11.27.06 Clouds

I’ve read a few books on writing, a few more blogs by writers, and they all mention becoming a better writer by forcing yourself to write every day.  I do that.  But I’ve run out of things to say. When that’s the case, the experts recommend, we should go back in time to one moment in our life, maybe something seemingly mundane or ordinary, and write about it in detail.  We’re supposed to try not to make sense of it, try not to perfect it or make a point.  Just write about that moment.  That’s harder than that it seems for a guy like me who’s made a living and a life of making sense and making points.  Here’s today’s attempt.  Your turn…

A thick-throated round man in a brown suit belted out a closing song.  After the final firmata’s release, the Wurlitzer and piano played us out of the sanctuary and into the lobby of the small country church.  It was then that my search for the Candy Man began - a wrinkled deacon with shiny crisp palms always dispensing butterscotches and peppermints to any child brave enough to give him five.

I was such a kid.

He held my hand for what was probably a full minute, an eternity, asking what I’d learned in Sunday School and reminding me to be nice to my sister.  The smell of coffee was thick on his closely spoken words.

This was church.

I was driven there every Sunday by two good smelling dressed up adults in their magic Ford LTD that always played Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton and Barry Manilow on its radio.  We stopped for donuts on the way.  Sunday was a perfect day and church was a perfect place.