Dust floats through the air in the quiet cool of the hayloft.
Up here we build our thrones and castles out of the golden bales.
Tucked away from the watchful eyes of mom.
Pieces of straw stick out every which way.
Poking at my skin and making it itchy.
Deb and I kick off our shoes and lift ourselves up into the rafters.
Breathing in the sweet smell of the wood and hay,
We carefully move along from one beam to the next
until we are way beyond the edge of the upper loft.
We tiptoe along a thick balance beam,
Standing in the middle, I am scared to look down.
It never seems this high up when you are standing way down there.
Deb grabs my hand tight and looks at me,
a smile creeping out the corner of her mouth.
Ready Panda?
My heart beats faster as I look away.
One. Two. Three. Jump!
I shut my eyes tight and take the leap.
Landing butt first in the large mound of loose hay below.
“Again, again!” I laugh, with straw covering my entire body
and sticking out all over my two long braids.
“Hey Debby look! Now my hair looks like yours! Haha!”
“Mleeeh” she says, as she sticks out her tongue at me.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Saturday, April 18, 2009
2 hour exercise
I walk under the bright blue sky. Sun in my eyes, cold wind in my face. In the park I spot a falcon sitting up in the trees. It’s piercing eyes staring down at me. It swoops down and makes a quick and determined course towards a large group of pigeons, who take off and try desperately to avoid his hunting path. I doubt he’s trying very hard because he doesn’t actually catch any one of the easy prey and presently lands on a tree branch on the other side of the park. Quit playing games with me falcon! You might have actually had me for a minute there but now I can see that you never really had any true intention of going for it.
As I open the door the sweet smell of coffee and sugary syrup hits my nostrils and I am instantly transfixed. I’m normally not a coffee drinker but today I could use the extra boost. “Give me something mochalaty” I say to Patrick behind the counter. “Mochalaty!?” he says in confusion. “So I’m guessing that you DO want something with coffee in it? I’m just going to go ahead and be inventive here.” Great. Patrick always seems to know how to please me. I sit down at a small table by the window as more and more people start streaming in. Strange, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place quite so busy. What exactly happens on a lazy Saturday afternoon that makes people suddenly feel the need for a coffee break? The large windows make this particular establishment quite excellent for people watching, though I could honestly do without the constant stream of mall traffic passing by. Along with the usual suspects hanging out in the corner, two rather scruffy, scrawny looking men are sitting in the high-backed wing chairs by the fireplace, warming up and trying to get comfortable, avoiding drawing too much attention to themselves and getting kicked out.
Mort Goldblum is a slinking sort of man, tall and old, looking almost fragile. His white hair travels down to around his mouth and chin, long slender arms and legs looking all too much like my own grandfather’s. He most often wears the same thing: worn blue denim jacket with a stained white shirt underneath, brown slacks frayed around the ankles, thin brown socks and faded brown loafers with a hole torn out of one of the toes. He is an obviously intelligent man, never to be seen without a book in his hand. And yet he too has somehow ended up on the streets, forced to brave the cold along with a group of mostly-crazy old men who often engage him in mostly asinine conversations about events that have never taken place and dreams that will never come true. This is his 7th year and he has miraculously managed to retain his sanity.
Ms. Danquith enters and sits down in front of me. She retired long ago but still enjoys the going down to the local Hope Street School and volunteering her time as a substitute teacher. She had taught 7th grade English for 38 years and never once forgot the names of her students. The kids she sees now really don’t appreciate her as much as she deserves, but then again what kid does appreciate women as ancient-looking as she is, perpetual grimace plastered across her face? Both children and adults also can’t help but notice that she always seems to be wearing any one of an array of strange hats. Today it is a bubble-gum pink fuzzy thing with rather large ear flaps, no doubt warm but far too bright and bubbly for the rest of her personality.
Nick Hoffledorf is a grumpy, incorrigible old homeless man whom I quickly learned about when I first started coming here. He’s rather strangely lumpy and is always seen wearing a brown leather jacket, black sweatshirt and black baseball cap with tufts of wispy white hair sticking out the sides. He comes in here every day and sits slouched way down in one of the soft leather chairs in the corner in order to stare angrily at people whom he feels are getting a better deal at life than he is, which, considering his situation, is pretty much everybody. On many occasions he has been known to try to flirt with some of the many pretty young girls who also frequent this place. Since they undoubtedly will ignore him and start talking to Patrick instead, he glares at them ever more incessantly until he can’t stand it anymore and goes to complain to the manager about how unfair it is that these girls don’t want to talk to him. Jane is a very patient woman, but sometimes his special kind of craziness is just more than she can take.
