Thirteen Things about MISS MELISS Things that Begin with W Walks – especially with my dogs. They sniff everything, and track things they’ll never even see, let alone catch, and I get to experience the various seasonal changes in our neighborhood. Water – whether it’s my shower, my lovely tub with the window, my pool, or rain, I think best when I’m in or around water. The sound of the surf is my touchstone, and it’s in my head and my heart even when I’m far from the actual ocean. Weaving – I’m not sure if I like The Lady of Shallot because she weaves, or if I like weaving because of the poem, but the whole notion of weaving appeals to me. I’ve been following this blog about a New Hampshire farm just to read about their sheep and the wool they get from them. Web – I’m not a fan of spiders, but I think that orb webs are among the loveliest sites Nature has produced. As well, I’m a fan of that other sort of web, the one preceded by “world wide.” Weeds – as kids we all think dandelions are pretty until we’re conditioned to think of them as weeds, lawn disruptors, the enemy. The thing is, I like weeds. Some of them are just as pretty as “real” flowers. Wells, Rebecca – she seriously needs to write another book, because Little Altars Everywhere was short stories, and not satisfying, and Divine Secrets of the YaYa Sisterhood just wasn’t enough. And I know there was also YaYas in Bloom, but, still. More please. Whales – John Denver sang, “Have you gazed out on the ocean, seen the breaching of a whale? Have you watched the dolphins frolic in the foam.” D. H. Lawrence wrote: They say the sea is cold, but the sea contains the hottest blood of all, and the wildest, the most urgent. All the whales in the wider deeps, hot are they, as they urge on and on, and dive beneath the icebergs. The right whales, the sperm-whales, the hammer-heads, the killers there they blow, there they blow, hot wild white breath out of the sea! And they rock, and they rock, through the sensual ageless ages on the depths of the seven seas, and through the salt they reel with drunk delight and in the tropics tremble they with love and roll with massive, strong desire, like gods. Then the great bull lies up against his bride in the blue deep bed of the sea, as mountain pressing on mountain, in the zest of life: and out of the inward roaring of the inner red ocean of whale-blood the long tip reaches strong, intense, like the maelstrom-tip, and comes to rest in the clasp and the soft, wild clutch of a she-whale’s fathomless body. And over the bridge of the whale’s strong phallus, linking the wonder of whales the burning archangels under the sea keep passing, back and forth, keep passing, archangels of bliss from him to her, from her to him, great Cherubim that wait on whales in mid-ocean, suspended in the waves of the sea great heaven of whales in the waters, old hierarchies. And enormous mother whales lie dreaming suckling their whale- tender young and dreaming with strange whale eyes wide open in the waters of the beginning and the end. And bull-whales gather their women and whale-calves in a ring when danger threatens, on the surface of the ceaseless flood and range themselves like great fierce Seraphim facing the threat encircling their huddled monsters of love. And all this happens in the sea, in the salt where God is also love, but without words: and Aphrodite is the wife of whales most happy, happy she! and Venus among the fishes skips and is a she-dolphin she is the gay, delighted porpoise sporting with love and the sea she is the female tunny-fish, round and happy among the males and dense with happy blood, dark rainbow bliss in the sea. –Whales Weep Not . Beyond that, there need be no explanation – they’re amazing wonderful animals. Whispers – sometimes a whisper is better heard than the loudest scream. Whispers are intimate, soft, private. They imply things that are secret and special. Why – I’m told that I used to ask this incessantly. Of course, I was five at the time. Now though, I still like to know WHY before I do anything. Windows – I like looking in as much as looking out – each has its own perspective and its own beauty. Wit – in humor, I prefer irony, sarcasm, and other examples of dry wit, over slapstick and sophomoric jokes. Always have. Always will. Writing – I don’t just sling words because it pays the bill. I do it because on some level, I have to. I am made of ink and paper and words and music. And coffee, but that’s a different letter. Wonder – as a noun, it’s almost synonymous with magic and as a verb it is musing, questioning, exploration. I like it in both aspects. Links to other Thursday Thirteens!

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Cleaning the upstairs bathroom today, the one we really don’t use that much because the master suite is downstairs, I found a bunch of Clinique make-up in the medicine cabinet. I don’t wear Clinique any more, having switched to Aveda, but I opened the jar of base anyway, and caught a whiff of a familiar scent, and suddenly:

I was five years old and dressed as Pocahontas and my mother was dabbing base on my pale skin to make me look darker.

I was seven, and watching her do her morning make-up, staring into one of those pink plastic makeup mirrors that was normal on one side and flipped (pivoted really) to a magnifying mirror on the other.

