The tale of the deceased squirrel has a Monty Python sort of ending. My friend Tony, who is my savior from the dead and dying, arrived with his trusty trowel and some plastic bags in hand. As he was removing the beast, he gave a running commentary. He even offered me an opportunity to check the heft of the bag. I declined. Because the dump was closed, he told me he was taking the squirrel to the park. All I could think of was Monty Python and the dead parrot, and I imagined Tony at the park holding a leash attached to the squirrel. “No no he’s not dead, he’s, he’s restin’!”

It’s a cool, cloudy day, a good day for chores. The bird feeders are empty, the herbs need to be cut and the deck plants need watering. I also have a few errands and Gracie gets to come.

Last night I proposed a Chinese fire drill on our next ride. We laughed at how many light cycles it might take. We figured it best be a deserted road.

When we were kids, life was serendipitous and spontaneous. We never made lists or appointments. That was my mother’s job. It was whatever we felt like doing or whatever we happened to find, like the horses in the pasture or the raft on the pond. I remember trying to catch the horses so we could ride them, and I remember shifting our weight so the raft wouldn’t sink as we poled across the pond. We thought those great finds. We never stayed home. That was for my little sisters. We roamed. We walked or rode our bikes everywhere. Sometimes we brought our lunches with us packed in brown bags. We ate when we were hungry. I remember eating at a picnic table in the zoo and on the back of a train by the tracks.

We’d get home late in the afternoon, filthy and tired. My mother would ask what we’d been up to all day. “Nothing,” was our usual answer.