Phantom Silence

I never really gave spiders much thught. Well, actually, I was bit by one when I was ten or so..my whole face swelled up and I had to see the Doctor and take medicine for days. My friends and broters and sisters were amazed every morning that I was still alive. I went to sleep at night thinking it would be my last sleep and tried to stay awake (I thought you could only die if you were sleeping.)

It isn't that there are more spiders here, I think, it is that I have the time to notice them, although the are everywhere. Their webs thread through trees like hammocks. When caught in the sunlight, they are silver and gossamer...they make mosaic etchings...they cover pathways and bicycle seats. In the darkness they shimmer under moonlight and make dark, ghostly paths more hushed.

I guess what I am saying is that it is good to sit on a porch swing at the end of day and to just think about spiders.

A Stirring Breeze

Treehouses.

It is not a subject most folks think about. It seems other things get in the way..such as what to make for dinner, or the price of gas, or the Presidential election, or choosing a fingernail polish. Maybe the subject of treehouses just doesn't show up in adult conversation. I mean, when is the last time anyone asked you, so..been in any great tree houses lately? But here, where I am living for the summer, it is quite normal. Actually the following statements are pretty matter of fact...should we have lunch in the kitchen or in the treehouse?...if you need me, I'll be in the treehouse..I'll be ready to go as soon as I dry my hair up in the treehouse...now where did I leave my book, oh, up in the treehouse.

Now this isn't just any treehouse. I once lived in a small room over a garage that wasnt much bigger. This treehouse has skylights and porches with swings and shelves and windows and little picket fences around the porches. It nestles in a large live oak tree with a limb that grows right through a small part of the floorboard of one of the porches. It is cool and shady in the day and the night brings on the magical world of darkness with stars and fireflies right at your fingertips. It is a place to read and swing...a place to think...a place to hide..and a place to share thoughts and stories with someone you love.

Midnight Moonlit Meandering

Last night there were five of us..dressed in jeans and sneakers...on our bikes...on a typical full moon ghost hunt. It was midight. I felt a little bit like a teen agers on a snipe hunt. Of cours, we knew we wouldn't see the headless pirate Blackbeard walking on Springer's Point...but just in case, Philip carried a stick. He said it was to brush away the cobwebs on the pathway, but you can't fool me.

The moon had not quite risen as we stowed our bikes by the fence and followed the narrow pathway into the woods down to the water. It was a fairly long hike (well, at midnight, hikes seem longer)..passing the grave of Sam Jones and his horse..they say there are other graves there, but they are unmarked..victims of shipwrecks. Occasionally my foot would catch on a root or a limb would brush across my face. Single file we walked. The view was breathtaking as we reached the sound side of the island...the lighthouse in the distance, the moon hovering over the woods, we huddled together..sharing stories, filling our souls up with the beauty of the night..expecting a fleet of pirate ships to round the corner, come to shore, roll out the kegs of rum, and celebrate the full moon with us.

We walked back with moonlight on the pathway. We never did see any ghosts...but did they see us?

A Bouquet of Larkspur

Deciding we needed a lovely bouquet of flowers this morning (we have company coming!) I got on my bike and rode into the village to the florist shop. It is tucked in behind the community store, the fudge shop, and right on the harbor. It used to be the grocery store, then a bait and tackle shop, now the florist/Victorian antique shop.

The door was open letting in the mornng breezes from the sound. Chester is the owner of the shop. He was born on the island and also works as the local funeral director. His shop is small with two coolers filed with larkspur and delphiniums and sunflowers. I chose my flowers carefully...colors of pink and blue and purple. He carefully wrapped them in tissue paper tied with a yellow bow. I was cautious as I eased into friendly conversation. It didn't take too much as Chester was in the mood to talk and tell stories. He was born and raised on the island..his shop, Annabelle's, is named after his lovely Victorian grandmama. He shared stories of the mailboat from years ago and he told me he is impressed by Philip's dedication to stories, the real stories. As I left, Chester was stil sitting in the overstuffed chair, covered wtih a worn blanket, behind his small desk..I wound my way down the dock through the sea gulls with my lovely bouquet..a new Thursday tradition has begun.

