Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

Among today’s notifications were thoughtful remarks from a reader about the details I included in the essay I posted about going to the mall recently. He liked my observing the stag at the end and imagining what it might have been thinking about the lost woods and fields the mall now occupies. His comments helped leaven some of the self-doubt and other unwelcome feelings I have been having. But they also backfired. Reading them I felt as if I should give up on my new journal series and write essays instead. Then that notion fired right back at me. Essays about what?

At fitness class I hoped for a reset. That did not happen. It’s probably the only class in two years where I have said close to nothing and felt as if I would have been better off staying home. It did not help that Mike sang along to several songs. Many were Taylor Swift. He knew all of them. At least we finished a few minutes early. I hoped for a reset after showering and breakfast at home. That did not happen either. Laura was in touch asking to reschedule our getting together this afternoon to next week. She was also feeling out of sorts. That suited me. I was considering the same. Even if I had felt more social going back out in the cold, overcast day and sticky, flurrying snow did not appeal to me.

Mary Guterson posted a prompt to write a story using the first person plural. She included passages from several stories and novels and reminded everyone that the shared voice depends on the characters having some kind of common experience. As usual nothing comes to mind. I can think only of me, my, and I at the moment. Dana and Lawrence talked with two independent investigative journalists working hard to expose rampant and apparently lawless military activity. I felt as if I should have paid better attention but I was more interested in watching Jenna Bush Hager and Brooke Shields talk about going Zen for Christmas. Shields seems as ageless as she is wise. Her memoir Down Came the Rain about her post-partum depression is among the best I have read. Judith posted about losing her mind and herself from her brain injury and the challenges she faces. And the self checkouts? she begins. She continues,

They’re out of the question for people like me. My self checked out. My identity was stolen.

Can you imagine losing your mind, not as in going crazy, but as in losing the brain that powered your life?

A friend took me to lunch. It was my first social event in close to a year. I was trying to be normal, act normal, have a nice normal lunch with a nice, normal friend. She would ask a question and I would try to reply. But I could/not/find/words. At least not the right words at the right time.

She didn’t know if it was me at the table or someone else, not really me at all. Neither did I. I needed to leave, no, I needed to order, no, I needed to take a sip, no, I needed to order, no I needed to try harder, no, I was trying as hard as I could.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

At the pharmacy at CVS this morning I checked out with a pharmacy tech named June. She has close-cropped magenta hair, hazel eyes. She is quiet, shy even. Along with my prescription I got a combination snow scraper and brush for William for Christmas. Getting that with my prescription made me laugh. It just seemed so random. It was. June was not as amused as I, probably wondering, What the hell is wrong with this middle-aged woman who thinks this is so funny? She moved through our transaction quickly, getting my change from the till and tearing off my receipt even before it finished spooling from the register printer.

On my way home I went by the bookstore for a candle and puzzle for Polly for Christmas. Seth and I talked in the gifts room as he wrapped them. I was amazed to hear him say that most of the merchandise there sells. Especially this time of year, he said, even things I think, No, way! they go. Erasers shaped like sardines, kitchen sponges that look like fried chicken drumsticks, a miniature View-Master, socks that say I Already Knew That, a tin of peppermints with Rosie Riveter on the front called Empowermints. So much of it seems like junk to me but maybe there is another way to see it. At home Monica was in touch with a revised version of my book’s cover. She has fine-tuned the items on the table, softened the chair with a pillow and blanket, and taken out the bunny. It didn’t fit after she shifted everything to the right. She also took out the extra T in Visiting. Just like me to misspell it! she said. Thank goodness I noticed it.

This afternoon at Dairy Queen only Riri and Mo were working. A tall man in a gray Nehru jacket and jeans waited by the counter for a Door Dash order playing games on his phone. His screen jumped and flashed. Something burbled, blipped. Against the back wall of the pawn shop next door a hump at one end of a blue sleeping bag tapered down to the other, the white blanket spread underneath. A metal shopping cart nearby among the snow-topped stones looked half-full of other bedding and clothing. At home I squished through the sopping grass picking up sticks and submitted some writing to a few publications. Reading some of the work they’ve published I felt my earlier expansiveness begin to curdle and contract and then snap. There is so much original, compelling writing out there. Mine does not seem to compare. Sometimes it is very hard to believe in what I am doing and to be grateful for what I have done and have. A warm bed, clean sheets, a roof over my head, friends and family who care, good health, sanity, the sun. Gratitude should be easy, automatic. Sometimes for reasons I don’t understand it is not.

To read my previous post, “Arc: 43,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

This morning I posted my essay about going to the mall a few months ago and how the experience wasn’t so bad. Aunt Lee took credit for the picture I included of myself riding in a train for some Christmas display at the mall when I was probably six or seven. Ho! Ho! Choo! Choo! I never knew she took the picture. Jim posted about people who send out Christmas cards right after Thanksgiving. He envies them. I have solved that problem. I don’t send out Christmas cards. Jim mentioned his wife is a cartoonist. She contributes to a syndicated comic strip called Six Chix and does a cartoon for her and Jim’s Christmas card every year. That’s handy. Jim included some of her work in the post. Maybe her in-house talent compensates for the pain of trying to figure out yet again how to generate address labels for their cards. Meg posted another story from her My Fictional Life on (Fictional) Dating Sites Substack. It features a man covered in grass. She writes about mowing his outer dermis with a miniature lawn mower. Sounds like turf love to me! I said. 😂, she said.

On TODAY Willie Geist interviewed Jamie Lee Curtis. Her candor, gratitude, humility, and lack of vanity appeal to me. They always have. She attributes her long career to embracing aging and all the downsides that come with it instead of fighting to hide or deny them. She decorates her award statues. Her Oscar has a googly in the center of its forehead. At the end of the interview Geist asks her what this moment in her career feels like. Perfect, she says, I’m having a really good time. She is 67. In the paper I read an interview with Cynthia Erivo. She talks about the books she likes and her reading habits. She likes fairy tales and dragon tales and stories with a deep character arc. Anything that takes me on a journey where my brain has to work to understand the characters, motivation, context, she says. She loves to read when she’s getting tattooed. It’s a rare opportunity where I have to be still for a certain amount of time, she says. I admire Cynthia Erivo. She is so talented. But I always feel so tired when I see her. I imagine all the time and energy required to install and put on all her jewelry, cosmetics, and other adornments and I just want to go back to bed.

This morning I joined Cindy and Alison for their resistance writing group. This was my first time joining. Every other week they present and draw prompts from two pieces of writing. Today they shared a poem by Adrienne Rich called What Kind of Times Are These and one by a writer named Ada Limon called Instructions on Not Giving Up. Even though I didn’t write anything and have a hard time listening to people read unless I am taking notes or talking or some way engaging other than with my ears I still appreciated the sense of camaraderie and the thoughtful discussion of what people wrote and the quality of the writing especially by a man named Peter Brosius. I looked him up after the meeting. He’s had a long career as a theater director, among other creative endeavors. No wonder he’s so skilled at detailing and contouring his writing. He also has a very nice voice. Even if I don’t respond to the prompts I recognize the benefits of being part of the group. There is much more to writing than doing the writing itself.

