“Not everyone is having bacon with their breakfast this morning.”
My Dad said that to me once; we were having bacon.
The Old Man was not trying to be philosophical; he was more whimsical with a side of wisdom—and bacon. It was his version of “The grass is not always greener, but ours is today,” I think.
It’s funny how those quips, blurted without a preconceived notion that knowledge has been imparted, stick with you. You’re left to decide which future encounters you apply it to. That’s the beauty of quotes and determining whether the words are worth repeating or thinking about again.
Anyone can throw a quote into their daily Facebook post; many do. We franchise other people’s words in hopes that we will inspire, make them laugh, or give them pause to think about how a few words could affect their lives.
Dad’s words would pop up in my head throughout my life, sometimes when I was on the job, sometimes when I was wandering around somewhere when the sun’s angle, location, and specific goings-on were particularly pleasing.
Early on, when I was living in a somewhat run-down mid-1800s side-hall cape—a New England staple in the housing market—and thawing the pipes with a tiny hair dryer stuck into a crevice in the wall, I thought about his words.
I didn’t think bacon would fix it, so I devised my personal phraseology, which I usually deliver aloud: “Oh, what it would be like to live in one of those houses where none of this is necessary.”
I added colorful descriptors that shouldn’t have been. But the icy lump would soon release, and I would trudge upstairs to the shower, crossing my fingers that the copper pipe hadn’t cracked.
I learned to put a small fan in the doorway of that empty pantry, directing just a slight amount of heat from the main living area woodstove(s) to the offending pipes. At least on those days, it accomplished something far better than crunching on bacon.
While on patrol, I’d drive by newly built three-story homes, a bit envious of the manicured lawns and perfectly radiused asphalt driveways leading to Martha Stewart/Bob Vila-inspired entryways.
“So that’s how the other half lives,” I’d say aloud to no one in particular, the words most likely drowned out by either the Delco am/fm or the less entertaining but sometimes louder Motorola two-way.
The nature of the job ensured that, sooner or later, I would visit many lovely homes in the towns where I policed.
People with big desks have even bigger mortgages. They also have problems like the rest of us.
Unhappiness has no permanent address and doesn’t care if the driveway is mud, macadam, or concrete with contrasting curbing. Angry moments, physical assaults, and sugar bowls flung by undone adults can happen anywhere—they just pay higher taxes for the arena where the raging crescendo occurs.
Over time, I entered many of those beautiful houses and found out they were often a thin veneer, shielding the dwellers from revealing a lot of unhappiness. Some had dirty floors, and last night’s macaroni stuck to the stovetop—just like my house when I left in a rush before cleaning up a bit. I began to appreciate my lower tax bill, equating it at that very moment to a side of bacon. “Thanks, Dad. You were right.”
Happiness and fullness of life are not derived from having the perfect frontal veneer, often a shield to keep it a secret that life’s problems are universal. Some of the most bubbling and delighted people I ever met, on the job or off, lived in dilapidated abodes and hadn’t had bacon for months. Maybe they didn’t even like bacon, I don’t know.
Like all quotes, my Dad’s whimsical outburst can apply to both the happy and the unhappy, depending on the view they choose to focus on.
If your grass is brown, and you’re out of bacon, be thankful your pipes aren’t frozen. There is something to be happy about, I’m sure.
From the Jagged Edge of America,
I remain,
TC
*I’m thankful this week to readers like all of you. I appreciate the time you take to peruse the stuff I write. Thank you to all the supporters through BuyMeACoffee. Make sure you all sign up to have the essays from the website delivered to your inbox when they are published. Get that done on the Get Tim’s Newslog banner. Peace. TC