Listen, do you want to know a secret..

Perhaps it’s not just me? Perhaps you, too, have found that some songs can evoke a memory so solidly, you almost remember what you were wearing when you heard them.

Nowadays, there seem no songs that I feel linked to any particular misery of my life, but there are many that, with the first few bars, lighten my heart.  They usually have an American Bandstand-like rating from me (“It’s got a good beat and it’s easy to dance to!”), or it’s something one HAS to sing along to..

Beatles (the original mop-top genre)
Brown-eyed Girl
Lido Shuffle
25 or 6 to 4
Sultans of Swing
That’s the Way I Like It
Baby, I Love Your Way
That’s the Way of the World
You May Be Right, I May Be Crazy
…and zillions more
Hence, I should build up a playlist and upload it to something I can listen to through work ear-buds. Will I do so? Did you? It’s an awful admission, but the greatest quiet I can cobble together permeates my day and evening instead. All the rest of daily life has become too noisy, perhaps.

Spoons are not slipped quietly into dishwater, but tossed from a distance to clatter in the aluminum sink next to it; bottles are not delivered to a recycling bin, they are tossed from a distance (to sometimes shatter against others there). Yelling sneezes are not forewarned, forced belches interrupt a sentence, and then there are the kid-noises… and traffic by land, air and rail.  I’ve been known to consistently bark a “Shut up!” at bluejays after a certain amount of time has passed. They don’t — one has to throw a pillow at them.

I love to be surprised by a radio treat while driving or riding.  Or, I dole out decent music to myself. Something to treasure in those 2.5 to 3 minutes. Smiling. Sometimes remembering, sometimes dreaming, sometimes dancing.


Oh, go ahead.. no one’s watching.. I DARE you!





What I learned in (another’s) Kindergarten..

Every afternoon when the littlest schoolchildren line up with their teachers before the waiting ring of parents and grandparents, many more than I are waiting for it.. waiting for Kindergarten Lily who, after she dashes over to her mom/dad, dashes back and — as if made of the most delicate filigree gold — embraces her friend (my granddaughter) in a slow, real hug. Every. Day. It surprised none of us to find out that when granddaughter was down for a few days with side-pain, Lily sat out recess with her — sometimes two. Every. Day.

The look of expectant joy on granddaughter’s face as she waits for Lily to run back to the line.. o, Lord. You have prepared such a world somewhere, right? We all need a Lily.

We are only miles from heartache in any direction. Any. The losses built up until we said, “Enough. Done. Let it be done and over, or let me be done and over.” It has felt that way, hasn’t it?

But… every day at 3, I see this, and I hear it, and I prefer to try one more tomorrow in a belief that too often seems a dream. Don’t cry. Close your eyes, and remember. Remember it. It was and is real.




Deep in the woods, a bright clearing

In the old days (a few years ago), he would’ve moved heaven and earth (cabinets, table, rugs) to fix the downstairs bathroom’s door that pops open if it’s not closed to click. All it would require, as always is the case with the pop-opens, is a longer screw — and now, two, on the hinge. However, it’s down near the floor, and indeed, there are cabinets to move. Little ones. Plastic. They hold two school-goers’ ready-to-grab clothes. Easily moved.

They haven’t moved. Even she can finesse the art of replacing hinge screws. If only those two little plastic cabinets weren’t directly in the way. Or if only it was the higher hinge, but in that event, it wouldn’t pop open.

While he was in rehab with the broken bones, a sizable decorative pillar fell off the house out front. In the old days… Well. Somebody (him? daughter?) remade the pillar’s base, but the pillar, awaiting gluing, clamping, and painting, rests on sawhorses out in what was once the prettiest yard. No one will be surprised if it sits the winter and grows a chipmunk nest/larder.  Again, a simple fix, but…  a simple fix for *someday* when there’s no paid work to be doing.

She’d briefly stored the boxy, shelved but lightweight stand lamp in the dining room as she’d run out of time before work to haul it down to the basement or up to teen grandson’s room. That was all it took for someone to bump into it enough to knock to the floor the 7th grade daughter’s handmade clock that’s been on that same wall, lo, these 20+ years. The clock is fine, but its top and middle hosted some amazing knick-knacks. A wooden Celtic cross from son. A photo of the twin towers he took, once, perhaps from the ferry. An Irish girl doll. The Irish nameplate. An olive wood rosary from Jerusalem.

They’re all safe…somewhere. Very safe. An easy fix, yes.. sometime.