To read my previous post, “Everything: 42,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

Soon after I was home from the shelter this afternoon Polly came in from more Christmas shopping following work. She also had leftovers from Waffle House. What did you get? I asked. Everything! she said, waffles, eggs, bacon, sausage. One afternoon a few months before Mom died I asked her what she’d had on her pizza for lunch that day. Everything! she said. I ate all of it except one piece, she said. She had the last piece for breakfast the next day. Mom also liked a pizza called the Bambino from a place called Pieology. The baby? I said. The baby! Mom said. It was a smaller pie. Mom was able to eat it all at once. Mom may have lost her mind. She never lost her appetite.

After putting her leftovers in the refrigerator Polly set about wrapping her gifts on the floor by the couch. I read a great story in this month’s issue of The Sun called Don’t Be Alarmed about a 60-year-old woman navigating the lingering effects of seismic shifts in her life with grace and self-effacing wit. I also read several stories in the Readers Write section. I should read those more often. Every month is a different topic. February’s is the courtroom. Maybe I could write about watching Judge Judy with Mom but that may not be the kind of courtroom the editors have in mind.

At Dairy Queen this evening the G. M. Amber was working. She said that she came in because customers have been complaining about bad food and poor service at night. Everything has been okay for me, I said. Glad to hear it, Amber said. After making my order she mentioned that her oldest daughter is now driving and her grandmother’s health is failing. We’re praying, Amber said. On the ground by the pawn shop a blue sleeping bag lay on top of a white blanket, the sleeping bag pulled back as if someone had just been there. The stones are still covered with snow.

On my way home I went by the bookstore for a new candle. The other day I bought one called Long Story Short. Its scents include bourbon, mandarin, and vanilla. It smelled much better in the store. Soon after I lit it at home I felt as if I were immersed in a bucket of orange cream soda. This evening I bought one called Balsam Fir. It comes in a dark-green triangular tin with gold doodles on the side. It is much less fruity, more sober, more nature. A lot of these fragrance descriptions remind me of those for coffee and wine and spirits such as bourbon and whisky. Half the time I feel as if people must just make them up to make their product enticing. It does not seem possible to me that sensing can be so nuanced but maybe for some people it is.

I felt lucky to get a parking spot anywhere near the bookstore. Tonight was an annual seasonal neighborhood shopping event. There were people walking and driving everywhere, the sidewalks clogged and the traffic crawling. I passed the Toonerville Trolley and then a few cars after that a Pedal Pub powered by three or four revelers pedaling on each side. A keg sat on the bumper in front. I assume someone among them must have been steering and not drinking. An igloo bounce house jiggled in the parking lot next to the bookstore. Irish ceili dancers jigged across the street.

At the bookstore customers tumbled from the door when I reached it, their breath as puffy as their jackets. Inside was swarming. I went right for the candles to get one and get home quickly. The festivity was all too busy and close for me. At home Polly was still wrapping. When she finished she had the rest of her Waffle House Everything. Mom probably would have liked that too, topped by some Reddi-wip and followed by a smoke and a Coke and a toke from her oxygen machine.

To read my previous post, “Swirl: 41,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

Last night I had a dream where I met the queen at a party involving presents on a sailboat cruising on water the color of sapphires. It may have come from Polly’s gift show-and-tell the other night. I spent my whole paycheck! she said when she got home from shopping. She unloaded everything to show me what she’d bought. She went to a skate store, the bookstore, and Walgreens. She was getting into wrapping when I went to bed. This morning I had an email from the editor of Gone Lawn accepting some flash I submitted a few weeks ago. It was the first flash I wrote after discovering the genre from a prompt Meg posted to write about two characters who have a pact. I shared the news with Meg and thanked her for her inspiration and guidance. 😊, she responded.

At the shelter today Ella and Justin were working. I took over from Lillie at the front desk. We’ve had a boatload of food, she said, and one incident but that guy’s gone now and everyone else has been chill. Extra sack lunches and cases of water sat in a box under the counter. Another group came by and set up some tables out front. We got lasagna, said a man with the group when he came inside, hot food and clothes. A volunteer named Bruce came in to do his Saturday afternoon Bible study. He totes his books and other materials in a wheeled forest-green carry-on and sets up in a room next to Ella’s office. A woman named Rhonda answered the phone and handed out supplies. She works with staff on housing on Mondays and the rest of the week she helps with outreach meeting people wherever they live. If they’re in a tent, a house, a room, street corner, I go there, she said. Justin mentioned that his mother died the day before he turned 14. He learned of her death on his birthday. I am not sure how the subject came up. I did not ask about the circumstances, of her death or how Justin learned about it. Life happens, he said. Enough said, I thought, and left it at that.

On my way home at the grocery Michael the singing cashier whistled along to the Bangles’ Walk Like an Egyptian. At home I took care of some maintenance, including unclogging the kitchen sink drain. After plugging and filling the sink with water I became concerned when I was unable to remove the stopper. Its gasket had sealed so tight. I was finally able to wedge it out with a screwdriver and then used the small plunger to add some force to the water draining. I loved seeing that steady clockwise swirl. I received an email from Court and her review of the first few installments of my journal series. I realized I had been dreading it. I am not sure why. Confirmation of incompetence? Irrelevance? I procrastinated by reading stupid stories in the news such as one on insanely expensive Caribbean resorts and another on tax-evasion strategies of the rich. At one point I felt like crying. Finally I committed to reading her email and looked over her suggestions. It wasn’t so bad. She said she enjoyed what she read. Maybe others will too.

To read my previous post, “Links: 40,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

At fitness class this morning we did eight exercises in a series of one-minute intervals. It has been a while since we have done this kind of workout. It would be fine with me if it is another while before we do it again. On the upside Susan had me start with the hardest exercises first. I was glad to get them out of the way. Mike was also too winded to sing. I didn’t mind that we ran out of time for me to do box jumps. I still have the scar on my leg from raking it over the edge of a plywood box a few years ago. Blood from the gash soaked my sock. It squished in my shoe. I finished the workout anyway, determined, pumped up on adrenalin.

This afternoon I went to see a movie called Hamnet. It’s about Shakespeare and his wife and the death of their son. I asked Laura to join me but she had plans to take her mom to the dentist. She may have enjoyed that more than the movie. It is portentous and weirdly deracinated, untethered from the time in which it takes place. A cultural renaissance, the Plague, imperial glory and ambition. In one scene Shakespeare scratches some parchment with a quill and clutches his hands around his head and yells, I have lost my way! But other than this nothing else suggests anything special about him or his situation. I also found it so dark and dirty, however realistic. I wanted to give everyone a bath and kept thinking, God, they must stink! How can they kiss? Someone digging into a bag of popcorn behind me also distracted me and so did a man who came in a few minutes late and sat right beside me. There were at least 80 empty seats. Why? But I loved the way my seat reclined, almost as comfortable as the couch. At home I shoveled snow and ice and holly berries from the deck. I am tired of tracking them inside and finding them mashed into the carpet, leaving smurky dark-red stains. William was in touch with some Christmas gift ideas for himself. Spatula snow windshield plow removal, he wrote. That all seems easy enough. Links? I asked. That makes it all even easier. Christmas for me is all about ease these days.

