On neighborhood plotting, cat cartel happenings, and a show

Happenings around the neighborhood have been minimal lately, mostly due to summer and the way it greets you at the front door with a big, wet slap of humidity and rain. Humidity and rain. Humidity and rain. Repeat.  We’ve been spending most out of time in the backyard, the kids by the pool, while I hide from the sun, which is public enemy number one to my fair skin.

But, this has not hindered my calculations to become friends with a certain neighbor who is in possession of one hydrangea bush that is falling over and in desperate need of my pruning.  Or is my table just in desperate need of its blossoms? The line is blurry, I can’t say for sure.  I’ve never actually seen the people who live there and perhaps I could coax some information out of Ophelia, next door.  One can never be too informed on such matters. I know for certain, they don’t appreciate it like I would.  It’s the deepest blue, almost violet and it’s breathtaking.  Stay tuned.

Recently, one Sunday morning, when a coolness still lingered in the air, I tiptoed out the door to the front porch, managing to make a cup of tea and gather a book and journal without waking the children.  The street was still, except for one lone ranger of a man doing yard work before the hot hot heat (remember them) and Rose.  Yes, Rose the godmother of the cat cartel, as deemed by a friend.  Let me paint a picture for you, from the top down.  Fiery red hair, wild and untamed, unnatural and shocking.  A housecoat of black with large white polka dots and a clunky pair of black wellies on her feet.  She did a brief survey of her kingdom, checked out her zoo-like cat enclosure, which is a totally normal thing to have in ones yard and then retrieved a half gallon of milk from inside.  I suppose it shouldn’t surprise anyone that at least ten cats appeared out of no-where, no-where, at the sight of that milk. Like, out of bushes and trees and from under flowerpots and perhaps out of the underground community that may or may not exist.  Just a little gift from Rose, your friendly neighborhood cat lady.  Happy Sunday cats!

And then, there was one day when my next door neighbor, a tall, country grandfather was sitting in a tree that grows on the other side of our privacy fence, cutting down branches, with a saw in his hand and a song in his heart.  A song that filled his heart and at least four backyards as he belted out his duet with Cheryl Crow. People, he just really wanted to soak up the sun and he wasn’t afraid to tell anyone. Sing it, Jesse, sing it. 

Well, that’s all I have to report from this little gem of a neighborhood.  I’ll try to gather something good for next time and I don’t just mean flowers.

On fireflies and friendship

The evening ended with a dark backdrop that swooped and curled to the outline of trees on a canvas of a summery, navy blue sky.  The air was warm, and the slightest breeze hushed through the leaves.  The orange glow of candles in glass lanterns flickered on the table.  A chorus of fireflies twinkled and flashed  a silent symphony of light and dark.

Around the table, the few who had not yet departed for home talked in the stillness, the kind of conversation filled with honesty, hopes, dreams, stories, and truth.  The kind of conversation that begins with ladies arriving in one place, filling the table with decadent treats, some homemade and others specially made at the supermarket.  Coffee cups waited to be filled with whipped cream, sugar, espresso granita, and freshly brewed, steaming goodness.  Carafes filled with water and floating slices of citrus sat next to mason jars, all shiny and clean.  

As the room filled, each of us taking a pause from our roles that are wonderful and exhausting, we naturally gathered around the food.  The air was rich with coffee and deep, refreshing exhales that laughter and the highly underrated delight of slow, casual enjoyment of food can bring.  And though our lovely host had stacked fiesta ware and cutlery for us, all that seemed to civilized; we felt it our responsibility and duty to forgo the rituals of such adult-ish behavior,  trading them in for grazing and leaning over each other, evidence of our comfort. 

It still feels unreal to me, that I now find myself in these situations with a mix of new faces that quickly become friends and those who I’ve known for ten years now.  This bizarre migration of college friends to this new city and the connection we carry into these years well past classes, travels, and sleepless night of our own choosing.  This time where our majors and associations have little do to with our identity, because it was in the years after that we began to know life, and the world, and ourselves.

But it was in one question from a new friend that really got me thinking,  the kind of thing makes the introvert in me thrilled.

So, what are some things that I should really know about you?

Cutting past the small talk, the walls that we build up for the sake of facades, far beyond the parts were we autonomously say, “I’m good,”  this is the sweetness of conversation, dripping and raw with life.

Who are you?  What are your dreams? What makes you feel the most alive?  What is your story?

We sat around the table under the gentle song of a summer night.  Conversations rich with vulnerability, inspiration, and truth.  Laughter that melts away the hard parts of the beauty journey. 
Deep prayers answered, wrapped in luxurious beauty, beyond our belief.

It’s extravagant really,
and I’d be a fool to not jot down this piece of the story.

on the morning of June 21, 2013

I heard the squeak of a bedroom door and soft, rapid footsteps heading to the kitchen. At the table, in the dim morning light, daddy ate his breakfast of peanut butter toast. And for the next twenty minutes, one voice, young and loud and another, deep and calm talked, while sister and mama slept in their rooms.

The hum of conversation passed through hallways and walls, the rise of fall of exchange, between a father and son taking the opportunity for time alone. It doesn't happen too often, the chance for a captive audience, no girls included. I don't know what they discussed, but his enthusiasm was felt all the way to my room, and I know that a deep smile rested on the face of a father. A man who loves mornings and his family. A chance to be with his son, before hours of work that he doesn't love, but will never complain.

When the time came for him to leave, he gave me a kiss and lifted one tall, skinny boy into the open side of the bed, and said goodbye. And that little boy, he pulled the blankets close, rolled over and fell asleep, not even whispering a sound.

We stayed that way for a few hours more.