Aren’t you glad?

I know you are.

This Monday’s Miracle is that I have run out of things to say about lizards. For now.

It reminds me of that old Knock, Knock joke

Knock, knock
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?
Knock, Knock
Who’s there?
Banana.
Banana who?

Repeat until your parents accuse you of not knowing the punch line and THEN you say

Knock, knock
Who’s there?
Orange.
(with relief) Orange who?
Orange you glad I didn’t say banana again?

And much hilarity ensues. At least, when you’re seven.

So, aren’t you glad I didn’t say lizard again?

But, I must point out something else about this whole thing.

I got seven (eight, if you count this one) blog posts out of a five minute incident.

And that is surely a miracle!

Nothing to fear

but lizards in the house.

And the miracle is that I’m getting past that.

Actually, lest my sister refuse to visit me again, let me hasten to explain that I don’t have many lizards in the house. Hardly any. In fact, I’ve been here nearly three years, and the one of which I am about to speak is only the second. That’s not bad considering the number that hang around outside. (I have named the house Casa Lagarto, after all.)

Mostly, we have chameleons (which are, probably, really anoles) and geckos and a few skinks.

The lizard in my story was, I think, a chameleon. Although I have an easier time distinguishing them from the geckos when they are their native green. Once they’ve decided brown is the color of the day, it’s a little harder. But, judging by shape, this was a chameleon.

I have long been accustomed—well, okay—I have for a couple of years been accustomed to seeing the lizards scuttle around outside without the need for a gasp and an eek. I don’t even have that zero at the bone* feeling when I come face to face with an enraged anole hanging head height on the garage wall and inflating its throat and glaring at me.

This does not mean, however, that I want them to come to breakfast. And thereby hangs a tale.

Fortunately, thereby does not hang a tail. You do know that many a lizard will just leave its tails behind if you happen to grab it, right? Then, if ever, is the time for “eek”—and likewise, “ugh.”

But, I digress.

The breakfast lizard did not actually come to breakfast. It was not, in fact, anywhere near the breakfast table. I, however, had come downstairs early in the morning with a view toward getting something to eat.

The first thing to do, in my house, when you come downstairs of a morning is to open the curtains. You want to see the creek in the morning. Often, the coots are there to offer matutinal greetings. (Hah! Never thought I’d get to use “matutinal” in a sentence!)

So…I opened the kitchen curtains. I opened the venetian blind on the side window. I opened the bay window curtains. And then, I went to open the curtains to the two big picture windows, creekside. At this point, since I don’t have the official, I-picked-these-out-and-I-love-them window treatments, this requires the use of a long stick to nudge the 4 panels of temporary curtains aside.

One slides left, a second slides right, a third…holy cow! There’s a lizard on the window sill.

Eeek.

Outside, I am accustomed to the unexpected—if that’s not an oxymoron. Inside, it’s a little different. First, there’s the involuntary gasp and recoil, by which time it never seems to me that there’s any point in a scream of any sort. (I sometimes envy the women who scream. My reaction is always too silent to awaken the MotH.**)

But, eek. There’s a lizard on the window sill—and a MotH who won’t appreciate being awakened and who is, properly, scoff-ful (is that a word?) of irrational fears.

And then came the miracle.

I decided I—I!— would catch (and release, of course) the lizard.

Tune in tomorrow to hear how I fared.

* Dickinson, Emily, The Snake—but the principle is the same.

** MotH = Man of the House

Avian Antics

Who can fathom a bird brain?

It’s been a couple of days of bird bemusedness.

First, there was an injured bluebird, being succored out at the farm.

And the begging duck, unfortunately trained by one of my cousins to like Cheerios, with the result that he (or she) was constantly underfoot at another cousin’s homecoming party. Which is hilarious—partly because ducks are inherently hilarious but also because I’m more used to dogs and cats weaving around my ankles than I am to ducks. (As I said to yet another cousin, “‘Stop chasing the duck’ isn’t a sentence I heard very often in New York.) So, funny, yes, but I don’t really imagine that dropped potato chips are good for ducks. On the other hand, hanging around the humans may keep it out of the way of predators, so who knows?

Meanwhile, we seem to be a stop on the migration path of the Turkey Vultures. Nothing like seeing five or six of them ominously circling overhead and then looking up to find another dozen hulking in the trees above you. Even if you didn’t know they were scavengers, I think you’d find those big dark forms, hunched over and peering down at you, to be something less than a good omen.

