The morning is rainy, a soft rain. Last night a branch blown by the strong wind hit the house a few times, but I was the only one who noticed. The birds are swooping in and out of the feeders. I watched them from the bathroom window. There were as many of them as I’ve since I filled the feeders. I guess the word is out. I saw Mrs. Cardinal at the open feeder. She dines al fresco. I am so happy my birds are back.

Yesterday I saw a hawk way above the house riding the thermals. It was such a graceful bird as it swooped up and down, round and round.

My father loved to go to the dump. When friends came down for the weekend, he always invited them to go along with him. They usually did. The dump had heaps of trash. Circling the dump were the ever present seagulls, the nosiest birds with their shrilly squawking. Some other gulls sat on the tops of the trash piles. They reminded me of the game king of the hill we played when we were kids.

In my memory drawers I can see scenes from the places where I’ve traveled. They are small memories. In Finland, I was in a restaurant with a huge menu board hung on the wall. The dishes were listed in Finnish and Swedish. I could see the food set as if for a buffet. I picked what looked good. In a small hole in the wall restaurant in Ecuador, Guinea pigs called cuy by the Ecuadorians ran all round on the floor. They were bigger than the Guinea pigs here. I found out they are raised for food. I remember sitting in the afternoons having coffee at a cafe in Marrakesh. The cafe faced the Djemaa El Fna, the main square. At night restaurants took over the square but during the day it had musicians, snake charmers and women drawing henna. I had one do my hands. I remember lying on a bench in the airport at Niamey. I had had a mild case of cholera. Though I was on the mend I was still feeling the effects. I remember the airport back then was a huge hanger. I can close my eyes and see Main Street Bolga as it was. It is enshrined in my memories.

I am often surprised by what pops into my head from my memory drawers. The memories are simple, just sort of day to day events, nothing spectacular like Machu Picchu or Christ of the Andes which I easily remember. The small things are remarkable in their own way. They sit waiting for me to remember, and when I do, I am a traveler once again on trains or busses or eating in small restaurants with only a couple of chairs or walking by myself through neighborhoods and seeing the small worlds of wherever I am.

This entry was posted on August 10, 2024 at 11:52 am and is filed under Musings. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. Both comments and pings are currently closed.