We woke today to a forecast of rainy drizzle. Never one of my favorite weather conditions, it was especially inconvenient on this day because we had promised our dogs much-needed exercise. Our car was in the shop all week, rendering us unable to take the puppas to the woods or the prairie, and neighborhood walks are mere placeholders for them. They love long walks with no traffic nearby, and the beagle lives for the scent of deer.
Having picked the car up from the mechanic too late yesterday to take them anywhere, we really felt we owed them a trip to the woods.
So after feeding all of the household critters while downing only a short portion of our morning coffee, the husband and I piled both dogs into the car and headed for the river path through the woods. There we saw geese, woodpeckers, cardinals, squirrels, and yes…plenty of deer. There’s no sound like the sound of Elwood on the trail of deer, and no frenzy like it, either. He darts to and from, tugging the leash and yelling. The sound that comes out of him is neither bay, nor howl, nor bark, but a unique mixture of the three, and it’s sheer joy for his people.
Tess, the maybe-a-year-old, maybe greyhound-cattle dog mix, is interested in the deer, but not frenzied. I think she cares more about the other dogs, all of whom she wants to be her friends. Alas, she didn’t get to play with any others this morning, but she still had a grand time leading and following her adoptive brother through the woods.
Back home, predictably, they collapsed together in a pile of legs and bellies and heads and fell fast asleep.
If that’s the only good thing that happens all day, it will be enough.
I have been less than reliable in posting daily poetry to the front stoop, and even less reliable adding it here. So today we have a double edition of #frontstooppoetry.
It turned back to winter after teasing us with false spring. First cold, then snow flurries, then a freezing mist last night that made everywhere a skating rink. I learned this morning that an icy-coated rubber welcome mat is even slipperier than an ice-coated wooden deck! (Good news: I did not fall.)
I had to acknowledge the mercurial weather on the chalkboard, with “Snow Flurries.” It did really feel kind of like Mother Nature was reminding us who’s in charge.
That was two days ago. This morning’s ice rink thawed fairly quickly, and I was able to walk down my alley and front sidewalk safely by about 10am. By late afternoon the temperature felt spring-like again, and shortly before sunset I spied a beautiful, slightly hazy half moon peering down at me from far above the pine tree in the back yard. I was happy enough when I went outside; the moon lifted my spirits even further.
Today I’m grateful to be re-establishing a podcast habit while walking, grateful that my hound dog tried to leap into my lap while I worked at my desk this afternoon, and grateful for the inspiration to post a new poem on the porch this evening. All in all, a good day, and it’s not yet over.
Already I’ve skipped a day of #frontstooppoetry. But I’m not daunted. I had missed more than a month before putting up this poem on Thursday, so a one-day gap is a big improvement. Right?
In any case,yesterday was a work day, and the start of a weekend so also a play day. And here I am today, and there’s a new poem on the chalkboard, so…progress!
Today is a Slow Saturday. I’ll get a haircut (overdue), get the rest of the Christmas decorations down (overdue), make a grocery list, maybe make or write a postcard or two, and otherwise probably just hang out with the pack. I’ve been on walks with both dogs already (separate ones, as somebody needs some serious leash work), so I already feel like the day hasn’t been wasted.
Looking for a good book?
Today’s reading is Parable of the Sower, my first Octavia Butler book ever. I’ve just started it. But there are two books I’ve read recently that I’m recommending widely:
Vanishing Treasures: A Bestiary of Extraordinary Endangered Creatures, by Katherine Rundell, is a beautifully written collection of essays about some of the many animals that are threatened or endangered. I found it simultaneously heartbreaking and heartwarming, a combination that seems impossible even after experiencing it.
The Barbizon: The Hotel that Set Women Free, by Pauline Bren, tells the tale of New York City’s women’s residential hotel, along with many of the famous women who called it home, including Grace Kelly, Sylvia Plath, and many more. For me, it also was an unparalleled look at the culture of the 1950s and what it meant for women.
And if, like me, you’re a fan of mysteries and noir, check out March Violets, by Philip Kerr, set in Nazi Germany before World War II. If you’ve got a reading suggestion for me, drop it in a comment.
Several years ago—back in the During Times (before the Before Times)—I was inspired by (i.e., copied) a friend and start posting short poems or poem snippets on a chalkboard on my front porch. It helped me connect with the world in a time when I badly needed to do so, and it helped nurture creativity, which nurtured me. I did it regularly, pretty much daily, for probably about two years, then less regularly, then sporadically, and now so rarely that there’s been little excuse lately for me to keep that chalkboard on the stoop.
Yet keep it there I have, likely because it has nurtured my soul in days past. I’ve met people through my front stoop poetry, mostly people stopping casually to say hello or even thank me for my words, but also one person I truly call a friend (You know who you are, M!).
I’ve tried numerous times to get myself back into the daily habit but haven’t succeeded. I’m trying again today. We’ll see what happens. Cross your fingers for me. You don’t have to want to read it; just know that it seems good for me.
In addition to the front porch, I’ve also shared #frontstooppoetry on social media, mostly Facebook. That’s a lot of hashtags I’ve posted—actually, a lot of the same hashtag. But now, I think I’m getting ready to swear off Facebook. It’s been feeding me what seems like 80-90% ads and suggested groups/posts for a long time, rather than my actual friends’ missives. While that has been frustrating, it’s Zuck’s decision to get rid of the fact checkers that is finally driving me away. Too much of social media is already an echo chamber, feeding people only what it knows they already want to hear. To do that without any concern for whether they’re propagating malicious lies is simply unconscionable.
Front stoop poetry needs a new digital home. So here it is. When I put a new poem on the porch, I will also put it here, instead of on social media. I’ve already done this occasionally (see posts tagged #frontstooppoetry here), but I’ll try to do it every time. Maybe that will even be daily; hope does spring eternal.