However, their dour presence is offset by the Canadian Geese standing on their heads in the pond. Three or four of them with their little butts in the air just make me laugh–especially with a small white heron standing there staring at them.

We had a baby hawk sitting on our mailbox for a time last week.

Then, there are the coots. I’ve been wondering where they’ve gone. And, yesterday, a group of four or five coots came back—in the rain—to huddle next to the sea wall. I don’t know why they don’t swim under the dock. The huddling seems to indicate they aren’t that fond of the rain, but they don’t take the obvious shelter. So, I don’t know. Who can fathom the mind of a bird?

But it’s a miracle, in the face of humanity’s ever increasing encroachment on their habitats, to have all these flighty friends around, still, to astonish and perplex me.

Turn! Turn! Turn!

A time to every purpose under the heaven.

It’s New Year’s Eve—when, almost universally, we stop to hear, Time’s winged chariot hurrying near.*

A bittersweet sensation. I don’t know about you, but I am often visited at this point in the year by a gloomy notion that I have not made the best use of my time. I could have done more. I could have done things better. It’s rushing by too fast, slipping away.

So, I thought I’d take a moment to celebrate that I have time at all. The miracle of existence, of being born into a world of choices and freedom to spend my time as I choose, freedom to waste it, even.

And, in spite of feeling that I waste so much of it, I look back on various accomplishments.

I’ve learned how to manage this (comparatively) enormous house and to keep up with the yard work.

I got my website up and running and launched this blog.

I helped set up a website for Classmates Care, which has provided numerous young people in Michigan with coats in its first year of operation.

I’ve contributed to other people’s website projects in ways that were helpful, I think, and make me happy.

I went to Maine for the first time with my play for the Northern Writes New Works Festival—a double miracle.

We traveled to visit family and friends in Kentucky, Tennessee, and New York—another double hitter, the traveling and the company.

I haven’t done as much writing as I’d hoped or as little as I’d feared. I can do better there.

I have read a lot of good books and become more informed about politics than ever before—a mixed blessing, that.

My office has been rearranged to work better for me, and I found a cool sofa for that room that converts from love seat to chaise longue so I can work at my desk or in more casual comfort.

There are countless small things that I can’t even remember that have moved us more smoothly into our new life here, so that I really feel we are emerging from the day-to-day hassles and struggles of getting this house in order into a new phase.

I’ll be spending the next period of time working on a plan for the new year. A plan to use my time better, to spend it wisely.

Because. . .

It’s time.

Have a happy and safe New Year’s Eve.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V6jxxagVEO4

* Marvell, Andrew, To His Coy Mistress

Magic, grace and power

Begin.

Whatever you think you can do or believe you can do, begin it.
Action has magic, grace and power in it.

The miracle lies in action.

The universe really does fall into line behind you if you start to move toward a goal. I’ve seen it happen—and I’m not especially given to airy-fairy new age metaphysics.

But that quote from Goethe—that’s one of the things I believe. I forget sometimes, but something always reminds me. I’m working on a project now, and once again, I see the magic, grace and power in evidence. I’m quite sure there will be more before I’m finished.

It’s no good sitting around expecting miracles.

I think the miracles are subject to the law of inertia. Objects at rest tend to remain at rest. But objects in motion…

The trick is to move. Take a step. Do something. Anything.

And watch the magic happen.

Not a creature was stirring

Fortunately.

Saturday, we had the annual Boat Parade Party at my house. This is due to the annual boat parade hosted by a local restaurant.

Boats from far and wide—or, at least, from the immediate vicinity—get all dolled up with lights and voyage circuitously around the inlet for the enjoyment of residents and all comers. The boats that are small enough to fit under the bridge make a circle of our little creek before joining the main parade.

One of the stand-outs this year—of the ones small enough to come our way—was a boat fully equipped with fireplace, pajama-and-bathrobe-clad children and a loudspeaker from whence issued the full narration of Clement C. Moore’s A Visit from St. Nicholas, otherwise, and more familiarly, known as ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.

So, there were some creatures stirring on the boat. There was a captain, a pilot, a driver, whatever you like to call him, and there were some waving children. But they didn’t stir very much—and a good thing, too.

