Painful Piney Paroxysm

My pathological attachment to inanimate objects, like furniture and houses, is rather legendary in my household. Objects represent certain people and certain times and they can bring me great joy, great pain, or the kind of catharsis that comes from drowning in whatever emotion the object represents. I'm fairly sure all of my Havisham-esque tendencies began with a piece of my parent's bedroom set.

When I was a small child, I used to love to explore the wilderness that was the top of my mother's dresser. My parents had a pine bed, with matching nightstands and two pine dressers; arrangements of this sort immensely popular in the late 1960s. The glossy, dark quad possessed an aromatic arboraceousness which strongly emanated from it even though the wood hadn't held the form of a tree in quite some time. 

The "female" dresser was nine drawers long, far longer than me at the time. I loved running my hands over the slickery surface of it. Mom placed an antique dresser scarf on both her dresser and mine, each embroidered with care by someone who liked flowers and small stitches in pastel colors. Her ivory linen quietly underscored and strikingly juxtaposed a fancy lighted General Electric makeup mirror with a sliding plastic switch. When powered on, it showed what your face might look like in the bright broad daybreak of a scrambling sunlit metro or in the slinky soft swelter of a dusky dimlit disco. There were also Home and Office settings which alternately bathed the skin in pink and green luminosity. I'd put my little face up to the warmth of the bulbs and move the tab deliberately back and forth, casually conjuring a new me in each setting. 

Mom loved makeup and I'd open, inspect, smell and sample all of the cosmetics displayed at the ready. Avon products were especially hot back then, and in my mind I can picture both her A-branded treasures as though they were a 1977 beauty buffet, and me, always trying to decide which to savor first. 

She had eyeshadow in the boldest colors of amethyst purple and deep sea green. I used to sponge them on my lids but my seven year old hand was no match for their grown up glimmer, and I came out looking bruised instead of beautiful. 

She had the Avon Great Blush Frost Stick in a shimmering shade of dark pink, simply called "Rose". Application required a light touch and because my little fist couldn't grasp the toilet paper tube sized cylinder all that well, I'd ineptly paint it on in one of two ways, clown circles or Indian stripes, neither style truly suitable but both instantly glamorous, at least to me.

She had Maybelline eyeliners that she'd wear down to small stubs which I would eventually pocket as a pre-teen; shiny silver metal packaging surrounding a "Nautical Blue" pencil in a fat little scroll. I'd call my father on nights where I was invited to sleep over to friend's houses in the early 1980s and ask him to please deliver to me what I needed; and he knew that meant my sleeping bag, my toothbrush, and one of those castoff silver bullets. 

Mom's lip products included an array of Bonne Bell flavored balms, a tube of "Raspberry Ice" Avon satin lipstick and a "Candy Apple" pout maker of unknown origin. The red one tasted awful and although I was tortured by my craving for the color, I couldn't stomach its waxy, plasticine smack.

When Mary Kay parties became popular, Mom came home with a whole menagerie of baby pink-hued compacts and potions. I was dazzled by the social shopping haul and spent weeks studying and getting to know the MK brand as the new items were placed next to the old standards. There were smooth triplet eyeshadows in a case which sounded a satisfying snap upon opening and closing, a clear gloss with a wand that tasted like strawberries in champagne (which I'd realize later when I actually *had* strawberries in champagne) and lip colors which were applied with a tiny retractable paintbrush which seemed like the height of sophistication. In my 9th grade school photo, I'm confidently wearing all of it. 

Among all of her cosmetics, the dresser also held Mom's jewelry, a brass footed oval with red velvet lining hiding diminutive tiny treasures, and a couple of my crude attempts at plaster of paris pins which were horrid and would never be rightly tacked onto a wooly lapel. However, their place on the center stage of Mom's dresser was even better as far as I was concerned.

