JUPITER AT ITS BEST: Tonight, Sept. 20-21, Earth and Jupiter converge for their closest encounter in decades. The giant planet will soar across the sky at midnight, outshining everything except the Moon itself. Although big, bright Jupiter will remain close to Earth for weeks to come, tonight is the closest of all. (From Spaceweather.com)
Last night I sighted Jupiter... so pretty, hiding there in plain sight as if she is just another star. When viewed through even my cheap old telescope (especially now, while Jupiter is so close) you realize that sparkling prick of light is not a star, but a sister to our Earth. So I took my scope over to Mike's cottage and showed Mike & Vicky too... and they seemed pleased and impressed to view the planet and four of its moons, miraculously circling their home planet. And off to the east of Jupiter was our own moon, not quite full but brilliant in the light from our sun which had set four hours prior.
It all made me wonder... where will I be... where will they be... what will life be like in twelve years when Jupiter comes this close again? Will they remember this night with me? Will they remember their younger selves, merely 29 & 30, peering up at the planet over Mike's cottage... a cottage which will, most certainly, no longer exist twelve years from now if Mike's plans come to fruition. Will they remember these sweet romantic days of their courtship when hanging at his summer cottage relieved their city-dwelling stresses? Are they embedding these cool September nights into their memories, to warm them into their old age when children - who have not yet even been conceived - will tickle their hearts as they tickle mine?
Every day, every moment, every experience hangs like smoke in the air, waiting to be dispersed by whatever wind of change may blow. It is all so brief and tenuous... all of everything we see and do. Twelve years ago I could not possibly have foreseen myself, as I am now... Twelve years ago my sons were barely even men at only 16, 17, and 18. Twelve years ago I was merely 42, married and in love, although still trying to figure out how to really get along as a couple. I never thought to see today. I never imagined what time might do to each of us.
In twelve years hence as Jupiter pulls close to our Earth again, will I be here? Will I still be interested in peering at her moons? Will my children's children be clustered at my side, pushing to have a turn to see what the heaven's hold? Will I have the chance to share more spectacularly, splendidly, divinely humble and inconsequential moments like last night with the people I love? And will I remember that I did? And will they?
My heart soars as I open an email from Mike only a moment ago.
"thanks for the jupiter moons, really cool to see!"
How very sweet to think that we may have shared a moment in time that will last forever in our hearts...
Monday, September 20, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Thoughts on Productivity
Admittedly, I am in love with my life.
I know it isn’t a life that my children seem to understand nor is it one that the average Joe lives, but I love it just this way: the way that it is. I do wish, however, that my feelings about my own existence were not under such constant scrutiny from my own conscience.
I am supposed to be productive.
I am supposed to clean my house – regularly and thoroughly.
I am supposed to exercise.
I am supposed to eat healthfully.
Some of the shoulds that I nag myself with make more sense to me than others, so I embrace them, in moderation. But the vast majority of my days are pissed away in a decadent state: feet up on the couch, video game or computer screen in front of me, a drink by my side (coffee, water, red wine, as the day progresses), and snacks. Here at my summer cottage I break up the bliss with wanderings around my yard, watering and picking as the need arises, though I am very comfortable in putting off the picking until tomorrow.
The watering has turned into somewhat of a grind. I find myself resenting its necessity, though I am too compelled to nurture living things to allow my resentment to kill them off. I made a commitment when I planted. I am bound to the commitments I make. It's my only curse.
But aside from watering plants that appear too desperate to wait, there is almost nothing I cannot justify postponing. The box of hair dye has been perched on the bathroom sink for two days. Today may be the day. Or not. Roots be damned. And I’ve stepped over that basil leaf in the middle of the living room floor at least three times now. I’ll get it, eventually. Probably. Even brushing my teeth can be put off. Nearly nothing matters enough, right now, to be done.
And in the freedom of my apparent lethargy I step out of the billowing curtains into the brilliant heat of a late morning sun and I spot a sailboat on the bay. Through my enormous black binoculars I spy on the couple stealing a kiss and laughing. And there on the bay the sunlight is glittering in a way it has never done before nor will it ever – exactly - do again. And I hear a woman’s voice behind me. She is some four hundred feet away, down and across my lagoon, and she’s on a phone saying,
“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?” and I cannot help but laugh out loud and my guffaws echo, as all sounds do here on the water.
Who takes the time to notice these things? Who has the time to take? Just me.
Doing nothing is a great counter balance to my anxiety disorder, but occasionally I worry that my GAD isn’t my only issue. I worry that I may be seriously depressed. After all, who but a seriously depressed person can do as little as I do? Comparing myself to the industrious lives of my dear friends leaves me wanting for some stronger direction of motion, a clear motivation, and some ostensible sign of success (or at least progress). What good am I doing for my world? What contribution can I point to?
Today’s soft end-of-summer breeze blows such concerns away. They can only beg at the question of why my doing nothing is any less valuable than their doing something. Who made these rules? Who set us up this way? Why is humankind so obsessed with “doing” anyway?
The rest of our animal kingdom live simple lives. Birds may build nests in the spring and conscientiously feed their young, but by and large a bird’s life is about eating, singing, and maybe flying south in the winter. There they will eat and sing and hang out with their friends.
I like the sound of that.
I know I am blessed to have a home – two homes actually – and enough money to buy the spare food required to maintain my thirty pounds of overweight. I come and go at my leisure, volunteering at the theater to satisfy my altruism as well as catching free shows to sustain my cultural side. I cook creatively; using many ingredients I’ve grown and harvested myself. Today I made a breakfast quiche and mixed up some crab cakes for later. I used home grown red and green tomatoes, fresh parsley, red and green peppers… there will be fresh mint in my iced tea as I dangle my toes in the pool. I feel like a Princess, yet I live on a budget that the government says is below the poverty line.
In the midst of this economic downturn I would ask, what more does a person want? What more does a person need? Why are all the people around me working so diligently? To what possible end?
The sound of salt water lapping at my bulkhead and the scream of a laughing gull flying overhead: these things ease my soul and whisper “This is enough”.
If I hit the lottery tomorrow, my life would barely change. I’d be able to stop stressing about which bill to pay, but my GAD would haunt my nights none the less. At least I would be sure that there would indeed be enough money to feed me when I am ninety. Aside from that, I have absolutely no interest in increasing my consumption or raising my standard of living. I don’t feel any desire to dress any “better” or have a fancier car. I most certainly would invest in one of those automatic watering systems so I could sleep in on the hot summer mornings when the plants dry out before 9:00 am. But other than that I would be completely happy to eat, sing, and fly south in the cold weather... perhaps north in the hot weather, east when Parisian baguettes call to me, and west when only authentic Pad Thai will do.
Really though, most of that I have already done... so, like I said, I love my life.
I know it isn’t a life that my children seem to understand nor is it one that the average Joe lives, but I love it just this way: the way that it is. I do wish, however, that my feelings about my own existence were not under such constant scrutiny from my own conscience.
I am supposed to be productive.
I am supposed to clean my house – regularly and thoroughly.
I am supposed to exercise.
I am supposed to eat healthfully.
Some of the shoulds that I nag myself with make more sense to me than others, so I embrace them, in moderation. But the vast majority of my days are pissed away in a decadent state: feet up on the couch, video game or computer screen in front of me, a drink by my side (coffee, water, red wine, as the day progresses), and snacks. Here at my summer cottage I break up the bliss with wanderings around my yard, watering and picking as the need arises, though I am very comfortable in putting off the picking until tomorrow.
The watering has turned into somewhat of a grind. I find myself resenting its necessity, though I am too compelled to nurture living things to allow my resentment to kill them off. I made a commitment when I planted. I am bound to the commitments I make. It's my only curse.
But aside from watering plants that appear too desperate to wait, there is almost nothing I cannot justify postponing. The box of hair dye has been perched on the bathroom sink for two days. Today may be the day. Or not. Roots be damned. And I’ve stepped over that basil leaf in the middle of the living room floor at least three times now. I’ll get it, eventually. Probably. Even brushing my teeth can be put off. Nearly nothing matters enough, right now, to be done.
And in the freedom of my apparent lethargy I step out of the billowing curtains into the brilliant heat of a late morning sun and I spot a sailboat on the bay. Through my enormous black binoculars I spy on the couple stealing a kiss and laughing. And there on the bay the sunlight is glittering in a way it has never done before nor will it ever – exactly - do again. And I hear a woman’s voice behind me. She is some four hundred feet away, down and across my lagoon, and she’s on a phone saying,
“Hello? Hello? Can you hear me now?” and I cannot help but laugh out loud and my guffaws echo, as all sounds do here on the water.
Who takes the time to notice these things? Who has the time to take? Just me.
Doing nothing is a great counter balance to my anxiety disorder, but occasionally I worry that my GAD isn’t my only issue. I worry that I may be seriously depressed. After all, who but a seriously depressed person can do as little as I do? Comparing myself to the industrious lives of my dear friends leaves me wanting for some stronger direction of motion, a clear motivation, and some ostensible sign of success (or at least progress). What good am I doing for my world? What contribution can I point to?
Today’s soft end-of-summer breeze blows such concerns away. They can only beg at the question of why my doing nothing is any less valuable than their doing something. Who made these rules? Who set us up this way? Why is humankind so obsessed with “doing” anyway?
The rest of our animal kingdom live simple lives. Birds may build nests in the spring and conscientiously feed their young, but by and large a bird’s life is about eating, singing, and maybe flying south in the winter. There they will eat and sing and hang out with their friends.
I like the sound of that.
I know I am blessed to have a home – two homes actually – and enough money to buy the spare food required to maintain my thirty pounds of overweight. I come and go at my leisure, volunteering at the theater to satisfy my altruism as well as catching free shows to sustain my cultural side. I cook creatively; using many ingredients I’ve grown and harvested myself. Today I made a breakfast quiche and mixed up some crab cakes for later. I used home grown red and green tomatoes, fresh parsley, red and green peppers… there will be fresh mint in my iced tea as I dangle my toes in the pool. I feel like a Princess, yet I live on a budget that the government says is below the poverty line.
In the midst of this economic downturn I would ask, what more does a person want? What more does a person need? Why are all the people around me working so diligently? To what possible end?
The sound of salt water lapping at my bulkhead and the scream of a laughing gull flying overhead: these things ease my soul and whisper “This is enough”.
If I hit the lottery tomorrow, my life would barely change. I’d be able to stop stressing about which bill to pay, but my GAD would haunt my nights none the less. At least I would be sure that there would indeed be enough money to feed me when I am ninety. Aside from that, I have absolutely no interest in increasing my consumption or raising my standard of living. I don’t feel any desire to dress any “better” or have a fancier car. I most certainly would invest in one of those automatic watering systems so I could sleep in on the hot summer mornings when the plants dry out before 9:00 am. But other than that I would be completely happy to eat, sing, and fly south in the cold weather... perhaps north in the hot weather, east when Parisian baguettes call to me, and west when only authentic Pad Thai will do.
Really though, most of that I have already done... so, like I said, I love my life.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Death in a small town
OMG... the guy who came to look at Sue and Bruce's house this morning is back this evening... with his WIFE! OMG... Do I smell an offer in the works?
And do we care that Bruce's ashes have not yet cooled?
Two weekends ago, Bruce died (in the bath tub) across the street. I know they had talked about selling their house down here in the fall - it's a second home for them and they'd had enough - but who would have thought that Sue would march on with her life in such short order?
Not me.
I don't mean that I wouldn't have thought it about SUE. Geeze... I hardly even know Sue... but could I have EVER, not in a million years, marched on with MY life, 2 1/2 weeks after my Joe died?
It does give one pause... I mean... really... what IS the difference? None. Certainly not to Bruce. He's gone. Gone, gone, gone...
I don't thing that Bruce - or Joe - have much of anything to do with it. It comes down to how a widow wants to live her life, after his death.
I've chosen my route and Sue has chosen hers and... gulp... maybe her way is actually better?
Just a thought...
xoxo
.
And do we care that Bruce's ashes have not yet cooled?
Two weekends ago, Bruce died (in the bath tub) across the street. I know they had talked about selling their house down here in the fall - it's a second home for them and they'd had enough - but who would have thought that Sue would march on with her life in such short order?
Not me.
I don't mean that I wouldn't have thought it about SUE. Geeze... I hardly even know Sue... but could I have EVER, not in a million years, marched on with MY life, 2 1/2 weeks after my Joe died?
It does give one pause... I mean... really... what IS the difference? None. Certainly not to Bruce. He's gone. Gone, gone, gone...
I don't thing that Bruce - or Joe - have much of anything to do with it. It comes down to how a widow wants to live her life, after his death.
I've chosen my route and Sue has chosen hers and... gulp... maybe her way is actually better?
Just a thought...
xoxo
.