I never did figure out quite how the vessel was configured, but it sure seemed to sit awfully low in the water. The hearth upon which those cozy-looking children were seated was, maybe, an inch above the waterline. Any untoward stirring and there was likely to be some untoward soaking.

Miraculously, the parade made two circuits around the creek and everybody stayed dry—as far as I could tell.

It was a most successful parade. Last year, there were only about four small boats. This year there were twice as many. And they made two passes! And there were lots more people on either bank to cheer them on.

It’s quite fun to clap and yell and applaud as they go by our side and then to hear all the cheering out of the darkness from the opposite shore. A whole lot of individuals forging a community of joy for one evening.

And it was especially miraculous this year—when something that makes kids happy seems even more important than usual.

Twinkle, twinkle

Little lights.

Every year, at this time, there is a miracle of light where I live.

All the houses along the creek decorate their docks. The houses themselves, with few exceptions, remain dark. But the creek side is resplendent with light. One house even has a web of golden lights strung from tree to tree, high up in the branches and down to the ground. The glow is magnified and multiplied by the reflection in the water, and it is really quite something.

A few houses down, a giant Santa presides over wildlife and watercraft from the top of a dock’s sun deck. Bright Christmas red in the daylight, he glows and waves to the cars on the bridge at night.

There are twinkling palm trees and sea walls lined in blue and green, strings of red and purple, green and yellow spiraling around pilings, and Christmas trees built entirely of lights standing out at the ends of piers.

It’s all gorgeous.

There’s no prize for the best decoration. No reason for any neighbor to vie with any other. They do it because it’s beautiful and because people love it. When you get right down to it, nobody living in the house actually spends that much time looking at their own lights. And no one house is all that spectacular by itself.

We enjoy the totality of the experience. The whole is truly greater than the sum of its parts.

It is lovely, every night, to see the lights come on, house by house, many of them on timers with photocells, just waiting for the sun to set enough to switch on the power. It is lovely every year to see who has installed something new and what it is.

It is true that we do enjoy looking at them. I can’t really speak for everyone, but I venture to guess that we enjoy, more, the thought of the cars crossing the bridge night after night, a sudden glimpse of brightness out the side window, “Look, Johnny! Look!,” and parental hands pointing while little round eyes stare quickly, greedily, at a beauty that cannot be grasped, cannot be savored, but is offered up by a community for no better reason than because it’s pretty and because we can.

When I am old and feeble and forgetful, I hope I will be able still to see the twinkling lights of Christmas. I do love them so.

The earth moved

Or, at least, the sidewalk.

The miracle this Monday once again celebrates the ingenuity of the MotH.*

See, we have a concrete walkway up to our front porch. (I hesitate to dignify it with the name “porch,” since it is really just a concrete slab, but it does have 2 columns holding up a little roof, so what would you call it?)

This walkway is made out of several separately poured sections. Over time, a corner has sunk here and there, and the walkway was no longer as smooth and even as it might once have been. In fact, it was a tripping hazard.

So, the MotH announced that he was going to attempt to fix this.

Oh, ye (or me, really) of little faith!

Sounds like a recipe for disaster, right? Surely, the sidewalk would end up not only uneven but cracked and broken.

I suggested that, perhaps, this was something on which we might want to get estimates. But, no. Nothing deters the MotH once he gets a bee in his bonnet.

The next thing I knew he was out there digging holes alongside and under the walkway. Then he got the car jack. You know. That thing you use when you have to change a tire. (I cannot remember the last time I needed to change a tire. Do tires even need changing anymore?)

Anyway, he slid the carjack under the walkway—and he jacked it up!

Then, he got some wood to help hold it in place and packed dirt back into the holes. A little sealant stuff at the seams, and the walkway looks brand new. It may not hold up under heavy use—but it’s been almost two weeks—and it doesn’t get heavy use anyway.

I don’t know why I always view these projects of his with trepidation. They almost always turn out well. (It’s possible my hesitancy stems from the time he drilled a hole in the bottom of our boat three days before we were due to set out on a 19-day cruise down the Intercoastal Waterway—but that’s another story. And it happened quite a while ago, now. Maybe my inner warning system could let it go.)

Truly, I think the MotH is kind of like Archimedes. Give him a lever and a place to stand, and he could move the world.

It’s just that he probably shouldn’t mention it to me first.