To read my previous post, “Passages: 39,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

At the shelter this afternoon I answered the phone and handed out supplies. A few sets of black fleece gloves went fast. Each had a handwritten tag that said God Loves You. One man got the last pair of boxers. Small? he said. Gotta try to make ‘em work. Several men asked about monthly bus passes. For some reason the shelter hasn’t received this month’s supply yet. Damn! said one man. Shit! said another. Nothin’ ever work right in this world. A woman called from Wisconsin. She wanted to know if a card she had sent her brother had arrived. She got frustrated with me when I told her shelter rules won’t let me tell her that over the phone. Then she frustrated Ella when I punted the call to her. At Costco Keesha scored extra boxes of cookie and pastries. They were a special order another customer did not pick up. The same thing happened once when I was playing bingo with the seniors at the community center. A customer never picked up a sheet cake for 60 that said Happy 90th Birthday Edith in purple cursive icing across the top. Huge yellow and green rosettes anchored each corner. The seniors had some during bingo and seconds to take home with them.

On my way home at the grocery I checked out with Thomas. He asked me about my Thanksgiving. He told me about his. He spent it with his sister. She has five kids! he said. She cooks from our great-grandmother’s recipes. Thomas’ hands tremble. A long faint scar runs down the left side of his neck. He has a small paunch, a pasty complexion. I always appreciate how he slides my items towards me after he scans them so they are easier for me to reach to bag. Thank you for your help, he said when I finished. In the parking lot an old man in a Santa hat circled the aisles in a motorized wheelchair. Gauze bandages the color of putty wrapped his swollen legs from his ankles to just past his knees.

At home I finished some cleaning and read this month’s issue of The Sun. I had an email from the editor of Paragraph Planet accepting a story I wrote about the tiny young woman at Dairy Del whose name I can never remember. Her face reminds me of a theme-park map, one feature leading to another—long fake eyelashes, a gold push-pin piercing above her upper lip, light freckles splashed across each cheek, a missing eye tooth. Every time I saw her I felt as if there was so much to study. In the paper I read that Cloud Dancer is Pantone’s color of the year. It looks like white to me. Am I crazy? IHOP, Waffle House, and Denny’s are all open Christmas day. Denny’s reindeer slam includes five pancakes and two strips of bacon. They’re arranged around the stack of pancakes to look as if they are antlers. Sleigh this holiday deal, says the copy. On their show today Dana and Lawrence talked with a woman named Patricia Ross. She is a psychoanalyst, memoirist, and classical musician, a youthful octogenarian with a thatch of white-blonde hair and glasses with large lenses and thick black frames. She mentioned that her father was an opera singer and undiagnosed bipolar. Rageaholic, she said. The chat enthused about the discussion having refreshing full moon vibes. I appreciated there were no F bombs in either their conversation or the chat. That was as refreshing to me as the vibes.

In my journal I read a passage where I wrote about picking the children up from their middle school trip to West Virginia. I remember the night’s cold and steady rain and seeing Polly step off the bus with her pillow and William with his bag. I also looked over pictures from when I took them to New York seven years ago. We accomplished a lot but I also remember much of the trip as being sheer hell. Motivating the children felt Sisyphean at times. One morning I called Dad crying about being unable to get the children out of bed for a Central Park pedicab ride and another time about William balking at our tour of the Met. Why do we have to do something like school when we’re on vacation?! he barked. Keep going, Dad said, everything will be okay. So I did and it was. The pictures made me smile and now I can even smile about crying. William says he has no recollection of his recalcitrance and ingratitude. Art history is his favorite class this semester.

To read my previous post, “Phat: 37,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

Instead of waiting until Sunday to post the story I wrote about today’s snow I posted it this afternoon when I was home from the shelter. I just felt like it. I may have been inspired by Judith. She seems to post whenever she feels like it. Sometimes three or four days pass between posts. Other days it may be three or four posts in a day. Today she posted about her job as a writer and her sense of self before she was hit by a drunk in a truck 19 years ago. Once I had a job, she says.

My job was words. They could not be too long, too short, too fast, too slow. They had to be a train of thought that left at the right time for the right place with the right context and history, the right voice and tone.

And the right content, too, she continues.

Timeless wisdom. Cutting-edge science. Do’s and don’ts to lighten your load, uplift your heart and comfort your spirit. Then I got in a car and never came back. Or rather, came back as someone else.

Laura and I were in touch about my snow post. She was at home. The community center was closed today because of the snow. She said she finds my writing about my daily doings relatable. Maybe she is the only one. But one is better than none. Maybe one will lead to some and some will lead to more. Writing them is like creating Frankenstein’s monster, taking bits from here, other bits from there, stitching them all together. The light outside this afternoon felt almost sepulchral. The clouds were so thick and low. Big blobs of snow plopped down from the trees and detonated silently on the patio.

This evening at Dairy Queen Riri and Mo were working. Mo had just finished her shift. She was sitting in a booth by the counter. You’re smiling, I said. Yes, she said, things are going a little bit better. Mo held up her hand and pinched together her thumb and index finger. Riri made my order. She whipped about a dozen napkins from the dispenser and wrapped the bottom of the cone in them when she gave it to me. I felt as if I were receiving a bouquet. I sat in a booth by the front door under a vent blasting heat. It could have been hotter. Coming home I drove almost the whole way with my knees. The roads were clear. There was almost no traffic. Almost all of the lights were green. I passed a queen-size mattress wrapped in plastic tipped up against a fence by a bus stop.

At home I watched the evening news. I watched most of it with the sound off. I have not been able to get used to Tom Llamas and his panting delivery and all the video-game sound effects. Check this out! Look at that! Whoosh-boing! Brraaang! I miss Lester Holt. The local news that follows I enjoy much more. The anchor is thoughtful and calm. She speaks without drama. She is a breast cancer and stroke survivor. She is real. I also like how coverage of the national news is telescoped to just one or two minutes. It is a much more tolerable dose and makes it all seem so much less worse.

To read my previous post, “Prompted: 34,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

This morning Meg posted a prompt to write an 80-word story about a character who gets a new perspective on something troubling. She includes a photograph of a man sitting at the top of a ladder against a chimney overlooking a street busy with pedestrians and merchants. A white cat sits next to the man. The man wears a dark overcoat and pants and shoes and a hat. Meg suggests using objects from the photograph in the story. The problem is the man’s perch reminds me of being suicidal three years ago. I was just on a bridge wearing a backpack with a kettle-bell in it. Meg posted another prompt to write about a character who has an unexpected encounter with someone from an earlier time in life. My high school reunion this past weekend seems like fertile ground for this but the problem here is that every conversation left me disoriented and adrift. It’s too much to till. Mary posted a prompt to write a story about home. The problem with this is that volunteering at the shelter has made me wonder if I even know what the word means anymore. Strike three and out?