I was ten, and had that mirror in my room, and I would stare into it and try to decide if I liked my eyes or not.

I was eleven, and calling my grandparents to tell them I had “become a woman.”

I was fifteen, and had dyed my hair for the first time, and the dye spattered the mirror when I rinsed it out.

I was twenty-one, sharing a mirror with my mother, as we got dressed for my grandfather’s funeral.

I was twenty-four, and doing make-up for my own wedding.

I was five and fifteen and twenty-five and thirty, and all ages in between and yet to come, and I was struck with a sense of home.

And I called my mother, and told her I loved her.

Following in the footsteps of one of my favorite web-witches, Hootin’ Anni, my newer blog-buddy Wakela Runen is passing along Halloween Treats to folks on her blogroll, and I was so treated. Thanks, Wakela!

These are the guidelines for bloggish trick or treat:

Each day up until Halloween [October 31st]
Hootin’ Anni will be handing out
a treat for 1 – 5[one to five] bloggers who drop by
during the week for visiting.
You’re more than welcomed to pass it along
to ones you think are deserving of a special treat
for the season.
Kinda like “Pay it Forward”
Y’know, one goodwill gesture deserves another?
But DON’T just choose your friends
making this cliquish and ‘just groupies’…
Make NEW friends by choosing random visitors!!!
It seems that ‘awards’ are floating around blogland
and just “blog friends” get chosen all the time.
Make it RANDOM!!

If you do decide to share it with others
then, USE THIS “TREAT” IMAGE and
link it back to my blog and
explain where the idea originated.

And these are the people I’m treating. There are more than five, because I know I won’t get around to posting this every day:

Becca of Becca’s Byline
CajunVegan of I Read Banned Books
Carmi of Written, Inc.
Dave of Utenzi Blog
Frank & Lisa of Notes from Zone 4
Gautami of Rooted
Herb of Herb Urban
Jeremy of Give Mama Some Sugar
Nat of The Capacious Hold-All
sister AE of Having Writ
The Synergizer of Miss Kitty Fantastico

(At least one of these blogs is one where I lurk, reading but never – or rarely commenting, others were chosen because they’re not getting the attention they deserve.)

Feel free to grab the image and pass on your own treats, but don’t forget to credit Hootin’ Anni if you do.

“We need to probably get rid of this suitcase,” he said several weeks ago, coming home from a trip.

The plastic innards had fragmented and were shedding inside, so there was no “probably” about it, but much as I love my husband, making definite statements is not his strong point. “Can’t you ever just say ‘Yes’ or ‘No’?” I ask him in exasperation.

He smiles and says, “Maybe.”

So the suitcase sat in the corner of the living room for a month, because moving it twenty feet to the garage, and then out to the curb would apparently be too much work. It’s not like it’s Samsonite luggage, or anything. It’s cheap canvas stuff from Big Lots, that was supposed to be $40/bag and we got for $10. It has lasted several years, after all.

With Fuzzy away, though, I have to keep busy, tire myself out, so that I sleep without all the normal house sounds spooking me. (The curse of an over-active imagination), so I’ve been cleaning, and that included taking the suitcase out to the garage.

He’s lucky, though.

I took his coat out of it, first.

…may seem dreadful to many, but I’ve been waiting for this weather all summer, it seems.

Yesterday, knowing it would be the last warm day for a while, we hung the ghosts in the trees, and I strung up the Halloween lights. (Yes, we have Halloween lights. Our whole neighborhood does. Don’t you?) Today, I’m writing, and cleaning, back and forth between the stationary task and the suckful task, except, I sort of like cleaning once in a while. It’s cathartic, and I like the way the house looks.

I can write this now because Fuzzy’s safely at the airport, and should be boarding his plane in 20 minutes, but I might move furniture while he’s gone. Or I might not. Today though, I’m writing and cleaning and enjoying lamplight and candlelight, and the glowing ghosties, and the rain outside.

Mmm. Fall.

Dear Aunt Peg,

I realize that you are ninety years old, that you’ve had a good life, and that one of the reasons we had your birthday in June instead of August was that you said you felt you didn’t have much time left. (The other reason, of course, was that August weather in SoDak is brutal.)

You’ve been a great auntie. Everyone should have a great-aunt as funny, spry, and sweet as you are, so I know you won’t find it offensive when I ask you that, if this intestinal blockage that has you in the hospital tonight is going to kill you, you could manage to die by Halloween, or hold on til December. Not that I want you to die. Of course I don’t. We aren’t ready to let you go yet, though I know you’ve said you’re getting kind of tired.