There was one picture that I recall, a windy snapshot of Mom and Dad at the ocean in Florida. Both of them sported khakis and navy blue sweatshirts in an era predating by decades, the trend of matchy and staged family beach photos. Dad had on sunglasses and a Yankees hat. Each was barefoot and smiling. I used to look at the picture and think we as a brood had the best thing going. Then, one day, I saw that Mom had used a brown marker on her hairline in the photo. It looked harsh and contrived and phony and I demanded to know what she had done. I remember that she said she didn't like the way the gust blew her hair off of her forehead. I didn't understand. I thought it was the most beautiful picture in the world. Later, the photo disappeared, and not long after that, Mom moved out.

Her dresser didn't immediately accompany her so I spent hours sitting in front of it, confused and lost. I repeatedly and ritualistically ran my teenaged hands over it, trying to summon that feeling of our mother daughter bond and childhood evenings at the makeup mirror. I opened and closed the drawers, something I wouldn't have done had she still been at home. Upon doing so, I found other things that had been left behind; like her retainer from high school, spiny and small like a pink and silver crab buried underneath the sand of my elementary school artwork and out of season clothing. 

When Mom came back for the dresser, my parents made sure I wasn't home but when I returned and saw the hole it had left in the bedroom, I noiselessly crouched down in the grand expanse of nothingness and, like a dog, desperately whiffed where it had been. As I knelt, stunned and seasick like I was on floorboards of a sinking vessel, I felt my skin peel back until my heart was exposed and it rolled out beside me. Seeing it there, next to the space it used to live in, I knew nothing would ever be the same.

And soon thereafter, the dresser was sold.

#mushroomtumbler

Mindful Script Flipping

When I wake to a gray, cold and windy day, even though the calendar clearly says Spring, I can grouse about things I can't control, or I can put on a hat and meet the morning head on in fuzzy warm layers that I have chosen for times like this. 

When I step on the bathroom scale, I can feel frustrated because the number isn't moving downward or I can be satisfied that I am not reacting to the number unhealthily by either starving or stuffing myself. 

When I walk past my childhood home, I can feel upset because my parents and I didn't get as many years there together as I might have dreamed of or I can hold warmth in my heart because it was such a wonderful place to grow up and I've been left a host of memories there are of the extraordinary variety.

When I notice all the laundry that has to be done, I can feel distressed by the amount of time this will take, or I can be contented by the fact that I have all the modern conveniences of really well made machines, a first floor laundry room in my home requiring only one trip up the stairs and the money to buy name brand detergent that smells fresh and clean. 

When I catch sight of the min pin sitting at the door expecting a walk, I can feel annoyed that my current task has been interrupted or I can be glad that I am ambulatory and healthy enough to walk as far as she wants without worrying about my knees or anything else that slows people my age.

When I look in the mirror and my teeth aren't piano key white, I can be down on myself for years of too much coffee, too much tea and not enough white strips, or I can be grateful that I still have all of them.  

When I glimpse ahead of me and see the very young mother pushing the stroller alongside her pregnant friend, both dressed in Daisy Duke shorts, high heels and multi-hued hair colors not found in nature, I can pass by in judgement or I can stop and coo at the baby, reinforcing all the blessings and love that brought her into the world. 

When it's time for a road trip I can feel anxious about all the driving ahead of us or I can feel blessed that we have somewhere fun to go.

When I listen Father Tom describe what I could be doing better as a Christian, I can feel guilty about needing to step up a bit or I can be thankful that I have another chance to do better. 

When I toss and turn half the night because of menopause or Lyme disease or generalized anxiety, I can feel cheated out of blissful rest or I can be mindful that there isn't something horribly, terribly wrong keeping me awake.

When I encounter people my age jogging down the street, I can feel resentful that I can no longer keep up or I can recall a time when I could and cheerfully admire my younger self. 

When I deliver meals to the elderly, I can focus on the dilapidated state of some of their houses, or I can celebrate their independence and wish them continued resilience. 

When I think about my bonus kids, with their physical and intellectual challenges, I can feel a profound sense of loss at not having what some people might call a normal family or I can fill my heart with compassion and understanding for what their mother deals with on a daily basis. 

When I hear a song that instantly brings tears, I can be embarrassed or melancholy, or I can know that my participation in and exposure to so much has left me with a richness of emotion I would never, ever trade.   

