I have about 50 websites on my bookmarks list, and of those 50 I use three of them on a regular basis. Sometimes I'll get in a cyber cleaning mood and delete a few, but mostly they remain there, in the spirit of, "I'd better not throw that out, I might need it someday," the same spirit that keeps the drawers and tables in my house stuffed and stacked with envelopes and random scraps of paper.
Really, am I going to need the address of a discount shoes website where I saved the page describing a pair of winter boots I was going to buy for my son two years ago? He doesn't even wear that size anymore, for crying out loud.
And do I really need to relocate six websites offering moneysaving tips for tightwads? Finding a tip I didn't already know about would be as likely as finding a diamond ring in my morning bowl of Special K.
I've also got the addresses of several bloggers, most of them smartass women like me. But the only bloggers I follow with any regularity are my friends Cori and Kathy and authors Rona Maynard and Elizabeth Berg, and I could find their sites with my eyes closed.
As for the sites listing Crock Pot recipes, vegetarian recipes, cheap recipes and cheap vegetarian Crock Pot recipes, I can find all of those and more in seconds courtesy of Google.
And those 10-odd Phil Collins listings... I think I'll hang onto those for awhile. It's like a scrapbook I like to leaf through on occasion. Although I'm too old and too mature to keep a scrapbook on my favorite singer. A list of websites is much more dignified. Don't say a word, please. Let me hang onto my illusions.
What I need is a bookmark list for my brain. I'd love to have a file list of favorite memories that I could roll out at any time. Not the big ones; those have a permanent spot in my heart and mind. It's the little, ordinary days I want to recapture. Like the summer day Ron and I took the kids to Little Presque Isle, when the sun was hot and the water was bathtub warm. Ron and I spent the day jumping in the waves with the kids and lying on our blanket under the sun, watching them play.
So many small special moments get lost in the shuffle of daily life. We swear we'll remember, but the moments get crowded out by flat tires, doctor bills and grocery store runs.
I want to remember every single night I read bedtime stories to Jess, then Jess and Dan, then Jess, Dan and Melissa. I want to bookmark every one of those nights. And the bathtimes, trips to the park, all the Friday nights we piled blankets and pillows on the floor and hunkered down to watch "Dinosaurs" and "Family Matters."
It's ironic that with a single click we can save the location of a website on the mating habits of tse tse flies, but there's no way to save the moments we treasures as they happened and would love to treasure again... if only we could find them.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Sunday, January 2, 2011
These old bones
So the other day I read an inspiring Associated Press story about a woman in her early 40s who was so morbidly obese her doctor told her she could expect a major coronary event at any moment. If that wasn't enough, she smoked like a chimney and used alcohol as a stress reliever.
Here's the inspiring part: this woman made a vow to change, not only for herself, but for her husband and children. There followed an amazing self-renovation. Now in her late 60s, this woman is lean and mean. She's run marathons and is a champion swimmer.
The story continued with the tale of a 98-year-old who still runs every day. The gist, as I saw it, was that age doesn't have to be a barrier to physical fitness. Talk about inspiring!
Next came some quotes from a personal trainer, who explained that, although there is no age limit on maintaining fitness, as one grows older one has to make certain accommodations, accept the inevitable limitations of an older body. Beginning at age 50...
Wait a minute.
Age 50?
The age I will be in four months and 14 days?
I swear I felt my brain twitch when I realized I was reading an article about growing older and keeping fit that pertained to me.
I sat up straighter and had an indignant mental conversation with the author of the story and that oh so wise personal trainer. I informed them that I get more fresh air and exercise now than I have in years. I've lost weight, gained muscle and stamina, and I can't remember when I've felt more at home in my own body. So there!
I judiciously left out of the conversation the fact that when I stand up after sitting for too long my spine is as stiff and creaky as a length of frozen rope. The fact that my knee joints sound like Rice Krispies when I stretch was also edited from the conversation.
