We got home from the Potomac Valley Samoyed Club Christmas party just after dark. John had me wait in the car so he could hurry in to turn on the outdoor Christmas lights. Blue on the dogwood trees. Green on the boxwood. Reflected in the stepladder that still stood by the dogwood, they looked very…..festive.
Since we had managed to avoid hearing the final score of the Redskins-Eagles game we settled in to watch it on our DVR but we were interrupted by delivery of our Christmas tree.
When I opened the front door I was confronted by the biggest Christmas tree I had seen this side of the Ellipse. It was over nine feet tall. I know. I measured it. Then I measured the distance floor to ceiling at the highest point in my living room. Ooops.
“John, do we have a saw?”
“Do we have to do that tonight?”
“Yes. It has to drink. And I want the limbs to drop down so I can decorate it tomorrow night.”
I found the saw. Pulled the tree inside. With difficulty. And began to remove a foot from the bottom of the tree.
“Give me the saw.”
“Go watch the Redskins. I can do this”
“It will take you forever. I paused it.”
Aftre much sawing and sweatingbut no swearing the bottom of the tree was separated from the top of the tree but still attached by the netting John handed me the saw and went back to the TV. I sawed off the bottom branches and tossed the hewn trunk and branches out the front door. Then I went to the living room to make room for tree-monster. I tried to do this unobtrusively. John was swearing now, but not at me. The Redskins were trailing 21 to 3 after two interceptions.
After making room for the tree I brought in the tree stand and pulled the tree – again with difficulty – into the living room. Next, we had our annual debate about whether it is easier to attach the stand while the tree was lying down or when the tree is standing up. It is easier when the tree is lying down, but I have to convince him every year. We tightened down the four screws. I braced the base while John righted the tree. It cleared the ceiling with inches to spare. We pushed the tree into the newly opened space and I removed the rest of the netting.
Each time I snipped, the tree opened wider and wider. It encroached on the hallway. Obstructed a third of the 50 inch wide screen TV on which the Redskins were beginning to claw their way back from their 18 point deficit.
“Doesn’t that smell wonderful?” I said from behind the tree, hoping he wouldn’t notice the branches that were now spreading toward the dining room.
“That’s a really big one.”
“You said you wanted a big one.” I responded, employing the best offense is a good defense approach that was now eluding the Redskins.
Meanwhile Arlo and Darcy just looked on in amazement. Too dumbstruck to even deliver the customary anointing of the tree that has become as much a part of our holiday as Aunt Gladys’ fruitcake.
Old enough to give you dreams
Between coughing and squirming to get comfortable in what should be a comfortable bed – my feather bed below me and a down comforter on top of me – I dream.I dream about trying to take a final exam in a class I never attended with a pen that won’t write in a crowded classroom where I can’t find a seat.
Between coughing and squirming to get comfortable in what should be a comfortable bed – my feather bed below me and a down comforter on top of me – I dream. I dream about heavy rain. Probably prompted by the sound of acorns hitting the skylight above my bed. I dream about babies. Not mine. And I awake to find learn I am a great aunt. “Reva had a baby” John calls from the other room. “She named it Raven. Looks like she has a Mohawk.” I sigh. The line goes on. Mama and Daddy had three children. My sister and I had none. My brother had two. One is gay and happy. Reva is the only one scattering seed. All our genes now depending on a little girl with a Mohawk named Raven.
I wonder if Raven dreams or if she is content giving me dreams.
