Going Inkless

If you look very closely at the photo on my profile (at the time of this post, because I might conceivably change it at some point) you might notice I'm wearing a "Chicago 2016" Olympic bid jacket. It's actually difficult to discern in the photo, but trust me, it's there. From this, you might deduce that I am a) from the Chicago area b) an athlete or sports fan But, you would only be half right. I do live near enough to Chicago that it is my reference about half the time when I talk about "the city," but sports never were my thing. There's no antipathy toward sports or athletes. The truth is, I have a certain appreciation for it all. I'll watch from time to time when my husband has the Bears game on TV, and I politely smile and watch the replays when he points out an amazing catch or cheers a touchdown. His excitement gives it weight, but it's rare when I watch any sort of sport alone. I've come to realize that I'm just ...

Close your eyes and imagine... No. That's not going to work. Now that you have your eyes closed, you can't read the rest of the post. We'll have to wait here until you get bored and peek... OK. You're back. Let's try this again. Get your crayons and a fresh sheet of blank paper. If you have no crayons, then borrow some, or else you can draw with imaginary ones (just remember to open your eyes when you're ready to read again.) I want you to draw a picture of your family. That's right, just like kindergarten. Don't tell me you can't draw,either, because if perfection were the goal, I'd have asked for a photograph. This is crayon art, and what matters is the spirit you put in the lines. When you've finished your masterpiece, hang it up on the refrigerator and look at it. Who's there? Is it the same collection of smiling stick figures you drew as a child? Most of us begin with the concepts of mother, father, sister, brother,...

Today, I took a train into the city to visit one of the museums there. The trip began before sun-up, my plan being to arrive just before the doors opened; So, my breakfast and morning intake of caffeine was minimal. After exploring one floor of artifacts, silently absorbing the art and dreams of bygone cultures, I decided to stop in the little cafe for a small cup of soup and a large one of coffee. There was a group there, breaking for lunch in the middle of their visit, and somehow my meal ended up tacked onto their bill. We recognized the mistake immediately, but the leader of the group, concerned about the look of anxiety that flashed across the cashier's face, cheerfully agreed to cover the mistaken charge. It surprised me, and I repeatedly offered to pay him for my meal, but he wouldn't have it. All I could give was my thanks. Now, I have made similar gestures myself on occasion, and I know others who make a sport of anonymously paying for lunch or groceries for un...