Petrichor

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We’d finally had rain. I was standing in a clearing on the heavily forested mountain.  Though the drought had been brief, I had been worried.  My house is made of old wood and sits amid the oaks – forest fires are worrisome.

I took a deep breath and felt the week’s stress being expelled with my exhale and the day’s fragrance of much needed rain inhaled bringing a sense of well-being.  I felt my inner compass shift to true north.  I was where I needed to be when I needed to be there.  At ease, relaxed, and enjoying the silence save that of the bird song.  I should make this walk a part of my daily routine. I vowed to do so.  But I’ve made this vow before.  Real life has such a hold on me.  I really do need to make more room for the magic and peace inherent in my surroundings.  I was fortunate to live in a forest and I should maximize it. But there are so many shoulds in my life.  It’s hard to accommodate them all.

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Not so little boys

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Jake started shouting and pointing, “Hey, Dad! look!”

Jeff got up and went to Jake.  I didn’t look up from my book.  I imagined he found minnows or a crab or something. 

Then Jeff started hollering, “Miranda!  Look up!”

I was nursing an umbrella drink with one shot of vodka and two drinks worth of mixer.  The concoction, lemon and strawberry and frozen, was the perfect beach drink for the perfect beach day.  We were alone on the beach other than some surf fishers off in the distance, their poles set up in a row with them sitting in camp chairs around a cooler.  Occasionally their laughter would ring loud enough that we could hear them.  They were having a fine time.

Jeff was beside me and the Designated Parent for the day.  We took turns.  Our son Jake was playing in the shallow surf, his floaties bright orange against the blue water and blue sky and his blue swimming trunks.  Jake’s blue eyes had been wide with excitement since we arrived.  I vowed to make his first trip to the beach memorable and was succeeding.  Each night he fell asleep at the dinner table and we carried him to the second bedroom of our rented condo.  He would sleep all night and wake me before dawn.  He with a glass of milk and I with my coffee would sit on the balcony and watch the sun come up.  We were making memories that I hoped would sustain him his whole life.  Shared, quality time in paradise.

“I closed my book and looked up.”

“Oh!”  I rubbed my eyes.

I hadn’t even had a full shot of vodka yet and yet, there he was.  Puff.  In all of his majesty, scales gleaming iridescent purple, pink, blue, and green in the bright sun.

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Books and Covers and Topsoil and Flat Tires

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Fifteen bags of topsoil, 9 cubic feet, each just fit into Monte Carlo’s trunk.  They filled the trunk and I had to make sure they were stacked just so to get the trunk to close completely.  I was on my last trip.  I had done the math earlier in the week and deduced I needed 75 bags of topsoil.

Photo by Christer Ehrling on Unsplash

One trip at a time.  I went to the Lowe’s with an empty trunk, went to Lawn & Garden, stood in line, bought 15 bags, went back to my car, drove to the loading zone, and watched two, weary guys load my trunk.  I didn’t tip them.  In retrospect, I probably should have.

I would then drive home, back the car up to the garden fence, and unload the 15 bags, my bag aching more with each bag.  Each bag weighs 40 lbs.

I was on my last trip.  I stopped at Sonic to celebrate with an ice cream sundae.  I used most of the little bit of cash I had to tip the waitress on roller skates.

I pulled out onto Route 60 which instantly narrowed to two lanes as it approached my town of Ona.  There was nothing on the sides of the road but forest and ravines.  No place to pull over.

I heard and felt the familiar flop flop flop of a tire gone flat. 

I groaned.  And nearly cried.

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