Christmas Day this year was sweet and special in too many ways to list, but you know I’ll try. It’s hard to sort out what the whole thing is about for me now, but what remains… always… from the past and forever… is the love. It’s entirely a feel-good day if we can do it right.
Rita was here, she and I wore our Christmas jammies, the Chiefs won, and dinner was amazing.
The traditional cheese ball I hadn’t made in 30 years. The recipe holds up.
**
Salmon filets in cream sauce with spinach and cherry tomatoes over Jasmine rice; candied carrots, and cheesy biscuits. And vino. Dessert was warm fruit tarts with ice cream.
**
The usual suspects.
**
Today we’re being hugged by a heavy fog and indoors is where it’s at. Perfect.
Let quiet and peace soak into your bones, and savor every blessing.
Favorite kind of Saturday. Soft, quiet… rain showers moving through. Muted conversations below us as people go back and forth to Farmers Market all morning. We sat on the balcony with our coffee at 6:30, counting the seconds between spectacular lightning flashes and their answering thunder, guessing how close we were to getting fried. I mean, if you’re not livin’ on the edge you’re takin’ up too much space, amirite?
Kim went over to the Market at the crack of 7:30, which is opening time, so he could be first in line for the flowers. So competitive this man, which is reassuring. He’d save me from any oncoming threat, no hesitation, so I’ll take it. He said the lady hadn’t unpacked yet because of the rain, but out of three or four crates of flowers there was only one bouquet with a sunflower in it, which of course had his name on it. Mission accomplished, home to make breakfast. It’s been twenty years of the same old Saturday morning breakfast, same old incredible flavors, same blessed comfort food, every single week, thank you Universe! I’ve signed up for another twenty, with option to renew at any point in time.
This week was the “time to pay the piper” kind. Had my sixth MOHS procedure yesterday and am waiting to get a look at my surgeon’s handiwork after enough hours have passed. They’re all the result of childhood sunburns and each is a unique challenge. This one will likely leave a decent pirate-slash scar, but it’s where I’d have to call someone’s attention to it or they’ll never notice it. Likely. Hopefully. Doesn’t matter. Slings and arrows are proof that we’ve lived. Stickin’ to that story.
Since most of life involves zigzagging between the whizzing arrows and tossing off the slings, I’m sending kudos, hugs, love, and respect to all the brave women of every age, wherever you are, who are doing just that. Don’t stop, girls, we’re earning our stripes with this one.
… and the flowers and the trees and the moon up above and a thing called Love.
**
If you’re a regular here, you know that we hosted a mourning dove couple last spring and summer, watching them raise and fledge four sets of chicks. Kim named the parents David and Darlene Dove, and he subsequently gave monikers to each chick as they hatched. One set of babies was named Durwood and Donna, I remember. And then, right on schedule, D&D showed up here again in April this year and hatched Willie & SnoopDove… but lil’ Snoop failed to thrive. After that, D&D put one more set of eggs in the nest before they inexplicably disappeared, leaving the eggs to languish and making my Mama heart hurt.
So when a young skinny pair of doves started scoping us out in May, I feigned disinterest. Not gonna hurt me again, ‘k? Totes unaware of my sulky mood, they bypassed the wooden dove house to nest deep in the east end of the fern baskets… and kept their own counsel. Fine with me, don’t wanna know, everybody just stay in your own lane. One day both parents, whom Kim had by now named Bonnie and Clyde, were out of the nest, and a casual look-see told us that there was one tiny white egg. On a subsequent day, we saw that there were two. My interest was piqued, of course, but far be it from me to precipitate another vanishing act via simple curiosity. We’ve been stellar landlords to this point, sensitive to Bonnie & Clyde’s comings and goings, and taken care not to startle them overly much when we’re on the deck. Kim’s judicious about watering that end of the fern basket, so it’s a bit of a balancing act.
The picture looked a little like this when we finally caught on that the nursery was in business again.
