********
There is something slightly crass about the Holiday… oh hell. Let’s call it what it really is: the Christmas Season.
Retailers are desperate to make sure Black Friday puts them solidly in the Black and gives them enough revenue to make it through the next year. Commercialism runs rampant, but is pretty much understandable because livelihoods – staving off foreclosure, repossession and starvation - depend on sales at this time of year.
Advertising is the vehicle by which these retailers get their message to the buying public, and many times the result is heartwarming and kinda fun (think big red bows and just in the nick of time snowfall saving the day and inducing spontaneous song singing). Other times it is just tawdry, screaming in your face, even guilt-inducing (YOU MUST BUY THIS OR YOU ARE A BAAAAD HUSBAND, PARENT, FRIEND, etc.). Either way – and all the ways in between – again, it is still pretty understandable.
Christmas movies… now there is another story.
Some movies are wonderful and stand the test of time, and others can, and do, disappear into the ethereal if slightly stale celluloid misty void where they belong amidst dusty distintegrating costumes and old chipped and cracked props.
Every year, movie makers attempt to reinvent the classics, with remakes and “re-imaginings”. Some brave souls even try new stories. For some reason beyond my real understanding, many of these seem hastily made and a rather desperate attempt to “cash in” rather than making an honest living selling stuff to people who are desperate to buy that same stuff.
Maybe if the quality of these “re-imaginings”, remakes and even some new stories were able to truly capture even the tiniest modicum of the magic we are all searching for this time of year, we could embrace their stories and add them to our DVD shelves for yearly watching huddled around the TV flickering like a cold fire, fighting over the popcorn and arguing over who has to go get the paper towels because SOMEone spilled their soda.
*sigh* Good times.
Anyway, I could probably forgive their attempts if they had some “heart”, that indefinable something that gives a film that special extra push that resonates long after the credits roll.
Take "A Christmas Carol", a novel that has been remade in film and on stage soooo many times that a true aficionado would have a hard time getting through all of them without either a boxful of Kleenex or a very large glass of wine and a steady hand on the mute button.
For those who have actually READ the classic book by Charles Dickens, you all know the story is not only about personal redemption via ghost dreams, but it is filled with humor, pathos, social commentary and an interesting history lesson on how people dealt with death of a hated colleague or beloved family member in an era where death was a sad but very frequent personal visitor.
So why is it that so many remakes fail to get past the ghosts and at least give a nod in the general direction of some of these underlying themes in this very slim volume? A clever writer would be able to interject the requisite pathos, a layered cast would play it just so and a competent director and editor would work it to allow the seasoning of the story to come through to elevate it beyond the obvious.
Alastair Sim, Albert Finney, Bill Murray, Fred Flintstone, Mr. Magoo, George C. Scott, Uncle Scrooge, Michael Caine, Patrick Stewart, Jim Carrey… so many Scrooges, so little time…
And we all have our favorite; for whatever reason, the one single version that sings to us; that one translation that tugs at our heartstrings year after year. Upon expanding these favorite versions, you can dig beneath the layers and find… more layers; layers that touch on or deeply explore one or more of the underlying themes laid out so carefully by the inestimable Mr. Dickens.
Whether the emphasis on the sub-themes is on the pathos or the social commentary or even the humor (gallows though it often is), there is something for all of us in this deceptively simple story.
Personally, even though a couple of very significant sub-stories are missing (like Scrooge's beloved sister, who emotionally ties him to his oft-maligned nephew), my favorite is … "The Muppet Christmas Carol".
Really. I am completely serious here.
Pathos, humor, social commentary, dealing with death… it is all touched on there, brilliantly executed by the Muppet cast and Michael Cain and a slew of other real live actors mingling seamlessly in with the legless puppets.
Only the dramatic reading by Patrick Stewart (not his film version...but the far superior stage reading – which I have seen in person TWICE!!! - also out on CD, available at Amazon.com…) even comes close.
Muppet Christmas Carol (also available at Amazon.com... hmmmmm starting to sound like a commercial here) is more than just fun, and the throw away lines and visual jokes really are hilarious, but the heart is deep, the layers complex and the simple felt Muppet puppets portray the cast that surrounds Michael Cain with a depth that is simply amazing.
