Night Airship

On my way to Washington, DC to visit Brian and Dana; they are presenting an early Thanksgiving and I am flying in quickly over the weekend.  Haven't been to DC since a vacation many, so many years ago, funny that he now lives there amid marble and pomp.  The plane has an organized manner of boarding; you line up according to a number on your pass and file in when called.  No prearranged seating, you sit where available.  I was able to be near a window, just behind the wing.  The acceleration of take off is the best roller coaster ride in the world, and we rose in the navigable air, temporarily headed west.

I can see my house, meaning apartment building; we flew over the city and the Olmstead spoke pattern of street design led to City Hall.  Well, I live just a few blocks down, (now at 10,000 feet); I spotted the water tower atop the building.  The dark beyond is the lake.  It is beautiful at night, the illuminated minuscule globes of human invention delineate roads, shops, neighborhoods.  We have turned to the east; goodbye Lake, goodbye cats, goodbye eardrums.

A miracle just as voluble hangs at the horizon: a wide band of a pale blue glow, the tail of the sun ribboning the edge of black night as it is still day to the west, with the spilled ink of night seeping toward the cities of the plains. (Now at 25,000 feet).  The golden necklaces of coruscating lights below are as casually tossed about as the midnight disrobing by an intoxicated debutante.  Streets and buildings align in undulating light; as close as we are, they can be seen individually, like beads.

The plane is shuddering in clear air, and we are told to refasten seat belts.  Well of course we are bouncing about; it is unusual not to encounter roiling atmosphere, for air moves as much as ocean waves.  Very similar to water is air; just thinner; we are a ship upon its sea.  Does air have waves or tides?  If the moon pulls on the water, does it pull on the substance of air?  Think of how a kite moves, and there you go.

But now, good heavens, we are beginning descent; Hello New Jersey!  It doesn't seem as if we were airborne 15 minutes at the top of the proscribed arc of trajectory, the ship has rose and fell in an extended arch; the glow of cities spot the landscape below. (10,000 feet).  I could reach my hand out the window to gather gold and diamonds; I must fly somewhere closer to Christmas at night, to see houses from above bedecked in red and green incandescent brocade.

Whoa, there's a large city ahead, showing miles of orange and gold lights spread like butter on toast.  I'm hungry.  So many people, so many houses.  Where does the electricity come from?  A lot of it arrives from Niagara Falls, sold to companies lining the eastern seaboard.  Electricity generates magnetic fields, repellant and attractive.  Linemen have to learn of this fascinating physical force when stringing power lines, that you don't want bumping together when the field is created.

We wheel in gently, a roc following a lessening gyre.  My son.  My son is waiting for me, magnetized by an unbreakable link in the repelling and attracting seesaw of mother and child.  I cannot wait to see him.

What the hell is in Baltimore?  Besides crabcakes?  I know nothing of this city except for a rough reputation many years ago.  The wing now tips to the center of the radius, then evens out, slowing.  Orioles and cake.  The wing gracefully tips and levels again; the plane slows, the tail begins to drop and  engines become quiet.  Where the hell is Baltimore?  Individual buildings reappear.  My heavens, did I say this place was large?  We float as a feather; each turn releases energy and pulls us into further descent.  Fog makes fuzzy ghost shapes surround the lit areas of the ground.  I see a star.

There is the Chesapeake Bay; we are over water, and a bridge is glowing, a seeming skeletal spine of brontosaurus watching us, the ballet of metal carving air into perfect geometric arcs.  Engines slow even more, the tips of the wings are folded up as a paper airplane.  Oh my gosh, look, look at the lighted ground, as good as day.  Fog.  Landing gear.  A rush to decelerate and stop.  My son.

Halloween Haiku

Leftover candy,
My favorite kind, Twix bars
How did that happen?

Fun-size candy bars
Are a lie. When I was young,
They were large.  Five cents.

Frozen orange juice
Strangest Halloween offer.
We went back next year.

If you are shaving,
Do not ring my bell unless
You want to be mocked.

Steal my horse skull from
My porch. I hope your
Arse develops a rash.

The meat department:
Cow tongues and.honeycomb tripe
Instant atmosphere.

Stuff child's pajamas
And staple them to ceiling
Of porch.  Look out, kid.

Doorbell rings after
Nine o'clock. Have you no shame?
What are you, twenty?

Check out loot in bag,
Who gave pink wintergreen mints?
Old lady Gorwitz.

Get out of my bag,
Dad.  You already ate all the
Three Musketeers bars.

Slogging

The flight was a lot of fun, retrieved the duffel bag, followed the signs, got to the water taxi, hung out for three hours at a Dunkin' Donuts, worked on laptop, then got onto the 1 o'clock ferry for Provincetown.  This is happening while dragging three bags of equipment and fancies for the wedding of the century; all in all, weighing about as much as a four year old, 35 pounds.  I can do this.  Next time stop at AAA and get one of those wheeled things like every other sane person; nope, not me, make do with what you have and quit complaining.

The ferry ride was long and in rough seas, we rolled from trough to crest, nosediving into the waves, not too bad if I didn't try to read.  I sat with Germans, put my head against the window and dozed.  Now by the time we get there, it's 3 in the afternoon, and I've been traveling for seven hours; not the longest haul, but dragging around crap that women pack for six of them was wearing me down.  I messaged Scotty that I was there and started down the long wooden pier.

There are very large sea gulls here.  Our inland sea gulls would get their asses kicked by these birds; I thought I was looking at pelicans, but nope, gulls.  They scream in almost a human voice, and sound as if they are being murdered, which is disconcerting.  I jumped the first time one swooped over and cussed me out for not having any Doritos, which is the sea gull national food.  These things buzzed about like flying monkeys, looking to see if the crowd was secretly eating french fries and not sharing.

The weather is drizzly and cold from the blowing wind; I am wrestling the three bags and finally loop one strap across by chest and hitch up the other two on one shoulder so I can now clamp them onto my side.  Scott said it was two miles to the Inn, I could walk that, and besides, I think I see the place just where the shore curves in; a bit of a hike and it's cold, but I can do it.  Hup.

The wind is blowing and Provincetown has one of the charming aspects of New England in that there are often no sidewalks, and the shops and houses are right up to the road.  Certainly no room for two people to comfortably pass each other, especially if one of them is lugging a duffel, a loaded briefcase, and a large black case.  I pass the restaurant where the rehearsal dinner is to happen, The Lobster Pot.  Wow, I must be close, red neon lobsters, can't wait to see the inside, must be close.

Lots of little shops and galleries, lovely brick walks, crushed oyster shells and sand are what Provincetown is made of and as I slog by, I see that the tide is out and the giant seagulls are enjoying the local crab population.  Where the hell is this place?  Look up the address, 698 Commercial Street, and I am at 215.  Well, sometimes numbers go fast and the building I think it is looms ahead and thank goodness, for I am exhausted.

The sign out front faces the opposite direction and after I read the address, which is in the three hundreds, the moniker "The Ice House" doesn't surprise me.  I say several swears and what the heck did I pack in these bags?  Onward, and why haven't I heard from Scott?  I leave a voicemail.  A half hour has gone by, and it is another fifteen minutes before I get there.  I call again from a road since the sidewalks have completely disappeared and Route signs are appearing.  Snail Road.  Scott answers, and says oh yeah, Snail Road, look up, I'm waving at you.

I stagger into the parking lot and decelerate into his cuddly self; he asks, "Why didn't you call me?" You walked all the way, carrying this?  It would have been a long way without the luggage,"  The walk did me good, but brain said "no more, please". Checked in, got the room, and one of the best things about it is the concrete floor because tiny grains of sand from the beach are all over the place, like a cottage.  Tomorrow I am going to the shore just across the road, and hope to find more stuff to put into the luggage to drag about.  Wheels, you'd think I would realize that wheels have been invented.

The rehearsal dinner was fabulous, the family members that I met are warm and lovely, the sort of group that takes you in and installs you on the couch with a cold one and the dog sits with you.  Perhaps I shall write of the event, another passage of time, a golden coin spun from the straw of youth.

Morning, before six, a cold wind blowing and I hit the Continental Breakfast bar...it's not like the Muskegon one, but food isn't of interest right now; I want to get outside and trot up and down the beach.  I have Crocs on my feet since I don't want to load my sneakers with sand and figure if the tide is high, getting them wet is no problem.  The company used to advertise them as being able to be put through the dishwasher.  Ick.

A brisk walk along the road leads to a flooded stairway with a path through beach grass and immense New England granite.  Then into the soft sand which is like walking with anchors on your feet, nothing to push off with the ball of your foot, it just goes goosh.  Off I go, amid mounds, mounds, people, of dead brown seaweed and soft sand.  I have a plastic bag with me for washed-up treasures.

Now, those that know me and still love me, understand that I pick up the unusual, the dead, the bleached bone.  Back years ago, I saw a roadkill mostly decomposed buck by the side of a country road and yes, I got a beautiful spine that I bleached out at home.  The puzzle of bones fascinated me, how they fit and allowed curvature and strength; there was a rhythm to it, a descending line of calcium ending in the tiniest of phalanges for the flickering white tail.  My son has it, now; it's safe to come over.

Imagine the curiosity of finding a fish skull with a pointed snout and pointed ribs.  Carapaces from crabs, slipper and clam shells, a string of whelk egg cases and a few shark egg pods.  Broken, beat-up, and sort of still, um, let's say juicy.  I was in heaven.  Stuck my fingers into the ocean and tasted the salt, oh, ocean salt.  Wonder how much it is to buy a small house on the Cape, should talk to my friends and find out.  I'm not rinsing or cleaning anything until I get home.