Quiet
Do you ever wake up and not know where you are? This morning I woke up on Mill Creek. It was quiet. In my confused peri-waking moments the quiet confused me. No traffic. No planes. No early morning dog walkers. Just silence. Disoriented by a dream where I had taken Arlo to Europe by mistake - leaving John at home in Arlo's crate. I'd driven up and down the Mediterranean coastline trying to find a hotel that Arlo liked. Not mindful that most hotels - even in Italy - wouldn't be thrilled at having a 60 pound Samoyed as a guest. I opened my eyes and oriented myself to my surroundings. The minute I stirred Darcy began her morning ritual of licking my face. I responded by rubbing the spot where her third eye would be. She responded by doing an expert downward facing dog...the kind only a limber dog can do. Arlo broke the silence with a dog fart. John pretended to be asleep. Or maybe he was asleep. He had stayed up late to watch the meteor shower. I crawled over John, Arlo and Darcy and went to the kitchen. Last night's coffee was still warm thanks to the advances in thermal coffee pots. I emptied the pot and went out to the deck. There was a chill in the air - a harbinger of autumn. The creek was a mirror stretching from here to yonder. A few late-leaving Osprey circled overhead. These would be the youngsters. Their parents have already left for their winter home in the Caribbean leaving their young to follow in a few weeks. The parents will return in the spring and remake their nest on the same roost where they hatched this year's chicks. The eagle has returned. I saw him yesterday afternoon when I kayaked back into the shallow pools at the end of the creek. The bright white of the eagle's head and tail are unmistakable. Since osprey are dominant, eagle only return when the osprey have gone. "Is there any coffee for me?" The first words of the morning. John is awake now. I hand him my cup and go inside to make a fresh pot. A fishing boat makes it's way up the creek toward the bay, disturbing the smooth surface of the water. The day has begun.
Moons
One summer I drive across Texas forever.
Wheels spinning.
Lights flashing.
Cows mooing.
I don't stop. Clouds fall from the sky. Oil wells spill out onto a too brown landscape making it look like a sloppily iced sheet cake.
The kind my mother used to bake.
I drive on.
The highway rises up to meet the cloudless sky. I folllow it.
Better than driving in circles.
The Black Dog
Gusty Evening Light
"Look at that sunset."
Just four words were all it took to make me put down my dish towel and walk onto the deck to join John, Jim and Carol as they admired the last orange glow in the western sky as the sun disappeared behind the trees. Mill Creek was smooth - almost glassy - undisturbed. We were undisturbed. Occasionally an anonymous fish poked a nose through the surface to dine on the evening hatch of invisible insects that only hungry fish can see. He disappeared - leaving only widening ripples. A family of swans headed home. The mother osprey watched from her roost -always alert - ready to chase away whatever threatened her young. Above our heads, the wind worried the tree tops. I lit the lantern and turned it low. Just enough light now to see the contented faces of my husband and friends. I bring out coffee and we sit in silence enjoying the gusty evening light.
Yesterday's Weather
One summer they drove through Texas forever.
A merciless rain pursued them.
A merciless rain pursued them.
Battering, beating, pounding
Cascading through the ragged roof of the TR3
Inside, they had already drowned in silence.
The passion they had mistaken for love extinguished by a long winter, a short spring and a steady diet of canned corn and river water.
(The Rio Grande is not for drinking.)
Weary wipers struggled in vain to whoosh the rain from the windshield.
Cascading through the ragged roof of the TR3
Inside, they had already drowned in silence.
The passion they had mistaken for love extinguished by a long winter, a short spring and a steady diet of canned corn and river water.
(The Rio Grande is not for drinking.)
Weary wipers struggled in vain to whoosh the rain from the windshield.
They drove on blindly.
Anxious to be someplace else. Desperate to be someone else
A Truly Civilized Woman is Never in a Hurry
I read those words on a tea bag tag a few months ago and they have been steeped into my consciousness. It doesn’t matter if they are true. I believe them. I am sure I believe many things that are not true. I recall those words each morning as I leave the gym and I am tempted to hurry so I can make the light at the corner of 20th and L. “A truly civilized woman is never in a hurry” I remember and I slow down. I notice that it is sunnier on the north side of L Street. I notice the aroma coming from the coffee shop next to the gym and I look forward to the tea I will have when I eventually get to work. I will drink it from the cup that Catherine made. A truly civilized kayaker is never in a hurry. This weekend I paddled against the tide to the spot where the creek becomes a marsh. A quiet spot where only kayakers, swans, heron and red-winged blackbirds are welcome. I wedged the nose of the kayak against the rocks to anchor myself and sat there for a long time soaking in the sun and the silence. When I was ready, I pushed away from the rocks and pointed the nose toward home. I pulled in the paddles, tucked the buds of my iPod into my ears, selected the Loreena McKennit file and let the tide carry me home. I didn’t touch the paddles again. I just guided the kayak with the rudder pedals. “A truly civilized woman is never in a hurry” I remember
ed when the tide slackened and my forward progress slowed. With my tea bag wisdom in mind everything I do becomes a meditation. Is that what Natalie was trying to impart with the slow walking? Now if I can just get Darcy and Arlo to buy into my tea bag wisdom. “Repeat after me, a truly civilized dog is never in a hurry.”
