In no place I have ever lived do so many people seem to be necessary to maintain one house. On any given day, in addition to my efforts, it is likely two or more of the following caretakers will be present: housekeeper, gardener, plumber, locksmith, bricklayer, tree-trimmer, cistern-cleaner, fumigator, carpenter or appliance-repairer. Do things really break more frequently in Mexico? Do locks jam more or garage openers go on the blink with greater regularity? Do more brick pathways need to be laid? More roof tiles slide down and go boom? More solar water heaters spring more leaks? Do pools develop cracks more easily and pipes pop open just for the fun of it? Do houses cry out to be added onto? In my sixteen years of living here, it certainly seems so. I especially remember the day described in THIS POEMas being one where the entire world seemed to be directed toward the care of my house. It was the monarch. We were its slaves.
I’ll admit, it’s been a while since I walked a crocodile, so my technique is rather rusty and my memory is dusty. Still, I’ll tell you if you sit awhile how not to walk a crocodile!
Don’t walk him through the butcher shop. The butcher will just call a cop. Don’t visit bakeries at all. His roar will cause the cakes to fall. That store where Mother bought her dress? No place to walk your croc, I’d guess.
And though your pet may need some air, it’s best that you don’t take him where small dogs are left out for our viewing just right for crocodile chewing. Dog parks do not work for crocs Find a new place for your walks.
Don’t walk him on your grandma’s floor. She’ll sweep you both right out the door. Don’t take him to your Sunday School. He’s sure to break the Golden Rule. And if you take him to the deli, no saying what ends in his belly.
I’ll share a secret with you now. It is, I really don’t know how to take a crocodile for a walk. All of this has just been talk. And can I guess by your big smile, you do not have a crocodile?
I guess it was the recent sighting of a croc on the beach at night that sent this little ditty rushing into my head this morning. I would love to have someone illustrate this. Anyone want to try? Send a sketch of your vision of the croc in one of the given situations. You can either email it to me or put it on your blog and send me a link! Here’s a photo of the croc that was on the beach near the house I rent. You could see my house in the background if it were light! Photo by Susana Vijaya. (She estimated the croc to be 3 meters long!)
Update: If you’re not ready to leave croc world yet, here’s an oldie but goodie. (Thanks to Marilyn for the memory jog.)
I haven’t an inkling what I ought to do about that weird spot on the tongue of my shoe. Don’t know how it got there, don’t know what its made of. And such a strange color! I don’t know the shade of odd pigment that it might be properly called— somewhere between baby pig and grandpa-bald?
What color is pink to end up on your shoe? With pink on his toe, what’s a fellow to do? If there were a shoe wash, I’d go in a blink, but since there is no sort of place, then the sink is the place I will go to to wash off this matter— this slimy soft substance that looks like a batter.
You may think I’m silly to make such a fuss, to blather and worry and mumble and cuss, but these shoes are brand new and my favorites, at that— undeserving of refuse left by the cat. Now the cat’s in the barn and the shoe is restored. Almost. Must that shadow just be ignored?
I’ve dined out on this story ’till friends are all bored. As they approach me, I hear them say, “Lord, protect us from more boring talk of his shoe. Please let him not mention that gloppy pink goo.” They may call me a heel, these folks I’m among as I tell them once more how the cat got my tongue.
But I can’t abandon those images that that mess on my shoe was left by the cat. On what innocent creature might she have dined— its tiny pink corpse so sadly reclined on the tongue of my perfectly saddle-soaped shoe? My friends will not listen, so I’m telling you!!
I don’t have any strategy, I don’t have any plan— no recipes for muffins, no plots to meet a man. My life is so unstructured that I have nary a list. With no clearcut tomorrow, my future’s in a mist. If I were only twenty, I guess they’d call me fickle. To be so directionless would land me in a pickle. At seventy I’ve joined the list of lives that are expired. I’m finally giving up and saying I’m fully retired! My alarm clock’s in the cupboard––abandoned. I don’t need it. I gifted this year’s calendar to someone who will heed it. No meetings on my calendar. No notes upon my fridge. I don’t attend aerobics. I gave up playing bridge. How do I fill my life out now that I’ve come unwired? Now that it’s gone unplotted and its furnace gone unfired? I’m letting every day I meet just unwind and unravel. Letting fate determine what pathway I will travel. My compass needle disengaged, I’m floundering in “free—” All things now determined by serendipity.
I couldn’t help it. I kept finding more hats in my photo files, so I had to share more with you! In penance, I wrote a new homage to hats named “Hat Envy.” You’ll find it after the photos. Click to enlarge. If you are on Facebook, you’ll only see a few photos and no poems unless you click on the title of the blog or the URL.
Hat Envy
Please tell me where you got your hat,
for I must have one just like that!
Are you sure it is unique?
Perhaps if I could have a peek
at the label, I could find
its maker to make two-of-a-kind.
You’re leaving? Then, sir, would you mind
if I just happened to walk behind?
If there’s no label, perhaps I could
see if your hat fits me good.
If I just tried it on a minute
I could see how I look in it!
You shake your head and walk away.
How rude of you, I have to say!
You say you do not want to see
the hat on you on top of me?
Keep it then, you silly nerd!
Upon reflection, your hat’s absurd!
Although he was the man for her—the one that she adored, there was a loophole in their love affair, a clause in their accord. So while into their union all her energies she poured, feathering her true love’s nest, he wandered and explored.
She scraped windows with razor blades and scoured the kitchen floor as he was off adventuring, in search of fresh amor. It seemed for him their love affair was simply a temporal exercise of pleasure genitalial and clitoral.
So as she labored, scrubbing at their tabletops and flooring, he was engaged in other tasks of nightclubbing and whoring. Their end was as you might predict. Her life became a bore, so she exercised her loophole and threw him out the door!
The days my life is not erratic are the days it is too static. I need an leavening in life— a lessening of loss and strife— that doesn’t store me in the attic.
Retirement is not intended to designate a life as ended. I’d like some fun and some pizazz aside from knitting and Shiraz. I’d like my salad days extended.
Turn off the news. Turn up the notes. I prefer hearing what emotes. There is coverage enough of Donald Trump and other stuff. I’m tired of inane Twitter quotes!
Bring in the band and serve the drinks. One’s only as old as she thinks. I’ll move my body, move my mind. (True, my brain more than my behind.) For what is static is what sinks.
lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown 