Jan. 17  MLK Day.   A day on.

The word for the day is rapacious, predatorily greedy. Today, I visited a Kokomo brewery with some friends. The invitation was extended Saturday night from one partner, but not so heartily from the other. However, I received a call today and so accepted. I could see what the problem was when we picked up two friends. The size of the car was small; the size of the friends was not. The drive would be an hour long. One of the hosts graciously indicated she would sit in the middle of the back seat. I rapaciously dibs the shotgun seat. The three other passengers stuffed themselves into the back seat, but didn’t really fit. I sheepishly offered to exchange places, although I remarked I am not exactly on the waning side of the moon myself. I also knew once they had wedged themselves in, they would be reluctant to pry themselves out. My host, squeezed in the middle and without her seatbelt, perched awkwardly on the ledge of the back seat and leaned toward the front. I did not feel the least bit guilty, on the contrary, I felt lucky and sensible.

With our arrival at the brewery, the three in the back uncrumpled from the car like wadded balls of failed essay exams with a large, letter F underlined on their front pages. At any rate, the mood improved with a panel of beer and some fresh, battered onion rings. On the trip home, having surpassed the lowest rungs of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, I blithely volunteered to sit in the back. The beer and full-bellied sleepiness made us all rather squishy in the backseat. Without territorial guards and flexing muscles, the ride went as quickly as a snooze.

That night, I met with my church’s social justice committee.  I was so satiated, I was willing to give up my rapacious behavior to do something for someone else.  Perhaps the moral of the story, a little lager goes a long way to lean the world in the right direction.


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