hardening over the windows
hardening over the windows
outside my door
It’s a sky of mud
dark and flat
and dribble and splat.
No light, no color
etc., et al.
so I turn my eyes
to Southern Cal.
to brilliant blue
this silver bonfire
makes me new.
Or is it wave
or maybe wing?
It doesn’t matter;
the sun’s the thing.
In such an image
the light’s outreach
in winter’s breach.
This bleak faux spring
is quite escapable
as long as I am
Many thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives and the curator thereof for this wonderfully warming photo.
This conflagration, dear reader, was my birthday cake last night. Today is the actual date (yes, me and Elvis), but last night was the family do. What makes this flaming cake blog-worthy is the arrangement along the far arc of it. If you look closely and use just a little imagination for the emoji candles, you will see (I’ve no doubt) that the 1001011 is my birthday in binary. My family, ladies and gentlemen! Undeterred by the lack of a 7 and a 5, they devised a binary 75! I seemed to be the only one at the table to be slow on the pick-up. Yes, yes, I know what “binary” means, but it is hardly where my brain goes when I don’t have the right candles!
You may note the second cake. My daughter-in-law, in all other ways an exemplary person, does not like frosting. So there is always an angel food cake for her. Full disclosure: no one objects to having a piece with her.
Now to real life: I lay me down last night after a full day which followed one of those rotten sleepless nights. Of course I couldn’t fall asleep. This is partly age, partly my lifelong struggle with insomnia, partly too much binary cake. After about an hour, I drifted off. At 1:20 I was awakened by chirping. Yes, chirping! One of these wretched alarms was chirping! Which one, and what would I do about it in this new house?
You may know, dear reader, that any venture in the wee hours starts with a trip to the bathroom, and that’s where I saw all the blood in my mouth. How long had that been going on? I rinsed and spit and spit and rinsed. It’s this blasted HHT, as you may know if you’ve read my blog for long. It took a few shaky minutes to stop it.
The bleeding stopped but not the chirping. There I was, at 1:30 in the morning, atop a ladder at the top of the stairs, feeling woozy and not at all patient. I couldn’t figure out anything about the rotten thing. So it continued its own happy-birthday song to me. And it continues now with its soothing beepathon.
And so begins my 75th birthday. I have broken my rule of the 300-word blog post limit, which I have abided by almost unfailingly. But it’s my birthday and I’ll write if I want to.
Behind the brambly trees,
the horizon burned,
color of gladiola
I have summer-seen,
but quick to cool,
lost to cinder grey
though I stretched my hand
to stop it —
ashen sky now
ashen snow —
the awning on the swing flaps
like trapped bird,
winter warming laps
at frozen ground,
My dear friend Donna sent me the most amazing news this morning: Today is National I’m-Not-Going-To-Take-It-Any-More Day. And we’re coming to the end of Some-Day-We’ll-Laugh-About-This Week. Did you know, dear reader, of these observances? I did not.
So I am challenged now. What am I not going to take any more? People driving on my back bumper when I’m already going over the speed limit? People who flash their turn signals AFTER they’ve changed lanes? The way a vast population has mistaken opinion for fact and doesn’t seem to care? Click-bait? Computer pop-ups that threaten jail and fines if I don’t call their toll-free number?
The cold truth of the matter is that I have to keep taking all these things I won’t take any more. I cannot change them. And I doubt I will some day laugh about any of them.
But that’s why God gave me mirrors. There’s where I see what I will laugh at. I can be such a doofus.
There are my thoughts in honor of this day and week.
I wish you, dear reader, a properly belligerent I’m-Not-Going-To-Take-It-Any-More Day to end this rueful Some-Day-We’ll-Laugh-About-This Week. In addition, a head-bangingly happy National Bobblehead Day!
As you know, I’m new here. I have lived here not quite two months. Two insane months. My housewarming gift from Mother Nature has been a gorgeous, dangerous cold. She has shut me in.
Being shut in has put me in close communion with my new walls. Have you noticed, dear reader, how walls differ? It isn’t just the color; it’s size and height and the way they join hands or don’t.
My wall jewelry is — ahem — eclectic. My last house was 3400 square feet; this one is 2000. Even I can do that math. Placement must be judicious.
Since I have not had them painted yet, my walls offer particular possibilities. I am Columbus and these walls are the flat unexplored world. I can try this and try that; if it’s awful, I can take it down and the holes which tell the story of my bad ideas will be plugged and painted.
(Would that the history of all my bad ideas were so nicely disclaimed!)
Two days ago I hung three botanical prints I love. They look awful. They were perfect in the same arrangement in my old house. Here, awful. The space is so different. And space must be carefully sculpted. The walls might be flat, but the whole is multi-dimensional. A plain wall can be the best. Or tedious. A beautiful print can be just as tedious. Where do things go? Ah, the cry of the newly-moved.
In the Grand Scheme, my walls do not meet the lowest bars of significance. Perhaps that’s why I am so compelled by them: in some peevish way in an overwhelming world, I decide.
“Snow showers” yesterday. Bits of the day fluffed in white. A lovely dusting of powdered sugar over the ice troughs on the street. A fairyland touch to the neighborhood. I looked out at the mailbox and the words “broken hip” flashed before my eyes.
I had just read the advice to walk on ice like a penguin. To keep one’s weight on the front foot. Wait. If you walk like a penguin, there IS no front foot. You are waddling, gracefully heaving your weight from heel to heel.
“Walk like an arthritic penguin” would be more accurate, and more fun for the observer, I’m sure. But I’m not a penguin, and waddling is not my preferred method of getting to the mailbox. Also there were enough clear spots on the driveway for a slow-motion hopscotch. I could save my waddle for the craggy terrain left by the street plow.
The windchill was bitter. The snow swirled. I retrieved three pieces of mail. One was an ad from some dentist. I didn’t think anything could be more enticing but then I saw the other two: one for “Senior Living,” and the other for Assisted Living and Memory Care.
For this I walked like a penguin?
To be sure, it was good not to get the ad for the Blue Light Special on cremations. I’ve had that in the past.
Here, dear reader, is the REAL “senior living”: navigating your way back from the mailbox while contemplating all the offers to take care of you in your dotage, the onset of which is hastened by just such trips to the mailbox.