Coffee Cups

 

My daughter gifted me a coffee mug for Mother’s Day. It’s lovely and large with a sketch of a blue jay. Beside it in the kitchen cabinet sits another cup gifted by my son on another Mother’s Day with the quote, “Mother’s are Love.” It’s also lovely, a cool shade of teal on the inside, one of my favorite colors. Other gifted cups fill the bottom shelf, each with its own personal story.

There is the one that says, “World’s Best Secretary” that for some reason makes me bristle a little when I read it at this late stage in life. For a while I used it as a pencil holder but never has it held coffee or any other liquid.

Not only have I received coffee mugs as gifts, but I have gifted them to others as well. My favorites to gift are those cookie/cake in a mug delights, the ones with the mix packet that you add water to and stick in the microwave for a minute or so resulting in an instant dessert just right for one person. Sadly, I have never received any feedback on these one-use wonders. I mean, can you buy more packets or do you have to make up your own when you have used the one that came with the mug?

I have even bought mugs for myself. On a trip to St. Augustine after roaming the gift shop for what seemed like hours, I ended up buying a mug touting the “fountain of youth” on its side thinking that it would be really nice to drink my morning coffee from that cup.

Never happened, at least not at this writing. It sits on display on a shelf with limited visibility.

The point of my story is that I already have a favorite coffee cup, one I use every morning and have used for years. And no matter how many other cups I receive or buy for myself, I always use the same one. It’s not really anything special although it does have my name on it. It was a gift from a friend who vacationed in San Francisco and bought it for me on Fisherman’s Wharf. Below my name it has a line sketch of a trolley and below that the words “San Francisco”. 

I can’t explain what it is about the cup that draws me to it other than it feels right. I was surprised to receive it as the friend was really just an acquaintance where I worked for a while many many years ago. Sadly, he has passed away but I’m sure, were he alive, he would be astonished to know that I use that cup every morning for my one daily cup of coffee.

I have tried using other mugs but always end up pouring my coffee back into my old favorite. It has somehow become part of me, reassuring, comforting, just me and my mug.

The Dragonfly and the Ladybug

 Guess who has a brand new children's book out!

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In the Beginning...

Me, Aunt Sadie & Cindy

My mom and I lived with my grandparents until I was six years old. Pop-pop was a tenant farmer in Maryland on the Delmarva peninsula and lived in an old white two-story farmhouse, the kind where the stairs go straight up from the front door. I fell down those stairs once. The only thing I remember about the fall was afterwards as my mom rubbed some awful smelling stuff on a lump on my forehead. Later I found out it was turpentine. Those narrow stairs led to some cold, cold bedrooms in the wintertime. When we climbed up to bed, my mom carried a brick she had heated on the kitchen cook stove. She wrapped it in a towel and tucked it under the quilts to keep my feet warm.

Pop-pop planted a huge field of tomatoes every year, and I remember carrying water in a Mason jar to him and my Uncle Johnny when the sun was high in the sky. Shoeless, I never worried where I stepped or thought much about the hot black dirt squishing up between my toes. When the tomatoes were ripe, they became lunch accompanied only by a salt shaker. The sun-warmed red juice ran down my chin and tiny yellow seeds dried and stuck to my shirt front. When I got back to the house, Grandmom met me on the closed porch off the kitchen where the big hand pump was. After a couple pumps of air, cold water spewed out. She washed my stained mouth with a wrung-out cloth, clucking under her breath. My dirty feet did not seem to matter.

Pop-pop had a small herd of dairy cows, and many mornings I would get up early to go with him for the milking. Standing back at a safe distance, I looked in fascination as the cows all lined up in their stalls and stood quietly with only a swish of their tails every now and then. They munched on hay as the buckets filled, and I watched Pop-pop pour the creamy liquid through cheesecloth into tall silver milk cans. When he finished, he would load up the cans, take them down our long lane, turn right onto a dirt road, and drive to a four-way stop sign. He left them there at the side of the road for someone to pick up later.

After the milking was done, it was time for breakfast. Grandmom stood over the hot cook stove frying pancakes, my favorite food which I doused with blackstrap molasses. Heavy eyelids mixed with satisfaction took over, and usually I curled up behind the cook stove for a mid-morning nap.

