Father's Day and Camels

I get up Sunday mornings, make the coffee, usually before any of the others even think about getting up. OK, truthfully. excluding the dogs, I am always the first one up in the morning. Some of the residents of this house sleep in waterbeds to help with their chances of survival in the unlikely event of a wildfire. I’m sorry, I made that up. We don’t have any waterbeds in this house. However, I do insist everyone take a glass of water to bed. One can never be too careful.

Where was I? Oh yeah, I make the coffee. Next, I sit in my favorite chair and plan the story I am going to write. When I say my favorite chair, it’s really nothing special. It is just a chair at the end of the dining room table that I have always sat on. I’m not sure that chair was picked by me or assigned to me. It happened a long time ago, and frankly, I don’t remember and it doesn’t matter.

I did have a favorite chair. It was a great leather recliner that I sold at a garage sale before we moved to our mountain home. I sold it for twenty-five dollars. God, I loved that chair. When I say, I sold it for twenty-five dollars, I might be stretching the truth a little. I sold the chair to a guy I knew, a friend. He paid with a check. Well, he didn’t actually pay with a check, he gave me a check. God, I loved that chair. Is it bad karma to hope that the spot where my rear end fit perfectly in that chair never quite fit his rear end?

Now, instead of reclining in a soft leather recliner, I sit at the end of the dining room table, surrounded by spinning wheels, looms, plants, and a couch that always has at least one dog licking the armrest. God, I loved that chair. I dream of being able to tell someone, “Hey, get out of my chair!” Without hearing, “Cool it, Archie, there are three more just like it, pick another one.” Did that go over everyone’s head?

Oh yeah, I was picking a story. Usually, I try to pick a story about some current event goings-on in the store. You know like Cascade 220 has a new color, or Elaine will be attending The Taos Wool Market and a show in Salida, Colorado, (which she is). Sometimes I write about construction. Sometimes the story writes itself, just because of what’s on the calendar.

This Sunday the calendar tells me is Father’s Day. I’m going to write about that.