Presently, I’m on a mission. A mission to do things I like. There are lots of things I like. The problem is, I rarely do them. And if we’re being honest, I spend too much free time doing things I don’t like. “Why’s that?”, you’re wondering. Oh, you sweet, productive soul. You must know how to manage your time!

Any fellow time-non-managers out there will recognize the dilemma, “If I do x, I won’t have time to do y.” That’s been my mantra since I was old enough to think. But I also know it’s a lie; it only appears to be true if you live your life without a plan. To the time-non-manager, doing the dishes instead of reading the book is akin to frisbee-ing the book into the fireplace. Going to the gym instead of writing this post means this post will never get written. As mentalities go, this one blows (and clearly, it’s wrong!).

It’s brought me much decision paralysis and missed opportunities. So, after three decades at the decision paralysis factory, I’m calling it quits. And actually, you’re catching me a few weeks into retirement. I don’t miss the old gig. And I’ve learned that instead of choosing between x and y, I can do both.

So, that was the side salad. Here’s the meat and potatoes.

I’m quite dumb at night. But my morning brain…oooh my morning brain is a cooker. Around 8am, after that first coffee, watch out. I’m planning cross-country road trips I’ll never take. I’m mentally re-landscaping the backyard we don’t own. I’m researching breathing techniques for a triathlon I’d never sign up for. When I’m like this—curious, manic, excited about life—there are two things I want to do above all else: walk and write.

The trouble is, I can’t walk and write at the same time. I suppose I could be one of those guys who walks and talks into a transcription app. Then again, I could be one of those guys who never calls his mom or who doesn’t know his breath stinks.

Alas, I have to choose one. Do I harness that morning energy into a walk, then write during my dumb hours? Or use the AM brain for words, then drag my sluggish body out for a passeggiata?

I choose the option that’s most practical. I start with the walk. I throw myself in the car and drive all of 70 seconds to Tourne Park. There, I choose from dozens of trails covering hundreds of miles, filled with endless sights and allegedly some bears. When I’m walking, I still get to revel in all the fun thoughts I’d have at home, plus I get the added benefit of physical activity to start my day. That’s good, especially compared to writing, which I do while sitting, which I’ve been told is the devil.

So that’s been my approach. But here’s the kicker: my mileage is outpacing my word count. Not the ratio you want. If I had to point the finger, I’d say that because I cover so much ground mentally during these walks, it can be tricky to 1) remember it all, and 2) focus all the ideas into something more orderly than a journal.

And so, 566 words in, we’re at the point where I tell you why it is I know that Tourne Park is missing red. 588 words, sorry.

Last Monday, in an effort to give myself a clear writing topic from my morning walk, decided to document all the red things I could find. I called it my “red walk”. Not once in the year I’ve spent walking this forest have I been so in tune with it…or with its lack of red. Seriously, like, no red! Maybe it was an off day. Nevertheless, I present my portfolio.

The Red Walk Gallery

This was a fun exercise. I hope to do it again with an even worse color choice. Violet, I’m looking at you.

It’s the Sunday after Thanksgiving. The page before me is blank because we forgot to mention the guest book. It sat on the coffee table all week, likely propping up drinks and wool-socked heels. Props to our guests for not snooping, I suppose.

Outside, the snow is heavy. It’s our first Boonton dumping. Before having breakfast in the dining room—where I write this now—I went out to capture the house playing a picture-perfect rendition of “oasis in the snowstorm”. Some neighbors had the same idea. The video I took is blurry and shaky because my Florida-grown fingertips can’t handle much winter exposure. But all of our guests, who will spend the day journeying home to their own pockets of the country, will say they enjoyed it all the same.

I’ve finished breakfast, a burrito with sweet potatoes and chicken that Claire made and froze for me months ago. Now, I’m seated at the head of the dining room table facing the red record room, observing the silence of a space that was animated by 11 houses guests over the past eight days. Of course, the house is never actually silent. It has much to say. It creaks and cracks, bubbles and whispers secrets acquired over nearly a century of Novembers. It has borne witness to 97 years of turkey carvings, family reunions, attempts to dance around politics and religion (“attempts”), frosty ears and noses coming to temperature by the fire, questions about Christmas plans (”well, if you’re not going there, I guess I’ll be going here”), arguments about family recipes (does Granny’s applesauce really need three cups of sugar?), and many other hues of family life that, nowadays, only happen because of a holiday.

Despite my solitude, the house feels full. Every object in view seems to hum with the energy of its former company. It’s like the party oozed into these green and red walls, into the large, leafed dining room table and the dozen mismatched empty chairs at its perimeter, and onto the glass liquor cabinet, still smeared with baby Wolfie’s sticky fingerprints (some sitter I am).

This home is becoming a part of our story; and our story is becoming a part of it.

It was a lovely first Thanksgiving here.

