Today I was reminded again just how grateful I should be for everything I’ve got.

I took my laptop out back early this afternoon to do some writing while admiring the new lawn, courtesy of our gardeners, and smoking a Christmas-present cigar and polishing off the last of the red wine from Friday night’s party. I was happily typing away for about an hour and a half when my wife came out with a flashlight and a grill lighter in her hand, looking at me as though I could possibly imagine what these might be used for at the present moment. All I could think about was the interior workings of the new play I had just begun, which was proving to be something about a man who grows infatuated with a young woman at a party and who then wrecks his life over her against the advice of everyone far more sensible, including his wife. I had 12 pages already, but now my generally sensible wife was muttering something about hot water.

As she drew closer, these odd implements in hand, she told me that the “hot water heater” was off and that the pilot light needed to be relit. I replied, “Why is it a ‘hot’ water heater? Wouldn’t hot water already have been heated? It must be a water heater.” She had the good grace to smile. Her tolerance is one reason I’m still here.

I accompanied her over to the “hot water heater” around the side of the house so that I could at least appear useful while leaning against the brick wall abutting our neighbor’s property and thinking about what Scene 4 would be — probably something further at the office, but now with the man’s friend who had brought the attractive young thing to the party. My wife twisted the pilot knob back and forth as far as it would go, peered into the blackness where a flame should be, twisted the knob again, complained that the knob didn’t turn far enough, then got up to look at me. I knew that was my cue to try to turn the knob further. To do that and to take turns shunting our five-year-old two or three feet backwards in case we accidentally blew ourselves up. I couldn’t get the knob to turn any further either, but having put in the effort I stood up and announced that it was time to call someone. Because, unsaid but clearly heard, I was now returning to writing my play.

Another 40 minutes or so later, I figured I was done and told my wife that I was going to run a couple of errands and wanted to see what she wanted to do about the water heater.

“That’s okay,” she said. “I called Mike.”

“Mike? Who’s Mike?” For the life of me I couldn’t think of any Mike in our lives aside from the dog whose ashes had resided on our mantel since this time 1999.

“Mighty Mike,” she said. Mighty Mike is the plumber who lives across the street. We call him Mighty Mike because that’s what his truck calls him: Mighty Mike Plumbing.

“Great,” I said, picking up my keys and heading off.

At my office, more money had arrived. I did what I always do – went immediately to the bank and deposited it – and then went to Reese Liquor for essentials. Beefsticks, to be precise. Thirst Quencher Liquor, which I prefer for the name, was out. Driving home and remarking to myself what a beautiful day it was to have a convertible, I couldn’t help reflecting on my good luck. 2007 seemed like a blessing in every way. Certainly catastrophe was in the offing – some unforeseen illness or accident – but it wasn’t here now, and I wasn’t allowing misfortune to elbow its way to the front of the line. I got a text message from my friend Alan sledding in snowbound Massachusetts, and we textually committed to more friendship time next year. I was making resolutions for 2008 — not to give up things, but to embrace some things more.

When I got home, my wife announced that Mighty Mike had been there and lit the pilot. The hot water heater was again heating hot water. Then she added, “Did you hear about his boy?”

His boy, it turned out, whom I recalled as a baby but who had turned three when I wasn’t looking, had been urinating blood. Tests revealed kidney cancer. He’d had one kidney out and was now in week five of chemo. My wife said Mighty Mike revealed all this when she’d asked about the boy. I don’t know much about chemo, but I know a lot about three-year-olds. I’ve personally seen three people through that age.

“Makes you realize what you’ve got, doesn’t it?” I said to her. She looked at me soberly. I pulled her to me and kissed her warmly. We have been very skilled in what we’ve achieved in 2007. We have also been very lucky. We don’t have any war, famine, disease, or poverty at our house. I say that with full recognition that many others have some or all of that. We have had some of that ourselves in the past, and no doubt will have some in the future.

In the meantime, we have the present. And, starting tonight, and starting every moment of every day, we have the future – what will come, and what we will make of it.

When asked why we are here, Brion Gysin said, “We’re here to go.” True. But in the meantime, we are here.

She served dinner and we ate it and she went to work and after a while the kids went to bed. And now I am here, telling you this.

This entry was posted on Monday, December 31st, 2007 at 11:57 pm and is filed under On being, Thoughts. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.