New Years Eve did not dawn with rosy fingers, as Homer would have it, but instead with a heavy, almost dripping fog in the ponderosas. Homer has largely been overlooked as an optimist, given the travails of Ulysses, but it’s interesting to note that the wandering warrior made landfall back home in Greece under the cover of heavy fog. Which is one reason the wife and I decided to make a raid into town this morning, in the fog, and before the holiday crush of tourist zombies had mobilized to begin the ritual pumping of friction into the machine.
We found a parking spot at Ray’s, the grocery store, which was an early sign of success, and I even managed to break the formidable crust of the man who runs the meat counter. He’s usually a gruff and dour fellow but over the last few months I’ve injected heavy doses of verbal judo into our relationship—which happens only sporadically and over the glass case full of sausages—and this morning he surprised me with an audible and apparently sincere “Happy New Year” while handing over two pounds of peppered bacon.
This is how we win.
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