All the stars in the sky

We got up early at the House of Hope hoping to catch a few meteors flash; no luck this year.  I remember getting Issac up when we lived in Italy to watch from our balcony (Justine wouldn’t join us, “too cold” she said). We wrapped up and sat in our camp chair and watched the stars fall. The mountain behind our town was looped with small villages so it seemed from time to time something fell and joined the lights sparkling on the sides of the hills. We also huddled under blankets in our backyard in Groton watching hundreds of meteors before we froze out. In Klamath I know there were many times out in the yard, watching for meteors and eclipses, full moons and so many stars. I do have this poem from one year, we had two dogs then so it was quite a while ago:

Falling Dogs
 
Here before light, the cusp
of dawn brings meteors;
falling stars though it is too cold
for wishes. I listen to the dogs
patrol the perimeter of the yard,
their tags chime to the coyotes’ song.
These dogs are old,
and from juniper ringed hills,
they pay no attention to this music.
Their noses are alive to every creature
that has passed overnight, their last
throwback to wild. Their ears
pick up the nuanced yelps
and yips, the lone awoo
that fills the darkness with laughter;
they are unconcerned with the other,
their sameness separated by millenniums
by houses and filled bowls and a hand
that knows how to rub an ear.

This morning though, though the sky was clear and there were a lot of stars, we were greeted only with cold. We stood quietly in shadows as one of our neighbors came out her backdoor and did something by the porch. I have certain voyeur tendencies I adore walking at night and stealing glimpses into people’s homes. When I use to ride Greyhound, I loved the late night ramble through small towns, wondered at the few lights on and reveled when I could peek inside and see someone reading or talking or lit only by the blue of a TV screen. Just a quick flash into those homes, that life. Because we live in a neighborhood full of houses the moments as dusk is settling offer these glimpses often. I always want to stop and watch, I want to measure the warmth in the house by witnessing. I know that most if the “action” will be mundane. Some will be very boring; there is always the fear of some horror or hurt. Sometimes a quick view is all that is needed. As my neighbor went back in, I saw her husband walk past and touch her arm. 

And then we turned away, walked toward the front of the house, shivering a bit and holding hands.

Don't fear the reaper

Today the sun made shadow and light throughout the house. The cats spent the morning moving from room to room catching rays. Ursula is a connoisseur any sliver of sunlight is hers. Zora prefers something more full-on sunny. During lunch I watched one of the resident groundhogs, Olive (O’Fallon Olive) out on the deck scavenging bird seed. She’s very golden and broad and has a kind looking face. Her child, Otto, has darker fur and a mean little mug. When I see them out at the same time, often one is around the deck and the other is across the yard, an escape route close. Our neighbor’s cat sometime comes over and chases them even though she is about the same size as Olive. Ursula has a deep hatred of this cat; I think it is because she thinks the groundhogs are hers. When I put out peanuts it’s a race to see what creature gets them first, bird or marmot. If the blue jays are close, they usually take them. Monday morning four jays were at my office window rioting because no feeders were out yet. Like all Corvids they are loud and demanding, but also smart and beautiful.

On our walk this afternoon we passed a tree which is totally leafless but has three small blossoms. The picture doesn’t do it justice, it’s actually a soft pink flower. Maybe tomorrow I’ll try another photo. It feels like another metaphor. Every moment seems to hold more meaning than it should. The riots over the election will not be well attended because we’ve lost interest. America has failed at the surviving a pandemic because we’re tired. The states going back into lockdown are facing back lash because people want to eat out or kill Grandma during the holidays. There are restaurants in our area under new restrictions because infections and deaths are off the charts and these restaurants are refusing to close. I told Jerry we need to get our grime reaper outfits (we might have them, you don’t know) and stand out selling time shares to Bellefontaine Cemetery with our signs that says: “You’re tired? Come rest here!” or “Mask it or casket” Bah.

 

Out to look for meteors tonight. Something real and lasting.

Be kind, be safe, wear your mask.

 

 

What's coming

Today we needed to get out. The rain all day Saturday washed in sun and hard wind. Not walking weather when there are so many trees, so we took a drive down through Casey and Collinsville up the Interstate for a bit and then chose a random exit and began looking for downtown New Douglas. This is a little farming community that is about forty miles from Saint Louis. The landscape at this time of year is bare and I’m always lost when we drive like this, the lack of landmarks (couldn’t you put some mountains somewhere, Illinois?) throw me. The little towns here seem to go in two directions, some are just adorable and some are sad. New Douglas falls into the sadder category, a lot of dilapidated houses, a couple of boarded up businesses, but it’s par for the course with this economy and the pandemic that no one wants to address. The uniting theme of New Douglas seems to be the Trump signs and flags. It reminded me of a poem I wrote in May while taking a workshop with James Crews (a Zoom workshop, which I did not care for, the platform, not the workshop). The assignment was to write a praise poem to something you wouldn’t normally praise. And we had just taken a Sunday drive to go look at a little country church that was for sale, always looking for the next house of Hope. 😊 So here’s the poem, here’s a couple of pictures out near New Douglas where the sky is deep and wide and you’d think you could see what was coming for you.

