The good life and a mother¬â„s dead baby.

CWMother with dead baby.jpg
We split the check, Raymond and I.
Around two–hundred dollars each¢â‚¬¦a rare extravagence
Foie gras.
Calamari.
Dungeness crab salad or a Caesar.
Kobe Beef.
Pork Loin
And the best potatoes I ever tasted.
We drank a fine red wine, the wine steward’s choice. (Two bottles among the four of us.)
Pecan cake and assorted desserts.
All of it tasted real fine and I waxed eloquent about calibrating our daily will to God’s.

The waitress was an English major at the U who wanted to be a writer, but now just wants to have fun for a few years, maybe five.

At an adjacent table I saw a T-SHIRT THAT SAID, “ART AND MUSIC SAVES ME” WITH A CIRCLE AND A CROSS IN THE MIDDLE OF IT. I went to the table (forgive me for being rude), and asked, “What does this T-shirt mean to you?” (MY wife said I was being like Nigel). He got it in 1999 at Bumbershoot and his companion said he washes it and folds it very carefully and wears it a lot. He is a welder and likes welding, but comes from an artistic family and he was an English major and a “damn good writer”¢â‚¬¦he wants to write and his T-shirt betrays the writers heart in the welder’s body.

Did I mention that my mother died last week? When I got home I entered the phrase “my mother died” in Google. Weird, but it is what I did. (She is on my mind.) Google coughed up this picture of an elegant, long-necked, looks like an Ethiopian, woman carrying her dead baby.

This baby never got to choose between being a welder and a writer and this mother will never eat a meal or drink the wine or salivate over foie gras. This mother carries her dead child. Where?

If a butterfly flapping its wings in Texas affects the weather patterns in Asia, does my conspicuous consumption in Seattle affect a dead child and sorrowing mother in Ethiopia?

Yours for the pursuit of God in the company of friends, Dick Staub.

PS. And remember, “these are the best of times and the worst of times, but they are the only times we have.” (For Now).

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