Prompt 7

 What have you learned about yourself, about your relationship to the physical world, about yourself as a writer over the term? How might your experiences affect your future writings?

Well, I've found that I like nature just slightly more than I thought I did when I began this class. I still much prefer to view nature through my windows, but when I do interact with the outside world, I am able to see connections I never noticed before. One thing I've done with all of my writing this semester (and not just for this class) is explore how fear and anxiety color the way I see and interact with the world. For the most part, I've enjoyed looking at how my antagonist relationship with nature is actually due to my fear of nature. At the same time, I've found niches that actually comfort me, rather than worry me. It was illuminating and rather unexpected, as I thought I'd spend most of the blogs writing about how nature was ruining my life.

That being said, I'm not so sure that I feel any closer to my particular place, or to any one natural place. I'd say I'm more open to finding the good things in a particular place. I found that the prompts got me thinking about place, something I often forget about and take for granted. I'll be more likely to pay attention to particulars and description, and look for the little things that I can connect with (like a camelback cricket becoming my nemesis, for example). The small things can do a lot of work if you let them. :)

Place #7

It is hot outside today--82 degrees!--and I am sitting in my back yard in my swimsuit, trying to tan after doing some laundry. The empty house next door got its grass cut today, so the air smells like gasoline and grass. It's dry, too, and the grass is prickly on my bare feet.

Sadie came out with me, and sniffed around for a few seconds before plopping down in the sun--something she rarely does in the back yard, usually preferring the softer carpet inside. I put some water out for her, but she just sniffs at it and walks away, panting. I've laid out a blanket for my feet (protection against the pricklies), and I've set my beach chair to lean me back just a bit. I'm wearing my sunglasses, and it is hot enough that they are already sliding down my nose, and sweat is lining my face, even though I've really only been out for about three minutes.

I'm suddenly aware of screaming from the yard behind mine. I cannot see over the fence I have, but it sounds like two young kids, one definite girl. The screaming couldn't have just started, but I don't remember hearing it before. Surprisingly, I do not hear any lawn mowers or edgers or leaf blowers.

The tree in the other neighbor's yard keeps moving in a wind that I cannot feel. The leaves are flipped a bit at the top of the tree, a sign I always took to mean it was about to rain. This morning it looked like it might, but now the sky is full of fluff and blue and I'm not too sure we'll get rain.

Sadie makes a noise somewhere between a grunt and a yawn and gets up. She keeps looking up at the sky, and I wonder why. Is she hearing something I don't? Is she amazed at the sun? Are there birds circling that I cannot see? I can hear some, the usual songbirds, I guess. She wanders around for a while, and keeps going to the water bowl without drinking anything. She'll go to the shade and stand, and then go to the sunny spot and stand. This bothers me. I am trying to relax, but every time she moves the lead she is on wraps around my chair, and then she cries because she is tangled up. I unhook her.

Every few minutes a small breeze comes through. It feels cool and good and I take a deep breath each time. The air doesn't smell any different. I was hoping someone would be having a cook out, or grilling something up, but the air is just grass and heat.

Now every time Sadie moves I get nervous she is going to take off and run. We cannot win, and it looks like my plan to sit and relax is not going very well. I snap my fingers and call her over; she comes languidly, moving in slow motion. The heat is slowing her down. This is good. If she takes off, I will be able to catch her. Hopefully. She finally plops down in the sunny grassy spot and seems content to sit for a few.

It is nice to not have the annoying lawn mower and leaf blower sounds as I sit here. There aren't many cars going by either, so all the noises I hear are natural--the wind in the leaves, the kids screaming across the yard, the birds tweeting and singing around, the chair scrunching each time I move one way or another. A big bumblebee comes near my head every so often, and I prefer to watch its shadow dance around my head than look up at it and be blinded by the sun. The hum makes me nervous--it's awfully close to my head!--but I keep it cool and manage to stay in my chair.

We sit like this for a while, Sadie and I. Every so often Sadie moves and I tense, but she settles herself back down--sometimes in the shade, sometimes next to me--and we both relax again. When I feel the raw skin on my knee start to tingle, I decide it's time to go in. Sadie, usually running from in to out or out to in, ambles to the door and stands with her front paws right on the door track. She yawns, and goes up to my bed to lay in my fresh-from-the-dryer laundry.

Prompt #6

A few years ago, my friend British Beth invited me to go with her family to Disney World over Christmas vacation. I went, and we had a blast. It was a tough week, though, and when we ended up at the beach toward the end of the week, British and I were worn out and starting to get snippy with each other, a common problem among people who are born loners and forced to spend a week together is a very small shared space. Our hotel suites were right on the beach, though, so after we were settled in we decided on a walk.

