I was reaching over the washing machine when I saw a very agitated cricket trying to make his way to safety. He was bedraggled but very much alive. He had already grappled,  floated and banged his way upward in the now nearly full tub.

It was one of the moments when the choices are clear, thumbs up or thumbs down. I reached in with the cup I use to add soap and scooped him up. It took a couple of trys as he was reluctant to trade a bad situation for maybe a much worst one. 

I got him on the third swoop. And when I turned the cup over the sink; he flipped out and somersaulted onto the rim.

He sat there motionless with what seemed like a great sense of relief.  After I thought he had enough time gather his thoughts and count his blessings, I helped him outside to find his friends and family.

The very next day I got a letter declaring itself a Legal Notice from Volkswagen.  An official looking letter informed me that a clogged drain in the sunroof might be causing “water to enter the passenger compartment.” They would be happy to pay for any and all repairs.

Just that week, my front floor mats had been soaked after a really heavy rain. I had not left the windows open, or had my sun roof cracked and I hadn’t seen anywhere where water could have come in. I just thought someone had spilled a water bottle on the floor mat and didn’t notice when it happened. 

Who says a grateful cricket doesn’t have a huge sense of humor?

I learned from the spring issue of the museum mag that the KC Nelson-Akins Museum of Art is rolling out a major new acquisition as they say in museum-speak. It is the funerary assemblage of  Meret-it-es, a woman who lived in middle Egypt 2,300 years ago.

If the promotion is any indication, the museum people are really, really excited about this. For three years, one of the curators has been hot on the trail of authentic egyptian coffins and evidently hit the mother lode with this one.

The display includes an outer coffin, 8 egyptian feet long, a glorious inner coffin, a gilded cartonnage (mummy mask ) a couple of deity statuettes — and 305 (yup, count ’em) statuettes known as Ushebtis. They look kinda like the Oscars but are green instead of gold and have their heads covered.  

Ushebti  (yoo-sheb-tee) were worker bees, the name means responder in egyptian; their job was to come to life and perform any labor that might be requested of the deceased in the hereafter.

Yeah, that Meretites, oops I mean Meret-it-es, must have been one lazy girl.

 But what a waste. I mean — who needs Ushebti in the sweet bye and bye? So, she’s lying there in the midst of a deep sleep and someone yells, “Hey Mere, come over here and help haul up this harp.”

Wouldn’t you think she would rouse herself a little and retort, ” No! I’m done with schlepping.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s part of the gig, get over here!”

More than a little piqued, I could see our girl raising herself on her forearms and narrowing her eyes. ” Did you not hear what I said! I’m not doing anything and what’s more, you can’t make me. Go ahead, whatta gonna do, Killllll me!?”

That’s probably when a flock of Ushebti rushes over. And then it stops raining somewhere on earth.

An old friend used to send us wildly incoherent postcards from exotic places he visited.  He usually signed off, “Mayday – Mayday – Mayday” which more often than not signaled distress at reaching the bottom of a bottle of vodka.

After a trip, he often arrived at our house well after midnight and would fall fully clothed onto the couch. The next morning, over a breakfast of eggs, toast and orange juice,  he would pull out paper wrapped objects from deep within the pockets of his parka. 

He had exquisite taste in souvenirs.  They were always well crafted and had the mark of a market rather than a stamp of a duty-free shop. 

He would unwrap his packages without hurrying.  One time it was a long lineage of nesting dolls, another time lacquered boxes with elaborate illustrations of folk tales, and still another time tasselled scarfs with intricate designs in chalky grey and mustard yellow. 

He would arrange his things in front of him with precision, giving them space to breathe and be admired.

Though he avoided museums, churches, and monuments unless standing in the way to his hotel, he would talk about people he had met. He’d talk about drinks he had shared or he’d tell funny stories of being mis-understood or lost.  He’d describe in detail long train rides and the sausages and breads he bought from street vendors. Sometimes he would  mention the unexpected beauty of an evening sky or a view of a cityscape.

Then he would carefully re-wrap his gifts, tuck them into his coat pockets and go home where he lived with his mother.   

In the fifth grade, I was accidently chosen to be a player in the traditional crowning of the virgin Mary on May Day. It involved a scraggly procession and the placing of a crown of flowers on a pretty near life-size version of the BVM (that’s Blessed) herself.  It was heady stuff.

Nowadays, whenever May Day rolls around, I get a kick out of thinking that the BVM is saying, “Wow, May already — and here I am out of vodka.”