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. 

 

 

 

 

 

---