ISawArkansas

Last night was not too hot, not too cold, it was just right. That might be because someone, somewhere, changed the time on Sunday morning, giving all of us a surprise hour.

It was easy to find sticks and twigs and small branches to feed the chiminea, and even easier to sit down and be hypnotized by the flames. Did you know that staring at flames lowers blood pressure, has anti-inflammatory effects and promotes deep, meaningful conversations? In your own head?

Frog the Dog laid on the porch next to me, sound asleep. Ocho was out in front giving red trucks the what for. Red trucks are his least favorite vehicle, the ones he is convinced require speed-barking. He tolerates creaky kayak trucks and belching recycling trucks, hysterical ambulances and thumping Air-Evac choppers, but red trucks are the cape in front of a bull.

My next-door neighbor was revving his Crossfire from under the hood, trying to locate the root of a mysterious screech that made his car sound hungry and grumpy.

The peepers were clearly celebrating Mardi Gras, or a birth or a promotion, or maybe just feeling frisky because their blood warmed up enough to bring them back to life.

Two wild turkeys flew up and over the backyard looking like they were transporting feed bags that made it hard to reach altitude, but that’s normal for the bumblebee of birds – no way they can fly. And then they do.

Fishing boats were changing places. The morning shift was on the way home from the river and the night shift was coming on. There were enough of them to qualify for their own group name – like a flock or a pod or a school. Did you know that a group of apes is called a shrewdness? Convocation of eagles? Quiver of cobras? Band of outlaws?

How about a smack of boats? Pandemonium of boats? Wave of boats?

When it’s peaceful and happy and the fire’s burning and nobody’s yelling or stealing or using a jackhammer, it’s soothing to look at the sky and wonder what in the world is so marvelous about being in the world?

Doesn’t matter, it’s just good.

Then it happened – because I made the mistake of not leaving my phone inside.

“This is meteorologist Ron Hearst. A new station alert has been issued for your area.”

Jolting. First of all, there was nothing to be on alert about. The clouds were poofy, the trees budding, the jonquils stretching for the disappearing sun. Everything as it should be.

But Ron Hearst, who politely introduced himself before altering my heart rate, thought he had important weather information that would slide smoothly up against my evening bliss.

I wondered why I resented being interrupted from doing nothing. I should have kinder thoughts.

Then I thought, “Why?”

And it’s because I’ve become so accustomed to Ron Hearst using that loaded word – alert! – that I got mad at the messenger. Because, really, there was no message. No actual alert.

But these few seconds of interruption changed my outlook. It happens two or three times a day. I ignore his alerts because I don’t want to participate in alerts that aren’t.

If he said, “If you live in Busch, say your prayers,” I might pay attention.

Instead, I thought of a friend who is about to turn 95, she’s due for a birthday in two weeks. I mentioned her to friend in Fayetteville last week and he said, “Ninety-five is creeping up on middle age. The only reason we all die so young is because we breathe oxygen. It’s a toxic gas and not good for us.”

“Yeah, but,” and I responded with the obvious, hmmm, I don’t know that we can meditate our way out of breathing.

But he knew more about what he was talking about than I did. He’d studied this for a long time. He lost me, and that’s because I know enough about birds and bees and other oxygen-dependent species to believe that experience and knowledge have a way of boiling away into nothing.

Ron Hearst, however, is here for the duration. I’ve got to be nicer about his interruptions. I think I’m going to start thinking of him as family.

I mean, he does just show up without calling and he is repetitive, but he stays on message.