Courage at Twilight: How Was Your Day?

“Tell me about your day,” I ventured as I drove Dad to Smith’s in the Faithful Suburban (also known as the “Mighty V8”). “Oh,” he began, “I had a good day, even though I didn’t accomplish one blessed thing.”  I said I supposed one’s perspective of what a good day is might change at different times in one’s life.  “Indeed,” he confirmed.  “For me, a good day is to survive.”  That’s all: to survive.  Gone are the days of ebullient striving and thriving.  The point comes where mere living is sufficient—as opposed to dying, from viral meningitis or a car wreck or heart disease or aspirating on one’s food or falling down the stairs or eating too much sugar or an abundance of other morose possibilities.  Changing the subject, I mentioned I had stopped at the Bosch store to buy a part to fix the dishwasher door, which one day had lost all tension in the springs and fell open with a bang.  The belligerent door had already hammered at Mom’s leg, leaving a big long angry purple bruise on her leg.  Dad and I had driven to Smith’s with a particular mission in mind: a rotisserie chicken for dinner.  And after dinner I slid the dishwasher out and found the suspected chords broken and detached from the springs.  Then I discovered that the 1/16 of-an-inch-wide plastic anchors holding the stiff springs in place within the dishwasher frame had deteriorated from their old weld, and the springs floated anchorless in their plastic sockets.  The new chords would do me no good with nothing to anchor the springs.  Discouraged, I discerned that the door could not be fixed: the integrated plastic anchors had simply disintegrated, on both sides of the door.  Things seem to be crumbling all around me, I thought, as the clip that held the dishwasher in place buckled and broke and the machine lurched forward and the loaded dish trays rolled out clanking.  Already the first week of May, with already several 80-degree-F days behind us, heavy snow blew at a slant outside the kitchen window from low black clouds.  I had arrived home late from work, and did not have time or energy to cook, hence the rotisserie run to Smith’s in the Mighty V8, where Dad motored off in the motorized shopping cart and another older patron quipped, “Drive safe.”

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