Eccentricity

I’ve got two brothers. They often

do what you’d expect them to do.

Me, one could say, I’m sort of a

different breed. My deceased

second wife, bless her soul,

described me a time or two as

eccentric. And I will be the first

to admit I do once in awhile waver

from the predictably ordinary. I’d

rather sit and write poetry or paint

a painting than attend a party with

friends. Other than ride scary rides

at an amusement park, I’d prefer the

slow motion up and down of a dark

horse on the merry-go-round. I have

been known to wear knee-high socks

with Bermudas and sandals, or short

sleeved shirts beneath my suit and tie.

Here, feel this. Go ahead, touch it! Could

be an indicator, an irrefutable sign of the

flat-spot in my personality? There must

be some socio-psychological explanation

for that. On second thought, it may be

a familial trait handed down from one

generation to the next. Take my older

brother for instance—he has displayed

certain quirky behaviors of his own

throughout his years. Catsup on a hot

dog or a perfectly good steak? I always

just considered him as being a special

kind of weird.

Chris Hanch 2-19-18