Gray weather feels a lot like taking a field trip to Hell. I don’t like overcast days. Whenever the sky gets like this, I sit by a windowsill and entertain the idea of composing Russian poetry.
I love the sun. I need the sun. When it disappears, I start to miss the sun in much the same way I would miss trees, grass, or ice cream, if those things were to vanish behind clouds.
I wouldn’t want to lose those things. Just like I wouldn’t want to lose muddy creeks and rivers, or large mouth bass. Or sausages from Conecuh County, biscuits made by hand, macaroni and cheese, and barbecued ribs.
As it happens, I hold a longstanding county-fair record for eating the most consecutive ribs without being admitted into the ER. I’ll show you my trophy sometime - if ever these godawful clouds go away.
I wouldn’t want to lose kids, either. If clouds covered all the kids up in the world, I’d miss them.
Especially babies. Fat ones that wiggle when they laugh in your arms, flexing their little stomachs as they cackle, their plastic Huggies getting heavier with each laugh.
I love children. They remind me of who I truly am inside. I am not an adult. Not really. I am really just a tall kid with a mortgage. All attempts to appear otherwise are fruitless.
And since I’m giving big fat opinions, here’s another: I wish pop-singers would quit dressing like giant marital aids. Don’t they know kids watch them on television? Don’t they know there’s more to music than The Carnal Urge? Do they even know what real music is?
Consequently, why is crappy music so popular? Why are pop artists with the collective IQ of room-temperature mayonnaise famous?
I realize this is not a new problem. Idiocy has always been in fashion. Each generation in history had pop-stars and musicians which drive that generation’s parents completely bat-excrement crazy.
But frankly, I think we all owe Elvis an apology. He might have shaken his pelvis on national TV, but at least he didn’t take it out and show it to anybody.
You want to know what real music is? I’ll tell you. Go visit a classroom full of 5-year-olds singing, “Zacchaeus Was A Wee Little Man.” Or: “This Little Light Of Mine.” You’ll hear all the real music you can stand.
I’ve never smiled as big as I did when I taught Sunday school, watching 24 kids shatter lightbulbs using only voices.
Although my class rarely completed any actual lesson-work because students kept raising hands and expressing a violent need to use the bathroom inasmuch as their parents evidently fed them a steady diet of prunes and Raisin Bran.
We used to sing like them, you and I.
I’m glad we were children once, before the gray clouds of adulthood came. Because in those days, we were naive enough to be singers, finger-painters, and storytellers.
We had small vocabularies, yes. But we knew all the important words. And we weren’t too proud to say them, the way adults are.
“I love you, Mom.” “Thank you.” “I need help.” “Will you hold me?” “I’m scared.”
Sometimes I wish we had small hands and stinky feet again. I wish we were curious, easily excitable, and too distracted to be sad.
I wish we all laughed so hard we were in danger of public urination. I wish we all hugged more than we do now. I wish we could find a way to be children again.
But most of all, I wish these clouds would go away and the sun would come out.
Sean Dietrich is a columnist and novelist known for his commentary on life in the American South. He has authored nine books and is the creator of the “Sean of the South” blog and podcast.
The views and opinions expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the policy or position of 1819 News. To comment, please send an email with your name and contact information to Commentary@1819News.com.
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