Hello! This is the first installment in the Ekphrasis Project. For each of these stories, I will find one piece of art, write one story set within that piece of art, and write the story in one hour. Enjoy!
Alex woke up first.
“Let’s practice fencing.”
We started a quiet game of fencing on the stairs. I am getting very good at taking the high ground from Alex. He took a tumble in the first round, but he’s so nimble, you could barely hear it. In the second round, I tripped on some shoes (Sara and Lizzie keep leaving theirs everywhere) and, while not nearly as light as Alex, still managed to land at the foot of the stairs with nary a thump. 1-1. Alex met me halfway and we began again, our rapiers clashing as we began again.
“Boys! Stop that right now!” A voice growled. A ghost glared at us from the second floor landing, clad in anger and an awful white nightgown with ruffles. Oh.
“Grams, we’re practicing our fencing,” I explained.
“No. Outside. Both of you.” We started down the stairs. “And those broomsticks are not for fencing with. Put them back in the closet.”
A half hour later, we returned for breakfast: bacon, sausages, eggs, biscuits, and little trays of fruit. Alex and I were having a passionate discussion of the merits of slingshot stone sizes, large vs. small and round vs. flat. I really felt that I was getting through to him about flat stones and used a bit of bacon to make my point about shape. He replied that shape did not matter unless you had a good deal more heft and proceeded to demonstrate his point with a sausage.
“Silence!” Grams again. Sara and Lizzie paused mid-biscuit. “We do not raise our voices at the table and we do not throw sausages at each other.”
“But, Grams, slingshots-
“No. Outside. Both of you.” She waved a long, white hand like a wing, brushing us out the door.
While the ladies finished breakfast, we completed our argument with demonstrations on an obliging tree. This took up some time, given that whenever one of us wanted to go and find the rock he had originally used, the other would pelt him with theirs as a way to demonstrate their argument’s effectiveness. We both had several bruises by the time we called truce.
“Betcha can’t ride Fat Martha,” Alex said.
“Anyone can ride Fat Martha,” I said.
“Across the entire yard and back?”
This brought me up short. Fat Martha was old and greying. She never lifted her head except for food.
“Of course I can,” I said, not to be deterred. Alex was all talk. Not me.
We checked to see if Grams was watching from one of the many windows. All clear. We crossed the yard to Fat Martha’s pen and I dangled an apple to get her attention. As she wrapped her thick lips around it, I clambered aboard.
“See? Told ya!”
“You’re not riding. You sitting. Across the yard and back, remember? ”
“I just have to get her moving.” I began coaxing Fat Martha the best I knew how: insults. She was fatter than the moon, or one of those big blocks of cheese from Switzerland. She was so huge, she blocked out the sun. Then I tried compliments, comparing her white derriere to the softest of marshmallows. She snorted.
“Try kicking her,” Alex said. So I did. And while I kicked, the girls came around the house, yelling about something, and Alex slipped inside the pen to give Fat Martha a slap on the rump.
“Alex!”
What they don’t tell you about fat ponies is that they have quite a bit of energy stored up. Fat Martha took me across the back yard and back, and then across and back, and then across and back again, zigzagging like a crazy bee. Alex and the girls came after us, trying to catch her while I tried not to fall off. finally, she stopped and I went flying over her head to land in a heap.
I looked up. The ghost of this morning was a veritable harpy now, all red-faced and enraged. Grams glared at me before jerking a finger.
“Tree house. Now. Both of you.”
Alex and I both went off to the front of the house sulking. The tree was a patch of stacked lumber up in a big tree that was supposed to be a beautiful house to play in, at least if Dad ever got around to building it. Grams sent us there whenever she couldn’t put up with us.
I could see her now, looking across from her window. Her face was tight and grim, an old owl in her own big tree house.
After a three month delay, it was finally time. Following a night of very deep rest, he went for his early morning swim with his personal trainer, ate a hearty breakfast prepared by his chef, donned his freshly laundered white pants and shirt, said good morning to his compound manager, and then entered his private control room.
Sliding into his ergonomic chair, he took a moment to enjoy the sunlight pouring into the space. The big windows had been a suggestion of his new compound manager who took over right after the terrible debacle with the previous staff.