But you see, November is a suckful month in our family. My grandfather (your brother), my uncle Merrell, my cousin Eddie, Ginny who thought I was her birthday cousin because we share the same birthdate….all these people died in November, and frankly, if one more person in our family dies in November I’ll have to strike that page from the calendar. Not just MY calendar. THE Calendar. The one that determines when we observe things like Labor Day and Daylight Savings. You know. The big one. The official One.

And removing November would be pretty horrible for the people who have birthdays then, for all the folks who participate in NaNoWriMo, for the people who like to vote (we’d have to make sure November 2008 was put back in, at least), and for all the people who’ve never seen the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, and should, as well as all the people who have, and want to again, and never miss it on TV.

I’ve lost enough family this year, Aunt Peg: Uncle Stan, Cousin Pat, Aunt Gwen…and I’m sad about all of them, of course, but you and I are actually kind of close, in the way that great-aunts and grand-nieces can be. We’ve shared Christmases, hotel rooms, and illicit cups of coffee together.

So here’s the deal. No dying. Because frankly, with Pat having died just last week, and my grandmother’s death in 2000 pretty much destroying Christmas, October and December are hanging by mere threads, and if we excised a whole quarter of a year, people might get a bit tetchy.

So, use all that Klindienst stubbornness and Chapman stamina, and the sweetness from the frosting of every cake you ever decorated, and bundle it up and get better.

Because if you don’t?

I’ll make my mother sing at you.

Love always,

Melissa

9:08 AM.

I’ve been up for about half an hour, woken by nature’s insistent call, and am apparently fully awake now, even though our alarm won’t go off for an hour.

I escorted the dogs out to the back yard this morning, wanting to feel the fresh air. It’s supposed to warm to nearly 90 degrees by the end of the day, but right now it’s one of those deliciously crisp fall mornings with just enough wind, and I sat in the soft rays of the morning sun, and let the breeze wrap itself around my arms, and ruffle my hair, and tickle my ankles, while I watched the dogs sniffing in the ivy, and listened to a chorus of birdsong. I’m hoping Fuzzy understands that while the weather is my lover, he’s my true love and best friend. Also he takes the garbage out, and brings me flowers. The weather, however seductive it might be, never does either.

Well, sometimes it brings me flowers, but I have to share them with the whole of Creation, which lessens the impact somewhat.

Back inside now, I’m at the antique wooden writing desk typing on the pink Macbook. A glass of tart cranberry juice and a container of fat-free peach yogurt serve as breakfast this morning. I’m craving a croissant and a latte, and while I might have the latter, later, the former isn’t an option.

Anyway, croissants are only good first thing in the morning.

I have NPR murmuring at me from the kitchen. I’ve been really into radio lately. I like the way you can discover whole new worlds between the numbers on the dial. Turn the knob one way, and you get a sports channel, giving you the latest information on the Indianapolis Colts or Dallas Cowboys, or whatever. Turn it in the opposite direction, and a burst of bad mariachi assaults your ears, but it’s only for a moment because you’re moving on to the next.

Top 40. Country-Western. Vintage Rock. Talk Shows. NPR.
An entire world inside a little box, and so much more interesting than television, the way novels are better than movies.

Sunday morning.
A time for small discoveries.
And a tryst with the autumn breeze.

Last Sunday marked the third anniversary in this house, the longest I’ve ever been in a single house.

This weekend marks, not our 12th wedding anniversary, because that was in March, but the 12th anniversary of flying home to California (when it was home) for the pot-luck reception my parents hosted. We had a Humanist minister lead a brief ceremony, where we quoted from Little House on the Prairie, Anne of Green Gables, and read the “Apache Wedding Prayer,” and my grandmother gave us her mother’s wedding ring, a rose-gold band with sheaves of wheat flanking a platinum inset holding three diamond chips. I’m wearing it as I write this, with her diamond engagement ring. I bought Fuzzy’s ring, and keep joking that someday I’d like a ring from him, but the reality is that I like being able to wear my family history on my fingers, and my great-grandmother was such a tiny woman (or so I’ve heard – she died when my grandmother was nineteen) that the small scale of her ring suits my pixie hands.

Neither our actual wedding (we eloped) nor this ceremony were terribly fancy, there were no strings of bridesmaids, groomsmen gift buying frenzies, or hoards of relatives we barely knew. Instead, a few simple words, and then a pot-luck in the back yard where our multicultural friends brought traditional wedding foods from their own families or countries of origin.

Part of me wishes we’d done a formal wedding.
Part of me doesn’t.

But either way, October has become a month of personal milestones.

And I rather like that.