A lull in the cacophony
Last week was just nutz, now way of getting anything completed with the constant interuptions. I have reached that point int he spring when I get home in the evenings to a yard that needs mowing and I don't have the energy to mow it.
I think: I will go in late tomorrow, take part of the morning for myself and write. By the time morning comes some emergency pulls me to the office, with it endless supply of coffee and drama. Another day goes by.
Saturday comes, it is time for the Fieldale Festival. The second one they have had. I have to get up early to man my groupe's booth for the morning and I pray for the stregnth to withstand THAT question. That question used to be, "Are you seeing anyone?" or "When are you going to get married?". I have heard neither in a while. The question I steel myself for now is "How is the market?"
It is the question you are asked because you are a realtor and the askor feels a need to ask something. I, the adult product of alcoholic dysfunction, feels a need to analyze the various market factors for them and give them a reasoned and realistic answer. My broker always says:"Great! It's just great!" and I would like to tell them: "Sucks, it flat out sucks!" and the real truth would fall somewhere in betwixt.
Saturday I settled for "Time for you to buy a house!" that always send them packing.
Among the days accomplishments:
*I talked with a hundred people that day and never got frustrated.
*I corner my elementary school principal and ask him, point blank, what happened to Ms. X in the 4th grade, who dissapeared after the first six weeks.
*I learned the guy who tried to sell me pot on my very first job (at a Jewish Bar Be Que) was now a sherriff in Michigan.
*I hear from my cousin that chickens do not necessarily get out of your engine when you crank the car, nor does their carcase cook from riding under the hood for three days.
*I meet the 5th generation of one family I have always known.
*I pay $4.00 (in nickles) for a funnel cake, the one a year I eat.
*I hear the names of the long dead called, and remember these sidewalk had been walked on me grandfather who died long before I were thought of.
*I meet up with an old classmate whose child not only is bald, but has no pigment on the top of their head.
In the evening I went to the street dance, to watch the handful of pre-teen girls twist and do the tango to recorded music from the 1960's, recount with an old friend all of her old boyfriends and our old coworkers. It was a perfect evening, chilly enough for a jacket. I am encircled by the townsfolk and the kinfolk and I think how lucky I am to be right here in this place, and things were as they were supposed to be.