The reason Eugene became something of a home to me was mostly because of Carol Melia. We met at a Hiroshima and Nagasaki Vigil in Alton Baker Park. After about five minutes of conversation, and hearing that I am a musician, she invited me to stay at her house, or in her backyard. I chose to sleep on her trampoline and spent another week in Eugene.
Carol is a sweet soul of a cellist, whose ample supply of instruments I made good use of. Guitars, banjos, mandolins, ukuleles, tambourines, flutes, and some other random ones I couldn't name. Each day meant music of some sort, either with Carol or out on the town with whomever I could find. I had a singalong with a friend at the U of O, regaled the staff of the nameless cafe, found someone better than me to teach me something.
The first week of August means fruits and nuts are in season all over Eugene. So many people had been so friendly to me that when I saw a glistening, red plum hanging over the sidewalk I just reached out a plucked it. I was turning it over in my hand when the man on the porch spoke up.
"They're not ripe yet."
I made a hasty agreement, rather than further get in his badside, and gave him good afternoon, walking off.
"Thanks for asking," he grumbled as I walked away. At first I felt some shame for having taken fruit from his tree. But then I got to thinking, not how i had a right to fruit hanging over the sidewalk, or that cantankerous old men need to learn to share. Instead on thinking over how I had just acted and everything I had done previously, I realized that this one act was probably the worst thing i had done the entire year, countingback to the August before. I had not gotten into an argument, insulted anyone, cut anyone off in traffic, wished ill on someone. The worst I had done was pick a plum. A good year, then.
I planted the stone. That should do something to make up for it. And while I don't particularly wish to go thru life without making mistakes, I do aim to keep this as my worst act for awhile longer.
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