The window shade, the paper one looped over a rod to mute the afternoon sun in the living room, finally fell off. It’s on the piano, not even pleated, now. It might want an apology, if not restoral, and now the piano is pissed off, too.

No one knows, though, because the large black leather sofa that was covering one of two wall heaters has been reluctantly moved (as if hot air can’t find its way through/around things) to the non-working piano front — a dinosaur of a piano that would fit through the front door that is never used, because the key was lost 34 years ago. Much would have to be moved so as to push the beast on its casters out onto a ramp leading into a large pickup truck. It would free up an entire wall in the tiny room.

Not an easy fix. It’s become a holder of carved birds, feathers, gifted and found pine cones, seashells, candles, rocks with family names carefully markered on, that were transferred out of their Easter nest (which disintegrated) to a large seashell and a small Canada dish. It has hosted framed photos, back when she hadn’t put them all on in collages on the walls for his big 60th party (which almost wasn’t).

It has held Easter vases of fresh blooms, and very often a Creche and adorable(ish) happy, round snowfolks. Cut-out snowflakes remain, as do flattened coins, a railroad spike, and swimmers ear plugs (in the event any of these need to be found quickly).

The teen managed to break the refrigerator door. Often has it been said, “What’s THIS?? On a $1300 Samsung??” They have the tiny part to replace, since it was utterly snapped. It is kept safely in his desk drawer in a baggie. Someday… someday, an easy fix.

There is a carpet of orange and gold in all the yards, on the driveway, and even on the deck. If only it hadn’t rained and rained…

And every time she drops something, she looks beyond to see if it can be nudged under furniture — much like the 6- and 7-year old do. Everything of energy is conserved, she tells herself (too) for the paid work…


And.. more orange (and gold) —




Til the sky becomes a blanket of stars


One word: Autumner (or Summtumn)!
Two words: Butterscotch Krimpets!
(Insert minor purring noise here.)
Three words: Good morning, you!
Four words: No kids here today!
Five words: I’ma let fly a ‘blogpost!

It’s peaking, you know. You’ll read or hear, “There’s peak viewing in the Summtumn Valley” or wherever — and maybe that’s his/her idea of peak leaf-peeping, but it’s truly peaking Right Here, Right Now!

As I drive to work through the still-countryish areas… well, you’ve heard all about that — beauty, beauty, beauty! I’m so lucky! I won’t be so lucky in a couple of months. It’ll be blah and dangerous maneuvering. There will be blood blizzards!

However, there’s still a noisy chipmunk around here, call-kissing the air — for who-knows-who, as no other turns up while I’ve been watching. (Apparently, chipmunks can air-kiss for 20 stinking minutes straight!!)

It dawned on me last week while driving past my gloriously autumnly brown beefy moo-cows that, no matter how healingly bucolic I find them, they are going to end up badly. I always wanted a Holstein (because I spent an afternoon with one — I’d actually take any color/striation, if we had just a bit more grass), perhaps so that I could know I saved at least one cow from all our over-breeding, over-feeding, over-milking. Free range?  Oh heck, s/he could use the downstairs bathroom, or come in and make popcorn at midnight if so desired. I’d get a spare key made… *sigh…

At any rate, the “dire end” thought put a damper on my bucolicism. I apologized inwardly for all the times I let my nostrils and appetite be overjoyed with the bbq-ness of them, back when I ate what I for years have preferred to just see. I know, I know — there’s plenty of room for all God’s creatures… right there on your plate beside the mashed potatoes. Well, I’ve just jumped the gun a bit (er, so to speak) vegetarianly, because in the life beyond here, nothing suffers, nothing dies, all thrives, and there is no need of food or its digestion and thus, no bathrooms. I’m liking the sound of all that.

Yeah, I wasn’t expecting this blogpost to go straight to the toilet, either!  I’d thought I was going to write of how humility is to the other virtues what the first olive pressing is to secondary pressings: a door!

And now, I have to go get some vitamin D(elicious). Every day of this bright extended summer which has so baffled bees and hornets and (according to co-worker hunters) deer, I tell myself to get out there. Get out there.  I’ve GOT to get out there so that I’ll shut up!

You get out there, too, okay?





Good, ‘n’ you?

I haven’t posted in 18 hrs.! Did ya miss me?

There are between 16 and 29 matters on my mind (pick 17!), and few if any (okay, none) can be written of in a *jiffy* (today’s WordPress Word Prompt), so I’m just going to give you some Paolo Nutini and some New Shoes.