Sleepin' on the Porch, or, Strangers in the Night

Randy and I have been sleeping outside for months, now.  We are not homeless.

 It's not as scary as it sounds, as we sleep on a futon on our screened-in porch which sits on the upper level of our raised ranch home. The futon was one of our first purchases when we moved here, and it was with the intent of becoming "outside sleepers," right off the bat.

You need to know that our home butts up against a metropolitan park which is all woods. While in our upper level, we live among the treetops.  At this time of the year, the daytime fall colors of the gloriously-colored leaves give way at night to the rustling of those leaves in the dark wind, and the sounds of the parades of woodsy animals who pass through our yard from dusk to dawn.

There's a bit of a wuss in both of us that requires an electric blanket on this futon, lest you think we are ruggedly withstanding the forces of nature out there. (Randy wants me to interject that HIS side of the futon, if there is such a place, is NOT warmed by said blanket.  He is of Hungarian descent, and takes pride that he is already "hot.") (I, however, have reminded HIM that his side has been warmed by a type of osmosis.)  Some years we have the foresight and good sense to put the electric blanket on a timer, so it warms up automatically by bedtime.  This year we've been too lazy to plug it in, so far. 

Our porch has the ambiance of a trailer-trash-pirate's den,  as well as being the nightly abode of two fresh air fiends.  Hanging glass "witches' balls," a flying fake pelican, and strings of lighted colored balls and chili peppers surround the ceiling of this haven. (It recalls to us a pirate-themed place in the Outer Banks called "Goombas,"  the most glorious Christmas trees of our childhoods, and a trailer  park where we enjoyed a fun weekend with Randy's family members some years ago.) The porch has a personality of its own, though, with wicker chairs, a bistro table, a three-foot-tall standing stuffed flamingo (named "Flo"), and the only fake plant in our home, a large fern in a huge ceramic pot.

One year we managed to sleep out there until December 4th.  My nose had frostbite when we finally undid the bed and covered it for the winter that had already begun in earnest. Snow had been blowing onto my frozen face for several nights by then.

The NEXT year, we stayed out there until December the FIFTH.............as a sort of challenge, and just to be able to SAY that we had added a day that year.. (You are hearing it now.)  That time my cheeks were also frozen, along with my nose, toes, and fingers, but we stuck it out just for the fun of it.  The electric blanket was not keeping up with the bitter cold and the billowing winds. (Not to mention the layer of snow we had to brush off, just to get out of futon....)

We've lived in this house for eight years, and when the realtor revealed this porch, that was when, "We'll take it," escaped both of our mouths.  The former owners had left two large Victorian wicker chairs out there, until the deal was sealed.  We envisioned, as they had planned, peace and tranquility as we overlooked the forested valley.  SOLD!

The back of our home has two large picture windows that take up most of the wall space, allowing us to see the forest most of the time.  Our bedroom has the same view, so the porch is not the only location from which to enjoy the scenery: our home decor IS the forest.

But the porch is where "it's happening," especially during the autumn months.

Now, fall leaves carpet the ground, so everything that moves out there is HEARD, even though it may not be SEEN.

After the sun goes down, and we get snuggled down under the warmed-up layers of heavy quilts and blankets, the rustling begins beneath "down under."  Below the porch, on a patio, where we served summertime picnic dinners, a raccoon comes and sniffs for any leftovers, and apparently, from the sounds, jumps onto the chairs and table to be sure there's nothing missed.

Deer parade through the yard, or run.  Sometimes we sit up and catch a look at antlers in the moonlight. Mostly, they amble through, brushing up against things, shouldering past bushes, pawing the ground, snorting.  They SOUND big.

It took awhile to get used to the animal sounds in the leaves, but now I can read a book under the covers, listening to my forest friends making their way across our shared land.  There's really nothing to fear, but we have caught a daytime glimpse of a bobcat, and one night a coyote left a very large paw print frozen into the ice on our deck.