People were up, walking their dogs.  Friendly dogs.  One very lovely beagle crossed with a tall something which caused black spotting on the torso and rust spotting on the legs with a German Shepherd face.  Pretty girl, who thought my leg was pretty also, when I was talking to her owners and not quite watching her.  She didn't mean what many people think that means, but it just doesn't look attractive and frankly, get the hell away from my leg.  Owners flushed and apologized, I did the Oh that's okay obeisance and mentally sent a warning to the dog's brain that the next time, there will be an accident, like me screaming bloody hell and accidentally launching you thirty yards with my foot.

Huffing with indignation only lasted for five feet, for there amid the piles of seaweed was an immense, washed up horseshoe crab.  Holy crow.  I love these things and took pictures of it; a couple walking by came over and also took pics asking, what is that thing?  Is it still alive?  Um, no, not alive or it would be wiggling legs, trying to get back to the water.  This one was dead as a doorbell.  I waited for them to leave before picking it up, but left it for several reasons: the shell is way too fragile, it was freshly dead and contained all the soft tissues, my bag wasn't large enough, and how in this green world would I explain it at airport security.  God knows how I'm gonna get that fish skeleton through.  If it were deader and more dried, I could have mailed it to myself.

Short science lecture: horseshoe crabs aren't true crabs, they're more related to spiders, but they have wonderful, copper-based blue blood that the medical community extracts to make a bacterial endotoxin.  Living fossils, these.  Declining.  Save an arthropod, today.

That was the highlight of the beach walk, and I scooted back to the hotel to see what was up with the rest of the company.  Today is the big day, and I am so honored to be a part of it.  Going out for another walk with friends to explore the town, will report findings later.  Ciao.

Those skinny sidewalks were packed with people sidling in and out of shops like fiddler crabs; I got a ride down with Damon and after a brief sojourn, went separate ways.  He told me of a sight that I would not want to miss at the library and gave instructions to take the elevator up to the mezzanine, and that when the elevator doors open, be prepared for the sight.  Wouldn't tell me what it was, sweet of him wanting me to enjoy the surprise, and it was indeed.  The library is a beautiful, stately building with charming book shelves topped by carved endpieces, and the tall, arched windows have a stunning view of the bay.  So much light pours in, and, it's quiet, the way libraries are supposed to be.

The elevator doors slid open, and before me was a half-size model of a wooden fishing vessel whose two masts soared through the ceiling through circular openings in the ceiling, and the prow jutted forward through a wall.  It was huge, rigged and almost 67 feet long, 12 wide.  The Rose Dorothea was originally 108.7 feet long with a rounded bow that made her faster than the other schooners, for she could sail closer to the wind.  A better angle, more force to push against the sails and you swoosh off ahead of the other fishing boats. It was built as a tribute to the fishermen of historical Provincetown.

I walked back the two miles, and it was a lot easier without draggling the luggage with me.  I now have a wedding to get to, and need time to get polished up; it will be a fun time, with a union between two loving people who will grow old together, I can feel it.  I am stuffing my pockets with tissues.

Good night all, it will be a night of stars and falling meteorites reflected in the saltwater of the bay. Sleep well.

Wild Blue

Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, I’m on an airplane, a can of people, a refrigerator of humans.  I love flying, especially the taking off part when the substance of air cuts under and over, lifting the whole structure of metal and padded seats by creating lift.  Bouncing on the wheels, the captain put this gal in reverse and pulled back the slingshot of fuel and physics.
Engines rev and it sounds like a cartoon, Daffy Duck traveling in a 21st century space jet voiced by Mel Blanc.  (Do you know that we are in the 21st century now?  Where’s my ray-gun?).  We aren’t moving, the lights go off, I have turned off the damn tv one time already, the screen reignites like a relative wanting to borrow money.  Huh.  Why do I smell fuel burning as the turbines spin?  We begin, ponderous and optimistic in the truth that air is navigable like water, thousands of pounds of air pressure able to lift this behemoth; a product of a hundred and more years of men and women trying to get off terra firma if only for a moment.
Sunny day; there are large, singular clouds, and we will be headed for 30,000 feet.  We are an elephant, determined and slow, plodding to next in line and then, KA-PWING!!!  Ooh baby, we are ON!!   Holy eff, it’s a miracle, we are up, by god, the fall foliage of Western New York laying orange flashes between lakes and ribbons of road.  Sunbeams, clouds like wispy angels hover over the land.  What a view!  Banking, turning, into a cloud and whoa, above, above, we are above the layer of stratus, cumulonimbus.
Why do clouds float?  Because water vapor is less dense and therefore lighter than air.  Ears pop, finally.  Leveling off, we are now above the backs of the clouds; I look down upon herds of white bison, thick white edifices and cloud villages.  Hello, minute earthen world; I look down  at thee and wonder.  What is secondly interesting is the three dimensional aspect of cloud life, it is like looking through a stereopticon, and how is it this effect is not evident from the ground?
This miracle of a thousand minds is now above the Finger Lake region, and from above I can see the striations of water gouged by glaciers.  We have no dinosaur bones in this area, for the ice maidens heaved then pushed them all south, revealing the 350 million year old Devonian bed of the once salt ocean that was here before the dinosaurs.  We have a salt mine buried, still run by Morton in Genesee County; if you clamber in, the workers have carved some of the salt pillars into ghostly figures.  What folks do for fun is such a component of history.  Heads up and pay attention!
What was left were the sea creatures, the tiny first ones; the brachiopods, crinoids, diatoms, and the mice of the sea,  trilobites that scurried and curled and flipped until the mass extinction arrived that seemed to kill everything at once within 2 million years.  Now they are a favorite for fossil hunters, uncloaked from layers of shale cracked open by hand or pick.  A prize in every box, a pearl in every oyster.  Is there not small success in discovery?  And here I am ensconced by a metal box with wings to be opened when I shall emerge as a snail from a shell, a mollusk to fish to amphibian, reptile, to mammal now walking upright, a biped devising fantastic machinery which hurtles through viable substance.
We’ve had four major extinctions in the life of this planet.  The next may take Grandma and the dog.
The cabin shudders as air pockets and turbulence roll under our belly; the engines seem to slow and we drop closer to the clouds to avoid atmospheric mischief turning cartwheels.  As fluffy and benevolent seem the clouds, would I like to fall through one as in a dream?  A dream, sure, but falling through clouds would leave one wet and possibly charged with static.  Someone could stick you upon a wall at a birthday party, like a balloon rubbed on hair.  It surrounds us, this force, I have gotten sparks from my cats’ fur.
But Ah!!  Too soon too soon, descent has begun.  Objects are becoming identifiable and the clouds rub their sides  against my contraption like a horse or a cat will.  Down, lulling quiet, but of course, there is the real concern of suddenly plummeting as a meteor from the sky.  How did pilots see, before gauges and computers?  Insanely inquisitive and brave, those folk, but are we not, too?  To trust and hope that it will work but once again for us; we have been good, have mercy on our pitiful heads.  Descent, a quieting of engines as if we are gliding, a silent paper plane launched and finished with its arc.  Shhh.  Boston Harbor Boston!  The ocean, tides and salt and crabs to nip tender skin. Turbulence nearer ground rattles our container and some human respiration has stopped, held in stasis until the tires hit tarmac.  Turning, banking, ocean wind, Oh Susan, where have you been, I missed you, says Mother Ocean
Hello tiny houses, hello boats, hello dogs that say bahk.  Down and down, lined up with the straightaway.  Engines kick into reverse to slow down into a curtsey and wheels touch and rumble and jeezus it seems we are driving this thing a gazillion miles per hour.  Miss Lady Pilot slams on the brakes and passengers tip forward, praying we don’t crash through the souvenir shop in the terminal.  We slow down amazingly fast, and then ease into Sunday drive look who’s here set another plate speed.  Grass is grass, buildings are buildings and I wait a bit to disembark as my clumsiness usually ends up with some poor victim getting klunked with my carry on.
Everyone is smiling, helpful, and with my Mid Atlantic accent, have pity on me.  I don’t care, I will take all the help I can get and the lovely man who runs the shuttle to the water taxi sees me jump up when he announces “End of the Line!”   I ask if this is the stop for the water taxi, no no no you sit down, I take you there.  This is the end of the line for the subway.  Dokey.  I smile and wave my hand in front of my face, miming that I don’t know where the hell I am.  He smiles, Don’ worry lady, I take you there.  We get to the water taxi stop, and he stands up.  Come on.  He guides me in his thick accent to a stairway leading down to the dock, and waves good bye when he sees I’m on the right track.   Nice fellow, and I told him so.
So there is a battered boat, no sign but there are gold and white checkered flags snapping in the wind while the boat bounces in the bay.   “Is this the water taxi?” I ask, just in case it’s really a pirate ship and I will be abducted (can’t you hear your Mom’s voice in your head? And pirates would lie anyways).  The young man jumps up and says yes ma’am let me help you with your luggage.  Aw.  Sweetie Pie.   The motorboat is enclosed in a plastic cabana and I puddle along as he motors me, the only passenger, perched on the cushion, a rube from the hinterlands thinking “I’m on the ocean!  Whee!”
What a honey, he makes sure I know where I’m going and made a phone call to the station ahead to let them know I’m coming.  It’s a three hour wait, but I have the laptop and here’s a hint for when you travel:  Dunkin’ Donuts does not have Wifi.  So I write this missive and look forward to the next two hour ferry ride if I remember where the hell I put the ticket which is my round trip ticket and if it’s lost, must pay the whole fare again.  Which is a big deal at $85 bucks round trip, and would be one more sign of the missing synapses.  If you see any of mine, mail them back please and I’ll send you a nice, crispy dollar if I remember.
I am excited, my friend from New England told me that they stop raking the beaches on the Cape during the autumn, so alllll the shells and odd little dead animals (carapaced ones, not fish, I’m not that nuts) will be in mounds of washed up seaweed.  It will be a treasure chest of smelly things to sort through, photograph, draw and toss.  Except the shells.  Them’s I’m a-keepin’.
Oh you who dream of connecting machines that compress civilizations and open connective doors, sleep well; searching for answers we are, each of us.  Night tides come and restore us, tell our hearts to lay down for soothing sleep; we put our blankets on the floor so the monsters at the window can’t see us, because of the protective magic of covers.  Covered by Devonian shell or winged metal tube, our talismans allay and battle our fears.  Go fly, in heart or mind, fly and rise above circumstances if only for a moment; pretend it is all right.  It probably already is, so sleep as if your blankets were enchanted cloaks, huddled shells where there is respite and release.  Dream, sweet traveler.  Good night.

