Lost Lane

I love a good breeze.
Especially, an ocean one.
Though I am far from the ocean,
   the breeze from my rural, front porch, this morning, felt AMAZING.
And, the cooler temperatures felt invigorating.
The signs of Autumn are finally here!

The gift of this beautiful day inspired me to take Charlie for a walk.
He wasn't sure about his new leash and collar
   (he jumped when he heard the abrupt "click" of the buckle),
but just as I am sure he will warm up to his new home, he will adjust to his new wardrobe.

We took a left turn, out of the gravel circle, which leads to a dead end.
I had driven it before, but wanted to experience it by foot.
The sky was a gorgeous, crystal, baby blue,
like the color that once graced the walls of my childhood bedroom.

Charlie seemed a little nervous on our walk, holding his tail down.

It's okay, Charlie, this is new to both of us.   

Actually, though, as we walked past the line of tall trees,
   filled with birds that I could only hear, not see, 

and past the lush, green farmland, 

rolling with a healthy crop of (what looked like) soybeans, 

this all felt familiar to me. It reminded me of childhood, and camping,
   and horseback riding; of summer camp, and my imagination. 

As we approached the end of the street, we came upon a clearing,   

   where the bright green distinctly meets the crystal blue. 

And, there is a street sign that reads: Lost Lane. 

I smirked, as I said aloud, "Do you feel lost, Charlie?" 

Charlie looked at me, but did not respond.
Yea, sometimes that's a tough one to answer.  

We turned around to follow the lane back.
As we entered the gravel drive,
I released Charlie to let him run toward the house.
And, in that moment, watching Charlie run free, I felt energized, inspired,
and in awe of the beauty around me.

Lost, I thought. I definitely do not feel lost.

Old and New

Here I sit . . .

amongst the familiar tapestry from one house ago, sipping coffee from a familiar mug; 

   the faint sounds of crickets, outside my window.  

WINDOWS, actually, for there are lots of them. 

The natural light and landscape fills every room.

No need for pictures, framed upon the walls. 

Other than the chirping of the insects, and the occasional whir of the air conditioner, 

   the sounds are silence. Were it not for the memory, the exhaustion, and the tired muscles, worn down from all of the packing, unpacking, and heavy lifting of stuffed, cardboard boxes, 

my mind could be tricked into thinking this is some remote vacation home, 

tucked away, far from the hustle and bustle, and stress.

I am surprised how comfortable the silence feels.

I saw our first deer, the other night. Dusk, really. 

A mother and two young ones, but not so young as to show their spots. 

   Slowly creeping along the back field, their ears perked up with curiosity, 

as they glanced over at the newly lit house that was now filled with life. 

I wonder if they will now change their evening path, or if they will learn to trust their new neighbors.

Each morning, since we arrived, the sunrise has been absolutely glorious.  

With no veils upon the windows, 

   I am awakened by beautiful and vibrant shades of orange and red. 

And, from my bed, if I lean forward just a little bit, I can see the fog, 

hovering just above the earth, making everything look magical; mystical. 

Charlie seems confused.  

I think he, too, believes we are on vacation. 

But, all of the old smells are here, combined with lots of new ones.  

And, there is no fence to keep him confined. 

Confined or comforted, I am not sure, 

   as he seems to be unsure about what to do with all of this open, limitless space. 

I am sure he will adjust.

Writing. I am writing! 

I even tinkered around on the piano, this morning. 

Just a few scales and chords. 

I was thinking about getting rid of the piano, as it is seldom used, 

   and seems to crowd the new space. 

But, maybe, in this new, inspired setting, it will play music, again.

Or, will that wear off, after the technology arrives. 

Right now, there is no tv or internet to be distracted by.  

That will change soon, however. 

The technician is on his way. 

I can see his van leaving trails of dust ,behind, as he drives up the gravel road.

This place really is beautiful.

Avoiding Temptation

We had dinner at one of our regular hangouts. Unfortunately, they serve REALLY good bread, which (during our time of restraint, in an effort to lose weight) we try REALLY hard to avoid. We do this by saying "no" when the server asks if we would like some.

On this particular evening, we were not asked, and a basket of bread appeared before us. One quick, shared glance, and my fiance' pushed it away.

"We'll pretend it's not there," we said, in hushed voices. 

About five minutes later, another basket appeared, with barely a sight of the culprit.

Is this a joke?

My fiance' pushed it aside, where it hung out with the others. Our meals finally came, and we had successfully avoided both baskets of bread.

Phew!

After our plates were cleared, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of something. My fiance' noticed it, too. It was being carried upon a tray, as if under a spotlight,
   and the music seemed to change, as it glided across the room. We wondered which lucky soul it would land upon, when . . .

   "It's on the house," said our server, as he placed it in front of us, slow motion style.

Two white and beautiful, perfectly round scoops of vanilla ice-cream,
   melting into one warm,
perfectly molded,
   soft and gooey serving of . . .

BREAD PUDDING. 

I wanted to yell, "TAKE IT BACK! YOU'VE MADE A MISTAKE! TAKE IT BACK!" But, the tempation was more than we could bear. Instead, we picked up our spoons, and with a shared look of surrender and approval . . .

"We're going in."

Overactive (adj) - excessively active.

The bedroom windows were open, bringing life to the outdoors.
I had been lying awake for hours, it seemed, when I heard a strange noise.
The noise was subtle - a shuffling sound that was moving at a repetitive rate,
     getting closer, and closer, until . . .

It's a jogger, I said to myself.

I reached across the nightstand for my glasses, and sat up,
   bringing focus to the tiny, blue numbers on the cable television box -  5:00

Who on earth jogs at 5 a.m. ???

