Hey folks! Here are two vignettes of the normal, everyday things that make it good to be a human.
Nighthawks at the Diner
“Do you want to go to Waffle House?”
“Uh…yeah.”
“Hey, who wants to go to Waffle House? Y’all coming?”
"Wards road?”
“Yep, yep.”
“DONE!”
“Preacher” ambled down the street in his socks, his girl duck walking in his huge shoes. Her feet were sore from teaching a salsa class in heels. He’s a gentleman - the basis for the character in the Dr. Electro tales - and she’s a lady, earning the right to footwear by default, and for cooking up good ideas like Waffle House after 10pm.
“Oh boy, I’m gonna be a real Lynchburger!” I gushed, ever cool. “Never been to one before!”
“OUCH!” Preacher stepped on a rock.
Yellow, with letters as black as the February night - WAFFLE HOUSE.
“Oh, this is a rite of passage, man.”
We crammed into the booth. I informed the unfortunate waitress of the gravity of the occasion. “Sure you’d rather not be working on a Friday evening, but you’re making a difference - and I don’t mean that facetiously.”
She laughed. And brought me a paper hat.
“Ohhh, my stupid head is too big…oh, it ripped….there where go…YAYYY! Hey, anyone ever listen to Tom Waits Nighthawks at the Diner? By the way, I’m perfectly aware of how ridiculous I look - been doing it for years- but Waits, yeah, Tom Waits…ever hear of him? Such a brilliant album. ”
Waffle House after 10 pm wasn’t even alarmed with my impression - my kinda joint.
Here’s the real thing.
(Dig the line Now the lead pipe mornin’ falls.)
I’ve been thinking a lot. I just (mostly) finished writing a sad, sad book about the best and worst of humanity. I’ve been hacking away at building a new life. I’ve been trying to get up early and do what needs to be done…but sometimes that can get kinda heavy.
It was good to remember that there’s diners and boisterous college kids and hash browns with the option of tomatoes and you can pour as much syrup as you want on the waffles while cars roll down Wards road in the chilly darkness and friends to tell stories of setting the lawn on fire.
Jan Molotov
That’s not really her name. But it could be.
She came out to look at the bees.
“Jan, one of the hives is a ghost town…I think they died. Poor bees.”
“I’ll swing by tomorrow.”
They did. Poor bees. What a bummer.
But - the other colony was still there, and we meant to take a look at ‘em. )
It was good to zip up the white bee suits, and smell burning pine needles in the smoker.
Say hello to my lil’ friend….(I don’t say that out loud, but the bees get smoked.)
“Josh, that’s enough - easy on the smoke, buddy.”
Right…they’re my FRIENDS.
Jan’s actually changed my entire view. Now I’m not afraid. It was a year ago that I sat down in her class, and flipped open the textbook. Sixty THOUSAND bees in a box?!
It was good to see the ladies. Their neighbors didn’t make it, but they did. New comb, baby bee larvae (I call ‘em “piggly wigglies”), drone cells, bees everywhere.
Then the smoker went out.
“HOUSTON, WE HAVE A PROBLEM!”
“You didn’t light it from the bottom, did you?”
“Uhhh….”
We got it restarted. The bees didn’t care. Nobody got stung. They’re bringing pollen in, the queen is laying, and they are ready to rock it for the spring. I was so glad to see them.
Hey ladies! A squad of workers eyes me back through a temporary cover on the hive.
We swapped things around, gave the bees some of the leftover frames from the ghost town hive so the queen has more space to lay, and buttoned things up.
Early spring is upon the mountain. Can’t you feel it?
Enjoy the little things, folks!
Josh