Change of Guardian

Today I unpacked belongings and materials in my new room at the new school that I will be at this year, teaching first grade.  After teaching third grade for eight years, these students will seem tiny; tiny I tell you!  They are coming in at five years old.  That's just five years of breathing on this earth, their bodies are not syncopated nor complete, and they spin.  I will try very hard not to scare them, even though I have been told a couple are "runners."

The old school I worked at had moved to a temporary site with all the teacher materials packed up in June; all my stuff went there, so once I found where I was placed, after a week of my name going missing, I went over and sorted out my stuff from what belonged to the school, boxes and boxes of books accumulated over the years and other materials.  Took all damn day.  Told people what side of the room the boxes were in, movers were to come and haul stuff out after I marked the new place on the boxes.

Easy.  Until I got to the school and found that the new teacher mistakenly emptied my boxes and filled her shelves with my materials.  Found a note stating that she went through the cartons to gather District Materials and left me with my personal items.  So, I had to repack all the stuff into about forty boxes, tape and label them again, these alleged 'District Materials' included purchases with my name written in them and a set of 25 Charlotte's Web books.  Find me a district that will buy your class 25 Charlotte's Web books and I will eat my hat.  And anyways, what was with this District business?  I'm still a District teacher, it's not like I was leaving the country.

Thank goodness dear Mr. Mr. got the movers to get my stuff to the new school; that plus 29 other boxed kept at a downtown storage unit made up what I did today; unpack.  The bright and shining spot was that my friend Pauline dropped in from a busy day to help me, God bless that woman.  Smart as a whip and knew where things should go without me telling her.  We got the boxes finished, a very large accomplishment, but I am still behind because of the snafu.  I'll catch up.  This is what told me a story, the unpacking; it is a cobbled story put together by many hands for whom I am forever grateful.

Many items were in small boxes, such as games or flashcards; others were books discarded because the District said the teachers shouldn't use them anymore and to throw them out.  The public would be more than upset to learn just how many educational materials we are told to throw out because they don't meet the new standards of the year, according to whichever book vendor the city purchases from.
Workbooks, instructional books, reading books, fraction games, scientific posters were all handed down to me by generous compatriots through the years.  Today I found that many had the names of the original owner.

I have a sheaf of human body posters and fossil models given to me by Barb Malcolm, her name written on the outside of the flat cardboard box containing them; workbooks and Mailbox magazines from MaryAnn, a fifth grade teacher and science mentor, her handwriting scribbled in pertinent notes throughout the text; books from Linda, paints and holiday materials from Deb; workbooks and art cards from Sue W., math games from Sue H., and storybooks from Sue C.   Dutch shoes, a conch shell, and center materials from Rich; water trays and paintbrushes from Ginny; balances, snowflake patterns from Jane; a survival kit of organizers from Lynn, organized files and  pencils from Joanne; a cactus and books from Barbara Allen; blankets and sheets from Karima so my kids could sit on the grass;  a chalkboard from  Ann;  guppies from Darlene; word wall cards from Amy; a Jeopardy game, a little wooden desk with green legs, and a basket shaped like a duck from Paula and Phil that I use for homework.

I'm sure there is more that will pop up as I unpack further, but these are names that are part of my history and wealth.  There are few people more generous than someone in the education business, especially the folks who have contact with the classroom; believe me, you do not go into this job for the money, there is very little considering the investment in time and finances that is put in, and often must be paid back.  Job security?  Summers off?  Are you kidding?  You have to work to stay afloat at a second job, and are expected to take courses over the summer in preparation for new fall mandates or technological advances.  I have been in a school everyday for the past two weeks, working without pay to get ready for the new year.  And, if you think teaching children is easy, come on in.  You are in for a shock as to what comes out of their mouths or gets thrown at you. It is not a surprise these days, to hear of a colleague being sent to the emergency room for treatment, or for the police to be called to an elementary school.   Last year was the first year that I felt unsafe in my job.  Enrollment at teaching colleges is down, the last I heard, for few want the profession that receives an unfair amount of media and public derision.

We want these jobs for other reasons; to teach the joy of knowledge and the power of critical thinking to children so that when they are adults, they are able to make choices that they have a voice in, and further the good for our community, our earth.  These names I read today as I unpacked reminded me of my friends that I have worked with, and learned from, over the years.  Thank you all for teaching me how to educate a kid, to engage them and meet them halfway.  You are ever in my heart.

I can see the Niagara River from my classroom, and Canada.   The whitecaps on the river today showed the wind coming in from the west, pushing waters high, crashing over the breakwall.  I am water, I flow, break on the surface, and find my own level again.  Good night, sleep well, crash through the wall of dreams; wait and find me, I am still here.  Sleep.

Bat Wings of Desire

I caught a bat today.  Came home after negotiating the immense crowd focused on the harbor concert and was carrying a box of wine in from the car, when I noticed that some of my neighbors sat outside in lawn chairs.  Now, people love to be announcers of the macabre, and the three of them chorused at once "There's a bat!"

I thought they said. "There's a bat!"  Turns out they had.  Bat, bat, mammal flying bat? Workmen had been repairing the overhang all day and had been banging and sawing and probably disturbed the little guy till he flew up the stairwell;  or, alternately, there's a screen with a hole in it somewhere. Yes, a Real Bat they said.  They had called Animal Control, the SPCA, security, and the one man's co-workers.  No official showed up and the four men had tried to catch it for an hour.

"Watch out, 'cause when you move, that's when he starts flying."  Oh good.  They carry rabies, but I was going to operate on the idea that this is just a lost soul who needs assistance.  "Watch your hair," he advised.  I try not to; my hair is a combatant that fights me everyday, we do not have a great relationship.  No matter what, it doesn't stay where I put it, so if that old wive's tale is true (it isn't), the bat is welcome to nest there.  How about your fishing net, I ask fisherman guy.  Left it on the boat.  Rats, but not the end.  What the heck do I have that could catch it safely for release back into the bat wilderness of the city?  Nothing.

Think a think a think.  One of the most useful things on the planet is a wire coat hanger, and every time I need one to unclog a drain, tie up a car muffler, or beat a cat, I swear like a drunk that just fell off the barstool because of Joan Crawford.  "NO WIRE HANGERS," and I agreed with Joan and if there is a wire hanger in this apartment, it is only because it effected temporary escape.  I cussed out Joan Crawford while looking.  My dresses hang on thick IKEA hangers or padded luxury Cadillac hangers with pink ribbons.  Fie!  I shoved and dug through the closet and found a cluster of three wire hangers hanging out at the edge of civilization, clustered like orphans in a storm.  They knew what was coming, that there would be a wire hanger sacrifice.

I grabbed the thing and started backing off from all the swearing by genuinely thanking God for this wire hanger as if he cared, but maybe he does a little because the bat is one of his children.  As if the roadkill and all the little mice caught in traps aren't.  I thank God for the provenance of the hanger and help me catch the thing and not get rabies.  All the eff you Joans disappear, and now it's Praise the Lord; imagine the tv remote switching from a George Carlin retrospective to Davy and Goliath, welcome to my world, it flips that fast.

The hanger gave up easily and shrugged as I bent it into a loop and straightened the hook.  We went into the kitchen, and I got a thin, billowy garbage bag that I stole from school since the roll was almost gone and we were packing up and moving anyways.  The thing floats like gossamer, and is about as flimsy.  I got the big roll of packing tape that splits into shreds when peeling off a length, and the cussing started again,  I paid four dollars for this piece of crap at the post office, you think the government would sell its own people decent tape instead of this ratsin-fratsin klipnagle Friday stuff they shill.  You figure out what ratsin-fratsin klipnagle means, I bet you already know what the Friday word represents.  I got the bag neatly taped to the circumference of the wire hanger.

A pole, I needed a pole, there was no pole.  Ah, but there was a broom and the Lord is sweet, it's a bamboo handle so there is a hollow end to fit the straightened hook into if I folded it in half.  More tape, more praise the goodness of the universe.  The Lord loves me for trying to save a bat.  See?  It's a pattern: swear a blue curtain, praise heaven; swear, praise; swear, praise.  I tire myself out.  But it was a success, and my contraption was ready, but was I?  A shiver ran smartly down my spine, for what if this thing was rabid?  It wasn't behaving erratically, it's solemnly huddled in a corner.  I got leather gloves that I wear when there's a biting cat that needs a fix at either end; oh, my guys love me, no doubt, but if I'm messing with one of their body parts high in the echelon of cat sanctity, they will let me know,  usually with a firm-toothed hand hold.  Have any of my guys deliberately bitten me?  Oh no, no, no.  I know they try very hard not too; we have a deal, they don't bite me, and I don't bite them.  Works.

