Some Days Are Meant For Meandering

In the morning, we have coffee with a couple we hadn’t met before. Writers, the pair of them. All isn’t as we wish it to be in the world, but we have technology that facilitates connection that otherwise wouldn’t happen. That’s a gift. 

Turns out he and I are distantly related on the Letkeman side. Among a host of other things, we talk about our common ancestor, Heinrich; the many (many!) Jacobs in our lineage; Boris, a relative from Russia who once visited Canada; and Esther, genealogy researcher extraordinaire, with whom I corresponded regularly for a few years and who visited Boris in Russia while researching what would become the “blue book” of family history (as opposed to the thinner, less accurate, “gold book”.) We each have copies of the blue book and are both in it.

Later, after Gerry and I have lunch and play chess, I head out on my own to shop for flowers. He has little patience for my browsing and choosing and changing my mind (rinse and repeat) that the annual flower-buying activity entails. I’m more than happy to go solo. 

First stop: Canadian Tire where I choose a couple of pelargonium (commonly called geraniums) to supplement the ones I grew from seed. A gentleman strikes up conversation while I’m choosing. 

“Do you like geraniums?” 

We volley a couple of remarks before I move on, not really keen on conversation. I encounter him again on my second or third pass around. This time, he’s struck up a conversation with someone who works there. 

“I’m not looking to get in too deep,” he responds when she asks if he needs help. “My brother always has a lot of flowers, which are nice for visitors. No one comes to see me, though. I don’t need much.” I feel bad that I didn’t engage more with him earlier, but the young woman stays with him as he blocks the aisle with his cart and they talk about the merits of pansies. 

I pay for my plants and head across the street to Walmart. Gerry and I stopped by yesterday, and I know they’ve got a good selection. I go in with a cart this time, ready to buy, and come out with marigolds and pansies. Still not satisfied, I head down the street to the Real Canadian Superstore where I have a fine time going around and around, considering this and that, finally coming away with lobelia, begonia, and calibrachoa.

Nothing too fancy this year, and I didn’t stick with a cohesive colour scheme, but I’m satisfied that my purchases will look lovely in our backyard oasis. I can’t wait to plant. 

Shopping done, I stop for an iced caramel macchiato and use voice commands in my car to call my daughter. Sipping and chatting, driving past fields where farmers are seeding, I detour and take the long country road way toward home. All in all, it’s a wonderful way to spend an afternoon.

I check my phone after I unload the plants at home and—oops!—there’s a reminder of somewhere I was supposed to be an hour ago. I totally forgot about the commitment. I send a hurried apology. I’m so sorry! I feel bad, but not too bad. I messed up but the world didn’t end. I’m human. Stuff happens. And, boy, did I enjoy my afternoon. No regrets.

We order pizza, watch Bake Off, then Gerry tunes in to the Edmonton Oilers hockey game and I dive into my Kindle. 

Some days are meant for deep contemplation, others for work and getting things done. But some days—some glorious days—are meant for meandering and being okay with right where you are in the world. This was one of those days.