06/23/2019 As many know, I enjoy sitting in the two-seat rocker on the front stoop. Something a little different happens each visit to relaxation and each difference lends to a think, an imagining, a memory – or a just plain old smile. My little chipmunk buddy, Ben Jr, brings most of the smiles as he gains more courage to visit each time I’m out. He sits in the 4” drain tube off the downspout and staringly observes my sway, slow sips of ice water, and returned watch. I count 13 stripes for no particular reason other than curiosity – the rascal seems always well-groomed from a visit to wherever he finds his local “diner” dinner. I know his home entry lies just to the left of the cement step and angles down and under the slab into my defined awesome array of tunnels and chambers, some of which must hold little ones clamoring for chow. Surely a Mrs. Ben Jr. taps an anxious clawed paw anticipating a meal for squeally kids or whatever chirrrrup each might create. In that dark world I suspect everything might be a disheveling distrust of noises, strange smells, and overweight old man footsteps and stumbles. Ben Jr. cleverly clips across the walk and smoothly makes his fat-cheek glide home.
The fresh-clipped yard offers a broad green expanse of adventure for young rabbits, little fur puffs blowing across on frantic feet fully engaged in getting – somewhere in a hurry. Neighbor lady has her plump planter in full array of pansies on its spot at the edge of the driveway curbing. Blossoms have invited a couple hummingbirds and precious bees – who’d have ever thought bumbles and honeybees would be “endangered?” The solo, unblossomed crabapple perfectly arcs shade over the greenery, the sweet scent gone too quickly in wind and rain. That, too, had invited winged guests for my porched perusals. Per village directive, the neighborhood garbage cans stand in neatly lined attention, await the clanging grab of mechanical arms that will leave them disordered, open-topped, and dented. Fresh paint brightens the fire hydrant just across the street, a close-by comfort for possible troubled times. Joe’s two dogs like it, too.
I have begun to fit the bill of “that guy”, the disheveled mess sitting crankily on a porch. Likely “judging the world and every kid that passes by” sort of thing must muse passing minds. A shaggy grey robe drapes my spectacle as a teen-modern mess of spiked and twisted white hair catches the breeze. Bare, bent legs stretch and pull the swing and crossed arms give me the Jeff Dunham “Walter” puppet look waiting for the opportunity to cast cankerous commentary on all that I see. I have placed planters on the railing to hide behind, but neighborhoods’ curiosities manage to espy the lurk – of that I am sure! I find myself running aching fingers through that messy tangle, trying to pull out just the right answers to the questions that bump along with my journeys. “I could fix that” or “if only they’d…” lead to a myriad of musings that come to the same “dead end” sign marked by a heavy cable blocking further passage. Another sign hangs from it, a simple one in black on a white background:
I got this.
Time to shower and comb my hair.