Lemons

 

I am not a purse girl.

I’m not a shoe girl either, or for that matter even a clothes girl. That’s not to say I walk around unclothed all the time – that would be weird, unless I was part of a nudist colony. Then it would be perfectly normal. But I’m not. I’m just not that into fashion. It requires too much thought and decision making.

I like lemons.

I like the way they look, the way they smell, and the way they taste. Lemons are a very attractive looking fruit. I can’t help but smile when I see one – the shape, the color, the vibrance, and they are easy to spot at the grocery store, which makes shopping for them very efficient. 

I like efficiency.  

Last year, I was gifted a purse from one of my students. It is in the shape of a lemon – well, a lemon wedge, so you can actually see the inside sections of the lemon, as well as the outer peel. It is very whimsical, and I like whimsical. But I thought to myself, I will never use this. 

Because I’m not a purse girl.

But one summer day, I decided that purse was the perfect size to hold the only three things I needed to carry: my phone, my keys, my lip moisturizer. So, I brought it along with me. And everywhere I went, people would comment on it. Everyone LOVED the lemon purse. Summer came and went, and I stored the lemon purse in the basket with all the other barely used purses that I own.

The following summer, I had lunch with one of my friends and co-workers, who had also been gifted the lemon purse. She had hers with her.

“The lemon purse!” I exclaimed. I had forgotten all about it.

When I went home, I dug my lemon purse out of the basket. I hung it on a hook where I hang all the things that I don’t want to forget about, and I started bringing my lemon purse with me. And everywhere I went, people commented on my lemon purse. One lady very passionately stated, “Lemons just make you happy".  She went on to explain that she had decorated her entire laundry room in lemons so that she would feel happier while doing something she was not happy about.

Later that same day, I was using lemons to make a chicken marinade for dinner. First, I zested them, scraping the peel against the long, rectangular shaped grater. Then, I squeezed them - the fresh, yellow juice pouring out of the perfectly ripened fruit, into the little holes, as I pressed the two metal handles of the juicer together. I have practiced this activity many, many times, over the years, but for some reason this time was even more satisfying.

It must be that lemon purse, I thought. Lemons do make you happy.

And the chicken, which had been soaking in that lemon juice (and accompaniments), was delicious, by the way.    

 

 

 

 

 

Morning Dance (of a teacher, during summertime)

The sun wakes the front of the house first, making it too hot to sit on the otherwise perfectly situated Adirondak chairs. While the sun still sits low, the backyard benefits from the shade of the house, so the four-person patio table - purchased at a second-hand shop, spray painted over at least twice (and needs a third), recently spruced up by brightly colored new seat cushions - is ideal.

The problem is the pergola.

The kitchen window that looks out over the back patio has a beautiful pergola sitting above. Birds love to sit atop that pergola – it’s the perfect perch. But it is not uncommon to come out to the table first thing in the morning, balancing my iced-coffee, protein bar, book, phone and laptop, and discover bird droppings where I normally plant my items.

This morning was one of those times.  

No biggy, I thought. I actually welcomed the idea of placing my items in a new spot, creating a slightly different point of view. 

As I sat down, however, I was immediately reminded that it had rained the night before. While the grass out in the sun covered field had been mostly dry when walking the dogs earlier, the shade covered patio cushions were not. 

It might not be too bad in the sun today, I thought. Those storms had brought with them some pleasantly cooler air.  

So, I gathered all my items – my iced coffee, protein bar, book, phone and laptop, and moved to the Adirondack chairs on the front porch. My eyes squinted from the brightness of the sun. It felt warm, but not the uncomfortably hot feeling like the previous days.

I settled in and began to read the next chapter in my book. I was wearing my morning uniform – white tank top with black workout pants, always with the intention of working out later in the morning. While the pants are light and breathable, they are still black, and the sun soon began to soak through them, making my legs feel uncomfortably hot.

I am going to at least finish this chapter, I told myself.

Then, I realized – Ha! I can just take the cushion off the chair. Up until a few days ago, we weren’t even using cushions on those chairs, and they worked perfectly fine without. So, I gathered my iced coffee, protein bar wrapper (I had eaten the bar), book, phone and laptop, and moved back to the patio. I situated my items on the part of the table that had not been visited by birds, lifted the damp cushion off the chair, and situated myself. 

Then I realized I needed to visit the bathroom. 

And so it goes - my morning dance in the summertime.  

 

The Wonderment of Shapes

 

What would you call that shape?

Like a diamond, but softer and more rounded on the sides. Like a raindrop, but more pointed on the bottom. 

And how did someone come up with a raindrop shape? You can’t catch one on your finger or in a jar before it becomes a tiny puddle.

Eyes.

If you look at these shapes from a different direction, they become eyes. Squinty eyes. How an artist might sketch them on a page. The entire patio table is covered with squinty eyes.

