It really was a lovely day; clear and mild, the temperatures heading over forty quaint 'merican degrees on the fahrenheit scale with only the slightest of breezes. People were pleasant to one another. There were laughs and well-wishes and stories. The realization that slowly there'd be more light on the days following was enough to illicit a smile of wicked joy. It was beautiful. Perfect. Well, as perfect as it could get without being boring.
One of my volunteers wrote a bit of snark on a white board about the end of the world being rescheduled, and my daughter made some existentialist crack-as a former philosophy/theology major, I was so very proud. Given what some thought was suppose to happen, I suppose this couldn't be helped. And I did laugh. After all, it was really fucking funny.
Back during my roaring twenties, when I hung out in diners and coffeehouses, reading far, far eastern philosophy and getting entirely too impressed with my own intelligence, I had occasion to share my company with a few conspiracy theorists. At, first, it was interesting, but the novelty wore off. Quickly. Like religious zealots, there's no reasoning with that ilk, no matter how irrefutable the facts. A younger and more impetuous me did try once or thrice.
Be that as it may, on such a lovely day, I found myself remembering a few of those cats and something my father likes to say sprung to mind;