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Tripping the Light Domestic

Tripping the Light Domestic

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Sometimes the tasks of the day seem to weigh me down. They are just more to-dos in a sea of them. But other times, they are actions of such richness and delight that I wonder why I ever thought them otherwise.

Take today, for instance. Since I’m working at home I leisurely brewed a pot of tea, whipped up one of my strawberry milkshakes and had both at the ready as I read through email. It was a pleasure to give Copper his pill, to coax him to eat his breakfast by sprinkling a meaty treat on the dog food.

What makes the difference, I think, is time. When I rush through each chore, I am only in check-off mode. There is no presence. Whereas when I’m not in a rush, the day spreads out before me, a banquet of sights, smells and activities.

Tripping the light fantastic means dancing nimbly. Tripping the light domestic means walking lightly through the day.

Window Seat!

Window Seat!

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I could tell from photographs that I would like the “Rose Room,” but until I walked in, I had no idea how much. It was the slanted roof, the pinks and greens, the hearts and flowers …  and, of course, the dormer window seat.

The seat was deeper than most, for one thing, and wide enough that I could stretch out completely. It was soft, too, and plumped with pillows of several shapes and sizes. There was even a cute stuffed dinosaur for good measure.

Was it the feeling of enclosure it gave me, of being alone with my thoughts? Or, when the window was open, the expansiveness?

I’ve always wanted a window seat, would make it my writer’s aerie if I had the chance.

But until then … I’ll just have to lust after this one.

Home with Humidity

Home with Humidity

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These days the air is so moist it seems to hold itself up, a scaffolding of water droplets. The slow walks I take with Copper give us both time to take in the humidity, he to pull and tug his way through it, me to wander through it as if in a dream.

Humidity is no fun when you have to mow in it, or hoe in it. Or for that matter, when there’s no respite from it. But when you’re strolling through it leisurely it can be good company.

“Home is where the humidity is,” read the T-shirt of a friend I saw last night.

To which I say, you’re darn right it’s home. Humidity: bring it on.

Decades of Home

Decades of Home

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Last night, I arrived home from my short trip to visit Drew out West. I couldn’t help but think that 30 years earlier to the day (impossible to fathom!), I stepped off another plane with baby Suzanne in my arms as we began our new life in Virginia. Tom had arrived early to meet the moving truck while Suzanne and I snuck in a quick visit to Kentucky, so he picked us up at the airport and drove us to our new home.

It was a beautiful spring evening when we arrived at Fort Lee Street, a time of the day I know now (from hanging out with photographers) is called “the golden hour.” And I still remember that light, how soft it was, how full of promise.

Though the trees were shorter then, the neighborhood looked established, lived in. Kids had a game of touch football going in the yard across the street. There were two little girls next door and another one from down the street. I looked at the throng, thought of the playmates and babysitting potential, and smiled.

The next morning, Tom woke up and went in for his first day of work (which means he’s celebrating a work anniversary today, though he doesn’t make a big deal of it).

All this is to say that our roots in this clay soil go deep. They weren’t supposed to … but they did —and still do.

Grandfather Clock

Grandfather Clock

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It was almost dark when the four large boxes arrived. We knew they were on their way, and Tom was eagerly awaiting them. The boxes held a grandfather clock that’s been in his family for years. It sat in the hallway of the house where he was raised, then his sister Ginna took good care of it for more than a decade, and now, through her generosity, it sits in our living room.

So many memories of this clock, the hall it graced in the house in Indianapolis, the sights it has seen, the wonderful family that grew up around it.

There was some debate about where to put it, but the spot where it landed (or maybe a few more inches to the right!) makes it seem as if it always was there.

The arrival of such a timepiece, such a legacy, is big news indeed, and I’m sure I’ll have more to say about it in posts to come. But I wanted to welcome it today — and note that although it hasn’t run in years, it was set up at 9 p.m. on the nose. Which is exactly the hour it marks.

