Back on the pier…it’s as if we never left, with the white tips of the sailboats at the horizon’s edge…heading for Canada. Lake water, sun burnt skin, ice cream and tobacco smells mingle with old carousel wood.

One hundred years the carousel organ grinds out tunes…the nation’s voice soaked in lake brine and rain storms and snow gales…no one wants to be there in the winter as we chat, safely inland over bowls of chili and boxes of Valentine chocolate.

And suddenly, we are back on the pier…it’s as if we never left, and we never did really. Five years old again with melting flip flops and the organ grinds on…playing the national tune in June…playing the national tune while we watch the sky in July…

It fell among the dreams of samba and beach and the eternal sand…between toes, in the bags and the car and clothing. It was the final loosening of the tightly bound year, the edge of not knowing…the news which was always, always bad.

The road wobbled and peeled away…a few days more…and then oblivion and heat…wide swatches of nothing and clarity and salted sun toasted skin…

“Look. Look up there! Look up there at the moon. There’s someone up there, right now…walking on the moon. Can you see him?’

The brilliant orb shone in a gum tar black sky…down onto the small patch of warm cement in front of our home. I danced and hopped in bare feet; avoiding small pebbles and late night bugs. Up and down. Back and forth. Left foot, right foot. Dad held baby brother up on his shoulder, pointing his fat little chin up, upwards toward the sky while he wobbled and nodded, cooing as the moon glinted off his wide open eyes.

Something was different. Late at night; after 10pm, even later. We had already been in bed and now we were gathered outside. I wore a pinafore top; red with white polka dots and yellow straps. The short ruffled pajama pantaloons matched in bright yellow. I pulled on my braids and stared curiously at the darkened yard. Barefoot at night on cooling cement; in pajamas. Peculiar.

‘There’s a man up there, right now…walking around!’ Dad and Mom tried valiantly to describe the marvelous absurdity of the historical moment. ‘Hey diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle, the cow jumped over the moon’. I stared up into the darkness until dizzy; my head tipped way back. The moon lady combed out her hair, spreading silver tresses over the cooling land below; or was it the smiling man in the moon laughing at us or was it all just made out of green cheese anyway?

I skipped and stubbed my toes on the dark roughened cement. Baby brother began fussing and wobbling some more. It was later and later and the tired fireflies dotted the front lawn. I squinted and thought I could finally see the man walking on the moonscape and the American flag. ‘I see him, I see him!’ We all laughed and I said it again. ‘He’s walking around up there. I do see him, I do!’

The bugs circled ferociously, seeking thin ankle skin and bare arms and chubby pink baby flesh. The wind settled and it was time to go in. Dad stated quietly, ‘It will be on television. We can watch tomorrow. CBS and Cronkite…’ his voice drifted off. We stepped back into the porch, trooping off to bed. The moon watched silently and silver; resting over the land, the night, the earth…

I asked the three year old what her favorite color was and she responded, ‘Cake!’.

I approve.

Then, there was a can of mushroom soup which landed gently, surprisingly on top of a laundry pile, early in the morning. The baby spent the duration of yesterday in our home, wandering around seeing fit to move a number of canned goods from the pantry to new and more exciting locations.

Actually, who set the standard for the location of canned mushroom soup anyway?

As easily in the cupboard as on a pile of laundry, I say…

I see your figure seated on the edge of my bed in that century old Berlin bedroom in that ancient and violent city…shadowing up against those floor to ceiling windows. I look out through the pane of glass which opens out onto the cobblestone street below…Reichenberger Strasse where jackboots marched decades earlier; this thieving city.

You are an unwelcome guest, after I welcomed you; and yet now you have made yourself at home; sitting too close, far too close to my bowl of scattered, unworn jewelry. As I watch the sinking tired orange rays settle and widen out over the edge of the building across the way…I know it’s gone. It’s all gone. I know it is gone…as I lean up against that ragged door jamb, toes curled in anger…into that old and dusty carpet.

I have no proof, save that which would emerge with sheer physical force and I can not do that.

I see you and you see me and we both know that we both know that you have stolen from me. You have stolen from me. And…I should, I should , and I really should confront you, but I am raised in a certain way and as I stare blatant theft in the face…polite society does not allow me to wring your bloody neck.

And…my rings are gone. That is that then. And I lean up against that old door jamb in that ancient city…

When I get dressed and leave the house, I don’t accomplish much. Or at least, I don’t feel that I do. Everything is ‘in reaction to’ and ‘defense mechanisms on high alert’. When I stay in my pajamas and direct everything from Command Central, also known as my bed…I take on the world and accomplish much.

I have my pens, paper, books, phone, laptop, remote control, flash drive and something to drink and snack on.

I read somewhere that Sir Winston Churchill directed a large portion of World War II from his bed.

This is a man I understand. Carry on…

At first it needed to go; that loud creaking noise in the upstairs bathroom; that hidden joist where saddened wood met human weight and the slightly mal-aligned boards and screws complained bitterly. But then, I was told it could not be fixed; not without a lot of fuss and bother.

That was that.

I chose to look at Heaven in the afternoon and watched a soaring, silent bird, gliding over the shadow of the creatures which passed unnoticed through our yard at twilight and thought better of the creaking noise. It meant someone other than myself and those moving creatures lived in and around our home.

That was that…

It was that sort of glorious summer morning; things were still sleepy, plans were pending but not pressing. Humidity broke late in the night and they threw open the windows to let in the cool, almost fierce southerly air to push its way into the house, knocking aside curtains, wending upstairs to clean out heated corners.

The coffee was strong and the peach coffee cake sugary moist and warmed to sweet perfection; resting on the summer blue and white plate with crumbs falling onto the cooling carpet. In the far distance, four lone, long blasts of a train whistle sounded out; a reminder of lives being lived in other places and with other purposes.

The neighborhood was silent. One mourning dove cooed for a bit and ceased. No one was around. A full moon lay on the calendar while July slept gently, waiting quietly at the edges for the birthing of August…

Discovery of the week: upon cleaning out cupboards and pulling out all that is old and stale, I stumble upon the weird truth that animal crackers, despite all the processing which goes into making these fun, small and edible creatures…do indeed go bad.

They taste like swept up dust…which begs the question as to how one would know that…but they do. Swept up dust…

Things overheard: the blast of the compressor and the nail gun. Silence. Some shuffling steps. A window is opened and then a second one. ‘I beg your pardon. I never promised you a rose garden’. He’s singing out loudly, this man from Puerto Rico. He and Lynn Anderson have joined forces over the cables, board and the compressed air. ‘Along with the sunshine, there’s got to be a little rain sometime’. I come down the stairs and chime in. Together, we’ve gone temporarily country. I try out an opera voice, all wobbly and shaky fun. He can’t pick a key and stick with it for love or money.

He starts up again, ‘I beg your pardon. I do what I want in my garden’. He gives the country tune a final punch as he belts out his own interpretation and heads down into the cellar.

‘Those aren’t the words!’ I yell after him. He laughs uproariously. ‘Whatever! La, la, la…I do what I want in my garden…’ His voice and all the machine noise fade away as another door slams. Then, somewhere at the bottom of the house I hear the whrrrrrrr of the miter saw.

Carry on Lynn Anderson.