All I did

was walk out the door.

Honestly! The uproar in my driveway yesterday!

I just wanted to get the mail.

I walked out the side door and before I left the shelter of the carport, two rather large-sized doves took off from the driveway with much fluttering and flapping of wings and cheeps and squawks of panic such that you’d have thought I’d flung a cat into their midst. At the same time, one of the dang squirrels came around the corner, pulled a cartoon skid to a stop (hard to do on a bed of river rocks) and reversed course in a mad rush to escape that startled me just as much as I’d startled him.

(The squirrels, by the way, are no longer to be known in this blog as “the squirrels.” From here on out, they are always to be referred to as “the dang squirrels”—and, when especially irritating, as “those dang squirrels.”)

It seemed like a lot of unnecessary commotion for a simple trip to the mailbox.

Life is like that sometimes.

You set out in all innocence to achieve something of no great moment only to find everyone around you inexplicably horrified and upset by your (to you) harmless actions.

It’s worth remembering, I guess, that there are probably always doves and dang squirrels along the way—whatever you’re trying to do. And their reaction may seem silly to you, but it seems life and death to them.

And it’s also worth remembering—if you happen to be the one squeaking and squawking when the monster is coming up behind you—that maybe she just wants to get the mail.

The best cures for depression

Noble deeds and hot baths are the best cures for depression.
~Dodie Smith

A little quote, there, from today’s Friday Find, a lovely little book called I Capture the Castle. by Dodie Smith. You may have heard of Smith’s more famous work: One Hundred and One Dalmations, boasting one of Disney’s most aptly named villains, Cruella de Vil.

The fact that Dodie Smith’s last name is the same as my own is purely coincidental—although I must say it gives me half an idea for a theme for my Sunday posts. What say you to Smith Sundays? In which we investigate famous people named Smith? I don’t know. I’ll have to think about that.

Anyway…I Capture the Castle is a quirky sort of coming-of-age novel about Cassandra Mortmain (Isn’t that a great name?) and her family. Her father is a once-famous and now-blocked writer, her stepmother is the overly-dramatic but not at all wicked Topaz, her elder sister is tired of the life of poverty in spite of the fact that the family really does live in the eponymous castle. There’s a younger brother and a family friend rounding out the household—all of whom have their lives up-ended when wealthy American brothers inherit the nearby Scoatney Hall.

It’s hard to do the book justice in a description.

Perhaps it will help if I tell you that the first sentence of the book is “I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.” (I’m a sucker for intriguing first lines.) Or that J. K. Rowling lists it on her website as one of her favorite books.

Book recommendations are hard. Fiction, especially. One person’s treasured tome is another person’s snooze-fest.

But I Capture the Castle has a lot to recommend it: multi-dimensional characters, a narrator with an original turn of phrase, a surprisingly involved exploration of the psychology behind writer’s block, plot twists, suspense.

Find it. It’s worth a read, I think.

Where, oh, where

Do the coots go in the summer?

That’s what I’m wondering today.

You see, the coots came back yesterday.

Every winter, usually in late November, we see a few coots. First there are four or five. Then there are twelve. Then there are twenty-four. And then you can’t count them.

This year, I was starting to wonder if something had happened to them. I was hoping it was just that it was still warm enough wherever they were for them to stay there, but I confess to fleeting thoughts about strange avian anomalies—like those red-winged blackbirds that mysteriously fell out of the sky in Arkansas on New Year’s Eve 2011.

So, I was especially delighted to see seven of them swim by the dock this morning. I’m almost always delighted to see the coots, anyway, because they are so hilarious, with their white faces bobbing back and forth as they skedaddle along. They are so sociable, always hanging out in groups, and almost certainly taunting the yellow lab that lived next door. I’m not sure how they knew she wouldn’t go in after them, but they did—swimming right up to the dock and just waiting until the last minute for her to rush up barking wildly before they leisurely flitted a few feet out of reach.

I get a kick out of coots.

I’m happy to have them back. It makes me feel like nature has a friendly side. (Not always my impression when the mosquitoes are auditioning for Dracula and the sweet gums are hurling limbs at me or grasshoppers are chewing my window screens.)

