Last week, two events sparked in me an urge to write.
One morning, I came out to the porch in the morning to try to write and found flecks of dirt on my bistro table’s cloth, two poop pellets on my chair cushion, and dirt spread over the cotton runner woven in 1996 by an old woman in Greece, a widow dressed head-to-toe in black. The pretense of neither a porch nor nostalgic linens is understood by a squirrel—identified as such by a google search for “squirrel poop photo.”
Right in the middle of the big mother-in-law tongue plant, the squirrel had dug a hole in the dirt. Did the squirrel think he planted a walnut there? Was he scouting for a place to hide one this fall? None of the plants have been ripped out, but their roots have been lightly roto-tilled. Motivated by this event, I set up a table and chair in the basement facing a blank wall in an attempt to replicate the quiet room at the library where I used to write. This is a storage/hobby/multi-purpose room. But all that is at my back. Facing forward is a plain wall, blank with possibilities. And the table is pellet free. And one essay has now been written there.
After this turd discovery, I switched gears and took the July Jalopy out for a little spin to run errands. Bill has owned a convertible ever since I’ve known him—31 years. Both cars were introduced to society in James Bond movies. Neither were monetary investments but rather sunny weather accessories. Air flows through freely. Pollen and dust land thickly. They are meant to be driven in the sun, or in my case yesterday, between the rain drops. The current little green jalopy is a stick shift. Each year it physically ages a bit. Two years ago, I noticed the seat slides a couple inches when braking or accelerating. Last year, on the first drive of the season, I went to shift gears, and the knob from the gear shift came off in my hand. This year, the driver’s side arm rest that you would normally grab to close the door has become unattached from the door. Not a big deal as the top is always down, so we just make a LEGO-shaped hand to clamp over the door and pull it shut.
I turned 54 this month and while driving this low-to-the-ground ride, I wondered how many more years I could rise up from the seat to exit this jalopy. It’s a lot like getting out of a kayak. At the drug store, I reached down just above my knees to lock the trunk—the only place to store valuables in a perpetually-top-down convertible. As I turned away from the car, one foot hesitated on the pivot. I knew before I looked. Gum. I grumbled as I drug my foot like a maimed animal across the parking lot. A woman passed me and our eyes met as we simultaneously said, “Gum.” “That’s the worst!” she decreed with compassionate exhaustion in her voice. I nodded.
I continued to the curb in front of the entrance. There I stopped and raked the bottom of my foot across the top of the curb several times. A couple came out of the store and looked at me. Again, “Gum,” was uttered from all three of us. They shook their heads in disgust as I continued scraping.
Squirrels on the porch and gum on the bottom of a shoe are minor existential problems. But as for the gum situation? That is one of humanity’s lowest common denominators.