Meanwhile…Skirt side back
Skirt side back? What’s that about?
It’s part of a postcard that I made recently and sent off to a friend.It started out as a failed endeavor, something I tried and hated and set aside but didn’t throw away. That was a couple of years ago, I think, but I came across it recently and salvaged it by approaching what I had done as a foundation to build upon. I think it worked, and there’s a lesson there about viewing things in different ways, trying to find fresh perspective. Seeing something from a new or different vantage point can mean seeing something through someone else’s eyes as well, something I think we all and our world could profit from more and more these days.
Stop me before I climb up on my soapbox of kindness and start sprinkling fairy dust around the room.
Just like that(!), the tree seemed to fill with catbirds. I couldn’t see a single one, but my ears told me they were there, and then my Merlin app confirmed it. The catbird is one of my favorite birds—social and talkative, pretty in a quiet way. And not usually particularly shy, but today’s were. Perhaps a migrating flock?
Because they drew my eyes up to the tree canopy, the catbirds did me the favor of showing me a flitting, frolicking flock of goldfinches, who were uncharacteristically quiet. On the move almost constantly, they skipped from branch to branch, back and forth, and it took me some minutes to make out their brilliant yellow plumage.
Too long away
I haven’t sat out on the porch since before Tank died. This was his spot with me, and Rolo’s with and before him. We could sit for hours, them watching the world go by (Rolo) or sleeping (Tank), me reading or working. I think it’s no coincidence that I’ve returned now, when suddenly there’s another dog to accompany me. The new guy, Elwood, isn’t 100 percent comfortable yet on the porch, but then he isn’t really 100 percent comfortable anywhere, yet. It will come. He’s settling in more every day, showing more and more of his personality, claiming new spaces for his own.
Dogs, birds, books, neighbors. That’s what the porch is for, and my favorite times to be on it are during the spring and fall bird migrations. Tonight’s migration forecast is “HIGH” (Thanks, BirdCast!). I wonder who I’ll see!
It’s a grateful Sunday. Gray and occasionally misty outdoors, following a day or so of strong but not scary wind, all I believe remnants of Hurricane Helene, which moved so much more quickly than most post-hurricane storm systems. I’m tired of gray, rainy days, but grateful to have my home in tact, no giant limbs ripped from trees, no heartbreak.
A friend in Georgia has heartbreak, a home and yard she loved in tatters, trees through the roof, ceilings collapsed. The home is uninhabitable, probably reparable eventually but currently with no power, a gas leak in the area, and of course that jagged opening to the sky. My friend has decamped to Atlanta, grateful that she, her husband and dog were uninjured, but devastated by this abrupt loss and the uncertainty that is now her world.
Friends in Florida were lucky this time, and they and I are grateful for that. At the same time, we’re reminded again how precarious the world is and especially the climate. We have done this to ourselves, and here in the Midwest it’s still easy—though terribly short-sighted—to not be worried. Our temperatures have risen, spring comes earlier, and here in September the leaves are already falling from some trees. Tornados and other dangerously severe storm systems are more common. It’s not the same climate I grew up in. While it’s a grateful Sunday, it’s also a wary one, worried for friends, worried for our interconnected future.
So I read
Meanwhile, what better to do with gray days that read and cuddle with a dog? I’ve just finished my Roger Angell book (This Old Man), having started down the rabbit hole of other reading it inspired even before closing the cover. I’ve checked one Angell-inspired book out on Hoopla, placed a library hold on another, and read two poems that Angell singled out for praise: Elizabeth Bishop’s “Poem,” and Philip Levine’s “Turkeys.” I confess I don’t yet love either one as much as Angell did. But I’m still re-reading them, and one of Levine’s lines stuck its claws into me instantaneously: “… The next year / spring came late if / at all. …”
Wow.
Wonderland
The rabbit hole already has opened into a warren I might get lost in, as looking for the Bishop poem I chanced on this blog post about it, referencing an essay discussing it in the introduction of a book, and now I also have a blog post and a book introduction to read.
All of which reminds me of something I read not long ago in defense of owning books you might never read, wherein someone made an argument that books aren’t only for reading. That’s right. Discovering books nourishes the soul, too—reading the back cover or the first paragraphs or pages in the book store and having those grab your interest so that you want to read it right then, even if you already have 200 books awaiting your attention, even if after you get it home you never recapture that moment of being thrilled and intrigued and the book ultimately goes unread in your home.
Meanwhile, I’m off to book club in an hour to discuss Dawn Turner’s memoir Three Girls from Bronzeville, which I read shortly after it was published in 2021 and haven’t reread but hope to remember clearly enough to profit from the conversation. On our way to book club, we’ll stop at the library to drop off Roger Angell and pick up the on-hold book it led me to by Donald Barthelme.
Enter Elwood, stage left
Did you notice where I mentioned cuddling with a dog earlier? We said goodbye to our Tank on August 1—I hope one day to be able to write about this, but for now it’s still too raw—and have been living without a dog in the house for the first time in 30 years. That ended last Sunday, when we drove into Chicago and met Duke, a shy 6-year-old beagle. We brought him home on a trial basis—because we have two rabbits (Tank’s best friends) who occupy a hutch in our living room; any dog we bring in has to be able to co-exist—and so far, so good. We believe we are headed toward adoption, in which case Duke will become Elwood. We would not normally rename a 6-year-old dog, but this guy truly does not recognize Duke as his name and responded to Elwood the moment we tried it out.
Already we’re growing attached, both to this sweet beagle and to the renewed experience of living with a dog. The greetings, the wiggles, the cuddles, the outings to the woods, the soft scent of dog. Elwood bounds into the room and tiptoes into our hearts.
