I hope and pray all my good friends in the New England area and Canada ride out hurricane Sandy without so much as a scratch. I know my friend, Sixbears, is ready as I've just read his blog. His firewood and food preps are stacked deep. He has books to read and coffee for the long haul. Take heed.
I need to tackle some work in my yard today. I'd much prefer dinking around with my current restoration project but I'm afraid my neighbors might form a group and protest. Silly little boogers with their signs held high as they march up and down my street and yell, 'trim your hedges.' Which, in truth, is fine with me. It's their Birkenstock clad feet and bean sprout sticky breath I can't handle - it scares my cat.
From outside I can hear one particular set of windchimes dance and sing. I purchased the set years ago when I lived just outside Seattle. Over the years I've restrung them at least ten times. I have this thing about windchimes.
When you hear their song you know the breeze is snappy and strong and the chimes bear out this fact. The notes evoke memories too, some good, others sad. Either way the chimes travel this life with you, always there, a portable notebook of wire and metal tube which await the wind.
My old chimes first rode the wind in California. They danced to the whims of the Santa Ana's, the breezes warm and strong, which carried the scent of desert and mountain air.
The clapper on the chimes is green plastic with the image of a seagull painted in silver. The seagull began to fade after a couple of years under the steady California sun. I then lowered them for a ride to Washington State and returned them to the elements just outside my bedroom window. Our new home was located on a hillside just above the waters of Hammersley Inlet and the chimes had cooler and evergreen scented wind with which to keep a steady beat.
The windchimes survived long cold winters of snow and ice and then as the seasons turned, cool spring and summer rains. Throughout it all they danced and sang. Nights I'd drift to sleep as the music gently faded and formed dreams.
Then, things changed. Items were separated, divided. Boxes were packed. I asked for the old windchimes and it was agreed they'd travel with me. For a long time they missed the wind. Then one day, as I stood and watched the ocean surf surge and fade I felt alone. I stood there and realized the music of the wind lacked, something. Then I remembered. I located the box and found the old set of windchimes.
They liked the ocean wind. One day a lady came to visit. She was sweet and soft spoken and bespoke all that was good of the South.
She liked the music, too. In time she agreed to share our lives.
Now, the old windchimes hang on the banks of a river and still mark the passage of time to notes of salt scented breezes.
*****
Perhaps I shouldn't write with only one cup of coffee under my belt. Excuse me. I need to get to work.
Take care out there.
Stephen
