R.E.S.P.E.C.T

Just a little bit.

Who doesn’t want it, this elusive thing called respect.

Amazon doesn’t stock it.

Our president doesn’t deserve it.

It’s earned.

Last week, we witnessed funerals for Senator McCain and Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul.

Two powerful reminders of the impact of one on many.

The beat of Aretha’s song, R.E.S.P.E.C.T, makes it hard to stand or sit still, even for a Baptist preacher’s kid.  You gotta move “just a little bit,” in ways my kids still poke fun at, rightly so.  Alas, like  Rodney Dangerfield, “I get no respect.” 

Tributes in words and song affirmed Aretha’s roots in the church and gospel music, along with her concern for ones easily ignored, forgotten  or in need of clean drinking water, like Flint, Michigan folks.

On another note,  yesterday I noticed a book, misplaced in the magazine section at Barnes and Noble: The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning.

We’re talking specialization.

Must’ve been a Norwegian who threw it against a wall and bent the hard corners.

Speaking of death, I’m scheduled today for a follow-up  at the doctor’s office. Since they’ll weigh me, I plan to wear gauze with no accessories.

My nurse practitioner’s retiring.  I’ll miss her care,  and the respect she dispensed by tending well, truth-telling and listening.

Bought a gift certificate to say, “Thanks.”  Knowing Pat, she’ll like the card even more.

On the front’s a cat wearing a sweatband, paws flexed, prepared for a workout.  It reads: I Want Buns of Steel…

Inside it says, “But I also want buns of cinnamon.”

R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Just a little bit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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