Tag Archives: warmth

Contact

Contact: (v) to communicate with someone

Despair often follows the conclusion that something is either complicated or perhaps impossible.

Matter of fact, if you want to discourage another human being, just spend too much time explaining the difficulty of a simple task. They will funny wisdom on words that begin with a Cnot only avoid pursuing it, but will be grateful to you for helping them to avoid the bee hive.

To a major degree, that is what has happened over the past fifty years, as our sociologists have turned racial relations into trigonometry.

Forsaking the notion of the commonality of all mankind and the idea that additional contact would soon eliminate our predilection for looking on the outward appearance, these learned fellows and ladies have concluded that our species prefers to clump into heaps of mutual culture.

Once we establish that somebody is from a different culture than us, our job is to respect them–which we think means to avoid them.

A lack of contact forbids having a “contact high” when we get around a person who looks different, speaks uniquely and dresses to taste.

You suddenly realize that all cultures have families.

Every culture has a potato derivative.

Every culture has their own hamburger.

And indeed, every culture, when contacted, can offer the same warmth and gentleness of love.

 

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Coat

Coat: (n) an outer garment worn for warmth

Is it possible I was allergic? No–that’s not the word.

I certainly couldn’t stand to have a coat on until… well, very recently.

All through my teen years, my mother insisted I wear one to school, and I always removed it within ten feet from the door of our home, convinced, I think, that I would break out in a rash if I continued to wear it.

I don’t know whether it was a case of macho, or whether there was a part of me that believed that only wimps and Mama’s boys wore such outer protection.

In the winter months in Ohio, I went with short sleeves.

I once found a sweater I liked for a while–but then my older brother claimed it as his own and I never saw it again.

There was something powerful about remaining chilly. Even as a man, in the wintertime I would find a sunshiny day and play tennis in shorts and a tank top.

I always loved the question, “Aren’t you cold?”

Hell, no. I’m hot, Mama.

I guess that was the thing. I suppose I was trying to communicate to the females around me that I was a furnace. A blazing fire of love.

Or maybe it wasn’t that at all.

Maybe I hated the confinement. Because I was chubby, coats always fit me like a straight jacket–especially if I zipped them up. They were so tight I felt the garment was holding my organs in.

But of late I have changed my mind. The feeling of warmth coming on your skin, suddenly protecting it from chill and frost–it’s very comforting.

I enjoy it.

But, while wearing a coat, I still feel like Wimpy Boy Billy.

 

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