It sounded like a lovely idea. I always remember that the beach smells so good, and that I love the sound of the crashing waves, and the feel of the water going over my feet. I forget that sand gets everywhere, and once I'm wet the sand will then stick to me everywhere, and the sand is hot, and it hurts my knees to walk it in for long periods. I forget that crabs build little nests or something and if you kick one the crabs will try to attack your toes. That wonderful smell is actually salt and decay. The wind can be fierce and kick the sand into your face. There's nowhere to pee unless you go out into the water. There are jellyfish. And regular fish. And sharks. (Well, maybe not sharks).

Luckily, it was later in the day, and the sun was setting, so the sand wasn't too hot. I wore sandals that I could remove, so I was able to bury my feet in the sand if I needed to and not worry about getting sand in my shoes. There was a breeze, but just a light one. There was a boardwalk almost up to the water. It was winter, off season for jellyfish, and our patch of beach was dead-thing-free. Few people were still there, so we had a patch of beach to ourselves.

British and I walked together for a little bit, but we pulled away from each other after a while, looking at shells or just sitting and staring. The sun was really starting to set, and the sky was turning so many different shades of pink and red and orange and blue and purple. I decided to just stand for a bit, and watch the water, and the sun, and listen to the ocean, and breath in the air.

The breeze stayed the same. The air got a little cooler, but it was still comfortable. I stood with my feet in enough of the waves that the water would sometimes crash up to my calves, maybe my knees, but usually stayed down around my ankles. I let my feet sink into the sand, feeling the wet slimy grimy bits get in between my toes and massage my heels. The air smelled like salt, or like Dover after a rain storm. There were very few people on the beach, and it was quiet except for the occasional seagull or jet speeder out on the ocean. The waves crashed in and out in a rhythm that was exciting, soothing, and unpredictable.

I closed my eyes and felt the sun on my face. I found a moment of calm.

In that moment, I felt a peace that I only felt once before, at a midnight retreat at my church. Standing in the water I found that I wasn't worrying, or thinking about tomorrow, or what I would order at dinner, or wondering if I had eaten too quickly or too much at lunch, or if I should repack for the third time, or what I should have for the first day of school when we got back from the break, or if my mother was really OK that I was missing her birthday, and if Dad was angry I'd spent the holiday away from home. I wasn't analyzing everything that British said to see if she was upset with her mother, or her father, or me, or trying to find the perfect way to be the buffer between them all, the perfect guest and hostess all in one. I wasn't wondering was Marie meant when she said, "Well, do all Americans take Disney studies at school?" because even though she clearly meant it as a joke, was she secretly saying I was being too controlling in the park, and should I have let us wander around lost instead of finding a map and directing us along? Are the asthma attacks I keep having asthma or am I dying of bronchitis? Should I take the medicine when we get back to the room, knowing that it is going to make me sleepy, but knowing that we have dinner to go to yet? Can I listen to my headphones when I get back without being rude? What if there are jelly fish in this sand and I get stung? What if we get lost on the beach? What if we get locked out of our hotel? What if Mom doesn't like the present I got her? What if Tony and Marie need us while we're out here? What if...?

I was listening to the waves, and feeling the sun on my face, and breathing deeply.

I wanted to find a way to show my appreciation for the moment, but quietly. It wouldn't do to run up to someone and say "I just found peace with my lord and saviour! Come join me!" That's not how the moment presented itself, and that wasn't the purpose of the moment, anyway. It would ruin it to share it in such an ungraceful and unpeaceful way.

I had found some shells earlier on the trip, and I had them in my hand. I took a few steps away from the waves, so the sand was still went but not in the surf. I took a shell and wrote Be still, and know that I am... in the sand, and set the shells around it.

It would disappear in a while, the shells taken back into the ocean, the words filled in when the tide came back. But it was there for a while. And so was I.

Place Entry 6

I've been stuck inside. I had a massive allergic reaction to medication last week, and now I am laid up due to knee surgery. So these last two weeks, I've gotten to experience nature in my favorite way: through a window. :)

Sadie likes it. For the first time in a while, she is out of her crate during the day, during the week, and the sun shines through the back window almost all day. She follows it as it arcs across my floor, lazing around. She almost never sleeps in front of me, and so it is a treat for me as well. She makes little noises every so often, and jerks her legs. I like to pretend she is chasing the rabbits from the back yard in her dreams. I hooked her up to a long lead and let her outside last week, so she could laze against the warm ground. She sat at the door and cried until I let her back in. She promptly curled up on the carpet, in the sun.

