Looking for Trouble

I’m writing about looking for trouble, about high hopes and low expectations and how they converge in the turning of a key.

I work in a school and the kids are way out of control. After a year and a half on zoom, now they’re back at school and they’re crazy. They skip class and roam the halls. Eat everywhere and leave pools of ketchup. There’s a burger bun on the stairs. In one trip to the bathroom I encounter a sword fight and a dance party.  I hear on the radio a kid’s riding a scooter in the office.

In April we start counting the days ‘til June 17th. The bus drivers wave fingers out the window for our countdown, ‘til at last the day arrives and we’re free.

Summer.

I have big plans for this summer. Big work to do on my buildings, which are threatening to fall apart. On my yard, where the grass is eighteen inches tall. On my psyche, where I want to sink in and relax and love all the things I love again without rushing from one bell to the next. It’s the land of milk and honey, this summer.

First, I sleep. Long naps in the afternoon, the evening, the morning. I read a book on the couch and put off making my lists of to-do’s. Building and Yard. Nagging Details. Personal and Health Stuff. And fun to have, people I want to see. Each envisioned with an endless summer to accomplish it, a glorious three whole months.      

But summer didn’t start ‘til halfway through June, and school starts again before Labor Day. Summer is not three months long.

I look at my lists. How will I ever get all this done? It has to happen or else. It depends on weather and on my own resolve, since I’m doing most of it myself.

I’m an artist, a dancer, a writer. I sing and drift through life on clouds of romance and music. I do not love sanding, painting, caulking, or fixing plumbing, yet that’s what needs to be done.

Daunted is too small a word for this. I’m a woman alone, confronting a summer of home repair. I am Frodo on the edge of Mordor.

I do begin some things. E-mail my voice teacher, say I’m afraid I lost my voice and I now suck. Can I get it back? I title the e-mail Courage. We have our first lesson, and as I find where my voice comes from in my body, discover resonance in the crown of my head and my chest, I also find some courage.

I look at my lists.

I order caulk and check out caulk guns online. At Harbor Freight I buy all the walnut shells they have, because that’s what you use to blast off old stain. I fluff my hair and put on lipstick before I go in, and sure enough, a guy asks if I need some help. I get him to tell me about nozzles, and which compressor to rent.

Then I work up my nerve to approach the tractor. I pull off the blue tarp and charge the battery, which is probably dead. Turn the key and hear nothing, as I expected. It has never, ever started on the first try.

Could be the battery, but probably something worse. Despair looms. Sauron and the orcs are lying in wait. I’ll never figure this out.

I buy a new battery, and premium gas. Pour in gas dryer and oil.

I adore this little machine. When it runs, it’ll mow down blackberries and sallal, anything in its way. I’d like to be like that.

When it runs.

Some years I spend weeks wheedling someone to repair it, getting advice to check this or try that, holding my breath and hoping something works. Already I have a list of who I can plead with this year to work on my red friend, and I know what they’ll ask me.

What happens when you turn the key?

I have to have an answer, so at last I take the key off its nail, drop it in my pocket, and bravely walk out the door. Key in the ignition. Set the choke. Release the brake, take a deep breath, and turn the key.

Wow, what’s that noise? Is it really running?

Yes. For the first time ever my tractor starts right up. For the first time ever I don’t need to dig out the manual, run to NAPA for parts, and go down my list of mechanics.

I lower the blade and mow my grass.

And somehow, over the noise of that strong and willing engine and the turning blades, I talk with myself about looking for trouble. I remind myself that I don’t know the future because it hasn’t happened yet. That it makes me very tired to expect all those bad outcomes. That it doesn’t help me get anything done.

I get a faint and flickering glimpse of optimism. Maybe not actual faith in the future, but at least a possible open mind.

At least, I think, next time try this: Just turn the key and see what happens.