a change of scenery

I’m jotting down some menu thoughts for a brunch I plan to host. And I know that I’m only half-listening as I hear Beloved Husband mention something about the Autumn Blaze tree, the one on the empty lot at the corner, beginning to change color. I hear the school bus race past our house on her morning run, kicking up dust from the edge of our chip and seal roadbeds. She always seems in a rush, as if she is constantly behind schedule. Our running joke is that when she makes her stops, she yanks the children on board in the morning and boots them off with her heel on the afternoon return.

I look up and see Frank golfing, by himself as he does most Mondays through Fridays. He often reaches hole 5 (the view from our backyard) in perfect sync with the school bus. Frank lives in Texas and visits here each summer. He grew up not far from here, still has close family living nearby. Frank is a nice man, a successful lawyer, your typical local boy makes good story. Why, did you know he...

Beloved Husband disturbs my thoughts with a mention that there are five orioles at the jelly feeder. They are not, as usual, bickering or pecking at each other for first dibs. We listen as they whistle and chatter, as if in friendly communication. “Do you think they're discussing arrangements to leave en masse?” “Perhaps, perhaps. I do say, old chap, it would be quite advantageous to establish a friendly bond if one were to be traveling some distance together,” I attempt to speak in a stuffy British tone but break into a laugh before I can finish.

But, how do birds decide that it’s time to move away? Is it an internal longing for a change of scenery or simply an innate response to shortened sunlit hours? If I were a bird, perhaps I would be a cardinal, a chickadee or a downy woodpecker, or some type that is content to stay in one locale.

I step outside with Beloved Husband. The hummingbirds are arching and diving over our heads as we stand on the deck sipping coffee. But one day soon, I know that I'll look out of the window and realize that they have all disappeared. At first I'll notice that not one hummingbird has visited the feeder for days. And yet for a while, I'll have this feeling that I could swear I just saw them. And so I’ll continue to fill the now unused feeder with homemade nectar for another couple of weeks. Because maybe, just maybe one or two hummies will be dawdlers or procrastinators. I know well the feeling...

And I’ll recall one hummingbird in particular, a female hummingbird, who stopped by our back door, where there is no feeder nor is there a nectar-rich planting anywhere nearby. And yet she stopped at this same spot, three years in a row, hovering in place just long enough for us to notice her and her particular markings; and as she wafted in place she was looking directly into our house, where we sat fixated.  She seemed to say, “Good-bye and thanks again, guys. It’s been a great visit, but I’m heading for home.” For we, here in Privatopia, we are merely the temporary change of scenery she sought.

"What do you think, guys? Is it time to head back?"

better fuel up for the trip

their colors are most brilliant at their Spring arrival, methinks, or perhaps they dull their colors to make themselves less visible on their migration route home

stopping for a sip, or two

licks her lips, savoring, as she casts a longing glance towards home, so far, far away

buh-bye

jotting down ideas for brunch, why oh why, did I write banana sushi twice? ;)'

I don't post identifiable photos of our grandchildren, but I do love this photo of our granddaughter's back and her body language, showing her agony, as she watches her brother leave for summer camp "Please don't go!" she might be saying. Much as I might wail at the end of each summer, "Don't leave me!!! Stay or take me with you! But, please, please don't leave me behind!"

***

"There is something deep within us that sobs at endings. Why, God, does everything have to end? Why does all nature grow old? Why do spring and summer have to go?"

- Joe Wheeler 

Vacation Time

We have guests visiting for the next couple of weeks, so I am officially on "vacation." Here is a rerun of a bit of fiction I posted in 2013:


UP NORTH

When my cousins from the country visit us in the city, I usually play with them, even though they’re mostly older than me. Jesse is the oldest and he’s my favorite. He’s sort of the boss of us kids, but not in a mean bossy way. Like, he’ll notice if someone’s getting picked on and he’ll make the teasing stop. Or, if we’re playing a game and someone cheats, Jesse will say, “Come on guys, let’s play fair.” And the funny thing is: everyone always listens to him.

