Mid-year, solstice, heat dome

This morning on our ramble we encountered a few of the night creatures wrapping up their work. We had set out earlier than usual due to the heat and some of the raccoons weren’t done raiding trash cans. I was afraid the first group may have recognized me from the great flat cat roundup (June ends with this) as I got a good hard stare as we walked on the other side of the street. A mile away another raccoon was clearing the road as we came around a corner. There has not been a flat cat sighting in my yard for a long time now though we do occasionally see a shuffle hustle happening around some of the lawns we pass. I haven’t had my yard cam out in quite a while, so it may be time to take a night view soon.

I am happy to report that the fledglings I see belong to the correct species. I didn’t have my birdfeeders out too much this spring and that has led to only one sighting of cowbirds. Over the past few weeks as the blueberries were ripening the sparrows gathered to pick at them, but the youngsters were also waiting for their parents to bring them something better.

And I have been waiting for cicadas. There have been sightings (one or two) and some noises occasionally but nothing as wonderous as most years when the annual brood comes about. Last night I heard a quick song and then silence. I really wanted to hear the millions.

Tuesday night I rewatched The Big Chill. It came out in 1983 and concerns a group of college friends gathering for the funeral of their friend, Alex, who has taken his own life. I can’t say how many times we watched this film when I was stationed in Naples. Sometimes just a couple of us, playing Trivial Pursuit or Monopoly while it was on, sometimes our whole clique. We’d all been there a couple of years, working together, living in the barracks, exploring the world. I suppose the movie spoke to us in a way that people who spend so much time together as friends would. I don’t remember the last time I saw it, most of it fell back into place in my memory except for how very young the actors seem now: Glenn Close, Kevin Kline, William Hurt, Mary Kay Place, Tom Berenger, Jeff Goldblum, JoBeth Williams, and a very, very (one more very) young Meg Tilley. Originally Kevin Costner was in the film as Alex, in flashbacks, but he did not make the final cut. The film held up, in a tight Hollywood bow of a story. It could use a little more cynicism and mess, but at the time seemed earnest and real. Apparently, a lot was written about the movie a year ago as it celebrated its 40th anniversary. I missed all that.

And because Jerry was up in North Dakota, and I could watch a movie without characters running and screaming away from giant creatures, I followed it up with The Birdcage as a palate cleanser. Nothing makes me laugh harder than Nathan Lane as Albert (dressed as Mrs. Coleman/Goldman) telling the ultra-conservative future in-laws during a discussion about abortion that the solution is to “kill the mothers”. Plus, is there anything better than Gene Hackman in drag? Another movie that was of its time perhaps. Adapted from the French La Cage aux Folles, fun to watch but… But.

Well, here we are mid-year, solstice, under the heat dome, we had solar installed in December and we are making power like crazy. Enough for us and the rest goes back to the grid. Illinois is one of those states that pushes solar whereas across the river in Missouri, I’m not sure they acknowledge the sun as hot. Cheap shot. But I won’t be surprised if they are the next state to call for the Ten Commandments in schools. And I know Louisiana’s law says the font has to be “in a large, easily readable font”, but does it have to be in English? Hmm?

Here's a poem and a couple of random pictures from the movies:

small gifts: the sun
after grief bringing new light
flowers where none
were planted, song when voiceless
earth again alive when you felt
nothing could exist
& then, another
twin butterflies light & tangle
on your arm, their shift
as easy as a quickening child

The Return of the Swamp Thing

    Part of the problem with having to move things out of kitchen cupboards is that the items have to go somewhere else. The destination was the spare room, the smallest bedroom in the house that we use as a pantry and catchall. As I was shifting things in the spare room I was also making plans for shifting things in the bedroom as we will be moving from there while the bathrooms are being done. So, I needed to have room to move some of the clothes from the bedroom into the guest room, and of course, where would I put the things from the guest room. Suffice it to say I’ve been moving and shifting items for a week now. More than once, I’ve wondered when the Hoarder’s Starter Kit took over our house!?

    Jerry keeps telling me, “We’re weeks out.” But I know how these things work, you’re relaxed thinking you’ve got time, and then an opening in the schedule happens or, and tell me if this sounds plausible, Jerry sends me a message that says, “Hey they’re starting tomorrow morning.” – of course he sends this while he’s on the road followed by “Did I forget to tell you?” At least all the moving is done, the shifting and the imaginings of where things will live. Yesterday in the final move we got the elliptical out of my office. When we moved in three larger men wrestled it down the hall and into the room, and when we replaced the floor in there we simply moved this behemoth from one side to the other. We ended up taking it apart and then reassembling it in the front room (furniture moving before it arrived!) where we can get it out through our double front door. I’ve found a thrift store that will take it and though it was helpful during the pandemic it has mostly been gathering dust and used as an open-air closet. Then an office layout needed to be reimagined and everything moved or rearranged.