The coots swim by in the morning and, usually, again in the afternoon. We greet each other cordially. (Well, okay—I wave out the window, and they don’t actually spit at me or anything.) I watch with interest as the flock expands exponentially. I think they just gather friends and relations over time as I don’t think I’ve ever seen a baby coot. (A cootlet?)

I sometimes think it would be nice if they stayed around all year, but it’s likely we would take each other for granted if that were the case. It’s probably best that they remain a seasonal pleasure.

But where do they go in the summer?

The best holiday present

You could give yourself.

So, we’re in the middle of December. You’ve gotta bake cupcakes for the kids’ holiday party, shop for presents, wrap presents, ship presents, plan meals and trips, clean guestrooms and send cards, figure out a Secret Santa gift for a co-worker, attend midnight mass, help out at the food kitchen—whatever your version of the endless list that endlessly grows during the holidays.

My tip for you today is give yourself a break.

You had an extra cookie? You can let your diet go—a little bit—just once or twice.

Couldn’t find time to do your Morning Pages? The world will keep turning.

Can’t figure out how to get to the gym between work and the six holiday parties you have to attend? Maybe it’s okay to skip it.

I’m not saying throw your hands up in the air, curl up in a blanket and stop showing up to everything all at once. I’m just saying that there’s a lot to do this time of year. We’ve all got goals and To Do lists and routines we’ve set up to help us realize our dreams.

If you are anything like me, you might get to feeling really guilty when you veer off the path—and you are going to be forced off the path a good few times in the coming weeks. If I understood football, I would insert some reference here to offsides or out of bounds or whatever it is. The point is that you’re going to break the rules you’ve set up for yourself.

When that happens, you have a choice.

You can kick the ball and stalk off home, or you can say, “Whoops! Blew that call. Gimme the ball again, Coach. I can make up some yardage next time.”

I’m going to remember that, yes, I’d like to lose a few pounds, and yes, I’d like to make some progress on my novel, and yes, I want to be able to do a few more situps, BUT it’s okay if I don’t manage all of it every day this month.

Because enjoying the holidays is on my To Do list this year. . .and that’s one thing I’m determined to accomplish.

The slippery mind

I have one.

The night before last, as I was writing yesterday’s blog post, I had a great idea for today’s. It was so good that I debated with myself. Should I write it instead of the Scissor Fit post? I decided, no, I would write the Scissor Fit post and save this new idea for another day.

And, you know what happened then, right?

I didn’t write it down.

Aaaaaaaarggggggghhhhh!

The days when I could effortlessly recall every little thing seem to be gone. I can still recite huge chunks of plays I did in my giddy youth. There are poems that are permanently lodged in my brain. But the reason I came into this room two seconds ago. . .not so much.

Now, I’m not saying that I never used to forget things.

It’s a fact that about once every seven years, I would be peacefully sitting at home, about to have a lovely meal I had cooked myself, when the phone would ring and somebody would say, “Where are you?” and I would have to rush out to some important meeting that had completely slipped my mind. It was always upsetting and embarrassing, but it truly only happened about once every seven years—and almost never after I got my Palm Pilot. (I still say the Palm Pilot has the best reminder application!)

Nowadays, I rarely have meetings I am supposed to attend, but I do have other things I am planning. There are things I want to pick up at the store, blog posts I want to write, little tidbits of news I want to tell a friend or relative. It’s a bit worrisome that they slip my mind more often than they used to do.

I think it’s because I have more time than I used to have. Few things have to be done today; there’s always tomorrow. There’s a nice leisurely feel to that—except that I always seem to be busier now than I was in the days when I had a full-time job and rehearsals every night—but it does seem to rust the old steel trap.

I think one of my New Year’s Resolutions might have to be to memorize some monologues or a sonnet or two.

Just to see if I still can.

Scissor fit

Don’t have one.

A “scissor fit” is part of the jargon of my family. (Jargon: Special words or expressions that are used by a particular profession or group and are difficult for others to understand.) Although I’m not sure how difficult it is for others to understand. There’s a good chance your mother used to have scissor fits, too. Or their equivalent.