Just sittin' on the pizer..

There are lots of names for the fronts and backs of houses..porches, stoops, sunroom, deck. Each one conjures up images for me. I remember by Grandma's porch with the swing...stoops were for playing jacks on summer days..sunrooms..enclosed porches for reading and having dinner...decks...suburban bar-be-que. I had never used the word pizer unti this summer..now it seems to be an every day word for me. We invite folks over to sit on the pizer for gin and tonic...we sit on the pizer to watch storms or unsets..and big dogs sleep under pizers.

Yesterday we spent part of the afternoon on the pizer of the community store. It is a large wooden structure in town...not quite your super Wal-Mart. They carry most necessities that you would need. If you forgot your money, it doesn't matter, they have a large file on the counter with everyone's name on it and you just charge it. On the porch, there are benches to just sit and visit with other folks who shop of just ride bikes over to chat and tell stories. The bulletin board on the porch gives the local news..hospital reports, sign up sheet for the fourth of July parade, wedding invitations. It does give new meaning to the phrase, come sit a spell and spin a story or two.

Shoes...Optional

I have a pair of red flip flops...well, OK, actually I have two pair of flip flops. One pair I bought with my son in Santa Barbara...he said I just had to have them..stylin', you know. They cost me fifty dollars...fifty dollars for a pair of flip flops. I got blisters and stuffed the stylin' pair into the back of the closet. A few weeks later the Marathon station was advertising free flip flops with a fill up. Two years later I am still wearing them, blister free. They are a little worn, chunks of cheap rubber have dissolved or broken off and when I raise my foot, you can read MARATHON, but I love them.

Here they are my only shoes, and they are optional. The other night we were invited to dinner. It was great, I love wearing dresses..ironed and pressed..ah yes, shoes, optional, so I went barefoot. We followed up the dinner with storytelling at the local Deep Water Theatre, again shoes optional, just be careful not to cut your foot on randomly tossed clam shells on the narrow paths and roadways. By the way, watches and clocks are also....optional.

Showers of Sun Spots

Living on an island in the Atlantic tends to change one's habits. Some just seem to be matter-of-fact...and one of those would be outdoor showering. It makes sense..really...the weather is hot and humid and after an indoor shower, nothing dries for hours (towels, mirrors, floor tiles.) So, of course, the most practical solution is to shower outside. All of the houses on the island have outdoor showers right outside the back door...well, almost all of them. Out the back door you go with a towel or robe or, well, none of the above..open up the latch and there under trees and sky and stars is your shower. The shower is a wooden structure complete with shelves for all the shampoos and rinses..

There is something quite freeing to showering outside...to hollering to friends and neighbors walking by...or sitting in someone else's back yard waiting for them to finish their shower. Some folks have double headed showers...for saving water...

When the water is turned off, you unlatch the door and reach for the towel, run a comb through your hair and the day is ready to begin..and alas, no tile to scrub!!

Beauty and the Beach

Hot summer days brngs color to the beach on Ocracoke Island. The tourists all gather at the stretch of sand and water that is staffed by lifeguards who blow whistles and determine if the water is safe for swimming for the day...free of currents and high waves. The beach is colorful with umbrellas in every hue...bathing suits in every style...and the smell of suntan lotion and sand-filled bologna sandwiches. It is traditional with sand castles and volleyball and paperback novels (also filled with sand.)

However, down the beach a few miles, accessible from the road by an obscured pathway is another beach. This one is used by the locals...there usually aren't any sand castles or bologna sandwiches, nor have I seen any paperback novels...the beach is simply vacant except for the occasional pair of shorts or sundress, as this beach is swimwear optional. Of course, while frolicking in the surf, one's eyes are often on the lookout for a strayed beach walker from the conventional beach. Thongs are also allowed as was the case today as we met the local island attorney. I daresay, he decided to forego the suit and tie...a nice memory for me to remember when I see him at the bank next week. By the way, he had a great tan!!

