Thursday, May 14, 2020
The Obituary
was of a person
known
yet now
unknown to me
who seemed to
live
a solo life
until
that magic meeting
with a childhood friend
all memory
of decades
between
erased
enveloped
in a sea
of tears
and waves
of sudden
separation
flotsam forgotten
Saturday, March 7, 2020
Distracted Hiking
I trudge up the trail, inhale crisp spring air, admire deep green fields below. I feel the crunch of gravel under my feet, hear the squawk of a blue jay. How amazing to be alive!
I’m also amazed at how many fellow hikers wear headphones or earbuds and spend their hike in conversation with someone invisible to me, someone not here!
On my descent, a teenage boy passes, eyes down, glued in admiration . . . to his iPhone!
Near the base, I meet up with Jeff. He hikes here nearly every day, usually by himself. Everyone knows him; he calls each by name. I’m pleased he remembers mine.
He reminds me to accept the choices made by others – everything from the redesign of Hayward Field (for the next generation) to my recent choice to continue hiking alone. You’re an athlete, he says. You need to set your own pace.
Yes! Keep my focus on my experience: this morning, this day, this life!
Thanks, Jeff.
I’m also amazed at how many fellow hikers wear headphones or earbuds and spend their hike in conversation with someone invisible to me, someone not here!
On my descent, a teenage boy passes, eyes down, glued in admiration . . . to his iPhone!
Near the base, I meet up with Jeff. He hikes here nearly every day, usually by himself. Everyone knows him; he calls each by name. I’m pleased he remembers mine.
He reminds me to accept the choices made by others – everything from the redesign of Hayward Field (for the next generation) to my recent choice to continue hiking alone. You’re an athlete, he says. You need to set your own pace.
Yes! Keep my focus on my experience: this morning, this day, this life!
Thanks, Jeff.
Wednesday, February 19, 2020
House of Mirrors
Mirror, mirror on the wall . . .
My condo was built in 1978. I bought it in 2016 and have made numerous updates since. But the mirror in the master bath was original until now.
I found a round mirror in the right size and asked a friend to help remove the old one. We both laughed at the wall beneath – still the original mustard yellow! I couldn’t wait to cover it with the soft gray of the rest of the room.
Sometime during this project, I started counting mirrors.
Let’s see. I have a full length mirror, two medium-sized decorative mirrors and a couple smaller ones in the master bedroom. One is hung to reflect the painting of Simone, my precious last cat.
The guest room sports one full length mirror and a round wall mirror with weird wire framing.
The master bath has an oval mirror in addition to the one over the sink; the half-bath, a rectangular mirror with double beveled edges.
An antique round mirror with elaborate gold frame provides my out-the-door check point. It used to hang over my parent’s fireplace.
My computer space has two decorative mirrors, though I rarely look into them.
A large mirror pretends to be a window in my living room.
There are two mirrors in my kitchen – part of my attempt at feng shui.
And finally, even my laundry room has its very own mirror!
Have you been counting? I had to do three passes through the house to come up with the correct number (17) and even then, missed the tiny mirror in that ‘sun/moon’ from Mexico!
Why so many mirrors? I mean, I have south-facing windows across the living room. But much of the rest of the house gets no direct light. Mirrors give depth. When we took the mirror out of my bathroom, it felt as though the wall had moved in two feet, the room made eerily smaller.
And light. Mirrors give light – or the illusion of it. While I’m not constantly aware of all those mirrors, I believe they lighten my mood and expand my vision.
Mirror, mirror. Maybe I have enough. Or maybe just one more . . .
My condo was built in 1978. I bought it in 2016 and have made numerous updates since. But the mirror in the master bath was original until now.
I found a round mirror in the right size and asked a friend to help remove the old one. We both laughed at the wall beneath – still the original mustard yellow! I couldn’t wait to cover it with the soft gray of the rest of the room.
Sometime during this project, I started counting mirrors.
