Listening for Squirrels

Explain

2012-02-03T14:29:00.000-08:00

Dirty laundry into basket. Basket goes downstairs. Dirty laundry out of basket. Dirty laundry into washing machine. Clean laundry into dryer. Hang some pieces on wooden drying rack. All clean clothes out of dryer, off of rack, and back into basket. Basket goes upstairs. Basket sits. Basket sits. Sits basket. Days pass. Pass days. Clean clothes stay in basket. Wear different clean clothes. Days pass. Favorite underwear in basket of clean clothes. Empty basket of clean clothes onto bed. Sift. Sift. Favorite found. Move clean clothes off bed and into basket. Time to sleep. Wake to time. Favorite socks in basket of clean clothes. Empty basket of clean clothes onto bed. Think twice about putting them back into basket. Too many new dirty clothes piled on closet floor now. Need empty basket. Fold clean clothes into pile and move from bed to wicker night stand. Wobble. Wobble. Straighten. Done wobble. Fill basket with new dirty clothes and take downstairs to washer, dryer, and rack. Upstairs remove old clean clothes from wicker stand and return to places of original displacement. Downstairs, place new clean clothes in basket. Fold not. Repeat.

Saccharine

2012-01-15T14:09:00.000-08:00

C₂H₆0_2.Ethylene glycol. A sugar related to C₂H₄0₂, the smallest known molecular sweetie called glycolaldehyde, a life-building essential found in a gas cloud in the Milky Way. No wonder my head hurts from anti-freeze (glycol) leaking into the passenger cabin of my beater car: the dust in my mind expands as a drive. This time to Austin, Minnesota, near the Iowa border. Ninety minutes into the journey (fifteen miles from destination) I realize I don't want what waits for me there. I stop in a place named for blossoming open fields and call the owner. I tell him my decision, eat my lunch (in the sugar cabin), and make a u-turn. Sweet-plugged ears or not, I hear scraping on the pavement. Park again and walk around. The muffler hangs off the rear. I cruise to a business selling repaired salvaged autos across from a grain elevator. "Can you fix this," I ask. Late Friday afternoon, the mechanic left early, still a body man remains. I follow him around back where he reaches under a truck (that probably hit a tree) and gathers hanger bushings (huh?). "Hard to get off old ones," he says. The scavenge works. He discusses a price for the job with the shop manager who hand-writes an invoice. I note the list of vehicles for sale posted on the wall. "An old dry erase board," he says, "Nothing fancy in the small town we live in." Not a one suits me. I tell them my story. "You drove all the way down just to turn around?" Well, um, no, not really, but I am under the influence of life building compounds. And I like candy. A vending machine near the shop's door has a selection of three. It accepts quarters. I have dimes.

Trespass

2011-12-23T13:43:00.000-08:00

Seats belts fastened. Tray tables and chairs in their up-right and locked positions. Electronic devices turned off. Mouths shut and not uttering one more word. No, she forgets that last sentence. The oversight marks doom for someone like me who has a history of excessive talking, especially about favorite subjects. (Like books: The Razor's Edge is not on my list, but The Wind-up Bird Chronicle was remarkable. Or, brandy: give your hosts a French one from Armagnac. Expensive, but worth it.) Multiple teachers told my parents that "your daughter is a delight to have in class, if only she could shut up," as they handed them report cards with A's in reading and writing. The flight attendant walks down the isle and stops at 12C. For a moment I spy a yardstick behind her back, but that's because she resembles my kindergarten teacher. Wielding a wooden rod, Mrs. Henderson's wrist could flip from zero to sixty in less than three seconds, bopping me on the head more than once a day. My current instructor says "no one around you could hear the safety information." I want to act self-righteous and explain myself. I say loudly to the people around me that I will step aside and exit last if there's an emergency. They express sympathy for me and my never-to-be-seen-again conversation conspirator sitting across the isle in 12D. But I refuse this support and acknowledge our authority. "It's good to be reminded even if we've heard it before," I say. "Thank you dear," she replies. Later she gives me extra pretzels and a book recommendation.

Truth

2011-12-16T08:01:00.000-08:00

Crossing the Mississippi River again today. This time a man stands in near darkness holding a cardboard sign announcing "smile, it could be worse." Whoa, he's right. I make a u-turn, park, and run over to tell him that I agree. He reports that his wife is sick and needs cold medicine. He shares more details about their situation. Everyone has a story, especially those standing on corners with handmade billboards making pleas for assistance. I recall a similar circumstance years ago when a man needed two dollars for fuel. He later got on a bus and went to buy drugs. (I know because I followed him and got my money back.) Now, I open my wallet and give this man five dollars. I hug him too, sharing something worth more to me than to him. I head to my car but turn back and tell him to use the money for whatever he wants. Really, he says, my wife is sick. Really, I say, this doesn't matter. Do what you need to do. His sign was worth the stop, the smile, the pause.

Wheels

2011-11-09T14:03:00.000-08:00

"Try this one," she says and points to a bicycle with a gray frame for me to borrow. Apprehension fills my head as I see myself flying over the handlebars wrapped with pink tape. We pull it down anyway and I shed my regular clothes for leggings, tank top, and helmet. The ride turns to fun as I peddle along the flat trails heading out of the city. The movement has grace and I return giddy with plans for purchasing my own road bike. The search starts simply for something cheap, or bottom of the barrel, that can be bruised and contused free from guilt, but they feel as good as they cost. I find myself testing new end-of-year close out models. I pick one and line up accompanying gear. The sales clerk hands me the tab and I swallow. My credit card stays in my wallet. Sitting down, I ask for a moment to think about this simple-turned-complicated buy. A to-do list ticks through my head. A new garage roof, a week's stay in Paris, a small house for a family living in a tent camp in Haiti. Most children around the world do not know the pleasure of being on two wheels, using their own legs to propel themselves through a breeze. I turn away and go home to use what I have.

Flavor

2011-08-15T13:54:00.000-07:00

"Is this the end of the line," he asks. Yes, I reply to this stranger who edges next to me, his chin inches from my shoulder. White hair dangles down his back. A ball cap gives him shade from the summer sun. The menu board at this lakeside food stand offers three flavors of ice cream: vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry. But there goes a scoop of mint chocolate chip. "I'm getting out of here," he says to me. "I'm 67 years old and I've had enough, enough of winter. I grew up in this neighborhood, but I'm leaving for San Diego." My hand reaches to my head, double checking for the sunglasses keeping this man from seeing me. I look away to the people who stroll around the lake, glide on its surface with sailboats, or sit alongside it listening to a free symphony concert. I know nearly 365 days of sunshine and could take it again without a fight. "I went to southwest high school," he adds and points to train tracks. "I rode that trolley when I was a kid." I nod until we arrive at the front of the line and his wife returns. She wonders why we order here but pick up there. "That's dumb," she says. Neither one says a thing about the biting flies.

Species

2011-08-12T13:52:00.000-07:00

"I can mow your lawn," he says. A teenage boy stands in the gutter outside my house, hands resting on a lawn mower. "Fifteen bucks." I pause for two seconds, wondering if this kid is an angel answering a prayer or a messenger saving me from an angry neighbor. Higher grass blades serve the lawn I reason. The lushness cushions a sunbathing bottom or a doggie's paw pads. The height keeps down the weeds I argue. Then I look down the lane and see the tidy front yards with their tended flower beds banking the walks. My wallet holds several twenty dollar bills. No need even to hit the ATM. "What are you gonna do with the money?" I ask. "Buy a bird."

See Things I

2011-07-13T15:09:00.000-07:00

Hardware

2011-07-11T13:50:00.000-07:00

She asks me about the tools in my toolbox. Not hammer, camera or computer. "What do you use to style your hair?" She looks me in the eye. I give a couple details about my get-out-of-bed-and-go approach. She looks me in the eye again, not amused at all. "Every gal needs some tools," she tells me, adding "No one wakes up beautiful." I confess to being the owner of an expensive ceramic hair dryer. My dog Floyd likes me to press a cool button that gives him a fresh air blast. This pleases even less the woman standing at my side deftly handling both hair brush and curling iron. Regular mani-pedis count for nothing. My flossed teeth impress not one ounce. She budges not a bit even after I share my childhood bobby-pins story. Like an actress on cue, I evoke the tears shed during that endless female torture, but making a plea for my pain-free beach-girl look gains no ground. "Start here," she says, holding up a Velcro roller. "Get the red ones."

Extinguish

2011-04-15T13:40:00.000-07:00

A man taps me on the shoulder and gestures for me to follow him down the hall to a room with an unlocked door. He enters and points to a woman, legs bare, sitting wrapped in a blanket on a recliner. All I have left is here, she says, and I shit my pants, pointing to a spoiled bundle on the floor. She ran out of her burning apartment building with jacket, pants, and boots even though a heart condition makes it difficult, nearly impossible, for her to go anywhere fast or far. She lives in this state, this place, without family, having moved here for love decades ago and then later divorced, no children. I'm a retired social worker used to helping others and here I am needing help, she says. Even so, she smiles, spirit high. The man manages the building where both of them live. His apartment, unstained from the fire, offers refuge for this woman who has become a friend. He often drives her, and others without transportation, to buy groceries and pick up prescription medications. They offer all of this information to me even before I explain my role as a storyteller, or really a story-capturer, that provides immediate relief for no one but me.

Life, Scene 512

2011-04-04T11:33:00.000-07:00

Int. Meditation Center, Upper Midwest - spring evening

Fade in

Hearing-impaired Slouched Man, 80s, approaches Funny-up-do Hair Woman, 40s, after listening to talk about being available for dharma (aka Buddhist teachings). During talk, Funny-up-do hair woman asked guest speaker where he was from because she was curious about his accent, possibly Southern.

                     HEARING-IMPAIRED MAN
                 Where did he say he was from?

                      FUNNY-UP-DO WOMAN

                          Tennessee

                     HEARING-IMPAIRED MAN

                 Then how did he get so smart? 

     (under influence of dog, Funny-up-do Woman tilts head)

                     HEARING-IMPAIRED MAN

               Or am I not supposed to say that?

Rotten

2011-03-07T18:32:00.000-08:00

We wait together for venerable so and so to arrive. My patience thins, I shift my crossed legs on a cushion against the floor. She enters the room a few minutes late, hardly tardy at all, but I feel perturbed. She tidies a pile of orange yardage, otherwise known as a robe, around her. I ready myself for words that might break open my heart. She describes the most important ways of living in the world, such as expressing compassion and sympathy for all others. Qualities not beyond my reach, but I will not master them anytime soon. Then she reads a sweet and loving poem written to honor a mother. She offers to tell us who wrote it as long as we do not toss her out the door. We agree and listen as she gives us the name of a notorious man who inspires hatred for all but his own type. Even the most vile, she explains, have a goodness somewhere inside them. I want to believe this, but I struggle to keep my hand down, to not ask questions, and to see the peace that all deserve, including this teacher who lives as a hermit above her son's garage.

Bump

2011-01-21T12:14:00.000-08:00

Pick a color, she says. No advance plans to be here but with two hours to spare a hand and foot spruce up makes sense. There must be hundreds of choices on the wall where bottles store matte, glossy, and sparkly pigments. I select dark purple and dip my feet in a hot jet bath. A young girl at a nearby manicure station has a woman painting a flower on each of her tiny thumbs. My helper offers me a hot wax treatment that I decline (it makes my feet slippery) and so I transition from pedi to mani. Yes, please use the same color for my fingernails. "How much is a flower?" I ask. Five dollars each. I take two, one on each thumb like the girl now resting with her hands under an ultraviolet dryer. Women around me watch as the blossoms take shape on my grown-up digits. One woman moves for a closer look. "You got more than flowers, you got heart," she tells me. Heart for ten bucks equals a bargain. I bounce home, pour a glass of milk, and place two cupcakes (one chocolate, one pumpkin) on a plate. On the way to my cozy room a pant leg catches on the dog gate. The baked treats survive the tumble while my face slams into a door jamb. I return to the kitchen and my heart hands retrieve from the freezer an ice pack to help reduce the swelling that's sure to follow.

Careful

2011-01-19T16:49:00.000-08:00

Some boxes have names. The one that I drag out from the attic I call the dead people's box. Old stuff in it belongs to people who came before me. People whose blood lines I do not share but are family. This time of year allows for the annual sift. I remember now what stays here. This time I remove a box in the box. It's a small one that came in the mail unexpectedly many days past. Inside I see deep-sea fishing lures, a man's wooden valet tray, and two wrist watches with silver bands. Neither time piece sound a tick-tock. Both dangle from my wrist and fall off. I take the dress watch to a repair shop tucked between a movie theater and spectacle store. The repairman tells me that I'm lucky because the battery did not leak on the parts. "It's from the 80s," he says, "My wife would love it." I do too and wear it out the door wondering how long it will be before I scratch the crystal. My traits do not include delicacy with fine objects so I return with the second watch. This sturdy piece shows wear from days of manual labor. With a new battery and links removed, it circles my wrist with a masculine weight easily held. The white face and black numbers stand out, making it easy to read. I work with my hands everyday typing on a computer. I will try not to damage my new find when I wear it.

