Here I Am In Fulghum Land

Those who know me, know I'm a big fan of Robert Fulghum.  He has a home in Moab and boy would I like to drop by and pay him a visit.  Fulghum doesn't know me from Adam, but thanks to his books and his candor, I feel like I know him quite well.  In fact I feel like a buddy of his.  I think that characteristic of his writing is what gives him such appeal.  Fulghum is real, who cares how correct or wise he his, we can relate to him.  The fact that his experience in life is so amazingly eclectic and so wonderfully diverse, certainly lends color and credence to his work, but his genuine, down to earth touchablility is the blanket that spreads warmth through everything he writes.

I wonder if he's up in the night enjoying a nice rack-of-spam contemplating what else he might find in the fridge while I'm up finishing off the ravioli I couldn't quite fit in earlier, at the Moab Brewery.  (They might have offered a bit of salad and not so much pasta.)  When the motel room heater cooked a dead moth and set off the fire alarm, I thought of  It Was On Fire When I Lay Down On It and wondered if it was time I gave that little gem and another whirl.  I don't reread books, except Fulghum's and Rachel Naomi Remen's and, of course, the scriptures.  In those cases, it isn't really rereading so much as it is a chance to converse with an old friend.  We might rehash the same old stories, but each time, the context has changed and its nice to anchor life's new experiences in the safe harbors of the past.

I'm not a celebrity chaser and so I won't go knocking on Robert Fulghum's door seeking his autograph; but if he ever pulls up a chair next to mine in the Moab Brewery, I'd gladly split a plate of ravioli with him.