Let’s see. I have a full length mirror, two medium-sized decorative mirrors and a couple smaller ones in the master bedroom. One is hung to reflect the painting of Simone, my precious last cat.
The guest room sports one full length mirror and a round wall mirror with weird wire framing.
The master bath has an oval mirror in addition to the one over the sink; the half-bath, a rectangular mirror with double beveled edges.
An antique round mirror with elaborate gold frame provides my out-the-door check point. It used to hang over my parent’s fireplace.
My computer space has two decorative mirrors, though I rarely look into them.
A large mirror pretends to be a window in my living room.
There are two mirrors in my kitchen – part of my attempt at feng shui.
And finally, even my laundry room has its very own mirror!
Have you been counting? I had to do three passes through the house to come up with the correct number (17) and even then, missed the tiny mirror in that ‘sun/moon’ from Mexico!
Why so many mirrors? I mean, I have south-facing windows across the living room. But much of the rest of the house gets no direct light. Mirrors give depth. When we took the mirror out of my bathroom, it felt as though the wall had moved in two feet, the room made eerily smaller.
And light. Mirrors give light – or the illusion of it. While I’m not constantly aware of all those mirrors, I believe they lighten my mood and expand my vision.
Mirror, mirror. Maybe I have enough. Or maybe just one more . . .
Thursday, February 13, 2020
RATS!
I stopped mid-sentence, mouth agape and watched it race down the hall, dash into my bathroom.
Yikes! A rat, I said, and clicked end on my phone.
I scurried to my neighbor’s in need of moral support. We’ve known there are rats around since her dog alerted her to one on her patio. We live next to the Delta Ponds. But inside?!
In a way, though, it was a relief. For several weeks I had ‘seen’ movement in my peripheral vision. But each time, when I looked - nothing there.
Well, at least I’m not losing my mind. Or my vision.
My neighbor loaned me her trap and some peanut butter. I set it in my kitchen that night.
Next morning, the trap was sprung, empty . . . and the peanut butter devoured! Clever little beasts.
Thus began a campaign to block all potential entry points. Steel wool and duct tape over the obvious spots. A few days went by. Then one morning there were two piles of confetti – one by the kitchen sink, one by the cabinets opposite. I was puzzled, because this wasn’t paper and I couldn’t think what I might have dropped there. I vacuumed it up.
Next day, a smaller pile by the sink. I peered under the cabinet doors and saw the gnawed plastic baseboard molding! There’s a gap between the bottom of the cabinet and the baseboard. They were making a new entry!
Oh, rats! I exclaimed, feeling a bit like Charlie Brown, bamboozled again - and by actual rats!
More steel wool. More crannies stuffed. More duct tape.
My neighbor and I share a wall and the crawl space. Fortunately, we’re good friends. And she hates rats. We needed a Rat Patrol and it wasn’t going to be us.
Her daughter recommended a company.
We scheduled an inspection. They sent a guy to set traps and seal the holes in foundation vents and other entry points.
He checked the traps a week later. I asked if they caught any.
Nope, he said. They’re smart. They bump the trap, it springs. They eat the peanut butter.
Somehow, I felt better. And not about the rats. Even professionals fail.
Footnote: eventually, five rats trapped, no more gnawing or scurrying inside! Yay!
Yikes! A rat, I said, and clicked end on my phone.
I scurried to my neighbor’s in need of moral support. We’ve known there are rats around since her dog alerted her to one on her patio. We live next to the Delta Ponds. But inside?!
In a way, though, it was a relief. For several weeks I had ‘seen’ movement in my peripheral vision. But each time, when I looked - nothing there.
Well, at least I’m not losing my mind. Or my vision.
My neighbor loaned me her trap and some peanut butter. I set it in my kitchen that night.
Next morning, the trap was sprung, empty . . . and the peanut butter devoured! Clever little beasts.
Thus began a campaign to block all potential entry points. Steel wool and duct tape over the obvious spots. A few days went by. Then one morning there were two piles of confetti – one by the kitchen sink, one by the cabinets opposite. I was puzzled, because this wasn’t paper and I couldn’t think what I might have dropped there. I vacuumed it up.
