Tuesday, October 29, 2013

"It All Happened."

so if you go here:


you sign up for a daily quote from Frederick Buechner writings, and as I am deeply in awe of Buechner's skill, I did just that, a few months ago.

Here's one from a few weeks back, that I read this morning.

It All Happened
IT WAS A COUPLE of springs ago. I was driving into New York City from New Jersey on one of those crowded, fast-moving turnpikes you enter it by. It was very warm. There was brilliant sunshine, and the cars glittered in it as they went tearing by. The sky was cloudless and blue. Around Newark a huge silver plane traveling in the same direction as I was made its descent in a slow diagonal and touched down soft as a bird on the air-strip just a few hundred yards away from me as I went driving by. I had music on the radio, but I didn't need it. The day made its own music — the hot spring sun and the hum of the road, the roar of the great trucks passing and of my own engine, the hum of my own thoughts. When I came out of the Lincoln Tunnel,the city was snarled and seething with traffic as usual; but at the same time there was something about it that was not usual.
It was gorgeous traffic, it was beautiful traffic — that's what was not usual. It was a beauty to see, to hear, to smell, even to be part of. It was so dazzlingly alive it all but took my breath away. It rattled and honked and chattered with life — the people, the colors of their clothes, the marvelous hodge-podge of their faces, all of it; the taxis, the shops, the blinding sidewalks. The spring day made everybody a celebrity — blacks, whites, hispanics, every last one of them. It made even the litter and clamor and turmoil of it a kind of miracle.
There was construction going on as I inched my way east along 54th Street, and some wino, some bum, was stretched out on his back in the sun on a pile of lumber as if it was an alpine meadow he was stretched out on and he was made of money. From the garage where I left the car, I continued my way on foot. In the high-ceilinged, public atrium on the ground floor of a large office building there were people on benches eating their sandwiches. Some of them were dressed to kill. Some of them were in jeans and sneakers. There were young ones and old ones. Daylight was flooding in on them, and there were green plants growing and a sense of deep peace as they ate their lunches mostly in silence. A big man in a clown costume and whiteface took out a tubular yellow balloon big round as a noodle, blew it up and twisted it squeakily into a dove of peace which he handed to the bug-eyed child watching him. I am not making this up. It all happened.
- Originally published in The Clown in the Belfry

Saturday, October 26, 2013


I just came online to talk about doorknobs and then I noticed that in my list of blogs that I routinely do not post to with the same regularity with which I do not post to this one (I'm a writer.) it says "Accidental Poet.  1002 posts."

I missed a milestone.  My 1000th post.  A quick scrolling shows that it's the one in which I talk about laughing so hard I almost passed out at my sick husband. 

Moving on ...

Apparently, sometimes, if all the "blue" jobs in the house except "Haul yourself out of bed and put in some billable hours" suddenly become the wife's job (please note.  I AM NOT COMPLAINING.  The number of billable hours Brad is able to put in, sick as he is, is a Godsend and a miracle and I am beyond grateful.  I'm also learning things) ...where was I?  Blah blah blah ...wife's job, oh right!  Apparently if all the blue jobs suddenly become yours (if you are the wife), your doorknobs will begin to fail. 

First it will be the deadbolt on the back door which is very very like a doorknob, so let's not quibble.  Things need to turn or you don't get in the house.  When that one died, way back in August, it was not possible to lock the back door of the house that one night.  The back door of the house that backs onto the park, where anybody can just walk up your back steps ...oh yes it can happen.  Happened to the next door neighbours just a few years ago.  Someone climbed in their open window and then there was a large growling dog in their face and they climbed right back out. ...okay.  Couldn't lock the back door.  Was terrified.  Laid awake all night listening to imaginary sounds.  Found a locksmith to fix the deadbolt the very next day, only the deadbolt wasn't fixable and I had to buy a new deadbolt and bring it home and make it fit and lo and behold, it worked.  Still works, even, and it's been months.

So last night  I tried to get in the house from the garage after work and the doorknob would turn but the thingy wouldn't retract. I was a touch miffed.  Brad did magic things with a kitchen knife and so I thought it was fixed until mmmmmph oclock this morning, when the recently-reached-the-age-of-majority offspring attempted to get in the house via the garage.

So I went out and bought another one and installed it.  It didn't even take a whole hour.  Most of the time was spent realizing that the screw wasn't turning because it was the wrong screw, not because I was too weak.

So that's another new skill on my list.

I haven't counted how many doorknobs there are left in this house, and I'm not going to.

Saturday, October 19, 2013

Every so often ...

Every so often Brad (you all know his name by now!) and I have a wee interchange that I think expertly highlights the differences between us.  This just happened ...

Me: Did you notice I posted some pictures?

Him:  Not yet.

There's a tiny pause.

Him: Interesting.

Me:  What?

Him:  I was just reading an article about the Pope that I found interesting.

Right.  I stomp around kicking leaves and taking pictures of toys and he takes an interest in the rest of the world.  The balance the universe requires - right here in our home.