Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Joe & his Beemer. Juan Diego off Davis Point

Juan Diego arriving, cargo containers about weekly between PC and Progresso. Seemed quite a noisy ship, but maybe that wasn’t her making the noise, she’s gone on by and round and the sound continues. 

Son Joe left at six o’clock as he intended, headed home to Winston-Salem. 

Seeing him off, I came back up to 7H and fixed myself a large flank steak sandwich for breakfast; hey, 2 Samuel 12, eh, King David ordering food after his son. I wonder why they didn’t name that boy. Anger, vengeance, punishment, not a consoling story of the love of God. Or is the story an etiology from an age of high infant mortality?

Joe is 55, I remember being fifty-five, I do remember 55: I dropped my Tassa off at college far away, and memories of the groundhog haunt me to this day. Couple months, few months, Joe will be 56 and I’ll turn 81 and can let all this go. 

Today: hospital visitation then to the office to draft the worship booklet for next Sunday, ten-thirty service. 

What I’d like is to have my life back, be seventeen. Or 22, 25, 36, thirty-nine, 57. What I’d really like is to stand out here on my 7H porch and watch USS Missouri (BB-63) glide silently by. In your dreams, DThos.

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