I understand that I am growing older, chronologically speaking. But I refuse to stock up on Ben Gay and Geritol (do they even still make Geritol) anytime soon. If you're only as young as you feel, then I feel I am not ready for low-impact this and high fiber that. As long as my favorite jeans fit and I can keep up with my high-energy dog, I'm still the same me I've always been.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get up and stretch. I've been sitting a little too long.
Here's the inspiring part: this woman made a vow to change, not only for herself, but for her husband and children. There followed an amazing self-renovation. Now in her late 60s, this woman is lean and mean. She's run marathons and is a champion swimmer.
The story continued with the tale of a 98-year-old who still runs every day. The gist, as I saw it, was that age doesn't have to be a barrier to physical fitness. Talk about inspiring!
Next came some quotes from a personal trainer, who explained that, although there is no age limit on maintaining fitness, as one grows older one has to make certain accommodations, accept the inevitable limitations of an older body. Beginning at age 50...
Wait a minute.
Age 50?
The age I will be in four months and 14 days?
I swear I felt my brain twitch when I realized I was reading an article about growing older and keeping fit that pertained to me.
I sat up straighter and had an indignant mental conversation with the author of the story and that oh so wise personal trainer. I informed them that I get more fresh air and exercise now than I have in years. I've lost weight, gained muscle and stamina, and I can't remember when I've felt more at home in my own body. So there!
I judiciously left out of the conversation the fact that when I stand up after sitting for too long my spine is as stiff and creaky as a length of frozen rope. The fact that my knee joints sound like Rice Krispies when I stretch was also edited from the conversation.
I understand that I am growing older, chronologically speaking. But I refuse to stock up on Ben Gay and Geritol (do they even still make Geritol) anytime soon. If you're only as young as you feel, then I feel I am not ready for low-impact this and high fiber that. As long as my favorite jeans fit and I can keep up with my high-energy dog, I'm still the same me I've always been.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to get up and stretch. I've been sitting a little too long.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Weather you like it or not.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the snow I cannot change, the courage to shovel the snow I can, and the wisdom to not pout about it.
Whenever I complain about winter (which is frequently), someone will invariably comment on the irony of a warm weather lover such as myself living in the center of the snow belt. Yes, ha ha, I will reply, it sure is ironic.
It's not really ironic, it's just life, that thing I've spent 20-some years learning how to live on its own terms. I became an alcoholic because I wanted my life (read: me) to be different and had no idea how to accomplish that.
I think it's safe to say I've made progress. I accept responsibility for my own actions, I accept that things won't always go my way, I accept that people aren't always going to behave the way I think they should, even when I know exactly how they should think, act and speak. That goes for everyone from the president on down to my kids. And my pets.
And the weather? The icy knife wind, the stinging blasts of snow crystals, the slick roads and sidewalks?
I'm working on it, ok?
Whenever I complain about winter (which is frequently), someone will invariably comment on the irony of a warm weather lover such as myself living in the center of the snow belt. Yes, ha ha, I will reply, it sure is ironic.
It's not really ironic, it's just life, that thing I've spent 20-some years learning how to live on its own terms. I became an alcoholic because I wanted my life (read: me) to be different and had no idea how to accomplish that.
I think it's safe to say I've made progress. I accept responsibility for my own actions, I accept that things won't always go my way, I accept that people aren't always going to behave the way I think they should, even when I know exactly how they should think, act and speak. That goes for everyone from the president on down to my kids. And my pets.
And the weather? The icy knife wind, the stinging blasts of snow crystals, the slick roads and sidewalks?
I'm working on it, ok?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
One of those days
Today was a comedy of errors. Only it all happened to me, which made it a tragedy.
The coffee pot spewed hot liquid and crunchy ground across the kitchen counter. The dogs refused to take care of business on their first trip outside, necessitating a second trip. The outfit that seemed so classy in theory fell short in the mirror of reality. Then, as I was dashing around (late, naturally) in search of my jacket, I remembered I'd left it upstairs.
No, I couldn't listen to tunes on my bite-sized mp3 player as I walked to work - the itty bitty battery died.
