Morning Open Thread is a daily, copyrighted post from a host of editors and guest writers. We support our community, invite and share ideas, and encourage thoughtful, respectful dialogue in an open forum.
I’ve come to think of this post as one where you come for the music and stay for the conversation—so feel free to drop a note. The diarist gets to sleep in if she so desires and can show up long after the post is published. So you know, it's a feature, not a bug.
Join us, please.
Good morning everyone. We’ve made it to Friday once again.
Last night I was reminded of something my mother, near the end of her life, told me (quoting a Roman statesman): “the harvest of old age is the recollection of previous blessings.” I thought then that such a sentiment was too limiting and, frankly, still think we reap so much more than that in life. I wasn’t necessarily thinking about getting older when I woke this morning, but I was thinking of my mother and what we remember about people in our lives who have died. I can remember the smell of her hair and the feel of the back of her hand—even the sound of her voice on quiet mornings like this one.
She and I had a fairly complicated relationship but one that, over the years, tempered itself around the edges and quieted at the center. I’m pretty sure my nostalgia this morning is based more on the fact that I’m dealing with a sick child than on missing my mother’s presence. Still, she raised a brood of kids. And mornings such as this, when disappointment lingers because I was forced to miss a concert I so wanted to attend, I have to appreciate my mother just a bit more. The thing is, we really can’t appreciate the sacrifices our parents made until we are old enough to understand that they certainly did have to make some along the way. I’ve been thinking of it this way: at its base having a child is the ultimate selfish act which, if fate will have it, develops into the epitome of selfless.
Cheers everyone. Have a wonderful day and an even better weekend.
❧
Friday’s Lagniappe
This week’s highlight from The Bitter Southerner is “They Like that Soft Bread” by Chelsey Mae Johnson.
“In the mountains of East Tennessee, folks have a particular fondness for a sandwich that’s spent a few seconds in a Fresh-O-Matic steamer. Knoxvillians know that soft-bread love in their bones, but nobody seems to know exactly where it comes from. Chelsey Mae Johnson aimed to find out.”
❧
❧
☕️
Grab your coffee or tea and join us, please.
What's on your mind this morning?