Dawn Finally Arrived
Sleep extinguished.
Tear-soaked pillows.
The beginning of a headache.
The hands on the clock don’t move.
We wonder if we can live through the pain.
Nothing to numb it.
All anesthetics forbidden by a decision made years earlier when the weight of grief was not yet calculated.
Prayers deficient.
We cannot pray. We will not kneel.
Why should we stoop to lie to a God who leaves us so alone?
Sleep won’t come.
We try to read. The same sentence.
Again and again and again.
Time has stopped.
It will be 3:34 AM forever.
We’re hungry.
No, not hungry. But empty.
We yearn for rice pudding.
The closest we can find is a cup of peach yogurt.
We eat it. Ignoring the expiration date.
We remain unsatisfied but the hands of the clock have moved – just a little.
We empty the dishwasher.
A glass slips from our hand.
Shatters.
We pick up the shards.
One pierces our left thumb leaving a gash that will become a scar that will bear witness to that endless night.
We sit on the kitchen floor.
Tears mix with the blood that seeps from our thumb.
We draw circles on the linoleum with our blood.
We draw the sun to invoke the dawn.
We continue until there is no more blood – no more tears
and only then do we notice that the dawn has finally come.
Mauserl
Dainty feet with pansy tinges toes dangle inches above a straw colored carpet.
They weave and dart with a life of their own as the body remembers a long forgotten dance.
The body remembers the 49-11 eau de cologne she breathed in
as she sat upon the lap of her clean-shaven papa
and he crooned
“My Little Mauserl. What can I give you? Only the best for my Little Mauserl.”
The body remembers
the pain of a child not yet two years old,
crying to her less-loved mother for help.
“Get up. Come here. Then I will help you.”
A harsh first lesson for a little mouse, but she remembered
and passed it on to her own dark-haired daughter.
The body remembers
mouth and fingers on a golden saxophone she bought herself at sixteen
to catch the eye of the young conductor who would become her husband and share her bed for twenty years until they parted
agreeing at last
the sex was lousy.
The body remembers.
They weave and dart with a life of their own as the body remembers a long forgotten dance.
The body remembers the 49-11 eau de cologne she breathed in
as she sat upon the lap of her clean-shaven papa
and he crooned
“My Little Mauserl. What can I give you? Only the best for my Little Mauserl.”
The body remembers
the pain of a child not yet two years old,
crying to her less-loved mother for help.
“Get up. Come here. Then I will help you.”
A harsh first lesson for a little mouse, but she remembered
and passed it on to her own dark-haired daughter.
The body remembers
mouth and fingers on a golden saxophone she bought herself at sixteen
to catch the eye of the young conductor who would become her husband and share her bed for twenty years until they parted
agreeing at last
the sex was lousy.
The body remembers.
Balls, Dogs and Kindness
Every weekend morning at 8 am we all take our dogs to the park at the end of the block and allow our dogs to play together…in spite of the prominently displayed sign that reads “All Dogs Must be on Leash”. It is very illegal. This Saturday Arlo ran after one of Arledge’s balls…the kind you throw, not the other kind. Arledge is a standard poodle. His owner threw a second ball. Arlo went after that one too. Now Arlo was running around the park with TWO balls in his mouth and it cracked me up. My neighbor said nothing, but he leashed his poodle and marched out of the park, muttering under his breath. I thought it was a little strange, but I shrugged it off. I took Arlo and Darcy home and went to my yoga class. When I got back there was a two-page letter in my mailbox addressed to Arlo and me. An angry letter about balls and manners. My first reaction was to march over to my neighbor’s house and give him a piece of my mind. Thank goodness for restraint of pen and tongue…and the fact that during Lent, instead of “giving something up” I have decided to practice KINDNESS. So instead of making an ass out of myself, I drove to PetSmart and bought three bags of multi-colored tennis balls. Then I came back home and shot several digital photos of Arlo SURROUNDED by the balls. I kept snapping until I got one where Arlo had just the right expression. Then I printed that picture on a photo card with the message:
Dear Arledge:Sorry I took your balls. I will try to be a better neighbor.Your Friend, Arlo
I attached the card to the bag of balls and went over to my neighbor’s house. Instead of just leaving the peace offering in the mailbox, I rang the doorbell. I heard Arledge barking like crazy on the other side of the door and my neighbor yelling at his poodle to be quiet. For a moment, I wondered whether I was doing the right thing. But it was too late. The door opened. I handed the balls to my neighbor. “These are for Arledge.” The next morning we were all in the park again. All the dogs got along. All the people got along. I carried along some extra balls and left them behind, just in case.
