Switched At Birth

Night Lights

Tropical Storm Ida, our November almost-hurricane, left a few homes without power, some docks under water, and some small inconvenience. She shook us up a little, put all the emergency services through their paces, and caused me for once in my life to do a week's worth of grocery shopping on Monday morning.

I'm thinking about storytelling on this windy, gray afternoon, and how the repetition of our personal narratives becomes, over time, emblematic of our unique (however tiny) imprimatur upon the universe, iconic beacons in the dark night of humanity.

Buck and I were at the Sugar Shack Sunday afternoon and evening. Click here to drop in for a virtual glass of red.

Somebody Tell Ida We Don't Do November Hurricanes

There is an edgy feel to the traffic today.  Vehicles almost running stop signs, short bursts of speed for no apparent reason, cars cutting their turns short. Pre-storm behavior. I've seen it before. I am only surprised when there is not a line at the gas station or the bank ATM.

The grocery store parking lot is full, but people are buying party food: chips and dip and beer are going out the door in greater volume than gallons of water and canned mystery meat. It's hard to have conviction about a November hurricane.

Besides, Ida is such a wholesome name. If this storm 's name was Jezebel or Buster, I would worry that it would be a trickster. Mid-afternoon here, and it looks like Ida is continuing to weaken. It has already been downgraded from a hurricane to a tropical storm. Still, schools are closed today and tomorrow. Buck and I haven't decided yet whether to label and pull down all the plastic doors enclosing the pool. It will be a pain to go out in the rain and lug those doors into the little red storage building. But it will be a worse pain to go chasing after them in the middle of an early-morning landfall if we guess wrong.

Despite Ida's honest-sounding name, we have gassed up the car, gotten a little cash, bought a new battery for the generator, and picked up enough groceries to feed the multitudes. I didn't buy party food. I bought a chicken and a pork tenderloin to roast, ground beef for chili and meatloaf, canned salmon, eggs and veggies, that kind of stuff.

It's dark as night outside. The deer came out for a quick graze during a lull in the rain. They ran around in short, fast bursts that reminded me of the storm-neurotic drivers I saw earlier in the day.

Last night we sat on the dock at the Sugar Shack. The slow gray waves looked like a little weather was on the way. We watched as lights came on at homes across the water on the Alabama side of the bay. They were in various shades of yellow, white, lavender and blue and looked like a necklace strung with semi-precious stones. 

Sweet Maggie on the Green

There is a spot in our woods where lush grass grows. The roots stay slightly damp, but a broad open area in the tree canopy lets the sun in to warm the blades. Every time we go there, Maggie runs into the tall grass at full speed, then jumps around in the grass like a dog with pogo stick legs. I'm sure she smells creatures in there, but she has never emerged with anything. Looks like fun. 

In this same area, squirrels have turned a tree knocked down by Hurricane Ivan into an al fresco dining room. See here what's left of a pine cone dinner. 

The wild turkeys have grown so bold (or comfortable), they are walking right down the middle of the road. This turkey track is embedded within a truck tire tread. Looks like an arrow, doesn't it? 

Post restored from lost archive. Originally written March 17, 2005.

Tools in the Toolbox

I am seeing woodpeckers high up in the standing snags in one particular neighborhood of the woods. It is a circular cul de sac, formed by a convergence of fire line paths. To my naked eye, they look rather dull colored, except when they fly. Then, I see white patches on their wings.

I have taken a few pictures of them, but without a telephoto lens and more knowledge than I have, the birds remain dull colored and incognito in the morning light.

Buck reminds me that we have a fine pair of small Leica binoculars. He finds them for me, unzips the case, unwinds the cord, and drapes them over my neck. "There, now. Go out and identify your bird."

I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this.

The contrast between my naked eye's ability to see and the reality brought in close by those binoculars was staggering. The birds' color blocks were so sharp, they looked like paint by number birds.

We all have forgotten tools in our toolboxes. Scratch around. Never know what you'll find.

A lost post restoration, originally written May 17, 2005.

Color Weather Radar

God, what a sunset. A thin yellow laser beam shoots across my shoulder as I sit on the sofa. It beams straight across and pins a dotted sixteenth note on the Antonio Soler Sonata in G Major where it rests on the old piano. Only ten minutes ago, a hard sideways rain was loud here in the cottage, waves of sound announcing its approach. It dissipated quickly, leaving the woods washed clean.

Buck and I step outside and look around in wonder at the blue sky streaked with dark clouds. A preternatural stillness frames the dark trees. They are shot through with sun gold.

Today is another "lost post" restoration Saturday. This one was originally posted on September 2, 2004. Didn't know it at the time, but Florida was in the middle of the worst hurricane season on record. Charley had already hit, Frances was about to, Ivan was two weeks away and Jeanne would be the last

We live in the extreme northwestern tip of Florida, the so-called panhandle, hundreds of miles from the current predicted path of Hurricane Frances. We have friends whose home on Pine Island near Naples was miraculously spared when Hurricane Charley hit. They have a second home in the Florida Keys, an investment property that is rented out most of the year. They also have a motor home, and ferry between their two properties with their doberman pinscher, the gentle Gussie. We talked to them today, asking whether they are running to or from the storm, or if they are just stuck in traffic. They are both scuba divers and plan to bring a cooler of just-caught Florida lobsters to us when they stop by for a sleepover on their way to a relative's wedding in Tennessee.

