The surprise happened quickly. I walked along the trail spur where I usually encounter my favorite terrier Max. I could hear squirrels animatedly chattering at one another close by. I pulled my phone from my pocket and looked down to input the code. That’s when the unlikely coincidence happened. I didn’t have time to react. What I thought was a large bird swooped down in front of me so closely that it was only inches away – and hit my right shoe precisely when my shoe contact with the concrete.
My brain realized that a squirrel had jumped or been knocked from the tree above me. It bounced from my shoe to stand about two feet in front of me. It hunched on all four fours and chattered at me. Above me, I heard a squirrel scratching furiously at a tree. A half second later, the squirrel from the tree barreled the short distance across the grass and dirt and sideswiped the falling squirrel. It was a WWE move. Both squirrels ran around in circles for several seconds, up the chain link fence and then into a tree.
After laughing, I snapped a picture of the skydiving squirrel.
It seemed to have forgotten the incident entirely. Which means these squirrels routinely practice their wrestling moves.
Had I been walking slightly faster, the squirrel would have landed squarely on my head. And I wonder what I might have looked like in that scenario.
I’m standing in the low creek as I write this. I had hoped for a rainier September. September is the month with so many milestones for me. Don’t get me wrong. October is fabulous. But September holds weight for me, and anchors pieces of me that are hard to explain to other people.
While waiting, I took the opportunity to explore. Along the road were a series of maple trees that had some of the best climbing branches I’ve seen in a long time. If you’re wondering whether the urge to climb the tree over took me…. Does a conservative jump at the chance to make strawman arguments? (The algorithm loves political jokes.) I jumped up to the first branch and made my way up. Joyce Boulevard looks different from high up in a tree. The shade and breeze were amazing. When I came down to the last branch, I swung without thinking. Even though the tree is 15 ft away from the side road, the woman driving the maroon Yukon obviously didn’t expect a man to apparently fall out of a tree. I waved at her to let her know I had intentionally came out of the tree. Although she might be right if she claimed she saw a nut fall out of a maple tree this afternoon.
You would never know how brilliant the sun shone looking at my picture.
I sat under the shade of another tree and looked at the blue sky canopy above me – and the mix of dark clouds interrupting the sky. The breeze joined me as my mind went a thousand different directions. In the distance, I watch the clutter of traffic on Joyce.
“Grow up. You’re too old to climb trees,” some might say to me. I pity those people. Trapped on the ground in every sense that matters. X .
I’ve shared stories about the relative unsafety of crosswalks. Especially ones at the bottom of a hill. I routinely see people going more than twice the speed limit. Earlier, I opted to use the crosswalk.
A bit of trivia that most people don’t know is that crosswalks are so named because you need to make a sign of the cross prior to attempting to engage one. I’m pretty fearless with crosswalks. It’s ridiculous to worry about being run over when physics clearly teaches us that it’s way more likely to be run under and thrown over the hood of the car.
I had more than enough time to cross before causing traffic to slow on their way to purchase more knickknacks for their bathroom. Or whatever insanely hurried people seem to be doing. I did a pirouette and waved my arms as I started across. Of course I jogged across. The driver must have been going 60 or 70 because even though I made it across the road in plenty of time, he blared the horn. Without looking back, I lifted my right arm and gave him the opportunity to inspect one of my straightened fingers. I won’t mention the name of the company emblazoned on the side of the car. He must have immediately put down his driver window because I heard him either shouting gibberish or management jargon. They are indistinguishable, after all.
I only mention this anecdote because a few minutes ago when I left the apartment, I looked in my rearview mirror to see that someone was going at least 70 down Gregg. I was waiting to make a left turn. Needing to turn must have offended that driver as he flew down the road. He blared his horn non-stop and miraculously avoided rear-ending me. No pun intended. He swerved to my right and then decided to be clever and swerve back into the left lane. Only to discover that the car in front of me was now only about 70 ft in front. I’m pretty sure everyone clenched in anticipation of the inevitable crash as he hit the brakes as hard as he could. How he got the car slowed enough to avoid hitting the car in front of me is a question for the muses. Though I was still full of adrenaline from almost being rear-ended, I had the presence of mind to lay on my horn and laugh as I made a left turn.
