the presence and absence of...

Fine, so it turns out I have my limits. (Ed would have chimed in -- oh yeah!) You know that children's book about Madeline? "...She was not afraid of mice, she loved winter snow and ice?" Like Madeline, I'm not particularly afraid of mice. They move fast and so if I am on a hunt, I am anxious to move even faster. Call me agitated. But bring in other wild animals onto our living room carpet and I run for help. Not only am I convinced that they will view me as a coconspirator and they will sink their sharp teeth into my flesh should I come near, but, too, I'm sure they'll run and hide and I will never get them out!

In other words, when I hear that telltale cat yowl signaling a catch, brought into the house through the open patio door (such a warm night!), I go down with apprehension. Sure enough, I find a huge chipmunk being tossed around by Dance and so I do the only thing that's left for me to do under the circumstances: Ed!

Those little critters know how to play dead. I'm not sure what it gets them. It's not as if the cat is going to look at them and say -- oh, you're dead, why that's no fun! -- and leave them alone. No. They become a football, a game, and the only help for them is in the form of that human who'll come by and, disgusted with the whole thing, pick them up in some fashion and take them outside. 

This was my early morning. 

Immediately after feeding the impatient animals...

(Unie)

(nameless Bresse girl)

... I took out my bike and went for a ride. Randomly. Up and down rural roads. 

(passing another field of Scottish Highland cattle)

I somehow steered my way eventually to the new development's soon-to-open cafe. The owners happened to be there and we chatted about the menu. I gave them excellent suggestions (I say "excellent" because it's what I would love to see there!) and I am happy to say that they were very receptive. It's true that the cafe is a lure. The developer has yet to build many blocks of new homes and townhouses and the locals want a coffee shop. Can the neighborhood sustain an eatery? That remains to be seen. Right now it's there to make the development an attractive place for prospective buyers. That's okay -- Ed and I figure we have at least two years to enjoy the cafe before an ultimate reckoning about its future. Since they're priming the place with great coffee and Madison's best pastries, I am sure to be there on a regular basis. For two years, or however long it lasts.

Breakfast, during which we review the day thus far!

And then I drive over to the storage unit which houses boxes of junk since my move out of the suburban home my ex-husband and I shared for many years. I did not feel empowered to throw the stuff out 18 years ago, because much of it had to do with the childhood years of my daughters. Their school papers. Their clothes. Some of their toys. Their books. Added to that -- some boxes of home stuff that couldn't possibly be sold in a garage sale -- worthless art pieces. Worthless to most anyone, probably to the girls as well, but I wasn't sure.

The goal today was simply to make certain that the key still fit and that no rodents had gotten inside. Mice would have a field day with all that stuff, munching and peeing their way through it as if it was their own private abode.

The verdict -- no mice (phew!), lots of dust, boxes still standing. Everything fading in the way that it does after decades of disuse.

I know that the past has significance to all of us, whether we acknowledge it or not. But how we choose to remember it is another matter. Many of us like keepsakes. Some of us like to sift through old family papers. A friend of mine just this week is rereading all the letters her mom wrote her when she went away to college (that would have been more than fifty years ago). Me, I have one lengthy letter a parent wrote about me, pages and pages of analysis. That's enough.

You could say that when I wrote my memoir (Like a Swallow -- pick it up at your library or bookstore or online!) I let go of my childhood. But what about my married life, when I was such an actively involved parent to two little girls? 

I've always said that the only thing worth keeping is the stack of photo albums I put together (one for each year), compiling our history, their history in this visual presentation. When my husband and I split up, I let him take those albums, because we were friends then (we still are, but now with roadblocks, not necessarily of our making) and I thought it would show good will. I had access to the albums anytime I wanted to see them. That lasted for two years. I haven't seen the albums since.

Remarkably, I haven't been bothered by that. I know the albums are there, in his home. It's not as if they'd gone up in flames. If I made an effort I could probably work out some arrangement whereby I could haul them over here. 

But I haven't done it.

The memoir notwithstanding, indeed, Ocean notwithstanding, I don't really enjoy sifting through the past. Writing about it -- perhaps that. But physically holding on to some pieces of it? That's not me. 

Nonetheless, when I was in the storage unit, I found a huge box of photo rejects. The ones that never made it to the albums (with good reason! most of them are terrible!). I didn't really go through all its contents. But I picked up random envelopes (remember those envelopes we'd get at photo development places? With negatives in one pocket, photos in another?). And I glanced through some of them. With a smile.

What stood out for me was how close my daughters were in their later childhood and adolescence. And how much they were already building the blocks of their adult personalities. I see it in their eyes, in their poses. 

I took a scant handful of random pics, reminding myself that someday I can get a look at those albums again, though not now, not this year. Just someday.

(from our one family trip to Poland; these days I am the shortest of the three and we no longer all wear the same shoes!)

In the afternoon I pick up the grandkids.

And in the evening, a very gentle rain comes down. I reheat the chili, Ed goes down to the barn to lock up the hens. He comes back and tells me that Peach has died.

She was our oldest girl of the current flock. (We got her off of Craigslist in 2017 and she was already laying eggs then.) She belonged to a period where we named our hens and worried about pecking orders. She survived raccoon and opossum coop raids, hawk attacks, severe winters and amorous advances by over zealous roosters. Good old Peach! We buried her to the music of Moonlight Serenade, in much the same way we buried other animals here -- with some sadness, but a deep belief that her life (their lives) was, were, happy. She squawked for food until the last day of her life and demanded to be carried on colder days. But she was never grumpy, always a little shy, always our old Peach.

with love...