A white limo pulls up to the curb just outside, exciting a group of little girls who jump up on top of the window sill couch and press their faces up against the cold pane of glass, certain that anyone who rides in such a car must be somebody important and interesting. A bunch of bride-grooms carrying suits and a rather large, white wedding dress, ever so carefully wrapped in layers of protective tissue paper and plastic, step out and hurry on into the Biltmore next door. I guess everyone gets their special day when they get to be considered someone important and interesting by random strangers walking by. Maybe someday that will be me, but the closest thing I’ve come to an actual relationship in the past couple of years is my rather new, yet almost daily stint with Patrick, who will not only make me a mean cup of marble-mocha-frappa-macchiato-cino whenever I’m in the need, but who also does a great job of filling up the extra space on my already too-small bed on nights when the both of us should probably be getting in some much-needed sleep instead.
Maybe next time around things will be different. Maybe someday I’ll find someone who will give me the kind of emotional connection I really need, but hey, I’m still young, right?
Anyways, these 2 hours are just about up and my coffee’s getting cold. Time for a refill!
As I open the door the sweet smell of coffee and sugary syrup hits my nostrils and I am instantly transfixed. I’m normally not a coffee drinker but today I could use the extra boost. “Give me something mochalaty” I say to Patrick behind the counter. “Mochalaty!?” he says in confusion. “So I’m guessing that you DO want something with coffee in it? I’m just going to go ahead and be inventive here.” Great. Patrick always seems to know how to please me. I sit down at a small table by the window as more and more people start streaming in. Strange, I don’t think I’ve ever seen this place quite so busy. What exactly happens on a lazy Saturday afternoon that makes people suddenly feel the need for a coffee break? The large windows make this particular establishment quite excellent for people watching, though I could honestly do without the constant stream of mall traffic passing by. Along with the usual suspects hanging out in the corner, two rather scruffy, scrawny looking men are sitting in the high-backed wing chairs by the fireplace, warming up and trying to get comfortable, avoiding drawing too much attention to themselves and getting kicked out.
Mort Goldblum is a slinking sort of man, tall and old, looking almost fragile. His white hair travels down to around his mouth and chin, long slender arms and legs looking all too much like my own grandfather’s. He most often wears the same thing: worn blue denim jacket with a stained white shirt underneath, brown slacks frayed around the ankles, thin brown socks and faded brown loafers with a hole torn out of one of the toes. He is an obviously intelligent man, never to be seen without a book in his hand. And yet he too has somehow ended up on the streets, forced to brave the cold along with a group of mostly-crazy old men who often engage him in mostly asinine conversations about events that have never taken place and dreams that will never come true. This is his 7th year and he has miraculously managed to retain his sanity.
Ms. Danquith enters and sits down in front of me. She retired long ago but still enjoys the going down to the local Hope Street School and volunteering her time as a substitute teacher. She had taught 7th grade English for 38 years and never once forgot the names of her students. The kids she sees now really don’t appreciate her as much as she deserves, but then again what kid does appreciate women as ancient-looking as she is, perpetual grimace plastered across her face? Both children and adults also can’t help but notice that she always seems to be wearing any one of an array of strange hats. Today it is a bubble-gum pink fuzzy thing with rather large ear flaps, no doubt warm but far too bright and bubbly for the rest of her personality.
Nick Hoffledorf is a grumpy, incorrigible old homeless man whom I quickly learned about when I first started coming here. He’s rather strangely lumpy and is always seen wearing a brown leather jacket, black sweatshirt and black baseball cap with tufts of wispy white hair sticking out the sides. He comes in here every day and sits slouched way down in one of the soft leather chairs in the corner in order to stare angrily at people whom he feels are getting a better deal at life than he is, which, considering his situation, is pretty much everybody. On many occasions he has been known to try to flirt with some of the many pretty young girls who also frequent this place. Since they undoubtedly will ignore him and start talking to Patrick instead, he glares at them ever more incessantly until he can’t stand it anymore and goes to complain to the manager about how unfair it is that these girls don’t want to talk to him. Jane is a very patient woman, but sometimes his special kind of craziness is just more than she can take.