The first year outside, we thought that someone had been killed in our back yard, from the hideous screaming we heard.  Too afraid to move, we listened until the murderous yells abated.  In the light of day we went to the top of the ridge and looked over, searching for "the body," only to see WOODS.  This went on for several nights (a serial killer?) until we were informed by another forest-dweller that those screams were made by a fox, to make his prey scurry from its hiding place, to be caught. I suppose some of the screams WERE the prey.........

The other night I awoke at about three A.M. to listen to the sounds of coyotes howling across the valley behind our house.  They continued until a neighborhood dog chimed in, destroying the acapella concert which told of hunger, loneliness, and garbage cans shut tightly.  Shortly, however, a hoot owl continued the song, from another direction.. a virtual light, night opera.

I always jab Randy in the ribs when there's a new sound out there.  Usually he replies with, "I hear it."  It makes me wonder if we are really SLEEPING out there, or just enjoying the outdoors with our eyes closed.

A rainy night is THE BEST.  I can hardly wait for nightfall to get under the dampish blankets and listen to the leaves and the raindrops!  A good storm in the middle of the night can be downright THRILLING.

When I was a little girl, our parents took us to Bridgton, Maine, where we rented a small pine cabin from Foster's Cabins, right on a long lake.  We went there for several years, and those were probably the most peaceful times of my childhood. My sleeping spot was a screened-in porch at the side of the cabin, beneath huge pine trees. I would spend quiet afternoons lying on my bed there, coloring, or playing solitaire on a rainy afternoon, smelling the bed of pine needles that covered the entire ground. Listening to the lake noises, smelling an occasional skunk, I was in childhood Heaven.

Small wonder that I sleep on a lumpy futon in the cold night air, listening to the wind and creatures who share this time and space with me now, savoring every moment of it.  The good news is that I have a husband who goes along with this crazy nocturnal adventure of sorts, loves the fresh air and sounds, and "gets it."




copyright: KP Gillenwater

Signs, Signs, or : Who's Stopping?

The sign says, "STOP."  It does NOT say, "PAUSE," or "BLINK AND GO," or "GUN IT!"  But I am beginning to think that the STOP sign ought to be changed to read, "GOOD LUCK!"  The disregard of stop signs is a daily nightmare in my neighborhood, and I recently realized that it is a fear for the entire city, and more than likely is a nationwide threat.

I teach reading. One of the first words that children learn to read is STOP. Unfortunately, they must have all forgotten what it means!  Websters says that its definition is, "to cease to go on."  That means coming to a complete halt. No more moving. Dead still.

Every day I leave my home and drive in peril, fearing that each red octogonal sign is being obeyed by only one driver: ME.  I have had to come to screeching halts, dodge to the left or right, or come to a complete stop WITHOUT A STOP SIGN, as some idiot darts out in front of me,  disobeying the sign that told HIM/HER to "cease to go on." 

I look at these people as they put themselves ahead of my life's safety, and for the most part they look like normal individuals.  Their tongues are not hanging out at the sides of their mouths, their eyeballs are not rolling around in circles, yet they put their one-second-ahead-of-when-they-get-there ahead of the safety of every other living being around them.  (Specifically, ME.)

Between the ages of sixteen and twenty, I personally paid for three stop signs. By that I mean I was arrested, had to go to traffic courts, and paid fines.  Three times.  Two of those were at a neighborhood STOP sign that I coasted through, driving a stick-shift Falcon, trying to save the motion of having to downshift.  At that time, the traffic cost was "only" forty dollars a shot.  I might add that this was the SAME stop sign, two times, where a vigilant policeman had sat in his patrol car waiting for me.

The third offense was in a university city where I was racing to get to my class on time, cup of coffee lodged between my knees, music blaring on the car radio, and BINGO............this time it was sixty dollars. That policeman was loud and offended that I could break a law in HIS city, and he didn't hesitate to tell me so.

Guess what? For the rest of my life (no kidding), I have STOPPED at any sign that says STOP.  I have mentally counted to three until it has become second nature to do so. And I have never paid for another STOP sign, either. (Knock on wood.)

I have been late to work, late to events, rolled in at the last possible moment for meetings, but I have never put anybody else's LIFE ahead of my need for speed because of a red sign that asked me to STOP. (I also don't crash red lights, but that's another post.)

