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The two boys are back together, despite the combined efforts of Mother Nature and a slow-leak rear tire that is beginning to get on my nerves.  Call me demanding, but I like a tire that can hold its breath for 50,000 miles without whining.  This consistent I need air attitude is a bit much, forcing me to decide every two days whether to waste two minutes stopping for air or forty-five minutes seeking more thorough treatment.  So far, two minutes always wins.

The roads were nothing more then a spiderweb of ice rinks, and the van, even after thirty minutes of warming up and shaking the ice from its windows, was proving to be no skater.  The trip had mishap written all over it, so I just kept my mouth shut as we began a wild slide that only ended when the two of us were sitting side by side in a restaurant, eating greasy hamburgers for lunch.  Who am I to argue with destiny?

“The fries need more salt,” my son says.  I almost tell him to just rub them around on his greasy fingers, which already have enough salt stuck on them to season every spud in Idaho.  But I see he’s smiling.  He’s only joking, attempting to hone his budding sarcasm skills.

I did have an opportunity, while we were ordering, to come up with a new theory.  Or maybe it’s no theory at all, but just a reflection.  I’ll let others decide.

While I waited for my son to make up his mind, I found my gaze drifting away from the gigantic hamburger pictures and the faux shakes, spinning on strings all around my head.  And then, through the slightly hazy fog of grease, I spotted a monitor near the end of the counter.  It seems I’m on television.

And suddenly it’s time for theory.  Or reflection.  It’s simple.  If you take any unshaven man in a bulky jacket and ski cap, lean him on the counter of any restuarant, convenience store, or gas station, and then play this image on a television mounted from a ceiling, you will reduce that man into looking exactly like a desperate, potentially armed felon.

It must be some sort of translation error that happens along the way.  Something must get distorted somewhere between here and there.  I don’t think I look like a felon in real life, but I sure did just then.  Was it the clothing?  No, they seemed normal.  My facial appearance?  Couldn’t be, you could hardly see my face at all (which did seem cleverly felon-like of me, I thought, and a possible flaw in my theory).  Maybe it was based purely on location.  Hmmmm.  I wanted to take off my coat and hat and stick them on the next guy in line, just to give it a test.  In the name of science and learning and higher understanding.  All that stuff.  But I held back, not wanting the challenge of having to explain myself to not only the man, but my son, who would surely wonder what the hell?  Or whatever the eight year old equivalent is.

Yesterday is much clearer to me, now that I’ve had a night’s sleep.  The house is quiet except for the few machines who sort of sneak around the room like servants, making sure that I’m comfortable and all is well.  The coffee machine clears its throat one final time, either announcing that its work is done or its about to make a speech.  I can’t imagine it would ruin the perfect silence with words.

This morning I can see that yesterday consisted mainly of a series of life lessons.  Reaffirmations, really, because most of it’d already learned many times over.  You’ll see what I mean.

Reaffirming Life

You can write more in a silent house then a noisy house.
Eight year old boys prefer a constant playmate.
Frozen butter will form quite a lake if microwaved for 30 seconds on high.
The line inside the coffee maker does not represent the “high water” level.
Coffee makers can also form small lakes.
Important work papers, left on the kitchen counter, will sink to the bottom of a coffee lake.
Ice storms look beautiful but make life difficult.
People who are bored will call you on the phone the most often.
They will have nothing to say.
They will always call at the wrong moment.
You will always wonder why you picked up the phone.
Despite cordless phones, the spaghetti will still boil over.

I wonder what I’ll relearn today.

Forget nice suits and smiling faces.  Don’t promise me everlasting life or a glimpse of truth.  Don’t try to slip free pamphlets into my hands or wave a Bible under my nose like its a piece of freshly baked banana bread.  If you want to do a little door to door preaching around here, all you have to do is bring the Legos.  The Brick Testament is almost as funny as Monty Python’s Camelot in Lego.

I hear the sound of papers behind me, sliding and moving around.  It’s a threatening sound, and I’m not sure whether I should turn and look or continue on, here at the fun desk.  How can a pile of papers rubbing against each other sound so ominous?  It makes no sense.  But that is exactly what the pile of toppled mail has become - an ominous, rumbling pile of work that now threatens to break completely loose from my work desk and wash me out the door and over some embankment like a California mudslide.  It may sound ludicrous, but I can’t help but think that it also sounds crazy enough to work.  We have mudslides here in Oregon too, you know.  They’re just not very well publicized.

Time may in fact push all men into their graves.  I guess I can accept that.  But to think about being buried under a big pile of mail.  Now that’s just stupid.