Recently, I have had a couple of most pleasant conversations with a slightly older acquaintance at The Coffee Mill.
He is tall and slender, like me. He is very clean, like Paul's grandfather in "A Hard Day's Night." Very neat and clean.
My hair is several inches down my back, as I wig out in these my declining years, so we appear oddly paired. But he will discuss any subject I raise. No conflict.
He recently said of his inner feelings, "I feel like a stranger in a strange land." He said he wants that inscribed on his tomb stone. Speaking only for myself, he and I resonate.
Special note: I enjoy expressing my inner thoughts by writing them down. It helps me get through this thing.
This is a different view point for me to consider. The household I grew up in had little of this. I was lucky.
People are so strange. When I was married, my in-laws weren't speaking to Chuck, my wife's older brother. Chuck was a pleasant school teacher with two small children.
Donna and I lived in Cape May New Jersey and Chuck's family of four was staying over. I was slowly preparing a breakfast of strawberry pancakes for six. No problem, just slow, since that was a large group for me.
Chuck's wife began to loudly complain about the slowness from the other room in an annoyed tone. Imagine that.
Even in my twenties, luckily, I had sense enough to shrug it off, but it's the sort of thing the inlaws somehow allowed to grow large. She was rumored to be tactless, and so she was. But they cut off their son.
This is a dumb comment, but I wrote it, so I'm posting it. I am stuffed full of more crap than a Thanksgiving turkey.
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