A week ago, I had an online discussion with someone at my cell phone carrier. My phone had died and I wanted to exercise my upgrade. The website has a huge load of dynamic graphics and defies my shortish attention span. I thought the live-chat might be easier. An hour on hold via chatbox; an hour debate with someone named Joshua. . . and a wild devolution into violent communication (as defined by Marshall Rosenberg) later, no new phone.
But food for thought. I have plenty of cogitation time, so I started ruminating.
Yesterday I did a few chores, hammered away at IRS.gov trying to input my banking information, and sat on my porch reading in the Delta sunshine.
I reached out to my bank with a request for transfer. The automatic voice disconnected me after I slogged through a myriad of choices. I re-dialed and this time got a Jersey voice belonging to a young man named “Kevin”. He deftly navigated the transaction. While we waited for confirmation, I told him that I had once driven to the Jersey shore to see Frankie Valley and the Four Seasons. He gasped in glee and told me that five years ago, he and his siblings gave their parents tickets to the Four Seasons for an anniversary present. We ruminated on the smallness of the world. I asked if his parents were still living, and he said only his mother. Tell her she did a good job with her son, I said. He promised that he would.
I walked a bit in the afternoon, my phone tucked into the pocket of my jeans. It rang once, my sister Joyce’s photo flashing on the screen. I held the phone close to my ear and continued to take small steps along the gravel, smiling at the sound of my sister’s happy voice. I waved to my neighbor Margaret; waved again to someone in a car whom I didn’t recognize, and turned back towards home with energy to spare. I heard my mother’s voice instructing me on how to guage the correct distance for a stroll. I remembered a poem which I wrote years ago. “How to Go For a Walk in Loose Park on a Sunday Afternoon”. It began with my mother’s caution: “Only walk half as far as you think you can go”. I leaned my wooden stick against the cedar shingles and went inside to get a glass of water.
My neighbor Derek Campbell passed by twice, once each way. Both times, he stopped to chat from the road. On his way back, we idled away fifteen minutes sharing our respective, divergent views on the world in the charming, cordial way that I have so enjoyed during the two years that he and his wife Kelly Pipe Campbell have lived here. I will sorely miss them when they leave for Montana next week. (Follow their #tinyjourney @tinyhousebigsky.)
As we talked, Kelly came into view around the back of my vehicle. She laughed a little and said, When you didn’t show up, I figured you were down here talking to Corinne. We continued chatting for a few minutes, about their move; and about Kelly’s 96-year-old grandfather whom she will not get to see before they leave because of the shelter-in-place. Then they walked away, their smiles fading last like that of the Cheshire Cat. I savored the enjoyment as I sat sipping water, my book fallen away into my lap. The lingering grins of my lovely neighbors found their way to my face.
It’s the twenty-fifth day of the seventy-sixth month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
