THE DUST WILL WAIT

 A week ago we had rain and then sunshine.  A grand and totally delightful end to eight days of being smoked like a rash of bacon.   Thus the title above that might make you want to do some memory moves with The Platters. The Air Quality Index runs from 0 to 500.  I was shocked to see the red line hit that and rise beyond the measured quantity.  Mentally and emotionally taxing as well as physically harmful. Rain has blessed us once more the past two nights. Hopefully enough to be a wild firefighters wet dream. Now I can take walks again if my right foot agrees.  Surgery on the left foot in late February put me in good standing to stay seated and home in the early days of the you know what.   To keep on the right footing I am planning another surgical round of  "The Hokey Pokey" with the podiatrist this winter. Meanwhile it seems like all my "annuals" have somehow coagulated into a September sludge of visits to every medical professional ...

 Our kitty cat needed us.  We struggled with the decision.  But we knew she needed us to make the right one. We miss her. ***** ElGee was born in a litter of kittens in an apartment complex where a friend of our youngest daughter lived. Amanda already owned a young cat named "Baby" when the friend contacted her in an effort to save the kittens.   "I'll take one," our daughter committed to be part of the unorganized rescue.  The teeny white male she named McGarnigal.   The even tinier black and white female, that she temporary dubbed  'the little girl',  was also delivered to Amanda's apartment.  Little Girl had been promised a home by a third friend.  The promise was never kept and "Little Girl" became family.   Whispers from the first friend indicated the remaining kittens disappeared and she was pretty sure they'd been dumped.   A year passed and another little girl joined the family;  my now 16 year ...

I don't even know what to say about the repairs on the asphalt.   I see them every morning on a particular street.  Early because I want to exercise before the old sol furnace kicks in.  It's been blistering hot. I wonder who is the artist that swirls the stinky hot substance into such awesome designs.  I wonder if the designs are done with intent or just with abandon.  I wonder if the person is working in a very toilsome job because being an artist just didn't provide for a home or a family. I wonder what more wise and contemplative people might say about the markings that will soon be worn away by tires and the eroding weather. The one that probably satisfies me most was from David Henry Thoreaus: "The world is but a canvas to our imagination."     

My 70's music choice in Pandora was playing in the background while I loaded the dishwasher the other day.  I think listening to music can be considered multi-tasking and I needed the company anyway. Just as Desperado  by the Eagles tugged on  my ear,  I willingly turned up the volume.  I leaned up against the sink, but when I closed my eyes they filled not so willingly with unexpected tears. That song debuted 47 years ago. I know that because I know how to count to 99 on ten fingers.   I could not stop my mind from drifting through all those years, and those thoughts kept my fingers busy.   When I entered high school the World War II hits were twenty to twenty five years old.  Twenty year old songs were longer than a lifetime of a teenager. I remember considering them ancient.  "The Charleston"  from the "Roarin' 20's" wasn't even thirty the year I was born. One random thought reminded me that that dance was closer in years to my ...

As the oddest of days, weeks, and months perplex and confuse, it is calming to see an early August moon peak over the mountains. The trusty cell phone that seems my constant companion takes acceptable results and gives me the false sense that I have figured out how to take night time photos.  I haven't.  This was luck and the only one with minimal blur and that interesting reflected fence provided by the neighbors security light. Earlier that day the excitement came from finding someones parakeet feeding with sparrows.   The little buffet on the ground is provided for the quail and dove that visit our backyard at least once a day. But they have not presented any young.  I've assumed they were meals for the feral cats and several hawks that hunt relentlessly in our neighborhood. A  Cooper's Hawk grabbed a squawking young sparrow when I was standing nearby, so I know they aren't shy about my presence.   Little parakeet did not return this morni...

Spring in the valley teased its way well into June.  Even July has not breathed its summer dragon in the foothills of the mountains.  (I have a narrow comfort zone so I say restrain the beast as long as possible.) And,  as the unseasonably cool breezes prompted me to wear a sweatshirt over my worn garden togs,  my eyes were drawn to something strange growing in the Physostegia Virginoiana,  aka Obedient Plant.  I studied the leaves carefully as I touched them with garden gloves.  (Why do I wear them?  I still get dirt beneath my finger nails!)   There was something very familiar about the narrow leaf and the stem that was stretching with impatience to reach the mid morning sun.  (The morning shade is a result of the neighbors ancient towering silver maples. They are a love hate relationship.) With recognition, a childhood emotion swept over me.  Memories of racing through meadows surrounded by towering firs and cedars....

There are Cedar Waxwings! And it is okay with me.