The rabbits from the back yard have been enjoying the weather as well. There seem to be more of them now, as tends to happen, I guess. I counted three or four outside by the bushes, and another one was sitting right next to my car in the front yard. I stood at the door on my crutches for a few minutes, and it watched me out of the corner of its eye, little nose twitching. It was getting somewhat late, and was a little dark, and it seemed really chill. We looked at each other for a while, and then I shut the front door and hobbled back to my recliner.

Somehow, Sadie missed that rabbit, but saw the cat two yards over and went nuts at the window for a good 20 minutes. When the cat cut through the back yard a little while later, Sadie leaned on her hind legs and whined.

There was a squirrel that was climbing on my fence for about 20 minutes. It sat there on top, not moving very much, which I think is a feat for a squirrel. It was just kind of enjoying the sun and the view, i guess, since . No birds came to bother it, and Sadie didn't seem to mind it there. I dozed off, and when I woke up, it was gone.

The people are starting to come out of hibernation, too. All week I have heard lawn mowers and leaf blowers going, an almost constant background noise. My lawn, so painstakingly cut two Fridays ago, is almost a jungle again. I can see those purple things sticking up in the dip in my lawn, and some dandelions are sprouting as well. On Sunday someone knocked at my door and offered to mow my lawn for $20. I almost took them up on it, but I noticed they didn't have a lawn mower with them, and decided it was a scam.

I've been woken by birds every morning for the last two weeks. I've slept downstairs, in my recliner, and this morning I got to see the sky change from pitch black to streaks of pink to full on blue with puffy white clouds. Today my dad will mow my lawn. This is my kind of nature.

With sincere apologies

Hi everyone,

I wanted to apologize for being MIA on last Friday's posts and for being so late with this week's blog entry. I am in no way trying to make excuses, but the 3rd marking period ended for me last week and I got confused by what I had done for this class, and what I had done for work, and what I still had left to do. I only realized today that I had missed the week. I'm going to try to catch myself up tonight with the posts on Moodle, and I appreciate your understanding.

Hope all of your papers are going great!

-B

BLOG PROMPT #5

 My brother had a telescope when we were little, along with circular star charts in folds of rectangular paper, an oblong hole cut into it to mimic the odd shape of the sky at night. I would play with it, spinning the star chart through the hole, watching the sky change on the paper before me, never making the connection to the actual night sky.

I loved stargazing, never cared much for finding constellations, enjoyed watching the Pleiades meteor shower with friends. I took an astronomy class to become closer to the sky, like I might study colors to understand da Vinci. I learned that telescopes use two lenses, and I was able to see the rings of a tiny, tiny Jupiter through them.

The sky is constant, in that it is always changing, but will always come back to what it was. I'm not the first to notice this and not the last to romanticize it, but there is comfort there, knowing that someone can change and still be the same at the end of it all.

With the sky, there is no way for me to accidentally step into its territory and frighten it, or disturb its habitat beyond repair.  No one complains about space garbage or makes me feel guilty for not conserving the stardust.

The night sky is a study in extremes--planets cooking in the day, planets freezing at night, stars so far away we don't even have numbers to represent the distance, but moons so small they can fit between two pinched fingers. 

I like the sky because it is up there. I can see it, and it can be beautiful, but it cannot directly interact with me and I cannot change it. It is inevitable and no amount of effort or lack thereof on my part will stop it. There is no pressure on me. There is nothing and no one compelling me to do anything and the sky doesn't ask me to participate. There's a lot of possibility out there, but it isn't possibility I have to act on or take hold of or grab before it disappears.

I find the few touchstones I know--Orion, the Moon, maybe a Dipper if I'm desperate--and that is all that is required of me. The sky doesn't care that I cannot name all of the stars. They'll burn without all that. 

Place Entry #5: The Grass is Always Greener

I've become the kind of person that is obsessed with grass.

We've had a lot of awfully nice weather this week. And in this very nice weather, I've found that my grass is patchy. As I stepped out into my back yard today,  I saw just how high some of the grass was. Sadie darted out between my feet, and some of the longer stalks came up to her shoulder. Granted, she's only 11 inches tall. She seemed startled by the grass, walking gingerly around the yard, and hopping over a big patch like she was jumping a fence. She ran back inside and I couldn't persuade her to come back out.

The ground is soft and slightly wet, like a damp sponge that had been left on top of the dryer, or in the sun on a window sill. There is a small clump of purple flowery-type things growing over by my fence. As I walk to the middle of my yard, I brush through the grass and little things fly up. I cannot tell if they are bugs or pollen, and I've decided I don't want to know. The rabbit that lives in the bushes on the edge of the property is preparing to run, and I wish Sadie were here to run after it, because Sadie could use the run and there's no danger of her catching it.