I have, however, mentally ripped the heads off of STOP sign crashers. I have bashed them over their brainless heads, in my mind, with the very STOP sign that they so cavalierly disregarded as they put my life in jeopardy.  I have called them every conceivable viscious name that they deserve as I continue on my way, knees knocking, (coffee spilling.)  I have prayed for their safety and forgiveness, even, and hoped that they are not responsible for small children whose welfare depends upon them.  And I have feared them enough to slow down whenever I see a car approach a STOP sign that is perpendicular to the road I am travelling.

I have learned not to trust the drivers on these roads, even though they (supposedly) passed the same driver's test that I did. (Did they have No Driver Left Behind testing?  Did EVERYONE get the license, even though the basic requirements.........like READING AND COMPREHENSION.........were supposed to be in force?) Did they CHEAT on their driving tests?  Know someone "in the business?" Buy a fake driver's license at some corner gas station, from a guy who mass-produces them in his basement? Makes ya wonder, doesn't it?

If I am preachy today, it's because my very life was threatened twice this morning alone.  I might not BE here to warn you,  had I not swerved to avoid Leadfoot, and stopped to let Fast Eddie go ahead of me.  ( Those are NOT the names I called them in real life............but this is a public blog.)  No, I did not wave hands or fingers at them, either. I figure that anybody stupid enough to crash STOP signs probably has an automatic weapon in his car and also isn't afraid to use IT either.  He just tried to kill me with his car, after all.

We have daily "threat level" readings for our country's worry over terrorist activity. I guarantee you that the "terrorists" are already here, and they're driving on our roads and city streets, posing as average "citizens," with driver's licenses (real or not) in their wallets.  We have to counteract their terrorist threats by watching out for THEM, because they apparently cannot READ, and do NOT care about the rest of us.

Many years ago I paid money I could not afford to pay fines for my STOP sign violations.  I wonder, frequently, where is that "cop" who waited for me in the early morning hours, and the "university patroller" who gave me the tongue-lashing as my coffee cup shivered between my knees?  Why are THEY not lingering in the dark, arresting "Leadfoot" and "Fast Eddie" when THEY crash through those STOP signs, and DON'T? 

I promise you that if it were not for that "cop" and that "patroller,"  I might not be here and driving, safely, stopping at STOP signs, as I am today.  "Thank you!"  to those law officers, who I may have referred to in a nonflattering way back then, wherever they are today.   They may have saved my entire life. I wish they'd save some more.

copyright: KP Gillenwater

Time Passages: or, How Many Watches Do I Really Need?

     I never do anything half-way.  If I set a table for guests,  I go overboard to the point that there is little space left for the actual food. Visitors have to move extra candles, gold-sprayed acorns, pine cones, or statuary, or starve.  I want to make a "presentation" out of a "company meal."

    Same with my purses...........they hang on a hall tree type thing, and are changed seasonally. The "out of season" bags are in storage, and the "in season" ones stand, somewhat resembling a bulk the size of Smokey the Bear, in a corner of my spare guest room, like a giant purse-tree, with limbs of multiple bags peeking out from underneath each other, waiting their turn to go out. If they get to go out. (But this is another post.......)

      My watch collection, which has sort of evolved over the past few years, is the one that actually PUZZLES me.  Sure, I have to wear a watch to work. I would never hang a working clock on a classroom wall!  My students would be perched on  their seats, knowing the time, EXPECTING a ringing bell.  I like to keep them guessing.  MY watch is the only one in the room that is set perfectly, right to the second for dismissal. Last week I accidentally wore a watch that had a dead battery to work, and ALL of us, students AND teacher, were on edge.

     WHICH watch to wear is the puzzle.  I have sixteen that I actually use.  That's alottawatches.  They are displayed in a square box on my dresser, sorted by color and size and type.  I have two reds, three browns, two blacks, one that has brightly colored beads for the bracelet, two pinks, a denim, a multi-colored one, two golds, and four silvers. (If that didn't add up to sixteen, oh well......) I have Braggers rights.

