Last night as Jordan walked by my desk, I said, “I feel like a crotchety old woman.” Not only did she not rush to deny that, I think I heard her mutter, “Yeah.” We had company for happy hour—good, dear longtime friends, the kind who fortunately love you in your worst moments. It may not have been my worst, but it surely was not my best. Everything irritated me, from the a/c which was too cold to the conversation that was too loud to the discussion of house repairs, a subject I am vehement about: I want the service people with whom I have a longstanding relationship, and Christian has finally come around to believing that is best. But when someone suggested our plumber wasn’t doing a good job, I bristled. It’s not the plumber, it’s the pipes, some of which are a hundred years old.
This morning my mood was not much better,
but with what little good sense I had left I recognized that the problem was
with me. Granted, some influences mostly beyond my control contributed: the
atmosphere has been a bit tense around here since the refrigerator in the house
quit and then, Saturday morning, a pipe began spewing raw sewage out under the
deck. My work on a big project is consuming me but not going well, and I feel
that it’s always on my mind. Jordan is consumed with a heavy workload, and I
miss the easy camaraderie we used to haveand now enjoy less frequently. I could
probably dig up other excuses, but the truth is that the problem is with me. I
am in a fun and trying hard to claw myself out of it
It didn’t help that tonight two neighbors
came for our regular Tuesday night happy hour, and I lost patience with one of
them and spoke when I should have kept quiet. We did part as friends, but I was
aware that my funk overtook me.
Lots of good happened today, and it should
make me happy. For a brief period this morning everything happened at once: Keith,
my favorite plumber, came, with a helper, and fixed the sewage problem, though
he warned it is not a permanent fix—old pipes you know. While they were working
on the deck, the yard guys arrived to fertilize, and Christian ran back and
forth between the two.
When the plumber’s helper was getting
ready to leave, he left the gate open. Suddenly I realized Sophie was nowhere
around and not answering my frantic calls. I alerted the helper, called
Christian, and began to alternate between prayer and chewing my nails. The
plumber’s helper started down the street—Soph was in sight—intending to call
her to come. Christian said, “That won’t happen. She’s not trained. I have to
get the car.” So he got in my VW, drove down the street, opened the door, and
she hopped right in. Moments like that, though, when I’m worried that she’ll be
hit by a car or snatched by someone who wants to sell a cute dog, I realize how
much she is a part of my life. I held my breath until I could lure her back
into the house with a treat. And by the by—she is trained. She knows about “Come.”
She just chooses not to do it.
The garden is something that should make
me happy. Christian is going to buy a few herbs for the elevated herb garden
which was decimated by the heat, but I noticed this morning that four or five
green onions are poking up, straight and strong. The hyacinth bean vine on the fence is blooming, so I’m now reassured that we may get
seeds to plant next year. And this morning I noticed that the Turk’s Cap,
almost hidden by a tree, has a few brave blooms. On the downside, the pentas
are growing and have a few blooms, but they are nowhere near their glory of
previous years. When John, who owns the lawn company saw them, he said they
were the worst he’d seen, and he felt sort of like an oncologist delivering bad
news. Thanks a lot. And on the real downside, the deluge of nuts on the patio
continues. And the mosquitoes are back!
Still the garden’s resurgence is a sign of
hope to me, and I’m going to take it to heart and vanquish my funk. And I will
take a few practical steps with my work projects, diverting myself to something
with more immediate rewards.
Sweet dreams, all. Tomorrow is a newer,
better day.
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