The transplantation will rehouse Margaret Sullivan, the 104-year-old billionaire who suffered an untimely death last month, into an unnamed NAD. The NAD's family will receive millions for their offering if the procedure is successful.

In July, the NIH awarded Alma(i) a "AAA" rating, its highest grade. But NADs bring new challenges.

"The inferior biomarkers are a real concern," said Rebecca Long, Alma(i)'s CEO. "But the AD pool has dwindled. We need another solution."

Alma(i) hopes that NADs will be that solution.

“Bubba,” Papa sighed, “I want to tell you about Haikusville.”

There wasn’t much cheer in Papa’s voice, and there wasn’t much cheer in the line, either. The bears and mice and foxes and other creatures in line kept their gazes down and their minds to themselves.

Papa continued.

“Where we live today is nothing like how Haikusville was. To be sure, it was a charming village, with a library, a bakery, an inn, a saloon, and a big, beautiful castle. Families could put food on the table, and neighbors got along as well as they could. But the village had one very odd rule. Every day, before sundown, each family was required to deliver the mayor a new haiku.”

“What’s a haiku, Papa?”

Just then, a wheezy voice called out from within the castle gates: “Step forward!”

“Come now, Bubba.”

Papa and Bubba and the creatures in front and behind them stepped forward–one, two, three, stop–and then settled their paws back into the warm grass. Bubba liked the way they all marched together. It reminded him of games he and his friends liked to play.

“No one knew why the mayor demanded haikus from us,” Papa continued. “In fact, it had been years since anyone saw the mayor. There was, of course, speculation. He’ll wither away without them! The village will go broke without them! He can only speak through our haikus!”

Papa looked at Bubba. “Silly, right?”

“Yeah, silly,” Bubba giggled.

“Step forward!” The voice wheezed. The line proceeded. One, two, three, stop.

“Come now, Bubba. You have your name tag, right?”

“I do, Papa. It’s here on my head, like a hat!”

Papa gently scratched Bubba behind the ears, just as he liked. Bubba rolled his head, blissfully, against the big, warm claw. Papa could now see the name tag clearly:

Name: Alfie Jr.

Species: Grizzly

Reason: Failure to deliver

Papa’s claw suddenly clenched.

“Ouch!” Bubba yelped.

Papa quickly moved his paw. “I’m so sorry, my sweet boy.”

“That’s ok, Papa.” Bubba leaned into Papa’s leg and reached for Papa’s naughty paw, which he moved close to his chest.

“Every morning in Haikusville,” Papa continued, “I’d rise from bed, kiss Momma’s forehead, steal a scoop of porridge, and sit outside the den with my back against the maple tree. There, I’d look, and I’d write. Creating haikus was easy work for me then. Your Papa was very creative. Just like you.”

Papa tickled Bubba’s neck. Bubba squealed with joy and leaned into Papa’s leg.

“And after all, creativity was vital. If your family didn’t submit your haiku by sundown, the consequences were severe. For instance–”

“Step forward!” The voice wheezed. The line proceeded. One, two, three, stop.

Papa then continued talking but Bubba didn’t understand a word. So, for the first time since they arrived at the line in front of the castle, Bubba let his mind travel. He didn’t look down at the grass or up at the mossy stone facade or into his Papa’s big, brown eyes. Instead, he looked around. Just ahead of them in line was a fox cub and its papa. Clipped to the fox cub’s tail was a name tag, just like the one he wore on his head. It read:

Name: Phil

Species: Fox

Reason: Failure to deliver

Bubba then turned around and saw that, strangely, there was a mouse with its papa just behind him. And clipped to the mouse’s big left ear was a name tag. It read:

Name: Eleanor

Species: Mouse

Reason: Failure to deliver

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Bubba?”

“Yes, Papa.” Bubba muttered, hesitantly.

Papa continued.

“Life was going well. We lived–survived–for years. I wrote–delivered–for years. But then, something happened.”

“What happened, Papa?”

“You were born.”

“Step forward!” The voice wheezed. The line proceeded. One, two, three, stop.

They were nearing the castle. For the first time, Bubba could hear lots of commotion coming from the front of the line, and it made him a little uneasy.

“Papa, could you carry me? It’s getting hard to walk with my front paws tied like this.”

Papa bit his lip and did not respond.

“The day you were born,” he continued, “all I could think of was you. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep. I certainly couldn’t write. And I didn’t turn in a haiku by sundown. Momma consoled me and said we’d be ok. She said the mayor would understand. But I was worried sick.”

“Step forward!” The voice wheezed. The line proceeded. One, two, three, stop.

Now, they were next in line. Bubba wanted to hear what the fox and its papa would say to the voice behind the dark castle gates. He could hear squeals and pleading but he couldn’t understand because the words were too big. Then Papa continued.

“That night, the mayor haunted me in my dreams. I’ll never forget what he said.”

“Step forward!” The voice wheezed.

Now, they were at the front of the line. Bubba could see only two beady eyes glowing behind the dark castle gates.