My iced-coffee-filled mason jar (less full than empty), sits atop the squinty eyed, wrought iron patio table. It is early still, so even though it is expected to be another uncomfortably hot day, it is still shaded and pleasant enough on the patio.

My mason jar says otherwise.

There are beads of sweat forming on all sides before scaling down to the bottom of the glass, just barely holding on before slipping into the squinty eyed shapes in the table. Like "holding back the tears", the water clings there, and the eyes do not blink, but gravity pulls the water down - ahhh, I see. Of course! - into this teardrop or raindrop-like shape, until it falls onto the surface of the patio.

A tiny drip, magnifying the gray/brown colors of the patio stone beneath.

The Glass of Water

She sits at her computer. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the unfinished project sprawled across the kitchen table. It’s too overwhelming, so she tries to avoid it. She thinks about getting on the elliptical, so she goes to the fridge to get some water. As she holds her glass against the automatic-water-fill button, she wonders why it is taking so long. The water is barely trickling out. Did it always take this long? 

As she waits for it to fill, she notices the dirty dishes in the sink. She sets her mostly-water-filled glass down and starts to rinse them. As she begins to place them in the dishwasher, she realizes the dishwasher is kind of full. Will there be enough room for dinner dishes or should she turn it on now? What should she do about dinner? She does not feel like going out to the store, so . . . leftovers or carryout? 

She remembers the clothes in the washing machine and decides to go put them in the dryer before exercising. 

Shit. Why are the clothes still so wet? 

She turns on the spin cycle. Nothing's happening. 

Shit. The spin cycle appears to be broken. 

She removes the clothes and puts them in the dryer, hoping the heavily weighted, sopping wet clothes won’t break the dryer too. 

She goes back to the computer and realizes she feels kind of hungry. And why does it smell like bacon? When was the last time they'd even had bacon? She sees a text from her sisters and engages back and forth for a few minutes. Then she tries to remember what it was that she was going to do five minutes ago. 

She remembers the elliptical. 

Then she wonders where she put that glass of water.

Shady Path

On our morning walks in the summertime, I like to follow the shady path. 

The sun is low enough behind the trees and houses that it creates a harbor of dark lines and shapes. The dogs like to follow their curiosities; mostly, where their noses pick up a good scent. 

So, their plan and my plan often conflict. 

I do try to compromise between their pleasures and my comfort. This is the longest walk of the day, and during the summer months there is time to linger. 

As the sun rises, the shadows begin to fade into the earth. By midmorning there will be no refuge, so the remaining walks of the day will be unprotected, and much shorter.   

 

 

 

After The Rain

 When I stepped outside this morning, the earth had been freshly showered, patiently waiting for the warm sun to embrace it. And I was greeted by the beautiful sounds of a nearby northern mockingbird. I know this, of course, because I used my bird app. He was perched atop his birdhouse, proudly showing off all of the songs he knows, and I was impressed - he knows a lot. I could also hear the symphony of cicadas coming from the not-too-distant tree line: f, then p, forte, then piano, loud, then soft. I know THIS, of course, because I was raised by a family of musicians. 

With my wellies on, the dogs and I walked out into the wet grass, and everything looked more alive, more vibrant. The dogs seemed to share my thoughts, as they stuck their noses into the air, breathing in all of the heightened scents. As we walked toward the back field, the tall, whimsical-looking flowers that sometimes pop up in the summertime looked even more yellow, making everything look . . . happy. And the beads of raindrops atop the leaves of grass magnified the shades of green, making everything look like harmony.

And there were more than the usual number of butterflies fluttering about today. Big ones and small ones, yellow ones and blue ones, and the occasional ones dressed in orange. I watched as they flew so quickly, so sporadically, so . . . NOT efficiently. How ironic that their movements are so much fun to watch, yet it is their way of evading predators. I watched as the occasional sparrow unsuccessfully attempted to catch one.  

I returned to the back door with the dogs and their wet paws; my wellies covered in wet grass. And we have a routine on damp mornings like these. Normally, Charlie (the older and smarter one) will shake off the walk, but it takes a bit of coaxing for Max. This morning, however, neither dog seemed to care about shaking off their wet paws, and, like the earth relies upon the sun, perfectly happy to leave the work of drying them off to me.

Dusk

 

Mike was in the back field with the dogs (their nightly 8pm-ish walk), and I decided to step outside to see how dusk would greet me. What had been a typically hot and muggy July day, had given way to a beautifully pleasant evening. I could still feel the humidity in the air and on my skin, but there was a coolness that could be felt, riding in on the slightest of breezes - SO slight that you really had to be paying attention to notice, and I was. And in that breeze, I could smell the grass, the clover, and someone's late, summer dinner cooking on a grill. 

