It began in December. With receding silver hair and a large, round head, he looks like he’s in his late sixties. Each day, he enters the coffee shop at around eleven thirty. He buys two cups of coffee to go. Going outside, he finds a seat at one of the patio tables. His location varies by weather. He puts one cup of coffee by one seat, and then sits down at another. Sipping coffee, he gazes at something that he only sees. When he finishes his coffee, he picks up the other cup and empties it on the ground. Both cups are thrown into the trash can, and then he walks down the street, alone.
Good Things
He admired his pile of shiny copper pennies. All were minted this year, removed from circulation when they found his hand.
Counting his shiny pennies, he made neat little stacks of ten, and then admired the stacks.
Such pennies, so shiny and new, had to mean good luck. He had sixty-four of them. One for each year of his life.
He grinned. Good things were coming his way.
Clearing the Cache
He bought a fire pit and bottle of wine for Solstice, and filched a log from the neighbor’s stack. He lit the log and drank the wine, taking a sip each time the he fed the fire a rejection letter. One hundred sixty-five letters, two hours, and a bottle of wine later, he felt much better.
The cache was cleared. Good things were going to start happening for him now.
Velvet Rain
A velvet rain is falling. It’s a rain that makes the world feel cozier and more intimate, inviting deeper thoughts.
I’d planned to walk ten minutes but the rain soothed me, inviting me to keep going. I did, until two miles and an hour had passed.
The rain didn’t appear to soothe all. Some drivers took the rain as a sign to go, “Faster! Faster!”
The walking time allowed for solitude and writing time. I’d dropped into my personal trough the other day in the cycles of buoyancy and depression. Oh, lord, that darkness. Daunting, it drinks me up and swallows me down. The sighs are heavy, the thoughts are bitter, and the world looks grim. Even the cats’ attentions are infuriating irritations.
Perspective helps me survive. Writing, walking, and solitude help me grind out perspective. Alas, Schedules and events kept me from consistently achieving two of the three. But yeah, I survived.
Our new microwave and range were delivered and installed yesterday. They look so modern, I was surprised to realize how ancient the replaced ten-year-old units looked, and the difference it makes to the kitchen. To celebrate, we went out to lunch, and then to a movie.
The movie is part of our annual Oscar Quest. Friends throw a party, and we like to be able to think and talk intelligently about the movies and performances. We’ve only seen a few noms, so we’re behind. We saw “The Post” yesterday. That increases our total to four. We have work to do in our entertainment. None of the previews (“Love, Simon,” “Red Sparrow,” “7 Days in Entebbe,” and “Film Stars Don’t Die in Liverpool”) didn’t inflame deep interest. Each struck me as something to stream and watch at home when it’s available through one of our subscriptions. Of the four, “Love, Simon,” sparked the most intrigue. I suppose I’m too picky and cynical.
As the lights dropped and the previews played, and then the movie opened, my writers emerged with scene ideas. When we returned home, I quietly sat down (quietly, so as to not attract the cats, who seemed determined to stop me from writing at home) at the laptop, opened the required doc, and wrote the scene and changes. Not interested in tempting fate (the cats! the cats!), I saved and closed the doc, but later, while eating, more writing visited me. I stole back into the document and added a few more pages. Best, it left me knowing exactly where to begin today.
It’s a fine feeling, to know what to write, to write it, and to look forward to writing more.
Liquid dripped onto the coffee shop table as I unpacked and set up. Rain or sweat? I don’t know; either were plausible. I suppose I could taste it, but it’s not a critical difference.
Tonight, Wednesday, is when I meet with my friends for conversation and beer. It’s a standing invitation. My attendance record is lackluster but the rain is whispering, “You should go.” I’m ambivalent, but contemplating it.
Meanwhile, the first gulps of hot, black coffee have scalded my lips and tongue. Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.
Blueberry Picking
I’m excited, I’ll admit. Love fruit, and blueberries top my list. We have a local place where we pick organic blueberries and buy them for two dollars a pound.
It’s just outside the town’s southside, a ten minute drive. A hot cuppa coffee in hand, we leave about 6:30, me, my wife, and our neighbor, Barb. Barb and Walt introduced us to this habit about eight years ago, I guess. I have photos of the first year’s harvest. The morning air reminds us we’re in the mountains, and higher mountains are not far, providing nature’s air conditioning.
Arriving at the gate under the sprawling trees at the end of the dirt road by the creek, we wait for the opening at seven. Our car will probably be tenth in line or so, and we’ll sit, sipping coffee and chatting until the gate opens. When it does, the cars will be motioned forward, one by one, and directed to a parking space on the lawn to the right. Collecting our gear, we’ll move toward the next queue by the bridge over the creek.
Our gear is gallon jugs with cutouts in their tops. Besides it, we have buckets. Strapping them to ourselves with rope, belts or bungee cords, we wear the jugs and pick, then return to the buckets and fill them. We’ll do this for one to two hours on Saturday morning, collecting eight to ten pounds of berries. Affected by the weather, especially the moisture and heat factors, predicting the crop and harvests is difficult. You usually don’t know until you get there.
It’s a meditative practice. Out there with caws crowing, jays arguing, and woodpeckers hammering, the air feels scrubbed pollution free. A church-like ambiance shrouds the activities as the sun slips through and over the trees and mountains. Spotting deer strolling by or eating isn’t uncommon.
Then more people arrive. Children arrive. Daylight grows stronger. The air warms. Chattering rises. I eavesdrop on conversations about office politics, vacation plans, family updates, pending weddings, and ‘whatever happened to’ updates. I do a lot of thinking and some writing in my head.
About sixty people will be on the field by the time we leave, with others coming and going. It’s still meditative, reflective, picking berries in a swarm of living, on an early Saturday morning, in the mountains.
Michael Seidel, writer 