When I was just a kid, eleventeen years old to be exact. I was in a shit, out of control, unruly, and rebellious mood, on my mother’s birthday nonetheless. Kind of like today if I'm being honest. She hollered at me as she was making her world famous spaghetti for supper, “you better get your butt outside Ryan and count your blessings, or else go ahead and pick out a switch that I can whoop it with.”
“But mom, I'm playing Super Mario Bros,” I spat back with no respect for authority.
“You count them one by one my blue eyed son, count them real slow, really think about them. write me an essay about them, or else you don't get any spaghetti tonight.”
So, as I walk to my creative war room at forty seven years old I start to recollect on a blessed life and therefore, count my damn blessings.
First off, my kid—whom I just made turn his Playstation 5 off, and go count his blessings, or else he's not getting any damn spaghetti. He is quite the handsome blessing though that does keep me on my toes.
And peanuts soaked in Coca Cola just because I said so.
Every dog I've ever had by my side and I’ll name them out loud, because I remember them all crystal clear. Most are chasing the eternal mailman up yonder in that ole wild blue heaven. There's Boogie, Lomita, Mosquito, Lily, Jack, Beau, Buddy, Champ, lest we forget the ragged Tater. A good dog though, I think we can all agree is an absolute blessing to humanity. They keep us humans honest.
And biscuits and gravy with a side of bacon so saturated in it's own fat it scares the idea of being skinny away, with two eggs sunny side up. That's a damn blessing if I ever knew one.
The sound of a breeze as it resonates through the wilderness of me. And the glow of a certain woman blushing. And a good ole thunderstorm on a Sunday afternoon. Just as well the calming scent of a good rustic heirloom tomato gravy simmering upon the stovetop on the same afternoon.
Old ass cheesy Godzilla movies, as they are considered by the writer as one of his guiltiest of pleasures, or blessings for that matter.
And books. Books, my friends, are a blessing to every brain. Books like, Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Still Life With Woodpecker, The Alchemist, Catcher In The Rye, Ham On Rye, The Electric Kool Aid Acid Test, The Hitchhikers Guide To The Galaxy, On The Road, are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to some of my favorite books throughout my life.
I have hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of books tucked away for a rainy day. You just can never have enough literature just hanging around collecting dust. I cannot help but count the smell of the old pages and stale ink as blessings, and just to turn a page is like traveling through time.
And lest we forget the art of poetry. Lord have mercy is poetry a blessing to humanity. As is my ability to write it, amongst other things. One that I'm not sure I always deserve from the creative powers up above that be, but that's not going to stop me from pursuing a certain dream. Because my whole life I've always wanted to be a wordsmith so to speak.
Moving right along though. A good beer, a Chicago style hot dog all the while entertaining a baseball game in real time is something I've always considered a blessing.
There's bluebirds and owls. Powder days and snowboarding. Playing catch with my kid. The moon in any phase. Landscape photography. Hell, photography period. A damn good cup of coffee. The stars. Sunsets and sunrises. All types of cheese and cheesy ass pick up lines slash poetry. Tacos. Naps, naps, and more naps. Fly-fishing when I should be working. And writing when I should be fly-fishing. A good heirloom caprese salad. BLT’s and cheeseburgers and milkshakes are pretty damn good too.
John Bell’s voice. The way Led Zeppelin howls all the way down to the bottom of my soul. Shakespearean sonnets. The Simpsons and Sopranos. A good old fashioned late night poker game with the boys. Old dusty journals and freshly sharpened #2 pencils. And those who remember how undivided the world was before mass and social media alike swallowed us whole and shit us out into two divided parts.
My little sister and my little brother who have grown up to be amazing human beings. My niece and my neighbors.
Lest we ever forget all the women I've loved, those that I've been lucky enough to have love me back.
And but of course there's my friends. Every last one of you that I've known throughout my life. I don’t no where y’all are at now, but I hope you're healthy and thriving at being alive and your clothes fit you perfect and there is plenty food on your table and plenty of love to go around.
And there's a certain someone’s freckles that are like star maps that share the secret passage to heaven. Boy oh boy, are those things quite the blessing to not only me, but also the whole of humanity.
And last but never in the least, cooking. Cooking reminds me of something much deeper than just the art of cooking itself. It reminds me of women who cook. Women like my mother, who slaved away in the kitchen in the evening after working a full time job and raising multiple children who's husbands just sit on the couch and bark orders instead of lending a helping hand. Get the fuck up guys and help the woman out.
And before I forget to mention you, the one reading this, I want you to know that I care about you more than you know. I don't know if you're reading this from a hospital bed, or next to someone you love. Or all alone in your favorite comfy spot. Or on the school bus on your way home. But I want you to know a few things. I want you to know you can be whatever the hell you want to be. I want you to know that pain and suffering doesn't last forever. I want you to know that if you feel alone, somebody out there can't wait to get to know you. I want you to know that the universe is conspiring in your favor even if it doesn't feel like it all the time.
I want you to know that you are a blessing too.
And I thank you from the bottom of me for reading this.
And I also want you all to know that many, many, many, many moons ago back in the late 1900’s, the most amazing and loving mother a boy could ever hope to be blessed with told me that if I didn't count my damn blessings, I couldn't have any spaghetti for supper.
Damn, am I glad she made me count them, because that spaghetti of hers and being raised by her is the best damn blessing a boy could ever ask for.
Til the next time...
Yours truthfully & cordially,
Ryan Love
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