Saturday morning I woke up alone. Shawn had left early that morning to go skiing. I was still snuggled in bed when the phone rang at 7:30 a.m. and wrenched me out of my dreams. I trudged into the kitchen. Shuffling from one foot to the other on the cold tile, I stood there in front of the caller-id display, waiting to see who was silly enough to think that I'd be awake at this hour.
I don't have a belfry; I have a bat box. In the early summer when the mosquitos descended upon us, Shawn bought a bat box. We mounted it on a tall post in our backyard, against Jenny's garage. Shawn, Jenny, and I looked at it hopefully for a few weeks. Summer, though, is not bat moving season. That's spring. We knew we weren't expecting residents anytime soon.
A quest for old maps took me to the dungeons of the UC Davis library today. ("Ancient maps show that Antarctica was not always covered with ice.") On the way, I passed a pick-up volleyball game in the grassy spot in the shadow of the engineering building. My husband works in a nearby building and I know he plays at this game frequently.
I spot him preparing to serve. I stop and watch him for a minute. He's tan and lean in the sunshine. He slams the ball into the far corner and gets a point from the serve. I smile. I watch him set up a spike for a teammate. Another point.
