A 3-day heat wave was predicted. It might last longer. It will not break sooner. We missed the first heat wave here and lived it in Maryland where our nights were air conditioned. Then, there were a few hot days about a month ago and our air conditioners were still in the basement. I could not bring them up alone and I have not yet found a handy person like my Ed of Madison who knew my house better than I did. Of course, this is not my house, except for the term of my lease, and my handy person tasks are few.
Cheshire and Justin brought one unit from by basement at the end of last week, just in time for yesterday. And I did what I have done since I moved to Wisconsin and met the cold: I closed up the house, windows closed, blinds and shades down, doors to rooms not used closed tight. And left the air conditioner on through out the night. This is so odd for me, I sleep with open windows, but the house is cool, even the bedrooms are tolerable.
Good, hardworking little machine. Thank you. And thank you for the grace of children who will do those tasks I am unable to.
The Command velcro pictures hangers are failing all over the house and pictures fall down, most predictably at night. A crash wakes us both and I check if I’ve lost more glass. Today, I took more pictures down, more than had fallen, and cleaned up the night’s lost glass. I am not at home without my decorated walls. It feels like an unwarranted punishment, that I can’t remedy until the leaves turn yellow.
And I need to clean the kitchen, something doesn’t smell right. And I need to plan a few days in Maine, I almost wish I could buy a package deal, I cannot concentrate on planning or deciding. And I need to make another dozen phone calls and write emails. And I need to listen to a class I am taking and I want to listen to a just-borrowed library book. And I need to make a list so as not to forget what I want to do. And I need to figure out how to convince Julia to make lists.
Just one more thing. I went to choir practice last night. Went. To the church. We sang in the church hall, a high-ceilinged big space for a small number of singers, a space that has been re-ventilated with filters and other magical spells. Masked and spaced, we were. We have new singers’ masks and we’ve been asked to wear black masks when we return to the sanctuary to sing for services. The un-mandatory masks are black and easy. They have some structure and are not sucked into the mouth when we breathe. There was practice last Wednesday evening, the first one at church in 15 months, but I was recovering from cataract surgery and could not drive yet. Last night, I had people to greet. There were fewer of us than there used to be but it is summer and people travel. I am hardly back from Ohio and I envy travel. We sang a few new pieces and then one of the tunes we recorded at home last year. I sang in such full voice that I wondered if I was inappropriately loud—I hear too much of myself when I am masked, almost as much as putting a finger up to close an ear. We sang some pieces that I sort of knew and I recognized, for a long moment, that I am no longer feel defeated by every new piece that we sing. I am no longer new here. These people, my zoom-mates and Sunday-sing-outside-freezing-during-winter choir mates, have become my people. I ask a music question and get asked about queries I’ve made on our church email list.
This is finding home. I breathe into relief and celebrate.