How now...

Here's my latest painting. I hurried so I could finish working on it in the back yard, which is very pleasant when 1) rain isn't falling, and 2) the wind isn't trying to blow the canvas off of my easel.

("How Now" is for sale in my Etsy shop.)

If you live around here, then you already know it's likely I won't be painting outside today.

The only thing I've missed from our old house is the covered patio. I hope there is one in the near future for this dwelling.

Stay dry!

This IS the something

It's easy to get sucked into the rhythm of our ridiculously high-tech, over-scheduled culture. In summer, so many of our friends are taking multiple vacations, or their children are attending various camps, or they're juggling a busy schedule of work and sitter and grandparent pick-ups. Plus, the weather is nice and warm; no one is stuck at home, staring at a snowstorm. There are festivals galore, crafts and food and ethnicity and music all being featured here or there. The pool beckons, as do museums, and the zoo, and hiking trails, and the library...

There's a bit of pressure to make the most of the couple of months you have: where should we go today? What's in season? What's on the agenda? Have we been to this place yet? Or should we go to that place? Which is closer? More expensive? Do you friends like this one? I heard this one is fun.

By mid-summer, our steam is beginning to run thin. By August? It's pretty much gone, without even a whistle. It's canning season, there's harvesting to be done, and we're running low on both personal fuel and family budgets. August, I suppose, is the month when you come to appreciate the back yard most of all. It's the month when you truly embrace, out of both weariness and comfort, the beckoning sway of the glider. The very glider where you once read stories to your child is where he now reads them to you. The same glider where you witnessed the first hummingbird of the season will be your seat when you soon bid farewell to those hummers. The glider where you've watched the chipmunks run madly to cover, where you saw the hawk swoop down for a defenseless animal. The very glider where you've welcomed countless mornings and evenings, with their rosy pink skies and array of either chirping birds or prowling bats.

That same patio, that glider, that backyard garden, all of them will provide company when you welcome autumn, and a new classroom teacher for your child. All those yard factors will be present, sitting still, while life moves forward without ceasing. They will comfort you with their sameness even as you mourn the loss of other places, people, traditions.

I'm realizing anew that I don't need to keep telling myself we should be "doing something." Sometimes it's good enough to just sit, and talk, and think. That familiar patio and yard are the setting for my son's most imaginative games, for our best and deepest discussions about what he wants to be and do someday. Yes, we reminisce about Kennywood and the beach. But we also share thoughts, and dreams, and secrets. The baring of hearts happens on that familiar (dare I say boring?) concrete and turf. Those are the places where we permit vulnerability, where we face some frightening and honest truths. Those worn seats and paths bring out what is hidden and real and true.

We don't need to always be "doing something." This is the something, this sharing of selves. It can't happen when we're constantly busy. It must be coaxed by languid minds, into the light of well-known, well-loved territories.

It's not too late. Stop doing something. Start letting out the real.

Kids will be kids

The folks next door have a young granddaughter who’s just a week older than Marcus. The two have occasionally played when she’s been visiting, spontaneous playtimes that happened because they and we happened to be out back at the same time and we encouraged the two children to interact. They’re usually shy with each other at first, and then start giggling and running around like little buddies.

These days, they’re both a bit more outgoing, so when we stepped onto the patio recently, there was the little girl (I’ll call her Arlene) swinging in her little swing, waiting for some fun. She hollered out, “Hi, Marcus!” And he looked back at me, a shy, embarrassed smile on his face. I told him he could go ahead and say hello to her, and he did.

“Do you want to go over there and say hello?” I asked him.

“No, not right now.” But he kept looking down at her to see what she was doing.

“Do you want to ask her if she wants to play in the sandbox with you?”

“Okay, but you come with me.” I agreed and we strolled down the slight hill between our yards toward the tree that houses the swing. Arlene had obviously been hoping he’d come over to chat, and she slid out of the swing and took a few steps toward him. She’s a pretty little thing, a slim miss with soft brown hair and lovely hazel eyes; as soon as Marcus put the invitation out there, she said yes and started over toward our yard.

“Arlene, why don’t you let your mom know where you’ll be so she doesn’t worry when she doesn’t see you swinging?” Arlene hurried up the back steps to alert the adults inside. A minute later, she popped back out, followed by Grandma, who looked concerned—had she been invited? Would she be a bother? No, no, we’d asked her to come over, I assured her.

The two of them began playing in the sand, then with trucks, then chalk, and finally they were riding around like mad on two of the bevy of huge plastic riding toys that have infiltrated the perimeters of my home. She stayed for nearly an hour, but then we needed to eat lunch. I thought of inviting her to stay, but decided that the excitement would be too great and Marcus wouldn’t touch a bite—not good, since we still had more visiting to come later that day, and I needed him to get some food in him. We walked Arlene to her grandparents’ door and explained that we were eating lunch now. We thanked her for visiting and said we’d see her later.

