You are the scalawag

I put my foot down firmly on the kitchen floor.  My hands rest on my hips.  I mean business.  “OK, no one, whatever they do, don’t run up stairs and get ready for bath.”They run out of the kitchen, down the hall, and take the stairs. Rosie stops at the landing.  “You are the scalawag!” she says.  In another moment:  This is a picture from Easter morning.  It was really rainy here this weekend.  We have spent the weekend inside, while outside, cold rain drizzled.  That is ok.  On Saturday, we went ice skating.  Have you been ice skating lately?  It is a lot of fun.  John had a little trouble at first.  Rosie skated between our legs.  It really wears out a kid.  Oh, and those people who want to talk about working out your core?  They just need to go skating.  On Sunday, it rained some more.  We saw a movie — Horton Hears a Who.  Its pretty good.  Not scary.  I am coaching the Giant Blue Sharks.  We have already begun our season.  We have some power arms, although no great bats have yet emerged.  I am thinking that Bill James might have to visit our squad and find how choice of snack influences run production.  Seriously, since it 5 and 6 year old baseball, we are using a pitching machine.  This thing hurls a ball on a plane at about 18 to 23 mph.  It will hit the same location again and again.  Its great.  I love it.  You wouldn’t believe what it fees like to clear one of those soft squishy tee-ball baseballs into well past my neighbor’s yard.  I’m getting a little overworked.  I should say that John likes it, too.  Major league baseball started today.  Baseball has a way of marking time, too.  

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You ought to consider

Having spent the early part of a spring afternoon attending the first 10 minutes of an unneccesary meeting, I am strolling through downtown Durham with some time on my hands.

Downtown Durham has only a few places to eat. One is the Golden Arches. Did you see that McDonald’s has new lattes? I am thinking to myself, in fact, that one might taste pretty good.

I turn a corner and a building obscures my view. Its a nice building, though. The home of Rue Cler, our local French bistro. They have fresh bread in the early afternoon. I can smell it. There’s the distinct aroma of strong French-press coffee, too.

Everywhere, food.

But then I remember…I am fasting this week.

Say what you will about the spiritual and moral power of fasting. I will say that it is for another blog. Let me tell you something about fasting. Starving is really convenient. All of those nail biters — like, should I see what that new iced Mocha is like at McD’s? Or, should I turn around and get one of those beignets?

Poof, gone. Fasting removes a whole element of anxiety in my life.

Even reading the New York Times, I can suddenly dispense with entire areas of world concern.

The only downside is the pressing forcefulness of an untended appetite.
Do not get me wrong. I do not mean to make light of the misery of others for whom hunger is a real problem. For me, its an elected plan, and a temporary one at that. It is important to recognize the troubles of people who do experience hunger without the opportunity to quell it at any moment.