I went to the creek earlier than normal. It’s trickier to walk the hidden trail in the back now, especially barefoot. The foliage is taking over. The smells are incredible. There were no falls as I walked down the middle of the creek.
As I finished my creek walk, a grandfather came down the incline, followed by two frolicking little girls. The grandfather asked me how slippery it was inside the creek today, so I told him to step into the water on the dam side. Because I sat on the embankment wall with my feet dangling in the air, I could hear him interact with his granddaughters. All I heard was kindness in his voice. Because of the splashing, I surmised that all three of them had taken off their shoes and socks, rolled up their pants as I had done, and stepped into the cool water. Such a simple pleasure, even to hear it as it unfolded.
When I walked back across the parking lot to my car, I got out several sticks of thick sidewalk chalk of various colors. I walked down to the creek bed and handed them to the grandfather. He was delighted as he handed them to his granddaughters. “What do you say,” he asked both of them. Both girls turned, smiled, and said thank you. “Draw something crazy,” I said, and wished them all a good evening.
As I walked away, one of the granddaughters asked, “What’s that sound” as the backdrop of insects roared once again. “Let’s draw whatever it is,” the other girl said.
It’s nice to hear good people doing basic things to enjoy the day. It makes me feel less eccentric.
“If you go into the building with that much enthusiasm and energy, you’re going to end up with a nail driven into each palm.” That’s the quip I hollered at someone as they came in this morning and the one which inspired the following words:
When you run into somebody who is so full of enthusiasm and energy, it is either one of the best things in life or a trigger. It’s a trigger if you’re missing those things. But when the mutual laughter and enthusiasm collide, it’s a joyous ball of energy. Probably one that annoys onlookers. For that reason, I carry both Lone Ranger masks and COVID masks for the potential naysayers. Due to legal issues, they confiscated my taser. My plea that I only used it on myself went unheeded.
Because I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, I took my shoes off in the work parking lot and walked down to the creek nearby instead of one of my usual spots. The water is much cooler than my last visit. Unlike me. I’m as hip as a polyester suit at this point. But my desire to come down here and stand in the water stands among my best decisions. It tickles me as people race by and see me in their peripheral vision. I probably look like a rutabaga with a dumb smile on my face. I look goofy enough to get a nomination to the Supreme Court. Love, X
It was about 4:00 a.m. I had a delicious bitter cup of coffee on the banister railing. The booms of thunder and lightning bedazzled my eyes and ears. It’s fascinating watching the traffic at that hour on Sunday morning. An unhealthy percentage drivers at that hour are on their way too or returning from unhealthy shenanigans. I heard the vehicle brake a little bit in anticipation of making a right turn across the railroad tracks. The big white suburban attempted to execute the turn while traveling at about 40 mph. As it turned, both passenger side wheels came up as the vehicle wildly turned and then spun all the way around, hitting the sidewalk curb. The wheels slammed back down. I expected the protuberance of the railroad rails to flip the vehicle. The suburban was motionless for a few seconds. The driver was probably checking his or her pants. Assuming they weren’t drunk and oblivious. I could not help but laugh. My laugh echoed much too loudly across the parking lot and against the building. Later, shortly after 5:00, huge gusts of wind buffeted anything not nailed down. I was already back outside with my broom to pick up the plants that I knew would not withstand the wind. None of them were mine. My corn stalks are on the inside railing and oblivious to the weather. My cat Güino darted outside long enough to get splattered by the rain. He was adorable, his face turned up against the wind and rain, his little nose and eyes squinting. He ran back inside when a singular wind gust slammed the door completely open.
This isn’t my story to tell. But I’ll trespass because it blankets the lines of odd convergences of the things we all experience. Regard it as fiction and find whatever value that words can convey.
She seemed to melt against the wall, her head down, with a cell phone pressed against her ear. “Margaret died this morning,” she said, her voice flatter then the plains of Iowa. It was the flatness that conveyed an overwhelming emotion behind her words. Numbness, like a whisper, sometimes telegraphs greater information.
He stopped and was about to ask her what she needed. A woman walked up to her and put her hand on her shoulder as she ended the phone call.
“She’s in a better place,” the late arrival told her. Though he looked indirectly at her, he watched her face wrinkle with conflicting emotions. He could read her mind.
