Güino hasn’t been feeling his best the last couple of days.
I knew he was okay when he pawed at the door this morning at 1:00 a.m. I took him out yesterday evening without a leash and let him wander.
Even though I haven’t been feeling my best, I went outside to catch a few of the meteors, which were peaking early this morning. They were beautiful as I stared up between the gaps in the clouds.
By 3:30 a.m., he was registering is dissatisfaction. So I put a leash on him and we went out into the bitter cold so that he could high-step it through the fallen leaves and sniff the bumpers and tires of all the vehicles he wanted to. The wind and sub-20° weather didn’t bother him.
I did notice that he retreated to one of his favorite blankets directly under the heat vent though.
It ain’t much, because it’s missing the element of presence. If you’re not standing here, you can’t hear the song of the robin that’s ignoring the night. You can’t smell the sausage and bacon cooking nearby. The way the mist of the clouds hangs on the ground. The colors that selfrender and beguile. You would be wrong to think that the parking lots aren’t worth a second look. Our lives are much more comprised of such places than they are of landscapes and bright moments.
It’s an impossibly early Saturday morning. Quiet and unformed. Most of the trees are leafless and cast silhouettes suited for metaphorical thoughts or Tim Burton movies.
I see Xmas lights beginning to multiply in anticipation of the upcoming holidays, the ones overshadowed by a perplexing lack of charity in a lot of people’s hearts. All the lights are pretty, regardless of their complexity or colors. I can only guess whether they are put out from obligation or glee.
I often think about the fact that my days are a meal in reverse sometimes. The quiet hours of wandering your streets are the entree, while the remainder seems anticlimactic.
The Great Santini chased me down. I always look for him if I circle the dark block across from the railroad tracks. He likes to tease me by running around me in circles with his tail up. Only Pat Conroy fans will understand why I named this beautiful playful orange cat The Great Santini. He walks with pride and I only see him in the early pre-dawn hours.
Beginnings and endings are always the same at 3:00 a.m. Some are barreling toward our own 3:00 a.m. while others are just out of the gate.
My cat Güino was not impressed by my morning thoughts. I tried explaining it to him, but instead, he wanted to do battle from 6 ft off the floor atop his cat castle.
If you read a book twice, the ending is not going to change. You react to it differently because, although outwardly you are the same person, your collection of knowledge and experience has changed you. Thinking about the past and diving into memories has the same effect. Unless you’ve changed the framework of how you view your past, you’re just cementing your identity and how you live your life. You’re not the person you used to be. It’s your mind playing tricks on you. That’s how habit and feedback loops of thought convince you that it’s more comfortable to keep doing what you’re already doing, even though you know it’s going to lead to the same result. .
Joy. The same day I discovered the abandoned trunk in the trees and brush, I had a joyous moment. Near where I work is a nexus of creek, trails, and wildlife. For whatever reason, this year brought a few squirrels not intimidated by people. If I’m still, a couple of these will approach me, sit near me, or cling to the bark of a tree near eye level. If I lean against one of the box transformers nearby, it might put its paws on the small of my back. Every so often, they let me pet them. Earlier in the week, one of these trusting squirrels approached me excitedly and sat at my feet, twitching and raising its head. I reached down, gave him neck scrunches, and ran my fingers along its back like a cat. The squirrel chattered in response. (It’s one of the squirrels that recently engaged in a squirrel war with a fellow tree dweller and fell on me.) I don’t know what it was telling me as I made contact. When I was done petting it, it picked up an acorn and busily chewed on it at my feet. I suppose it wanted company – and I was glad to have it. It flew me away from the job, the day, and the relentless stupidity we call busyness.
The surprise happened quickly. I walked along the trail spur where I usually encounter my favorite terrier Max. I could hear squirrels animatedly chattering at one another close by. I pulled my phone from my pocket and looked down to input the code. That’s when the unlikely coincidence happened. I didn’t have time to react. What I thought was a large bird swooped down in front of me so closely that it was only inches away – and hit my right shoe precisely when my shoe contact with the concrete.
