Though it was almost 50°, the wind howled in the predawn morning. I stood motionless in the woods, back pressed against a tree. Waiting for deer. None came. But quiet thoughts did. The moon above me was rendered glossy by the clouds racing overhead. The world was dark but the wind buffeted everything. 3:33 a.m. is a distinct world. X .
I went out into the woods early here in the hollers of Bella Vista. Though I was watchful, I didn’t see the deer until they ran and crashed away. The thick mass of leaves made surreptitious approach impossible. I saw one large buck. I was 15 feet from them. As I stood hanging another cup in the trees, I could hear a buck snorting. Above, hawks were already swooping and prowling the early overcast morning. Carolina chickadees, a solitary woodpecker, robins, fish crows, and other birds around me sang and pecked, ignoring the cold. It was both a lemon moments and stolen one.
Just me in the trees, surrounded.
It was a beautiful moment. I thought of one of my favorite quotes, “You can’t take a picture of this, it’s already gone.” I felt a pang of aloneness, just as I had yesterday when I went down and snapped a picture of last visit’s cup.
I whispered, “Tomorrow.” There isn’t one. Only now.
I said, “I apologize for any awkwardness. Would you like this?” It doesn’t matter what it was. You can use your imagination.
He looked at me and smiled. “Thank you!”
We talked for a couple of minutes. As I walked away, he asked me to hold on a second.
He fished something out of his pocket and held it out. I took it from him. It was a dollar coin, shiny and new.
“I’m not going to say I’m not going to take it because you want me to have it. What’s the story? I know there is one.” I asked him.
He hesitated.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But I love good stories.”
He said, “I always carry three of these new coins. One for the past, one for the future, and one for the now. Even though they’re the same, I like to imagine I’m giving away the coin that is the past. Sometimes I have to spend them.”
“Damn,” I said, surprised. “That is interesting.” And I meant it.
“If someone needs it, give it to them.” I was walking away when he said that. It made me temporarily mute, so I just nodded.
PS Earlier in the morning, I had a similar moment with another man. Though he did not have much, he always took the time to take the little extra he had and walk it to one of the small parking lot food pantries in Fayetteville. If I were looking for the definition of a kind, charitable heart, it would be him.
The brooch is one I wore today. I loved telling people, “It’s a brooch to celebrate my new promotion to Dance Commander.” The responses varied, but all made the day a little more interesting.
You wouldn’t enthusiastically take advantage of another opportunity to return to your youth. Invariably, when discussion of such a fantasy arises, the older giveaway their intentions by framing it in terms of money. Money gives options. But there are few among us who truly shine in the application of appreciating that time and experiences are what makes life worthwhile. Stop telling the younger generation to take advantage. With your wrinkled brow, we see you. Failing to balance the opportunity of the day or the years ahead of you. No one knows when the shadow might darken their door. Your age and experience should push you to squeeze out both simple pleasures and large. The decades behind you paved an infinite path of choices. Just as the young people in front of you might if they’re lucky. It’s hard to expect yolo or carpe diem from the younger generation because we have the disparate expectations of responsibility and stability. For similar reasons, the older among us can’t let go of the stability tethers that we need. Both groups are in the same boat. Regardless, living by example is the best sermon you can give anyone. Words are easy and change is hard. Most of us can’t even gleefully listen to another genre of music without being dismissive. Much less trying new foods, new words, or mindsets that might serve us better. We reach the point where we decide we’re done. Routine and stability bring comfort. But they also suffocate the opportunity to become renewed.
It finally happened again. I went to Harps and bought a few groceries, after engaging in a bit of social shenanigans. And helping a couple of customers. When I exited the store and got to my car, I couldn’t find my keys. That was when I realized that my car was running with the keys locked inside. Because my car has old style pull knobs, I knew I could get a coat hanger and eventually pop it open. Eventually is the keyword. I called for an Uber and it arrived quickly. Within seconds of speaking with the driver, I realized that there was a significant language barrier, one involving a language I only knew a couple of words in. When I attempted to establish a return ride through the app, the only word I could understand was “No no no!” Pantomine was fruitless. For a brief second I wanted to play a game of charades and pretend I was having a heart attack. Under such a scenario, I would at least end up at my workplace, albeit with an involuntary IV in my arm as a result of the joke.
When he arrived at my apartment, he would only nod. Accepting my fate, I bid him farewell. I could have been telling him to have a happy bat mitzvah. I set up another ride for my return to Harps, hopefully this time to be inside it. Within seconds, my ride was accepted. It took me 10 seconds to retrieve one of my extra car keys. For a brief second, I thought that perhaps the older man who didn’t speak any language we both could use might accept my second ride request. Another very similar black car accepted my Uber request. The second driver laughed and shook his head. He told me several good stories about Uber and some of the drivers that he considered crazy, one of which involved an old police car that still had the detention partition in the middle and required the driver to get out and open the rear door for the passenger. What could possibly go wrong with that scenario?
Out of my forgetfulness came a good conversation. I made it back home safely with two sets of keys on me. If you wonder why I have four car keys, this is part of the reason. Were it not for some groceries, I probably would have walked back and forth instead of calling for a ride. X .
Last night I dreamed of Grandpa. The storm had passed and the air smelled of earth and bean plants. Grandma was inside nervously attempting to watch the grainy picture on the small living room TV, her ears tuned to the weather. It scared her to have the TV plugged in and connected to the tall antenna on the side of the house. Grandpa and me sat on the porch swing facing the fields. It was past bedtime. I held a very small cup of coffee, warmed up from the morning. Grandma put pet milk in it, even though I would have preferred black coffee. She ascribed to the idea that somehow heavy milk canceled out the caffeine. We didn’t talk as we sat on the porch swing. The blizzard of unseen insects slowly returned to normal following the storm. Though Grandpa enjoyed TV, he loved the porch after a storm. Not just because the heat had temporarily lost the war against the cooling winds. It was his living room, one facing the immense fields of Monroe County around the small house. I don’t remember many of my dreams, possibly because I don’t sleep long enough to process them. This morning I woke up with a piece of me lingering in the nostalgia of 50 years ago.
“You are right. But so is 100. You earned each of your years by the minute, the day, the month, the year. You can walk a hundred extra steps. You can eat 100 less calories. And you can do 100 push-ups. You don’t have to do it all at once. Make or take a minute for small choices. You can choose a smile instead of a complaint. You can give a hug to remember what humanity is all about. Age is just a number. And it relentlessly piles up behind you, an infinite number of increments. Just like you’re choosing to read this instead of scrolling past. Don’t scroll your life or it will be gone forever.”
I normally don’t splurge for things like this beautiful hummingbird feeder. It doesn’t look as dazzling right now because the storm apocalypse is rolling over toward me. This time, I bought the special nectar that apparently hummingbirds devour like the last french fry in the bag. My first year here was a delight with a hummingbirds. I need more beauty like this. Practical beauty is a thing onto itself. Assuming my building will remain standing once the storms roll past, I’ll look out the door or window frequently in an attempt to catch my first hummingbird visitor.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 