You get the picture.
I slid into snarl mode for a couple of hours after I got home. In the interest of frustrating myself to the point of boiling over, I tried moving my son's unweildly electric organ from the spare room into the mudroom. Guess what was too wide to make the corner into the mudroom?
By that point I was unbearable. As usual, my daughter was the lucky beneficiary. We sniped a little, then she had the good sense to withdraw into the organ, er spare room.
There's a recovery saying: don't get too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. HALT. By dinnertime I was at HAT. But I was also determined not to let the rest of the day grind to its end on the sticky wheels of self-indulgent sulkiness.
Another beauty saying in recovery is, you can start your day over at any moment. If you feel yourself going off the rails you can pause, regroup, and do better. After 27 years of sobriety I actually remember to do that sometimes.
I called Melissa to dinner. Then I thanked her for preparing most of the meal while I was wrestling with the impossible logistics of moving a wide musical instrument through a narrow entryway. And I apologized. Another gem learned in recovery: when you're wrong, admit it. Don't blame, don't justify, don't qualify. Just make your amends.
HALT. Start over. Say you're sorry. Simple concepts, right? That's right, simple concepts. But try practicing them in your daily life. Then you'll see that simple doesn't equal easy.
As I write this I'm waiting to take my son's birthday cake out of the oven. Well, half of it. I could only find one of my two round cake pans.
Yes, it's been one of those days.
The coffee pot spewed hot liquid and crunchy ground across the kitchen counter. The dogs refused to take care of business on their first trip outside, necessitating a second trip. The outfit that seemed so classy in theory fell short in the mirror of reality. Then, as I was dashing around (late, naturally) in search of my jacket, I remembered I'd left it upstairs.
No, I couldn't listen to tunes on my bite-sized mp3 player as I walked to work - the itty bitty battery died.
You get the picture.
I slid into snarl mode for a couple of hours after I got home. In the interest of frustrating myself to the point of boiling over, I tried moving my son's unweildly electric organ from the spare room into the mudroom. Guess what was too wide to make the corner into the mudroom?
By that point I was unbearable. As usual, my daughter was the lucky beneficiary. We sniped a little, then she had the good sense to withdraw into the organ, er spare room.
There's a recovery saying: don't get too hungry, angry, lonely or tired. HALT. By dinnertime I was at HAT. But I was also determined not to let the rest of the day grind to its end on the sticky wheels of self-indulgent sulkiness.
Another beauty saying in recovery is, you can start your day over at any moment. If you feel yourself going off the rails you can pause, regroup, and do better. After 27 years of sobriety I actually remember to do that sometimes.
I called Melissa to dinner. Then I thanked her for preparing most of the meal while I was wrestling with the impossible logistics of moving a wide musical instrument through a narrow entryway. And I apologized. Another gem learned in recovery: when you're wrong, admit it. Don't blame, don't justify, don't qualify. Just make your amends.
HALT. Start over. Say you're sorry. Simple concepts, right? That's right, simple concepts. But try practicing them in your daily life. Then you'll see that simple doesn't equal easy.
As I write this I'm waiting to take my son's birthday cake out of the oven. Well, half of it. I could only find one of my two round cake pans.
Yes, it's been one of those days.
Monday, November 1, 2010
C'mon, Wednesday
Nov. 3 can't get here fast enough. Enduring this election season has been like having two radios playing full blast, one in each ear: one shrieking heavy metal, the other a screaming fire and brimstone preacher. And for the grand finale, we're expected to pop into a booth and take a quiz on the content of both stations.
I think I'm going to form my own political party. I'll call it the Reasonable Party. We Reasonables will not raise our voices, hurl invectives or spend kabillions of dollars trying to make our opponents look like horses' patoots. What we will do is quietly state our beliefs and goals, encourage citizens to vote for us, and work hard to fulfill our campaign promises.
Our mascot will be the giraffe: quiet, serene, head up high enough to see the big picture. And a vegetarian - how politically correct!
