In which. . .Money Cat Waves in Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving is one day away and our turkey is as solid as a Norwegian lake in December. If we were tiny little people wearing wee lace-up skates we could skate on its pockmarked skin.
This is how much writing I've done lately: 0 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes. Like pebbles in my shoe, I feel constantly reminded that there's some part of my life--a big part--that I'm not addressing. But I've eaten with some lovely people, people from our last life whom made us feel as if we were still living in Pennsylvania and any minute one of our good community might creak open our door and yell hello.
Money Cat waves his arm in the kitchen, as long as there's a little sunlight, as long as day dawns, he waves in steady breezes of good fortune. No calls of hello right now, just the rainy sound of Martin's fingers on the keys and the steady click of Money Cat's paw. I must clean the house, I must ready for company, I must pick up the girls in forty-five minutes. Click, click, click.
I've not written a poem in many months.
I have written letters, and for this I am thankful.
Yesterday I told someone this is the first Thanksgiving I will spend with family in many years. But I am thinking of our Thanksgiving home, over on Poplar Ridge in Pennsylvania, and how we were welcomed there year after year. I'd fight down my sadness at being far away from kin and replace it with gratitude for good friends. Today I miss them.
We have had record rainfall in the past few days. The drainage ditch behind our house is plump with water and the ducks are back. Merry ran down the stairs this morning and tried to feed them bread, but they had none of it. They are shy mallards and uninitiated in human hands tossing crumbs.
There are dashing Stellar's Jays, a Northern Flicker, a Dark-eyed Junco, and a handful of robins that take up occasional residence in our bared trees in the back yard. The Northern Flicker, a handsome northwest woodpecker, red splashed on his crown and across his mustache, has half-eaten one of our last apples. He has a creepy long tongue that looks more like a snake's that he uses to flick into the cracks of tree trunks, looking for crunchy bug snacks.
Two mornings we have awakened with the sun burning brightly outside the window, and the world was a good place. Yesterday the sun blazed out for an hour or two in the middle of the afternoon and we played on the park's broad lawn, watching our shadows and tilting our heads up to lap up every last beam. Then the rain moved in again.
Click, click, click. Money Cat is working the room, bringing in that good luck and waving goodbye to the bad.
I must pull out the vacuum cleaner. I must dust. I must find all the silent moments still left and pile them up, and then I must step into them and take time to be there for a little. Too, I must remember to be patient with my life.
We must thaw the turkey. Poor bird, delicious bird, cold bird, we will stuff your caracass with onions and apples. Your skin will brown into a perfect crust of maple syrup and cider, driving us mad with your magical smells.
Poplar Ridge folk, we are grateful for you. All of you that made Wazoo a wonder, we are thankful for you, and our thanks hangs in the air like breath on a frosty day, and our thanks runs, too, like the water deep under ice, and our love wraps you in warmth, just as you wrap us in your spirit.
This is how much writing I've done lately: 0 days, 0 hours, 0 minutes. Like pebbles in my shoe, I feel constantly reminded that there's some part of my life--a big part--that I'm not addressing. But I've eaten with some lovely people, people from our last life whom made us feel as if we were still living in Pennsylvania and any minute one of our good community might creak open our door and yell hello.
Money Cat waves his arm in the kitchen, as long as there's a little sunlight, as long as day dawns, he waves in steady breezes of good fortune. No calls of hello right now, just the rainy sound of Martin's fingers on the keys and the steady click of Money Cat's paw. I must clean the house, I must ready for company, I must pick up the girls in forty-five minutes. Click, click, click.
I've not written a poem in many months.
I have written letters, and for this I am thankful.
Yesterday I told someone this is the first Thanksgiving I will spend with family in many years. But I am thinking of our Thanksgiving home, over on Poplar Ridge in Pennsylvania, and how we were welcomed there year after year. I'd fight down my sadness at being far away from kin and replace it with gratitude for good friends. Today I miss them.
We have had record rainfall in the past few days. The drainage ditch behind our house is plump with water and the ducks are back. Merry ran down the stairs this morning and tried to feed them bread, but they had none of it. They are shy mallards and uninitiated in human hands tossing crumbs.
There are dashing Stellar's Jays, a Northern Flicker, a Dark-eyed Junco, and a handful of robins that take up occasional residence in our bared trees in the back yard. The Northern Flicker, a handsome northwest woodpecker, red splashed on his crown and across his mustache, has half-eaten one of our last apples. He has a creepy long tongue that looks more like a snake's that he uses to flick into the cracks of tree trunks, looking for crunchy bug snacks.
Two mornings we have awakened with the sun burning brightly outside the window, and the world was a good place. Yesterday the sun blazed out for an hour or two in the middle of the afternoon and we played on the park's broad lawn, watching our shadows and tilting our heads up to lap up every last beam. Then the rain moved in again.
Click, click, click. Money Cat is working the room, bringing in that good luck and waving goodbye to the bad.
I must pull out the vacuum cleaner. I must dust. I must find all the silent moments still left and pile them up, and then I must step into them and take time to be there for a little. Too, I must remember to be patient with my life.
We must thaw the turkey. Poor bird, delicious bird, cold bird, we will stuff your caracass with onions and apples. Your skin will brown into a perfect crust of maple syrup and cider, driving us mad with your magical smells.
Poplar Ridge folk, we are grateful for you. All of you that made Wazoo a wonder, we are thankful for you, and our thanks hangs in the air like breath on a frosty day, and our thanks runs, too, like the water deep under ice, and our love wraps you in warmth, just as you wrap us in your spirit.
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