No more delays. Today he would open the program, conquer his enemies, and drink that bottle of Scotch. He switched on the computers and his AI, and then flipped the switch for the bots’ underground bunker to ‘Open’.
“Good morning, sir.” His AI assistant’s voice was light and feminine, something he felt he needed when the previous staff proved to be so treacherous. It made him feel more cheerful.
“Open Doomsday,” he said.
“Doomsday is opened. What city would you like to hit with Doomsday?”
“Los Angeles.” He wanted all of those acting coaches to know that he had succeeded at something without their help.
“Los Angeles Doomsday commencing.” The bots would go after the dumpsters first, setting everything on fire. He could see it now. The Los Angeles Dumpster Fire. One Hot Mess. Hahaha.
He made himself a cup of coffee and then sent out the other two flotillas of bots, one to Hong Kong and another to Paris.
He had applied for a fellowship in Hong Kong as a young grad student and was rejected on the basis of his thesis being “interesting and informative, but not quite a fit for our program.” Hong Kong could sink into the ocean for all he cared. By the end of the day, it might.
His last girlfriend had broken up with him along the Seine. It was supposed to be the most romantic night of his life. But instead she had called him a selfish know it all who could never love anyone. That city would be a pile of romantic rubbish when the bots were done with it. Hot Parisian Trash. No, Haute Parisian Trash. Hahaha.
Outside, the pool boy cleaned while the maids walked by with the laundry. They waved. He nodded back, not wanting to appear rude. They were all still new to the island, brought in by his compound manager after the last group had tried and failed to destroy his nanobots. Very unkind of them.
He finished his coffee with a loud, appreciative sigh. “Show me the Los Angeles Doomsday.”
The screens flickered. He gripped the chair arms in excitement. Yes, show me smoke and destruction. Show me people fleeing the scene with their designer handbags. Show me choppers crashing into tall buildings.
“Los Angeles Doomsday loaded.”
The screens sprang to life. Palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze. The skyline almost shimmered in the late morning light. People strolled the clean streets, all looking surprised and- wait, did they look happy? Where was the trash? The fire? The car wrecks?
A news report flashed up on one of the screens. “A swarm of what looked like bugs appeared on the horizon about an hour ago and since then the city has transformed. People are sharing videos of what many are calling The Miracle on social media. These little bugs are cleaning up trash, filling in potholes, and in several cases rescuing dogs and cats.”
“What?”
“One resident reported a small fire that could have turned into a deadly wildfire. These little guys put it out before anyone else noticed it. And you might notice that our smog appears to be clearing. Specialists have not idea what this swarm is, but it’s doing incredible work. Happy Miracle Day!”
“No!” His coffee cup bounced off of the bulletproof glass. “No no no!”
“Is this Doomsday not to your satisfaction, sir?”
“NO!”
It got worse. Hong Kong was clean and shiny, every dock free of trash and grime. Citizens removed their air filtration masks in triumph and set them neatly in recycling bins. Several parades formed as people peacefully followed the swarm of bots around the city, phones lifted to chronicle the event. A wedding reception spilled out onto the street and turned into a rave. Dolphins leapt in a newly cleaned harbor.
“This is the worst Doomsday ever!”
And then there was Paris.
Schoolchildren wandered up and down the streets trying and failing to find any trash bags. A bunch of workmen poked their heads out of the sewers to tell everyone that it was beautiful down there. “Like a gleaming grotto! No sludge in sight!” Couples made out on every bridge and street corner. The entire city had forgotten to smoke, they were so thrilled.
“I hate the French.”
The French president and his cabinet came out of a meeting upon hearing the news. A modeling shoot had been taking place up the street from them in the magic hour lighting of early evening. Both parties met on a bridge above the Seine to see if the rumors about the bots were true. The president was so overjoyed that he took two models by the hand and jumped into the blue, blue river with them, suit and gowns be damned. The French newscasters kept bringing up a photo of that group floating in the Seine like children at a pool party.
“NO!!!!!”
He let the screens run, all of them hopping back and forth to show footage of the miracles his bots had wrought. He tried to go back to his previous iterations of Doomsday, the glorious ones with all of the exploding buildings and cars (and acting coaches, former girlfriends, and department heads).