    So that is the easy stuff. The heat has come, today wasn’t too bad but as Anthony, our morning weatherman, says, “By Friday it will be swampy!” Swampy. Sigh.

    And here's a random picture from my yard: 

Where do beavers keep their money? *

I just wanted to post a quick update on the cicadas: they’re here! I heard them yesterday and spotted one tonight flying between trees out front. So exciting. I spotted this shirt in a window on Main Street in Belleville on Monday, I love it; the color is perfect! And a shout out to Belleville for all the Pride flags along Main Street.

I also want to talk about a movie Jerry, and I watched recently called Hundreds of Beavers. I’d read a review in the New York Times back in March and it sounded so silly. It was very silly, but I told Jerry, “Dean would have loved this.” Would it have knocked Cocaine Bear off his “top of “list? I think maybe, and when I read the review again one of the creators was inspired by: “… silent-era comedy masters like Buster Keaton, and with Abbott and Costello comedies that he watched with his Minnesotan grandfather.” Yes, Dean Husted would have liked this movie. Isn’t it nice to have people pop up again like this. Happy Birthday, Papa Bear, you live on with us all.

See the movie if you can. Hundreds of Beavers can’t be wrong.

Hundreds of Beavers

If You See Only One Beaver Movie This Year …

*Where do beaver keep their money?
In the River Bank.

^When the horses grow weary

I could have a Lamborghini if I wanted. I could. But I don’t want one, I’ve never wanted one. Even when we lived in Italy, and a shiny Black Diablo pulled up beside us at a light on Viale Unita D’Italia, there was no coveting. And I was not intimidated by its horsepower. Issac and Justine were in the backseat of our old blue Honda Accord urging me on, I looked over and gunned my motor while we sat at the light and the man in the Lamborghini turned his head like a bird does while looking for worms, Was that a noise? Was that my car making that noise? I don’t think he even knew we were racing because he was already about fifteen car lengths ahead of us by the time I had released the clutch from first. Lucky for him the street was narrow and went through a very busy port area. He turned onto the autostrada toward Naples, and we proceeded down Via Appia, his lucky day.

I don’t need fancy things. Though like a crow I like a shiny bauble. We’ve been putting together renovations for the house at long last. The tile and counters and cabinets in the kitchen, tile and fixtures in two bathrooms and finally getting rid of the old eye sore of a deck -- no more flat cat sanctuary. No more raccoon haven. We’ll have a small footprint patio and what I see as a future secret garden off the back. Two nights ago, as if to encourage us, the first firefly was spotted. And I did hear cicadas when I was in Belleville last week, but they haven’t emerged here yet, kind of disappointing.

School ended a few weeks ago and there wasn’t even time to go ah before I went with Jerry to Chicago, Fort Wayne Indiana and the on to Columbus to see the Bambina and her love. It was a wonderful little trip, lots of museum-ing and walking in Chicago, Fort Wayne has a surprising and gorgeous little museum and gallery and, well, Columbus has a part of my heart. And now we’re home. Time to really settle into clearing the kitchen. The Habitat for Humanity Restore will take our old kitchen cabinets and anything they can use or sell, but I need to find a home for everything that is in them now, those things that will return to the kitchen when it is finished.

Speaking of Indiana, while we drove through we passed by Warsaw, a place I wrote a poem about years ago based on name at a poetry forum. When the person joined they chose Death as their name and so the profile said, Death lives in Indiana. Who wouldn’t write a poem?

Death lives in Indiana

Down a dirt side road a few miles from Warsaw, a town he likes for the industry -
orthopedics and CoCo Wheats – and that its history doesn’t mirror
Poland, a place he hopes to never visit again, with such immense tasks.

He has a picket fence tangled with sweet peas, blossoms like prayer
flags shivering in the breeze, lilacs stout as bison, and a weeping
willow, fingers grazing the driveway, to hide his house.

He doesn’t have a TV, listens to the radio each morning: the local market,
hog prices down, feeders up; hospital report; Swap ‘n Shop; turns it off
before the funeral notices.

Nights he sits outside while the stars and the bats arrive, can’t believe
he’s waited this long to discover a porch swing. There’s the occasional
grange supper, casserole, and bingo, and a few kind people who invite him

to church but for the most part, he likes to keep to himself. If he feels lonely
he stops at Dig’s Diner or the Dairy Queen – the blond-haired girls
ignore him but it’s a connection.

Behind his house cottonwoods and an old silo mark the entrance to a
meadow, a place full of thigh-high grass and alive with bird calls
a few acres that will allow grazing, *when the horses grow weary.

~~~

So we made it through May. It was hard. "And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

Here are a few pictures from various places: