Ratman, aka Natia, aka a dog named Boo,  and I went for a walk yesterday during lunchtime.

Since moving to small town USA approximately eight months ago, we’ve only paid the trash bill once. I vaguely remembered that the owner said they don’t send out bills – we are just supposed to recall our obligation each month.

Holy memory loss, Ratman. You need hearing aids. I need memory exercises and a notepad, since I do not ever intend on owning an Apple watch with Google calendar alarms.

So, we went for a walk yesterday, checkbook in hand.

It was such a beautiful day. Natia the rat is a great walker, until the pebbles on the street hurt her paws, or until she has had enough and decides to park. I ended up carrying her part of the way, but that was okay, because hey, arm exercise.

In small town USA, you don’t go to the city offices to pay your trash bill. You don’t go to the trash company to pay your trash bill. You go to the burger stand with the walk-up window. You can pay your trash bill AND get an order of burgers and fries and a milkshake. Doesn’t get any better than that.

On the way to the burger stand, carrying a rat, my nose was enjoying someone’s fresh cut grass. I could hear recess at the school in the distance, along with dogs behind closed doors, barking at the ratdog and her forgetful owner going down the street.

And then, I smelled it. (cue the angels and heavenly music)

A smell I had not smelled in a very long time. A smell that took me back to the kitchen table in Haven, wishing so badly that Dwight would let me help him, but instead, I was the little sister who only got to watch.

Model airplane glue.

It was STRONG. I don’t know who is building a model airplane in small town USA, but it had to be the size of a real life Cessna, because the smell was as potent as feedlot aroma, and Rhonda wanted it to NEVER END.

I paid my trash bill without ordering takeout.

And we walked home VERY VERY SLOWLY so as to enjoy every breath. I may be getting older and think notepad instead of Google calendar, but my nose is still very much 7 years old.

*****

This morning, I was in the new laundry room. Sam was in the kitchen. We had a HUMONGO senior moment that had me laughing so hard I created tears.

Sam was getting ready to go to work. I was putting a load of clothes in the dryer.

Sam said, “This granola bar is a good kind.”

I came around the corner, and responded, “The sprinkler is just fine?”

When I realized that I was WAY out in left field, we both laughed and laughed and laughed and laughed. And laughed some more. And as Sam was leaving, he said,

“Best way to start the day – laughter with my wife.”

*****

I am grateful for simplicity and quirky small town life.

I am grateful that the neighbor watched Natia the ratdog poop in his front yard, and instead of scowling at me, he bent down and made friends with Natia the ratdog named Boo.

I am grateful that in small town USA, you don’t have to carry a doggy bag and bend down to pick up fresh poop out of someone else’s yard. El baño de mi perro es el baño de tu perro – that’s mi casa es su casa, for bathrooms and dogs.

I am grateful for memories of model airplanes. Well, for the smell that conjured up memories of model airplanes.

I am grateful for an abundance of mourning doves in this town. THEY conjure up memories of sitting in a tire swing on Wichita Street, enjoying the peace and quiet and mourning dove sounds of another small town USA.

I am grateful for lilac bushes almost ready to burst with color, for daffodils holding on and tulips about to be born.

I am grateful for the past two weeks with Sam.

I am grateful for laundry done, bag packed, dishes put away, a productive work week over, and a long drive to end this day. Natia, pick up your tail. We’re headed out.

I am grateful for my memory.

I am grateful the trash bill is paid.

And I am grateful that Linda just sent me a devotion to re-read to Sam on our drive with a message about forgiveness that speaks life. So that makes me extra grateful for Linda. And for Max Lucado. And for the Author of the story who forgives by example and gives me life so full.

I am in the market for canine hearing aids this afternoon.

Twice today, I’ve taken Natia the Naughty, quite often described as looking like a drowned rat, across the street to the local park. Once we cross the street, I release the prisoner to let her run, while “Booorn free, as free as the wind blows…” plays on my internal jukebox.

She used to do a racetrack run – wide circles at a dead gallop – but 10+ years has taken its toll, and it’s more of a trot in a drunk oval these days.

I’ve suspected hearing loss on a couple of occasions, but today, I have EVIDENCE.

No one else was in the park. It is a small park. I was NOT THAT FAR AWAY. 30 feet, maybe. Breezy and sunny and 50-ish degrees. Breezy. That’s gotta be it.

“Natia!”

Her ears perked up and she stopped, looking to one side, and then the other. She looked ahead, but we already know she is cataracty-impaired, so that didn’t work for her either. I know she heard me, albeit faintly, but she didn’t look behind, where I was standing.

She began running, trying to find that voice.

“Natia! NATIA! Natia, I’m RIGHT HERE!”

Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nope.

I had to chase Mrs. Magoo all the way across the park, up the embankment, across the stream, around the gazebo…

THREE DIFFERENT TIMES.

Geri, it’s an alternative weight loss plan. Who needs Simply Fit, five mile walks, or a bike, when you’ve got a little hard-of-hearing, blind-as-a-bat, rat dog to chase?