In my house, they went something like this—and usually around the holidays when present wrapping was a thing my mom was trying to do.

~~~

Scene: A suburban living room. Children peacefully going about their business—doing homework, setting the table. Okay, let’s be realistic. Children running around and raising hell—dismantling the vacuum cleaner, mopping up the spilled soda with the cat.

(There is the sound of drawers opening and closing, with increasing ferocity—and, possibly, of the cat yowling.)

The Mother: Where are the scissors?

The First Kid: I don’t know.

The Second Kid: Dunno

The Third Kid: (turning the cat upside down into the puddle of soda) I didn’t take ’em.

The Mother: (loudly) Who took the scissors?!

The Second Kid: Not me.

The First Kid: Not me.

The Third Kid: Owwww! Yowww! Yoww! Mom! The cat bit me!!!

The Mother: Somebody took the scissors. I’m so sick of this. I buy forty-eleven pairs of scissors, and stick one in each drawer, so I can have a pair of scissors WHEN I WANT ONE and what happens?! There is never a pair of scissors WHEN I WANT ONE! You all better stop taking the scissors! And if you take the scissors, you better PUT THEM BACK!!!!!

~~~

Now, at this point, a smart kid will run and hide. Only the especially brave or the especially stupid will point out that “forty-eleven” is not a real number. Either way, the day does not end well.

At my house, as we got older, this whole thing became known as a “scissor fit.” As in, one kid would come into the house with the uproar already in progress, ask “What’s going on?” The answer would come, “Mom’s having a scissor fit.” “Got it,” would say the first kid and duck back out the door.

I thought of this yesterday.

Guess why?

Because the scissors were not where I had put them.

And I don’t even have forty-eleven kids to move them around.

So, alls I’m sayin’ is—the scissors are going to go missing. It’s one of the things that happens.

Just chill.

How can I know what I think

until I see what I say?
~ E. M. Forster

That’s what I’m wondering today—it is Wondering Wednesday, after all—as I’m casting about for a specific topic. Basically, I’m wondering what I’m going to write. (This is a regular phenomenon since I took up blogging.)

It’s not that there is not a lot about which to wonder. Surely, there is something I think and about which I would want to communicate amongst all the mysteries at hand. Look at the state of our politics here in the United States, for example. Now, there’s something—a lot of somethings—to provoke wonder. But we don’t have a day of the week whose name begins with the letter ‘R,’ so you are all spared a regular Rant Day. I have promised myself the blog will be positive—mostly—so, you know, politics. . .off limits.

I wonder about the future. Do I need to figure out what’s next in my life, or will the Mayans solve that problem for me?

I wonder if I’m ever going to write another play, or have I inadvertently retired? (Or, is it a moot point—see Mayans.)

I wonder what I should do next in renovating my house. Is it time for a kitchen makeover? Wouldn’t we like to have a bathtub? And does that mean the entire bathroom needs a makeover? What comes first in the rest of the house—the carpet or the windows? Will I ever have furniture?

I wonder who bought the house next door and if they will be good neighbors.

I wonder why the coots haven’t yet returned from Capistrano—or wherever they go in the summer.

I wonder if anything, anything at all, will persuade the squirrels not to hang like bats, head downward, clinging to the coquina and if I will ever get used to an upside-down furry tree rat hanging head high over my front door.

Lastly, I wonder which of these and many other questions will be addressed in next week’s Wondering Wednesday post.

‘Cause this one’s done.

The best cure for insomnia. . .

. . .is to get a lot of sleep.
~ W. C. Fields

Okay, so that’s a bit snarky—in true W. C. Fields style—but there’s a valid point there.

How do you get a lot of sleep when you can’t sleep?

In my experience, all that stuff about hot milk and eschewing caffeine and counting sheep doesn’t really work that well. Everybody’s different. Your mileage may vary, but I haven’t found those things to be effective.

There is one thing that does work almost every time, though.

I wish I could remember where I found this little tip, because I like to give credit where it’s due. The problem is, when I found it, I was thinking more about whether it would work than about who provided it. This was long before I’d started a blog—long before anybody’d ever heard of a blog, in fact—so who knew I was going to want to write about it?

Since I can’t remember the source, however, we’ll have to go with me just assuring you that it doesn’t belong to me, I didn’t think it up, and whoever did deserves all the credit.

Here’s what you do when you are having trouble getting to sleep.

