Juxtaposition

two things being seen; contrasting e(a)ffects

There is a house in my neighborhood that shows no signs of life except in October when three skeletons and an orange pumpkin are placed on the front porch. Two of the skeletons are sitting on chairs and they look like they’re in some kind of animated, albeit frozen, conversation. The third, a dog, stands between them. The pumpkin sits on a step. Always a pumpkin, never a jack-o-lantern.

The other day, Corby and I were on a walk and just like all the other seasons’ beginnings, Corby must sniff every centimeter of our one mile loop because if she doesn’t take note of all this change, something terrible will happen. She hasn’t directly told me this, but her non-verbals are like a Mack truck backing down a residential street. You just know you need to pay attention. And also get out of the way.

Corby was Inspector Gadgeting the skeleton house when its garage door began to open and it wasn’t my imagination or suspicion at all - the door sounded precisely like the beginning of “Thriller” when that creepy door or probably it’s a coffin opens up. I saw a pair of black and white tennis shoes that belonged to the legs of whoever was walking behind the door as it opened. I quickly looked to make sure both skeletons and the dog were still on the porch and then with the subtly of an NFL football player celebrating after he scores a touchdown, I yanked Corby’s leash and bolted.

The trees are turning and who really needs another reflection on leaves’ beautiful death, but every year I am startled anew by it. Earlier this week, on a coffee break, I saw what had to be the most gorgeous tree showing off its leaves that were some autumn color all their own - not quite red or yellow or orange, but some mixture of them all and the wind was their too making them glisten so you couldn’t tell the color anyway because as soon as you thought you knew, it would change.

I thought to take a picture but didn’t because what a cliche, but then I saw college students pulling out their phones. They were standing under the tree, their heads and phones pointing up. They looked like Charlie Brown characters when they’re singing, “Hark the Herald Angels Sing.” One of them looked at me looking at them and smiled. “I’m not from here,” she shrugged. “I’ve never seen this for real.”

Remembering that moment on the morning I walked Corby, I pulled my phone out and with zero guilt started snapping pictures as though I too, had never seen any of this before. The morning was grey with heavy clouds and the leaves on the trees and sidewalks popped. I swear I heard the spark of their color.

When we got home, Corby stood at the slider door waiting to get let out, even though the doggie door is open. At some point this is what she decided must happen, this is what we taught her whether we meant to or not. Now, it is ritual.

I went outside with her because I wasn’t ready to write or I didn’t want to write, or because I love this time of year, or because even though it’s been almost 10 years, the delight in opening a slider door and stepping outside to my backyard has not faded.

There’s no furniture on our deck because Jesse is re-doing it. About 48 hours before the government shutdown, he handed me a folder of paint colors and asked which one I wanted. I wasn’t sure so we walked outside together and he told me about his plans: there’d be a step on both sides so we can walk to where our firepit is. He would rip up all the hedges I can’t stand and he said I could pick out what comes next. A different railing would replace the old one that looks haunted.

People ask me how Jesse’s been doing. They want to know what it’s like being the only one in the building where he works. Or what it’s like working and not getting paid. “How’s he holding up?” I tell them he’s fine. He’s hanging in there. I tell them our hope and faith is in backpay which might be as dumb as believing I’ll write a best-seller.

But the greater truth is he’s building a deck. Almost every night after work, he is outside working and listening to a podcast on Notre Dame football. Sometimes there’s a “No Yeah” IPA nearby. When he comes inside, he makes these treat puzzles for Corby filled with chicken and pumpkin and peanut butter. He is helping Harper with recruiting for swim and when he talks to Hadley he sounds like he did when he first held her and said, “Hi, Hadley,” and, “I’m your dad.” That was 19 years ago today and I think the two have been BFFs ever since.

Corby stretched and barked to let the neighborhood know she’s up and ready to patrol, then leapt off the deck to chase a squirrel. I said a quick prayer that she wouldn’t kill the squirrel and then another thanking God I wouldn’t have to pick up a carcass and put it in the trash. Then, I went inside to start my coffee, hoping and doubting that there’s a story in the skeletons and the leaves and the deck building. Because that’s how my faith works.