Life Reached Out from My Refrigerator

I was on the front porch when you drove by and I waved, thinking that one way to appreciate life is to imagine yourself without one. 

I told myself this the other morning as I decided to have a piece of toast and butter with my coffee and opened the fridge and there was this special butter looking at me, an expensive high-grade butter evident by its’ special green packaging with a European name that seemed to be proof I had improved my station in life and I reached for it. I was reminded of a story I once wrote and was paid $300 for it and my car needed a $100 oil change and tune up at the time. I’ve been a fan of prosperity ever since. 

At 73, I am still a complete stranger to genuine hardship. I am a blessed man.

My parents loved each other. There was no abuse of alcohol or violence in the house, no one cursed or yelled, and Sunday church attendance was mandatory unless you were afflicted with leprosy or at least two bones were showing below a tourniquet. Our parents consulted no books or specialists about parenting, and when they gathered with other parents, they did not talk about us. They were grown-ups and did not instruct us how to behave though they would correct us. A kid learned to behave by imitating grown-ups. You were taught to be thankful, and you learned thankfulness brings with itself joy, peace, and happiness.

I’ve learned happiness resides and thrives best in a nearsighted view of life as opposed to waking up and worrying about the possible outcomes of the Ukrainian war. Therefore, I wake up and look at the face on the pillow next to mine, arise, empty my bladder, shower, make coffee, and find European butter waiting for me.

Our ancestors had to make their own butter in between hunting bear and looking for the Cumberland Gap, this along with smallpox and diphtheria, and then some guy invents refrigeration and the butter problem is solved. This sort of thing happens on a daily basis. Prior to the toast and butter, I ingest several horse pills for blood pressure and cholesterol that saves me from the fate of strokes that killed uncles and relatives in the late 1940’s and fifties. You have to have spent a night in the ER with an ax-buried-in-your-head kind of headache and shortness of breath in order to appreciate this.

And I appreciate Joy, though it can be elusive for some people who spend thousands of dollars for a therapist to help them find it. But don’t beat yourself up. People do not realize that joy is mostly for angelic beings, it’s their job. Angels don’t worry about aging or hair loss, don’t suffer from constipation and eczema, they just praise God with joyful songs of thankfulness. Which is an example we should all heed --- we’d save thousands on therapists.

I’ve found happiness comes in pairs, not solo. I find myself happily married, each day I wake up and each night that I go to sleep. And in my old age I’ve become fond of the music of my youth, which I once played in coffee houses. How good was I? Now I write stories, not music, for gentle readers.

Nevertheless, when I’m old enough, I want to spend my time at Happy Acres playing old songs for the ladies. I’ve got sunshine on a cloudy day with my girl and then my heart went boom when I crossed that room and I held her hand in mine. What a friend we have in Jesus, all our sins and griefs to bear. And you, my brown-eyed girl. Save the last dance for me. Under the boardwalk.

So, remember to check the oil in your car and do yourself a favor, butter your toast. Life is delicious.

Readers can write to Joe at Joehudsn@gmail.com and Facebook (View from the Hudson). He is author of “Big Decisions are Best Made with Hot Dogs” and “A View from the Front Porch."