the haps

Ann called me to the kitchen window and pointed out a luxurious skunk, prancing its way north on the sidewalk across the street. It was 4:18am. This was after I’d read the first three-and-a-half paragraphs of Thoreau’s ‘Walden.’ Including this – “I should not talk so much about myself if there were anybody else whom I knew as well.” Which pretty much sums up the milieu here at Couch Surfing at 70. The me, myself and I story of right now.

Last night I was invited along to Ann’s grandson Logan’s trick and treating, out on the street amidst a glorious San Diego sunset. Also in the party were Ann, Logan’s mom and dad, and their dog Bruno, a beagle sporting a bat costume, wings and all, supply the fangs with your own imagination. At one point five cats, both sides of the street, joined the setting. Halloween. Made better with cats, and a dog as a bat, the small sounds of generous candies dropping into a green treat bag – a mom getting to rejoice with her son and grandson.

This morning it’s a neighborhood skunk and french-pressed coffees and Henry David Thoreau, writing in a town in which I got to live a while, in which I got to run the circumference of his pond, in which I got to swim with my oldest son, and an hour ago got to be reminded there isn’t anything else I have – or need – to tell you beyond what’s the haps with me today.