Bacon Scrapins are the little bits of meat left in the greasy fry pan. They’re tasty, but the ‘nutrition’ needs searching for. This tale is a bacon scrapin.

It started with a breeze.

It was mid-morning, Wednesday – the doldrums of the week for some retirees. I was leaning back in the car seat, windows half-down, waiting for ‘the shopper’ to pick up a couple of things. Eyes closed, radio off, and amazingly almost no cars moving in the parking lot. Just the soft roll of tires from some cars that seemed a half-mile away.

It was the gentle breeze drifting across my face, in one window, out the other, that stirred me. It was a series of gentle puffs, with just a hint of cool that dipped into my memories.  When and where had I last felt that cool breeze on my face, so clean, almost sharp in its purity? Somnolent.

I was 10, standing still on the bank of the creek, hunting frogs with my best friend. It was drifting across the lake, almost 20 feet across really, on our raft made of lashed together limbs and rope ‘sneaked’ from dad’s garage. The breeze was innocent.

I was 20, gazing across the valley at Le Circuit Mont Tremblant upon a dense green forest surrounding that bowl of civilization. The race cars silent, the crowds at rest. The breeze was awesome.

I was 30, sitting in a rowboat on Lac Castor Blanc, with no bait on the line, watching the sun set over the empty lot where our cottage was to become. The breeze was optimistic.

I was 40, sitting on the grass behind the bleachers, watching my son’s baseball teammates congratulate him for pitching a no-hits final 3 innings and a win. The breeze was proud.

I was 50, feet stretched out, leaning against the shady stone over my dad’s grave. The memories were conflicted. The breeze was forgiving.

I was 60, sitting on the back deck I had built by hand, looking 80 feet straight up through the branches of the oak tree. The breeze was humbling.

When I’m 80, will there still be a breeze for me?

Thank goodness for good memories. I think we all need ‘a place’ to go to where there is simple truth, no rush, no cynicism about politicians’ promises, no red paint, no belittling social media, and no emotional volcanic heat.

I hope that everyone can create simple truths and good memories and enjoy calming, gentle breezes.