Of course, Marcus turned shy again and, after lunch, declined to go outside even though he could see Arlene on the swing, patiently waiting for more fun. When Daddy popped outside for something, I heard her immediately ask about Marcus’ whereabouts. Was he coming back out? Daddy explained that Marcus preferred to stay in just now, but perhaps he’d come out later. I let Marcus know that Arlene was hoping to play again, and that I wanted to go out but I knew she would ask about him… After some wheedling, the boy finally agreed to go back out. He decided he would take the puppets that he’d been playing with.

As soon as he was out the door, he yelled down to Arlene, “Wanna play with puppets?” She nodded vigorously and ran up to the back door, out of our sight, to again alert parents and grandparents. And then, she did not come back. And she did not come back. He waited, and watched for her return, and began to set up the puppet show, all the while glancing over. “Wonder where she is?” he asked. I explained that perhaps she had not been allowed to come over. Maybe they were eating now. Maybe there were other folks visiting who wanted to see her. Minutes passed, and no Arlene appeared.

And then I heard giggles, kid voices. He did too, and we both looked over at the house, but to no avail—no child in sight. “That was probably the other neighbors down the street,” I said. He agreed. As he manipulated a puppet, I stood, grabbed the broom, and began to sweep the patio, simultaneously attempting a covert look over at the neighbors’ yard. What?! I saw a flash of pink three doors up from us. On the other neighbor boy’s swingset. I quickly averted my gaze so as not to arouse interest from Marcus. I changed the subject, too: “Maybe you could use the back of the patio chair as your puppet platform? Then you can hide behind it?”

While he tried that out, I continued sweeping, moving closer to the patio’s edge to find a better view. That smidge of pink was Arlene, all right—the little minx had gone three doors up to see the boy with the full-size swingset and slide combo. There they were, sliding and swinging away, while my sweet, unsuspecting child played puppets all alone. Even as they frolicked just out of his view, he turned to me and motioned with his head and eyes to the house next door: “Probably asking her mom if it’s okay to come over.” He had no idea she was a traitor; he was giving her every benefit of the doubt.

I wanted to weep a little. I smiled instead, and said, “Probably.” And then I hunkered down to play puppets with him. And I thought, Oh Lord, how will this look 10 years from now, when he’s got a crush on the traitorous little girl? What will it be like when it’s his best friend who’s having another pal sleep over, or going with a different buddy to get pizza? How will I handle all his disappointments to come? After awhile I didn’t hear any kid noises, and I assumed the coast was clear, while he assumed aloud that his friend had not been allowed to come over to play. Life went on.

I wish I could protect him—from reality, from little and big hurts, from the inevitable letdowns of friends. But I can’t. I suppose it’s only going to get rougher from here on out.

Croatians and guns

Every neighborhood, every home, has its sounds. Take our last neighborhood, for example: the summer sounds from that house's porch and yard were little owls hoo-ing in the evenings, peepers peeping on occasion, the crack of the bat from a nearby baseball field, and multi-ton dump trucks lumbering by in the pre-dawn… Well, that’s a story for another post. Actually, for a novel, if I can ever be sufficiently distanced to write it without reliving it psychologically.

But the house we’re in now has its own orchestra, especially when the months turn warm. And on weekends, you’re almost guaranteed to hear gunshots intermingled with Croatians shouting and singing.

The first time I detected the gunfire, I was concerned. Guns? Why so close? And not just any guns—these shots sounded like they’d come from cannons. We found out from a next-door neighbor that there’s a sportsman’s club on the opposing hill, pretty much right across from our own hill—as the crow flies, probably about a half mile away. And apparently, it’s quite a popular place. The weeks leading up to deer season were so peppered with not-so-distant shots that I felt like Scarlett O’Hara in Atlanta, awaiting the Yanks.

But ah, in summer, the whole soundscape gains a new layer of madness. Shortly after we’d noticed all the shooting, we spent an entire Sunday afternoon listening to a mysterious and invisible band play an odd, faraway assortment of 80s pop and strange ethnic music, mixed with what sounded like the background of the pig roast in “My Big Fat Greek Wedding.” I could almost detect foreign instruments and words in the lyrics, and we were positively flummoxed.

Thank goodness for neighbors with a clue; the young man down the street was kind enough, as we strolled by one evening, to inform us that in addition to the sportsman's club with firing range, there is also a Croatian club on the hill opposite us. Apparently, the two organizations are not related, simply juxtaposed to each other and to our little neighborhood across the way… but you wouldn’t know they are separate entities merely from listening, especially on a warm, sunny weekend when the Croatians are living it up and the sportsmen are shooting every spare round they can load. The shots, the unfamiliar whining music and loud voices, each floats across the low road, joins together, and drifts up through the trees as one weird soundtrack.

And that is the auditory essence of a summer weekend here on my back patio. Croatians, with guns, belting out lusty tunes as they take potshots at each other like a bunch of Slavs from feuding families. Or at least that’s what I picture when I hear the disturbing yet amusing melody.