Moment to Moment

The dining room table is beginning to resemble a discount store shelf. So far I've managed to accumulate two extension cords (one for the regular vacuum cleaner, one for the portable), a new set of curtain rods, a package of picture hanging tape, a seat for the toilet, a set of mini-blinds, a drain cleaning wizard and my latest find from the dreaded Walmart - a 4”, no moving parts bottle opener, what my grandmother was pleased to call a “church key” - a simple thing I've been searching for for weeks and was ridiculously pleased to finally find. After a certain age, so I've discovered, the small moments are enough to make you happy.

I'm in the midst of organizing these purchases, there's a thunderous knocking at the front door and the dogs erupt. I corral them as best as I can and answer the door to find a plumbing truck in my driveway and a young man wearing a turned around baseball cap and a huge grin on my doorstep. The old root-infested clay water pipes and the backup they'd caused over the weekend had completely slipped my mind, not to mention that it was after 7 and the appointment had been for 3. Trying to make himself heard over the tumult of the dogs, he apologized for being late, asked where he could find an electrical outlet, and set to work. It was another one of those small moments.

When he's done, he comes in to test everything - we flush the toilet several times, run hot water in the tub, and put the washing machine through a quick cycle - it all goes smoothly and while we sit on the back deck waiting, he makes friends with the dogs and we chat comfortably. I learn his name is Cameron, he's just 21 and his girlfriend recently had a miscarriage and lost twins. They've given it to God, he tells me with a sad smile, everything happens for a reason. Then he offers me a turtle.

“Found it out on Highway 1,” he says, “Put it in the back of the truck and forgot about it.”

Sure enough, in the back of the truck, perched on a coil of metal snaking, is a sleepy-eyed and pretty good sized turtle. He doesn't look particularly concerned about his circumstances and for a second, I think he could live in my back yard but I know very little about the habits of turtles so I suggest the local duck pond. Cameron nods and says he appreciates the suggestion. I wonder but don't ask why he didn't just help it cross the highway and drive on and as if reading my mind, he tells me he thought he'd give it to his little brother to care for only his mother nixed the idea, saying she didn't want another mouth to feed, even if it was only a turtle.

“Wonder what turtles eat,” I mused.

“No idea,” he says with a shrug, “I'm a dog person like you. But I'm pretty sure he'll like living at the duck pond.”

“Definitely,” I agree.

Turtles have their moments too.