Doing errands this afternoon I made a tidy little circuit from CVS to the bank to Valvoline and then the grocery, almost all right turns and almost all done in an hour. At the bank the teller had to verify my check. It was from the IRS. I had no idea IRS checks are such magnets for fraud. I would have thought solvency would be the issue. Are you in our system? the tech at Valvoline asked. Not with this car or this name, I said. Divorced. He updated my profile. I drafted a response to Mary’s prompt when an idea came to mind. I wrote it on the back of a Dairy Queen paper cone wrapper I pulled from the trash basket in the back of my car. Who says writing needs a room with a view? An oil-changing bay worked for me. At the grocery I sampled some potato chips from a display covered in a plastic dome with a flip top. Finally—something interesting and tasty. They were rippled, thick, and crunchy. At home Landon was blowing and gathering leaves. He smelled like gasoline and cold. A response to Meg’s new perspective prompt occurred to me when I realized why all the leaves piling up this fall aren’t bothering me like they used to. It’s because the leaves themselves aren’t the bother. The bother was the husband who was bothered by all the leaves and would frenzy himself into a lather blowing and raking them up for days and days. It was his bother that bothered me. Now that I have divorced him I can’t be bothered with the bother about the leaves.

To read my previous post, “Check: 33,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

This morning I thought I would go to fitness class but I changed my mind considering the cold and the dark. Just staying home and warm and working out here appealed to me more and gave me more time with my word games and other routines. David across the street has replaced his whimsical Halloween ghost with an air-pumped Frosty the Snowman. He deflates it every night. Every morning it resurrects itself from a puddle of white vinyl wearing a top hat and blue vest whose color matches that of the lights on David’s bushes alongside his front porch. Among the day’s notifications were likes for some comments I made to Judith’s recent posts and the 100-word story I wrote last week about Granny for Mary Guterson’s prompt. Someone re-stacked my post yesterday about how playing Bingo with seniors helped me put the wheels back on after being suicidal. I also got several more emails from editors passing on writing I have submitted. I am starting to wonder if trying to get published is worth all the effort. Is it a matter of quality or of just finding the right fit? Whatever the case I don’t have the fire for submitting I had a few weeks ago.

At the grocery I checked out with Max the red dread-locked cashier. His ho-ho belly pushed against his denim overalls. He scratched his orange goatee. Unloading my cart I mentioned going to my high school reunion. So weird to talk to people and see pictures of classmates who’ve died, I said. The woman behind me said that her own recent high school reunion had featured a Death Table with candles and pictures and cards. She spread her hands in a circular motion over the top of her cart as if she were laying a blanket and shook her head. Class of ‘75, she said. We’ve had four suicides, I said, in a class of seventy-seven. Whoa! said Max. On my way home I went to Speedway for gas. An illuminated magnetic sign by the door advertised in big black letters two Monster drinks and taquitos for $8.50. Inside slices of pizza spun on tiers in a warming case by the register. In line in front of me a young woman held a toddler on her hip wearing teddy-bear footsie pajamas and patting the back of the young woman’s neck. Some men in neon-yellow safety vests with reflective striping came in and got Mountain Dews, donuts, and pucks of Zyn smokeless nicotine. The cashier was probably in her late 60’s. Another cashier sitting on a milk crate behind her wore an Army vet baseball cap and snacked on jerky.

This afternoon Stacey and I were in touch about the reunion. I told her I thought she probably made the better choice to stay home. Ha! I love your take on things, she said. We made plans to visit next week. Monica and I were also in touch about the reunion. I think she fared better than I. We also talked about colors for the cover of my book of writing about my time with Mom. A long time ago Dad once said to me that three things important to mental health are someone to love, something to do, and something to look forward to. Check, check, check. At Dairy Queen only the drive-thru was open. Riri said only she and Kyng were working. She gave me a medium because the sole customer in front of me took so long. He was an older man in an early-model silver Honda Civic with a blown tail light. I went by the grocery again to get the toilet paper I forgot earlier. Max was still working. All good! All good! he said when I told him why I was coming back. In the parking lot a man in a beige coat and jeans rummaged in the Dumpster just beyond the parking lot lights. A woman in baggy sweatpants and a saggy leopard print coat and fleece slippers pushed a cart toward the alley.

This evening Cindy House posted about how making daily observations helped her purge the bitterness of a recent rough patch. I understand that. Noticing often helps me feel grateful even if it is about the most inconsequential things. William was in touch on his way back to school from the football game in Tennessee yesterday. He said he had a good time but is glad he doesn’t go there. Everyone wears overalls and has a drinking problem, he said. I tracked his return with the charges to my Visa. Jersey Mike’s. Exxon Duck In Deli. Wendy’s. 7-11. The day’s mail brought this month’s issue of The Sun. I like how I can read it cover-to-cover in less than an hour and how there are no ads. In this month’s interview I liked this passage from an interview with William Rees—

One major problem with humans is that we don’t live in reality. We live in constructed fantasies. Someone once quipped: “Human beings are the only species known to mistake their worldview for the world.”

Check.

To read my previous post, “Mortal: 32,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

Soon after I was downstairs this morning William left to go to a football game in Tennessee with a friend. From there he will drive back to school tomorrow. The kitchen still smells like the bacon he made two nights ago, salty and fatty and fried and crisp. Somehow it also smells salty and fatty and fried and crisp in the second-floor bathroom. How that happens mystifies me. It’s like when I’ve done painting and I can smell the fumes in the oven or in the dryer in the basement. Odors travel and gather in places I never expect.

At the shelter today Dee and Ella were working. Two new staff members were training with them. Justin also works as a rehab peer counselor. Jeremiah has a second job as a roofer. Keeps me active, he said about that work. I asked Ella what she did after the shelter’s Thanksgiving lunch Thursday. I got a burger at Jack-in-the-Box and then went home and went to bed and slept for 12 hours, she said. Any leftovers from lunch? I asked. None! she said. There was even enough extra for every man to have a to-go box. Some men got two. Among the men signing in today was a slender, bearded man wearing a dark gray hoodie. Williams, he said when he reached the counter, the man with the mortal wound.

A new volunteer named Dave answered the phone and handed out supplies. He snacked from a value-sized bag of chips. I kept smelling corn all afternoon. Corn here, corn there, corn by the roster, corn by the underwear drawer. Dave said he is a retired laboratory technician. I read about five hours a day, he said. Right now he’s got four books going, including one about words written by a friend. Crazy hours! he said about his work during the pandemic. I bet. He helps out at the shelter two or three times a week. Other volunteers decorated the offices in the back. They hung garlands and wreaths on walls and file cabinets and covered doors in red plaid wrapping paper. They crossed them with shimmery gold organza bows and draped the break room in gold tinsel. They set up a tree with blinking white lights and fake snow by the coffee maker. I sure hope they used a power strip. It looks like a short-circuit waiting to happen to me.