**
Kim went out yesterday afternoon and there was just one fat baby in the nest. By evening there were none, so a new generation of Smith-hosted mourning doves has fledged and is likely somewhere in the East Lawrence forest. They looked a lot like this before they left… shockingly “huge,” when we weren’t even sure they existed at all!
**
Kim named this year’s inaugural chicks Batman and Robin, may they thrive and prosper. One of the parent doves was still hanging around at dusk yesterday, so we hope there will be eggs in the nest again soon. Que sera sera. Whatever will be will be.
In the interim, some lovely summer blossoms for all that ails our spirits.
Hot town, summer in the city Back of my neck gettin’ dirty and gritty Been down, isn’t it a pity? Doesn’t seem to be a shadow in the city All around, people lookin’ half dead Walkin’ on the sidewalk, hotter than a match head…
**
Summer officially arrives here at 3:50 this afternoon, but as usual we’ve had a few show-off previews before the official date. I don’t mind the heat, I like the pace, love the sense of lazy freedom, so it’s all good. And warm. Eighties, nineties, how high will it go, boys and girls?
A cautious bit of news: We have doves again. A young skinny pair checked us out for a couple of days and decided to nest in one of our fern baskets. Our last glimpse told us there was one egg in the nest and we assume there’s another one by now, but they’re being very coy about the reveal. After Dave and Darlene disappeared I was hesitant about attaching names to any more of them, but Kim has christened these two Bonnie and Clyde and here we go.
BONNIE
CLYDE
It feels good to have them here and we’ll be looking forward to the babies. The sweetness and continuity are nice in a world where everything stays chaotic 100% of the time.
I’ve tried for days to write something, just to sort things a little and get a handle on the current prevailing vibe, but as soon as I sit down here my mind goes blank. It feels almost too big to deal with… the massive governmental changes lurking just over the horizon… the sense of walking on eggshells around friends and family… everything in a state of flux, resulting in endless limbo. Our skies have been gray with rain lately… but there’s also a general charcoaled-out mood to the rest of life as well. Beautiful friends who deserve only life’s sweetness are caught in the pain and darkness of loss and grief… and I’m helpless in the face of all that, just as I am in looking at the planet’s woes and knowing I can’t make any of it better. These are the days that try little white-haired women’s souls.
Closer to home, our Dove family is settled in and weathering the storms so far. We’re increasingly worried about Snoop, though… he’s tiny compared to Willie Nelson and he shivers constantly, even under his mama or daddy’s feathers. We hope he’ll eventually thrive, but it isn’t looking good for lil’ Snoop. Life is hard, dude, and nowhere is it as close to the bone as in pure raw nature.
Willie and Snoop Dove. Best bros.Hatched a day apart.
I scroll social media every day looking for “good news” stories and gentle humor because we all need it right now like a favorite teddy bear. When we least feel like smiling, we need it most. Humor and kindness make life livable because they add up to love.
So… I wrote all of the above yesterday. It’s another sunny morning, and Snoop Dove is clinging to life, but just barely. Willie Nelson stays close and usually has Snoop tucked against his side or under his tail feathers, but Snoop has gotten even tinier and he shivers nonstop. David and Darlene are making themselves scarce most of the time, probably letting reality follow its own course. Willie looks big enough to fly away, so little Snoop’s window is closing. Life on the planet is a fight every day, whether or not we can sense our own struggle. It’s overwhelming, even without the people who do cruel things ON PURPOSE.
Word on the street growing up was that as you get older time accelerates, and it’s utterly true. Weekends now arrive every three days, and seasons are but a blip on the calendar. A short while ago I was whining about the cockamamie time change and now it’s settled into my DNA again. Life simply rolls on. Case in point, David and Darlene Dove, who are back for another round of babies, making our crusty old hearts glad.
**
The other unmistakable sign of full-on spring here is Farmers Market, whose busy Opening Day 2024 was last Saturday. Through our open door the sounds of conversation and laughter made it almost as good as putting on my sandals and going down there, which I didn’t do, although I have intentions, so check me on it.