Left Behind
He left his books behind. They are piled there next to the bed he shared with Mama.
His pillow is still crumpled up. Mama has kept to her side of the bed.
He left his shoe shining kit. Guess he won’t need that out there on the Outer Banks.
He left his white shirts and his work pants and he left me.
He took his cigarettes and his lighter and he walked right out that front door and he didn’t look back and he didn’t say goodbye and he didn’t tell me why he was going or where he was going but I don’t think he is coming back.
The house is quiet now. Mama doesn’t smile anymore. I feel like crying but I don’t want to make her mad.
I am just like my daddy. She told me so. I am lazy and good for nothing and I don’t pull my own weight.
One day I will leave too, but I don’t know that yet. When that day comes I will leave behind the white clock radio I got for graduation and the poster of King Kong. I will leave my Phi Mu pin and the notes from Philosophy 201 and International Relations. I will just walk out the front door and I won’t tell anyone where I am going or why I am going or when I am coming back. But in my going away I will finally understand why my daddy left me behind.
His pillow is still crumpled up. Mama has kept to her side of the bed.
He left his shoe shining kit. Guess he won’t need that out there on the Outer Banks.
He left his white shirts and his work pants and he left me.
He took his cigarettes and his lighter and he walked right out that front door and he didn’t look back and he didn’t say goodbye and he didn’t tell me why he was going or where he was going but I don’t think he is coming back.
The house is quiet now. Mama doesn’t smile anymore. I feel like crying but I don’t want to make her mad.
I am just like my daddy. She told me so. I am lazy and good for nothing and I don’t pull my own weight.
One day I will leave too, but I don’t know that yet. When that day comes I will leave behind the white clock radio I got for graduation and the poster of King Kong. I will leave my Phi Mu pin and the notes from Philosophy 201 and International Relations. I will just walk out the front door and I won’t tell anyone where I am going or why I am going or when I am coming back. But in my going away I will finally understand why my daddy left me behind.
When My Mother Told Me
When my mother told me that clothes made the woman, she was wearing a ragged housecoat with a pack of Pall Malls in the pocket and a rip on the sleeve. Her knees were red from scrubbing our old linoleum floor with a mixture of lye and laundry soap
When my mother told me to cram all the book learning in my head that I could, she was standing over an ironing board pressing my daddy’s work shirts with one eye on her soap opera – The Guiding Light – and the other on my baby brother who was running around the kitchen with a wet diaper hanging from his backside.
When my mother told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be she was scrubbing our clothes on an old laundry board. The water was cold and her knuckles were red.
When my mother told me that she wrote me every day in her mind and I was the only one of her kids she never worried about, it had been five years since I had seen her face. Two months later she would die before my mother could ever tell me anything again
When my mother told me to cram all the book learning in my head that I could, she was standing over an ironing board pressing my daddy’s work shirts with one eye on her soap opera – The Guiding Light – and the other on my baby brother who was running around the kitchen with a wet diaper hanging from his backside.
When my mother told me that I could be whatever I wanted to be she was scrubbing our clothes on an old laundry board. The water was cold and her knuckles were red.
When my mother told me that she wrote me every day in her mind and I was the only one of her kids she never worried about, it had been five years since I had seen her face. Two months later she would die before my mother could ever tell me anything again
A Piece Of Perfect Fruit
She caresses his tiny head.
Her stubby fingers touch the soft crown.
She lifts his mouth to food.
He pulls back.
Leaving an apple sized space between her breast and his mouth.
Some were naked. Some were dancing in each other’s clothes.
She sweeps the toy soldiers and bits of apple peel from the table
and lays down her clean white cloth.
She spreads a feast.
Some were naked. Some were marching in each other’s clothes.
She is weeping now.