Growth

2010-12-10T16:26:00.000-08:00

I stop when I spot trays of Italian glass finger rings. This one. No, wait, this one right here. To pick one color and shape frustrates me. My back bends to examine them closer. Then I sit, cross-legged on the floor to rest my legs, feet, and mostly to see these objects more clearly. They come in some of my favorite shades of blue and brown. I could be here for hours. A man notices this and joins me on the mall floor. He owns this kiosk of decorative objects. "My name is Deva," he says. "Do you know the meaning of the ring you're wearing?" he asks. Actually, I do. The symbol on it represents all of existence from beginning to end. He wants to know where I learned this and suggests Nepal, one of his homelands. Then he says, "Do you know Shangri-La?" Ding-ding, yes I do! I win again! A book tells the fictional story of this place of paradise and peace. I like the movie. No, he tells me, it's the name of second shop he owns in another corner of the mall. Now I register surprise. My eyes open wider and the colors of the glass rings brighten. Together, we choose one that's white and goes with everything.

Triage

2010-11-24T12:30:00.000-08:00

The bike needs tending to before winter arrives, which is only days away. I call a friend. He tinkers, has tools, and knows motorcycles. "This should not take long," he says, pressing the ignition button. The head lamp flickers and then nothing happens. Dead battery. A flash crosses my mind. There's a neighbor down the street who can help us. I walk down the alley and knock on his front door. He's home, has a jump, and knows motorcycles. The bike requires more than a jump. The battery needs water, the tires need air, the motor needs to keep running while they add something to the fuel tank that goes to the carburetor and other places. I hear something about larger jets and oxygenated gasoline. My friend unwraps the tool kit he brought along. My neighbor asks me to hold a lantern so they can see to work. I am the assistant to the surgeon's assistant. Our emergency pack contains multiple bandages from several expert sources. We make our way back home with my friend standing astride the bike (the seat is still off) to hold the charge. He finishes, placing the bike in a corner of the garage on its center stand. I offer and he accepts a nip of brandy in return for good work.

Thrifty

2010-11-05T13:22:00.000-07:00

One, two, three, four. My wallet has enough dollars to buy a cup of drip coffee and a glazed, old-fashioned donut. Twenty on hand would be better. One dollar buys little in this northern land requiring thick soles and lofty down. Around the world most people live on two bucks a day. Probably they do not stop as I do while on my way home at a yard sale where several households have pooled their unwanted goods. I need nothing, but the allure tempts me this late in autumn. I flip through old cook books. I see a rare man-box with cables, cords and screwdrivers. Embroidered linens and etched glassware cover a side table. Among the items soon to be discarded is a crystal candlestick similar to one (a wedding gift, perhaps?) that belonged to my mother that blew apart when I let a candle burn too long. Also available for purchase: plates, cups, costume jewelry and vinyl record albums. I pick up a ceramic mug that has a curved lip, making it easy for sipping. The under side lacks a stamp declaring it made in China. The price tag reads two dollars. That combined with a deck of playing cards adds up to four.

Chill

2010-10-20T14:28:00.000-07:00

Parking, grab spot close to entrance. Elevator, push fourth floor button. Register, secure wrist bracelet with my essential information, like the ones put on newborns. Find dressing room, shirt off, wipe armpits, tie robe around waist. Now, time to relax with a cup of tea. The illusion of a spa experience takes my mind off the pending exam in which a stranger smashes my breasts between cold plates for picture-taking. Today, the spa is closed. "We're moving," the receptionist says. Translation: no hot beverage available before you take a long walk through public halls to the new, and soon-to-be-beautiful, reception area for all things mammary gland-related. I sit, nipples alert and wait. A non-medical man with a leather tool belt smiles at me. We make eye contact and I run to where I should not be and see many breasts on computer screens. "Can you make the construction men go away? I find it hard enough to be here,"I say. My radiologist takes my hand and off we go. She moves my skin this and that way while telling me about her sister who manages a place like this many states away, but who now has breast cancer. "I'll call if there's anything urgent." I have two phones. Neither ring all day.

Tardy

2010-10-01T13:51:00.000-07:00

No quiet entry after a Mr. Toad wild ride through town to get here on time. My tardiness goes noticed. People turn their heads. I smile and place my bum on the last empty stool. The others have glasses full with red or white fermented grape juice in front of their notebooks. "Where's the wine?" I whisper to my neighbor. She points to an assistant who, like me, flanks the far left. I wave my hand. "Pee-noh gree-gzee-oh," I plead as low as possible while still being audible. He takes five dollars and returns with my beverage. A few sips build my confidence. I shimmy across the bar and stand behind those who arrive early and grab spots in the center. We watch as the instructor pours apple cider over chicken thighs cooking in a deep sauté pan. "What brand are you using?"asks a student whose ample view includes the mirror hanging above the stove. The chef gives a name and everyone jots it down. I return to my place still thirsty, feeling the embarrassment of being late and not knowing how to behave in what's my first cooking class since eighth grade home economics. With a check mark already on my report card for being tardy, I open my mouth and without raising my hand blurt out the label of another local orchard.

Lesson

2010-09-16T13:00:00.000-07:00

Wander the isles and imagine a walk through the grand bazaar in Istanbul where fragrant spices and colorful rugs awaken the senses. This is not that place. Here, vendors peddle wizardry for salsa-making, foot massaging, and house cleaning. The booths number in the hundreds and fill two floors. People buy fudge chunks and then lie down to rest on mattresses they hope will comfort them better than what they have at home. My head turns left to right, right to left, as it catches the magnificence of a sharp blade chopping vegetables. The demonstrator wears a microphone to propel his voice over the crowd bumping elbows. Perhaps this blade has the edge that inspires me to be smitten with my kitchen. It could replace the light and agile knife that I left on the porch for its owner to retrieve a short while ago. The seller takes debit, credit, or cash, but my readiness slows. Next door a different carnival man hawks recliner chairs. I ease that direction, sit down, and put up my feet. This chair goes well with the organic bamboo blanket that I see several stalls down.

