However young a duckling is, it still manages to recognise the inherent good in people. Upon hatching, it adopts the first being it sees as its parent. Its first impressions of any living creature are always rose-tinted. No matter how bad or evil they are.
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Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Every Last Saturday Of The Month
It is eight in the morning and I am up. I glance out the window and feel the neighbourhood come to life. Car engines start up and purr, and then disappear down the street. Mixed smells of bacon and toast waft and mingle with the subtle tint of dew, a smell so supernatural, and yet so humble. The faint breeze picks up yet other passengers of soft, downy white, travelling from house to house, riding on the warmth emanating from each family.
Yes, it is an ordinary suburb on Wednesday morning; close enough to taste the freedom the weekends bring, yet far enough to escape the blues come every Monday morning. The school bus arrives promptly. The daffodils bloom punctually. And every last Saturday of the month, all the residents meet for a communal barbecue in the middle of the road, bringing with them their own little contributions. It is rare enough to be tolerated, ritualistic enough to be predictable, but frequent enough to keep all of us familiar with each other.
At the cookout we bring plenty of food, and enough interesting tidbits of life, just so the conversations do not go stale. We read up on how the economy is doing, and on the trendiest novels, hoping to find a common ground where we can all tread on with ease, and go "Ah yes, and did you know that-". We find out more about the latest in education, so that we can discuss our children's progress and suss out the situation of each child, and when behind closed doors, we pity, sympathise, laugh at or envy them. And wish that our children were either better or the same. Either that, or we tell our children that they are very lucky.
The barbecue does not escape politics either. Culinary skills are compared, among both men and women. Who brought the biggest rack of lamb? Mr. Oaktham never forgets to bring and brandish a bottle of expensive wine, the kind that cannot be bought in stores. I pride myself on the hors d'oeuvres I prepare, and each time I have to do so, I think long and hard on what to prepare; it needs to please them all. Once, Mrs. Vanson brought the same dish as Mrs. Hart - we ended up not having potato salad at all since then. Each dish will be eaten from. Each dish is never completely finished. At the end of the meal, compliments are obliged to go around the table. We are polite, no matter what.
And after all the conversations have died down, we clean up the area and go back home with our crockery in hand. Then we dread the next last Saturday of the month.
It is eight in the morning and I am up. I glance out the window and feel the neighbourhood come to life. Car engines start up and purr, and then disappear down the street. Mixed smells of bacon and toast waft and mingle with the subtle tint of dew, a smell so supernatural, and yet so humble. The faint breeze picks up yet other passengers of soft, downy white, travelling from house to house, riding on the warmth emanating from each family. But it catches yet another scent, a scent that while masked, stings like acrid acid and attempts to upset the fragile balance of relationships within this ordinary suburb.
Yes, it is an ordinary suburb on Wednesday morning; close enough to taste the freedom the weekends bring, yet far enough to escape the blues come every Monday morning. The school bus arrives promptly. The daffodils bloom punctually. And every last Saturday of the month, all the residents meet for a communal barbecue in the middle of the road, bringing with them their own little contributions. It is rare enough to be tolerated, ritualistic enough to be predictable, but frequent enough to keep all of us familiar with each other.
At the cookout we bring plenty of food, and enough interesting tidbits of life, just so the conversations do not go stale. We read up on how the economy is doing, and on the trendiest novels, hoping to find a common ground where we can all tread on with ease, and go "Ah yes, and did you know that-". We find out more about the latest in education, so that we can discuss our children's progress and suss out the situation of each child, and when behind closed doors, we pity, sympathise, laugh at or envy them. And wish that our children were either better or the same. Either that, or we tell our children that they are very lucky.
The barbecue does not escape politics either. Culinary skills are compared, among both men and women. Who brought the biggest rack of lamb? Mr. Oaktham never forgets to bring and brandish a bottle of expensive wine, the kind that cannot be bought in stores. I pride myself on the hors d'oeuvres I prepare, and each time I have to do so, I think long and hard on what to prepare; it needs to please them all. Once, Mrs. Vanson brought the same dish as Mrs. Hart - we ended up not having potato salad at all since then. Each dish will be eaten from. Each dish is never completely finished. At the end of the meal, compliments are obliged to go around the table. We are polite, no matter what.
And after all the conversations have died down, we clean up the area and go back home with our crockery in hand. Then we dread the next last Saturday of the month.
It is eight in the morning and I am up. I glance out the window and feel the neighbourhood come to life. Car engines start up and purr, and then disappear down the street. Mixed smells of bacon and toast waft and mingle with the subtle tint of dew, a smell so supernatural, and yet so humble. The faint breeze picks up yet other passengers of soft, downy white, travelling from house to house, riding on the warmth emanating from each family. But it catches yet another scent, a scent that while masked, stings like acrid acid and attempts to upset the fragile balance of relationships within this ordinary suburb.
It is the scent of humans.
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