Muppets and Charles Dickens… whoda thunk it??
Just Musing,
Susan
*********************
.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Memory - or Lack Thereof
*********
I keep thinking I am still a young woman... but then things keep cropping up: grey hair (only at the roots!), weird pains, the look on my mother's face in the mirror, my inability to recognise any current music or artists or actors, and now the most dreaded of all aging un-fair-ables: Memory Loss.
I have been trying to get back into this blog post to write for more than two weeks. I simply could not remember my log in and password. I naturally assumed it was the email address with the extension The Powers That Be requested and spent hours, days, weeks, decades, eons, for EVER trying to figure out what the *$(%@ was wrong. In the end, I created another account, but it still wouldn't let me into my own blog...
Frustration, thy name is Technology.
It got me thinking about other recent bouts of forgetfulness. Where I left my keys. Where the heck is my credit card?? Why did I come into this room?? What in tarnation is the name of my BFF????? HOW do I open an escrow?? My phone number? Ummmmmm.....
I figure there has to be an explanation for this seemingly random series of brain fades since other times I am sharp and quick and witty. I can even do the word puzzles in the paper every morning in my head.
Obviously I am either a target of a Forget Me Now Ray gun (scary to think I might know something so terrible that the Super Secret Arm of the US Gvm'nt would use this buggy and dangerous techonology in a metro area!!! *gasp*) or, and this is a far more likely scenario, I am beset by Forgettery Fairies.
I have been whacked over the head by these Forgetteries more and more often in recent months... So often in fact, that I have acquired my own personal one who follows me around all day. I shall call her Frosince. I can't see Frosince except out of the corner of my eye, but I picture this fairy as being kinda scrunchy looking, green leafy dress all wrinkled because she forgot to take it out of the dryer, a perpetual slightly puzzled scowl on her little face from constant concentration and frustration, cold toes because she forgot to put on her tiny little shoes (from the hundreds she steals from little girl's Barbies), and her teeth are all fuzzy because, well, you get the idea.
Frosince is not a happy camper. My theory is that in addition to forgetting to brush her teeth yesterday, she also forgot where she left her car (a Beetle, of course) on the three hundred and forty-seventh level of the parking structure at Disneyland when she was on a pilgrimage to pay homage to the epitome of achievable fairy success, Tink, and had to hitchhike back home on the luggage rack of a Kia. (BTW, anyone who would even SUGGEST that she use her wings to fly nearly 100 miles is a cad.)
I am certain that she has weilded her Wand of Formatible Forgetty-fulness, all 2 inches and 37 grams of it, repeatedly at my head and THAT is the reason I have been waking up with little headaches and odd lumps on my head in the morning. That is certainly a more logical explanation than rolling over too close ot the edge of the bed and ker-bonging my head on the nightstand!
Ouch.
Fairy clobbering notwithstanding, I am back, and expect to get back on some sort of writing schedule.
Just... watch out for fairies with bad breath. It could be Frosince or one of her BFF Forgettery Friends like Freida or Frescura, coming to visit YOU... ker-BONNNNG!!!!
Just Musing,
Susan
************************
I keep thinking I am still a young woman... but then things keep cropping up: grey hair (only at the roots!), weird pains, the look on my mother's face in the mirror, my inability to recognise any current music or artists or actors, and now the most dreaded of all aging un-fair-ables: Memory Loss.
I have been trying to get back into this blog post to write for more than two weeks. I simply could not remember my log in and password. I naturally assumed it was the email address with the extension The Powers That Be requested and spent hours, days, weeks, decades, eons, for EVER trying to figure out what the *$(%@ was wrong. In the end, I created another account, but it still wouldn't let me into my own blog...
Frustration, thy name is Technology.
It got me thinking about other recent bouts of forgetfulness. Where I left my keys. Where the heck is my credit card?? Why did I come into this room?? What in tarnation is the name of my BFF????? HOW do I open an escrow?? My phone number? Ummmmmm.....
I figure there has to be an explanation for this seemingly random series of brain fades since other times I am sharp and quick and witty. I can even do the word puzzles in the paper every morning in my head.
