Ok, that last post was a bit indulgent, maybe not even funny and probably incomprehensible to you Yankees.
I was however, reminded of a compelling and crucial book after reading one of the comments on an earlier post. Travels with Charlie, by John Steinbeck. I tried to get my son to read it but did he? Did he, heck. He didn't read Catcher in the Rye either or On The Road. In fact, I don't think he has ever read a book. I persist in giving him books of course, in the forlorn hope that he will share those wonderful moments and somehow understand what it feels like to be me.
Well, perhaps he knows - he's lifted half my record collection.
When you are young you worry about where you are going and when you are old you worry about where you have been. But I don't have that many regrets. I reflect upon where I have been and perhaps my only regret is that I was too earnest to enjoy the moment.
I feel so far away from the days of my youth. I live in happy valley; a millstream on one side, a river running at the end of the garden, the hills and the sound of cattle and sheep and the sound of the water flowing. I am preoccupied with getting the moss out of the lawn and doing old man's things like gathering logs and polishing photo frames and making just the right cup of tea.
I often wonder about those beautiful young women I worshipped when I was 18 years old. Were they so perfect in their long cotton dresses and their unending hair? Where are they now? They never gave me a second look and now they are grannies with mortgages to pay and children to worry over. Caroline McCulloch, I slept in your sleeping bag and I remember how you smelled of Patchouli.
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