The only reason I am risking writing this on the blog for anyone to see, who knows, anyway, maybe there are only 5 of you reading this stuff and all of you old friends, this is a run-on-sentence isn’t it?, is because the web-master is a super-redeemed eccentric as everyone knows who actually has visited him, and whose wife told me that one reason she married him is because she thought it would be fun! In any case, I know he will love this account of my redeemed, maybe or maybe not?, eccentric morning and he, the web-master, Jim Ridley, will especially love illustrating it.
“Heh, sweetie, if we are losing it anyway, maybe we should lose it together, if, after your visit, you decide to move in with me.” (I live in Connecticut and she lives in Berkeley, CA).
“If you were slated to move into a hotel for 100 years, wouldn’t you want to check out the accommodations beforehand? So, don’t you want to buy this book so you can know about Purgatory, where you likely will be for 1,000 years?”
For the next episode of redeemed eccentricity you need to have the back story. Some of you who have known me from way back know all about this. If so, just skip to the next paragraph. About 7 years ago, when I was living in Morganton, N.C., I started worrying about ENSURE. This is because I always worry way ahead, and was remembering the look and the taste of one sample spoonful, when my mother was slowly dying of old age, 15 years ago. Since I have upper dentures already and only 7 hold out bottom teeth, ENSURE is not such an unrealistic possibility.
Last summer, visiting my daughter in California, I happened to notice that the 1890 grinder had turned from fake silver to dark brown from rust. It occurred to me it might not be that healthy! Duh? But where do you find an 1890 grinder that isn’t an expensive antique? I decided to drop this hobby, especially since I was planning to live most of the time at the Seminary where I have a tiny bathroom sink so that it is hard to fit a contemporary food processor for washing.
So, now picture the old crone. (A spiritual director said I shouldn’t use this term any more. After all, crones are not a little demonic. But I love the names old hag and old crone because self-deprecation is one of my favorite past-times). Here I am in my little cell at an old wooden desk (I don’t have a cutting board) mashing up 3 days of left-overs into 3 bowls with Brahm’s Double Concerto as background music.
The money I will save on canned and bottled snacks for breakfast and lunch because of eating instead Vietnamese Garbage Soup, I can send to the starving in Calcutta.
Is that redeemed eccentricity? I think so. If you don’t, google Cromwell, Connecticut to find the number for the paddy wagon!