Tag Archives: observations

How You Know You Have a Great Mom (…and a kitty gif)

Kitty Wrinkles

A kitty playing with bed sheets, for your viewing pleasure. And now…on with the blog post.

A moment when my mother revealed what kind of a mother she is.

Bicycles and Suitcases Do Not Mix

Earlier this week I stayed the night at my parents’ house while traveling nearby for a doctor’s appointment.

I traveled primarily on bicycle.

Suitcases and bicycles do not mix.

All that I could bring, therefore, was what would fit in my backpack. Continue reading

The Intersection

 

Down the street from my apartment there is a triangular church, atop which birds sit throughout the day warming themselves and preening each other’s feathers. The church hedges are cut in the shapes of squares and rectangles that match the height of the church windows, and they fit trimly against the lobby door. There’s an extra entrance on the north side, a glass door that leads directly into the hall, for those who are coming to church and don’t want to the walk through the south lobby.

 

A couple of blocks north there’s a fifty-year-old house, the paint of which is cracked, chipped, and speckled with dirt. The gazebo at the front entrance has long since collapsed, leaving broken bits of wood laying in the weeds behind the bushes. On the porch hangs a stained-glass lamp, rocking in the breeze, and a soggy bag of moldy newspapers lies by the welcome mat. Covering the brick walls is a fresco of graffiti: drawings of cats with bull horns for ears; word plays such as, “make money take money”; faces with egyptian eyes and pursed lips. A three-inch-thick circular bolt chains a wheel-less bicycle to the cement just below the shattered windows.

Sitting next to the mailbox of this old house is a brand-new, light-grey picnic cooler with the name of the grocery-deliverering company, “Winder Farms”, written on the side. The cooler is full of fresh milk and bread.

Old Man in Diner

The old man sitting across from me in the diner lifted up his porcelain dinner plate and poured the leftover, steaming-hot broth into his cup.  While he poured he muttered to himself, whispering the other half of an unheard, or perhaps imaginary conversation.  When the cup was filled, he put the empty dinner plate back on the table, then squared the cup of broth, his dinner plate, silverware, salt and pepper shakers, oregano tin, and candle perfectly one against the other.  He smoothed his hands over the table cloth repeatedly until all the wrinkles had disappeared to his satisfaction and then inspected his table.

Upon seeing that all  was now arranged in proper order he took in one deep breath, and then slouched into the corner of his booth with a rapturous exhale and raised one leg onto the bench.  He closed his eyes and, after a few short breaths, slumped forwards sleepily.

His body hung halfway towards the ground as though suspended between one second and the next.  The tinkling sounds of the nearby diners did not disturb him, nor did the passing advances of the waiter who cleaned around the old man’s neatly organized table with a wet rag.  For the next quarter of an hour the old man only breathed an inaudible, “hoo hoo, of an owl through mostly closed lips and otherwise sat still as a statue.

When he finally awoke, he lifted his glass, sipped carefully at his cooled cup of broth, and resumed his broken, muttered conversation.

Finishing, the old man stood up, put a thin, plastic rain coat on over his sweater, left a few nickles on the counter, and sauntered out into the rain on bow-legged legs. Continue reading