As I watched the sun give way to the moon, I was thinking there might be a chance for a dramatic looking sunset. I could see some pale shades of pink, and perhaps some yellow and orange forming, like an artist just beginning to add paint to paper, no vision in mind yet of what it might become. And the sound of a farmer’s tractor could be heard in the adjacent field, using up every moment of sunlight to complete the day’s work. 

Like someone turning down the dimmer switch, the sky grew darker. The artist must have decided to give it a go another day. There was no dramatic sunset, but still lovely, nonetheless. And now the focus was on the moon.

Hanging to the left of me, there was a soft but noticeable aura around it, likely from air pollution, though I prefer to think not. And it looked, well, there is no poetic way of saying this, as if the moon was made out of gelatin, and someone had squeezed it slightly between a forefinger and a thumb, one side still looking rounded, the other slightly concave. 

As the sky grew darker still, I noticed the fireflies had come out to perform their show. I noticed them mostly in the taller grasses behind our house, where the birds and the bees and the butterflies also prefer to be. I watched them play for a while, then noticed the silence. The sound of the farmer’s tractor had gone away - his workday had ended. Evening had turned to night. And riding in on that slightest of breezes was the scent of a different type of grass in the air.

The Squirrel

 A squirrel just came to visit.

If you live in the suburbs, with trees all around, this may not seem like a big deal, but I live in a house that is surrounded by farmland. We have foxes and deer, and an abundance of groundhogs and rabbits. And though we don’t often see them, our terrier sniffs and scratches at the ground, his canine senses convinced there is a field mouse or a mole just beneath the surface. We can hear coyotes serenading at nighttime and have seen evidence of the occasional black bear. Frogs and toads often show up at our doorstep, and we have spotted a turtle here and there, both boxing and snapping. There are birds of all kinds - birds of prey, including vultures, hawks, eagles and owls. The smaller birds list goes on and on, including sparrows, bluebirds, swallows (including purple marlins), mockingbirds, and much, much more. There are also ducks and geese in the local pond. And of course, the neighboring chickens, pigs and cows.

But I rarely see a squirrel.

She must have come from around the corner. I heard a slight noise as she hopped onto the pebble-covered patio edge, just a few feet from where I was sitting. She sat up and looked at me, in that adorable way that squirrels do, and as I was thinking the same thing, she seemed to be saying, “Oh! I wasn’t expecting you!” 

She paused for a moment, deciding what to do, and as I said, “Hello!” she quickly turned and ran from whence she came. Likely, back to her home somewhere off in the distant tree line, or perhaps over to one of the neighbor’s gardens to scrounge up some treasure for lunch.

 

Cleanse

After a long summer drought, we were finally getting some rain. 

Unfortunately, the water we so desperately needed was brought on by hurricane/tropical storm Debby. Not to be confused with Debbie. They retired her years ago, as they do when a hurricane doesn’t behave herself. If I could do the research and find her story on the internet, I would, but after a night of strong winds and rain (as well as a tornado warning), I am left with no internet.

I slept on the couch most of the night. 

Not because of Debby, but because of another strong force of nature that often comes from the East – my husband’s snoring. When he left for work at barely the crack of dawn, I did a drunk-walk over to the bed. I didn’t wake up until 9:30, when the dogs were letting me know they were restless, with their loud shaking and scratching and pacing. Even though I’m on a teacher’s summer, it felt weird sleeping that late, but the sun did not peek through the rustic, woven shades to wake me, and there was no reason for an alarm.

As I stepped outside with the dogs, it looked like the grass had grown for the first time. Most of it had turned to brown, but today it looked as though someone had dipped a wet paintbrush across the landscape, turning most of the brown into green. And there was a pleasant breeze. And when we walked, instead of the sound we had become accustomed to (crunch, crunch, crunch), there was a squish, squash, squish, as my boots stuck to the ground. Which reminded me of the children’s book, Going on a Bear Hunt, and the wonderful words the author used to describe the different sounds. Squelch, squerch, squelch is my favorite, when describing the sounds of walking through the mud.  

And as I squish, squash, squished, I took in everything around me – the grasses, the trees, the houses in our little hamlet. And off in the distance, a small family of deer was grazing, reaping the benefits of the storm. And everything looked so . . . refreshed. 

It was the cleansing the earth had been waiting for.

 

Connections

 

I woke up with a Green Day Song in my head. Couldn’t get it out, so I summoned some help.

“Alexa, play Green Day,” I commanded.

Sure enough, that same Green Day song started coming out of the little black sphere sitting atop my grandmother’s old sideboard hutch. Instead of getting it out of my system, however, each Green Day song Alexa played left me wanting for more, and I found myself dancing around the room with my pjs on, the dogs attempting to follow me with equally nervous and excited tail wags. 

For some reason I wasn’t hungry for breakfast, but I wanted something to go with my cold brew.

