Yesterday was a beautiful, sun-filled day.
I put Marty's chicken and dressing recipe in the crock pot in the morning, and had my main meal at suppertime.
My younger daughter asked Wednesday if I'd like her to bring me leftovers Thanksgiving afternoon. But I told her no, I had my meal all ready to go. But it was mighty sweet of her to offer.
Charlie is sleeping on the ottoman with his tongue hanging out the right side of his mouth, blissful in his ignorance of this oddity.
I guess he doesn't worry about not having more than two teeth. He still manages to eat. Although I do have to hold Abi back, a greedy creature with a full set of teeth who always bullies him at meal time.
I thought I might do a bit of Christmas decorating. But I'm still just not ready for some reason. Usually around Thanksgiving, my decorating impulses kick in and I drag out my big plastic Christmas box. But that didn't happen.
Did any of you start decorating yet?
As many of you have already mentioned, I find that the older I get, the less stuff I want to drag out.
The less stuff I want around my home on an everyday basis.
I suppose you begin to desire a more stream-lined and simplified life at some juncture. I'm there.
I don't desire a bigger place to live than my 725 square foot apartment. I spend most of my time here and I never feel "claustrophobic." And it's the smallest home I've ever lived in.
I have what I need. I have my patio with the gazebo and container gardens.
I have my living space that is elongated into my dining space. A small kitchen. A fairly big bedroom with two walk-in closets. And a small bathroom like most apartments seem to have.
The place was built in sixties. And could certainly use some updating.
I cleaned out the bird bath yesterday.
I love to watch how the birds dip down, get a bit of water, then lean back and swallow. Almost like watching a seesaw.
I wonder if kids nowadays know what a seesaw is? Do they still have those things?
Oh, I still remember the school merry-go-round. How you jumped on and off while it was going round and round, and sometimes you fell and skinned a knee.
How you'd feel a bit dizzy as it went faster and faster. Feeling a tad nauseated and exhilarated at the same time.
Back to birds...
I find birds fascinating. My fifth grade teacher, Mrs. Lipsky, who took us on early Saturday morning bird walks and cultivated my interest in birds, would be proud. But I'm sure she's long dead.
She gave me a gift however, when my love of all things nature blossomed.
Around 6 a.m. on those Saturday mornings, a small group of us trudged through the woods, sticks and leaves crackling beneath our feet.
Which brings me to this notion: Even when you don't have any money, you can go right outside and be the benefactor of so much.
The expanse of sky, in almost endless shades of blue on any given day. The stars against the inky black canvas of night.
The birds and squirrels with all their antics. Bird song. So many varieties of chirping!
A breeze briefly caressing my face.
Rain. Oh, how I love the rain!
To me it is a daily gift. Without these sights and sounds I've grown so accustomed to loving, I think I would be lost.
I hear sirens in the distance. A part of living in the middle of the city.
I always wonder where they're going. If a house has burned down and left a family homeless. If a child has drowned or been hurt.
I imagine the utter despair of having your home go up in flames, gone in an instant.
I imagine a parent who could not have begun to imagine, when they awoke that morning, that by dusk, they would have lost a child.
I think that must be the most cruel of life's many chapters. The page on which your beloved child precedes you into death.
And then I think of the parents I interviewed, years ago, who are still waiting for their child to come home. A child that would now be old enough to be a parent or grandparent.
How do they do it? Those parents? Put one foot in front of the other and wonder if they will go to their grave never knowing what happened to their child.
I wonder if they can forget, for a minute or two, the tragedy that has trapped them in a cycle of never knowing?
Or if any bit of brief happiness is automatically eclipsed by the not knowing?
Sorry to be so morose. I guess that's just where my thoughts go when I hear those sirens.
Until the sound begins to fade in the distance. Taking my woeful ruminations right along with it.