So I have the broom-garbage bag invention, and leather gloves, keys in pocket, and shut the door so the cats don't get exposed or try to fly up to the ceiling to catch Mr. Bat.  I walked slowly to where he was huddled, I don't know, I don't think bats know if they are he's or she's either, and was making kissy noises.  Here boy.  He's upside down.  No movement at all, I am guessing this is one tired bat after being chased by four men in their late twenties.  I just put the hoop part over it, still no movement, so I pulled down and voila!  There was a bit of fascinating wing flapping, but I yanked the net thing up like I'm grabbing a kid by the arm from running into the street---I'm in Mom-mode---and the bat got caught right in the bottom of the bag and stopped struggling.  I tipped the hoop thing to close the opening, and pushed the elevator button.  Took me fifteen seconds to catch a bat.

While waiting for the elevator, I brought the bat in a bag up to where I can see him.  Tiny little head, cute as pie.  He's not gasping or twitching, and I'm still on his side.  Trotted outside, the neighbors saw the bag and you've got it?  You got the bat?  Right here, right here step right up.  Cell phones came out for pictures, and bat photos will be sent to sons and daughters.  I spied a bush and planned to shake him out where he could hang onto something until he's oriented, but one of the men, a sweetie pie who didn't want to hurt the bat in the first place asked if he can let him go.  Well okay, but I still felt protective and watch the man as he tried to shake the bat out of the bag, but it's hung on with it's claws.  He had to shake a bit roughly, and eventually the bat dropped onto the grass.  The man then gave the Little Brown Bat a nudge and the wondrous wings flapped and lifted, and the bat flew!  It flew off to a low brick building across the street, where I imagine it will rest up a bit after this adventure.  It was beautiful, the scalloped wings arched so neatly, the delicacy of the whole bat machinery.  It was a gift.  Again, the heavens were blessed.

The neighbors and I woofed a bit about bat catching technique and how we were all glad the little thing wasn't hurt, but had flown for safety and another night of bug hunting.  The wire hanger and bag were tossed, the broom and I ascended in the elevator.  I congratulated myself in front of the cats and told them how I saved a bat, and how bats are really neat creatures and they are disappearing because of a white, fatal fungus.  They had not even one eff to give about bats and why hadn't you opened a can of cat food, what else do you think you're good for?  It was a good thing I was down to two wire hangers or there would have been beatings, and I think they would have won.  Can you even buy wire hangers anymore?  They are on the grocery list.

We will sleep while the little bats flutter in crazy zigzags in the night sky, eating bugs and doing bat somersaults.  I love to watch them, but the immense clouds of bats that once came out of far off warehouses that I could watch from my window have dwindled down to a few occasional visitors.
Little winged brown angels, busy doing their bat business while we of the diurnal dream and shift throughout the night.  Sleep and dream, human, dream of wings that let you fly and taste the night sky.
Sleep well, with love.

The Library: Now

Wanting to do research on a topic, I figured the Central Library of this burg was the best bet in scavenging information.  A small, spiral-bound notebook came with me, as did a working pen; I looked forward to solid information, hopefully something on the history of this city from the early 1900s.  Pushing through the door, it was as if I had walked into a big box store with a blue light special.  What on earth?  It turned me into a 80 year old curmudgeon whilst the young people played and scampered about, not one of them holding a book.  Logging in on a computer, you must type in your card number, and then jump through numerous hoops that save No Information meaning you have to type and retype search criteria every time the page flips.  Okay, computer wins, but I found a few numbers to scout for in the stacks.

I get the books and sit at an empty table.  At the computer station at the far end is a mother, wearing a summery outfit, meaning hardly anything, and her young, maybe seven year old son is getting a loud lecture from Craycrayville.  "You can go look around, but if anybody grabs you, you must scream...just scream and scream, do you understand?  Scream my name, scream Mommy, just scream, I want you to do that.  Now go away."  The little boy clung to her a few minutes until he realized she had dissolved into the monitor, and went away, coming back with a few adult books, since the children's section is too far away for any screaming to be heard.  He sat and read and twisted and of course was bored and so started a one sided conversation with his mother, who apparently had promised a trip to a store if He Was Good at the library.  She started talking back to him "No, you can't do that, what's the matter with you, I told you I was busy and have to do this,  the number isn't coming up, where is the number, this computer doesn't work.  Why are you bothering me?"  He manipulated her into a conversation with threats of misbehavior and she fell for it and I thought good for you, kid.  She should have thought this out better.

She got fed up, can't take you anywheres, and dragged him down to the information desk to find out why the computer wasn't working.  A library assistant came over and explained that the computer resets at each page so all she had to do....but she wasn't having any of that. "No, it's broken.  Your computer is broken."  Her boyfriend came up, and she tornadoes her frustrations onto him, loudly.  A small baby begins to squall, nonstop from another computer mother, who is also not ready for this or could care less that the baby needs something.  The couple is arguing, with the man staying fairly calm, but frustrated in a "whaddaya want me to do?  I'll do it, just tell me.." spiraling down into the lost ocean of No Answers To That One, Buddy.  This goes on for twenty minutes less than twenty feet from my ear. Go to the library if you want your blood pressure to hit the kablam an artery stage; what happened to librarians that shushed people?  Probably got shanked and their mouldering carcasses now fill the empty Dewey Decimal Catalogue trays.  

Baby still going, the arguing is fading away and out the door.  Good bye, good bye, I wish you hemorrhoids, lady.  An older gentleman comes and sits diagonally two seats down at the same table as me.  Fedora type hat.  Glasses.  Plaid untucked shirt.  Fine.  He's reading something, some book, I begin again to read mine, and it's fascinating.  Minutes go by.  He stands up, undoes his belt, opens his zipper and sits back down.  What the heck was that?  I am not waiting to find out and slap my book shut, give him the squinty eye, and relate to the information desk that that old guy just opened his pants and maybe keep an eye on him.  The only time a man can open his pants is maybe after Thanksgiving dinner while sitting in the Laz-y-Boy and even then you'd better not be related to me.

One of the books I wanted was not out on the shelves, but was being held out of sight; I made a request; okay, five minutes?  Terrific.  I sat at a farther table to read, and while reading a family gathered, a large Auntie, nieces nephews and Mom.  "HEY C'MERE, C'MERE YOU GOTTA HEAR THIS, SHE KNOWS EVERYTHING ABOUT BEYONCE.  TELL HER, TELL HER, JUST WAIT YOU GOTTA HEAR THIS HAWHAWHAWHAWHAW!!  SEE?  WHAT DID I TELL YOU?  SHE KNOWS EVERYTHING!!!"  My book arrives, I gotta get out of here, the noise is making me craycray.

Self checkout tells me I can't take one of the books out even though it was shelved, I find a librarian who is kind and she pushes buttons on the keyboard to make it all right.  I zip for the door, and notice the quiet outside, even though a Food Festival is going on in front of me.

I cannot imagine libraries staying the same as they were when I was a child, the options and technological advances are immense.   But do we need a cafe?  People were walking around the shelves, drinking sticky stuff with straws.  And of course, the noise.  Kids make noise, babies cry, they just do.  But if you are over nine years old, you could keep it down.  People: 1, Curmudgeon: Zip.

The moon was as orange as a bright slice of cheddar, a thick quarter moon rising at the horizon last night, seemingly larger from the refraction of the atmosphere.  It was lovely, serene, and floated upwards over our confusion and workaday sounds.  A bedtime story moon, a laughing crescent.
Sleep well.

It's the Little Things

We serve breakfast in our classrooms.  There is a rug.  Because these are eight and nine year old children, the rug would like to buy a train ticket for a Pacific coast spa and get the mashed in Trix, milk, and pieces of Healthy! Donut out of the pile.  This is not happening, so the rug lays there, resigned and sad.  Wide swaths of spilled milk, which contains casein, the ingredient in glue, have accumulated microbits of graphite from pencil shavings, sneaker prints, and just plain dirt.  The eight and nine year old children have not mastered the art of eating at a table with YOUR CHAIR PULLED IN so if anything drops it hits the table.  They do not listen to you until you scare the Skittles out of their gizzards.

I have rules.  Four main rules.  1) No talking.  2) Stay in your seat.  3) Follow rules one and two.  4) Get an education.  The rest of life I half expect to take care of itself; house-training, I like to think. But, these are eight and nine year old children who have the minds of Benny the Fish when it comes to getting what they want when they want.  A Morning Procedure Chart announces some of these ideas of mine, such as Put your backpack away.  Get all supplies for the day out.  Have two pencils sharpened.  Put your Homework in the Homework Duck Basket.  Get two Reading books for the day. Get breakfast.  Does any of it happen in order?  Sure, for many of the students.  There are the special little boys and girls, however, That Want Special Directions Everyday because they enjoy being singled out and hearing my voice directed at them and them alone.  That negative attention stuff, sometimes the spoiled rotten wait-on-me stuff.  Wastes class time and makes my blood pressure zing.

So yesterday, I went over the litany.  "Look," I says, says I, "I have had three hours of sleep.  What does this mean?"  They are watching me carefully. "It means that I am not dealing with drama, you are all good thinkers and know how to take care of yourselves.  You know the procedures.  This means, that unless you want me to snatch you all bald-headed (yes, I talk like that), you are thinking very carefully before you raise your hand, because whatever you ask me, the answer will be No.  I do not want to hear Ms. Coburn, can I sharpen my pencil?  The answer will be No.  That should have been taken care of before  8:30.  I don't want to hear Ms. Coburn, can I get my homework out of my bookbag? No.  Can I get a drink of water? No.  He's looking at me.  No.  I'm bleeding and it's a dried up scab from three days ago.  NO.  Nothing.  I don't want to to hear from you unless you are on fire.  Do. you. understand?"  Wiseguy class answering me back:  NO.  They laugh.  I try not to, but end up laughing with them.  They get the message, however, and the day goes somewhat smoothly, meaning only one cafeteria knock down drag out with four of my boys, a few hissy fits with stomping out of the room, and two here you can have my dollar, oops, I want it back now arguments.