First I'll need a candidate. And don't look at me. Although I do enjoy public speaking and kissing babies, I'm not much for giving orders, or accepting resposibility when things go awry.
My first choice? Alan Alda. Don't be dubious. I think we can all agree that actors of far less talent than he have held public office. He's intelligent, humane, warm, well versed in social issues. He's also in his 70s, which I guess means he wouldn't jump at the chance to hold public office.
Second choice? Big Bird. A true man of the people. He's got street cred, he's compassionate, he cares about the education and welfare of children. And think of this: who would dare to attack a country of citizens crazy enough to elect a 7-foot-tall bird president?
Third choice: the late, great George Carlin. Imagine it. By the time he completed his inaugural address he'd have offended 75 percent of the population so profoundly that they'd all defect to Canada, leaving the rest of us to create our own utopia. Can you imagine a Pledge of Allegiance that incorporated the seven words you can't say on television?
Yes, I'm a little punchy. I look forward to casting my ballot tomorrow night, doing my sacred duty as an American, making my voice heard.
And if you hear about a precinct where Robin Williams got one vote as a write-in candidate for county commissioner, you'll know those political commercials sent me right over the edge.
I think I'm going to form my own political party. I'll call it the Reasonable Party. We Reasonables will not raise our voices, hurl invectives or spend kabillions of dollars trying to make our opponents look like horses' patoots. What we will do is quietly state our beliefs and goals, encourage citizens to vote for us, and work hard to fulfill our campaign promises.
Our mascot will be the giraffe: quiet, serene, head up high enough to see the big picture. And a vegetarian - how politically correct!
First I'll need a candidate. And don't look at me. Although I do enjoy public speaking and kissing babies, I'm not much for giving orders, or accepting resposibility when things go awry.
My first choice? Alan Alda. Don't be dubious. I think we can all agree that actors of far less talent than he have held public office. He's intelligent, humane, warm, well versed in social issues. He's also in his 70s, which I guess means he wouldn't jump at the chance to hold public office.
Second choice? Big Bird. A true man of the people. He's got street cred, he's compassionate, he cares about the education and welfare of children. And think of this: who would dare to attack a country of citizens crazy enough to elect a 7-foot-tall bird president?
Third choice: the late, great George Carlin. Imagine it. By the time he completed his inaugural address he'd have offended 75 percent of the population so profoundly that they'd all defect to Canada, leaving the rest of us to create our own utopia. Can you imagine a Pledge of Allegiance that incorporated the seven words you can't say on television?
Yes, I'm a little punchy. I look forward to casting my ballot tomorrow night, doing my sacred duty as an American, making my voice heard.
And if you hear about a precinct where Robin Williams got one vote as a write-in candidate for county commissioner, you'll know those political commercials sent me right over the edge.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
Splitting hairs
Yesterday I went to my favorite salon for a long overdue haircut. I strode in confidently and gave Anne, my stylist, my usual clear, distinct idea of what I wanted done:
"Ohhh, I dunno. Something different."
Having put off getting this haircut until my bangs were tickling my eyelids and my layers had melded into one limp, untidy, shoulder-length mass, any version of different would have been an improvement.
What I'm always seeking is a flattering, carefree hairdo. Nothing elaborate. Nothing requiring curling irons, gel, blowdryers, hair ties or barrettes. I am strictly a shampoo/conditioner/comb girl. This narrows my options considerably, of course. Add to that the fact that at the age of almost 50 I still have no clear idea of the best look for my face - the same face I've been wearing for, well, almost 50 years.
Anne, bless her heart, is long on patience. "OK, hon, let's look at a few books and get some ideas." She handed me a magazine full of hairstyle suggestions, complete with photos of obscenely beautiful women, including several famous actresses, who would look lovely even with mohawks. Fortunately, I have enough of a grasp on reality to understand that a side part and a few long layers were not going to turn me into Jennifer Aniston's double.
What women need is a hairstyle magazine showing ordinary women who've just rolled out of bed, sans makeup, pre-coffee. A hairstyle that flatters you at that moment in time is a hands down winner.
