The sun rising higher than before

Yesterday I finished arranging this on the design wall. Might start sewing it together later today, a post to write about how machine sewing has made its surprise return to my life, like embracing the impending time change....

I know Daylight Savings Time begins in a little over a week, but recently, like yesterday maybe, I came to the realization that the five weeks it takes for us here on the North Coast to reclaim all that morning sunlight isn't the be-all, end-all as I often believe it is.

That this year, instead of whinging how suddenly the mornings are dark again, I'll use that time to get my early a.m. stuff accomplished. Then someone will feed those chickens, lol....

Does the switch from Standard Time to DST bother you? It never previously irritated me until we moved to Humboldt County and I could SEE the morning light; no longer was it obscured by houses in our tightly packed Silicon Valley neighborhood. I don't recall what I thought of it when we lived in the UK, other than it began and ended a week earlier than in the U.S., so I had to take that into account if I was calling anyone that week. A nine-hour time difference wasn't that big of a change from eight hours, but why not err on the side of courtesy whenever possible?

Ahem, a lesson for current times, 'nuff said.

Anyway, I truly felt the loss of a hard-earned hour's light last year, and we didn't even have hens! Yet I'd grown to love watching the day begin as the eastern sky slowly filled with light, then in early March WHAM! Back to darkness was the morning, dude! I didn't appreciate it AT ALL, and for a few weeks, I fumbled around in the proverbial dark until about the middle of April, when the sunrise had caught back up where I left it the previous month. Then I didn't care a whit about it until last fall, once we had chickens, and our day sort of started after they were fed, which became later, and later, and a wee bit later until my husband took over that morning duty, wandering to the coop mostly in the dark, only illuminated by his phone flashlight and a dimming motion-sensor bulb.

For the last few weeks, I've been mildly peeved at the onset of Daylight Savings Time in a ridiculous "Now we're gonna have to feed the chickens in the dark again!" manner. However, the last few mornings, those hens have been ITCHING to leave the coop as soon as we open it, ignoring their feeder and striding right into the barely bright day. We laugh at them, and now I'm chuckling at myself; we'll still feed them as the sun rises, but that gives me an extra hour to spend in the quiet, reading my Bible, in prayer, or whatever else God wants me to do. And all my mild, internal fretting was for not, as it often turns out to be.

Like lamenting not writing anything, but tomorrow I'll proceed with Chapter 8, la-la-la! I am so HAPPY, and quite relieved (lol) to be writing again, yet not on my schedule, but that of one who loves me far more than I can explain. I've changed the spelling of Kym to Kim, and below I've included an excerpt from a few days previous. Just that love is all around us, easing fears from the sublime to my truly ridiculous angst over Daylight Savings Time. Those chickens aren't going to care about being outside until enough light shines to overcome their poor night vision. Equally, I'm in very good hands with all things, and what a blessing to wrap my arms around it.

Happy weekend, and here's where my fictional heart currently resides....

 

By three o’clock Kim told a few guys to leave early. At four p.m. she sent Jordan home, though he left reluctantly, voicing aloud his concern that Jamey could close the shop by herself. Jamey gave him a sharp stare, over which Kim chuckled aloud. Jamey was taller than Kim but wiry, and she offered to arm wrestle Jordan to prove her strength. Jordan blanched, then quickly wished both women a good weekend, exiting the garage and nearly spinning his wheels leaving Murdoch Avenue.

Kim laughed hard, seated in a chair used by customers. Jamey smirked, then wiped her hands on her coveralls. “Men,” she began, then she cleared her throat. “I don’t mean Sailor in that, you know.”

“I know.” Kim left unspoken that all the years of dealing with her ailment had softened a man once as…. Chauvinistic was too strong, Kim permitted. Yet few women liked cars enough to go to trade school, and where they lived added to the prejudice that only guys were capable of being mechanics. Jamey always swept her long strawberry red hair in her baseball cap, but now at the end of the day, a few stragglers framed her freckled-covered face in a charming manner. Jamey was from San Jose, or somewhere south of San Francisco, and had sought her job not by sending an application via email, but in driving north alone, handing to Kim a thorough resume detailing her education and previous work experience. She earned the position by fixing a car Jordan hadn’t been able to repair, leaving Sailor astounded at her acumen, as well as confounding both proprietors of Harbaugh Automotive as to why anyone of her caliber wanted to work in Bumfuck, Egypt.