It has come and gone.
Leaving nothing but darkening flesh, a woody stem
and an apple shaped hole in her son’s breast.
Some are naked. Some are dying in each other’s clothes.
Love...In Honor of Valentine's Day
"Love asks us that we be a little braver than is comfortable for us, a little more generous, a little more flexible. It means living on the edge more than we care to.” Norman Mailer
This morning a little after 4:00 I was awakened by the sound of my husband checking to see if he still had laryngitis. “I DO sound normal. My voice DOES sound normal.” Part affirmation, part sound check. From behind the bathroom door he (loudly) tried out his voice. The dogs sat up and cocked their heads as if to say, “Has he totally lost his mind?” A few minutes later he returned to bed. Seeing that I was awake he asked, “How does my voice sound?” I just groaned and turned my back to him. So did the dogs. It isn’t like he is a singer or a yodeler or a broadcaster or an auctioneer…but he is a hypochondriac. Unable to get back to sleep, after 30 minutes of tossing about in the bed I was sharing with a Samoyed and Dalmatian and a now soundly sleeping husband, at 4:30 I got up and wandered about doing chores. I actually enjoyed my hour of domesticity. The sun rising over the winter wonderland that was my front yard. The muted (I kept the volume down so I wouldn’t disturb John) reports from yesterday’s Olympics. The first cup of coffee. Morning stretching. A little writing. At 5:30 John came into the kitchen. “Why did you get up so early?” I just smiled.
This morning a little after 4:00 I was awakened by the sound of my husband checking to see if he still had laryngitis. “I DO sound normal. My voice DOES sound normal.” Part affirmation, part sound check. From behind the bathroom door he (loudly) tried out his voice. The dogs sat up and cocked their heads as if to say, “Has he totally lost his mind?” A few minutes later he returned to bed. Seeing that I was awake he asked, “How does my voice sound?” I just groaned and turned my back to him. So did the dogs. It isn’t like he is a singer or a yodeler or a broadcaster or an auctioneer…but he is a hypochondriac. Unable to get back to sleep, after 30 minutes of tossing about in the bed I was sharing with a Samoyed and Dalmatian and a now soundly sleeping husband, at 4:30 I got up and wandered about doing chores. I actually enjoyed my hour of domesticity. The sun rising over the winter wonderland that was my front yard. The muted (I kept the volume down so I wouldn’t disturb John) reports from yesterday’s Olympics. The first cup of coffee. Morning stretching. A little writing. At 5:30 John came into the kitchen. “Why did you get up so early?” I just smiled.
Learning to Drive
I didn’t learn to drive until Steve told me he was leaving me for another woman. We were living in West Palm Beach in a two room apartment over Mercedes Gomez’ garage. We slept on a mattress – no frame, no box spring, just a mattress. We were lying on that mattress when he told me he was leaving. Nothing between me and the floor but a thin mattress. Nothing between me and loneliness but Steve. And I didn’t even know how to drive. The next morning as soon as I got to work I called Aunt Gladys. “Aunt Gladys, Steve is leaving me and I don’t know how to drive. I’m almost twenty-four years old. My marriage is over. And I don’t even know how to drive.” The next day she picked me up in her gold colored 1972 Chrysler and drove me to a remote part of Martin County where Paul had taught her to fire a gun. She put the car in park, got out and told me to scoot over behind the wheel. When she had settled herself in the passenger seat, fluffed her hair and checked her lipstick she took a deep breath. “Okay. Drive.” I drove. If she hadn’t injured anyone with Uncle Paul’s pistol then I probably couldn’t do much damage with a Chrysler. “Ten o’clock and two o’clock.” I realized she was telling me where my hands should rest on the steering wheel. This was before airbags. Hell, it was before seatbelts. “When you turn, turn like this.” She demonstrated the way the steering wheel should move through my hands. “Don’t cross one hand over the other when you turn.” I was getting the hang of it, but there were no other cars within five miles of us. Aunt Gladys helped me study for the written test. I only missed one question. (When do pedestrians have the right-of way? The correct answer is all the time, not just when they are in the crosswalk like I said.) I passed the driving test in spite of the fact that I had learned to drive barefooted and had a really hard time driving with shoes on – still do. And Steve didn’t leave me after all – not then at least. He waited until four years later and by then I didn’t need him anymore.
