December 8, 2022: Life on the Pavement -

Good news, West Coast crew! Some freeways along the I-5 corridor may be usable after the “Big One.” 

(Photo courtesy of WSDOT)

No, really! Merry Christmas from the seismic modeling team at the University of Washington! (Apparently, many I-5 bridges were built to more than the minimum specs. Pretty cool.)

Unlike those sturdy bridges, I fell down on Saturday, on the way in to choir practice. Wrists, knees, foot, ouch, ouch, ouch. Choir pals helped me up, and I bathed my poor knees (but they still stuck to my pants, ouch.) And I was late to practice.

I hate being late to practice.  

A couple Sundays back, I left super early so I could hit Freddy’s, which carries a brand of stuffing without which my Thanksgiving is missing something. I see a lot of homeless folks early on Sundays. This time there was a man sitting on the sidewalk, wrapped in a white duvet.  My errant-thought-generator mused that white is a terrible color for sidewalk living.

The guy said, very softly, “Milk and cereal.” I thought he was muttering to himself, and then I turned back and said, “You’d like some milk and cereal?” He nodded. I said, “I’ll see what I can do!”  He said, very softly, “Gilded Crunchies.” (Not exactly, but it was something I’d never heard of.)

I said, “The cereal is called Gilded Crunchies?” He nodded. I said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

Here’s the thing. Summers back, I asked a young woman on the sidewalk if she needed anything, and she said she really needed some pads, and I asked if she had a favorite brand, and she burst into tears, undone by that one small extra kindness.

I vowed I’d let beggars be choosers henceforth. The rest of us are – witness my special stuffing run.

And too, on the way to church, it’s best not to ignore somebody down and out who is making a minor request. I mean, the text is clear: I was bleeding and you got me pads; hungry, and you got me cereal.

I could have directed him to the food pantry, or slipped him some cash, but I wanted to do it all, and still be on time.

It’s such a big Freddy’s, and such a long cereal aisle. I stood there in dismay, the errant-thought generator revving way up. I decided that the Good Samaritan had been late to rehearsal. Why did Jesus leave out that part of the parable? Wasn’t it a much better, more polysemous parable, with the coda? I needed a t-shirt reading: “THE GOOD SAMARITAN WAS LATE TO REHEARSAL, THOUGH.”

Then I image-searched Gilded Crunchies, and found the box, and it all worked out, and I got to rehearsal on time! (Holds arms up in the V pose of gymnast who stuck the landing.)

So that one was a win, but I fell down Saturday, and was late and rattled, and I didn’t go to urgent care even though everything hurt. I went home and curled up. We sang two services Sunday.  It was snowing. I passed a careworn woman standing in the swirling snow, smoking a cigarette. I thought: Oh, you need to be somewhere less exposed.

She said, “Be careful. It’s slippery. You might fall down.”

Another unexpected kindness. I was worrying about her, and she was worrying about me. I said, boastfully, “Oh, I fell down yesterday, when it wasn’t snowing!”  And she roared, “I HEAR YOU!”

Monday I finally went to the doctor. I’m now sporting a vaguely ninja-style black gauntlet for a sprained wrist, and a not-remotely-ninja walking boot for a broken bone in my foot.  I feel like a medium-grade bridge on I-5 - not a pile of rubble, but repairs are expected to take up to six weeks.