Obviously I am either a target of a Forget Me Now Ray gun (scary to think I might know something so terrible that the Super Secret Arm of the US Gvm'nt would use this buggy and dangerous techonology in a metro area!!! *gasp*) or, and this is a far more likely scenario, I am beset by Forgettery Fairies.
I have been whacked over the head by these Forgetteries more and more often in recent months... So often in fact, that I have acquired my own personal one who follows me around all day. I shall call her Frosince. I can't see Frosince except out of the corner of my eye, but I picture this fairy as being kinda scrunchy looking, green leafy dress all wrinkled because she forgot to take it out of the dryer, a perpetual slightly puzzled scowl on her little face from constant concentration and frustration, cold toes because she forgot to put on her tiny little shoes (from the hundreds she steals from little girl's Barbies), and her teeth are all fuzzy because, well, you get the idea.
Frosince is not a happy camper. My theory is that in addition to forgetting to brush her teeth yesterday, she also forgot where she left her car (a Beetle, of course) on the three hundred and forty-seventh level of the parking structure at Disneyland when she was on a pilgrimage to pay homage to the epitome of achievable fairy success, Tink, and had to hitchhike back home on the luggage rack of a Kia. (BTW, anyone who would even SUGGEST that she use her wings to fly nearly 100 miles is a cad.)
I am certain that she has weilded her Wand of Formatible Forgetty-fulness, all 2 inches and 37 grams of it, repeatedly at my head and THAT is the reason I have been waking up with little headaches and odd lumps on my head in the morning. That is certainly a more logical explanation than rolling over too close ot the edge of the bed and ker-bonging my head on the nightstand!
Ouch.
Fairy clobbering notwithstanding, I am back, and expect to get back on some sort of writing schedule.
Just... watch out for fairies with bad breath. It could be Frosince or one of her BFF Forgettery Friends like Freida or Frescura, coming to visit YOU... ker-BONNNNG!!!!
Just Musing,
Susan
************************
Monday, October 19, 2009
Ghosts
****************************************
Ghosts are kind of a cool concept. They give us the opportunity to believe that life goes on FOR US after someone's death; that the person who has passed on still cares enough about us, about this tenuous life, to hang around even though there ust be some sort of imperative to move onto the next plane.
We are missed. Missed and the object of such strong focus that the departed feels the deep need to communicate with us, to say something so important that the laws of physics and metaphysics are twisted, torn, circumvented and otherwise ignored.
All because of us. We want so much to believe that we are that important.
Either that or we just need to have that person in our lives, even if just on the periphery... something for us, as the ones left behind, to hang onto.
Flitting about like shadows just on the edge of consciousness, these ghosts are obviously the product of our own desire for closure we never got in this world.
By the same token, ghosts do not have to be dead, they can just as easily refer to people who have departed from our lives. Lovers, parents, children, friends…
So, in thinking of them as ghosts we can conjure them us whenever we want and finally can say what we never got the opportunity or did not have the nerve to say. These things can be positive or negative, but we wish we could have had the time or the guts to spill when we had the opportunity.
So the Ghosts of Relationships past can have an effect on our current life, depending on how hard we hang on to the unsaid words hanging on the air like wraiths.
I wonder how many times we see someone talking to themselves as they walk down the hall, or while in their car… how many of those people are having the conversations they wish they could have had, keeping their past alive and encroaching on their current life digging in with little sharp hooks, hanging like curtain climbing kittens.
So, my question for the universe is this: do we hang onto our old relationship ghosts, talking to ourselves in the car and letting them go gradually as we convince ourselves that our lives have branched out far enough for us to stop looking in the rear view mirror? Or, do we cut them off and pretend that we never knew the person?
I suspect that the very human truth is somewhere in the middle.
Just Musing,
Susan
***********************************************
Ghosts are kind of a cool concept. They give us the opportunity to believe that life goes on FOR US after someone's death; that the person who has passed on still cares enough about us, about this tenuous life, to hang around even though there ust be some sort of imperative to move onto the next plane.
