Tuesday: It’s 3 a.m. Husband
Dear and I drag ourselves out of bed. I run down to open the chicken cage, yep
it’s still dark, but a rooster crows anyway. Husband and I throw ourselves into
the shower and an hour later we are winging down the freeway aiming for the
airport in San Diego. HD is going for a job interview in Eugene Oregon.
I spend a few hours San Diego, our old haunt, for we used to
live there. I pull into Spanish Landing over- looking the bay, and sit to edit
some material. A homeless man pushing a
bicycle loaded like a hay wagon of India struggles with his load down the sideway
in front of me. I drive the short distance to Point Loma Seafood for lunch. It
is my most favorite seafood place ever where they produce the best crab
sandwich in the world—sour dough bread, crab, tartar sauce, that’s all. Add few
lemon slices, on the side, a glass of iced tea and it’s a perfect lunch. I go
back to Spanish landing where the homeless man is there again pushing his load
down the sidewalk. I contemplate what
his story is, he’s had a life, he’s lived to be middle aged, but I don’t feel
like approaching him. While I am wondering about the man, another man, seemingly
a put-together-fellow, walks past him, stops, turns around and shakes his head.
Dan Millman’s quote pops into my head, “You never know who the master is.”
As I am leaving Spanish Landing a lady with a dog almost as
big as Daughter’s Newfoundland stops beside me. The dog has his head out the car
window. He’s obviously an elder dog for his muzzle looks dipped in powdered
sugar. He and I smile at each other. The
lady driver rolls down her window, “They are great aren’t they? I see you have your little one with you (meaning
my poodle Peaches). “Don’t turn on the
red light here, it’s not safe.” I
reassure her that I won’t. We say good bye to each other, wish each other the
best and drive our separate ways. You
never know who the master is.
End of day. Husband Dear got the job.
We’re off to Eugene, the place where we began this circular journey
three years ago.
Off to the daughter. Off to the grandson. Off to old
friends. Off to the Douglas fir forests of Oregon. They’ve missed me. I’ve
missed them.
Monday, it’s 7 a.m. The Prius is packed with an entire shop.
The back seat is down, a table had been dismantled and shoved in, a lathe sits on
the table’s flat surface along with a small C&C mill, tools galore, boxes
packed up to window level, data HD needs. He loads the front seat with a
suitcase, some papers, a few dozen eggs for daughter. I jam in her order of
some oranges, lemons and grapefruits. We
slam the door before the contents ooze out like so much Pepto Bismo. HD and I
kiss goodbye, and he’s off.
Daughter Darling and I are packing.
Wednesday 10 a.m. Husband Dear calls me from his new office—first
day on the job. Yea! Good job HD.
Peaches and Bear ready for another road trip...Peaches says, "Look whose sleeping on me--hey, I'm the little dog."
