Stories

We sat in my grandpa’s garage and talked. It was a horrible event -- my grandpa’s funeral. He’d held family dinners in that garage. There were so many people that they wouldn’t fit in the house, so he set up tables out where he usually parked the cars, where he fixed musical instruments and where he kept his golf clubs. He wanted all the family together all the time. And he held the family together, even toward the end when family was splitting apart (sometimes by distance and sometimes by resistance). In his death, Grandpa brought us all back. And in his garage after the celebration of his life, we had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no smart phones to steal each other’s attention ... We told stories about him, about our pasts, about anything. And we did it for hours. That’s everything to me. What’s everything to you?

Why are we here?

What’s life all about? What does it mean? Why are we here? WHY ARE WE HERE? Sometimes cookies and milk or a piece of lasagna says it all. That’s everything to me. What’s everything to you?

Not understanding movies is understandable

I watched a movie. Had absolutely no idea what it was about. No idea. I went online to see what others had to say about it, to see if they understood the film and if they could explain it. Even then, these huge stretches didn’t connect with me. I asked a friend what I was missing. He didn’t get the movie either. Not at all. Not one bit at all... Ah, assurance! That’s everything to me. What’s everything to you?