I ordered a box of organic fruits and greens as our contribution to the festivities, to honor the pristine lobsters with fine, fresh, simple accompaniments. It won't arrive until early next week due to storm worries. Because of the storm itself and the wedding schedule, our friends won't arrive until the first of next week either.  At this point, the niceties of dinner party planning go by the boards anyway. We just want everyone to be safe.

Florida is like New York state in one respect. People who don't know New York think the City is the whole state. Upstate is a world away. Florida is like that. It's not just Miami or Mickey. Pensacola is much closer in miles and heart to New Orleans.

For now, our weather report for the weekend is a big smiling sunshine face. That said, the only weather report I fully trust is the sun or rain on my nose, and the wind in our own trees.

Our friends, Denny Coates (known to many of you, an author and former Book of Life blogger) and his wife, the excellent photographer Kathleen Scott, are out there in the great Somewhere tonight, taking care of themselves and their feline friends, probably in Savannah, Georgia. They had to leave their beautiful garden, library, art work, photos and beloved home on the Indian River to seek the necessary higher ground to ensure they can live to love another day.

We wish them and all on the planet safe harbor, especially the hostage Russian babies. 

Note:  Denny is blogging again! I'll tell you all about it in a post upcoming shortly. Stay tuned!

Gift from Eleanor

I move easily. I jump, run, dash up and down stairs, sit on the floor and rise unassisted. I hear well - Buck swears I have sonar - and see well enough with the eyeglasses that correct my nearsightedness. I am well-educated and have sufficient mental acuity to take care of myself in most situations. It is, in short, hard for anyone to even try to take advantage of me. And no one does. I am almost 53.* Not young. Not old. A fully grown bear, you might say. A superb age, really. *This post is another recovered from the lost archive. It was originally written on February 3, 2004 (when I really was 53).

This morning, I was reminded of how many other, less comfortable, moccasins are out there that folks are walking in every day.

Eleanor had been sitting in her wheelchair at the medical center laboratory for almost two hours. Blood had already been drawn. She was still there because a "transporter" had not arrived to push her wheelchair from the lab on the third floor down the hall to an elevator and from there to the first floor lobby, where a driver from her nursing home was to meet her.

Buck and I arrived one and a half hours into Eleanor's ordeal. Buck had to give the lab a little blood for routine annual testing. Since there were quite a few folks ahead of him, he ran off to take care of another errand. I was comfortable, and so stayed put, thinking it might be a good time to scribble in my notebook.

I noticed Eleanor right away, struck by her beauty. Just guessing, I would put her age and weight both at about ninety. Short silver hair highlighted her fine features. Bright eyes matched her blue-violet soft velvet top. She sat alone, wheelchair bound, in the middle of the waiting room.

I saw Eleanor lift a small hand to catch the attention of a passing technician and murmur an inquiry. In the too loud voice often used to speak to people in wheelchairs - as though being hard of hearing came with the chair - the technician said, "I've called the transporter station twice." I could hear the tech's put-upon sounding, exaggerated sigh. "I'll try again."

Ten more minutes passed.

A gentler individual came out to tell Eleanor that the recorded voice-message style center for the transporter staff had been malfunctioning and that was why it was taking so long. But, she assured Eleanor, it was now operating properly and another call had been made. Upon hearing this latest news, Eleanor continued to maintain her dignity, but was clearly uncomfortable. Most everyone else in the room had their hands full with their own difficulties, many with walkers or physical frailty. Everyone but me.

I walked over. "Are you trying to get downstairs?"

"Yes," she replied in a clear, lovely voice which revealed what sounded to my ear like an eastern European heritage, "Just to the lobby, where a driver is supposed to meet me."

"Would it be okay with you if I go downstairs with you?" I asked.

"Oh, yes!" she said.

"That's it, then. Let's go," I said, draping my handbag cross-ways over my shoulder.

I introduced myself while we waited for the elevator. "I'm Eleanor," she said, twisting her tiny head around to look at me. The door opened. "Did you know I was waiting there for almost two hours?"

We arrived at the first floor.  As we rounded the corner in the lobby, a pleasant, curly-haired fellow walked straight to us. "Eleanor!" he called out. "Where have you been?" He was her driver.

I said goodbye to Eleanor, and expressed my hope that the second half of her day would be better than the first. She reached up, gasped my hand with surprising strength, and smiled deeply into my eyes. "Thank you, Beth. I know it will be."

I took the stairs back up to the waiting room and was sitting deep in thought when Buck returned from his errand. He apologized for keeping me waiting. I just smiled.

