If you could see the color of this post, it would be pink. 

It’s not my favorite color, but I start my daily thoughts in a notebook. I chose my pink Forge Breast Cancer Survivor Center pen for the occasion because it glides smoothly across the page, which helps my thoughts to unwind like a cat getting a hold of a roll of toilet paper. 

Butterbeans would not make my list of favorite things. The ends of my thumbs would ache after shelling them for hours, but to add insult to injury, I then had to sit at the kitchen table and finish a serving of the things, their scent of soured dirt, their dried and pasty texture, and their unappetizing brownish-gray color activating my rather strong childhood gag reflex.

But my grandparents liked butterbeans, so they had to have been good. Of all the vegetables in my family’s garden, butterbeans seemed to be the hardiest, most prolific crop grown. I hated eating them, and I hated shelling them, but seeing a five-gallon bucket of a freshly picked mess dumped on a layer of newspapers on the kitchen floor meant hard work had happened.

Although it was time to start the dreaded shelling, the 1984 Olympics might have been airing, with highlights from swimming and gymnastics, my two favorite events, and I might have been wearing my pink and yellow striped romper with spaghetti straps, the best summer outfit of all time.

Neither would pork steak in the school cafeteria make my list of favorite things. I threw up in my plate at the lunchroom table in kindergarten, surrounded by my classmates, and all it took was one glance and whiff of that slab of processed meat, with its pock-marked surface and slimy gravy. But the next day might have been pizza and corn, so there was something to smile about.

Since we’re here to talk about favorite things, I’m going to go with the category of Men with Colors for First Names. Whether a real name or a nickname, I’ve never known a bad man named Red, Green, or Blue. I used to know a man named Red Green, so he gets double points.

Except he was the old meat processor in town, so we will not talk about the smell of blood, guts, and aging meat that pervaded the premises.

Sitting on the front porch is high on my list of favorites, and I often do my daily writing out here while enjoying the sunset and the hummingbirds battle for control of their favorite feeder. I’ve now shifted to the computer, the notebook having done its job. I’m warmed up, my juices are flowing, and I’m sitting criss-cross applesauce in a rocking chair enjoying the sensation of the keys on my fingertips.

Typing has been one of my favorite things ever since I took the required class in ninth grade. Students started slowly by tapping one letter at a time, no peeking at our hands, while listening to a recording of a gentleman calling out letters. By Christmas, I was moving along at 55 wpm.

At one time, I would have been the fastest high school typist in Alabama, per my teacher, Mrs. Wadsworth. We noble students who enjoyed her instruction are most likely all fine typists, as her rigorous, methodical approach to teaching the skill was nothing less than that of a boot camp drill instructor, complete with a sometimes necessary “dose of the T,” or her well-used paddle. But there was no official student organization at my school for competing in typing or other business-related categories at the state level. 

After the state competition had been held, Mrs. Wadsworth told me that I would have most likely won it. Would that make my list of favorite things or not? The knowing boosted my ego but also stuck in my craw. Winning is one of my favorite things, and knowing that I had missed out on an opportunity to be named the best, just because my school didn’t have a club, ate at me like a pork steak with a side of butterbeans.

Sunlight is fading quickly, and time is growing short. The mosquitoes have started biting (not a favorite), but the temperature is cool and refreshing for an evening in June (a favorite), especially when we’ve already had heat oppressive enough to make you remember that sweat finds all the cracks, especially the ones you forgot you had during the cooler months of the year.

So, the final thoughts:

High heeled shoes sure make you feel fancy, but they also come with blisters, corns, and calluses. 

Another year of life means a party and a birthday cake. It also means it’s time for your colonoscopy.

And never mind that I didn’t win the state typing competition, nor did I have the opportunity to do so. I’ve got a skill that is coming in handy these days, and I win every time I get to the end of yet one more daily post.

While this rambling one is probably not my favorite of all time, it’s helped me work out some things. Maybe it’s helped you too.

I sure could use a bucket of butterbeans.