“Pull up access codes,” he said.
“Pulling up access codes,” the AI said. He was beginning to hate that chirpy voice of hers. “Scanning eye.” A subtle beep as it scanned his eyes. “Eye scan access granted.”
“Good.”
“Scanning thumbprint.” Another beep. “Access denied.”
“Next scan,” he said through gritted teeth. The last group of workers had made him very nervous with their attempt on his bots. He had made his next round of AI security a seven step process so no one could ever break in and change it. The AI scanned his nose, then the inside of his left ear, then the back of his hand, bottom of his right foot, and, finally, his navel. All of the scans came back denied, even though he had just checked them last night before he went to sleep for so long. How could this have happened?
“Um, excuse me? Knock, knock!”
It was his compound manager.
“Everything all right in here?” The compound manager stopped at the sight of his boss in front of all the screens showing Doomsday. “Oh my!”
“It isn’t what it looks like,” he found himself saying. He was so ashamed. “This was all supposed to go really differently—
“Everyone get in here this instant!”
The pool boy, the two maids, the chef, and the personal trainer were soon assembled, all leaning in through the door at first. And then, they were all clustered in front of the screens.
“Boss,” the compound manager said in awe, his strong hands clasped in front of his bespectacled face. “Did you do this? Are those your bots?”
“They’re beautiful,” the older of the two maids said, her button nose crinkling as she smiled. ‘“I had no idea.”
“Like, so cool,” the younger one agreed. She’d tied her blouse up to show off her navel piercing. He had always found her a bit ditzy, but the way she said this last comment seemed to bely her air-headed nature.
“Thank you,” he found himself saying.
The pool boy gave him a fist bump and a nod while the personal trainer pulled an earbud out of his left ear, leaned in, and said, “What a champ!” The chef was so excited that he tripped over a cable and ended up giving his boss a lopsided hug while balancing on his right foot.
“Great work, sir,” his compound manager said. Behind him, in the early afternoon sun, the bots were returning in a swarm of annoying goodwill. “What do you call this program?”
“Uh, Doomsday,” he said. He looked down, not sure what to say. His whole staff exchanged side glances and several yawns before snapping back to attention.
“Doomsday,” the older maid murmured.
“That is, like, super meaningful, right?” the laundry girl said.
The compound manager nodded. “I think it speaks to both our understanding of doom and also to, well—
“The existential crisis of facing a world without the every day problems we feel define it and us,” the pool boy said. Everyone stared him. “What?”
Their boss had been misunderstood completely, but in this moment it felt as though everyone was really trying. It was strangely moving how these people of far lower intelligence could touch him so. And they did look tired. Had they slept last night? He wondered if he was overworking them. He’d been in a job like that before: demanding boss, long hours, no vacations. And they were all being so very appreciative of a project that had gone so terribly wrong. Tomorrow, he’d see if his compound manager could figure out a way to make sure they all got some much deserved time off.
He went over to his desk. “I was saving this for a special occasion, but maybe now is a good time for it. Scotch, anyone?”
Every year for Thanksgiving, my mother would splurge on a very expensive cake from our local, bougie pastry shop. My father complained that it was too much money for a cake. My mother cut him a small slice. A moment of silence, a begrudging nod, and the argument was over.
The frosting was always decadent and tasted faintly of cream cheese, and the cake itself a dream of thick sweetness. One slice always felt like just enough.
Uncle Dylan, a man of many talents and very few dollars, became obsessed with this cake. Every Thanksgiving, he attempted his own version. The two cakes sat side by side, their frostings looking a little more the same every year as he perfected his baking. Every year, there was a blind tasting and every year Uncle Dylan’s cake sat, defeated, while the bougie pastry shop cake was dubbed “the real thing.”
Uncle Dylan handled the defeat the same way each year: a long sigh, a heave of his shoulders, and a single shot of Dad’s best whiskey. “I’ll get ‘em next year.”
Uncle Dylan was a man of “nexts”. He moved from relationship to relationship, hobby to hobby, quick money scheme to quick money scheme. It made it hard to know if he’d pull through on anything that mattered. I loved him, though. So did my older sister, Rose.
