The Longer I Run

The window beside my desk overlooks a huge thicket canopying a substantial ditch. Six months ago I noticed a tiny bobbed tail cat using a small passage through the brambles to sneak around to the back porch and steal Pickwick’s food. The first time I saw him I opened the window, said “Hey ki…” and the cat bolted. Weeks went by and I repeated the process until finally he stopped running.

The next step was to sneak outside before he got to the back yard. More often than not he would hear the door squeak open and run back to the protection of the thicket. Occasionally I’d manage to get outside without him noticing, but as soon as he rounded the corner and saw me, he’d flee. More weeks passed with me sneaking outside and frightening him with horrifying hellos and terrifying offers of food. He eventually stopped running but would just sit at the corner of the house until I went inside, never getting any closer.

I don’t know what prompted him to come over after being petrified for so long, but one evening, as I sat outside with Pickwick, peripherally I noticed the movement of soft grey fur as he slunk his way to the porch, stopping at the foot of the stairs. I said, “Hello,” and continued to pet Pickwick, picking new burrs from his fur. The little grey cat sat tall, unmoving, head turned to the side, eyes partially closed, but still watching. He stayed there until I stood up to go inside twenty minutes later, then he ran to the corner of the house.

That was the day I started putting more food in Pickwick’s bowl.

It’s been two steps forward and one step back since. Each day he gets a little braver but the whole routine starts off worse than it ended. He’s now on the porch with me, licking the cat food gravy from a spoon I hold out to him, and allowing my hand to rest six inches from his plate. He’s so excited about the new wet food that he’ll stretch his neck to get at it as I’m spooning it out, which has allowed my hand to brush lightly against his ear a few times. We’re getting there.

Now for a name…

Note: Birds frighten the little grey cat, so I can’t imagine a giant black camera is going to go over very well with him, so there are no pictures yet. Instead, here is one of Levee as a puppy, four years ago.

Update: I was able to sneak a picture with my phone this afternoon, moments before it went from 46% to dead. Does anyone else’s phone do that? I want all life to work on iPhone battery time. Forty-six minutes left to work? Leave right now! 46 is the new 0. Anyway, you can see the kitty on Instagram.

Title From:
Longer I Run
by Peter Bradley Adams

I Let the Day Go By

I’m a terrible blogger. I’ve never been good with journaling in general. Journaling? New word. 👍 It was always exciting to open a brand new book of blank pages and think about all the wise and inspirational things I’d jot down in my perfectly formed cursive, things that would be quoted when my diary was found 300 years after I was nice and moldy. I’d begin with all seriousness and devotion and then I’d write something only an eleven year old would, such as, “January 2, 1992 – Today I saw a robbin flitting joyfully through the morning dew,” and realize I misspelled robin because my mom’s name is Robbin and I wrote the word, in pen, with the spelling more common to me. Then I’d stop writing in the book and 78 of the 80 crisp off-white pages would become scrap paper bookmarks and cootie catchers.

I can’t seem to shake the habit of letting weeks pass unrecorded. I’m just so busy living life that I don’t naturally think about writing about it. If you’ve ever seen my Instagram or Twitter pages, you know my lack of commitment to social media is equally disappointing everywhere. Consistency is key. In addition to not naturally remembering to tell you about the heat that’s been so outrageous it’s melted our credit cards, or about how the mice have started to reappear now that summer is winding down, or about how I forgot I had some oily rags I used to season our cast iron pans in with the laundry and now all our clothes smell like a fryer, I also want to make certain that when I do tell you something, it’s thoughtfully written. I don’t want to come here and throw up a post that says, “Wooeee, boy ain’t it hot? What do ya’ll think?” It takes me a while to write my nonsense, is what I’m saying. Sometimes I don’t have the drive to sit down for two and a half hours and write about my bug bites.

I’ll work on it. No promises.

Title From:
World Spins Madly On
by The Weepies

It’s a Big Bad World Outside

Every year for a while when I was a kid… Is probably the worst sentence I’ve written in a long time. How do you say something happened regularly for a limited time during a specific and short period of life? It happened all the time sometimes for a little while.

Anyway! My mom would all the time sometimes for a little while go to Ocean City, Maryland with one of her friends. I suppose it was her “girl time,” time to be free of children and step away from being Mommy. My sister and I would ask to go each summer because we were annoying, and it was a part of the ocean we didn’t see regularly. Most of our summers were spent in a tiny cabin-hut on the Chesapeake Bay, two and a half hours from the boardwalk. The bay was beloved but Ocean City had salt water taffy and really long bathroom lines.

One summer, she agreed to take us along. One of the most exciting aspects of the trip was that we’d be staying in a hotel. We had never stayed in a hotel before. We talked about how exciting it was going to be listening to the waves and the gulls and getting to use tiny shampoos. It wasn’t until we were packed and on the way in the White Knuckle Express, which was the name of the giant brown and tan van she drove, that she and her friend decided not to pay for a hotel room.

WHAT?! What about flopping down on an itchy 80’s splash-style comforter and listening to the people laugh as they rode the Ferris wheel on the boardwalk? The adults had spoken. There wasn’t much we could do as kids who only made 25¢ per chore. We likely didn’t even have enough saved to buy our own tiny shampoos.