Next day, a smaller pile by the sink. I peered under the cabinet doors and saw the gnawed plastic baseboard molding! There’s a gap between the bottom of the cabinet and the baseboard. They were making a new entry!
Oh, rats! I exclaimed, feeling a bit like Charlie Brown, bamboozled again - and by actual rats!
More steel wool. More crannies stuffed. More duct tape.
My neighbor and I share a wall and the crawl space. Fortunately, we’re good friends. And she hates rats. We needed a Rat Patrol and it wasn’t going to be us.
Her daughter recommended a company.
We scheduled an inspection. They sent a guy to set traps and seal the holes in foundation vents and other entry points.
He checked the traps a week later. I asked if they caught any.
Nope, he said. They’re smart. They bump the trap, it springs. They eat the peanut butter.
Somehow, I felt better. And not about the rats. Even professionals fail.
Footnote: eventually, five rats trapped, no more gnawing or scurrying inside! Yay!
Monday, December 30, 2019
LITTLE WHITE DUCK
Christmas Day at the Delta Ponds
I hear them and quack my response from the path. They float to the pond edge: a small white duck surrounded by mallards. They follow the little white duck who waddles toward me on a well-worn duck trail up from the pond. They peck at its tailfeathers.
It stops in the middle of the trail just feet from me.
I scold the others. Duck discrimination, I say. Fowl prejudice!
They turn, wobble back to the water – all but the hefty hen, the lead bully. She eyes me, assesses my reach. In slow, matronly steps she descends toward the pond. The little white duck follows.
Near the water, a male emerges from grassy hiding. An ambush? Then he, too, scuttles to the water.
This little white duck will never grow up like the Ugly Duckling – no swan in this one’s DNA. It huddles by the reeds until the mallard flotilla drifts off.
white feathers
orange beak
sail away safe
I hear them and quack my response from the path. They float to the pond edge: a small white duck surrounded by mallards. They follow the little white duck who waddles toward me on a well-worn duck trail up from the pond. They peck at its tailfeathers.
It stops in the middle of the trail just feet from me.
I scold the others. Duck discrimination, I say. Fowl prejudice!
They turn, wobble back to the water – all but the hefty hen, the lead bully. She eyes me, assesses my reach. In slow, matronly steps she descends toward the pond. The little white duck follows.
Near the water, a male emerges from grassy hiding. An ambush? Then he, too, scuttles to the water.
This little white duck will never grow up like the Ugly Duckling – no swan in this one’s DNA. It huddles by the reeds until the mallard flotilla drifts off.
white feathers
orange beak
sail away safe
Friday, November 29, 2019
Burying the Squirrel
Thanksgiving Day, 2019. A sunny afternoon. I took a long walk by the river. The last of the geese huddled in the cold – a great mass of feathers in the ‘rest area’ beside the ponds. I’m amazed that they find that spot twice each year, once in late fall, once in early spring.
In the street a few yards from my drive, a squirrel lay on his back, feet in the air. I knew I couldn’t leave him there to be further flattened.
I trudged to my house, retrieved a shoe box and my gardening gloves. The poor little guy! Hit in the head, probably dead in an instant. I carried the box to my small garden area. The soil here is clay; I hope I dug deep enough.
When finished, I turned to the grassy area under the oaks and admonished the other squirrels not to cross the street. I hope he isn’t the one that often hangs upside down on the trunk of an oak and appears to watch me through the window.
I’ve hit animals in my own car twice.
The first time, I was not yet twenty, driving on a highway from Riverside back to my parent’s home. A beautiful drive between rows of eucalyptus trees. I saw the critter but couldn’t avoid him. What a sick feeling! There was nowhere to stop, so I drove on, apologizing over and over.
