Cat by Day, Cat by Night

This is how my cat is
When the sun comes shining down:
Excuse me. Do I know you?
Then, without waiting for an answer,
He flicks his tail and
Saunters away without
Glancing over his sleek cat shoulder.

This is how my cat is
When the moon comes shining down:
Excuse me. I DO know you.
Then, without waiting for an invitation,
He leaps onto my bed and
Purrs the story of his life
Into my forgiving, welcoming ear.

Mac Christensen

Last night I dreamed I went to a men's clothing store and asked the gentleman working there if he would help me find a shirt and pair of slacks for my father.

"Really nice ones," I told him.

I know why I dreamed this, of course. Right before going to bed last night, I read that Mr. Mac had died.

The Coach and Mac enjoyed a long, long friendship. I cannot even begin to tell you how many suits the men in my life had because of Mac. And watching him and my father have at it in Mac's store--freewheeling all the way--was a joy to watch. Originally from San Pete county, Mac once told the Coach the place he felt most at home was in New York City's garment district.

I'd known that Mac was ill and I felt prompted more than once to write him a letter, expressing the affection our family felt for him. After all, he loaned me and Ken Cannon the use of his St. George condo for our honeymoon all those years ago.

But I never did write him.

I told Ken Cannon this morning how much I regret not acting on my impulse to reach out.

"He knew how you felt," Ken Cannon said.

And yes. I think he did.

RIP, Mac. Say hey to my father and give him a bad time, okay?

Ordinary

Here's the thing:
Sometimes Ordinary
Can turn itself
Inside out and
Into a surprise.
Take those crickets,
For example,
Making noise at night
Beneath that open
Window of yours.
It's comforting noise.
Soothing.
But still.
Ordinary.
Then there's that moment
You step out at noon
When the sun is high
To get your mail and
You hear . . . crickets?
Yes. Beneath the coral
Roses you planted when
Your boys were young.
Moon music!
In the heat
Of a day.

Why I Write Almost-Poems

It's been such a pleasure to write little poems here, although maybe they're not really poems. Poems should probably mean something, whereas I think mine are modest celebrations of the natural world. Also, I just like the sound of words.

I wrote this on recent trip to St. George.

Somewhere South on I-15

The slipping sun slants across
The long autumn grasses,
Spinning them into 
Threads of gold,
Hemming the highway
As we drive toward dusk.

Now Here's a Post I Thought I'd Never Write

When I was in the thick of raising five boys, I used to CRAVE time alone. Fantasized about it, even. Especially when I was in the bathroom and those kids would slide their little fingers under the door and say, "MOM! WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN THERE?"

Fast forward a million years. Here I am now, an empty-nester who spends at least part of every day alone. There are lots of things I enjoy about this stage of life, for sure. But the big surprise to me has been how much I sometimes miss my boys, their noise and all the chaos. Believe me. I did not see THAT coming.

Which is why, more than ever, I'm grateful for the communities of which I'm a part. Professional. Personal. Whatever. I'm glad I have my people.

A view from the playhouse

I love fall for all kinds of reasons, not the least of which is the light. Right now I'm sitting in the playhouse Ken Cannon is building for our granddaughters, looking through a window at the vines glowing green and amber.

I'm also thinking of my grandmother, an October baby, who loved this season best of all. When I was a little girl, she was my everything. No matter what I had to say, she listened. As I grew older, though, I found her interest in me intrusive. And, it must be said, I think she resented at a certain level that I was growing up . . . and because I was growing up I didn't turn to her the way I had when I was younger.

Our relationship became complicated.

I've told this story before, but the last time I ever saw my grandmother, I was angry with her. She'd come up to the house to help us load the truck when we moved to New York. (Yes. She was in her 80's and still capable of loading up trucks.) Grandma was full of advice about our impending move, which I didn't want, and by the time we rolled away in our U-Haul, I was barely speaking to her.

Fast forward to the autumn of 1993. My friend Becky called me in New York to say that she'd seen my grandmother and that she looked so thin. I called my mother who said that Grandma had lost her appetite, that she couldn't swallow, that she had esophageal cancer and everyone was deciding what to do next.

I talked to her a number of times, of course, and she still peppered me with advice.

"Do you have enough toilet paper in the house there? You should buy it in bulk."

Thanksgiving day I called her and after our conversation I said, "I love you, Grandma."

She paused, then simply said, "I know." She died the following day.

Those words came back to me this afternoon like a gift. That my grandmother loved me was never in doubt. And it comforts me to think she knew in the end that yes-- I loved her, too.

Do I or Don't I

If I had to choose a favorite book(s), I'd go with TLOR--which surprises me whenever I say that because my taste in fiction usually runs to the realistic.

But. I discovered TLOR at exactly the right time in my life--as a 16 year-old girl in California whose father had just dropped her off at a dismal little mall in Pomona California while he went recruiting. The only thing still opened in the mall was a drugstore, where I found THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING on a spinner. I'm not sure why I even bought the novel--maybe there weren't any bodice-rippers available--so I purchased my copy, went outside, sat on a bench, and read about little men with hairy toes until Dad returned to pick us up.

By then I was hooked.

I don't typically re-read books, but I have read TLOR novels at different times in my life and they've always held up for me--spoken to me about whatever journey I was taking at the time. And now that September 22nd is approaching (NERD ALERT! SEPTEMBER 22ND IS BILBO'S BIRTHDAY!) I've been toying with the idea of reading the books again.

Except.

What if this is the time the books lose their magic? And also, I'm old. If I re-read TLOR will I miss out on a few other books I should read BEFORE I DIE?

This is a quandary.  To re-read or not re-read. That is the question.