Pocket Dispatch from the Alley
Throughout the western world on Christmas morning small mountains of trash accumulate as presents are opened, and it is the solemn duty of parents—a father, traditionally, if one is available—to haul it to the bin outside.
At 10:00 AM on this particular Christmas, it was still 10º F from an historic winter storm that had swept across the country. But by now the snow had stopped and the sun had finally returned and, in two jackets, good mittens and thick boots, it wasn’t so bad being outside in the sun and solitude.
As I carried the last load to the alley behind our apartment, I recognized a neighbor walking back from the gas station and smoking a cigarette. He’s an older man, maybe in his early 70’s, with adult children, though I think he lives with only his dog. In the five years I’ve lived here, we’ve had one exchange that was similar to a conversation, plus a few pleasantries. I believe he works as a vocal coach for a living. I’ve always found his quaint smoking charming, and I revel in the irony of someone who teaches people to use their vocal chords treating his own so harshly.
His building is a block north of mine, also on a corner, and features enormous planters shaped like human faces cut off just below the eyes, with large plants sprouting from where foreheads would be.
The timing of my task brought me to the apron of the alley just as he crossed it on the sidewalk.
“Good morning!” I said, surprised by my own cheery tone. The narrow sidewalk in front of my building forced us into an awkward configuration where I had to walk directly behind him, trailing him by just a step or two. A beat passed before he answered me.
“Good morning,” he said, with equally surprising emphasis. It didn’t occur to me then that he may have been mocking me, but the little I know about him is that he is warmer, gentler, and more outgoing than you’d expect from his gruff appearance.
More pleasantries followed, then some comments about the weather, before I reached my gate and we had to part ways. I would have loved to have talked long enough to reach a topic of any substance, but I was happy enough with the interaction we had. The feeling continued to permeate as I climbed the fire escape steps to my landing.
The sun was low and direct over the building across the street, and I noticed in that moment that I had never heard my own street so quiet before. I bent over the railing and turned by head both ways. There were no cars for a block in either direction, and I could barely hear traffic in the distance.
Joy continued to bubble up to a buzzy fizz in my mind: It’s Christmas Day, my neighborhood is sunny and quiet, and even though most of my neighbors are strangers, I enjoy talking with them when I can. The banal aspects of my daily life were emulsifying with the comforts of my charmed existence. I carried this feeling with me for half an hour while I swept snow off the rest of the stairwell and put down de-icer for no reason.
Pocket Dispatch from the Alley
Throughout the western world on Christmas morning small mountains of trash accumulate as presents are opened, and it is the solemn duty of parents—a father, traditionally, if one is available—to haul it to the bin outside.
At 10:00 AM on this particular Christmas, it was still 10º F from an historic winter storm that had swept across the country. But by now the snow had stopped and the sun had finally returned and, in two jackets, good mittens and thick boots, it wasn’t so bad being outside in the sun and solitude.
As I carried the last load to the alley behind our apartment, I recognized a neighbor walking back from the gas station and smoking a cigarette. He’s an older man, maybe in his early 70’s, with adult children, though I think he lives with only his dog. In the five years I’ve lived here, we’ve had one exchange that was similar to a conversation, plus a few pleasantries. I believe he works as a vocal coach for a living. I’ve always found his quaint smoking charming, and I revel in the irony of someone who teaches people to use their vocal chords treating his own so harshly.
His building is a block north of mine, also on a corner, and features enormous planters shaped like human faces cut off just below the eyes, with large plants sprouting from where foreheads would be.
The timing of my task brought me to the apron of the alley just as he crossed it on the sidewalk.
“Good morning!” I said, surprised by my own cheery tone. The narrow sidewalk in front of my building forced us into an awkward configuration where I had to walk directly behind him, trailing him by just a step or two. A beat passed before he answered me.
“Good morning,” he said, with equally surprising emphasis. It didn’t occur to me then that he may have been mocking me, but the little I know about him is that he is warmer, gentler, and more outgoing than you’d expect from his gruff appearance.
More pleasantries followed, then some comments about the weather, before I reached my gate and we had to part ways. I would have loved to have talked long enough to reach a topic of any substance, but I was happy enough with the interaction we had. The feeling continued to permeate as I climbed the fire escape steps to my landing.
The sun was low and direct over the building across the street, and I noticed in that moment that I had never heard my own street so quiet before. I bent over the railing and turned by head both ways. There were no cars for a block in either direction, and I could barely hear traffic in the distance.
Joy continued to bubble up to a buzzy fizz in my mind: It’s Christmas Day, my neighborhood is sunny and quiet, and even though most of my neighbors are strangers, I enjoy talking with them when I can. The banal aspects of my daily life were emulsifying with the comforts of my charmed existence. I carried this feeling with me for half an hour while I swept snow off the rest of the stairwell and put down de-icer for no reason.
Pocket Dispatch From the Kitchen Floor
My dad groans when he bends down to the kitchen floor with his dust pan to sweep up piles of crumbs he has gathered with the broom. I watch him do this several times each day during our visits. It’s his way of trying to always be useful, which I once derided as a symptom of declining value and influence but now understand to be a selfless expression of humble and generous love.
I watch him groan, his old joints cracking and popping, and the image imprints on my concept of old age.
Then, at home, I too sweep my kitchen floor again and again, both as an expression of love, and as an exasperating symptom of parenthood. I unconsciously hold my breath as I crouch, and as my skeleton folds, density forces the air from my lungs. My right knee makes its usual cracking sound, and as I finally reach the floor, I groan.
Pocket Dispatch From the Kitchen Floor
My dad groans when he bends down to the kitchen floor with his dust pan to sweep up piles of crumbs he has gathered with the broom. I watch him do this several times each day during our visits. It’s his way of trying to always be useful, which I once derided as a symptom of declining value and influence but now understand to be a selfless expression of humble and generous love.
I watch him groan, his old joints cracking and popping, and the image imprints on my concept of old age.
Then, at home, I too sweep my kitchen floor again and again, both as an expression of love, and as an exasperating symptom of parenthood. I unconsciously hold my breath as I crouch, and as my skeleton folds, density forces the air from my lungs. My right knee makes its usual cracking sound, and as I finally reach the floor, I groan.