Another Thursday

The building super and an aged hippie handyman knocked on my door this morning. They used random tools — some of them mine, a high aluminum ladder, and much mental gymnastics to figure out how to make one of my hugely tall windows able to once again go up and down. It was a service. It was a two-man show I totally enjoyed it all. Their powers of mechanical reasoning and skillsets seemed to perfectly complement each other.

Earlier my alarm startled me from sleep even though it is a gentle Zen chime alarm. I had forgotten I had set it. (This happens a little more often than it used to.) I wanted to be up early in case the window fixers came earlier than expected. The alarm woke me from a dream in which I was in a room with my mom. My father was in another room. It seemed as far away as another world. This makes sense because my father died in 2006. I walked for a while and magically ended up in the room with my father for just a moment. In the dream I saw only a closeup of his hands. Hands I can still picture almost better than his face. I touched his fingers and said, “I miss you, Dad.” He reached out and stroked my fingers. When the alarm woke me I could still feel his touch. I cried a few tears of combined sadness and joy.

I made myself breakfast using leftovers from a dinner I cooked the other day for family and friends. I put caramelized onions, and roasted red, orange, and yellow peppers into a skillet along with two small rounds of crusty bread buttered heavily with local, cultured butter. Butter side down. I fried an egg. Slid the whole thing into a pasta bowl and shaved in a few thin ribbons of Romano.

I walked by the river. Had a conversation with some other town residents on the footbridge about the volume of water going over the main falls and the side flow. Once across the footbridge I entered one of my favorite cafes. The barista there has the best advice and always educates me a little bit more. I sat on the balcony beside the river and drank an individually brewed over ice, coffee. It was strong but mellowed as I drank it. I finished the final portion of “TASTE: My Life Through Food” by Stanley Tucci and had a conversation with the other person on the deck about how grateful we both were that at that moment we were both lost in our own small worlds without the noise of other customers speaking loudly to each other or on their phones.

I spent a full 30 minutes in the library looking for a new book or two, something that normally takes me five minutes at most. I almost gave up. Nothing hit the spot and then suddenly it did. The Lily King I’ve been waiting for wasn’t available yet.

A Middlebury friend texted me to ask if I wanted to meet her in a bit at the Midsummer Market on the town green. I did. So many more vendors today. Great food and crafts. I bought blueberries, a tiny cabbage, zucchini, Italian yellowish green beans, and a big fat orange colored tomato. I enjoyed my friend’s company.

I left to go get ready for dinner at Jessica’s at the Swift House (SO SO SO SO good there). Our waiter commented on how often we all seemed to express our delight. Some of us had coffee after dinner. Some had whiskey. Some had both.

Earlier as I walked home to drop off my library books before meeting my friend at the town green, which is right across the street from my apartment, I contemplated how lucky I’ve been to love and be loved in all the ways in my life. I’ve survived my share of sorrows but am blessed by an abundance of kindness from friends. I’m thankful that I enjoy eating good food and know how to cook it.

And yes, it’s summer. For the day: sunscreen (the natural kind) on my face and tick spray on my body. For the evening: face cream and coconut oil. There was a cool breeze as I walked home and the fireflies were out.



Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store
Cinse Bonino

Cinse Bonino

Cinse, a former professor with a background in the psychology of human learning, writes nonstop, and is addicted to capturing the human experience in words.