CalMac cacophony

Math Man and I took a trip to one of the Inner Hebrides a few weeks ago. We rode a CalMac ferry from the mainland to Islay. Our ferry was running on schedule both coming and going but weather and an aging fleet means that you can’t alway count on the CalMac, see this NYT piece.  It was, as promised by Crash’s Scottish partner, an experience. The interiors reminded me of late 1970s Las Vegas casinos. There are reserved rows for pets on board, play areas for kids, famous CalMac mac and cheese and comfy seats with big windows to catch the view. It’s a lovely way to travel. At least as long as you remember to turn off your car alarm.

There are signs — which we missed. Crash texted us — but we didn’t see it until we had set sail (at which point the car decks are off limits to passengers). And we had a rental. Neither of our cars have motion sensitive alarms, so I had never given much thought to how car alarms are temporarily disabled.

The cacophony began as soon as the ramps closed with a bang. HOOT-HOOT. WHEE-AH-WHEE-AH. Soon there were a half dozen alarms going. Keys were grabbed and alarms silenced. Until the next wave. It was like a bunch of toddlers suddenly noticing their parents had left them with a sitter and wailing in surprise. I could see our car from the back deck. Suddenly its lights were flashing and it was hooting, too. I grabbed the keys and clicked. Whew. Five minutes later, I was doing it again. And again.

Math Man came out on deck and I explained the issue. “Can you show me the car?” I did. “Can we reset it from here?” “Shhh, it’ll hear you and wake up.” It did. Its side mirrors unfolded like a 2 year old begging to be picked up. And by now, I could recognize the wail of our car with the same spidey sense that I used to distinguish my baby's cry from the rest. I’d spend the rest of the voyage squelching the alarm. I gave up counting after a dozen.

On the way back we knew how to keep the baby quiet!

What looks like prayer

I was listening to Rachel Martin's podcast, Wild Card, last night. Her interviewee was Harrison Ford (listen here). The basic premise of the show is that guests pick a card with a question on it. They can skip one, and turn one back on the interviewer. Ford flipped this question back at Martin: "Is there anything in your life that feels like praying?"

What does prayer feel like to me?

Prayer is redolent of incense, of a milk-drunk baby, of a piece of toast caught just in time.  It can taste bitter and hot and bracing all at once, like that first cup of tea on a cold morning. It feels like cold salt water on my feet after a long walk, like my husband's hand reaching out in the night to brush away my bad dream.

What does prayer feel like to you?

...when it is August

 

..and when it is August, you can have August and abundantly so. — Emily Levine in "You Can't Have It All"

It sounds like August. The cicadas wild howl. The scurrying of dry leaves across the driveway. The firm thud as the nearly ripe apple that the squirrel has claimed for its own hits the ground.

It looks like August. The evening light gives me the side eye. "Have you written your syllabus yet?"

How much more August can I wring from these days? Before September drops into my lap with a thump?