Thursday, April 7, 2022

Stalked

A bald eagle stalked us on our morning walk today. I should say that the eagle stalked Priscilla and Jackson. I'm sure the eagle detected that I was a load too heavy to maneuver. I first noticed the eagle as he rode the currents above the lake. What a magnificent wonder it was as it tilted this way and that in the air, catching the changing currents of the slightly breezy day.
 
Suddenly, the eagle swooped down in our direction, arresting its dive just above us, clearly studying us. It rested on a small updraft, balancing itself in slight adjustments of its wings and body, staring at us. At only 11 pounds, Priscilla probably looked like a perfectly delicious breakfast. Or maybe Jackson, at 16 pounds looked the better selection. More meat. But eventually the eagle decided against an attempt and flew off across the narrow part of the lake. I watched as it soared back and forth, surveying the ground around the edge of the lake. Finally, I lost interest and continued our walk around the lake, intent on stopping at the cove where baby turtles had recently been born. Last year, only one survived, but I still see it almost every time I scan the water there. It's not big enough to swim out into the lake. There are bass and huge carp in the deeper water, not to mention really big turtles, and don't forget the alligators!
 
But only about 2 minutes later, as we approached the turtle territory, I saw the shadow of a large bird appear across our path just ahead of us. I glanced up and the eagle was back, just behind us and above our heads, measuring (I think) the difficulty level of a Priscilla or Jackson purloin. Again, I gazed up at the beautiful creature with its signature white head. I was mesmerized, even while I was pondering a potential fight with an eagle, because over my dead body would it be taking my babies. Can eagles sense a protector's determination? Maybe. It eventually flew off again and didn't return.

 

Sunday, March 13, 2022

Cinnamon Rolls

So I'm standing at the stove and I'm carefully and artfully spreading white icing on cinnamon rolls to take to my just-moved-in-today upstairs neighbors. Suddenly I hear a sound that startles me because it sounds like it's coming from INSIDE my apartment. It's a metal-on-metal tinkle sound.

I stop, activate my innate, serial-killer-tracking-superpower, and listen HARD for about 30 seconds. Nothing. I go back to my icing and hear it again!!! I stop, alarmed now, and decide to just stroll through my apartment to see if I can hear it. Master, master bath, master closet, Living room, dining room, hall, guest room (Y'ALL COME!), guest bathroom, coat closet, and finally the patio. Nothing but birds and a neighbor's dog barking his usual "WHERE ARE YOU" bark that signals that his parent is not at home.

Satisfied that chopping, hacking, and bloodletting are not about to commence, I return to my cinnamon rolls. Immediately, the faint tinkling begins again. WHAT IS THAT!?!?! Then, I see it. I'm wearing a silk, floor-length caftan that has a laced up section at the upper chest. The ends of the laces have decorative beading, the metal of which is gently hitting the handle of the oven door as I apply icing to the rolls. Cue my eye roll to go with the cinnamon roll.

My imagination is prolific in its ability to transform the ordinary into the worst possible horror. I'd like to blame it on Stephen King, but I was like this long before I read The Shining - and everything that came after.

I ate a cinnamon roll before I took the rest upstairs. I felt this was fair compensation for the 3 months I probably lost off the end of my life. (This really won't age well if I'm visited by an axe murderer tonight.)

May be an image of sweet roll and cinnamon roll

 

Thursday, October 18, 2018

day of biscuit

On the northern edge of Greenville, on the lefthand side of Highway 17 as you drive north towards Dunkerton, there is a burned out shell of a building that used to house the local jail, back when three cells were more than sufficient to house the occasionally out of control members of the small town. The new county facility opened for business in Slaterville in 1992, prompting Sheriff Utter to retire six years after he probably should have. He locked the front door of the jail building and took the key with him, knowing that nobody would be following in his footsteps in little Greenville.

For nine years, that building sat empty until the Frazier twins took up residence in the building when their Pop kicked them out for smoking reefer in his double wide. Pop tolerated a lot, but he did not approve of illegal substances and certainly had no intention of losing his entire property in a drug seizure if either of his boys did something stupid. Mama Frazier cried for three days until she figured out where the boys were staying. After that, she took to bringing them fried chicken and biscuits whenever she could get away with it. To the boys, hunkered in the old building with no electricity or water, her visits felt like jail visits and they were always grateful to see her - and the chicken.

It wasn't until the beginning of winter arrived that the twins discovered that living without electricity was even more challenging when the thermometer dipped below freezing. And that's how they came to build a fire in the outer office and, well, you can guess the rest. The Frazier twins survived, but they moved on down to Alabama to live with an aunt who didn't know any better than to take them in. Her house burned down too, but that's another story.

When Shelly ran out of gas that day, her car coasted to a stop just a few yards from that burned out shell of a jail. She cursed, berating herself for not getting the gas gauge fixed, for not filling up at that last gas station she passed, for not saying NO when her sister asked her to drive down to Greenville to pick her up, and most of all, for choosing the particular shade of green painted on her nails. It was ugly. And now she would have to walk down the highway until she reached civilization with her dayglo nails advertising to the world that she had no taste. Well, maybe not. Maybe she could call June and she'd find someone to bring her five gallons of gas. It was worth a try.

Monday, July 3, 2017

day of noodle

Hisashi strolled through Takashimaya Yokohama looking at various sale items. He was early, so he looked over the flower selection, making a mental note to pick up roses on his way out. Maiko would be surprised and pleased.

He turned the corner and spotted Ginza Tenichi where he was meeting Ottokar, the German architect working on final changes to his company's new building. Hisashi had been assigned to entertain him until he completed the project. The bartender approached him as soon as he sat on his stool. "Your best daiginjo, two cups, and keep it coming."

