Fallen angels

A snow day ... an unscheduled liberty.

Sleep late. Lounge around.

Stay in your bed clothes and watch teevee until your eyes bulge.

No place to go. No place to be.

My plans are always fluid. When they go down the drain I hardly notice.

There is no trap.

Play dates. Lunch mates. No one wants to stay late ...

I bake cookies. Tiny molasses mounds I dust with sugar and flatten with the bottom of a drinking glass.

After six minutes in a 350-degree oven, the morsels will be celebrated by guests and critiqued by residents.

As they do.

Ingrates.

Send them out into the cold. Send them out with a faded shovel and a diminutive nub of carrot. Build them a pile and tell them to carve a man from the snow.

They make mice of my men.

Delighted with their work, they lay in the yard and flap about, clotting up the snow with angels.

Crazy people.

I think I am done ... my duties over ... when they start jumping up and down, chanting "Sled.Ding.Sled.Ding.Sled.Ding."

We tumble into the car and drive off with our sleds. ... The ones that aren't a total disappointment.

When we arrive at our destination we find the hill hasn't been marred. We are the first to sail down its hidden incline.

We have to forge tracks ... like worms in wood.

Wriggling. Scooting. Dragging ourselves through the snow, inch by inch.

The next run is faster. Another, faster still.

Time flies, too. And hour passes in only a few runs.

We fly down the hill. We tumble at the end. She stands on her saucer. He belly flops onto his. My hair gets caked in an icy slush. I think its a good thing my legs feel slightly numb. It keeps me from feeling my age.

Down the hill ... up the hill. Shaking off snow. Down the hill ... up the hill. That's how this goes.

And then it gets slower. At the end of the run, they lay in the field looking up at the sky. Not moving.

Eventually, they roll onto one side and push them selves up. They drag their sleds up the hill as slow as their excited legs will carry them. And wait for a time at the top.

Savoring this moment.

It all goes by so fast.

Much to be thankful for

T'was not the norovirus

Nor influenza that brought me to this lowly place

T'was the thank-you notes

And the procrastination that hangs this hang-dog face

Haiku for the laundress

Persnickety son

Must have socks flecked in batter

Pity, I washed them

I love the rain

I do. I love it.

I love the way it shines against the sky and reflects the soft clouds with a hard edge.

I love the way it falls in fat droplets onto thirsty ground.

I love when it changes the landscape, momentarily and without malice: I love discovering pools of water to splash in where none had been before.

I love the way it taps at the roof; sometimes insistently.

I do NOT love the way it finds its way through the cracks and crevices of the new house, however. Drips forming on door jams. Threatening stains on the new walls. I do NOT like it.

Not.

One.

Bit.

Oh, the joys ...

waiting for the parade, originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Of being on the tail end of the viral plague.

Of being in the wrong place at the right time.

Of skipped naps and forced smiles.

Of long weekends with lots to do but little patience.

Of returning to routine, even if you're flying by the seat of your pants to get back there.

Hand-me-downs

Every now and again I look down as I'm typing and I don't recognize my own hands.

I'm familiar with the tiny scar on the knuckle of my right ring finger, an accident from a summer job in my teenage years that could have been so much worse. You can barely see it now it's blended in with the folds of the skin.

I recognize the shapes of the fingertips; as I obsessively check them for curves and bulges that come with age. Was that always like that, I wonder? And then admit that it must have been.

There are now veins where I wanted them to be ... way back when I thought pronounced lines would make my hands look strong; less like they belonged on a portrait from the Middle Ages.

Now they are middled aged.

The skin of my hands is dryer; little lines more pronounced even as the overall appearance seems shiny under the right light. An odd combination.

They are showing their age; possibly moreso than even my face.

Sometimes I forget I'm not 20 ... until I look in the mirror.

And I remember.

Some days are just bad

There's just no getting around it: Some days are bad.

Feet-stomping, frazzled, frustrating, fearful days. (Do all bad things begin with F?)

They can be the kind of bad that psyches you out: Days that seem like a good days, but, oh, look over there, on the horizon ... storm clouds are brewing.

They can be the kind of bad that gets better ...

or the kind of bad that gets worse.

They can be the kind of bad in which worse or better depends on one's level of optimism or one's ability to cope.

They can be the kind of bad that, when compared to other people's bad days, make you look like the winner of the lottery. Which, let's face it, can also be bad.

These bad days might even be good days when compared to other days still to come ... hopefully far, far away days.

Driven

truck , originally uploaded by toyfoto.

Push a petal,
Pull a lever,
Ease back slowly
Keeping an eye on where you're going
But your mind always drifts to where you've been.

I can't remember the last time I just enjoyed the ride.

Ama Linda in da HOUSE!

Give it up for Ama Linda in da house! Put your hands together and say it with me now:

Three hours of sleep
Ama Linda's in da HOUSE!
I won't say a peep
Shuteye and granny just don't jibe.

Nap? Not me!
Susususu Yes sir-ee.
We gonna PAR-TEE!
Just you an me.

I'm puttin' on my dress-up clothes
And what else, who knows?
Maybe we'll catch some fish
Or just sit around and dish ...

Nap? Not me!
Susususu Yes sir-ee.
We gonna PAR-TEE!
Just you an me.

I got a project for yah
It's got flowers and fauna
Dig it ya'll for ya, holes for the flowers to grow.
Dig it with a shovel, yo-yo.

Then we going to sit right down
And play a game or two
I've got my puzzler loaded
and I'm navigating for you.

Nap? Not me!
Susususu Yes sir-ee.
We gonna PAR-TEE!
Just you an me.

Mama, go. ... Ama Linda's in da HOUSE-A!!!