Journal of a Living Lady #292
Nancy White Kelly
Some of my brightest thinking occurs at night. The number of businesses I have organized from scratch would rival Donald Trump. In two lifetimes, Mother Teresa could not have made as many mission trips as I have vicariously taken to exotic places.
Ideas for non-profit organizations that would solve many problems of the world freely dance on the synapses of my brain. Often, at some unseemly hour, I rise from my bed fumbling for pen and paper. I cannot allow myself to lose brilliant thoughts that evaporate at daybreak. Eventually, in the clarity of the day, I collect my random notes and type the words which were scribbled in near darkness. They are conveniently filed on the hard drive of my computer under the title, “Nancy’s Nocturnal Notes.”
The funny thing is that every thought originating in that narrow time frame between midnight and dawn seems so clever and original. Cerebral adrenaline flows without restraint. No challenge seems beyond me. My mind roams freely without regard to my age, health, or finances.
However, after sleep overtakes my cerebral hemispheres, nothing seems quite as exciting in the morning as it was just hours before.
I would still like to open a brick and mortar numismatics shop with on-line capability. Only time will tell if that becomes a reality along with an eBay Selling Station. But it is doubtful that I will ever travel to Monsubaswie or start a food-bank with connections to major food and trucking companies.
Buddy is a fine fellow, but no longer is a cheer-leader or ditch-digger for my impulsive passions. He has had nearly forty-two years of supporting me through multitudinous short-term interests, including worm-farming and Charley McCarthy-style ventriloquism gigs.
His response to my grandiose ideas is now nothing more than a smirky grin. While his short-term memory is failing, his long-term memory is still great. He remembers the thousands of red-wiggler worms that crawled off on a rainy night and the paper-mache dummy he painstakingly crafted that crumbled in the middle of a performance. That seems like a life time ago. The years have flown by and neither he nor I are what we used to be.
Yet, I refuse to be a matronly mannequin consigned to a boring life. My nightly escapades continue to entertain me. No harm done. Who knows when one inspirational spark might light an enduring fire for Mrs. Methuselah?