The smell of the Elixir floats back the memory of sitting at the kitchen table.
Tales of truth and balderdash.
Of growing up in small town Iowa. Of going to war to save the world.
Those were the stories. Exploits. Draft horses across the hood of cars.
Pilfering watermelons while ducking rock-salt shotgun blasts from angry farmers.
Talking parrots and grumpy bulldogs.
Driving a tank through downtown Manila.
Being a kid, I wondered if I would ever have great stories to tell.
Let's face it. At that time there was Summer and School, the two seasons of a kid's life.
The one way too short and the other way too long.
And then we grew up.
Uncle Joe and Grandpa D are now gone.
And we are moving through life, making our stories.
The Book reading from yesterday told about the same thing happening.
Moses is standing on the old side of the Jordan, telling a new generation about the old days.
For the last time.
And they listened.
The Promised Land lay before them.
The Unknown lay across a swollen, swirling river.
And they would remember the stories while moving ahead, making their own.
Stories that would be shared with young, awed faces who would remember as they built cities and a kingdom.
Huh.
Maybe that's why kitchen tables are so popular.