Eat from the damn bucket

I'm walking my dog around my neighborhood, which is a little too nice-lawn-residential for my taste, when I see a Great Blue Heron gulping bait fish out of a 5-gallon bucket. Some of these fish, they're as big as his head, but he gets them down. Standing next to the bucket, which had taken a position by an open garage door, is a crusty looking gentleman. He's smiling. This is Florida, so crusty is a thing. I don't just mean a been-out-in-the-sun-for-too long-in-the-same-clothes look. In Florida crusty is an attitude as well. This is a look and attitude I favor, by the way.

I say, "Who's your buddy?"

"When I get back from fishing, he gets breakfast," the man says. "These guys, they live to be 15 years old (It's true. I checked). We've been doing this 23 years."

I say, "You and I should have it so good, right?" We laugh, only a little, but enough to add a little light to a rainy morning. I'm thinking that maybe most people, crusty or shiny, are ok, given a quarter of a chance.

I'm also thinking that maybe it's better that curmudgeons like me get stuck in Regular Neighborhoods, rather than on five acres in the woods with running water and a wood stove (my preference).

Three continuous thoughts are a lot for me, but I do have one more: Maybe when life sets buckets in front of me, I should dig in more. So what if it looks like slop? You never know until you try it. That old bird looked pretty damn happy.

I have an old friend who is a wonderful writer. At the moment he's way deep into the bucket, trying to rewrite a novel. He's not happy, not yet. But every morning, he's back in there, head down, bait flying, gulping down everything that bucket has to offer. That novel will be great.