reserves

One of my drills, a handsome son of a Kentucky pig farmer, hungover and hot a'cause of the Carolina heat, found himself with a grenade at his feet with the pin thrown a distance away from the private who "couldn't fix what was wrong with her." The towel around his neck, the one that soaked the night's Hennessey and the morning's sweat, steamed and then real smoke blew from his ears. He scooped up that bomb and threw it over the cement bunker and that was a big noise, a huge sigh of relief for the company, and the largest type of news across the fort.

On that same day, I became an "expert" grenade thrower, not at the wall, but in the woods, and I expect today that's still true of my ability. A grand claim, I know, and it has nothing to do with being reserved. Just the opposite.

In dancing, as with love and tools of warfare, small, careful movements are the preferred type. I learned this on the dance floor in the early part of my second decade. Late to the party, maybe. Still, I had been earnestly attending my lessons. But not before stomping some feet and twisting some arms. And bumping into folks who didn't care for it.

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Twenty years later, same difference, all facets. To be simple, not a simpleton, and to be appropriately reserved...the kind that demonstrates wit, humor, elegance, care...not easy at all. It's terribly difficult.

Even if you're aiming and you know to toss with precision.

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