Like the Coal Bin.

My observations here lately seem to be going stale.  Worn-out.  Banal.   Musty.

That is a good word… Musty.

Musty is a funny thing.  It is the smell of the long ago.  The stagnant.  The unmoving.

Growing up, we had a two story house, with an attic and a basement. There was an old octopus-furnace in the cement-walled-unfinshed-basement.  But.  There were also and two spooky rooms.  The coal bin and the fruit cellar.  Neither one of those rooms contained their namesakes. The coal bin had not a piece of coal, and there was not one single blueberry in that fruit cellar.  Nary one.

Yet, those two rooms smelled musty.  They were always closed off and locked from the main part of the basement.  They had the kind of latches for padlocks, but instead, Dad wedged a screwdriver in them, to keep the doors from being opened from the other side.  The entire scenario scared me.  Like… who was Dad trying to keep from coming into our main basement.  I could never see anyone in those rooms.  Surely he knew something I did not.

The walls were unfinished and crumbly stony-like.  Maybe it was the dampness in the walls which made it smell dank and airless.    Must.  Maybe the locks were to keep the must out.  That hint of the stagnant.  The stale.

We have parts of our lives which can be stale and unmoving.

That’s how my writing here has been feeling. Pretty dang stale.  I can only say, stay out of the fruit cellar and you won’t smell the must.

On the other hand.  Today had its fresh spots.  And those times seem just like beautiful new. Like… Poached Eggs and Oatmeal Fresh!  Or….

I had the good fortune to see a few people I really care about and love. I am thankful for that.  There are people in my life who are aces to the core.  Golden.  You can just tell it from the moment you meet them.  And, once you get to  know them, you are constantly reminded of their very-niceness.

I spent some time with a good friend, who is also an incredible healer.  A massage therapist, too.  It was great to see her, I’ll tell you.

And tonight, we had dinner with our favorite grand daughter.  She is golden too.

Yes, on any given day we may encounter the things which are stiff and musty.  Or we may find times which are vibrant and full of life.

Either way.  Stale or Fresh.   We are all in it together.



I have always been delighted at the prospect of a new day, a fresh try, one more start, with perhaps a bit of magic waiting somewhere behind the morning. — J. B. Priestley