Someone once told me that a person changes every five years, that you become a different person.
I’m not sure why that crossed my mind, but I do know that lately I am not pushing aside the steamed broccoli the blonde has placed on the table. Truth is, I’m enjoying it.
What struck me is that just a few years ago I would have gone into at least a seven-hour sulk if I had even found asparagus in the refrigerator. Now I actually like the stuff ... heavily buttered, of course.
I also have come to like (if not love) the grilled asparagus she occasionally puts on the table.
Then I thought about a couple of other stages in my life.
One is a story I may have told you before, one that dates to the years of World War II, about a small house in Blue Mountain, and a very nice lady who took my bedroom for a month or so.
She was from Seattle, came here to be with her husband (at Ft. McClellan) who was on his way to Europe. She was a beautiful woman. (I was 10 or 12 at the time and had already discovered “beauty.”)
Anyway, she drank hot tea and iced coffee. I thought she was a bit weird ... never heard of such “down here.”
Now, when we eat at the House of Chen, first order is a pot of hot tea with those dainty little cups. I also frequently brew up hot tea at the house.
Yep, I’m changing.
And that’s when the crossed wires in my brain sparked.
“Am I becoming an elitist?”
There are (I think) some signs and I’m getting a little jumpy at the thought.
Signs apart from the hot tea and broccoli?
For years the only artists I have understood are Grandma Moses, Norman Rockwell, and my fellow first-graders whose crayon etchings were posted on the wall by the teacher.
I also like to look at The Mona Lisa by Leonardo da Vinci and Blue Boy by Thomas Gainesborough. Everybody likes to look at mysterious beauty (Mona) and love little boys all dressed up for church (Blue Boy). But I have to admit I had to look up the names of each artist in writing this little essay.
Anyway, I now have this urge to head for New York City and stand in front of a 10-million-dollar canvas of circles, lines, yips, zigs and zags and try to see what the elitist art world sees.
‘Course there’s the blonde’s Visa to pay so I’ll have to put that off for awhile.
But I’ll give you one more little clue that I may be headed for the paved road instead of the dirt. I still love my sausage ‘n egg biscuit and pancakes floating in butter and maple syrup, but I have also become attached to those little cups of (gasp) yogurt the blonde keeps in the fridge.
‘Course the smile I get when she walks in and I’m not stuffing grease (still my favorite flavor) in my mouth may be the main reason. A smile from your love is a powerful motive to please.
Then I thought of something else.
The late George Wallace (for whom I never voted) once referred to some people up North as “elitist pinheads.”
Pinhead: a very dull or stupid person: fool. — Merriam-Webster
So, I’ve got a problem here. Should I really become an elitist and go around thinking all others are pinheads?
With that said, I am putting aside thoughts of chartering a Lear Jet, flying off to New York, and becoming an art critic ... and an elitist.
The elitists up there would consider me a pinhead and I don’t think I could handle that.
So what is the message here this morning?
None, really, but an excuse is one I have used several times before.
It was sundown Saturday when a certain elitist pinhead’s light came on ... albeit a bit dim.
George Smith can be reached at 256-239-5286 or email: email@example.com