I am grateful for Natia and her sweetness and desire to run free. Or run desperate. Either way, she ran and got exercise.

I am grateful for a sunny day and the relatively safe space for her to run.

I am grateful for a change in my exercise plan this afternoon.

I am grateful for a break from the computer to chase after my little companion.

I am grateful that there were no cars in her way, no big dogs to scream at, and no fresh poop on the bottom of my shoes after we reunited.

And I am grateful that she is back on her makeshift bed, buggy-eyed and begging for dinner.

sweet spot
n.
1. An optimum point or combination of factors or qualities.

I am grateful for these sweet spots:

• When you wake up, smiling.
• When you just know that you know what you know, and it all clicks.
• When something is so funny it makes you cry.
• When all is right with the world and tension and anxiety are just words, no longer reality.
• When the cake comes out of the oven and it is perfection.
• When the presence of God is so near that you feel like you are sitting in His lap.
• When the dog’s leg kicks in rhythm to the scratching.
• When the harmony is so tight and so tuned it makes a musician’s ear tingle.
• When the Dr. Pepper is so carbonated and cold that it takes your breath away with that first sip and makes you go “Ahhh” without thinking.
• When the warmth of the sunshine combines with the chill of the morning to make your body say, “This feels so good.”
• When chocolate and peanut butter combine.
• When you lay your head on the pillow and relax every muscle.
• When you read a chapter and wish you could share it with the whole world.
• When you finish a long walk or a long ride and aren’t even hungry.
• When there is no mask to be worn, no covering up, no façade to keep up, but accepting who you are, where you are, how you are, and whose you are.
• When the birds sing and the babies giggle – at the same time.
• When you find money in your pocket that you were unaware was there.
• When your daughter says, “I love you” and not just “I love you, too.”
• When you turn the corner and are surprised to see a long lost dear friend.
• When you realize that wasn’t just a coincidence. It was God.
• When the diagnosis is better than expected.
• When the M&M’s are just the right kind of melted.
• When you do something nice for someone else in secret and never receive acknowledgment.
• When your child does so well, your heart is about to burst with pride.
• When the project is completed and the sense of accomplishment overwhelms.
• When you finish a meal and aren’t still hungry and yet, not full to the miserable.
• When you cross the last thing off the list.
• When a wonderful memory is so vivid and clear, it makes you cry.
• When you attend a concert that is so good you don’t want it to end.
• When you go to bed at the end of the day, smiling.

I have no fingerprints.

This is the progress that has been made in our new laundry room. It is slow progress, but hey, at least we are moving forward. Before Saturday morning, the floor was cement backer board – listen to me, I sound like I know what I am talking about. I could stop right there and allow you to think I know what I am talking about, but no, I am my mother’s daughter and my mouth/typing is on auto-pilot.

*****

Saturday morning. It was a beautiful beginning to a great day. We began by driving in the cold rain to a cafe downtown in small town USA, to experience what had been described as dinner plate-sized pancakes. They were. And they were GOOOOOOOOOD. I mean IT was good. One was plenty.

After visiting with George and Lloyd, two new acquaintances who are members of the Full Bladder Club – honest to goodness, it’s a real club that meets every morning from 8-9 am – we came home to tackle the laundry room floor project.

We worked for part of the day until we ran out of walking space around the beautiful art we had just created on the floor. We were both so proud and were very pleased with how it was turning out.

Fast forward, past Saturday evening tournament games and hot dogs and more steady rainfall – it was glorious. Pancakes and rain, hotdogs and rain. A little work in between, and we were pleased with our efforts and our beautiful new tile floor.

*****

Sunday morning. We had plans to spend the day with family, attending a concert 3 1/2 hours away, and knowing we would not be able to attend church, we decided to finish the last few pieces of tile before heading out on our trip.

While Sam cut, I got dirty with the mortar.

While I was waiting, I decided it would be a GREAT idea to use the sanded mortar and fill in the small spaces – I won’t get all technical here and further your impression that I know what I am talking about. Anyway, I took the remaining goop at the bottom of the bucket and began to rub it into tiny crevices. And I rubbed, and I rubbed, and it looked pretty good, so I continued to scoop goop and rub-a-dub-dub.

I felt a little irritation and uncomfortability. Is that a word? WordPress thinks not. I felt a little PAIN, but I kept going because I was ALMOST DONE. And when the goop was gone, the tiles were in place, and the floor was GORGE GORGE GORGEOUS, I went upstairs to shower and get ready for our afternoon concert.

But as I was washing my hair, I realized I couldn’t feel my fingers.

And as I sat at the concert, my fingers throbbed with the beat of the brass.

I had rubbed my fingers raw. Stainless steel appliances would love me, all fingerprint free.

Still this evening, my left hand fingers are smooth as a baby’s bottom, albeit SORE as a baby’s bottom…

But we have a beautiful tile floor. I am not in jail. And I can still type.

So for that, I am grateful.