John Swinburn

I am sitting at the desk in our hotel, the room pitch dark except for the ghostly white glow of the notebook computer’s screen. Unwelcome thoughts and the frequent sound of the air conditioner fan switching on and off interrupted my sleep, what little there was of it . I finally switched it from ‘auto’ to ‘on’ to stabilize the abrupt cycles of on-again, off-again disruptive noise. A constant roar is easier on the mind than periods of silence followed by acoustic mayhem.

A detour to have lunch at the Pig Trail Bypass Country Cafe, said to be either in Elkins or Crosses, lengthened yesterday’s four-hour drive. Regardless of which community can rightfully claim the address, we found the place. We went in search of the place because I read, somewhere (ThrillList, I think), that the combination grocery store and diner offered one of the ‘best hamburgers in Arkansas,’ called a Hooshburger.  We arrived at 11:30 a.m.; our order was taken at around 12:15 p.m. Lunch was served around 12:30 and we were out the door around 12:45 p.m. I suspect the exceptional delay was not the norm, but the one worker (later joined by two others) who was cashier, cook, and waitress did not seem particularly apologetic. The Hooshburger was a decent hamburger, but I wouldn’t advise making a special trip to get one.

We got to Bentonville well before check-in time at our hotel, so we decided to wander for a bit. We drove to Bella Vista, a planned community with a history similar to Hot Springs Village. A neighbor in Dallas once told us it was a spectacular place. Our little drive through the community left us unsure what is spectacular about it. During our drive, we briefly stumbled across the state line into Missouri, but corrected that error shortly thereafter.

After checking in to the hotel, we went exploring. First stop was an international market grocery, its shelves awash in Indian foods quite foreign to us. While many of the items on the shelves were familiar, many brand names were not and we saw a number of items that we’d never seen before. I thought it odd that—in Rogers, Arkansas—we would find international foods we didn’t see in Dallas or Little Rock. It was an interesting experience.

From there, we drove into downtown Rogers, a quaint town with much to recommend it, including Brick Street Brews, a bar and beer garden that serves a variety of Arkansas beers. I had a Bentonville Brewing Naked Porter, followed by a Core Brewing & Distilling Oatmeal Stout. Janine opted to do something rare for her and have a glass of wine, Benziger Merlot. Though we had been thinking about seeking Indian food for dinner, sitting in the pub (I wish we had one like it in Hot Springs Village) changed our mind. So, we went to The Rail, just around the block, and had a wonderful pizza. Because the place also offered Arkansas beer, I asked for an Ozark Beer Company Cream Stout to accompany my pie.

Today, we visit Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, where we will see a lot of art and sculpture and where, at the appointed time, we will get a tour of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Bachman-Wilson house, one of his Usonian houses which was disassembled in New Jersey, moved to Arkansas, and then reassembled at the museum.

And that is what I know at the moment.

Two years ago, I learned tonight, I was in a strange mood. Facebook told me. Facebook also revealed that I watched snow fall in Dallas six years ago today.  Why does that matter?

Well, it matters because Facebook has a better memory than do I. And Facebook has more friends than I do. And  Facebook can manufacture memories, if it chooses, and make me believe they are mine.

For example, Facebook told me once that I spent an extraordinary night with a woman I won’t name (though I have evidence she reads this blog on rare occasion), arguing about the best way to peel oranges. Was that my memory or was that an artifact of Facebook’s penchant for toying with me? I guess I won’t know. Because she won’t bring it up.

And Facebook tells me stories about my bad moods. Facebook offers up rants I never intended to share with the world and laughs all the while I beg that they be hidden again.

There is so much more to say, but this is Monday, thus I must soften my explosive sharing of information no one wants to hear. If you’re patient, though, you might read the rest of this later, when I’m older.

Properly cooked, hard-boiled eggs provide a surprising and joyous sensory experience; not just the sense of taste, but the senses of touch and accomplishment. Few experiences parallel the sheer joy of cracking and peeling a perfectly cooked hard-boiled egg. A sharp rap of the shell on a hard surface gives the fingers an easy spot for purchase, allowing large swaths of eggshell to be peeled back, exposing the firm but resilient white. With a few deft twists of the fingers, the whole egg in its pristine oval glory awaits.

Eggs cooked too long or too little, though, become sources of unmatched frustration as the shell shatters into a thousand shards during attempts to separate it from the underlying film. Tiny pieces of broken shell cling stubbornly to the rubbery white. When prying the shell from its substrate, ragged shreds of membrane refuse to release their grip on the underlying white. The harder one tries to separate the shell from its bounty, the more one tears at the egg, transforming an immaculate elliptical delicacy into a misshapen albino monster.

