May 6, 2013
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Burning Sage
I am burning sage because it is stronger than the smell of cat piss which my dear, departed Babycakes left for me to remember him by. He was old. He was sick. In these damp, warm days of spring it is almost impossible to forget him. I steam cleaned the carpets this weekend, which apparently only brought up new levels of odors. “Can you smell that?” Nancy checked with me because I have a remarkably poor sense of smell.
The dead could smell that.
I sprayed the entire house with Odorban . It worked for a good two and a half hours.
So while drifting through the garage, looking for things I own, never use and could live for eternity without, I found an old sage stick, bought undoubtedly at Festival, for lighting and waving, while vibrating emotionally in a gentle mental place, and I am inhaling it like a more controlled substance with a certain scent of burning leaves.
Someone somewhere within hearing distance of my window owns some small, yappie kick dog that is in high form today.
Because he/she/it is driven to attacks of barking, my little black dog–who is really trying to take a nap–has been roused from the couch and driven to barking expeditions to find the noise. Every time she comes up off the couch snapping and snarling and barking like a canine explosive, my nerves vault one step farther away from vibrating emotionally in a gentle mental place.
Okay. Momentary peace.
I went to writers group this morning and read a piece that really seemed to impress them. I hope so: I submitted it to The Smoking Poet, an e-zine. I’ve had a piece published there before. While I was listening to my fellow writer’s read their pieces I was busy admiring one of the women’s haircuts. I really like it. I also think–perhaps–my hair might actually do that. In fact it pretty much does right now, except the back isn’t cut right. So after the meeting I asked a few of them what I would ask a hair-stylist for to get the back of my hair cut like Veronica’s. They said I should asked for ‘stacked’. (Which, if nothing else, explains why I’ve never managed to get that cut before. I had asked for ‘layered’.) I need to do something with this stuff growing out of my head. It’s becoming steadily more unruly right about the scalp level, and now that much of it is gray (nearly white, in places) it’s thicker and strives toward a greater unruliness. I am sure that with my new haircut I will be virtually indistinguishable from Veronica, who is 40, vivacious and probably runs purely for the rush.
For those of you (should there be such people) who have never met me, this is a general map of my body shape:
O
I don’t roll over in bed purely for the rush.
The kick dog shut up, or went inside, or is no longer being teased, tortured or gazed upon sideways. I am sure the ensuing peace is what prompted some other jerk to dash directly out in the yard to run a leaf blower/lawn mower/gasoline-powered-creator-of-a-high-earsplitting-whine.
Given the warmth and compassion I am vibrating at this moment, I should write a brief piece on the rewards of living with the elderly.
Yeah, you’re right. Probably not.
I like Ilah (Nancy’s mother.) At 95 she is self-sufficient in terms of dressing and feeding herself. Her life is wrapped around Tigers baseball, Red Wings hockey and theme-based word-search puzzles. (I had no idea word search puzzles were theme based.) She spends most of her time in her room because she requires considerably more heat than Nancy, the dogs or I. Occasionally she has guests. Most of her guests are caretakers or relatives of guests at the Bowman House, the assisted living facility down the street from us where she lived for eight years. She leaves her room for breakfast, lunch, dinner and Pepto-Bismol.
So there are three aging women living in this house designed for the weakly-kneed and short of wind in every possible way but one: we have one bathroom.
One stool.
Yes, I know. There are children starving in Africa and India. There are entire families without access to clean water and healthy outhouses. Our ancestors had to walk out the back door of their homes and off into the wilderness to visit the facilities and I am whining because I have to share the john. We are, all three, years past synchronized menses: now our bladders go off in unison. Where once we might have jumped up and dashed to the john, we now rise slowly, stretching everything that can possibly have stiffened during the break, and hop, hobble and creak along behind the walker toward one room in the entire house…
Annie is barking in the back yard. Something moved. Or thought about moving.
I don’t know how to make her stop. I’ve called her inside and given her treats. I’ve sprayed her with water. I’ve rattled a tin can full of pennies at her. I’ve locked the dog door, I’ve been calm, I’ve lost it completely and screamed at her.
We keep the blinds closed so she can’t see outside. I think part of it is boredom, but I can’t take her to the dog park for exercise because she attacks other dogs. Not all of them, certainly. Enough. I have had this dog 8 months, we are in our fourth obedience class and we still keep telling ourselves, “I think she’s going to be a very nice dog.”In the meantime she’s sitting on the couch, boofing. a boof is half-way between a ’woof’ and an outright attack of barking. A boof means, ‘I know you don’t want me to bark or anything, but–can you HEAR that? I think, you know, being a dog and all, the very least of my duties would be to let you know about THAT…”
It’s peaceful. Quiet. I can hear traffic as far away as the highway..someone’s brakes are squealing…there aren’t even any birds chirping just now.
Any minute now Annie is going to report, WAKE UP, CHERYL, THE HOUSE IS ONE FIRE TIMMY’S IN THE WELL OH MY GOD, THE THING IN THE BACK YARD IS COMING THROUGH THE DOORTHE MAIL MAN IS SHOVING STUFF THROUGH THE FRONT DOOR, CHERYL
THE END
IS
HERE
NO, WAIT
IT’S JUST A POODLE….
It’s okay, Cheryl, Relax.
You seem really jumpy.