My brain realized that a squirrel had jumped or been knocked from the tree above me. It bounced from my shoe to stand about two feet in front of me. It hunched on all four fours and chattered at me. Above me, I heard a squirrel scratching furiously at a tree. A half second later, the squirrel from the tree barreled the short distance across the grass and dirt and sideswiped the falling squirrel. It was a WWE move. Both squirrels ran around in circles for several seconds, up the chain link fence and then into a tree.
After laughing, I snapped a picture of the skydiving squirrel.
It seemed to have forgotten the incident entirely. Which means these squirrels routinely practice their wrestling moves.
Had I been walking slightly faster, the squirrel would have landed squarely on my head. And I wonder what I might have looked like in that scenario.
I’m standing in the low creek as I write this. I had hoped for a rainier September. September is the month with so many milestones for me. Don’t get me wrong. October is fabulous. But September holds weight for me, and anchors pieces of me that are hard to explain to other people.
I followed this bird upstream for a long time. It was aware of me. As long as I stayed in the middle of the stream, it would let me go past it slightly. It would then take flight and perch a few yards from me. We repeated this cycle for 20 minutes. Just me, the bird, and the cool water. It was the most Zen match of tag. X .
“Cicadas are gross,” she said. That’s because she didn’t experience the magical connection of hearing them out in the wide fields of Monroe County during her formative years. The insects of that area are already formidable and should be considered true citizens, counting in the billions. Anyone who has driven on the county roads in the evening knows the folly of attempting to use windshield wipers to remove them. I don’t recall which year I happened to be with my Grandpa and Grandma to experience the cicadas. It was deafening at night because we slept with the windows open, surrounded by fields filled with them. Hearing the cicadas now evokes buried memories, all tied to wonder and childhood experiences.
I have the same reaction upon smelling creosote, especially when it heats up. It reminds me of things I can’t quite remember. Diesel and gas are inextricably tied to my dad’s attempts at operating a gas station on Highway 49. Or my Grandpa, who insisted that the smell warded off the torrent of mosquitoes. The trains humming in the distance. The area of my early childhood owed its existence to railroads. Brinkley was once called Lick Skillet, a name that should have been preserved. The topography conspires to have the train horns and rattling metal echo for miles. Those who’ve not lived in the flatlands don’t understand why people refer to it as haunting. Grandma’s house in Brinkley on Shumard Street was close to the railroad. My apartment is less than 50 yards from one, too.
Years ago, I drove in the late evening on Highway 70 from Little Rock to Brinkley. There were millions of small frogs. They coated the road and the low Geo Prism, so much so that the uneven road became slick and hazardous. My deceased wife, a native South Dakotan, was initially horrified but soon fell quiet in awe of the spectacle. She later told the story to her family. They were convinced she was exaggerating. Had we chosen the quicker route of the parallel interstate, we wouldn’t have had the moment.
Since I’m being nostalgic, yesterday I got out of one of my bottles of burned seasoning. It’s a delicious mix I make myself, but that’s another story for another day. Dabbing it on my tongue, I felt like I was tasting Grandma’s salt pork again. Salt pork is the antithesis of what I normally would prefer to eat. Because of my upbringing, I tended to avoid eating most meat. My dad’s proclivity toward forcing me to eat vile things almost at gunpoint soured me considerably. But if time travel were possible, it is what I would like to return to first. Opening the screen door of Grandma’s house and smell the aroma of her cooking bacon and salt pork. A wall of memory.