Daring Adventures
There were lots of daring adventures growing up on Pungo Creek. Like the time the REA cut off our electric. Mama came in one night to find Aunt Blanche, Addie and me sitting in the dark staring at a blank television.
“Why are you idiots sitting here in the dark?”
Aunt Blanche didn’t move her eyes from the screen.” They came out this morning and turned off the electric, Frankie Mae. Said we were three months behind.”
“Shit!” Mama went into the front room and got the kerosene lanterns from the top of the piano. She put one on top of the television and one on Aunt Blanche’s Bible table. “Well at least we ain’t sitting in the dark, but how do we get the television to work?” Mama looked at me as she spoke like she expected me to answer her.
Lucky for me I’d been trying to figure out what to do. “Well, we could run extension cords across the branch to Uncle Roswell’s house and plug them in to the back of the television set.”
Mama lit her cigarette and stood there for a minute like she was thinking about my plan. She took a long drag on her Chesterfield and blew the smoke out before she said anything. “Where are we going to get an extension cord long enough to stretch all the way to Roswell’s?”
I’d thought about that too. “There’s lots of them out in the brooder house.” We used them to run electricity out to the heaters in the winter.
“Well I’ll be damned. I like it. It just might work. Let’s give it a shot. Come on and help me, Brenda. This was your idea.”
I think the thing that appealed the most to Mama was the notion of stealing from Uncle Roswell. We piled all the cords into the skiff and rowed over to Uncle Roswell’s boat house where we plugged in. Then we rowed back, stretching the cords along his dock and through the branch. “I think we are just going to make it, Mama.”
“That’s my girl. I swear and be damned. This is something your Daddy would have dreamed up. He would have been proud of you.”
“Why are you idiots sitting here in the dark?”
Aunt Blanche didn’t move her eyes from the screen.” They came out this morning and turned off the electric, Frankie Mae. Said we were three months behind.”
“Shit!” Mama went into the front room and got the kerosene lanterns from the top of the piano. She put one on top of the television and one on Aunt Blanche’s Bible table. “Well at least we ain’t sitting in the dark, but how do we get the television to work?” Mama looked at me as she spoke like she expected me to answer her.
Lucky for me I’d been trying to figure out what to do. “Well, we could run extension cords across the branch to Uncle Roswell’s house and plug them in to the back of the television set.”
Mama lit her cigarette and stood there for a minute like she was thinking about my plan. She took a long drag on her Chesterfield and blew the smoke out before she said anything. “Where are we going to get an extension cord long enough to stretch all the way to Roswell’s?”
I’d thought about that too. “There’s lots of them out in the brooder house.” We used them to run electricity out to the heaters in the winter.
“Well I’ll be damned. I like it. It just might work. Let’s give it a shot. Come on and help me, Brenda. This was your idea.”
I think the thing that appealed the most to Mama was the notion of stealing from Uncle Roswell. We piled all the cords into the skiff and rowed over to Uncle Roswell’s boat house where we plugged in. Then we rowed back, stretching the cords along his dock and through the branch. “I think we are just going to make it, Mama.”
“That’s my girl. I swear and be damned. This is something your Daddy would have dreamed up. He would have been proud of you.”
...hopelessly flawed; shot through with rot
I climbed up the crumbling steps to what was once the front porch of the decaying, old house. There wasn’t a single unbroken windowpane, but the front door was padlocked. I stood on a rusted glider and crawled through a window. The floor of the entry hall was shot through with rot. Nothing moved but the dust motes that danced in the streams of light from the late afternoon sun. The only sounds were my own inhalation and exhalation and the pounding of my heart. The house smelled like liniment and snuff and something else I couldn’t place. Something sweet and pungent. The world on the other side of the padlocked door suddenly seemed far away and unreachable. I took a step. When the floor didn’t give way, I took another step. What was that smell? It was so familiar. I had played here when I was a child. Always alone. This was my secret place. The house had been abandoned for years. The last owners had left suddenly. They had wired instructions to their solicitor to dispose of the furniture and put the house on the market but the solicitor was hopelessly flawed. Before he got around to following his clients’ instructions he was arrested for shooting a man in the back. Justified, he said, because the man was crawling out of his wife’s bedroom window at the time. The judge didn’t agree. “A man in your position should be setting an example for the community. We aren’t a bunch of savages, you know.” So I guess the solicitor had more to worry about than selling the house. Strange thing was that apparently the owners never made any inquiry about the sale of the house. No one ever heard from them again. Rumors circulated about the house. Most of the tittle-tattle ended with decapitation, disemboweling or hidden crypts. From the time I was old enough to disappear without setting off alarm bells I explored the house from attic to cellar trying to uncover its secrets. I never found anything more sinister than some letters written in a language I couldn’t understand and a chest full of rosary beads.
