It’s late in the afternoon and I’ve yet to write my mini-essay. As I decide what to focus on, I’m struck with how many incidents, big and small, satisfying and sad, occurred on this Presidents’ Day.
For some strange reason, I took myself out to lunch, hoping to read and relax for half an hour or so over a sandwich. But Culver’s was packed, from the parking lot to the order line to every table in the place. Of course, there was no school today, but by the time I realized that my stomach was lobbying for instant gratification.
The place was loud, not particularly conducive to reading. But the wait staff was considerate, and the chicken sandwich was excellent. So I took the good with noisy.
The geese are back. They’ve been using the river as if it were an airport runway, flying in formation up and down its course. Their squawking isn’t as distracting as the din at Culver’s, but it’s just as constant.
My son telephoned to tell me of the sudden accidental death of a mutual friend’s brother. One moment he was mountain climbing in Chile; the next he was struck by a boulder and killed. It was the third person we’ve both known in the past couple weeks to die, and it makes my son’s recent bout with illness seem like less of a trial.
The weather sucks. But where Kevin lives in Fargo, North Dakota, it is always noticeably chiller than here. Knowing that makes me feel grateful to live in St. Joseph on an otherwise gray day.
When I was young we didn’t have Presidents’ Day. We celebrated Lincoln’s birthday on February 12, his actual birth date, and Washington’s birthday on February 22, his actual birth date. It never occurred to us to gang holidays and move them to Monday to afford many people the luxury of a long weekend. After all these years – Congress started the practice in 1968 – I’m still not used to it. But I guess I need to look at the bright side. We didn’t receive mail today, so I didn’t get any bills either.
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