A Cheerful Morning
WE HAD COMPANY DROP BY THIS MORNING. They were most welcome because they brought fresh kolaches (look it up). Anyone who brings pastries when they come through the door will be embraced. I think if the Magi had brought kolaches to Bethlehem instead of gold, frankincense, and myrrh they would have been invited to stay for the weekend.
One thing I have noticed in recent years when friends come by whether they bring kolaches or not. No matter what is going on in the world the main topic of conversation inevitably turns to the health issues of everyone we have ever known.
“You remember Cousin Yolanda? Well, she has a case of fill in the blank. Uncle Boris just had his fill in the blank removed – for the third time.”
The fact that I have no memory of either Cousin Yolanda or Uncle Boris doesn’t seem to matter. I still must “tsk, tsk” and shake my head. After being advised as to the horrific condition of everyone I begin to feel a little peaked myself. It’s a good thing there is another bag of kolaches on the table. They have restorative powers. Perhaps they should send a bag or two over to Cousin Yolanda’s house? It’s probably too late for Uncle Boris. If he’d had his fill in the blank removed only twice the kolaches might have helped.
This morning’s visit lasted a good hour and a half and I don’t think I heard that anybody is healthy and enjoying their “pigs in a blanket.” Everyone is either ill, waiting for the Operating Room to open up, or already dead. Everything from “Pink Eye” to “Ebola” seems to be rampant, leaping from limb to limb in our family tree.
“Word is that Aunt Asafoetida has a case of the Creeping Ganga-Ganga, which is spread (as you know) by the dreaded Gaboon Viper. It sneaked up on her while she was picking herbs down by the creek and bit her on the Gaboon. Pass me a kolache.”
I’m feeling sorry that everybody is under the weather, but really now, is that all that we can talk about?
Can’t we discuss the weather, the start of the baseball season, or even the kolaches? I’m not all that fussy. There must be something, anything, that we can talk about that doesn’t end up with the choosing of hymns for the funeral. That was how one of Dawn’s relatives ended up with having “All My ‘Ex’s’ Live In Texas” played at his services.
I have already made my wishes known for when I bite the Big One. At the end of the eulogies and what not I want the organist to start playing “Pop Goes The Weasel” as everyone starts nervously staring at my coffin.
Dang, I’d like to see that.
My lovely wife insists that I will be cremated and that she will stuff all of my pockets with some Orville Redenbacher popcorn kernels. I, of course, will have nothing to say about that. I like the idea, but I won’t even be able to launch a giggle or two. Oh, well.
Pass the kolaches.