Friday

8 December 2017

— Fifteen remaining leaves and two plump wood doves ornament the oaks upper branches.

Good Morning All,

According to the list Esther wrote down for me, the two guys in the recycling truck will be by today. They come once a month to empty my big plastic bin on wheels. This being super-organized Denmark, it’s partitioned: one side for glass, one for paper. Since I have a long driveway, I try to remember to roll it halfway to the sidewalk, to save them a little time. As today will be their last visit until January, I’ve put two six-packs of Tuborg Christmas Brew on top of the bin, with a taped on Christmas card inscribed: Tak for Hjælpe! God Jul! “Thanks for the help! Good Christmas!” 

I am, of course, aware that from a certain jaded point of view, my motivation may have something to do with keeping on the good side of these two lads. The same for the man who comes every Thursday to remove my full plastic bag of trash from its metal frame, and replace it with a new one. I shall give him a full case of Tuborg. And a bottle or two of good South African red  for the kindly lady who brings my mail.

It gives me pleasure to do so. Partially, of course (and still jaded) because it makes me feel like such a wonderful fellow. But also for the simple reason that those old Zen monks are correct to observe that The giver is grateful.

Not least, it also lets me feel slightly more a member of this neighborhood. I’ve not done too well so far in that department. Jens and Helle, the couple in the house next to me, and I are on very friendly terms. And I occasionally get lucky enough to have a chat with a dog walker or kids coming to the door to collect for Red Cross. 

I do wave at every car that comes by, since virtually all of them belong to the people living in the surrounding houses. Many of the drivers, I am happy to report, having gotten over the initial shock of this upstart American’s curious behavior, now wave back. Danish suburbia is not exactly a yakking-over-the-back-dence milieu.

It occurs to me as I write about these entirely mundane moments that some of you may be asking yourselves, “How can this old fool possibly think we’d be even remotely interested in his relationships with the guys who come to collect his glass and garbage?”

If so, I certainly can’t blame you!

I wonder if part of the problem may simply be that with so many years on my back now (Kent in King lear), even the most mundane bits and pieces of any give day can seem more significant than they had ten or twenty years ago. Something as simple as morning light taking the trees, or the absolute ballet of the blue tits at the feeders can command my gratitude and relief. Chatting with one of the dog walkers, who gracefully wrestles with my broken Danish, is not exactly Shakespeare, but there does seem to be a subdued dramatic quality to it. And when the two recycle guys come later this morning to tip my bin up into the back of their truck, even the clang and jangle and crash of my old wine bottles clattering in will be a kind of music.

Go Well and Stay Well,

Bhekaron 

P.S. Two Holly snaps: