The Groceryboy's Name was Andy: a story in many parts.

Part Five.

The only part of the day which belonged to me was my morning run. The name was a bit deceptive--having never been athletic, running meant little more than sprinting a block or so, then a side cramp clamping down, slowing me to a weak limp. So I mostly walked. I didn't mind that too much. The neighborhood was beautiful. Giant leafy trees spread over the quiet streets.

Land Park itself was quiet in the mornings, just a few fellow runners and some zealous families lined up for the zoo. Most of the time I didn't even venture into the real park...the duck pond, fairy paths, carnival and gardens, all held wonderful childhood memories, but I was doing plenty of reminiscing as we cleaned. I found an empty baseball diamond with flimsy wood bleachers at the edge of the park.

This is where I spent every morning, Monday-Friday. My walks became a bee-line for the deserted diamond, where I would sit down quietly, staring intently at the empty field, as if absorbed in a game no one else could see. It was there I let my mind run, a good 20 minutes of just breathing in the quiet morning air.

As a younger child, my mother had strictly enforced summer quiet time. She provided a bevy of religious paraphernalia: The Picture Bible (a graphic novel rendition of the Old Testament with the stories creatively edited down to speed for young children), several volumes of religious poetry, the Bible itself, our memorization work (we each had passages from the Psalms we were required to learn) or the opportunity to journal. Wednesdays were the day...we set aside a half-hour, each crawled into our own corner with one of the selected items of devotion, and commenced communing.

Jenny, being older and scary when ill-pleased, usually secured The Picture Bible. While she reveled in the debauchery of Sodom and the badassery of King David, I was left with the hard stuff--shoving the uneven poetry of Psalms into my brain. I tried to set the lines to the rhythm of the sugarless spearmint Trident I chomped, but often I would lose my way, the words wandering out of focus, refusing to stay in the order the Psalmist had strung them, slipping together into a puddle of helpful hills, stalking pestilence, piercing arrows and a feathered god.

That was my sense of what good people did -- "devotions." Therefore, the cool peace of my leafy Sacramento mornings didn't really resemble devotion to me. Still I think that term was somewhere in my mornings, as I counted the grass blades on the field, as I asked what the day would be about, as I asked for some sort of strength and knowledge that I was doing something worthwhile.

Sacramento summer is a tease--every single morning is crisp and perfect, as if the sun is deliberating kindness over cruelty. But by 8:15 the dead flat heat creaks down, the city a giant cheese sandwich inside a Panini press.