Struggle, Beauty, Perhaps Art

Just so you don't have the wrong impression, it's not all fawns on the lawn here at Longleaf. We work at our desks five days a week from 7 AM CST until 3:30 PM CST. Like most folks, the "brain time" spent thinking about the work spills over into nights and weekends, too.

After selling businesses and retiring from corporate life more than ten years ago, Buck and I learned to supplement income and hang on to savings by investing in the stock market. Yes (gasp). The Market. It's what we do, during good times, bad times, near Armageddon times, and back-from-the-brink times. 

Some days it's fun. Some days it's hell. We joke about donning hard hats, combat boots and flak jackets before sitting down to work. Our computers are at opposite ends of a folding office supply house table. A table-top television sits between us, where it stays on CNBC business news all day and Bloomberg all night. I have developed a bad (bad, bad, very bad) habit of peeking at international and pre-market futures from my cell phone in the middle of the night.

Most writers have demanding non-writing jobs, or young children, or debilitating illness, or inhospitable partners, or an insidious voice inside their own heads that dishonors their efforts, or grinding poverty that denies them the most basic tools, or some other barrier.

There's an old expression: "It takes a lot of dirt to grow pretty roses." We are not children. We are not hot house flowers, writing lyric essays in a vacuum. We are in the world. We are of the world. And we are all really something.

"King of the Hill!"

 

I spilled part of a bag of birdseed near my neglected weed patch herb garden this weekend. A hillock of builder's sand nearby has briar vines snaking across the top, mute testimony to some forgotten thought.

The "gang of ten" deer that patrol the perimeter spy the bird seed. I watch them for more than ten minutes as they sneak up on the small pile of seed. This is a group of six does and yearlings and four spotted fawns. At one point, a fawn climbs the sand pile. "King of the hill!"

A fat dove sees what is happening and reclaims her turf. The deer are spooked by this feathered shrew. They fly white flags, and quit the place for deeper woods.

 

Sun, Moon, Man, Woman (and Dog, don't forget dog)

Full moon rising in the east, long red sunset in the west, and a chopped up bay blown to shore by a strong north wind. Buck and I wrapped our arms around each other, sunlight in my eye, moon glow in his. Maggie pressed close to us, her golden eyes seeming to read our hearts.  Click here to read more at the Sugar Shack blog.

 

Depot Mania vs. Rural Artistry

Home Depot, Office Depot, Cabinet Depot, Ceramic Tile Depot, Carpet Depot, Flooring Depot, Hot Tub Depot, Hardware Depot, Bar Stool Depot, Light Depot, AAARRGGHH!!

The meaning of "depot" according to Merriam-Webster's on-line dictionary:

Main Entry: de·pot

Pronunciation: \1 & 2 are ˈde-(ˌ)pō also ˈdē-, 3 is ˈdē- sometimes ˈde-\

Function: noun

Etymology: French dépôt, from Middle French depost, from Medieval Latin depositum, from Latin, neuter of depositus

Date: 1795

1 a : a place for storing goods or motor vehicles b : store, cache <a fat depot in the body>
2 a : a place for the storage of military supplies b : a place for the reception and forwarding of military replacements
3 : a building for railroad or bus passengers or freight

Depot gets my vote for the most over-used, mostly inappropriately used, word out there in retail land today.

Whether it's a "big box" retail store, a cookie-cutter franchise, or a tiny hole-in-the-wall outfit, the word "depot" is ubiquitous among business names in the home construction arena. The only way that word is mellifluous to my ears is when I think, nostalgically, of old train stations in small town America, as in "down at the depot."

Okay. No more ranting and raving. Here's something wonderful, instead.

Discouraged by assembly line kitchen cabinets and distressed by post-Hurricane Ivan prices, Buck and I drilled deeper. We heard about a family-owned and operated cabinet and furniture maker just over the Florida line in Alabama, about an hour's drive from Pensacola. We took a nice drive in the country, and found the Country Pine Furniture Company in Flomaton, Alabama.

Robert Carden, his wife, and their staff are artisans. A thick layer of sawdust has settled into the walls, lending a yellowish, old book feel to the place. A shaft of light showers motes onto the head of a young man carefully shaping and smoothing a table leg. It's quiet here at this hour of the late afternoon. Something about the atmosphere reminds me of the good feeling I get being in a library with time to soak in literary waters.

Mr. Carden had to leave us for a few minutes to sign for a delivery. Buck said to me, "Well, Twitchy Baby, I've seen all I need to see." When Buck speaks those words, it's a clear thumbs up or thumbs down. "He's got all the equipment to make us some beautiful cabinets." Ah, good. He agrees with me!

I love the thought of being able to "visit" our cabinets as they are being made, run my hands over the smooth curing wood, and dream of Thanksgiving.

p.s. You might think these custom-made cabinets are more expensive than those from a mass retailer. Not so. We bid the work, and saved more than 30% by going with the local, independent, family-operated business.

Yep. Another "lost post" restored. Original written April 17, 2005.