We are missed. Missed and the object of such strong focus that the departed feels the deep need to communicate with us, to say something so important that the laws of physics and metaphysics are twisted, torn, circumvented and otherwise ignored.
All because of us. We want so much to believe that we are that important.
Either that or we just need to have that person in our lives, even if just on the periphery... something for us, as the ones left behind, to hang onto.
Flitting about like shadows just on the edge of consciousness, these ghosts are obviously the product of our own desire for closure we never got in this world.
By the same token, ghosts do not have to be dead, they can just as easily refer to people who have departed from our lives. Lovers, parents, children, friends…
So, in thinking of them as ghosts we can conjure them us whenever we want and finally can say what we never got the opportunity or did not have the nerve to say. These things can be positive or negative, but we wish we could have had the time or the guts to spill when we had the opportunity.
So the Ghosts of Relationships past can have an effect on our current life, depending on how hard we hang on to the unsaid words hanging on the air like wraiths.
I wonder how many times we see someone talking to themselves as they walk down the hall, or while in their car… how many of those people are having the conversations they wish they could have had, keeping their past alive and encroaching on their current life digging in with little sharp hooks, hanging like curtain climbing kittens.
So, my question for the universe is this: do we hang onto our old relationship ghosts, talking to ourselves in the car and letting them go gradually as we convince ourselves that our lives have branched out far enough for us to stop looking in the rear view mirror? Or, do we cut them off and pretend that we never knew the person?
I suspect that the very human truth is somewhere in the middle.
Just Musing,
Susan
***********************************************
Friday, October 16, 2009
Talking with My Hands
**********************
It was brought to my attention a few days ago that I use my hands a lot when I am talking. Excitement, anxiety, playfulness, candor, persuasion... all seem to bring it out even more than "normal" and my hands become as birds flittering in a high wind.
Apparently I do this a lot, and just don't notice until someone points it out.
I wonder why this is, this talking with my hands. Certain stereotypes are depicted on small and large screens as having this same affliction. Hands become part of the vocalization to the point that if you were to tie someone's hands together, they would become dumbfounded and lose a certain about of loquaciousness until untied.
At least I think I have seen a movie where something like that has happened.
Anyway, I often wonder where I got it. I don’t remember my parents using their hands that much, or my grandparents, or other members of my family, I am nearly 100% Irish, not a drop of Italian, so it isn’t genetic as far as I know (there's that stereotype!). Again, as far as I know, the Irish are known mostly for their singing and pubs and seemingly personal knowledge of the mystical.
My hands move of their own volition; I do not consciously control their movements and they will not be tied. Why is this? Why do I - or anyone else for that matter – use hand gestures when we speak? Emphasis? Persuasion? Illustration? Animation? Theatrics? Diversion? Comedy? Prevarication?
All of the above?
I know that some people laugh good naturedly at this little habit of mine and others - the less imaginative ones, I imagine - are annoyed at what they perceive to be an attempt at distraction, actively sneer and ultimately laugh at me… not so good naturedly as others.
Eh. So what? Let them laugh.
As the great Charles Dickens wrote, “…he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms.”
My hands are birds… watch them giggle and flutter and fly!
Just Musing,
Susan
* This one’s for you, Chuck! :)
***************************************
It was brought to my attention a few days ago that I use my hands a lot when I am talking. Excitement, anxiety, playfulness, candor, persuasion... all seem to bring it out even more than "normal" and my hands become as birds flittering in a high wind.
Apparently I do this a lot, and just don't notice until someone points it out.
I wonder why this is, this talking with my hands. Certain stereotypes are depicted on small and large screens as having this same affliction. Hands become part of the vocalization to the point that if you were to tie someone's hands together, they would become dumbfounded and lose a certain about of loquaciousness until untied.
At least I think I have seen a movie where something like that has happened.
Anyway, I often wonder where I got it. I don’t remember my parents using their hands that much, or my grandparents, or other members of my family, I am nearly 100% Irish, not a drop of Italian, so it isn’t genetic as far as I know (there's that stereotype!). Again, as far as I know, the Irish are known mostly for their singing and pubs and seemingly personal knowledge of the mystical.