There was leftover blueberry pound cake – dessert from a few nights before, so I sliced off a serving and popped it into the toaster, hoping it would hold together and not crumble apart when it popped up. Thankfully, I pulled it out in one piece and smoothed it over with some butter. I ate it slowly and intentionally, and in between bites I (politely) told Alexa to be quiet and grabbed my phone to begin my daily brain warmups. Wordle first, which I figured out in three tries, but Connections wasn’t . . . connecting, so I put my phone down and turned on the television, flipping channels to see if something . . . anything . . . would catch my interest. 

I settled upon an independent film, which I tend to gravitate towards, and like a good book, I was immediately pulled in. The setting was a charming little neighborhood in present day Brooklyn that made me want to visit, and a few of the music selections had me pausing the movie to listen again. One song in particular captured my interest, but it wasn’t mentioned on the soundtrack, so I recorded it from the movie onto my phone. The first few stanzas reminded me of another familiar song.  

“Alexa, play John Denver’s Annie’s Song,” I requested.  

I listened, and I listened again.

As a child, I remember listening to this entire album on the record player in the house on Sherborn Lane, and the view of the street as I looked outside the living room window.  I remember my mom playing this song on her flute, in between music lessons. From her teaching room in the back corner of the lower level, the notes and sounds would travel, filling up every space in our home.

After I finished watching the movie, I went back to Connections. This time everything connected. The brain is funny that way. Then, I went to the room in the front corner of the lower level of my house and sat down at the piano. I placed my hands atop the keyboard and as I played the recorded song from my phone, I allowed my fingers to wander, in search of the proper notes, until the song was completed. 

And I felt satisfied . . . 

except (and even though I still really wasn’t hungry), I felt the need for a taste of something. And I remembered the leftovers in the fridge. I pulled some out and warmed it in the microwave, and as I enjoyed the complex flavors and spices of the Indian food, I thought about the movie, and the music, and the memories, and the beauty of a day with nothing planned. 

Shades of Brown

  

The cows, 

The field in which the cows graze, due to the long, 

summer drought, 

A large, fuzzy caterpillar climbing up a dried-up piece of grass, 

    The patio umbrella, too hot even to sit beneath,

The deer on the opposite side of the field, hopeful and searching for 

a patch of something green, 

The light sweater I grab to cover my bare arms, as soon as I step 

inside the air-conditioned house,

The iced-coffee (with a touch of oat milk), 

inside my mason jar glass . . . 

At The Beach - Three Short Stories

Comes and Goes 

"I love people watching," said Mike, as we sat at the bar on the corner of comes and goes. I say that because this bar (and restaurant) is located just over the bridge where everyone, either by (flip-flopped) foot, beach bike, car, skateboard, electric scooter, fancy golf cart, or very cool Volkswagen bus (with a beautifully painted-on scene of a tree frog hangin out on some tropical flowers) . . . comes or goes. And the windows are tinted, so from the outside it practically looks closed, and we can see the passersby, but they can't see us. "One of my favorite things to do," I agreed, as I sipped on what may have been the perfectly made margarita. If the bartender can make one better than I can, it's pretty damn good. 

The Umbrella

It was only a matter of time.

The day before was a windy one, and we caught the umbrella just as it was being lifted from the sand. We decided it would probably be best to leave it down, rather than try again. 

Today did not seem as windy, and I was immersed in my Hallmark-movie-beach-read (which I did not realized until I read about the author, about a quarter of the way into the story), when Mike said, 

    "There it goes . . . " 

I looked up and noticed our umbrella was no longer in its place. I jumped out of my chair and saw it flipping and tumbling down the beach behind me, as if performing an acrobatic routine (in a circus, perhaps). 

As I began to run after it, an older looking teenager jumped up from his spot on the sand, and as his two friends cheered him on, he ran after it with gusto. As he got closer, it looked like the two were performing a dance, battling over who would take the lead, and then the umbrella got angry. For a moment, I feared it would take the teenager out. He was determined though, and despite his gangly looking arms and legs, grabbed hold of that umbrella like he meant business, refusing to allow it to escape.

His friends and I clapped and cheered, and as he handed the defeated umbrella to me, he announced, 

    "I have been training for this moment my entire life!" 

I appreciated his enthusiasm, and through my laughter, responded, 

    "You're my hero!"

I walked back over to my chair and plopped the umbrella down. 

    "Do you want me to try to put it back up?" asked Mike.

    "Nope!" I said, as I picked up my book and turned the pages to try and find the place where I left off. It's not difficult to do with a Hallmark book. 

Weightless

There was a constant breeze coming off the coast, and the saltwater felt amazing on my skin. I had the pool completely to myself, and I soaked it all in.  At first, I kept my hat and sunglasses on, treading water to keep my head from getting wet, but the water felt so good I could not resist. I swam over to the edge of the pool, removed my hat and sunglasses, and immersed myself entirely. 

Oh, what a feeling!

When you don't do it often, you forget. Renewed, restored . . . refreshed.

I put my sunglasses back on, leaving my hat behind. I tilted my head back, allowing my body to follow, and floated. Weightlessly floating, floating, floating, remembering what it felt like as a child, when I would spend entire summers at the pool. As I stared up at the blue, blue sky, I listened to the sounds of the water rippling up against my ears, and the muffled, distant sounds of things going on around me. I felt completely and entirely in the moment, and invisible at the same time. 

When I decided I was ready, I made my way over toward the ladder. Remembering (from when I stepped in) to skip over the wobbly, top step, I pulled myself out of the pool, picked up my hat, and walked over to my spot - one of the (many) turquoise blue lounge chairs, partially protected by the shade of a palm tree. As I began to adjust myself into the perfect position, I heard the sound of a very loud helicopter. Must be military, I thought. I sat up to look, and it was. Always such an impressive sight. 

As it flew off into the distance, I adjusted myself again, and looked up at the palm tree. Riding along in the breeze, atop the flowering branches, were lots and lots of bees. I could count ten just on one branch, and as I looked up into the higher branches, I could see more, and more, and more. As I watched them, I did not feel concerned. They were way too engaged, visiting and flirting with those tiny, white flowers. And, as I sat and listened to the sound of the palm leaves rustling against each other in the wind, I was happy to share my spot with those bees. Or, happy those bees were willing to share their spot with me. 

 

 

 

 

 

---

 

 

 

Pile of Rocks

As I walked out the back door, I took in the day. I had already walked the dogs, visited with the neighboring cows, and watered the flowers. I sat at the top of the three wooden steps that lead down to the walkway, and set my iced coffee-filled mason jar beside me. The humidity was low and the house faces northeast, so the sun was currently warming the front porch.

It was a beautiful morning to sit outside.

I could have chosen to sit at the patio table, but there is something about the rustic feeling of sitting on a piece of wood. Besides, there is a bird’s nest resting on the pergola just above the patio, and the expectant parents aren’t too happy when I hang out there.

As I sat, I took notice of the fact that my mind was completely quiet. What a gift! To be able to sit and look around, allowing my senses to enjoy the moment without the interference of my thoughts. It was then that I realized the cows were directly in front of me. They had been in the far field when I was out earlier, but now they were hanging out in the tall grasses behind the house, just beyond the barely visible wire fence. They do follow me sometimes — me and the dogs. They are especially curious about Charlie, and will touch nose-to-nose, if Charlie allows.

Mixed in with the tall grasses in that field are whimsical weeds and wildflowers — purple, white, and gold. Together, they were doing a dance in the wind, swaying side to side, side to side. Birds, butterflies, and bees joined in, flying in and out, in and out. The recently mowed grass between the house and the field was looking more brown than green, due to the drier than normal summer. Down the fence line, however, just before the gravel road, my favorite tree was standing lush and green. The birds love that tree. Its large leaves and perfectly sized branches provide shelter from the heat and from the rain. On hot days when I walk the dogs, I usually pause in front of it, looking and listening, and appreciating the only shady spot there is.

As I sat, every so often a large shadow would appear across the earth, drawing my attention toward the sky. Up above, a large vulture or hawk could be spotted gliding on a breeze, surveying the landscape below. Closer in, at the edge of the garden, I noticed the pile of rocks — six, of which I had collected from various spots in the yard. Slightly different sizes, shapes and colors, for whatever reason they were chosen to hang out together. Every day, I walk past that pile on my way to somewhere else. Today, however, I wasn’t going anywhere. And for some reason, the composition of those rocks, the way they were resting upon and sitting next to one other, the rough edges along with the smooth, the flat colors and the translucent — it all just made me happy.

My gaze looked up again, and as I breathed in the pleasant breeze, and listened to the sounds of the birds, I noticed I could no longer see the cows. I stood up and saw they had gone back to the pasture further away. They must have gotten bored with me and moved on to something else. And, behind me were two hopeful and impatient dogs, staring back at me through the nose and tongue rubbed glass windowpanes in the door.

Presence

Peace

Nature

Observation

Appreciation

The Simple Act of Dancing

Our spot on the water was incredible, with the breeze blowing steadily across the bay. As I breathed it in, I thought, Oh, how I have NEEDED this! I made it through the school year (plus two weeks of summer camp, one left to go), and I could finally see the light at the end of the tunnel. Or in this case, the Maryland Bay Bridge. 

As one band was packing up, the next beginning to set up, we ordered some drinks. From the online reviews, their fish tacos were excellent, so we ordered those, too. I didn't particularly care for the ordering process - scan the QR code and order from your phone. A reminder that Covid times are still with us, and I'd done it enough times that I was accustomed to it, but I still preferred face-to-face interactions with the servers. 