Praise Song
            ~after Barbara Crooker
 

Praise the cracked silo and the vine
covered John Deere. Praise the algae
filled pond and the plate-less Pontiac.
Praise the brown headed cowbird
the most perfect colonizer.
 
Praise the sagging porch, the tarped
roof and the woman too tired to wave.
Praise the Dollar General, the Dollar Tree,
the Dollar Store and Maurice’s Five ‘N Dime.
 
Praise the yard sign Make America Great Again.
Praise the rebel flag, praise the lost cause of it all.
Praise the patriot and the common folk.
Praise those that persist in shadow. Praise
whatever it takes for them to look down on me.
 

 

Mid November

It rained all day here, the birds gathered fluffed and fat at the feeders and spent the day eating and complaining. Because of the random thunderstorms that came with the rain, we didn't go out for a walk. So at the beginning of Illinois's next lockdown, we locked ourselves in and did odd things here and there throughout the house. The cats participated until we bored them. 

I spent part of the day working on a special gift for Jerry (don't tell him!) that required a close examination of some of my many, many pictures from Europe. I came across this which seems so lovely and apt for this November of 2020. If not 2020 entirely. 

“Why they cast me from heaven" metal sculpture by Spanish artist Julio Nieto outside "Villa Del Arte Gallery" in Barcelona Spain

Be safe, be kind, wear a mask.

 

11 11 2020

 

The Dead

BY RUPERT BROOKE

These hearts were woven of human joys and cares,

      Washed marvellously with sorrow, swift to mirth.

The years had given them kindness. Dawn was theirs,

      And sunset, and the colours of the earth.

These had seen movement, and heard music; known

      Slumber and waking; loved; gone proudly friended;

Felt the quick stir of wonder; sat alone;

      Touched flowers and furs and cheeks. All this is ended.

There are waters blown by changing winds to laughter

And lit by the rich skies, all day. And after,

      Frost, with a gesture, stays the waves that dance

And wandering loveliness. He leaves a white

      Unbroken glory, a gathered radiance,

A width, a shining peace, under the night.

A small grace

Along Engle Creek the birds were singing so loud and in such numbers all I could do was pause, look up and listen. High up above the ruckus a skein of geese stitched the dark clouds. The leaves are playing opposite of the birds: abandoning the trees in showers of color, silently gliding toward earth. What happens every year is happening again, on schedule and, yes, as expected. Everything in the background overrides this expected time and mutes the sounds and the colors: the added noise of the pandemic, the never-ending election cacophony. It’s like a soundtrack you don’t really notice until you see a replay without the music. Or, until something spectacular overrides it: birds, leaves, the way the sun catches the now bare tree behind my house where a lone cardinal rocks slowly in the breeze. I would have missed her completely if Ursula and I hadn’t been watching sparrows at the feeder and she rose out of the leaf scatter. A small grace blessing the branch.

And then there's Ursula

 

I’ve been remiss, I meant to write about Ursula (Ursa Minor, Ursa Major, Urs, Little Checkerboard Face) shortly after the Zora File. Because her personality is so strong, she’s harder to capture. She trills and talks and insists. Her purr is loud and she does a tuck and roll, sort of what Phil use to do, except where he did a solid shoulder down and roll, she leads with her head. Which is awkward and seems it would hurt, but she doesn’t stop. She is at once cuddly and loving and then, suddenly, distant and cold. She loves to play catch the laser, attack the ribbon and runs as fast as she can through the house even though she has no brakes on the hardwood floor. In early August it seemed as though she had hurt herself and after a visit to the vet, she had three days of anti-inflammatories. After the rest and the meds, she seemed fine. About a week later I noticed a huge bump on her head, I thought maybe she had run and hit a wall, a chair or the edge of the bed. When it didn’t go away, she went back to the vet where they took a biopsy, that didn’t look right so it was sent off to their lab. A week later Dr. Jen, told me that she had an aggressive and quick moving cancer. I told her the lump had completely disappeared (which made Dr. Jen, go hmm, that's really odd, wow, hmmm) and she was feistier than ever. So, we agreed to hold off on anything else, watch Ursula for any lumps or changes in diet, weight loss or behavior, etc. As far as Ursula is concerned (if a cat is ever concerned) the indignity was being taken to the vet twice since she’s been with us. Her appetite is beyond reproach. She spends a great deal of the day patrolling the house, checking windows and walking on keyboards. She’s always up for a game of throw the cat on the couch (something Jerry discovered she likes). Jerry tosses her, she runs back to him for another throw. We’ve also discovered she does not want you on the phone, anytime. And when we were talking to the Bambina and were on speaker, she bit me three times trying to get me to put the phone down. As I like to ask both cats, “What’s the deal, weirdy?”

Cat drama. Cat care, Fur hearts.

Be safe.

And farewell and good night, Alex Trebek. 💔