Later, he would think back to this moment and realize that he had killed Otto before the man ever walked into the bar. But in the moment, as he scrolled through text messages from girls who wanted to own him, he was oblivious and resigned to another tedious night of entertaining the boy genius from Dusseldorf.

never letting go

Words gather together, a comical speech.
Two orphans laugh awkwardly, standing across from the gin.
Did you crack the window?
Was it meant to be so?
I'm not giving up.
I'm never letting go.

Dance faster, sing louder,
Spit as far as you can.
When dawn shines her light,
We'll see who triumphed.
Was it the girl in the striped dress?
She's never letting go.

The blue sea is roiling,
The deck to's and fro's,
But his legs hold him steady,
His whistle encourages, that cheerful, expected sound.
He thinks of her letters, on yellow crepe paper.
He's never letting go.

Thursday, December 29, 2016

broken treasure

The first art piece I ever purchased - a pottery cat with angel wings - sat broken on my coffee table. Elizabeth was profuse in her apologies. It had certainly been an accident. And I forgave her immediately. There were too many pieces to glue it back together. I threw it in the trash.

Thursday, December 8, 2016

not what the postman brought

In the wee, nippy hours of the Arizona night, while others slumber restlessly or dream of lovely things, I sit awake and ponder this unidentified thing inside my body. Will it be a momentary discomfort that I'll prattle on about some day, sitting with the other ladies at the old folk's home? Or is it a demon seed sent to wipe me from the planet, robbing me of the easy years when I'd planned to travel, write, and paint? Time will tell.

Saturday, November 19, 2016

trumping

Although I have not lost any of the drive and determination to fight discrimination and injustice, my morning meditation took me in an interesting direction today. Since 1995, I've used a small daily devotional called Pocketful of Miracles (Prayers, Meditations, and Affirmations To Nurture Your Spirit Every Day of the Year) by Joan Borysenko. I'll begin by telling you that I don't do a devotional every day. I'm fairly fickle, in fact. So when I do open this devotional, I often feel I've been led to a particular message.

Today, the message was about forgiveness. More specifically, it was about admitting to myself that what qualities I find most deplorable in others, I may discover in myself, if I am willing to release my defense mechanisms and honestly examine my own heart and soul. This is not the first time I've heard that message, of course. But I willingly followed the thought.

Today's devotional used Hitler as an example. Certainly, Adolph Hitler was a horrific example of how one human can lead others to commit atrocities on an immense scale. His behavior and the actions of his followers should be condemned in the most emphatic language possible.

But in looking at myself, the devotional suggests that I view Hitler as an aspect of myself, as one more altar of God. So as I began my prayer and meditation, my thoughts went immediately to Donald Trump, which is ironic because I meditate to calm myself and Trump has repeatedly raised my stress levels. So there I am, incredulous, looking at his face in my mind and wondering what I'm intended to do with THAT.

The answer came, of course. Trump dismisses women as being worthy only as measured by their appearance. Who do I dismiss? Trump often denies his history or rewrites his history in a more palatable version. What of my history have I rewritten? Trump belittles people, openly mocking their physical attributes. Who do I belittle and mock? Trump dismisses whole swathes of people, signaling his willingness to ignore their humanity and right to exist. What group of people do I dismiss?

I see the altar there. I understand what I'm meant to do. I need to let go of my pride, my judgemental nature, and any likelihood I may have to make broad assumptions about people BEFORE I approach the altar. But when I think of Trump and those who happily follow his horrible example, I can see I have many repetitions of this particular meditation ahead of me. Yes, I am a stubborn woman. I fight personal growth. I hold on to the deplorable within my heart and soul. But God's message is that there IS hope for me. I just need to keep the image of the altar in my mind.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

asked him twice

When I came downstairs the next morning, the door to the master suite was ajar and there wasn't a noise to be heard. I called out Michael's name, but there was no answer. In the kitchen, I started a pot of coffee. I checked the fridge for creamer. Milk would do. Where was Michael?

I opened the door to the garage. Michael's car sat beside my own. I closed the door. The wonderful smell of freshly brewed coffee greeted me. Is there anything sweeter? I poured a cup, added milk, and gazed at the door to Michael's room. If he was awake, why didn't he answer?

Were you guys lovers still?

No. Well, yes, but not like before. I had my own room on the third floor. We agreed we could each date other guys. But we still fooled around occasionally.

But not that night?

No.

Go on.

So I walked over to his door and pushed it open. (pause) The first thing I saw was blood splatter on the wall above the headboard. Only I thought it was paint, and I wondered why Michael would do that. I decided to wake him up. I could see he was in the bed. There was a pillow on his head. I lifted it up and tried to make sense of what I was seeing. It was totally unrecognizable as a face. It was destroyed.

Is that when you left the house?

(Nodding) I panicked. I knew I needed to call the police. But we had weed and quaaludes and acid. I gathered it all up, jumped in my car and drove out to the lake and hid it under some rocks. Then I came back to the house and called the police.

Why did they arrest you?

The neighbors saw me leave and come back. The police were convinced I'd thrown away the murder weapon. I had to show them where I'd stashed the drugs before they believed me.

Paul, we've known each other a long time. I know you loved him. Are you sure you didn't snap and do this terrible thing?

(Long pause, then quietly) If I did do it, it wouldn't be good for you to know I did it, Jackie.

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

desert dessert

After the drought, and that mourning quiet,
you come to me in sweet expectation.

I drink in the breath of sighs and smiles,
and feel my desiccated soul grow plump with love.

I'll never feel normal again.
I'm on the other side of loss.

But your kisses remind me I'm still alive.
And your touch keeps me nourished.

Each time we wind ourselves around each other,
I'm a little farther from my pain.