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“The root of all superstition is that men observe when a thing hits, but not when it misses.”

July 13, 2012

The morning got warm quickly, too warm for my second cup of coffee so I turned the AC on. The weather report says the temperature will rise as the day gets older. I guess I’m beating the heat to the punch.

My neighbors across the street have central air and use it often, but I think it has more to do with their Katy bar the door mentality than the heat. I was chatting with them the other day, and they mentioned they put the air at 80˚ when they go out so as not to waste electricity, and they keep it at 78˚ when they’re home. They said that was chilly enough for them. I guess the older you get, the less you can tolerate the cold. I suppose I could look forward to that.

Today is Friday the 13th which means absolutely nothing to me. I am not superstitious. I even tempt fate by walking under ladders. Spilled salt is a mess to be cleaned up, and that’s all. I have a black cat, and our paths cross frequently. I looked it up and fear of the day is called friggatriskaidekaphobia. Had I been asked the meaning before now, I would have concentrated on the beginning and guessed something to do with fear of foul language.

When we were kids, we had all sorts of superstitions. Step on a crack and break your mother’s back was one of them. None of us ever stepped on a crack. We didn’t want to tempt fate. When we walked the railroad tracks, we jumped over the ties with double zeros. I don’t remember exactly why, but I do remember there was a dread associated with stepping on those zeros. I never opened an umbrella inside the house simply because it was bad luck, and I was into preventative measures back then. A broken mirror was cause for horror and too many years of bad luck to contemplate.

Today will be the same as every other day. Sometimes life is difficult, but we all accept that. What we don’t need is adding wariness so ignore the dog howling, pick up that coin even if it’s tails up and go ahead and wash that car. Maybe I’ll watch Friday the 13th part 80!

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July 2, 2012

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June 30, 2012

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June 29, 2012

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What’s right is beautiful: what’s beautiful breeds joy: what breeds joy is goodness.”

June 29, 2012

I can feel the warmth coming. It’s that sort of a morning, a morning still and dark, a humid morning. Sounds seem louder: a dog barking from down the street, cars going by the house and the clicking of Gracie’s collar when she runs around the yard. Every now and then she comes into the house usually panting from her run. Gracie just wants a pat and the assurance I’m still here then she goes back outside.

Tonight is a play and that’s it for my weekend dance card, but I’m just fine with indolence. I figure the deck is as fine a place as any to spend my time.

I seldom watch TV in the daytime, but today I made an exception. The Brink’s Job is offered On Demand. I love that movie because it takes place in Boston and a couple of scenes are in the town where I grew up. They chose it because the uptown was frozen in time, a perfect 50’s time. Since then, however, uptown has changed, but in the movie I get to see my town, the one I remember from my childhood.

I need to get a couple of passport pictures so I can send for my Ghanaian visa. Last year the visa ran out before I left, but, just as I expected, no one noticed when I was leaving. Ghana takes a lackadaisical approach to both entires and departures. No one checked my yellow shot record when I arrived, and they took only a cursory look at my passport. All of that reminded me of a re-entry when I was in the Peace Corps and returning to Ghana after traveling. I was at Kotoka International and was denied re-entry despite my resident’s visa and my re-entry permit. A cholera epidemic had started while I was gone and without a shot I couldn’t enter. I explained I wasn’t a casual visitor: I lived in Ghana and wanted to go home. No was the answer. I then asked the official if he’d let me in if I raised my right hand and swore to God to get a shot. He said yes so I swore to get a shot and off I went right to Peace Corps where I got the shot just as I promised.

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If you think dogs can’t count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and then giving Fido only two of them.

June 25, 2012

My PC has gone to PC hell so I’ve disconnected its lifelines and will haul it to my computer guru today. I’m thinking it needs a new hard drive. Luckily, all my music, pictures and a variety of files were backed-up. I learned that lesson before this.

Today is a delight with a cool breeze and little humidity, but that’s supposed to change. Last night the weatherman said showers. I’m hoping he’s right.

The outside will get my attention today. I have a new holder for bird feeders which goes into the ground and has a squirrel baffle on the rod. The spawn of Satan will try to climb and the baffle will slide him right back down again. I figure it will be fun to watch! Nothing better than a frustrated spawn. The rod had six hooks so I’ll pick up a hanging plant or two. Another chore is the front garden where I noticed some flowers are picnic food for the bugs so they need to be sprayed. I’m thinking any excuse to stay outside today!

Last night I had dinner at my friends’ house. Tony barbecued burgers for us and two small burgers: one for Darci, my friends’ dog, and one for Gracie. When I got home, I gave Gracie half and left the rest in the bag on the counter. It disappeared, but this morning I saw the empty bag in the backyard. It seems Gracie is a counter surfer!

My dog Duke, the Boxer I had when I was growing up, was a great counter surfer. Nothing was safe. Once he grabbed the Sunday roast, and my brother and I had to pry his mouth open to save the meat. That was when I learned that tooth marks can be pressed out of uncooked roasts. My Shauna, also a Boxer, was a wonderful counter surfer. She could reach all the way to the wall. One time she stole a cake cooling on the counter and ate half of it so I had to hurry out and buy dessert as half a cake wouldn’t do. Shauna was also a trash bag mauler. If I left the bag on the kitchen floor, Shauna could break any world’s record in opening the bag and taking any food. I’d find trash on my bed because she used to haul it upstairs for reasons I never fathomed. Gracie, who has access to the outside through her door, takes the trash out if she’s been bag surfing. Every now and then I go out and collect her trash. I always feel a bit like her maid.

