Remembering What Really Matters

I tripped and fell on the sidewalk in front of an Episcopal church last Sunday.

I’d arrived early to facilitate the first of six gatherings anchored in various themes from my collection of essays. It was a hard two-kneed genuflect that left my right knee skinned for the first time since my single-digit youth, and I took my time nostalgically spritzing on the Bactine from the vestry’s first aid kit after the kind receptionist let me in the door. For an instant, I was eight years old again, tending to my own scrapes so I could get back outside and play. I felt strangely invigorated as I hobbled from the restroom to the large space where we’d be meeting to talk about the Transitions in our lives (I am aware that “invigorated” and “hobbled” in the same sentence create some visual dissonance for some of you. I ask your forgiveness, though I’m sure you’ll understand I won’t be on my knees when doing so). I’m not sure there’s a deeper message to be had from this incident, but you’re welcome to speculate to your heart’s content.

Two weeks ago, I was all excited to share that I’d observed a hummingbird in the act of relieving himself while perched on the shepherd’s hook from which his daily supply of sweet nectar swung gently in the summer breeze. Glimpses of these tiny blurred-winged creatures is novelty enough to stop us mid-sentence, never mind seeing one tend to its little intestinal ablutions (I looked it up too—they do have intestines as well as the customary two stomachs all birds have). If I’d blinked, I’d have missed it and for a second I wasn’t completely sure of what I’d just witnessed. The take-away here is that in the nearly six decades I’ve spent on the planet, the last twenty-three on a piece of land that gives nonstop, this was my first hummingbird defecation sighting. Definitely “above the fold” news here, and I was determined to build a reflection from it.

But in the time that has passed since that blessed pooping event, I’ve had a few, um, distractions. Two Thursday evenings ago, our home’s electrical network of hidden wires and a stalwart breaker box started acting “funny”, surging to boost the floor fan’s speed from low to extra-high and making the lights go from dim to bright to dim again without any tactile commands from me. It was when the furnace tried to kick on at random intervals that I called Patrick (an hour away at his mother’s house for the week while his sister got a much-needed caregiver break) for a bit of remote guidance. Our local power company came out in the middle of the night, checked the meter and closed the work ticket, but by morning, nothing had improved. As I flipped on the hot pot for my morning tea, I heard the breakers trip. I pushed them back into the “on” position and immediately registered a sharp smell of burning plastic. Adrenaline kicking in, I herded cats out the front door and grabbed the keys to the truck, thinking it might be wise to move it away from the house should things progress to a five-alarmer. Twenty minutes later, our good neighbors who double as fire crew on the nearby volunteer department swarmed the house, heat sensors in hand, searching every room in the house for hot spots while I paced in the gravel thirty-some yards away.

Not what I’d planned as a start to my Friday, but there you are.

Ninety minutes later, after the scene had been declared safe and the chief recommended a call to the electrician, I sat stiffly in post-afib caution on the couch, watching hummingbirds dart and chase each other away from the feeder in wide arcing swings, envying their absolute ignorance of the morning’s drama. The main breaker now in the “off” position, the house sat ‘round me, silent and unresponsive as I began rearranging my day, which would eventually involve packing up everything from the freezer and fridge, with my sister Peggy’s help, and lugging it to family members’ homes an hour away. By Friday night, none of the five electricians we’d called had the staff to take on the job of restoring our power. It was going to be a long, dark weekend.

A week and some change later, Patrick is back home, the sixth electrician we called came out to assess the trouble and we’ve got some power restored (enough to run the fridge and flush the toilet, thank goodness). But we’re not able to do laundry, are hesitant to use the stove, and hope no monsoons visit us while the sump pump is on holiday in the hole under the house. The fix is a new meter with upgraded connections wrapped in PVC around the back of the house, scheduled for Monday morning. Once that’s in place, then we can call the HVAC folks for a look at the furnace. The electrician is still scratching his head about that part of our story…and in the meantime, I’ve been researching the house’s poltergeist history.

All God’s creatures have their troubles and we’re not complaining, truly, but we are on the edge of weary (taking a shovel and a roll of toilet paper to the field out back at 1:30a.m. gets old after five days) and looking forward to the Return of All Things Electrical. Sure, we’d like the universe to move its bullseye off our heads, but it’s summer, not winter, the garden couldn’t possibly be bursting forth with any more color and nourishment for us and we’re within arm’s reach of each other. The Perseids are zooming across a piece of velvet sky we’ve claimed as our own and friends have brought us jugs of water and bouquets of flowers. After a refreshingly cold dinner of tossed salad and peaches, Patrick and I finish the sentence that starts with “we’ve been through worse”, listing everything we’ve survived so far. It’s an impressive list that gave us the endorphins we needed.

Somewhere between the wonder of witnessing a hummingbird pooping and falling to my knees in front of a church that isn’t even mine, there’s a lesson to be learned. When the power comes back on fully, I’ll turn on a light so I can see what it is.