Mate

2010-08-26T13:55:00.000-07:00

Plop. I look down at the floor. A small bundle, perhaps four by three by two inches, rests on the dining room floor where I sit and chat with a friend on the telephone. Hold on, I say, and focus my eyes. Dried up dead mouse or sleeping living bat I conclude and exhale. Ears flap in the breeze. Wings visible against torso. I take the rest of my phone call on the front porch and watch my vampire through a window. Rest, stretch and flight. It circles close to the ceiling and then disappears. My thirst draws me back inside. It hangs upside down, belly to wall. I watch and wait. Its slumber makes me sleepy. I, too, enjoy an afternoon nap. A cuteness emerges and then a knock on the door disrupts the transformation of bat from beast to beauty. Can he stay? No. Let's have dinner and then proceed with capture. Agreed. Now named Edward, the bat stays tethered and undisturbed. I grab keys, wallet, and sunglasses and close the door behind me.

Rules

2010-08-17T11:06:00.000-07:00

Table available. Backpack down. Latte with skim and cherry cheese pastry. Conversation with a friend at his table, not mine. Time passes. Minutes, five, ten, fifteen, twenty or so. Bathroom stop, pee, wipe and wash. Return to solitary location to do homework. Backpack gone. "I moved it," says a man sitting nearby. "You were gone for thirty minutes." We argue. Another man offers me his table because he does not want people to fight. But I seem ready, almost waiting for one. Perhaps the heat and humidity fuel the fervor filling my chest. My feet stomp with little effort to the staff. Like Charlie Brown's mother on television I blurt out "wah wah wah" to them. Mr. Backpack Mover is six feet tall and weighs at least two hundred pounds. My petite frame hardly compares to his Viking stature. I find another table but then my original choice opens. I carry my books, now out of the backpack, to my first choice. Mr. Backpack Mover blocks my path, saying that I cannot have the table. But I will. No you will not, he says, and sits. I offer to share with him or anyone. He refuses, picks up my books and throws them across the floor. We have an audience. I reach for my mug. He stands up and heads out the door. I'm thankful because my coffee tastes too good.

Pipes

2010-08-03T13:39:00.000-07:00

The valves turn but the water keeps flowing. "You need to call a plumber," says the painter. I phone a neighbor who fixes everything from refrigerators to motorbikes. His inspection results in a shopping list of foreign ingredients so I head to a box home shop in the suburbs. I find a plumbing isle and search the labels for names written on the paper scrap in my hand. I see items called coupling, bushing, nipple, union, fitting and plug. My face turns red when an employee approaches. "Do you want help," he asks. "These names do not match what's on my list," I reply. He guides me to the next isle. Disappointment registers on my face. There's nothing spicy about these parts, I say. I gather what's required for the sink repair and return home where I have caulking already in stock.

Familiar

2010-06-21T13:52:00.000-07:00

The helicopter lands on a mountain plateau. People scale the slopes towards the turning rotors. They check their fear and approach because they know about the bounty on board. I look up. The helicopter's belly hangs above my head. I stand to get out of the way and am blown down. My body scrapes across a thorn bush, penetrating deep enough to draw blood. A local man scurries to assist me. He asks if I speak Creole or Spanish, trying to find a common language between us. No, English or French I reply. He wears a straw hat that provides shade where little is found. He escorts me around the others fighting for tools that they can use to build temporary shelters or to have and hold as precious objects. The fortunate ones walk head high and neck strong with their recent acquisitions. I scramble inside the helicopter while others off-load the last of the relief supplies. I want to jump out and run along a mountain path so that I can know these strangers. We share something in common, but what that might be takes time to learn. I go high in the sky while watching them grow small against the earth.

Countdown

2010-03-07T16:31:00.000-08:00

The dog crew organizer hands us pink arm bands and a list of names. "Go find your teams," she says. Our group leader has experience so he knows we have little time to waste. We search first for the marathon racers then the mid- and short distance teams. We introduce ourselves to the mushers, explaining how we help guide the gang line. Without us, the power and enthusiasm that fuel these teams of fourteen, twelve, or eight dogs would lead to chaos in the staging area. Most rest quietly until the time arrives for their handlers to put on their harnesses and booties. Then the dogs bark their hearts out and I want to bark with them. Their excitement ignites me and I forget the bitter cold air brushing my face. Our first marathon team readies. We grab the gang line. "Don't step on any paws," the musher yells as he digs in the brake. My quick, baby steps help me round a tight, slippery curve and stop at the starting line. The teams that finish cover more than three hundred miles. The winner manages this in just over forty hours. A man with a dozen dog sled patches sewn to his parka points for us to exit and get out of the way. The crowd watches the clock. "...six, five, four, three, two, one!" I look back, feeling a burn from the line, and wish them a safe journey.

Traction

2010-01-27T13:14:00.000-08:00

A millimeter of snow melts, leaving a thin layer for sliding along the sidewalk. Determination and fading sun light fuels my legs while my knock rattles front doors. "I'm collecting for the alley snow plowing this winter," I say. Some offer cash. Others write checks. One asks me to wait while she runs to her car. Returning, she gives me a tattered stamped envelope. "I've been driving around with this for days," she explains. My arrival hour interrupts mostly television watching. A man rises from a recliner. "It's not my alley," he says. "We've lived here thirty years and never paid," he adds and closes the door. My chest burns and I stomp to the next house. Here, they welcome me inside. Baked monkey bread cools on the stove top. I ask about the Asian artifacts placed around the living room. Purchased, they tell me, during world travels. My heart softens and I plod on. A couple checks land on my porch the next morning. The collected money now covers the bill. I give it to the man who paid the plow service. Going down my list, I point to a couple addresses that did not pay, including that belonging to Mister Not My Alley. "Oh, so and so, he's an usher at our church." I feel complete relief because now he can take it up with his neighbor in the pews.

Sold

2009-12-18T14:30:00.000-08:00

He offers the wheel. I decline and ride shotgun. This particular auto has a name that I change here to protect everyone. Let's call it the Box. I point to a square of shag carpet on the Box's dash and ask what's that. "For your phone or music player," he says and tosses his own cell on it and indeed the phone stays put while we whisk around curves on a frontage road. He turns on lights that bounce around the front floor in rhythm with music pouring from the speakers. Seeing my feet in the otherwise dark interior distracts me for a moment. How about the Box's safety features like air bags, traction control, and anti-lock brakes? Yes, it has all of those features and they work fine. Now, let's return to the sound system. We scoot around with smooth, shiftless transmission, then pull into the back lot where plastic covers the upholstered seats of new Box arrivals. My nose picks up the fresh scent in spite of the protection. Send me your inventory list of available colors, but include only those with no racing stripe. I walk to the front where a man leans against the hood of my wagon made before hands free calling and interior atmospheric strobes. It's for sale, I tell him. Thanks but no thanks he replies. I ride home with my radio turned off.

