Friday, July 23, 2010

Bought a Mattress (reprise)

Bought A Mattress (reprise)

[Sung to the tune of "Found a Peanut"]

Bought a mattress,
Bought a mattress,
Bought a mattress last night.
Last night I bought a mattress,
I bought a mattress last night.

It was lofty,
It was sturdy,
It was cozy last night.
The mattress was lofty, sturdy, cozy,
Sturdy, cozy last night.

Couldn’t wake up,
Couldn’t wake up,
Couldn’t wake up after last night.
After last night, I couldn’t wake up,
Couldn’t wake up after last night.

Now need caffeine,
Now need caffeine,
Now need caffeine after last night.
What’s the point of a new mattress,
If I need caffeine after last night?

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Blueberries for Sal

It seems that I have inherited at least a piece of a the traditional female gatherer gene - I love picking berries. Always have. In fact, the book that sprang to the top of my most-often-checked-out-from-the-library list was Blueberries for Sal. Now as an adult I have a copy of it sitting on my bookshelf (and the bear part seems even more appropriate this year than ever).

So I have been simultaneously thrilled and a bit disturbed to find my favorite blueberry patch to be absolutely brimming with big, juicy berries over the last three weeks - and apparently nobody else was picking them.

This is great because, of course, all the more for me. But really, there are far more berries than I have time to pick (although I can get nearly a half-gallon milk jug-full in an hour), and I hate to see that opportunity go to waste. Mostly I’m disappointed, however, because while this patch isn’t very far from town, it’s not exactly hidden and it can’t be that well-kept of a secret, the patch remains empty even at (what I considered) prime picking times.

There is just something so fulfilling about sitting in the middle of a patch of plants heavy with big juicy berries, gathering them all together into a container, then heading home to do something wonderful with them. Or, if you’re like Sal, dropping a few into the bottom of your berry bucket, listening to them go plink, plink, plink, then eating one or two, then picking out the two at the bottom of your pail and eating those. Rest and repeat.

Unfortunately my work and life schedule and the rain schedule haven’t allowed me more than a few hours here and there, but those hours have given me blueberry smoothies and pancakes and several quarts in the refrigerator (also unfortunately, the gatherer gene hasn't found time to morph in the Sal's mother's canning gene, so extra berries will probably just wind up the freezer). Still, why isn’t anybody else out there picking?

Today I was gratified to find a few weekend pickers wander out while I was out there - I welcomed them to my patch and offered all that I could share. The easiest of the summertime bounty.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

The Land of Fairy Tales

Tonight my parents and I went again to our newly-restored 50 seat, one-screen movie theater in town to see the third and final (?) installment in the Shrek series. It’s really the epitome of small town summer evening, and almost a fairy tale moment itself, to walk downtown, wander into the theater, enjoy whatever movie happens to be playing in an intimate atmosphere with people you mostly know, then wander back out into the still almost-daylight, past (or into) the colorful fudge/candy/ice cream shop brimming with customers, and off back home through the twilight. Just what movie is showing doesn’t seem to matter so much as just the act of going to a movie.

On our way home we chatted idly about the movie, whether it was as good as the second, in agreement than none could beat the first, and the capture and mixing of all the fairy tales and folk stories ever told. The whole “true love’s kiss…” and creatures and stories...

Then, suddenly I remembered something that happened a few days ago, but forgotten almost as soon as it happened:

I was in my room changing and getting ready to go out for an evening (which probably meant I was changing from one pair of jeans to another). I stopped to brush my hair (a rather pointless pursuit, but I made the feeble attempt), closing the door partway to be able to see into the mirror on the back of the door. The dog was lying on his bed on the floor next to my bed on the other side of the door.

Suddenly, a movement on the wood floor caught my eye. There, hopping into my bedroom, looking for all the world like he fully intended to be there, was a frog. A rather largish sized frog for this neck of the woods, though no bullfrog.

My dog took an immediate interest, but I waved him back to his bed. The frog sort of stopped and looked up at me (I swear, he did). I was a bit astonished - it’s no simple feat for a frog to navigate himself into my house and then all the way through it to my bedroom. Much less when I was actually in there. There is the whole large porch, kitchen, dining room, a bend into the hallway and then the choice of three rooms into mine.

Anyway, there I stood, with this frog patiently waiting at my feet. Waiting for...something.

So I bent down and scooped him up. Only thing to do was to take him back outside where he belonged. Except he was having none of it. Despite the ever-inquisitive chipmunk-chasing dog-beast at my heals, this frog was determined to get out of my hands and stay in my house.

I finally scrambled him to the porch and the deck and the yard.

And then I stopped. What if?

So yes, I kissed the frog.

But, I am still me, and there is no Prince Charming come to whisk me away (or, for that matter, whisk me to stay). And the mirror on my door is still keeping (wisely) mum about just who is the fairest of them all. It knows I know I don’t stand a chance, and that I don’t really need to know the truth, anyway.

So much for fairy tale endings.