a tree and a bike are not really alike as a tree cannot roll down the street the bike it can glide and take you for a ride with just some small help from your feet
a tree just stands tall not mobile at all and waits for the scamper of feet to its branches up high where the leaves dip and sigh it will offer a secretive seat.
from the bike you may tip and scrape knees, hands and lip and bonk your head hard on a rock in a tree you may fumble breaking bones as you tumble and give you a terrible shock.
so, a tree and a bike are somewhat alike they can both cause a great deal of pain but if you're like me the bike, or the tree will seduce you again and again.
Around 11:00 a.m. a northwest wind started blowing - it was the first "cold front" of the season. I'm not just talking about a little wind - it was blowing so hard it scared me. I estimate between 50-60 mph winds. The back of our house faces due north and you could see it coming across the bay straight for us. It looked menacing and was.
As the first of the wind arrived it began clanging the wind chimes so loudly you couldn't hear yourself think. The spa cover flew open exposing the hot tub and filling it with debris - leaves, dirt and who knows what else - there could be a small child in there for all I know. The outdoor furniture started moving and it's heavy teak. Cushions were flying. The cushion from the upstairs deck lounger blew up and over the house and was pinned against the fence in the front yard, unable to move due to the force of the wind. A small decorative ceramic accent table fell over, breaking off the top portion. It was a house-warming gift from Sarah and I was sad to see it go. Randy gathered the broken pieces that didn't immediately blow away thinking he was going to glue it back together. A pipe dream at best. I'm certain it's impossible.
All the palm tree fronds were pointed to the southeast. I noticed how stalwart the trunks were and what a perfect tree they were for this part of the world. Otherwise we'd be just another desert with no foliage. They can withstand a heck of a lot of wind and water without budging even an inch. Impressive! But not all of our landscaping is palm trees. The other, less hardy plants were being buffeted beyond reason. I'm amazed they are still standing.
The pool water was white caped, I'm not kidding. The waves produced by the wind were crashing over our pier. I've never seen that happen in the four years we've lived in this house - never. We have a rock breakwater for which I am truly grateful after seeing the waves hit the neighbor’s bulkhead and crash up to their roof! I'm sure they will have some repairs to do when they return.
I don't know what the cold front did to the barometric pressure but Abe's behavior was beyond crazy. He has a basket full of chew toys and antlers and he proceeded at one point during the chaos to empty his basket of toys and pick each one up individually and then drop it on the tile floor making an enormous racket inside. As if the outside noise wasn't enough to rattle me already. He spread them everywhere. Then he picked up one of them and started running helter skelter through the house as if his very life depended on it. He hunched over, toy in his mouth, and ran so fast there was no way he could stop on these tile floors - so he would slide until something got in his way. He slid so far it was like a pro baseball player's last ditch effort. I couldn't calm him down. I finally had to get the squirt bottle out for him to settle. I made him sit and stay and he finally did. I didn't let him out for quite some time. He never does any of those things. Usually he's a pretty calm dog. Not yesterday, he exhibited very strange and erratic behavior. I can only attribute it to the change in the weather.
The power of the wind had me in awe. There is nothing quite like Mother Nature to get your attention. We mere mortals can't compete with such true majestic supremacy. I am still in fear and wonder of it's strength, intensity, and sheer audacity of being. I now have a whole new respect for wind.
Yesterday morning, while digging in the bottom of the closet for a pair of gloves, I banged my head on a pair of skates that were dangling from a hook. This actually was the first time they caused pain to my head, but they had on several occasions over the past year, caused a couple of other body parts agony.
In a moment of frivolity last February, my co-workers and I decided to try out the ice at the new Olympic Speed Skating Rink in Richmond. Since it had been years since any of us had skated, we thought it would be fun and exciting. Ha.
Pauline, always wanting to be the centre of attention, skated a few feet and fell down, landing on the back of her head. I was still on the bleachers tying up my skates when I heard the commotion and saw the remaining two of my group standing and staring at the lump on the ice. I sped up and stepped on the ice for the first time in fifteen years. Holding onto the side of the rink, I half-skated, half-walked, to the spot to see what was happening.