Oh well, I thought, as I took in my surroundings. Nothing but a thing. 

As I looked around at the people, most seemed to be around our age or older. Still casual, but more nicely dressed than at the tiki bar where we normally hung out. As the band began to warm up, Mike went to the bar to pick-up our order. I ended up having a conversation with another couple and introduced them to Mike when he returned with our drinks and tacos. They were locals, and as the night went on, I realized quite a few of the people at this bar were. The tacos, by the way, were NOT excellent. They were just okay. But the drinks were good.

At some point, the band began to play, and while I'm sure the ambience played a role, I realized they sounded really, really good. The all-male band played mostly 80s music, with some 90s, and a few earlier generation songs mixed in, as well. As I sat and listened, my body intuitively moved to the rhythm of the music. I was surprised there was no one on the dance floor. At the tiki bar, there were always people on the dance floor, whether the music was good or not, and I don't remember which song it was that made me get up off my bar stool, but suddenly (in the words of Billy Idol) I was out there "dancing with myself". I was hoping that others would be inspired to join me, but for the first few minutes, it was just me.

At first I didn't care. Whether it was the alcohol or the atmosphere (that constant breeze felt a-MA-zing), I felt so free and uninhibited, like I hadn't felt in some time. I saw other people dancing in their seats, something holding them back from placing their feet on the ground and walking them toward the floor, but I began to encourage them, waving my hands and even reaching out to help them along.  Part of me was like, who IS this person? But then I recognized her. I just hadn't seen her in a while. Soon enough, I encouraged one person to come out and dance, and then another, and another. It was mostly women. And, before I knew it, we had a sisterhood of arms, hands, and hips moving freely; expressions of joy and happiness on our faces - the only forms of communication necessary. 

Until women started talking to me. Not just talking, but they began sharing their stories. 

One woman said she always wants to dance, but never feels the courage to get out there and do it. Another woman was getting over a divorce, and it was really difficult for her to force herself to come out that night. One lady appeared to be not much older than I, and in good physical condition, until I saw her prop her cane up against her chair, leaving it behind. "I can come out and have one good dance," she said. Wow! Another woman thought I was one of the band's groupies, as if that explained my motive. "Ha, ha!" I laughed. "I've never heard this band before." And my favorite story of the night was a woman my age, who introduced me to her 75 year-old mom, who was this tiny little woman with a sparkle in her eyes, and the dance moves of someone half her age. She looked me in the eyes, grabbed both of my hands, and squeezed them tight. Her daughter said, "Isn't she amazing? If you can believe it, her boyfriend of seven years just broke up with her. This is exactly what she needed". Again, wow. And, soon after that, I bumped shoulders with an LGBTQIA couple. We briefly danced together, and for some reason I felt inspired to introduce myself. "Oh, I know who you are," one of them said. And raising their arms up in the air, they said, "You did all this." 

What??? WOW!

This feeling was incredible, but I was a little taken back. What exactly did I do? 

And, as I'm reading all of this now, it almost seems made up - a fictional story with characters that almost sound too predictable and unbelievable at the same time. 

As I sat down with Mike to take a breather, I observed the dancing from afar, and tried to take-in the last thirty (or so) minutes. All of those wonderful people out there - how much I had needed to let loose, and how amazing it felt to be part of this experience. And I realized it was simple, really, as the best things often are. All of us out there, we needed to dance, but something was holding us back - our fears, our inhibitions, our anxieties, our . . . whatevers. And, any one of us could have been the first one out there. Or, maybe not. Maybe that night it NEEDED to be me. But again, whatever, right? Whomever. It just takes one person. And, while it was just a night of dancing, it is a month later, and just like that rehabilitating breeze that consumed me, I am still remembering, thinking about, and smiling about those people. I could relate to a lot of their stories, and boy could I have shared some stories with them, but it was nice to just listen. But mostly, to just DANCE.   

Summer Storm

I had been having a particularly good hair day. I had recently gotten my hair cut much shorter. I was tired of the frizz and the effort it took to make it look decent, only to get fed up with it and put it up in a clip almost every single day. Ladies (especially in your 50s), I'm sure you understand the battle. 

I took my good hair and my dogs out in the back field for a walk. 

Off in the distance, the faint sound of thunder drew my attention to the dark storm clouds forming in the west. We normally have an impressive number of thunderstorms during the summer months, but none so far this year. This one looked and sounded pretty far away, and I thought to myself, just like the others, this one will lose steam or change direction. This one will disappoint. 

What seemed like a long while later, long after the dogs and I had come inside, the wind began to pick up, and those dark clouds that had been forming off in the distance, were now encroaching. A few raindrops began to fall, and then I noticed that my stack of plastic flower containers (that had been left sitting in the alcove outside the back door) one-by-one began to fly past the kitchen window. With the rain beginning to fall, along with the strong winds, I debated whether or not to chase them down, or wait until the storm was over. 

