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“Where we love is home – home that our feet may leave, but not our hearts.”

August 21, 2010

It was a team effort. One of the cats dispatched the mouse, and Gracie went sniffing around this morning and found it. My guess is the event happened Thursday night because the house was cleaned that day, and yesterday morning I found the three large pillows (sit-on ones piled against the wall) askew. The deceased was lying beside them, but I obviously missed the body when I straightened the pillows. It was, after all, a small mouse. CSI was busy so I disposed of the remains. I thanked both cats and Miss Gracie for their assistance.

The day is again lovely. I woke earlier than usual and remembered I had forgotten to buy cream  for my coffee so Gracie and I went to Dunkin’ Donuts. The roads were clear, and it was so early I was only the second car in line. When I came home, I went straight to the deck. The air still had a bit of chill left over from the cool night. None of the neighbors were stirring. It was just Gracie, me and a few hungry birds.

I lived in a project until I was sixteen. It was in my small town and back then the word project had no stigma attached. We never thought twice about calling it the project when we talked about where we lived. Even now, when my sisters and I remember growing up, we start our memories with, “In the project…” The houses were all duplexes made of wood. The front yards had bushes and flower gardens, and the backyards were  interconnected but separated by plots of grass. In the middle, behind the clotheslines in the backyards, was a grass covered hill, perfect for little kids to sled on in winter and for a slip ‘n slide in summer. The project was loaded with kids of all ages. My best friend lived in the project and even lived in the duplex where we had first lived. Everyone in the project was a neighbor. One of our favorite neighbors lived in the house next door and another favorite lived right beside us in the same duplex. Their side was a mirror image of ours. A few neighbors were not so friendly, but only a few.

When I talk about my childhood with someone, I usually have to explain the project, defend it somehow, as most people tend to think of projects as block after block of brick high-risers in the poorest part of any city. They never think of them as I do: a wonderful place to grow up, a place with a field filled with grasshoppers, an old tree, blueberries, woods and a swamp perfect for catching pollywogs in spring and for ice skating on in winter.

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“It’s easy to smile when you have a squirrel’s intellect.”

August 20, 2010

I’m outside. The sun was here earlier but has since disappeared behind a sea of clouds, varying gray clouds. None seem ominous. The breeze is strong and the air dry. I couldn’t bear the thought of going inside to write so I brought my laptop to the deck. It’s not a quiet day, but I can still hear the fountain and the birds at the feeders and the squirrels in the leaves. I can also hear little kids laughing and talking, a most unusual sound for here. The voices belong to the family next door, renting for the week. They speak Albania to one another, and it’s been interesting listening to a language I have never heard before. None of it is familiar. I went online and learned to say hello.

Today is a stay around the house day. Cloudy days invite the tourists to take to the road so I don’t.  A few weeks ago I heard a local writer speak about her new book so I bought it, starting reading it and put it down after only a few pages. I got snotty I guess. I didn’t like all the grammatical errors. Today I’ll give it another go and try to ignore my standards for the English language. I’m holding off on the title for now. If I like it, I’ll let you know.

It was a showdown at the OK Corral this morning. The red squirrel and I went eye to eye, and he flinched and fled, but I found his antics pretty funny. He’d jump from one branch to another, stop and look right at me then jump to another branch, stop and look at me then jump again, always jumping near the feeder. This went on for about ten minutes until he realized I wasn’t going anywhere. It was then I watched him jump to the biggest tree in the yard, run across a huge branch and jump into the neighbor’s yard.

This squirrel and I have a long, unpleasant history. He is an ungrateful cur. Once I saw he’d caught his paw on the wire on the inside of the squirrel proof feeder, the inside where the seeds are, so I tried to push his foot clear. He went after me. I then used my phone to push his foot, and he was freed but he attacked my phone.  He chirped at me over and over, and I knew he was mad. Many other times he’s been in the feeder but usually manages to escape when I come on the deck, but he didn’t the other day. I saw him and walked slowly and quietly to the feeder where he was chomping on the sunflowers seeds. He never saw or heard me so he was quite startled when I tapped the feeder. As he fell to the ground, he looked like a flying squirrel with his arms and legs straight out, but he landed just fine and took off only to return today.

I thinking I’m turning into the crazed squirrel lady. Soon I’ll be an urban legend.

