Center of the Universe

A Poem for all those pies

I've decided I'm going to trot this poem out every year until it (or you) cries for mercy. 

Wildlife in the 'burbs

         
        Fall is here and getting to and from my car has taken on a reflex-sharpening feature.

          I’m on my out, or on my way in, my thoughts on other things, and juuust as I reach the door to the garage, there’s a 50/50 chance of attack. The already limited porch area is suddenly filled with hysterical diving and flapping. I run for the door and my attackers race for the trees.

With the arrival of colder weather, small birds looking for a warmer nighttime spot have begun roosting in the tangle of our clematis vines.

          The acorn crop was sizeable this fall, as were the acorns. Still, the Front Yard Gang must be tiring of the monotony of their diet. At the beginning of the month we had arranged six tiny pumpkins on the wall around the old oak tree.

 Then there were five.

 This morning another one was gone. Mysteriously, there are no half-eaten shells lying about or tell-tale trails of seeds. There is also no sign of the teensy block and tackle or the ropes pulling last night’s spoil upwards by itsy furry paws.

But the squirrel I saw this morning looked suspiciously smug.

The skirmishes with the new convenience market in town continue.

Parking in our small center of town, particularly during coffee happy hour, is at a premium. Between 7 and say, 9, the spots are packed with people on their way to work, people with time for a chat before work, and people for whom work is happily a distant memory. The primo spots – in front of the village store, source of coffee and conversation – go fast. Next to go has always been the row across the street, in front of the once-gift shop, now convenience market.

Early one morning a customer for the village store failed to see the “for customers of the market only” sign and parked in the new forbidden zone.

The owner of the new market dashed out and began berating the transgressor with: “Can’t you read?” and several other comments, followed up by a call to the police.

          Apparently these owners missed the workshop on community relations.

Adjustments

     At first glance, our small town hasn’t changed much over the years. 

Bridging Eras

     

     On Saturday we went to see one of those movies that hang in your mind for a while.

An American in Paris

     In the previous post, I mentioned our family's connection to the events in Paris. Karen was one of our daughter's roommates from Northeastern University. 
   If you'd like the perspective of someone there, check out Karen's blog at:
 http://frenchinspirationblog.com/there-are-no-words/

Travels of the Mind

     The horrific events in France resonated with our family.

Final report

         My final account of this weekend’s writing conference is a bit delayed.

Sisters in Crime

My second day at the Sisters in Crime writers conference began early, if not bright. Friday night, in a burst of efficiency - or neurosis - I set not only the alarm on my phone, but also on the hotel clock.

Day Two with the Sisters in Crime

 I present the evidence from last night at my writer's conference.

Junior high angst

“Do one thing every day that frightens you.”

                             Eleanor Roosevelt

Housekeeping 101

     I wasn’t exactly raised by wolves, but I have no warm memories of cozily working by the side of my mother as she handed down kitchen secrets.