Most days, nothing earth-shattering happened, but life on a farm is an educational process for a little girl. Cows and horses do not get along and must be pastured separately. I think the horses must have been leftovers from plow-pulling days because I never remember anyone riding a horse, but Pop-pop did have a favorite white one. Where there are cows, there are bulls, and we had a mean one.

Walnut trees lined our long lane, and when the nuts dropped to the ground below, Grandmom and I collected them for shelling. Getting those shells off was tricky and involved two bricks and fast fingers. Even gathering the nuts was tricky for me, because I had to keep one eye on the mean bull who roamed in a field just beyond the trees. I could read his thoughts. He was waiting for me to drop my guard so he could come barreling through that barbed wire and get me. He stalked me and Grandmom up and down the fence line.

Grandmom was always alert to his nearness, too. You see, this bull had gored and killed that favorite white horse of Pop-pop’s. I don’t know how it happened, but I remember the yelling and shouting and the fear it instilled into my soul. To this day, I remain hand-sweating, heart-racing scared of bulls.

Turnover Time

 In 1986 I went to work for a local real estate and development company as their bookkeeper. They owned and managed hundreds of apartments and office buildings. The month of August always brings back memories of that time in my life. 

Apartment complexes are uniquely affected by our student-oriented college town, and my employer was no exception. August was fearfully referred to as “turnover month.” All leases ended on July 31 st to allow for a 15-day move-in period for tenants before the new school year began. Strangers to bookkeeping wouldn’t be aware of the stress and pressure on those who had to deal with the limited time of settling accounts, specifically deposit monies held for damages. Most are on the other end of the seesaw. 

According to Florida Landlord and Tenant law, deposit monies shall be remitted to tenants within 30 days after the date of the notice of intention to impose a claim for damages. My employer had hundreds of rentals, and upon vacating, I had 15 days to send a notice of intention, and then 30 days to send an accounting of deposits with all notices being mailed certified with return receipt requested as proof of our compliance. 

Added to this stress is the fact that landlords notoriously get a bad rap. Remember I Love Lucy and Fred Mertz who was a stingy so-and-so and would stall as long as he could with repairs. And then there was Dickens’ Scrooge, the ultimate heartless landlord. Even in legal proceedings where one is innocent until proven guilty, that statement applies only to tenants. Landlords are always guilty. 

But let me get back to turnover month. My employer was not an on-site manager. They hired other people for that, but curious students are inventive and even though the internet was just getting started, some would manage to find out the location of origin of those “lawful” notices even though we used apartment complex stationery. 

Walk-throughs were done after apartments were vacant, but we received many demands for inspections on moving day. There just were not enough people available to comply with these kinds of requests. Tenants had a hard time understanding this, always loudly voicing their objections, in person and over the phone. More stress even though our receptionist attempted to handle most of these complaints. I always cringed when I heard the entry doorbell ring. 

Disagreements over deposit deductions for damages were always expected, and we were hardly ever disappointed. Most of the time tenants wrote letters claiming their apartment had been left in better shape than on move-in day and how we could claim otherwise was unbelievable. In these cases, I had to write reply letters, include their signed move-in condition sheets and enclose verifying photos of the damage we claimed. Usually, that would be the end of it. 

We had a list that we handed out to new renters along with their move-in sheet which itemized charges for things that might be damaged such as broken light fixtures or missing oven racks that were popular for make-it-yourself barbecue grills. This list was my determining guideline for deposit claims. I always tried to be fair and if the scales of justice balanced near level, I would lean in favor of the tenant if only to avoid conflict. 

Sometimes tenants with charges would retaliate with claims of their own. One young lady actually barged into my office waving several pairs of underpants in the air claiming our washer had ruined them. She demanded compensation for her torn Victoria’s Secret panties regardless of the stains indicating they were old old. I compromised, halving the fees, and she left somewhat satisfied…with her underwear. 

No one ever took us to court over a security deposit in the thirteen long years I worked there, and I can sincerely say that I do not miss working there at all, at least during the turnover period. Although August was a terrible time on the job, the rest of the year was normal bookkeeping. When I first started, everything was done by hand but after less than a year we were computerized, general ledger, payroll and all, a learn-as-you-go experience, not unpleasant as I like to learn new things. 