Monday, July 26, 2010
All Hands on Deck
My oldest son, Patrick, called me last Thursday to announce he was coming that night to start building my deck in Middletown.
We'd only discussed building the deck in passing, although we both knew I really needed it done. Still, seemingly out of nowhere he'd decided that he was ready to tackle the project immediately. Offers like that need to be welcomed - encouraged even - so I didn't dissuade him despite the fact that I knew we were totally not prepared. Instead I mustered sincere enthusiasm, headed to Home Depot for deck plans, and then packed up my stuff and left my shore cottage, heading home to Middletown where he was waiting. We worked through the weekend in 90-100 degree temperatures. My middle son, Mike, came too, plus Vicky, plus a friend of Patrick's. Home Depot delivered three times. It was coordinated craziness for three solid days. Today is only Monday, but it feels more like a week has passed.
Knowing the kind of weekend I'd just had, my girlfriend emailed me this morning to ask how my back was feeling. I admitted that, though I'd been hurting like heck on Saturday, surprisingly today I am okay. On the other hand, I do not feel "well". I could not describe in words how it actually is that I feel (not even to Dr. Vicky, who was down with my son, Mike, helping this weekend), but it is very scary feeling this way. I just feel very... NOT well; suspiciously not well.
So imagine my further dis-ease, when I learned that in my three-day absence from Tuckerton two - not one, but TWO - of my neighbors had died.
Okay... so the one really was old... we knew she'd go eventually... But Bruce... Bruce is my age. He'd gone fishing with George (another neighbor) and when he came back apparently he was feeling hot and generally yucky so he climbed in the bathtub to try to cool down and he seems to have simply died. I heard the story from Frank, who heard it from George that Bruce's wife, Sue, then had to deal with trying - unsuccessfully - to drag his carcass out of the tub to try to revive him, which of course did not happen... so a neighbor fished him out for her... but it was already too late.
Gone.
Not surprisingly that information is making me even less at ease with feeling vaguely ill this morning.
Not to be overly dramatic... 'cause I do NOT think I am about to die... but on Friday (in the 98 degree heat with air quality warnings ringing, I was wielding a shovel and carrying crap and running up and down stairs, fetching and gophering to the hilt) I was pretty much feeling like death was imminent... and the rest of the weekend through today has simply been an echo of that. Is it stress? Is it the heat? I can't even say: I just feel ill.
Truthfully I wonder if it isn't that I am feeling all of my 54 years. I feel very fragile - in every conceivable way. My back, therefore, seems to be the very least of my concerns.
When I saw another friend's email last night - 15 minutes after she'd written it -somewhere close to 1am - telling me about her cleaned-up workshop (pictures attached), my only response to her was,
"Awesome! Now go to sleep!"
It wasn't creative or even particularly thoughtful... it was a reflection of my own exhaustion, having driven back to my Tuckerton Cottage at 11pm last night after yet-another grueling day of work on the deck... which isn't anywhere close to being done.
I am, BTW, in far better spirits than I sound. Mayhaps I'm just enjoying the craft of writing and conveying an impression of my experience, 'cause this morning I am alive and well and enjoying, God bless me, the cool Tuckerton seashore breeze on a blue sky morning... having witnessed a dozen egrets flying over at dawn... and better still, last night, when I slipped from the 70 degree breezy night air - just after midnight - into my 92 degree pool... I looked up and watched a brilliant shooting star pass between me and the full moon.
My observations of our natural world do not get a whole lot more phenomenal, exceptional or rewarding than that. Seeing these things brings enormous peace to my soul, even if I do feel strangely somehow "not well".
Maybe then I am okay... just shaken... by an awareness of my own mortality, in the face of a world that will spin without me when I am gone, and is still spinning despite the death, yesterday, of Bruce.
How long should I wait before going across the street to covey my condolences? My gosh... poor Sue. He first husband died, like my Joe, of pancreatic cancer, and now this. Geeze. That's going to be pretty rough.
I made some cornbread and wrapped it up nicely, carrying it across the street to express my sympathies. I returned two hours later, filled in on all the frightening details of what it is like to lose, yet another, husband. I think my presence helped. I think I said the right things. I know Sue valued my visit, remarking that I am one of the few people who can understand what she is going through. She said this through clear eyes, composed and thoughtful. It's been less than 24 hours since he passed. She's still in shock, but doesn't know it. She's in a free fall down a dark hole, not aware enough yet of the drop to even begin grasping for something to catch her. But she will... Her awareness will kick in soon enough.
She wants to take his body home, to their primary residence in Pennsylvania. The coroner can't release the body until they rule out foul play. She laughs as she tells me this... The idea that she would have killed a man who was so good to her, so good for her, is absurd. I joke too.
"You'll be the Black Widow of Tuckerton, killing off husbands left and right."
"Yes," she says "It wont make the Philly papers, but this tiny seashore town would gobble up that story."
We laugh. Then we sigh. She is chain smoking, apologizing each time she lights up, as if I'm the least bit judgemental. Not now anyway.
There is no good ending to this blog. It is what it is. But it makes me wonder why I've been alone these last five and a half years. Life is short. Time is slipping by. And I don't feel so well.
We'd only discussed building the deck in passing, although we both knew I really needed it done. Still, seemingly out of nowhere he'd decided that he was ready to tackle the project immediately. Offers like that need to be welcomed - encouraged even - so I didn't dissuade him despite the fact that I knew we were totally not prepared. Instead I mustered sincere enthusiasm, headed to Home Depot for deck plans, and then packed up my stuff and left my shore cottage, heading home to Middletown where he was waiting. We worked through the weekend in 90-100 degree temperatures. My middle son, Mike, came too, plus Vicky, plus a friend of Patrick's. Home Depot delivered three times. It was coordinated craziness for three solid days. Today is only Monday, but it feels more like a week has passed.
Knowing the kind of weekend I'd just had, my girlfriend emailed me this morning to ask how my back was feeling. I admitted that, though I'd been hurting like heck on Saturday, surprisingly today I am okay. On the other hand, I do not feel "well". I could not describe in words how it actually is that I feel (not even to Dr. Vicky, who was down with my son, Mike, helping this weekend), but it is very scary feeling this way. I just feel very... NOT well; suspiciously not well.
So imagine my further dis-ease, when I learned that in my three-day absence from Tuckerton two - not one, but TWO - of my neighbors had died.
Okay... so the one really was old... we knew she'd go eventually... But Bruce... Bruce is my age. He'd gone fishing with George (another neighbor) and when he came back apparently he was feeling hot and generally yucky so he climbed in the bathtub to try to cool down and he seems to have simply died. I heard the story from Frank, who heard it from George that Bruce's wife, Sue, then had to deal with trying - unsuccessfully - to drag his carcass out of the tub to try to revive him, which of course did not happen... so a neighbor fished him out for her... but it was already too late.
Gone.
Not surprisingly that information is making me even less at ease with feeling vaguely ill this morning.
Not to be overly dramatic... 'cause I do NOT think I am about to die... but on Friday (in the 98 degree heat with air quality warnings ringing, I was wielding a shovel and carrying crap and running up and down stairs, fetching and gophering to the hilt) I was pretty much feeling like death was imminent... and the rest of the weekend through today has simply been an echo of that. Is it stress? Is it the heat? I can't even say: I just feel ill.
Truthfully I wonder if it isn't that I am feeling all of my 54 years. I feel very fragile - in every conceivable way. My back, therefore, seems to be the very least of my concerns.
When I saw another friend's email last night - 15 minutes after she'd written it -somewhere close to 1am - telling me about her cleaned-up workshop (pictures attached), my only response to her was,
"Awesome! Now go to sleep!"
It wasn't creative or even particularly thoughtful... it was a reflection of my own exhaustion, having driven back to my Tuckerton Cottage at 11pm last night after yet-another grueling day of work on the deck... which isn't anywhere close to being done.
I am, BTW, in far better spirits than I sound. Mayhaps I'm just enjoying the craft of writing and conveying an impression of my experience, 'cause this morning I am alive and well and enjoying, God bless me, the cool Tuckerton seashore breeze on a blue sky morning... having witnessed a dozen egrets flying over at dawn... and better still, last night, when I slipped from the 70 degree breezy night air - just after midnight - into my 92 degree pool... I looked up and watched a brilliant shooting star pass between me and the full moon.
My observations of our natural world do not get a whole lot more phenomenal, exceptional or rewarding than that. Seeing these things brings enormous peace to my soul, even if I do feel strangely somehow "not well".
Maybe then I am okay... just shaken... by an awareness of my own mortality, in the face of a world that will spin without me when I am gone, and is still spinning despite the death, yesterday, of Bruce.
How long should I wait before going across the street to covey my condolences? My gosh... poor Sue. He first husband died, like my Joe, of pancreatic cancer, and now this. Geeze. That's going to be pretty rough.
I made some cornbread and wrapped it up nicely, carrying it across the street to express my sympathies. I returned two hours later, filled in on all the frightening details of what it is like to lose, yet another, husband. I think my presence helped. I think I said the right things. I know Sue valued my visit, remarking that I am one of the few people who can understand what she is going through. She said this through clear eyes, composed and thoughtful. It's been less than 24 hours since he passed. She's still in shock, but doesn't know it. She's in a free fall down a dark hole, not aware enough yet of the drop to even begin grasping for something to catch her. But she will... Her awareness will kick in soon enough.
She wants to take his body home, to their primary residence in Pennsylvania. The coroner can't release the body until they rule out foul play. She laughs as she tells me this... The idea that she would have killed a man who was so good to her, so good for her, is absurd. I joke too.
"You'll be the Black Widow of Tuckerton, killing off husbands left and right."
"Yes," she says "It wont make the Philly papers, but this tiny seashore town would gobble up that story."
We laugh. Then we sigh. She is chain smoking, apologizing each time she lights up, as if I'm the least bit judgemental. Not now anyway.
There is no good ending to this blog. It is what it is. But it makes me wonder why I've been alone these last five and a half years. Life is short. Time is slipping by. And I don't feel so well.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Havin' A Heatwave
It's hot as heck down at the cottage: 88 degrees in the shade when I crawled out of bed at 7:45. I was swimming before 9am... Okay, maybe it's not YOUR kind of swimming, but it's MY kind... in my 8' baby pool.
Next, on a mission of mercy, I schlepped to the steps to wet down the containers of annual flowers: marigolds, cosmos, salvia, begonias, geraniums, impatiens, vinca, amaranth, gazania, a couple of ponytail plants, and some mandaville (most of the crew was rescued from the clearance bin at Lowes, although I did start those marigolds, amaranth and cosmos from seed). Then I drenched and quenched the herbs and sundries on the deck: Out there I have dill, oregano, Thai/Sweet/Genovese basil, lemon & plain thyme, variegated and standard sage, chives (which need some serious pruning) cilantro, Italian parsley, creeping and standing rosemary, spearmint and peppermint, lavender and a whole gaggle of gladiolas.
Then I started on the veggies. I watered three canisters of cukes, the bed of beans, six tubs of tomatoes, a scuttle of squash, a bucket of banana peppers, and a bin of bunching onions... Everybody is thirsty. I have beakers and bowls, boxes and bags, cans and carafes, crates and crocks, hoppers, jugs, pails and vats. It's a total of 33 receptacles!
But they are mostly small, especially in comparison to their burgeoning occupants, looking like middle aged women spilling out of their pants.
To me it's the lower 40... making my cottage its own little Garden State... of mind.
But I'm hot as heck again and need to jump back in the pool! Who can write when the sweat on your forehead is dripping onto the keyboard?
.
Next, on a mission of mercy, I schlepped to the steps to wet down the containers of annual flowers: marigolds, cosmos, salvia, begonias, geraniums, impatiens, vinca, amaranth, gazania, a couple of ponytail plants, and some mandaville (most of the crew was rescued from the clearance bin at Lowes, although I did start those marigolds, amaranth and cosmos from seed). Then I drenched and quenched the herbs and sundries on the deck: Out there I have dill, oregano, Thai/Sweet/Genovese basil, lemon & plain thyme, variegated and standard sage, chives (which need some serious pruning) cilantro, Italian parsley, creeping and standing rosemary, spearmint and peppermint, lavender and a whole gaggle of gladiolas.
Then I started on the veggies. I watered three canisters of cukes, the bed of beans, six tubs of tomatoes, a scuttle of squash, a bucket of banana peppers, and a bin of bunching onions... Everybody is thirsty. I have beakers and bowls, boxes and bags, cans and carafes, crates and crocks, hoppers, jugs, pails and vats. It's a total of 33 receptacles!
But they are mostly small, especially in comparison to their burgeoning occupants, looking like middle aged women spilling out of their pants.
To me it's the lower 40... making my cottage its own little Garden State... of mind.
But I'm hot as heck again and need to jump back in the pool! Who can write when the sweat on your forehead is dripping onto the keyboard?