"What about something like this?" Anne pointed to a 'do with short hair in back and longer, brushed-forward layers on the sides.
"Uh, ok, yeah, something like that, I guess," I said, trying to sound decisive. And off we marched to the chair.
Being as nearsighted as Mr. Magoo, I never know what my haircuts will look like until the work is done and Anne hands me back my glasses. What I see in the mirror until then is a peach blur topped by a water-darkened brown blur. So you can imagine my alarm when I heard the other hairdresser in the salon exclaim, "Wow, you're really getting a lot taken off!"
"I am?" Come to think of it, I was feeling a draft on the back of my neck. I'd been so busy chatting with Anne, exchanging updates on kids and weighing in on the latest news, that I'd almost lost track of why I was there in the first place.
"Wow, you gonna pay her for that haircut?" joked the stylist's customer.
I laughed along, but under the protective cape my hands were slowly clenching.
At last Anne whipped off the cape and handed me my glasses.
Wow.
At least three quarters of my hair was now littering the salon floor. What I was left with was either a chic new look or a desperate cry for a hat.
I fluffed the sides. I stared. I thought hard.
I liked it.
The second phase of a radical new haircut (following phase one: shock) is the big reveal to family and friends. When I got home my friend Jan was waiting for me so we could go for a hike in the woods.
"I love your hair! You look great!" she said without preamble. I whined a bit (a large bit) about how it wasn't what I expected and I wasn't sure I could pull it off. Being a good friend, Jan didn't advise me to suck it up and quit bellyaching. She just kept repeating that I looked great until I ran out of whine.
When I walked into the house, my daughter Melissa stared, eyes wide.
"Wow, that's really ... different," she said.
"Well, I've decided I like it," I said.
Five minutes later I was whining, "I'm not sure I like it" as Jan and I headed to Little Presque Isle. To her credit, Jan did not throw me out of the car, or even threaten to.
To forestall another uncomfortable daughter confrontation, I called Jess to give her a heads up, so to speak.
"I just want to let you know that I got my hair cut. Short."
"And what, you're warning me?" Jess laughed.
Yes, yes I was.
And it was a good thing, too. When she came over later that night her eyes widened exactly as her sister's had.
"Wow, that's really ... short."
I've decided that this is an excellent haircut, a flattering style that suits a busy, creative, middle-aged woman. And having slept on this new hair for one night and then looked in the mirror, I've also decided I'm going to learn how to apply mousse to settle down my wild, wayward feathers on my head.
Hair is as much of a fashion statement as a Coach bag or a Chanel gown. But unlike a bag or gown, you can't toss it back in the closet if it doesn't suit you.
I'll be wearing this particular fashion statement for some time to come. Good thing I've decided to embrace my freshly shorn look and wear it with pride. It's the new me! Arty, stylin', carefree. And saving a fortune on shampoo.
"Ohhh, I dunno. Something different."
Having put off getting this haircut until my bangs were tickling my eyelids and my layers had melded into one limp, untidy, shoulder-length mass, any version of different would have been an improvement.
What I'm always seeking is a flattering, carefree hairdo. Nothing elaborate. Nothing requiring curling irons, gel, blowdryers, hair ties or barrettes. I am strictly a shampoo/conditioner/comb girl. This narrows my options considerably, of course. Add to that the fact that at the age of almost 50 I still have no clear idea of the best look for my face - the same face I've been wearing for, well, almost 50 years.
Anne, bless her heart, is long on patience. "OK, hon, let's look at a few books and get some ideas." She handed me a magazine full of hairstyle suggestions, complete with photos of obscenely beautiful women, including several famous actresses, who would look lovely even with mohawks. Fortunately, I have enough of a grasp on reality to understand that a side part and a few long layers were not going to turn me into Jennifer Aniston's double.
What women need is a hairstyle magazine showing ordinary women who've just rolled out of bed, sans makeup, pre-coffee. A hairstyle that flatters you at that moment in time is a hands down winner.
"What about something like this?" Anne pointed to a 'do with short hair in back and longer, brushed-forward layers on the sides.
"Uh, ok, yeah, something like that, I guess," I said, trying to sound decisive. And off we marched to the chair.
Being as nearsighted as Mr. Magoo, I never know what my haircuts will look like until the work is done and Anne hands me back my glasses. What I see in the mirror until then is a peach blur topped by a water-darkened brown blur. So you can imagine my alarm when I heard the other hairdresser in the salon exclaim, "Wow, you're really getting a lot taken off!"
"I am?" Come to think of it, I was feeling a draft on the back of my neck. I'd been so busy chatting with Anne, exchanging updates on kids and weighing in on the latest news, that I'd almost lost track of why I was there in the first place.
"Wow, you gonna pay her for that haircut?" joked the stylist's customer.
I laughed along, but under the protective cape my hands were slowly clenching.
At last Anne whipped off the cape and handed me my glasses.
Wow.
At least three quarters of my hair was now littering the salon floor. What I was left with was either a chic new look or a desperate cry for a hat.
I fluffed the sides. I stared. I thought hard.
I liked it.
The second phase of a radical new haircut (following phase one: shock) is the big reveal to family and friends. When I got home my friend Jan was waiting for me so we could go for a hike in the woods.
"I love your hair! You look great!" she said without preamble. I whined a bit (a large bit) about how it wasn't what I expected and I wasn't sure I could pull it off. Being a good friend, Jan didn't advise me to suck it up and quit bellyaching. She just kept repeating that I looked great until I ran out of whine.
When I walked into the house, my daughter Melissa stared, eyes wide.
"Wow, that's really ... different," she said.
"Well, I've decided I like it," I said.
Five minutes later I was whining, "I'm not sure I like it" as Jan and I headed to Little Presque Isle. To her credit, Jan did not throw me out of the car, or even threaten to.
To forestall another uncomfortable daughter confrontation, I called Jess to give her a heads up, so to speak.
"I just want to let you know that I got my hair cut. Short."
"And what, you're warning me?" Jess laughed.
Yes, yes I was.
And it was a good thing, too. When she came over later that night her eyes widened exactly as her sister's had.
"Wow, that's really ... short."
I've decided that this is an excellent haircut, a flattering style that suits a busy, creative, middle-aged woman. And having slept on this new hair for one night and then looked in the mirror, I've also decided I'm going to learn how to apply mousse to settle down my wild, wayward feathers on my head.
Hair is as much of a fashion statement as a Coach bag or a Chanel gown. But unlike a bag or gown, you can't toss it back in the closet if it doesn't suit you.
I'll be wearing this particular fashion statement for some time to come. Good thing I've decided to embrace my freshly shorn look and wear it with pride. It's the new me! Arty, stylin', carefree. And saving a fortune on shampoo.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Fall in!
Melissa and I were finishing a late supper when I looked out the kitchen window and said, "Uh oh, I don't think we'll be walking the dogs tonight. We're going to get a storm."
"Mom, it's not going to storm. It's dark because it's nighttime."
OK, so did you know that one major characteristic of alcoholics is denial? And deny I did.
"It can't be dark out yet. It's too early. We're getting a storm."
"Check the Weather Channel," Melissa said confidently.
"I will!" I blustered.
Approximately 15 seconds later my bluster was crushed by the unarguable logic of the stupid Weather Channel radar. And the listing of sunrise and sunset times.
But denial doesn't die that easily. "How can it be getting dark so early? It's only..."
Only almost October. Right.
So Indy and I set out for a walk under a cloudless indigo sky and the nightlight glow of our wonderful old globe-shaped streetlights. The air was cool, soft and sweetened with the scent of dry leaves. Indy was wildly impatient to get under way, having watched Melissa and Saira (her beagle) set out full minutes ahead of us, so the first few blocks were spent trying to hold him to a reasonable pace and pausing to scoop up his, uh, expressions of excitement.