**
As you might surmise, we’re back to balcony afternoons here, which are vital for health and wellbeing. I sit within a few inches of whichever parent is on the nest, they never move a feather in protest, and that feels sweet. So glad for the sunshine and the sounds of life. So glad for benevolent walking weather. So glad we stay continually educated by living until it’s done.
At this point, after 76 years of it, life in the U.S. has never felt more threatened, nor more tenuous to me, even through the debacle and angst that was Viet Nam. We’re on the precipice of losing everything democracy has afforded us, and that’s for real. And yet HOPE is still my first go-to. We can get through this. That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. Check me on it.
As you know if you hang out here much, spring has been slow to find purchase this year. We’ve had pleasant days interspersed with cold ones, sometimes snow, often rain which we’ll take any time. But my body’s ready for warmth, benevolence, comfort, and energy. I’m ready for the mornings when I can open the balcony door and sit outside half-dressed (arms and legs totally soaking up the sunshine) with my coffee. I’m ready for the walks I’ll take, and I see that by next weekend we might be looking at temps in the 80s, high 70s, so clear the streets and sidewalks, people, she’s going out into the greater world.
Speaking of the balcony, open doors, and spring sunshine, look at THIS tiny harbinger! David and Darlene finally decided to move into their dove house yesterday morning, and by evening there was a new arrival. It will likely be joined by a second one soon, if not already, but Darlene’s a constant presence now so our view is blocked. She and David will be fattening themselves up for the long haul, so we’ll try to peek into the birthing chamber when they’re both out for a bit. As you can see, mourning doves are haphazard nest-builders at best, although they did add some dried grass before the egg dropped. Darlene must have been crossing her legs while procrastinating until the last second, but she’s an old pro now and all should be well.
**
So… despite the lingering chill in the air it’s officially spring at last. (No more frosts/freezes, please.)
Stay tuned for progress reports if you can stand it.
Hello on a chilly spring HumpDay. Good news: the sun’s shining and breaking up the clouds. Bad news: the wind’s blowing and it’s 42°. My bones are ready for warmth. For sunny days. For good news all ’round. Here’s a little piece of it: Dave & Dar have apparently decided to make us their spring and summer birthing center once again and the little dove house is no longer empty. We’ll be providing fern-y protection once we’re past our frost-free date. Meanwhile, here we are again and the continuity is comforting.
**
I may have a hat made that says “DOVE HOVERER.” It would go well with others I wear, including these:
The KIMN8R and I are gradually returning to routine after having son John here long enough to absorb him a little. He spotted a 4-day stretch in his schedule with no work and no meetings, grabbed a flight to KC, and a good time was enjoyed by all, including Auntie Rita. Relative to our status age-wise, the three of us plied him with medical questions and got back better than we asked for, as it’s information you can take to the (blood)bank. In nearly twenty years as an oncology RN and hospice nurse he’s sort of seen it all, and possesses an innate depth of spirit that makes me listen carefully to his words, which are generally very sparing. He also gives amazing hugs.
So. A happy-surprise weekend that included KU home games in both football and basketball, much wonderful food from Kim’s kitchen, best company, and excellent conversation. John and I share a love of peace, quiet, independence, sarcasm, music, good food, and sensory deprivation, not necessarily in that order, and he’s a very soothing person to spend time with, so I’m feeling renewed and energized for a deep dive into winter hibernation. Sounds like an oxymoron… but isn’t. Ready for my cave and whatever sources of inspiration it might contain.
Fall has a thing she does every year called Bring On The Melancholy, and since October 4, 1985, she’s been bringing it with a vengeance. For the first time in 38 years I missed every signal while dancing with them all, so the denial is still strong with this one. Mystery solved. The crushing grief of the past couple of weeks has a direct source, beyond the usual fall mood.
