This morning I am like a little boy at the dinner table, staring down at a plate of untouched food.  Nothing looks good.  I poke it with my fork, hoping time will somehow come to my rescue.  Everything has grown cold, except for my parents, who only eat faster and grow more angry by the minute.  The air over the table is tense and electric.  Something is about to give if I don’t get down to business.  Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I know that the lightning is not far behind.  I have never won this fight.  I know this.  But I sit there still, not looking up.

This morning I sit at my desk, once again afraid to move.  No, not afraid.  Just not wanting to.  Wanting anything except the meal that’s been placed in front of me.

My plate is my life.  Work is my meal.  Writing my desert.

Without even having to take a poll, it seems that at least half of Word Shadows readers feel a dog is just the thing I need to scarf up left-over pizza crusts.  Sounds good!  I’m almost persuaded except for that one teeny tiny problem with this unofficial non-taken poll - 50% readership means Katy and Daisy.  I would have a hard time breaking my newly signed lease agreement (I moved only last month) because two women I don’t know thought it was a good idea.  For crying out loud, one loves pink and the other tortures her husband, although in a loving and caring fashion.  And always with the best of intentions.

But I’ve made bigger decisions in life based on shakier grounds.  Once I bought a new truck even though I didn’t have a job.  It seemed like such a good way to get rid of three junker cars.  Such a deal!  I thought I was coming out on top, which, of course, I wasn’t.  One is seldom on top in a car dealership.  Young and naive, my will power weakened by the highly waxed shine and new-car smell, I hadn’t yet figured out that salesmen bend boys like me over their desks several times a day.  I signed my name and walked away smiling.  Sure I was sore, but I just thought the problem was with the seats.  They just need to be broken in I thought.

There once was a real, live hermit in the family.  I never met him.  He was my grandpa’s brother, and lived in a small, one-room cabin somewhere in the middle of a Minnesota woods.  He died, I think, before I was born.  I was led to the cabin once, but could only see it from across a partially frozen pond.  It called to me like an empty place in need of company.

If I ever get a graphics tablet and pen, I will return to that cabin for the remainder of my days - provided hermits are allowed electricity.  And internet access.  And hot water.  And their children.

Everything is easier these days - even being a hermit.  I even believe long, dirty beards are no longer a requirement.