Notes on Life
I suppose everyone has some thoughts on life and how they’ve lived it. Writing them down seems not the least bit immodest.
My stepson and I did not have much in common. He was a tall, forty-something kid. Good looking to the point of classically handsome. He was genetically kind with a genetic heart problem that, along with the resultant vulnerabilities, ended his life too soon. The testimonies of his friends revealed a gentle-man who never criticized from anger and whose consideration for others overrode almost everything but his commitment to doing what he thought important, well.
I can’t honestly say that I’m the complete opposite of Bill, but I have a long way to go to be even comparable. And we did share a couple of points of contact. We were both aspiring writers. He a screenwriter and me, novels. His mother and I are still pealing away the layers of his one movie, looking for the kid who wrote, directed and acted in it. But probably our most passionate point of contact was that he and I both love oatmeal cookies.
His candidate for world’s best was the Subway recipe. I had to agree that it was a contender but I like the crispier types better. In the last few years of his life, oatmeal cookies and writing made for consistently great conversation. I thought of him this morning as I spread a little peanut butter on a local cookie. I think he would have liked it.