Stubborn

2009-11-17T14:25:00.000-08:00

Yarn and hook make something. In this case, an afghan should emerge. The pattern calls for two colors. I select three. It alternates light blue and pink in narrow stripes. I double, triple, and quadruple rows for boldness in purple, green, and orange. A deadline looms. I notice the width is less than it should be and that my hand, tight early and later loose, creates a slight V instead of a rectangle. Blocking, my advisors suggest, will make the shape I seek. A baby in a far away country awaits this beginner's handmade blanket. It will not mind matters being a bit out of order, as warmth is warmth after all, but the project has size requirements. I wet the yarn with a machine wash, which pulls the stitches twenty inches in the wrong direction. The result rests on the dining room table. No longer a baby afghan, the sequence of single crochet knots spreads long and narrow into a shawl for the shoulders. The wool fibers are what they want to be and not my intention. I talk to an expert at my yarn shop. She suggests folding it, stitching the edges together, and submitting it for another comfort blanket project at home. I see this possibility as she moves my crochet beauty around the counter. Then I scan the shelves of twisted colors, wondering what goes with brown and blue.

Wrong

2009-10-16T08:14:00.000-07:00

People walk at a normal pace and then slow. Some stop to stare or look up, down, and around the body. It's hard to help oneself against sumptuous lines and glistening color. I wonder, who's the driver? A scan yields few candidates. Zero to sixty in less than five seconds would challenge most here who tap on their laptops. Awe fills the eyes of passersby. Mostly men take time to admire the design of a car named for a flower usually associated with spiritual enlightenment. My departure time arrives, but I stay and wait to know. Certainly it's not the retired history professor or young student with dreadlocks. Then, the one I discount from the beginning rises from a bench, dumps a newspaper in a trash bin, and approaches the beautiful beast on four wheels. Clean-shaven with hair trimmed short, his youth surprises me. He wears jeans and baseball t-shirt. No cap.

Forward

2009-09-18T13:54:00.000-07:00

Compared to most commutes, mine is pastoral. Or rather bucolic. Maybe relaxing best describes the experience. I drive on a winding road along a grand river that I learned to spell as child by saying M-I-ss-I-ss-I-pp-I a thousand times over. Few drivers take this route perhaps because the speed limit is twenty-five miles an hour. Or maybe they envy those jogging on the pedestrian trail or rowing on the water in long canoes. On occasion a paddle boat cruises with passengers or a barge moves containers of gravel up or down the river. One spot stands out from the others where a river side park stores twisted steel beams recovered from a bridge collapse. "It makes me think of a graveyard," says a friend riding with me one day. The beams are markers, but for me they evoke a random and unplanned public art. Often people stop and take pictures while looking through a chain-link fence posted "state law, no trespassing." Nature in the form of thick weeds grows up and around the beams, now rusted from exposure. This morning several men wearing hard hats stand inside the fenced area. My head turns twice to see what they're doing. I consider pulling over to talk to them when a distraction passes by on roller skis and reminds me to move on.

Relief

2009-08-23T15:59:00.000-07:00

She approaches quietly, almost sneaking up on me, and opens a pocket on her dress. Inside are several dozen tiny spiral-shaped shells gathered from the river shore. She's proud and eager to share her bounty. Never during my walks have I noticed these miniature treasures. Another hand holds a greater delight. "This is a worry rock," she says. This otherwise ordinary grey stone has a notch that snugly holds an average human thumb. "Rub here and your worries will go away," she explains and hands the rock to me. Thousands of rocks line the river's edge where it washes against the earth. I often step on or around them, depending on their size, but picking one up to relieve worry never occurred to me. We walk together with her parents back up the path, away from the water, and stop at a boulder that her father tells me is the wishing rock. We each have three tries to land a rock onto a ledge cut into the boulder ages ago. My first misses, but the second joins the rest of the pile. We keep walking and then, before we part, she offers the worry rock one more time. It feels warm from being held in her hands.

Hungry

2009-08-03T16:52:00.000-07:00

Japanese Beetles chew voraciously and multi-task better than most creatures I know. From my vantage point, they down rose petals and copulate at the same time with little effort. The sex part alarms me because this means that females lay eggs that hatch into grubs that grow into hungry beetles that digest the few successful plants living in my yard. Do not be alarmed: these are not red lady beetles with black spots. These are Popillia japonica with green iridescent shells that are likely to survive the armageddon. The warrior in our household takes coffee along on the morning beetle hunt. The captured ones drown in a bucket of soapy water. The others drop from blossoms and burrow into mulch. This no pesticide treatment calls for the grass to die for the rest of summer and in the spring the application of beneficial nematodes (what the heck are those?) here and on the neighbors lawns. A more lethal and undesired treatment kills bees and butterflies. I scan the information sheet from our local university extension service looking for alternatives. One not discussed takes shape: allow the beetles to make this place their own while I indulge my own multi-tasking. This could take some time. They've only just discovered the grape vines outback.

Buzz

2009-07-29T17:46:00.000-07:00

The motorbike runs smoothly. Single cylinder, it's known as a thumper because it thumps as if someone is knocking forcefully and rapidly on a door. Sometimes the motor seems to be sputtering out, but it's only the thump slowing as I shift to lower gears. Somewhere between thirty and sixty miles an hour my body matches the bike's rhythm. When slower, tipping over appears inevitable. When faster, my hands grip and the landscape rushes past. After hours like this a vibration flows from my fingertips to my elbows, shoulders, and head. It's sea sickness of a different kind. No throwing up, but the brain and skull move in different directions. The hands need time to relax. I massage the palms and stretch the fingers. Two legs on round earth feel solid, but they move slowly as the head recalculates its position. An endurance of a different kind supports this means of travel, which is slightly crazy in the land of four wheels, not two. The vibration subsides after a rest on the lakeshore. Boots on, leg over and face shield down, I tap the gears from first to second, third to fourth to fifth, and ride to the next destination.

Safe

2009-07-07T15:20:00.000-07:00

Bodies move in and around three swimming pools. The first is one to two feet deep. Toddlers splash about while giant mushrooms rain down upon them. The second pool is Olympic in size. Most of my time is spent here, somewhere between three and seven feet deep. Touching toes to the bottom adds confidence to a weak swimmer. The third pool draws much attention. People line up at the diving board. A few spin in the air and dive downward. Others scamper up a rock climbing wall, slap the top, and plunge into the water. A sign nearby states that only experienced swimmers should be where the water is twelve feet deep. Putting my qualifications aside, I step up the water tube ladder and plummet through the chute. The landing surprises, but I surface, reach for the edge and climb out. Wet feet on the pavement, I remember to walk, not run, back to my lounge chair.