Kim smirked, recalling that evening, as they had discussed it in bed. That Jamey was also fluent in Spanish had been an unexpected bonus, but much better to have someone actually speak with Hispanic customers than use a phone to translate as Sailor had done in the past. Kim then smiled, thinking of how years ago her father had used very broken Spanish, but Russ had always tried to be as courteous as possible. What would he make of a woman being the best mechanic in Sailor’s crew, Kim then giggled softly as Jamey returned to the truck she’d been working on all afternoon.

The young woman stood on a stepstool to reach the engine’s innards and Kim allowed a few moments to daydream; would this have been Russ Harbaugh’s vision of twenty-first century car repair? Was it Sailor’s, Kim then smiled as Jamey cursed under her breath, her language not as coarse as the guys’ speech, yet veering toward the Shauna end of the scale. Then Kim sighed, scooting in the chair, trying to ease her belly. Most of the guys working here had girlfriends, a couple were married. Jamey was single as far as Kim knew, and so much smarter than the ya-hoo’s in Deadfern. Not that Kim felt maternal toward the young woman, now chuckling. “You solve the problem?” Kim called.

“I think so,” Jamey nodded, still bent over the engine. “Jordan’s gonna owe me twenty bucks.”

Kim gripped her belly, a sharp pain slightly eased by the joy in Jamey’s voice. “You made a bet over it?”

“He did,” Jamey said pointedly, hopping off the stepstool, then getting into the truck. Within seconds the engine sputtered, growled, then purred like Owl, how Kim thought of a well-tuned vehicle. Kim giggled as Jamey smirked from the driver’s seat, letting the engine idle for nearly a minute. She turned off the truck, but didn’t immediately move from the seat, instead staring straight the windshield, still gripping the steering wheel. Another shiver made Kim shrug her shoulders, but that was from how awestruck Russ would have been at a woman mechanic, while Shannon would have clapped with gusto.

Kim studied the still open doors, not wishing to appear like a voyeur. Dark clouds hovered above the trees across the street, Murdoch Avenue strangely quiet for Friday afternoon. Was rain due, she wondered, retrieving her phone, finding Sailor had texted, as had Lora. She read those messages, responding to Lora that yes, to bring dinner when she finished her waitressing shift at Moses Joe’s, a diner a mile and a half up Murdoch. To Sailor, Kim merely said she loved him. Then she checked the weather, but to her chagrin no clouds or rain were forecast. Allegedly it was sunny out, and she frowned, then stood from her chair, walking slowly to the edge of the garage. The dark sky argued vehemently, though a thin line of blue could be seen, if she squinted, in the east. “Stupid weather apps,” she grumbled, then shivered as a strong gust of cold wind made the sign over her head rattle.

“Should close up soon,” Jamey called. “That sounded ominous.”

“It did,” Kim said, returning to the garage’s interior. “You want any help?”

Jamey shook her head, now standing at the front of the truck. She shut the hood, brushed debris from her hands, a habit Kim had noticed that few of the guys did. Jamey retrieved her phone as if checking the time, while Kim glanced at the huge, ancient clock her father had placed on the western wall. It was a quarter to five, where had the last hour gone Kim wondered as the sound of rain began filling the space, gently at first, making the cats complain. Jamey rushed to the open doors and despite her slight frame, she easily pulled one closed, then stepped outside to secure the other. As thunder roared, Kim walked to the office, turning off her computer. She peered out the window that faced her house, but saw no lightning. “Maybe it was out front,” she said to the cats, now congregating close by.

Another voice caught her attention, but it didn’t sound like Jordan had returned. Kim stepped to the office doorway, finding Jamey speaking to someone who was standing in the now pouring rain. Mustering all her energy, Kim walked as quickly as she could, wondering who in the hell was out in this weather. “Can we help you,” she called, though she assumed Jamey had either offered that, or was deflecting an interloper.

“Says his cycle’s dying.” Jamey’s tone was highly suspicious.

Kim shook her head, then reached where Jamey blocked the narrow entrance to the garage. A young guy stood in the pelting storm, a motorcycle behind him, his helmet under one arm. “Move,” she said stiffly to Jamey, who did exactly that. “What’s wrong?” Kim then said to the man, who she now noticed was Hispanic.

“My bike was giving out as I climbed the hill outta Benbow,” he said, sounding as SoCal as Rickey. “I saw your sign on the freeway, was hoping someone might have a look at it.”

“Well, first get outta that rain.” Kim stood back, waving him inside. Jamey huffed, but Kim ignored her as the man wheeled the cycle into the garage.

Jamey walked away, and Kim hid her grin as the guy shook off water. “I’m Kim Harbaugh. And you are?”

“Jesus Carpintera,” he said with a smile, still dripping water on the ground.

“Jesus,” Kim said in the Spanish pronunciation he’d used. “Okay, so what happened? And where’re you headed?”