Too many people in a hurry to meet Jesus. I’m fine with them being in a hurry to meet him. I’d rather them not take me with them just yet.
It’s been 17 years, or 6,210 days, give or take one due to the uncertainty of the day emblazoned on the calendar.
Some years, it is sufficient to look at her family tree and at the countless pictures I indexed for those wishing to remember.
I’m more of a spontaneous remembrance person, allowing random moments to drag me into the past.
The bridge that might transport me back is a duality of both distance and proximity. Everyone who gets old enough feels the clock spinning like a roulette wheel, for its speed and also for the uncertainty regarding where its stop whimsically occurs.
Even if we’re unaware of our demarcations, we divide our lives in to eras. Most of our demarcations are passive. Childhood. Graduation. A child. And the rest launch from the magical yet persistently somber consequence of being alive in this world.
I had my turnstile moment this morning. Disrespect pushed me into a flare of brilliant anger. Because of the anniversary, I didn’t need to think about how I should probably respond. Anger is a call to action for remedy or an immobilizing force. I never need to intellectualize how she might have reacted. If something made her mad, it was a certainty that those around her would not need a soothsayer or psychic. The words would flow with a grimace to match.
I managed to merge and juxtapose her reaction with my natural inclination. The words came. Those who’ve ridden the ride and exited the fairgrounds know the stupidity of living inauthentically. Once your ticket is torn and handed it to you, the clock is already spinning.
And so through these words that will seem vague to many and perceptively painful for others, I tell you that it’s a dangerous game to be reminded.
I did not have a ticket rendered in two pieces in my hand today. It was given to me 57 years ago. 17 years ago, I had to come to terms with the fact that it probably should have been my ticket being requested.
I was supposed to use the alchemy of motivation and memory to live unapologetically. She handed me the baton and pointed me in the right direction.
When the weather chills in early September, even my oblivious bones haunt me a little.
That’s the way it’s supposed to be.
We are all busy and occupied instead of being purposeful and satisfied.
As I stood at the intersection where Garland opens up to the fields, I watched as a car inexplicably went down the wrong side of the median. Opposite the intersection are the beautiful homes that have been remodeled one by one. They are much more striking in the dark early hours of the morning. I turned in that direction out of curiosity, observing that the car made a left onto Sycamore. It’s undergoing what seems like a permanent closure due to reconstruction of the road. I carefully walked along the gravel temporarily placed on the roadbed. Not too far from the intersection where the street intersects with Leverett, the car was pulled over and whoever was driving it had the brake lights activated. Because I am either fearless or stupid, I approached the car from the driver side, taking a wide approach so that the potential occupant could see me. As I came within about feet from the driver door, the car roared away. I watched it bounce like a volleyball as it went over the juxtaposition of gravel at a lower height than the pavement. It was an auspicious start of the day for me wandering and wondering around in the dark. I suspect it was an inauspicious ending for the driver, one undoubtedly proceeded by questionable choices and liquid dopamine. I noted the irony that the next song that played on my headphones was a lyricless version of “Peace Of Mind” by Boston. I zoned out as I walked along the beautiful new sidewalks that were recently completed. Off in the distance, I had the privilege of watching the dark skies turn purple, pink,and rosé as the clouds broke on the horizon and the sun peeked through.
The next song on my playlist was a lyricless version of “Don’t Fear The Reaper.” I laughed and felt pity for the reaper. No one takes the time to consider that he’s never welcome. Or that he has to do his job in this humidity wearing a heavy cloak. I bet that sometimes the reaper wants to sit and have a good cup of bitter coffee in the morning and listen to the birds.
PS I prefer the word “lyricless” over “instrumental” because the latter usually denotes a different version than that to which we are accustomed.
She sat in the shade on a hot summer afternoon. Another woman was with her. The other woman chatted with her while they both watched the two children attempt to swing high.
As I walked by on the dirt path barefoot, my pants rolled up to my knees, I noted that she glanced at me more than once. Initially, I thought maybe the multiple glances were due to the rarity of spotting a middle-aged man walking barefoot—and in the heat.