Lift

2009-05-23T03:38:00.000-07:00

Windy days arrive one after the other. A few are windy and sunny, a combination useful for some activities more than others. This particular one inspires me to fly a kite. "The parafoil is my favorite," says the sales woman as she pulls a sample from the shelf. She explains that the parafoil kite has cells that open as wind passes through. "They're easy to fly and do not require a constant wind," she says. I listen and then turn to classic diamond kites with picture designs. One has the face of a puppy on it, another a lady bug. I pick the one with a friendly dragon. The sales woman directs me to an open field near the shop. Support sticks, tail, and string in place, the kite is ready to take flight. The instructions call for two persons, one to manage the flying line and a second to hold the kite for an easier lift off down field from the first. I am of one today so I place the kite on the ground and run. The dragon rises up, stays aloft, and dives into the ground. I sprint another direction, and then another and another. Each time the kite catches and loses the wind, which appears to stall and change course. With sweat on my brow, I return to the shop: one parafoil kite please. The small, the easiest for a single or little person to fly, is out-of-stock. "Try again," she says. "And next time take someone with you."

Boil

2009-05-15T07:53:00.000-07:00

The fire continues to burn. The fire and the smoke result from a neighbor's decision to burn rather than grind out a tree stump in his front yard. During the evenings his friends and family circle the flame with lawn chairs and eat dinner. "You can boil an egg on this fire," says the flame manager (hired by the neighbor) to me. "Put the raw egg on the fire and it cooks." This he learns from the neighbor's wife who stops by to prepare meals. (She no longer lives in the home.) This new presence charms me for a few days. Then I tire of the smoke and wonder about the safety of this burn. The land is short on rain and these houses are made of sticks. My query about the fire sends a red truck with sirens on down this small street. A conversation between a fireman, the flame manager, and the neighbor extinguishes the burn. Now the neighbor sits outside watering the young sod covering the fire pit. Three to four times a day, he says, the new grass requires moisture. "Someone called the fire department," he tells me. "They wouldn't say who, but I know. A six-year-old who loves fire trucks always loves them." My poker face stays put until I go inside.

Standing

2009-05-04T14:48:00.000-07:00

A walker helps him move across the room to talk to an old friend. They see each other a lot less after his kidney transplant last December. A stroke since then limits his travel even more. The transplant is a success. The donor was a young woman who died in a car accident. His wife explains that the woman and her husband are a perfect match. Their bodies approve of each other. Another match higher on the list turned down the organ. Her husband was second so his fortune runs high: he has the kidney and the private insurance that paid for the surgery. Fortunate again because Veterans Affairs only recently recognizes a link between exposure to Agent Orange during the Vietnam War and the development of type 2 diabetes later in life. Disability compensation pays for the five thousand dollars worth of medicine he requires each month to keep the kidney. Husband and wife discuss having a night out together. I suggest catching a movie at a theater down the street. They both know it but haven't been there in decades, thinking that it closed long ago. No, it's restored to the place of beauty it was when built in the 1920s. There are many seats, I say, that you might find cozy.

Virgin

2009-05-01T17:45:00.000-07:00

Grandma finishes her lunch. This, after having her hair done every Friday afternoon for too many years to count. A woman at another table orders a French martini. Grandma's curiosity steps up. She tries new things now. At more than one hundred years old she figures it's time. At the moment she wants to taste a refreshing beverage (not so new) at the bar (never done before). Grandma is, after all, a bar virgin. Translation: grandma always enjoys her drinks and meals at proper tables for ladies, not belly up with a view of the bottles. Her daughter-in-law pulls out a stool. Grandma slides aboard. The bartender mixes vodka, pineapple juice, and raspberry liqueur. Most fills a martini glass. A taste remains for Grandma. She smiles and laughs, especially at all of the attention. A server grabs a camera. She'll print out the image for her. The temptation to join Grandma is strong but I stay put. I came close to not ordering this drink. With an empty stomach and flush from running errands, the alcohol intake seemed unwise. Not now. Grandma is not my grandma, but today she is everyone's.

Posted

2009-04-28T08:31:00.001-07:00

Rescue crews search along the bluff and down by the shore where he was last heard from. The spring river runs high and fast. A strong swimmer might return from a fall into the water. We, the dogs and I, traverse the opposite bank. They wade in the shallows and quench their thirst. Others paddle out to fetch logs their owners have thrown in. Mine are not inclined to follow. Like me, they are weak swimmers and know their limits. The young college student comes to mind. Flyers posted around town announce his disappearance. His photo shows a face without trouble. The dogs run across a sandy beach. Their delight lightens my heart and softens my worry. I remember the man lost in the river and then I forget.

Blaze

2009-04-17T20:14:00.000-07:00

A fire warms me as I read a book at a branch library that's not my own. Two chairs support me. One holds my bum, the other my feet. A security guard stops. Comfortable? Yes, very. The seats around me fill up. Some have a book in hand, others a laptop. We are white, yellow, brown, and black sitting around this hearth. No words exchange, but we share this quiet time. I finish a story about fur traders and murder. My mouth opens and closes. No words seem right. We say enough already.

Photo credit: me; Fire credit: me too

Loop

2009-04-03T09:51:00.000-07:00

Bitter cold accompanies the trail. I am second in line, following the first who breaks trail. My shorter stride catches every other print so my snowshoes too plunge into fresh flakes. Then no ground and I fall. Use the poles he says. I press to reach firmness and find nothing. He tracks back and pulls me up. Without this assistance I would remain supine in a bed of snow and air. Continue on and there magnetic rock rises but how far ahead is hard to determine. Distant sight of this monolith must satisfy for now. We loop around to our tracks. Already they disappear under blowing snow. Enough is visible for us, but no others, to find home.

Wardrobe

2009-03-30T15:30:00.000-07:00

He stands up. I barely recognize him. Edward? He turns and sees me but doesn't know me. I remind him that I am the person who laughed at his sock mittens. On this day he looks completely different. No mittens. No parka. Among his wardrobe items are a blue jean jacket and black leather boots. The suit he wore when we first met was unusual he says. He asks if I will be around in a half hour. Yes, I have just arrived. He leaves and later returns to join me for conversation. He moved here, he explains, to be near his parents. They have died so he might go east where he feels more at home where, in his opinion, people are more willing to talk to strangers and where he thinks he might find a job. I tell him that I'm sorry for laughing at his former socks-as-mittens attire. He accepts my apology saying that he felt he was being laughed at. Rather than laugh back, he smiles and notes the pleasure he finds in the brown on brown ensemble that I wear this day.

