My Mind’s Wandering Eye
Let’s just say I’ve got an active inner life and leave it at that.
At some point last night, I couldn’t remember where I’d put my glasses. I had them on all day, and would take them off ever so often to rub the bridge of my nose, or place them in my shirt pocket while I tackled the multiflora rose that snaked it’s way up the tree next to the wood pile to the north of the sweat lodge. For that particular job, I’d set them down on the arm of a trash-picked glider bench that fits perfectly in the grassy and pine-shaded area of the lodge circle, making more than one mental note to retrieve them once it was time to head back to the house.
Which I thought I’d done, but wandering from room to room through the house as dusk grew thicker outside, I couldn’t remember putting them back on my face, or having them on when I came up the path to the mudroom door. I walked back out to the lodge twice before resigning their location to the darkness outside, or worse, the darkening edges of my memory. I won’t lie—it unsettled me more than I wanted to admit last night, my late father’s final dementia-wrapped years still fresh and occasionally raw in my mind. At what point did he start to notice a few missed details to a familiar story? How often had he retraced his steps looking for his own glasses?
At the end of a physically taxing day, all I wanted was a good long soak in the tub with a couple of Mary Jane’s Farm magazines from 2016 and the scent of eucalyptus and spearmint bath salts surrounding me in a gentle steam. But without my specs, I’d just be sitting there looking at blurry photos an arms length away from my face. I had an old pair, a three-year old prescription with scratched lenses and really kicky frames (I mourned the passing of these as my daily pair—I felt so Eileen Fisher model-like in them, and now used them as jazzy safety glasses for dangerously fun tasks involving power tools and flying wood chips); they’d do in a pinch for candlelit bath-time reading, but I couldn’t wear them all day without getting a headache. I put them on and hoped the current pair would turn up before work on Monday.
Just having a second pair through which I could still make out the finer details of a photo and the caption below it puts me on the “rich” end of the socioeconomic continuum. With the devastation from hurricane Dorian in the Bahamas still hours old, it was natural to take another at look at my circumstances and know in an instant that I’m damn lucky. I realized this before the sun went down. Scratched as they were, this back-up set would have gotten me through the workday and back to the eyeglass store where I’d have ordered a replacement pair that would arrive in 7-10 business days. For such convenience, I’d push through a mild “wrong prescription” headache because I’d know it was temporary.
And even as troubling as it was to not recall the exact moment or location where I’d put my glasses down and then became fully present to something entirely different, I knew in my gut that I wasn’t at Alzheimer’s doorstep quite yet; by the time the sun disappears below the tree line to the west and I’ve gathered my tools and dumped the last load of branches for the day, I’m tired enough to make fifty-some years of English my second language. I’m not thirty anymore. I’m just grateful that my limbs still know the dance of hard work and my mind knows when to call it a day. It’s an inner signal I’m learning to obey, and willingly. I buffed the scratched lenses of the back-up pair with a soft cloth, read a few more recipes toward the end of the July-August issue and fell asleep. Rich indeed.
In the morning, when the sun had cleared the tall stalks of goldenrod, I put on my yellow chicken boots and made a third trip out to the sweat lodge, all the way down the path asking the Creator to have pity on my not-thirty-year-old eyes and help me remember where I’d put my glasses. Near the trash-picked glider was a pile of mouse-chewed blue and black utility blankets, the kind you can buy from the U-Haul when you’re renting a box truck to move your stuff. Patrick said he’d shaken them out gently last night—maybe my glasses had fallen from the armrest and landed somewhere among the quilted folds. But he found nothing, and that was that. But I hadn’t checked there and maybe he missed something in the gathering darkness. I pulled the first one carefully from the top of the pile and out tumbled my glasses, the lenses dotted with drops of dew, but not a scratch on them. Huh. A grateful smile spread across my face, and, head down, I sent my thanks upward and across the field.
So my only pair of glasses had a little adventure last night—so what? Did the raccoons in the old pasture take turns putting them on and mimicking the way I called the chickens to roost for the night or squinted into a patch of clover looking for the elusive four-leaf ones? Were the Spirits teaching me a lesson about possessions and carelessness? Or was I just tired from the day’s work, my mind turning off the computer and lights and clocking out until morning? Magical thinking, all of it, I know. But I enjoyed writing the ending of this tiny chapter in my life at the same time I was living it.
I’m rich enough to own two functioning pairs of glasses, sharp enough to know where I’ve put them, and humble enough to take neither of these for granted.
