watermelons and lingerie

"It's cold here," I tell my aunt, living in Albany, NY, who's been racing the snow to the ground, armed with nothing more than a shovel and an indefatigable determination, for about a week now.

"Is it eight degrees?" she asks.

"No, not quite," I laugh.

"Then it's not cold," she says.

But it is cold here, for here. And I'm sitting now in the chilly showroom of Discount Tires, the same showroom I've dallied in on three separate occasions over the past month and a half. A nail here, a curb there, another curb.

And as if that isn't enough to get my attention, last week, I thought for a few days that all my possessions -- everything but some pictures, my clothes and bedroom furniture -- abandoned to storage for the past several months had been auctioned. Defaulted payment they said. A glitch in the system it turns out, and not my (de)fault, but regardless. . . stuff gone. And then, to make a long story short, it wasn't. Thankfully. But still. Something is off.

As I wait for the change, acrid smell of new rubber wrinkling my nose, I'm reading E.B. White's "Here is New York." My boss gave it to me for Christmas with a card that read, "To my writer friend." And when I thanked him, he said, "That book will turn you into a writer."

I like the book. I love the card. I love the sentiment and faith behind it. The feeling of being welcomed into the fold. My boss is a writer and one I admire greatly, but if I told him how much his gift means to me, his nose would wrinkle as if stung with sour smells. But still, one day, I might.

The book is one Mr. White wrote one sweltering summer in New York after he'd relinquished his residency and returned for a season as a "transient," a "vagabond," staying at The Lafayette Hotel. His account so specific. Attentive. Rich. ("In the candid light from unshaded bulbs gleam watermelons and lingerie.") Reading it reminded me that being aware is key. And I haven't been.

When I thought my books and tables and glassware were all gone, I kept saying (and for the record, truly believing), "It's only stuff." And then, "Well, I guess now I'm free."

But it didn't feel free. It felt cold. And irresponsible. I don't want to lose what I've spent a decade and more gathering close. And even with all intact -- no love, no life, no stuff lost -- how much richer would I be today, if I'd been attending more carefully to the details?