This is the first time I will not be working a summer job in seventeen years...not a paid job, per say, but an at home job will be put in motion where I will find out how to sell my art.  And make art, lots of it.  Get faster, more accurate, different mediums, finish projects and learn how to build large canvasses. I'm excited, and am turning the whole place into an art studio, bit by bit.  Even the cats are wearing little berets, and critiquing in Fronch, well ah don' know, what does thees piece say to you, the shading, too much, ne c'est paw?

Today it will be very hot, close to ninety, and perhaps the air conditioner will be liberated.  I have things to do and two weeks left with children crabbing about wiggly teeth, tummies hurting, and he's got my pencils my mom told me not to do my homework.  I will miss most of these students, and look forward to seeing them in fourth grade, taller, and hopefully a bit wiser as they mature.

Sleep well, remember that you were young, so young that you weren't sure of who or where you were, that the world passed by slower, that it took forever for time to go by.   Dream of outside grass and found feathers, of drawing on sidewalks with a piece of broken red brick, of a pair of sneakers that made you run like the wind, a bike, a walk to the library, a secret club.  Remember and pass on the minor truth that some of that joy stays with you forever.  Sleep well, count stars and far-off suns.

Hyenas in Spring

I have written of Stevie before, the large grey cat who drew blood on the vet and two of her technicians at his last visit.  His fangs are faster than fast, with no warning shots fired.  If you're done, you're done, neatly and efficiently.  He has stopped trying to date the blankets on the bed, and has gone back to his bachelor ways, leaving the girls alone since they put him in his place.  He has a new trick, and it is endearing.  This temperamental, dog-sized terror is a mama's boy, a lover, a smoosh who, after four years, is beginning to like me.  

He enjoys drinking from a dribbling bathtub faucet, and as the water streams down, sticks his head directly under it as he drinks.  This means he gets soaked, doesn't seem to mind, one of the oddest cat things I've seen; to rid himself of the wet, he shakes his head and the water goes flying.  But there is another dimension, he then sits himself next to me and waits for me to wipe him off, closing his eyes and tipping his head up in bliss.  Deliberately.  I knew he liked the fussing, but not as a game until I was sitting at the computer and he trotted over, head wet from the tub.  I don't leave it on for him all day; this was Saturday and I was able to sit to read the news before a shower, so the water valve was left slowly dripping.  I grabbed a paper towel, wiped his head with many "Good boys" and went back to the keyboard.  Stevie disappeared, but three minutes later came to me again, his head soaking, waiting expectantly for paper towel adoration.  

I wouldn't think it odd that the cat went back for more water, but he came to me for a drying off; the growling leave-me-alone-dammit cat is letting his inner kitten relax and come out.  He now washes me on occasion, sleeps next to me, and butts his large head into my leg in demonstrative cat affection.  He trusts me, which is a grand award in my eyes, and I trust him, if only a teensy bit more.  Funny things, us critters.

But not as funny as the monkey business going on at the zoo on our third grade field trip.  The kids were enchanted by the peacocks who had the run of the place, and of course, the larger animals.  We traversed the "Rain Forest" building which is a beautifully designed imitation populated by animals in a more natural manner.  It smells to high heaven due to the hot, humid artificial climate working on the  animal urine and feces,which hits you like a bag of nickels.  Woof.  We went, we saw, we scooted out gratefully into the cool spring air and there, and there, Look, LOOK MS COBURN IT'S HYENAS!! The hyena exhibit was directly kitty corner to the Rain Forest Howler Monkey Toilet and they were out in their area, a large, meadow-like romping field displayed through ground to above my head-sized thick, plastic windows.  Large enough for All the Kids to crowd towards.  Look, LOOK THEY'RE PLAYING!! One was chasing the other.  The big one was chasing the littler one.  Hmmm, I thought. This look familiar, and I don't think I be liking it. But, no panic yet.

The littler hyena came running up to the window, u-turned and hit the pedal to the metal back to yonder. The kids squealed in delight; these are children who get excited when they see a Real Bug, so imagine the happiness found in hyenas.  The animals were nipping, jumping, playing, and chasing, ending right up in front of the window, smashing into the window, oh.  Uh oh.  Yup.  The kids went "EEWWW, what are they doing?  Look!  He's eating him!", said as the male clamped onto the female's neck.  A few were choking on raucous giggles, and I said in my teacher voice, Alright, let's go.  Let's go!!  LET'S GO NOW, IT'S LUNCHTIME! And of course you want to eat lunch after seeing that, right?  They were glad to get away from the hyena spring is in the air and up your butt fest, and we went for our packed lunches.

They had fun, got tired and thus crabby with each other and tried to pick little fights.  I was able to herd them onto the bus and we got back to school in enough time to write about the animals we saw.  And what was your favorite, honey?  In the writing journal was a picture of two hyenas, "playing".  Oh, nice.  Thank god she can't draw and so the lumpy bodies and legs made no sense unless you had been there, which I was.  Eew.  I can scan it for you if you like.  

Spring is indeed in the air, and the trees are in blossom; lilacs are out, and the freshness of new growth is running rampant, making u-turns, and chasing itself through yards, parks, and every other growing space.  Rains blow in from over the lake and spin towards the east, spiraling to the next town over.  Sleep well: the hyenas did, I imagine.  Oh, great, good, night. 

Adventure Week

So I sent a package to Tunisia for an Internet friend who can't purchase online because only importers/exporters are allowed charge cards.  She was looking for Buster Keaton media, so I sent her my doubles from items that I had forgotten were already purchased, or were gifts from others.  Wonder how long it will take to get to the other side of the world...Tunisia is squeezed between Libya and Algeria in Northern Africa and faces Sicily across the Mediterranean Sea.  All I know, besides the recent Tunisian Revolution in 2010, is that Star Wars used it as the desert planet, where the Sand People lived.  Now, that is changing as I research the place so I don't sound like an idiot during an email.

The box is wrapped within a box and that puppy is slathered in silver duct tape and insured, still, fingers are crossed that it makes it...should take 6-10 days.  In other adventures, I will be taking some of my artwork to a printer's for the first time in my life...have enough confidence with a finished piece that I showed to an art shop.  Will toss prints for sale onto eBay, the machinations of which are yet a mystery, but it doesn't look like you have to have a finance degree to sell items.  Another new thing to learn.

Had dinner with a friend that I have known since I was nineteen, revelations of intent shook some of the apples out of the tree, and the snake curled further away into its lair while Adam and Eve dined on soup that was made to kill a human or be used as bug spray.  Maybe dessert next time, and I mean dessert like cake, a torte, or ice cream.  Not quite dinner without a sweet after, a glass of sherry; maybe a nice slice of baklava, a flat pan of which I made today to send to DC for the son's girlfriend's birthday.

Today's industry concerns getting the one picture finished up in order to begin the other ideas in my head; not enough hours in the day, but here is a trapeze act: this city is not having summer school this year, my usual job.  The board says there is no money, while the mayor says the place has a surplus.  Should I come up with another job at a private school, or should I stay home and make art?  I know which I would like to do, but giving up that almost two thousand dollars is edgy when the "what ifs" line up in a row and cackle like supervisors at Happy Hour.  But could I make that back in selling drawings?  Be a real, grown-up arteest?  Eek.  We will see, if the above eBay plot spins straw into gold.

It has been a beautiful day with sunshine and spring temperatures, Sundays are one of my favorite days, at least as an adult.  Things need tidying up, that fish tank should be changed, the clown loaches are growing huge; more work could be done on the current piece before the clock turns the calendar into Monday.  A wave of the curtain, and another day enters stage east, to play until darkness returns for repainting scenery, changing costumes.  Sleep well, and look at the new green roiling over fields and lawns, too early to dig in the ground for a garden, still a bit irriguous in texture.

Dream well, dream on.

Taxing, Tithing, and Officialness

Last Minute Mildred, that's me, why do I imagine that it will be worse than any other time I  have done this, which is always.  I could really get into the ins and outs of tax rules and regs, but generally my interest is elsewhere.  Friday the thirteenth, due the fifteenth, better get going.

Now, there was a Great Purge two months ago, and I put things where spaces were assigned, of which there were none, since there is No Storage in here.  But I made room by disposing of Things, and stuffed stuff in drawers, folders, files, and bags for AmVets; tabletops were once again horizontal, the cats could run down the hall to sideways slide on the throw rug and then take off, claws and paws scrabbling furiously in circles like in a Warner Brothers cartoon.  The water bowl at the end has been knocked about several times in sloshy celebration, but I don't want to move it since my oldest remembers where it is, there.  I can identify with her, for everything I  put away has disappeared from the mishmosh organization of my neurons, and I Don't Know Where Anything Is Anymore.

Did I give/throw/recycle it away?  If it isn't in front of me, it is a mystery as to where it is, unless it is an everyday item, but tax forms, well, ha ha ha.  Once a year botherness, so they sat on the dining table for three months until moved to the living area table near the laptop for one month and then were neatly paper clipped together, labeled, and put into the den on top of the large wooden desk.  You would think that being on top of a desk would be safe.  I did.

After thirty minutes of looking for the forms, beginning at the first table to the second table to the desk, then other, out of the way, bizarro places were checked.  I wouldn't have put it in a drawer...maybe?  Or put it in a folder and slid into the bookshelves...nah, I know I wouldn't remember that.  Where the hell are they?  As soon as the swears start, it's time to drag up St. Anthony, my mother, my grandmother, and anyone else who has passed on who likes me to send inspiration to my sabotaging brain.  I looked everywhere, this place isn't that big, not that many drawers: but deadlines, the IRS will get me and yell, NYS will do worse by unscrewing my license plates off my car in the night.  C'mon. c'mon, c'mon!

