Sorry Duncan, Boogey On Down Betty

Measuring time is a sick addiction. Many of my clocks are tuned to the single atomic clock that is averaged out and corrected thousands of times a day. Still, the people that love me the most know that “ish” has to be added to most any appointed hour. They also know that when I am with them I am WITH THEM.

I do have one clock from which I have removed the second and minute hand. Maybe the hour hand is next.

Night and day seem to mark time nicely. Light and dark. Very natural.

I can get away with saying any and all of this because today is my 61st birthday. It's not that I am shy about expressing myself at any time, but marking another year is the time for generalized reflection.

My hands were steady enough to produce some dandy lettering work this week. My client was happy. It is always gratifying to think that am able to do what I love to do and that I get paid to do it.

Tomorrow I get to travel to the beach to do a wedding. That's decent work too.

Never in my younger days did I imagine this life for myself.
I also never imagined having a birthday without a Mom-made Boston crème pie.

Yep. Home-made just isn't the deal. My Mom is the real issue. Her death 8 years ago brought to an end the saga of the oddity of my birthday treat.

Once upon a time in the mountains of Virginia I happened to eat a bite of heaven. My only request for BIRTHDAY CAKE after that was Boston crème pie. That tradition lasted till I left the mountains.

Mom did make the occasional pie when I visited, but it was not birthday Boston crème pie, but it was heaven.She made the whole thing from scratch and love. Duncan, Betsy and all the other imitators just couldn't “measure” up.

You had it Mom, you always will – maybe you'll have a slice of heaven waiting for me there.

I'll get that birthday hug too. Your sweetness and the sharp, starched apron.

Then, no clocks, only FOREVER: Boston crème pie and everyone and everything Precious.


© Tim www.timjohnsonphoto.com