My backyard is uneven, I decide. The bits against my house and back porch are higher than the middle of the yard, which often turns into a mini-lake / swamp area during rain. They are the parts that got mowed the least last year, because my mower kept dying. The yard slopes down again on the sides, and there is a tree that is really green because all of the water runs right to its roots. This unevenness is accentuated by my uneven grass. The parts in the swamp aren't growing at all, which at first confuses me, but then I figure they just get drowned out by all the water. The area around the bushes at the property line are eaten down each day by the rabbit, so there are just a few big tufts of thick grass there.

As I've been walking Sadie, I've been paying attention to the grass. This is suburbia, or as close to it as Dover gets, and lawns are a big deal. When my dad was down last weekend, we walked Sadie through the neighborhood. He lamented that no one here cares about their grass. There are brown patches in almost every yard. I pointed out that we were just starting spring, and people weren't really thinking about grass yet. He said, "Well, yeah, sure..." and I got the idea that he thinks we should all always be thinking about our grass, as though it is a symbol of how much you care for your neighborhood.

I am overly worried about my yard. My neighbors on both sides have very nice green yards, with grass that, if not perfectly mowed, is at least at a respectable height. My yard, while not completely sticking out, could quickly become the eyesore of the corner. I measure my house against the abandoned house down the street. I have more tufts of thick green than they do, although theirs is generally less groomed.

It bothers me that I am the kind of person who worries about grass. I had neighbors in high school who planted wildflowers for their front lawn, and never had to worry about mowing it, except for a tiny swath of grass they left in the middle and called the "Art Highway" in honor of the path my brother would take to their front door. These people certainly didn't worry about grass, and they turned out alright.

As I sit here, I wonder how it is that lawns became the way in which we present ourselves to society. I can see from my back yard a nicely manicured lawn with a cute Adirondack chair and a planter in the front yard, and of course that is appealing and welcoming, but it's also silly because I never see anyone sitting in the chair and it will just get all gross when it rains. Behind me, in the house with the dogs that never stop barking, the yard in fenced in and looks like it is mostly dying grass and dirt from the dogs running outside all of the time. That does give a different vibe, I guess.

I've been wanting to hold off on mowing, but I don't think I can anymore. Soon it will be obvious where the property lines are based on the height of the grass. I haven't heard anyone else mow yet, and I don't want the neighborhood to wonder why I am mowing so early in the season. At the same time, I'd hate for them to wonder why the heck my grass is so long.

I guess I'd better go move the newspaper from the front yard first...

Blog Prompt #4

Dover is right in the middle of the state; one of the biggest problems in the area (that I know of, and that are talked of a lot) is the zoning laws. A lot of people around here have goats and chickens, but live in residential areas (I wrote about this before, being at a friend's house and having the chickens and goats on their back porch while we partied inside). Within the state, very little comes up when I ask google to find me "Delaware environmental concerns." A lot of topics give me a plethora of reading (remember my Nemesis? TONS of pages on the Camelback Cricket!) Cape Henlopen State Park is having a controlled burn to reinvigorate the area, ecologically speaking, and make it less likely to have an out-of-control wildfire. Because we are about an hour from the beach, beach issues pop up a lot. There are concerns about the rise in the sea level, and the problems with the quality of water being dumped into the Chesapeake Bay area, and there have been some (two, maybe?) public forums on the overall plan for a "pollution diet" (their words!) for the Bay.

Honestly, though, I consider myself a bit of news junkie, and the environment never seems to come up. I listen to local News radio every day in the morning and evening, I'm constantly on the internet news sites, and there isn't much there to hear--nothing being reported, anyway. I wonder if it is because so many people turn off when they hear something about the environment, or if there really isn't anything to tell (which I doubt). Is it just that murders and politics and business is more sexy to news media?

And maybe that's part of the problem with environmentalism: the public perception. Environmentalist reporting seems to come into two camps: crazy militant or crazy. I saw an article where some group was freaking out at a car company for using "The Lorax" characters to advertise their "green" car (I'm not sure if it was electric or hybrid). The group was very upset that the car company would use The Lorax to sell an SUV, because clearly cars hurt the environment. They're lashing out at advertising. I know more about that than I do about my own environment. If someone where to start writing about the issues with the Chesapeake Bay watershed, would anyone even want to listen? Or would it just be written off as people complaining, causing a panic, bothering the public with ridiculous little problems that don't actually matter in the grand scheme of things?