It involves counting—but no sheep. (No alligators, no raccoons, no animals, vegetables or minerals.)

First, you lie on your back. Breathe deeply in and out. Count on the exhale. 1, 2, 3, 4.

Turn on your left side, breathe in and out—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8.

Turn onto your back. Same breathing drill. Count to sixteen.

Turn onto your right side. Breathe. Count to thirty-two.

You keep doing this, doubling the count each time you change positions. To be honest, I have never managed to get to my right side and the thirty-two count. I usually fall asleep somewhere in the middle of the sixteen count.

I think it works because the breathing is relaxing and the counting focuses your mind on something other than whatever obsessive-compulsive thing it would otherwise be gnawing over.

So, if you ever have trouble sleeping, give this a try.

Sweet dreams!

17 Trees

I’ve just decorated 17 trees!

Well, actually, it turned out to be 14 trees, and I only really worked on six of them, but still. . .

And I haven’t even put up my own Christmas tree yet.

To tell you the truth, just at the moment, I don’t really ever want to see another tree.

It’s all due to the Parade of Trees in the little town in which my mother lives. The city puts up well over a hundred trees in the park and strings lights on them. After that, the trees are up for adoption by individuals, organizations, and businesses. Some people “adopt” a tree and decorate it themselves, some people “adopt” a tree, specifying a theme, and pay for the city to do the decorating, and some people “adopt” and leave the whole thing up to the city.

It’s those last two groups I have to thank for my day of decorating.

See, my mother belongs to a garden club. The garden club basically hires itself out to decorate the trees in the city park that have been adopted by those unable or unwilling to do their own decorating. It’s kind of a fundraiser for the club.

But 17—okay, 14— trees!

And it’s a small club.

Ergo. . .I was asked to assist—i.e., I got arm-twisted.

Anyway, I spent the day in the park stringing garland, tying bows, hanging ornaments, etc. There’s also an angel on top of one of the taller trees that owes her particular tipsy air to me.

It’s quite a display.

One of our trees is all red, white and blue. Two of them have nautical themes. One is a symphony in red and green. One is all over poinsettias. And the sixth. . . well, I can’t hardly remember the sixth. Oh! It was simply a multi-colored theme.

I didn’t look at the other eight the rest of the garden club decorated. Four hours into it, I’d about had it with trees. Just for the moment. I’ll thoroughly enjoy going back to the park during the official Parade of Trees opening day and wandering the paths among the forest of fun.

And, I’ll thoroughly enjoy putting up my own tree. Just. . .maybe not for a day or two.

Silliness

On a Saturday.

I’m instituting Silly Saturdays. I do not promise, however, to find enough silliness to manage a Silly Saturday every Saturday. Sometimes, this new feature of the blog will alternate with a Serious Saturday. Or—you know—just a Same Old Saturday.

Today, however, thanks to the folks over at Ohgizmo.com, where I originally found these things, I can safely say that this is a Silly Saturday.

First up, check out the USB Toast Hand Warmers.

Now, this product strikes me as being a good idea. Speaking as a person who has nearly perpetually cold hands, I like the idea of a USB-powered hand warmer that leaves my fingers free to type. But. . .they look too silly to use. I don’t think I’m going to be rushing out to buy them. On the other hand, let the temperature drop far enough, and then, we’ll see. Along about January, anything could happen. (I wonder if they heat up too much to allow for quick disconnect and stashing in a drawer—without setting the house on fire? If you’re ever in my office in the winter and you smell smoke, you’ll know what happened.)

Secondly, there’s a bit of brilliant silliness to show you. The only thing that stops me from putting in my order for the Baby Mop is the fact that I don’t actually have a baby. I could borrow one, I suppose, but I’m not sure the parents of any available babies would approve. Also, I suspect it might be a grey area under current child labor law—although, really, you’re just leveraging a baby’s natural activities, aren’t you? The Baby Mop is a onesie (those one-piece jumpsuits that look far more stylish on Catwoman or Mrs. Peel than on the average baby), with mop-like fringe along the forearms and the shins. Baby crawls. Hardwood floor gets dry-mopped. It’s one of those things where you think, Oh, no! And then you think, Hmmmm.

Pesky child labor laws. Those dang unions! Always getting in the way.

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

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