It’s Sunday, just halfway through the weekend, and I’d planned to postpone this process until Monday, but my brain is already starting to coax my spirit down out of the pristine hills and back into the ebb and flow of daily living. It simply happens… we stay immersed in the magic for as long as possible but the basic facts intrude in unavoidable ways, and those thoughts we were thinking, those feelings we felt, that peace all-encompassing, start to fade and slip into the ether long before we’re done with them.
I had all sorts of thoughts going last week, following various twists, turns, and alleyways, and it seemed like I might actually be getting somewhere. It’s likely I was, so I’ll be standing by, as quietly as I can, for those same ideas to intrude again.
**
TURN UP SOUND
Thank you, Jim Creek, for a sweet piece of the Black Hills to bring home with us.
**
Now it’s time to finish unpacking.
DISCLAIMER: Kim did all of his immediately upon arrival home, so he wins again. He’s a Navy man, besides which our friend Seth surmises he was potty-trained at gunpoint, so he can’t help it. I do better with a couple of days’ decompression before getting all hasty about things like laundry and “what bag did that end up in?” Besides, I did my part while Kim was being a good citizen… I WENT THROUGH THE MAIL. That was always the biggest pain, and let me tell you… we were gone for a week and had exactly five pieces of “mail” awaiting our return. This is what it’s finally come to, the flip side being that it’s all lurking in Gmail, of course, which I’m proud to say I’ve gone a considerable way toward unpacking because I, too, can be a quality citizen.
I have only positive things to say about the concept of getting away from it all, even if it’s simply by closing your door and putting everything on mute for an hour. (Or ten minutes, as life allows.) Progress happens when we get quiet enough to hear ourselves tick.
Welcome, autumn, friend of my heart. Your melancholy echoes my goofy perpetual angst and somehow helps tame the inherent loneliness as winter sets in. I’m hoping for a nice snowy one. Is that an oxymoron?
Best definition of the word VACATION: “A period during which activity is stopped for a time.” So we did it right and it was the truest vacation I’ve taken since I was a kid, when family trips mostly meant camping (with parental units doing all the work) and sunbathing. This time, in response to an invitation, we loaded up our little red wagon, bizzling through parts of four states in search of ultimate relaxation, and our destination did not disappoint. Blazing across the great state of South Dakota at a legal 80mph+ was exhilarating and the interstate is straight as a pin except for one remarkable curve somewhere close to Rapid City, so Kim was happily in aircraft-pilot mode through every mile.
We arrived at the cabin in the meadow on Sunday. Kim turned on the TV for Sunday Night Football and that was the only time it was lit up for the duration. See that front porch up there? We could have romped off to Mount Rushmore… or Deadwood… or Sturgis… or stunning caverns… or any number of other worthy activities on offer. What we did for several days and evenings, as was our intention, was sit on that lovely porch, with its perfectly-aged screen door and softly-creaking floor, and look with our eyes, and feel with our molecules. The air and water and atmosphere are pristine beyond imagination… and it was more than gratifying to experience a spot humans haven’t drained of its essence.
Kim walked most of the ranch’s 30-acre property line and followed several of the trails that cross the terrain. He let that sweet Taylor guitar ring out across the meadow… and even wrote a song in his free time. He also cooked all our meals in the cabin’s perfect little kitchen. I read a little… wrote a little… napped a little… and far too soon it was time to pack up and point the car east. Fortunately, home is never the wrong place to be, and we were welcomed back this morning with a sky-blackening, crashing, booming thunderstorm, accompanied by pouring rain. Our place of choice still loves us, and likewise.
**
Memories for a lifetime:
**
**
**
Dasher cat keeping an eye on things.