Languishing in the attention, surrounded by all the skaters on the ice, she waited for the first-aid attendants, who fussed over her and pushed her on a chair to the first-aid room. Very classy.
Dazed and a bit confused – so what else is new? – Pauline spent the rest of the evening sitting off-rink and watching the other skaters flow by gracefully.
I was doing pretty well, actually, until the spiky thingies at the toe of my right skate caught in some invisible something, and I went down too. Instead of choosing to land on my head though, I decided to land on my right knee, which accepted my weight with a slight crunching sound and enough pain to ricochet several naughty words in my brain. Unless I crawled to the side of the rink and pulled myself up on the barrier, I was there for good, or at least until the Zamboni came out and scooped me up.
This, I found, was indeed a good way to receive attention, as several younger gentlemen skated to my aid.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Just need a hand-up. “
Half-skating, half-limping, I moved along to the gate and half-hobbled to a bench, where I sat and nursed the tender, throbbing lump that once served as my knee.
After a few minutes, it was twice more around the rink, just to prove I could, then we capped the night with a visit to Tim Horton’s, replacing the calories we had just burned with lattes and donuts.
Looking at Paris in this light, with the sky pulling a huge fluffy blanket of pinks around its shoulders, I realize how amazing the past few days have been. Here I sit, on a petit veranda that separates the room I rent in the charming 19th century inn from the amazing view of the skyline, and I almost tremble in anticipation of where I will go next. One week is hardly enough to absorb all the history, hardly enough to make my own new history, but move on I must.
I wonder if my husband has realized yet that I am gone. I wonder if he has gone from missing me as in ‘where the heck is my dinner’ or ‘how come I have no clean jeans’, to the point where he will call the hospitals and the morgue; where he will stumble to the police station with my crumpled photo in his hand and a vague description of what I was wearing the last time he saw me flickering in the corner of his brain.
As I place my empty wineglass on the table and wait for Jacques, the garcon from the bistro on the corner who insisted on walking me back to the inn, to once again fill it to the brim with the sweetness of the red grape, my mind wanders back to my before life. I spent most of my energy trying to keep my two teenage sons in school and out of jail; they had both developed a love for cannabis and the cheapest vodka they could buy with their fake ID’s and scruffy faces. One already had a 5-year prohibition on his driver’s licence; the other was on probation for breaking into a seniors’ home with the hope of stealing narcotics and sedatives.
My husband, on the other hand, was seldom in trouble with the law; he remained a hard working and a hard drinking longshoreman whose only goals in life were cold beer and a willing woman. I imagine him now, rolling over in bed and grabbing me, but getting a pillow instead. A grunt, a curse and an arthritic lurch onto the floor, then to the bathroom for a long pee and a fart; I don’t miss my early morning wake-up call at all.
Soft tendrils of guitar music waft like smoke from the room beneath mine; and I lean back in the chair and breathe the notes, and the soft air, and the now fuchsia and purple sky deep into my lungs. I know it won’t be long before he realizes I‘m the lucky one who held the 14 million dollar lottery ticket in my hand, the ticket I bought with the last two dollars I will ever steal from his jeans’ pocket while he lies snoring in front of the television. However, it won’t matter to me.
There’s a lot of world for me to find, and I plan to trip through every inch of it; I only have to stay a step ahead and a heartbeat away.
The color of a fire engine as it races to save your home and all your precious possessions. I am more vibrant than a crimson maple leaf in autumn. The maroon of the Texas A & M Aggies is pallid in contract to my brilliance. your Mom's ruby ring could not hold a candle to my brightness. The scarlet letter "A" on Hester Prynee's gown pales in comparison. I can outshine the juciest cherry or the most succulent Red Delicious apple. Claret, Burgundy or even Merlot wine dims in my vivid glow. My child's birthstone, the garnet, is feeble as I stand in all my glory. I am the shade of blood when you nick yourself while shaving. The tint you see in your mind's eye as you become angry. The hue of ink in the final column when you realize your budget isn't quite adding up. The blush on your checks when you comprehend the cute butcher is flirting with you. The dye of your hair when you realize your hairdresser made a miscalculation in mixing her potion as she slowly turns you toward the mirror, fear in her eyes. The tint of your bloodshot eyes after an evening out on the town when you drank too much of the aforementioned Claret, Burgundy or Merlot wine because your hairdresser so thoroughly made a mess of your curls. The perfect hue of hat to wear on said flaming tresses to hide the blunder made by stylist you would NEVER see again.
