Oh deer

July 7, 2013

Two young deer were being chased by a small blue sports car with three up-to-no-good youth. They careened around the corner just in the nick of time for Tyrus to pick up the chase. He is an expert deer hunter and wound them around to the nearby woods for safe keeping. The juveniles re-appeared, exasperatingly discouraged to have lost the live bait and drove off to look for more trouble. Ty came running down the street and flopped his giant body down on the cool grass, tongue lolling like a satisfied python. Shocking to spot squirrels in the neighborhood, let alone deer.

Sang America the Beautiful today and was astonished at how easily the words came to my lips. I am the one standing in line at the Post Office who asks for “anything but the flags” in my order for stamps. Did I just admit that. How unpatriotic of me.

The back hall smells suspiciously of pot (or so I’ve heard) or perhaps it is sage or another burning herb I am not aware of. Still frequent coming and goings in and out of the upstairs duplex, which makes me consider selling tickets to the mysterious show. Gate left disrespectfully ajar, bottom door to the basement inappropriately gapes open so I fear Moose, the cat, will escape and be smooched like a pancake in the road out front. Small dogs have made their way home tonight, certainly not a “Homeward Bound” story, they hitched a ride with their owner, so unappreciatively eager and to jump into their little fashionable bags and get carted off. At least I do not have to concern myself of their safety and well being any longer.

Thunder is rolling across the rooftops, bearing down on the last survivors of fireworks demons. Hope they are drowned out and we have a better sleep tonight.

Guarded

July 6, 2013

The sliding of small pebbles across the sole of a soft shoe, creak of the gate, metal against metal as the hinge opens wide enough for a body to slip thru, it isn’t re-latched so it catches my attention. The covert cat drops down from one window ledge, to cross my body and glide into the open gap at the rear window, above my head, to pay attention to the figure in the dark heading to the back door. I see black Keds with white laces that catch the dim light, the shadow of pants and light t-shirt, face fades into the gloom. His cell phone flips open and a long, earnest, pleading conversation ensues yet I cannot make out the individual words, save an emphasized syllable or two. He leaves the same way he came. A sigh of exasperation escapes me as the gate gapes wide open as he departs. I heave myself out of the bed, not disturbing the multitudes of pets in my room and slither across the livingroom to peer out the front, observing the figure brazingly waltzing down the street on foot, after 2:30am. A loud, brisk call to Tyrus, who slunk down to the basement to escape the scary fireworks, and journey downstairs to retrieve his large cedar-filled bed. Feel more comforted by his presence in the dark room with the slow whir of the ceiling fan. Check the bolt on the back door and return to my crisp sheets and churning cool air, to roll over the motivation behind a pre-dawn visit. I vow I will make a 911 call the next time it happens. I don’t need to wait for another day to pass, for moments later, the perp returns with a white plastic sack and presumably Styrofoam cup in his hands. Same routine yet now he jumps up onto the wrought iron rail, pushes his way up the electric meter box and skips up onto the balcony above my head. I reach for my cell phone and make the call, heading into the livingroom to prevent the delinquent man from overhearing. The dispatcher is calm and steady in her questioning. A squad car arrives out of sight, down the street, and four police officers make their way with beams of light to invade around the house, flaming the siding, doors, and windows with intensity.  I can hear the climber pace the floor yet he doesn’t show himself. Eventually a substantial officer knocks on my door, absorbs my detailed story and suggests I talk with the landlord. The crew wanders around for a bit, visits exuberantly under the street lights, and departs. Must have nodded-off after 4:00am and splayed out of bed at 8:00 to let the miniature wrestlers out for a pee. Groggy and disgruntled, I suck down coffee laced with milk and sugar while contemplating my options. First things first, I have to rescue my black sandals from the fireworks observation area, where I tucked them under the chair, and promptly forgot about them as we moved back to get a better view. Hope they don’t feel too abandoned and take it out on me, on the Jerry Springer Show.

Bowl of heaven

July 5, 2013

I was never alone. One of my best girlfriends declared she is afraid to live by herself and has the big screen television turned “on” all the time, for background noise, as if there is a big party going on in her place, and the rest of the world was not sent a personal invite.

Growing up in a house with three older and three younger sisters, two younger brothers, mom, dad and my gerbils, Josephine and Joe (if they escaped from the aquarium with a screen top, I could not go to school until the “RATS!” were found and impounded in their glass prison,) I was rarely alone. My favorite spot to feel alone was the upstairs bathroom  I recall lying on the blue and white linoleum floor next to the vent, with a book, reading and lingering as long as possible until someone started banging on the door, shouting to have their turn at the toilet.