      Every morning I choose one of these time-pieces to accompany me on my thrilling experiences of the day.  I do have my favorite watches, and those are the ones that just snap right onto my wrist instead of having to be buckled.  I like to move fast.  But I keep those others, anyway.  Ticking.

      Ever since I discovered that I can buy twelve watch batteries for a dollar  (A DOLLAR!) at a certain bargain store, the watch collecting has escalated.  No longer is a watch a liability, when for a mere eight cents, I can refresh the battery for almost a full year for any of these beauties.  Such a deal!

     Why do I enjoy hearing them tick away my time, even those that rarely get worn out of the house,  I ask myself.  Can it be a psychological disorder? Watchomyalgia?

     Let me blame this on my mother. Yeah.  That's a good excuse!  It's a defective gene or an inherited weakness.  Mom was a collector of antique clocks, and at the time of her death, her house bulged with twenty-six clocks (not to mention several million other items.)  I inherited thirteen, and my sister has the other thirteen.  At one time, at the height of the glory of her collecting spree, Mom had all twenty-six clocks ticking at once.  My poor father nearly lost his mind, as they all had chimes and gongs and bings and bangs that would simulataneously "go off" to announce the hour, the half-hour, or the quarter-hour.  Sometimes the hourly celebration went on for a full minute, or more, with one or two REALLY elaborate clocks. (Thank God the cuckoo clock had given up its whacko voice by this time.)

     Pop finally negotiated that the clocks had to be set so that he could at least snooze through a short nap before the next "clock event,"  and Mom then set each of them five minutes apart, all around the house.  Picture this, if you will:  Now, every five minutes, there was a ding, bong, or chime, somewhere, announcing that yet another five miniscule minutes had passed!  Oh joy!   No peace for the wicked or unwicked. 

     Keep in mind that each of these pieces of antiquity had to be wound on a fairly regular basis, using chains and weights and keys: A virtual round-the-clock winding!

     The good news is that the novelty eventually wore off for Mom, and some of the less favorite gongers wore down, and were forgotten long enough to move into obscurity and then into blessed silence.  As the years went by, a few choice clocks continued their dinging, but most of them sat or hung, muted.  In my home today, thirteen antique clocks remain stifled, albeit lovely in their ageless beauty.  (Except for one which I never really liked. It, hidden behind a sofa,  has a pillow over it, muffling its cries for help.)

    But back to the watch collection!  Remember that song about the "grandfather clock that stopped, short, never to ring again when the old man died?"  Could it be that I have all of these ticking items to remind me that I AM ALIVE?  (And would they all stop, never to tick again, if this semi-old chick died?) Or could it be that I just like to see a decoration on my left arm, as jewelry ? 

    How much time do I have, anyway?  My students all hear the speech about "Each of us has the same twenty-four hours every day, and how you choose to spend YOURS is your decision, but never forget that the kid with the A used the SAME twenty-four hours that YOU did, he just used it WISELY," (and that's why YOU have an F.)

    I don't have any more time than the person with only ONE watch. Or NO watch.  Twenty-four hours to make a good day or a bad day, love or hate, eat or diet, exercise or vegetate,  read, laugh, or cry.  My hours are all ticking on my wrist, or in that box on the dresser, while I try to do the best things with what each tick represents.

    In the summertime, I don't wear a watch.  It interferes, reminding me that time flies for other people, but NOT FOR ME !  There is such freedom in being watch-less.  Who CARES what time it is?  I just say to myself, "I am doing THIS now," and go on with the day, and whatever time it might be doesn't matter.  Pure joy. Ah, summer.........

     I plan to retire sometime in the next few years.  I will have at least ten watches that I will no longer want to wear around reminding me of my time-watching-obsession-at-work.  I wonder if I will have them muffled in that box, or let them run down and not replace their batteries, like that unloved, ugly clock behind the sofa.  Or maybe I will just let them join the thirteen silenced antique clocks, sitting silently, never to ring again, while the old lady LIVES!






copyright KP Gillenwater