Looking for love in all the wrong
places
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He’s not
feral. I assume the stranger is a him. He’s not a rack of bones. He yowled
around beneath my bedroom windows three nights before I glimpsed him in his
white coat with yellow patches. Voice like a diesel tractor with defective
brakes.
I know why
he’s hanging out in the neighborhood. Janet, my next door neighbor, just a few
feet over that-away, brought five felines (all fixed) with her when she and Tom
moved here from Washington a few months ago to become more-or-less permanent
residents. This intruder sniffs the presence of these fur-lined new-comers,
tucked into their beds asleep like good little kitties.
Now and
then, when I open my door, I catch a glimpse as this hair-ball spitting,
night-prowling, sleep-robber streaks from my yard, shooshes around the corner
into Janet’s yard. Looking for love or looking for a brawl?
Blame sleep deprivation
and a stray cat on my devolvement into fantasy. That and meddling friends.
When Crin
and Kathy in Victoria, on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, heard about my
trip to Durango via imagination with stationary bike, they jumped on the idea
and invited me to a brown-bag lunch with appropriate social distancing in
Crin’s back yard at her big Victorian house in the city.
Together we set
the day and the time. Since neither friend wanted to cook, we chose
drive-through take-out. I placed my order: hamburger with mustard, fries with
ketchup and a vanilla malt, double thick.
I rigged my
bike, named Rocinante, with a huge umbrella, purple with red gecko print,
against the elements, took off in plenty of time, which is to say no time.
One nice
thing about a virtual road trip is one may eliminate traffic, pit stops, diesel
fumes, road construction, up-hills, down-hills stray cattle and border
crossings.
As I mounted
Rocinante and pedaled along my chosen route I felt like Champion from The Triplets of Belleville, a must-see
film if you haven’t yet. From time to time I checked in to let my friends know
my progress.
When I
attached water wings for crossing the Strait of Juan de Fuca, I let them know
it was almost time to go pick up the greasy food.
Crin warned
me that men with jackhammers were tearing up one side of her street so be
careful of potholes.
When I left
the water and wheeled through the park on the island, pedaling down the street
to Crin’s house, Kathy said, “I can hear you singing at the top of your lungs
and that is strange because I know you don’t sing.” “I’m wearing my mask,” I
replied. “Even I can sing behind a mask.”
We had a fun
visit, munching and slurping and talking over and around one another, agreed
that our next visit MUST be in real time.
I pushed
‘delete’ and found myself home, examining my bucket garden. Much as I’d like to
blame the yowling, howling feline and lack of sleep, in honesty, the fault is
all mine—I forgot to mark my buckets. So I have to wait for plants to appear, to
mature to a height I can identify.
One is
undoubtedly, undeniably squash, but how did the bean seed get into the squash
bucket. I planted beans with corn in flower pots on the other side of the patio.
Three emerging green stuffs look similar, perhaps parsnips and turnips and a
mystery. Is that Swiss chard? This one is either beets or weeds. Others yet to
be identified.
And I report
my first failures. Potato and sweet potato, rotted in their respective graves.
I got tired of waiting so dug my fingers into the dirt. Ick.
Despite
yawns of a size to lock my jaws, I hope to sleep through and/or despite, the cat-erwauling.
If only he
were bilingual, I could explain to him that he is at the wrong address, the
cat-house next door is full, no room at the inn, please go home and let me
sleep.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
June 4, 2020
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