At home I considered raking some leaves. The cold and dampness dissuaded me. I decided I’d rather look at the leaves than the thinning and bare spots in the yard. I made some tea and read Joyride. I appreciate what Orlean says about feeling fulfilled when she writes and how she recognized her calling as a writer and pursued it to make it happen. I also appreciate how she just loves working with language itself. Last night I dreamed about not reading a book for a class I was taking and driving at night in a car whose headlines were not working.

This evening I went to my 40th high school reunion. It was about what I expected and not where I wanted to be I realized soon after arriving. I found talking to classmates I haven’t been in touch with for decades to be a disorienting drain. Seeing pictures from high school and past reunions was even more deranging. I looked at some and just wondered, What the hell happened? Trying to fathom answers disturbed me. When William was home last year for winter break we looked through our high school senior yearbooks. Pre-med, gap year, art history, William said as he paged through his classmates’ pictures. Divorce, cancer, suicide, car accident, I said as we paged through mine. There was also a picture tonight of Gretchen when she attended one reunion with David. Those were three words I never expected to hear. I have cancer, she told me five years ago. I suppose I am especially sensitive to this because I recognize how close I came to being among those who are no longer among us. My picture could have appeared there tonight. I was home in an hour glad for the quiet and stillness.

To read my previous post, “Sort(ing}: 31,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

This morning soon after I was home from fitness class William came down to make grilled cheese and bacon. We talked about Thanksgiving dinner the other night and his plans for the weekend and returning to school. He was dithering about what to do with himself, where to go when. I was not much help. I am a long way away from my dithering days. Upstairs I heard the toilet flush and then Polly’s door click shut.

From the trunk of my car William got the suitcase of things he gave me to bring home when I visited him at school this time last year. We joked that it had been in my car for so long. It just seemed a good place to keep it until he was here to deal with it. William sorted out the items inside, some to keep and others to give away. T-shirts and shorts, extension and charge cords, dorm room decor. The give-aways I will take to the shelter tomorrow. I tried the Black Friday quiz again. The link worked this time. I scored one out of 10. I answered correctly only the question asking, Which is NOT a big shopping holiday? Saver Solstice jumped right out at me.

At Dairy Queen this afternoon Riri and Mo were working. Mo said she got another room at the hotel. She doesn’t have anything in it. I’m starting all over, again, she said. Fire last year destroying everything, flood the other night ruining everything again. She had Thanksgiving at another shelter downtown. They had breakfast, lunch, and dinner, she said. She seemed tired. She made me another perfect cone of three little fat tires and a beautiful curl on top. At the bookstore on my way home I got Susan Orlean’s memoir Joyride. She approaches everything she writes about with curiosity, intelligence, and wit. I imagine she does the same with her own life and vocation.

On her way home from work Polly got in touch about a man next to her at the car wash. He was unpacking and cleaning his minivan. She helped him unload it. He’s skinny, Polly said. He’s from Louisiana, she said. His name is Charles, she said, he says only alright and okay. 😎 She sent some pictures. They had removed bags and plastic bins and collapsed cardboard boxes and set them by the rear bumper. A step stool leaned against the van’s sliding back door. Lots of canned food, Polly said. She gave him a Texas Roadhouse gift card a man gave her last month after she helped him jump his car. She asked if I know the man from the shelter. Probably not, I said, not every homeless man goes there. As usual I wonder about Charles’ life and all he may be, was, or is. Son, brother, father, husband, and now here he is sorting and cleaning his home at a suburban car wash vacuum station.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

In the paper this morning I clicked on a link to a Black Friday quiz. What Do You Know About Black Friday? the headline asked. The link led only to a video montage of hordes of people crashing through store doors. That’s all I need to know. I had better luck with an article about Dick Van Dyke where he talks about how he’s reached being 100 in good health. He stays active, playful, connected, and positive and open to change. This morning I was the only one at fitness class. It was 10 exercises of 50 to a 100 repetitions each. Burping a few times I tasted Polly’s pumpkin pie from dinner last night. It was sensational in texture and taste. I just wish I hadn’t eaten enough last night to last me to next year. Driving home from class I loved all the empty roads and green lights. It was so easy to drive with my knees. At home I finished reading the news and watched Lawrence and Dana when their show began. They were unable to decide the week’s worst news. This happens often.

After coming home yesterday from the shelter’s Thanksgiving lunch I just collected my thoughts and read. Polly was in touch with pictures from her friend’s midday event. In one she held someone’s sleeping baby with a big bow on its head. So cute! Polly said. Especially when asleep! I said. LOL, she said. William came down to make grilled cheese and grumped about dinner later. I let him grump and continued to read. When I left for dinner I thought of how such events once also challenged me and how Mom would always say, Cheer up! I could have said the same to William. Instead I gave it more thought and told him it will all be okay and let him make his own way. He arrived about 10 minutes after I. I arrived about five minutes after Polly. I wore my lavender overalls and ratty quarter-zip. I was by far the most casually dressed but I was glad to be comfortable and warm. I am not sure my attire mattered anyway or if anyone noticed that they cared. Despite my own lack of flair I still admired Lourdes’ dress. Tik Tok, she confessed. She laments her phone-shopping habit. Doomscroll, doomscroll, doomscroll, pretty! Yes! she said.

In line for dinner Henry and I talked about his new restaurant job. The food is like Panera if Panera were better, he said. He would like to build a cabin in the woods. Do you know anything about carpentry? I asked. No, he said. I told him about a carpenter’s memoir I read. From William and Patrick ahead of us I got some scoop on the young person’s barhopping scene. You were at Gerties? I was at Gerties! When were you there? And so on. William seemed to have dumped the grump. At dinner we talked about school and work and just generally caught up. A friend of Dad’s gave him a romantasy novel to read. It’s like J. R. R. Tolkien meets Colleen Hoover, he said, the hobbits are horny! Being deaf from so many years of hunting Dad cupped his left hand around his left ear and turned to face each speaker like a lopsided, periscopic Dumbo.

To Robert I mentioned hearing about a paper he presented in Australia last month. He started talking about flipping quarters and probabilities and predictions. I did not understand. We both helped ourselves to giant sloppy dollops of whipped cream. Polly threaded her fingers through the long silky hairs of Obediah when he came around for treats. Just before I left Lucy and I talked about keeping a journal. She has considered the practice but always felt vexed by what a journal should be. A daily record of I did this, I did that? A confessional of I felt this, I felt that? I may be overthinking it, she said, I don’t know. I have never really given my journal and its content and purpose much thought. It’s just something I do and can’t imagine not.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

Among the day’s notifications was a new free subscriber email. Love to help people and animals, her profile says. It also says she subscribes to 66 other Substacks. I don’t know how a person could read so much. Maybe no one does. Need a reason to be grateful? Judith asked in a Note. Check your pulse. Before going to the shelter to answer the phone and hand out supplies I watched some of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. I turned down the sound. Just the colors and choreography satisfied me. One afternoon a few weeks before Mom died we were watching TV without the sound. It’s so much better this way, Mom said. Agreed, I said. For today’s flash challenge prompt to write a family story I thought of celebrating Dad’s 87th birthday at the end of the summer. Peace and goodwill to all, he said when he blew out the candles on the cake. He always says that. The cake Neville brought could have served twice our number.

