As promised, I’ve been driving around Valpo soaking in the local flavors. Thanks to Valpo Life and its mission to bring positive, feel-good news to the web, I’ve been looking at my community with new found eyes.
As I run my traps-Mercury Cleaners, Fifth Third Bank, Bella Capelli Salon, Dish Restaurant, and Wiseway grocery—I have not been able to stop the flow of stories that could be told. I always carry a notebook in my car to keep good ideas from floating out the window, and lately I’ve stopped in a parking lot more than once to take the time to jot down a thought I want to pass on to everyone.
Even armed with a notebook full of ideas and a list of great things to share, last week I hit a wall that we, in the literary world, call writer’s block. Every time I’d come to the computer I’d sit staring at the blank screen until the memory of my mother’s voice would interrupt my twiddling thumbs. I’d hear her say, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Knowing she’s right (because my mother is always right), I’d slink away from the keyboard and go read, thinking that the urge to complain would subside and eventually I’d find the feel-good, glow-worm kind of energy that I’ve had with past posts.
But, this week, the crabbiness held tight. And although I took on this job with the idea that I’d keep my sour-puss days to myself, I have a complaint to confess. I hate Mother Nature. Well, like many mother/daughter relationships it’s actually a love/hate thing I have for her.
Here’s the thing: I understand the bitter cold in December, the miles of snow in January, and the icy Februarys. I’m not a fan, but I’m tolerant because typically winter has to do that stuff or it wouldn’t be winter.
But when spring is schizophrenic like The Three Faces of Eve, I get a little annoyed. March is welcome to come in like a lion, but it seldom goes out like a lamb anymore and I’ve had enough. I get short-tempered by the sun deprivation.
Then when it’s April and Mother Nature is still sending gray matter to loiter in the sky over my house, or she’s spitting rain and coughing up frost, I can’t help but feel picked on. I drive around town with my windshield wipers on and my seat heat cranked to the max. With a scowl on my face, I get annoyed at people driving too slow, people driving too fast, people driving period. I’m ridiculous.
I try to counter my bad temper with fantasies of some unnamed Caribbean beach—me in a chair in the sand with an endless supply of slushy drinks garnished with a slice of pineapple and a paper umbrella. But throw me one cold, rainy day too many and I’m off the deep end thinking about Al Gore and his campaign against the inconvenient truths of climate changes. Give me even a chance of snow in April and I suddenly think that Al Gore, like my mother, is right-totally right!—about global warming. I get this sudden urge to Google him—for an email, an address, a phone number—because Al Gore would be an interesting guy to commiserate with over feeling cheated (for ugly weather, that is). I imagine he’d be a good sport about everything and nod a lot, affirming all my complaints. But even Googling is too much work when I’m in a weather-induced depression. And why didn’t Al Gore do something about this climate stuff anyway? Vice Presidents don't have to be the perpetual on-deck guy, right? They can work if they want, can’t they?
By now, I’m blaming Al Gore! And that’s what I’d been doing until Thursday. Then along came Thursday, beautiful Thursday—Thursday with a big, bold, glowing sun!
Sun salutations were a literal practice in yoga on Thursday morning.
Thursday afternoon I took a walk to a neighbor’s house—without a coat!
I took a few laps around town in the car with the windows down and my music loud. I ran those traps—Mercury Cleaners and Fifth Third Bank, but this time I left the slow drivers and the fast drivers alone. I didn’t have time to worry about them because I was concentrating on reaching for my sunglasses.
When back at home by 5pm, my driveway still radiated the heat of the day—that glorious Thursday. And there it was—the feel-good, glow-worm energy I needed to forget about Al Gore and to kick down the wall blocking me from my keyboard.