On Monday night, as I was driving home enjoying the AC in Lorelai, I noticed a car in the next lane, about two cars up, with the window open. And the driver’s arm extended. And he was flicking ashes. When we have signs about every three miles or so, warning of extreme drought. And fire crews were doing controlled burns along the median as I drove home one night last week.
Made. Me. Mad.
So I fired up my cell phone, called 911, explained that I was in no personal danger, but that there was this idiot flicking ashes out his window. I gave the dispatcher the make, model, color, and license plate number; she said she would pass the word along. That was about Loop 12 and I-30. There was an unmarked car parked under the overpass at 360, presumably waiting for him.
I wish I had thought to take a picture of him with my cell phone (I wish I knew how to take pictures with my cell phone), or to grab my digital camera with all that lovely new memory capacity.
Next time I will be prepared. I don’t care if I ruined his day. He could have ruined the lives, or the livelihoods, of hundreds of people with his thoughtlessness. I am [somewhat less] mad [than when I drafted this], all over again, just thinking about it. But I’m glad I did something about it.
In other news, I did skip Knit Night, spending the evening on my couch on a third or fourth re-reading of Kitchen Table Wisdom. I had hoped to be done with it last night, so that I could loan it to the new guy when I see him at the temple tonight. I will be taking back the storage containers he sent home with me on Sunday. But I guess that loaning the book will just have to wait until next Wednesday, when the singles have their temple night, if I go, or whenever we go fishing together before the end of August (when my current fishing license expires).
I really needed to re-read this book. It dovetails nicely with the massage therapy, the scripture study, the prayer and pondering. I have friends who recharge by birdwatching, or gardening. But when I see birds, mostly what I think of is bird poop. And when I think of gardening, I remember that plants fear me, with good reason. I’m sure there is some natural-world thing I could be seeing or doing, that would enrich my life and make me more whole. But I’m drawing a blank, other than that I have neither driven through mountains since Mom died in 1997, nor wiggled my toes in salt water since 2001.
I love spending time with friends. I love spending time with my family (who are scratching their heads and thinking really? then why has it been so long since we’ve seen her?) But I recharge, at the most fundamental level, by thinking and pondering and praying and writing and meditating, and those are solitary activities.
So, last night I did a bunch of the above, and I went to bed at a reasonable hour, and I got more sleep than is customary, and I’m feeling pretty good about life today. There are cherries with my name on them, in the fridge. There are leftovers from the dinner I cooked from scratch. I’ll get to see the dear man tonight. Work has gone particularly well, the past two days. I finished a row on the current stealth project after watching the last third of a movie at lunch. And I’m getting another massage on Friday night.
Thankful. Really thankful. And uncharacteristically Zen about it all, at least until the next time I see somebody endangering others’ lives or property, then look out, Loretta!
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!