At the shelter I was not sure what to expect with today being Thanksgiving. It turns out that it is pretty much the same as any other day. Being homeless does not break for a holiday. Neither does being human. One man complained about arriving too late to take a shower. I came all the way down here for nothing! he said. No mail? Why not? asked another. Other men were impatient to eat. Larry! Big dog! Have a seat! I ain’t called your row yet! Antwan said when serving began. If you can’t follow the rules you gotta leave, Ella said. Some men asked for gloves. Some needed hand and foot warmers. I ran out of all of those. I never had any underwear. The socks were thin and not popular despite the cold. One call I answered was a man wondering about the bed hotline. No one is answering, he said. It had already closed. I gave him another number to try. Another call was a man looking for a man he knew. He’s been robbed, the man said, he has no sleeping bag or anything. Too bad, he said when I told him the man had not come in.

Ella made turkey, stuffing, and macaroni and cheese. Groups also brought in chocolate cupcakes iced with white frosting and pumpkin pies as big as hubcaps. Volunteers served from long tables in the back by the giant goggle-eyed Santa minion. The napkins featured confetti and said Congratulations Class of 2023! I unspooled several rolls of toilet paper. The bundles went fast. I did not need to save any of the tubes. Devan already has the 400 she needs. On my way home I saw a man in khakis and a checkered lumberjack hat relieving himself by the pine tree across the street. Other men walked along the sidewalks toting their backpacks, pulling their carry-ons, wheeling their bikes, holding their hats to their heads from the wind. One man dropped a bag of leftovers. A man behind him helped him pick it up. Homelessness and being human may not take a break for a holiday. Neither does humanity.

To read my previous post, “Planksgiving: 28,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

Last night I dreamed my laptop’s touch pad was fixed. It is not. At least it is not more broken. Playing Spelling Bee this morning I got the pangram as my first answer again. I may be spoiling myself finding the pangram right away. HOVEL was the answer for Wordle today. Mo and Mr. Murrow and the places they don’t have to live came to mind and my heart ached. At fitness class we did Planksgiving. The holiday spirit! Susan said. Ha-ha, I said. The workout was 35 repetitions of 14 exercises. Deborah Ah-wooed! and Lordy-ed! a lot and fanned herself with her towel. I don’t want either one of them! she said when I asked her which kettle-bell she wanted for the squats. I lost count on the plank up-downs and just stopped when things started to hurt. Doing jumping jacks I traveled and bumped into the recumbent bike. I asked Diane about the owl tattoo on her calf. She got it when she turned 80. I might get another when I turn ninety, she said. She is 83.

Soon after I was home William returned from doing errands. He made grilled cheese for breakfast and then aced my household chores quiz. Tuesday is mopping, Wednesday is dusting, and Friday is? I asked. Mopping! he said. The idea is to paddle a little each day, I said. Right, he said. He nodded and looked at his phone. He complained of feeling congested. You’ll feel better after tennis, I said. I know, he said. Polly went out for ingredients to make pumpkin pies for tomorrow, from the crust to the filling to the whipping cream. She did a trial run the week before last. She was surprised to find the grocery busy. Like huge long lines! she said. I was surprised that she was surprised. Any place selling food right now is a madhouse and not where I would want to be. None of us is dressed for today’s wind and cold. None of us can commit to winter being here. At least it is sunny and I have a new candle. Lemon + tobacco + cardamom, says the label. I also found on the sidewalk by the bookstore a giant globe covered in fine silver glitter. It’s about the size of a bowling ball. It must have blown off from a tree someone’s decorated somewhere. I see it atop my own whenever I get around to getting it.

To read my previous post, “Shift: 27,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

At the shelter this morning I watched Dana and Lawrence’s show while I sorted the day’s mail. They talked with a woman who is a journalist or a politician or something. I am not sure. I missed her introduction. Whatever her profession or expertise she was voluble and crude and I did not care for their discussion or that of the chat. Other than the foul language I caught the words futurist, movie, campaign, guru, and superpower. I could not put it all together. A small, soft-spoken man with long stringy hair and a very long pointy noise came to the door. Byrd, right? I asked. You remembered! he said. He smiled. I did not tell him that nose is how I have finally been able to remember his name. His nose is like a beak that belongs to a bird except with a Y. Looking for the mail for another man I came across a bundle for Mr. Murrow. I know where he is, I thought, walking off barefoot into the dark in his glowing white underwear five miles away by my favorite Dairy Queen. The shelter’s day manager Robin announced a drug education meeting. Keesha announced Susan’s birthday. Happy birthday! everyone said and then sang. A giant inflatable Santa minion now billows near the shower room door. It is about 12 feet tall and five feet wide, its goggled eyes the size of car wheels. A Christmas tree with silver tinsel and red lights glows up the corner by the volunteer room. A life-sized cardboard figure of Will Ferrell from Elf stands by the entrance. Devan and other staff are collecting toilet paper tubes to stuff with candy and wrap as gifts for Christmas next month. They want at least 400.

At home I swept the deck and cleared a path through the leaves to the garage. I am tired of tracking through them especially when they are so damp and slick. Something about not seeing the pavement also disorients me. It makes me think I am going to lose my way. It’s not rational. How far astray could I go? Five feet off into the grass and then into the fence or the oak tree? William came down in khakis and no shirt. He smelled of sleep, and a little stale, like his room. Long drive, he said. He wrapped himself in the blanket from the couch and pulled it over his head like a teepee. He mentioned a chemistry major from Georgia who runs track whose company he enjoys. William wondered if he needs to take up running. Did you ever run? he asked. No, I hate it, I said, everything feels like it’s going to break. Yeah, he said, huh. He turned in his teepee and returned the blanket to the couch and went back up to his room.

Monica sent some sketches for the cover of my book about my time with Mom. She based them on a few conversations we had and pictures I showed her of the sun room. They are just what I had in mind. I like especially the clutter atop a small table by the chair. Cigarette butts line the rim of Mom’s ashtray, some Kleenex tissue origami flowers from its box, her nail file and pencils list against the sides of a small clay cup by her powder-blue water tumbler and double-sided pillbox. A bunny peeps in from the brick patio outside. Jim posted another Textbook Sleep, Maximum-Strength Sleep Aid. He read from a book of accounting theory and practice. I understood the words but not what they meant together. I never knew accounting had a theory. I thought it was just numbers. Maybe that’s why I’ve always had trouble with it. Meg posted a prompt to write about a character in turmoil using three items from a picture showing a Ford Falcon, a phone booth, and a cactus, among other things. Nothing came to mind but I like the picture. Judith posted about the news and the managers of the continuing-care community where she lives. She said they’ve hired consultants who specialize in making active shooter drills for old folks’ homes. Shift happens, she wrote. So true. I checked the views for my post over the weekend. Nothing has changed after its mysterious three-hour rocket ride yesterday to 10 times my usual views. It must have caught the algorithm for a lift into shore and settled down in the sand. Shift happens.

