July 30th, 2005

10:07 am

              Ted, the cat, takes a long pause in front of me. Stands on the desk. Looks up at the window. Chatters at the baby blue sky. The birds sailing by. Then steps forward. Makes the leap to the window sill. Sniffs the air as the wind breezes in. Watches a noisy plane amble over. Then leaps down to me on my hand-me-down chair. He sits and stares at my face. Chatters. Touches me with his paw. Because he's feeling something. And wants me to feel it too.

Two living creatures. Together in this house. Unable to truly communicate. So we do the best we can. Chatter. Pet. Paw. 

I wonder if he ever watches me. Thinks about my path as I cross the living room. How sometimes I stand and stare out the window. At deer in the field. Crows on the crooked steeple. Birds in the leafy branches of the cemetery's big maple tree.  

?

            Ah...this simple life. Where today I'll mow the lawn. With the old green push mower that I found in the basement of the church when I moved to this place three years ago. A solid machine. Powered by a Briggs & Stratton engine. One that asks so little of me. A bit of oil. Fresh gas. A clean spark plug. And always, it is ready to run. To remind me of the day my Dad brought an old Briggs & Stratton to the side door of Thunder Bay Junior High School. For me to disassemble and reassemble. For a project in my Power and Energy class. Third hour with a bunch of burnouts and jocks. Led by Mr. Leeland. A short man with Popeye forearms who was filled with stifled frustrations, but guided by good intentions.

His goal? To show these kids something that they could use in this life. How to follow directions. Take things apart. Rebuild. And do it again. Because he knew how it would turn out. That most of us would never stray far from home. And we would never reach any higher than our parents did. There would be no climbing of the social ladder. No corporate executives. Genetic scientists. Or astronauts. We boys would grow into men's bodies, but we would never change. We'd become bigger boys. Obsessed with Power and Energy. But we would never have enough drive, ambition, or heart to know how to truly use it. The best Mr. Leeland could do was prepare us for a life of fixing things that he knew would be broken.

              I think Dad knew this when he brought me that small engine. In a heavy duty cardboard box. Covered with an oily rag. When he let me wrestle it into the school all by myself.

"I got it," I said, as I stumbled up the steps and fumbled with the door knob.

"I know you do," he said. "I know."

And he drove away. And I walked inside. To a workshop table. To learn how to take it apart. And to put it together again.

?

I will think of that today. As I push along the old green machine. Mow diagonal rows. Until the lawn is tidy. Neat and trim. So people can visit. Pass by. Say to themselves, "Now here is a man that really knows how to keep a place up!" And I will feel I've accomplished something. As I retreat behind walls. Shower away the smells of another day that's passed. The fresh cut grass. Exhaust fumes. Gas. And I will go to bed with some artificial peace. Balance in the darkness. At the edge of sleep. Knowing deep down that I haven't done a thing.

And tomorrow, I'll wake. Refreshed, or haunted by dreams, and I'll go downstairs. Pass by Ted, the cat, as he's curled up in the wooden rocking chair. And I'll walk to the coffee pot. Pour in the water. Put in the grounds. Turn it on. And stand in the kitchen. Leaning on the sink. Staring at the lawn, the trees, the old crooked steeple, trying to be happy because I've been given a great gift. Another day. To get through. To get things done. To make it okay.