Then, I thought,

I have been lying here, awake, for hours - 
     jogging would probably be a much better use of my time. 
IF I had the motivation. Which, I don't. 
Think I'll just continue lying here, with hopes that I might fall back to sleep

About ten minutes later, I heard another noise.
Similar to the noise of the jogger, but different.
As the noise got closer, I realized it was someone walking.

More my pace, I thought, but STILL way too early.

Sleep, sleep - come on, sleep!

More minutes passed, and I heard, yet, another noise.
As it got closer,
   it sounded like several walkers, who were, also. . . TALKING.

THAT'S IT, I thought. It is DEFINITELY WAY too early for TALKING!!!

I rose from my bed, pushed open the screen, and popped my head out the window.

"KNOCK THAT SHIT OUT!" I said. "PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO SLEEP!"

Of course, that last part happened in my mind, where most of MY early morning activity happens.

Curb Space

Don’t let the solid, rectangular piece of steel fool you. The entrance to my house is a revolving door. In the morning, I count the cars to know who is home. Even without visitors, it would appear to the average passerby that we were throwing a small shindig; a gathering, at the very least. Hopefully, my neighbors don’t mind that we take up more than the normal amount of curb space, sometimes spilling over to the other side.

Recently, we visited an Open House. Beautiful house for sale in the small town of Purcellville, but there was no driveway (just a modest-sized garage), and no curb parking. “We would have to run a shuttle service,” my partner and I remarked. We laughed at the vision of purchasing a golf cart to transfer kids and guests to and from some remote, gravel lot.

My partner and I included, we make up a family of seven. All but the seven- year-old drives their own car, and even he is dreaming of the day when he can hold his own set of keys. Our house, right now, is practically ideal: 5 bedrooms, 3 1/2 baths, a carport with a driveway AND curb parking, although, the driveway is on a steep slope.

Recently, a neighbor knocked at the door. “Um, your car is rolling down the driveway…” It was my partner’s jeep. Since then, we only park one in the carport; all other vehicles on the curb.

One morning, the inventory of cars did not add up. After questioning each of the physical bodies in the house (including the seven-year-old), we concluded that there was one unidentifiable car. There is a path that runs along the side of our house that connects to the adjoining neighborhood. Periodically, someone will park in front of our house and use the path as a cut through. This one car, however, began parking there every day, ALL day; always arriving and leaving, unnoticed.

“We need to do something about that car,” commented my seventeen year old, as he stared at the car with disdain. He is the youngest of the drivers in the house. “He is messing up our parking.”

He was right. He WAS messing up our parking.

On a normal day, there is one car parked in the carport, three on one side of the driveway (in front of the house), and one on the other. When the mystery car parks, only two can fit in front of the house, causing overflow to the other side of the street.

But, he wasn’t doing anything wrong.

According to the county parking rules, unless he left his car sitting for ten or more days, we could not have it towed. This person returned to his car every day, and though it was strange that he was parking there(visiting Mrs. Robinson, perhaps?), it was not illegal, so there was not much we could do.

“Unless we put a note on his car,” I suggested.

Something like . . .

To Whom it May Concern:

We respectfully request that you park at your place of “business”.Parking here disrupts the amount of curb space needed for the residents who live here. If you continue to park here, we are not responsible for the disappearance of your car.

Cordially,

NCS (Neighbors for Curb Space)

Of course, we would omit that last line. Revolving door is okay; doors with bars, not so much.

"Violets are Blue, Rosacea is Red"

One of the lovely features of getting older, 
apparently combined with my Scottish and Irish heritage 
(thank you, Great, Great, Great, Great . . . somebody), 
is that my skin has been breaking out like a teenager's. 

There is a LOVELY name for it: ROSACEA. 

Why such a lovely sounding word, 
associated with such an annoying condition??? 

Rosacea sounds likes Roses, as in . . .

"Roses are Red, Violets are Blue..."

or, 

"Everything will come out smelling like roses"

or, 

"Take time to smell the roses."

So, what IS Ros(acea)?

"A condition that causes redness and often small, 

     red, pus-filled bumps on the face." 

"Violets are blue, Rosacea is red" 

LOVELY.

And, there is no cure.

One SHOULD, however, stay away from the following (deep breath): 

red wine (and most alcohol), 
chocolate, 
avocados, bananas, and most tropical fruits, 
the sun, 
the wind, 
humidity, 
extreme heat, 
extreme cold, 
caffeine, 
exercise, 
spicy food . . . 

STRESS! 


WHAT'S LEFT? 

I'M STRESSED OUT THINKING ABOUT IT!


Sigh . . .


I suppose I could look at the bright side.

There is a French proverb,  "No rose without a thorn." 

There is a Chinese proverb,  

"A thorn defends the rose, harming only those who would steal the blossom." 

I suppose I could think of myself as a beautiful rose;  
     my rosacea, defending me. 

HA!!!

Certainly gives new meaning to the old joke, 

"Does your face hurt? Cuz it's KILLING ME!"

Buying Time

It's early morning, and the winter brown earth has been awakened by white. 

As I sit, looking through the window of my suburban home, all is still. 

The only movement, that of the softly falling snow. 

Quiet, peaceful; serene. 

I imagine this scene through the window of a small, rustic cabin - 

     no threat of a disturbance from cars, busses; snow plows.  

The only noise, the occasional snap of a broken tree limb.

Or, the crackle of flames, from a warming fire.  

The refrigerator hums, and I quickly come to. 

As I sit, looking through the window of my suburban home, all is still.

I could stare out at the snow for hours, or for however long time will allow.