Thankful

Thanksgiving went well. The Baron came up from Philadelphia. I made turkey, stuffing with pecans and cranberries, baked pineapple, sweet potatoes, some of the corn I put up back over the summer, and sauteed red cabbage. Everybody liked it.

This weekend is Santa Saturday, and you bettah believe I'm looking forward to that. Things like this are a lifeline for me. I should be good for another few months after this. Enough to hold me until MAL.

Tonight, the Baron wanted to see the inside of the Raven down in New Hope. and, of course, what the Baron wants... There was nothing going on there. Not even some early Santa Saturday arrivals. It was grim. We were out of there in about twenty minutes.

But then, on the way home, I had a thought.

The Baron was reminiscing about how it was when we were young. Heading to Kurts and dancing the night away, wearing our broaches and new wave haircuts. Flirting. Dancing. Dancing and flirting.

And I had this recollection. One night, years ago, early on in my time in NYC. I was at a bar--a great bar--called the Altar. And I remember seeing these two guys. Bearish guys. I watched as they met each other, talked, their eyes started shining, they were touching, then kissing each other deeply.

Right there, in front of me, while I watched, they fell in love. I remember at one point, they stood, arms around each other, looking out at the bar, at all of us, seemingly aware of their incredible good fortune. That they had been touched by something rare and beautiful.

So the thought that I had: young people know nothing about love. A kind of youth is wasted on the young thing. It takes a man who has road out many of life's storms, has learned how much pain can come with love, has been to hell. Only men of a certain age can really fall in love.

And I've got some years on me now.

Whaddya know about that?

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