A white limo pulls up to the curb just outside, exciting a group of little girls who jump up on top of the window sill couch and press their faces up against the cold pane of glass, certain that anyone who rides in such a car must be somebody important and interesting. A bunch of bride-grooms carrying suits and a rather large, white wedding dress, ever so carefully wrapped in layers of protective tissue paper and plastic, step out and hurry on into the Biltmore next door. I guess everyone gets their special day when they get to be considered someone important and interesting by random strangers walking by. Maybe someday that will be me, but the closest thing I’ve come to an actual relationship in the past couple of years is my rather new, yet almost daily stint with Patrick, who will not only make me a mean cup of marble-mocha-frappa-macchiato-cino whenever I’m in the need, but who also does a great job of filling up the extra space on my already too-small bed on nights when the both of us should probably be getting in some much-needed sleep instead.
Maybe next time around things will be different. Maybe someday I’ll find someone who will give me the kind of emotional connection I really need, but hey, I’m still young, right?
Anyways, these 2 hours are just about up and my coffee’s getting cold. Time for a refill!
perspectives
1st Person
I hang from my mother, dying with the onset of the cold. Born nearly five moons ago during a time of much rain and wind, I have grown much.
Day by day I watch the winged beings (“flyers”) come out of the great blue above me and land all around my home and family, hopping around and singing many sweet melodies every morning. Here also are the furry grey creatures, which I have lovingly named “gatherers”, scampering about the world and leaping gracefully across my family tree and sometimes landing on my mother with such force that it sends wild shivers through my veins and threatens to rip me clear of my mother’s grasp.
Now in my old age I am not the color I once was. I have grown brittle and dry and I feel my grip on my vast home weakening with every new gust of cold wind.
Today I am finding happy amusement in the antics of the numerous gatherers below me, who are playing a game with the black pole that is sticking out of the ground, where the flyers often gather in a harem of feeding and happy banter all around. The gatherers are, as always, attempting to gain access to the many colorful little seedlings which are somehow stuck in to the very top. They seldom make it up there before sliding back down to the ground with a soft ‘thump’. But today there is something new in the yard. A similar black pole now stands a short stretch apart from the first one, but this one has some sort of strange vine attached to the top and about 2 gatherer’s lengths down from that is attached a stalk covered in mostly yellowish kernels.
Suddenly I hear a great clattering not too unlike the noise that comes from the sky when a storm comes and bright streaks of light flash across the sky. There is only a streak of grey as one of the gatherers leaps across the air towards this new treasure. With amazing accuracy, the small body hits its mark, but it doesn’t stop there. He continues downward and then with even greater speed, snaps back in the opposite direction towards me.
Closer and closer it comes as I realize that I too, am in a collision course with this ill-fated creature.
I am suddenly ripped away as I feel the whip of air and fur from the passing projectile. The air creates a current under me and glides me gently downward, swaying to and fro as the green, spiky looking ground looms closer and closer. When I finally land, I find to my great relief that this bedding not the terrifying deadly spikes I thought they were, but actually provide for me a fitting final resting place.
3rd Person
He sits there waiting anxiously, pondering on what the best move for him to make this time might be. All attempts at the bird feeders this morning have been futile as the wrought iron shepherd’s crook holding them a good 5 feet up off the ground had recently been slicked down with a rag and a jar of petroleum jelly. Each attempt to climb the pole in this state by either him or one of the other squirrels had resulted in a humiliating slide back down and often even a sore rump from hitting the ground with such force.
While they would normally turn dejectedly from this scene and settle for food foraging the good old-fashioned way, there is a new challenge for him to set his sights on this morning. A rather appetizing-looking fresh ear of corn is now hanging from a bungee cord, which has been tied to the top of a recently placed wrought iron pole a few yards to the side of the bird feeders.
It always takes a bit of trial and error before they can fully master any new contraption and figure out how to overcome all of its obstacles to obtain the tantalizing morsels of food set out there, as if solely for the purpose of taunting them.
This ear of corn seems simple enough to obtain. It is merely hanging there with no apparent other obstacles in the way. From a higher vantage point one could easily take a jump to land directly on the corn. But just as this thought came to his head, so too, it came to another one of the squirrel’s heads.
The race was on.
In a flash he took off to around the other side of the house, scaling a small tree that was oh-so-conveniently placed along one of the walls of the back shed with seemingly no effort.
