Life in 20 Seconds

 

My morning walk took me past the middle school in my neighborhood at around 7:50 a.m., which is about 30 minutes before school starts. Approaching, I could see a boy of about 11 or 12 playing a game on the sidewalk by himself. He was being silly and at one point gently fell over while holding some device that was not a smart phone. I could tell the kid was comfortable entertaining himself and being alone. I felt an immediate kinship. 

My intuition told me that he was probably there so early for the same reasons I used to escape to the bus stop near my house a solid 30 minutes before the bus was scheduled to arrive. The homelife is terrible. The heart of my 12-year-old self ached. As I got closer, I debated what my interaction with him should be. 

Up close, I could tell by the roundness of his cheeks and the brightness of his eyes that he is not a heavy drug user. His eyes were hungry for positive human interaction. I know that look well. 

As I passed him, I looked him in the eye and said, "Good morning." 

To which he responded shyly, "Hi." And then returned to whatever device he was playing with without further interaction.

There were so many things I wanted to convey in that 20 seconds of interaction. 

I wanted to tell him that it would not last forever. 

I wanted to tell him that he could make good choices to improve his odds of getting out of there. 

I wanted to tell him that being true to himself outside of the home will help people see who he really is and some will not judge him by his family. 

I wanted to tell him that help can come in many forms, but to be vigilant wary of help that is too good to be true or too perfect. 

I wanted to tell him to never be too grateful.

But, of course, I could not tell him all of these things. What I tried to convey in that brief, "Good morning," is that not all adults are bad, and his reply of, "Hi," whilst looking me in the eyes told me that he already knows that.

This one just might make it. Like I did. 

The Happy Spinster of Tehachapi

I had a plan. I had a great plan. I was going to be the happy spinster of Tehachapi. 

I bought a little house. I was going to get involved in the community. Me and the kitty were going to have our little garden in the backyard, hang the wash on the line, make bread and preserves, grow herbs, bring baked goods to the neighbors, fire pit nights with friends, fly a little bush plane. Maybe even take over the airport manager job someday and do good for my general aviation friends. It was a good solid, happy plan. A bright future. 

But, no sooner was this plan carefully  in place, it was dashed completely. Shattered. Splintered harshly like a half full china teacup dropped on a tile floor. 

The unexpected happened. Fun unexpectedly entered my life. Love entered my life. Punk rock and rock ‘n’ roll late nights on weekends in LA entered my life. Music and history and cooking together and road trips and cocktail bars and books and dive bars and making pasta and new drinks entered my life. New music friends entered my life. Premier Guitar and Tape Op Magazine entered my life.  Passion and sweetness and humor and silliness and weird tv shows entered my life. 

Unexpected. Upside down. Few words needed. I get you. You get me. Easy and healthy and let’s talk about this, he says. I meet his folks and they like me. He meets my friends and they like him. I show up for him and he shows up for me. I messed up and that’s ok. He messed up and we get over it. Keep moving forward. Don’t look back. Right now and let’s plan some fun things for tomorrow. This weekend. Later this year.  Someday. 

I am no longer the only single person at the Christmas party. I am no longer number five at the breakfast table. I have someone to play pool with at the saloon. There is a guitar hanging on my wall and it’s not mine. 

We are members of the Tehachapi railroad museum, and we make beer in the kitchen, and we hang out at the airport when someone has an event, and we pick herbs on the side of the road, and we meet friends for breakfast, and we go to dinner, and my friends have to invite me AND him, and we get to know the servers and the merchants, and they know us, and not just me. 

Not just me. Not the happy spinster of Tehachapi.