When my husband needs space to handle his thoughts or internal angst, I can feel selfish about wanting his attention or I can feel appreciative that I have a partner who feels so deeply.

When my parents and step parents can't do what they used to do because of age and infirm, I can feel despondent because I see how they struggle or I can celebrate the fact that they are here and I can still spend time with them. 

When I open our mail and see all the bills we pay, I can feel overwhelmed because I haven't contributed to our household income in 5 years or I can feel tenderness for my husband who works hard for us.

When I calculate how many years I probably have left on this big blue marble, I can feel angst about all that I haven't accomplished or I can breathe and relish my secure and beautiful life.

When I listen to the news, which tries to convince us that we are a nation divided and heading toward disaster, I can feel worried about what is to come, or I can meet my neighbor knowing that we are more alike than different and can make up our own minds about how we positively interact. 

When I stand in line at wakes and go through three hands full of Kleenex at funerals, I can be filled with sorrow and drink for days or I can do a better job at self soothing by remembering the good times; so fortunate to have experienced such a friendship.

Think the thoughts. 

Reframe. 

Reduce the damage.

Rework the negative.

Rejoice, 

temporarily. 

Fall. 

React with dismal pity and dreadful pathos. 

Get up. 

Try again.

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Starfish

Walking on the beach early this morning, I found what, if I had held them all together, might've amounted to a fistful of starfish. 

They were washed ashore, scattered along the Atlantic coastline. I kept bending down to pick them up, finding that their little sand sifting legs had been bitten off.  One was dead. He was crispy and floated when I lobbed him back into the surf but the others were all alive: tawny, malleable and pulpous within in my palm. 

Squinting into the sun, I tried remembering where I'd read that starfish will grow their legs back if permitted to survive. Tossing them into the ocean as I walked along, I scanned for more. I enjoyed scouting for them, grabbing them, and throwing them in, a little starfish project for the day! I was  saving something (yay!) and was "making a difference to that one!" just like in the Chicken Soup for the Soul story which I'd read 20 some-odd years ago.

Later, I came back to the house and curiously Googled "what eats starfish?". I thought for sure it would be "seagulls" but the first answer was "sharks". 

Ugh.

So I tossed stumpy, defenseless starfish back into the ocean to drag themselves one legged across the sea floor with the sharks that liked to eat them? 

Great. 

Tumbling it around in my mushroom of a mind, the curious encounter with the starfish seems more and more like a message from the universe. It's sort of an analogy for life. When injured or defeated, do we throw ourselves back in the fray and bravely splash around, preparing to fight what is devouring us or do we stay limbless on the beach, knowing we are slowly perishing but feeling comfortable with the idea that least it's a warm, slow, certain sort of perish and not a surprise chompy one? 

Truth be told, I'm thinking I might be more of a slow perisher.  I fondly remember being a daredevil who flung herself asunder, emerging stronger for it, regenerating legs and handling adversity like a (sea) star but lately, I am less sure floating around in the foamy breakers of my life.

People see me and throw me back, thinking that I can handle the crashing waves, thinking that I can reconstruct my missing parts, but most days I am chum.

I don't want to be chum.

So if the first step to becoming less shark bait and more star-like is acknowledging this, then surely the second step must be to swim, even with only one functional leg, and take some chances. I decided to write this piece and chuck it out there even though it's not perfect and it probably won't get me a book deal and I won't be suddenly asked to write for my favorite nostalgia-based television show because of it, but at least I'm not lying on the beach dying a slow death because I am missing a few parts. In fact, I'm sort of growing accustomed to the idea that I am an imperfect half-legged starfish. At least that makes evolution possible for me. 

So, I am committing to blogging more regularly and flinging it out there, barnacles and all. 

And then, this afternoon, I saw a ten foot bull shark in 3 feet of water. Truly, I did; and where I joined the other folks around us pointing, afraid of the possible consequences, I really wanted that shark to circle back so I could look him dead in the eye and say, "Not today, buddy. I'm growing legs."