.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Early Summertime
The air is soggy... breezes thick with brine. The mourning doves are cooing in pleas, while moistly muffled tweets ring out from the nearby telephone wires. No matter how fogged, it is still wickedly bright, making sunglasses necessary, though they sit stickily on my face. If I could find the energy, I'd slip into the 85 degree pool water 20 feet away... but the air's sultry snuggling has robbed me of any stray motivations I might have had. The plants were lucky to get their breakfasts and the dog had to be carried outside to do what doggies do. Such is the tone here in Tuckerton... feeling more southern than NJ... perhaps more like Alabama, though I haven't been there, so I couldn't really know.
A small plane just flew over, loud and low enough to cause me to lift from my chair and glide to the deck for a look-see of what's going on. His engine is laboring under the weight of the air, and you can hear it in the chopping of his propeller, though he seems in no danger of dropping. Drooping perhaps, but not dropping.
I saw, though, while on the deck, that the visibility has improved. I can see more than the 200' I had only minutes before. Maybe that brilliant sun is close above this fog, melting away the moisture?
No sooner have I said this than I see hints of blue in the sky, and actual shadows are appearing beneath my outdoor furnishings. I breathe deep, and the air feels lighter in my lungs... Maybe a swim is in order after all? Iced coffee and a swim...
A small plane just flew over, loud and low enough to cause me to lift from my chair and glide to the deck for a look-see of what's going on. His engine is laboring under the weight of the air, and you can hear it in the chopping of his propeller, though he seems in no danger of dropping. Drooping perhaps, but not dropping.
I saw, though, while on the deck, that the visibility has improved. I can see more than the 200' I had only minutes before. Maybe that brilliant sun is close above this fog, melting away the moisture?
No sooner have I said this than I see hints of blue in the sky, and actual shadows are appearing beneath my outdoor furnishings. I breathe deep, and the air feels lighter in my lungs... Maybe a swim is in order after all? Iced coffee and a swim...
Sunday, June 6, 2010
June 6 mini-installment
My pool is up to 85 degrees... perfect for me. I added baking soda last night and I am wondering if the water will feel different today. Not that it matters... as long as it is wet, I don't care. I did manage to get all my chemicals balanced... but again... who cares! LOL I still have to cut-to-fit my new solar cover. Imagine how soupy the water will get with THAT on! Yippeee!
Missy G is not loving the heat... goes around with her little tongue hanging out. Yesterday for the first time in her life she actually licked ice cubes in her bowl. But when I added water to the bowl and she started drinking that, I SWEAR she looked at me with an "Oh my God, I've got brain-freeze" look. I hate that, when I get it, so I felt really bad for her. Down here I've been continuing to allow her to sleep on the bed (a vestige of the cold nights in early spring when she needed the heat of my electric blanket to get through the cold nights). Last night she plopped down at the end of the bed, facing the fan that was blowing her little ears back. Very cute. Then this morning I woke up as she walked up my body, stopping on my chest to stare at me. I could feel her waiting and I kept my eyes shut... til that little whine started... "Pleeeeeese mommy" "Pleeeeese wake up and start petting me?" How can I NOT laugh? LOL
I cleaned and vinegared the two coffee makers. The new one I got is faster at making 12 cups than my old one is at making 4. Interesting.
Anyway.... plants to water and chores to ignore... gotta go. Although... maybe it's time to jump in the pool?
~ ~ SPLASH ~ ~
Ahhh... that's much better!
Missy G is not loving the heat... goes around with her little tongue hanging out. Yesterday for the first time in her life she actually licked ice cubes in her bowl. But when I added water to the bowl and she started drinking that, I SWEAR she looked at me with an "Oh my God, I've got brain-freeze" look. I hate that, when I get it, so I felt really bad for her. Down here I've been continuing to allow her to sleep on the bed (a vestige of the cold nights in early spring when she needed the heat of my electric blanket to get through the cold nights). Last night she plopped down at the end of the bed, facing the fan that was blowing her little ears back. Very cute. Then this morning I woke up as she walked up my body, stopping on my chest to stare at me. I could feel her waiting and I kept my eyes shut... til that little whine started... "Pleeeeeese mommy" "Pleeeeese wake up and start petting me?" How can I NOT laugh? LOL
I cleaned and vinegared the two coffee makers. The new one I got is faster at making 12 cups than my old one is at making 4. Interesting.
Anyway.... plants to water and chores to ignore... gotta go. Although... maybe it's time to jump in the pool?
~ ~ SPLASH ~ ~
Ahhh... that's much better!
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Spring Storm
Lightning flashes blue-white, illuminating the entire cottage, followed closely by the crackle of thunder. Little Gia has curled up beside me, burying her nose under my thigh, hunkered down as if the rain is actually falling upon her. She isn't much for thunder storms and depends upon my bravery to ease her little fears. She doesn't know how much comfort and security I find in her nestling so close beside me and depending on me.
I sit here an hour after sunset with only two nightlights on, plus the glow of my unplugged laptop screen. I wont plug it in until the lightening subsides. The house shakes, firmly planted on its nine-foot pilings but flexing under the push of the wind. Through uninsulated walls, I clearly hear the rain slapping the siding. It is plinking onto my windows and pelting the roof. There is a fine tinkling noise as it clinks onto the furnace exhaust pipe. Every surface sings with it. Nothing in the house is more than seventeen feet from my reach. That means that the wind and the rain are that close too. There is but three-quarters of an inch of sheeting on my ten-foot tent ceiling protecting me from some errant streak of lightening.
I prefer to sit, not stand, during thunderstorms.
Pushing its way out to Long Beach Island across the bay, this storm is riding along the New Jersey coast. I can still see the lights from Holgate there, although I expect the storm to erase those soon, as the rain thickens heading south. There they go... LBI's lights just disappeared. The downpour is heading for them and will reach them in less than a minute. I picture families on vacation running for cover as funnel cake stands close their shed roofs. This storm will only be seen by the early arrivals, but it is a three day weekend and many will have stretched that to four, arriving today (Thursday) instead. I know this because I rode down the parkway with scores of them earlier this evening.
A boat is exiting the lagoon. No one would go out in this wickedness if they didn't have to, so I know it must be the Sea Tow fellow. He lives on my son, Mike's, lagoon and he always goes out in the worst of conditions. This time he has his spotlight on and he's training it on the bulkheads he is passing. I don't think I've ever seen that before. Apparently the rain is so heavy that he cannot see the way out to the bay and has to spot the sides of the lagoon to guide himself out. When he gets to the end of the peninsula he doesn't turn right to the bay but, instead, continues spotlighting along the bulkhead on the left. Perhaps there is trouble down there? Perhaps someone there called for help. I step out onto my deck under the marginal shelter of the overhang to see where he is going. When his spotlight turns from the bulkhead out to the bay I am startled to see it catch something small and white in the water. I wonder "Has a boat overturned?" and I watch horrified, but only briefly, as he turns his engines up to high power and streaks past the white buoy and into the open churning bay. In seconds he has disappeared. I see his boat only once more in a bright flash of lightning, and then he is gone.
It is hard to imagine that less than thirty minutes ago Gia and I had ventured down to the small beach on South Green Street to look for more mating horseshoe crabs. I had seen the lightening off inland quite a distance and wondered if we should walk or drive. It was a good thing we drove. At the beach under the light of my flashlight I saw a gathering of ten or more crabs, piled one on the other and doing what I now know to be a mating ritual. But before I was done watching, I began to feel the raindrops and by the time I got into the car the lightening was above us. In my U-turn on the road I could feel the force of the wind broadsiding my car and I was so glad to be safely within.
When I drove past the little restaurant on the corner I could see that their fixed dock was already being overtaken by the tide. I haven't checked the charts, but that may mean there will be flooding tonight. If so, I will need to move my car over to Frank's yard later, where his driveway ramp sits a full ten inches higher than mine: just enough to save me from salt damage on my wheels.
When I pulled into my driveway the storm was raging so much that Gia wouldn't get out of her seat and I had to pick her up and carry her to the stairs. Then I ran back to move the bicycle: the rain was blowing sideways under the house and already soaking it down.
An hour into the storm, my neighbors arrive and haul their luggage into the house under a torrent of rain. I venture out onto my front deck to holler,
"Hi Tom, how are you doing?" and over another rumble of thunder he replies,
"Pretty good - how about you?"
I see that the street is already filling up with flood waters and I realize that I should be moving my car.
"When is the high tide?" I ask, but it is already too late. His wife has parked their car on Frank's ramp. My car will have to weather the storm on the lower ground.
Storms like this one are so common down here, yet they never cease to amaze me. As the wind shifts and rocks the house, often I will go out into the stinging rain to flip on the flood light and watch as the lagoon water churns. It is frightening but fun. I don't believe myself to be in any real danger or I'd head into town or up north. But even if I am safe, safety is a very relative thing. There is no doubt in my mind that the thunder which just shook the house and made my dishes rattle came from lightning that could blast my small cottage to bits if it were a direct strike. I am not as "safe" here as I would be in my living room in Middletown.
But I like this small danger. I enjoy the tiny fright of being here on the edge of the bay, a mile from the great Atlantic Ocean. I like feeling small, with my nose tucked under God's thigh. And maybe God feels better too, knowing that I am here depending on him.
.
I sit here an hour after sunset with only two nightlights on, plus the glow of my unplugged laptop screen. I wont plug it in until the lightening subsides. The house shakes, firmly planted on its nine-foot pilings but flexing under the push of the wind. Through uninsulated walls, I clearly hear the rain slapping the siding. It is plinking onto my windows and pelting the roof. There is a fine tinkling noise as it clinks onto the furnace exhaust pipe. Every surface sings with it. Nothing in the house is more than seventeen feet from my reach. That means that the wind and the rain are that close too. There is but three-quarters of an inch of sheeting on my ten-foot tent ceiling protecting me from some errant streak of lightening.
I prefer to sit, not stand, during thunderstorms.
Pushing its way out to Long Beach Island across the bay, this storm is riding along the New Jersey coast. I can still see the lights from Holgate there, although I expect the storm to erase those soon, as the rain thickens heading south. There they go... LBI's lights just disappeared. The downpour is heading for them and will reach them in less than a minute. I picture families on vacation running for cover as funnel cake stands close their shed roofs. This storm will only be seen by the early arrivals, but it is a three day weekend and many will have stretched that to four, arriving today (Thursday) instead. I know this because I rode down the parkway with scores of them earlier this evening.
A boat is exiting the lagoon. No one would go out in this wickedness if they didn't have to, so I know it must be the Sea Tow fellow. He lives on my son, Mike's, lagoon and he always goes out in the worst of conditions. This time he has his spotlight on and he's training it on the bulkheads he is passing. I don't think I've ever seen that before. Apparently the rain is so heavy that he cannot see the way out to the bay and has to spot the sides of the lagoon to guide himself out. When he gets to the end of the peninsula he doesn't turn right to the bay but, instead, continues spotlighting along the bulkhead on the left. Perhaps there is trouble down there? Perhaps someone there called for help. I step out onto my deck under the marginal shelter of the overhang to see where he is going. When his spotlight turns from the bulkhead out to the bay I am startled to see it catch something small and white in the water. I wonder "Has a boat overturned?" and I watch horrified, but only briefly, as he turns his engines up to high power and streaks past the white buoy and into the open churning bay. In seconds he has disappeared. I see his boat only once more in a bright flash of lightning, and then he is gone.
It is hard to imagine that less than thirty minutes ago Gia and I had ventured down to the small beach on South Green Street to look for more mating horseshoe crabs. I had seen the lightening off inland quite a distance and wondered if we should walk or drive. It was a good thing we drove. At the beach under the light of my flashlight I saw a gathering of ten or more crabs, piled one on the other and doing what I now know to be a mating ritual. But before I was done watching, I began to feel the raindrops and by the time I got into the car the lightening was above us. In my U-turn on the road I could feel the force of the wind broadsiding my car and I was so glad to be safely within.
When I drove past the little restaurant on the corner I could see that their fixed dock was already being overtaken by the tide. I haven't checked the charts, but that may mean there will be flooding tonight. If so, I will need to move my car over to Frank's yard later, where his driveway ramp sits a full ten inches higher than mine: just enough to save me from salt damage on my wheels.
When I pulled into my driveway the storm was raging so much that Gia wouldn't get out of her seat and I had to pick her up and carry her to the stairs. Then I ran back to move the bicycle: the rain was blowing sideways under the house and already soaking it down.
An hour into the storm, my neighbors arrive and haul their luggage into the house under a torrent of rain. I venture out onto my front deck to holler,
"Hi Tom, how are you doing?" and over another rumble of thunder he replies,
"Pretty good - how about you?"
I see that the street is already filling up with flood waters and I realize that I should be moving my car.
