I must admit I find a certain satisfaction in reflecting on the weekend. To move at a speed that suits me, and see small things accomplished. I envy those who find comfort in large groups and noisy venues, but as I move though this life I think I am forever shaped by the solitude of my youth, where I was never the core of the group, but always an observer, invited to be or not be in the mix.
As phantoms, slipping quietly past in the night, memories of good times will flash on my consciousness. I can close my eyes and return there to see the brilliance of a day, or the smell of the mountains in springtime. Other times I close my eyes and see a party on a cold NY winter’s night. I see only shadows of others, but I vividly recall a group of classmates playing the song of the day, a little number by the Royal Guardsman, called “Snoopy vs. the Red Baron.” I know I've posted this before, but I do like the song.