Because I have been writing about the past, it is probably no surprise that I have been living in the past. And let me add that this is not a pleasant place to be. The present being more enjoyable. Not to mention easier to connect with. And full of infinitely more possibilities.

And it’s not just writing that has had me in the past. Age must do that, or something like it. After all, the bulk of that thing called life is infinitely behind me. What’s ahead is relatively slim. Which doesn’t have to be an unpleasant thought. Just a fact.

With the gradual weaning of the pandemic, death seems less pervasive and tangible. It isn’t staring me in the face, a masked face. It’s somewhere else. And it’s been around so much for the last year, that I am quite happy to see it go. Which, of course, it hasn’t. But it can wander off stage for a while. Another character can have the lines.

My anniversary, Jane and mine, occurred last week. And what could be a better cause for celebration? We had a modest goal, sushi lunch in nearby Noe Valley. But post-pandemic, even this easily obtainable objective proved elusive. The familiar sushi place which is open for lunch these days…actually isn’t, except Friday. Which I probably could have determined if I took a quick look at the website. But for some reason I couldn’t be bothered. And that’s just as well too. Turns out that Noe Valley isn’t living in the past, not entirely. Businesses have folded. But there are some new ones, including an incredible fish shop and seafood restaurant. And that’s where we had lunch. And we met someone from Jane’s church. And all was well, actually better than well, all is very fine.

Businesses are understaffed. This is not surprising after having shut down. People leave. People give up. And, one hopes, wages go up too. Anyway, getting my wheelchair to perform one of the four maneuvers it was designed to do, but is only implemented upon request…like accessories in a new car…took an expenditure of thousands of dollars and, you guessed it, a trip to Santa Rosa. Why the latter? They’re short staffed in Wheelchair Land. Aren’t a lot of wheelchair mavens about. So one drives to Santa Rosa to get specialized mechanical help. Ours is not to reason, ours is to drive. Or, more exactly Jane’s is.

Almost 40 years ago an old friend died in an accident. He was kayaking down the rapids of a notorious river in a western part of North America. One presumes that he died, because he was never found. In my mind, I always have believed, or hoped, that he had robbed Fort Knox and disappeared in South America. Something like that. But almost certainly not. He was reckless to the point of suicidal. Dobtless he wanted a white water adventure. Which he certainly got.

And why does this come to me now? Because the past is with me. And because this summer, the rivers of the West are at their lowest in known history. I feel like alerting people. Letting the regional authorities know that if they find some bones, not to mention bits of fiberglass, they may have found an old friend. And here my thinking grows dim. Why would I care? What does it matter if he’s found or isn’t? Do you worry about being, or not being, that is the question. Whether it is nobler…to just shut up and let the river of life flow as it does. Don’t know. Don’t know the answer. Don’t seem to know the question, either.