"When is the high tide?" I ask, but it is already too late. His wife has parked their car on Frank's ramp. My car will have to weather the storm on the lower ground.
Storms like this one are so common down here, yet they never cease to amaze me. As the wind shifts and rocks the house, often I will go out into the stinging rain to flip on the flood light and watch as the lagoon water churns. It is frightening but fun. I don't believe myself to be in any real danger or I'd head into town or up north. But even if I am safe, safety is a very relative thing. There is no doubt in my mind that the thunder which just shook the house and made my dishes rattle came from lightning that could blast my small cottage to bits if it were a direct strike. I am not as "safe" here as I would be in my living room in Middletown.
But I like this small danger. I enjoy the tiny fright of being here on the edge of the bay, a mile from the great Atlantic Ocean. I like feeling small, with my nose tucked under God's thigh. And maybe God feels better too, knowing that I am here depending on him.
.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Summer sneaking in...
It is 9:34 in the morning, but the cottage is already up to 75 degrees. Sleeping last night was a joy, tucked under two blankets and a quilt. But as the sun rose, so did the temperature, and I found myself sloughing off each layer through the morning until it was finally no longer comfortable to stay in bed. Little Gia's tail was wagging enthusiastically as I pulled on my robe and shuffled out to the kitchen to start the coffee. Somewhere down the lagoon, someone was already running their powerwasher.
Ah yes... summer is coming.
Memorial Day weekend is mere days away, but I haven't yet uncovered my pool (I'm later than usual) and I'm only barely done setting seeds into pots and planting the tomatoes. What I've done so far is looking good, save for that yellow grape tomato that doesn't seem to be taking happily to it's pot. I keep meaning to look up his symptoms online, but when I get to my laptop, a dozen emails and other distractions shift my focus long enough for me to forget why I came altogether.
Last night as the sun sank over the homes across the street, I rallied, leashed up G, and took a lovely walk down to East Green Street Park. I called Cary before I left, hoping we could initiate this year's walking routine, but she was busy making dinner. Then I tried putting G into the bike basket on the bike that Frank just fixed. Alas, I pulled a muscle when the bike began to tip and my leg contorted into a new direction. I almost cancelled the walk (it takes so little for me to NOT exercise) but Gia was just too excited about getting out. So I hobbled to the end of the driveway. Already the muscle pain was easing and moments later, totally gone.
There are more homes for sale on the street, though nothing looks desperately unkempt. Well, some yards do, but those homes are not for sale and those yards always look that way. Things are just lazier down here for some of us, that's all. Personally I don't mean to look like a slob, apparently it's just my most natural state.
When I reached the corner and made the left I could see a man walking far down the road. My vision wasn't clear enough to know if he was coming at me or walking away, but I crossed the street just the same, not wanting to strike up chit-chat with any strangers. Having done so, I was curious at my reaction. Really, I am always friendly and up for a chat, so why was I so quick to avoid it tonight? I think it was the fact that he was a man and... I'm sick and tired of the entire gender. I'm fed up with their wishy washy way of romancing. I don't need another bouquet of flowers, I need a steady-eddy who can be relied upon to call when he says he will. It wouldn't hurt if he could also clean gutters, but he should know how to spell and should not email me like it's a text message. Doesn't anyone use capitals and punctuation anymore? And please, please, please, wash your clothing before coming out on our date. Jeepers! It's bad enough that you will spill food on your shirt as you eat but can't you at least start with a clean one?
I digress...
Considering my state of mind, it is a surprise that I wasn't horrified and appalled at the orgy that was occurring on the beach as I walked by. There were dozens of them humping each other like this might be the last time they ever had sex. The horseshoe crabs (What were YOU thinking?) had come into the shore where the waves from the bay are tiny and lapping - more like the waves on a lake really. They had lined up in clusters, toes in the water but shells above, and were climbing onto each other's backs with surprising grace. In some groups there were five or six crabs stacked onto one another, looking like a conga line as they did their best to "do" the best crab there. The sight was incredibly touching, considering the fact it was an orgy. I walked off the road and down to the water line fifteen feet away, so I could see how many more were coming ashore from the deeper water. I hadn't expected the horseshoes to be able to see me. Do they have eyes? They must have some way of seeing, because they moved away from me and into the deeper water as Gia and I approached. Feeling like a trespasser (a voyeur even), I went back up to the street. It would have to be close enough to see most of what was happening.
Looking past the activity at the shoreline, the reflection on the bay water came into focus. I could see glints of pink in the mostly brilliant blue flashes and my eyes were drawn instinctively skyward. It wasn't a robin's egg blue, or azure, but a crisp linen blue, deeper and richer than baby, but close to that somehow. The blue itself was intoxicating and my chest heaved with a heavy sign that comes naturally in moments of awe. The clouds along the horizon were layered in strips, each one a different iridescent pink. The dots of cloud above me where catching the pink light too, as was the jet trail skimming across the sky heading off to the east and perhaps JFK or even Europe. I felt my head tilt as my eyes examined the light on the homes near the bay and their reflections on the water. My mind was not in control, it was my eyes doing all the thinking, and they showed me so many details that the car passing behind me would never know. Stopping to look, that's the first step. I'm blessed in that, I think. I manage to take the time to see.
I dearly love walking at this time of night - when the sun is setting the sky can be so magical. Some nights last summer I would take this walk and come home disappointed that nothing had happened at all. But most nights I would stand watching, enraptured, by the shifting and morphing colors across the sky. Each second of sunset was different from the next. The sun keeps moving, the angles keep changing, the light keeps shifting and the colors gloriously evolve. It is natural kaleidoscope and you watch it knowing that no matter how many more times you look, you will never ever see that exact same view again.
G and I moved along up the street toward the park, knowing that dawdling would result in it being dark enough for the bugs to emerge and then the last 500 feet of our walk home would be torturous. Even so, when I spotted three mallards farther out in the section of reeds and grass, I stopped to listen and enjoy their murmured guttural chat. You have to love a mallard's tone.
By then the man who I'd seen earlier had already reached the park on his walk and was heading back down the street. Much like I'm prone to do, he had changed sides of the road for his return walk, so now we were only 20 feet apart: nearly face-to-face. I turned my eyes from the mallards to smile politely at him. He had a terrible scowl on his face that turned to a softer look as he said "Good evening" and walked on by. Maybe he'd had a similar conversation with himself earlier in the day?
"Women, you can keep them all. Who needs them! They can all go to bloody hell."
Up in the park, G and I walked the perimeter, passing the fishermen and a woman studying for her legal transcriptionist exam. She petted G and went back to studying as her beau removed the hook from the back of his shorts. I was glad I was not facing them when I heard his "Ow, ow, Holy crap, OW!", because I couldn't contain my chuckling.
We rounded the park and made our way home, moving more swiftly in order to improve the quality of the exercise we were getting. Pat called me on my cell and she and I chatted as I walked. She seemed surprised that I would be mildly breathless, but that is the pace they tell us to set for ourselves if we expect to get any real benefits from the walking. Besides, I was practically dragging Gia, her short dachshund legs not wanting to keep up, and that was adding substantial exertion on my part. I imagine we are a pretty funny sight, if anyone would bother to notice.
Once home I checked the times for the Genesis satellite's passage, as well as the new spy plane and the ISS. It was a beautiful night but already chilling down, and I pulled on a sweatshirt so I could sit on the deck and wait to see the free show. Two geese were disturbed by my sudden presence and they ran up the lagoon until their wings could lift them off the water, honking loudly as they flew, scolding me for the interruption. In the dim light I heard a kerplunk and could just make out the ripples where a fish had leaped to snag a bug from the surface of the lagoon.
Ahhh... peace... solitude.
This morning my coffee is warming me into a sweat. There is white heron (or is it an egret) walking along the marshy peninsula that shields my lagoon from the direct bay waves. She is joined by another, a mate perhaps, and they fish with their pointy beaks until a boat moves past them and they take flight to quieter hunting grounds.
I will drive north to Middletown later today, only to return on Thursday afternoon. This place is good for me but there are things to do in Middletown that cannot wait. In the space of time it took me to write this piece, the cottage has warmed to 81 degrees. It's time to open more windows and let the bay breeze through, and then close up my laptop so I can enjoy the last few hours in this simple paradise before my drive.
Writer's Note: I found an article that explains the horseshoe crab phenomena I witnessed last night. Apparently I was a very lucky gal to see all that! http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=106489695
.
Ah yes... summer is coming.
Memorial Day weekend is mere days away, but I haven't yet uncovered my pool (I'm later than usual) and I'm only barely done setting seeds into pots and planting the tomatoes. What I've done so far is looking good, save for that yellow grape tomato that doesn't seem to be taking happily to it's pot. I keep meaning to look up his symptoms online, but when I get to my laptop, a dozen emails and other distractions shift my focus long enough for me to forget why I came altogether.
Last night as the sun sank over the homes across the street, I rallied, leashed up G, and took a lovely walk down to East Green Street Park. I called Cary before I left, hoping we could initiate this year's walking routine, but she was busy making dinner. Then I tried putting G into the bike basket on the bike that Frank just fixed. Alas, I pulled a muscle when the bike began to tip and my leg contorted into a new direction. I almost cancelled the walk (it takes so little for me to NOT exercise) but Gia was just too excited about getting out. So I hobbled to the end of the driveway. Already the muscle pain was easing and moments later, totally gone.
There are more homes for sale on the street, though nothing looks desperately unkempt. Well, some yards do, but those homes are not for sale and those yards always look that way. Things are just lazier down here for some of us, that's all. Personally I don't mean to look like a slob, apparently it's just my most natural state.
When I reached the corner and made the left I could see a man walking far down the road. My vision wasn't clear enough to know if he was coming at me or walking away, but I crossed the street just the same, not wanting to strike up chit-chat with any strangers. Having done so, I was curious at my reaction. Really, I am always friendly and up for a chat, so why was I so quick to avoid it tonight? I think it was the fact that he was a man and... I'm sick and tired of the entire gender. I'm fed up with their wishy washy way of romancing. I don't need another bouquet of flowers, I need a steady-eddy who can be relied upon to call when he says he will. It wouldn't hurt if he could also clean gutters, but he should know how to spell and should not email me like it's a text message. Doesn't anyone use capitals and punctuation anymore? And please, please, please, wash your clothing before coming out on our date. Jeepers! It's bad enough that you will spill food on your shirt as you eat but can't you at least start with a clean one?
I digress...
Considering my state of mind, it is a surprise that I wasn't horrified and appalled at the orgy that was occurring on the beach as I walked by. There were dozens of them humping each other like this might be the last time they ever had sex. The horseshoe crabs (What were YOU thinking?) had come into the shore where the waves from the bay are tiny and lapping - more like the waves on a lake really. They had lined up in clusters, toes in the water but shells above, and were climbing onto each other's backs with surprising grace. In some groups there were five or six crabs stacked onto one another, looking like a conga line as they did their best to "do" the best crab there. The sight was incredibly touching, considering the fact it was an orgy. I walked off the road and down to the water line fifteen feet away, so I could see how many more were coming ashore from the deeper water. I hadn't expected the horseshoes to be able to see me. Do they have eyes? They must have some way of seeing, because they moved away from me and into the deeper water as Gia and I approached. Feeling like a trespasser (a voyeur even), I went back up to the street. It would have to be close enough to see most of what was happening.
Looking past the activity at the shoreline, the reflection on the bay water came into focus. I could see glints of pink in the mostly brilliant blue flashes and my eyes were drawn instinctively skyward. It wasn't a robin's egg blue, or azure, but a crisp linen blue, deeper and richer than baby, but close to that somehow. The blue itself was intoxicating and my chest heaved with a heavy sign that comes naturally in moments of awe. The clouds along the horizon were layered in strips, each one a different iridescent pink. The dots of cloud above me where catching the pink light too, as was the jet trail skimming across the sky heading off to the east and perhaps JFK or even Europe. I felt my head tilt as my eyes examined the light on the homes near the bay and their reflections on the water. My mind was not in control, it was my eyes doing all the thinking, and they showed me so many details that the car passing behind me would never know. Stopping to look, that's the first step. I'm blessed in that, I think. I manage to take the time to see.
I dearly love walking at this time of night - when the sun is setting the sky can be so magical. Some nights last summer I would take this walk and come home disappointed that nothing had happened at all. But most nights I would stand watching, enraptured, by the shifting and morphing colors across the sky. Each second of sunset was different from the next. The sun keeps moving, the angles keep changing, the light keeps shifting and the colors gloriously evolve. It is natural kaleidoscope and you watch it knowing that no matter how many more times you look, you will never ever see that exact same view again.
