Jiminy Cricket

When we walked in the house after getting back from our trip to Minnesota, I went first to the panel to turn off the alarm. Joe was following shortly behind me and headed straight for the basement. Puzzled, I opened my ears to hear the sound of water rushing, followed by silence as he unplugged the sump pump, which had blown a gasket, and was busily pumping away, sending the water in the pit mostly onto the cover, where it would promptly fall back into the hole. I'm not sure how long this had been going on, but it was long enough for the motor to have heated the water well into the point of steaming. (Has to happen when you're out of town, doesn't it...)

The next weekend, I put fixing the pump high on my list of priorities - rain is coming, and the pump definitely keeps my basement drier. As I walked over to the sump pump pit one of the basement crickets hopped ahead of me and jumped straight into the hole. While I'm all about catch and release when it comes to most bugs, I was not about to reach down into the hole to try to catch the little guy.  

I'd already picked up the replacement backflow valve, so I moved on, leaving him to his fate. I pulled the pump out of the hole - and found I'd picked up the wrong part. *sigh*  Back to the store with me, this time with the offending broken piece in had so I was SURE to get the right whizmagig.

Home again, it didn't take too long to swap out the valves. As I lifted the pump to put it back where it had started, I noticed my friend the cricket, clinging to the corrugated side of the pit. I guess it was too deep for him to make the leap out o his own. I still couldn't figure out a good way to safely get him out of there, so I moved on once again. After I finished tightening down the clamps holding the pipes in place, I needed to test my repair, so went and got the hose to fill the pit with enough water to trigger the pump.

The water started blasting in, and my forlorn bug friend found himself a pretty good perch on the top of the float. He rode there for a bit, but fell into the water once the pump activated itself.  I said a little prayer for his shortened life, and continued my test. Satisfied my repair would hold, I turned the water off and returned to the corner to start cleaning up my toys.

The cricket was floating on top of the water, feebly struggling, but alive. I couldn't just let him drown after he'd survived the great flood, so I positioned the hose beneath him, lifted him out of the water and set him down on the floor next to the pit. I ran upstairs to get a cup and a stiff piece of paper - he had barely moved before I got back to the basement.

I put the cup over him, the paper underneath, and carried him up and out into the sunshine. I set the trap onto the grass, lifted off the cup, and had the satisfaction of watching him perk up, shake himself off, and hop off to wherever he went.

His startled leap into the pit had unexpectedly ended well. (While a little worse for the wear, he actually landed ahead in the game, since I'm sure he prefers the great outdoors to the hard cold stone basement.)

These days, I often feel as if resistance is futile; as if my efforts to make a difference in this world amount to little more than nothing. I appreciated the reminder that, sometimes, a small effort on my part can make a big difference in the life of another. 

Even if it is only a cricket.

I Miss Her

I've had several conversations recently about my camper van trip, already seven years in the past. When we talk, they say, 'I loved to read your blog'. Past tense. When I tell them I'm still writing it, they say, 'I know, but it's not as fun anymore, so I don't look at it as often.'

I'd take umbrage at the statements if they weren't true.

It's not as fun any more.
I'm not as fun any more.

I miss her - the woman who was adventurous and free. She who threw all the cards in the air and took off to see if she could find where the road went. She who trusted the Universe she would land safely when her adventure was done.

Me? I'm back to my former responsible self. Chomping at the bit, yes, but leaning dutifully into the harness, pulling the weight of the wagon slowly forward. Busy looking at the ground and the road just ahead instead of watching the sky and the horizon.

The excitement is gone from my life - no wonder it's gone from my writing. My account of building a cabinet just doesn't have the verve of my tale of climbing the remains of an ancient Arcadia Park mountain on a rainy October afternoon. How can the story of my drought-stricken flower garden possibly measure up against the one about pulling up to a campground along the Appalachian Trail, and choosing a campsite based on the number of deer browsing in it?  (I seem to remember there were either five or six of them.)

I miss her. I really miss her.

Most days, these days, I think I've gone too far past the detour sign to ever find the old road again. I haven't given up the dream entirely, but it's fading; a trail petering out into the nothing of an unremarkable back field.

But then, I remind myself, boring has its up side. Boring means no drama. Boring means the bills are getting paid, the car runs, the roof doesn't leak. Boring means my remaining body parts are still functioning normally, that my aches and pains are just the normal ones of getting older.

My story may be boring, but at least it continues - and I find enough words most weeks to fill a page with my musings. And there are at least a few people left who find the words worth reading, which makes the time needed to gather them into some semblance of order and put them out into the ether worthwhile.

