Trust Me, You Are Not Forgotten

I have been quite busy with the theatrical production these past weeks. Many adventures to relate, but that may only be interesting to me.

But for my faithful readers (all three or four of you,) here's a bit verse that always makes me smile:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

MY MY

1. My Dream
This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt,
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.

2. My Conscience
I could of
If I would of
But shouldn't,
So I douldn't.

-- Ogden Nash

Nothing at All

I'm letting my mind wander here. Might not publish any of these remarks. I don't know what I want to say.

I want to say something. I think of a thing, a remark, but put it aside, worried it might offend. God forbid anyone offend anyone in this age.

Maybe a recap of the months I didn't blog would be safe, to shake the thoughts loose from my mind, making room for other memories..

Perhaps a tale of the last play I performed on stage after a two-year break.. which was preceded by a five-year break and another two years before that.

If I had the picture disk, reminiscences about the last play I worked (only two weeks ago, but feeling so much longer than that! I do believe I miss it.)

Could talk about the things my kids have done these past months, but no. One of them has royally cheesed me off today. I'm afraid I might be preachy if I were to write about that.

I just want to say SOMETHING. To reach out to someone else. To have significant discourse. Or light chitter-chat. I want to be heard or, more fortunately, to be understood. I feel alone. For some reason I feel this, but it has no definition. None of the usual nagglings has beset me. I've gone through that list in my head, but nothing flags my attention. A new distraction, I think, but just on the edge of my wonderings. If I keep writing, keep talking with my fingers, the answer might come to me.

God help me with my ramblings, but I'll post this anyways.

Going Just a Bit Further

Yesterday's "Walk to School Day" might have inspired me a bit. Or maybe it was the lovely weather. Or the numbers I've come to detest on the bathroom scale.

I walked today. Not just a trot with a kid a half mile to school and back. Not merely a mile stroll along the Greenway.

I walked.

Four miles.

Yes I did.

Why? Because I'm crazy.

No, no, no. Being crazy had nothing to do with it (although it's a good excuse in many circumstances.) I left the car up at the Firestone store to get its brakes checked. I could have called a friend to drive me back.  One of the service guys offered to drive me and my daughter back to our house. I ought to have waited until Scott got home to even take it up there. But in between all those reasons at the top of the page, and the discussions we've had at play practice about the extensive walking habits of Europeans, I felt that as a healthy, able-bodied American, I could walk home the three miles, plus the half to the school and back for my son. My daughter couldn't walk that far, but we still have strollers.

I left from Firestone about 1:15 p.m. Right out the door I stopped to talk with a woman from my church, so I didn't get started for another few minutes. I rechecked the clock, it said 1:18 p.m. We were off.

The first mile, of course, was the worst. Most of it was a slight rise that was hard to perceive with the eye, but my calves pointed it out to me at every step. Daughter and stroller weighed about 50 pounds, making the walk a true "work-out." The sidewalk had drifts of grass clippings to wade through. The eight-year-old stroller had wheels with failing integrity and no tread; it was like they were rimmed with marshmallows. Gravity and friction were not my friends for the first mile. They were quite disagreeable. I began to feel I might BE crazy and I wondered if I'd make it home by tomorrow. The sounds of the cars dashing by on Weatherly Road made any conversation with my daughter impossible. She settled in for a nap. That was a good thing.

Before the first mile was over, I left Weatherly and began walking along Todd Mill Road. The thoroughfare fell farther behind me; the sounds in the trees accompanied me now. I startled a dozen chipmunks who were not expecting a perambulator to muss their leaf litter. Road slowly began to slope downward. My heartbeat settled, my head cooled. I walked in soothing shade that was brightened by smiles of sunlight.

The first mile took about 25 minutes. I checked my clock after I'd passed by Weatherly Elementary School where the sidewalk changed sides of the street. All things considered, I'd walked faster than I'd expected. 1:41 p.m. Onward.

The second mile moved along at a good clip. I got my wind, hit my stride. The sidewalk here was in better repair, more frequently used by families. It was not exactly level, but if it rose, it would then dip; if it leaned left, it would later list right. I was not fighting the stroller. I could lift my eyes and look ahead. A far aim does much to lengthen a stride. My heart was in a steady rhythm, and I did not feel tired. I looked around me, examining the yards of homes I so often zipped by in my car. The view ahead looked familiar, but to either side it seemed a different place entirely, to my delight. A feeling of contentment bubbled within me that a big smile only seemed natural. I faced south, soaking in the sun with my upturned face. Between a hedge and a post, I saw a spider filament shining in the sunlight, like it was some lost strand of magic. I ducked under it, for it seemed a shame to snap it, become entangled and lose it upon myself. The second mile seemed to fly. I spied Mountain Gap Road beyond the bend. I checked my clock. 2:01 p.m. About 20 minutes, what I'd hoped.