Weather. Or Not.
By 4:00p.m., the top third of the dead cottonwood tree that landed on the roof of Patrick’s shed after the last big storm came sliding off, helped by a rope and a strong tug. I caught it with my left hand, or more specifically, it hit my arthritic left thumb and wrist on its way down, and now it’s Miller time. Ice or an ice cold beer, either one would make that hand feel good right about now, but I’m settling for a bowl of frozen white grapes.
We woke up today filled with ambition after yesterday’s surprise afternoon walking the grounds of Flint Ridge State Park, where the annual Knap-in was wrapping up. It’s an event that beckons flint crafters from around the country to spread our their tarps and display their art—arrowheads and spear tips and polished wire-wrapped flint dangling from thin leather strips. I’d suggested we go there to stroll through the abandoned flint pits and imagine the Early Ones digging up enough of the colorful stone to painstakingly create the tools they’d use in the years to come. But the marquees held the promise of artisans and eye candy, so we shifted gears and strolled among the booths, not a scrap of cash with us.
That wasn’t a problem when we stopped at a booth selling hammered copper wrist cuffs, knobbly polished walking sticks and fish prints painted on delicate rice paper in the Gyotaku tradition. I couldn’t decide between the bluegill or the largemouth bass, so they both came home with us, thanks to the Square swipe card on the vendor’s iPad. More artwork for the still bare-walled living room that we refreshed more than a year ago. Now all we need are frames.
It was a relaxing way to spend a Saturday afternoon; I had solo’d at the Farmer’s Market that morning with our homemade granola. Patrick woke up feeling poorly and looking pale but insisted he was good to sleep it off unsupervised, and with the truck already packed, I inhaled a quick hard boiled egg and apple breakfast and managed the whole set-up, selling, and tear-down on my own. It was lonely but strangely satisfying handling it myself, and I knew Patrick was where he most needed to be. Sales were brisk and steady, and he was feeling well enough to travel by the time I got home.
Talking about the different projects needing our attention is one of our favorite things to do on any road trip, no matter how many or few miles disappear beneath the truck tires. Weather apps ready to hand, we discuss logistics and timing, and plan our breaks accordingly. “So, when we get up tomorrow, let’s clear that cottonwood from the roof of the shed and then trim the trees down by the old chicken coops. After lunch, we’ll push back the weeds growing along the ridge by the house and then, just for fun, can we cut a path through the field behind the old old goat barn? I’d love to see what that’d look like.” And on it goes until we arrive at wherever we were planning to be.
For Sunday, the weather-guessers were predicting rain later in the day, so we wanted to time our tree removal and cutting just right; working a chainsaw is tricky enough without the added element of slippery fingers in wet gloves. It ended up being more complicated than it looked, what with a tangle of tenacious grapevines holding the fallen tree in a hammock of green leaves and sinewy thick strands. We worked with a set of lopers, a chainsaw and a pole saw just to clear away enough of the vines to see where we were headed and could safely navigate the rest of the tree trunk. The sky overhead was a moth-eaten gray cloud cover, and there was still laundry hanging from the line. Sometimes projects overlap.
Two hours later, Patrick took a break, I nursed my bruised hand a bit while making a pot of chicken soup for lunch, and had just loaded up the last contractor’s bag of trash into the bed of the red Tacoma (the leavings of other farm and miscellaneous projects collected from around the back of the shed that we needed to move in order to get at the tree) when the skies let loose with a short but intense downpour. I debated giving myself the experience of working until drenched, which can be quite exhilarating if you let go of the idea that sopping wet clothes are uncomfortable, and ended up following my nose back into the kitchen where the Dutch oven full of leeks and wine-broth and pulled chicken and potatoes was a damn sight more appealing than making myself feel all tough and accomplished (and wet). The soup was delicious. I’d chosen well.
Once the truck bed had been emptied of its load at the end of the driveway (wondering what kind and how many gift cards to leave for our beloved trash collector, bless him), a nap was in order. I had barely closed my eyes when I heard the rumble of thunder to the south, where all the best dramatic storms come from, and knew sleep was no longer on the agenda. The lightning grew bolder and less spaced out in between flashes, and within minutes the wind was whipping the black walnuts and yellow maples mercilessly. I stood at the mudroom door and watched as green leaves showed their silver undersides and water ran in rivulets off the gutters.