The second time, I was in my sixties. Driving over 30th Avenue – a 55 MPH zone - from Eugene at night, a large cat dashed in front of my car, hit smack in the middle of my front bumper. I pulled over, unsure what to do. I called the non-emergency police number. “Should I move it? It’s in the middle of the lane.” They said “No, too dangerous. Thanks for reporting.”
Before I left, another car hit the poor beast. I expected the police to remove the carcass but they didn’t. That sick feeling recurred for weeks each time I passed the spot until the piece of fur was flat and shifted to the center of the road. Eventually, it disintegrated, absorbed into the dust and dirt from passing cars.
And so, on Thanksgiving Day 2019, I had the opportunity for small atonement to the animals I’ve harmed.
In the street a few yards from my drive, a squirrel lay on his back, feet in the air. I knew I couldn’t leave him there to be further flattened.
I trudged to my house, retrieved a shoe box and my gardening gloves. The poor little guy! Hit in the head, probably dead in an instant. I carried the box to my small garden area. The soil here is clay; I hope I dug deep enough.
When finished, I turned to the grassy area under the oaks and admonished the other squirrels not to cross the street. I hope he isn’t the one that often hangs upside down on the trunk of an oak and appears to watch me through the window.
I’ve hit animals in my own car twice.
The first time, I was not yet twenty, driving on a highway from Riverside back to my parent’s home. A beautiful drive between rows of eucalyptus trees. I saw the critter but couldn’t avoid him. What a sick feeling! There was nowhere to stop, so I drove on, apologizing over and over.
The second time, I was in my sixties. Driving over 30th Avenue – a 55 MPH zone - from Eugene at night, a large cat dashed in front of my car, hit smack in the middle of my front bumper. I pulled over, unsure what to do. I called the non-emergency police number. “Should I move it? It’s in the middle of the lane.” They said “No, too dangerous. Thanks for reporting.”
Before I left, another car hit the poor beast. I expected the police to remove the carcass but they didn’t. That sick feeling recurred for weeks each time I passed the spot until the piece of fur was flat and shifted to the center of the road. Eventually, it disintegrated, absorbed into the dust and dirt from passing cars.
And so, on Thanksgiving Day 2019, I had the opportunity for small atonement to the animals I’ve harmed.
Monday, October 14, 2019
Up Against the Wall
Our beds were always pushed against the wall, tucked into opposite corners of the room I shared with my older sister.
Even when she moved to her own room, my bed remained snugged into the corner. I remember slipping my foot between the mattress and the wall, comforted and cradled by tight envelop of sheet and wall.
And later, away at college, beds always clung to the wall. In dorms we had no choice, no room to re-arrange. My bunk on the sorority sleeping porch – a lower one – huddled into the northeast corner. Had I chosen that one instead of an open bunk in in the middle of the room?
My first apartments were no different. Shared bedroom with twin beds in the familiar formation.
And then. My own apartment, a single bed, centered on the wall. I could rise from either side. The openness new, exciting, disorienting.
And then. Big beds, shared. How did we choose sides? Did we choose?
And now. A decade of sleeping in a bed centered on the wall. Nights alone, sometimes sleepless, adrift, vulnerable.
But in my guest room a single bed snuggles tight up against the wall. Just the look of it brings comfort.
Even when she moved to her own room, my bed remained snugged into the corner. I remember slipping my foot between the mattress and the wall, comforted and cradled by tight envelop of sheet and wall.
And later, away at college, beds always clung to the wall. In dorms we had no choice, no room to re-arrange. My bunk on the sorority sleeping porch – a lower one – huddled into the northeast corner. Had I chosen that one instead of an open bunk in in the middle of the room?
My first apartments were no different. Shared bedroom with twin beds in the familiar formation.
And then. My own apartment, a single bed, centered on the wall. I could rise from either side. The openness new, exciting, disorienting.
And then. Big beds, shared. How did we choose sides? Did we choose?
And now. A decade of sleeping in a bed centered on the wall. Nights alone, sometimes sleepless, adrift, vulnerable.
But in my guest room a single bed snuggles tight up against the wall. Just the look of it brings comfort.
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