These last few weeks of this pregnancy have been rather tiring for us all, of course M in particular with her lingering cough and cold and otherwise generally unfulfilling restless rest. I, on the other hand, most ever an easy sleeper, have even had time to dream.
The other morning I awoke with a stiff neck, quite unrelated to the singing coaching I’d been providing the high-school-aged Alison Krauss. Her voice was great, but the way she was singing–or maybe what she was singing–just wasn’t at all right. Somewhere in the jumble homemade ice cream was being made in a hand-cranked mixer the size of a water heater; a look inside at the metal ice cream container revealed a very, very long container. Fifty gallons, I think.
It is no dreamy joke, though, that during the last couple of weeks our neighbor as well as a colleague of mine as well as another household within the same five mile radius were robbed in the daytime while they were at school by someone seeking designer hand bags, clothing, and jewelry. (Some candy and dog biscuits were taken, too.) N happened to be with me when the neighbor filled me in with the details even as the sound of in-process deadbolt installation floated down from the burgled house; N subsequently worried a fair amount that someone would take her special (plastic) ring. We did our best to assure her that we didn’t have anything those people wanted.
“If anything,” I said, “They’d take my guitars. But those are probably too traceable.”
That evening I was playing my newest song on my still-unstolen electric guitar when the neighbors started shooting their handguns at a target in their front yard, and they left on all their porch lights for the next few nights. We closed and latched our driveway gate, and before bed wondered if our worthless dog’s contribution to our security would be enhanced by her being tied or roaming free at night. Since she was already loose and it was cold outside, we decided that chaining her could be counterproductive.
The feeling that a criminal element was afoot put me in mind of Herman, the old man who rode with us to church most Sundays back when I was in high school. One week when the whole town was on alert after an armed duo killed a convenience store owner during a robbery, Herman said he was sleeping with a loaded gun on his bed stand. Mom somehow mentioned that she didn’t think Jesus would do that, and the next week Herman told us he’d put away the gun, that he’d rather be killed than kill someone else.
At the same time, I’m in the middle of reading Sherlock Holmes stories and feeling rather horrified at criminal evil and grateful for the just Dr. Watson and cocaine-loving Sherlock. I know, however, that a loaded gun by my bed would make me feel much less safe; I would worry about the imminent danger of accidental harm. Even without a loaded gun at my bedside, though, I know our security out here in the country is rather nonexistent. After learning about the robbery, N asked me to pray that we would be safe. I overcame my internal struggle–I’ve written before about the “God lobby” and God not doing that great at protecting the innocent, but shoot, I really hope God does keep us all safe–and said a quick line that seemed to satisfy her.
When it comes to safety, though, I haven’t forgotten about riding my bike for exercise. While starting tomorrow I’ll be sidelining my cycle’s saddle more in order to make possible a speedy homeward commute should labor hail during a school day, I am not losing sight of attempting to lean up (or is it ‘slim down’?).
“You eat not as though you’re hungry, but like you’re afraid you’re going to be hungry,” M told me one time not too long ago.
It wasn’t an unsolicited observation; I’d just asked for her weight-loss strategy recommendations. For part of our eleventh anniversary celebration, we’d watched our wedding video again, and I couldn’t help but admire my much thinner stature of a decade ago, and so in the name of someday having trimmed off some of my more apparent excesses, I decided this year I’ll try to eat from de facto–not de futuro–hunger.
Hopefully that will benefit my family, and in a sense make us all more secure–even if it does mean that those fifty gallons of ice cream will have to remain in my dreams.