I was out today in my little yellow Ford Focus doing some errands. I felt just a few pounds lighter; my hair had grown out a little from an unwanted severe cut; the sun shone down through the sunroof, delivering light to my pale face. The weather was warm but breezy, beach-perfect on this spring Florida Saturday. My body has felt the stresses of the last few years, yet I still wear a mask when I go inside businesses to make purchases and post a package. As a cancer survivor, I don’t want infection and long covid effects, though I realize a piece of cloth at this point is a feeble defense in a sea of germs. I don it anyway. However, I take my sunglasses off when inside to at least appear less lady-bank-robber. And today I wore a light blue shirt, a blue and white paisley cotton mask, light summer jeans, sandals. I was feeling good vibes.
One of my errands was the liquor store where a tall, sandy-haired guy greeted me in an aisle and asked me how I was doing. He did this in a way that seemed like he could be either just a friendly customer or a well-trained employee. I noticed that he was handsome, young, fit but in an easy surfer, Florida way, nothing overdone. Well done, liquor store. He was likely 30s tops, maybe good-lifestyle 40. But the friendly part was the thing that mattered.
They were playing “Ring My Bell” from my Arkansas-roller-skating grade school days, though six of us Orlando high school girlfriends used to ride around in one of our mom’s minivans and sing it, on our way to the mall through the heat and humidity, on our way to a night out somewhere, the vigorous palms and live oak overhead dripping with Spanish moss watching over us in loco parentis.
It was lunch hour at the liquor store, the time most populated by my generation. Usually most of this set have minivans or hybrids and do an economy spend of a few cases. I often see them packing up in the lot from their full carts. I’m more of an as-needed shopper since I live just a few miles down the street on the other side of the highway. I pick up a six-pack or a liquor bottle and/or mixer.
It is a nice store, bright and well-kept in a well-manicured area of town financed by Disney, financing soon to be destroyed by a strange man, apparently a not-Disney person who wants to crush everyone’s good times. I thought of that as I drove around today, enjoying the incredible, lush beauty, but tried not to think of it as well, tried not to think too much of stupidity and wretchedness and how ego can literally crush everyone’s life and environment. No, I try not to think of it too much.
At the store, I headed straight to the refrigerated section stocked with variations of my brew, a Belgian wheat. They were out of the light, so I took a six-pack of the mango-flavored. I’ll have to admit, I was happy when a floor walker directed me to a register manned by the employee who had greeted me in an aisle. He was a tall 6’2″ or so, very Florida, so like many of the surfer guys I have known; like my late brother, a surfer and chill person; like my friend from high school, a lover of Jimmi Hendrix a generation too late and eventually a heroin addict on the street; and like too many to list, from high school and even into adulthood.
Surf-liquor man was a very good salesperson and knew how to talk and field my question about my preference for the light. He was ready with a story about it and a quip about supply chains and the lack of creativity of certain manufacturers in meeting demand.
He reminded me of my own son, the same sandy blond hair, easy conversation.
All these moments and more, moments of sharing space and conversation and laughs, had not happened as much for a few years of pandemic isolation, at least not as much for me. For me, it was sometimes the fear that kept me further away than I should have allowed myself. And today, I didn’t really feel that fear so much. And I thought of how much we need these little moments, sometimes even more than “significant” ones. The lack of these tiny human exchanges over a long stretch of time can break us down a bit, and sometimes they can break us down a lot.
On my way home, I had a sudden urge to hit the road, to drive until I hit the beach about an hour away. But my second thought was that I needed to save my gas money for the drive to see my mother on Mother’s Day. My tank is now is 3/4 full which means if I’m conservative, I can fill it a few less times this May. My irrational hope is that somehow the world may soon be absent one less dictator; may soon be absent one less ruiner of lives, economies, and peace. My irrational hope is that soon I will breathe easier when I think of trips, of beach trips, of family trips, of just-because trips, of just-sanity trips and beauty and fun trips. And more to the point, I pray against all hope those most affected by the crushing will finally and somehow be afforded the chance to survive; be afforded the chance to recover; be afforded the chance to put their lives and communities back into some sort of discernible order.
Another favorite song I heard today was one I played in my car on my way home from errands: George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord.” In a fleeting music-inspired-feel-good-moment, it caused me to think romantically that there must have been so much idealism in the world when it was composed. And yet, and yet…there was war then too, and this song was in heartfelt protest.
Today afforded me a little breath. I can now hear the wind filtering the leaves outside of the living room of my apartment. I think there have been many days these leaves moved with the wind, but my own breath has awakened my senses.
And now, I hear a bird…And now, I wish you a good Saturday.
Within A Forest Dark 
Such a nice, soothing drift thru present and past. I’m there in the passenger’s seat, and the radio just cued up “Electric Avenue.’ I lower my sunglasses and lean back, hand surfing the breeze.
Thank you!
HaHa! Hop aboard! You would love my little yellow car! Good sound system, too. Now I need a little “Electric Avenue” next journey out. Thank you for these sweet words…..