After spending the day going up and down the beach, buying new bathing suits and tacky tourist trinkets, we drove into a small campground that backed to a bay. I don’t want to give the exact location because my memory has been tainted by time, and it wasn’t an altogether terrible place, so I’ll just say the name of the campground sounded a lot like Beagle’s Rest. The spot they chose was surrounded by heavy green bushes, blocking the view of the water just beyond. It was private and quiet and lovely. We meandered down to the dock, anticipating a little evening water play, only to find “No Swimming!” signs tacked all along the weathered wood. “No Swimming!” Because the water was teeming with crabs.

Instead of retiring to the roasting van, we spent some time outside at the picnic table by our spot. I don’t know if it was their cigarette smoke or luck, but my mom and her friend sat ten feet away from my sister and I as we danced against the fluttering of a thousand mosquitoes for at least an hour. They were undisturbed, and we were dinner. We eventually gave up the fight and ran to the safety of the muggy van. There were two slide windows in the back we used for cross ventilation, but otherwise we were shut in without relief.

As the night went on, and the bites we had been swatting against began to develop, the heat and the scratchy fabric made sleeping impossible. If you’ve ever experienced a mosquito bite on your foot that rubs against the sheet while you’re sleeping and wakes you up, that was the feeling all over our bodies.

I spent the next day in the hot van alone as my mom, her friend, and my sister, enjoyed the boardwalk. I was in too much pain and irritation to move. Each of my legs had fifty or more bites. We counted. My arms were also covered but it was my legs that made moving so painful. By the end of that evening, the bites had started to swell to the size of poker chips. I was having a severe allergic reaction to the amount of toxins in my system from the bites. I had to go to the doctor for oral and topical medications to treat them.

After that I was terrified of mosquitoes. Each bite would swell up like someone was stuffing golf balls under my skin and take months to disappear entirely. It’s been more than twenty years since that experience, and I’ve never encountered swarms of mosquitoes like that again. Until now.

Just a few weeks ago, as Brian and I were getting ready to pull out of the driveway, he realized we had forgotten to grab a few waters. He shut the truck off, left his door open for some air flow, and then I opened mine. Before he could make it to the front door I was panicking, yelling “GARRFH! GET BACK TO THE TRUCK! GET BACK TO THE TRUCK, HURRY! BWAAAH!” while yanking at my seat belt and half falling out the open door as I tried frantically to escape the black horde of mosquitoes that had started flowing in through Brian’s door. I know you’re probably rolling your eyes, thinking there were probably three or four mosquitoes, but you would be wrong. Dozens and dozens and dozens filled the truck. I ran, dragging my hands up and down my legs and arms to swipe any attackers from my skin, which must have looked perfectly normal.

I escaped. That time.

Now I’ve started carrying three citronella candles with me each time I venture outside. If I leave the protective citronella cloud, I’ll use the hose to spray the air around and above me, and just to be safe I’ll spray Brian now and then as well…because I care.

Title From:
Big Bad World
by Kodaline

The Forest That Once Was Green

For the past two weeks, afternoon temperatures here have bordered, if not surpassed, 100°F. It’s toasty. Literally. All the beautiful green grass, that not long ago I couldn’t wait to see chopped down, has been reduced to a sad, crunchy brown. There are some people in town that are putting up a valiant fight against the inevitable yard death; sprinklers can be heard whirring as the sun dips below the hills behind our house. Still, large patches of toasted lawn have started to spread like an earthy rash.

Inside isn’t much better. We have one tiny air conditioner plunked into a kitchen window. It only has the power to cool a space the size of an average bathroom, so its efforts to chill the open floor-plan here are hugely unsuccessful. All it has managed to do is keep the house from getting hotter than outside. However, it never gets any cooler, and there isn’t even the bonus of a breeze.

The heatwave is supposed to be dying down at the end of this weekend. The weather app tells me it’s going to be in the high 80s-90s instead of hovering relentlessly at 100°F. It’s not a great drop, but it’s better than nothing. Perhaps now I can shower without sweating at the same time.

Title From:
Dirty Paws
by Of Monsters and Men

Do You Want to Live in a Pretty World

I know this isn’t the best picture. Sorry. It’s somewhere close to 145°F outside right now and I didn’t feel much like standing out in the sky oven to take a nice picture.

Anyway, this is Phyllis. I don’t know why I named her, or call her “her.” Never mind me, I have a lot of quirks.

She’s a poinsettia Brian surprised me with around Christmas last year. What are you supposed to do with a poinsettia after the holidays?

If I have something that’s alive, I feel it’s my duty to keep it alive, no matter what. I once purchased a cactus from the hardware store and found a mysterious new plant growing in the pot a few days later. Not wanting to kill it, I transplanted the possible weed into a pot of its own. It grew into a beautiful purple basil plant. So, look at that, a story that doesn’t really belong. Who’d a thunk?

Phyllis is thriving, sprouting new green bunches every time I look at her. I have to think it’s the encouraging way I talk to her every day, telling her how pretty she is. Some might argue that it’s the water I continue to provide for her but some aren’t telling this story.

Right now she’s still in her original plastic pot, set inside a Pyrex bowl. She’s sitting on our kitchen table, which is actually an old pianoforte, converted to a desk/table with a nice amount of storage inside. It’s not in the best condition, having traveled in the open bed of the truck from Iowa to Connecticut, as it rained, but I’d rather not make it worse by dumping water all over it every three days.

We’ve been searching all over for a new container for her, so we can once again store our leftovers, and she can grow to the size of a small bush. No one around here seems to have pots between the size she’s in now and the size of a small car. If I had any sort of reader base I’d let you pick the pot, but as I’m pretty sure I’m talking to myself here, it looks like it’s up to me.

Title From:
Do or Don’t
by All My Pretty Ones