Trash man

I've been working on a post about Jenny Anydots, my $25 cat, to celebrate her one-year mark with my crew. But this happened today, and I want to post my thoughts instead. (So stay tuned, cat lovers; photos and updates on Jenny are in the making.)

But first:

The guy who drives the big truck that picks up recyclable materials on trash day is well-known in our park to be a grumpy, destructive dude. He's big and burly, and he's so rough with the recycle bins that he leaves destruction in his wake as he makes his way down the street. Two weeks after I moved here, I put some plastic poles in the recycle bin that had been left behind in the garage. They were about five feet in length, and stuck out the top of the bin so I couldn't close it. I assumed they'd been used for gardening or something. My garage door was open the day he came by in the truck, and I was in there puttering around, so I heard his truck idling out front. I'd listened long enough to get curious and peeked around the corner just in time to see him pick up all the poles out of the bin in one handful and fling them down in my driveway, then get back in his truck, slamming the door and driving off.

I thought about calling his supervisor that day, but I didn't. Maybe he was having a bad day. Maybe he felt I should know better than to have something sticking out of the bin. Maybe.... Doesn't matter. I didn't tattle on him.

In recent weeks, I've been keeping track of his sins here in the park. Of course he's in a truck that uses a mechanical arm to pick up the bins--it's not the olden days where some guy always had to walk alongside the truck, picking up cans and emptying them. This guy just drives along, operating the arm. So why is he always so grumpy? Why does he release the bins when they're still several feet off the ground, causing them to drop hard on the pavement, cracking wheels or knocking them over so that some elderly person has to bend down and pick the awkward, heavy thing back up? Last week he released a bin so quickly it fell into his truck with the rest of the recycling. He simply drove on, not bothering to remove it. The resident had to order a new recycle bin.

Today was trash day. At 4:00, I put Thomas in the truck for our afternoon drive to pick up mail. While the truck was warming up in the driveway, I dragged in the empty trash bin, and as I did, I saw Recycle Guy coming down the street, so I waited patiently at the end of the driveway, ready to roll the recycle bin back in after he'd dumped it. I watched as my neighbors' bins were flung to the ground, lids flying, their now-empty cavernous plastic shells booming as they hit the pavement. It had been raining all day, so I was bundled up in knit cap and rain jacket with hood, but the fresh air was wonderful, and as Recycle Guy rolled past my driveway to where my bin was sitting in front of the house, I smiled and waved. He looked surprised. Then the corners of his mouth twitched, but he didn't actually smile back.

The arm came out, grabbed my recycle bin in its clutches, lifted it, dumped it, and lowered it--almost to the ground. When it was a foot off the ground, the arm stopped. I thought for a moment there was a mechanical problem. Then I heard the back-up bell ringing. Recycle Guy had put the truck in reverse. Slowly he rolled backward to where I was standing in the driveway. The mechanical arm came down ever so gently and deposited my recycle bin just two feet from where I stood. "Thank you!" I called, smiling again and waving. This time he smiled back. And off he went to finish his route.

Robin Williams spoke such eloquent truth when he said, 

"Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always."

This incident with Recycle Guy was a great reminder of how much power to comfort there is in simply being kind, even in the smallest ways. I'm going to try to carry that reminder over into tomorrow... and into the days that come, when many people are not at their best because of the holidays. If you see me, please smile and be kind. Chances are, I'm going to need it.

Rock Fairy

Some weeks ago, someone in my senior community (now dubbed “the Rock Fairy”) began painting small, flat rocks with inspirational messages and leaving them, one by one, for residents to find. Folks have been taking photos of them, posting them on our community Facebook page, and speculating about who the mysterious person is. “Kind” and “lovely” are understatements for this type of behavior, don’t you think?

Dear Rock Fairy,

Thank you.

