Somehow we were catapulted out of the mosquito-defying coooolll days, and nights - letting the Dante pup avoid the nightly fleeing from the bedroom as I leapt about smashing them before sleep- to a warm day today, ominous heavy violet and grey clouds overhead, topped by sheer white mountainous clouds with bright sunlight, somewhere far above.
This evening I drove the dogs down the range, into town, much the way country people drive Halloween kids into neighborhoods, only we seek level grown devoid of ,once again , hundreds of desperate mosquitoes.
Shiva, at 16 1/2, is a bit more up for car rides, as I've caught up once again with back vertebrae and discs and sciatica. She delights, then, in standing unsteadily upon the front seat, her window all the way down, as I hold her firmly, and she hungrily takes in the breeze.
We wander where she wishes, past library and senior center-as the small Alpha pees upon every peed upon spot ever, digging up the grass after each time, feeling her bossy old oats.
Dante unhappily is made to wait in the car, letting the old queen go first. And when it's finally his turn, it's work work work, as I imagine he's edging toward a not tall but filled out 80 lbs, powerful and young, thus the work.
We pass by walkers and whole families relishing the rail trail bike routes- one mom on a tandem with her kid, behind, squealing with happiness, as they pedal furiously, broad smiles across their faces.
One young man parks and heads toward a private elder care program, as the farmlands lay , visible, in every direction , bustling with activity and hard work, despite the fact that it's approaching 8pm. But, what do we non- farmers know ?
The broad fields for the most part are planted; the plastic unfurled between rows-the intermittent rain perfect for what all growing things prefer most.
There are huge tents erected on town commons and cars crowded at homes , as we slowly make our way back home, the pup with his head out the back window , the world racing by.
Back home, the mosquitoes have been given a reprieve by the warmer day, and rush to greet us as we hustle back inside.
The Bluebirds are quietly nestled into their birdhouse ,hung upon the clothesline. The Sparrows too are to bed, in their brown birdhouse, and even the newly hatched Phoebes are drowsy, allowing the parents a break in frantic feeding rites.
All the pampered seedlings are rising up, in the new wildflower garden, the neglected herb garden, or in the small pots- stretching their small new selves up toward the glowering skies.
I ready myself for a late dinner , cats and dogs fed and supplements for various conditions given.
And as I imagine what everyone is doing at this moment -in their days, their homes...I imagine my beloved in Bologna, investigating history and politics and the wonderful old lefty cooperatives there, in his last lap before returning home.
I suddenly remember a newspaper column I would read weekly in the Greenfield paper.
I was 36, with a child, a baby, and pregnant, having left my job to care for my sick small one , and sick father-in-law.
In the midst of sleepless nights and caring for young and old - days, I would read, fascinated, this column by this woman most probably In her 70's, so 10 years my elder, now.
Oh, she would go on in this lyrical voice, about wildlife and the town and recent history and nature and her garden, and thoughts about life.
Each time I ferreted out that column, I was transfixed. Soothed. Brought into her quiet, small, soothing world of simply that which she encountered-and no more.
Even then, with no such thing as internet a or cell phones or iPads or videos or video games , or even cable, what she wrote was the antithesis of so much we, still, knew of, in the world .
Those were not the days of shocking live coverage of human beings trying to outrun tsunamis, while we the WORLD looked on, OR the many plights and genosides across the globe, our own country's secret tragic hobbies against other humans , or even school shootings, 'going postal' (!!!! It's a term!) or 9/11.
The memory makes it all the more tender ... That time has passed, calmed. Sometimes this happens .
Sometimes if we are lucky, and if need be, jobs lessen- days and lives slowly become smaller and quieter , and somehow we find ourselves in that very same place we noticed others in, so long ago.
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