Slow-churned

The Next Village
My grandfather used to say: "Life is astonishingly short. Now, in my memory, it is so compressed that I can hardly understand, for example, how a young person can decide to ride to the next village without being afraid that--apart from accidents--even the time allotted to a normal, happy life is far too short for such a journey."
--Franz Kafka

"It's too far."
My niece drones the blues with a voice sweetly trained by Christian pop sing-alongs.
"It's too far."
Naturally, as we begin a half-mile trip to the North Hollywood Diner, it was she who had suggested we walk somewhere to eat. "I'm tired of sitting in the car," she had said.

Dewy and lake cooled summers in northern Michigan stayed light past ten, and the wood of Grandpa's Victorian cottage mumbled softly through the night. The ritual morning walk brought sociability and contemplation. Between introducing a fidgety grandson to neighbors, Grandpa would mimic bird songs, recite poetry and quiz me on the names of trees. The sound of White Ash samaras crackled under rubber soles.

A retired Presbyterian minister, Grandpa never stopped teaching the sacredness of presence. In contrast to the stuff-fest practiced after fry-thru purchases--made perfect in world competitive eating--he admonished me to take time with my food. Later, he capped his fried chicken and string beans with a glass of buttermilk.

After half a bean and cheese burrito and an invitation to bake a brown sugar birthday cake, sobbing red face becomes cherub grin. "We're already there?!", she exclaims as we step through the courtyard gate to my apartment. "I can't believe we're already there!"