By the time I was eighteen, Rose and I were his baking assistants. We walked down the street to his house on Thanksgiving Day while Mom freaked out about the turkey. Uncle Dylan’s home was warm and small, and smelled of vanilla and coffee.
Bob the cat sat atop a stack of mail on the kitchen table. We paid homage to him with chin scratches and were rewarded with deep purrs.
“Welcome, my dears,” Uncle Dylan said. “Sorry everything’s a bit of a mess.”
We didn’t mind. Rose immediately began pulling ingredients out of the fridge. I nudged Bob’s ginger butt so I could get the mail off the table. A car I didn’t recognize pulled up outside, carving a path through the unraked leaves. A woman with lavender streaked hair handed Uncle Dylan a large paper bag and drove off.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“My spice girl,” Uncle Dylan said, waggling his greying eyebrows. We opened the bag to discover several glass containers marked in Sharpie. Mexican vanilla. Saigon cinnamon. Sea salt. Caster sugar. “She only brings the best.” Rose started measuring with Uncle Dylan’s mismatched sets of bowls and spoons.
“Is everything okay?” I asked quietly. All of the bills on the table had overdue notices on them.
“Everything’s fine, Lily. Don’t worry,” Uncle Dylan, taking the pile from me. “I’m like Bob. Always land on my feet. Come on, let’s bake.”
We were tweaking several amounts that year: cinnamon, vanilla, and freshly baked sweet potato. Once the orange brown batter had been poured into Uncle Dylan’s fancy pie tins, I mixed the frosting. Rose cuddled Bob while bemoaning her latest breakup.
“Whatever happened to Alex?”
“You mean my boyfriend from freshman year?” Rose was a senior in college. “He’s fine. We still hang out sometimes.”
“He was very steady,” Uncle Dylan said. I nodded at him behind Rose’s back. Alex had been the best of her boyfriends. She had a tendency to choose people as spontaneous as her, which was fun for a while, but usually ended with her talking to me and Uncle Dylan about how lame men were. Alex had been different.
“Yeah, he’s smart and funny, too.”
“All good qualities.”
“I’m texting this guy from New York right now, though. He’s pretty cool.”
“Just so long as he cares about your needs and appreciates you,” Uncle Dylan said. Rose rolled her eyes. Uncle Dylan raised his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. Uncles aren’t supposed to tell their nieces what to do.”
“That’s right,” Rose said with a mock glare. But I could see her thinking about it.
That night, Uncle Dylan’s cake lost by a single vote. Rose and I celebrated with a loud victory dance. Uncle Dylan smiled and bowed. I waited for the quick shot of whiskey and the “I’ll get it next time.” It never came. He walked home before Rose and I could say goodbye.
The year after, Uncle Dylan was gone for Thanksgiving, chasing one of his “nexts.” He was traveling a lot more. Bob had wandered over one day and basically moved in with Mom and Dad. They didn’t mind. Rose and I called Uncle Dylan to say hello and tell him about our baking endeavor that year: sweet potato cupcakes. His voice was tired on the other end.
“Turn the camera on so you can see me,” Rose said. The light flashed as it caught the ring on her left hand. “Tada!”
“Rose! Congratulations! Who is it? That cool guy from New York?”
“No,” Rose smirked. “It’s Alex.”
“Ah. Good choice.”
“We’re going to have the sweet potato cake from the bougie pastry shop for the reception.”
“Just make sure those pastry shop people don’t overcharge you.”
“Will do. The wedding’s in May. Can you come?”
“I’ll try to be there, my dear,” Uncle Dylan said.
Rose swallowed. ‘Try to be there’ was typically Uncle Dylan code for ‘I will forget and be sorry.’ “Okay, great. We love you.”
“Love you both.”
We barely heard from him in the coming months. The wedding preparations took up a lot of time and space so we didn’t worry too much. I think both of us kept thinking that he would show up full of wedding excitement and strangely niche expertise. And then his RSVP went unanswered. Rose cried. I did what I could to cheer her up, but that had always been Uncle Dylan’s forte. Aside from grabbing Bob for some cuddles, I was at a loss as to how to help her feel better.