An Epsom Equity was my first computer, and it was attached to a track-feed printer which I used for reports, spreadsheets and checks. Word Perfect was our writing program. When we upgraded, my boss let me have my Epsom, and I used it at home, hooking up through CompuServe and AOL, the beginning of a very long partnership between me and the internet. Remember when we thought we would use a computer at home only for recipes and telephone numbers and address lists? Were we ever wrong? Now I couldn’t live without one. 

August will always be turnover time in my memories and if there is anything I could tell the person who is taking care of that this month, I would say, “Yes, this, too, shall pass.”

The Tunnel

To get from the V. A. Hospital to Shands Medical Center there is a long underground tunnel with white walls and a tile floor, all very shiny. Ceiling fluorescents light the way and make everything so bright, it almost hurts the eyes. It curves in some places and has a slight upward drift going to Shands. Coming back to the V.A. is easier, mostly downhill until the very end when it rises slightly.

I saw many people walking this tunnel for exercise. There is a sign on the right wall as you exit the V.A. It tells the length and how many laps you should walk, but I have forgotten those details. The tunnel goes from the basement of the V.A. to the ground floor of Shands. I never grasped why the ground floor of Shands is not called the basement since there is a 1st floor, the floor I always went to, either by elevator or stairs.

I didn’t walk the tunnel for exercise. I walked it when my husband was a patient at the V.A., which was many times before and after he had his colon removed in 2007. He had ulcerative colitis. The walls of his colon were very thin and riddled with ulcers. Several different drugs were prescribed to halt the almost constant bleeding, but nothing much helped until finally surgery became our only choice.

After his surgery, problems from not having a colon resulted in numerous hospital stays, most of them due to dehydration. If you Google “function of the colon”, absorption of fluids is the first thing on the list. When you have no colon, this becomes a big problem. If you have ever had the flu, you have a tiny idea of what dehydration is like. Jim felt this way and worse most of the time, tired, sleepy, nauseous, and dizzy. Proper nutrition with no colon requires 24/7 vigilance, and even then, things go wrong.

The tunnel was my get-away when the recliner in his hospital room became too much or when he was taken somewhere for tests or when he was sleeping. I invented reasons to walk the tunnel. I listened to music in the Shands atrium and looked at all the pictures on the walls that young patients had painted. I tried every restaurant in the food court, and when our daughter or grand children visited, we tried the Shand’s cafeteria, a hot meal for a pittance. I bought earrings, gift cards, and notebooks at the gift shop. Even the bloodmobile was a welcome diversion. 

In the tunnel everyone was friendly and smiled when you met their eyes. I wondered about their stories, but the tunnel was a place to somewhere, not a rendezvous for conversation. Everyone continued on with purpose. Some of them I recognized as doctors and nurses on Jim’s floor.

When Jim felt well enough, I talked him into the wheel chair and pushed him around as long as he would let me. Sometimes we would get lunch to go at the V. A. cafeteria, and I would guide the wheelchair to an outside picnic table. Many of the grounds of the V.A. are beautiful, especially when you have been inside much too long. On the way back, I would always stop at the hospital library and pick up some new reading material.

And when the tunnel was closed at night, I roamed the V.A. halls. I joked with the nurses that I could be one of those volunteer guides, and often I did give directions to people who looked lost…and were.

But the tunnel was my favorite place to go. I felt in control. I knew exactly where I was going, and I knew what was at the end.

A Room with a View

I spend a lot of my time in one room of my home which I have named Connieann’s Corner although it is a room with four corners, and my name is Connie, not Connieann. Connieann’s Corner is also the name I chose for my blog on Google’s Blogger website. How Connieann came about was from a spelling error on my original Social Security card. Someone forgot the space, and so these millions of years later, on my blog, I revitalized Connieann.

The room I refer to as Connieann’s Corner is actually the third bedroom of my three bedroom home. 

It is filled with drawing and painting supplies, art in progress, books of all genres, my computer, and most important of all, a comfortable chair and a window with a view of the outside world. I sit in front of that window now. My Chromebook rests atop my drafting/drawing table and fights for my attention with birds, plants, neighborly walkers and even a squirrel. By raising my gaze I can report on the weather, the traffic and the time of day. In this stay-at-home time this window is a direct link to my sanity.

