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For the Love of Joy This is the story of a love time-tested.
I cannot tell you the exact date of its birth. The year, however…yes. It was 1987.
This love has weathered much. It has outlasted ignorance and
ineptitude. It has had filth flung at it. It has survived drunken parties. Changing tastes and many, many mistakes. Crayons
and other commentary. Flings and forays into other sheets. Always, it has welcomed the prodigal back.
It has embraced the enthusiasm and innocence of youth. It has
educated gently. It has smiled good-naturedly on ambition. It has quietly prompted curiosity and bravery and borne disgust
with patience.
Age has not withered its strength, but the years have yellowed its teeth and broken its back — in multiple places. Its wisdom has been mined, exploited, celebrated, pooh-poohed
and tossed aside. And its ever-ready help gratefully gulped down in disasters and emergencies.
Even now this old love sits patiently, and dog-eared
in the corner, waiting. Thinking that perhaps, rumaki will some day be in vogue again.
Which it is. A little while ago, the next generation stepped forward to take its place. Fresh, clean,
pure, strong and beautiful.
We looked and admired. It is very lovely and well put-together. However… It doesn’t have the squirrel drawing on page 515. It doesn’t
have the purple crayon over Chicken Cacciatore on 427. It doesn’t know that hors d’oeuvre
is already plural.
And so…my love remains in place. |
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It has accepted change and the passing of years gracefully. Its wrinkles
and lines are badges of honor and marks of familial belonging.