The cats are helping by taking grand interest in my bouncing around, it looks like I'm doing something potentially fun.   They saunter, leading the way until THEY STOP RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME and sit down so that I have to do a brake, stop and hop over them so I don't step on one.  God forbid.  I shuffle the mail I haven't opened, they help by jumping up to read the return addresses.  I dig through writing papers, dig in the couch, look everywhere three times over and finally begin the Process of Elimination, the only sane way of getting through the Wormhole of Lost Things.

Kitchen: definitely not here.  Entryway: nope, checked table thoroughly twice, looked on floor (Ooh.  Hairball), looked in school bag.  Living area: this took some time for there were three main places that could have held the forms....but nope, nope, and nope.  Eliminated.  Working backwards into the hallway, I could cross off the bathroom, and after checking the pile of books and articles by the bed, the bedroom also.  Only one place left, and that was the den/library, where all necessary papers find solace and eternal sanctuary.  I have paycheck stubs from the seventies.  I will, really.

The place I would have put the tax forms would have been right in front of where I sit, on top of the desk.  Not there, not there, dug through art research, illustrations, and what?  Here was a piece, a form telling of the interest I paid on the student loan.  Elation, curiosity, and conviction that the rest was here somewhere, and hadn't gotten tossed out with the Sunday paper arose.  But it was literally not to be found.  Until the deduction from observing the slanty angle that the research papers were arranged meant that things had gotten knocked over, used as a landing pad for juvenile delinquents in cat fur.  On the floor?  No.  In the wastebasket next to the desk? Yes.  I was conflabbergasted.  My neat little package of forms, still paper clipped, had been the traction under the Flying Wallendas during a hiss I hate you run, a look what I can do performance, a this is my desk get the hell off of my desk swatfest.  Can you imagine the relief?  The on switch for adrenaline returned to normal gauge, and I got down to business.  I wish they could talk sometimes; I would have had those forms in seconds, even if the conversation cost a can of real tuna.

It went well, the Federal is so much easier than the State form, but I owe them nothing and they owe me enough for a downpayment on a car. Or maybe a tv, with enough leftover for a small stash in the account.  Ah life.  I can't blame the cats, because: they are cats.

The light just went out of the sky at 8 p.m., it is lovely that the sun stays later each day, the houseplants at the window stretch in photosynthic glory.  The package of lemon bars was successfully mailed to Washington, DC; three lovely dresses were found for $16 at AmVets, there was time to practice juggling clubs, and the sense of relief that the taxes are done and sent off capped the busy, run-around day.  Son is doing medically well, so far good news and good news.  A quiet night, Kai cat is next to me, a creamy brown ball of ragdoll fur, Siamese coloring.  The others have their niches, and will sleep till about eleven, when some celestial trigger clicks their little cat brains to play King of the Hill till they sack out again around one a.m.

The sky is overcast, there are no stars to be seen, but it doesn't mean they aren't there, as sure as the tides are flowing hundreds of miles away, and Mt. Etna is spewing fire and brimstone.  Our worlds seem enclosed sometimes, but imagine when news only traveled by messenger.  How marvelous discovery must have seemed back then, with magic accorded responsibility for many scientific facts.  Whirl on, world, and bring us to know each other, to understand that time is a human construct, and that eternity exists, as hard as that is for humans to imagine.  Sleep well under the darkness, and bring your memory beyond forms and duty, to a place where animals run and fuss, jump like spring lambs and roar like lions.  Dream and plan, dream and love.  Goodnight.

Spine Sciencea

He's a taller than me man now, this little boy who didn't grow much until the eighth grade; he chipped a tooth playing street hockey and had the frenum under his tongue snipped, but that was the extent of any medical poking about.  Two days ago, he went for spinal surgery to alleviate the pain that has dogged him for nine months in spite of physical therapy.  Apparently simpler than thought, the doctor dug in, shaved the disk, and gave him internal sutures that will dissolve, and glued the outside entry wound shut.  Glued.

Losing only a thimbleful of blood, he has no memory of being given anesthesia and of being in the operating room just dimly.  No counting back from one hundred, no you're-gonna-love-this happy shot before to soothe nerves, he was done in under an hour, the surgeon's first of the day.  So a fairly routine operation, seemingly successful, and I made lemon bars to send to DC.

Did you know that the spinal cord doesn't go all the way down to the tailbone?  Not me, I thought spine was spine, but the cord ends about five vertebrae up, above the lumbar region.  Yay!  I mean it.  Less chance of dire results, faster healing, and an easy repair to the recalcitrant disk, all pluses.  After what I went through to get this kid, any spinal disk with attitude will be dealing with an angry mother, his angry girlfriend, and other upset people; I am surprised the thing didn't turn tail and run from the negative vibes we sent.  But, as anything, it is what it is.

I remember when having him, the blessed relief of that numbing shot that went right into my own spine; I had to sign a paper during contractions stating that in case of paralysis, i wouldn't sue anyone because there were chances of that happening.  By that time, however, I would have let them inject me with heroin capped with plutonium if it would have made the pain go away.  I was goofy, giggling, and found out years later that that is part of the opiated plan; I had always felt bad that I was a laughing hyena while the doctors, two men, struggled to get him out...he was stuck and one held the gurney, while the other's arms shook with the tension of getting this kid out of my then size 4 hips.  They put something in the shot that makes you goofy.  I thought I was being callous, I was dancing over meadows of bright flowers in my mind, and my baby had the cord wrapped around his neck, facing backwards, and damn near had his head pulled off with the salad tongs.  I wonder who the brave person was to take the first experimental shot into the cord.  Bless you.

Now he is recovering tentatively, some residual pain seems to be lingering, that should go.  The relief that medical procedures have advanced to take care of things like this plays counterpoint to the idea that my child was cut into, my Buzz.  Yet how many parents face it everyday with young ones, sometimes repeatedly; it is a heart-catching roller coaster of hell's curves and our family has been spared that.  He has been given Valium and Percoset for pain and is weaning off of them already.

You only want good things for your children, but when an obstacle is thrown their way, you feel an amount of pride in the manner that they handle it.  He has been sleeping well, and has permission to walk, which he can, shuffling.  Not allowed to lift a gallon of milk or bend for the toilet seat.  Can take stairs slowly, but shouldn't lean over to spit toothpaste.

The air has been chilly and damp with rain that changes to hail, oddest sound when driving in a car and the ice pellets hit the windshield and metal.  You feel like you're in a salt shaker.  It's been lovely for sunsets, for the clouds are all fiery reds and magentas deepening to purples before scudding over the far lake to the west, into darkness.  Sleep, then, count your fingers and toes no matter how many or not.  You are alive, you are here, and there are those of us that love you so.  Sleep well, goodnight.

Corporate Enthusiasm: None for You!!!

Paying for groceries at a local chain was no more difficult than the rest of the morning, the not too unusual refusal of my card happens at this store from time to time, a swipe of a different debit card from the same account works.  Went to what used to be Wilson Farms for the ATM, and there was a man ahead of me whose card was denied.  New store ownership, new ATM, no big deal, until my card was also spat back.  He and I kibbitzed a bit about what the heys, and went on; again the debit card got the cash out.

Got home, went online, oh gosh, here's the book I wanted at a good price...let's go!  Later on when checking email, there was the standard Oh! Wonderful member!  Thank you for your purchase!!   We are so proud that you use Amazon!!! Fish be jumpin', anna cotton be high!!!  Exclamation points were effusive as a terrier in the kitchen with Mom slicing ham! for sandwiches!!  Arf! Arf! Arf!!!  Well.

Roughly twenty minutes later, another email appeared Regarding Your Recent Purchase.  Concern was draped liked funeral crepe; how was this evident?  Something had changed tone, and by gum, there it was: not one exclamation point was employed; not one happy word was floating amid the wash of serious "We're worried about you." "Your card was denied you wandering idiot."   "Your refrigerator is running, you better go catch it." "Did you leave the States for Al-Qaida?" The terrier had become a bear with a sore ass.

Hmm.  I checked the pile of teetering mail and alakazam, there was a notice from the Higher Mucky-Mucks that someone may have tried to buy stuff with my account number, so they shut down the Merry-Go-Round.  Go talk to your people at the credit union.  Sure.  Checked balances, nothing was amiss, yet I felt guilty for not receiving exclamation points.  Talked to the nice folks who said seven to ten days for another card to be issued, so get used to using paper money for the next week.  My book order was canceled by the online folks, as I was not going to provide an alternative account number; for what happened here is the same thing that occurred two years ago.

Every once in a while a hacker breaks into the company's database of numbers, which means hundreds of thousands of people who use one of the networks listed on the back of the card are losing their exclamation points.  The banking systems necessarily shut down the whole kaboodle, and you do a little footwork to regain standing.  Secret codes and cards are sent separately to avoid mailbox thievery, and I now have the code, just waiting for the plastic.  And, my reinstatement into Punctuationville, where happy dogs play, boys and girls grow, and Mr. Rogers is still alive.  

You just wait, I know there will be a thrilled email that makes me feel part of a gang of upstanding smart people who buy books and listen to NPR.  Watch out for us, we'll steal your library card for folding down page corners, we BookVulture BadAss Renegade Traditionalists.   Kindles are put in burlap bags with bricks, and slung into the river.  Go read something that you have to turn pages with, not on an energy-sucking device that goes off when the battery dies.  Oh, reverse snobbery, thy name is Dr. Seuss.

I read before bed, I read upon waking.  I buy stuff using plastic not paper, so there goes the above paper book rant down the tubes.  When night comes I allow myself time to wind down unless the script sucks me in like a vortex of print, then it becomes a one-more-page torture way past a reasonable hour to turn in, thus making the next day a zombie stagger of semi-consciousness.