My hands move of their own volition; I do not consciously control their movements and they will not be tied. Why is this? Why do I - or anyone else for that matter – use hand gestures when we speak? Emphasis? Persuasion? Illustration? Animation? Theatrics? Diversion? Comedy? Prevarication?
All of the above?
I know that some people laugh good naturedly at this little habit of mine and others - the less imaginative ones, I imagine - are annoyed at what they perceive to be an attempt at distraction, actively sneer and ultimately laugh at me… not so good naturedly as others.
Eh. So what? Let them laugh.
As the great Charles Dickens wrote, “…he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms.”
My hands are birds… watch them giggle and flutter and fly!
Just Musing,
Susan
* This one’s for you, Chuck! :)
***************************************
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Some Days You're the Windshield...
*******************************
Today I'm the bug.
Bad, bad day.
Sometimes it is so hard to maintain the facade of happy happy, putting on the cheerful patient face when all around me people are throwing sharp objects and fresh doggy doo straight at my head.
And sometimes I can’t duck fast enough.
*splat*
So after washing my face and spending a few eons feeling sorry for myself, I have to wonder, how is it possible that I am solely responsible for every single thing that has gone wrong since the beginning of time? I am only 52, so does all that blame only take effect during my singularly unspectacular lifetime, or does it stretch backwards into perpetuity? And if I am not directly responsible, I must most certainly be the cause… I’m the odds on favorite BLAME candidate (except for Presidents, of course).
Hell, if it weren't for me God probably could have had the whole thing done in five days.
I am interrupted at the beginning of a conversation with a joke or another story, so I don’t get heard. I may as well slap some duck tape on my mouth after the first couple of words.
And in public, hey, just put an apple in my mouth, for I will be spitted and barbequed for all to see.
(Hmm. Better wait on the duck tape until AFTER the apple thing…)
It doesn’t seem to matter that no one could answer those questions fired at me with such rapidity… it is I on the hotseat, I am the target.
Sooooo, apple in my mouth, check. Duck tape across my face, holding apple in, check. Wooden chair on fire to simulate hot seat, check. Target bullseye painted with bright red paint on my chest (touched up daily to keep it fresh!), check.
Am I missing anything?
Of course, I realize that all this makes me sound like I think I really AM all that important, that everyone blames me because I really do have that much power… bwaaaa ha ha ha hahahahahahahah!!!
Nah. That’s the irony of it all. I am really nothing more than a mass of unrealized potential who has made scads of mistakes compounding over the years with bad hair, a weakness for chocolate and a big butt.
So stop blaming me for stuff, please. My plate is all full and I am out of red paint.
Just Musing,
Susan
********************************************************
Today I'm the bug.
Bad, bad day.
Sometimes it is so hard to maintain the facade of happy happy, putting on the cheerful patient face when all around me people are throwing sharp objects and fresh doggy doo straight at my head.
And sometimes I can’t duck fast enough.
*splat*
So after washing my face and spending a few eons feeling sorry for myself, I have to wonder, how is it possible that I am solely responsible for every single thing that has gone wrong since the beginning of time? I am only 52, so does all that blame only take effect during my singularly unspectacular lifetime, or does it stretch backwards into perpetuity? And if I am not directly responsible, I must most certainly be the cause… I’m the odds on favorite BLAME candidate (except for Presidents, of course).
Hell, if it weren't for me God probably could have had the whole thing done in five days.
I am interrupted at the beginning of a conversation with a joke or another story, so I don’t get heard. I may as well slap some duck tape on my mouth after the first couple of words.
And in public, hey, just put an apple in my mouth, for I will be spitted and barbequed for all to see.
(Hmm. Better wait on the duck tape until AFTER the apple thing…)
It doesn’t seem to matter that no one could answer those questions fired at me with such rapidity… it is I on the hotseat, I am the target.
Sooooo, apple in my mouth, check. Duck tape across my face, holding apple in, check. Wooden chair on fire to simulate hot seat, check. Target bullseye painted with bright red paint on my chest (touched up daily to keep it fresh!), check.
Am I missing anything?
Of course, I realize that all this makes me sound like I think I really AM all that important, that everyone blames me because I really do have that much power… bwaaaa ha ha ha hahahahahahahah!!!
