Lonny Cain

I have always used my pockets as portable treasure chests. They carried things of great importance.

In some ways, my day does not start until I open the curtains. Before my first sip of coffee, I head straight to the front window.

“I love this city!” That's a little something my wife likes to repeat when we visit New York and our son, who lives in Brooklyn.

I have a rule. If I can't look at it, then I can't eat it. I guess there's a psychology to eating. Right? It's not just about flavor.

Sherlock Holmes, I am not. I get personal reminders of this now and then. Besides being embarrassing, they are deflating moments. Tough on my ego.

When I was 11 or 12-years-old, I was into deep sea diving. In our house. Now, a skinny kid wearing a face mask automatically looks ridiculous.

“Aging is a state of mind.” “Yeah, right. Tell that to my knees. And my back. And my hips.”

Tuesday, June 9, a reminder popped up on my cell phone calendar. It tells me this every year: “Graduation West Aurora in 1966.” An important day 60 years ago.

I was filling up the truck tank for the drive home when I saw him. A young woman at the gas pump ahead of me was doing the same when I heard her say to him, “I don't have any cash.”

I don't know what I know. I'm not sure how else to put it. I am not saying I am dumb. In fact, this has nothing to do with IQ or SAT scores or report cards.