I was caught up in the aesthetics of the matter, not the practicality.

He could not eat his breakfast…so graciously wrapped, carried and presented to him in his shop, the room filled with finely carved wood pieces, shavings and woody air. His hands were covered in timber dust and grease.

The thought of providing napkins for this working man slid through my mind as slick as shilly shally and flim flam.

This is why he builds, and I build differently…

Exciting summer news: I just swallowed a bug on my walk around the cul-de-sac. They say what doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Don’t believe the hype…

‘What do you mean…there’s a problem?’ I look directly at him. ‘Well’, he begins rather sheepishly. ‘I didn’t quite think it through’. I look down at my feet and breathe deeply. This reminds me of a series of phrases I do not wish to hear; statements such as ‘Oh, I’m sure there will be coffee at the early morning meeting. No need to bring your own’. Or ‘You can’t miss it’ when I know for certain that I most assuredly will miss it. ‘I didn’t think it through’ is just such a phrase. Life experience tends to run counterclockwise and now I find myself up against this new dilemma.

I’m standing in the upstairs bedroom. ‘What exactly didn’t you think through?’ We stand side by side and stare up at the newly crafted, solid red oak king size Murphy bed and surrounding shelving and ledge he just finished. ‘It looks fantastic, gorgeous. It completely changes the room!’ He sighs and nods his head. ‘Yes, but…but it is incredibly heavy and now I can’t move it out from the wall frame’. I stare at him. He starts over. ‘I mean, it can be done but it takes two sturdy people to accomplish that’. He looks down doubtfully at my freshly pedicured and flip flopped feet. ‘Do you think you could try to help me move it?’

I shift sideways, left foot, right foot. ‘So…you’re telling me that it’s a ‘Murphy’ bed without the ‘Murphy?’ ‘It’s actually more of a ‘Groucho’ bed’, he responds, chuckling at his own joke. I stare back at the heavy wood. ‘It’s ‘Groucho’ because I’m going to be ‘Groucho’ when I try to help you move this!’ Silence. I continue. ‘You do know that I have a wonky back? Have you seen my feet? Have you looked at my fresh pedicure?’ He glances down at my toes. ‘Pretty color’ he mumbles. ‘Yes!’ I respond. ‘It’s called ‘So clutch”. He looks at me and repeats, ”So clutch?’ Don’t you mean bright red?’ I shake my head vigorously and say, ”So clutch’ as I clutch my heart when I try to help you move this!’ I continue shaking my head. ‘I don’t know. I mean, I just don’t know’. Silence.

‘I just didn’t think it through. I mean, it’s permanent. It’s really permanent. It’s staying in the house should we ever decide to move’. I reach up and run my hand carefully along the fine lines, the wood smells raw and clean, carrying the inner glowing light of a newly shaped room, the promise of curtains, neutral shades and throw pillows…fresh paint. It is lovely…and definitely permanent.

‘We’ll figure it out!’ I give the frame a smacking pat. ‘It is solid. It’s a real bulwark of a bed. You’re right it is staying in the house. We could be buried in it…or under it, whichever comes first’. I sigh heavily. ‘I’m going downstairs to make coffee’. He’s seated on the edge of the bed and he looks up at me grinning. ‘No, I mean it. There will definitely be coffee’. I smile at him. ‘I did think that through…’

La Luna…August moon, drapes a creamed canopy over the small of one’s back. Tan lines shiver as heated hands creamed in aloe, gently soften seared skin, cooling sun’s promise and warming moonbeam’s silver lance.

Sanded afternoons…yellow, grainy with lemony kisses…melt away emotion’s last defense…drops in a sloshing tide, dissolves amidst a swirl of crushed shells, stone and yesterday’s bruised memories.

Benvenuti La Luna Bella…

Our blue moon is exhausted from exertion; shining brilliantly last night over darkened trees, sleeping houses and cooling land. She settles slowly way off somewhere behind the forest on a quiet Saturday dawn as she winks and nods a greeting to the new month. Morning yawns cautiously in reply. They find themselves together on the down side of nothing.

This nothing day is not a day without purpose, but time where the mind’s eye, rested and cleansed looks outward; far, far ahead to see the horizon still mercifully uncluttered with tightly drawn squares, check marks, detailed lines of faces all demanding that something happen. On August the first, the day after the Blue Moon, nothing must happen. There is brewing coffee and porch lingering while listening to energized neighbors discuss methods of pulling rocks out of the front and side yard; a few vicious sneezes, and then silence.

Wherever those people linger who demand that we ‘do’, may they linger elsewhere for just a little bit longer because our summer is not yet spent. The season turns just a touch more with that inevitable twisting down toward cooling ground, longer evenings and lengthening shadows.

