I took two naps on Friday.

Kidnapped, like when Mrs. Stanger told us to get our rugs. We’d find a spot on the floor and lay on them. Sometimes I’d count the ceiling tiles. Other times I’d look out at the clouds sauntering by. I occasionally slept.

But last Friday the weather was on my side. Warm. Sunny. I began building a permanent woodshed. My stamina is not as enduring as those Kindergarten days. After a simple lunch, I laid down and dreamt of log cabins, mountain vistas, and meandering streams.

I woke and managed another three hours of digging holes and sifting through the spare boards and posts. It was a crude start to what will hold cut and split wood for next winter. Then the good kind of tired settled in and I drifted off to sleep after an early light dinner. Nap 2.0.

A friend invited me to sit by his fire and sip a beer. We spent the waning hour of light catching up and parsing through the tensions of life, family, and faith. The Midwest cyclonic winds whipped up the jenga- stacked wood in the pit. The cools gusts added fuel to the fire and mitigated the temperature. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just right.

I left ready to take my final nap for the day. I don’t know about you, but the older I get I look forward to hitting the sack. And I don’t know about you, but when I was a child, I fought against sleep in any form. Especially naps.

Yes, I am retired, mostly. Yes, there is a rocking chair somewhere. Ask my Barbara, she sees me nod a nap anywhere, anytime. Others too find my mouth hanging open like a mailbox door. They have documentation. I have entered guilt free multiple nod offs per day. I’ve become a nappy pappy.