Who Knows?

Hmm. Well, here I am again. Guess it's been a while. Been in a writing rut. What can I say. Not sure why. So, I'm making myself sit here and write a post. Don is on a conference call. When he's done and ready to step away from his office, we are going to drive down to market and shop. It's been two whole weeks since we've gone! Not bad. Hated to wait until today, a Friday afternoon. We dread the throngs of vacationers clogging up the aisles and loading up their shopping carts. Maybe we will get lucky, who knows? It's the second day of steamy, humid heat, and so we will hope that most of "them" will already be at their camps, floating in their rafts or zooming around in their fancy boats on a lake. Perhaps they were wise and brought coolers full of food from their home state. Who knows? Who knows. Pretty much the sentiment of the summer, hasn't it? Who knows? We don't know how long we have to live in isolation and caution. We don't know if we will be able to make ends meet financially. We don't know if we will catch the virus, get sick and die alone in a hospital. Who knows? Don't know when I'll see my family members again in person. Don't know if we'll ever play a gig in a bar again. Don't know how many of our friends will die from the virus. Who knows? We pray 45 will get beat badly by the good guys and gals. We hope he goes to prison for all of his crimes. We hope he will pay for his shameful deceits and woeful inadequate leadership. We hope our planet will survive, too. Who knows?

I'm hungry. Lately, I've been reminded of a simple thing from my childhood. It would be a Saturday, usually. Mom would be off of meal duty, and we were all left to feed ourselves, if we were hungry. There would be a smell coming from the stove top. Two hot dogs, frying up in a small pan. Dad would pour himself a beer into a glass, and turn on the television. Candlepin bowling. Soothing sounds of balls rolling down the lanes, the crack of the balls hitting the pins, the cheer from the audience, the calm voices of the announcers. Dad would sit at the table and eat his two fried hot dogs and drink his beer, throughly content, watching the match.