|Road to Nowhere dee|
The man from Brooklyn. A former gang-banger leaves the gritty life of poverty, drugs and gangs to relocate closer to his young daughter. This brings him to the unlikely suburban community of Northampton, Massachusetts. Here, he pursues a classroom program to earn his certification as a licensed practical nurse. He is outspoken in his belief that education is the only way to escape the cycle of indigence and crime that once defined him. I met him in my doctor’s office this morning.
The road to Nowhere. If the road is open, and the skies are clear, does it really matter where we are headed? Next to my bed is a book my friend gave me. It is called, “The Happiness Project.” Sweetly, she informed me that, “This is exactly the kind of book you might have written.” When I read it, I feel that she was perfectly correct in her summation; I am disappointed with myself that I didn’t write it. If I have one contribution I might make to the work it would be my personal observation that we never arrive at Happiness. It is more like a place we visit, but, due to the nature of the available lodging, we do not stay. Like the road to Nowhere, we should enjoy the vistas along the way, and not overthink our destinations.
|The view from the other direction.|
Whatever happened to Black Cows?
A woman I once cared for was dying and in the terminal stages of breast cancer. A couple afternoons each week, we would share a guilty pleasure. She would ask me to make a couple of Black Cows and sit with her on the porch to enjoy the afternoon breeze. I would drum up two large glasses, fill them two-thirds with root beer. Then, I would use the ice cream scoop to hollow out balls of vanilla ice cream from a half gallon container she kept in the freezer. I would deliver two balls of vanilla ice cream into each glass. Inserted straws, and served. Now, the only Black Cows I ever see are in pastures.