Fullest House

Live your life, and life will reveal itself.

I’m noticing some posts write themselves.

“Hold up! Hold up! Straighten the wheel!” Robbie, the neighbor’s nephew, stands in the middle of the one-way gravel driveway shouting out directions that fall on deaf ears.

Behind the wheel is Gene, Robbie’s uncle and also our across-the-street neighbor, who is in the midst of forcing a rickety Bounder RV into too tight of a spot.

“We’re going to have to move that motorcycle.” Gene’s out, surveying the spare inches, but doesn’t follow through moving the hog.

“Now I know what I gotta do.” He says far too loudly for how close we all are. Hopping back in the rig his thinning salt and pepper ponytail swishes across the back of his daily wear leather biker jacket.

“NO! This way.” Another voice is helping direct now. It’s the RV’s owner, Gene’s sister, whose name I didn’t catch and who only minutes before explained to Dave, “I don’t have anywhere else. If I did, I’d be there. Truly. No place to go.”

Evelyn is enchanted, “Me see! Me see!” So Dave props her up in his arms and from the porch we all watch Friday’s impromptu matinee.

But I can’t. I have to write. It’s too much; with the power box on one side and the duck enclosure, bike, and the broken-down truck on the other. My heart can’t take the suspense.

Plus, while writing I get rewarded with Tom Petty’s Greatest Hits spinning on the player.

Later, after the dust settles, I’ll sit on the floor of the shower, and take a few extra minutes to myself. Like helium in a ballon, I fill up the space nicely.

I updated my Psychology Today profile earlier to offer couples counseling. Even though I figured algorithmically I’d be at the top of list, I didn’t expect three phone calls from prospective clients in under an hour.

And I finished my book. The Invisible Life Of Addie LaRue. Excellent, fingers kissing my lips tasty as seafood fettuccine, mwa!

Love,
Jaclynn