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Marco Polo...Roles Defined.

Marco Polo, you know, the old-timey swimming pool game where a crowd of leaping, back arching participants holler "POLO" every time the sucker who's "it" yells "MARCO" all the while shut eyed and lunging, reaching to grab hold of someone in an effort to no longer be "it"...well, to my delight I see it's still being played today despite kids having a million other electronic options and things to keep them indoors and entertained on a hot sunny April day.

However, it occurred to me, watching a gaggle of young'uns in our condo association pool this afternoon, that you can tell a lot about a kid by how he plays Marco Polo. 

What follows are my personal observations:

1. First, there is the kid who yells "not it" every time it's time for someone to be "it". This kid is observational and quick and will not consider taking a turn at being "it". He is usually one of the older kids in the group and he makes sure that the resounding cry of "not it" follows immediately after or even during a final declarative pre-game anecdote being offered by a parent or some other rule explainer. The "not it" is uttered so quickly it comes out as a single word: "nottit!" typically followed by foot shuffling and  absentminded swimsuit crotch adjusting after it's been yelled...signaling some sort of (presumably ethical) uncomfortableness, but not the same sort of discomfort that would appear to exist were he "it". Being "it" is far worse than being obnoxious in this kid's book. 

2. Second, there is the kid who refuses to be caught by the one who is "it", even though not being tagged involves routinely breaking the rules of the game. This kid swims mainly in the deep end, 90 percent underwater, so as to not have to utter the word "POLO"...ever. If he gets too close to the one who is "it" and "it" child clearly bellows "MARCO" within an inch of this kid in a blind and soaking stupor, the kid who refuses to be caught dives under and swims about 6 feet away. He then emerges sputtering a weak-assed rendition of "POLO". This kid is usually slower, both physically and intellectually than "nottit!" kid but seems to never be "it", either, due to his ability to hold his breath long term underwater and a complete disregard of the rules. 

3. Third, there is the poor kid who is always "it". Customarily small and probably kid one or two's little brother, this one usually ends up, at some point, angrily splashing everyone in circles while screaming "MARCO" over and over again in an exasperated, tinny, high-pitched whine. No one wants to be this kid. There might even be a complete break in the action and an enraged "MOM!!!!" thrown in there because this kid is so sick of being "it" in every damn game he bothers to play with his siblings and he can't ever seem to catch someone, or if he does, he is unlucky enough to catch kid 4.

4. Fourth, there is the kid who, when caught, won't accept being "it" and exits the pool, feigning a cramp or loudly declaring the need for a 5 minute bathroom break despite the fact that everyone saw him huddled in the corner by the jet and pissing in the deep end three minutes prior. This kid will weasel his way out of being "it" by any measure necessary and will usually hang out next to Grandma while sticking his unwashed-from-the-bathroom hand in the Cheetos bag before entering the pool again; smashing the whole neon orange handful in his mouth and smearing the crumby residue on the cement deck upon entry. 

5. Then, finally, we have the kid who steps up and decides he will be "it". Ordinarily, this is the athletic kid who either joined the game late as an onlooker or the kid who knows he will grab kid number one or two or four by the scruff of the neck and shove their faces in the water as soon as he can once he assumes the role of "it". I happen to enjoy watching this kid meter out justice in the pool. 

And I wonder what these kids will be like in adulthood.

I played Marco Polo with my best friend and her brother in their pool all summer long growing up. We took turns being "it". We got caught and accepted it. We goodheartedly cannonballed one another when it was called for, and we stayed chummy throughout the day despite being in the water, sometimes, from noon 'til dusk. No one weaseled out of the dictates of Marco Polo or any other childhood group game. Interestingly, we all turned out to be decent human beings. Correlation? Perhaps. However, I really do think you can tell a little about how a kid is going to turn out watching him play an afternoon's worth of Marco Polo. 

Which kid were you?

