Author: Dave

There’s water under the kitchen sink. Damn.

Let’s pull everything out and climb down there in that cramped space and probably hit our head a few times and crane our neck and see if we can figure out where it’s coming from.

From the disposal. OK I’ll replace the drain gasket. Still leaking.

And, y’know, I’ve not been doing a very good job keeping up on the house to-do list. There’s that tear in the screened-in porch panel I’ve been meaning to patch, I even bought the patch material like two months ago. I need to replace the screen door handle, too… have the parts for that sitting on my workbench in the garage. Both cars, and the RV for that matter, need an oil change. And shit, man, have you seen the bedside drawer in the guest room? What, we just put all our random stuff in there now? That’s gotta get cleaned out.

Sometimes piled-up things like this feel oppressive, and I find myself in an agitated state, feeling behind and negligent… wanting to fly into a fury of productivity to “clear the list” and feel better about keeping up. I think this is why I’m so anal about keeping a tidy house. When I see clutter around, it makes me feel that much more overwhelmed. I have a hard time sitting down and relaxing if there’s shit everywhere, and it’s easier for me to ignore that tear in the screen panel if the place where I spend most of my time is neat and tidy.

Seems to be leaking from the body of the disposal itself… like it’s cracked or compromised. I have some leftover silicone sealant/adhesive in the garage. I’ll slather that around where the water seems to be weeping out, let that dry, and see if I can stave off spending $150 on a new disposal.

One thing or another.

They cleared out a homeless camp that was in a patch of woods I pass daily on my bike ride to and from work.

It was just one person “living” there. There are a few one-person camps I pass on my route, tucked away off the bike trail and main roads. Some hidden better than others, having taken several rides right past them before I glimpsed them.

I’m better at recognizing the signs of where a camp might be: worn trails off the asphalt and into the bush, or has been: cleared brush and multiple “No Trespassing” signs. I know where most of the regulars stay or hang around during the daylight hours.

The camp they cleared away was fairly established. Had a tent with a real mattress, held off the ground on a platform of pallets. Had camp chairs and a line of suitcases. Had a stand mirror and traps strung around as makeshift walls. Had several shopping carts of stuff.

I only saw the resident twice in six months of riding, but one time he was panhandling at the corner and he gave me a smile and a fist bump.

Sleeping rough in the city, even if it’s in the woods, especially in Florida, must be challenging. I don’t envy those in that unfortunate position.

Hope that dude found another place he can tuck into and have some sense of safety.

Hugs.

You know that dream?

The one where you’re in college again and, like, months into school you remember there’s a class you’ve forgotten to go to the entire semester. You went on day one, but just completely forgot you were even in the class after that. That feeling; a sudden and pointed guilt because you can’t believe you could screw up so bad.

Sometimes I have that same feeling in the waking world. Not often, but occasionally, the thought will just hit me that I’ve not spoken to my mom in forever. A wave of shame and sadness descends; how could I be such an awful son? When was the last time I even called my mother? What kind of cruel uncaring beast of a son just forgets to call his mom?

The kind whose mom has been dead for years, I guess. That kind.

The brain is funny like that.

Outside on the porch watching the sunrise.

Sipping coffee and listening to the sounds of the morning. City sounds: jets flying overhead (we’re close to the airport), the pneumatics of a garbage truck a neighborhood or two over, cars on some distant road , the little refrigerator I keep beer in cycling on and off. But also some country sounds: a rooster crowing in the new day, birds chirping, squirrels chittering, a turtle or fish or something disturbing the water just a little.

Already dressed for my ride. Been cycling the 6mi to (and back from) work for about six months now, started in March. I loved it from the day I started, and am surprised how much I still enjoy and look forward to each day’s ride. Takes me right about 30min each way. I shower and change clothes and get ready in the gym locker room at the office building after arriving dripping in sweat. Lost some weight in the first few weeks but not from the gut or upper body. Since then it seems only to continue strengthening my legs.

This year has been good for new habits. Cycling to work, doing my own vehicle repairs, and cooking more. I want to add a return to writing and “art.” I’ve long wished I had some artistic outlet.

There’s fog, or steam, or condensation on the lake. Floating over it, moving across it in billows. It’s pretty.

Time to pack for the ride.

It’s not going to be possible to “catch up” here.

Too much has happened since I was writing consistently and regularly. I guess no one’s reading this chronologically, anyway. But I think the weight of all the years not writing does often feel to me like a block or weight that keeps me from starting again. Maybe acknowledging that won’t be fixed will help me be free of that feeling.

I’m on the back porch in the sun, looking out over the lake. This is our home now. Sometimes I miss California, the mountains and the weather and the people, but this place is definitely our home now. A cinder block house we own outright, on a small lake. Place is in good shape and I do my best to take care of it so it’ll last. I’m proud of where I am personally, the changes I’ve made and the person I am.

Our kids are so old. Our marriage, too. Proud of all that, also. I like what we bring to this earth, I’m pleased with our energy. I feel like we’re all doing a good job trying to learn and grow as we mature. We’re doing a good job. Sometimes I wish my parents were able to see our family; how we’re doing, how similar our route so far ended up being to theirs in some ways, how much better in others.

I’ve felt inspired to write for over a year but I’ve just not done it. I have the time, too. I’ve just not made it part of my routine.

Love.

Yesterday was such a beautiful day.

Usually a typical Saturday for me means projects. Working in the yard, on or around the house, on a car. But yesterday I decided to do nothing. The first weekend of college football, cast iron pizzas with homemade dough, cards with the wife, and a spiked Arnold Palmer.

While the weather in Florida is far from turning to Fall or what passes for Winter, I feel like you can, if you look at the things, just begin to tell that things are beginning to change. Today was quite pleasant, as Florida goes.

I’m happy, content these days. I want to write more. I’m writing now on my phone, thinking maybe I can get into the habit again. Just quick hits to start, something I can sustain. I’ll try.

Hugs.

I want to write about Keaton getting older, growing up, but I don’t have a good start, so there it was.

Seventeen, driving, about to enter her senior year. This summer she’ll be spending four weeks away from us, on her own, in the heart of New York City. Living in a dorm and studying theater. I’m bubbling with vicarious excitement for her, but also feel some pretty strong pangs of sadness when I think about (1) her being gone for four weeks and (2) the confrontation of reality the time away represents: she’s not going to be here forever.

I want her to have the greatest time, the best experience, to grow strong as she steps out into independence. I’ve decided I’m going to write here a short note that I’ll send with her, telling her how proud of her I am and recommending some things she do and try while she’s a “big girl on her own in NYC.”

It blows my mind that we’re here already. It goes so fast. I wonder if the post-kids space feels just as fast, or slower? It must slow down a little bit as you get older?

Going to miss her a lot. Going to worry about her and want to talk to her and text her and hear about all the fun she’s having. And then she’s back for one more year of high school and who knows what after that. Cohen also feels that milestone nearing – tells me he doesn’t want Keaton to leave; he’ll be bored, he’ll be sad.

Me too buddy, me too.