Treated well, eggs reward their guardians with immeasurable pleasure; abused, eggs punish their custodians with bitter frustration. And therein rests a lesson worth learning.

As I sit to write whatever it is that will follow, I look at the clock. The time is three-thirty and I’ve been up for almost an hour. It’s not as bad as it might seem, though, as I went to bed around nine.

When I got up, I expected I’d go back to bed, so I didn’t make coffee. Before I came in here to what I charitably call my “study,” though, I relented. My cof o’ cuppee mug sits next to the keyboard. The mug is full of French roast goodness that, if the rumors about caffeine are true, will ensure that I won’t go back to sleep. I’m not at all certain about the rectitude of rumors, but I tend to avoid coffee late in the day, just in case.

Before I relented and sat here to write, I rearranged the top shelf of the dishwasher and started the beast on its noise-making mission. I vaguely recall reading that our dishwasher is a ‘quiet’ model; if that memory is correct, the words I read are lies. Now that the machine has begun its wash cycle, I cannot in good conscience open the bedroom door to go back to bed, as the noise would awaken my spouse from her slumbers. So, the deal is sealed. Here I sit, unwilling to direct my mind toward creative thought but equally unwilling to allow my fingers to rest. So, I type drivel.

The current state of my little corner desk offers evidence of my tendency toward clutter and disarray. I don’t like clutter and disarray, but I contribute mightily to it from time to time. Fortunately, the desk is small enough that it simply will not tolerate much disorder; its physical limitation requires that I clear it off on a regular basis. I wonder if the dichotomy between disliking disorder while contributing to it speaks to something deep within my psyche, something that describes how I feel about myself. It’s possible. Perhaps it’s probable. But at this hour, I know of no one well-schooled in psychology who might be willing to take my call to discuss this matter. Actually, I know of no one willing to take my call at this hour to discuss any matter. And, so, I sit and ponder and write nonsense to myself as a reminder for later, when I read what I’ve written, to explore these questions that arose in the dead of night.

Years ago, there were times when my wife and I would both wake up hungry in the middle of the night. In those days, we’d get dressed, get in the car, and find a twenty-four-hour restaurant.  I remember going to a Waffle House in the wee hours, where we’d find an odd assortment of people enjoying that time of night few of us experience outside our own homes. Groups of young people, drunk on booze or excitement, chattering among themselves and enjoying the moment. Police officers on break. Gang-bangers on break. Homeless people with enough money to buy a little coffee and a little time protected from the elements.  People who don’t want to talk to others, but who want to be in the company of other people. All ages, all colors; a mix of the real world.

I think the last time we went out for such a middle-of-the-night-breakfast was a few years before we moved from Dallas. We went to J’s Breakfast & Burgers in Addison, a wonderful little diner/café dive that caters to a diverse crowd. The waitresses were just as diverse as their customers; young, old, black, white, fresh and energetic, and worn and haggard. I remember the same cook was on the late night shift on the few occasions we went there. He was an Hispanic guy, probably in his late fifties, whose skills on the grill were impressive. I watched him in awe as he cracked eggs and flipped bacon and chopped hash browns with the side of a spatula, all while chatting with waitresses and customers and in between pouring ladles full of pancake mix onto the other end of the grill; it was, truly, a remarkable sight.

These days, on those rare occasions when my wife and I are both awake in the wee hours, she has no interest in going out for late-nigh breakfast. I miss those experiences. I would go out myself, but she would worry if she awoke and found me gone, even if I left a note. I wonder if that’s just an excuse I’m giving myself? I honestly don’t know.

Later this morning, if we’re still of a mind to do it, we’re going to wander among the Unitarians again. An erstwhile rabbi is speaking on the topic of “are we religious or are we spiritual?” While the topic does not grab me in the least, we’ve been told the guy is a wonderful speaker and have been assured we will enjoy hearing him talk. I try not to be as judgmental as I once was (well, I think I try, but I’m not sure), so I am willing to discard my doubts and jump in. After all, it’s only an hour or so. Then, afterward, we will do some errands and decide what else will command our time and attention.

Well, I’ve taken up enough of my time and yours with this utterly meaningless chit-chat, so I’ll call it a morning. I am stunned that it’s now 4:17 a.m.; how could I have taken almost forty-five minutes to write this? I’m getting slow in my old age, I suppose.