He awakened to the familiar discadent drum section warmup. A Fall overnight thunderstorm was his alarm, and he laid there for a few extra moments, listening, sensing, absorbing.
The Columbian Supremo he’d prepared the night before was ready. So was he.
As he poured the fresh, steaming java into his big white Perkatory mug, he glanced around his basement family room. The fireplace drew immediate attention, for he’d fixed a small fire, and had a log burning there, it’s pleasant light making soft shadows weave into their happy dance of morning welcome.
This morning, he’d chosen some light classical music softly playing in the background. Telemann. Verdi. His eyes retreated into middle distance as he grinned at some friends who’d frown at it.
“I thought you liked smooth, soft jazz. You’re forever writing about it, and whenever I come over, that’s usually what you have playing in here.”
There were a few other close friends who understood his eclectic musical tastes . . .
He then sat, embracing the pleasant solitude, sipping coffee with each thought, occasionally jotting notes to himself.
He was dressed in what he jokingly called ‘lounge lizards’ – actually Adidas activewear. Comfort being his object, he had begun his day as was his habit. Slanting his eyes over at the Bibles on the loveseat, he wryly grinned at the three separate translations laying there, two of them open.
Granger often lost himself in his reading.
Finished with that morning’s bit of social media encouragement to someone, maybe several someones, whom he may never know, he refilled his mug. He scanned the morning’s inbox for anything perhaps requiring his attention.
1813 -Battle of Thames in Canada; Americans defeat British . . .
1978 – Over 30 nations ratify the Environmental Modification Convention which prohibits weather warfare that has— (Great, more of that drek…)
Townhall Daily – “Biden makes one thing clear—” (That’ll be the day…)
Granger quickly shuffled all surrounding him into some semblance of disorderly order. He’d foregone the normal first-thing shower, and it was time. By the time he dressed and was presentable for the normal Saturday morning breakfast at Jimmie’s Diner, he knew there’d be plenty of Facebook chat, some of which would require some thoughtful response.
And respond he would.
He knew such literary activity was part of why God had restored him to life. He knew he’d always generate deep satisfaction from such online interaction. He knew his coffee had become tepidly undrinkable.
Shower. Fresh refill. Jimmie’s. Nope; Better? Not.
© Copyright D. Dean Boone, October 2019