In the morning I enter Connieann’s Corner carrying my breakfast bowl of oatmeal topped with yogurt, strawberries, blueberries and a few walnuts or pecans. As I twist open the blind, it is not unusual to see cardinals, chickadees, wrens, sparrows, finches, jays and even a mourning dove eating from the feeder or drinking or splashing in the birdbath. Since the squirrel is a recent guest (I say that word loosely), he may be hanging upside down from the porch post with his nose in the feeder as well. 

The feeder and bath, a turquoise dish in a jute sling, hang from porch beams. Both are so familiar to the birds that they sit in the bushes nearby as I clean and refill. The squirrel backs up a few feet but remains in sight as though questioning my authority.

About three feet in front of my window is a six foot loropetalum bush which routinely blooms with tiny pink flowers attracting bees and butterflies. Closer to my window but still hanging from a porch beam is a red glass hummingbird feeder. I have seen many different hummies drinking and sitting on the homemade hangar. If I should go out onto the porch while they are feeding, they confront me with their buzzing noise and reluctantly fly a short distance away until I retreat back inside and they can resume drinking their sugary water cocktail.

On the ground directly under the window in the right angle made by the join of the porch to the house is a concrete birdbath. The roof valley above naturally keeps the bath filled with rainwater and no doubt is one of the reasons the squirrel and other wildlife find my porch so attractive.

When the weather is cool enough, I open the window and can better enjoy the birdsong chorus and squirrel chattering and hummie buzzing. Mopsy, my cat, loved to sit on the inside sill of the open window and stare down the lizards that traversed the porch rail. She made that little clacking noise in her throat and the anoles red-throated balloons would expand as they came on guard. She never seemed interested in the birds, somehow knowing they were beyond her reach. And the birds never minded her, hardly glancing her way. The squirrel came calling after her passing.

The most unwelcome visitor I ever saw was a lengthy black racer. 

One morning when I opened the blind, he was slithering up the porch post headed for the feeder. I am sure I gasped at the sight of him. He hung around for quite some time, basking in the sunshine, waiting for a meal, but when no birds appeared, eventually he slithered away, back to where he came from. Another unlikely sight was a hawk that swooped past my window, gliding under the porch and on to his unknown destination. I am sure I gasped that time, too. And I have seen numerous egret and ibis families strutting around the front yard with their long legs and curved necks possibly pretending to walk their kids to school.

Recently, turtles have been a popular sight with a street crossing directly in front of my house. Several cars have slowed with some stopping for the driver to exit and deliver the turtle to safety in my front yard. I read online that it was best to let them continue on their journey as they do not roam far from home.

I am grateful for the wildlife that parades in front of my window, and I try not to miss anything, but of course I do. It saddens me that it is possible and even likely that sometime in the future, there may be a silent spring as Rachel Carson predicted. I hope we will have leaders that fight for laws that protect all wildlife so that my grandchildren and their grandchildren will know the joy of watching a cardinal spray a sunlit fountain of tiny water droplets into a clear blue sky. For now, this is something Covid-19 has not changed.

Closing the Case

I peered through the blinds of my living room window. This time I was dressed and ready, which included wearing my trusty running shoes. They would not get away with their unacceptable behavior again.

Four days ago I had watched as they moved into the house across the street, a man, a woman, two small kids, and a yellow Lab. I cannot say I was displeased to see the old neighbors leave. I had hopes that the new people would cut their grass more often than once a month. Everything looked promising. I thought we might get acquainted, take walks together, maybe even share a meal.

Things went downhill from there. The next morning, Friday, I started my riding mower and proceeded to mow my lawn. I hugged the front yard curb line and turned at the edge of my property to continue. At first the scent was fleetingly foul-smelling since I was driving with the wind. On my second pass I gagged and upon looking behind me I saw the yellow-brownish ooze swirling around and around on my tractor tire. A picture of the yellow Lab came to mind.

I drove over to the outside faucet, shut off the mower, and proceeded to wash off the tire. Then, I dragged the hose out to the curb and squirted out the rest of the poop. I cut the remainder of my grass without another mishap except for the steam pouring out my ears.