Nah. That’s the irony of it all. I am really nothing more than a mass of unrealized potential who has made scads of mistakes compounding over the years with bad hair, a weakness for chocolate and a big butt.
So stop blaming me for stuff, please. My plate is all full and I am out of red paint.
Just Musing,
Susan
********************************************************
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Happiness is a warm puppy... waiting to greet the morning
******************************************************************
As my puppy, a rather large beautiful Golden Retriever lays on my feet (not AT, but ON, making my feet rather too warm most of the time) this evening, I think about all the joy and entertainment this one creature has given me since we were introduced the day after Christmas last year... and I am completely overwhelmed.
Not simply another perfect family dog, Sarah is MY dog in every way. She follows me about from room to room - so much that I sometimes just want to tell her to stay, I will be right back, but it doesn't matter, she will follow and just lay down by the door and wait.
It seems as though her life is full of waiting...
First, waiting for me to wake up. When she hears me stir, she leaps off her Mickey Mouse dog bed (thanks, Judy!) in the corner of my bedroom, bounds over to my side of the bed and places her head on the mattress scant inches from mine, looks at me, tail wagging, until I open my eyes and look into her shining brown ones.
Indeed, hers is the very first face I see, not that of my husband, who sleeps beside me every single night, but my pretty Golden.
My acknowledgement of her presence sends her into barely contained excitement: her tail wags so hard her backside violently sways back and forth in a frenzied undulation of joy... and she waits for me to arise. I finally get up and head for the bathroom and she collapses heavily at the door - fooooom - her entire body weight leaning against the door so that when I open it, she halfway falls into the bathroom, unabashedly leaps up and her tail and body wags all over again in pure and simple joy that I have reappeared.
I head downstairs to make coffee, and Sarah's enthusiastic appreciation for the morning compels her to madly gallop down stairs just ahead of me. She dashes to the back door and looks back at me, hoping I am going to run and play outside with her.
Capricious and unfeeling non-morning person that I am, I head directly to the coffeemaker, measure out aromatic grounds, turn on the machine and wait rather impatiently for the brew to descend into the carafe.
And so she waits, too, sitting down next to the back door, patiently watching my every move.
Finally, hot cup of coffee sweetened with sugar, half and half and a touch of chocolate warming my hands, I unlock and open the back door, and she slithers out the dog door next to me, pranching across the dewy lawn, looking back with her Golden "smile", so very happy to greet the day with me.
It is a lovely way to start the day, caffeine slowing singing through my system, walking barefoot across the grass to sit in the swing under three very large Mulberry trees, with Sarah sitting on my feet (too hot, but awfully sweet) and gazing up at me with loving brown eyes.
Life is good!
Just Musing,
Susan
******************************************************************
As my puppy, a rather large beautiful Golden Retriever lays on my feet (not AT, but ON, making my feet rather too warm most of the time) this evening, I think about all the joy and entertainment this one creature has given me since we were introduced the day after Christmas last year... and I am completely overwhelmed.
Not simply another perfect family dog, Sarah is MY dog in every way. She follows me about from room to room - so much that I sometimes just want to tell her to stay, I will be right back, but it doesn't matter, she will follow and just lay down by the door and wait.
It seems as though her life is full of waiting...
First, waiting for me to wake up. When she hears me stir, she leaps off her Mickey Mouse dog bed (thanks, Judy!) in the corner of my bedroom, bounds over to my side of the bed and places her head on the mattress scant inches from mine, looks at me, tail wagging, until I open my eyes and look into her shining brown ones.
Indeed, hers is the very first face I see, not that of my husband, who sleeps beside me every single night, but my pretty Golden.
My acknowledgement of her presence sends her into barely contained excitement: her tail wags so hard her backside violently sways back and forth in a frenzied undulation of joy... and she waits for me to arise. I finally get up and head for the bathroom and she collapses heavily at the door - fooooom - her entire body weight leaning against the door so that when I open it, she halfway falls into the bathroom, unabashedly leaps up and her tail and body wags all over again in pure and simple joy that I have reappeared.
