is the worry thereof."
Spring moves in
Mourning doves scattered when I stepped into the front yard to inspect the starting of the day. Two fat squirrels clambered up to the roof. Robins, too busy to be disturbed, merely hopped aside as I walked by. In a raggedy circle surrounding the big tree, the first green evidence of daffodils peeked up from the earth like groundhogs checking out the sky. And coming down the street, big as a house and heading right where I was standing, was a moving truck.
I was getting new neighbors.
"A moving van just pulled up across the street," I told my family at the breakfast table. "I think I may know one of the kids."
"I should bake them something," my mother said.
"Good idea," my father agreed.
By the time I got back outside, the minivan had arrived and was parked at the curb. The moving truck was jackknifed across the driveway and out into the street, where it would have blocked a lane of traffic, had there been any. Double doors as big as the entrance to a garage were open in the back and on the sides. Two men were walking up and down ramps with big cardboard boxes that they stacked three high on the lawn. Even though the day had not yet warmed up and the men's work had just begun, they were sweating from the effort.
The front door to the house was open. From inside I heard a radio playing much too loudly and people laughing. I knocked politely on the door frame.
Tap-tap -tap-ta-tap!
No reply.
With one foot, I stepped inside and leaned forward into the house, keeping the other foot outside on the porch, in order to make it clear to any observer that I wasn't barging in uninvited.
"HELLO?" I called. "Is anyone home?"
The only answer was the sound of the radio. The laughter had stopped. I took a few steps into the house, stopping at the edge of the entry where the polished wood floor met the light green carpet of the living room.
"HELLO?" I called again, peering around the corner.
The radio continued its unwelcome noise. I took two more cautious steps in its direction.
"What are you, a burglar or something?" a voice behind me asked, startling me.
Embarrassed, I turned around to face the tousle-haired boy. He had his arms folded across his chest. He looked angry.
"Oh, hi!" I said. "I tried knocking."
"I could have you arrested, you know," he said.
"I'm sorry," I replied sheepishly. "I just wanted to welcomeâ"
"And you'd probably have to go to jail, maybe even do hard time. You know what hard time is?"
"No."
"It's where they put you to work until your sentence is up."
"Oh, look, I'm really sorry. I just came over toâ"
"But I'm going to give you a break," he continued. "Instead of calling the cops and going through a trial and everything, I'm going to let you start serving your hard time right now. Do you know how to operate a vacuum cleaner?" His stern face broke into a big smile.
"Actually," I said, returning the smile with relief, "I've recently become something of an expert."
Shooting the breeze
When the people across the street won the lottery that was meant for me, I thought,
What rotten luck.
But now that they were gone and the tousle-haired boy had taken their place, and he'd begun shooting baskets with me in the driveway, I thought,
What great luck!
The thing about luck is you have to stay tuned to see how it all works out.
I had even started to think that possibly there's no such thing as luck at all. If everything happens because of something else, if everything is connected end to end, then what looks like chance is really the result of countless individual decisions all taking place in a universe subject to the same natural laws.
The tousle-haired boy called it "destiny." He said things are meant to be. And the more we talked, the more I liked to hear what he had to say and the way his voice sounded when he said it.
I was in the driveway discussing Orwell's disappearance with my new neighbor, hopeful that two brains would have better luck at
Spring moves in
Mourning doves scattered when I stepped into the front yard to inspect the starting of the day. Two fat squirrels clambered up to the roof. Robins, too busy to be disturbed, merely hopped aside as I walked by. In a raggedy circle surrounding the big tree, the first green evidence of daffodils peeked up from the earth like groundhogs checking out the sky. And coming down the street, big as a house and heading right where I was standing, was a moving truck.
I was getting new neighbors.
"A moving van just pulled up across the street," I told my family at the breakfast table. "I think I may know one of the kids."
"I should bake them something," my mother said.
"Good idea," my father agreed.
By the time I got back outside, the minivan had arrived and was parked at the curb. The moving truck was jackknifed across the driveway and out into the street, where it would have blocked a lane of traffic, had there been any. Double doors as big as the entrance to a garage were open in the back and on the sides. Two men were walking up and down ramps with big cardboard boxes that they stacked three high on the lawn. Even though the day had not yet warmed up and the men's work had just begun, they were sweating from the effort.
The front door to the house was open. From inside I heard a radio playing much too loudly and people laughing. I knocked politely on the door frame.
Tap-tap -tap-ta-tap!
No reply.
With one foot, I stepped inside and leaned forward into the house, keeping the other foot outside on the porch, in order to make it clear to any observer that I wasn't barging in uninvited.
"HELLO?" I called. "Is anyone home?"
The only answer was the sound of the radio. The laughter had stopped. I took a few steps into the house, stopping at the edge of the entry where the polished wood floor met the light green carpet of the living room.
"HELLO?" I called again, peering around the corner.
The radio continued its unwelcome noise. I took two more cautious steps in its direction.
"What are you, a burglar or something?" a voice behind me asked, startling me.
Embarrassed, I turned around to face the tousle-haired boy. He had his arms folded across his chest. He looked angry.
"Oh, hi!" I said. "I tried knocking."
"I could have you arrested, you know," he said.
"I'm sorry," I replied sheepishly. "I just wanted to welcomeâ"
"And you'd probably have to go to jail, maybe even do hard time. You know what hard time is?"
"No."
"It's where they put you to work until your sentence is up."
"Oh, look, I'm really sorry. I just came over toâ"
"But I'm going to give you a break," he continued. "Instead of calling the cops and going through a trial and everything, I'm going to let you start serving your hard time right now. Do you know how to operate a vacuum cleaner?" His stern face broke into a big smile.
"Actually," I said, returning the smile with relief, "I've recently become something of an expert."
Shooting the breeze
When the people across the street won the lottery that was meant for me, I thought,
What rotten luck.
But now that they were gone and the tousle-haired boy had taken their place, and he'd begun shooting baskets with me in the driveway, I thought,
What great luck!
The thing about luck is you have to stay tuned to see how it all works out.
I had even started to think that possibly there's no such thing as luck at all. If everything happens because of something else, if everything is connected end to end, then what looks like chance is really the result of countless individual decisions all taking place in a universe subject to the same natural laws.
The tousle-haired boy called it "destiny." He said things are meant to be. And the more we talked, the more I liked to hear what he had to say and the way his voice sounded when he said it.
I was in the driveway discussing Orwell's disappearance with my new neighbor, hopeful that two brains would have better luck at
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