I see my regulars, like Kristin with her delicate body art and long black lashes who raps with me as I'm pouring my Stewarts coffee and auburn-haired Rachel who calls me "my dear" and offers the min pin her highly anticipated complimentary dog biscuit. We grouse with bicycle riding Peter, in his bulky white knee brace. A long distance runner since the 1970s, he's got arthritis now and exercises every morning to keep that joint from stiffening up permanently. We wave to Mike, making time to enlighten the female coffee klatch, ever-present at their red picnic table, with his updates from his children, physicians who know more than we do about Covid-19. The advice, not his fault, changes daily.
We see Daisy the black lab mix and her owner who she yanks like George Jetson on the treadmill, with his legs flying out of control. We see the tousle haired elementary aged boys who tent on the front lawn, only about a foot from the road, and their mother who seems unconcerned and happy, delivering their Sunny D and Styrofoam cups. We see the gentleman wearing oxygen on his front porch, waving high and proud from his wheelchair despite seeming to be in a seriously compromised position. Cat on lap. Wife inside window.
I see the parents of old friends with whom I reminisce. Know how to make a person feel amazing? Remark on what a great job (s)he did raising their children. Remind them of how instrumental they were in your own childhood. Tell them about how their welcoming nature reminds you, to this day, of being six years old, running down the street with a melting fudgesicle, coming for their daughter and her enormous collection of Barbies. Smiles and hugs abound when I share my tales of the old days, but I have to keep them short and sweet because usually Hubs and the min pin have left me behind and are three blocks down the street by the time I'm tipping my coffee cup in a good-bye gesture. I have two favorites. One is a purple and very expensive Yeti, a 50th birthday gift from a friend. The other is cheap and orange and has Halloween witches all over it. As I strut toward my husband, waiting, I think...this is a great mug and I'll see these good folks again...probably tomorrow.
Some of the Barbie-playing friends, in-class friends, and friends with whom I played sports are still living in town. A few are even retired or working part time after several decades-long stints as police officers, firefighters, military personnel, or teachers. I stop at their homes when they are out front. We marvel about how fast life flies by, how they're sprucing up the place now that the kids are moved out for good, how they saw in the paper that someone we knew and cared about had passed away, and how the swimming pool has seen better days but there isn't any money in the budget for a new heater and liner...nope, not this year. Then I tip my cup and if it's been more than 10 minutes, I amble to catch up to Hubs and, you guessed it, the min pin.
We occasionally pick up things on the side of the road during our travels but I have agreed to limit my curbside finds to two very distinct items. Number one: hostas that have been dug up and discarded, because part of my backyard is a shade garden with room for more hostas (and it breaks me to see them shriveled up on the roadside) and number two: "street wood". We have a cauldron, big and black and fit for a sorcerer with punched out stars and moons. Outside fires with friends are one of our favorite summertime social activities. Long ago, we paid good money for wood deliveries but once we started paying attention to all the trees in my old town, hacked down and left for the taking, it's become a sort of game for us.
"Look! Street wood!"
"Ack!"
Hubs is a good man. Without complaint, he loads up the permanently-tarped-for-such-occasions back of his Prius and we sail on down the road, trippy and happy to have found the filthy, sappy freebie before the city public works truck sidled up and chipped it into mulch.
Street wood is such a commodity for us that our fireside friends call us when they see it too.
(Phone rings.)
Me: "Hello?"
FF: "Street wood on Horicon Avenue! Near the entrance to the park! OMG it might be BIRCH!"
Me: "Ok, we're on it! Thanks!"
Then we harness the min pin and off we go.
So, it should really come as no surprise that today we were gifted with street fish.
Yes, you read that correctly.
Street fish.
We park in front of a sweet white bungalow with a welcome sign on the door and a worn but majestic wooden stockade fence when we drive the ten minute ride in from the suburbs. It's right next to where I get coffee and it's close to the first elementary school I ever attended up here, so as we stroll I can tell Hubs, for the millionth time, the stories of the water feature in my kindergarten classroom and the stuffy bomb closet in which we hid from the Russians when the Commie alarm clanged. The guy who owns the bungalow is a hard working, affable, Irish looking chap named Danny. A chatty type, like me, he seems to understand that he is adding immeasurably to my life by letting us park there for our daily walks and I totally understand that I am much obliged because of his kind gesture so I willingly and happily exchange pleasantries whenever we see him...which is a lot. Over time he has deemed the front of his house our "special reserve spot" which is hilarious and I love him for it.
So, today we saw Danny as we were done walking and about to get back into the hybrid. We spoke of his job, which is taxing, tough, essential mill work, and how he's been putting in more hours than usual, not by choice. When he has a day off, which isn't very often, he fishes. He can't wait to throw the pole in the SUV and drive north for a few hours of aqueous peace and quiet.
And that is how we were blessed even more than usual on this day.
After telling Hubs and I about his 6 fish day trip, with 2 swimmers big enough to bring home, he smiled broadly, told us he'd be right back, and came out of the house with a baggie of frozen perch. He also shared three of his favorite go-to recipe ideas. You might not think that this is a big deal, worthy of a blog post, but to me this is the essence of hometown living. Danny, whose space we invade on a daily basis, thinks enough of us to offer us a portion of his catch. I held the baggie to the sunlight and teared up a little on the way home because gestures like this mean everything to me.
I love living here.
I love the people.
I love our daily walks.
I love everything about this place.
A friend of mine who moved away to Florida 30 years ago once said to me, sadly, "It was always home...right up until it wasn't" but this will always be home to me.
My heart is here.
My home is here.
My people are here.
And I have street fish to prove it.
#mushroomtumbler
