A Dry Spell

by Madeleine Kando

For a while now, my Muse has been on strike, stubbornly refusing to do her job of inspiring me to write. I go through the motions, poking my brain, trying to stimulate the writing reflex, zilch, nada.

I am sitting at my desk, frustrated, watching the birds go about their much more sensible business of waiting their turn around the birdfeeder, the squirrels madly chasing each other in the grass, their tails jerkily going up and down, trying to keep up with their owners’ frenzied activity.

The alarm on my electronic calendar rudely jars me out of my reverie, reminding me that National Grid is coming by to change our gas meter. I have five minutes to comb my hair, wipe the boogers out of my eyes and put some clothes on. Whoever shows up at this ungodly hour will have to suffer the consequences of morning breath and body odor.

I am in the kitchen making coffee, looking at the clock to see if I have time to go out and check on my newly planted seedlings. I feel a slight irritation brewing as I stir my coffee. My precious morning ritual of stepping into the dew covered garden in my p.j.’s to inspect the new growth has been disrupted.

It’s almost eight o’clock but there is no sign of a utility truck in the drive-way. My hands are moist after doing the dishes. Should I take the trouble of drying them? Does this visit involve shaking hands? I shook hands with my new boss once, mistiming it as he stepped out of the men’s room and still wonder if his hand felt moist from washing or from holding his equipment. Better be safe than sorry, I am thinking, so I thoroughly dry my hands.

My irrational hope that National Grid has forgotten our appointment is short lived as a truck pulls up in the driveway. I open the door to let in a tall, friendly man in overalls. We shake hands. ‘Is your meter in the yaard?’ he asks with a heavy Boston accent. His nose looks like someone splashed a big blob of purple putty on his face. ‘Yes, I’ll meet you around back’ I say, sliding into my boots.

The meter is partly hidden behind a large bush of ‘night shade’. My husband and I like the looks of it, so we allow it to climb up the wall of our house, fairly certain that it isn’t the deadly variety called Belladonna. With the help from ferns and wild flowers it has pretty much taken over that back corner.

‘This plant is ok, if you don’t touch it too much.’ I tell him. ‘What is it?’ he asks suspiciously. ‘It’s called night shade. It’s not poisonous, as long as you don’t eat it.’ A big barrel laugh makes his nose wiggle from side to side. ‘After I am done here, I’ll have to come in and restart the pilot’ he says.

I am back inside, waiting. I have to pee but what if he is done while I am in the bathroom in the middle of a long relief process? Trying to distract myself from nature’s calling, I watch the busy traffic outside my large bay window. The squirrels have multiplied. One of them is futilely trying to climb up the pole of the birdfeeder, knowing that the baffle will prevent him from reaching the top. He is just hanging there, looking down on his colleagues who seem unimpressed by his acrobatics. A tiny chipmunk has joined them, aggressively pushing a squirrel five times his size out of the way, laying claim on a patch of sunflower seeds.

A knock on the front door means imminent relief for my bladder and I. The man tells me to turn up the thermostat so that the burner will kick in. After some chitchat about the merits of gas heat versus oil heat, the man wants my signature. Another handshake, another joke about the Belladonna and he is gone.

I go back to my desk and my non-writing. Chin in hand, drumming my fingers on my desk, I wait for my muse to return. Why doesn't anything ever happen? I would settle for the most trivial, mundane event to inspire me... leave comment here