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Now That The Summer’s Here: Michael Franks

June 20, 2012

Thank you, my friend im6, for this one!

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“Rarely does one see a squirrel tremble.”

June 15, 2012

Cue the trumpets! It was coffee and the papers on the deck this morning for the first time this season, and the sun was so bright I felt like the Mad Hatter moving from chair to chair to avoid the glare. Gracie came with me and she found the shade. While there, I noticed the deck needs some more sweeping because of the rain storms, and I’ll do that later as I intend to spend most of the day there with book (disguised as my iPad) in hand.

Tonight is the first play of the season, and it is at the Cape Playhouse. The Hound of the Baskervilles is the play, but, according to the review, it,” … is absurd. Ridiculous. Overblown,” but then the critic goes on to say, ” But please, please don’t let that stop you, because those are exactly the things that make it an extremely successful, albeit odd, twist on the old Sherlock Holmes yarn.” I am curious and a bit uneasy. I always think of Sherlock Holmes as a character with whom you don’t meddle, but I will reserve judgment until I see the play.

I woke up when it was almost light, and I heard the chorus of birds greeting the new day. The air was filled with bird songs, and I stayed awake a while to listen. It is a perfect way to start the day, with a joyous sound. I fell asleep again but I think I might have been smiling.

The gray spawns of Satan have not been around. It seems they have been replaced by the evil red spawns who have been known to attack their grey cousins. The red spawns are small enough to fit in between the wires of the squirrel proof feeders, and when I see them at those feeders, I run out to the deck like a screaming mad woman. Well, actually, I am a screaming mad woman with mad having all sorts of connotations. Maybe, once the deck season starts in earnest, the spawns will stay away. I can only hope, but if that doesn’t work, I’m thinking a weapon might be what I need. Maybe I’ll try a potato gun. They can always eat the ammo.

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“Nothing compares to the simple pleasure of a bike ride.”

June 9, 2012

This morning I went out to the deck to fill the suet feeder then I just stood there enjoying the morning. All of a sudden the smoke alarm in the hall went off. Animals ran: the cats low to the ground and the dog out the door into the yard. I went in and the house was filled with smoke, mostly the dining room and kitchen. I went looking and found the culprit: the toast blackened and on fire in my toaster oven. I had forgotten all about it as I don’t usually have anything but coffee in the morning. The house still has a charred smell.

Finally a deck day! I have to sweep and clean it a bit but that’s fine with me. When I’m done, I’m going to bring out my book and a cold drink and soak up the sun and the beauty of the day. It is the  best sort of day. The sun is bright, the breeze just enough and it’s already 70°. Gracie is asleep on the lounge. That’s a sure sign of a beautiful morning.

Once my brother and I rode our bicycles to East Boston to visit our grandparents. It meant riding along Route 1, a busy, busy highway, crossing it at a rotary with cars all over and then riding, still on Route 1, into the city. We knew the route because we used to go visit my grandparents many Sundays and every Christmas and Easter. When we knocked on his door, my grandfather opened it and looked around for my parents. He was shocked to find we’d ridden our bicycles. He called my mother, and she was horrified. She didn’t drive back then so she couldn’t pick us up, and my father was a salesman who could have been anywhere on his route so he couldn’t come get us. All my mother could do was tell us to ride home and be careful. My grandfather gave us some money for a snack and off we went.

It was just a ride home for us. For my mother it was waiting and looking out the door hoping she’d see us riding our bikes up the hill. My brother and I just couldn’t understand why she yelled when we got home. Her, “You could have been killed,” meant nothing  to us. We hadn’t been. We let her yell as that always seemed the best approach. When she was finished, we asked if we could go out bike riding. “No,” was all she said.

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“If you know something can go wrong, and take due precautions against it, something else will go wrong.”

June 7, 2012

We actually caught a glimpse of the sun this morning. It was a fleeting glimpse but still heartening.  It seemed a perfect day to get out and clean my deck for about the tenth time, but clouds have appeared   so I’ll wait a bit hoping for a return of the sun. Last week I bought a new pump for my fountain. I couldn’t connect it because I needed new tubing so I went to the hardware store, one of my least favorite shopping spots, and bought some. Now I can’t find where I put the pump. I have checked the usual spots and come up empty. I hate getting older.

The bird feeders need filling so that’s a good task for today. I saw a cardinal pair the other day, and I’d like to keep them around so I’ll bring out the seed and get busy.

A fly is buzzing around me and the house. I hate flies. I like to whack them with rolled up newspapers. Fern also likes to catch them, but she is sleeping on the couch and has no interest in any activities. When I was a kid, we had a Woolworth’s turtle which lived for years in a lagoon on the kitchen counter. The lagoon was plastic and had a resting spot in the middle with a tiny fake palm tree. That turtle loved live flies so we’d stun them and put them in the water, and the turtle would go right after them and scoff them down. We’d always watch. When the turtle went to his reward, we buried him in the small grove of trees just below the last duplex on the street. We used a metal box to put him in. On that spot where the trees were is now apartments for the elderly, a place my father always called wrinkle city.  I’d like to think the turtle’s tin survived and is still buried somewhere under the grass.

I will make a concerted effort to find that pump because I know if I buy another, I’ll find the first. I consider that one of Murphy’s Laws because it happens to me all the time.

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