A while ago, when I used to go driving around the country for no particular reason, I often found myself in Idaho. There was a place I used to stop, a little mom and pop motor inn, made out of logs. At night around nine they’d turn the generator off and everything would go dark, and silent, and I would sit on a little bench out back, on the bank of a river, and listen to the quiet and watch as the stars began to come out. The river would burble and splash, and the frogs and crickets would begin to sing, and I would think about how free I was, and how I could do anything I wanted. And then I would become certain that a bear or some other form of large predator was about to emerge from the undergrowth and tear me apart and devour me, and I would hustle back into my little cabin and lie on the cot and wish my life had turned out differently.

 

I am perhaps a little too high strung for wilderness contemplation. But I can tell you this: they used to have pickled eggs at that place, in the little store attached to the motel office. A big glass jar of them, and for 25 cents you could hoist one out and bite into it, right there - sweet and tangy and delicious. I’ve heard that doctors now believe eggs are the perfect food - they have all the nutritional content we need, are easy to produce, and easy to safely prepare. But to me? They stink of fear. Fear and loneliness and bad decisions.

 

So Happy Easter, everyone.