WAITING FOR

What are you waiting for? I remember those words coming out of my mouth; looking up at my son, standing at the end of the diving board. People were lined up on the ladder behind him, waiting their turns. He had jumped off earlier but something wasn’t right and he danced a little anxiety dance, trying to drum up some courage. Finally he lay down, grabbed hold of the edges at the end of the board and slid over the side. There he hung, grasping the end of the board with his legs wrapped around it like a little monkey, clinging to its mother. Then he let go his legs and dangled for a while, looking down those ten feet to the water. Whether he lost his grip or let go of choice, you couldn’t tell. But the splash was less than spectacular and his swim over to the ladder lacked the bravado he had brandished climbing up the ladder.  He was 6.

What are you waiting for? Same words, different situation, many years later: I was thinking and it was a monologue. In the Midwest, seasons change on a predetermined date but it takes a while for the change to manifest itself. It’s well into Spring and the grass is green but we had ice on the glass yesterday and the breeze had a cutting edge that would not have made me notice in Dec. or Jan. Maybe there is a difference between waiting for something and just squatting in a warm place. Whatever the difference, I wasn’t excited about doing anything. 

By 8:00 a.m. I’m back from an hour in the pool and breakfast is either in progress or past tense. I didn’t feel like reading or writing or going somewhere so I trekked down to the basement and set to straightening up and putting tools away. My latest project was complete and it would be impossible to start a new venture on the cluttered work bench. There was a short piece of a door jam, too short to make something but too good to throw in the scrap box. The scrap box; full of good wood, just too small or not enough for whatever I was doing at the time. So I dug around, sanded some and sawed a little. A little glue and drill some nail holes: a couple of hours later I had a bird house. As is my custom, there were no measurements made nor taken; everything by feel and intuition. This morning the sun was warm today when I got home and the bird house was sitting on the bench. That must have been what I’ve been waiting for. A quick paint job, a bungee cord and we have a vacant wren house in the Tulip Poplar, in the back yard. Maybe I’ll make another one soon; don’t want the Bald Cypress or the Maples to go unoccupied.