Murder

Watch out! There are blackbirds about!

Stepping On Stone

     I laid this wool rug from Dash and Albert in my entryway some years ago and another smaller one in the powder room around the corner. It is called Cat's Paw. I suppose it is evidence of my hubris that I think it should be named something else. When I walk on it, I imagine I am crossing a brook of clear, sibilant water and smooth stones downstream from the village bridge where trolls hide in the shadows; or that I am simply strolling along the shores of Lake Michigan on a quiet summer afternoon.

     I would, therefore, be more disposed to identifying my carpet as Brookstone, Shingle or even Troll Foil. On the other hand, if Dash and Albert are thinking Snow Leopard, that's a cat's paw I can live with.

     As I am so fond of wood, stone and tile, the only other carpet in my house is in the family room.

     While this one does not kindle my fancy as wildly as the carpet in the entryway, still, if I were the Person In Charge Of Labels at Home Depot where we bought it, I would have named it Pea Stone or Garden Path. Then again, I could imagine myself running with the reindeer in the far north, or hunting foxes and wolves in the mountains of Mongolia with a golden eagle on my arm. Yes, that carpet is definitely the color of  Reindeer and the Altai Peaks.

     Surely, I cannot be the only one who thinks about these things.

Tundra Nenets reindeer herders by Bryan and Cherry Alexander
Reindeer photo by Lawrence Hislop

Sophie's Masterpiece

     Punkybean doesn’t like spiders. I don’t blame her; neither do I. But she loves stories. Me too. She asked me to read a picture book to her when I was over for lunch one Sunday afternoon, so we cosied up on the couch and read Sophie’s Masterpiece by Eileen Spinelli.

     Sophie is not an ordinary house spider; she is an artist, albeit a misunderstood one. No one living in Beekman’s Boardinghouse stops long enough to see the wonders she weaves; they are too biased against spiders to notice.

     When we finished the book, Punkybean and I decided that not all spiders are scary. If we ever meet one who wears socks as charming as the eight Sophie made for herself, and can spin a coverlet from strands of moonlight and starlight, snippets of pine, wisps of night, old lullabies and playful snowflakes, then she must be worth knowing.

     

     Just wait until my little granddaughter is old enough to read Charlotte’s Web.

A Bouquet of Books

   
     I went to the library today for some books to read on an upcoming trip. Lo and behold, I stumbled into the last days of the Friends of the Library sale. I checked my purse but I only had ninety cents in cash; so even though the books were delightfully inexpensive, I only came home with two. I mentioned to my husband that I might stop by the library tomorrow afternoon to pick up one or two other books I had left behind for lack of sufficient funds. Even though it was dinnertime, he insisted we drop everything and return to the library immediately. An hour later, I walked out of the building with a smile on my face and four more books.

     "That was romantic," I said to my husband as we walked to the car. "I would rather get a bouquet of books than a bouquet of flowers."

     "I know," he said, smiling. "I know you."

     He does.

My Picture Gallery - The Bloom is Off the Rose

     My red hair has faded to the color of pale champagne and my once creamy complexion is embroidered all over with spots and freckles. Slender is something I suspect will be restored to me only when it no longer matters.

     The bloom may be off the rose, but when I saw this picture in a magazine a dozen years ago, I recognized myself in the expression on the young woman's face and the attitude of her pause. When I read a book, I often look up between pages and paragraphs to think about what I have just read, to glance at the world, to see if what I am reading has changed the way I view it.

     And the roses, climbing up over the wall to catch a glimpse of what lies on the other side: the garden, the weeds, the lone lovely girl, and the book...ah, yes, the irresistible lure of the book. One solitary bloom has lost itself, literally and literarily in the pages of the book. That is me too. The metaphorical me.

     So I matted and framed the magazine page and hung it beside my desk to remind me that, even though my grandchildren do not recognize me in the photos I show them of my younger self, I am still the same girl.

Rose by Edith Prellwitz

A Little Birdie Told Me

     As I was cleaning our family room, this little bird banged into the french doors and fell onto the deck. She was obviously stunned, and I thought she might have broken a wing or even her neck. I went outside to check on her but all she could do was blink at me. So I sat down to keep her company while she recovered.

     We talked of shoes and ships and sealing wax, of cabbages and kings, and why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings. The conversation seemed to perk her up and before long she was turning her head to look at me. "Silly Nib," she seemed to be saying, "I've never met a pig who could fly." So that settles it: pigs definitely do not have wings. Birds, especially the little ones, always seem to know what's up. Not long after our chat she flew off, but I didn't catch her name. After digging around on Google for awhile, I found some of her kin. She is an immature chestnut sided warbler.

Living Cheek by Jowl

     One day, as I was weeding and trimming in the back garden, I put a rock on the corner of the deck to move round to the front of the house later and forgot about it. Now I can't bear to move it. Most days this little chipmunk comes to chirp with the birds, chatter to the sunlight or scold the wind. Sometimes he brings a snack and makes a picnic of it. I suppose he is the same cheeky fellow who bites into my half-ripe tomatoes clinging to the sagging vines and leaves the rest to rot on the ground. Grrrrr. But I so enjoy his company that I forgive him his greed.

     And besides, we should all learn to share...