Saturday morning! I can’t explain it, but even after retirement, Saturday morning still elevates me! This is particularly so when as today the sun shone and there was not a cloud in the bright blue sky! Rather like listening to the atmospheric music of Erik Satie’s “Gymnopédies”. I did however suffer a modest dampening upon briefly recalling the disagreement I had had with my elderly mother last evening. But I was, at least upon awakening this morning, satisfied that my intransigence about returning her vacuum cleaner had triumphed and my general approach to the new day was one of refreshment not hesitation or regret. This, I was about to discover, was to be a short-lived buoyancy. But for the time being, ignorant as I was of my overhanging destiny, I prosecuted the morning ablutions without reserve and prepared myself for what I then anticipated to be a perfectly splendid Saturday. As I dressed I amused myself to contrive to purchase new white socks and to discard the old ones. White socks are like toothbrushes, common, hardly a luxury and certainly not something one should feel the necessity to keep forever. Long ago I discovered the unusually gratifying result of capitalizing upon such petty indulgences. Rejuvenation requires far less exertion than one might imagine; the simplest modification can afford incalculable fodder!

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As a general rule, bumps, scrapes, tarnishes and tears are not a good thing. The illustration that springs to mind is that of a new car. Upon discovering a nick on your new car, do you ruefully regard it then gently rub an index finger over the offending score as though you could expectantly make the blemish gradually cease to exist, hoping against hope that it were but the unintended and serendipitous smudge of an airborne fowl? The phrase “wear and tear” (an undisguised import from the legal exclusions of warranty contracts) is hardly the answer! In an instant the integrity of your vehicle is compromised. Indeed the entire point of getting a new car is under siege! The spiritual heights of the impermanent flight are unceremoniously grounded. Cinderella’s vanishing carriage has nothing on the vaporization!

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After what was undeniably a quiet and relaxed winter on Hilton Head Island – what I often likened to a private retreat – things have begun to change.

In early March on the Island there was a demonstrable uptick of grandchildren. They were visiting their vacationing grandparents possibly as compensation for the parents on the heels of Christmas and the traditional misery of February in northern climes. It is I suppose remotely possible the grandparents actually wanted to see their grandchildren (though in any event I can safely conjecture that the grandparents were ultimately just as pleased to see the grandchildren leave). This alteration of the landscape was modest and largely tolerable (small children do not for example engender poolside barbecues and late night antics). But this low-key transition of local demographics lasted only until mid-March when a floodgate opened.

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Fathoming what it means to be in love is an unsettling exploration. For one thing it is awkward to wonder whether one is in love at all.  Not to mention the prejudice that love is swamped in lachrymose and saccharin additives rendering it as sentimentally preposterous as a Hollywood fiction. Even without that bias, whenever the topic arises it is impossible to distinguish it from drama and storytelling. Seldom does its analysis approach anything as neutral as a discussion of one’s health or the weather. The mere mention of love inspires an outburst of maudlin overtures which invariably overtake a balanced view. There is besides an unmistakeable enthusiasm to label almost any confederacy one of love as though it were the quintessential approbation.

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Do you ever look back upon your life and reflect upon the grand total of what you’ve done and who you are? Are you one of those people whose life is – to speak charitably – unpretentious? Perhaps you consider that you are justifiably self-effacing? If so, I’m right there with you. To be candid an account of my life is unexceptional, passable at best. It would for example impart more tang than merited to my insipid existence to suggest that any day is much different from another. Nonetheless I rejoice in every boring moment, even to a fault. As inclined as I am to itemize the particulars of my ineffable life, I will resist if only because I fear their public recitation may be tedious though strangely that does nothing to dampen my private gusto.

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If you dispel the obfuscating fog of everyday living, life has I think you’ll concede its discernible – though subtle – drama. The source may be unpredictable and even unlikely. Don’t let a facade of placidity dissuade you! Behind a veneer of composure may subsist one of daring enterprise. Permit me to observe that while I am not perpetually living on the edge I too have my moments. Consider for example the following account …

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