They spoke a few sentences back and forth. The woman returned her verbal volleys with diminished enthusiasm and volume.
As the late arrival walked away, he asked her what she needed. “To be about 200 miles from here. None of these people knew my Aunt.”
Because it’s what he does, he hugged her. He wasn’t going to add vacuous words.
When he stepped back and away from her, she told him that she didn’t think she could stand listening to people talk about her aunt.
“Then don’t. The person you loved is gone. Your debt is paid.” He didn’t quite say it in so few words because he was surprisingly caught off guard by nervousness. His entire morning was a bout of unidentifiable anxiety. His arms still quivered with the exertion expended to quell what had saved insurmountable at the time.
“I hate it when people say someone’s in a better place.” The irritation in her voice was evident.
“They mean well. None of us know what to say. I put my foot in my mouth a lot. We’re not thinking about where they are. We’re thinking about going on without them. That’s what grief is.”
She looked at him directly. “That’s a really good way to put it.”
“I learned the hard way. When people are grieving, they say and do almost anything.”
She nodded. He walked away, hoping that time would warp for her. Time is one of the few things that helps. But sometimes, it remained fresh forever.
He wondered how the universe sometimes finds a way to overlap lessons that superficially have nothing in common.
The man put his window down and asked me if I needed a ride anywhere. I told him Bentonville. There was a long, awkward pause. I laughed as he realized I was yanking his chain. I told him I was out enjoying the storm and rain. He told me he hadn’t intentionally been out in the rain in a lot of years. After I asked him how old he was, I asked him to guess how old he thought I was. Very early 40s was his reply. I told him I was 56, 5 years older than him. I’m pretty sure he left wondering why he doesn’t go for a barefoot walk in the rain.
When the storm rolled in, I helped the neighbors pick up a variety of plants and items the wind tried to kidnap as it traveled above us.
Even though I had already taken two walks this morning, I knew the rain was not going to be another missed opportunity. I stripped down and removed everything. Phone, watch, glasses, and common sense. And took off around the neighborhood for a walk in the rain. Barefoot. In the open spaces, I could see the expanse of the sky and the galloping clouds as they dumped rain.
It was a stolen moment, one particular to a warm August morning.
I wrapped my wet shirt around my head upon my return.
Despite it feeling like this hot summer might be interminable, I know that there will not be many more warm rainy mornings to enjoy the subtle pleasures of walking in the rain. Not to mention that I have no idea of how many more rotations around the sun I might get to enjoy.
One disadvantage of trying to sleep not long after 7 p.m. is that my body begins to stir by midnight. I was up at 1 a.m. It was fortuitous, as I witnessed the light rain sweep the parking lot shortly after. Not wanting to miss it, I crept down the landing stairs wearing only swim shorts. The rain pelted me with drops much cooler than I anticipated. I walked out by the road as my skin begged me to retreat to the protection of the landing or inside the apartment. Knowing I was in a moment that would be impossible to recapture, I remained there, smelling the singular scent of rain stirring the dirt and foliage. It was another stolen moment, one owing to sleeplessness, adventure, and pictures. My computer was on, with six or seven folders open, ones mostly mausoleum now, smiling and posed faces, many filled with people now moved on. I was attempting to both commemorate the past and repay a debt of shared pictures from years ago.
The problem with opening these windows is that they are often literal windows into nostalgia, penitence, and even happiness. “I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you actually left them.” Andy from The Office quipped those words. Nostalgia often warps the sense of reality. We simultaneously fondly remember what we experienced while also catching slivers of memories that camouflage the chaos and pain that often characterize our lives.
It all started a couple of days ago when I revived an old photo of my sister. My cousin, who was older than my cousin Jimmy and I, commented, and our orbits intersected because of him. She commented that a man named Frenchie was her first love. I knew I had a picture of them, standing on Ann Street (Peaceful Valley) where I spent so many days, nights, and weekends. My Uncle Buck and Aunt Ardith were my refuge other than the Hignites’ trailer. I don’t remember much about Frenchie. When I think of Diane, I think of her husband Bob, who was a witty, kind person to me. I enhanced the picture of Diane and Frenchie. In the background, you can see what was once open fields and emptiness in that part of Springdale. I’ll put it in the comments. Strange how a picture taken for the purpose of celebrating people can also drag us into a memory of how the places around us used to be.