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“Summer’s lease hath all too short a date.”

August 19, 2010

The morning is lovely. The late rain last night chased away yesterday’s humidity, and the day is bright with air so clear it accentuates all the color and beauty around me.

Yesterday I was an extra in The Birds, Part II. Crows came and five or six just sat on my deck rail and stared. Others perched on branches and a few hung off the suet feeder taking giant mouthfuls. I looked around for a phone booth just in case.

My birthday was perfect. When I opened my front door, there was a giant mum so big I couldn’t even get out the door. I finally grabbed the edge of the planter, tilted it away from the door and squeezed my way outside. The plant was from my friends Tony and Clare. They always start my birthday in the most spectacular way. My family called throughout the day with a few songs and well wishes, and I went to Tony and Clare’s for dinner. They made my favorites. Clare made deviled eggs, and Tony cooked a rib eye on the grill, and, despite the heat and humidity, Clare managed to whip up my lemon meringue pie for dessert. We played a card game. As befitting the birthday girl, I won and a bit later so did the Red Sox. Birthdays are lucky I guess.

Labor Day is not even three weeks away. Summer seems to go so fast now we have to grab on so as not to miss it. When I was little, it was different. The summer seemed endless. The days were long, and I swear every one of them was sunny. It was always noisy, even at night. My neighborhood was bursting with kids who played in the backyard and they were never quiet. The field near my house had a population of grasshoppers who sang all day, and the swamp had frogs. All the neighbors’ windows were open, and I could hear the murmurings of their voices. We never cared what day it was or even what month. I did take note of my birthday, but that was it. The rest of the days started and ended in anonymity. It was always a shock to hear my mother announce a school shopping day.

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“Our birthdays are feathers in the broad wing of time.”

August 17, 2010

They are my fault. The last two thunder and lightning storms started when I got up to go to the bathroom. This morning it was around three when the sky lit up several times over and over and the thunder roared. The same thing happened last week. It sounds unlikely I know, but it is far too much of a coincidence to ignore. I will no longer have any cold drinks before bed.

It is a damp, dark day, befitting after all the rain we had. The humidity is thick enough to cut, and the house feels closed as if the walls are getting closer. Nothing is stirring, not the slightest breeze. I do hear a few birds but all else is quiet, dulled by the heavy air.

The roads will be filled with tourists looking for something to do, something to amuse them and keep their kids occupied. The movie theater will be crowded and parking will spill over to the grass and the road across the street. I will stay home.

Today I will don my tiara, my long gloves and my favorite gown with matching slippers, figuratively of course, to celebrate this auspicious occasion. It is my birthday, and I am as old as I have ever been. My friend Clare always leaves on my front steps the biggest mum she can find, and there it was when I opened the door. I can think of no lovelier way to start a birthday. Tony and Clare will make dinner, all my favorites, and we’ll celebrate.

I don’t remember most birthdays when I was a kid. There were probably parties and gifts, but for some reason they never stayed in my memory drawers. I remember turning  twenty-one when my friends took me out for dinner and my first legal drinks. They had a few drinks themselves and forgot to buy my dinner. They also forgot the tip so I got stuck with both. Once they realized what had happened, they offered to take me out again, but, with tongue in cheek, I told them I couldn’t afford it.

Birthdays need to be celebrated with balloons, confetti, noisemakers and good friends. I’ll have those tonight, and it will be a grand celebration.

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“We turn not older with years, but newer every day.”

August 15, 2010

The day is overcast and a bit chilly. The sun was here earlier, but it disappeared while I was at breakfast. Last night was cold. We sat on the deck for movie night clad in sweatshirts and wrapped in afghans. Even Gracie had her afghan though hers was more for comfort than warmth. Dinner was pasta and garlic bread, perfect for a cold night on the deck.

The hummingbird comes every late afternoon around the same time. Yesterday I watched as that lovely bird drank from the nectar feeder hanging from a flower pot. The nectar bubbled as he drank. The bird then alighted on a branch, and I got to watch. Most times a hummingbird is a whirl of wings, but I got to see the dainty bird with his long bill just sit for a bit. I dared not move lest I scare him, but Gracie ran up the deck stairs and the glass lanterns shook and scared away my bird. Today I’ll remember to bring out my camera in hopes of getting a few pictures.