My daughter woke up, surprisingly, at the start of the third mile. She was disoriented. The surroundings were unfamiliar. She couldn't find her sunglasses. A momentary comfort and retrieval stop, and she improved. She also began to hog the water bottle. I was a bit sad that wooded part of our walk was almost over. The way wasn't much shorter or quicker than any other route, but I enjoyed driving this winding road with the over-arching trees. Walking this road was soothing. My daughter got animated as she began to recognize the landmarks on Mountain Gap Road. The traffic wasn't quite as heavy as on Weatherly, but I still couldn't hear her questions. I'd give a pat answer ("You know, that might be a possibility.") and she'd be satisfied. The walk up this road to our street wasn't long at all. I turned onto our street; I returned to the familiar. I knew with surety my pace and my step. By the time we passed our house, my clock read 2:18 p.m. About an hour for three miles.

Last mile would be to the school and back. I knew from experience that I'd arrive right about dismissal. If we walked, this would be the usual departure time. By now, I was feeling hot and thirsty. My feet were hot and sweaty. One of my toes was being rubbed by the sock. But I had to press on. I could do this. My daughter was tired of sitting and threaten to leap from the stroller any minute. Bargain: if you stay in the stroller to the school, you can leave the stroller on the walk home. Seated, for the time being. All I could think about was completing this walk. I crossed the last street as the dismissal bell rang. Our crossing guard smiled at the familiar sight of us heading to the school. If she only knew how far we'd come this time! We arrived at the front of the school before his class was released. I walked in place, because if I sat down, I wouldn't want to stand back up.

My son asked if I'd walked here. Oh, the agony and wailing to know he'd have to walk... all... the way... back home. Little dude. You only have to walk a half mile. By the time we get home, I will have walked four miles. How much further will I have walked than you? "Eight times." Right, so hush.

The last half mile. A new struggle. Wet concrete feet. Children who insisted on "helping" push the stroller. (thanks.) One who raced ahead and one who lagged behind, if they weren't irritating each other by walking on one another's feet. I began counting down how many houses to pass until we reached our own. At 2:52 pm.

A little more than an hour and a half. About 25 minutes a mile, including waits for traffic and kids. Not too shabby for an out-of-practice hausfrau. Yet cooling my heels in peace was not to be. "Mom! I want ice water!" (You, Mr. One-eighth??) "Mom! I'm hungry!" (Really, Miss Smooth-ride?)

Maybe I am crazy.

I'll prove I'm just a bit sane by going ALONE next time.

In Celebration of Defiance

It is "Banned Books Week." What better way to celebrate than to read a banned book.

As always, my mind turns to Ray Bradbury's "Fahrenheit 451." In discussing media with Scott, I learned that he had never read the book. I was shocked. This should be a must-read for everyone.

I'm ashamed to admit, I've only read it once.

It was for high school senior AP English, and my monthly book report was due. As usual, I put it off and put it off. I needed something short to read. Word was that "Fahrenheit 451" was the shortest book on Ms. Hankin's list. We also conveniently owned a Book Club edition, so no trip to the library was necessary.

I could not put the book down. The images, they haunted me. The dreadful thought of knowledge going up in indifferent flames. The comfort that each of us can be a repository of knowledge if we just commit ourselves. The final notes, twining from the mouth of Quoheleth, were the song of seventeen-- I turned, I saw my seasons, I wondered what was the purpose.

I felt ashamed that there was little of worth that I myself had memorized. All I had was a few nonsense poems, and Sara Teasdale's "The Barter." I made promises to commit myself more to the words I love.

I have not filled my mind, but I have filled my heart and my shelves. I did add Frost's "The Road Not Taken." I have not quite got down pat Poe's "To Elizabeth." Most of Nash's "The Tale of Custard the Dragon" fits in a nice safe cage. Bits here & there that delight me, that echo. I have a small book that I write only the dearest in, so that one day someone might know me. Not word-for-word, but I know Margery William's "The Velveteen Rabbit" by heart. Love DOES make us real.

So, I retrieved a copy of Mr. Bradbury's book from my branch library. Starting tonight, I read a few pages aloud to Scott. The written word has power; the spoken word has magic.

I see this age have televisions that are bigger and flatter, that claim space that once belonged to art and books. I hear this age have a continuous sound track, buried deep within ears sealed by buds that will not bloom. I witness reports of "real" life insisting that it is "art," scripts passed out to the players and audiences alike. Things move faster, brighter, louder. The "Parlor Walls" have arrived and they scare me. I do not want them in my home. It is difficult to keep this computer, that "Smart phone," in their proper places as tools.

I shall have my books. I shall delight in the turn of phrase, that dance of words, the lyrics of voice that speaks no louder than the mind.

I shall read until my eyes open no more.