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Howdy. We've moved from Cayce, but St. Elizabeth of South Rose Hill or Lizette de Waccamaw de Sud just don't do it for me.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Needs to be read

Read and understand why I'm so amazed at this guy.

Valentine's Day 1989

A taste from near the end:

We have not been to this restaurant before. We have been to one run by the same family in a neighboring city. It was very quiet and romantic. This one is in a busy section of downtown. We have to park a good distance away and walk through the frosty evening air. When we get there, we are seated near the door where cold blasts of air are continually let in, so we keep our coats on. We consider ordering only foods served flaming.

The restaurant is loud and bustling. Normally, this would be fine, but we had expected quiet and romantic. A large man waiting for a table is shown to the bar area, which is adjacent to us and a couple steps up. He leans against a rail, which puts his rear end on a level with my face and only two and a half feet away. Again we consider ordering flaming foods. Let’s bring a little color to those cheeks, shall we. But part of the railing support gives way and, rather than risk joining us at our table, he moves away.

There are crayons for coloring the paper tablecloth. My wife draws a picture of herself, a picture of me, and a heart between them. She loves me. Less artistic, I draw large block letters: “ I [heart] U 2 ” I realize afterwards that the message is ambiguous. It can mean “You love me, and I love you as well,” “I love you as well as loving someone else,” or even “I really like this particular Irish rock band.” Given the context, though, it can be safely interpreted in the first sense. Context can make all the difference.

Making Peace

A taste from the beginning:

As we climb up into the Sierra Nevadas, I fall into a rhythm. I ease off the throttle and hear engine winding down, slowing for the next curve. I gauge the angles and lean over, bringing more than half a ton of motorcycle, camping gear, and fragile human flesh closer to the pavement. The mountain road is sharply banked, and gravity pulls us down toward the inside of the curve. I open the throttle just a bit, accelerating, pushing the bike back up the asphalt to the outside of the curve. The laws of physics are held in tension here. We leave the curve moving faster than we entered it, but up ahead is another switchback, another sharp turn, and the dance is repeated. Slow, lean, accelerate. Slow, lean, accelerate. We ascend the mountain road in a series of controlled falls; we are falling up a mountain.

We are in Sequoia National Park. Two hours ago we left the heat and smell of Bakersfield in the valley where we had found it. Now we are rising into the cool of the mountains. The smell of forest is rich around us. Life rolls up and down these mountains for thousands of verdant acres. The primeval serenity of these hills is palpable. This is what I came for.

I've heard them read aloud -- ask Izzy about it sometime.

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