On postmarks, ribs, shoes and small miracles: A Super time to be alive

                        
It was a full two days after I’d received the postcard from Luckenbach, Texas, that I even noticed the postmark, which was from Richmond, Va. Not to make excuses, but it’s been a trying and busy time, what with having the 10-year-old TV serviced, cooking meals for my wife every night, dealing with the possibilities of a rare Southern ice storm, taking down the vast majority of the Christmas decorations and, of course, worrying about the future, which has become a full-time gig, despite the president’s encouraging words. Add to that planning a promising trip to Arizona next month and you can understand how something as insignificant as a postmark might elude my usually laser-keen attention to detail. Life happens, as someone once said, when you’re doing other stuff. Well, I’m sure whoever said it first possessed more eloquence that my ham-fisted attempt to quote him or her ... but you get the idea. My friend, the one who’d been in Luckenbach and had picked out the postcard, had just completed a coast-to-coast trip, one that took him from Northern California, where he’d hooked up with a pal who needed to drive a car to the capital of the Confederacy. Along the way, they’d made a number of stops, including New Orleans, which is a town I’d love to see some day. And, with Super Sunday on the horizon, allow me this brief tangent: I will be pulling for the Saints while, at the same time, hoping for Peyton Manning to have a great game. In a perfect world -- which this one definitely is not -- the final score might be something like Indianapolis 48, New Orleans 47. Instead, it’ll probably be something far more desultory. Still, a man can hope. My wife has asked for an encore of my New Year’s Day baby back barbecued ribs for Super Sunday, a request I’m happy to fill. They were, if I might say so, delicious and filled the house with such an aromatic splendor as they slow-cooked for four hours. As Andy Taylor might have said, “Gooo-ooood.” Speaking of Mayberry, parts of North Carolina got spanked with a bit of winter reality last weekend, when the rain froze, then turned into sleet and finally became a covering of snowfall. Here in the coastal region, however, all we got was a lot of rain and a little slush, which was too bad. I’d hoped to add to my collection of snowballs, one that dates to our first December away from home, a decade ago. Alas, even though I stayed vigilant throughout the watch period, nothing happened that night, though the full moon was transcendent. Still, some bridges iced over and a lot of churches canceled their services, which I can’t remember happening when I lived in Ohio, though it probably did. It just seemed that those doors were always open, even if nothing was planned. You can’t blame folks for being overly careful, I suppose, since everything that goes wrong is a just a lawsuit waiting to happen. Say what you want about ambulance-chasing attorneys: someone’s paying them big bucks to advertise on TV as often as they do. It’s a litigious, paranoid, angry world out there, one that I do my best to avoid. Which is why I kind of enjoy keeping our Christmas decorations up as long as possible. There’s an undeniable sense of calm and quiet when I can bask in the glow of the tree and reflect on the day as I appreciate the Charlie Brown skating rink, the Dickens characters and the Nativity scene. Our sunroom has been a tribute to the season since early December, but now it’s time to move along, steer things into the new year with confidence that the road ahead will be a blessing. The postcard from Luckenbach, Texas, though it was mailed from my friend’s town, is a good omen, then. For one thing, he thought enough to buy it. For another, his note said that one of these days, he’d make sure I see the place. And, of course, you always consider yourself lucky when someone -- a friend or a person you’ve never met -- does something nice for you. Small miracles, I call them. If you can make another’s life better, I think you should try. Noticing something small about someone’s appearance -- “Hey, I like your shoes,” to quote Michael Douglas in The American President -- or remembering a birthday or an important anniversary. Maybe just opening the door for someone at the grocery store. Listening to a friend who’s going through some tough times. Or sending a postcard from Luckenbach that’s postmarked Richmond. As I confessed at the outset, I’m a worrier and one of the things I worry about most is the seeming disappearance of small miracles. My wife seems to understand this. “I think the Christmas tree looks wonderful,” she said, working on a sewing project that will be a gift to our grandson, who will be born in the spring. “It’s the best one you’ve ever done.” I smiled and said thanks, appreciating the thousands of lights and hundreds of ornaments, not to mention the tinsel, which is a lost art, as the sunroom windows reflected the glory of the season. “But you know,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “tomorrow’s February.” Time to move on down that road that promises nothing and everything. Mike Dewey can be e-mailed at CarolinamikeD@aol.com or snail-mailed at 6211 Cardinal Drive, New Bern, NC 28560.


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