The woman’s ponytail swished across her shoulders as she turned her head. She was about forty-five years old. The next time her head swiveled toward me, I met her gaze. She smiled at me and nodded. I smiled and nodded back. She was a pretty woman, and her smile amplified her face.
I walked past her and her companion. As I neared the edge of the dirt path, I heard a voice call out, “Hey, man with his pants rolled up!”
Since I doubted there were multiple iterations of men with their pants rolled up, I turned and stopped.
The woman with the ponytail trotted toward me and stopped as she put her hands on her hips. She stood about ten feet from me.
“I’m Jane, ” she said.
“I’m Jay,” I replied. “Nice to meet you.”
“This is going to sound odd, but you look interesting. Do you want to come sit under the shade with me? I have a lot of questions.”
I smiled immediately. “Fair warning. I love being cryptic and clever.”
“Not half as much as me!” Jane’s smile became even broader. She turned as if she assumed I would follow.
I walked back toward the canopy of trees over the swings. Jane’s friend saw me approach.
“Jane, you’ve got to stop talking to strangers.”
“What? He’s going to rob us and then run away barefoot? Everyone is a stranger until they’re not. Besides, your psychic sister told me I would run into the love of my life under unusual circumstances.”
I laughed.
“See, Becky, he’s laughing. How dangerous can he be?” Jane raised her right eyebrow and stuck her tongue out at Becky.
“You are as bad as my two kids, Jane.” Becky waved at me and introduced herself.
Jane motioned for me to sit near her on the swing perimeter.
“What are you doing walking around barefooted, Jay?” I noticed that Jane looked at me from the corner of her eye as she spoke.
“It feels good,” I told her. “And I get a dollar for each sharp object I find with my toes.”
Jane laughed. Her friend Becky shook her head as if I had said something ridiculous.
“Okay. Why are your pants rolled up?”
I smiled. “To keep my pants dry. I walked at least a mile upstream and back.”
“That means you’re single.” Jane’s expression didn’t change as she made the announcement.
“I am. But what makes you come to that conclusion!”
Jane paused. “Because people who are taken don’t go on barefoot adventures in the creek.”
“That makes sense. But I could have been throwing off the bloodhounds.” I knew she would have a quick reply.
“I’m not sure that sauntering barefoot in plain sight is an effective escape strategy.”
“Perhaps escape isn’t my objective.” I couldn’t stop grinning at our rapid-fire exchanges.
“You must be one of those rare stop-and-pet-the-bloodhound guys I’ve heard nothing about.”
“Yes. I used to be a stop-and-smell-the-roses guy, but the neighbor got me arrested.”
I heard Becky laugh.
“Y’all are made for each other. Not a lick of sense between the two of you.”
“Is she your matchmaker Jane?”
“No, that’s her sister Reba. She’s the psychic I mentioned. She told me I would meet my ideal man a month ago. That’s why I booked the day trip to the county jail, hoping to find just the right one.” Jane turned to look at me directly. Even though I laughed, I took a moment to hold her gaze.
“I am the man of your dreams. Freddy Krueger minus the sweatshirt.”
Before I barely had the words out of my mouth, she replied, “I am looking for a total mismatch. Someone too dumb to get out of the rain.”
I hesitated because her comment struck a nerve. In the back of my mind, I always thought I belonged with someone who would go out in the rain with me without worrying about their hair, makeup, or how they might look.
Because of the unusual circumstance of being invited into a conversation in a public park, I couldn’t help myself. “Would you like to go out with me sometime?”
Jane grinned. “Just like that? How do you know I’m interested?”
“I don’t. But you asked me over to ask questions. I’m assuming you’re not taken either. I doubt your boyfriend or husband would encourage you to talk to random strangers like this.”
“You’re not random. I was waiting for someone barefooted with their pants rolled up. Duh!” She reached over and swatted my arm. “You’re just the first guy who has qualified.”
Becky spoke. “She’s single. Believe me. You’re signing up for nutso if she goes out with you.”
Jane startled me by speaking unexpectedly loudly. “That’s rich, coming from you. Your husband Pete has everything but clown shoes.”
“Ha ha,” Becky replied.
“Okay, Jay. Technically, we’re already out, so we’ll call this our first date. When would you like the second to be?”
“As soon as provident.”