“Portland,” he smiled. “Eventually,” he added impishly.

Kim grinned, but her heart pounded, and all she wanted was a comfortable spot to plop into, but the chair she’d used earlier was yards away. “Portland huh,” she said flatly, her heart still quivering.

“That was the plan, but now….” He stared at the cycle, also dripping water, puddles accumulating beneath it. “Now I’d be happy to just wait out the storm.”

Several details still caused Kim mild consternation, but none were due to what she knew irritated Jamey, still huffing by the lockers all employees used to stash personal items. Portland had been Sailor and Rickey’s destination thirty years ago, not that they were heading there on bikes, but in Rickey’s run-down truck as Sailor had sold his to finance their trip. That Rickey’s truck died here was a nice story to some, but an element of providence to Kim, who hadn’t been apprehensive at the men’s arrivals. More to matter then to an eighteen-year-old was how had these guys made it up the Benbow hill for how decrepit was Rickey’s pick-up, and how cute was the one who claimed he had a mechanic’s job waiting in northern Oregon, as well as how adept could he be if he hadn’t bothered to properly inspect the pick-up before making the long drive north.

“What’s waiting for you in Portland,” Kim asked. If he said he was going for a job, any job, she might ask Jamey to check her phone to see if the apocalypse had occurred.

“Family,” Jesus smiled.

Kim nodded, relief flooding her heart, as well as an odd sense he was telling her the absolute truth. With that decided, she breathed deeply, then smiled. “All right, well, we’re closed tomorrow, so nobody’s gonna be able to look at your bike till Monday, but….”

A deafening silence emerged despite howling cats and pelting rain. Jamey said nothing, making Kim inwardly sigh, but Jesus chuckled. “That’s fine. I’ll check it out in the morning but right now I’m exhausted to tell you the truth.”

Again Kim believed him, and she wished Jamey knew how accurate were Kim’s observations. Yet that gift was only understood by Sailor, Loralye, and Shauna. Kim blinked, recalling Shauna; hopefully only Lora would come by that night. Kim’s phone pinged, Lora’s tone, and Kim smiled, retrieving the device. Lora was pulling an unexpected double shift, but could send someone over with dinner so Kim didn’t have to cook. Kim stared at the message, then glanced at Jesus, also on his phone. Then Kim gazed at where Jamey stood by her locker, her phone also in hand. Kim texted the young woman that all would be fine, and to go home. Then Kim pocketed her phone, taking a deep breath. Why this was happening didn’t matter. The guy was legit, what she knew like she knew her name. If Jamey didn’t like it, Kim didn’t care.

Jamey didn’t approve, as she slammed shut the locker, loudly affixed the padlock, then yanked on it with force. The young woman said a muffled See you later to Kim, then stomped from the garage. Then Jamey paused. “Shall I lock up now?” she called brusquely.

“Please,” Kim smiled. “Thanks Jamey.”

In rapid-fire Spanish Jesus spoke what to Kim sounded like a long-winded Thanks, as well as whatever else Jesus needed to convey. Then Kim wondered how he knew Jamey was bilingual, what she realized Jamey was also considering as she awkwardly replied to him in Spanish. He chuckled, then hung the helmet from a handlebar as Jamey slowly closed the doors. Locks were snapped into place, leaving Kim not with an angel, she allowed, but certainly someone here for a reason.

“Okay,” she said as if setting parameters. “I’m gonna go to my house and get some towels. You don’t have any dry clothes, do you?”

“Actually I do,” he said, opening one of the cycle’s back storage containers. “But towels would be greatly appreciated.”

“Give me a minute or three,” Kim smiled, heading toward her office. “Shall I bring a basket for your, uh, wet stuff?”

“That’d be great too,” he chuckled.

Kim reached the doorway to the office, then turned back. “You’re not allergic to cats are you?”

“Nope,” he called.

“Good,” she said, making her slow way toward the back door. Rain still poured and she grimaced, but didn’t rush, not wishing to slip. She didn’t ponder more than texting Lora that dinner wasn’t necessary, then maybe messaging Jordan, asking if he had time in the morning to stop by. Then she would gather towels and a basket, and fix creamed tuna for dinner, as there weren’t enough breakfast leftovers to offer. If Jesus agreed to creamed tuna, Kim would assume this was her father’s way of reaching out from the dead. Russ had often said that living in Humboldt County was akin to dwelling in a special place. Sailor and Rickey’s arrivals were as odd as Jesus’, and as she entered her house, Kim inwardly acknowledged how occasionally the unexpected wasn’t as doomed as everyone thought it would be.