Okay, I confess that the little pink rock I found was clearly meant for someone else (since anyone who knows me knows that pink is really, really not my color). I wasn’t gifted with my rock. I didn’t walk out onto the front porch at dawn, stretch, yawn, and discover a small plastic bag containing a rock especially chosen for me. Like many other times in my life, I came into my fortune via a somewhat unconventional route. I found it in the street. Actually, it laid there for two days a few doors down from my house, looking like a piece of trash. I think it had been run over a couple of times. When I noticed it the second day while walking the dog, I only picked it up to throw it away (keeping my side of the street clean, as my sister-in-law would say, only I don’t think she means it literally when she says it).

But then I noticed the rock inside. So I pulled it out, washed the dirt off. Lo and behold, it was a Rock Fairy rock. With a message!

The thing is, even though the rock was clearly intended for someone else (as I’ve said), that message was for me. I don’t know if you dropped the rock while making your deliveries to other homes. (Rocks are heavy. How big is your wing span, anyway?) Or maybe you left it with great stealth and planning on someone’s lawn and the gardener, thinking it was trash, tossed it out into the street. (Oh shoot, who am I to blame the gardener? Maybe it was the homeowner.)

Anyway, the message was for me. Because it said, “Adventure is out there.”

This is what I needed to hear. I used to go find adventures all the time. Rocky Fairy, I could tell you stories all day long! I used to travel and take day trips and go to gatherings of like-minded people (which is challenging for an introvert, but back then, I could push myself out there).

But in the past couple of years, some stuff has happened in the world, in my life. It’s not important what it was. But… I have defaulted into safe mode, wherein, if I stay at home… with my books and my music and my dog and my cat and my garden, I am comforted. I am safe. Or… at least… I have the impression of being safe.

The difficulty there, as you can readily see (as I am convinced you are an incredibly insightful fairy), is that being safe doesn’t help me be stronger. It doesn’t help me overcome those feelings that caused me to shut down. And it certainly doesn’t lead to adventures. (Well, perhaps a few tiny ones, like rescuing a chicken from the side of the freeway. Different story altogether.)

Anyway, I started out to just say thank you. Adventure is indeed “out there,” and since I’d been contemplating (but quickly talking myself out of) getting “out there,” launching out on an adventure, I immediately determined that, while you meant this rock for someone else, in one sense, the rock—all by itself, miraculously—found the right person to deliver itself to.

So thank you for this rock and its message. Most importantly, thank you for your kindness, your willingness to put yourself out there, make an effort to make others smile or have a better day or cheer up or feel less isolated, less lonely. (In this park, there is a lot of loneliness. You have your work cut out for you there, Rock Fairy.) If everyone did one small thing such as this, reached out with one small gesture to others to say, “You’re not alone in the world. I care,” we would all be in a much better frame of mind, I think. We would all be in a much better frame of heart.

Love and hugs,

K

P.S. You might notice, if you happen to pass my house as you make your clandestine rounds, that there is a sign hung near the door. It’s rather large. You can’t miss it. Unless fairies don’t read English. It says “Fairies Welcomed.” Yep. I mean it.

Here's a happy ending for ya!

A few months back I was experiencing a moral dilemma, and I posted about it on Facebook, asking folks to chime in with their thoughts. The kids next door, as long as I’ve lived here, have been throwing stuff in my yard—some things got here unintentionally, I know, but others were shot across the fence while I was actually in the yard working in the garden, and there was definitely mischief about. The kids never came over to get their stuff back, so I just started collecting it in the garage—especially after their three-foot-long Styrofoam glider landed in my yard. My dilemma concerned what to do with all that stuff upon my move from the premises. The comments of my friends on Facebook ranged from, ‘Just give them their stuff back; they’re just children!’ to private messages advising me to get Child Protective Services involved as the wild children certainly must have negligent parents, and every nuance of response in between.

My favorite response came from my beloved friend and former student, Josh Reed, who sent me a private message to gently and lovingly suggest that I exchange kindness for malice, returning the kids’ toys just before I left, perhaps with a note asking them to be nice to the new people moving in. It touched my heart so much that I decided that would be my tentative plan of action.

Today is Thursday. I move out on Saturday. This afternoon, I opened the garage, pulled the old lawn mower out and mowed the lawn for the last time (here, anyway). As I was edging with the trimmer, the two little elves from next door approached me. They’ve never spoken to me before. The ten-year-old (hereinafter referred to as Big Boy) let the five-year-old (hereinafter referred to as Little Boy) go first.