Scent

2009-03-28T10:42:00.000-07:00

Nose pressed to flesh, I smell my skin for any hint of fish. Trout? Salmon? Nothing touches the olfactory glands that hints at water living brethren with fins and tails. My dream reports otherwise. In it, I visit my former place of employment and bump into the director. She wants to know why I am there. To see old friends I say and ask if I can have back my old job. No, she says, that's impossible because you smell like a fish. Eyes open. At home, in my bedroom. The red tulip walls barely discernible in the early morning light. Fish and chips sounds good for lunch.

Tendu

2009-03-25T10:46:00.000-07:00

Tendu is a movement, not a position, the ballet teacher tells us as we slide a right foot, toes pointed downward, along the wooden floor. Socks cover my feet. The others have ballet slippers with leather soles. My curved arch is evident, the toes pointed almost to cramping. Good, the teacher says, you're pointing the toes as far as they'll go. Tendu, short for battement tendu, means stretched. It's a bent foot on a straight leg that glides along the floor. My breath tightens as my foot sputters from front to side to back and then back to side to front. Switch to the left foot. There is nothing natural about how the body is used in ballet. Not having taken a ballet class since I was four years old, I remember now the discomfort of these exercises. At the end of class I am uncertain about returning. The teacher smiles and applauds my effort. I go back the next week with pink ballet slippers, the straps not yet sewn in place. The teacher shows me how to work around the sewing by tying the straps under the arch. The slippers stay in place during tendu, plie, reveille, jette and reverance. It might be time to go shopping for a leotard and tights.

Recycle

2009-02-25T12:43:00.000-08:00

Sitting by the curb all alone is a plastic bag stuffed with plastic bags. No longer having access to the coveted New York Times newspaper delivery bags for scooping poop, I eye this plump mass with desire. They're with nothing else, placed perhaps for another but I'm here and they're not. No, too embarrassing, I will not take them home with me. The dogs and I walk down the block and circle back on the other side of the street. A car pulls up to a nearby house. The driver goes inside. We cross back to the bags. The bundle is light. The bags advertise supermarkets I rarely frequent. Inside an information card explains. The weekly recycling crew left the bags because they don't have a way to recycle them. The note is kind and informative. It should make its way to its intended hands. Not today. The bag of bags is easily handled on the walk home.

Fritter

2009-02-17T16:18:00.000-08:00

He's looking around the room. Empty chairs, no open table. He needs one because in each hand is a plate with a donut on it. One for himself and another for his daughter, who's peeking over the countertop behind them. You're welcome to sit here, I say. He accepts and hoists his daughter onto an empty seat next to me. She's digs into an apple fritter, first pulling it apart into chunks and then bits. She eats like a bird, he says. Not that she eats little, but that she eats in small pieces, or one seed at a time. My father and I shared similar outings, except in place of the apple fritter he had a buttermilk donut on account of his bad heart. Most often we kept our stops secrets between us. I wonder if this father and daughter are doing the same. The apple fritter nearly gone, she pushes her plate to her dad and wipes her fingers clean with a napkin dipped in water. It's great to be out having a donut with your dad, isn't it? Yes, she says, and smiles. She jumps down from the chair ready for their next stop: shopping for scooters.

Open

2009-02-10T13:45:00.001-08:00

The gate is both locked and unlocked. During the winter months, the grounds keeper of a nearby golf course moves the padlocks on the gates from waist to ankle height. This way neighbors can pass through to a winter wonderland in the city. Getting in is easy, but getting there is not for us. We wait for cars rushing to and from the highway to clear and then the dogs and I dash across the avenue. Once inside, the leashes come off and they run through the snow to sniff pine trees and prairie grass. Their run is more like a rabbit hop. Maybe they know that I'm laughing at them. My pac boots keep me aloft until I misjudge the terrain and step deep, nearly losing my balance, and laugh at myself. Walking here brings warmth and energy even on the coldest days. Usually we are alone, but there's evidence of others having been. Sled, ski, and snowboard trails crisscross. On a clear, warmer day I stand face up into the sun, hat removed. The dogs pant as if it's summer. From my sight lines, this man-made valley and rolling hills erase the city and whatever was on my mind before I arrived. We climb up and out, returning to our entrance. We are refreshed and ready now to dash for home.

Peace

2009-02-05T09:36:00.000-08:00

The deli looks dark. I park anyway. Strange. No other cars are here. Maybe it's closed. Please let that not be true. I've had little food and could now eat my fingers. Barely made it through a job interview on warm tea. The dining area is dark. The doors locked. The best spinach pie will not be mine. Closed Tuesdays you know, says a man standing behind me. He's covered in winter layers from head to toe. He could be ice fishing. Instead he's holding a large flag reading "PEACE." He turns back to the avenue and waves to drivers passing by. Several honk in return. Little facial skin is exposed because the cold is bitter, around five degrees, yet the lines around his eyes suggest a man in his 70s. For four years he's come here for an hour every week to wave for peace. Grab a flag, he says. Across the street are several more flags hoisted in the snowbank. Usually there's another person with him catching the drivers going the other direction. I explain my hunger to him. He agrees that the cold is worse on an empty stomach. Waving takes my mind off it. Eat and come back, he says. Or next week, we'll be here.

Evacuation

2009-02-02T15:46:00.000-08:00

The nursing assistant starts closing my dressing room door and then stops. That's the fire alarm, she says. We have to evacuate the building. She places my health form upside down on her desk and guides me to the escape stairwell. Others quickly follow. Probably a drill, she says. If fire trucks pull up, then it's real. Some of the women are wearing robes as if they're at a spa. Like me, they're here for mammograms. Folded blankets over their shoulders help fight the temperature outside. Four degrees even when sunny is cold. My winter coat works well, but the nursing assistant has nothing extra covering her uniform so we stand between the double doors where there's heat. A necklace of sparkling pink breast cancer ribbon beads holds her name badge. We wait along side a mother, baby, and grandmother, who, moments before was in the lounge bouncing the grand baby on her lap. The alarm quiets and we take the elevators upstairs. The mammogram procedure is uncomfortable, but painless. My robe keeps me warm throughout.

Phony

2009-01-28T12:57:00.000-08:00

There are phonies in this world. Edward looks me in the eye as he says this. He is accusing me of being one. He wears socks as mittens. This is what draws my attention to him. We chat for a bit. He's a native here and finds my friendliness refreshing among the land of not-so nice. He bought his wool socks at a food co-op where they were ten dollars cheaper than gloves. The downside is that they lack a place for the opposable human thumb, making objects hard to grasp. He tells me that the socks are perhaps punishment for already losing two pair of gloves this winter. This could be a signal for me, but I do not heed. I laugh as he attempts to pick up a cup of coffee. You might think this is funny, he says, but I feel like a comic and it doesn't feel good. Later, a girl pulls her little sister on a sled while leaving the library. I chuckle. I make eye contact with them and their father. Only two laugh back.

