I know, I know, this is a sweeping, often inaccurate generalization. Especially considering 8 years ago or so I used to cry almost every Sunday. For some forgotten reason(s).
Today, though, I awoke to sunshine again, got dressed for a breakfast date at the Post House on Main Street Newark. This place is cool -- it's a low counter in front of a grill and you sit in a line and watch your food be prepared while a cheerful redhead waitress refills your coffee over... and over... and over again. An old-style all-American diner at least a billion times more legit than Perkins (not hating, though, Perkins, I love you).
I want to share with you, though, the most beautiful mental snapshot of my life, taken at an intersection on the way to Newark. This is why I'm breaking my "only post every 5 days" rule. So savor it.
So I'm sitting at this intersection, sunroof open, Journey playing on the radio ("When the lights... go down... in the city... And the sun shines on... the ba-ay..."), a truck twice my height on either side. The one on my right is dark blue or so, with grey double wheel wells in the back, and thoroughly mud-splattered. I'm regarding the world with a general smile, but then I catch a glimpse in profile of the driver of this rugged truck.
He is rugged, too, and his colors match the truck: dirt-road jacket, you know that classic workman's kind -- everybody's dad has one. Dark blue cap, mud-splattered or at least not often washed. He was swarthy, his face showing the wear of an uncoddled lifetime, and short, tight grey curls filled out his head outside the cap.
But what really got my artist's heart beating was his hands. Everything the truck and his coat and his hat and his face was, they also were: rugged, the color of dirt, calloused, torn and reconstructed. Strong. Work-worn. His palms engulfed this small cup of Wawa coffee, his wrist bracing the base of the paper cup and his fingertips framing, tracing the lip of the cup. Like that 12-ounce cup of coffee was his space heater, his only source of warmth and comfort in the world, even in the streaming Sunday morning sunshine and even over the rumbling of the truck beneath his feet.
A real-life beautiful moment. Brought to you by the United States of America.
I'll make the rest of this quick, but I do just want to say that today was stunning, gorgeous, mind-blowing. I tasted scrapple for the first time and despite some mildly unsavory descriptions of what it actually is, I thought it was pretty tasty. Also french toast, which we all know I love. And good company.
We spent the next few hours walking around at the Newark Reservoir, which was absolutely unfrozen, and surrounded by a network of paths all gilt with fallen leaves. We got "lost," unsurprisingly, not that I was worried about it. Not that either of us was particularly worried about it. Mostly it was just gorgeous, and peaceful, and so so refreshing.
I do think that my eyeballs have been mildly sunburned this weekend, but I'm really not complaining.
I also walked barefoot. Outside. In January.
Wonderful.
I love Sundays.
Today, though, I awoke to sunshine again, got dressed for a breakfast date at the Post House on Main Street Newark. This place is cool -- it's a low counter in front of a grill and you sit in a line and watch your food be prepared while a cheerful redhead waitress refills your coffee over... and over... and over again. An old-style all-American diner at least a billion times more legit than Perkins (not hating, though, Perkins, I love you).
I want to share with you, though, the most beautiful mental snapshot of my life, taken at an intersection on the way to Newark. This is why I'm breaking my "only post every 5 days" rule. So savor it.
So I'm sitting at this intersection, sunroof open, Journey playing on the radio ("When the lights... go down... in the city... And the sun shines on... the ba-ay..."), a truck twice my height on either side. The one on my right is dark blue or so, with grey double wheel wells in the back, and thoroughly mud-splattered. I'm regarding the world with a general smile, but then I catch a glimpse in profile of the driver of this rugged truck.
He is rugged, too, and his colors match the truck: dirt-road jacket, you know that classic workman's kind -- everybody's dad has one. Dark blue cap, mud-splattered or at least not often washed. He was swarthy, his face showing the wear of an uncoddled lifetime, and short, tight grey curls filled out his head outside the cap.
But what really got my artist's heart beating was his hands. Everything the truck and his coat and his hat and his face was, they also were: rugged, the color of dirt, calloused, torn and reconstructed. Strong. Work-worn. His palms engulfed this small cup of Wawa coffee, his wrist bracing the base of the paper cup and his fingertips framing, tracing the lip of the cup. Like that 12-ounce cup of coffee was his space heater, his only source of warmth and comfort in the world, even in the streaming Sunday morning sunshine and even over the rumbling of the truck beneath his feet.
A real-life beautiful moment. Brought to you by the United States of America.
I'll make the rest of this quick, but I do just want to say that today was stunning, gorgeous, mind-blowing. I tasted scrapple for the first time and despite some mildly unsavory descriptions of what it actually is, I thought it was pretty tasty. Also french toast, which we all know I love. And good company.
We spent the next few hours walking around at the Newark Reservoir, which was absolutely unfrozen, and surrounded by a network of paths all gilt with fallen leaves. We got "lost," unsurprisingly, not that I was worried about it. Not that either of us was particularly worried about it. Mostly it was just gorgeous, and peaceful, and so so refreshing.
I do think that my eyeballs have been mildly sunburned this weekend, but I'm really not complaining.
I also walked barefoot. Outside. In January.
Wonderful.
I love Sundays.
I'm reading this now, a few weeks later, but it's a Sunday, too. I'm recalling some of the serenity. Though I am also remembering some of the reasons you dreaded them. Sundays were always, to me, the end of the weekend. Tomorrow, school would start and the next five days would take what seems like forever. Until only for a minute could we bask in the glory that is Saturday, before sliding begrudgingly again into another Sunday. And so the cycle continued.
ReplyDeleteBut I think here you are experiencing Sunday more like its the beginning of a week, instead of the end of a weekend. It's a chance to have your morning breakfast that should last you five more days because you never have so much time again. It's a chance to enjoy the coffee like it's your own personal space heater.
OH! "You are experiencing Sunday more like its the beginning of a week, instead of the end of a weekend. It's a chance to have your morning breakfast that should last you five more days because you never have so much time again."
DeleteBeautiful, insightful. Thanks for adding your words to mine.
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