Unconscious

As I start out on my trike ride,

a burly fellow in a Harmons truck,

asked me if I could tell him

where “Old Farm Road” is.

“Old Farm Road? No, I’m sorry.  I don’t know.”

Continuing on up the street, I thought,

“I should have told him to turn around

and go back the way he came."

I knew it wasn’t in the direction he was heading.

Raymond. Village Way. Country Road.

Country Way.  Green.  Laurelwood.

It might be over by the other church on Country Lane.

He must have figured that out as he passed me again

as I ploughed along Country Lane.

I continue on my “route”

and eventually come back by the church,

turning down Meeting House Road.

A half-block down, I turn onto – you guessed it –

“Old Farm Road”.

I’ve been down that road either on my trike

or walking or both,

every single half-decent day for more ten years—probably 15--

and I never knew the name of it.

How can I be so blasé?

Don’t I know a burly fellow in
a Harmons truck is going to ask me

where it is on one unassuming day?

I should have been prepared.

 

Truth be told, mine eyes see the glory of the scene not the sign.

It’s been a hard-knock year

DeRay struggled with the effects of Brachytherapy (radioactive implants) to cure prostate cancer in conjunction with his sugar diabetes medication. 

It was a good five months before I felt half-way decent after thyroid surgery where they found cancer in the half they removed.  I would have a few good days or a few good hours or a few good minutes but nothing consistent. 

It all came together when we spent a week in our condo at Snowbird for some reason.

 

We watched a helicopter going back and forth all morning carrying supplies to the top of the mountain.

These are the red-leaf aspens my forest service brother says don't exist.

It comes from the iron oxide in the water and is very rare.

 I borrow a quote DeLoy used in his weekly letter:

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings.

Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees

The winds will blow their own freshness into you ...

while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.

--- John Muir

Cats Hold No Grudges

Gnocchi and Pancake in quieter moments

Last night Amy wasn’t feeling well

and went right to bed after dinner.

At 7:30, I stopped my vacuuming

to get Pancake and Gnocchi in.

They were reluctant.

They know the balmy days of summer

are winding down

and they want to soak in every moment.

I closed the window we open to let

them have free access in and out all day long.

Usually they come ambling in with the rattle

of the treat bag,

but this night they pretended to be deaf,

So one by one I pick them up

and carry them in,

feeling puffed up with pride

at getting them in for the night,

not realizing Amy had left the

garage door open just a little.

Both escaped before I noticed.

For the next three hours at intervals

I called “Kitty.  Kitty.  Kitty” and

rattled the treat sack.

Then sitting out on the front porch,

Pancake would walk right up to my chair

slithering back and forth,

darting if I moved a muscle.

I knew I couldn’t catch her.

DeRay got home around 11,

and finally Pancake was waiting at the

backdoor when I went down for one last attempt.

Gnocchi, whom I didn’t know was out for sure,

because I had seen neither hide nor hair of him,

came in around 10 PM.

I was pretty perturbed at Pancake

and wouldn’t let her out this morning.

“Tit for tat” as Ed would say.

Amy let her out before she left for work.

I’m still not speaking to her.

Later, as I sit out on the lounge chair on the deck

she helps herself to my water

and licks my dish

like we’re intimate buddies.

When I fall asleep,

she jumps up on me and nuzzles my nose.

I should be more like a cat

And let bygones be bygones.

A Birthday Prayer

 Dear Heavenly Father,

I wish we could have contact with

loved ones in heaven

on our birthday and Christmas day,

like the missionaries who have permission

to call home twice a year.

I would especially like to have contact

with my mother.

That’s who I think about today.

How she must have rejoiced

with the birth of new baby daughter.

And how I must have failed her.

I would say “I’m sorry”.

Perhaps she would say,

“You’ve done the best you could.

That’s good enough.”

And then we would visit about

when I return home.

If only I could talk to her today.

Could you give me the access code?

I must have forgotten it.

All my love, Jeanette

6 months