To read my previous post, “Wish: 26,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

Even if I had not known the forecast for today I would have known it was raining when I got up. I heard planes. Flight patterns change when it rains. I still slept through the night. I didn’t even move. William got home for Thanksgiving break some time after midnight. I talked to him before I went to bed. He’d decided to drive all the way instead of stopping somewhere as he thought he might do yesterday afternoon. Among today’s notifications were likes for some Notes I posted yesterday and a new free subscriber. I think it’s from the flash constellation. One post or comment leads one reader to another and connections happen. I looked up the profile of one person who liked my story about Granny in response to Mary Guterson’s prompt yesterday. He’s a retired French hornist and piano technician involved in church music and toy trains. He’s been happily married for 45 years. I was astonished to see my post from the weekend with almost 1,400 views. How do I go from averaging 150 to more than 1,300? It must be a mistake.

On TODAY this morning its consumer reporter did a story with an FDNY firefighter on having a safe Thanksgiving. The story included sensational videos of exploding deep-fried turkeys and sooty smoking pots on stove tops. Savannah Guthrie has now started to wear a headband in this really dorky way. She is far too smart for that. One afternoon a few months before Mom died we sat together watching Judge Judy. She is marvelous, Mom said. Have you ever noticed how small her hands are? Mom asked. And I love her glasses, Mom said, how they don’t wrap behind her ears. Do you see? she asked. Yes, I said. But I never would have caught that detail on my own. It had never even occurred to me to notice such a thing. Now I do. And it does.

At the grocery on my way to the shelter I got more eggs and milk and bread and cereal. All of them seemed to disappear quickly last time William was home. Even if he ends up going out with friends I can still use them after he returns to school. A cranberry-hued jar danced and flashed on the video display by the door. Why didn’t the cranberry go to the party? the screen asked. Because it was in a jam! I checked out with Terry. He was wearing his sea-green fleece again. He had the zipper open because it is so toasty. Air conditioning? I said. Yeah, he said. Phone number? Card? You saved three dollars and two cents. Come back and see us again! Terry and I always swing between familiarity and formalities. It is weird. It is our way. It works.

At the shelter Dee and Ella were along working with Angela from outreach. I read a story about her in the paper a few months ago. Today was the first time I had met her. She spends most of her time out in the street. She liked the change of being in the shelter for a day. We talked about being affected by some of the situations at the shelter. She tries to leave work at work. She doesn’t always succeed. She is still glad that she doesn’t have a job that pelts her with after-work emails and other time- and mind-sucking dings. A church group set up tables of hot food out front by the steps. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, biscuits. Before serving they came in to offer prayer. Amen, everyone said at the end. Another group brought hot dogs. Mustard! Ketchup! Fruit cup! Dee called into the mic. Go out there and get your food! Everyone eat today!

A new volunteer named Alana answered the phone and handed out supplies. She has five children. She also volunteers at her church and enjoys traveling and writing. She kept her phone clipped to a green foam band around her right bicep. She had no trouble getting the hang of things. Mr. Joseph came around a few times, the first pointing to some bottles of water near me at the roster. Busy checking in another man I could not hand him one. I pointed back at the bottles for him to help himself. He frowned and walked away and circled back to Alana and pointed to some bottles near her. She handed him one. He asked her for reading glasses. Alana pulled the box from the drawer by the phone and set it on the counter. Mr. Joseph poked among the slender, cellophaned packages and chose a pair identical to the pair Ella gave him earlier. He returned those to the box. He asked for a hat. Alana reached for a white one. Not white! Mr. Joseph said. Anything but white! She put her finger on a gray hat. Gray is good, he said.

One man needed seven dollars for his cell phone bill. It’s due tomorrow, he said. He said he lost his job a few months ago when his car broke down. He’d hoped to get another job this afternoon and get paid but someone else got the job first. That’s how it start, Ella said when I told her about the man later, the cycle. A white man came in with a Black man half his age. Took him under my wing, said the white man. Nineteen! He wore a Garfield backpack. Cam came by and lingered out front. He is still barred. Ella gave him some sack lunches. He wore a loose black track suit and limped. Ella said he had been hit by a car. Broke his hip, she said. Today’s prompt for the flash challenge is You Have Been Granted One Wish. This is easy. As many as I need, I wrote.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

At Dairy Queen this afternoon Riri and Mo were working. I wished them a happy Thanksgiving. I asked how they would be spending it. With family? Friends? Don’t know, said Mo, kind of going through it now. She leaned down onto the counter and then she stood up. Life is—lifey! she said. A year ago she lost everything in a fire. Last night her hotel room flooded. Most of her things are ruined. Nothing is insured because she’s not a tenant. The water is worse than the fire somehow, she said. I was unclear whether she had a place to stay tonight or had anyone to help her. Maybe that’s because she was unclear herself. She had four hours until closing. I gave her the coalition bed line phone number. Thanks, love, she said. She made me a beautiful cone, three fat little tires with a perfect curl on top.

In the turning lane by the gas station when I was leaving I saw a barefoot man walking toward me on the sidewalk. He wore a tank top and carried a cylindrical nylon gym bag. His white briefs glowed like a pearl in the lowering darkness. His steps were measured and steady. As he got closer I recognized him as Mr. Murrow from the shelter, tall and beautifully coordinated and elegantly muscled and stark-raving mad. He kept walking for about another 10 yards and then he crossed just beyond the light over to Dairy Queen’s side.

Last time I saw Mr. Murrow at the shelter he came by asking for a Goodwill clothing voucher. He wore white Bermuda sweat shorts and an orange tank top and a knit cap with a turquoise pom-pom on top. He stood by the door patting his head while I filled out the voucher for him. Everywhere he was calm and composed and utterly ordered and he just stood there, patting. The pom-pom jiggled with each pat. The time before that he was sitting in front of the TV by the toiletries room talking to commentators and commercials. It’s supposed to be 38 degrees and raining tomorrow morning.

At the grocery Michelle and the man from the deli were sitting outside on the flower racks smoking and talking about how alcoholism is a disease, Michelle hunched in her red hoodie and tan puffy coat and the deli man in a yellow parka. We wished each other happy Thanksgiving. Inside Ty and Curtis were rounding up carts and baskets. They rattled and clattered. Bespectacled and lumbering Joe was the only cashier working. I was glad I was not buying any strawberries or eggs. It always bothers me when he inspects them. I always do so myself. Sometimes I will try to preempt him. Berries are good! Eggs are fine! I don’t know why it bothers me so much but tonight I am glad it was one less bother on top of things that were almost too much. Soon after I was home a storm brought in some thunder and lighting and wind. I heard the porch door bang once and then again. Just as I got to the front door I saw a UPS delivery van pulling away from the curb and my box on the porch. After picking it up I stayed on the porch for a moment, the rain in the glare of the streetlights looking like it was just shredding the air.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

On my way to the shelter this afternoon I went by the grocery. In the lane next to me I recognized the yoga instructor Kira from the studio where I used to go. The last time we saw each other was in the airport five or six years ago. She and a friend were on their way to India. She is still as precise and measured as ever. Good to see you, she said, arching her back and blinking slowly. I channeled some of her poise when I got to the shelter and realized I did not have my phone. I retraced my steps all the way back home. Finding it neither there nor the grocery—Seen a phone in the broccoli crowns? I asked Dennis the produce man—I returned to the shelter where it dawned on me to look in my car and there it was, right under the driver’s seat. It must have slipped from my bag and my first rule of finding lost things to look for the lost thing where I least expect it to find it must have slipped my mind.