But, who knows how far those things will fly. 

Then, I saw one of the patio chair pillows take flight. So, I quickly pulled on my boots and began to chase them all down. I grabbed the pillow first, then went after the containers, which were mostly scattered between my house and the neighbor's, but the wind was playing a game of takeaway, and just as I would go to grab one, the wind would snatch it up and blow it in a different direction. 

This has to be comical to watch.

After I finally grabbed them all (so I thought), I turned the corner to go back inside the house. The direction in which our house sits, in addition to the fact that we are surrounded by open fields and farmland (no interference from the trees), it's like living in the middle of a motor speedway for wind. So, when I turned that corner, the wind smacked me so hard it pushed me backwards, sending a few of those containers sailing, once again. As the rain began to come down harder, I decided to let those go, and quickly made my way towards the back door, grabbing the poor, single potted, wind-pounded petunias, along the way. 

Wind-whipped and wet, I kicked my boots off in the mudway, and happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I call it a mudway, by the way, because it's not really big enough to call a room, but it is the shoe holding area (muddy, and otherwise), as well as the passageway to the bathroom, outside, or the kitchen, depending on which way you go. Anyway, what I saw in the mirror resembled some type of hairy canine who had just been hanging her head outside the window of a stock car, racing down the straightaway at top speed. 

So much for the good hair day. 

The storm stuck around for a while. It was slow moving, which would explain why it took so long to arrive, and why it hung around for so long. It was like the party guest who is last to arrive, and late to leave (not that we've been entertaining any parties, lately). And, the wind did not seem to let up. Our grill, which is bolted to the ground with rebar stakes, looked like it could take flight at any moment. It was bolted to the ground, by the way, because a previous storm (several years ago), sent our last grill tumbling across the yard, and was left resembling a disassembled tin man. 

After what seemed like about twenty minutes (or so), the storm finally subsided, and the tin man stayed intact. What was left behind was a beautiful evening, as well as a few more stray planters that were discovered and collected the following day. The storm left behind a little surprise, as well - one tiny piece of paper that could fit in the palm of my hand, swept up from somewhere, lying in the grass, in the same field where I walk the dogs, with some words written on it:

Signals

When the light is green you go,

When the light is red you stop,

But what do you do

When the light turns blue

With orange and lavender spots?

Shel Silverstein

As for my hair, I will have other good days. Simply can't beat a good summer storm. Nor, a Shel Silverstein poem. 

TODAY (A Corn Salad)

    Three (or four, or five . . . I lost count) 100-degree days in a row. Even the dogs would begin the u-turn back toward the air-conditioned house, just a few minutes into their normally 10 minute-plus long walks. 

But, today, TODAY . . . 

    we had a nice, morning rain. It began as a heavy downpour - a parental pounding on the roof, prematurely waking me before the alarm, before settling down into a steady rhythm. It rained for several hours, turning all of the dips and ruts in the country, gravel and dirt road into tiny rivers and ponds. This made driving Logan to school a bit more of an adventure, maneuvering the car this way and that to avoid all of the camouflaged potholes. During the ride back home, I pressed the buttons on the radio, until I found the right one. Something about the rain always makes me go back to my roots, and the desire to listen to classical music. 

On my way home is the local vegetable stand. Every Thursday, I stop by to pick-up my prepaid allotment of farm fresh vegetables and fruits. This has become my favorite kind of shopping. By the time I arrive, the symphony of rain has come to an end, giving way to whimsical, white clouds and an iridescent blue sky. 

The stand is more of a market - roof covered walls, with openings on three sides. And, as I am greeted by the reds and yellows and greens of tomatoes, squash, and peppers; watermelon, cucumbers, and basil, there is an incredible cross-breeze blowing through - a breeze so pleasant that it makes you stop what you are doing, breathe it in, and envelope it, as if it's the best feeling you've experienced in a long, long time. 

After filling my bag with all of the wonderful colors and scents, shapes and textures, I continue down the road toward home. Just before turning into the little hamlet where I live, I pause for a mother deer and her two fawns. They nervously stare for a long moment, before safely tucking themselves back into the tree-line, from where they came.  

Minutes later, the dogs greet me at home with their usual enthusiasm - as if I have been gone for days, not just hours. "Hola, mis perritos! Como estas?" I say to them. I have been brushing up on my Spanish skills, this summer, and trying to put them to practice. The dogs are a forgiving audience. 

I lay my bag full of goodies on the table and, like a child at Halloween, begin to plan and prioritize my loot. It will all get eaten, but the corn, red peppers, onions, and cilantro will be just perfect for a salad to go with the local sausages, thawing out in the fridge. I just love it when a meal comes together, as if the meal chooses me, not the other way around. 