The day of the wedding, Rose sent me to pick up the fancy sweet potato cakes from the bougie pastry shop. I felt a bit odd in my wedding makeup and hair paired with sweats and a plaid shirt. I was also in a rush because Rose had forgotten to send me the day before.
“Ah, yes, the Smith wedding,” the girl at the counter said. “We’ve got your boxes right here.”
I checked the clear tops of the four pink containers. Cupcakes for the kiddos. Good.
“And the main cake?”
The girl looked confused. “That’s all we have.” She clicked repeatedly on her clunky computer. She turned around and fumbled with the boxes behind her, nearly upsetting a tower of cookies. “I don’t see anything else.”
Oh no.
“What date was it placed?” I asked, mentally flipping back through all of the times Rose had invited me to work on wedding planning. I distinctly remembered having a long debate about the cake and seeing the final image on her phone.
“February 17th,” the girl said.
And just like that, I saw the whole scene: Rose with her hair up, lounging in her faded green pants with the paint stains, while her thumb hovered over the cake photo and the little checkbox for ordering it. “I’m going to get it!” But her phone pinged. One of her friends wanted to go for a last minute hike. I remembered the pause of her thumb as she saw the message come through and now I realized she had moved on without clicking the checkbox.
I left the pastry shop while the girl apologized profusely, my arms loaded with pink boxes. In the car, I took a deep breath. This was fixable, right? Wedding photos were in an hour, and the ceremony was in an hour, but someone could surely run out for a grocery store cake. It wouldn’t be ideal.
“She’ll feel so terrible,” I said to the car. The wedding had been stressful enough to plan while in her first year of grad school. This cake was one of the big things she wanted. I started to cry. “No. No. NO. Can’t cry with this makeup on.” I dabbed at my eyes. “Call someone.” But who? Everyone else was getting ready or picking up guests or taking things over to the reception hall.
I found myself dialing Uncle Dylan. The phone rang over and over and then, suddenly, his voice was on the other end, warm and welcoming.
“Lily! How are you?”
And then I did cry, makeup be damned. He listened in silence.
“When is the ceremony?”
“In an hour.”
“And the reception?”
“I mean, it’s a quick service and they’re heading there really soon after. Maybe two hours?”
“Leave it with me, my dear.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I know exactly what to do.”
I sent him the reception hall details, a picture of the cake Rose thought she had ordered. He promised to have a cake there in time. I dropped the cupcakes off in the reception hall freezer and told the people setting up the hall that the cake was on its way.
“Special delivery,” I said, hoping I sounded official. And hoping there would be something in the freezer when I returned.
Then I drove over to wedding photos, arriving just in time to assure Rose that everything was fine, even though I wasn’t sure if it was. Uncle Dylan sounded so sincere on the phone. What if he let me down?
The wedding blurred by me. Rose was beautiful. Alex looked like he was going to cry. I felt like throwing up.
The reception began. I kept trying to find a time to get back to the freezer to see if the cake was there, but everyone kept stopping me to chat or celebrate or talk about how beautiful the ceremony was. It was awful. I was certain any minute that Uncle Dylan would call to say that he hadn’t been able to find anything or, even worse, that he wouldn’t call at all. We would all be eating little tiny cupcakes and Rose would cry and it would be the worst wedding reception ever.
“Cake cutting time!” Rose declared. This was it.
Nothing happened. Everyone was realizing that they hadn’t seen a cake. Rose turned to look at me, confused.
And then, through the double doors from the reception hall’s kitchen, calm and collected, strolled Uncle Dylan. He was wheeling a three tiered cake with roses on it. Rose jumped up to hug him, dragging Alex over while everyone applauded.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” She was crying, but they were happy tears.
“Of course, my dear. Wouldn’t miss it.” He winked at me. I tried not to pass out. Where and how and when? Behind him through the double doors, I thought I glimpsed a woman with lavender streaked hair. The spice girl.
The cake was cut and Alex fed Rose a tiny slice oh so gently. She took a slice and playfully slammed it into his face. He didn’t seem to mind.
“This cake is so good!”
I had my own slice. It tasted just like the bougie pastry shop. “How?” I asked Uncle Dylan.
“Lily, you know I always land on my feet.”
