And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ”If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.”–Kurt Vonnegut, via Kurt’s Uncle Alex
That’s how I feel today. There are two reasons. At least two.
The first is that I was in a train in the airport in Denver, riding to my terminal before heading home. An elderly white man who must have been in his mid-70s was there with a young teenage girl who I think was his granddaughter. He had one of those golfer’s caps on. A black one.
He winked at the girl and then started to turn the hat around backwards.
“No!” she gasped. “Don’t! It’s embarrassing!” They went back and forth a couple of times, he turning the hat around, she grabbing for it and sometimes pulling it off his head.
Finally he said, “Enough. Listen to me. It is my right to look like Samuel L. Jackson. That’s the end of it.” I laughed, but that was, in fact, the end of it. She left his hat alone. He left it on backwards.
The other thing is that when I got home, a Fedex envelope was on my porch, in the snow. The envelope had my book contract in it. If you’ve been following the saga, I was offered a book deal on October 20. I took it, deliriously happy. I was told that the process can take a while.
It did. Almost three months to the day before I actually signed something in my childish scrawly way. But it’s done! Take a look:
And if that isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.