I guess what's I'm  actually writing about then: the lack of quality information on the subject, and the lack of a quality audience to listen. I don't know that's it possible to reach a new audience here, and I speak from my own experience. I've read the stuff I'm supposed to for this class, but I haven't really enjoyed it. I wouldn't have picked up any of it if I hadn't been assigned it. Yes, it's all very good writing. But even after reading it--especially Terry Tempest Williams--I do not know that I'd be able to write it, or even want to. I feel like anyone who would want to read it would already be a convert; I'd be preaching to the choir. And maybe that's why I don't seem to find much with a basic search.

Place entry #4:

This afternoon, I took a walk around my small circle. It has been extremely windy out, and I was worried about it too much yesterday to take the walk I wanted. This afternoon, though, the wind has died down somewhat, and while it isn't as warm as it has been this week, the sun is bright and shining and I only need my light jacket, no gloves.

As I set out from my house and turn right, I notice right away that there are about four newspapers in my driveway, two of which are crushed and pulpy. I resolve to pick them up on the way back, but I know I will forgot or just decide not to. They are not my newspapers. As I continue walking down the sidewalk, I see an empty plastic vodka bottle thrown into the yard between my house and my neighbor's. I resolve to pick it up on my way back, but I know I will forget. I keep walking, down toward the abandoned house on the corner. A man has started up his car and is going back inside his house for something. We barely acknowledge each other, maybe a nod of the head, maybe not.

I turn right before I hit the abandoned house. A small dog with whom I am familiar barks at me from inside the house on my right. Next to that, a large dog starts barking, too.  I hear the own yell for it to shut up. I can see it in the window seat, and it is panting and whining and wants to come out and jump on me. It is brown, I think, but there is some glare so maybe it isn't.

There are all sorts of round pine-cone type things on the ground. They remind me of sea urchins from a book my mother used to read to me when I was little. When I step on them, their spines crunch but their round bodies stay strong and do not flatten. They cover the sidewalk all the way down this road. I idly kick a few, and they don't go very far. I step on several, and their spines flatten, sometimes with a satisfying crunch but with all the rain we had over the last two days most are too soggy for that.

I turn right again. I am a block behind my house now, catty-corner from it. I could see it through the trees if I tried, but I don't need to. Besides, on this block you need to watch where you step. Right as I think that, I notice a huge pile of dog shit on the left of the sidewalk, easily several days old. A few feet later, there is another, just on the side walk off the grass on the right. I am disgusted. I resolve to bring big bags with me next time, and triple bag this stuff. I won't remember. There is some broken glass a few more feet down the lane. I avoid it.

At the end of the block, the house has the whole corner fenced in for their three Caviler King Charles Spaniels. The dogs are not out today, which is good. They are vicious, and usually snarl and bark at anyone who comes by. I take my time as I turn right again, looking at the trees that grow inside the fence. There are a lot, five or six, and the yard seems extra big, fenced in from the front to the very back all along the side. There are leaves still on them, a few anyway, but the ground isn't very grassy. A small stuffed dog wearing a Santa hat has been abandoned in the middle of the yard. I have seen the brown dog that lives here carry it with him when he is outside. There is some sort of trash against the fence, but I can't make out what. It's papery. Soon I am at the backyard that I share with the left side of my duplex. There is an empty fast food cup in the grass. A few feet up from that, a beer can. My neighbor's trashcan is on its side in the front yard, possibly blown over by the wind, maybe left there after trash day Thursday. It's not my problem.

I turn right again, the last time. I am at my house. I am thirsty and have to pee. I check that I have my keys and go in the front door, ignoring the newspapers. M. will pick them up when she comes to see me next time.

Coming into the neighborhood, there is a sign that says "NEIGHBORHOOD WATCH. WE REPORT ANY SUSPICIOUS ACTIVITY." This implies that we take pride in our neighborhood, and consider it our home, in the "where the heart is" sense of the word.

But we sure as hell won't clean up after ourselves.

Prompt Post 3.2: My Nemesis. I don't care if it is "harmless."

A decent nemesis always shares some element with you; otherwise, beating them doesn't allow any catharsis. Anyone can defeat some random encounter. Defeating yourself, overcoming yourself, growing beyond yourself: that is the purpose of a nemesis.Of course, this doesn't mean that a nemesis isn't also very creepy; usually, they are. Mine is no exception.