The Journey

Wtihin the last few years I have taken many journeys...some were geographical..trips around the US, backpacking in the British Aisles, visiting my children in all ports. Some have been emotional...living here and there, life changes...some purely meaphorical..into the life and times of Emily Dickinson, Abigail Adams..time past, time present.

But this summer seems to be a journey of all the above...packing and leaving my house at white picket gardens..traveling by rail, arriving on a small island, Ocracoke, to spend the summer with my friend, Philip. Immersing oneself into a new life style is challenging and exciting and little by little becomes the norm. So, friends, the next few weeks will be stories of the journey. Pour a tall glass of iced tea (with lemon or fresh mint), open wide the windows and let's just chat.

Midnight Express

So, at this twilight time as everyone has dinner, listens to the news, chats wihh their families, I am closing up the House at White Picket Gardens...fresh sheets on the beds, cupboards and closets empty, boxes shipped. For tonight I take the Midnight Express (or so I call it) from Waterloo, Indiana to Washington, D.C. and there transferring to Norfolk, Virginia. The summer plans? To spend the summer with my wonderful friend, Philip on Ocracoke Island. It will definitely be a adventure, for as he says, "Toto, we aren't in Kansas anymore." I can't even begin to anticipate all the events of the summer...so let's just let it unfold. The journey is a combination of Dr. Zhivago and the Polar Express..my lunch is packed, my ride is waiting at the door...time to log out, pack up the lap top as the last item in my carry on. Adventure awaits.

Memorial Day

Welcome to Memorial Day in a small northern town....I walked down early this morning to join in the celebration (carrying my umbrella, of course). I had coffee at Rachael's on the square and watched as the crowds began to gather. Most folks had walked from town, but some had come in from the lakes or farm or the suburbs. The high school band assembled in front of the courthouse and the dignataries on the circle inself....there were boy scouts with flags, babies in prams, folks in wheel chairs...all for the same cause to honor those who have protected our freedom. It was the usual celebration, the speeches, the star spangled banner, the pledge of allegience, taps....except standing next to me was an elderly man. I don't know his name nor his story (at least the specifics) but he wept openly during the ceremony. I quietly removed my anti-war button off my tee-shirt and slipped it into my jeans pocket..it isn't important that he know about me, it is enough that I know about him. I am humble, and I am grateful.

Rainy Sunday Afternoons...

Today is rained all day...pouring and drizzling, and an ebony afternoon with winking streetlights. Rainy Sundays are dreamy times, really. I thought lots today about growing up with a noisy house of six children, and original parents!! We knew we could always curl up with a good book in the quietness of our own rooms...after the Sunday dinner was over. We would come home from church, dad would put Never on Sunday on the stereo/phonograph, and we all had chores. Dinner was always a major production when I was growing up. We had flowers and candles and conversation...and we were never allowed to take a phone call during dinner. Dad would always play the devil's advocate (he still does) and we would be so mad at him!! After all the dishes were cleaned up, we would meander up to our rooms for naps or reading or those missed phone calls. I guess I'll just meander up to my own room here at White Picket Gardens and read a chapter or two before a Sunday nap...ahhh, but first, the chores.

Listening for fairies...

Today is a day of beauty in Northern Indiana. Fat, heavy raindrops splattered trees and earth earlier this morning, but the afternoon became heavy with sun. My garden has never been more beautiful...dripping blossooms of peonies, tall Irises, honeysuckle so heavy that one has to duck under the trellis. It is one of those days that I know the fairies will be waking up. When I was a little girl, my Dad bought me poetry book and inscibed it to me....always take time to listen to fairies, he said...This past month, slowly recovering from eye surgery, I have spent time waiting for the fairies to wake up and prepare for the solstice and midsummer's Eve. Here is a lovely chant to help bring the fairies into your own garden, should you chose.

Ring, ring in fairy ring,
Fairies dance and fairies sing,
Round, round on the soft green ground--
Never a sound--never a sound.
Sway, sway as the grasss sway
Down by the lough at the dawn of the day. (from Ireland)