And so, as I approach yet another birthday and yet another Thanksgiving, some thoughts on life, death and irony.
I was born in Lawrence, Kansas, U.S.A., November 21, 1947. Since that time I have lived much of my overly long life in places other than Lawrence, other than Kansas, and other than the U.S.A. I am a reformed meat eater, aka as a vegetarian, and have been for maybe 30 years now. That aside, whenever I am in Lawrence (about 20 miles from my home here in Topeka), I am extremely careful where I walk and how I drive, especially at this momentous time of year (I was in Lawrence last week and was very, very chary). Of the bazillion places to die, Lawrence is the last place on earth I want that dreaded event to happen. A reoccurring nightmare of mine is this inscription on my tombstone: Born in Lawrence, November 21, 1947; died in Lawrence, November 20, 2047.
"Poor soul," viewers shake their heads in pity as they look down. "To live his entire life in one place without ever leaving. He must have been one miserable mole! Or maybe he was bedridden, or maybe a hermit with 50 cats in his shack!"
My worst fear? To be run over and flat-lined by a meat delivery truck while I am walking across a "Wendy's" parking lot in Lawrence, Kansas, one day short of my hundredth birthday. That, to me, would be the irony from hell.
Future Car of the Day