Bricks & Crayons
Six discarded red bricks, (scorched around the edges,) three boards, [...]
Stir
Fishing my favorite wooden spoon from its home in the [...]
Missing Person
Someone I knew and liked died last week. His name was Nathan. I’m not writing for sympathy or to prompt the perfunctory “sorry for your loss” comments that grief seems to elicit these days. That human, AI-esque response akin to “have a nice day,” that has become habit, accompanied by the praying hands emoji doesn’t have context here. We were casual friends, both writers with similar backgrounds and interests. I was in his outer circle, a peripheral player with occasional intersection in person and on social media. I’m not even sure what I’m feeling is grief, but there’s a wrenching pit in my gut that twists toward sadness.
Lightly Toasted
It’s 5:47 AM and there’s a thumping in our bed. I squint awake to see one brown and blue eye staring at me with commanding intensity. A happy tail is the racket maker, beating our mattress and Smokin Hot Love Biscuit’s left calf.
“She’s pushing me off the bed,” SHLB complains. His tough exoskeleton act is a flimsy front for his extra-large cardiac muscle.
“Is that why you have your arm around her? To get her off you?”
“It’s a self-defense strategy. Otherwise, she might attack me.” His eyes are still closed, lips upturned in a grin.
“I think you said that because she’s part Pit Bull.”
“Probably so,” SHLB answers as Toast rolls onto her back for a belly rub. We oblige her with obedience.
“Happy Gotcha Day, Toasty,” I say as she nuzzles me. It’s been a year since Toast came to us as an emergency re-home. We flunked fostering with flying colors.
The Many Sides of Ever
The bartender’s dark hair waves back, a modern-day James Dean [...]
Scraps for Thought
Mom kept a canvas bag in the bottom of her closet. It was stuffed with fragments of fabric. The pieces were left-over remnants of gingham, corduroy, and flannel, with occasional slices of satin, that she’d sewn into garments, her Singer machine a productive hum of handiwork in our household. Denim, khaki, and wool that we outgrew and was deemed unsuitable for a hand me down also got deposited into the savings sack. In wintertime, when bags bulged, she and Granny combined their respective pieces to patch together quilts. Patterns were designed, a backing was framed with tobacco sticks, and they took to their corners in Granny’s living room, needled, thimbled, and threaded for bear. Some of my aunts, great aunts, and older cousins came at times, creating a quilting commune. None of the women on Mama’s side were big talkers. A fire burned in the fireplace while Mahalia Jackson and Elvis kept us company through the AM gospel station. Precious Lord Take My Hand and Peace in the Valley can flat out fill up a room. I played underneath the wooden frame, a canopy oasis hideaway for my Matchbox cars and story books.
Layering
It’s windy as we cross the bridges toward Morehead City. The rowdy waves white cap along Gallant’s Channel and down Newport River. There’s a sparkle on the surface. I’m told this glint of light on clear water is why we strut the title Crystal Coast.
“We should move here,” says Smokin Hot Love Biscuit from the driver seat. If riding around mid-day in a state of relaxed happiness when we used to be working makes us retro, then that worn, well-heeled shoe fits and we are styling.
A Little Boot
2024 is a leap year. I always wondered how the February 28th and March 1st feel about their part-time, next-of-kin sibling who shows up every four years and gets a special name, changing up the mix, knocking months two and three akimbo from their same day synchronization. I imagine suspicious side eyes and snide remarks in calendar world. I suspect that Leap Day is used to this treatment, embracing that haters gonna hate and understanding that the role of being different and special isn’t without cost.
Fog Lights
Warm fronts have summonsed fogs to the saltwater creek near our house this week, shrouding water and landscape with a layer of misty fabric. It reminds me of the all-cotton dishtowels Mom used to drape over Sunday lunch. Soft to the touch, they lounged on Pyrex dishes, loose and lazy in their coverage.
In concert with this fog, the tide has been rolling in slow motion, making reflections sit still, pond-like. I like this respite from the January cold. The warm moisture creates boings of curls around my head and inserts a bounce in my step.
Winter fogs are real stunners, not in the normal sunny “everything is perfect” way, but in the irregular, uncommon beauty of that which alters the ordinary. The fogs of late are smoky and sexy and I’m crushing on them.
These aren’t the first fogs I’ve taken as lovers; I’ve always had a bend toward this type of weather. As a youngster, when my comprehension was tunneled and singular, directed at that which was visual, I found fog delightful. From the window of our little farmhouse on the hill, I thought that the pastures had vanished in vapor, as if a magician had performed a disappearing act, only to be returned with sunlight. On some levels, this sounds concerning, but it was my first real encounter with mystical.
Batteries
Last year I bought several strands of vintage white, battery [...]