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I'll See You on the Dark Side of the Falls

Recently, a very cool writing opportunity was pointed out to me by a number of laudatory friends. It was an advertised position for making contributions to a local lifestyle blog showcasing area cafes, golf courses, big red barns, yellow Labrador Retrievers, and bouquets of seasonal flowers, all captured carefully in accompanying images by a talented photographer. I was super excited because I love my town and all of its bounty...however, there is a gritty underbelly which lies beneath all of our farm-to-table restaurants and vintage automobiles and expensive antiques and my tendency, especially over the last five years, has been to seek out more and more of what quietly and humbly drives this place. I call that beautiful bedrock "the dark side of the Falls." 

So while I do want to write about which house on the north side of town has most festively decorated its holiday door, I am also eager to seek out Jamie, the once-homeless man, who sits in front of one of our most expensive and popular cyber-ready coffee houses with his paper cup primed for your offerings on the ground between his boots with the duct-taped soles. He will tell you anything you want to know if you engage him. My advice is, make sure you have at least 10 or 15 minutes to spend because he is a chatterbox of unequaled proportion. A few big-hearted friends supported an old fashioned come-together to bring him warm winter clothing and household items for an apartment he was able to move into after having been on the street for a long while. His red, raw chapped hands and iron-grey fingernails always touched my heart, so we made sure he got a brand new nail kit and some skin-friendly Dove soap in there, too. 

One of my cat-rescue friends pulled over and presented Jamie with an exceptionally generous cash gift at Christmastime when she saw him walking alone downtown on a below-zero afternoon. She told no-one but me.

These are the stories I want to share.  

I get excited when I see a new lash bar in town or a homemade cookie bakery which I am dying to try but I am equally excited to see Jeff. Jeff is one of those people with a smile for everyone, filled with joy and the holy spirit. Before Sandy's Clam Bar closed, we'd run into him there on the dance floor, holding one arm folded in an L shape against his chest, perspiring and laughing and singing aloud. Because of having had a traumatic brain injury, Jeff cannot drive and he therefore pulls one leg behind him in staccato step as he makes his way to his favorite haunts every day. Wearing a huge cross around his neck, both literally and figuratively, he laments to me that his favorite restaurant is still closed due to Covid and he is desperate for a cup of their thick, syrupy, on-the-burner-all-damn-day coffee and a slice of their Fruits of the Forest pie. I think he's more desperate for the company which he keeps there every night but I nod and concur. Jeff's nickname is 'Poppy Poptart' and if it's breakfast time, you'll see one of those sweet confections in his able hand, crumbs on his face and silvery foil flapping in the breeze as he ambles down the block. Upon learning that this was his go-to morning confection, a wonderfully softhearted friend of mine bought a case of them for me to present to him at that favorite restaurant while he ate his dessert and drank his ebony java one evening pre-pandemic. All the regulars at the counter clapped because Jeff is rarely quiet and in one magic moment that night we rendered him speechless. 

These are my favorites. The people who truly don't know how special they are. Do people write about them? May I have the privilege of being that writer?

I'd be honored to tell you about who had the coolest Adirondack-style wedding I've ever seen and which city street has the best block parties with chalk-on-macadam rainbow portraits and silver troughs of Nantucket Nectar, but I also want to tell you about Chris and how he parks himself inside the front lobby of our Hannaford on the cold days so that he doesn't have to spend more hours than necessary out of doors in the frigid air. I stand behind him at the Post Office every so often where he pays for single, pre-stamped envelopes with nickels and pennies, his right eye so close to the counter that it looks like he is preparing to rest his head. We saw Chris last night when we were out at our favorite pizza place. He wandered in, looking chipper in his neon yellow construction vest routinely worn at dusk so that he doesn't get inadvertently mowed down while walking in the street. The waitress knows his order without offering him a menu. She brings him water. He sits alone. As our table orders beer, wings, and pizza, we laugh with my Dad exchanging loud stories about what he is watching on Netflix these days. Chris gets a simple solitary sandwich on the opposite side of the room. My husband, always seeing what I see at each and every turn, nods to me and pays Chris's bill on the way out.

