“We all get pretty excited about a warm day, after so much rain and socked-in, characterless, muzzled skies. I saw the electric bicycles going down the hill early on, and heard a “whoop” and a holler, and someone else, drive out, towing a boat. I picked up three free lawn chairs, stowed in a barn, taking in the mountain top estate viewpoint: foreground, riding ring, background, a full monty of peaks, from Mt. Ellen south, past Grant, all the way to Breadloaf. It doesn’t get much better than that, although the overlay of things that have happened, not so great, add a tinge of bitter flavor. All the empty cow stalls, a scarcity of any true agriculture, where it was historically and my personal losses no one else could understand much, bond in the stanchions. Then it’s hauling furniture overland to the truck, & one can’t help but admire the mown fields, and sculpted forests, and the blush of red maple buds, and everything new pulling something over on us, like it was the first time. I didn’t ever intend to be some kind of foolish idiot. And yet, things happen to show you what you’ve done with your life. What a day, for putting screens in windows, and dusting lady bug carcasses from off the raw, pine sills, in some stubborn cases, blowing them or pinching them, to make sure they don’t leave lady bug shards in the rental unit. It was funny, really. To return to the badly parked Chevy, left in place overnight just short of the septic tank, its bed full of chunky, dark soil, ready to be shoveled into the wheelbarrow. Sun shining on a hapless sky, tee shirt or sweater weather, your choice, and possibly an audio book to accompany chores, and new deerskin gloves, bought cheaper at Home Depot, using credit. Worlds can be cosmically big, or phenomenally small. Or so we think. The friends who vacation in Positano, Italy who were married there, thanks to their wealth and poise and posturing, are still buying anything they want and pretending in ways the rest of us can’t pull off, as much as we might want to. I miss my time with their coffee machines, and their off-the-charts, “does everything” fridge. I had some good meals there, charming times. Now, cleaning toilets or raking out storm gutters, washing windows, or organizing trash, what I don’t know, maybe isn’t so important. Whether I’m fighting cold and wind on a darker day, trying to reposition my hat, or feeling defeated, I’m still here. What luxury, on the weekend, to have choices! Shall I split kindling, or plant a new shrub? A neighbor comes by with soup, walks a hot dutch down the road using a dish towel and a potholder as it spills on her clothes. The vitality of the pansies I bought, the intense survival ethos of the day lilies I dug up, the marginal life force of something I snagged that was going to be ditched, or the touch-and-go belief in myself, that peppers my restless nights, and days. I feel the angst, holding my crying grandbaby, and this just was yesterday, as she watched her mama drive a tractor for the first time. The noise, the chaos of unfamiliarity, the strangeness, of getting to know the world. Dear tiny entrant, I feel your pain, as well as your future triumph, over the harsh unreality of everything will pass, that passes itself off as real, that i will tell you, and warn you about, and humor you with. And remind you, that nothing is more real, and nothing more precious, than you, though it will take you some practice, to get the hang of it.”
