This morning, I woke later than normal—almost 6:30—slipped on a pair of shorts, a shirt, and flip-flops, and headed to the only nearby grocery store open at that hour, Walmart. There, I bought Jimmie Dean hot pork breakfast sausage, blackberries, and a bag of trimmed radishes. This was a spontaneous excursion, not the sort of thing I’m wont to do with any frequency. But the fact that we’ve been out of Canadian bacon and Kroger’s bagged radishes for days made the foray imperative. I couldn’t face the day without radishes. Actually, I think it was the desire for sausage that drove me to the store, though I justified the trip by claiming it was the radishes. The blackberries were an afterthought of sorts. I often want just a touch of fruit with breakfast; that desire triggered the purchase when I passed by the display. It was either that or blueberries, which were far more expensive. Strawberries would have been an option, except for horrible experiences of late in Australia, in which people have found needles in the strawberries they bought. I think I recall reading that there have been more than a hundred cases of this insane criminal behavior. It’s not just the U.S. that’s gone mad.
It’s now almost 8:00 and I’m finally sipping my first cup of coffee of the day. Well, an occasional sip between paragraphs. The coffee needs something. Either to be reheated because it’s cooled too much or to be poured into a glass with ice because it’s not nearly cold enough as is. Choices can be debilitating. I sometimes have a hard time deciding whether my desire to drive to New Mexico is greater than my desire to drive to Ohio. When I can’t reach a decision, I stay home. I heard something on the radio yesterday about product choices facing us in grocery stores. The speaker said he remembers a time not long ago when he had to choose between two brands of pasta sauce in jars in the grocery store; now, there are dozens. Perhaps we have too many choices? Not just in food, but in the way we live our lives. Those choices seem to be driven in large part by access to money and the ways in which society teaches us that more is better, luxury is better, “stuff” is an antidote to solitude, etc.
If I were to engage in a conversation with someone who speaks the way I write, I think I’d have to disengage and run. Who thinks like this? On the other hand, perhaps someone who thinks the way I write would offer an intriguing look into my own psyche, a detached, distant way of examining the thought processes that ricochet off ideas like bullets off hard surfaces. I just realized I used the word “ricochet” just a few days ago. That made me wonder whether I have an unusual affinity for the word, so I searched my blog for past usage. Today’s post marks the seventh time I’ve used the word since I started this blog in August 2012. That averages to just a shade over once a year. I think I’m entitled to that much usage. That frequency does not paint me in an unfavorable light. At least not in my mind. Although, with this post, four of those uses occurred in 2018. So, perhaps it’s something that needs to be examined in the soothing confines of a psychiatrist’s lair.
If I’m going to get anything done on the deck today, I’d better get into my work clothes, which I last wore day before yesterday. I left them hanging for the sweat to dry and they’ve been hanging ever since. I suspect both the shirt and the shorts, with the crotch ripped open from stem to stern, will be crisp with dried sweat and sawdust and dust from the electric sander. Oh, the socks, too, will be a delight to put on. Well, all I’m doing by writing about my distaste for the clothes is delaying the inevitable. So, I’m off to tackle the job that will be complete no later than my eightieth birthday.