These are our town's people, too. I want to know about them just as much as I want to know about the millionaire obstetrician who travels abroad in search of unusual collectibles and the lumber baron who sits in Bill Parcell's box seats at the track every August. 

So, yes, invite me to your cocktail party and I will show up in the most darling outfit you ever saw. I will drink all the Prosecco and politely pass on the carbs, and fling my hair over my shoulder and discuss which Tesla is the biggest bang for the buck right now, because, if you know me, you know I love all of that. I will write about your foie gras and your charcuterie board and your Hacker Runabout and your advertising business. I will take notes on your Maltipoo and your award winning hybridized lilies and your gutted to the studs Victorian home that has been refurbished with reclaimed wood floors because I want to hear about what intrigues people and who doesn't love a good purse puppy, herbaceous botanicals and sad old house made good as new? But when I drive by that big red barn on the way home, I will see the struggle more than I see the structure. I sure as shit want to stop in front of it and feed the stray kitties and fantasize about spray painting the name of an old friend on it in big loopy letters before snapping a non catalog-worthy photo, because my friend happened to drive his Mustang off the road and was killed on that hallowed spot after working too long of a shift in one of those very restaurants that gets written about; and although that particular story might not be pretty it is a square in the quilt of this town, a block in the foundation of my life. And it all matters to me. 

Photo credit: Gene Krebs/Getty

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The Nonni List

I woke up this morning with my Great Aunt on my mind. 

She was bold and opinionated with us kids and although she could be gracious, helpful and kind, she was oftentimes picky, difficult, loud, intractable, and argumentative around the adults. She had her own exceptionally well defined ideas about things, including the fact that she would never, under any circumstances, eat with a three-pronged fork.

Yes, you read that correctly. 

Someone gave Nonni a three pronged fork.

WHAT?

Holy shit. Get Nonni another fork before she launches that one!

It was made clear to me as a child that Nonni and her preferences were a two sided coin: first, you always knew where she stood, and that was good. It was then up to you whether or not you wanted to challenge her and invoke the wrath of God. Second, her elder standing within our family and the sheer size of her brood made her appear Queen-like, so despite her eccentricities, very few within her 'court' messed with her.  

I mostly watched Nonni from behind couches and curtains. It wasn't until high school that I began having long talks with her and wishing that I might also boldly declare whatever and whenever I wanted to; that I might be more of a staunch and prickly stickler about things.  

Whereas my Moo Moo used to tell me that her sister Flo had no right to be so discriminating and high-handed, I nonetheless regarded her quizzically from my vantage point. I wondered how it was that a woman from a tiny town, with nine children, living one tiny hiccup above the poverty line (and let's be real, by today's standards, pitifully far below it) could possibly have so many fist-upon-table pounding requests and requirements of this life. 

I have only recently begun to understand her.  

She was first-born in a family with two working parents and five active children. Her siblings, birthed one after another in rapid succession, all had something particularly special about them whether it was the unique position of being the only boy, or the chatterbox or the beauty or the one who would follow in her mother's footsteps and become another nurse in the family. Grateful to move away from home and start her adult life, Nonni married a handsome but domineering Italian. Al vigorously exercised all the clout in their home and although he loved her dearly, he maintained order by striking furniture and other unfortunate objects in plain sight, suggesting she might be next. Working directly across the street from her home in a woolen mill was convenient as she lacked a car but it also narrowed most of her meanderings to a two or three street radius, within which other family members also worked and lived.

When your world is that small and your young body is constantly growing babies and nurturing children and you don't have the luxury of a partner who provides an audience for your dreams and admiringly solicits your opinion and you don't travel anyplace outside the dwellings of family and friends, you learn to be fastidious and fanatical about the things you can control...like your notion that light colored fur coats are the most sophisticated, or that blue frosted cakes are prettiest. Or, what singular brand of tomatoes you use in your sauce, what fabric you prefer for your undergarments, what side of the street is best to walk on, or the only type of fork you will bring to your lips. 

