And The Lucky Number Is . . .

I stopped in at the local gas station/superette the other day and went in to pay for what I’d put in the tank. I’ve been gassing up there for years and know the cashiers. As one of them was ringing up the gas I told her, “The lottery ticket you sold me the other day didn’t work.” She looked up and I continued, “You know if this was Target, I’d be bringing it back.”

I got a “Yeah, right.” and a chuckle as a response.

Back when it first came out, I used to buy a lottery ticket every once in a while. I looked at it as entertainment. From the time I bought the ticket until the published results told me the ticket was a loser I could spend idle moments day dreaming about what I could pay off, where I could live, trips to take, philanthropy to do and about a dozen other things. For a bit, it would take away cares and free up creative juices. When the ticket didn’t win I’d go back to my real life with some things to think about. It was cheap entertainment for a buck.

Pat kept telling me I didn’t win because I had bum numbers. I always took the ‘quick pick’ but I told her if she didn’t like mine, she should come up with her own. She did. It’s a combination of birthdays, an anniversary, and a number from her grandparents arriving in America. Actually, she came up with two sets of numbers – almost identical – and she couldn’t decided which to use so she kept them both. It somehow became my job to make sure we have a ticket. Twice a week I’m at the superette getting a lottery ticket at two bucks a time. So far this year, I’ve won seven dollars.

The lottery isn’t as much fun to play when it becomes an obligation. Creativity is replaced by anxiety when I realize late on a Wednesday evening that I don’t have a ticket and I’ve got twenty minutes to bustle out and buy one. There’s only about a one in four billion chance that one of the two numbers will win but if one of them ever does and I don’t have the ticket . . . I’m toast.

A Time To Clean

My minivan is mostly a work vehicle for the property preservation work I do now. It has tools and tarps, bungee cords, a folding ladder, extension cords in various sizes, pieces of wood and plywood, plumbing supplies, an air compressor, locks and a lot of stuff I’ve picked up along the way that I needed for one job or another and has been riding around with me ever since. I do a thorough cleaning about twice a year where I take everything out, reorganize, get rid of things I no longer recognize or have a need for. It takes about a day. The periods between the clean-outs Pat refers to the van as a Black Hole – like the ones in space – anything that goes in there disappears and you don’t see it again until clean-out day.

There’s some truth to what she says. There are times something I need is buried in there, know I have it, remember buying it and I have no idea where it is. That’s when I realize it’s time to clean. I usually get around to it a couple of months later, after more things have joined the pile and I have trouble seeing out the back window. Sometimes, though, there’s an added motivation.

Chris and I were working on a house in a section of St Paul where a lot of immigrants live. I needed a tool and knew I had one in the van. The van was fairly full and I started at the top, pulling, re-piling, pushing things aside. I’d burrowed deep and heard a hiss. A fire extinguisher somewhere in the middle had lost its pin and my last re-shuffle pushed the handle into the ‘Let ‘er rip’ position. I took the blast full in the face. My glasses shielded my eyes but I was blinded from the lenses out

The extinguisher shot out a light colored powder with a greenish tinge and my first thought was, ‘This doesn’t taste very good.’ I can’t even think of what to compare it to except “Yuck.” I backed out of the van, pulled my glasses off`and turned toward the house as a group of Hatians were walking by. They saw me, started screaming and ran down the sidewalk. I found out later they thought I was a Voodoo god. Not one of the nicer ones.

It took a while to brush the powder away, at least enough to go back to work. I was still dusting bits off most the rest of the day. And I scheduled Saturday for a clean-out.

When A Candidate Comes To Town

Chris was late coming to my house today so I called him on his cell phone. He said he was on the freeway but stuck behind John McCain’s campaign bus. I told him I understood. John’s kind of old and he probably drives slow. It turns out he was also weaving a bit. And wearing a hat. And, yeah, the blinker was on.

The Last Laugh

Twenty-some years ago a friend brought over a paper bag with sticks poking out of the top. They’re maple trees, he told me. They looked more like something that wanted to be walking sticks when they grew up. There were four of them. One made it. I didn’t think too much about it when I planted it in the side yard but now it dwarfs the house. It’s too big to trim in any meaningful way; too tall to top it off. The most I can do is climb the tree every few years to lob off a branch that wants to tap the side of the house or stroke the shingles.

I’m thinking about the tree now because it’s a maple. Every year it drops seeds that do that helicopter thing as they fall to the ground. A slight gust of wind sends them further into the yard or out toward the street. They’re fun to watch. As a kid I remember using the leafy part of the seed for a whistle. I tried it this year and it still works.

Other than making whistles, Pat and I spent days watching the seeds do their spin as they fell. Thousands of little helicopters spinning toward the ground. We had a bumper crop this year. And now we have to pick them up. They’re not fun to pick up. Some of them are trying to burrow into the ground. Picking them up one by one is tedious and when I use the rake they want to cling to the grass like they were attached with Velcro. It’s a long process.

Our friend, Bob was his name, became ill last year and died. He had a laugh that was both unique and hearty. I heard it this morning when I was trying to pull seeds out of the lawn with a rake and not having a lot of success. Bob liked a good joke. Today, with a rake in my hand and half a bag of maple seeds by my side, it’s on me.

A Question Of Balance

I was going to drive Chris back to the University across town on a really cold winter day. I usually bring coffee along and I heated a cup to near boiling for the drive. We got our things together and went out. I put the cup on the car roof, opened Chris’ door, walked around and opened mine. We got in, buckled up and started off – down the alley, turn, drive a couple of blocks and turn again It was cold enough I wasn’t going to push the vehicle until the engine warmed. I reached down to the cup holder for the coffee. It wasn’t there. I’d left it on the car roof. I hadn’t heard it rumble across the roof (from past experience I know what that sounds like) so I eased up on the gas, pulled to the curb and gently braked.

As I unbuckled and opened the door, Chris had a puzzled look and asked, “What are you doing?”

I stepped out and, yep, the cup was still there. I grabbed it by the handle, slid back to my seat and took a sip. “Ah,” I said, “just right.”

“You didn’t plan that," Chris said. I just gave him The Look as I put the car in gear and started off again.

There’s a time I think every parent experiences. It happens when the kids are young, their problems small and their life is limited to the things we’ve been able to expose them to. It’s a time when a parent can cure ills, kiss away pain and is a constant source of wonder and knowledge. This period doesn’t last very long but for a little while the kid thinks we’re a god. I miss those days. The best I can do now is to try to keep them a little off balance. It re-creates the mood. It helps kids remember that parents are still a little special.