Correspondence 11/7/06: prayer

Dear C,

I am officially a runner. Again. I’m waking up sore and can’t wait to get outside. I missed my goal last week and was up late last night looking for another race, for another chance to be as good as I want to be. It’s a good feeling.
It may only be fair to explain that the past two or three days have been well over fifty degrees and although today is rainy, the sun’s an expected visitor for most of this week, too. A far cry from the fourteen degree wind chill and iced-over road last Thursday.
“Indian summer” is the obviously tempting term. But I find it hard to officially use because I don’t know the history of that term, whether it’s offensive; I don’t *actually* remember that it counts this early or late into the season. In any case the squirrels are back attacking my legs on runs this week, the trees are regretting their premature ejection of all that foliage (Something tells me they’ll be reassured come next week). But by all means it is a last warm blessing on our scrawny heads before we bow them down against the blustering winter.
Not to overexpose my inability to change focus, but let’s just graze on the idea that maybe that head-down stance of ours, in the silent presence of winter, like praying, is part of my respect for this season. The snow-bearing trees our chapel.
We celebrated Slate’s birthday this past Saturday, coming to a nice little underground jazz bar (though the band that night was playing more swing than true jazz) after the cider mill we’d thought about a hayride at never called us back. I don’t know what’s happening to “customer service” these days... though the van rental place (so I could drive all the drunkies home from said mill) was manned by a nice gentleman who we must’ve chatted with for a good half-hour - *me*, I remind you, chatting. (Don’t let the letters and our lack of physical presence in a few years make you start to think my infamous occupation of corners in rooms full of people has changed; I can type to you extensively because there’s no pressure. Snacks are available at any time. I can wear significantly less than my coattails. You don’t notice how much time passes while I think of items to unveil to you; you don’t start to think I’ve begun an out of body experience.) Anyway the party was grand - although, again, the manager at the bar failed at his job, leaving our tables unreserved - we had two rows of happy Michiganders sipping fruity drinks and consuming all forty cupcakes I baked for the occasion. Pink frosting and all. And yes, I did insist on lighting twenty-four candles and singing to the birthday girl. I think she had a good day. I think she'll let go of her guilt about enjoying adult beverages. She - now we - has some great friends. *They* know that alcohol is a right, a rite, and a proper thing to set one off on a brand new year. We still have three different types of cookies, somehow, to go through. Winter fattening.
There are going to be noises, now, to comment on when I write to you. That lively 3-year old (same birthday as Slate, in fact) living below us doesn’t have to go to daycare anymore. Our landlord will be home for a bit, and apparently he’s going to be riling her up more than ever. I’ve been here about four months now and I still smile and silently laugh whenever I hear them chasing each other around the house. I don’t think I want to be a father yet, but I certainly love hearing what joy it brings to that family downstairs. And I think I should learn a lesson from Katherine, and I should erupt with that joy a little more often (to be fair, the constant wrestling and tickling Slate and I are now engaged in is a close second). Who’s going to question my motives?
Oh, happy election day, by the way. I’ve been listening to this program about a 9/11 conspiracy involving Arnold Schwarzeneggar, David Copperfield, and Ronal Reagan’s still-living brain, and it’s got me thinking... if some strange miracle takes place and the folks who’ve been running our country into the ground stay in control, I may have to find the most midwest-resembling area of Scotland and purchase a flock of sheep. But for real, this time.

As ever,

T