Big rocks in the yard
For decades I’ve wanted rocks in the yard. Not just rocks. I wanted boulders. Unlike plants, they don’t need to be watered and fed. They don’t die. A few nicely placed boulders would help cut down on yard maintenance. But we never had an SUV or a truck and my husband wasn’t crazy about rocks, so I didn’t get them.
Last week, we hired a man to dig up shrubs that had overgrown the house, the lot—hell, they’d overgrown the block we live on. This man noticed that the tree in front needed trimming, so he trimmed it without adding anything to the bill. Then, his gaze playing over the empty spots, he said ‘you need some rocks.’ I stood there slack jawed. “Right. How am I gonna haul in rocks?” He had a vision not just for rocks, but the right rocks, settled into the soil, tilted just so. “I can get you some rocks,” he said. He liked to make things pretty and people happy. So now I have rocks. I am very, very happy with my rocks.
The week before, I’d hit the deadline for getting a new photo ID on my driver’s license. One has no choice about such things. So, I took myself over to the AAA office, registered and took the assigned seat. I expected to wait for an eternity. But, before I could bring up the news on my IPhone, I was called to the desk where a very nice lady behind the camera who clearly loves life and her job and all people and things in the universe assured me that she’d take as many photos as necessary to make me happy. I did not take advantage of this saintly person, but I now look forward to my next photo ID deadline.
At noon of the day of the Penguins parade, I was due at the Omni William Penn for an awards lunch for Father Jack O’Malley, a Catholic priest who’s known by everybody, including folks at the lockup, because he’s spent his entire life shining a light on injustice, racism and sexism and has occasionally been arrested for doing so. The luncheon had been long planned, but what with the Stanley Cup brouhaha, how was anybody going to get there?
My strategy targeted the South Side, but by the time I approached Station Square, the entire complex was closed to traffic. I made a Uturn on the highway and headed back toward the 10th Street bridge along blocks where there also were no parking places except the one on 12th that became available just as I turned the corner. I parked and walked across the bridge and through the Armstrong Tunnel, certain that no one would be at this luncheon. But every table was filled with people sharing food and memories of Jack and stories of how they hell they got there. The joy, gratitude and grace in the room were palpable. To say nothing of the glory of the chocolate cake.
At Easter, I visited my brother in Kansas. We are polar opposites and have gone through some rough patches. But once, long ago, he shared that he fasted one day a week as our grandfather had, so I’ve always known he was a better person than me and eventually he told me he was sorry for stuff. I was very glad for this because he’s a great host. He showed us his new leaf blower. I want one just like it.
I don’t like to go to church. Deep down, I fear I’m a traitor to my sex when I go to Mass, what with all the institutional issues that never get resolved, none of which I’ll enumerate here. But after Mass, three of us or nine of us, it varies, go to the nearby diner. We gather around a table and order eggs and pancakes from waitresses who know our names. We talk about the sermon, whether the pastor prepared or made it up as he went along; the Pirates, our families, movies we don’t need to bother seeing, books we don’t need to read and when Yellowstone’s gonna blow. I don’t want to miss breakfast at the diner.
I got a birthday card from my granddaughter. In the midst of her busy, busy life working and studying on the other side of the country, she thought of me. How much better does it get?
I have to write these things down. I read the newspapers. I listen to the news. I watch cable TV news once or twice a week, if I can bear it. I must maintain my sanity. I must find peace. I try to focus. I write things down.