Howdy, Blogbots. Happy new year to all ten of you. Here's hoping 2019 is even better than 2018. More drama, more chaos, more angst, more despair. . . or as I like to call it, more blog fodder. What would I write (complain) about if everything were just dandy? If there was enough money in the bank? If the sun always shined? If my cat never left hairballs for me to find when I stagger to the bathroom in the dark of night? Life is so rich and full. Rich in perplexities, full of frustration and uncertainty. I woke up to a New Year's miracle today: The truck that was parked in front of my house for more than a week was gone this morning. I don't know if the owner returned with a new battery or if the City towed it away to join the massive numbers of cars, trucks, and RVs rusting in the overflowing abandoned vehicle lots around town. I was resigned to living with that truck blocking my panoramic view of the street for an indefinite and extended time, given the backlog of abandoned vehicles. That is why I say it was a miracle. I'm not sure why I cared. So now I can see six feet further than I could before. There's nothing to see except pavement.
Speaking of caring, someone posted a hand-lettered sign at SE 76th and Stark: in capital letters, I forgive you. A couple days later, it was joined by another handmade sign: No guns for men. Not sure what prompted either sign, but I have my guesses.
A few nights ago, the temperature spiked to 52°F for one day as a minor rainy windstorm . . . a little windy rainstorm moved over the region. When I went over to Mom's, the rain was pelting. Water gathered in gutters and intersections. The former rain shelter had not been replaced. Last week, the smoking shelter was dismantled. It was coming unbolted from the concrete, backed into one too many times by oblivious delivery truck drivers. We eagerly anticipate some sort of new shelter, but in the meantime, the three chairs are unprotected, open to the sky. Have I mentioned rain does not deter smokers?
Outside the retirement facility's front door sits a large, heavy black umbrella in a metal milk canister, available for anyone to use. I grabbed it, aimed it at a rose bush, and pressed the button. It shot open with a thwang, taking up most of the porch area. I caught up to the old ladies and tried to hold it over their heads as we stumbled in the dark to the erstwhile smoking area. I pulled two chairs side by side for the ladies, and pulled my chair close in front. I rested the haft of the umbrella on the arm of a chair and anchored it with both hands, wishing I had thought to bring plastic bags for us all to sit on. I was almost knee to knee with my mother, with only her walker between us. The wind whisked her cigarette smoke away before I could suffocate. I fought the wind gusts, marveling at the mild temperature, thinking, can this really be December? and am I going to fly into space?
Last night was New Year's Eve. The clouds cleared, the temperature plummeted, and the ladies admired the stars in the sky. Lately, Mom has begun smoking in workmanlike fashion. She doesn't rest between drags or chat. She smokes diligently, listens to Jane complain about how management is trying to kill her, grunts once in a while, and monitors the progress of Jane's cigarette compared to her own.
I told them a rocket was outward bound a billion miles past Pluto, heading into outer space, taking photos as it went by interesting things. They weren't impressed. Later, as neighbors set off firecrackers and homemade bombs, I watched the countdown to the flyby with Ultima Thule and wondered at the distances between objects in the solar system.
This morning I calculated roughly how long my mother's money will hold out if we maintain the current rate of spending. Longer than my money will hold out but not by a lot. I know, I know, wreckage of the future. I have many contingency plans, devised to cope with an uncertain future. However, I find it difficult to detach from my desire to control outcomes and thereby manage my fear. I think I can safely predict that 2019 will be just like 2018, equally as rich in uncertainty and just as full of surprise.
