At first it needed to go; that loud creaking noise in the upstairs bathroom; that hidden joist where saddened wood met human weight and the slightly mal-aligned boards and screws complained bitterly. But then, I was told it could not be fixed; not without a lot of fuss and bother.

That was that.

I chose to look at Heaven in the afternoon and watched a soaring, silent bird, gliding over the shadow of the creatures which passed unnoticed through our yard at twilight and thought better of the creaking noise. It meant someone other than myself and those moving creatures lived in and around our home.

That was that…

It was that sort of glorious summer morning; things were still sleepy, plans were pending but not pressing. Humidity broke late in the night and they threw open the windows to let in the cool, almost fierce southerly air to push its way into the house, knocking aside curtains, wending upstairs to clean out heated corners.

The coffee was strong and the peach coffee cake sugary moist and warmed to sweet perfection; resting on the summer blue and white plate with crumbs falling onto the cooling carpet. In the far distance, four lone, long blasts of a train whistle sounded out; a reminder of lives being lived in other places and with other purposes.

The neighborhood was silent. One mourning dove cooed for a bit and ceased. No one was around. A full moon lay on the calendar while July slept gently, waiting quietly at the edges for the birthing of August…

Discovery of the week: upon cleaning out cupboards and pulling out all that is old and stale, I stumble upon the weird truth that animal crackers, despite all the processing which goes into making these fun, small and edible creatures…do indeed go bad.

They taste like swept up dust…which begs the question as to how one would know that…but they do. Swept up dust…

Things overheard: the blast of the compressor and the nail gun. Silence. Some shuffling steps. A window is opened and then a second one. ‘I beg your pardon. I never promised you a rose garden’. He’s singing out loudly, this man from Puerto Rico. He and Lynn Anderson have joined forces over the cables, board and the compressed air. ‘Along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometime’. I come down the stairs and chime in. Together, we’ve gone temporarily country. I try out an opera voice, all wobbly and shaky fun. He can’t pick a key and stick with it for love or money.

He starts up again, ‘I beg your pardon. I do what I want in my garden’. He gives the country tune a final punch as he belts out his own interpretation and heads down into the cellar.

‘Those aren’t the words!’ I yell after him. He laughs uproariously. ‘Whatever! La, la, la…I do what I want in my garden…’ His voice and all the machine noise fade away as another door slams. Then, somewhere at the bottom of the house I hear the whrrrrrrr of the miter saw.

Carry on Lynn Anderson.

Skinny people are easier to kidnap. Stay safe. Eat cake. I read this admonition somewhere and I take it to heart.

Once, long ago when I encountered a dangerously disturbed older student moving toward our small learning group and menacing two of my knee-high innocent first graders, I reared up. Call it ‘Mama Bear’ syndrome, or ‘Outrage against the sheer effrontery and absurdity of it all’ or even ‘My Irish is up!’ I moved rapidly toward this student with every righteous intention. He took off running.

Later, I informed my frail and slightly shocked administrator that I would indeed have fallen on that obstreperous boy like a solid tree, squashing the twig. I meant it. Unsurprisingly, the bureaucrat offered something vague such as, ‘Well, we don’t want anyone to get hurt’.

Exactly. Try me again. So if you want to teach, if you really want to teach…eat cake. We’re harder to kidnap and we are not afraid of falling over…

To remember the specific detail, the forgotten temperament, the smaller person, the subtle color…that was everything. Drowning in the bigger picture, the never ending noise…the world which would not cease talking…it was time for the single petal, the nuanced emotion of a child’s face, vanished in a split second. To miss these details…in the end…meant missing absolutely everything important. They were desperate to paint, to breathe, to touch the lost second, to hear the unheard words…to feel the skin’s touch…the truth…

There was a time for all that…but then it became the time for just plain old simple living…the tying of shoelaces, the spreading of peanut butter…the perpetual dust…the need to develop a theology of the kitchen…

Another man. Another interaction: I see him bee bopping all over the front of his parked truck; windows down, music blaring. I walk across the parking lot, headed to my destination. He looks up, grins wildly and yells out his window, ‘I don’t care who sees me! When it’s a tune you like, you gotta listen, man!’

Something makes me stop. I stride over. ‘What are you listening to?’ He cranks it up. I say, ‘I don’t recognize it, I’m old school…man’. ‘Me too, me too…’ he grins. ‘But I really like this one, I’m old. I’m 49!’ I point at him, ‘I’m older!’ He guffaws loudly. ‘You don’t look it!’

At this juncture, I realize I’d probably better drift off…man. He starts up again. ‘I act like a seven year old!’ I find that I can’t help myself. I respond, ‘Well, I think like a five year old!’

This week’s theme has centered around my age, as I consider the recent conversation had with a neighbor, a retired marine who insisted that I could have been a marine as well. That was a circular conversation.

The man in the truck laughs. ‘It’s all good, man! I mean it’s not ALL good; people are getting sick and stuff, but most of it is (expletive)!’ I nod, ‘Could be, could be’. He continues, ‘I don’t watch the media no more; they control everything! It’s all (expletive)!’ I choose to end this conversation in a cowardly manner, ‘Could be, could be’. I start to wander back to my car, thinking I will shop later. Enough excitement for one afternoon.

He hops out of his truck, puts his blue mask on and heads in the opposite direction across the parking lot. He yells back, ‘I’m going home now, mow the lawn and have a drink!’ I think that what he REALLY said was, ‘I’m going home, having a drink and then I’m going to mow the lawn!’

Now that sounds to me like some trouble up ahead…man.

His final words echo across the lot as he yells, ‘We’ll see how shaky I am tomorrow’. With this statement, I feel safe to say that the drinking will occur first, followed by the lawn mowing.

I get back into my car and consider that I may need to stay home more…

Imperfection…the continual bane of the human experience. Attacking the problem today in a two-fold manner…by reading ‘The Song of the Lark’ by Willa Cather and discovering the ‘second self’…followed up with Psalms 8…’What are human beings, that You are mindful of them, mortals that You care for them?’

And therein lies true frustration, exhilaration, exhaustion and elation…a continual battle for an introvert. The longing to communicate, the driving desire to hide.

Living in the puzzled balance between Stupid and Sacred, Banality and the Beatific, Politics and Perfection, Hypocrisy and Holiness…riding a horse who keeps bucking…

I just rapidly scanned a magazine advertisement; fashion for women etc. Apparently, this season’s hottest accessory in the fashion arena is the clavicle.

I’ve had a clavicle bone for 59 years now. Most likely, I will have one until I die, regardless of haute couture trending.

Rejoicing in the knowledge that I can depend implicitly on wisdom from this particular industry…