I head downstairs to make coffee, and Sarah's enthusiastic appreciation for the morning compels her to madly gallop down stairs just ahead of me. She dashes to the back door and looks back at me, hoping I am going to run and play outside with her.
Capricious and unfeeling non-morning person that I am, I head directly to the coffeemaker, measure out aromatic grounds, turn on the machine and wait rather impatiently for the brew to descend into the carafe.
And so she waits, too, sitting down next to the back door, patiently watching my every move.
Finally, hot cup of coffee sweetened with sugar, half and half and a touch of chocolate warming my hands, I unlock and open the back door, and she slithers out the dog door next to me, pranching across the dewy lawn, looking back with her Golden "smile", so very happy to greet the day with me.
It is a lovely way to start the day, caffeine slowing singing through my system, walking barefoot across the grass to sit in the swing under three very large Mulberry trees, with Sarah sitting on my feet (too hot, but awfully sweet) and gazing up at me with loving brown eyes.
Life is good!
Just Musing,
Susan
******************************************************************
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Melancholy Autumn
I am not sure why it is that Autumn brings on the melancholy. I love the crispness of the air, the bite of the wind, the leaves as they turn colors (green, yellow, fall off tree... almost that fast in the High Desert of California!). I also love how our impossibly clear blue sky suddenly acquires friends: all kinds of clouds visit along the outskirts of the vast Antelope Valley and sit at the base of the mountains as if waiting to be invited in.
The wind, capricious as she is, will sometimes do the honors and drag the clouds across the sky, stretching and puffing them, depending on her mood. And other times she will leave them sit there like overdressed bespeckled girls at a party clutching paper cups of weak fruit punch who wait to be asked to dance and know they never will... until she tires of their presence and whisks them back over the mountains so they never get to play in our huge empty skies.
My trees, hardy and full, will take a few months to be complete free of foilage. Last year they didn't transform completely until a surprising and magical snowfall in mid December. Then... FOOM... a layer of green leaves in perfect circles on top of the snow under each tree!
And yet, it saddens me to think of my wonderful Mulberries bare and shivering, bereft of their lush clothes and the myriad birds that make their branches sing.
Autumn also portends the coming of winter with its attendant freeze and cocooning and planning for the all the holidays that seem to be squeezed together into about two weeks beginning with Halloween and racing to New Years.
So for now, I will go outside and enjoy the taste of the breeze and catch the first faintest whisp of fireplace smoke, cradling a cup of hot chocolat... nah, wine, and watch the stars come out.
Feeling melancholy at this time of year just feels...right somehow, as if it is the natural order of things. Slowing down and taking stock and shoring up for the coming winter.
Me, I will still have my evening glass of wine and go outside to say goodnight to the sky... but the goodnights may become a bit rushed as the mercury drops!
Just Musing,
Susan
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The wind, capricious as she is, will sometimes do the honors and drag the clouds across the sky, stretching and puffing them, depending on her mood. And other times she will leave them sit there like overdressed bespeckled girls at a party clutching paper cups of weak fruit punch who wait to be asked to dance and know they never will... until she tires of their presence and whisks them back over the mountains so they never get to play in our huge empty skies.
My trees, hardy and full, will take a few months to be complete free of foilage. Last year they didn't transform completely until a surprising and magical snowfall in mid December. Then... FOOM... a layer of green leaves in perfect circles on top of the snow under each tree!
And yet, it saddens me to think of my wonderful Mulberries bare and shivering, bereft of their lush clothes and the myriad birds that make their branches sing.
Autumn also portends the coming of winter with its attendant freeze and cocooning and planning for the all the holidays that seem to be squeezed together into about two weeks beginning with Halloween and racing to New Years.
So for now, I will go outside and enjoy the taste of the breeze and catch the first faintest whisp of fireplace smoke, cradling a cup of hot chocolat... nah, wine, and watch the stars come out.
Feeling melancholy at this time of year just feels...right somehow, as if it is the natural order of things. Slowing down and taking stock and shoring up for the coming winter.
Me, I will still have my evening glass of wine and go outside to say goodnight to the sky... but the goodnights may become a bit rushed as the mercury drops!
Just Musing,
Susan
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