The cake was such a hit that Mom had to fight off some children before she could get two slices to save for Rose and Alex’s anniversary. I caught her licking frosting off her fingers. The rest of the cake was completely abolished. I looked over to see Uncle Dylan talking to Dad. He seemed more alive than I had seen him in years.
That year for Thanksgiving, Bob made a triumphant return to Uncle Dylan’s house. Rose and I walked over to help with baking, accompanied by Alex. Uncle Dylan came out the door with two pie tins wrapped in foil. “I’m all ready!”
“What about the cake? The competition? Don’t you want to prove to everyone that you can make the ‘real’ thing?”” Rose asked.
“I think I’ll manage,” Uncle Dylan said. “What even is ‘real’ anyway?”
Maybe it’s just me, but the bougie pastry shop sweet potato cake tasted a bit subpar that year.
Last year some friends of mine invited me to a small, impromptu Twelfth Night gathering. There were only four of us, and we had the merriest time playing games and talking about our new year. We turned off all the lights and watched as a cake was doused in rum and then lit aflame with a sudden whoosh.
It put me in mind of how there is so much joy in observing rituals. It is a power I do not wish to ignore. This year, I have decided to celebrate the twelve days of Christmas by doing something special on each day leading up to Twelfth Night.
I often have trouble celebrating. There is a little voice inside that whispers, “You can do more work when this is done.” It makes me want to rush through and not savor what is in front of me. As a result, this practice of drawing the celebrating out for nearly two weeks is a tough one. I have decided to try and celebrate in some small way many things that Christ has redeemed by his coming to earth.
For Christmas Day, I went to a morning service at my church. This was not how I was raised. We had church on Sunday during Christmas Week, but not the day of Christmas. There may have been some reminder of Christmas coming, with carol singing and a focus on a passage from one of the Gospels.
This year, though, I had weeks of Advent readings poured over me, the better to sit and soak. At Lessons and Carols the night before, I felt deeply that Christ is real and present, a light shining in what often feels like a very dark and desolate world. We sang a song about the day of peace that dimly shines ahead of us. It felt very near this year. There was a flame lit inside everyone at the Christmas service the next morning. It stayed with me all day.
I celebrated with friends over a long brunch. We had eggs, pão de queijo (Brazilian cheese puffs), coffee, and scones. Then gift giving, memory sharing, and a shared contemplation of Christ’s coming. This was followed by the most beautiful Yule log I have ever seen and small glasses of brandy. T’was a good celebration: rich, delightful, and deep.
Today, the second day of my Twelve Days of Christmas, is what is traditionally known as Boxing Day. I used to picture men in boxers swinging punches at one another accompanied by the deep baying of boxer dogs. “Boxing Day”. I was wrong. Boxing Day comes to us from the practice of boxing things up and giving them to people. There is also record of staff for English aristocracy having the day after Christmas off. This was when they received their “boxes” or gifts.
Today, in the spirit of this Boxing Day practice, I went through my closet and drawers and chose items to donate. It was a good reminder: whenever I give something away it is only because Christ has given it to me first. I do not have to be afraid of giving things away because in Christ there is all the abundance I could ever need.
I also have one book that is providing structure for me: The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper. Someone mentioned this as a book to read during the Twelve Days because it is set during the winter in an English village. It also has thirteen chapters. I started it on Christmas Eve, and have read one chapter a day since then. I like having it as a sort of prop because reading only one chapter a day works against my usual inclination to eat a book of this size in one glorious, reading soaked afternoon. I also have more time to sit with what Susan Cooper is doing through the story. I look forward to writing more about it at the end of the Twelve Days.
Cats aren’t really my thing. I like them the way that you like fancy desserts or five course meals: every once in a while. So when my housemate got a cat from her friend, I was happy, but not elated.
But then one day, I got sick. Not COVID sick (I don’t think), but sick enough that my tentative plans were erased from the calendar. My housemate isn’t particularly worried when I tell her, which is refreshing. Social media may scream and thrash in all caps, post signs about masks and injustice with passionate thumbs, and chew on itself in anxious virtue signaling, but this woman I live with says, “I think you’ll be okay.”
The new kitten is my companion. Casper likes to chew on things, particularly my hand, so he is often gently smacked and then dropped off the bed with a soft thump.
