern forests’ wiggly flaunting their bare selves. Oh to sing the coming stirring air and let our pale yellow blush burn with brightest passionate red!
On a whim... 