I hear a ladder

 I hear a ladder.

That unmistakable clanking sound of that aluminum only used in ladders.

Once gets your mild attention. The third and fourth clanging must be coming from the fearful readjusting of someone who doesn’t really want to get on the ladder. Or it’s just careless banging by a ladder veteran who should have quit working an hour ago. I can’t even tell what direction it’s coming from. Doesn’t really matter. I need a falling scream. Or I need it to stop.

My inability to find a chill on my front porch is usually self-induced. Meaning, our freaking dogs were kind of my idea. Not exactly how I white-boarded the post-Tessie plan, but I agreed to get two this time. I’m complicit.

But today they are not here. They are not reacting to every dog walker, every Amazon deliverer, every neighbor with the audacity to also be enjoying a lovely early summer evening. They are elsewhere. Thank you, Lily.

This is not a dog post, trust me. I love both of mine. But I’m really, really glad they are not here at this moment. Which brings me back to the ladder. That 5:30 pm ladder. On Thursday night before a 5-day July 4^th weekend. WTF are you doing with that ladder right now!?

Everyone has their spot. Maybe a couple if you’re lucky or a genius. The seat itself has of course got to be comfortable, but whether it’s a worn recliner, bench near a beach, or behind the wheel of your parked vehicle I’m pretty sure there’s more to it than the padding or even perspective. It’s the control. It’s the quiet surety of what those 5 or 60 minutes are going to entail and what you will enjoy during it.  The neighbors you can see but thankfully not hear will be doing their odd shit. Or the unfamiliar tourists or errand runners that are so familiar. Maybe your spot is supposed to feature nothing but squirrels.

These spots are simple - but can be tough to escape to and secure. But they’re vital. Hope yours stay ladder-free.