“My name is Alfie. I’m here to repay my debt.”

“Name tag.” The voice wheezed.

Papa caressed Bubba’s head once more, then removed the name tag and passed it over.

“Recite.” The voice wheezed.

Then Papa began speaking differently:

“Haiku is what’s born
When you love something enough
To watch its leaves fall.”

Tears were now wetting the fur around Papa’s eyes. He picked up Bubba, hugged him very tight, then slowly raised him to the castle gates, where two skinny arms pulled him into the darkness.

The faces in the gun shop are a frozen mixture of anger and worry. The sobriety is warranted because the president’s message is clear: war with Japan is inevitable.

“So that’s that,” John says plainly. He stands from his stool and turns off the radio, then walks behind the register to resume his paperwork. Business everywhere has been terrible for a decade so his list of order slips is thin.

Silence and the news hang in the room. Outside, an early snowfall is hitting the city. A few gentle inches cover everything from Times Square, to Ebbets Field, to the long strip of empty beach in the Rockaways. Even the cello-sized model gun that hangs in front of John’s shop appears mellowed under the white highlight. In the couple of hours before the world turns brown and sludgy, one could be forgiven for thinking it’s a nice night.

Suddenly, Eddie jumps from his chair.

“Those fucks! Those fuckin’ fucks! How the fuck do they–who do they think–I swear to God–”

“Eddie, Eddie!” Officer Donahue says. He gestures for Eddie to relax. Reluctantly, Eddie sits. He had forgotten to remove his blood-smeared apron when John whistled to him from across the street earlier. Now, the animal blood glistens again, newly wet from contact with the snow.

“I guess you didn’t hear him, Don,” Eddie sneers. “‘Our people are in danger.’ That’s the fuckin’ president you know.”

“Yeah?” Officer Donahue replies. “And what are you gonna do about it right here, right now? Huh?”

Eddie isn’t sure. He doesn’t reply.

“Right, so calm down,” Officer Donahue says.

Vinny jumps from his chair. “Besides, Eddie, you know they don’t want nothin’ to do with you. This is gonna be our war.” He reaches out and hits Jim on the chest. “Guys like me and him.”

Jim looks at Vinny. Jim hasn’t known him long, but he recognizes an unusual confidence in Vinny’s eyes.

“Yeah, and what do you two know about war?” Eddie snarls.

“I know it’s better than what we got now!” Vinny looks around at the men in the room. “Better than getting whacked with rulers. Better than getting kicked in the shins. Better than all that. Ain’t that right, Jimmy?”

The eyes in the room shift to Jim.

“Yeah,” Jim says.

The eyes don’t leave him, so he adds, “They don’t treat us right.”

“They sure don’t,” Vinny says.

Jim doesn’t know much about Vinny’s past but he figures it can’t be too different from his own: a mother dead from the TB ward, a father he’s never met coping poorly with a bottle somewhere in the Bowery.

“He’s right, you know, Eddie,” Officer Donahue says. “Boys like them will be the first to go. How old are youse anyway?”

“They’re too young,” John says from across the room.

“With respect, John, I’m sixteen years old,” Vinny replies. “And Jim, you’re sixteen, right?”

“Yeah, maybe even seventeen,” Jim replies.

“Ok, and how old you gotta be to enlist?” John says.

“Come on,” Vinny says.

“I said, ‘how old you gotta be to enlist’?”

“John,” Officer Donahue interrupts, “you know they’re not gonna turn anyone away. These boys wanna fight, they’ll fight.”

John knows that both he and Officer Donahue are right, in their own ways. With that defeat, another grim silence falls over the room.

Jim takes the opportunity to head for the bathroom downstairs. As he passes Eddie, he sees the blood on the apron glistening under Eddie’s deep breaths. He feels that something about it should bother him, but he doesn’t know what.

After Jim relieves himself, he looks in the bathroom mirror and sees an image that he’s suddenly desperate to leave behind. Old, raggy clothes and a face he can’t trace to any living person around. He looks down, and on the ledge above the sink, there’s a bar of soap that’s potato chip-thin. Jim slides it off the ledge toward him, careful to keep it intact. This bar of soap, he thinks, has been sitting here since the beginning of time. It just keeps getting smaller and smaller.

When Jim leaves the bathroom and heads upstairs, he notices that everyone but John has left. He says his goodbye, then sets out for home, where he’ll sneak through the basement window, as always. The block outside John’s shop has already turned to brown slush. As Jim trods through the inches of tired snow, he tells himself that this will be the last day he calls the orphanage “home.”

Without a word, you removed your glasses and with your t-shirt began making tight circles on the lenses. I wanted to say, "you learned that from me." Impossible though. 

"Giving you up was the best I could do." I felt my face muscles tighten, like always. "I'm just happy to see you again."

That's when you stood up and put on your coat. And that's when I leaned away from your bedroom window, fleeing before you could see me.