Morning light.

Our nine year old son had just finished a dry run for his piano recital (his right hand needs work, testimony to his left-handedness and generally artistic disposition, thank goodness) and wanted a treat. He had earned it. 25th Avenue in San Mateo, CA is not exactly a stronghold of fine restaurants but it very definitely is a neighborhood, so it was to a local greasy spoon we repaired for his reward.

As he luxuriated in pancakes drowned in maple syrup, washed down with milk, happy as can be, I contemplated the tired, chipped formica countertop (real men sit at the counter) and enjoyed the boisterous exchange of greetings between two of the locals, replete with much back- and hand-slapping. The environment was reminiscent of that restaurant scene from Pulp Fiction except that Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta were not in the corner, heavily armed, and the place was not about to be held up by Tim Roth and Amanda Plummer. No, what drew my attention was Eleanor Rigby in the corner.

Beautiful lyrics by Paul McCartney.

W. B. Yeats may have said it better, but he didn’t write music:

When You Are Old

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes once had, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face among a cloud of stars.

Snapped over my son’s shoulder on the Panny G1 with the kit lens.