Act 1 – Domestic Logic: Remote Control
So I’m constantly losing the channel changer, the clicker, or the remote.
My wife misplaces her hearing aids. She has a built-in GPS, but it doesn’t beep.
Fine—it’s lost in the house. How does that help?
At least it’s not in the parking lot at the swimming pool.
The remote/clicker/changer is also in the house. No GPS.
It’s probably in the canyons of the chair or couch.
Maybe with the spoons. Or single socks.
Wherever they go.
I’m hoping it’s not on a shelf, or on some random horizontal space.
(We have a lot of those.)
I’m out on the back patio, staring at random horizontal spaces.
My wife asks, “Why are you looking out there?”
I reply, “There’s better light.”
⸻
Act 2 – The Dog and the Filter
My wife asks, “Do you want to walk the dog?”
I run that through my want/don’t want filter.
Apparently, I hadn’t thought about it at all.
Was she picking up a signal I actually wanted to?
Or was this a clever way of asking me to do it?
I punted.
“He’s asleep under the pool table.”
Just then—barking from the back kitchen door.
Not once. Several times.
“He is not asleep. He’s outside!”
“Who do you believe? Your husband, or your dog?”
⸻
Act 3 – Driving Together, Sort Of
My wife asks if I want to drive with her to pick up gifts for the grandkids.
“Sure,” I say. “I’d like to spend some time with you.”
We put on coats. Head to the car.
She gets behind the wheel.
I climb up onto the hood.
Face-to-face. Through the windshield.
Wearing my warmest jacket.
She says, “Are you mad? Why not get in the passenger seat? Or at least the back?”
“If I sit in back, I’ll only see the back of your head—coming or going.
That’s not helpful in being together.
If I sit in front, you might turn toward me—and take your eyes off the road.
Too dangerous. For both of us.
Out here, we can see each other. Face-to-face.”
“And I wore my warmest jacket.”
⸻
Act 4 – The Daughters Dispute
The girls were fighting. Doors slamming.
My peace was being disturbed.
My wife didn’t seem to notice. She went on with her morning.
I glared at the landing. To reach their rooms meant down, then up again.
It takes a lot of energy to bring peace.
“Girls! Come up here right now!”
(Younger legs are better at stairs.)
They arrived. I asked the older one to explain the problem first.
She launched into a long, detailed complaint about the shared bathroom.
Disappointment. Extra work.
“You’re right. I can see the merit in your response.”
Then the younger one had her turn.
Another long, detailed complaint.
Disappointment. Lack of respect.
“You’re right. I can see the merit in your response.”
My wife looked up. “That’s not fair.
You can’t resolve a conflict by agreeing with both sides.”
I turned to her, amazed.
“You’re right. I can see the merit in your response.”
⸻
Act 5 – Midnight Intruder
Late last night, my wife asked,
“What was that terrible noise? I almost got up to investigate.”
“Oh—it was nothing. My jacket fell down the stairs.”
“That can’t be. A jacket doesn’t make that much noise.”
“It does… if you’re wearing it.”
⸻
Act 6 – The Stand-Off
The wind was up. The house creaked.
My wife was asleep under quilts.
I was upstairs, reading.
I thought I heard the front porch.
Maybe even the door creak open.
There’s no light switch upstairs for the foyer—
bad design.
I peered down from the landing.
Thought I saw something by the closet.
“Freeze!” I said. Not loud. Didn’t want to wake my wife.
He froze.
No movement.
I reached into my pocket. Slowly pulled out my pocket knife.
We held our positions.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
My legs were tightening.
Then—I thought I saw a shoulder twitch.
I flung the knife with all my strength—
and let out a wild yell.
My wife opened the bedroom door.
Turned on the foyer light.
There was my jacket, hanging on the closet door.
My knife stuck in its shoulder.
“Thank G-d,” I said.
“Why are you thanking G-d?” she asked.
“Well… imagine if I’d been wearing the jacket.”
⸻
Act 7 – Closing on the Deck
Now I’m sitting on the back deck.
The afternoon sun is warm.
I look out at the oak tree.
It split years ago, but healed itself.
A small shoot from the stump is now several stories tall.
Strong. Still.
No acorns in years.
I muse on G-d’s design—
how the mighty oak grows tiny acorns,
while the lowly vine grows massive pumpkins.
Then the wind shifts.
The leaves tremble.
A single acorn falls—
strikes me on the head.
I look around. Confused. Then I laugh.
And I thank the Lord.