G and I moved along up the street toward the park, knowing that dawdling would result in it being dark enough for the bugs to emerge and then the last 500 feet of our walk home would be torturous. Even so, when I spotted three mallards farther out in the section of reeds and grass, I stopped to listen and enjoy their murmured guttural chat. You have to love a mallard's tone.
By then the man who I'd seen earlier had already reached the park on his walk and was heading back down the street. Much like I'm prone to do, he had changed sides of the road for his return walk, so now we were only 20 feet apart: nearly face-to-face. I turned my eyes from the mallards to smile politely at him. He had a terrible scowl on his face that turned to a softer look as he said "Good evening" and walked on by. Maybe he'd had a similar conversation with himself earlier in the day?
"Women, you can keep them all. Who needs them! They can all go to bloody hell."
Up in the park, G and I walked the perimeter, passing the fishermen and a woman studying for her legal transcriptionist exam. She petted G and went back to studying as her beau removed the hook from the back of his shorts. I was glad I was not facing them when I heard his "Ow, ow, Holy crap, OW!", because I couldn't contain my chuckling.
We rounded the park and made our way home, moving more swiftly in order to improve the quality of the exercise we were getting. Pat called me on my cell and she and I chatted as I walked. She seemed surprised that I would be mildly breathless, but that is the pace they tell us to set for ourselves if we expect to get any real benefits from the walking. Besides, I was practically dragging Gia, her short dachshund legs not wanting to keep up, and that was adding substantial exertion on my part. I imagine we are a pretty funny sight, if anyone would bother to notice.
Once home I checked the times for the Genesis satellite's passage, as well as the new spy plane and the ISS. It was a beautiful night but already chilling down, and I pulled on a sweatshirt so I could sit on the deck and wait to see the free show. Two geese were disturbed by my sudden presence and they ran up the lagoon until their wings could lift them off the water, honking loudly as they flew, scolding me for the interruption. In the dim light I heard a kerplunk and could just make out the ripples where a fish had leaped to snag a bug from the surface of the lagoon.
Ahhh... peace... solitude.
This morning my coffee is warming me into a sweat. There is white heron (or is it an egret) walking along the marshy peninsula that shields my lagoon from the direct bay waves. She is joined by another, a mate perhaps, and they fish with their pointy beaks until a boat moves past them and they take flight to quieter hunting grounds.
I will drive north to Middletown later today, only to return on Thursday afternoon. This place is good for me but there are things to do in Middletown that cannot wait. In the space of time it took me to write this piece, the cottage has warmed to 81 degrees. It's time to open more windows and let the bay breeze through, and then close up my laptop so I can enjoy the last few hours in this simple paradise before my drive.
Writer's Note: I found an article that explains the horseshoe crab phenomena I witnessed last night. Apparently I was a very lucky gal to see all that! http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=106489695
.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Opening my summer cottage
I've opened up my cottage in Tuckerton, turned on the water, and am eager to enjoy another wonderful summer there. I'm a bit late in getting it open this year; I usually shoot for April 15th, as a reward for getting my taxes filed. Of course, THIS year I didn't have to file by April 15. My hometown was declared a disaster area and they gave us all extensions. Fortunately for me, I didn't actually need the extension... but I am happy to use that as my excuse for opening up my cottage two weeks late.
It only took the Water Department guy a few minutes to turn my water on this morning. I was expecting him to bring the meter they removed last fall, install it, and then turn me on... but unbeknownst to me, he'd installed the meter last week! If I'd know that, then when Patrick came last weekend to fix the broken pipe under the house, I could've turned the water on myself to test it. Then Pat, Mel and I would not have spent the weekend seeking out local restrooms to brush our teeth and do our business. (I don't mind camping out at my cottage, but I know my guests are less than thrilled with the set up and it's always a little awkward explaining to the girls how to pee in a cup.)
Anyway, the guy came and turned the water on and I stood under the cottage and looked at the pipes that Pat had fixed and there were no leaks. (Good work Patrick!) So I turned the handle on the valve that lets the water run into the house, and up the pipe it went and the sound of the rushing water was delightful... but about forty-five seconds later the water started pouring out of the house above me, rushing and gushing and splashing all around me. In my panic I couldn't remember which way was "off" on the valve and the guy from the water department came running over and turned the valve back off. I stood horrified and transfixed wondering what the hell had happened in my house to make all the pipes burst when I knew full-well that my other son, Mike, had done everything he was supposed to to "winterize" it last fall.
Deja vu.
I've done this at least once before. If I were being honest with myself it's probably happened at least three times in the ten years I've had the cottage. Before turning the water on, I... duhhhhh... forgot to close the valves inside the house that you leave open over the winter!
I couldn't help but laugh out loud at myself once my brain had worked through the problem. The water department guy looked terribly concerned, but I just kept laughing as I trudged up the steps and into the house to shut the drain spigots... under the kitchen sink, behind the refrigerator, and coming out of the hot water heater. It's a cottage... the floors are wash and wear. I have plenty of beach towels to mop things up. I laughed the whole time I was doing it. I can be such a nincompoop!
Later I went over to Mike's cottage and got his meter installed and his water turned on, though I did not turn on the valve to his house, 'cause I have NO IDEA what valves HE leaves open! As it was, Mike had removed the tiny cap to the shut-off's bleeder valve under his house. So when the water guy turned the water on, it shot out of that bleeder and once again I was laughing. Fine, I was simply destined to be christened today, that's all. No biggie. I had, after all, been looking square at that darn uncapped valve. Any idiot wouldn't realized it needed to be capped before turning on the water.
I amuse the hell outta myself!
Today and tomorrow the temperature will be up in the 80s, which means the tiny no-see-ums will hatch out and eat everyone. After them, the black flies will hatch out and began their feast. Then the greenheads will hatch out, followed by the mosquitoes... Later in the summer when the greenheads find themselves in their mating season, their bites will become downright fierce. They are known for biting though clothing, leaving blotches of blood stains on your shirts and pants as you yelp in pain. Sometimes it seems like I only have a cottage on the Jersey shore so I can make sure the insects get fed. But the truth is that the cottage is the pure embodiment of my soul. When I am there... when I am here (as I am right now), I feel more alive, more at peace, more in touch, more myself, than anywhere else on this earth.
Yesterday at physical therapy (before I drove south to my cottage), the doctor suggested that next week we may have to inject both sides of my neck in order to finally release the rock-hard neck spasm that I've had for the last two months. This morning as I awoke in my bed in Tuckerton, I was - for the first time in months - not in pain. My neck spasm is gone. Magic. Just that simply.
I love this cottage... bug bites, floods, and all.
It only took the Water Department guy a few minutes to turn my water on this morning. I was expecting him to bring the meter they removed last fall, install it, and then turn me on... but unbeknownst to me, he'd installed the meter last week! If I'd know that, then when Patrick came last weekend to fix the broken pipe under the house, I could've turned the water on myself to test it. Then Pat, Mel and I would not have spent the weekend seeking out local restrooms to brush our teeth and do our business. (I don't mind camping out at my cottage, but I know my guests are less than thrilled with the set up and it's always a little awkward explaining to the girls how to pee in a cup.)
Anyway, the guy came and turned the water on and I stood under the cottage and looked at the pipes that Pat had fixed and there were no leaks. (Good work Patrick!) So I turned the handle on the valve that lets the water run into the house, and up the pipe it went and the sound of the rushing water was delightful... but about forty-five seconds later the water started pouring out of the house above me, rushing and gushing and splashing all around me. In my panic I couldn't remember which way was "off" on the valve and the guy from the water department came running over and turned the valve back off. I stood horrified and transfixed wondering what the hell had happened in my house to make all the pipes burst when I knew full-well that my other son, Mike, had done everything he was supposed to to "winterize" it last fall.
Deja vu.
I've done this at least once before. If I were being honest with myself it's probably happened at least three times in the ten years I've had the cottage. Before turning the water on, I... duhhhhh... forgot to close the valves inside the house that you leave open over the winter!
I couldn't help but laugh out loud at myself once my brain had worked through the problem. The water department guy looked terribly concerned, but I just kept laughing as I trudged up the steps and into the house to shut the drain spigots... under the kitchen sink, behind the refrigerator, and coming out of the hot water heater. It's a cottage... the floors are wash and wear. I have plenty of beach towels to mop things up. I laughed the whole time I was doing it. I can be such a nincompoop!
Later I went over to Mike's cottage and got his meter installed and his water turned on, though I did not turn on the valve to his house, 'cause I have NO IDEA what valves HE leaves open! As it was, Mike had removed the tiny cap to the shut-off's bleeder valve under his house. So when the water guy turned the water on, it shot out of that bleeder and once again I was laughing. Fine, I was simply destined to be christened today, that's all. No biggie. I had, after all, been looking square at that darn uncapped valve. Any idiot wouldn't realized it needed to be capped before turning on the water.
I amuse the hell outta myself!
Today and tomorrow the temperature will be up in the 80s, which means the tiny no-see-ums will hatch out and eat everyone. After them, the black flies will hatch out and began their feast. Then the greenheads will hatch out, followed by the mosquitoes... Later in the summer when the greenheads find themselves in their mating season, their bites will become downright fierce. They are known for biting though clothing, leaving blotches of blood stains on your shirts and pants as you yelp in pain. Sometimes it seems like I only have a cottage on the Jersey shore so I can make sure the insects get fed. But the truth is that the cottage is the pure embodiment of my soul. When I am there... when I am here (as I am right now), I feel more alive, more at peace, more in touch, more myself, than anywhere else on this earth.
Yesterday at physical therapy (before I drove south to my cottage), the doctor suggested that next week we may have to inject both sides of my neck in order to finally release the rock-hard neck spasm that I've had for the last two months. This morning as I awoke in my bed in Tuckerton, I was - for the first time in months - not in pain. My neck spasm is gone. Magic. Just that simply.
I love this cottage... bug bites, floods, and all.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Universal Truths
Of course nothing ever goes as planned... so I shouldn't be surprised that my day is already topsy-turvey and it's not even yet noon. Thankfully my tummy has improved dramatically. I trust that's due to all the energy I pulled from the Universe over the last three days, asking to "Let this cup pass me by". My blood work isn't back yet, but I am fairly convinced it will all be good news.
I feel lucky that way.
So I don't' mind that the tree guys wont be here 'til after lunch (if then), or that more poison ivy has blossomed on my right and left arms and left calf. It's all good: I've chosen which battles I need to win. Those were not on my list.
I haven't blogged in a while. It isn't just that I have been feeling so ill, though that did slow me down a lot. But I don't have any Internet service at home just now, so being online at the library gives me very limited Web time. Choices have to be made. Blogging is low on the list. My lack of home Internet is self-imposed. I was spending far too much time playing Bejeweled and not nearly enough doing my actual writing. Lack of access hasn't improved my productivity, as yet, but it will... I can feel it. It most certainly has affected my reading time. Little Gia has been thrilled to sit in my lap in the shade of my porch as I read the eight books I've taken out (from the library I visit near-daily). The birds come and go from the feeders all around us and G and I enjoy the heat of this temporary summer wave. It's only April. Spring returns in three days (according to the Meteorologists) and once inside I expect my writing to take me over again.
Writing is much harder than it looks. Trust me on this.
The three 60' pines that fell out of my neighbors yard and into mine in one of the big winter storms will be removed by professionals later today. Meanwhile my sons came and took down enormous amounts of split and dangling tree limbs in my front yard over Easter weekend. My curb is piled high with Patrick's chain-saw massacre. When you direct a bull adequately toward a mission, it is near-miraculous how much work he'll crank out for you. When Pat is in bull-mode, I keep the good china in the cupboards. I'm learning. He's learning. We are getting along better now than I think we ever have in our lives... well, unless you count those first six years of his life when he and I were thick as thieves. If not for Pat's enthusiasm, none of what was accomplished would have happened this past weekend. His brothers did pitch in, Michael especially, but it was all owing to Pat's remarkable stamina and stick-to-it-iv-ness. (That's a word, right?)
While Pat was busy battling the brush, Mike took a time-out to snip branches from the plum tree's pruned limbs that were piled in the street. I loved that... seeing him think to take them home, knowing they would open in a few days into luscious pink blossoms that could brighten the apartment he and Vicky call home. He offered to cut me some too, not knowing I'd already collected my own and put them in water in the dining room.
There is a richness in my soul, seeing my sons reflect some of the very best parts of my self.
Enough for now... emails to answer and stuff to research... disaster to avert... a Universe to call upon... positive energy to send out to those in need... and a laptop waiting at home for more of my magnificent (I hope) writing.
I feel lucky that way.
So I don't' mind that the tree guys wont be here 'til after lunch (if then), or that more poison ivy has blossomed on my right and left arms and left calf. It's all good: I've chosen which battles I need to win. Those were not on my list.
