Derek and Noah and I sit in Noah’s tiny house, talking about the virus outbreak, some children we know about whom we are worried, and the impact of adversity on humankind.  Derek says, somewhere in the conversation, that whatever else you can say about it all, we have so much.  He suggests  that we might need to look at our bounty a little more closely.  I’m paraphrasing, true; but not a lot.  We nod.  We take his point.

I walked home in a light drizzle, watching Derek and Noah haul the last of the old boards collected in the clean-up day.  They hoist them into the dump trailer.  Their voices drift back to where I’m standing.  A minute or so later, they pass my house and Derek stops to look at a small modification in my bathroom that I can’t quite figure out how to do.  He suggests a solution. I know that in a day or two — by and by — he’ll wander back and the task will get done.  He’s that kind of neighbor.

I could spend the evening doing chores, but I see that an impromptu game night has been organized in the community room.  I’ll grab a bottle of wine and wander in that direction.  A longer missive had risen to the surface, pining to be written.  I intended to wax self-righteous about tolerating inconveniences, overcoming sleep-disturbance, and the 170 pages of medical records from Stanford through which I’m slogging to figure out the full extent of the apparently unnecessary treatment which drew me to California.  But — did I mention? — it’s game night, and anyway, it’s hard to be self-righteous and uncomplaining at the same time.

It’s the seventh day of the seventy-fifth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

Taken on Andrus island, as most of my other geese photos have been.  Offered solely for enjoyment.  Canadian geese and snow geese co-existing, not worried about first-world problems.