On this cloudy gray and chilly day, I took a chance at sunshine and hung my laundry outdoors. As I pegged my husband’s socks in a row like soft white soldiers, I noticed I was hanging them with their heels all facing the same direction. This brought me back to a time when I was young and single, living free and trying so hard to make a mark on life.
I turned 20 the year I moved to Trinity, and became the middle teacher in a three-room school on the hill. The School Board had found me a boarding house in the community, and I got the biggest bedroom of the three, since I was paying the most rent - $50 per month. I moved in with my Herman Hermits and Monkees records, my What, Me Worry? poster, and my hopes and dreams of teaching all the little 8 and 9 year olds of the town their multiplication tables and world geography.
I soon settled in my new home. The couple who were my landlords would become, in the future, my aunt and uncle by marriage, but long before then Evelyn became my friend. We would play Scat for pennies, and she would drag me to Bingo, which I soon learned to hate. And every now and then, I guess I would help a little around the house.
My sister would probably never believe this, as she knew I would hide in the bathroom whenever there was a chore to be done. (At least that is how she remembers it. I think I may have been a little bit lactose intolerant.) However, I remember one sunny, warm day when Evelyn was doing laundry, I ended up hanging it out for her, and I remember pegging a row of her family’s little white soldiers on the line. However, when I came to the bottom of the basket, I found one lonely single orange sock, all by its lonesome.
I counted the socks on the line, and moved the middle one to an end, so I could peg that little orange sock in the middle. When Evelyn came out, she started to laugh, to see that bright exclamation point surrounded by white. I have no ideas which way the heels were pointing. That didn’t matter to me back then. What mattered was the single little stocking dancing in the breeze.
At that time in my life, the orange stocking and I were very much alike. We were both independent and bright. We didn’t care what anyone said, as long as we could dance and enjoy the dance. In fact, if I remember, I enjoyed being a bit different, pushing the boundaries, and meeting new adventures head on.
The years have passed quickly, bracketed by a married life, and my babies are now adults with their own babies. I hope they find their own adventures to bring them smiles as they grow older. I hope at least once in their lives, they punctuate their clotheslines with an orange sock.
This is a winter day, even though it's only October first on the calendar. Here I stand at the bus stop, wishing my fingerless gloves had fingers, and wondering where the hot flashes are when you really need them. The wind blows at my umbrella, the raindrops reroute themselves so they take a ballroom dip and sneak under it to kick me in the face, and I find myself once again complaining about the weather. Yes, leaves are falling. Rain is falling. It's Fall. My favourite season, actually, although it's hard to appreciate the rich warm colours dressing the trees, when I'm shivering, hunkering, dancing almost, when my goose bumps have goose bumps and my warm jacket isn't quite warm enough. And I remember this past summer, when the sun blazed its way through clear skies and it was hot enough to make your knuckles sweat, when a few hours walking around Stanley Park resulted in sunburned skin peeling from my shoulders like old paint from an abandoned boat, and I swore and complained and longed for cooler days. Guess my prayers were answered. Now if only the lottery ones were next.
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Easy reading is damn hard writing. Nathaniel Hawthorne
Responding to a statement that her books are difficult to read, Toni Morrison reasoned, "Good. I find them difficult to write." Reader's Digest 08/09
'It was a dark and stormy night...'
Snoopy
Looking back, I imagine I was always writing. Twaddle it was, too. But better far to write twaddle or anything, anything, than nothing at all.
Katherine Mansfield
I know I was writing stories when I was five. I don't know what I did before that. Just loafed, I suppose.
P.G. Wodehouse
Fiction writing is great. You can make up almost anything.
Ivana Trump
I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done.
Steven Wright