I always used to wonder how old people felt. I’d see them walking uptown to the First National pulling their carts behind them. Old back then was, of course, relative. I was young and even a teenager seemed worldly. My grandmother was forty nine when I was born. All my life I never thought of her as anything but old. She walked with a stoop. I always figured it started because she was taller than my grandfather and then she just stayed that way. Her clothes were sensible, and she smelled like lilacs. Her house was perfectly neat and free of dust. A bowl of candy was always on the table. We’d take only one or two but always wished we were brave enough to take more. She liked fruit jellies. Her hair was gray. She went to the beauty parlor every couple of weeks. It was her only extravagance. Her laugh was loud and sometimes embarrassing. I always figured she was so old she didn’t notice much anymore.

Old is again relative. All those old people I saw and wondered about knew they weren’t old at all.

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“And even the sun in dawn chorus sings, a celestial melody to the earth below.”

August 13, 2010

The morning is a delight. When I walked onto the deck, I could smell salt air, borne this far inland from the cool, morning breeze. The air hasn’t a hint of humidity. It’s even a bit chilly in the shade. Gracie came out with me, and the two of us got comfortable in our usual morning places. She lies on the deck in the sun, and I sit so I can watch the birds as I read the papers. Today I was loathe to come inside so I had a third cup of coffee and just sat doing nothing but enjoying the freshly brewed coffee, the warmth of the cup between my hands and the goings of the birds.

I watched the morning stirrings from the house beside me. It is a summer rental, vacant all winter. Every Saturday packed cars leave and their places are taken by other packed cars. If there are kids, they are the first to run out of the cars. They are the explorers. I can sometimes hear them yelling about their discoveries, like the outside shower and the barbecue. Their excitement brings back memories of vacation mornings when I was young. Every day seemed bright, filled with sun. I always woke with the expectation of something different  from the usual. The ocean was just a short walk away on what passed for a road between the cottages, just two dirt ruts with grass growing between them. The grass was always tall and usually browned by the sun. Mornings were the coolest times of the day. At the first step out the door, I could smell the salt water and could always tell if the tide was in or out. It was quiet in the early hours. That was always my favorite part of the day on our vacations. I had the beauty of the morning and a whole new day ahead of me different than all my other days.

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“Mine is the night, with all her stars.”

August 12, 2010

I slept with an open window and fresh air last night, the first night in a long time without the air conditioning blasting. Tonight and the next few nights should be about the same. The humidity will return on Monday. I mean, really, what’s August without sweating at the least bit of activity, needing multiple showers each day just to feel clean and being constantly grouchy and tired from the heat.

Tonight is the Perseid meteor shower with the best viewing around 4 or 5 AM. I’ll be out there with my lounge chair just waiting to be awed. It’s  a yearly ritual for me. I take a nap in the late afternoon so I can be up all hours. Around 3 I head outside and get comfy. One year the meteors were so beautiful and plentiful I couldn’t help but ooh and ah out loud, but nobody heard me. All the houses around me were dark. I was the only spectator lucky enough to be watching the most beautiful display in the night sky.

The stars are overpowering in their beauty. Some nights they fill the sky, and I sit outside just to look. When I was a little kid, a falling star was an event. The first one to see it would yell and point and we’d all make wishes. Back then there were far fewer man made lights to compete with a starry night, and the sky was always ablaze with twinkling stars. I remember my dad pointing out the North Star and the big and little dippers. He said we’d never get lost if we knew where to look. I remember the trail of light, the Milky Way, looking like a road across the sky. Nothing was better on a hot summer night than lying on the cool grass looking at the night sky and hoping to see a falling star.

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“Through the blackest night, morning gently tiptoes, feeling its way to dawn.”

August 10, 2010

The many cold cokes I drank last night were cause for me to get up at 3:30, just in time to hear and see the start of the thunderstorm. I remembered my car windows were open and raced outside to close them. By then, of course, the rain had begun in earnest, and I got quite wet. Once inside I had to stay up a while so I wouldn’t miss the thunder and lightning. I so love a good storm.

The day is humid, no different than the previous days, but a cold front is coming later in the week. One night is predicted to be in the high 50’s. I can hardly wait to be cold.