So, to those reading this page, thank you. Thank you for sticking with me, even though it's not so fun at the moment. Because it's still worthwhile. And, maybe, one day, I'll get back in touch with her.

I hope.
because I'm pretty sure she misses me, too.

Family Reunion

John Family Reunion, 2018

My Dad's family hosts a reunion every summer. He was one of nine, eight of them boys, all of them had children For some years now, the duty for hosting rotates among the families - this year's event was this past weekend. I try to get up there every other year or so - I enjoy spending a few hours with my cousins and catching up a bit on their lives. It's a long drive for just a few hours, but I always find it was worth it.

For me, the hardest part is trying to make my way around the room to talk to everyone in the short time allotted for the reunion. Everyone gathers just before noon, and by three, they're packing up the leftovers and getting ready to head on home. There were over fifty people there this time. Once you take out the time needed to overfill your stomach eating the potluck lunch (I don't know who brought the baked beans, but they were to die for!), there's just not enough time to get around the room.

It's funny. I haven't spent much time at all with my cousins as an adult, but it turns out that if you know someone as they're growing up, they don't really change that much as grown-ups. Nancy still has that quirk to her smile, the twinkle in Mark's eye hasn't changed a bit.

The reunions are smaller these days; our children are grown with children of their own, and most of them don't want to make time to go sit around with a bunch of old people they don't know just so their parents can point to them with pride, and say, 'that one's mine'.  (There WERE a few of the kids there, with their kids in turn. My son Joe and his wife Rita-Marie were among them - and yes, I pointed them out with pride many times during the course of the afternoon.)

These are the ties that bind us and hold us and support us. I have many friends I am closer to than I am to the crew pictured above. We have more in common, they know more of the details of my day-to-day life.

But they weren't there the day we had the epic king-of-the-mountain game in my Uncle Eugene's hayloft. They don't share the memory of our moms, sitting in Aunt Diane's kitchen, the air blue with cigarette smoke, conversation screeching to a halt when any of us kids walked into the room - they'd kindly see what we needed and usher us back out the door.

 I know the reunion tradition will eventually fall by the wayside, but I am grateful it hasn't happened yet. These are the people who knew me when, and love me anyways. You can't beat that.

Labor Day

Ever since I took off in the camper van in late August, my inner two year-old is pretty sure it's time to do it again when Labor Day rolls around. I reinforced this conviction the first couple of years back in town when I took off again for my month-long trips in the summer and early fall. She's downright moping this weekend at the realization nothing exciting is going to happen this fall. The only thing happening on the day after Labor Day will be me hoisting my rear into gear and getting it into work.

**sigh**

It was seven years ago last week when I threw all the cards in the air and took off for points unknown. I spent five months on the road before moving off on my long detour. Though the trip recedes in my rear-view mirror, I carry vivid images of beauty and peace with me yet today. I call them up when I lay down at night, they calm my breath, they calm my mind. Spending day after day journeying to beautiful places healed my soul in places I didn't know needed healing.

There was no particular destination in my travels that stands out - the cliche is true - it was all about the journey. I didn't get anywhere, but everywhere I got, I found what I was looking for.

This past week, I've found myself especially homesick for those days of being, not doing. I have my lists of things to get done, at home and at work. I have goals and measurements and check marks next to completed items. I do a pretty decent job of keeping up with the curve, and every once in a while, getting ahead a bit, but my heart isn't in it.

My gut understands why I go into the office. Retirement might last for a coupl-a-three decades. I don't really want to shortchange my future because I'm restless in my present.

But my inner child is afraid. The gaps between my fingers where time slips through grow ever wider. The days last about the same amount of time they always have, but the weeks and months are here and gone before I've had a chance to savor the gifts they brought. I am afraid I live on borrowed time, that the cancer will come back, and I'll have wasted the only days I have staring at a monitor so I can collect a paycheck. Right now, that paycheck represents a more secure future. What will it represent if I find another lump?

I'm looking for the balance. The point where I have enough in reserve where, God willin' and the crick don't rise, I can take care of myself through retirement, but not so much I waste any of my precious days working for nothing but an extra cushion. Where is the magic moment?

I'm not precisely sure, but I think I'm approaching it with some speed.

And, until it gets here, I will calm my fears with the images from my time apart from my real life. The time I kept my time for myself. The time I trusted in the Universe to help me to land on my feet after my big leap. I trusted, and my trust was rewarded. I need to trust again. When the time is right, I will know.