Halfway through our Labor Day weekend, we had a tree down and cut (we’ll stack tomorrow), homemade soup aplenty, and trash cleared. The untrimmed trees by the chicken coops are waiting patiently, and I’m ok with the tall weeds still standing along the ridge.
Not bad for a to-do list wedged in between the raindrops.
Look at Me
My friends’ Facebook pages were awash last week with photos of the young ones in their lives nervously or excitedly holding signs announcing grade-specific first days of school. They looked smart in their new clothes and I can imagine with no trouble at all the night-before dress rehearsals to make sure pants fit, tops matched, and accessories were in place, casually but carefully. I wonder what it all looked like by recess.
Not having children, except for the four-legged furry kind, the best I could have managed last week would have been a photo of Bumper and Xena in the pet taxi following their first (and only) spay and neuter appointments at the vet, trying in their woozy post-op state to hold a sign that reads “What the hell was that??”
Hey, firsts are firsts, right? At least they’re talking to us again.
Marking milestones in our lives isn’t new. Rites of passage span a broad and diverse continuum and I feel safe saying (without the hard data to back it up) we’ve all had at least one day to ourselves in the sun, to stop time and make note of a particular moment that will never repeat itself, never happen again. You’re thinking about a few of your own right now, aren’t you? I wish you were here with me so I could listen to what that first day of kindergarten was like for you, or how it felt to lose your first baby tooth after your brother convinced you that biting down on the belt to your terrycloth bathrobe while he yanked on it from three feet away wouldn’t hurt at all. Or what about the time you took to the basketball court for your first game, the other third graders towering above you and wondering why you were placed as a guard? As you look back on your two-point career, I hope you give yourself all kinds of high fives and back-slaps for even trying out in the first place.
So many of our firsts are also “onlies”(only-s?); events that can’t be repeated. Re-enacted maybe, but in the second they occur, they slide back into our personal histories and pick up speed in reverse as we move forward and into the next First. I suppose in some lovely existential way, every moment of our lives is a non-repeater, and now if I start tallying them up I’m going to get tired and blow a brain fuse from the sheer volume of them all. For the sake of our collective sanity, let’s keep this conversation to milestone firsts. I’m happy to grab a cup of tea with you at a later date and meander down that other philosophical path. I’ll bring the sandwiches.
What do you suppose it is about our need to make a deal (big or small or moderately-sized) about the stuff that we experience without precedent? Reality TV’s influence over the last couple of decades has certainly expanded the tools at our fingertips to broadcast these moments. But this desire to suspend time and give them their own spotlight predates the onset of social media by a mile.
My money’s on the rock-solid human need to be validated, on top of which we pile a mix of sentimentality, record-keeping, notoriety, evidence for the generations to come, and a little bit of the ham that resides deep within all of us (hence the photos and posts of Groomsmen’s Dances at wedding receptions, Puppy’s First Bath, and Tyler Wearing his First Football Uniform on the First Day of Practice After the First Day of School, grinding broadly to show everyone where that baby tooth used to be). When we look back at these photos, we laugh, or smile with affection and fondness for the one taking center stage, and then tell the story with good-natured and generous embellishments. We’re right back in the place where it started and someone had the presence of mind to snap a picture.
I think we also don’t trust our own memories to recall the important details of such events as our days unfold into decades. Red dress or blue? Was Aunt Jeannie there? Yes, she was behind the camera, I know, because she’d always make us say “Bees!!” instead of “cheese!” before taking at least four pictures as insurance against closed eyes and a cousin’s hand reaching up to smooth his hair. Not important then but the stuff of storytelling legend twelve years later when accuracy counts as evidence that we’re not really growing more forgetful.
As the fourth of five children raised in the unplugged and non-digitally saturated 70’s, I can’t show you any First-Day-of-School-With-a-Sign photos. And that’s ok. I tended toward anxiety more than calm in those days and I don’t think I’d want a photo of that moment in my scrapbook now. Behind the pink gingham dress beat the nervous heart of an insecure second-grader whose “good” would never be good enough. I was more settled in by Class Picture Day some six weeks into the school year, and neatly trimmed each wallet-sized photo of my more at-ease and smiling face while mom wrote the accompanying notes to aunts and uncles scattered across the Midwest.
I can show you First Married Kiss, First Sunrise at Canyon de Chelly, First Birthday, and First Plaster Cast of my Five-Year-Old Hand. I remember each one like it was yesterday. Isn’t that sweet, and really, the whole point—to melt away the years if only for a little while? To feel seen and special again?
