Good Morning.

“Good morning,” I call toward the car as it passes…and to the next one. Every morning I wave, and every morning they wave back. I smile. I presume they smile back. Being blind as a mole I can’t see many of them very clearly, but they don’t know this.

“Good morning,” I say again to one of the Monday morning house cleaners.

“Buenos dias,” she replies and heads up a flight of stairs.

At one home, the hardwood floor people are still hammering on a new floor. I’d like to peek in but don’t.

“How long will it be,” I had asked her last week.

“Only four days.”

It’s into the second week now.

“I thought you were going to stay there forever,” I say to one man whose unit is swarming with workmen and whose truck is filled with the usual detritus of moving.

“I’m just moving in,” he tells me. “I have it in escrow.”

Embarrassed after that definitely blind error, I walk closer and offer my hand. “I’m Georgette,” I tell him, “and welcome.”

“I’m John,” he replies, “and thank you.” I could see that smile.

The plumbers are there as are the house painters, plasterers, and carpenters.

“I’ve got about a week before I move in. I thought I’d get the popcorn ceilings off first.”

“We did that too,” I said smiling back.

I left him to it with a wave, and walked around the corner to find a street sweeper generating clouds of dust in its mechanical wake. Brown dust. Our whole world is brown dust right now. Bare, raw earth mixed with ash from the backcountry has been swept our way by the last Santa Ana wind. Yesterday I had hosed down our outside walls, decks, and sidewalks. Now I need to hose off me.

I wrap my face in my sweatshirt and turn my back on the cloud of brown dust as it passes.

More cars drive slowly out of the complex. I wave. They all wave back. If anything were ever to happen to me, all these morning people will only remember me as the fat lady who walks. They’ll miss me as they miss the old man with the cane and the dog….our friend Joe.

I think about them as they drive on out to work. Who are they? What do they do? Does my brain define people by what they do? To me, what you do adds dimension and depth to what you are. What do they believe? Do they care? Most importantly, what do they feel?

Why does that gramma have children in the back of her car every morning? Where does that man go with all his dogs? So many of these morning people are talking on their cell phones and driving at the same time. I wince. More of them are drinking their morning coffee. I understand, but it’s probably just as dangerous.

More housecleaners are in the complex unpacking their cars.

“Buenos dias,” I call.

“Buenos dias,” they reply as they haul vacuum cleaners up a long flight of stairs.

“Como esta?”

“Bien. Bien.” At least I can reply properly. It is a good morning.

The tree trimmers are here too. The chipper begins to wind up its roar.

“Good morning,” I call. And it is.

I head home to deal with the candle wax I spilled on my new, black corduroy pants. I must have gestured with my candle at the tree lighting ceremony last night. Was I playing with the candle? Perhaps I was tipping it to roll the wax down the side of the tapers. I seem to remember that childish moment.

As soon as I get the wax out, it will be an even better morning.

NOAA Santa Ana winds

Wax Removal