Simple pleasures...
The way my daughter sprints at me, half screaming, half giggling, Daddy!, which sounds an awful lot like the voice of the plant in Little Shop Of Horrors (Feed Me, Seymour?...Anyone?), after we've been apart for a while. How my son, at 12, has developed the very European habit of kissing me on both cheeks when he greets me, or says goodnight. The habit my 75# Lab has of thinking he's a lap dog, with his knack for creating space for himself on the couch, inevitably ending up with his entire upper body draped across my legs and that loud sigh before his snoring begins. The first taste of crawfish each year and the familial, communal spirit one feels at a Boil, standing shoulder to shoulder, often with complete strangers or new friends, in front of a pile of mudbugs, with a red keg cup full of cold beer in your red-tinted hands.
And then, there are simple swinging pleasures...