Posted tagged ‘Squirrel’

“The past is never dead, it is not even past.”

November 18, 2018

The morning is chilly, not cold, just chilly. The sun is out, but the sky does have a few clouds. I watched a spawn of Satan try to eat seeds from the feeders. It went from the long feeders to the suet feeders. My favorite was watching him on the roof of a suet feeder. He had trouble balancing and the feeder swayed from to side then he jumped off. He finally found one, but he had to eat upside down though he didn’t seem hindered. The feeder is empty. I’ll put in new seeds, but I’ll sprinkle them with cayenne.

Yesterday I was walking into my den when I realized I was in my favorite place at the perfect moment in time. The light was on, and it spread warmth throughout the room. The dog was stretched on the couch, and I could hear him deep breathing. I felt contented, and I smiled at my good fortune.

Life is really a quilt of moments sewn together without any thought to design, color or shape. The whiff of a familiar smell or the shape of a hand or the color of a shirt brings back a moment and connects us with an experience, never forgotten but seldom recalled. We hear a few notes from a long ago song, and, with a whoosh, the rest of the experience comes roaring into our memories and floods us with all the people and places forever connected to that song, memories we had shelved. The smell of a pie transports me to a small kitchen at 16 Washington Ave and the baking mitt on my mother’s hand. All of a sudden I’m remembering Thanksgiving and Christmas and cinnamon and sugar cookies, all triggered by the memory of my mother wearing that mitt and pulling a shelf from the oven.

One afternoon, walking home from school, I got so soaking wet even my shoes bubbled. When I got in the door, I shed the wet wear, went upstairs, got cozy and jumped into bed, book in hand. I nestled under the covers, turned on the bed lamp and began to read. As I was lying there, I felt warm and protected. Yesterday, it was the memory of that so long ago moment which gave me cause to smile. 

“Live in rooms full of light.”

November 18, 2011

Today is chilly. The sun and blue sky are back, but they don’t mean much when it’s cold: pretty, maybe, but useless. My backyard is winter dreary. The trees are almost all bare branches. I can see every neighbor’s house again. The gray squirrels are back from vacation. I suspect they’ll be around the feeders more often as the paper noted a scarcity of acorns this year.

I have been far busier than I want. I like my sloth days, and they have been few of late. Today the car is going in for servicing which means I’ll sit and read and wait. I wouldn’t mind if the dealership was near stores where I could while away my time, but there is nothing there but a whole line of dealerships. I guess I’ll bring my iPad and try not to look disgustingly bored. Now if I can only keep my foot from tapping.

My backyard has three spots where lights go on every night. The one on the left is the bottle tree where small lights are in the bottles and around the sort of trunk of the tree, another is where tulip lights are stuck into the ground and the third is a metal post tilting a bit to the right with colored lights wound around it. The lights go on at 5 and off at midnight. I like looking out the window at them. They keep the dark night at bay for a little while anyway. If I could, I’d wind lights around all the trunks of my trees so my yard looked like a fairy land. I have a feeling, though, my neighbors wouldn’t be as charmed. They think me crazy for leaving my window lights on all the time. One even told me that.

It is no accident that December was chosen for Christmas. At the darkest time of the year, the world is filled with light and a sense of joy. Even now, in a sort of practice for the season to come, my living room has glass lights strung across my mantle. The glass lights covers are turkeys, Indians, Pilgrims and cornucopias. A lit gourd and a set of lighted twigs are in the coal hod by the fireplace. I light them every night.

Grey Squirrel: Peter and Ellen Allard

May 15, 2011

This one, like the next one, probably also needs an apology but for very different reasons.

%d bloggers like this: