kicking back

It can work. Everyone is up early. And since they are swirling around my bed in the living room (the rock hard hide-a-bed which is amazingly comfortable after all) I get up. I decide that I might as well have a walk. Dad goes a few blocks and returns to save his hips. I keep walking. I don't know where I'm going but figure I can retrace my steps and not get lost. The neighborhood is sterile. Creativity seems confined to how you use your rocks and driftwood or whiskey barrel planters. Occasionally someone has a whimsical mailbox. Covenants enforced. Covenant protected. I try to scare up something interesting. The neighborhood is very quiet. I get the feeling that there are retired military people living around here. Even thought it's a weekday, newspapers still wait in lots of driveways of quiet houses. Nothing ever happens here. Or does it? This is Littleton, you know.

I get a cup of coffee at a gas station and retrace my steps. I'm hot and sweaty and I've been about three miles. But the air isn't humid, the spots of shade hold pockets of cool and, amazingly, the altitude doesn't bother me.

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There is more family visiting. I play with my great nephew Jack who has a toy box already in his grandmother's living room even though he cannot yet stand or even sit up. A bunch of us go out for Chinese food. Everything we do is a production. My niece's husband has a busted knee cap and we have all the baby stuff. Babies these days go with lots of gear. Jack eats watermelon.

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