“Excuse me,” he said. I put down the trimmer and pulled up the painter’s mask I have to wear while doing yard work. Encouraged, he continued.

“Can we have our plane back? It flew in your yard. It was an accident!” he added quickly. “It went in there a long time ago but, um, we forgot to ask you for it and, um, our mom said we should ask you.” He gestured toward his driveway. Their mother stood there, shielding her eyes, watching out for her boys.

“I have your plane,” I told him. “And I have all the other stuff you’ve thrown in my yard. Little Boy looked hopeful. Big Boy suddenly looked alarmed… and a bit ashamed. “I’ll give it back to you,” I told them, “if you promise you won’t ever throw stuff in my yard or at my dog again.”

Simultaneously Little Boy happily exclaimed “Okay!” and Big Boy looked down at the sidewalk, putting a finger to his lips. Oh, what a tell! When my boys were little, this would be the point at which I would say, “You just told on yourself.”

“I think you know you threw some of those things on purpose.” I waited. Big Boy nodded his head, still staring at the sidewalk. I told them I would be moving on Saturday (they hadn’t known), and I made them promise they would be nice to the new people moving in and never throw things in the yard on purpose. Then together we walked to the garage, and I loaded them up with various balls and darts and toys and the longed-for glider. They could hardly carry it all, and they skipped back down the sidewalk to their own house. As I picked up the trimmer, I heard Little Boy recounting the story to his mom, telling her with great enthusiasm that they had promised they would be nice to the new neighbors and not throw things in their yard. Well, if Mama wasn’t aware of their behavior previously, she is now.

All’s well that ends well, eh? Thank you, Josh.

Wherein I misrepresent myself, ambiguously but, nonetheless, intentionally

Today, on my long Sunday morning walk down to 7th & Campus to snag a copy of the L.A. Times, I meandered through the lovely old homes on the Upland side of Highland Court.  Watering his lawn (at 6:30a.m.) was an elderly gentleman with his elderly gentleman dog, a golden retriever that reminded me of TJ Murray.  I asked the man if I could "meet" his dog, something I often do when I see folks out with friendly canines. 

The man looked confused for a moment, then nodded yes.  He continued running water from the hose on his parkway, but made a few remarks about the dog enjoying "new company."  I started to walk on when the man made a comment about the heat we've been having, and I stopped again to respond in kind.  At that moment he looked up from watering and the same look of confusion passed over this face.  Again I began to walk on, and again he attempted to continue the conversation.

"So how have you been?" he asked, and with this question his tone and demeanor changed, became familiar, as if he knew me.

"Oh... fine," I replied, somewhat confused myself by this time.

"How are your kids?" he asked.

"They're great," I answered.

"And the grandkids?" he asked.  "How many are there now?"

At this point, I realized he had mistaken me for someone else.  He clearly had not when I had first begun to walk past on the sidewalk, but for some reason, there came a moment in which his mind slid slightly sideways, and he recognized me--albeit incorrectly--as someone he had known at one time.

For a brief moment, no more than a couple of seconds, I contemplated full disclosure, correcting him in his error.  And then I thought of my mom... and how, just a few times in the last year or so of her life, she failed to recognize people she knew well or mistook them for others.  The truth revealed always humiliated her.  It's bad enough to lose memory; it's another thing entirely when people catch you at it and point it out.

"There are seven now," I told him, which is true.

"Seven!" he exclaimed.  "That's wonderful! And are they all well?"

"They are well indeed," I told him, and then I took my leave, telling him that it was great to see him, and that I would talk with him longer the next time I was out for a walk, but that I wanted to get back home before it got too hot.

"Great to see you!" he called as he went back to watering.

I share this with you now, my friends and family members, as a future request.  I hope that karma is kind... and that when I reach the age at which all the many beloved faces of my lifetime begin to blend into one another, those who know me--or those who are meeting me perhaps for the first time--will be kind.  I don't ask much.  Just... stop and chat with me for a while... whoever you are.