Today I started a "Nonni List"; a small but significant tabulation of beliefs I won't compromise on, ideals that I have a solid scrupulousness for, physical things that I prefer and will travel elsewhere to procure. The exercise kind of excites me. The idea of "no compromise" makes me feel a bit tipsy. I will commence with one or two easy items and then maintain it as an organic, ever evolving page in a notebook which I can return to as needed. 

Have you really taken inventory of who you currently are, you know, besides those inane Facebook questionnaires? Maybe it's a midlife puzzle I'm looking at, and a burning need to start putting it together now that I have all the corners and edges in place. Maybe my more recent musings about Nonni have made me realize that we have limited time in which to make obstinate declarations and cocksure pronouncements before someone starts ordering us cases of Ensure and takes our driver's licenses away. Anyway, I'm looking forward to free flowing ideas and seeing what emerges. 

Thanks, Nonni.

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Squirrel Survival

The squirrels got peanut butter sandwiches today.

It's bitter cold and they are looking a little skinny. "Lucky", the one with only a nub for a tail, is always first on the scene in the early morning and she reminds me, as she sits atop the empty bird feeder 30 feet from my kitchen window, that it's time to eat. 

I spread pb on white bread and cut the pieces into squares. Four pieces of bread makes 18 squirrel sandwiches. Keeping the cat and the min pin at bay, I open the door to head outside in my bare feet slipped into old army green suede clogs, kept side by side on a mat for such journeys, and I make my way to the back of the yard near the fence line. I breathe ice through my nostrils and hug one armpit, my bare fingers pressed against my shabbily dressed body. My other hand holds breakfast for my backyard visitors. I make clucking sounds with my tongue. "Lucky" watches me from a tree branch about 10 feet from the ground where I am setting out half of the sandwiches. It's a good time to thank God and the universe for all the comforts I have in this life. I'd last about an hour in this outdoor wasteland of an icebox if I were suddenly turned into a squirrel. 

"Leonardo", "Donatello" and "Michelangelo", the aggressive trio, come a little later in the morning. They chase "Lucky" around the tall pine trees so fast that their bodies and tails turn into swirly ashen barber poles from where I stand. I drink my java and watch their antics. I am glad "Lucky" is such an early bird...or early squirrel, as it may be. The trio repeatedly tag team and eventually chase her off as they forage for whatever is on the menu, their little gray hands moving in rapid circles as they either devour or cheek-pack their sustenance. They remind me of Scrooge counting money. 

Then there's "Bart" who is dark as night and, I'm guessing, a baby summer squirrel from last year. He showed up for the first time in the late fall, inky black, super tiny and fluffier than most of my regular beady-eyed crew. At first all he could do was run and hide from the Italian gang but now he bravely tries to hold his own. I usually put his feast about 15 feet away from the others so he can eat in peace. Some days he makes it in time, other days he sniffs the ground where it was and sits on his haunches tentatively scanning the perimeter of the yard. I try not to feed him twice because I need him to figure out when to show up and meet his own needs. 

I collect uncarved, discarded pumpkins from the roadside in early November to split and use as weekly treats for the hunter-gatherers. I always hope they can store the seeds someplace but mostly they seem to bury them and then I get weirdly placed pumpkin plants in the summertime; they grow about an inch tall until they are mowed over by hubs cutting the grass. Offering the pumpkins as early winter food is a useful exercise until everything starts freezing. I can see faded orange iced over pumpkin guts back there. "Bart" digs for them sometimes. 

They interact like people. I make up stories in my head as I watch them. "Lucky" is a traumatized loner but she keeps on coming back knowing there is usually something special here for her. The trio has consistent companionship. Their meanness is only a survival instinct. Members of a kind of rodent mafia, I don't hold it against them. "Bart", poor little guy...still learning how to find his food and defend himself. I root for him daily. 

I splurged and bought a bag of walnuts for my oatmeal at the grocery store on Friday. However, I saw the forecast this morning and snow is coming, so it will get relegated and I will eat my Quaker cereal plain this week. 

My friend Amy told me that a member of her family crafts little wooden picnic tables that nail onto the trees. I sip my coffee and wonder what the woodworker's squirrels are named. 

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