‘Cheer up, Ed. This is not goodbye. It’s just I won’t ever see you again.’ – Frank Drebin…
Yesterday was a day of rain and piling clouds. I took a long walk before it started. Later, we walked along the beach looking for shells a couple of times until the rain started. Erika has covid; early Monday I tested negative but my congestion said otherwise.
We watched the first 15 episodes of the nostalgic TV show The Waltons. We also watched the storms through the huge wall length windows next to us.
This morning I got up too early and decided to get dressed and take a long walk immediately, even before I had a cup of coffee. One of the visiting neighbors nearby set off his car alarm at least ten times. I doubt the late night vacationers appreciated the 2:00 a.m. wake up calls. (Except for the sadomasochists, of course.)
Tomorrow morning it will be 20° cooler. A reminder that the warmer weather has been a privilege.
I woke up the roosters and was out of the hotel room within 10 minutes, after dressing in the mostly dark room. For reasons I can’t remember, it seemed important to get dressed before going out.
Magee, Mississippi gave me the opportunity to be a stranger in a strange land. It’s one of my favorite things. To wander the dark roads and streets of places I’ve never been and will likely never be again.
With luck, the ocean will be in sight later today. I don’t think I’ve returned since my last visit somewhere around 25 years ago. I’ve lived a couple of lifetimes since. I love the big moments and the epic sights. Who wouldn’t? I still feel like the stolen moments and carved out spontaneous experiences make up the bulk of our lives.
With the exception of the main highway, I owned all the streets this morning. Not a single car passed me. The main highway of course is dotted with people in a hurry to get somewhere else, even at 4:00 in the morning.
I’ll be one of them later.
I grabbed a cup of coffee on the way out of the hotel lobby prior to my long walk. I’ll bet a million dollars that the cup I get when I go back in will taste immeasurably better.
It will be the same coffee. But I’ll be a little different.
I left Señor Conejo on Michael’s car. Michael returned to the job he left recently at the inconvenience store, so it seemed appropriate to leave him a head-scratcher of a surprise.
Señor Conejo has adorned the inside corner of my landing post for a couple of years. It came to me because a friend had ordered it from a Temuesque online store. (Where expectations seldom intersect with reality.) I took some time to fix it, paint it, and adorn it with a wild assortment of a doodads. Chris P. Bacon and Redactyl, my personal weather dinosaur, both still stand guard along the banister rail.
Señor Conejo undoubtedly was growing concerned with some of the wild neighborhood shenanigans he has witnessed from his perch above the parking lot.
In one way, I hated to part with Señor Conejo. But it’s time for a renewal. Giving away these personal things capriciously gives me a little pause.
Then I look up into the early morning sky and realize that one day ownership and sentimentality must ceed their claim to whatever comes next.
The greater our reluctance to step aside, to yield, or to change, the higher the probability of dissatisfaction and unhappiness becomes.
I visited the cold, clear creek. It was the same as it always is. Indifferent. At the low point, the time change has dramatically shifted the shadows. But in the precarious high spot with a better vantage, there was light. I wish we all had more moments at the apex. Each of us is the creek, passing through.
I of course was awake when the clocks flipped back an hour. When I went outside I was greeted with strong wind gusts and the clattering echo of someone’s wind chimes lodging their complaint about the unusually warm weather. The clouds above me raced across the sky.
It was hard for me to go inside. I wanted to watch and listen to the symphony of rustles, chimes, and clouds. Every few minutes, the wind whistled between the wooden fence slats. Unlike most mornings, there wasn’t much traffic, nor were the usual cast of characters mumbling or coming in and out of nearby apartments.
I went to the inconvenience store for a soda. My trip was mostly a pretext to see if anything unusual would pop up.
Y’all might have witnessed people going to the store in pajamas. I can go one better. I had to laugh as I watched a woman approach the store wearing her bedspread. That’s either a demonstration of liberation or I-don’t-give-an-eff.
Joy. The same day I discovered the abandoned trunk in the trees and brush, I had a joyous moment. Near where I work is a nexus of creek, trails, and wildlife. For whatever reason, this year brought a few squirrels not intimidated by people. If I’m still, a couple of these will approach me, sit near me, or cling to the bark of a tree near eye level. If I lean against one of the box transformers nearby, it might put its paws on the small of my back. Every so often, they let me pet them. Earlier in the week, one of these trusting squirrels approached me excitedly and sat at my feet, twitching and raising its head. I reached down, gave him neck scrunches, and ran my fingers along its back like a cat. The squirrel chattered in response. (It’s one of the squirrels that recently engaged in a squirrel war with a fellow tree dweller and fell on me.) I don’t know what it was telling me as I made contact. When I was done petting it, it picked up an acorn and busily chewed on it at my feet. I suppose it wanted company – and I was glad to have it. It flew me away from the job, the day, and the relentless stupidity we call busyness.
