Sometimes, the music one hears isn’t music at all. For me, nearing noon on a Tuesday morning, it was the sound of all those construction vehicles I once knew by name (most especially during the tweenager’s toddlerhood, when he was quite obsessed with con-struct-tion) doing some heavy lifting: digging and whirring and drilling and pulling. This is because the little puddle of water on our floor—origin unclear—Friday afternoon turned out to be a blockage in a pipe thirteen feet under the street in front of our house.
We haven’t had working water since then.
While it’s a long, involved drama bordering upon trauma of waiting and calling and haranguing yet to be entirely sorted through—insert your own institutional nightmare story here—I nearly hummed to the industrious sounds of a temporary fix being delivered by the men in orange DPW trucks.
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Amongst my most favorite picture books ever is Remy Charlip’s Fortunately. The story is essentially a tale that moves between fortunately and unfortunately, ending up with fortunately (I like happy endings, so this is part of the book’s appeal). Last night, en route to our local grandma’s house—fortunately, big enough for us all—I was counting all my many good fortunes, including not only having her and her house, but feeling oh so welcomed at a moment when we were struggling to keep seeing the half-full aspect of the situation. On the radio serenading the teenager, himself struggling to maintain some equilibrium during upheaval and myself a Jackson Browne/Bonnie Raitt rendition of Poor, Poor Pitiful Me. Woe-oh is me, all right. I had to laugh.
This morning, on the way in with the toddler to her school, I heard What a Wonderful World and think about how apt the line was: “Don’t know much about… “I don’t know much, if anything, about fixing things,about how-to. Shout-out to the fortunately I was reminded of twice in short order: we are lucky to have a great local radio station.
Quite obviously, when you don’t have something you generally take for granted—think, ability to flush the toilet—you realize how very fortunate you are, for the vast majority of your life, to have plumbing, a warm house, a roof, a bed, food in the kitchen, a kitchen in which to prepare your food. I can’t tell you how many people either commiserated that this plumbing disaster has struck so close to “the holidays” or have pointed out how lucky we are that it didn’t happen during “the holidays.” Take your pick and know I’m refraining from cliché as best I can when I say that at this time of year, our temporary displacement has provided me with a swift kick in the groove-on-your-absolute-amazing-good-fortune pants.
Does this mean I haven’t felt cranky? Does this mean that everyone in my family does not appear somewhat frazzled? We’re a bit sleep-deprived and all seem to be fighting some variation of sniffles or sore throats. We got a bit dirtier than usual (well, honestly, just some of us; others swear by dirtiness). We’re not entirely on top of our collective game and I’ll be honest: when I’m in that vulnerable state, I start feeling fairly much like I see all my flaws and wanna-be-better-at things that much more clearly (well, that much more like staring through a magnifying mirror under harsh light). That is all a longwinded way of saying: the last few days haven’t been easy.
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On the side of fortunately, we have been enveloped—that word is one I choose deliberately—by our friends’ and neighbors’ (and grandmother’s) kindness. If ever I feel sorry for myself, one thing is for sure, it’s not because I’m lacking in an incredible wealth of amazing champions. Even the nice folks at River Valley Market, a place that necessitated two stops today, for milk and then for teenager’s lunch (and allowed me use of the loo twice to boot) were peaches, inquiring on our progress between my first and second visits.