At the shelter Susan and Ella were working. Devan came in even though it’s the weekend. She talked to Michael on her way to her office. He was lying on the floor by the bookcase. You in a space of love, she told him. I don’t feel like it, he said. Give to God, she said, he got you! Bad Hair Day twinkled in pink and silver rhinestones above the brim of her baseball cap. A man wrapped in a dingy white comforter insisted on writing his name to sign in instead of saying it. Ella slapped a piece of scrap paper on the counter for him along with a pencil with a blunt, splintery tip. The man wrote his name on the paper and gave it to me. Up to here with nonsense today, Ella muttered. But she laughed when I said to one man that I’d never go to a place with holic in its name. We were talking about a new bakery that’s opened called Cinaholic. I poked her in the belly with the pencil eraser when she chuckled. She chuckled some more.

That’s my cousin, said one man after I found his last name in the roster. He was not yet in the roster himself. I got out of jail 10 days ago, he said. I asked him to sign the intake sheet and stacked a sack lunch on top of a box holding baked beans and a hot dog. That work? I asked. That works, he said. Thumbs up. Evan and I talked about depression. It’s a thing! he said. He’s found relief temping for a staffing company. They hire anyone, he said, they hired me! One call I answered was a man calling for a friend whose boyfriend had just beaten her. Another call was a woman who’d just been evicted from her apartment. Do you have any tents? she asked. We don’t, I said. I thought of Kira earlier and tried again to tap into some of her aura and even India. Frankie jumped up from a chair by the mail room where he’d been sitting and stewing, his russet-colored hair matted and his blue eyes clear and wild. Hey, Frankie! Frankie! I love you, Susan said. She put her hand on his shoulder. He seemed to consider the gesture but decided to leave instead.

On my way home I went to CVS to pick up a prescription. I arrived during the pharmacy’s lunch break. I waited it out sitting next to a big old man in overalls who fought not to sleep. He recognized a thin palsied old man on a walker who arrived with his wife. They talked about seeing each other at church. Another older woman groused about being delayed. A woman younger than I rolled her eyes. On my phone I read a story about a young woman who works for a travel agency that caters to the ultra-rich. These people never hear the word no, she says at one point, they can’t process the word. She has a good sense of humor. I hope she keeps it.

At home I finished re-reading Steve Martin’s novella The Pleasure of My Company. He has a winning, tender-hearted way with oddballs. Some books I am keeping after re-reading. Some I am not. Others I have given away without re-reading. They remind me of times in my life from which I now feel estranged or concern ideas or subjects I no longer have the temperament or intellect to appreciate. I read this? I wonder. This was me? Annotations also disorient me. Why did I underline this passage? Circle that word? The disorientation reminds me of reading the notes Mom’s friends wrote after she died. I hardly recognized her from some things people said. Did they know one person and I another? I am not sure where I could find an answer to that or even if there is one.

To read my previous post, “Palaver: 20,” please click here.

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Author’s note: This is from a series based on my journal. Unconventional and idiosyncratic punctuation and formatting are intentional.

Doing my word games this morning I solved the Mini crossword in 29 seconds. My record is 16. Then I found Spelling Bee’s pangram as my first answer. Rainbow. Puy counted for a word in Letter Boxed. I have no idea what it is. I just winged it in the effort to connect P, U, and Y and complete the game within the word limit. Strands was also a gimme except now I can’t remember the theme. Since yesterday I have also left a knife in the refrigerator, a pan on the stove, and my keys in my car in the garage. Trifecta! Incipient dementia or routine forgetfulness, I don’t know. But it does not bother me. I also wore my sleeping shorts to the grocery but I did that on purpose. I mentioned this to Lori when I was checking out. At least you have clothes on, she said, eyeing me over her glasses. At least they’re not the pair with holes in them, I thought. At fitness class we talked about how our grown children submit their Christmas lists. Allison’s email or text her with links to what they want. Colleen’s kids send her PowerPoint presentations. They have also asked her to tell them what to do with their lives. They all have degrees and none of them can figure out what to do, she said. Her son is the exception. He is an electrician. He is both employed and enjoying his work. Cindy the demon jump-roper was upstairs taking another class. Her lashing the floor up there sounded like a whip cracking rat-a-tat-tat.

This afternoon at the coffee shop a young woman sat in one of the lounge chairs by the door with her feet on the table. I was disbelieving. She typed obliviously on a laptop across the top of her outstretched legs. I thought to say something but nothing politic came to mind except, This is a table for food, not feet! Instead I texted the children. “Ew,” said Polly. “🤢,” said William. I went to a stool at the window counter. In one of the other lounge chairs the veteran from the shelter dozed. He wore powder blue Levis and a navy shirt that said in white script It’s All About Me. His cane rested against the inside of his left knee. A cup of coffee with the lid off cooled on the table not far from the woman’s feet. The man and some others from the shelter used to gather in the small grassy area by the bus stop. Sometimes they sat under the tree. Sometimes they sat on the retaining wall. Now yellow No Trespassing tape encloses the space. A few weeks ago I saw him on the wall bent so far over that his chin nearly touched his knees.

For today’s flash challenge prompt to write an end-of-life story I wrote about Granny and the crazily annotated week-to-week calendars she kept. Clear was the last word she wrote. She wrote it on a Monday about a month before she died. Letters in light gray pencil trace the word on the page. Last night I dreamed I flew to Scotland with high school classmates to visit Meg. She lived in a warren of rooms densely furnished in tapestries and period furniture and connected by stairs and hallways on some kind of university campus. We wore school marm dresses and received Matchbox toy cars and luggage as gifts. We toured in groups. At one point I looked out a window and asked, Where the hell are we? Then someone said the people I saw were students. Oh, that makes sense! I said.

This evening I started a novel called Palaver. I got it at the bookstore the other day. A man named Bryan Washington wrote it. It’s about a mother and son reconciling, figuring out how to love and forgive each other. They are Jamaican. The mother lives in Houston. The son lives in Tokyo. He works as a tutor. Washington shows how spare simple prose can do some rich involving storytelling. He shows it even with the title. One meaning of palaver is an improvised conference between two people. The mother’s spontaneous trip to see her son sets the whole story in motion. Maybe palaver is what I do? I love the word. I even love just the way it sounds.

To read my previous post, “Wheels: 19,” please click here.

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