Because if I had designed the world—
the great pumpkin
would’ve smashed my head
A Work Progressing 
Life in Seven Acts
Act 1 – Domestic Logic: Remote Control
So I’m constantly losing the channel changer, the clicker, or the remote.
My wife misplaces her hearing aids. She has a built-in GPS, but it doesn’t beep.
Fine—it’s lost in the house. How does that help?
At least it’s not in the parking lot at the swimming pool.
The remote/clicker/changer is also in the house. No GPS.
It’s probably in the canyons of the chair or couch.
Maybe with the spoons. Or single socks.
Wherever they go.
I’m hoping it’s not on a shelf, or on some random horizontal space.
(We have a lot of those.)
I’m out on the back patio, staring at random horizontal spaces.
My wife asks, “Why are you looking out there?”
I reply, “There’s better light.”
⸻
Act 2 – The Dog and the Filter
My wife asks, “Do you want to walk the dog?”
I run that through my want/don’t want filter.
Apparently, I hadn’t thought about it at all.
Was she picking up a signal I actually wanted to?
Or was this a clever way of asking me to do it?
I punted.
“He’s asleep under the pool table.”
Just then—barking from the back kitchen door.
Not once. Several times.
“He is not asleep. He’s outside!”
“Who do you believe? Your husband, or your dog?”
⸻
Act 3 – Driving Together, Sort Of
My wife asks if I want to drive with her to pick up gifts for the grandkids.
“Sure,” I say. “I’d like to spend some time with you.”
We put on coats. Head to the car.
She gets behind the wheel.
I climb up onto the hood.
Face-to-face. Through the windshield.
Wearing my warmest jacket.
She says, “Are you mad? Why not get in the passenger seat? Or at least the back?”
“If I sit in back, I’ll only see the back of your head—coming or going.
That’s not helpful in being together.
If I sit in front, you might turn toward me—and take your eyes off the road.
Too dangerous. For both of us.
Out here, we can see each other. Face-to-face.”
“And I wore my warmest jacket.”
⸻
Act 4 – The Daughters Dispute
The girls were fighting. Doors slamming.
My peace was being disturbed.
My wife didn’t seem to notice. She went on with her morning.
I glared at the landing. To reach their rooms meant down, then up again.
It takes a lot of energy to bring peace.
“Girls! Come up here right now!”
(Younger legs are better at stairs.)
They arrived. I asked the older one to explain the problem first.
She launched into a long, detailed complaint about the shared bathroom.
Disappointment. Extra work.
“You’re right. I can see the merit in your response.”
Then the younger one had her turn.
Another long, detailed complaint.
Disappointment. Lack of respect.
“You’re right. I can see the merit in your response.”
My wife looked up. “That’s not fair.
You can’t resolve a conflict by agreeing with both sides.”
I turned to her, amazed.
“You’re right. I can see the merit in your response.”
⸻
Act 5 – Midnight Intruder
Late last night, my wife asked,
“What was that terrible noise? I almost got up to investigate.”
“Oh—it was nothing. My jacket fell down the stairs.”
“That can’t be. A jacket doesn’t make that much noise.”
“It does… if you’re wearing it.”
⸻
Act 6 – The Stand-Off
The wind was up. The house creaked.
My wife was asleep under quilts.
I was upstairs, reading.
I thought I heard the front porch.
Maybe even the door creak open.
There’s no light switch upstairs for the foyer—
bad design.
I peered down from the landing.
Thought I saw something by the closet.
“Freeze!” I said. Not loud. Didn’t want to wake my wife.
He froze.
No movement.
I reached into my pocket. Slowly pulled out my pocket knife.
We held our positions.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
My legs were tightening.
Then—I thought I saw a shoulder twitch.
I flung the knife with all my strength—
and let out a wild yell.
My wife opened the bedroom door.
Turned on the foyer light.
There was my jacket, hanging on the closet door.
My knife stuck in its shoulder.
“Thank G-d,” I said.
“Why are you thanking G-d?” she asked.
“Well… imagine if I’d been wearing the jacket.”
⸻
Act 7 – Closing on the Deck
Now I’m sitting on the back deck.
The afternoon sun is warm.
I look out at the oak tree.
It split years ago, but healed itself.
A small shoot from the stump is now several stories tall.
Strong. Still.
No acorns in years.
I muse on G-d’s design—
how the mighty oak grows tiny acorns,
while the lowly vine grows massive pumpkins.
Then the wind shifts.
The leaves tremble.
A single acorn falls—
strikes me on the head.
I look around. Confused. Then I laugh.
And I thank the Lord.
Because if I had designed the world—
the great pumpkin
would’ve smashed my head
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