Fourth of July 2015

One July fourth my dad drove crazily through a street in South Dakota.  That kid threw a firecracker at our car he cried, still a kid himself.  

One July fourth I saw two big girls in poodle skirts and petticoats rocking on the Ferris wheel.  They were scolded by a bony man below. 

 

One July fourth we landed in London and exulted at celebrating the great holiday there.  We took a nap, and the night passed by.

One July fourth I walked the silent thoroughfare, strolling past the quiet stores.  A little girl in Martha's Salon caught my eyes, pointing with small index fingers at her flowered headband.  I mouthed "pretty" to her smiling face.  A basketball hoop stood chained to face the street.  The homes straightened in their wildflower gardens, crowded with milkweed.  An old lady of the garden bore a shiny trinket.  She had been a sunflower the July before.  I picked among the shady streets.  I came home.

Firecrackers and bottle rockets entered the air.  I walked the younger dog in the alleys, his 106 pounds looking to me for protection.  Backyards revealed private lives, more milkweed, carefully preserved patches of field clover, and wild carrot.  A man and two boys played soccer in the unbusy street.  The older dog became conscious as I walked him, picking out his favorite spots ... the dog boulder, the fireplug, the neglected piles of leaves all the dogs visited.  He wouldn't eat.

I waved at the family watching dad set off fireworks in our street.  "Doin' good," mom said.  "Doin' good," the children echoed.  All around, bombs, booms, cracks, snaps, flashes.  The neighborhood lived.  Downtown, the fifth best display in the nation thundered and rattled, invisible in the pink debris of northern Saskatchewan wildfires.  

I sat on the boulevard in the dark.  Dad's fireworks went astray. One shot down the street, another spun on the pavement. I heard a clunk behind me.  The barbeques had been cooked, consumed, and cooled.  The air was soft without Saskatchewan smoke.  The dry yellow linden flowers shed their aroma without remark.  

From May 19, 2009

I sunburned my neck terriby on Sunday cleaning sod out of my front garden while my granddaughter watered my flowers. She is 4 and of course waters the blossom itself with her little watering can. Time is precious with her so I let her do exactly as she wants. At one point she was going to pour water on this silly upholstered floor level TV chair we had brought outside for her, and I thought I should exert some authority so I said, no don't do that. She looked into my face with consternation. "I have to QUEEN it, Gramma!" I could see it wasn't queen, what with the cat hair and all, so I caved in and let her queen it.

Update in August:  She loves to do dishes and I said, "Let's queen them."  Esther barked back at me, "Not QUEEN them, Gramma, we have to KEEN them!"

June 28, 2998 I mean er ling ling geo nian

No 852 bus on Sunday! I had to make up 2 hours this weekend and walked from Northtown. I have seen interesting sights. There is a white pine behind a fence by Half-Price Books which is surrounded by weedy willows. The willows have pine cones. The pine cones are strung by yarn from the willows.  A mysterious gift from someone who climbed the fence.  Today a killdeer was running along the road between Aldi and Outback. She ran in front of me and feigned injury, flopping over to show a pink chest that looked like a nice piece of meat. I knew then there were chicks nearby and there they were, running on their tiny legs down the curb. Three of them. I walked around the killdeer so she could be nearer to her chicks, and she ran at them yelling "Run, run, run!" So cute. On the way back (still without an 852) I saw some older babies that were not too afraid of me.

moth

I was taking pictures of my gardens, and hey if one can't hold the camera to the eye anymore (risking laughter from bystanders), then why does it have to reflect my white blouse? Can't see a thing. That's what we call aim and shoot (and delete).

As I approached my water fountain, I noticed tiny moth legs waving, belonging to a tiny moth on its back in the water. I scooped it up so the wings were on my finger, where they remained afixed as the legs continued to wave. Thinking this was a good time to practice being in the moment, I allowed the wings to dry in the sun and in my presumed body heat. It took a while. The moth had tiny legs with fragile appendages, called comb legs. It had a white snout like a slice of cantalope rind that strained upwards in the attempt to free its wings. As it legs clung to another finger and I barely breathed, afraid to crush it between wings-finger and legs-finger, it finally pulled away to embrace legs-finger. I gasped at the set of wings still pasted to wing-finger, then realized the ephemeral moth imprint was a reflection in fairy dust which I too quickly dusted off. I won't forget the perfect image.