**
Manna and Midnight
**
**
Until we meet again…
**
So home we drove, past hundreds of miles of corn, soy beans, sunflowers, sorghum, and other crops, some ready for the harvesters, much that looks like it will do well to beat the first snow, all of it keeping us conscious of the basics: We’re a nation of highly-independent souls with a general yen to do right by each other. The extremes are out there but they comprise less of the sum total than we might think without benefit of direct exposure. On a cross-country road trip you’ll see it all, and we did. At a mega truck-stop somewhere along the way we were treated to a large white van blocking traffic and plastered from stem to stern with explicit advice for Joe Biden along with abject worship of the former guy. On the flip side, that was the only in-your-face evidence of division in over 1500 miles of travel, and I like those odds.
**
Our hosts for this much-needed idyll were Mark & Mary (Wipf) Zimmerman, who have been South Dakota Arts Council artists in residence for 25 years and whose art graces every part of their beautiful homestead ranch.
Cheers to us, we survived the Great Mid-America Smoke-Out 2023 without becoming cinders! Ten days of ridiculous temps and even sillier heat indexes, such as 127° one day and 130° another. Inconceivable. Now we’re promised a gaggle of days, maybe an entire week, of temps below 100. I remain a skeptic…
But oh, my sweet summer child, yesterday dawned cool and cloudy before delivering an all-too-brief but thoroughly welcome fall of rain, temporarily vanquishing the heat. Today as soon as Kim left for Pickleball I abandoned my lovely mug of coffee, put on my Tevas, and took myself out into the 66° morning for a sweet stroll on Mass Street. It was just past 7am on a Sunday, so the businesses weren’t open yet, allowing me to gawk and stare at my leisure. In the three-block stretch I walked, I discovered several new enterprises, a restaurant that has moved from another location, and merchandise that would have tempted me had the doors been open. So early-morning walking is an excellent idea for many reasons.
After the rain showers yesterday we spent time on the balcony in the company of our little dove family. David and Darleen came back to us to raise yet a third pair of fledglings and they’ve done well without our solicitous attention this time around. It’s like baby books… by the third child, possibly the only things that get recorded are name, birthdate, weight, and length. We’re the world’s worst grandparents, as we haven’t even gotten around to naming the two that will fly on their own any day now. It’s for the best, really, since according to Buddha, “Attachment is the source of all suffering.” Do with that as you will.
While we were enjoying the cool breezes, Kim pointed out a ruptured bag of odds & ends down on the greenway and said he was going to go gather it up in a bit. A “bit” went by and we noticed a couple walking along the sidewalk, she with two dogs on leashes, he pulling a wagon holding a 5-gallon bucket, trash bags, and other things we couldn’t make out. He wore gloves, and as they walked he used a grabber to pick up bits of trash and stow them in the wagon. We waited to see what would transpire when they reached the mess lying next to one of the access-ways, and they did not disappoint. Working together, the two of them sorted and bagged every smidgen of the scattered eyesore and continued down the sidewalk, still tidying as they went. Incredible. We clapped and cheered, but they couldn’t hear us up here. It was such a typical #lfk experience it made us reflect on other reasons we feel at home in this town… so summer balcony convos have been redeemed. Reclaiming my time!
Mass Street by Kim Smith, August 2023
Makes for very Zen strolling from north to south and back, about a 40-minute trip for Kim. By now, at 9am, it will be looking very people-y over there and the coffee and breakfast aromas are taking over. Good to know there’s a ranch omelet in my near future, and the coffee’s pure comfort.
Please stay cool every chance you get, and keep passing the open windows.