After I finish sorting and organizing, I take the dogs for a walk. With the temperature much more comfortable and pleasant, I would have thought the dogs would be more energetic, but Max, especially, stood, still as a statue, and lifted his nose into the air. It was as if he was taking in the same experience as I did, when I was standing inside the market. "Are you catching a good scent, Max?" I asked (in English - I haven't learned that in Spanish, yet). He seemed to be smiling, and answered with a wag of his tail. I kept the dogs outside a little longer than usual, before going inside to begin cooking the corn.  

4th Try is a Charm - Coronavirus Times

Current day circumstances require that I plan for a trip to the local market.

There is no spontaneous "running up to the store" for milk.

And, these days, I never bring my purse with me -

just my credit card and driver's license, usually in my back pocket.

First try, they were closed.

It was a Friday, and I had forgotten that the family-owned,

Jewish market closes at 3:00, in observance of Shabbat.

Home, I went.

I tried again on Sunday.

I parked the car, and began to gather my stuff - empty milk bottles (to return),

mask, credit card . . . SHIT!

I FORGOT MY CREDIT CARD.

Home, I went, again.

Don't have it in me. Not today, I said to myself.

Try number three happened Monday.

I walked out of the house with my mask (empty milk bottles, still in the car),

made it halfway to the car before I realized I had left my credit card behind, AGAIN!

Fortunately, I remembered early, this time.

I retrieved my credit card, and drove to the market.

I parked the car, and began to gather my stuff - empty milk bottles (to return), credit card, mask . . . mask . . . mask . . . WHERE is my MASK??!!

SHIT! FUCK. REALLY??!!

After frantically searching around the car, between and underneath the seats, 

   I realized it REALLY wasn't there. And, I had a moment when I thought,

it won't kill me (or anyone else) to not wear my mask this one time.

Shame on me for thinking that.

Home, I went. Again.

I found my mask on the walkway, between the garage and the house,

rolled my eyes and scooped it up.

I am NOT dragging this out another day!

I went back to the market, again.

I parked the car, and began to gather my stuff - empty milk bottles (to return), mask,

credit card . . .

YES!!!

I can hear the voices of my "twenty-something" kids, but these days it is true -

I just don't get out enough.

4th try was a charm, though.

And, at least the drive to and from the market is a pleasurable one.

With Appreciation and Sympathy

Though the sound of the wind from inside the house made me hesitate,
   the morning was calling to us (me, and the dogs).
Winter's playground was looking for a friend.
The sun shined brightly above the snow;
   sparkles of light upon the star of the show.

The beautiful, white landscape, with its lines and its curves, edgeless and never-ending.

The wind, more energizing than biting,
   blowing ripples across the water in the nearby pond.
The day, with all of its brightness and beauty, making me feel alive
   in the way that one should feel alive - full of energy and awareness,
appreciation and presence. 

And, in another part of the world, the star is burning.
Not in the way that sparkles and shines in the warmth of the sunlight on a winter's day,
   but in the heat of a life-threatening battle - a flame-scorching, take-no-prisoners, relentless and destructive, heart-wrenching fire.

Oh, how I wish I could send our blanket of snow your way, to sooth and ease your burns. 

The Gift of Silence

It was a beautiful, crisp, Autumn day, though it felt more like winter.
It was the first cold spell of the season, so I was bundled up more than usual.

The dogs and I were walking our normal, morning path.

We like to walk toward the back corner of the property, where the wire fence begins,
and a single tree sits. I am not sure what kind of tree, but it is beautifully shaped,
and has large, almost whimsical looking leaves that, come October, turn a golden shade of yellow. Now, midway into November, the leaves have long since fallen from the tree, exposing its bare branches.

On the other side of the fence is a cow pasture that spreads out, over rolling hills,
toward the horizon. On this day, as we were walking,
I noticed some movement in the field, far ahead. And, as my eyes focused in,
I saw that it was a deer, full-grown, running and leaping through the tall grasses,
as if her life depended on it. We were almost at the fence line,
and her path was a straight line toward us.

The dogs had not, yet, noticed, so I stopped, and stood as still as I could.

I was sure she would see us and change her direction, but she did not.
Seconds later, she, effortlessly, leaped over the cow fence, and flew past us so quickly,
and so silently, that even the dogs were caught off guard.

As the dogs let out their delayed responses of barks and growls, I stood there in awe.
I live in a place where I see deer almost daily,
but I had never witnessed one so close, moving so swiftly.

  And, the silence of it - wow.

Had my attention been drawn elsewhere, I would not have even noticed she was there.

I thought to myself, whatever happens with the rest of my day, I have this.

Nature is awesome.

Falling Leaves

Look up!

at the 
    falling leaves,
beautiful colors on a breeze.

Drifting and sailing, 
   dancing and floating,

gracefully landing . . . with ease.