Critical mass…

Every day when I wander out into the front forty to pick up my daily dose of what’s happening, I weigh in on the future.

Each day around sunrise a small blue truck whizzes past and a small white bundle flies through the air, landing with a thud and a long slide.

The (Stockton) Record. I’ve read it since I was a youngster. Did a research paper on it in college. It’s chronicled my wedding and the births of my children. And the passing of my parents and parents-in-law. All the good and traumatic moments of life.

And now I wonder if this phoenix child – this born again daily bundle – will survive much longer. As little as a year ago I hefted its weight into the house without thinking. Nowadays I eyeball it as I approach it…gauging its size. Checking its vitals. What is the content/ad ratio?

Some days the bundle is wafer thin…aneamic…barely there. There is content, but not the life-sustaining balance of advertising. On those days I fear the worst.

Today is Sunday and i was greeted by a nearly old-fashioned log of a paper…or so it seemed. The reality is my perceptions have adjusted to the times. I know what appears to be a heathy, bouncing bundle is actually a somewhat average or less-than-average package.

Losing a friend this way hurts…there are days of hope and days of despair. You almost wish the end would come quickly, but fear that it might.

And you will be forever poorer once it is gone.