In June we tossed aside notebooks, envisioning endless sand, puffy clouds, watermelon ice and corn dogs; this time it would last forever. But July always comes to an end. So soon, too soon Earth’s yellow orb cowers under the Blue Moon’s gaze and she blinks first and so soon must we. But not today. Not yet.

August’s first early dawn settles, just a touch reserved; waiting as the white curtains in the reading room billow and flap wildly, and over this rocky terrain we call home, wind chimes blow continually at the edge of this house on the hill. He labors with the land by 6:30; weeding and by mid morning I shall take him cold, iced lemon water because all seasons require kindness…

The game’s energy still radiates off the fading photographs…framed baseball memories and caramel copper colored hall of fame walls, hallways and benches. Faces, chatter…now silenced…captured forever along with the memory of Jim Crow and The Cuban Giants…snuff, chew, cleats and gloves…Lefty Gomez, Dizzy Dean and Mordecai ‘three fingers’ Brown.

Watching his pride as he snaps photo after photo of Roberto Clemente…I understand him much better now.

An afternoon well spent in the snow covered, desolate and deserted fields of Cooperstown, New York.

Summer lights on the beach…’tis an ugly political season once again…and I skip with lanterns in the sand, eating hush puppies and crab meat, turning my face to the wind…breathing water and salt and silence.

I will not tread on trouble.

Most have read only the cover and introduction of things. There are many voices. No one truly knows the inner content.

I will not tread on trouble.

Eli’s morning statement: ‘You and I have to figure out how to handle Friday, Saturday and Sunday…the weekend…you know, we’re like horses let out of the corral’. I nod my head. He continues. ‘We need discipline and we don’t like discipline…you and me’. I nod my head. ‘We’re looking for the fifth leg of the cat, you know’. I nod, confused. I ask, ‘the fifth leg of the cat?’ He nods vigorously. ‘You know…the impossible…we’re looking for the impossible’. I nod. ‘The discipline, the ‘impossible’ or the cat?’ I wonder about these options out loud.

I’ve got horses, a cat with five legs…the concept of discipline. I’m not sure where I am in the conversation. ‘We need our ducks in a row’ he continues. So now, we’re off of the cats and horses, the mysterious fifth leg…and we find ourselves onto ducks. I reach into the bakery bag, the thing which started this whole conversation and grab a fresh, hot, salty pretzel dog. I take a bite.

‘Quack!’ I respond…

At approximately 2:30am, the heavens opened a window and threw a large bucket of water out over us. The deluge was short-lived, a thundering cavalcade across the roof and up against windows. I awakened, heard the sound and thought dreamily, ‘Oh good, this will break up the heat’.

The hot weather yesterday was beastly. Not monstrous like the western reddened land; burning up, lung searing, buried bones in crusted sand heat; the southwest endures that sort of furnace. No. Heat in the northeast is the kind which makes one stand at the end of the driveway, arms akimbo and say things such as ‘huh’ and ‘wait until February’. That sort of heat sets us back a pace or two. We don’t fight it. We don’t join it. We just wait.

On westward trips to South Dakota, as children our Mother admonished us, ‘Don’t fight it, it will only make you hotter’. In response we wailed, ‘But the seatbelt buckles are branding our legs!’ ‘Shhh…stop moving around so much. It only makes you hotter’. We hollered, ‘But look, the whole box of crayons has completely melted’. ‘Shhh…read a book, crank open the windows, be quiet and accept it’.

So now, as adults…freed from the searing buckles and the melted crayon wax, we handle the heat by going back inside the house. In the afternoon, we look out the living room window. The street is empty. There are a lot of children in this neighborhood. They will come out later when it cools down.

I haven’t seen our neighbors who live behind us for days, it seems. At twilight, I observe her with dog and family together, creep quietly out of the house and head up the sidewalk. The dog, a hugely furry husky looks bedraggled and generally disappointed with life. I wave and say, ‘Hello! How are you?’ ‘Oh, okay’…she sighs. ‘We’re finding things to do’. I nod and chuckle. ‘Huh’ I offer. She responds, ‘Huh’ and then they wander away, the dog still grieving his fate along the length of the heated sidewalk…

Notes on gravity and all things science…or not: when at the end of a long day, there is a bench in the hotel foyer which looks as if it is meant to be sat on…and under the end padded section of the bench, there is actually only air…and one is really tired…and one sits down on padded air…suddenly…wham! The floor is breached with panache and gumption.

The owner of the hotel comes running. The desk clerk comes running. A guest with a large dog comes running. A couple just entering the hotel observes that I am seated on the floor waiting to greet them.

The owner helped me up. The desk clerk, guest with dog, the couple…and others lingering in the area all slowly disappeared.

I’m fine.

Now, I’m going swimming. Wish me luck.