Saturday, December 14, 2024
When I was younger, my grandmother loved her soap operas. She called them her “stories.” Isn’t everything a story though? On my morning walk, I see many characters. The first is Chris the homeless man. He always greets me with a jazzy sounding, “Mornaaan!” Then there is Barney Fife (the name I’ve given him), the patrolman who rides on the riverwalk in his fancy gas-powered golf cart.
Then there is Donna the cat lady. She feeds the feral cats by the Marriot. Often I see Pete the paddle boarder. That’s not his name, but Donna and Chris I’ve introduced myself to. Pete looks like a Greek god. One day I called out to him on the river and asked him his age. He’s 56 – wow. Then there is Michelangelo, the shirtless runner. I’d never ask him his name – he looks like he can’t be bothered! He’s 8 feet tall, gorgeous, and looks like Michelangelo’s David.
There are also lots of new faces. The sky gives me a new face everyday. It’s always putting on a show. I know these are real people, but it all seems like a put on. We don’t really know people. We just make up stories. Everybody seems to have one, and everybody seems to be telling them. You’re part of other people’s stories. Everyone has “those” associates – pitiful Pam, grumpy Gus, Debbie downer, and negative Nancy. But I wonder, do all of these stories make these people who they are? I’d hate to think someone is making up a story about me, but I’m sure I’ve been a story, a butt of a joke, and the bane of someone’s existence!
Everything seems story-like. Perhaps I better start telling myself better stories. After all, everyone is just a character, might as well enjoy watching my stories.