Loaves and Fishes

The View from my Kitchen Window

And another really wonderful weekend, entertaining friends from half a lifetime ago, and just celebrating the time we have known one another, and what it has meant to us. Meanwhile, shared the cabin with my nephew Michael and a dozen or so of his WSU (pronounced "Wazuu" or WaZoo) friends, who basically camped in their cars, in our loft, on the lawn, whatever...and had a lot more boisterous time than we did. And of course my aunt was still here also, who has memories of the summer that my friends and I all turned 21 as well, and invade her home like a descending hoard of ravenous barbarians.

Saturday's party was myself and Thomas N, Jeff T (briefly), Mike W., Val C. Ann B., and Kanell A. Everybody brought a little something for the "potluck," but it was really Kanell who provided the meal - arriving with a freshly-caught Sockeye salmon and a whole restaurant's worth of supplies in his car. That and Ann's freshly-baked bread would have been enough to provide a meal of biblical proportions, but we also had fresh fruit salads and a pasta salad, sticky rice, and plenty of green salad fixin's as well: truly, a feast. And since I can't and everyone else was driving, virtually no alcohol excepting a bottle of red wine and a six-pack of Stella Artois. I felt almost sorry for the kids, whose meal was...well, let's just say very different than ours. Chips, Brats, Microbrews...hell, I subsisted on that sort of thing for years. But from here on out it is probably going to be a rare treat indeed.

The thing I was most jealous of was the touch football. But try as I might, I couldn't throw a spiral to save my life, either sitting in my chair or standing and trying to balance myself using my cane or the walker. Part of the problem was the ball itself, a cheesy little half-sized WSU-logoed Nerf ball which tended to fly out of control no matter who was throwing it. But a lot more of the problem was just me. Yet here was the small light of hope -- although nobody throws a football like an 80-year-old and still plays (even in the front yard), there are plenty of 80-year-old golfers who ride the cart, drive like only an old man can, focus on their short game, and still have a helluva time. So maybe that's what I can look forward to, someday, n'est pas?

Sunday's guest list was a little less crowded: the kids had mostly all gone their own ways by noon, and I only had two visitors: a long-time mentor of mine, Rev. Marvin E; and my high-school debate partner, Bill V. And this meal was very much a "loaves and fishes" affair: Kanell's leftover salmon and Ann's leftover bread, plus the rice, the green salad, and (for everyone NOT on Coumadin) some left-over spinach lasagne Mary Lou had prepared late last week. More fantastic conversation (which I can't and won't try to share), and nobody went away hungry.

Finally, one of the other real highlights of the weekend was Saturday night's thunderstorm, which really didn't hit here, but which we could see from our front porch to the south, the west and the east of us in all of its awesome magnificence. And such a strange contrast from the human fireworks of the previous Fourth of July weekend -- the fireworks seemed so up-close and, well, explosively overwhelming; but by comparison the thunderstorm dominated the entire sky -- and the amount of energy represented in those thunderbolts (when compared to the skyrockets) is simply so many multiples of magnitude greater. Which is not to dismiss the energy of the fireworks, and...well, this is starting to ramble. Prometheus and Zeus. Three Cheers for the firebringer. But the power of the Gods is not something to be dismissed lightly....