Music to the Ear

My life without Britan Marie and her golden curls, after an intense two days of trying to reason with her, subdue her, and sneak off to the bathroom without her, is beautifully silent. We had the alcohol discussion again. In the black-and-white world of a six-year-old, drinking is bad. That's what they tell her at church. She was scolding me for the shot of Crown Royal I downed at a get-together two weekends ago (a bash for her grandfather and great-grandmother, no less, who both died last year, and I wasn't the only one who participated in the memorial toast).

I said, "Bit, I drink beer and wine, and whiskey and tequila sometimes. Am I a bad person? Do you not like me? Do you think I hurt people when I drink?"

She fidgeted and hedged, "Jesus doesn't like it."

"But Jesus turned the water into wine at the Last Supper, didn't he?"

"Well he didn't know better back then!"

I gave up.

Also Brad is gone, the boarder overhead. He bought a little house over on Sage. Who's going to push me out of snowdrifts now? And what will I do without his constant guitar playing? I can do without the singing. Don't tell him I said so. Plus I get his second parking spot for my Cadillac, and that's a bonus.

Speaking of things that sound good, that GM 4.9 Liter V8 with port fuel injection sure has a nice ring to it. It's a kind of silent roar, all that subtle power. Don't get me wrong, I love my Raider and its four little buzzing cylinders, and it's tons of fun to drive, but a Cadillac- any year, but especially '91 on- is pure automotive joy.