Last year when I saw Jesse, I noticed that he was different. I guess I’d say he was sullen. I’m not exactly sure what it means but, it’s a word my mom uses, when I’m quiet like that.
“Why are you so sullen, Sophie?

“I’m just thinking,” I tell her. Usually I’m thinking about how much I miss my dad.

So this day, since Jesse still seemed "out-of-sorts," that’s another thing my Mom says about me when I am "sullen," I decided not to go off and play with my visiting cousins. And that's why I was sitting on the floor near the card table, playing with my dolls, close to where my mom and her sisters were playing Tripoley for pennies, when I remembered that day last summer.

I like to listen to grownups talk. They use funny expressions. Expression, that’s what my mom called it when I asked her later about something I’d heard. You can tell when grownups are going to say something interesting because their voices get really quiet. Like the time I heard Mom say “Did you hear that Bitsy lost her baby? She and Jim are taking it pretty hard.” And I’m thinking, how the heck does a grownup lose a baby? I was thinking that I just bet Jim is really mad at Bitsy for losing their baby. Maybe someone will find the baby and bring the baby back to the parents. When I asked my mom about it she laughed, “That’s just an expression. Bitsy didn’t really lose a baby. She had a miscarriage.” When I asked her what a miscarriage was, she said, “Never you mind.” It was a whole year before I figured out that miscarriage meant the baby had died before it was even born.

So, I was sitting as near to the grownups as I could without being “under foot,” another one of those grownup expressions, when I remembered that day Mom and I were up North visiting our relatives. Up North is what my mom calls the Indian reservation where she grew up.

That summer I had just finished 2nd grade at the Catholic school here in the city. I used to go to the public school, but one day three nuns came to our apartment. The nuns all wore the exact same clothing, floor-length black gowns with black shawls over black and white caps. Mom called each one Sister.  “Yes, Sister, we’ll see you at Mass on Sunday.” “Yes, thank you, Sister, that would be wonderful.” “Yes, please thank Father for me, Sister.” I tried but couldn’t hear all of what the nuns were saying because they spoke in those special adult whispers  “...the school has special funds set aside” “...don’t think of it as charity” “...will be a better environment for her.” The next year I went to the Catholic school.

That summer was 1959, and Mom and I were up North, and it was very hot. I heard the grownups say it was a “record breaker” and I kept picturing some one breaking a phonograph record. My cousins were all going to the river to cool off, but I didn’t want to go. First of all I didn’t know how to swim, plus I was afraid my cousins might roughhouse, and Jesse might not notice this time because he was starting to be pensive then. That’s another word like sullen that Mom uses when she thinks I’m too quiet and worrying. So, that day I went with my mom to St. Peter’s for bingo instead.

At first I sat with her in the bingo hall, but I got bored. Mom called it restless. She took me outside to buy a bottle of pop from the machine. They had Cream Soda, which was my favorite. But, Mom said I would have to stay outside of the bingo hall until I finished drinking all of it. So, I sat on a bench by myself.

When I finished, I took the empty bottle back to the crate next to the machine. That’s when Father Tony walked by. He’s the only priest at St. Peter’s, which is the only church on the whole Indian reservation. We have four priests at our city church and a church in every neighborhood. Father Tony was wearing a black cassock, which is kind of like the long gown the nuns wear. Jesse once told me that they call it a cassock for priests and a habit for nuns. Father Tony wasn’t Indian. He had blue eyes and light hair.

Father Tony was walking fast and almost walked right past me, when he must have noticed me and stopped. He stopped really fast, kind of like a car when it puts on its brakes too quickly.

He smiled and said that I looked new. I knew that he meant that he’d never seen me before. I told him that my mom and I were visiting our relatives. 