He comes back, though. His green eyes are inquisitive, but not loving, unless he really wants a nap.
My friend Jewel says that I’m like a Terry Pratchett witch, the highest praise, really because Terry Pratchett only liked clever, quirky women with practical hobbies for his witches (I should probably save the Terry Pratchett love for another post) I decide to take Casper out on my shoulders whenever I tend the garden, the better to lean into this fictional identity. He blinks in the sunlight and purrs. I have no idea what familiars do, but it’s nice to have company while I’m out in the garden.
I didn’t count on Casper realizing that he likes the outdoors more than the indoors. Now, when we go out, he demands to be let down with a stubborn kick. While I tend the onions and sweet potatoes, he disappears. I turn to find him halfway up a tree, a very dangerous development.
Eventually, though, we decide to let him outside with me regularly. He is smarter than many cats, I think. How many felines have you seen who can climb a tree and then climb back down? The most shocking turn of events happens when he climbs up halfway, eyes me as I swing below him in my hammock, and then jumps like a squirrel to balance beside me.
He is a very photogenetic cat. One night while filming, I invent a persona for him: Casper, Private Eye. He stalks around the house as I voice his thoughts in a deep, trans-Atlantic voice. And when I ask him a question, he meows an answer, irate at my ignorance.
“Of course I’m going to catch the idiot who tipped my water bowl over.”
At night, he curls up beside me and purrs a love song. I’m not supposed to be a cat person. But I guess I am now.
I love a good list. Here’s one about things I am trying out in 2024. Actually, it might be better to say I’m trying them out for this season, or maybe for a couple of seasons. I shall report back to you, dear readers, with my findings.
Baking Scones– As you can see from the gorgeous picture above, I have become something of an amateur baker with incredible photography skills recently. I’m kidding. That’s a stock photo. But my last batch of scones did turn out very well. If you want to be added to the list of people I bake for, you can let me know…and move to the city where I live. 🙂
Bowspring– This is a new to me form of movement. It reminds me of yoga and pilates, but the movements are different and sometimes slower than anything I’ve experienced in those two forms. I’m excited to try it out and see how my body feels with it.
Music by the Decade- If you want to win me over, a good playlist is a great way to start. What I’ve been realizing is that I want to have a sense of history when I listen and play. I am going to try out different decades starting…I’m not sure. Maybe far back (Hildegard von Bingen, anyone?), maybe not so far (Celine Dion?). All I know is that I’m definitely looking forward to the swing era, so maybe should start there.
Reading Old Books– I read a lot as a child. So much so that my family would send someone up to the library if I was late for dinner. I have found, though, that some of my knowledge of the Western cannon is incomplete. Scarlet Letter? Never read it. A Brave New World? Nope. Beloved by Toni Morrison? Hadn’t heard of it until a while ago. I don’t have a grand plan to read 20 or more titles from the Penguin Classics list of all lists. I just plan to pick up something that’s considered a classic and see if I like it or not. Review(s) to come!
Hiking with Friends- I tend to be a bit ruminative. Maybe a bit too much sometimes. while a walk in the woods by myself is generally good for me, I’m also trying to make sure I invite people to go with me.
Reading Books From Other Countries– This is something I tried a bit a few years ago, and it was really fun. Basically, I will pick up a poet or a novelist from a country that I’ve never read anything from before. Previous titles in this category have been the 100 year Old Man Who Walked Out A Window And Disappeared (Sweden)
Writing Songs/Poetry- This last one is something I’ve been doing a bit more over the past year. I now own a piano, a ukelele, and a guitar, so I feel it is my responsibility to give my musical children a chance to shine. Last year, I wrote a real banger (as the kids say) called The Pumpkin Song. It was all about a shy girl trying to say hello to a boy she liked but all she could do get out was the nonsense word “shoobeedadoo”…You had to be there. (Yes, it might be autobiographical) If I do write a song or a poem that I really like, I promise to share it here. Beauty is beauty even if I’m the only experiencing it, but it is fun to give it away, too.
Excited to share my hopeful findings and beautiful discoveries. Happy 2024!
Here’s one of my favorite songs for you to listen to. Drop a note before if you’re trying something this winter/spring, too!
All Things: 