Pacifically Speaking

Ever since our honeymoon several years ago, my husband and I have taken a trip to the Pacific coast in October. I'm not even sure if this is entirely on purpose. The weather is surprisingly pleasant almost every time-- ideal for photos, for sandcastles, for most excellent dining.

Lately, we also take our son, ToddlerBoy, while we copy the orignial route or parts of our first week of marriage. Today I noticed a heart-filling photo of ToddlerBoy in the sand, body completely outstretched, trying to reach the tails of a low-flying kite. The boy who flew the kite had purposely worked his colorful streamers so that ToddlerBoy could nearly touch them, all the while, giant Pacific currents crash in only feet away. Though only ToddlerBoy is shown in the photo, both boys had joy in that moment. The older for giving and the younger for complete delight. ToddlerBoy never seemed discouraged in his inability to reach the ribbons; he simply continued and continued on his quest.

As I looked over the picture and remembered the actual experience, I thought, "I wish we didn't have enough money to visit the ocean so often." I thought it so strongly that I wanted to blog. That moment and that image are so perfect that I wish it could be harder to experience. Funny how we better appreciate the things for which we must truly work.

Then again... the simple, good things of that moment are free: sand, sun, ocean spray, youthful generosity, youthful gratitude.

So I guess it isn't about money anyhow.

That's all.

No Minors

I have to admit, I find the existence of alcohol amusing. I mean, it's funny how in every culture and environment around the world -- people have found things to ferment and consume. In Russia, it's potatoes. In Japan, rice. Grapes, peaches, berries, honey, sugar cane, wheat, hops... rot them under pressure, and you can feature them at your next party.

In my yard, it's apples. Every summer I battle with hundreds of rotten smelly rotten mushy rotten apples from my mini-orchard. If I don't keep up, the yard exudes a smelly mushy rotten quality, so I try to keep it picked up. I gingerly collect a soggy brown ball that reeks of sour yeast. I think, "Hmmmmm, in some quadrants this would be called hard cider." I wonder that it could ever occur to a man to put such a product into his person. And what about fermented potatoes, berries, corn? Is it not somehow ridiculous and amazing that every culture and time period has discovered and willingly partaken?

I don't drink. Among the many reasons, my survival instincts demand I don't eat rotten mush.

That's all.

Good Morning