Let There be Mailboxes and all Good Things
After a late night crunching out some basic graphic design models, the Bear rested off another neck-ache – he must have sneaked in a Dr. Pepper someplace – before the real morning began.
Puck was already shouting from down the hall…
“And, Dad! God is at the top of space! At the top of the end of space!”
The Bear hauled in that new mailbox before the lunch hour. Puck helped him establish this black post box, wash down the car, uproot old holly bushes and weeds, and while the Bear cranked the newly cleaned gutters more securely back to the mothership, Puck was busy wedging the nozzle of the garden hose into the ground…
“What are you doing, Puck?” I asked the muddy giblet.
“Sending water to the people in China!” he crowed delightedly.
As the sky shaded a white-gray, Puck decided to wash himself off. I found him wedged, inexplicably, inside the bathroom sink an hour after his humanitarian efforts, convinced that he “fit perfectly”. I considered using a wrench to pry him out.
Funny the things you are intrigued to research after reading through a stack of children’s library books with your son. St. Louis’ Josephine Baker, for example. Yes, they managed a tasteful censored version of her life appropriate for kids ten and under. But what I didn’t know was that she was first married at thirteen and adopted twelve children from Algeria, Colombia, Finland, France, Israel, Ivory Coast, Japan, Korea, Morocco, and Venezuela, and apparently kept a pet cheetah.
You always discover a new fascinating two-sentence snapshot of 68 years of a life somewhere.
All the kids came back for a resurgence of Friday Night Films and Obnoxious Chatter, Cassidy’s cobbler/pie and drinks – “We also brought a pinata,” Magnus added – and a little motorcycles-fire-skulls and the ridiculous absurdity of Nicholas Cage in “East Europe”.
We just can’t seem to avoid that guy.
And spiders.
But those were real, two of which Joe attempted to destroy, one of which Magnus successfully deposed.
Additional memorable quotes such as…
“I’d trade mountains to see your face any day, OLeif.” – Joe
“At my funeral, I want to be lowered into the ground by a helicopter.” – also Joe
Thought of the Day
Here’s the thing about the world — I can never really make up my mind, when I’m walking along minding my own business…
Whether to watch the sky,
Or the ground.
I have pretty sweet success with both.
Granted, as I have said, I’ve never had opportunity to snag a tornado with the old eyeballs or anything so incredible. But I have picked up some amazing thunderheads and developing thunderheads, those burgeoning towers of majestic silent loudness, some of them lightening-plugged. Or even those puffy whites — their heralds.
Keeping an eye on the skies is about more than just aliens or tornadic activity. It’s about just being thrilled at the hugeness of “the great expanse”. That’s pretty fantastic enough.
Unless you’re an agoraphobe.
But then you’ve got the ground.
Like earlier this summer — just walking down an easy paved path by a gurgling stream. My son hops off to track down a fallen mushroomy log, and I start wandering around the gravel and dirt, as I tend to do without thinking.
And there it was.
A perfect chunk of 1.5-inch petrified crinoid — ancient worm — with a hole down the shaft, just like a bead.
It was a beauty.
I’ll admit, this isn’t exactly something that gets people pumped, normally. But I like finding stuff in the ground. I tried digging that proverbial hole to China when I was a kid. Didn’t get far; didn’t find anything. But it sparked something. Years later, I scrounged up a blue glass Indian bead on a St. Charles dig, Laura Ingalls Wilder style — well, I like to think it was an Indian bead, specifically.
But the pinnacle of my groveling in the dirt arrived in the deserts of Israel where I ran down a handful of green and yellow Medieval pottery, which quickly led to other ridiculously old pottery, glass, and coins — in the absolute middle of Land’s End.
Even uncovered an ancient wall right around the time I almost died.
Well…
Stories for other times.
It makes you feel rich.
A modern treasure hunter.
I realize my finds are modest. I haven’t ever exactly reeled up the Infanta’s emerald crown or a history-changing Egyptian scroll. Not even a decent skull or weapon… Do clay marbles or 18th century horseshoe nails count?
It doesn’t always have to be in the dirt, of course. Just keeping your eyes down in general can be valuable. What about that time I chased down a twenty dollar bill rolling across a parking lot in New Mexico?
Hey, it was the 90’s. Twenty dollars meant something back then.