Tick Tock

     We have clocks in our house, a lot of clocks—but not too many. It isn’t that we have an obsession with time; it is simply that my husband and I both love the sound of them. Some of our clocks have pendulums that speak in the language we all expect from a timekeeper: tick tock, tick tock, tick tock—whispering the passage of minutes. Some of them mark every quarter of every hour of every day with a Westminster Chime. We have our clocks set so that they don’t all begin talking at once, and unless I have a bout of insomnia at night, I hardly notice them. When I am desperate to fall asleep, however, all of that ticking and chiming shouts at me through the dark house and hammers my nerves.

     Some friends of ours who moved away a few years ago recently stayed with us for a week. They asked us to turn our clocks off at night because the noise kept them awake. Of course, we were happy to comply, but it struck us all as funny because, before they retired, our friends had owned a clock shop and filled their own home with dozens of them.

     Now I am wondering how many other overnight guests have been disturbed by our clocks but were too timid to mention it. For us, the sound has become a kind of white noise that seldom bothers us unless it stops. When the clocks stop the house is too quiet, which seems an odd thing to say because I crave quiet. I don’t listen to the radio, hardly ever turn the television on until after dinner, and even though I enjoy music, I don’t often listen to it because quiet is my music.

     I suppose clock talk punctuates the quiet so I know it is there; the commas between unnumbered ticks and the semicolons of the advancing chimes give it shape. When the grandchildren have gone home, the television and stereo are turned off, and my husband is away on a trip or asleep, when the house is still enough to heed the ticking of a clock, that is when I hear the quiet.

     Still, we don't want our clocks shouting at you while you are trying to sleep, so next time you come for an overnight visit,  remind us to stop them from interrupting your rest.

The Old Clock on the Stairs by Edward Lamson Henry

The Middle

     I am a middle child. I am also a middle-class American living in the Upper Midwest, which is in the middle of the country. And I am still middle-aged.

     I recently became aware of another way in which I stand in the middle of things. 

     A Canadian friend stayed with us a few weeks ago as she looked for a place to rent for her family. She and her husband love the city and she found a reasonable two-flat in a Chicago neighborhood. On the day we met with the realtor to finalize the arrangements, I was thinking how much fun it would be to live so close to the lakefront, the museums, the profusion of restaurants and the cultural diversity that the city possesses. There is an excitement and energy to it that draws one in. But as we drove back to our house in the suburbs, I felt something inside me loosen and slow down. Turning into our driveway, I realized how much I need space: space to breathe, to think, and to live. In the same way that too much clutter in my house makes me feel unsettled or irritable, living cheek-by-jowl with my neighbors and being hemmed by buildings and concrete would eventually have the same effect.

     On the other hand, too much space would probably make me feel isolated and lonely after awhile. As much as I love nature and relish the idea of living in the country surrounded by trees and hills, or fields and open sky, I do like the easy access to the art, architecture and culture of city life. So I live between the two. It wasn’t really a choice; I just landed here over twenty years ago when we moved east for my husband’s job.

     I am a bloom-where-you’re-planted kind of girl; I know I could make the best of wherever I lived and find things to delight in that no other place offered, but there is something about living in the middle that suits me.

     What is it about the place where you've been planted that makes your roots feel watered?

My Picture Gallery - Closet Art

     I wouldn't consider my clothes closet to be a large one by modern American standards, it is only a small walk-in, but there is just enough room on the wall opposite the door to hang a couple of pictures. I chose this one for what I suppose is an obvious reason: Inspiration. Unfortunately, the inspirational bunny is having better luck with her leopard print skirt than I am with too many of my own clothes.

     It is probably time for me to pay closer attention to the other inspirational bunny I have hanging below it.

Art by Michael Sowa

National Poetry Month

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry –

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll –

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul –

                                                                    ~ Emily Dickinson ~

Blah Blah Blogging - Artificial Intelligence

     When I comment on another blog, I am often asked to prove I am not a robot before my comment will be accepted. Since I am so woefully challenged by technology, it is surprising to me—and a little flattering too—that I could be competing with anything so highly developed as a robot.

     All I have to do to prove I am human is type a few blurred letters or distorted numbers into a box and I am admitted to the inner sanctum. It is a program called CAPTCHA, an acronym for: Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart. Sometimes the test letters or numbers are too distorted for me to read and I am compelled to try again and again before the security code is broken and I am allowed to enter into the next interactive level of the blogosphere. It makes me feel more like a spy than a robot.

     I am moderately aware of the insidious nature of the evil genius robot on the internet: those robots that make you think there are more people reading your blog than there really are, or send you junk mail, or stalk you for their own dark, nefarious purposes. From what I have read, however, most of the robots using computers are as friendly as R2D2, Wall-E or Commander Data.

     Statistically, I expect my own security system to be breached someday—I just don’t have the hubris to think that I can outsmart a robot indefinitely. Despite my clever passwords and malware protection I will probably click on some alluring advertisement or innocent looking video and leave the back door open to the bad guys. At that point I will need help. Superhuman help. So, I am wondering: Is there a test to tell the Superheroes from the humans? Perhaps someone will invent a Get me Out of here Turing test to tell Superheroes and Humans Apart—GOTSHA.

A Little Rash

     The daughter who still lives with us…does that moniker make her sound like the creature under the stairs?  I assure you, she has her own bedroom and bathroom and doesn’t creep out at night to forage for food in the cupboards.

     So, the daughter who still lives with us is in nursing school. I asked for her opinion on a persistent skin rash I have been seeing a doctor about and she laughed at me. I don’t mean to cast aspersions on her bedside manner—she has a superlative bedside manner—so let me explain. Apparently, the consensus among nursing students is that as soon as one puts on a pair of scrubs the general public thinks one is qualified to assess rashes. No kidding. The checker in a grocery store stopped her one afternoon on her way home from work to ask her about the rash on his hand.

     “Well…it doesn’t look good,” she said, “but I’m not a nurse, so I suggest you go see your doctor.” At the time, she was a receptionist at an eye clinic.

     True, she is only in her first semester of nursing school, but she is a CNA and has already passed Microbiology, Advanced Anatomy and Physiology, and is currently taking Pharmacology; so I figure its worth a shot asking her opinion because she definitely knows more than I do. Her opinion was just what it should be:

     “Well…it looks a little red, but I’m not a nurse, so I suggest you ask your doctor.”

Listen to the Birdsong, Dear Fellow!

     I went out for a walk today to watch the snow melt. It is nearly gone. The sound of water running into the drains was welcome. There were other folks out too, walking dogs, soaking up the first drams of spring. We were all cheerful. And we weren’t the only ones; large flocks of Canada Geese were flying overhead. They had abandoned their pert vee formations and were floating in drifts of high joy, some of them floating so high they couldn't be seen—but I could still hear them. They were calling to one another over and over again. It sounded like a honking hallelujah chorus. I imagined them winking and grinning as they bathed themselves in the sun-drenched waves of boisterous blue air.

     It was too nice a day to go back in the house and fold laundry, so I played pickup sticks with the river birch in the front yard. It is a game we often play and after months of snow on the ground the birch tree was eager to win.

     As Irish Mise commented yesterday in response to a glum quote I posted by C.S. Lewis: “Listen to the birdsong, dear fellow!”

     Delighted to oblige.

painting of Canada Goose available on Etsy by Goosi