Good morning Boys and Girls.

Across the street this morning, a couple of houses down, a woman is setting up for a garage sale. Most garage sales around here seem to run Friday and Saturday, not Saturday and Sunday, but this morning, Sunday, there she is, getting things ready.

Yesterday, both she and her next-door neighbor had one, but so far today, I haven't seen her neighbor setting up. Maybe she will, though.

Yesterday, SweetLady was out at the store while I waited for a guy and his wife to come back here to pick up the rest of SweetLady's old bedroom set which we'd just sold on Craig's list. The buyers hadn't been able to fit it all into their mini-van in a single trip - not surprising as the stuff was big, bulky and heavy - so they took about half of it, and had just called to say they were on their way back to pick up the rest. I decided I had a few minutes, so I went across to peruse the two sales. I felt sort of funny about visiting the one; the one at the house closest to us; since I knew the "why" behind that particular garage sale.

I was immediately struck by the sorts of books for sale there. Usually, at at such affairs, I see old paperbacks; maybe a few best sellers and - almost always - heaps of self-help books that either did or did not do what they promised to do for the reader, but regardless had now been relegated to the "please get this crap out of my presence" boxes people put out at such sales, and with prices that tend to hover at around a quarter a pop.

Not here though. The books for sale at this garage sale spoke loudly about the man who'd owned them. Most were scholarly tomes on a variety of subjects; books on history, philosophy, science, as well as novels written in a few different languages. A beautiful collection of the works of Homer caught my eye and and I set them aside.

The mother of the woman holding the sale, elderly but spry, there to help out, asked me if I wanted a sack to put my books in. I declined, knowing I didn't have to go more than a couple of hundred feet. I thanked her and continued browsing.

Quite a few people milled around, and another couple of cars pulled up during those few minutes. I suppose it was because those of us who love garage sales begin to suffer withdrawal symptoms this time of year as their numbers dwindle down to nothing as winter approaches.

Then the woman who owns the house came out through the garage carrying an armload of other things she wanted to add to her tables, and I spoke to her for the first time in my life. "Hi", I said, "Lots of work, huh?" She looked to be about my age, pretty, but her tired eyes showed what she's endured over the last few months. "There's lots more to come out", she said. "I think I'll be bringing more out all day long." I smiled and nodded, and continued looking through a dead man's leftovers, feeling very strange.

About three months ago, her husband of many years killed himself, and right in front of her. He put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger, spraying his brains across the room and onto the walls and windows of their enclosed back porch.

I didn't hear the shot, but SweetLady and I were there that evening, out sitting on the glider in the back yard, and this poor woman's screams as she ran out the front door of her house got the attention of the whole neighborhood.

Crime scene tape surrounded the house for the next several hours in the aftermath of the suicide as police did their investigation, the situation complicated by the fact that the lady who lives directly across the street from us; a nurse; is a friend of the woman. She rushed over to help at the sound of the screams, and evidently, took the gun from the dead man's hand. It was a sensible act, since she wasn't sure he was dead right away and she needed to feel safe enough to do what she could to stop the bleeding - a futile effort, she soon realized - but by then, she'd touched that gun.

The police certainly understood she'd not been involved in the shooting, but for a while, it did muck up the situation as they performed their due-diligence.

As it happened, SweetLady's daughter, just seven years old, had been out with her Dad for a few hours that evening, and we called to ask him to keep her a while longer than had been scheduled. The scene was so chaotic, what with the coroner, ambulances and myriad police cars coming and going for a couple of hours, that if possible, we wanted to keep her from being exposed to the commotion. Frankly, we thought it would scare the hell out of her. Thankfully, in one of the only kind gestures I've seen from her ex since I've known SL, he agreed to keep their daughter an extra hour before dropping her off; something we truly appreciated.

So it was that, now, a couple of months after the man's death, his widow tried to get rid of some of the things that she needed to have gone from the house. As such, this wasn't a normal garage sale; the stuff wasn't refuse. Everything for sale there was of high quality, and, as I mentioned earlier, spoke to the education and taste of her now-dead husband, if not to the man's obvious depression, or whatever reason or reasons he used to justify taking his own life. This sale was about closure, I think; no, I'm sure. This was about this poor woman trying to get reminders of something terribly painful out of her house and, thus, out of her sight.

I wondered whether the people who drove up because of the signs at the end of the street advertising this late-fall sale would have picked up on the same thing. Probably not, I decided.

At some point, as I debated buying a perfectly good Coleman stove - unused, by the looks of it - half-kidding, I think, she asked me if I'd be interested in a piano. I said that indeed, I might be, and she took me into the house and showed me a beautiful Young-Chang baby grand. She hadn't even decided how much to ask for it, she said. Then she told me she'd probably want to leave it in place while the house is for sale, but that at some point, she'd definitely want to sell the piano. "It was my husband's, and he's since he's not on the planet any longer..." Her voice trailed off.

I realized she wasn't aware I knew about what had happened. She probably didn't even realize I was a neighbor; why should she? We'd never met, and the only time I'd really taken notice of her was that awful night as she stood on her lawn with her arms wrapped around herself, crying loudly. I introduced myself and asked her how she was doing with all this, feeling guilty that I hadn't come over to express my condolences much sooner. "It's been hard, I''ll bet," I said, weakly stating the obvious.

"It sucks," she said. "Some days are better than others, but," and she shook her head, "it just sucks." Tears came to her eyes, but she still smiled and I wanted to hug her. We talked a few more minutes and she told me that, really, she's not even sure she wants to sell the place. Some days she's absolutely sure she needs to move, and other days, the thought of leaving the home they built together sends her into panic attacks.