I haven't blogged in a while. It isn't just that I have been feeling so ill, though that did slow me down a lot. But I don't have any Internet service at home just now, so being online at the library gives me very limited Web time. Choices have to be made. Blogging is low on the list. My lack of home Internet is self-imposed. I was spending far too much time playing Bejeweled and not nearly enough doing my actual writing. Lack of access hasn't improved my productivity, as yet, but it will... I can feel it. It most certainly has affected my reading time. Little Gia has been thrilled to sit in my lap in the shade of my porch as I read the eight books I've taken out (from the library I visit near-daily). The birds come and go from the feeders all around us and G and I enjoy the heat of this temporary summer wave. It's only April. Spring returns in three days (according to the Meteorologists) and once inside I expect my writing to take me over again.
Writing is much harder than it looks. Trust me on this.
The three 60' pines that fell out of my neighbors yard and into mine in one of the big winter storms will be removed by professionals later today. Meanwhile my sons came and took down enormous amounts of split and dangling tree limbs in my front yard over Easter weekend. My curb is piled high with Patrick's chain-saw massacre. When you direct a bull adequately toward a mission, it is near-miraculous how much work he'll crank out for you. When Pat is in bull-mode, I keep the good china in the cupboards. I'm learning. He's learning. We are getting along better now than I think we ever have in our lives... well, unless you count those first six years of his life when he and I were thick as thieves. If not for Pat's enthusiasm, none of what was accomplished would have happened this past weekend. His brothers did pitch in, Michael especially, but it was all owing to Pat's remarkable stamina and stick-to-it-iv-ness. (That's a word, right?)
While Pat was busy battling the brush, Mike took a time-out to snip branches from the plum tree's pruned limbs that were piled in the street. I loved that... seeing him think to take them home, knowing they would open in a few days into luscious pink blossoms that could brighten the apartment he and Vicky call home. He offered to cut me some too, not knowing I'd already collected my own and put them in water in the dining room.
There is a richness in my soul, seeing my sons reflect some of the very best parts of my self.
Enough for now... emails to answer and stuff to research... disaster to avert... a Universe to call upon... positive energy to send out to those in need... and a laptop waiting at home for more of my magnificent (I hope) writing.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Where Does Crazy Come From?
I was having a perfectly lovely evening earlier, spending time with a man whom I am trying to get to know better. He seems attracted to me. I know I am attracted to him. Our conversation was mostly about him, since he seems to be so much more comfortable talking about himself than he feels when he is asking about me. Then crazy entered, and the rest of the evening (an excruciating 35 minutes) was spent with me trying to make sure I didn't throw up the three quarters of my dinner that I'd eaten.
Crazy and I don't get along very well. Some people don't mind it. Me, it makes me ill.
Once I was talking with a man who seemed normal (enough) when crazy showed up in the form of a question.
"Have you ever been abducted by aliens?" he said as if he were asking if I'd ever had sushi.
"I ask this" he continued as I tried to choke down the vomit in my throat, "because I once dated a girl who had been abducted and it turned out that I lived very near the field where..."
To be honest I don't recall the rest of his story. I was searching for an exit. Crazy makes me want to run. Maybe that's why I get nauseous... it's in preparation for my flight. I'll need to purge my guts so I can run faster.
Online dating is more the norm today than any other form of meeting people over forty. I'm sure it's worked for a lot of folks, but it does seem to come with an inherent risk of meeting a disproportionate number of crazies. Maybe crazy people do online dating because they can hide their insanity neatly, tucked into emails that can be edited. But once you meet face-to-face, crazy isn't nearly as easy to hide. As a Counselor I pride myself in being able to screen out a lot of the crazies that contact me. But now and then one gets through. When that happens, like tonight, I am left feeling incredibly vulnerable.
So where does crazy come from? If I detach here for a moment and analyze it from a distance it isn't nearly as scary. This man probably has met a dozen crazy women before me and he was worried I might turn out to be one too. He's probably had people be mean to him for no reason on his way to our date. He probably is coming up on the anniversary of some significant event with his ex-wife. Maybe he's under a huge amount of stress at work: perhaps someone implied he was incompetent (which clearly he is not). Maybe (and it had certainly looked this way to me earlier in the week) he is totally attracted to me and not sure he can win me over. I imagine that if all these factors were not conspiring against him this evening, he could have continued to appear to be perfectly sane. Then something inside of him slipped and he suddenly may have felt doomed... which triggered this preemptive and self-sabotaging strike. I'll bet that his form of crazy has its roots in all sorts of reality. Unfortunately, his reality wasn't mine.
He was talking about his work and telling me how he spends his weekends. I was sitting there thinking, 'I sure would like to kiss you right now'. The next thing I knew he launched into run-on paranoia.
"You've been looking at me like there is something wrong with me. It's like you are looking down on me. I get the impression you are trying to attack me."
Huh?
What?
We could have ended the evening with the very satisfying smooch I'd been thinking about all day. Instead, crazy showed up and I beat a hasty retreat. I cannot believe I came that close to swapping spit with a nut case.
Then again, on any given day, aren't we all a bit crazy?
Crazy and I don't get along very well. Some people don't mind it. Me, it makes me ill.
Once I was talking with a man who seemed normal (enough) when crazy showed up in the form of a question.
"Have you ever been abducted by aliens?" he said as if he were asking if I'd ever had sushi.
"I ask this" he continued as I tried to choke down the vomit in my throat, "because I once dated a girl who had been abducted and it turned out that I lived very near the field where..."
To be honest I don't recall the rest of his story. I was searching for an exit. Crazy makes me want to run. Maybe that's why I get nauseous... it's in preparation for my flight. I'll need to purge my guts so I can run faster.
Online dating is more the norm today than any other form of meeting people over forty. I'm sure it's worked for a lot of folks, but it does seem to come with an inherent risk of meeting a disproportionate number of crazies. Maybe crazy people do online dating because they can hide their insanity neatly, tucked into emails that can be edited. But once you meet face-to-face, crazy isn't nearly as easy to hide. As a Counselor I pride myself in being able to screen out a lot of the crazies that contact me. But now and then one gets through. When that happens, like tonight, I am left feeling incredibly vulnerable.
So where does crazy come from? If I detach here for a moment and analyze it from a distance it isn't nearly as scary. This man probably has met a dozen crazy women before me and he was worried I might turn out to be one too. He's probably had people be mean to him for no reason on his way to our date. He probably is coming up on the anniversary of some significant event with his ex-wife. Maybe he's under a huge amount of stress at work: perhaps someone implied he was incompetent (which clearly he is not). Maybe (and it had certainly looked this way to me earlier in the week) he is totally attracted to me and not sure he can win me over. I imagine that if all these factors were not conspiring against him this evening, he could have continued to appear to be perfectly sane. Then something inside of him slipped and he suddenly may have felt doomed... which triggered this preemptive and self-sabotaging strike. I'll bet that his form of crazy has its roots in all sorts of reality. Unfortunately, his reality wasn't mine.
He was talking about his work and telling me how he spends his weekends. I was sitting there thinking, 'I sure would like to kiss you right now'. The next thing I knew he launched into run-on paranoia.
"You've been looking at me like there is something wrong with me. It's like you are looking down on me. I get the impression you are trying to attack me."
Huh?
What?
We could have ended the evening with the very satisfying smooch I'd been thinking about all day. Instead, crazy showed up and I beat a hasty retreat. I cannot believe I came that close to swapping spit with a nut case.
Then again, on any given day, aren't we all a bit crazy?
Friday, February 26, 2010
Fill Your Wine Glass and Pass the Ibuprofen
It's another snowy day. I am curled up on my living room sofa, nestled into a heating pad, a steaming cup of coffee within reach. My laptop sits on my knees, pressing my butt firmly into the vibrating Homedic mat beneath me. I worry that this is not a great position for my spine, though my physical therapist told me on Tuesday that hammocks are okay and this is pretty much a hammock position. Of course, my therapist also said not to lay in any one position for very long. Yesterday I was here on the sofa for approximately six hours.
How long is too long?
Rachel Ray is in my kitchen, demonstrating how to make a really "Yummo" pasta dish. I can hear her droning on and on, oblivious to the fact that I left the room ten minutes ago.
"You just give those onions a rough chop - nothing fancy - I never worry about the bigger chunks. It'll give your guests something to get their teeth around."
God, she is so cute, don't you think? I'm thrilled she's whipping up stuff from my pantry today 'cause with all this snow I have no intentions of running out to buy her any fancy ingredients. Actually, that's why Rachel is in my kitchen. She's pretty good about working with the stuff I usually have on hand. Giada De Laurentiis, on the other hand, was in my kitchen just before Rachel. I love her too, but she uses a number of items that I never stock. She told me that her refrigerator always has fresh lemons, fresh herbs, and a container of ricotta. She also said there are always bags of berries and shrimp in her freezer. She and The Barefoot Contessa lose me when they start zesting lemons and chopping fresh parsley, rosemary, and thyme. The rest of the stuff I actually do have in my fridge right now, but if I want the food Giada and Ina Garten usually make, I'm going to have to get it out of their refrigerators. I'm cooking for one here, folks. It just doesn't make any sense for me to spend $4 each on a bunch of herbs, only to watch them dissolve into compost in my vegetable bin. I have tarragon in there right now: what a waste. I bought it for one recipe and the remainder of it has been sitting in my fridge since last Thanksgiving.
I did what I could yesterday with the new snow. The first few shovelings (around 9am) were so heavy that it was hard to lift, even though it only looked to be an inch deep. The stuff that was falling later in the afternoon was much lighter and more manageable. It made me really happy that I'd put my energy into getting rid of that first layer of heavy slush so I didn't have to lift them both together. The only problem was that all day long I simply could not face the end of the driveway. In the last few storms I have started at the end and worked my way back to the house... but yesterday it was just too daunting. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak, and a tad bit crotchety.
That delay in shoveling was - of course - a mistake.
Even without doing the end where the street plows had piled up frozen chunks and boulders, I was so tired, so beaten up, that last night it was hard to find a comfortable sleeping position. I didn't fall asleep until well after 1:00AM, having made a trip downstairs for more ibuprofen. If I'd had any whiskey, I would've chugged a shot or two, but my liquor cabinet is practically emptied. I finished the last shot of Sake after the previous day's shoveling. Now I'm down to the things that are meant for sipping. It's hard for me to "shoot" B&B, Sambuca, Baileys, and Crème de menthe. I don't even remember a drink recipe with Crème de menthe. Why did I ever buy Crème de menthe? Who uses Crème de menthe?
I slept okay between 2:00 and 7:00am, but I suddenly woke fully at that point. I watched some news, skipping channel to channel. NBC was doing their regular show from Vancouver, updating us on everything that was happening at the Olympics (enough already - I'm bored with it), but ABC and CBS skipped their National News feed and stayed with the local broadcasts. Obviously they had decided that the snow here in the North East was too big a story to cut away from. I didn't agree. With my nose peeking out from under my duvet into the 55 degree air of my bedroom (the thermostat will turn the heat back up to 66 degrees at 9:00am), I was hoping to hear about something other than snow. I would have appreciated, for instance, a story from Key West. I would have liked to see someone collecting shells and saying how happy they were that they'd moved to Florida.
Why is it that the only time we see pictures of the people in Florida is when they have just been blasted by a hurricane or their strawberry fields are being caked in ice during a freak freeze? There is a reason that people move to Florida. Could we see pictures of that please?
I took a few more ibuprofen, turned off the TV, and drifted back off to sleep. When I awoke it was 11:35am. I'd been in bed for nearly twelve hours. I wonder what my physical therapist would say about that? I probably would have stayed asleep if the sun hadn't come out and, reflecting off the snow covering every horizontal surface, including tree branches, my bedroom lit up like opening night on Broadway. I took it as a 'sign'. Without brushing my teeth or hair, I pulled on yesterday's clothes, grabbed my snow shovel and headed straight out. Little Gia was wagging close behind, though the drift against my storm door made her backstep a bit. But in minutes I'd worked a clean path from the front door to the lawn where Missy G could do her doggy business. Feeling totally refreshed, I cleared the path out to the drive, alongside the car, in front of the car, out to... the pile of icy boulders at the end of the driveway. What had been loose chunks of plowed ice yesterday had congealed into a solid glacial wall.
It seemed like that would have been a good time to go back inside to make myself a pot of coffee, but I pushed through knowing I had concert tickets for tonight. At one point it seemed like I wasn't going to be able to finish the job. My arms and shoulders ached each time my shovel was stopped short in the rock-ice. Many of the chunks were too heavy to lift and I'd break them up by swinging my shovel like an ax. Eventually I got it done, sort of, though I am hoping I can get up enough speed to blast my car through the parts I simply couldn't break apart. It was a gruesome task, reminding me why all winter long I had always started at the end first.