Sorting Day

Sorting Day

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Yesterday was cool and rainy, the perfect day to sort through drawers and throw away receipts. It began with a search for my national parks pass (not yet found), but continued long beyond that.

I amassed a pile of credit card receipts and tossed all but 2019’s. Along the way, I found a plethora of pool passes, a few expired gift cards and some stray Girl Scout badges, never sewn onto sashes.

It was, on the whole, a calm and meditative practice, sorting through old eyeglass holders, foreign currency and stray sewing kits — the kind of odd conglomeration that can only accumulate over time.

At the bottom of one drawer was a checkbook from Chemical Bank in New York. Haven’t heard about them in a while. No wonder. They merged with Chase in 1996.

It was that kind of afternoon.

View from the Spot

View from the Spot

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Today was my parent’s wedding anniversary, so I’m thinking about them and about my visit to the cemetery last weekend when I was in Lexington.

I’m lucky that it’s only been recently that I factor in a trip to the cemetery when I visit home. But factor it in I do. On the last trip I thought about what a lovely view is available from their final resting place. It’s an open sunny expanse, with cows grazing in a grassy field a stone’s throw away.  One could argue that the view from a plot doesn’t matter to those who inhabit it, but it does to those who visit.

Because it’s a military cemetery, there are strict restrictions on what kinds of flowers and ornaments you can lay on the graves. I settled for a small American flag, in honor of Dad’s service and the upcoming Memorial Day. Next time, I’ll bring flowers for Mom.

Born in the Bluegrass

Born in the Bluegrass

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Yesterday, researching who I wanted to pull for in today’s Kentucky Derby, I ran across a fun statistic. Seventeen of the 20 mounts in the race were born in the Bluegrass. The Lexington newspaper had all the birthplaces, many of them clustered in the Pisgah Pike, Versailles area near where my parents used to live.

I didn’t know all of the farms (though I knew some, most notably Calumet, with its distinctive white and red trim). But I know all of the places, know the two-lane roads that wind to them, the way the Osage orange tree branches arch over their lanes. The roll and tilt of the land is familiar to me; it’s what I grew up with, too.

Reading those farm names, I could smell the tobacco scent that would waft through the air in the fall when I was a little girl, back when the big auction houses were still there. I could smell the aroma of Lexington’s own racetrack, Keeneland, an amalgam of spilled beer and turned soil.

Once these places were part of my external landscape, now they’re part of my internal one.

Letting it Soak

Letting it Soak

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Yesterday I returned home from work to find the crockpot I’d left full of sudsy water the night before. It wasn’t warm, sudsy water anymore, though. Now it was cold and gray and uninviting.

As I refilled the ceramic with warm water and soap and scrubbed it clean, I thought about how the great procrastination device of children (and adults!) everywhere — letting it soak — is often just what’s needed.

Cleaning this the night before would have been a much harder task. Now I could whisk the stew remnants down the disposal, easily peel away the potato bits that had stuck to the sides. Water and time had worked their way.

Not a life-altering realization — but further proof that rushing through life is not always the best way to go.

Land Lines

Land Lines

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I almost called the old number last night — 253-0163. I didn’t, but I thought of it. My fingers were ready for those digits, itching to play an old tune I once knew by heart.

It was an easy number to remember when I learned it, had a brisk pace and memorable cadence. But 253-0163 had nothing on 266-8078, the land line of my youth. I knew this number when we were both still wet behind the ears — when it was only 68078. It was the number I lisped as a preschooler, the number I called from college (only for minutes at a time, long distance costing what it did in those days).

I’m convinced these numbers will be some of the last things to leave my brain. Which is why I can’t give up on 620-6118. It’s a land line, too, of course. And though you can’t text it, the number has many things in its favor, chief among them being that it belongs to a house and not a person.

An old-fashioned view to be sure, which my resident millennial reminds me of all the time. But I like how it works when cell numbers don’t. I like its continuity through years. And so, even though it’s fashionable to fly solo, I think I’ll keep it.

(Photo: Wikimedia)