Happy First Whatever This Day Is For You.
Consider it noted.
Holding Onto Summer
The air is thick with cicada song, clinging to the humidity until a hot breeze carries it across the drying grass to rest near my bare feet.
A handful of goldfinches have found the thistle socks I hung from the mulberry saplings last Thursday, but their feathery weight barely sets the whole dangling enterprise in motion; that hot cicada breeze picks up slightly and sways both bird and seed-filled mesh netting back and forth gently. Not one finch gives up its place at the vertical al fresco table.
I love August. It’s still summer, though the approaching school year makes it seem as if all is autumn and new school supplies.
A woman I knew long ago when I worked as a pastoral associate at a university-based faith community once told me that her theology professor insisted God’s favorite colors were purple and yellow. She put this forth as fact, no room for question or debate. I’m not here to argue that one way or the other, aside from the familiar arrogance of any human who claims to know the mind of God at such a thin level as color preference. But, as I look out my living room windows, I can see a proud cluster of sturdy iron weed in bloom, its purple flowers bursting forth right next to two tall and willowy stands of golden yellow wingstem and veiny hawkweed, close enough as if they were married and shared a root system. Besides the ever-present ombré of green as a backdrop, and the subtle brownish branches of the trees, there are no other colors in view. Somewhere, a retired (and for all I know, deceased) theology professor just rested her case.
Divine favorites now acknowledged and set aside, it’s a lovely privilege to take a break from restocking this week’s varied inventory of granola and pause to receive all of the above as gift—cicadas making their late-summer selves known (though I can’t see them at all, no matter how much I squint into the direction of their ratchety sound), hot breeze and buttery yellow wingstem against the color wheel’s best shades of green, and the crunch of blueberry almond granola pulling it all together in a five-senses celebration. I really do live like this, noticing things and trying my darndest to keep life slow enough most days to do so. I marvel at the way it is both ordinary and profound. And, random thought: I think Dad would have enjoyed our blueberry almond granola.
We recently became supporting members of a local nature preserve, and after Saturday’s market sales were tallied for the week, we traveled the short thirty-five minutes to browse the gift shop and walk through the cypress swamp, hoping a snake or two would slide their heads above the algae to see what we were all about. They didn’t, but their absence didn’t keep us from standing captivated in the midst of such an other-worldly treasure practically in our back yard. And speaking of back yards, why would two city-raised kids turned rural residents need to buy our way into a 2000+ acre nature preserve when we’ve got 41 perfectly fine (and paid for) acres outside both front and back doors? Couldn’t we just go for a walk and call it even?
You’d think.
But to see such a well-tended expanse of native plants, towering trees, waterways, evergreens, and the community’s commitment to it has re-inspired our own caretaker creativity for the humble slice of terra firma we know, where we scatter our dreams at night and park our trucks and stretch out our aging limbs after a day’s worth of weeding. I’ve imagined setting up little conversation area vignettes in the meadow so that visiting friends and family can stop and rest on our after-brunch walks, commenting on the wider creek banks or noting the smooth tawny and grey feathers of a cedar waxwing in that branch right over there. I’ve gotten as far as placing pairs of lawn chairs somewhat strategically throughout the meadows’ seven or so wooded acres, and added “end tables” to our list of yard sale acquisitions for the upcoming Labor Day weekend (a body needs somewhere to set down a glass of Shiraz for heaven’s sake). I scroll through the pages of Flea Market Gardening’s monthly e-newsletter, and see that some clever person has staked out an old wooden door in the middle of nowhere, adorned the now-empty windowpanes with a grapevine wreath and painted it a chippy ocean blue. We could do that easily, and de-clutter the front deck of the two old doors we trash-picked four Springs ago. I think I’d make it so the door could open and close on its hinges, a portal to some mystical and enchanted place where no one could find me for hours. Another project for a growing list that has no period at the end of it.
Is it greedy to wish for a parallel life so I can care full time for our home and land and still enjoy the benefits of employer-supported healthcare coverage and a bi-weekly paycheck? We do what we can on either side of our respective workdays, but time spent outside never feels adequate, and many’s the day I’ve climbed reluctantly into the cab of the truck to head toward that regular paycheck, knowing full well what I’m leaving behind. Please forgive the late summer melancholy. I suppose the school-age child wistfully organizing her notebooks, freshly sharpened pencils and new socks against the memories of a summer well-spent has never completely left this older woman’s soul.
I still love August, though. And probably always will.
It’s still summer.