My grandmother died a few days ago. She was almost 99 years old, and other than noticeably shrinking in height, even at the end she looked and acted about the same as she had throughout her life.
It would be nice to solely blame our politicians for this behavior, but when you look around, there are still plenty of regular folk who show, by their actions, that their time and their opinions are more valuable and important than anyone else’s.
There are quite a few things about life that still mystify me, even after all these years.
What legitimate delicacy is soaked in lye, gives off a stench reminiscent of rancid meat, jiggles on the plate in the manner of a glob of greasy gelatin, and tastes like something I would never eat except under threat of death?
Why is it that most of us slog through each day doing our jobs and living our lives without handing out or receiving meaningful recognition?
Like hauling out the garbage, we generally choose to let someone else do the work. And many of us seem to think we’re getting away with something when we’re too busy to spend a few minutes doing what needs to be done.
We’ve just spent the past few days cleaning a portion of our house that has accumulated stuff for the past 19 years. Among old clothes and our kids’ elementary school papers, I found a long-forgotten, weathered copy of a poem someone exposed me to when I was a 7th grader.
And as it turns out, it’s a question that never goes away, particularly this time of year.
The holidays came and went each year, and no big decisions were made. No great friendships were formed. No incredible personal insight was gained.
It has been years since I officially left, driving down the long gravel road that led away from where I grew up.
I don’t recall when it started, but I do recall when being a tucker became a way of life: 7th grade.
It’s a question we all need to think about these days as the economy erases businesses large and small every day.