It’s the first week of August and I just took the trash to the curb. One, in these restrictive times, of my most exciting tasks. Pity poor me.

Retired from teaching, She sits at her desk writing checks and paying the bills for July.

She’s happy, because I’ve stopped spending money we don’t have, so she can say, “We’re comfortable.” She likes saying that.

That’s like saying folks in Kentucky are “comfortable” sitting atop their houses instead of in the living room. I ignore it.

But it’s sorta-kinda true. Having paid the house painter, and Home Depot for the overpriced new window shutters, we are financially in the best shape since January 2020, when the HORN began.

Let me explain.

The family tells me I can’t talk about HORN anymore. All of you are super tired of hearing and reading about it. So a replacement is called for.

She, the great wordsmith, suggests I use HORN in its place. That’s where the podcast comes in. Are you ready for this? I will print the word HORN, but blow our old bicycle horn in the podcast. You ready for that? The blame falls on her.

You want to talk about HORN, that’s fine but not on this page. Want bad news? Ask Lester Holt or someone at Fox.

Here’s my day. After I complete this column, I will take the trash down, wearing my mask so I don’t catch HORN from passersby.

Then I will walk slowly up the driveway, pause and look at the newly-painted house and shutters. I sigh, “Ain’t it grand?” Can you see how inflation, gas prices and HORN have shrunk my lifestyle? You hear what I’m saying here?

To pass the time, I go sit in my newly detailed Prius. I will sit there enjoying the new fresh clean smell, and run my hand over the brightwork.

Sometimes I take a little nap there in the car, as a fresh breeze ruffles my hair.

I’m jolted awake by the mailman’s tapping on my window.

“You catch the HORN, J.P.?” he jokes as he hands me my magazines.

Awake, I will, without her knowing, quietly motor up to Starbucks for a large Passion tea with a shot of strawberry juice.

In the parking lot, I watch the summer folk arriving from Missouri, Illinois and Texas. Of course, we know why Texans are here, don’t we?

I enjoy the parade of maskless human beings of all colors and shapes, slimy beauties and grotesque bulging bare torso folks covered in tattoo art, sucking up lattes, totally oblivious to the horrors of HORN.

In past pre-HORN summers, we would dine at Tuscan Grill in Freeport, stroll the aisles of L.L.Bean and buy wine and crackers at Trader Joe’s in Portland, dine on lobster rolls at Red’s Eats in Wiscasset.

Often, we would be having a shrimp salad and waving to the yachts passing by on the deck at the Waterfront Cafe in Camden. “Hello! Can we come with you? We don’t have HORN.”

The only actual humans we see are the occasional friendly baristas that slide open their windows at Starbucks and McDonalds, and the clerks who whisper and wave from behind the glass at our bank.

After supper and my nightly cocktail of Stella Artois, we’ll swallow a couple of Prevagen capsules and watch Jeopardy! Just don’t mention HORN if you call.

Drive by anytime and wave. We like to wave.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer. 

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