I love the early mornings, especially when I’m away. I remember the trip my mother and I took to Pennsylvania. I woke up about dawn and, while my mother was still sleeping, I made my way to Gettysburg National Park. We had toured the park the day before, but I got to be there all by myself  just as the gates opened. Ground fog drifted slowly across the battlefields giving them a surreal look. I drove ever so slowly through the park imagining the sounds of the battles and the groaning of the wounded. It felt like a holy place, a shrine. That quiet ride is my favorite memory from that trip.

In Santa Fe, on a trip with my sisters, I woke up early, quietly left the room and made my way to the square. I bought coffee and a roll and sat and watched the Indians set up their wares for the day on the porch of the Governor’s Palace. They spread out colorful blankets and carefully placed their jewelry, art and handmade goods. The rest of the square was quiet. I was the only spectator to the start of that day in Santa Fe.

In Ghana, the mornings started early as the air was coolest just before the sun rose. Market ladies walked on the dirt path between the rows of millet on their way to town and carried their wares on their heads. I could hear them talking and laughing. Smoke rose in the air from morning fires in the family compounds, and I could smell the wood burning. I’d sit on my porch with my cup of coffee and watch the day unfold a piece at a time.

I always think the early mornings are a gift whether I’m in another place or on the deck with the papers and coffee.

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“It is with our brothers and sisters that we learn to love, share, negotiate, start and end fights, hurt others, and save face…”

August 9, 2010

The day is sunny, but the humidity has returned, and a thunder shower is predicted for late this afternoon. I find days like today, sticky days, are best spent sitting and doing as little as possible, and I am quite good at that.

Movie night was great fun. We watched M.A.S.H., a film none of had seen in a very long time, and we still found it funny and laughed out loud. The only glitch in the evening was caused by Miss Gracie. She found the meat, ready for the grill, in a bag on the kitchen counter and helped herself to the burgers. Some had disappeared entirely and the rest were gnawed. Luckily there was more meat so we all got a burger, though not special Tony burgers, the highly anticipated dining highlight. Later, during the movie Gracie, exhausted by her escapade, fell asleep on her afghan on the deck.

My brother and I had a similar experience with Duke, the Boxer we grew up with. He found my mother’s roast beef defrosting on the counter and helped himself. Luckily, we caught him almost in the act and were able to wrest away the roast. Boxers are gentle dogs so we didn’t think twice about saving the meat. When we looked at the roast, we saw teeth marks all across the sides. We washed the meat then spent time pushing and pulling and smoothing until the teeth marks were pretty much gone. We put the roast back on the counter far enough from the edge that Duke wouldn’t be able to grab it again. We never told my mother.

The roast was delicious and we kept looking at each other during dinner and laughing every now and then. Nothing brings a brother and sister closer than a shared conspiracy.

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“The truth is that parents are not really interested in justice. They just want quiet.”

August 8, 2010

The morning is lovely. A breeze stirs the wind chimes and blows the oak branches. I sat on the deck with my coffee, my morning ritual, and read two of my Sunday papers. I stopped every now and then, as I always do, to watch the birds. A woodpecker enjoyed the suet I put out on Friday and a raucous blue jay flew from branch to branch. A few nuthatches joined the chickadees at the different feeders and a titmouse was back. The crow hasn’t been by in a couple of days. Tonight is dinner and a movie on the deck.

I grew up with certain truisms. My tongue would turn black when I lied and only mothers could see it. Humiliation would haunt my mother for all the days of her life if I didn’t wear clean underwear and happened to be in an accident. My eyesight, especially in the nighttime, would be greatly improved if I ate my carrots. Santa Claus always knows when I’m bad. My face would be permanently distorted if I made faces. Bubble gum, if swallowed, forms a ball in your stomach that takes years to dissolve. Potatoes grow in dirty ears.

I believed these, and the believing never hurt me, neither did finding out they weren’t true. I remember looking in the mirror to see if my tongue had turned black, not realizing I had given myself away. I envisioned tiny potatoes so I allowed my mother to dig around to clean my ears. I still don’t swallow gum of any sort. Clean underwear is a must, accident or no accident, but that came with growing older. I did wish I hadn’t been forced to eat all those carrots, and I was disappointed Santa wasn’t real, but there were no permanent scars.

When I was older, I never thought of those truisms as lies. I saw them as my mother’s way of getting us to be cleaner, healthier and better behaved. I don’t have kids, but, if I did, I wouldn’t above using a few of those truisms myself. Why mess with success?

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