By then the eye of the storm had passed. The brilliant blue sky I was initially working under had clouded over, and the snow was beginning to fall again. It's supposed to snow right on through tonight... but the earlier sun had shined so bright that my street is melted completely down to macadam, and even my sidewalk is practically dry. I feel accomplished; sore and possibly bruised, but satisfied and proud.
When Rachel Ray is done in my kitchen (she only takes thirty minutes to make a whole damn meal) Ina will start her thing. That will be a good time to get up to refill my coffee cup and turn off the TV so I can get focused on my writing. Oh...no...wait... I hear Rachel. She's making me a drink to go with her Piz-sagna. She's using the leftover coffee in my pot - perfect - plus some of that Sambuca in my liquor cabinet - excellent - and now she's heading to the pantry to get the chocolate covered espresso beans...
What? Rachel - I don't have those in my pantry. Rachel... you are ruining it for me.
Okay, so maybe now is a good time to go and turn off the TV. It's probably also a good time for all of us Nor'easterners to fill our afternoon wine glasses and pass the ibuprofen.
How long is too long?
Rachel Ray is in my kitchen, demonstrating how to make a really "Yummo" pasta dish. I can hear her droning on and on, oblivious to the fact that I left the room ten minutes ago.
"You just give those onions a rough chop - nothing fancy - I never worry about the bigger chunks. It'll give your guests something to get their teeth around."
God, she is so cute, don't you think? I'm thrilled she's whipping up stuff from my pantry today 'cause with all this snow I have no intentions of running out to buy her any fancy ingredients. Actually, that's why Rachel is in my kitchen. She's pretty good about working with the stuff I usually have on hand. Giada De Laurentiis, on the other hand, was in my kitchen just before Rachel. I love her too, but she uses a number of items that I never stock. She told me that her refrigerator always has fresh lemons, fresh herbs, and a container of ricotta. She also said there are always bags of berries and shrimp in her freezer. She and The Barefoot Contessa lose me when they start zesting lemons and chopping fresh parsley, rosemary, and thyme. The rest of the stuff I actually do have in my fridge right now, but if I want the food Giada and Ina Garten usually make, I'm going to have to get it out of their refrigerators. I'm cooking for one here, folks. It just doesn't make any sense for me to spend $4 each on a bunch of herbs, only to watch them dissolve into compost in my vegetable bin. I have tarragon in there right now: what a waste. I bought it for one recipe and the remainder of it has been sitting in my fridge since last Thanksgiving.
I did what I could yesterday with the new snow. The first few shovelings (around 9am) were so heavy that it was hard to lift, even though it only looked to be an inch deep. The stuff that was falling later in the afternoon was much lighter and more manageable. It made me really happy that I'd put my energy into getting rid of that first layer of heavy slush so I didn't have to lift them both together. The only problem was that all day long I simply could not face the end of the driveway. In the last few storms I have started at the end and worked my way back to the house... but yesterday it was just too daunting. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak, and a tad bit crotchety.
That delay in shoveling was - of course - a mistake.
Even without doing the end where the street plows had piled up frozen chunks and boulders, I was so tired, so beaten up, that last night it was hard to find a comfortable sleeping position. I didn't fall asleep until well after 1:00AM, having made a trip downstairs for more ibuprofen. If I'd had any whiskey, I would've chugged a shot or two, but my liquor cabinet is practically emptied. I finished the last shot of Sake after the previous day's shoveling. Now I'm down to the things that are meant for sipping. It's hard for me to "shoot" B&B, Sambuca, Baileys, and Crème de menthe. I don't even remember a drink recipe with Crème de menthe. Why did I ever buy Crème de menthe? Who uses Crème de menthe?
I slept okay between 2:00 and 7:00am, but I suddenly woke fully at that point. I watched some news, skipping channel to channel. NBC was doing their regular show from Vancouver, updating us on everything that was happening at the Olympics (enough already - I'm bored with it), but ABC and CBS skipped their National News feed and stayed with the local broadcasts. Obviously they had decided that the snow here in the North East was too big a story to cut away from. I didn't agree. With my nose peeking out from under my duvet into the 55 degree air of my bedroom (the thermostat will turn the heat back up to 66 degrees at 9:00am), I was hoping to hear about something other than snow. I would have appreciated, for instance, a story from Key West. I would have liked to see someone collecting shells and saying how happy they were that they'd moved to Florida.
Why is it that the only time we see pictures of the people in Florida is when they have just been blasted by a hurricane or their strawberry fields are being caked in ice during a freak freeze? There is a reason that people move to Florida. Could we see pictures of that please?
I took a few more ibuprofen, turned off the TV, and drifted back off to sleep. When I awoke it was 11:35am. I'd been in bed for nearly twelve hours. I wonder what my physical therapist would say about that? I probably would have stayed asleep if the sun hadn't come out and, reflecting off the snow covering every horizontal surface, including tree branches, my bedroom lit up like opening night on Broadway. I took it as a 'sign'. Without brushing my teeth or hair, I pulled on yesterday's clothes, grabbed my snow shovel and headed straight out. Little Gia was wagging close behind, though the drift against my storm door made her backstep a bit. But in minutes I'd worked a clean path from the front door to the lawn where Missy G could do her doggy business. Feeling totally refreshed, I cleared the path out to the drive, alongside the car, in front of the car, out to... the pile of icy boulders at the end of the driveway. What had been loose chunks of plowed ice yesterday had congealed into a solid glacial wall.
It seemed like that would have been a good time to go back inside to make myself a pot of coffee, but I pushed through knowing I had concert tickets for tonight. At one point it seemed like I wasn't going to be able to finish the job. My arms and shoulders ached each time my shovel was stopped short in the rock-ice. Many of the chunks were too heavy to lift and I'd break them up by swinging my shovel like an ax. Eventually I got it done, sort of, though I am hoping I can get up enough speed to blast my car through the parts I simply couldn't break apart. It was a gruesome task, reminding me why all winter long I had always started at the end first.
By then the eye of the storm had passed. The brilliant blue sky I was initially working under had clouded over, and the snow was beginning to fall again. It's supposed to snow right on through tonight... but the earlier sun had shined so bright that my street is melted completely down to macadam, and even my sidewalk is practically dry. I feel accomplished; sore and possibly bruised, but satisfied and proud.
When Rachel Ray is done in my kitchen (she only takes thirty minutes to make a whole damn meal) Ina will start her thing. That will be a good time to get up to refill my coffee cup and turn off the TV so I can get focused on my writing. Oh...no...wait... I hear Rachel. She's making me a drink to go with her Piz-sagna. She's using the leftover coffee in my pot - perfect - plus some of that Sambuca in my liquor cabinet - excellent - and now she's heading to the pantry to get the chocolate covered espresso beans...
What? Rachel - I don't have those in my pantry. Rachel... you are ruining it for me.
Okay, so maybe now is a good time to go and turn off the TV. It's probably also a good time for all of us Nor'easterners to fill our afternoon wine glasses and pass the ibuprofen.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Erotica
Last week in one of my writing groups, I created a piece that fell into the erotica category. It's not my usual genre.
We meet every Wednesday in a local bookstore. It's a women-only group and since it meets at 10:00AM most of us are not employed. Thankfully our group is somewhat eclectic across race, ethnicity, and socioeconomic status. The diversity enriches every one's experience. We span the generations, from gals who come on canes or walkers, to teenagers who hope to gain wisdom, and perhaps accolades, from our seasoned audience. We have a few preschool children each week too, quietly tagging along with their moms. It's a great lesson for them, I think, to know that their mothers are multi-faceted. No one comes every single week. Though some of us are more consistent than others, we all have lives that take precedence over writing.
Our styles vary as widely as our backgrounds, though you cannot tell what or how we write by looking at each of us. In fact, our looks can totally mislead. One gal in the group is a traditional Greek grandma, 5'2" and fully coiffed, who dresses as conservatively as her station implies. It's been over a month since I saw her at our meeting, though she may have been there on a week when I missed. It never fails to shock us all that she is the most consistently erotic writer of the group, delving onto subject matter that makes us younger gals blush. After we write, we always read our pieces aloud. Sitting in our comfy lounge, which is located adjacent to the children's book area, her writing can make us squirm deep into our chairs as we hope that little ears will not take note.
She wasn't there this past week, but she was with me in spirit. I was writing about a lover I'd had: an eight-month affair that took me, sexually, to places I'd never been. It was easy enough to write, but a little less easy to read aloud. I found myself curled over my notebook, attempting to simultaneously project my voice while also keeping it within the confines of our gathering. I could feel the other women leaning forward in their chairs, as much to hear me as to enclose my voice in our circle. In all the right places, they giggled, gasped, and guffawed. We shared a lovely moment. It felt good to have done so.
Afterward several gals pulled me aside to sheepishly congratulate me on my writing. Three of them asked for a copy of the piece. No one in this group has ever asked me for my writing before. After all, we're writing into our notebooks, not onto a laptop. To share a piece requires either transcription or photocopying. It just doesn't seem to make much sense.
But they asked... and I said I would make them a copy... and afterwards I felt so proud - so pleased with myself - so complimented.
Later as I thought about it, I realized that these women had all experienced the lover that I had described. Not the exact same man of course, but a man who had deeply satisfied their sexual desires. Like me, they looked back on the experience with great appreciation bordering on reverence. My writing had rekindled a memory, and they wanted a copy of my piece to help them keep that flame burning. How lovely is that?
Maybe I should post the piece here, so it is accessible to them online?
No, that's not what this blog is about. It's about the process. If you want to read the piece, I guess you'll have to ask me for a copy.
We meet every Wednesday in a local bookstore. It's a women-only group and since it meets at 10:00AM most of us are not employed. Thankfully our group is somewhat eclectic across race, ethnicity, and socioeconomic status. The diversity enriches every one's experience. We span the generations, from gals who come on canes or walkers, to teenagers who hope to gain wisdom, and perhaps accolades, from our seasoned audience. We have a few preschool children each week too, quietly tagging along with their moms. It's a great lesson for them, I think, to know that their mothers are multi-faceted. No one comes every single week. Though some of us are more consistent than others, we all have lives that take precedence over writing.
Our styles vary as widely as our backgrounds, though you cannot tell what or how we write by looking at each of us. In fact, our looks can totally mislead. One gal in the group is a traditional Greek grandma, 5'2" and fully coiffed, who dresses as conservatively as her station implies. It's been over a month since I saw her at our meeting, though she may have been there on a week when I missed. It never fails to shock us all that she is the most consistently erotic writer of the group, delving onto subject matter that makes us younger gals blush. After we write, we always read our pieces aloud. Sitting in our comfy lounge, which is located adjacent to the children's book area, her writing can make us squirm deep into our chairs as we hope that little ears will not take note.
She wasn't there this past week, but she was with me in spirit. I was writing about a lover I'd had: an eight-month affair that took me, sexually, to places I'd never been. It was easy enough to write, but a little less easy to read aloud. I found myself curled over my notebook, attempting to simultaneously project my voice while also keeping it within the confines of our gathering. I could feel the other women leaning forward in their chairs, as much to hear me as to enclose my voice in our circle. In all the right places, they giggled, gasped, and guffawed. We shared a lovely moment. It felt good to have done so.
Afterward several gals pulled me aside to sheepishly congratulate me on my writing. Three of them asked for a copy of the piece. No one in this group has ever asked me for my writing before. After all, we're writing into our notebooks, not onto a laptop. To share a piece requires either transcription or photocopying. It just doesn't seem to make much sense.
But they asked... and I said I would make them a copy... and afterwards I felt so proud - so pleased with myself - so complimented.
Later as I thought about it, I realized that these women had all experienced the lover that I had described. Not the exact same man of course, but a man who had deeply satisfied their sexual desires. Like me, they looked back on the experience with great appreciation bordering on reverence. My writing had rekindled a memory, and they wanted a copy of my piece to help them keep that flame burning. How lovely is that?
Maybe I should post the piece here, so it is accessible to them online?
No, that's not what this blog is about. It's about the process. If you want to read the piece, I guess you'll have to ask me for a copy.
Monday, February 8, 2010
What is happening to me? As if all the procrastination and self-distraction that I typically do wasn't deleterious enough, now I'm finding it impossible to tear myself away from a new video game! I'd tell you what the game is called, but the dang thing is free online: telling you would be like dragging you under the water with me. There's no reason we should all drown... the honorable thing for me to do is to die alone!
Maybe it is, as Wendy says, something about these snowy frigid days of February that freeze my brain and frost my creativity. I think that it's more likely the increasingly longer and sunnier daylight hours, that get me to thinking of daffodils poking up through the snow (I've already seen them!) and the dream of summer days spent at my seashore home. Then again, it also may be the terrible realization that I've just passed the fifth anniversary of my husband's death. I don't think I ever planned out this far ahead. After he died I set my sights on getting though another day; then on getting beyond that brutal third month; then I longed to reach the allegedly transformational 1-year anniversary which was supposed to have been the conclusion of my grief. Imagine my surprise when I looked back from the second anniversary and discovered that a year prior I had been lying to myself: I hadn't been done grieving back then at all - but NOW I was done grieving!
