Eight thirty.
I’ve put out the trash for today and it’s below freezing out there. Again there is thick fog on the valley floor. Michelle might be back to work this morning. I called the veterinary hospital to reserve some flea medication for Aesop, so I’ll pick that up during the week. When I went outside, the cold freshness reminded me of times when I used to go to church regularly, before Covid came to mess everything up. I tend to see events in linear fashion, of cause and effect without a purpose or end. It’s the Darwinian way of understanding how nature works. So I guess I never had any business going to church— except for a mystic impulse in me that ponders the other side of the celestial veil, a possible fourth dimension.
Nine thirty. Still no Michelle at the store, but it was good to see Cathy. She said the customers come in waves, and some of them are students from the middle school, though not as many as you’d think. The old school makes me think of junior high school band, especially Stage Band in ninth grade where I played drum kit. We all admired Neil Peart, and I learned to sound a lot like him… My first drum set was a red sparkle Pearl that my mother bought used for $275. Gradually I added on Zildjian cymbals, all of them courtesy of my mother. She spoiled me rotten, but everyone believed I would be a rockstar someday. Probably the only person who had doubts about that was myself. It turned out I was a homebody. I’m still content to be comfortable and safe with a roof over my head, clothes on my back, and a little something to eat. And for entertainment, books to flap and CDs to spin.
robgradens 