Since this post is titled, “All Over The Place,” something that I’ve mentioned before seems much more significant now. I never concealed that I wet the bed much too often when I was younger. When I started therapy, I did a workbook online. I didn’t know that most people barely write a page. I wrote at least fifty pages. I rarely wet the bed at Grandma’s. Of course, I now know that it wasn’t because laundry was much more of a chore for her. It was because I felt safe. Don’t get me wrong. Grandma could be stern. But she never once arbitrarily shouted at me or threatened to box my jaws off unless I wasn’t listening. While not actually boxing my jaws, I knew better than to tempt her. I did not, in fact, ever want for her to follow through on her promise to snatch me bald-headed, either.
Sometimes, Grandpa would tell me not to fear things in the dark or glinting eyes through the screens on the windows. He told me often that the only real danger was things walking on two legs. As mean as he was when he was younger, by the time he had me to call him Grandpa, he protected me. Quite often those who needed a reminder were the two people who came to pick me up at the end of the summer.
In a few short minutes, the train will speed by me on the other side of the road. I’ll be on the landing, cicadas buzzing. And if I were so inclined, I could walk over and touch my hand to the rails. They are connected, reaching the fields of Monroe County.
I undoubtedly awoke with all this on my mind because before going to sleep last night, I stood at my kitchen window, listening to the roar of the cicadas. I dreamed of fields and imaginary stories. Waking, I recalled none of them. Just the tendrils of fading geography and bygones.
I’ve been here at the apartment simplex for a little over 3 years now. One of the best parts of the year, even though my door reaches almost 180°, is the return of my favorite hummingbirds. One of the hummingbirds I recognize has brought a tiny version of itself to investigate my feeders. It flies faster than a 4-year-old boy trying to explain that he is not the culprit who ate all the cookies.
Shortly after 5 a.m. the hard rain finally started. The distant thunder and illuminating lightning approached slowly. It gave me time to walk my neighbor’s dog twice before the rain commenced. We examined every inch of the sidewalk adjacent to the street. I let the dog plow me through the low-hanging branches of the unmaintained trees. The moon was gorgeous this morning.
As we stood near the southern end of the apartment, watching the moon and sniffing the grass (mostly Jackson doing the sniffing), I heard the lightest scratch behind me, against the long wooden fence along Gregg Avenue.
A little mostly white opossum was calmly ambling behind us next to the fence. I love possums and their weird little faces. The possum turned to look up at me as it continued walking. It was less than two feet from me as it went behind me.
Jackson, on the other hand, half-jumped and froze for at least two seconds, his eyes fixed on the innocent possum. It looked like he had been hit with a taser.
I luckily locked the retractable leash as Jackson unfroze from his bewildered stance. He lunged toward the possum without barking. But it took every ounce of my weight and strength to keep him from slinging me into the fence.
I think he wanted to give the possum a kiss. The possum was uninterested in canine affection and walked to the end of the fence and turned, continuing on his way, into the much darker brush along that side of the fence.
I gave Jackson extra leash and we walked along the fence behind the possum. He sniffed like an 80s pro basketball player at a party as he followed. I tried to avoid the brush along the fence but Jackson was leading the way.
The possum finally went through a gap in the short chain link fence behind the apartments and into the wild no-man’s land there. Jackson looked up at me with a dejected look. I was glad to be able to let my guard down.
I returned to the apartment after depositing Jackson back into his lair.
I knew the lightning and rain waited. As is the case with life, everything is eventual; both the rain and the sun.
I think most people visit Mount Sequoyah at the wrong time of the day. At 6:00 a.m. you won’t be crowded. This morning was cool and the sun was filtered through heavy clouds. Deer wander around everywhere and are largely unconcerned by your proximity. (Unlike your boss, who is undoubtedly plotting another round of micromanagement for your own good.) Due to federal law, my age requires me to be fascinated by birds I haven’t seen. This morning up on the mountain it was Indigo Buntings, which are bluer then a 6-year-old holding his breath during a tantrum. I have a sentimental connection to the spot but more than anything, it is a singular reminder that we often don’t need to travel to distant places to see the places we inhabit differently.
P.S. Parenthetically Speaking 