Out of sorts

Adrian is home sick today and is counting pages in the Harry Potter book series, having already organized his library once by the main background color, and once by the color of the printed title.

Him: "Mom, can you get me the 15th book in the Magic Treehouse series?"
Me: "..."
Him: "I think it's green."
Me: "......"
Him: "The words are greenish-yellow, I mean."
Me: "......... OK. Here it is. Wouldn't it be quicker to do it by number?"
Him: "However, I like it better this way."

(He is playing with conjunctions. I don't think he has the usage nailed down quite yet.)

These are some of his recent organizing projects:

-- Cutlery, by size.
-- Books, by color of title.
-- Lego Star Wars guys, alphabetically and somewhat by whim ("Jabba" vs. "Hutt").
-- Bath toys, by material.
-- Shirts, by background color.
-- Stuffies, by color and size.

In the classroom, I believe he also helped organize the library in the regular way (alpha by author).

While I respect and admire his passion, I do wish he would finish all of one project before walking 10 feet away and starting another. My poor spine is protesting all the stooping and scooping this spring. And yes, I do require him to clean up most of what he takes out; but I'm not quick enough to stop him from taking out more than he can get picked up before story time.

Now, if we could only channel his powers for good...

Good intentions

For the past few weeks, I've been meaning to do something nice for that lady on the corner.

Every school day -- always two, often four, sometimes six times a day -- I take a shortcut to and from our kids' school. This steep one-lane residential street cuts the drive from fifteen minutes to seven. For most of its quarter mile length, it's just wide enough for two cars to pass each other. If they are big cars, or one is a truck, you'd want to fold in your side mirrors.

Turning left downhill into the road, you have to go extra slowly because people coming up out of the road drive about 10 feet past the stop sign. (You can easily stall out if you stop at the line.) Thankfully, emerging traffic almost always turns right; there's a better shortcut for uphill left-turners.

Turning out of the road at the bottom toward school, you have to go extra slowly because people accelerate into the road from that direction to get traction. (It's grooved pavement, the pitch is that steep.)

Ideally, we would all look as far as possible into our turns to confirm our right of way, but around here, 85 percent of people are only thinking of themselves, their morning rush, their quarrelsome kids, whatever. So I always yield, and we get to school without incident.

After over 1,000 trips up and down the hill in the past two years, here's what I've noticed.

• I yield. It's in my nature; I want people to like me. Also, I do not live on that road; I am using it for my own benefit; if it were meant as a primary route it would be bigger, flatter, and better signed.
• Gardeners in pickups and housekeepers in old Corollas yield. I imagine it's easier than having people yell at them. Or maybe they're just courteous.
• Residents yield, though not happily.
• UPS drivers, FedEx trucks and mail carriers do NOT yield. They're busy and visible, and they know the roads. Besides, they are probably bringing you a box of something, like some Angry Birds plush toys, and it is in your best interest to let them pass.
• Women in luxury SUVs don't yield, period. They drive toward you in the middle of the road until you stop and move over, and if they have to stop, you get an icy stare and occasionally the finger.
• Men or women in minivans are a mixed bag; usually they squeeze all the way over but keep moving. Dog walkers in minivans do not yield. High school kids in minivans also do not yield.
• Older women in Priuses and younger women in SmartCars don't yield, because they need less than half the road in the first place.
• Tourists don't yield, but on the way by, you can usually help them find the road they were looking for. And because they didn't yield, the cars are so close that it is easy to reach through their window and show them on their map, in case they speak a language you don't know.
• Older men in sports cars don't take the shortcut, but if they did, they would cede a little of the middle ground and blast past you at 15mph over the limit.

In general, the people who use this shortcut are barely aware of oncoming traffic, never mind thinking of the residents. I'm on smiling terms with one lady, but since we got the new minivan last month, I hadn't managed to catch her eye to tell her it's me.

This woman -- Deborah, as it turns out -- lives in a small house at the top of the shortcut, on the uphill corner. Coming up out of the road to go home every day, I am nearly in her driveway. If she is backing out when I get to the top of the hill, we stop short and do the waving game, me trying to let her go first, and her trying to get me to just go. If she is out walking her dog when I get there, we are all startled and she leaps back into her yard. I wave again, apologetically, and send good thoughts into her carport. But I had never stopped to talk to her before.

Today, I saw her car in the driveway on the way to the market, so I got some flowers to leave for her as an acknowledgement that we -- I -- inconvenience her half a dozen times a week, endanger her dog, strip leaves from her bushes and wear out her pavement.

I meant to leave a note with the flowers, but I didn't have a pen in the car; then I thought I'd leave them anonymously and hope it was a nice surprise. Then I thought, what if she is away for a week? She'll come home to some wilted flowers in stinky brown sludge, which would be a different kind of message all together. (I shared my plan with the florist, and while I was in the market paying, she stuffed a dozen extra flowers in the bouquet and gave me the vase for free. She agreed I should give them to the lady personally, for karma.)

Finally, vase in hand, I knocked on her door this morning. Her dog let her know I was at the door, and she came out.

"Yes?" she asked.

"You don't know me, but I'm a neighbor from up at Four Corners. I just wanted to bring you these as a thank you for tolerating all of us driving across your property every day on the way to school."

She smiled, we introduced ourselves, she explained she was used to it (grew up here, father in a local nursing home, mother died recently, she's actually in a little turmoil and a dark place she said, thinking of moving to Portland, closer to the grandkids, somewhere she can afford). I told her it's important to me that she knows I'm aware of her (exasperating drivers, unsafe speeds, non-mindfulness of others, realization that I'm going to drive on her road for another 5 years of elementary school). She hugged me and said thanks again for the flowers, I told her I'd look out for her every week, and we parted as friends.

As I drove the rest of the way home, I was feeling great. I had good feelings; the florist had good feelings; the lady on the corner -- Deborah -- had good feelings. This is why I sometimes go out of my way just to do something unexpected, something nice, I thought: because I know it might make a difference, make the world a little brighter.

Then I took one of the small twisty corners a little wide. I'm still getting used to the new minivan, I guess. There was a light green Prius coming toward me, five or six car lengths away. I moved off the center line, waved out the open window to acknowledge my mistake.

As she drove past, she screamed at me out her open window.

"You motherf*cker!"

Maybe someday I'll get her flowers, too.