Tools

2009-01-25T12:22:00.001-08:00

Notebook and pen. Or pencil. Pen preferred. Two essential tools for marking down unexpected encounters. Mine I keep in a sling bag worn around one shoulder and across the chest. Best for having two hands free. The notebook is made in the tradition used by French schoolchildren. Also in the French tradition, this notebook, or jot pad as I call it, is a bit more expensive than its American counterparts. The paper is weighty and silky. It takes the ink with grace. It feels good to write in it. The ink does not show through so that both sides of the page are used. Perhaps this makes it a good value after all. Two shops in town carry this brand. The shops are small and locally owned. I buy from both so that they'll keep the product in stock. Inside I write many things...musings, happenings, book and movie titles, good meals, people met... Having the jot pad handy might be a holdover from fieldwork days among the Gypsies in Poland. Suspicious of anthropologist types, I stored their words in my head and then ran to places for private recording. Or maybe it comes from when I was a journalist and logged notes from taped interviews. Lately I ask friends to make their own notes so that they, too, can enjoy the feeling of this pen to paper as I do, but the look in their eyes says otherwise.

Signs

2009-01-22T13:08:00.000-08:00

The white folded paper he passes out is hard to read. There are hands making gestures. Maybe a notation that suggests movement. The images are blurry. I've seen these cards before and those, too, were just as poor in reproduction. The cover on this one suggests a two dollar donation for it. That's little for the unemployed sitting in a cafe and drinking chai tea. He comes around to retrieve the cards or the money, if given, and I make a few gestures. I know only a couple, but it's enough to peak his interest and he takes a seat. I realize then that he cannot say anything. We use pen and paper to communicate. He teaches me the sign for "good," "why," and some others. It's hard to see and then do in reverse. He writes that he lost his job at a manufacturing plant. I lost my job, too, but I can hear, speak, and see. He offers to return to the cafe and teach me more signs. This could be the extraordinary opportunity that I've been wondering about during my unemployment. Online I learn that American Sign Language is used by the deaf community in the United States and in parts of Canada. The United Kingdom has its own sign language. Other countries do as well. A nearby college offers ASL classes and a program information meeting is tonight. I think I'll go.

Two Scarves

2009-01-19T16:54:00.000-08:00

Mr. Love Bear is wearing two scarves. The first is the one that came with him. The second is one that I found on a dog walk. Mr. Love Bear was found, too. Out and about during hours that I normally would not be if still employed, I spotted a large pink, stuffed bear on the boulevard. (Here, where I live, the word boulevard refers to the spot of grass, or concrete, between the sidewalk and the street.) Mr. Love Bear was there, resting against a lamppost. I passed him, then circled the block and returned to his spot of relaxation. A light snow was falling and I decided that leaving Mr. Love Bear in inclement weather was a crime. I hugged him and he felt good, which isn't surprising since his scarf says "love" on it and one paw has hearts on it. The size of a five-year-old, he took a backseat in my car, but I knew that he was not mine. So, I posted Mr. Love Bear's finding online and on the lamppost where I found him. Only one response was received from woman's whose son lost his small bear. Donation was briefly considered and then I hugged Mr. Love Bear again. A friend visited. She was sad and hugged Mr. Love Bear. We both felt better. He sits now in a rocking chair wearing a second scarf. This one is green and hand knitted. Probably it belonged to a real five-year-old who lost it while sledding at the park across the street. Now, the new scarf helps to hold up Mr. Love Bear's head. It keeps him--and me-- a bit warmer on these winter days.

Eye Contact

2009-01-17T12:38:00.000-08:00

A squirrel is on the roof, frozen in a trap. The critter catcher will come tomorrow to remove it. This one is number ten. Not so long ago the squirrel was running across the roof. We made eye contact when I returned from a walk. Both of us froze. I am still alive. It is dead. The squirrels first appeared to be running along the roof to some other destination. Then snow fell. Tracks appeared. They were heading into the attic. That scurrying about I heard was of them playing inside. If I were a squirrel, I'd want to live here too. Cozy and warm in the attic. I'm snug up there with my blanket, dogs, and television through winter. Everyone says they have to go, that they'll make a big mess, maybe even cause a fire by eating wires. I call the critter catcher. This time of year, he says, it's more humane to snap their necks. They die quickly and then freeze. Otherwise they'd freeze while still alive. The trap snaps then life leaves the body. The first I witnessed. In squirrel court, I am the commander who ordered the deaths. Walking close to the house and not gazing up keeps the body from view.

Road Trip

2009-01-15T17:25:00.001-08:00

Cold again. Minus 5, but feels like minus 22. For the first time this season I'm wearing the second skin layer usually reserved for outdoors. Not too bad to feel extra warm. The car needs heating as well. Heading from the garage, to the street, to the avenue, to the highway and then the interstate. There is no destination. Maybe south bound to have the sun on my face. I pass the airport and speed up so that a passenger jet coming in for landing might fly overhead as I go underneath its belly. This has happened before. Timing is key so I accelerate. Miss it, but a second is coming. Too slow again. Awe is the feeling that swells inside as the planes land. We're both on a trip. Mine not as exciting as lifting up to the sky. Instead, I head north on highway 212 without knowing where it leads. Then, road signs with familiar names. This road connects to another, taking me back to my starting point, circling without trying.

Feels like minus 24

2009-01-14T13:18:00.000-08:00

We bundle up, the pugs and I. Me in layers of wool, fleece, then down. Hat and gloves required, according to the weather alert. It feels like minus 24 against bare skin. Lila and Floyd tolerate their booties and jackets. Without the gear there's no walk at all. Packaged in our warmest wear, we make our way outside. For the first time we witness the snow plows. They're huge and we're so small. We stick to the sunny sides of the street, thankful that it's too cold for clouds. Floyd finds a favorite Pine tree and takes care of his business. Lila follows and I'm glad. The ridge along my brow, the only skin not covered, is beginning to burn. I pull the hat down further while still allowing sight. Down the street, another dog walker is heading towards us. We're not the only ones. I'm surprised and then not. The two dogs are Nordic-looking breeds. Neither the pugs nor I are from the North, but we manage during these coldest days of winter. Lila and Floyd are more ready than I am to return home. Once there, I undress in reverse. Taking off their booties is easier then putting on. I glance out. A woodpecker is at the feeder.