fall is fleeting

Amid the last twinkling light still left in the day, the moon is up, big and bright and full. Clouds drift tauntingly across its face briefly diffusing its beam below. The sky to the west glows orange like autumn leaves and is fading into purple mountains majesty.

This small moment of solitude comes amid the din of a day. I want to hold onto it until the moon hangs high above my head and the stars take off their black cloaks and begin their sparkle show, except the sunset is so beautiful I want to tell someone.

I walk the bridge, interrupting the night's movement towards silence. Fall foliage now underfoot, leaves stick to the bottom of my boots, wet and slippery. My feet hit the stone path. Leaving the traces of fall where they belong, I wipe my boots on the mat. I cross the threshold to the front door and step inside the house. I hear laughter and forks clinking glass plates and little boys chasing each other around the room.

by a golden thread

I don't remember much about Aunt Vie and Aunt Leah, except that they were old. Not old as in aged, rather wise and sweet. Seasoned, yet young at heart. They lived by a school and taught school. Their house smelled old, but not the bad old. Just lived in. It smelled of fancy soaps, and spices and beautiful things. Though age and experiences separated us we were connected by a golden thread like those that ran through the antique furniture in their front room. A thread linking old and young and joining generations. We'd play hand games and sing "Mairzy Doats and Dozy Doats," together in the living room with Grandma.

They had learned and loved and traveled, leaving their mark on the world and letting the world leave her mark on them. There were flecks of silver in their twinkly eyes from walks on distant sandy shores. Rosy spots on their cheeks from sunny days on the highest hilltops. Secret spices from far away lands baked right into their world-famous ginger snap cookies kept in a tin on the counter for the taking. Like birds gathering twigs, they had picked up little pieces of the world and brought them back to their little nest of a house on Roosevelt Avenue, beautifying it for any and all who might land there.

When Leah became too ill to care for herself, she spent most of the time in her bed. She would have Aunt Vie would braid her hair. I imagine they would talk of their adventures, each strand of hair joined together like a memory, creating something beautiful and full and round, like Leah's life. We would take turns sitting beside Aunt Leah, holding her hand and telling her what we were learning in school. There was a large dresser directly across from her bed that held keepsakes and treasures from her travels. I could see my reflection next to hers. There we were young and old, connected by an unbreakable chain stretching through time and space, across continents and country borders. Through thick forests. Along the ocean floor. Across open plains with wind-blown wheat fields, right back through the front door of the Roosevelt house.

When Leah moved onto the place beyond this world, it was Aunt Vie's turn to let time slowly sift away at her. Grandma came to look after her then, keeping the house in order. She braided hair, perfected the ginger snap recipe and and sang songs with us by Aunt Vie's bedside.

Grandma is still here in her own house full of furniture with golden threads, the link from this life to the next. She keeps her sisters close in spirit and in deed, still singing, "Here's a Ball for Baby," and "Mairzy Doats." The other day among Grandpa's things I found some mirrors of Aunt Leah's. I picked them up and stared at my reflection. As if looking through a window to what used to be, I was back in the front room on Roosevelt with the green chairs. The golden thread glistening off the glass.

a blue book beginning

With the beginning of another November comes the arrival of another National Blog Posting Month, something which brings with it equal amounts of dread and delight. Last night as I tried to fall asleep I felt it coming on. I felt the pressure building. The thoughts piling up in front of an empty blue book eager to be filled with thoughts. I wanted to slip my fingers between the seal. To break it. To begin. Making mental notes on mental paper, I hoped something would stick. Ideas flooded in and out. In the end, weariness claimed the victory as my mind bought up real estate in Dream Land. The thought of one more day a soothing lullaby, I drifted off.

Just like last year, my dear E (fellow lover of words, fellow participant, and the one who got me into this mess three years ago) is a world away. She won't be participating this year because she's spreading The Word in a much more important way. Regardless of the fact that I won't have her daily thoughts as inspiration to keep going, I shall trudge on, knowing I'm one of thousands who'll sit at a computer to write every day for a month. I'm certainly not promising greatness, but I will promise to try. All of these thoughts have to land somewhere.

ink spots

Down in the basement his things had been carefully laid out, yet there seemed to be no order to them. Track shoes were next to architect scales and old pocket books. A comb sat next to an engineer's notebook and an old compass. At first I didn't dare touch anything. And then I was touching everything, feeling the smoothness of the comb in my hands, the worn leather of his track shoes and sliding the slide rule. I ran my fingers along the ink spots splashed across pages in the old notebooks: speckly chaos next to perfect handwriting, straight lines up and down, over and across. Somehow they made him seem more human. More real.
* * *
I stepped inside the room and away from the crowd. Before long Paul joined me. "These are all his," he said, pulling out thin sheets of tracing paper so fragile I was afraid to touch them, but not afraid enough. I was amazed at the detail: the scrolls, the lines, the shading, the perfectly straight handwriting, the tiny letters. "Architects marveled over his renderings," he said. "No one could render like he could." There was no order to the drawings - just one heaping pile of projects spilling out of a portfolio as large as a drafting desk. I tried to find partners for everything, matching elevations and floor plans. Interiors, exteriors, kitchens, restaurants, store fixtures. My favorite was a store front in Boston. I found as many of the sketches and elevations as I could and stacked them in a pile. I wanted to fold the whole thing up, tuck it under my arm and walk out the front door. I wouldn't keep it forever, just long enough to examine each drawing closely. To trace his lettering. To see how he made the curves of his "R's" so distinctly his. So Grandpa Percy. Long enough to try to root some of him in me. To learn from the very pages held in his hands. Instead, I set them in a neat pile and walked out of the room to rejoin the rest of the celebration, stopping at the adjacent table to look at a picture of Grandpa and Uncle John in the factory, Grandpa looking ever so dapper. I think Catherine was right when she said he's the most handsome man she's ever known.
* * *
I heard Ruth coming down the stairs. I put the comb back in its case, folded it up and placed it on the floor, exactly how it had been. I straightened the track shoes, laces flopping over one another. I stood back to look at it all. Grandpa's everyday things turned treasures neatly lined up in rows without order. She came and stood next to me. "These all belonged to him, you know," she said. We stood on the green carpet, afternoon sunlight beaming through the patio doors. "I know."

Big Apple Birthday

Happy birthday dear Emily, who lives far away in the Big City. I wish her only the loveliest of things this year: long phone calls from favorite people, afternoons in Riverside Park, visits from loved ones, good little kiddies at school, time to travel (time here at home, too), a great new pair of red shoes -- every girl needs a(t) (least one) pair of red shoes, and everything else her heart desires. Love you, Miss Em. Wish we together to celebrate again this year.

dream beneath the desert sky

As Miss Lola would say,
this was my very most favorite thing in actually forever.

Dear The Edge,
You rock my world.

The stage for U2's 360 Tour is an impressive (understatement)
feat (understatement) of engineering and ingenuity.

The L.A. times has called this year's tour "One of the best stadium shows of the last decade..." There were 70,000 people in attendance Friday night that will agree.

This was so beyond worth our four a.m. arrival in St. George. Even with the mayhem that was exiting the parking lot with the masses. (There's a white Infinity SUV out there with our name on it.) Thanks, Mernie for being my bestest concert buddy. And so we shall rock on.

{more on U2ube and at U2.com}

no line

headed south with some friends to see some friends. should be pretty fabby.
happy (early) weekend.

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climbing colors

Many of the houses in my parent's neighborhood are covered in ivy. This time of year it turns brilliant shades of red and orange. There's a bright patch along the back fence in my parent's yard. It was begging for a portrait yesterday.