Spent a domesticated day cooking and knitting. As of 9:15 PM both children have a new pair of slippers (three strands of worsted wool). That’s three balls down from the stash and four warm feet. Nice score. Then late this afternoon I delivered some lasagnas and some jars of soup. As I attempted to keep control of my ego from all these charitable activities, it occurred to me that taking food to people who are sick, with sick family members, or funerals to plan is one of the few morally unambiguous acts that one can perform.
I remember hearing in an anthropology class that a healed fracture of a long bone, e.g. humerus or femur, is the sign that a group of people had become a civilization. A broken long bone takes months to recover from and without orthopedic intervention, it seems to me that a person would never really recover their prowess at hunting or gathering. Someone had to feed them. It’s a basic of human life, feed hurt people, feed hungry people. Pop own head with pin so fits through doorway. Remember: you might be the next one in need of a large foil pan of lasagna. Or chicken soup. Whatever.