I love the video. Not because I’m in it. The video exists because of a long, circuitous technology trip, one which required conversion, editing, and keeping on my part. Aunt Barbara recorded us with a large camcorder, the kind that once rendered even strong shoulders a bit fatigued. I do laugh because, at one point, I used one of my favorite phrases at the time: “Hi, honey.” Later, at the very end of the video, you can hear me ask Aunt Barbara, “Who did you say, Aunt Barbara?” She called me “Little Bobby.” As people passed, the frequency of hearing my old name being used precipitously dropped. The joke was that if you threw a rock anywhere near the families, you’d hit six people named Bobby, Robert, or some variation. My birth name was supposed to be BobbyDean, like a mumbled run-on of a moniker.
When I watch the video now, I think that there should have been another sister in attendance, one who was kept secret. She would have been in her early-20s at the time. Lord, the fun we would have had scandalizing our older kinfolk.
At any rate, heading toward three decades later, I’m lucky to still be able to wake up too early, walk in the rain, drink the bitterest of coffee, and open windows into the past. I work to remember to avoid looking back out of those windows too long. It was bittersweet to live those moments. Dwelling on them too long robs me of remembering that the good old days are still here and that it just takes a large dose of time to render today’s moments as amber.
This is a fancy word for lightning lover. The meteorological kind, not one afflicted with a lack of bedroom longevity. It’s a word without a certain je ne sais quoi, which is a French phrase meaning, “Don’t stand under a tree when it is lightning.” I probably took some liberty with the definition of that. The French gave us a statue that basically gives me the inalienable right to make stuff up.
My cat wanted no part of the light show this morning.
I got absolutely drenched standing outside watching it. At times, the streaks of lightning branched into dozens of tendrils. Oddly, it made me a bit melancholy despite the fierce beauty of it.
Corky the squirrel ranted at me for a couple of minutes. I accidentally walked right up upon him as he sat on the transformer dining on tidbits left by a fellow animal lover. I didn’t see him. Because I startled him, he did a flip on top of the transformer, crouched down to give me the evil eye, and then leaped up the tree a couple of feet to stare at me further. I That’s when the rant commenced. Though I don’t speak Scuirusese, the official language of squirrels, I did catch the sounds for trespass and butthead. I took a picture and then reached up toward him and he didn’t move. After a few seconds of me staying motionless in that position, he fluffed his tail up in indignation and casually went up the tree and out of sight. I’ll leave him some food offerings later today or tomorrow in penance. X
This is another word that fell out of usage. It literally means yesterday evening. It uses the same bastardization that Halloween derives from. It doesn’t have the same poetic fluidity that overmorrow does, which is one of my favorite words. The word evokes the name of a strange pharmaceutical, probably one invented to combat the effects of constipation. Judging by many of the faces I see, it’s likely that a lot of y’all need it.
Yestereve, of course, means last night. Yesternight is another synonym.
I was in the pool by 4 a.m. When I climbed out of the pool into the chilly air, I briefly turned on the strings of Edison lights to watch them sparkle. It wasn’t quite as beautiful as the lightning storm I witnessed yesterday. But with the moon peeking through the branches of the huge tree overhanging the fence, the odd mixture of clouds passing overhead, and the subtle birdsong melodiously echoing, it was beautiful in its own way.
It reminded me of the joke about the chicken crossing the road. To which the answer is: why does everyone question the chicken’s motives.
I’m in Springdale at a beautiful Airbnb. Erika found it, of course. It’s a large beautiful house on Tara Street. My favorite part are the hidden Narnia rooms upstairs. I’ve been walking the streets since 3:30. The sky is flashing and rolling with lightning. Though no rain had reached me yet, the crackling of thunder occasionally surprises me. It’s gorgeous out on the wide expanse of Don Tyson parkway with almost no traffic. It’s as if all of it coalesced just for my private enjoyment. It’s definitely a stolen moment, one impossible to plan. The rain started at 4: 43. I made it back to the house a few minutes later. One of the best people at work, Carlos, brought delicious dark coffee back from his trip to El Salvador. It’s brewing now. If you’re a coffee lover, I probably don’t need to describe how delicious it smells as it’s burning. As is the case with these moments, I wish time would stand still for a few hours. Love, X
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 