As I write, I’m under a constant barrage of thoughts and ideas. This is much more a boon than a bane, giving me a plethora of notions to choose from for the short story, novel or whatever I happen to be penning at the time.
Occasionally, I’ll be blessed with a scenario, given to me for my comfort and enjoyment. I’d like to share with you the latest.
I’m just a little fella, not much more than a toddler, toddling down a dirt road. I’m barefoot, wearing khaki pants rolled up to my ankles. A tee shirt completes my ensemble. I am seen from the back moving as fast as my little legs will carry me. Laughter can be heard, cheerfully flowing from my mouth as I enjoy this romp down the dirt road.
My run comes to an abrupt halt with my feet tripping over one another sending me to the ground, a startled expression crossing my face.
Two hands reach down, pick me up and set me back on my feet. Once I see my benefactor, I squeal for joy. My Father God brushes the dirt from the front of my clothes, turns me around and does the same on my back. He kisses the top of my head, points me in the direction he wants me to go, and then lovingly pats my bottom, sending me on my way.
He watches over me through my entire life, picking me up, dusting me off and offering his guidance. I grow to know his son during my travels and experience a more abundant life until the dirt road ends. It’s then I begin to enjoy an unbelievable retirement plan.
The strange thing about vacations is packing up a vehicle with all your stuff and driving many miles in order to take it to another place. The normal time period you will reside at this other place is a week. Considering you left on a Saturday, this means you will not return home until the following Saturday. More than likely, you have rented a house or condo and will be cooking all your meals. If you’re at the beach, you’ll swim, lay in the sun and possibly fish. After your seven days are up, you will re-pack all your stuff and drive many miles on the return voyage home. When you reach your abode, once again you will unpack your stuff and place it where it resides fifty-one weeks out of the year.
I bring this vacation scenario up because my assistant is taking one of these rituals this entire week. No matter how I have pleaded and cried for her to stay, she will have none of it. She is determined to take time off with her husband and leave me without a typist. What gives her the right to help me fifty-one weeks out of the year, and leave me to my own devices on the fifty-second? . . . Ahh, anyone that can put up with me for as long as she has, deserves a week away, but I am gonna miss her.