The winds blew in yesterday, clocked a gust at 69 mph.  Coming back into the building, swirls of paper litter spun in small tornadoes, some were pages of office work, some were food wrappers, all with print, all with stories.  I was glad to get in the door, for I was being sassily smacked by this sideways paddlewheel of whirling debris, as if the Concerned book company had arranged this paper fray.  The cats were glad to see me, and the darkness became illuminated by lamps.  I sat and drew, turned in early, so glad to see the stillness of the room, no blankets flapping, no clothes hangers whipping circular.
Nothing like being able to turn in and let sleep come, riding a dreamhorse till dawn. Good night.

Sleep, Thou Elusive Elf, Where Are You?

The brain has been clicking on at 4 a.m. into a Hi There! awakeness that causes lax judgement and naps later in the day.  I dislike naps, what a waste of daylight and afterwards I still stagger about in a thick-headed stupor.  Better to plunge on, and make myself get through the hours but lord, I am tired.  After my fighting with not sleeping, the cats come in with breakfast requests and since they dislike each other for the most part, belt whomever is within slapping distance.  I become an airport take-off launch site when they run me over in their pissed-offedness.

I have been getting the place ready for the sometimes annual apartment inspection, mostly done for checking smoke alarms.  Some managements want windows washed, others look for snuck in extra appliances such as a dishwasher, freezer or air conditioner; too many people, pets, or boxes of stuff will get you a checked box in the troublemaker column.  It depends if the folks inspecting are the maintenance crew, who care less about anything but the alarms and drippy faucets; or management from the office, who rate their job security by the number of infractions reported.  I hold my breath in hopes that a few of the cats hide; I wait, fiddling by organizing files on the laptop.

Right at five minutes after the alloted time, a very tall lady is at my door with a clipboard; she is gracious and asks me to show her that my stove will turn on.  Most of the cats did not take off, three are visible if you look hard, for they are sleeping.  It's the ambassador that surprises me, the Tasmanian Twitch, Stevie.  He walks his big self up to the lady and looks up expectantly, I shoo him, he comes back, I shove him, he returns, apparently in love.  "I'm a dog person, mostly," says the inspector lady and Steve body blocks her by plopping down at her feet, a large barrier of anticipation.

This is the cat who drew blood on one vet and two technicians the last time we visited for his annual check-up.  Declawed in an earlier life, he has the speed and mercy of a cobra, and uses his fangs for random destruction of human life, especially the human who wants to give him a shot or check his liver with a tummy squish.  Now, he is Mr. Personality educated by charm school, and goes limp when I try to drag him off to the side.  She steps over and asks how many cats do I have?  Three, I have three (five).
Two of the others are sleeping in the living area, one in a box and Min up on her shelf; the other two have spirited themselves away--Tulip will never visit with people, yet I am surprised that Kai, who usually comes out tail up, is hiding also.  My stomach crosses its fingers, hoping they stay put.

I need three smoke alarms and a faucet tightened, the rest looks good, she says,  Whew, hoping that this is goodbye, I soon find it ain't.  She loves plants and asks if I would mind giving her a clump of the sansevieria when I divide it.  Sure sure, thank you sooo much g'wan get outta here, I feel luck is being pushed regarding the cat population, and want. her. to. go.  However, she shows me why she has a job that is mostly talking to people, for I hear about her daughter's dog, her own  plants, oh look another kitty (Min on her shelf) (yes she's my oldest), and the inspector wonders is it 3 years or 4 for every human year and how old would that be?  Go, go on, get the hell out of my apartment, lady.

I step out of her way and turn towards the door, but she doesn't move.  The creeping suspicion that maybe she is stalling to see if any other cat comes out raises a small warning cry, for who else would have four cat boxes except for someone who has five cats?  I'll bring you those plants and some clippings down to the office Monday I say as casually as I can, and thank heavens, her one leg moves forward in the direction of Out.  The other leg co-operates, follows through with a full swing but then she pivots back at the open door.  I know an extended version of goodbye is gonna pour forth.  It does, but not as long as I expect, thank you thank you, close and turn that lock.

Now I am beginning to feel the past few night's lack of sleep, and have stopped the caffeinated tea by four o'clock.  What a comfy night, it feels so good to have passed inspection and the adrenalin is ebbing back to a long ways from shore.  The cats are all out, curling after their dinner into balls of snooze, and I am tapping here on the keyboard in grateful stasis.  Now I can turn back to drawing, and plan on hitting up the art store tomorrow for glassine paper to protect the pastel works in progress.  Strong winds are causing the building to sway, told by the ornament hanging from one cupboard door handle for it sways and hits the door, ringing metallic like a faraway bell.

You sleep well for me, if I don't.  I lay awake and think of things like x-rays, what if the building could be x-rayed while we slept, revealing scores of horizontal skeletons stratified in rising layers up to the occupants of the top floor, how fascinating that would look.  We would see our bone structures rising, walking in space, doing routines invisible except for our white, ghostly skeletons going through the motions.  My skeleton will soon be laying flat, surrounded by three plus two cat skeletons while fishy skeletons swim in their tank.  Tomorrow I shall turn back into a true human; tonight I rattle and writhe in ossified happiness.  Good night, sleep peacefully, you passed.




Maintenance will come by when I am at work, and because they are men with noisy, bangy tools, I know most everyone will duck and cover.

Life, Sliced

Have you ever opened a shut dresser drawer to find a living thing taking a nap, now perturbed for the intrusion of its catfort?  I scared the jeebus out of myself more than the little cat, who earlier had crawled into the middle drawer while I folded clothing.  Fine, check the drawer, no cat, shut it, go on to the next event.  Hours ago.

Now it was nighttime, and I wanted my pillow after a day of intensive cleaning and hauling things such as the television to the trash room.  Toddled into the bedroom and thought, say, instead of the usual t-shirt why don't I put on a pair of real pajamas?  Like regular people do.  I pulled the bottom drawer open and there, stretched out in a long sausage of cat fur, was Kai.  Totally knocked out and very warm from the closed in cave she had flipped into.  This feline Houdini must have squirmed into the lower drawer while the upper was half-open, and thank all gods she didn't lose her tail when the thing was shut closed.  By me.  

I jumped, and I am sure the neighbors heard me yelp, almost as much as even earlier in the day with a different drawer in the Same Dresser.  Digging through the sock drawer, I found a medium-sized black plastic box.  What the hell is this?  I save all sorts of things for grandiose, waste-not usage, and this summer was filled with crises and confusions, so some of my memory is wandering down the street after escaping the attendant cerebellum.  What the h--GOOD GOD, IT'S MY MOTHER!!!  I totally forgot that I placed her ashes there after keeping them in a cupboard next to the Harvest Spice melty wax tablets you put in a candle potpourri.  Dad, when alive, kept her on top of the tv with a note taped to the box, as if anyone had a question.  

Someday she'll be interred, I loved her more than more, but I don't want her here.  I guess I thought the dresser, which originally had been hers, was more appropriate even amid socks.  Dorothy Mae.  I told her that I was sorry to forget that she was put there, and pushed the container more to the back, next to an ancient photo album of her and her family when she was four.  She's okay with it, she'd let me know; however, the dresser is out to get me.  I am not opening it again for awhile, excuse me please if I wear the same clothes three days in a row.  Cats and ashes.  No wonder I take meds.  

Dusk stayed beyond its boundaries this evening, holding the sky in a translucent deep blue until half past six.  Spring is a month off, and even though winter has been milder than usual, it will be good to see green shoots pushing towards sun and sky.  One more chore before I can sit and think of things to make with paper, pencil, sticks of color; darker pigments become an evening sky behind human shapes, allowing skin to glow as if it were lit by fire inside, emotions arcing across the map of night.  Meteor showers forecast; incandescent minerals, heated and arrow true.   Good night.

Fuzzy-Wuzzies

Having received many an email that litanies happy stuff that "makes you smile," I have composed my own list of personally relevant tidbits of warm fuzzies.

I hope it makes you smile when...
1. The cat throws up on the linoleum instead of the carpeting.
2. Children jerk in their seats when you enter a classroom.
3. You find enough change in the couch cushions for doing laundry.
4. Maybe you found some potato chips down there, too.
5. The cauliflower you bought has become a puddle in the fridge and you are happy because now you
         don't have to cook it.
6. You are too old to care about shaving your legs before wearing shorts.
7. You found something you thought had been thrown away, and you then save it for another three years
         until you think you threw it away again.
8. You remember the time that you peed your pants in the cafeteria from laughing hard your senior year
         in high school, and realize that when they say, "You'll laugh about this someday," they are lying.
         You were wearing a brown corduroy skirt at the time.  The school nurse sends you home, but your
         mother makes you go back after you change.
9. You retain your integrity by not sleeping with the car mechanic who speaks little English but asks you
         if you are dating anyone even though you briefly think it might reduce your bill.
10. You get a midnight phone call that is a wrong number.  Anyone you know calling at that time can
         only have bad news or needs a ride home.
11. The homemade cookies make it through the mail, but are so mooshed they have become a new
         substance even the dog won't touch.
12. You have to hold the hand of a child so they don't hurt anyone or run out of the building.
13. You watch the expression on someone's face when they absolutely hate your gift but are struggling
          to say something nice about it. Their jaw moves for a good five seconds before any sound comes
          out.  Ten, if the gift is a set of plastic monkey patio lights.
14. You laugh for absolutely no reason and realize that means you took your meds that morning.
15. You have plenty of Purell in your purse.

Keep sending them, folks.  They do make me smile.  Goodnight.

More Soup

I am rich and set for at least two weeks of No Cooking, for in the freezer are 6 large containers of various soups.  Nothing like a quick meal scooped into a bowl and there you have protein, vegetables, and few carbs without digging through pots and pans and cripes, the ending sink full of dishes.  One bowl, one spoon, The End.  Less time eating means more time doing fun stuff.