The camelback cricket prefers to live in dark, damp spaces. It survives best in basements and garages if it isn't out in the wild living in caves and under rocks. It relies heavily on its sense of touch, as it only comes out at night. The actual body of a camelback is very small, at most only two inches long, which reminds me somehow of a tank, armored and strong. One of its nicknames, the spider cricket, comes from its incredibly long legs--they can be up to four inches in length. As mentioned in a previous post, it has been known to eat its own legs in times of extreme starvation.

When frightened, the camel back cricket jumps toward the stimulus. Given its odd shaped body, and the fact that it can jump so very far--it has been described as an insect "on pogo sticks"--this is usually enough for the attacker to run away screaming (at least in my experience). This then gives the cricket time to run away and hide. The bravado masks what I already know: this is a harmless creature. Fearless and harmless.

So I wonder, then: why am I so afraid of this little bug?What sends me running from the room when I see them, usually yelling, on the verge of tears?

And that, right there, is the answer to my question. The reason I hate this little bugger so much: When a camel back cricket is afraid, it faces its enemies and attacks.

When I am afraid, I run away, crying.

Prompt #3.1: My Nemesis. The Camelback Cricket.

According to Wikipedia (and they would know!): The camelback cricket has been known to eat it's own extremities in times of extreme starvation. Their legs and antennae grow extra big and long for just this purpose (also to help them see in the dark, but I'm going to focus on the "voluntary self cannibalism" thing).

So basically, I have chosen as my nemesis a bug that will willingly eat itself to survive, and has evolved in such a way to make that EASIER.

I'm screwed.

Place #3: The moon: A complaint

The moon was full last weekend and the beginning of this week. It was bright, illuminating the street much better than the old fashioned lamp outside my house. The extremely clear skies that led to the dropping temperatures also allowed the light of the sun to reflect perfectly off the moon.

On Sunday I went to a friend's house to watch the Superbowl. Her husband is a park ranger, and they live in the park, away from the main road and civilization. When I was there a few weeks ago, her sky was brimming with stars, more than I will ever see on my nightly walks with Sadie here. I was excited to see them again, and I went outside after dinner (around 6:00) to look at them, much to M.'s and the hostess's amusement.

But they were gone, obscured by the light of the moon. The moon itself looked pale--paler than usual, almost washed out by the vibrancy of its reflected light. The sky was clear, and the night was perfect, in terms of stargazing conditions. Except for the moon.

I tried for a few moments, but even my beloved Orion was hard to find. I trampled back into the house a few minutes later, frustrated. My opportunity to stargaze for a while had been swallowed up in the light.

Monday night, as I took Sadie for her walk, I again found that it was bright out, this time at 9:00 PM. As we made our stop in the back yard, I looked up, and once again, the moon was there--bright white, like a halogen bulb in an oncoming car. Orion was gone. My touchstone was missing. I felt out of place. I curse the full moon, boring and bright as it was.

On Tuesday, Sadie and I went to pick up M. for our daily walk. It was about 5:00 or so, a little too early for true dusk, but getting there. As Sadie and I crossed the street to wait in front of the apartments, I noticed a pale yellow light through the trees, right above the horizon, barely over the tops of the houses and the fenced in back yard where the three Great Danes live. I assumed the street lights were coming on, and ignored it. Daisy and M. came out of the house, and the dogs pulled us toward the dumpsters, behind the apartments. As we walked, the trees thinned a little, and we turned right down the street to start our loop.

There, on the horizon, hung the moon. It was a welcoming, pale yellow, no longer the painful white. It rode just above the houses, low in the sky. Instead of vibrant white light, the moon fairly glowed, like a gold necklace newly shined. The sky behind it was darkening, which made the moon stand out even more--like a fire on a cold night, giving warmth.

Hey, check out the moon, I said to M.
Wow, M replied.

We walked for a little while in quiet after that.

I'd forgotten that there was beauty outside of a few stars.

Prompt post 2

Each night when I take Sadie out to pee, I follow the same routine. Open my venetian blinds using the long pole  I unlock my sliding door. I flip the light switch for my back porch, and slide the door open a quarter of the way. Sadie and I step outside, she usually rushing to the grass, and I step out onto the cold concrete, usually barefoot. I leave the door behind me open, the long blind pole hanging in the middle of the opening. I make sure Sadie isn’t running after a rabbit—if her ears are up, I pay attention. If she is just sniffing around, I know we’re safe—and I look up.
        On a clear night, I get a good look at the stars. When the night isn't clear, it's OK. Over the fence there is a low glow from the street lamp on the corner, and it mixes with the mist in the air, giving the night a dream quality. Anything could happen in soft light like that.
         When they are there, I spend more time looking at them than I do watching Sadie. I don't know many constellations, but that usually isn't the point. In the summer I will put a blanket down and put sadie on a string and we will sit and gaze at the stars and think of nothing. The stars will ask nothing of me but to be there, and I will ask nothing of them but their company. We will sit in companionable silence, old friends meeting again after time apart, until Sadie jumps on my face, or cries to go back inside.
         A few times I've gotten lost in the reverie, missed her stand stock still, ears at attention, and then all of the sudden she's gone, running after one of the rabbits that lives in the bushes in the back yard. I call to her, and sometimes she turns right back around. Once she made it to the yard catty corner from ours, and I thought she'd be lost in the dark. She pranced back a few minutes later, and stood by the door, waiting to be let in. Last night it was raining, and Sadie wouldn’t go outside. We went through our ritual, up until I opened the door. She hurried outside, made a comical turn-around on three legs, and then hunkered right back inside