We always glommed onto a used tv, one of the nine of us forever banging on the side of the unit to get the picture “in,” and halt  the fuzzy images from rolling one side to the next. A black and white, a smaller tv than you can imagine, placed in the back room where we could lie on the massive couches dad built from the barn he tore down to utilize all of the scrap wood, to languish over our shows. The walls, ceiling, floors and furnishings, including the picture frames for our large collection of graduation photos, made from said wood, graced the new space. The ceiling fixture was covered with an antique colander, oxen harnesses hung on the walls, lanterns from great grandma’s barn and tools scattered in the corners. It was cooler than the house since it was originally a slab of concrete off the back door.

For the fourth of July we had sparklers. I do recall a bit of oohing and ahing yet I am not certain where we went to watch the fireworks. Much later in life, I sat on the roof of my brown Volvo, Taelor must have been about two or three at the time, taking in the far away scene and reveling in the fact that I felt alone, with her, the only two people on the planet watching the fireworks.

Our vacations were spent camping in a large army tent, moldy smelling and spacious enough for all of us. We scrunched so none of us would have to feel the wedge of wetness from rolling into the side of the tent, collecting the dew off the grass. Thick rectangular sleeping bags rolled out, lots of kicking and squirming going on throughout the night. We adored the lakes in Wisconsin yet inevitably one of us, if not all, would end up with swimmers itch. Save mom, since she could not swim. She was always a nervous wreck as we swam long lengths away from shore while she paced on the beach and screamed we were “too far.” We all had swimming lessons at the local YMCA to assure her we would not drown and leave her behind to mourn.

Our 56 passenger baby blue bus-turned-into-a-camper was talk of the town. Eventually one of the neighbor’s complained (Mrs. Thomas, were you the culprit?) so we had to move it from alongside our house to another spot, out of sight and out of her mind. It was an amazing camper with eight green and white bump-your-head-if-you-sat-up-straight bunk beds, two solid beds for mom and dad, kitchen table, cupboards that were forever swinging open during the course of the journey, an enclosed bathroom, stove and seats turned sideways on either side behind the driver. I liked to sit on the “L” just as you entered the accordion door and trod up the two large black rubber steps. It was a dream come true. We drove it across the country, several times, to Philadelphia and the New Jersey shore to see mom’s animated side of the family. They were all teary, blubbering Italians (including all of the neighbors) who gave us sample shots of their homemade blow-your-head-off anisette, ghastly thick red wine, fresh soft shell crab cakes, wondrous hoagies, soft pretzels as big as your head, and forever pinched our cheeks in delight. Our momma’s kids. They could not get over it. Obviously, neither could we.

After the baby blue bus was sold or perhaps before we acquired it, the parental units decided to rent a camper to accompany the fumy, now quite stained tent. Dad got it to the camp site and popped the top only to discover it was in the shape of a covered wagon. He thought she ordered it specifically and she thought he was playing a trick on her. We were enchanted and crammed in.

Once I remember getting a hotel room for the night. Dad insisted on declaring all of us upon check-in which we thought outrageous. Most of us would have to sleep on the floor anyway, why pay for each individual kid? Dad is such a stickler for the rules.

That night, we went out for a spaghetti feast. The meal was served in a colossal silver bowl that was passed carefully around the table for us to serve ourselves. If that wasn’t treat enough, dad ordered ice cream in the same manner. The dish must have held hundreds of flavors, toppings oozing down the scoops. We drooled as we waited our turn at the serving spoon. I have no idea where we were going or what time of the year it was, how old I could have been, or any other image, aside from that large table, at the unnamed restaurant, in heaven

Death wish

July 4, 2013

The munchkins will have to be locked-up while I am out gallivanting today. Thing One and Thing Two are staying over for the weekend, the energy of a handful of small dogs toys with the cat. She has taken to chasing the miniature Yorkie around the house, keeping him under her paw for good measure. My big dog, scared of the slightest pop of a firework, is reluctant to come into the house from the yard because the Chihuahua mix is in charge of all one hundred and five pounds him. A circus, in case anyone is wondering.

Living close to the bluff now so attempting to avoid massive amounts of transit and long lines to get in and out of Harriet Island can be skirted by strolling as best I can to the River and lugging a chair to park my weary hide and take in the view of the sky and bursts of colored lights. Not one to ooh and ahh much and my head fills with concern for the wildlife and the effects on the environment. Can’t help the sensation of threat and discomfort since I can’t even detect a burst and the giant dog is quaking.

Met Grandma Jane on my walk with the critters this morning. She lives around the corner and across the street, banging out her rugs and checking out the neighborhood in the early morning hours. She asked if I was new to the neighborhood and casually mentioned she has lived here for over 40 years. She loved her dog that had to be put to sleep a few years ago, she pondered aloud for her own benefit of completion. It is too sad to get another pet, to watch them die. I can’t imagine not having a dog to come home to, I replied, everyone has to die and leave loved ones behind so why deny yourself the pleasure of their company? Her daughter has two Jack Russells that has cost them “the farm” and she doesn’t understand why they do not put the one canine to sleep who has to get oxygen and treatments for some mysterious ailment. Why make it suffer? I had no manageable response.

