Good morning readers. Thanks for coming by for a read this morning.
I sat in a Mexican food cafe in Snora the other morning chowing down on a buffet breakfast I hadn’t asked ahead of time how much would cost. After all, how much could they charge for a buffet breakfast, anyway?
Well, that’s another story. What I was going to say was that the table next to me had five men having breakfast together. Obviously something they did frequently, judging from the conversation. None of them gave off the physical aura of having missed many big breakfasts for a while.
But these were serious, corn fed Texas men wearing cowboy hats and gimme caps with an air of having shiny new pickups with dual wheels out in the parking lot and weighty matters on their minds. Men of substance and strong opinions about what’s wrong in this world and how to go about solving it.
Men, I thought as I eavesdropped on them, who wouldn’t sit still for someone telling them what kind of Christmas or New Year to have, because these men were capable of figuring it out for themselves.
I learned a lot as I listened to them telling one another things the others weren’t listening to while they waited for openings to allow themselves to tell the others things they wouldn’t listen to.
But it was all right, because they were all saying pretty much the same things, anyway.
So I waited in a state of fingernail-chewing anticipation to find out whether one of them would slip up and tell the others what kinds of Christmas to have, causing a confrontation, a fist-fight, maybe a gunfight out in the parking lot. I hurried my meal so’s if I had to duck under a table I’d have already packed my gut with as much as time allowed.
However, strangely enough, they all stirred the remains of their meals around on their plates, finished off whatever each had to say that the others wouldn’t hear, and almost in unison, ordered one another to have a Merry Christmas. No steely eye squints. No, “Don’t you tell ME what kind of Christmas to have, Charlie!”
Everyone made allowances, I suppose, for the fact it was breakfast ending and they had serious matters to attend and not enough time to do it. No time for a fist fight before getting on with it. Or maybe they just didn’t hear what the others said, as they’d done throughout the meal. Didn’t realize someone told them what kind of Christmas to have.
However, after thinking it and talking it over to the cats, I think my own approach is to mildly suggest that you readers have whatever sort of Christmas you want to have. But if you choose not to, it’s okay. I’m not insisting.
The New Old Jules and the Enlightened Cats