Cream of mushroom made with cremini, shiitake, and the ubiquitous Agaricus bisporus, the grocery store mushroom is concentrated forest, woods, and earth with a cup of real cream and butter.  Eat one mushroom a week to sustain a healthy immune system, it's like taking a capsule of alternative medicine hooha except it's just a mushroom.  Not to scoff at the health food shop, lord knows they have gotten a few bucks from my wallet, and I would say most of it worthwhile.  Most.  Read the labels and do research, and you'll be fine.

Next is a container of chicken vegetable made with lovely chunks of chicken thigh, whose dark meat contains more vitamins, fat and calories as it is the weight-bearing muscle of the bird that practices endurance.  It has lots of a protein called myoglobin, which promotes iron and oxygen binding as the muscle works.  You try to catch a chicken, or maybe as a friend of mine has, run from a crabby one.  They are elusive, determined, and fast.  The white meat of a chicken tastes like wet cotton to me; it is found in the anatomical areas that need quick bursts of power, as in the muscles that sustain respiration in birds that mostly live on the ground.  A bird that flies more, such as a duck, will have dark meat throughout since the chest muscles are responsible for wing movement and need the capacity for distance.

I always have a supply of squash-carrot soup, the simplest of recipes: butternut, carrots, a bit of chicken stock and a can of coconut milk.  Next to that is a chili that is thin enough to qualify as soup.  Cans of tomatoes, three types of beans, raisins, ground beef, a few chocolate chips, garlic, oregano, cumin, chili powder, sometime pumpkin seeds if I have them, lots of onions, and a can of corn.  Rinse off all the canned items in a colander to eliminate sodium, but do put a small sprinkle of iodized salt in the mix.  Recent findings in thyroid science point to an interesting iodine deficit in areas of the country in love with sea salt, which has none added.  I stick with Morton's.  Cheaper, too.

We haven't had an iodine problem in this nation for years, since they started putting it in the salt; all this touchy-feely sea salt trend may be fun to play with, but if you are experiencing general lethargy, try going back to iodized salt.  I know, I know, "general lethargy" is a dopey term that blankets a lot of anything, but then again, iodine may just be the fine tuning you need.

There was a ham bone in the fridge and a half-bag of dried beans in the cupboard.  Tossed them together after an overnight soaking of the beans and then simmered on low for about two hours before adding onion, celery, and carrots.  If you add tomatoes, wait until the beans are soft or you are out of luck; the acid from the tomatoes (or lemon or wine) stops the cooking process and the beans will be like pellets of mockery swimming throughout the remaining deliciousness.

Lastly, a package of turkey backs had an attractive price of $1.76.  You can't find that nowadays, so it was quite the prize to bring home.  Tossed into the crockpot, the meat fell off the bone by the time work ended, and I finished making the soup with a short cup of jasmine rice, red peppers, carrots, onion, and celery, a cup of cream and a boullion cube.

Any soup tastes better the next day, and the whole idea of not having to cook from scratch is plenty attractive as well.  And I like making soup.  In another incarnation, I made soup every weekday in a basement kitchen for a cafe in Chicago.  People came in for my soup, it jazzed up the rather bland turkey sandwiches on pumpernickel or the mid-seventies spinach salad with mushrooms, hard boiled eggs, and canned bacon bits.  I got to try recipes and whittled the list to the favorites, some of which I still make: familiar gumbo, mulligatawny, tomato rice with mushrooms, a beef barley with dill pickles.  On the odd side were a spinach-ham-yogurt concoction, a tomato and oatmeal soup, a bread soup, cock-a-leekie with prunes, and kim chee with cucumbers.  My soups made you strong to face the day, still do.

Night time, pots put away, bowls washed, spoons in the drawer.  I drew a sketch today, first in a long time; I was pleased with it, hope the person who receives it is also.  This week shall be spent, at least in intent, on returning to drawing.  I have a tattoo to design for a friend, and many ideas for personal work that will be abetted by soup in a bowl as I push and pull pencil and color into human forms.  Sleep well, I tell you, my plants are stretching towards the window with small new growth, a sign of longer light during day.  Spring is closer than it is further.

 The light is welcome, for the dark winter shutters more than shortened sun in this latitude, and the nights have been exceptionally bleak without snow to reflect the moon or street lamps.  Still cold though, so pull up the blankets as you tuck in, check the animals, and turn out the lights, to let yourself float on pillowed dreams.  Good night.

Swearing

I hadn't found my real keys in three days, meaning that the mail in the pigeonhole mailbox was building and maybe the mailman thought I was passed out on the bathroom floor. The duplicate key doesn't fit, and should be tossed, even though when I hold the two together, the teeth seem to match.

You know the routine. Dig through the pockets of the last clothing worn.  Excavate the bottom of the purse.  Shake the coats.  Toss blankets, lift cushions, clear papers.  Then, then in guilt because you left Catholicism over twenty years ago when religion became another fence to jump, you humbly say a prayer to St. Anthony, finder of lost things.  I have a medal of him hanging from the rearview mirror, for him to help me not lose my mind.  Serious.  One last plunge into the purse.

Nope, nope, nope; the three main pockets do not hold anything resembling the clunk of keys I want.  It hasn't been thirty seconds since asking St. Anthony for help that I then think a swear word.  Not the worst of them, but a damning one.  God damn it.  Goddamit!!  Where are those keys!? My hand goes into a little used back pocket of the purse and as my fingers coil around the errant cluster of keys, I feel my face redden for the swear, especially after my faithless request.  Brother.

I am happy and relieved to find them, and really, swearing is a great way to blow off steam; just not right after prayers.  How did "God damn it" get such a reputation?  God, the Cosmos, the Big Cheese is certainly not going to listen to some frustrated human and send down a lightning bolt of justice against whatever you're crabbing about.  Can you imagine?  No one would be left alive, for all the goddaming that goes on worldwide.

What about the other words, the derogatory, sexualized ones?  Personally, I don't care much for them and find them more insulting to the person using them, pointing out a weak vocabulary used as an excuse for brain.  Nah.  The stuff that gets me going has a name, blatherskate.

To blather comes from a root word, "bledh" that went to "bladder" and then to "blather" meaning "to blow" as in blowhard.  Skate, also found in the word cheapskate indicates a mean, contemptible person, related to the fish.  You can use the word as blatherskite, but they both mean nonsense, codswallop, taradiddle and tommyrot.

Here's an example, wonderful for when you drop a dish whereby you can cuss out the dish for being recalcitrant: "You bleeding horse's ass, if I were walking down the street and saw you coming, I'd cross before our paths met.  You thin-skulled fool thing, die and make the crows a pudding".  Then spout out a string of dammits, and you feel better.  Anyways, of course you realize that everything is transient, so a broken dish, even if it were grandma's bone china from before the Hungarian Wars, is just a broken dish.    Get rid of it, make art from the shards, or try gluing it back together.  

It's late, and I've been awake since 3:30 a.m., just couldn't get back to sleep.  Time to get to bed, enough of trying to stretch out the weekend; I'm getting dull and thickheaded.  Hey.  I heard that.  Tuck under covers and fall into Dreamville, where there are no monsters under the bed.  I'm here, things are fine.  Good night.

Alien Invasion Cake Day

Lookit the birds!!  This was a communal shout from the kids in the front row, who get to watch Uncle Squirrel come and eat peanuts that we strew outside for him.  Maybe it's Auntie Squirrel.  One child asked, How do we know if it's an Uncle?  The wise child next to him said, I don't wanna look.  But there was also an immense winter flock of starlings picking through the dormant grass of the park outside the school, at least three hundred birds needling their beaks amongst the flattened blades in search of sleeping beetles.

They had swooped down in a flowing wave of dark brown bodies, you've seen them as they rise and fall, or spiral in the sky.  It's a survival technique not used during summer.  When clustered to roost inside a pine or hedge at night, the collective body heat can raise the surrounding temperature a few degrees.  Think of being in a room with many people, and how you are suffocating from stuffiness in about 30 minutes.  There you go.

Where do they come from, where do they go, why are there so many, wish I had my Dad's gun, (cripes), what are they doing?  So much for the vocabulary words I was listing on the board.  I figured a five minute briefing on animal habits was okay, for how many urban kids get that excited about wildlife?  These are the kids who go bananas if they find a bug outside, these are the kids whose foot you have to stop from squashing said insect.  I think this squirrel feeding is raising some sort of awareness, at least that is the hope of the bigger world.

Starlings, so many.  An invasive species that pushed out many native songbirds, introduced from only 80 birds in 1890.  Earlier, to keep nostalgic European immigrants happy, the house sparrow was introduced in Cincinnati, Ohio and have become so ubiquitous, many humans have no idea that they are non-native birds.  Robins, bluebirds, finches, chickadees, thrushes, martins and song sparrows have been displaced by these tough, aggressive little things.

The yellow butter-and-eggs flowers that resemble tiny snapdragons are not originally from here, but then neither is any livestock except for llamas, American bison, and turkeys.  Apples are from China, tomatoes from South America, but mostly only grow where cultivated.  Nothing ever stays the same, so we might as well get used to it, with an eye to controlling future exchanges.  We received Dutch Elm Disease, we gave Europe grey squirrels and poison ivy.

Going on, it's to be a baking day just right with the snow coming down in a few half-hearted flumphs here and there, melted by tomorrow's predicted warm temperatures. Global warming may very well displace many species we are used to seeing, replacing them with more moderate climate organisms.  Like those big mosquitoes and bigger spiders.  No thenk yew.

Well, now to the Lemon Syrup Cake for someone's 33 birthday, a good boy become a good man Who Could Live a Little Closer to His Family and Furthermore Ask Her to Marry You Already.  I don't think he reads this blog, but a wish is a wish that may knock him in the head.

Treat each other well, it will reflect in your dreams, and bring your cakes to rising heights.