Nancy is the four-year-old daughter of Ellie, who cleans the house I rent in Jan and Feb once a week. She’s gone from shy to playful and teasing. She didn’t know I was watching for most of this little sequence. I was in the hammock on the other side of the porch:
We only had 11 Trick or Treaters who braved the drizzly Halloween weather to visit us for treats. this was half the crowd we had last year. Unfortunately, I snapped the first, a baby who called me “Mama” and smiled and held his hands out to be picked up and only later discovered there was no SD card in the camera. Sad. He was such a cutie and would have walked right in to spend the evening if his mom hadn’t stopped him. The photos I did get are not great as for some reason my camera, only 6 months old, seems not to be focusing with the same precision as before. Double Sad. Here are the cuties, as I caught them. They were a bit soggy but with the exception of one, a pretty happy bunch. Can you identify the kids who came last year who returned this year? There’s a link to last year’s meangerie above, captured in orange.
Oh to be nimble, unfettered and young–– heedless, with yesterday’s breath on my tongue. Scuffed shoes unpolished and hair all awry, with nary a reason for white shirt or tie.
Chucking small stones, shooting rubber bands. Gritty black fingernails, scandalous hands sporting sand from the sandbox or silky black loam from digging for earthworms or sliding on home.
I’d like to be lithesome and agile and spry–– a long life in front of me before I die; but my years are numbered, my life’s nearly over. Gone is my past as a rambler and rover.
I sit on my porch and watch younger men take off for those places I’ve already been; knowing my wild years are too far behind me. I’m an Energizer bunny with no one to wind me.
Maddeningly, although I know I still dream, I forget them the moment my eyes open. Instead, I usually wake up with the first line of a poem on my mind. In this case, I used it as the second line of this morning’s poem.
My gardener’s youngest son Ishmael is a rare bird. First of all, he’s rarely seen, as he is extremely shy. He has also in the past been frightened of my dogs, me, all of the kids at school, his teacher and anyone who isn’t a parent or brother. Over the past year, I’ve been trying to curry his favor with coloring books, toys, balls to throw for the dog and most recently, an Easter Egg hunt that involved both candy and toys. At first he was shy, hiding behind his parents, but by the end of the time he was here he was rushing around the front garden trying to fill his basket. These photos record some former times, including his first approach to Diego–a very rare occasion! (Click to enlarge photos.)
Definitely an off-day, both in choices of costume and mood. I’ve recently been going through old photographs. This one was undoubtedly taken by my 11-year-older sister Betty Jo. I’ve been trying to remember what may have prompted my mood. Maybe I detected that she was not overwhelmed by what my mother would have called my “funny little outfit.” My sister Patti and I heard this term countless times over the years, usually when we thought we looked just fine.
This photo was checked with creases and cracks, and although I tried to deal them, I finally had to resort to cropping or it would have taken me all day with the means I had at hand. At any rate, here it is–an early odd ball side of myself.