The perusing squirrel caught up with him as they both tumbled onto the thin metal roof of the shed, but, startled by the sudden loud clashing noises upon the roof, this squirrel fell behind and came to a halt on the edge as the other squirrel leaped gracefully off and landed right on target.
The squirrel quickly realized that it had been a trap as he sunk down to the ground with his claws grasping tightly into the corn kernels holding on for dear life. In an instant the bungee cord snapped back and he was catapulted into the air at a sharp upward angle; landing about 8 feet away, stunned.
I hang from my mother, dying with the onset of the cold. Born nearly five moons ago during a time of much rain and wind, I have grown much.
Day by day I watch the winged beings (“flyers”) come out of the great blue above me and land all around my home and family, hopping around and singing many sweet melodies every morning. Here also are the furry grey creatures, which I have lovingly named “gatherers”, scampering about the world and leaping gracefully across my family tree and sometimes landing on my mother with such force that it sends wild shivers through my veins and threatens to rip me clear of my mother’s grasp.
Now in my old age I am not the color I once was. I have grown brittle and dry and I feel my grip on my vast home weakening with every new gust of cold wind.
Today I am finding happy amusement in the antics of the numerous gatherers below me, who are playing a game with the black pole that is sticking out of the ground, where the flyers often gather in a harem of feeding and happy banter all around. The gatherers are, as always, attempting to gain access to the many colorful little seedlings which are somehow stuck in to the very top. They seldom make it up there before sliding back down to the ground with a soft ‘thump’. But today there is something new in the yard. A similar black pole now stands a short stretch apart from the first one, but this one has some sort of strange vine attached to the top and about 2 gatherer’s lengths down from that is attached a stalk covered in mostly yellowish kernels.
Suddenly I hear a great clattering not too unlike the noise that comes from the sky when a storm comes and bright streaks of light flash across the sky. There is only a streak of grey as one of the gatherers leaps across the air towards this new treasure. With amazing accuracy, the small body hits its mark, but it doesn’t stop there. He continues downward and then with even greater speed, snaps back in the opposite direction towards me.
Closer and closer it comes as I realize that I too, am in a collision course with this ill-fated creature.
I am suddenly ripped away as I feel the whip of air and fur from the passing projectile. The air creates a current under me and glides me gently downward, swaying to and fro as the green, spiky looking ground looms closer and closer. When I finally land, I find to my great relief that this bedding not the terrifying deadly spikes I thought they were, but actually provide for me a fitting final resting place.
3rd Person
He sits there waiting anxiously, pondering on what the best move for him to make this time might be. All attempts at the bird feeders this morning have been futile as the wrought iron shepherd’s crook holding them a good 5 feet up off the ground had recently been slicked down with a rag and a jar of petroleum jelly. Each attempt to climb the pole in this state by either him or one of the other squirrels had resulted in a humiliating slide back down and often even a sore rump from hitting the ground with such force.
While they would normally turn dejectedly from this scene and settle for food foraging the good old-fashioned way, there is a new challenge for him to set his sights on this morning. A rather appetizing-looking fresh ear of corn is now hanging from a bungee cord, which has been tied to the top of a recently placed wrought iron pole a few yards to the side of the bird feeders.
It always takes a bit of trial and error before they can fully master any new contraption and figure out how to overcome all of its obstacles to obtain the tantalizing morsels of food set out there, as if solely for the purpose of taunting them.
This ear of corn seems simple enough to obtain. It is merely hanging there with no apparent other obstacles in the way. From a higher vantage point one could easily take a jump to land directly on the corn. But just as this thought came to his head, so too, it came to another one of the squirrel’s heads.
The race was on.
In a flash he took off to around the other side of the house, scaling a small tree that was oh-so-conveniently placed along one of the walls of the back shed with seemingly no effort.
The perusing squirrel caught up with him as they both tumbled onto the thin metal roof of the shed, but, startled by the sudden loud clashing noises upon the roof, this squirrel fell behind and came to a halt on the edge as the other squirrel leaped gracefully off and landed right on target.
The squirrel quickly realized that it had been a trap as he sunk down to the ground with his claws grasping tightly into the corn kernels holding on for dear life. In an instant the bungee cord snapped back and he was catapulted into the air at a sharp upward angle; landing about 8 feet away, stunned.
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