The third year anniversary I looked back on the second and laughed at what a fool I'd been.
But really it was only a 2 1/2 year bereavement process and I think that was pretty good (considering how my entire future had been predicated on things "Joe and I" would do).
Reorganizing your future in your fifties isn't an easy thing. Moreover, once you realize how absolutely nothing in your life can be relied upon, then building a future and making plans feels a lot like building a house on a foundation of loose sand. You know it's all going to fall apart eventually. You know it's going to crumble. You know... but the fact is that you don't "know" anything. No one can. That's the mind-boggling, earth-rattling, plan-stealing problem I face. Do I put my energy, my heart and soul, into plans that may, or may not, ever come to fruition? How can I be writing a book - how can I dare to dream of finishing it - when the last big plan I had for my future went up in smoke?
I have to forgive myself for not making more progress with the goals I've set and the expectations I had for myself and my writing. The exact same thing happened to me last spring, and I survived. I also need to accept that I have some trouble facing the end of anything (even a box of cereal). The closer I get to it, the more I want to pull away.
But maybe it's okay to hit a wall now and then? Walls challenge us and make us choose: Do I go right, or shall I turn left? If I get really creative, I think beyond my box when I hit walls: I could climb over or maybe even dig under?
Or maybe I will just go straight through that f-ing wall.
"Yeah, WALL, what do you say to THAT?"
Maybe it is, as Wendy says, something about these snowy frigid days of February that freeze my brain and frost my creativity. I think that it's more likely the increasingly longer and sunnier daylight hours, that get me to thinking of daffodils poking up through the snow (I've already seen them!) and the dream of summer days spent at my seashore home. Then again, it also may be the terrible realization that I've just passed the fifth anniversary of my husband's death. I don't think I ever planned out this far ahead. After he died I set my sights on getting though another day; then on getting beyond that brutal third month; then I longed to reach the allegedly transformational 1-year anniversary which was supposed to have been the conclusion of my grief. Imagine my surprise when I looked back from the second anniversary and discovered that a year prior I had been lying to myself: I hadn't been done grieving back then at all - but NOW I was done grieving!
The third year anniversary I looked back on the second and laughed at what a fool I'd been.
But really it was only a 2 1/2 year bereavement process and I think that was pretty good (considering how my entire future had been predicated on things "Joe and I" would do).
Reorganizing your future in your fifties isn't an easy thing. Moreover, once you realize how absolutely nothing in your life can be relied upon, then building a future and making plans feels a lot like building a house on a foundation of loose sand. You know it's all going to fall apart eventually. You know it's going to crumble. You know... but the fact is that you don't "know" anything. No one can. That's the mind-boggling, earth-rattling, plan-stealing problem I face. Do I put my energy, my heart and soul, into plans that may, or may not, ever come to fruition? How can I be writing a book - how can I dare to dream of finishing it - when the last big plan I had for my future went up in smoke?
I have to forgive myself for not making more progress with the goals I've set and the expectations I had for myself and my writing. The exact same thing happened to me last spring, and I survived. I also need to accept that I have some trouble facing the end of anything (even a box of cereal). The closer I get to it, the more I want to pull away.
But maybe it's okay to hit a wall now and then? Walls challenge us and make us choose: Do I go right, or shall I turn left? If I get really creative, I think beyond my box when I hit walls: I could climb over or maybe even dig under?
Or maybe I will just go straight through that f-ing wall.
"Yeah, WALL, what do you say to THAT?"
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Snow Deep
2/6/2010: I watched and waited, peering out the living room window to the streetlight. The snow didn't start falling 'till well after 10pm last night, but once it started it remained steady, albeit light, for the next 15 hours. I shoveled the accumulated 1" at 2am before retiring to my bed. When I woke at 4am, there wasn't enough there to get me excited. But after I sprayed my shovel with cooking spray this morning and went to work, I was surprised at how much snow there actually was. I scraped more than 10 inches of it off the pan of bird seed I'd placed out yesterday - and that had been somewhat shielded under the cover of the porch's arbor.
My puppy was resistant to her morning walk so my first order of business was clearing a place for her on the front lawn. After that I set to work on the path to the driveway. I broke for coffee and returned later to clear the driveway and the mound at the end that the plows had created. It's best to get to it sooner than later, lest it congeal into ice chunks. All in all the work was much easier than our last snowfall, or perhaps I am simply getting stronger with the workouts.
I had scraped off the pan of bird seed before I'd set to work, and I was surprised to see that the birdies must have already visited while I was working in the driveway. With the snow still falling, the pan was disappearing once again, so I moved it farther under the overhang, hoping that the blowing snow wouldn't reach it there. Once inside, the coffee and my guilt gave me enough energy to fill and rehang the largest of the feeders. It has a metal roof that protects the perches to the feeding station and, once hung, it remained a beacon of renewed hope to those who'd come to rely on my handouts.
Satisfied with my efforts, I curled up on the sofa with Gia and gazed out across my white yard watching the last minutes of falling snow dust my gray walk and driveway. Little Gia seemed oblivious, though I know she is not. When it is time for her afternoon walk I will need to carry her nine pounds outside to get her to go. Once there she will be quick, racing me back to the front door and whining until I get there to let her in. We have done this before. It is a routine in the repertoire that I've come to relish. She's been with me five short years, joining us just four weeks before my husband, Joe, died.
Some of us are care takers; some of us are care givers. There is a subtle difference but no one ever notices it. Those of us who do the work, however, prefer the latter title. It's more in tune with the concept.
I was a care giver before I met Joe and, even though Joe is gone, I am a care giver still. My empty nest leaves me giving to a smaller crew, but the work is only a little less satisfying. I help the birds; I care for my pooch; I reach out when I see someone in need. And I wait and hope for a day when there is more than that to take care of.
With that thought I hear a burst of wind whistling down the street, and I look out my window to watch branches shake and hunks of snow explode into the air, in a blizzard that wafts across my yard and beyond. My heart accepts the current winter chill, but secretly craves the promise of a reawakened spring.
My puppy was resistant to her morning walk so my first order of business was clearing a place for her on the front lawn. After that I set to work on the path to the driveway. I broke for coffee and returned later to clear the driveway and the mound at the end that the plows had created. It's best to get to it sooner than later, lest it congeal into ice chunks. All in all the work was much easier than our last snowfall, or perhaps I am simply getting stronger with the workouts.
I had scraped off the pan of bird seed before I'd set to work, and I was surprised to see that the birdies must have already visited while I was working in the driveway. With the snow still falling, the pan was disappearing once again, so I moved it farther under the overhang, hoping that the blowing snow wouldn't reach it there. Once inside, the coffee and my guilt gave me enough energy to fill and rehang the largest of the feeders. It has a metal roof that protects the perches to the feeding station and, once hung, it remained a beacon of renewed hope to those who'd come to rely on my handouts.
Satisfied with my efforts, I curled up on the sofa with Gia and gazed out across my white yard watching the last minutes of falling snow dust my gray walk and driveway. Little Gia seemed oblivious, though I know she is not. When it is time for her afternoon walk I will need to carry her nine pounds outside to get her to go. Once there she will be quick, racing me back to the front door and whining until I get there to let her in. We have done this before. It is a routine in the repertoire that I've come to relish. She's been with me five short years, joining us just four weeks before my husband, Joe, died.
Some of us are care takers; some of us are care givers. There is a subtle difference but no one ever notices it. Those of us who do the work, however, prefer the latter title. It's more in tune with the concept.
I was a care giver before I met Joe and, even though Joe is gone, I am a care giver still. My empty nest leaves me giving to a smaller crew, but the work is only a little less satisfying. I help the birds; I care for my pooch; I reach out when I see someone in need. And I wait and hope for a day when there is more than that to take care of.
With that thought I hear a burst of wind whistling down the street, and I look out my window to watch branches shake and hunks of snow explode into the air, in a blizzard that wafts across my yard and beyond. My heart accepts the current winter chill, but secretly craves the promise of a reawakened spring.
Friday, February 5, 2010
The First Blog: The Feeding Station
Day 1: The "blogging" begins! Since I am a writer and participate in several writing groups, I knew it was time to get on board with the blogging rage. Even so, the weight of responsibility for creating something worth reading is huge to me and it has, quite frankly, deterred me. But as a good friend recently told me, it is time for me to "GET OVER IT!". She also added that "No one is ever going to see it anyway, let alone read it".
Really? No one? lol
2/5/10 Journal Entry: The titmice are gathering in the bare branches of the plum tree. I can see them from my comfy living room couch. They are clearly suspicious of the bird seed that I've set out on the front porch. Last night it was too darn cold to stand out there pouring a 20-pound bag of seed into the feeders. Instead I filled a small pan with a few scoops of the mix and placed it onto one of the porch's lounge chairs that has been braving this winter's storms. To entice the birdies to the unusual new feeding platform, I sprinkled two handfuls of seed along the porch railing. Surely the birdies would approve? If they are hungry enough, they'll eat, wont they? But I see now that the titmice are not at all convinced of its safety.
Titmice have pointed head-dressings that look like tiny feathered dunce-caps crowning their diminutive grey and white bodies. I love their look, and their tweet, and I'd like them to visit often (even if that means I need to pay for their lunch). This business of their being suspicious of my offering is a bit upsetting to me, but not upsetting enough to make me go out in the cold air to refill the actual feeders.
Or is it?
There is a big storm coming and I want the birdies to know that they will have food accessible on my porch, even if all their other feeding grounds are buried under the predicted 18 inches of snow.
I tip-toe into the den to peek out onto the porch. If the titmice are all still flitting about in the plum tree, is no one taking part in the feast I set out? Ah-HA! I see a black-capped chickadee zipping out of the rhododendron to the feed pan. He acts like he is stealing, picking seed swiftly after landing and then darting back into the bush. I wonder if even he is suspicious of this new feeding site? As I ponder this a thought hits me hard: the food is a mere 14" off the porch floor and a cat would have easy pickings if these birds are not careful. A moment later, I see a titmouse land to eat. He stays longer than the chickadee, which only makes that dunce cap seem all the more telling. His titmouse buddies are all still up the in the plum branches, tweeting warnings above their empty hungry bellies. I brush a few stray hairs from my face with the back of my hand, the chickadee comes and flits away but the titmouse continues to eat.
If I care about these precious creatures, it is clear that I will have to fill my hanging feeders before the snow begins to fly. Keep them fed, but keep them safe... a job half-done is no job at all.
That rings true for so many things, doesn't it?
Really? No one? lol
2/5/10 Journal Entry: The titmice are gathering in the bare branches of the plum tree. I can see them from my comfy living room couch. They are clearly suspicious of the bird seed that I've set out on the front porch. Last night it was too darn cold to stand out there pouring a 20-pound bag of seed into the feeders. Instead I filled a small pan with a few scoops of the mix and placed it onto one of the porch's lounge chairs that has been braving this winter's storms. To entice the birdies to the unusual new feeding platform, I sprinkled two handfuls of seed along the porch railing. Surely the birdies would approve? If they are hungry enough, they'll eat, wont they? But I see now that the titmice are not at all convinced of its safety.
Titmice have pointed head-dressings that look like tiny feathered dunce-caps crowning their diminutive grey and white bodies. I love their look, and their tweet, and I'd like them to visit often (even if that means I need to pay for their lunch). This business of their being suspicious of my offering is a bit upsetting to me, but not upsetting enough to make me go out in the cold air to refill the actual feeders.
Or is it?
There is a big storm coming and I want the birdies to know that they will have food accessible on my porch, even if all their other feeding grounds are buried under the predicted 18 inches of snow.
I tip-toe into the den to peek out onto the porch. If the titmice are all still flitting about in the plum tree, is no one taking part in the feast I set out? Ah-HA! I see a black-capped chickadee zipping out of the rhododendron to the feed pan. He acts like he is stealing, picking seed swiftly after landing and then darting back into the bush. I wonder if even he is suspicious of this new feeding site? As I ponder this a thought hits me hard: the food is a mere 14" off the porch floor and a cat would have easy pickings if these birds are not careful. A moment later, I see a titmouse land to eat. He stays longer than the chickadee, which only makes that dunce cap seem all the more telling. His titmouse buddies are all still up the in the plum branches, tweeting warnings above their empty hungry bellies. I brush a few stray hairs from my face with the back of my hand, the chickadee comes and flits away but the titmouse continues to eat.
If I care about these precious creatures, it is clear that I will have to fill my hanging feeders before the snow begins to fly. Keep them fed, but keep them safe... a job half-done is no job at all.
That rings true for so many things, doesn't it?
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