I don’t know what called me to walk along the back spur of the trail. I haven’t been near there in weeks due to the drought and the low creek.
To the right of the path, I saw what initially looked to be a barrel. As I neared it, I realized it was an antique trunk. The lid was carelessly thrown open and a couple of drawers sat haphazardly on top of the trunk’s opening.
Slightly uphill and to the right were the remnants of someone’s memories. Photos, cards, tickets for rock music venues from the 1970s, and personal keepsakes.
Someone had to have taken great effort to get the trunk out there amidst the trees.
I have a lot of questions about how the trunk got there, and of the stranger whose belongings are still carelessly staged and thrown out for display to those adventurous enough to walk through.
Of course I can’t resist the call to do my thing and find out about the woman whose storage trunk of memories are discarded out here.
I’m glad I listened to the call that prompted me to go out among the trees.
But I am also a little disheartened to have found someone’s trunk of memories out here.
The park crew was clearing brush and trees from the creekside end of Bluff Cemetery. We’ve been weeks without substantive rain.
Because the amount of dust reminded me of an empty field before and after the crops of my youth, I told him, “A little grit in the heat never hurt anyone.”
Because of the elevation of the cemetery and the exposed expanses of ground at the cemetery, the effect of the high wind carrying and eddying the dust and leaves was quite beautiful despite it covering me as I walked through it.
It was shortly after noon during my visit. The sky looked like a summer sky even though the browning trees frowned at me for such a thought.
I can’t visit a cemetery without viscerally feeling the irony of loving cemeteries for their history and emotional anchors, yet having always disliked the ritual of burial.
I have several family members at Bluff. Several contemporaries and people I’ve known also dot the landscape.
After meandering, I took a photo of a random grave. Someday soon, I’ll use the information to find out more about the person using my research skills. It may seem foolish to some for me to do this. But every time I do it, I learn something. I like to think that a random stranger’s attention might float up into the after and ether and hit a hidden chord of memory in the universe.
Before exiting the property, I pulled my car over and parked. I chose a tree along the periphery and did my best to climb it. My pocket was loaded with a length of wire and a beautiful prism. I left it hanging up there. In the days to come it will become more exposed as the tree gives way to November.
Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.
The prism is a reminder that sunlight is not only the source of all life here on Earth, but also provides the only way we can experience beauty with our eyes.
No matter what your views are of the afterlife, many forget that we are supposed to squeeze life while we’re here. Some of us produce lemon juice and others nectar.
We all breathe the same air and for different lengths of time.
PS I hope some of you got to enjoy the leaf tornadoes that seemed to be everywhere today.
The exuberant blush of the chilly October morning passed. My arms were heavy from relentless push-ups, ones executed to silence my imagination and mind. The fleeting and mercurial chance to venture out and sit among the mountains of scattered fallen leaves passed as the shadows of the morning disappeared. The chance to hold a hot cup of coffee and share the absurdity of humor as the crows called. I grew tired of my mind, wanting only presence. So I sat and watched the gentle breeze move the remaining green limbs of the trees. The accompanying sun attempted to pierce the gauzy Autumn clouds. It was a reverie that inevitably concluded when I put on my practical shoes. The magic of the morning that I love evaporated into the ether. But still my mind wandered in the cavern contained and concealed inside of me. It’s one of the consequences of living in boxes. Swooping high above, there are a million boxes and each one contains a universe of self-contained minds. Sonder strikes differently on fall mornings. It is the interconnectedness of us that makes it worthwhile. If it feels lacking, not much effectively works as a distraction.
And I’m floating.
.
PS I wrote the above words yesterday morning. I listened to Spencer Sutherland wail “Alive.” And though I shared these words, I’m frustrated that I’m experiencing the same disconnectedness this morning. The easy fix evidently stretches too far for some. It’s obvious I don’t lack the words or the ability to communicate. So, I blasted “Alive” again and reminded myself to be grateful for what I do have instead of that which lacks. I remind myself that it’s human nature to fail to appreciate the 80% to chase the 20%. The problem is that the magic tends claim residence in the 20%.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 