We were back from France and I needed to go walking.

We took a day to settle in, catch up on things like the mail, clear away the spider web over the door camera, adjust the internal clock which jetlag had altered especially for Kristina and Chaz, since I still insist that I can wake up whenever as needed, though sleep now comes for me in chunks punctuated by bathroom breaks. I guess it’s one of the consequences of age.

So we lazed around, ate food (delivered), watched episodes of OA, a series we had started before we left. Not the best, but watchable, character interactions, plot twists, designed to lull the mind so it won’t revolt when the science of science fiction passes believability.

So the next day, I got dressed and took my walking poles and headed for the door.

Kristina said, “Good, you’re walking. I’m proud of you, Dad.”

I planned to go down Arlington Avenue, stopping as necessary to “catch my breath.”

I decided to look in at the Library, still open until it’s closed for renovation in July, then a full year where we all need to find other venues.

I saw my staff friends, but they were busy, I looked on the sale shelf, saw a hard back of Robert Reich’s analysis of the future economy, $2, but I didn’t get it because I couldn’t easily carry it on my trip down to Young’s Market where I planned to buy ribs and eat an early lunch.

So I sat in the periodicals section of the Library, saw the old guy I always see who reads a book in a comfy chair.

I looked through the New Yorker to see if there was a discussion of the not fully substantiated report of Trump impatiently asking for the nuclear codes, and the military leader in charge said, “No.”

No mention, so I read a few comics, then checked the New York Times and the San Francisco Times, no front page notice, good journalism not to highlight what might be a rumor, so I grabbed my poles and headed down the hill.

I passed the fire hydrant where I usually sit to “catch my breath,” thought, “well, that’s progress,” then paused a little too often farther down.

A guy with a dog, I think maybe a Rottweiler, was walking up, and I said, “Nice dog.”

He said, “Yes, he is.”

I said, “I used to have a dog I could walk. Now I have to walk myself.”

He laughed, and we spent several friendly minutes of no hurry. People generally agree with me that it’s good to talk and be friendly. Like the woman in Pasadena I met on the street, gave her my card, and she emailed me that evening, “Thanks for talking with me.”

Then I walked further down Arlington Avenue, and a guy was walking up. He may have started a conversation with, “Hello.” Or I may have. I don’t remember, but we started in and talked about not quite everything. I told him about my years of teaching and my students’ success. He said, “That’s what teaching is.” He said, “I’m an electrician, a builder. I’m late for an appointment in (a town up the way).”

I said, “Blame me for being late.”

He said, “I will.”

But he didn’t rush off, neither of us wanted to end a conversation that roamed far and wide, Los Angeles, the Altadena fire, the Bay Area, the state of the world, the country, the ravages of government. We were in agreement without having to say so, talking as if friends for a long time, and again I got around to offering my card, which he gladly accepted, saying he would follow up.

I said, “I didn’t get your name.”

He said, “Mike,” or “Michael.”

I said, trying to find a memory device, “Michael the Archangel.”

He said, “Sterling Silver, as in Gary Sterling.”

We parted without the pressure of getting somewhere else, I thanked him for brightening my day with a friendly intelligent encounter and a sense of humor, and I meant it. We both had more to say.

So I went further down the street, passed houses I knew from familiarity, paused in front of the “Peace House,” and raised my poles in salute. Someday a person will come out, and I can say, “I love the peace sign on your door,” and, “I’m a Charter Member of Poets for Peace.”

Then I made a decision on the spot and called Kristina.

She said, “Where are you?”

I said, “I’m across the street and a half block up from the market, but checking the time I decided not to go the rest of the way and buy a rib for an early lunch because it’s too late now, so if somebody wants to come pick me up, I’ll be here or across the street, your choice.”

She said, “It’ll be me, because Chaz doesn’t have his driver’s license renewal yet, so I’ll just take a quick shower and be there in ten minutes. I’ll find you.”

So I crossed over to sit on the wall in the sun.

An elderly woman approached to cross at the crosswalk, saw my walking poles, and asked, “How are those working out for you?”

I told her, “Better than before,” and launched into the story of my hip replacement.

She was interested, was having her own troubles, might get a set of poles for herself, I didn’t offer her my card, she crossed the street and went on her way, and I didn’t yell out the joke about looking my age. I do have some restraint.

Then the car drove up with Chaz, Kristina driving, and I got in.

They said, “We’re going to Young’s. Your talk of ribs got us hooked.” I said, “We could go to that Cajun restaurant that Chaz and I discovered,” and Chaz said, “We’re going to Young’s.”

I said, “Where’s that?”

The answer, “The market, right there, where you were headed.”

I said, “I keep forgetting that’s its name,” and Kristina said, “I’ll drop you and Chaz, and I’ll drive around the circle a few times to charge the battery after sitting so long while we were away, then I’ll join you.”

So Chaz and I got out, Chaz went in, and I took a cart and put my poles in it and followed.

We went to the counter, and Chaz said, “I didn’t see any ribs,” and then, “there they are at the end covered by a cloth.”

The guy came out, Chaz asked me, “How many do you think we need?” I said speculatively, “Maybe two pounds.”

The guy said, “Did you have an order in for ribs?”

We said, “No.”

He said, “We’re out. Those there are reserved. We’re never sure how many to make, especially on the weekends, it’s best to get your order in early, before 3:00 o’clock.”

“Oh!” I wailed, “My beloved ribs, lying there to torment me!”

The guy laughed.

Chaz said, “We could order sandwiches. They’re good. Maybe a sauerkraut Reuben?”

I said, “Yes!” so we ordered two, one for me, one for Kristina, extra pickles on both, and Chaz ordered his Italian variant.

And there was Kristina, magically appearing. She had driven around to charge the battery and parked out front.

Chaz said, “They have chicken too,” and I said, “Maybe chicken legs” because they were in a bin ready, so we ordered three, and I paid with cash. And I paid for the sandwiches while they were being made, and got change back.

Kristina noticed the bottles of fruit drinks in the refrigerator case, and said, “Do you want lemonade or orange juice?”

I said, “Orange juice,” and she got a big bottle and read the label, “Bolthouse.”

“Good brand,” I said. “Fresh, organic, local, lots of flavor choices.”

She said, “You know that brand?”

I said, “Yes. We tried it years ago when it appeared. Really good.

Then we took our purchases and headed for the car.

“The sandwiches!”

A quick check, nobody had them, Chaz went back and got the bag, now ready.

Drove home, unloaded ourselves, plates for the sandwiches, a big glass of Bolthouse orange juice for me, and we watched the next two episodes of OA.

I’m glad I got out and walked today, because tomorrow promises to be overcast and colder, even without rain.