A Maybe Farewell to a Morning Pleasure

As I finish my coffee and turn the pages of the newspaper on the table it struck me that maybe the days of this morning ritual may be numbered. There is no doubt that the paper has fewer pages than in the past. Sections have been combined. Alongside a movie review there is a recipe for meat loaf and next to it a comparison of mats for yoga.There are fewer full page ads for anything from women's clothing to home furnishings. And the daily classified ads are reduced to a paltry four pages attached to the sports section. There is also news that another east coast newspaper had filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy. For a moment I almost have a panic attack.

But the more I thought of it, the more I considered that it was just another human endeavor that is headed for eventual extinction like the tintypes of old. First television news, then the computer began conspiring, with their ten second spots and blogs, to eliminate my daily routine of going out, regardless of the weather, to retrieve the paper and then returning to spend the next hour or so leafing through it on the kitchen table to catch up on what happened in the world at large overnight.

It is not likely that I will ever develop the same cozy relationship with my computer that I have with my morning paper. For one thing it does not rustle and also there is no odor of fresh ink. And if I should spill coffee or smear butter from my toast on my newspaper, I do not have to worry about what electronics I just short circuited.

Anyone for IKEA?

Admittedly I am well past the age of dreaming of furnishing a house, but I like to wander through the exhibit rooms and admire all the accoutrements that might have made my daily life better organized. If IKEA had been around some thirty five years ago, my late wife would have turned our home into a shrine to IKEA.

It’s not so much that I have a thing for home furnishings, it is just somehow reassuring to watch the young couples roaming the exhibits, she with a tape measure and a list and he pushing a cart half full Swedish labeled boxes maybe with a toddler or two in tow. It gives me a sense that the world is not coming to an end soon when these young people are still looking to build their lives regardless of the turmoil in the world at large. Those problems fade as they try to decide between the color and design of a living room settee or a bedroom suite.

But the fun doesn’t end there. Take a stroll through the market place area with its bins chock full of mysterious boxes with Swedish labels which are impossible to decode. Kitchen ware, lamps of all sizes and shapes, linens and towels, and closet fixtures fill the aisles on the way to check out. There must be something there that you cannot live without.

And did I mention the food? The chief attractions are Swedish meatballs and a wondrous assortment of Swedish torts and cakes. These are not only delicious but inexpensive. I have read that IKEA in Germany is a prime dining location, maybe not so in epicurean Dallas, but certainly worth a try.

But that is not the end. Exiting the store there is the aroma of fresh cinnamon buns filling the air. Huge cinnamon buns oozing with icing are just waiting to go home with you. What better way to end the day.

The Western Flyer

Every time I passed the Western Auto store on the way home from school, I would stop and look in the window. There it was, a shiny sky blue Western Flyer with a red lightning streak on the crossbar. It had balloon tires, fenders, a back fender rack, a kick stand, and best of all a huge suspension spring above the front wheel that would supposedly smooth out all the ruts in the road. Without doubt it was the most beautiful bicycle in the whole universe. I could see myself pedaling like the wind down the street and jumping curbs with abandon with the rest of my friends.

But things had not gone well with my parent’s jobs that year. Mom worked in Chinese owned
department store and made just a little over minimum wage. Dad’s job with a caterer had been slow and he had been taking fill in jobs in local restaurants as he could find them. So I just knew in my heart that I and that Western Flyer would never be together on the streets of Pasadena.

Christmas morning I woke up early. Mom had told me the night before not to come out of my room until she called. I could hear rustling and the front door opening and closing. The suspense was excruciating.
Finally Mom called and I rushed into the living room and there was the Western Flyer with a huge red ribbon tied on the handle bars. I thought my heart would jump out of my chest as I hugged my mom and climbed onto the saddle.

There have been many Christmases since then but never one so fondly remembered. Many years passed before I came to understand what it took for my parents to give me that bicycle.