* MotH = Man of the House

All right, NOW it’s 17 trees

15 + 2

I’m not especially good at math, but I’m pretty sure that’s 17.

Yesterday, I was talking about how I had gone with my mom’s garden club to the park to decorate 17 trees that turned out to be 14 trees, really.

Oh, wait!

That means the equation is 14 + 2 which is not 17 trees at all, but rather 16! (I told you I was no good at math.)

The two is for the two trees I’ve decorated at my own house today. Although, if you wanted to stretch a point, you could say that one of them was so complicated that it counts as two—which would make my decorating score for today three which would make my total score 17—thus lending an air of authenticity to the headline of this post.

One of them was simple.

My bubble light tree.

Decoration involves taking it out of the box, fluffing its branches, screwing in the bubble lights, and plugging it into an outlet. Voilà!

I love my bubble light tree—and not only because it is easy to get it up and running. Mostly, I just think the bubble lights are way cool!

The second tree was our official tree.

We have the most gorgeous artificial tree. Purists among you will shudder, but it truly is the most realistic looking fake tree I have ever seen. If I could get it to smell like a fir tree, no one would ever know the difference.

Of course. . .some assembly required.

All the branches have to be attached and arranged in their proper order. A little forethought during dis-assembly and packing for storage, however, and this is not much of an ordeal. The needles are a bit scratchy when you have to reach inside the branches, but this can be mitigated by wearing long sleeves.

It’s not so much the assembly that complicated matters as it was the MotH’s* new project around the model train.

We’ve had this model train for ages. In our NY apartment, it didn’t have a lot of scope. For the first few years we were here in Florida, it seemed all we could do to get the dock decorated. The train was short-changed again. This year, however, the MotH decided it was time for the train to come into its own.

He built a platform.

A big platform.

Not only for the train, but for the tree, too.

Holy Moly! The tree is now nine feet high.

Putting on branches, stringing lights and garland required two ladders. Placement of ornaments involved much climbing.

It is a miracle nobody fell out of the tree. (It is a miracle that nobody has carted me off to Bellevue by virtue of the mere fact that anybody could fall out of a tree inside my house!)

But, the tree is now up (waaaaaay up!), and it’s all decorated, and the train is lying at its feet.

We’re going to have to make a trip to the hobby shop for some more track—and, I’m thinking. . .maybe. . . .cows?

But that’s a whole other story.

* Man of the House

The sun’ll come out. . .

Tomorrow.

I’ve been singing that for about a week.

Unfortunately.

It sticks in your head. Along with visions of little red-headed orphan girls.

It’s a horrible song—of immense popular appeal.

(It should be noted that its horribleness is not due to any intrinsic compositional or lyrical flaws. It’s just that it will not go away!)

The thing is. . .the sun may or may not come out tomorrow. I don’t know.

I do know that it came out yesterday. And it’s out today. And. . .yay!

Because it was getting very, very depressing.

It is truly fine for it to be gray and gloomy in the north. It’s the paradigm for the fall. But this is the Sunshine State. Got that? Sunshine. It’s in all the ads. So I expect. . .you know. . .sunshine.

Not only do I expect it, but I need it. We have to decorate the dock. The Boat Parade is coming. Not for about a month, but still. When the boats come by, we have to have the lights up. And I need sunshine for that. Not warmth, necessarily, but sunshine. It’s very difficult to get in the holiday mood when it’s all foggy and misty.

Dock decorations are hard enough. One year we tried for a New York skyline, but you can’t make a good corner with a rope light. It put a damper on our creativity (to say nothing of a vaguely pornographic twist on our Empire State Building), so we’ve given up murals. Now, we just try not to fall in the water as we’re stringing the lights up along the roof and around the pilings. We have acquired a nice lighted peacock lawn decoration this year—although possibly not for the dock.

Peacocks are big in my family. My grandparents used to have a bunch of them hanging around the farm. In fact, their descendants are still over there yelling away, wandering the highways and byways. And all of us have various vases and umbrella stands full of feathers.

That’s another little miracle.

You can just walk around behind a peacock in the late spring, early summer, and pick up those beautiful works of art.

So, I’m delighted to have this light-up bird. I look forward to seeing him twinkle away.

But, I’m more delighted to have some sunshine. . .and I definitely look forward to the voice of Li’l Orphan Annie fading off my internal audio track!

Bet your bottom dollar.

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Tag Archives: Monday Miracles