- The sign on the door read ‘No Guns Allowed’ there was some legal mumbo jumbo below the bolded letters and the red circle with a line through it covering a firearm. Their choice to exclude guns was pursuant to one law or another. I thought about it, wondering if I cared very much. Turns out I don’t. I thought I would. In fact, I was certain for some time about not wanting guns in the classroom. Laws have been proposed and battled over for years in regards to guns in the classroom at all age levels. Why Kindergarten teachers would need guns is beyond me, unless you believe Sandy Hook happened (which I happen to believe and wonder why a vocal minority do not). Even then, we are talking about a relatively invisible percentage of situations in which guns would be needed in a school or a restaurant or anywhere, really. Unless you’re looking for trouble…
- Inside people were bustling about. The workers moved speedily from table to table, trying to get their customers fed and processed out with as much haste as was allowable in a sit down establishment that didn’t have a giant gold M out front. It made me think of pace, which reminded me of the football championship I’d botched the day before. It wasn’t a thought I really wanted, so I settled down to watch everyone for a while, breathing in the atmosphere and energy of the place. The people were Sunday relaxed and I tried to imagine what their lives were like. They were couples and families, grandpas and grandchildren. They were almost all white, save for the one Asian woman with the white husband. Everyone seemed happy and, though not familiar with each other, they seemed communal.
- The busboy shucking coffee was rather effeminate. I’d noticed him earlier because of his makeup and was curious, not about his orientation but the reactions towards him. The more I watched, the more I recognized that there really weren’t any reactions, as if the people eating simply didn’t care or take offense. I smiled inside.
- I’m not a small town guy. I feel like the stigma of such things creates such an expectation that a small town is nothing I’d ever want to be associated with. The fact is, however, I live in a small town and I do small town things. I’m a local coach. I spend Sunday morning in the café with all the other locals. I talk to my neighbors. The more time I spend here the more I wonder if this is the existence I am meant for or if it is simply a rest stop along the way of my journey towards… whatever. I don’t have any answers but I do recognize that the white picket fence is starting to chafe and I haven’t a clue what to do about it.
Some Thoughts:
- I find the title funny. Just me. Get with it.