Sunday Ramble

Often when I sit to write the words fail me. I've much to say stuck away in storage but those ideas have yet to ripen, mature, thus useless. So, I listen, and wait. It'll nudge me when ready.

It's best if I just sit and listen..and record the sounds....

Mockingbirds, the steady tick of the tide clock, the old emerald windchimes dance on the breeze.

(Ping, fodder.)

The old emerald wind chimes sing as if tuned by a great pianist, notes lost to my musical ignorance. The emerald windchimes came to me long ago from a different life.

The chimes were removed from a small cardboard box and placed on a hook from the roof line of an old Victorian home built high above a cold rocky creek which fed Hammersley Inlet. From that night forward they have gentled the pathway into my dreams. Their metallic wind forced dance came and went with seasonal regularity, always there throughout the last forty years of my life.

Lost within its strings and tubes and its emerald paddle are the shadows of death, divorce, hardships and hope. Also recorded are the whispers of joy and smiles. Horrible sadness lurks within its depths, too.

Often I've repaired the emerald windchime. It hates hard savage winds. After proper repair her songs return as newly minted, and continues to record my life.

The day will arrive when I fade into the shadows of time. Upon my drift into darkness I hope a thoughtful soul continues to repair her dropped tubes and reties the odd broken string. Then to nudge her paddle and play one last tune to my memory.

*****

It's time.  I need to slip on the boots and fire the mower and cut the grass and weeds, after I take a basket and clean the yard of pine cones and broken limbs and rake a bushel of oak leaves. The gutters also need attention. We have a bed of shrubs gone wild...should make for two hours of sweat. Bet I stir at least two wasp attacks.

I'll procrastinate until her return from church. If I'm lucky she'll ask to attend another Sunday movie which will give me all the excuse I'll need to avoid the awful chore. I've grown to hate yard work. Its tedious and returns little in value, other than a tidy lawn. If grass cuttings were gleaned as a food source I'd be far more willing to bust my butt. As it stands the waste is nothing more than compost material.

Speaking of which, it's high time I plant a bed of herbs. A few herbs love compost, other just plain old sand. My compost barrel, a contraption which requires I turn a handle and rotate the drum twice to three times weekly, works very well yet has stood silent and still for the last few years. It's paint has faded to dull green. Blame Obama. The result of a six day work week is a very sad forlorn garden.

Last week, since it's Spring, the love of my life stepped forth and cleaned a flower bed. She then discovered my stack of walkway bricks - a huge neatly organized pile of half-inch dark brown brick.  She took a wheel barrow and gave it a heavy load. Wheeled the ton of baked earth to the east side of our home and proceeded to border the bed with the brick. That evening she downed a bottle of Advil. Spring's a bitch.

But, every cloud has a silver lining. She'll forget the newly planted flower bed with its neatly arranged brown brick border. When she has fully forgotten, I'll step forward with my herbs. It'll make a fine garden.

Just you wait and see...

Stephen

Bits & Pieces

Our weather has turned cool. I awoke to temperatures in the upper forties - nice. It's about time.

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