fog

I had a meeting to attend last night and drove through the dark in a (literal) fog. Fortunately, there aren’t many vehicles on these country roads, because the distortion of their headlights made the trip a bit scary.

After arising this morning, I had my usual stint on the back porch. It had rained all night, so the fog hadn’t dissipated. Everything was soft around the edges and sounds were muted, until a pickup came down the road across the creek. This was obviously not someone who was familiar with the way this creek twists, because the driver ended up having to back up quite a way before turning around. The sound of the backup alarm was shrill in the soft air. I’d much rather hear the bleating of a calf, the bellowing of a cow, the chattering of a squirrel, or the chirping of the early morning birds.

I am blessed with the sounds of nature.

birds

Considering the feeders have only been up a few days, I was pleased to see a pair of titmice this morning. Knowing their habits, I am sure the chickadees will soon be attending. I sat on the bench, about ten feet from the feeders, listening to the titmice scold me, while having their snacks.

Doof sat on a rock across the lane, listening for moles or mice. I enjoyed watching him creep across the fallen leaf litter, hoping to catch a play toy. He doesn’t seem to eat them, but they’re dead, just the same, having expired while being tossed in the air. Being a little over a year old, Doof hasn’t become complacent yet. He dashes around, skulks behind trees, and generally makes life interesting for his two roommates, Jessie and me.

Although I mourn fallen birds, I feel the bird feeders are cheap entertainment for both the human and feline residents.

American Way

I had an enlightening talk with a young man at a wedding reception Saturday night. I was pleasantly surprised to meet a college student who hasn’t seemed to buy into our prevailing view of life. He got his bachelor’s degree from Roanoke College, which included a sabbatical in northern Spain during his sophomore year. He’d like to return, because he appreciated the pace of life there. So, he’s leaving for the Culinary Institute of America for a post-graduate degree, hoping to return to Spain, where dinner with friends is a celebration.

Somehow, we Americans have gotten the impression that our culture, our way of life is the epitome. We’ve taken to gauging our worth by our possessions, by the pace of our days, our rung on the ladder, the balance in our retirement account.

This could very well be sour grapes, on my part, but I really think we should be questioning “The American Way.”

a mystery

I’ve just started reading “To Love and Be Wise” by Josephine Tey for the second or third time. Living alone, without television, I find that I re-read the books I love. The protagonist is Inspector Grant of Scotland Yard. In the first chapter, he’s going to a party, at the request of his friend, Marta Hallard, an actress. Their friendship began because of her need for an occasional escort and his need for a sometime informant in the world of the theater. It grew, because they found that they enjoyed each other’s company.

I’m not a glamorous actress, but I certainly would enjoy having a male friend like that, another happy singleton, who’d like to get together for dinner, a movie, or a day trip every now and then.

color

I took a walk into the camp this morning. Because the wind is blowing, it was a noisy walk, with the leaves on the trees rustling, the leaves on the ground skittering.

As I passed the gate, a maple by the pond spoke up in a blast of orange. When I got to the dock, I could see that the water is much clearer now, than it was in the summer, the algae hovering at the edges. I stood looking at the rocks on the bottom, as the horses wandered over in search of company. We had a brief conversation, after which I started home.

The sun is shining, a blessing after a couple of gloomy days. I felt as though I was drinking it in through my skin, face raised, eyes closed. The white asters have faded, but the lavender ones are going full tilt against the shale banks. The forsythia leaves are beginning to turn a deep purple.

All the tints of autumn, in anticipation of the dimming of color in winter.

anger

I met Sharon for the first time last Friday. She’s working at the newly opened produce stand owned by her son-in-law. In the course of our, maybe ten minute conversation, I found we have a lot in common. We’re about the same age, and now that she’s working there, we both have part-time, post retirement jobs. Although I’ve known her son-in-law for years, I had never seen her before. Like a lot of older folks around here, she isolated herself, without being aware of the situation. Her job at the stand has opened her eyes to what she’s been missing. She admitted that she had been angry most of the time.

My father died in September of 2000. Since then, my mother has kept to herself in their four bedroom, two and a half bath house. Her routine, which she’s shared in numerous notes, consists of waking at 5:30 or 6, driving to a local mall and walking twice around the interior, driving home for a small breakfast, playing a few hands of solitaire, running errands, stopping at McDonald’s for a small burger (which she cut in half to have for dinner), running more errands, more solitaire, watching the news, while she ate the rest of the burger, then watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, off to bed at 8, where she read mysteries, then awoke at 3 or so to read, again for a few hours.

Every time I’ve visited, we’ve gotten into some sort of altercation. I was aware of the fact that she was angry. I just didn’t know why. She refused to move from the house she’s live in since 1958, into a retirement home or some sort of assisted living facility. I could tell, when I’d arrive that she was glad to see me, but that only lasted for a day or two, after which she seemed to be jealous of any visiting I did with other family and friends. She’s deaf, so it’s difficult to communicate, particularly if she’s angry, as she tunes me out. Given she was angry most of the time, visiting was frustrating.

There was a crisis in April. There had been a leak in the upstairs bathroom, which had gone undetected, as Mum never goes up there. The collecting water had finally broken through the kitchen ceiling. The good thing is that the crisis precipitated a general discussion of Mum’s situation. My brothers contracted with “Senior Helpers” in May, having a young woman come in every day to do some cooking, cleaning, driving, and general socializing. Even though I’m over 500 miles away, I know having the helper there has helped, because I haven’t gotten any more plaintive descriptions of Mum's days.

I know how she feels. I’ve lived alone and generally favor that situation. But I have made sure that I keep in touch with friends and plan periodic events in my home. I work at the bank six days a week, if only for a few hours a day, expressly to keep in contact with my neighbors. Sharon has taken the same step. I hope I will continue to keep myself involved with family, friends, and neighbors. It’s difficult to keep a “mad” going, if you’re interacting with people who have no idea why you’re angry.