Place 2.1

The weather has been weird this week. It went up to somewhere in the 60s earlier, and we had thunderstorms. In January. It's a little much to handle. Where's my snow?

We've also had big wind. As I was walking Sadie around the block, I saw a tree that finally had lost all of its leaves. There were three bird's nests in it. Two looked fairly normal, but one had been built at an angle on some of the more thin branches, and I was amazed that it was still up and in one piece. I saw a stick or two hanging down, but it was still there, and wedged quite nicely between two branches.

Place #2

Orion has been hidden for most of this week, although each time I go out at night, I've been looking for him. It's been cold, too, so the stoves are going. Walking Sadie each night, I get whiffs of fireplaces, and I want to go home. The smokey smells reminds me of Hampton, and I miss it terribly.

There was a stray dog out today. Sadie and I left (for a break from writing, for me, and some attention, for her) and started walking, down toward the abandoned house. Coming toward us was a husky; he was on the sidewalk, walking as though on a leash, but completely alone. Sadie has the instincts of an attack dog and the constitution of a china plate, so I pulled her up to a stop. The husky saw us, and stopped too. We were about 100 yards away from each other. The dog cocked his head. Sadie and I turned around. So did the husky.

I looked back a few times, to see if the dog was tearing toward us. He was not. He looked back once or twice, but mostly kept walking, down the side walk, as though he just popped out for an afternoon stroll as well. Sadie and I ducked inside for a few minutes, and then we went back out. The dog was nowhere to be seen.

I wasn't sure what I was supposed to have done. I am afraid of dogs (my cousin was attacked by one when we were all little), and I'd never seen this one before. What if it got scared and bit me?And what about Sadie? A few months ago, a pitbull-like dog was chained to a cinder block outside its house, and when M., Sadie, Daisy, and I walked by, it actually dragged the thing behind itself, following us. Sadie was snarling at it, barking, egging it on. She has no fear of being broken, unlike me.

But what if the dog was lost? Sadie and I walked further this time, more towards the apartments, and I saw it, running around by some trees, and then again, darting between parked cars. It still kept to the sidewalk, and certainly didn't seem wild.

Prompt Post #1

For most of my younger years, I would recite my address as “1082 rt.8, Glenshaw Glass, PA, 15116,” not realizing that the Glenshaw Glass plant (I’m still fuzzy on what actually went on there) wasn’t part of the Postal code. Living on the highway, we were never allowed to have pets, for fear they would get out and get hit by a car. We got used to the near-constant roar of cars and the thundering of 18 wheelers, having to pull U-turns between packs of cars, and being the last on the bus route home from school.

We—Mom, Dad, Art, and I—lived on a hill that had been flattened out enough to make room for a small row of houses. Behind our house there were hills covered in trees, and at the top of that were baseball fields that  my brother and I were never allowed to walk to. We had a wide side-yard to the left, in which I lost my walking stick from Germany, and to the right was a (very) little copse that we turned into a tree fort. Next to that lived my cousins, for a while, and then Mr. and Mrs. Miller, who composted and had a rock garden (a term I never understood, since you couldn’t grow rocks). We had snakes and deer trails, groundhogs and rats, mice and spiders. We had a steep of maybe 25 wooden steps from the parking lot below to the house above that, when the time came to sell the house, actually scared a couple so badly that the wife refused to leave her car.  

We were maybe a mile away from the Eat’n Park (The place for smiles.) where my dad caught the bus to work most days. We would drive our old station wagon to pick him up, and if we were lucky, he would have a Tootsie Pop for Art and I. Mom would switch to let Dad drive sometimes, or sometimes he just got in the car, and we would head back down the road.