Odd summer so far, blowing hot and cold, perpetually cloudy with storm threats, or blazing blue skies hanging in without relief. Which is to say that it’s Kansas in July when all bets are off. It can get very warm here in the summertime, but…
Or Texas, or the Sahara…
Not much shaking here. Still opening a box once in a while and doing the “keep, toss, give” routine. Down to maybe four boxes, so I’m pacing myself now, because you should always keep a little something back for when you feel a need to procrastinate. Things I’ve learned about STUFF:
**
We’ve already passed the middle of July, so yet another Kansas wheat harvest took place without my notice, which means this farm girl is slipping. Slipping the traces and living the life in front of her. I love how we get to live more than one life as we move from birth to death, each one a complete or unfinished package with lessons attached. The pic below was taken in the late 1990s, maybe twenty-five years ago, when a pair of Roper boots, some faded denim, and a tank top would take me through a fifteen-hour day on “my” combine, day after day until everything was in the bin. There are things about it I miss: the productive solitude, the wildlife in the fields and tree lines, the scent of fresh-turned earth, just-harvested grain, rain in the air, being at the center of something vital and needed. There are things I do NOT miss, and some of those would be fifteen-to- eighteen-hour days that started before dawn, never enough sleep, being cook, field hand, parts runner, laundress, bookkeeper, therapist, and a pile of other seed caps that fit from one hour to the next. A lot of the details would slide from conscious memory without a photo now and then…
**
While I was revisiting my farming days, another memory came to mind:
I backed out of the garage one morning to go to work, noticed something large to my immediate left, and found myself making eye contact with a good-sized cougar sitting on his haunches next to the driveway. We looked at each other in wide-eyed wonder for a beat or two before he casually turned and sauntered toward the cattle pens north of the house. I called the farmer on the radio, he slipped out the side door and into the car, and we cruised along the road while Mr. Mountain Lion slowly padded next to the fence line, rarely breaking eye contact, before ducking into high weeds and disappearing. He was likely a bold young turk, looking for a mate far from his Colorado stomping grounds, and was the only one of his kind spotted in my 35 years on that farm. There were herds of deer, coyotes, wild turkeys, abundant rattlesnakes, and a mama bobcat who spent two consecutive winters in our old washhouse raising her kits, but that silky cougar was a one-off and I’ll never forget him.
NOTE: With a less than 15% chance of rain in the forecast for this morning, it’s coming down in buckets, with soft hail mixed in, and the temp is 75°. Enjoy your Tuesday, whatever the weather gods have in store!
In a hyper-conscious moment here and there as we trek through our days, we might happen to remember that we’re on a large intricate rock hurtling through space. But it’s mostly an incomprehensible thing that we take for granted nearly every second of our lives, so I love what astronomer, astrophysicist, cosmologist, astrobiologist, planetary science guy Carl Sagan said…
“Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every ‘superstar,’ every ‘supreme leader,’ every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there — on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.” -Carl Sagan
One of the last known images captured by Japan’s Hakuto-R lander before crashing into the moon shows a stunning ‘Earthrise,’ with the shadow of the moon creeping over Australia during a total solar eclipse. (Image credit: ispace)
In light of the facts…
Simply an observation agreed with.
**
We live in a world where unimaginable things happen, are quickly dispensed with, and are rarely spoken of again. A significant for-instance:
The daily shootings, immigrants drowning by the boatload, concerted efforts globally to stamp out any and all differences — racially, sexually, politically, philosophically, artistically, or in terms of values and relationships, ALL difference, as it presents itself. The whack-a-mole approach to control.
Thus, for all the reasons…
And we think it’s our fault somehow, which only tends to illuminate the fact that we’ve been trained to see ourselves as a super-race, immune to death and failure. What I know after the dust has settled is this:
If calm hasn’t traditionally been your first response to life, it feels magical when it comes to you.
We could all likely benefit from supporting Teri in her pursuit of self-fulfillment…
PLAYING FOR TIME claims no credit for any images posted on this site unless otherwise noted. Images on this blog are the property of their respective owners. If there is an image on this blog that belongs to you and you do not wish for it to appear on this site, please E-mail me with a link to said image and it will be promptly removed. Thank you.
Welcome to my weekly blog on life's happiness. We are all human and we all deserve to smile. Click a blog title or scroll down. Thanks for stopping by.
Creative humour, satire and other bad ideas by Ross Murray, an author living in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, Canada. Is it truth or fiction? Only his hairdresser knows for sure.
Playing for Time 
Join the conversation …