Back inside, after calming down, I resolved to make sure of my suspicions before confronting the new neighbors. Probably, I needed to catch them in the act, or rather, Fido in the act.

The next morning after breakfast but still in my pajamas, I carried my coffee to the front window and peeked through the blinds. Fido, on a leash held by his mistress, was in the midst of perpetrating the crime. I rushed back to the kitchen with my coffee and skidded to the front door in my slippers, but I was too late. They were gone. I could see this was not going to be easy.

I Googled catching the owner of a dog pooper and found some interesting stuff. Installing a video camera was out since I was about as technically inclined as Dolly Pardon. DNA of the poop was possible, but how exactly was I to swab the pooch’s cheek for a match?

I would just have to bide my time. And that is how I came to be waiting and peering through my living room window, fully dressed and ready to rock and roll. I contemplated on exactly what I would say when I confronted my neighbor about her malicious mutt and her rude and inconsiderate behavior. But I waited in vain. Dog and mistress never appeared.

Several days went by without seeing anything of the pooper, and I wondered if the neighbor was letting him roam their own backyard without taking him for walks. I decided this must be the case and eventually quit thinking about it. Then, one morning I saw the lady of the house come out, alone, and continue to walk down our neighborhood street. I decided to settle this once and for all and quickly got dressed. I watched through the window until I saw her heading back up the street toward home. I strolled out my front door and down the driveway until we met at my mailbox. I smiled, introduced myself, and asked, “Where is your dog today?”

She laughed and said, “That was my mom’s dog. She was here for a few days helping with the move. She and Clyde have gone back home to New Jersey, but that’s nice of you to ask. I’ll be sure to tell her that Clyde has an admirer.”

I thought to myself better not to disagree, count my blessings and start fresh from today. Maybe Mom would not visit often.

Appointment with a Dexa Scan

Not me, but looks comfy, right?

The young girl in uniform called my last name, and I rose from my waiting room chair. As I looked up, another lady was already following her down the hallway. I thought to myself, there must be two Morrisons here today. I stood still and watched as the uniform turned back to listen to something the other Morrison was saying, and then the imposter turned to the right to enter the blood draw area.

The uniform looked back at me, and I asked, “Constance?”

She nodded. “I’m Dallas and I’ll be doing your dexa scan today.”

“I think you’re the tech who did my scan two years ago,” I replied.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ve been here seven years.”

“You should be an expert by now,” I said. She didn’t laugh. Maybe she smiled. She had her back to me.

I followed her down the hallway and turned left at the end. We entered a tiny room with an exam table centered under the bone scanning machine, a swivel stool at the table’s end, a shelf above it, an apparatus was attached to the wall to measure height, a cumbersome scale next to it, and in the opposite corner a desk and chair for Dallas’ computer. Free space was at a premium.

“Take off your shoes and back up to the wall so I can get your height.” I complied as Dallas cautioned me not to put any weight on the shelf. I had grabbed it as I slipped off my shoes. “Five feet and ¼,” Dallas read off as she asked me to step away.

“Now for your weight.” I stepped up onto the scale and Dallas played with the sliding weights until the bar stabilized. “146,” she said.

“Do you have any metal in anything you’re wearing?”

I responded with a no since I had read the instructions before coming, but Dallas continued with her questions.

“No zipper in your pants? No metal in your bra?”

“No and no.”

“Okay, lie on your back on the table and we’ll get started.” She placed a wedge under my knees, and sat down at her computer. After a moment or two, the scanner slowly moved over me several times, searching out the secrets of my spine. I was comfy, but it didn’t last. Dallas was removing the wedge, and told me to straighten my legs as she sat back down. That strained my back. Soon the scanner was moving again, back and forth over my hips. As it came to a stop, Dallas turned toward me and said, “Now turn your toes inward as though you are pigeon-toed.” I did what I thought was a perfect performance, but soon heard Dallas say, “Can you turn the left foot in more?” That hurt some more, but apparently it was enough as the scanner began to move again, and after a few more ups and downs, we were finished, and Dallas said I could sit up. I felt as though I had been holding my breath for the entire time.