He asked, “And what is your name?” and I told him.
“Sophie, how old are you?”
“I’m seven and a half.”
“Are you Catholic, Sophie?”
“Yes, Father, I go to Resurrection School in the city.”
“Have you made your First Communion?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And do you know your catechism?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. That’s good. Come, let’s go for a walk in the church. By the way, I'm Father Tony."

He took my hand and led me into the church. We stopped to bless ourselves with holy water near the door of the church, then we walked up the main aisle.

He asked me some easy catechism questions, like “Who is God?” and “What must we do to save our souls?” He smiled at the answers I’d memorized. When we reached the altar he said “Let’s go take a look at the tabernacle.” I had a strange feeling then, because only altar boys, like Jesse, and certainly never girls, were allowed in the area past the communion rail.

I thought maybe it’s different here on the reservation than in the city, so I followed Father Tony. He pointed to the shiny tabernacle and asked if I knew what was inside. I answered him and he smiled again. But, I didn’t like his smile anymore. It didn’t make me feel happy and proud like the smile from my teacher made me feel when I gave her the correct answer at school.

He reached for my hand again, but I put my hands behind me. He noticed and instead put his hand on my back, and said “Let me show you the sacristy,” and gently pushed me in that direction. I knew I should obey Father Tony because he was a priest and priests have special powers, like forgiving our sins and stuff, so I went. Father Tony said the sacristy was the place where the priest and altar boys got ready for Mass. He showed me the closet where they keep the clothing they wear for Mass. I was nervous and I don’t know why but, I told him that my cousin, Jesse, was an altar boy. It just sort of came out of my mouth. He turned quickly to look at me. “Jesse? Jesse Wolf is your cousin?” “Yes, Father.” I wasn’t sure if it was his smile or his eyes that scared me, but I was sorry that I had mentioned Jesse’s name.

He asked me if I knew the name of the clothing he was wearing and pointed to his cassock. I knew what the answer was, but I was tired of his questions. Maybe I needed a nap, I was so tired.

I thought for a minute and decided that if I didn’t actually say any words it wouldn’t be the same as telling a lie. So, instead of saying, “No, Father,” I just shook my head. “It’s called a cassock,” he said, as he unbuttoned it and took it off over his head. I felt tired and sick now, too, and I just wanted to get back to Mom.

Father Tony was now in the t-shirt and slacks that were under his cassock. He didn’t look like a priest anymore, just like a regular man. He reached out and touched my shirt. “That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing, Sophie. I like those stripes.” 

My heart was pounding. I told Father Tony that I was sick and that my mom must be looking for me and I just turned around and ran. I was worried that I’d just told a lie to a priest, which I was pretty sure was a mortal sin. You see, there are big sins and little sins and the big ones are called mortal.  I once looked “mortal” up in the dictionary at school and it means death, which is pretty serious.

I looked over my shoulder to see if he was following me, but he wasn’t. I ran all the way to the bingo hall and found Mom. She didn’t look like she’d been worried about me, but she did say, "You don't look well. I knew I shouldn't have let you have that Cream Soda. Your face is white. It must be the heat. Let’s go put some cold water on your face and get you back to Aunt Edie’s.”

I didn’t go with my mom to Mass the next day even though it was Sunday and it’s a mortal sin to miss Mass on Sunday. I told another lie, too. I told my mom I was sick, just so I wouldn’t have to go to Church with her. She said it was okay, because I probably had “heat sickness.”

We left for home the next day. I never had to see Father Tony again. I’d even made myself forget all about him. Until that day when my cousins were visiting and they were at the park, and I was sitting on the floor near the card table, playing with my dolls, close to where my mom and her sisters were playing Tripoley for pennies, and I heard  their voices get real low, like whispers, and I listened so hard. “...Father Tony...” “...abusing children”  “...and Chevy’s little girl” “...Chevy stabbed him” “...such a shame” “Yes, Jesse, was one of them, too…”