I remember summers back in the late 1950s, when I would ride my (at least it felt that way to me) 100-pound solid steel one-speed bike with balloon tires five miles or so down to the stockyards in Milwaukee at 18th and St. Paul Avenue to gather discarded Coke bottles.
Two cents a bottle when I returned them for the deposit!
That was serious money to me, when a pack of baseball cards cost a nickel and you got a big (compared to the postage stamp-size iterations offered today) thick slab of pink bubble gum to go with it.
I got no allowance till I was 11 — when I started receiving 50 cents every Saturday morning — so I was pretty much on my own as regards spending money.
Anyway.
If I'd had an especially great day collecting bottles — I’m talking maybe 10-15 — I’d give myself a treat and buy a Coke, spending a precious nickel from my earnings and sitting quietly in the shade somewhere on that hot, still, humid afternoon and enjoying every icy sip from that classic 6.5 ounce bottle.
That was — and remains — as good as life ever got.
Yesterday afternoon, while watching my beloved calico cat Vanta go through her routines, all around the house, up and down the stairs and racing from room to room, it occurred to me that she’s the best pet in the world: I can't imagine having another animal — forget about a human being — as great to spend every waking (and sleeping) minute around, up close and personal all the time.
So once again, somehow I have been privileged to have the very best thing possible, just like that Coke I drank in the 50s: no one, no matter how rich or powerful they were/are, could have had a better Coke, nor could anyone on the planet be happier than I am with Vanta.
In the end, every single person who ever lives has a shot at having the best.
You just have to be able to see it when it’s right in front of your eyes.
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