Dallas asked if I was seeing my doctor to discuss the scan, and I said I had an appointment in just a few minutes so she printed out the results and handed them over to take with me. I slipped on my shoes. She opened the door to let me out, said to turn right at the hallway and have a nice day.

I exited the laboratory’s waiting room, turned right again, and walked down another long hallway to my doctor’s office. I was twenty minutes early. I signed in and to my surprise was quickly called to go back to an exam room where the nurse took my blood pressure and told me the doctor would be in soon. He was. I handed him the scan information, and he pulled up my previous scan to compare. My spine numbers were better, but my hip numbers were either the same or slightly worse. He recommended I continue my same medicine for two more years.

Then I told him about my wrist, how it was painful to move certain ways, and how very painful it was to write. I told him I was a writer and also liked to draw and paint, and my wrist was definitely cramping my style. I asked if it could be carpal tunnel syndrome. He immediately tried to bend it downward, and I winced in pain. “No,” he said. “I believe it’s arthritis. But just to be sure, I’m going to send you to get an x-ray,” something my friends in life history agreed would happen.

Well, to make a long story short, I got the x-ray and a few days later got the call from the doctor’s office that, yes, it was arthritis, no broken bones. I was to do what the doctor had said, apply the over-the-counter arthritis cream twice a day and take a 220 mg of Aleve two times a day for more relief from the pain. I was already using the cream but not on a schedule, and sometimes I take Aleve, when I anticipate a busy day. I believe my wrist is positively responding to the scheduled use of both. I’m moving it more without pain, but writing continues to be difficult. I’m thankful my dexa scan numbers improved, and really appreciated the encouragement and advice from my life history group about my wrist problem which was the topic of my last month’s story. Life is so much better with friends whose life history covers just about everything you could ever imagine.

A Too Close Encounter

When we first moved to Florida, we rented a townhouse while we were building our new home. I have always been a bird lover so, after moving in, one of the first things I did was to put in place in our tiny little backyard a concrete birdbath, the kind that comes in two parts, pedestal and bowl, no small matter for weak me. It was not far from a sliding glass door in our kitchen, and I often watched the birds drinking and splashing around.

Other wildlife visited, especially squirrels, and I enjoyed their antics almost as much as the birds. I hung peanut butter covered pine cones and corn on the cob from tree limbs and was rewarded with daily sideshows. I saw my very first pileated woodpecker, my mouth dropping open at the size of it! You could not miss it when it was around. Its tree-hammering pecking would wake the dead.

Several nights, attracted by the kitchen lights, raccoons would come up on the little concrete patio and almost press their noses to the glass in the kitchen door, looking for handouts.

Later after venturing out on walks, I found out the apartment complex was very close to a section of a local creek, and I decided that was the reason for the “tame” and abundant wildlife. I got used to seeing hawks and owls and other things that had been alien to me where I lived in Delaware.

One morning after sitting down with my cup of coffee, I looked out to see that the birdbath bowl was upside down on the ground. Too fat squirrel I mumbled to myself as I went out to place it back on its pedestal. Gingerly, I put my fingers under one side and lifted. I had it about an inch off the ground when a little pink nose poked its way out of the opening. Without any regard to what it might be or whether I would injure it, I dropped that concrete bowl and was back on the patio faster than Road Runner.

After my heart rate slowed, I decided I was being silly. That nose was teeny. But yes, it might warrant gloves and a shovel so I proceeded to arm myself. Standing as far away as possible, I eased the tip of the shovel under the bowl and slowly pushed down on the handle. Nothing appeared. Feeling braver, I pushed a little more and faster than a flash of lightning, an ugly pinkish thing streaked past me to scurry out of sight around the side of the building. Seconds later I found myself sitting on the ground as my brain registered possum. Embarrassed, I looked around to see if anyone was watching.

Not the actual culprit but check

out those claws and teeth.

I made the mistake of telling the story to others and was teased about it at least once a week for several months. Whenever we got together with my in-laws, I was always asked if we were having ‘possum and sweet taters for supper. West Virginians are merciless. 

A Walk Through the Neighborhood

I live on the outskirts of town just west of the interstate in a PUD or planned unit development. There are no sidewalks in my neighborhood, but traffic is sparse and drivers are careful and courteous so I have no problem walking on the side of the street within my little community. As in most PUDs, there is one way in with the same way out.