“Provident, huh? Who uses that word? I’m definitely in if you will wow me with your vocabulary.”
I stood up and walked to the edge of the trees bordering the park. I picked up a flat stone and a smaller one. Jane watched me intently. Becky pretended that we were behaving normally.
I scratched my phone number into the bigger flat rock, walked back to Jane, and handed it to her.
“Positively prehistoric. Going old school on me. I love it.” Jane’s head tilted, and her eyes met mine.
I can’t explain it. I knew at that moment that she would call. And that she would violate the presumptive rules of dating and call me within a couple of hours.
I also knew I would have my phone near me to receive it.
… I often think about that random encounter. So many things could have prevented the synchronicity and coincidence of that connection.
Jane and I often joke about the afternoon we met. Seven hundred and three days have passed (…but who is counting…) since that afternoon. Becky still gives us hell about it. We both laugh, thinking about the ease and unlikelihood of our first conversation. Each time we’re standing in the creek, we look up at the trees and the sun shining through the branches.
So many people claim to hate the song MMMBop. I challenge each of you to read the lyrics. Hidden in plain sight is an undeniable truth of life. Take a moment and try to imagine what the lyrics are. And then go find them. It’s a joy to hear a song in a completely different way after hearing it 1 billion times as an upbeat pop song.
X
.
PS I will put a link to a video that highlights the disparity between what we hear versus the words being sang.
Coincidences. They fascinate me. Last Monday, I had my car broken into for the first time because I parked somewhere I normally don’t. Of course, it was raining. Today I got up to discover that my car won’t start. While I don’t know for sure yet whether it’s the battery, it’s raining. And the idiot who broke out my window stole my tire inflator which also had an emergency jump feature on it. I bought a new tire inflator immediately upon discovering that it had been stolen. But it doesn’t have the emergency jump capability. I should have known better when I didn’t spend the extra money for the fancier emergency kit. I’m laughing because I’m the “don’t talk to me about odds” guy. I’m also remembering precovid, when stores were open at this hour. .
Even though the phrase “como agua para chocolate” (like water for chocolate) has a culinary meaning, I adopted and adapted it to my own meaning when I read the book in Spanish for the first time. Regardless of its intended meaning, which I understood, it anchored my frustration with the way we tend to accept poor substitutes for authentic living.
If we’re stressed or feeling floorless or unanchored, we distract ourselves. We fill our minutes with things that don’t satisfy us. It’s a series of late-night snacks with the door fridge held open. We know we’re not satisfying our cravings, yet we continue to eat pieces of cheese or anything visible. Ten pieces of cheese and a cold hot dog won’t satisfy us. But neither will another glass of wine or three seasons of our favorite binge show.
If we’re craving intimacy and connection, we accept poor substitutes that probably cause us more discomfort than simply being alone. We open bottles or cans and down the numbing contents. We light fires in our faces that flood our bodies with false dopamine. We focus our attention on tiny screens and large, hoping that the content gives us relief.
All of these things are distractions – and we know it when we’re doing it. But what’s the viable alternative? The gurus in life tell us to avoid anything that creates distance between us and the people and the world around us. It’s too much, though. And though days fly by, the individual minutes scream at us to be filled.
Chocolate itself was originally considered to be a gift from the gods. Now? We love it but also look at it as a mundane treat. We tend to devalue what’s readily available. Often, I catch myself thinking that we do the same thing with the people, places, and things around us.
It doesn’t matter how full your garage is. The things in it won’t add further happiness to your life, even though you continue to acquire, upgrade, or store the previous things that you obtained to be more satisfied.
When people wax nostalgic, most of the memories are comprised of moments with people from their past: eating, doing things together, and usually without distraction. For a brief moment, the focus is mindless and simply enjoying the experience.
If you’re making an authentic chocolate drink, you must be mindful of the boiling point of the water you’re using.
If you’re looking for peace and satisfaction, you have to enjoy the process and bother of taking the time to enjoy the things you’re doing.
The joy of a brand-new seventy-inch TV will fade. The foods you love will soon enough oversaturate you and fade into the background.
What am I trying to say?
You tell me.
I’m just another among billions, secretly wondering why I can’t avoid the false dopamine and poor substitutes for what matters.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 