Dark Aroma
The dark aroma of strong coffee rose up to meet her as she fumbled for the light switch. For the hundredth time she thanked the coffee gods for her automatic Cuisinart grind and brew. Keeping her eyes closed she let her nose lead her in the direction of the coffee maker. Her left hand found the mug. Her right hand made sure the opening was facing in the right direction before she poured the coffee. Only when she had gulped down half a cup of the miraculous mud did she open her eyes. Just a bit.
Still dark. Were it not for the rumble of the garbage truck one might mistake it for midnight instead of 5:30 am.
Another ordinary Thursday morning.
She swallowed her vitamins and washed them down with another mouthful of coffee.
She placed the mug on the counter and bent over to touch her toes. Standing forward bend. Relax. Fly away.
Thursday morning. She would stop at the gym on the way to work. Shower and change after her workout. She could relax a while before putting on the workout clothes that were probably still damp from yesterday. Their dark aroma festering in her gym bag.
She poured another cup of coffee and walked into the front room. She sat down without turning on a light, hugged her knees to her chest and sipped her coffee. Bliss. Relax. Fly away.
Her peaceful interlude came to abrupt end when she was joined on the couch by her two always exuberant canines. The Samoyed circled clockwise several times before settling comfortably at her right knee. The Dalmatian straddled her and quickly delivered 22 Dalmatian kisses. “Too much tongue, Darcy,” she laughed as she hugged the liver-spotted dog. The dark aroma of last night’s Science Diet now mixing with her tepid coffee.
Still dark. Were it not for the rumble of the garbage truck one might mistake it for midnight instead of 5:30 am.
Another ordinary Thursday morning.
She swallowed her vitamins and washed them down with another mouthful of coffee.
She placed the mug on the counter and bent over to touch her toes. Standing forward bend. Relax. Fly away.
Thursday morning. She would stop at the gym on the way to work. Shower and change after her workout. She could relax a while before putting on the workout clothes that were probably still damp from yesterday. Their dark aroma festering in her gym bag.
She poured another cup of coffee and walked into the front room. She sat down without turning on a light, hugged her knees to her chest and sipped her coffee. Bliss. Relax. Fly away.
Her peaceful interlude came to abrupt end when she was joined on the couch by her two always exuberant canines. The Samoyed circled clockwise several times before settling comfortably at her right knee. The Dalmatian straddled her and quickly delivered 22 Dalmatian kisses. “Too much tongue, Darcy,” she laughed as she hugged the liver-spotted dog. The dark aroma of last night’s Science Diet now mixing with her tepid coffee.
Spit
She learned to tread carefully around the little house on Pungo Creek. Grandmama and Granddaddy weren’t particular about where they put their spit cans. The spit cans had been around since before she was born and they had the right of way. Grandmama spit Peach Tree Snuff and Granddaddy spit Beechnut Chewing Tobacco. Both spits looked the same in the cans. When she wasn’t spitting Grandmama polished her three remaining teeth with a “toothbrush” she has gummed into a functional device from a green twig. “This is what the Indians used to clean their teeth,” she explained to her granddaughter who, as usual, was standing a safe distance away. When she wasn’t polishing her teeth, Grandmama kept her “toothbrush” in her Bible. She was never far from her Bible or her spit can. Granddaddy preferred Our Daily Word. It was more portable than a Bible. He kept a copy in the pocket of his blue chambray shirt. Unlike Grandmama, Granddaddy sometimes misplaced his spit can and when that happened he just spit. Sometimes at the woodstove. Sometimes in Grandmama’s can. Sometimes in the pots of cactus that lined the windowsills. Sometimes he missed. It was fortunate that Granddaddy spent most of his time outdoors.
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