A Day Alone

Because John was playing trains in Tennessee, I began the day walking alone.  He misses the walk from time to time, so it wasn’t terribly unusual for me to go by myself.  Planning a day only leads to frustration.  If I’d planned to write or clean or play the piano, something would have come up.  As it was, I drifted across the street when Shawn called to me.  She and her daughter were sipping coffee on the porch.  I’d been wanting to visit with her after her total knee replacement, and this was a great time.  Her knee is coming along nicely.  In fact, her scar is prettier than either of mine.

Her husband Bob came in from running an errand, and he said, “Y’all look like hillbillies sittin’ on the porch.”

We had to laugh.  I was in my rumpled walking clothes, and they didn’t look a whole lot better.

The other day I saw a rogue wisteria vine winding itself around the skeleton of a butterfly bush.  Today was the day to attack that.  Gardening is like eating potato chips.  You can’t eat just one.  Well, you can’t stop with killing one little vine, either.  I hacked at the big wisteria for good measure, trying to make sure it knows who’s the boss before it gets grandiose ideas.  I pulled a few weeds and picked up some dead stuff left from last year.  That was enough for one day.

Breakfast was a leisurely affair.  John and I often chat after a meal, but this time I enjoyed the mountains and watched a pair of wrens building a nest under the eaves of the porch.  A gentle breeze kept whirligigs going.  Blogging takes longer all the time as I find more and more excellent writers I want to follow.  It was nice to have nothing to hurry for.

Neighbor Amy was on my mind.  She sold her house in 2.5 days last week, and she streaked over to Charlotte for the day to look at a condo that had just come on the market.  Young Logan came over after school.  He watched TV for a little while, played games on John’s computer, batted a balloon around with me, and announced he was hungry.  Shawn texted back a yes when I asked if he could have sausage and a biscuit with me.  Her friend was bringing their dinner, but it hadn’t arrived yet.

Just before eight, Amy’s car zipped in.  I wanted to see how her day had been, and it was Logan’s bedtime.  I wondered how I could get him to go home happily without telling him firmly, “Go home!”

I said, “Get your shoes on, Logan.  It’s your bedtime.  When you get to the bottom of the stairs, I’ll start the timer and see how long it takes you to get home.”

I was quite pleased at how well that worked.  He raced home as fast as his legs could go.  I called out that it had taken him 10 seconds.  Before I could turn around, he was back at my steps wanting to do it again.  The third time I told him to touch his front door.  With all that commotion, Bob came out to see what was going on, and that was the definitive end of our play time.

Several times I’ve compared myself and Logan to Mrs. Wilson and Dennis the Menace.  I have two cartoons that seem to sum it up.  In one the frumpy white-haired woman with glasses is shown reading indulgently to the little boy.

The other is documentation that Dennis, like Logan, is five years old.  No wonder we seem to be living these cartoon characters!