The Good Life

Reagan

How do you not wax eloquent about The Good Life? The words alone conger thoughts of Grandma Makaj, plucking fat raspberries off the vine with hands wrinkled by work and the earth. Then, holding our treasure in a fold of her shirt, we go inside and fire up the percolator. Again. She made one pot of coffee each week and percolated it each morning in the days before microwave ovens. By Friday? I watched her pour to see if the sludge melted porcelain. I was only five or six, but we sat at the Formica table and rolled berries in a plate of sugar, plopped them in our mouth, and washed it down with a sip of coffee. She rambled, half in English and half in Czech and I never knew what she was saying. Ah, for these good ol’ time…

In the photo above, it’s about not having a care in the world. You feel warm in your bathing suit at Lake George. It’s sunny and an ice cream cone is just up the street. There’s the water, the sand, and your mom and dad who love you with groans too deep to be heard. Until I had children, I didn’t know what that verse meant.

For me, it’s two things: it’s family, a hug from the girls, and holding hands with my wife to watch some silly TV. More selfishly, it’s faith, learning, guitar playing, silly stamps, and the sound of a sharp plane peeling paper-thin shavings from the surface of a hard plank. And reading and writing. Lots of both.

It’s different for everyone, feel free to tell us yours here. This is where I post writing that fits my idea of The Good Life. You can disagree and that’s fine.

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