What a lousy, lousy deal.

I ended up buying eight books yesterday, and I'll probably go over again today too. I hope she sells everything she wants gone. This morning, I noticed she'd hung out a man's trench coat; leather, from the looks of it. I love trench coats, but I don't think I could buy that one even if it's in excellent shape, fits me perfectly and is priced at a dollar. I'd feel too weird wearing it.

I hope whoever buys it remains completely unaware of why it's available.


Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

Got word yesterday that the wife of an old friend recently died of cancer. I'd lost touch with him a while ago, and now I feel crappy about that. I didn't know her well, but her husband was important in my life for a good long while, and I wish I'd stayed in touch better. I'll call him.

Last night, Connie, Dot and Terry came to dinner. Just before everyone arrived, I was outside relaxing. The food was pretty much done and ready to pull out of the oven - or, as was the case with the rolls, pop back in briefly just before mealtime - so I had a few minutes. I called my friend Bob from Hell to invite him to Thanksgiving Dinner here. We hadn't talked in a couple of months, and we did the three minute catch-up. He just got back from a two week California vacation, which explained why I hadn't gotten a hold of him the first time I called to invite him a week or so ago. He told me about Wanda, our friend's wife. -Sucks.

I remember my Mom telling me how shocked she was when people her own age started dying with what felt to her like semi-regularity; when it stopped being a shock to hear about the death of a peer due to something other than an accident. Seems she was about the same age I am now. I suppose it gets worse the older we get, but man oh man, it's not something to which I'm looking forward with relish. In a perfect world, I think we should even things out.. No one gets to live to above, say... how about eighty-five? And no one dies before they're at least seventy-five or so. Pretty cool idea, huh?

God? You listening? I hereby officially place this request in the cosmic suggestion box. See, that way, when we hit the magic seventy-five number, we're obliged to really appreciate each day as a bonus!

No? Bad idea? (I hear a voice, or more properly said,  I feel a voice...)

What, God? We're supposed to appreciate each day from the get-go? Come on. Really? -From the time we're aware that life is tenuous and finite? But, God, that means we're supposed to appreciate each day from the time we're what? -six or seven years old?

Holy moly. Sometimes that's hard to do, ya know?  I mean, God, we've got a lot to deal with, and yet you're telling me we should stop and remember this gift of life we've been given every single day?

Alright. Fine.

I'll work at it.


Be good to everyone.

Good morning Boys and Girls.

With the time change last weekend came the usual shake-up to my body-clock. Pretty sure I'm not alone in noticing the effects, though so far, I haven't talked with anyone about it this year. Yesterday afternoon, the dashboard clock in my van read 3:30, and the sun, though still high in the sky, didn't shine with the same sort of brightness it had just a month ago at that time. Then I realized the clock was still set to Michigan time - (hadn't been in the van since Saturday at some point) - and since I'm in Iowa, and the time had changed Saturday night/Sunday morning, it was really only 1:30 p.m. - a two hour difference. Wow.

Now, the way the sun looked, and the softer light it cast, gave me the certainty I'd missed before; not only is Autumn in it's last throes, but that Winter light - less direct, more diffused - has taken hold here, meaning the sun won't be truly bright again 'til snow (gulp) reflects it every-which way, and the damn snow's crunch under-foot is the norm for a few months.

-As usual, the prospect frightens me.

Here at SweetLady's, we've been rearranging things in the basement the last few days. Yesterday, while I was at work and SL was at school, AuntConi took it upon herself to sweep the basement floor, something that needed doing. She's always looking to help out. Hell, the kitchen here has never been so spotless as when she's had at it.

The same is true at my place in Michigan.

Here's the routine: Once I've cooked dinner and we've eaten, I'll be ready to do nothing for an hour. She'll insist on getting right up and tackling the kitchen; doing the dishes, cleaning up my cooking mess and so on.

I used to object, but of late - having realized I am powerless to stop her anyway - I've come to enjoy it. This isn't because I'm especially lazy, or that I mind cleaning my kitchen after cooking a meal - I don't; it's an easy kitchen to cook in, as well as clean - but the truth is, she simply does a far better job every single time she does it, than I've ever done even once.

So, resigned to this fact, I sometimes simply sit and relax, and - God forgive me - watch her work.

Isn't that awful?

..........................

My friend Dot and her beau Terry are dealing with the death of Terry's Dad this week. Just a month ago, Dot, Terry, and Terry's Mom and Dad headed out to Omaha from Grand Rapids to see Terry's kids. Terry's Dad was absolutely fine when they left on the trip, but a day or two in, he started feeling bad. They came home early. The diagnosis was pancreatic cancer - an inoperable golf-ball sized tumor. He died Sunday. AuntConi and I will miss the viewing and funeral, but we'll sure be thinking about Terry and Dot, Terry's sister and Mom.

I only met him once, as did AuntConi and SweetLady, when we all were invited to dinner at Dot and Terry's new house a few months ago. It was a fun evening. Dot's Mom was there too along with Terry's seven-year-old daughter and one of Dot's nieces. Even during that brief meeting, it was easy to see Terry's Dad was a kind and loving guy; genuinely proud of his wife and family. To me, that's a pretty good measure of a man.

Well, not much to say this morning. Just felt like writing a post. Guess I'll go back outside, sit on the glider, have another mug-full of coffee and see if the sun's gonna show off its weak-ass Autumn shine today. Hope so. I kind of like it.

(What? I shouldn't call the way the early November sun shines "weak-ass"?)

Whatever...

Wusses. (heh...)


Be good to everyone.