When the Vents Speak

Pals, it’s Friday night. And I’m a 52 year old woman. Sitting on her couch. Happily living her Plan B. Outside, the wind howls and creaks. Shaking and straining the old, stately trees on our property.

Through the vents inside, though. Floating directly from the basement. Music blares—everything from Elton John to The Rolling Stones. Rap and pop country haphazardly mixed in between. Because in my unfinished basement. Six high school boys are playing a heated game of poker.

I hear the poker chips shuffling in their hands. Their deepening voices razzing each other repeatedly. Gangly legs stomping up and down the basement stairs. As they sprint to grab snacks from the kitchen pantry in between hands.

And all of a sudden. I hear the collective chant, “SHOVE, SHOVE, SHOVE, SHOVE!!!” Because someone has presumably called a bluff. And I imagine one boy smugly smiling. As another calls out grandiose excuses. While the other boys erupt into rowdy laughter.

And, Pals, you can be sure I won’t bemoan the thumping music til midnight. Or the empty pantry shelves and future grocery bill. Because you better believe. I’d rather have them here. Safe in our happy house on the hill. Than in some other unsupervised basement yelling, “CHUG, CHUG, CHUG, CHUG!!!” Or worse.

And so I’ll settle in. No place I’d rather be. And I’ll let the vents speak. All of their ordinary goodness to me.