A mile the other way were the Shaler Flats, right next to a creek that flooded every year. There were lots of floods, but I don’t remember any of them, except the one from my Senior year of high school, from Hurricane Ivan. There was one the year I was born, I think, that took away my Uncle Ron’s car. He had gotten out of it because he couldn’t see to drive anymore, and went and sat on the side of the road, on a hill. A few minutes later, the water was so high that when a wave came, it just picked up his car and carried it away. That’s where the story always ended, so I never knew what happened to the car.

Each year, we got snow. My dad would shovel out a place in the driveway for our cars, and pile the snow into the empty space between us and the Miller’s. My brother and I would stand on the wall above the driveway, and jump into the snow, up to our knees, or our waists. We would sled down the small bump between the Miller’s house and our own. One year, after a particularly strong snowfall, a tree from our copse fell down and came very close to hitting our house. My mom tells me that Art and I collected the pine cones from it and sold them to a local florist for a penny a piece; we each made $7. One year my brother and I were sick with the flu, and couldn’t go outside to play. Our cousins built us snowmen and gave them signs, telling us to get better soon and come out to play. Our parents brought snow into the kitchen, and we played with it in pans.

We moved from the old house when I was in the middle of first grade. We thought it would take forever for the house to sell because of the location, but it only took four months. I’ve called it The Old House ever since. Art and I couldn’t sleep at the new house, because it was too quiet without the trucks and the cars constantly whizzing by.

Route 8 is the main vein into Pittsburgh for the North Hills, so on field trips to the Zoo and the Benedum center, I would always sit on the left side of the bus. I would put my head against the window, and grab my seat mate, and say, “I used to live there.” I get quiet, contemplative, driving by it. It’s sold several times since we’ve moved, but it is still my Old House.

This place is my perpetual childhood. It wasn’t a perfect place—it leaked, the pipes had a tendency to freeze up in the winter, there were mice living in the walls—but the woods were my playground. All of my memories from it are fuzzy, warm, and soft, like the pictures that I have. It's a place that begs for reflection any time I go by. That, in turn, has helped me become such a reflective person overall. 

Some pictures.

Asked, and Answered. 

Here's Orion in the night sky. The three bright starts int he middle are his "belt," and that's what I use to find him. Sometime they also show an arm outstretched on the left side, too. I can never see those starts, though...

My backyard, from the side. 

The sunset yesterday (or maybe today? It's been a very long weekend). 

Place Post #1

My place: North and South Farmview Drive in Dover, DE; the neighborhood where I walk my dog each day. M. is a coworker I live near, and we walk our dogs together often.

Above me is our favorite Winter constellation, or Orion. My astronomy professor had nicknamed all of the constellations, but our favorite Winter constellation is the only one I remember. Every night when I take Sadie out before bed, it is right above us, sometimes a little more to the left if I’m early, sometimes almost over my fence if I am late.

Earlier, I was walking down to pick up M. and her dog, Daisy, and the moon was just above the houses, a dark yellow color, glowing . It looked full to me then, but this morning when I was driving to school, I realized it was waning, just a bit, and it was a pale white again.

Tonight’s final walk consists of me opening my sliding glass door and stepping out onto my concrete back porch, having Sadie take a few steps out onto the grass, and telling her to pee. It’s getting colder out, and although we have lighted sidewalks in the neighborhood, I don’t like walking Sadie late at night by myself. Sadie is sniffing around the grass that I haven’t cut since mid-November until she finds a patch that doesn’t come up to her knees. She squats, but I can still see her nose puffing up and down, like a rabbit, as she sniffs around. And I am looking at Orion, thinking about how I used to follow it back to my dorm room after night classes, about how I can find it on my back porch when I’m at my parent’s house.

You can only see Orion in winter; it’s the only constellation I know.

Sadie is up, not quite standing, and tense. She has seen something in the darkness, and I hope it isn’t a rabbit, because I didn’t put her leash on her for this trip. I shift my weight back towards the door, and I step on something that makes a scraping noise. Sadie responds almost instantly, coming back toward me, nose to the ground again. She sniffs once or twice more, then runs around me, and back into the house. She sits a few feet from the door, waiting for me to come back in.

I have stepped on a splinter of wood from my fence. The duplex’s back yard is split by this fence, which curves about eight to ten feet out of the house. It was slightly damaged in Hurricane Irene this summer, and so the panels don’t all fit together correctly anymore. The splinter is a little longer than my hand, and just a little fatter than the widest part of my thumb. It tapers at the end. It is a good six to eight feet away from the fence, and it has been blown towards my house. I have no idea how it got here, or what made it break the way it did.

Sadie whines from inside. I throw the splinter into the grass and come inside too. Sadie bolts upstairs. It is time for bed.