I grew up with potluck dinners.  Most of my readers who grew up in church have experienced these events myriad times and will testify that they are lovely meals, albeit leading to many bouts of heartburn and indigestion.

Oh.  Not because of eating bad food!  No, the discomfort is simply because of the quantity of food one tends to ingest when sampling the output of so many wonderful cooks.

That’s not what you should expect to find here today.

I have in mind the definition of potluck from the sixteenth century—when eating potluck meant one had dropped in on an unsuspecting homemaker after the dinner hour and was offered whatever leftovers happened to have been thrown in the pot over the fire, being kept warm to prevent them from spoiling.

Often the resulting mélange was not appetizing in the slightest, but a hodgepodge of textures and materials, along with flavors (and perhaps even freshness, or the lack thereof).

This is like that, not the best from the recipe box; just whatever I’ve not been able to use in my last few outings, but don’t really want to throw it out just yet.

Bon appétit!

I intended to write again recently, but have been under the weather.  If you didn’t already know that, it’s only because you haven’t been around to hear me complain about it.  The Lovely Lady has endured well more than her share, taking it all in with incredible patience.

I looked at her earlier as she arose from her position on the loveseat near me and, realizing that she was moving slowly (which made me think about how weak I was feeling), I said—quite romantically, I thought, “I wish we could go back and live life together all over again.”

She frowned for a minute and, suggesting that she didn’t have the energy to go through all that again, went into the kitchen to work on dinner, leaving me to my disconnected thoughts once more.

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve had a visit from my annual guest, the boisterous asthmatic bronchitis.  It’s been mostly calm during the days, but spends the night causing nothing but commotion and sleeplessness.

During several of those nights (and now, even in the daylight), I have bemoaned the pain caused by the continuous coughing fits.  Holding my sides to lessen the ache of stressed muscles, I think I could die from this (a slight exaggeration, possibly).

And then this afternoon, as the Lovely Lady got into our car in the hospital parking lot—we weren’t there for me; she was visiting a friend—I was taken down a peg (again) to learn that when our friend coughs, she has to hug a pillow tightly to her chest to avoid doing actual damage to the incision and closures that her surgeon carefully worked on a couple of days ago.

This was after he split her chest open to do open-heart surgery.

I repent.  I hear the red-headed lady who raised me saying the words—Tempest in a teapot—or something like that.

And, speaking of bridges—oh no, we weren’t, were we?  Well, just another bit of the potluck, isn’t it?

Bridges.  We stopped at the side of one of the state highways a few days ago, so I could sneak onto the verge of the pavement to photograph an old dry-laid stone culvert that a friend mentioned recently.  I hasten to add that I did not walk where the “no trespassing” sign was posted but remained on the right-of-way instead.

I marvel at the industry of anyone who, seeing a stream or river in their way, determines to make a way over it, regardless of the labor involved, instead of simply fording the water when it’s low enough and finding a way around it when it’s not.  That’s what I’d do.

The red-headed lady who raised me would have said. . . No, I don’t remember any maxims she had for idleness, except to remind us that the Bible says if you don’t work, you don’t eat.

Now, where was I?  Oh yes, the bridge.  A beautiful old rock arch bridge, hand-laid without mortar.  I was reminded of why I love the structures, be they covered wooden affairs, metal pieces bolted and welded together, or even ornate concrete spans with rainbow arches thrown up across the entire span.

I love them because of the vision that wrought them.  The people who stood on one bank of a mighty river—or even a trickling stream—and said, “Let’s make this better.”

There are still people doing just this in countries where the populace is not as blessed as we are with infrastructure maintained by our government.  These visionaries are driven by a desire to make things better for folks they may never see or know.  Folks whose lives may actually be saved because they don’t have to traverse a ravine to get to the hospital when they are having an emergency. Or, they may just be able to save a couple of hours a day by going over instead of around.

Sometimes we get tired and vision fades.  Sometimes we need a day or two of sitting to be reminded that there is still more to be done.  Maybe even a lesson in perspective to see people who really are hurting and not just sorry for themselves.

Well, it looks like that’s all there is in the pot tonight.  I hope it wasn’t too unpalatable.  If you can get to the dinner table earlier next time, you might get a better concoction.  Something you can sink your teeth into a little easier.  Maybe even some pie for dessert.

I’m reminded that Elisha the prophet just threw some flour into a pot of nasty stew centuries ago and it got all better.  I’ll try to find some of that flour before the next go-round.

For now, I think I’ll go find the Lovely Lady and suggest a trip to Sonic for a Number 3 burger (do they still make those?).  Maybe she’ll be more inclined to think about going on all the adventures again after a generous offer like that.

Then again, perhaps I should simply give thanks for what I’ve got.

But, Sonic’s not a bad idea anyway.

 

“Where there is no vision, there is no hope.”
(George Washington Carver)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.