No End to Worry

I called Q to let him know that things turned out O.K. for the moment.  He was beside himself.  I guess.  Compared me to the little boy who cried wolf, among other things.  I reminded him of a story I've told him before.  I once bought a house that was above my station, as they say, but it was the best house in the world.  It sat between two lakes on a small canal.  The property swooped down to the water so that my house was situated below the road and above the canal in the most lovely way.  The house had one previous owner, a single woman who had quite a life (for another time).  She'd moved to the south from Boston.  When she bought the house, she had wall to wall carpet put in, and the hardwood had never been stepped on.  She's never had a fire in the fireplace saying that once she left Boston, she was done with that.  Built in 1952, the house was solid as a. . . choose any cliche you want.

I worried about having bought this house all the time.  It is what I do.  I don't know if it is genetic or learned, but my father was a worrier, too.  This house, though, was truly fantastic with big screened porches that looked out across the lake and to the highway and the distant downtown skyline.  All you could hear, though, was frogs and crickets.  The back end of the property was a seawall about five feet above the water.  You could stand there and watch the most incredible things swim through the canal.  The most remarkable things I saw in the first couple weeks were a dog who looked a bit panicked, and a six foot Russian carp that looked like a tarpon.  That one almost caused me to fall in.

But I worried all the time that I had made a mistake buying the house, of taking on so much debt, etc.  One day, however, I decided to stop.  I had the most lovely and enviable of houses, I told myself, and I should start enjoying it, and with that, I decided to blow off the gym, buy a six pack of beer, and go sit on the wall above the canal for awhile.  Damn, man, I told myself, enjoy the mo'fo'.  Relax.

When I walked into the backyard.  Something was wrong.  The wall was gone.  It had simply collapsed into the canal.  It was terrible.

Q didn't have much time, and when I finished he said, "Yea, what's your point?"  I told him that it was always the same.  If I quit worrying, the world just falls apart.  Worry prepares you.

Q was glad that we would still have my retirement home, he said.  But I knew what he meant.

My day at the factory was truly horrible, but it ended O.K.  I am not out of the fire yet, but help is coming from unsuspected places.  Life among people is truly a marvel of complexities.  But I have, at least, a reprieve from the intensity of things.  I get to take some breaths.

I am taking next week to catch up on all the things I have let go to hell.  It will be a busy week at home.  I must straighten out debts, landscape, mulch driveways, and many other mundane things.  But I will have cafe lunches, too, and will read and see some films.  In short, I'll try to regather some of who I am.

I found the photo at the top on the internet.  Quick!  Who is the painter?  I find the photo uncomfortable.  You can tell me why.

Oh, yes. . . and I love all of you who have sent me wishes.  Truly.