Not being much of a structured exerciser, walking is my normal way of getting in that thirty minutes per day recommended by most primary care doctors. The weather and season determine the time of day for my outing. During this period of sheltering in place, it has become the highlight of my day. Other walkers carefully observe the six-foot limit for which I am grateful, and I have noticed that our numbers have greatly increased during this imposed stay-at-home phase.

Although barely noticeable in a car, abundant hills and valleys optimize the effectiveness of my walks. If I am feeling especially optimistic, I start out heading west which is immediately uphill. Other days it is east or downhill first, a short stroll to the main road, to get warmed up. Then, it is a turn-around and back uphill.

You may think that walking the same route everyday would become dull, but it never does. I am always seeing different people, some walking their dog, some with children, some walking (or jogging) purposefully, even some cyclists, skateboarders or scooters. In the past a nod or small wave of the hand sufficed for a greeting, but now almost everyone wants to pause a moment and chat (keeping that six-foot distance). Many of them seem to notice “how old I am” and want to make sure that I have everything I need, offering to help if necessary, making sure I know their name and where they live. They are so nice. Of course, the UPS man, Amazon Prime, FedEx, and the mail person always give a friendly wave and sometimes even a toot of their horn.

Things and people in the neighborhood are always changing with moves in and out, new roofs being put on, painting being done, landscapes being improved and lots more, so there is never a lack of new discoveries. Birds, squirrels, and flowers hold my interest and keep my finger on my phone for photos. I have even seen a fox and a coyote at different times. The coyote was so skinny I felt sorry for him and a little afraid. I have noticed a snake or two or three and always distance myself more than that six-foot minimum. My mantra is that if they don’t bother me, I don’t bother them.

It used to be that when I walked on Saturdays, I might pass by a garage sale or two, but with the social distancing I have not seen any for quite a while. They always made my walk more interesting and enjoyable. There is something about a garage sale that gives a nosy person like me a look into some stranger’s life that normally would not be seen. I always had a few dollars in my pocket on Saturdays and usually found something interesting to carry back home with me. A little shelf over my kitchen range that holds some spices is a neighborhood garage sale find that I painted and ‘artsied-up’.

I consider plantings by mailboxes fair game for flower cuttings, and I delight when finding these free, almost magical, ways to grow new plants. Recently, I have broken off sprigs of rosemary and wandering jew, and they are now in my garden window in vases of water growing new roots. I am not sure why people would have these kinds of plants growing beside their mailboxes, but it is not for me to ask. I am just glad they do.

I must admit that one time I was scared by some dogs that had gotten loose. Nothing happened, but I swore that in the future I would always carry my umbrella for protection. I never remembered to do that and luckily have never seen roaming dogs again. Lots of times I hear barking, but it always comes from behind a sturdy fence.

I notice some people listening to music, or maybe an audio book, while walking, but in my opinion that defeats the whole purpose of being outside. I walk to be entertained by nature and want all my senses honed in on Mother Earth. Or maybe I am one of those people who have trouble doing two things at once. Regardless, when I am outside, I want to see all there is to see, smell all the different smells, hear all there is to hear, and use all my senses to get the most from that thirty minutes of freedom. Here’s hoping you have enjoyed a walk recently, and if you have anything to share about it, let me know.

The Journey

The Journey From life's journey I have no good advice to share, though wisdom is implied by age, to know myself is all I dare. My memories of the ride are my own to bear, I write them down upon the page, from life's journey I have no good advice to share. Some stops along the way give joy, some despair, and others may enrage, to know myself is all I dare. Thinking only of the destination, I become aware of a person in a cage, from life's journey I have no good advice to share. Bound by love of things I must beware, decide when to disengage, to know myself is all I dare. I write today on tomorrow's page and solemnly declare, from life's journey I have no good advice to share, to know myself is all I dare. 19 lines Form: Villanelle A Villanelle is a nineteen-line poem consisting of a very specific rhyming scheme: aba aba aba aba aba abaa. The first and the third lines in the first stanza are repeated in alternating order [as the third line of each stanza] throughout the poem, and appear together in the last couplet (last two lines).

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