Foot therap...ow!

July 3, 2013

One day I will have a writing booth, as Natalie Goldberg suggests. In the meantime, I am happy to write for you, you, and yes, even you. Send me a topic and I will, without undue thought and a promise to not read, especially not to edit or correct, write, then post, just for you. If you would like for me to mention who I am writing for, on a first name basis, please include that with your request.

Send your subject matter of choice to:

Paulafhill60@gmail.com

I will do my best to humor, shock, disappoint and generate food for thought.

Thank you, in advance, for the practice and courage to have a writing booth in the future.

As a sample, one of my favorite questions to ask people is “What is in your pocket?”

Today I have two vitamin D gel tablets, one unidentified yellow and a white one, a kleenex (actually not certain if it is used so I will wipe the dog’s nasty eyes and throw it away in the garbage can that has a colored drawing of three women, much like fantastical Super Heroes painted on the side. I do believe my daughter and a friend drew them in the ninth or tenth grade after Elena gave the garbage can to Taelor for her birthday.) The pockets have zippers that run from the top to the bottom and lie flat against the shorts. I love these shorts and felt them appropriate for my first physical therapy session with Michael this morning. He ran me through the rigors of twisting and turning my ankles, knees, hips and toes. It was painful and at times I felt certain tears would leak out of my eyes but never fall onto my shorts with pockets that have cool zippers. I stalked out of the therapy room with a green rubbery band and a round board with a diamond shaped piece attached to the bottom side of it. Michael demonstrated how to use each piece, presented me with numerous sheets of paper with exercises to follow along. Since I wanted to make a decent impression, I did not scold him for not printing on both sides of the paper. After lurching along to the front desk, I made three subsequent appointments for the next sessions and limped out, sure I would fall before getting home and icing my poor, overworked foot.  Made it home with both feet intact and am currently icing the left foot until it turns blue, numbs and perhaps even falls off the ankle bone.

Birds in jail

July 2, 2013

I was the only white girl in the courthouse room, awaiting my plea with the Hearing Officer. Two tickets and a Ramsey County Court envelope in-hand, along with two photos of my license plates proving lack of obscured month and year stickers that grace the bottom corners as well as a grime smile of obvious distress. A grim story of accidents and chain of horrid events ran through my brain as I slid across to the only empty seat sandwiched between a larger-than-life woman with gaudy pink extended fingernails, lime green handbag that sagged with enough to get through a week on the streets and a man whose pants must have been eeked-on while lying down, a sleepy-look hitched by his mouth. Although I had spent a few precious moments clashing with the “P” meter on the street, I won out and made it to the Courthouse early for my appointment. My clunky black boot, aimed to draw on the officer’s sympathy, felt hot and itchy on my leg. Felt lugging along the cane would be a bit too dramatic so she sat waiting by the front door at home.  My name was called the second I relaxed into the well-used chair so I popped-up and lurched towards the man. His hair swept across his glaring bald patch lying tenderly on top of his slumping shoulders. He appeared ragged and overworked yet had a twisted smirk that implied I was welcomed to sit.

“So, it looks like you are here with two tickets today?” I gulped and agreed. Ready to lunge into my dog and pony show, he typed away on his desktop and ignored my amenable smacking lips. “Do you have pictures of the plates to show me?” I leaned in with a wide smile to demonstrate the removal of the plate frames. He typed some more and looked at me long and determined. “Well, it appears you took care of the problem. It is my opinion you did your part and I will erase these tickets from your record. You are free to go!” If I could have skipped, I would have, all the way down the hall, out the door, and onto the busy street. Too bad I don’t have jail time experiences to share with ya’ll. Maybe next time.

Out of the box

July 1, 2013

She refuses to drink out of a dark coffee cup where she can’t see the bottom nor eat off of a plate other than white. Off-white is even a remarkable deviation. I feel a bit badly writing about her, as though she will suffer and break apart into dust, knowing that everyone is aware of her secret obsessions. I reveal these things to you in confidence.

Everything about her is exact, like a perfectly square box. Accurate movements, attire, meals and speech are deliberate and crisp like fine beads of water falling delicately from a leaf of lettuce, firmly planted in the fumy soil. She is silent and observant most of the time, catching those inappropriate phrases, common street language that offends her and stores it away for future judgment. Stiff and unyielding when you hug her, the eyes reveal guarded honesty and sincere warmth, love and affection she cannot otherwise demonstrate.

I love her, cherish her being, yet don’t fully comprehend the exactness of her fixations, inability to engage in unsuitable thoughts, let alone actions. One day I hope she can laugh until milk comes out of her nose. Yet, I am not holding my breath.