Sunday, February 19, 2012

Social Networking

Dear Diary, I finally made a meeting of the Monadnock Writers Group; first one this season. Enjoyed seeing everyone and listening to co-authors B. Eugene McCarthy and Thomas Doughton speak about their book, From Bondage to Belonging: The Worcester Slave Narratives. The Q&A sessions afterwards is always interesting too, as you get a sense of what others are thinking during the talk by the nature of the questions they ask. As always after one of these meetings, I feel the itch to get in front of my monitor with a blank word doc before me, waiting to transform it into something of my own.

Back in the car I head to Milford from Peterborough. I need to get the car washed. I have a booklet of car washes I got for Christmas. I love keeping my little car clean. I see I’m not alone with the thought of a clean car. There is a line waiting their turn. I have to make a left turn into the lot. The traffic is heavy and I can’t seem to find a break in the flow to get by. Finally, a pick-up truck flashes his lights and waves me through. As I proceed on through, an SUV behind him stamps on the accelerator and jack rabbits around, nearly colliding with me. With hearts pounding we all sit there momentarily then I move on into the lot. The driver of the pick-up is looking at me with concern and relief and patiently waits for me to get by.

I notice a number of motorcycles on the road today. It is such a nice day for February. I turn over in my mind the rest of the day’s plans and wonder if I too can fit in a ride. After my near collision while trying to make a left hand turn, I remember that this is the doom of many motorcyclists too. I have also noticed how much sand is on the roadways, another thing to be concerned with if you are riding this time of year. As I wait in line at the car wash I try to picture in my mind if the driveway was still ice covered when I left home earlier.

I stop at the market to stock up for tonight’s movie.  An old woman, bent at the waist and hanging on to her basket for dear life, asks me to reach a canned good on a top shelf. She thinks it wonderful to be tall. I smile. I don’t feel exceptionally tall, but I suppose if the average American woman is 5 feet 4 inches tall, then I guess 5 feet 7 inches would be considered tall.

On the way home, the car in front of me is stopping at every intersecting road to let someone out of a side street. I’m annoyed at first. This is the main drag after all, and no one usually stops to let people out at the side streets. I think of my near miss earlier, and I let my boil calm to a simmer. Then I start cracking up, laughing out loud all by myself in the car. I’m laughing because I remember a friend being in a sour mood, and me giving him some advice to feel better. I had instructed him to do a deliberate act of kindness sure to make he feel much better afterward. Well, he had to stop by Costco and decided to try this with five people. Yet, Costco was unusually empty that night, and he could not find ONE PERSON to do a random act of kindness and left in a mood fouler than when he arrived. Maybe this guy in front of me couldn’t find five people at Costco either! I patiently sit and smile to myself as we continue along, letting people into traffic, one deliberate act of kindness at a time.

I take a walk in the neighborhood along the quiet country lanes, greeting the few people I meet along the way. I rejoice at the sight of the taps in the trees heralding spring and the maple sugaring season. In the evening, we enjoy a movie at home with friends. Good wine, great conversation and a sense that all is right with the world. So ends my own version of a great social networking day.

1 comment:

Words and Stuff said...

I appreciate your blog, I have some interests in common with you as I am also interested in motorcycles and blogging. I also write stories related to bikes and other things. It's so nice to find a motorcycle site with a story to go with the photos, I've been searching and it seems they are rare. It's also nice to get another woman's point of view.