When Indy finally slowed to a brisk, forward-leaning trot, I had time to marvel at how quickly summer had yielded to fall. One day it was 90 degrees, the next day it was 60. This was no gradual change of seasons. Maybe that's why I'm still reeling.
Walking in the fall is 180 degrees different than walking on summer evenings. The streets are quiet. No kids biking, skateboarding, or chasing one another across fresh green lawns. People have their lights on, which I appreciate, because I like to glance into houses as I walk past. Every home is a story being written, a complex history as rich and full as our own. It's easy to forget that everyone is the star of their own play. Those cursory glances at what other people are watching on TV, or what they choose to hang on their walls, reminds me that my life is one molecule in a picture too big for tiny me to comprehend. And I find that comforting.
Walking in the night awakens a particular loneliness I can't imagine a cure for. I'm not lonely for any one person or any particular place. This loneliness evaporates the minute I see my house waiting, welcoming, in the near distance.
I miss summer, but it's kind of a relief to see it end. Summer always yanks at my sleeve, reminding me that unless I'm at the beach or licking an ice cream cone or walking with Indy, I am wasting valuable, fleeting moments of an all to short season. DO SOMETHING! Summer yells.
Fall, on the other hand, says, "Relax. Check out those beautiful leaves. Pull on a warm sweater and curl up with a good book."
Summer is a small, yappy dog who's a lot of fun but wears you out. Fall is a big, gentle mutt, content to meander and take frequent naps.
Lucky for we who live in a place with distinct seasons, we get to enjoy the company of both.
"Mom, it's not going to storm. It's dark because it's nighttime."
OK, so did you know that one major characteristic of alcoholics is denial? And deny I did.
"It can't be dark out yet. It's too early. We're getting a storm."
"Check the Weather Channel," Melissa said confidently.
"I will!" I blustered.
Approximately 15 seconds later my bluster was crushed by the unarguable logic of the stupid Weather Channel radar. And the listing of sunrise and sunset times.
But denial doesn't die that easily. "How can it be getting dark so early? It's only..."
Only almost October. Right.
So Indy and I set out for a walk under a cloudless indigo sky and the nightlight glow of our wonderful old globe-shaped streetlights. The air was cool, soft and sweetened with the scent of dry leaves. Indy was wildly impatient to get under way, having watched Melissa and Saira (her beagle) set out full minutes ahead of us, so the first few blocks were spent trying to hold him to a reasonable pace and pausing to scoop up his, uh, expressions of excitement.
When Indy finally slowed to a brisk, forward-leaning trot, I had time to marvel at how quickly summer had yielded to fall. One day it was 90 degrees, the next day it was 60. This was no gradual change of seasons. Maybe that's why I'm still reeling.
Walking in the fall is 180 degrees different than walking on summer evenings. The streets are quiet. No kids biking, skateboarding, or chasing one another across fresh green lawns. People have their lights on, which I appreciate, because I like to glance into houses as I walk past. Every home is a story being written, a complex history as rich and full as our own. It's easy to forget that everyone is the star of their own play. Those cursory glances at what other people are watching on TV, or what they choose to hang on their walls, reminds me that my life is one molecule in a picture too big for tiny me to comprehend. And I find that comforting.
Walking in the night awakens a particular loneliness I can't imagine a cure for. I'm not lonely for any one person or any particular place. This loneliness evaporates the minute I see my house waiting, welcoming, in the near distance.
I miss summer, but it's kind of a relief to see it end. Summer always yanks at my sleeve, reminding me that unless I'm at the beach or licking an ice cream cone or walking with Indy, I am wasting valuable, fleeting moments of an all to short season. DO SOMETHING! Summer yells.
Fall, on the other hand, says, "Relax. Check out those beautiful leaves. Pull on a warm sweater and curl up with a good book."
Summer is a small, yappy dog who's a lot of fun but wears you out. Fall is a big, gentle mutt, content to meander and take frequent naps.
Lucky for we who live in a place with distinct seasons, we get to enjoy the company of both.
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