Missing people

I see it more and more through the neighborhood. Families moving out; and no one moving in.

A lot of "Sale" signs have changed to "Rent". Yards still have jungle gyms but no children. Grass grows on shells of homes abandoned by their occupants.

These shelters from the winters wind and the summer heat sit quiet.

And I wonder. Where are they going? Everyone has to live somewhere. A cheaper home? An apartment? Under a bridge??

And what of the responsibility of paying the mortgage? That is a contract and signed over and over again. Are the banks just picking them up and everything stops?

And the families who stay, remain inside. The sound of children and dogs can be heard, but few venture outside.

And the cowboy in shades still feeds the squirrels around his blue GTO, Leo in his big floppy white hat still mows the lawns, pairs of old ladies still stalk the streets, the Puritan cleaner truck still searches the neighborhood for bags of clothes, and Black Dog is missed roaming his domain.

4 nights of football in a row and more boxes and bags.

Phobia

While logging the hundreds of books to be donated to some lucky readers, I came across on "Phobias" and paused. Interesting.

She knew she had problems but turned to books to solve them. Feng Shui of the mind.

I took a bunch of physiology courses in college and was fascinated by how people think and react to experiences. Still am.

We all see things differently and experience life in unique ways. Even standing next to one another in an occasion, our ID and Ego reacts to years of teachings, feelings, and experiences which shape our individual thoughts.

I could laugh. You could cry.

The mind tries to soften the bad things, so when we remember, we remember the good. It keeps us at peace.

I didn't mean to share this with everyone, but I had to get pass the Buffy picture on the splash screen.

And yes, we ALL avoid pain and seek internal fulfillment.

So check your ego at the door and enjoy the day.

The Last of the Critter Crewe

Gave away my dog today.

Got her as a rescue dog to help Heather exercise after her heart attack in 2001. They became constant companions and she was the sweetest puppy (and spoiled).

And she was the first dog since I was in elementary school.

It was probably best for both of us, so goodbye Buffy.

Good luck in your new home.

It is hot out there

Dry and Crunchy

Wednesday, and the dog days of summer have set in. 95 degrees and 75% humidity, which makes it feel like 110 degrees, but it is starting to shadow in the afternoon which brings promises of rain.

It has been an interesting day. Slower than most, maybe the change to Marion from Bianchi, but the ride seemed harder this morning. Perhaps it was due to the late start?

And it is hot. It is too hot to handle. The walk to the house and back again desires a towel off and a pause in front of the fan. It’s just too hot to do anything.

Boxes sit ready for books and magazines and catalogs. Bags of clothing and stuffed animals sit on the floor ready for another pick-up by the army.

It has been a varied week. A ride with a buzzard, a falcon, butterflies, girls with their babies and dogs, and sweaty runners, and of course the constant white trucks with ladders rattling through the neighborhoods.

Only the weekend holes hope for a cooler day when I continue my search for space and empting years of thoughts and wishes.

So it remains to stay cool under the fan and hydrate and listen to CDs sorting out what I will keep and what I will pass on to others.

Apathy

Lack of interest or feeling.

I read the morning newspaper and realized I don't care.

There was a rumble on North side after a party at a Diversity Center occasion and I don't care.

The company who is upgrading the cities IT network is behind deadlines and over budget and I don't care.

The Zits character is going on a driving exam and I don't care.

Tiger Woods lost to a Korean and I don't care.

There are all these special services of messaging each other and downloading information and I don't care.

The president of who-es-whats-it is mobbed and I don't care.

Unless it happens in my neighborhood or my yard or my person...... I don't care.

But I'll still pay my bills on time and live like a law abiding citizen (well, maybe) and cross the street when the light is green after looking both ways.

Hoarding

Stock or store. Amass and put away. Accumulate more than one current requirements. Stockpile, stash, collect, squirrel away.

There was a story on the "Today" show this morning on hoarding.

and I wonder??

How did all this happen?

Another 5 trashcans full and more to come.

New Ride

Same path, same time, but a different ride.

Yesterday I got the Bianchi Brava (see above, except it is white and has flat-t handlebars now) with new gears, brakes, and handlebars back to join the pride.

After attaching a water bottle, it was off on my morning stroll through the neighborhood.

Different? You bet.

This bike weighs about an ounce and handles like a racer, because that is what it is.

Also tiny tires and NO SHOCKS! My butt is getting used to that.

I don't know if the lightness of the bike or the working gears, but this creature can downright fly.

And hills are unbelievably easy.

It's still hot and takes a 1/2 hour to cool down but this was an interesting experience.

The frame is a little short for me, but the ergonomic grips help. Now to get a mirror.

Always look for those new experiences and keep a eye on the road.

Little Things

It was a funny emotion. After my morning ride and cooling down, I went to my desk with my silver bullets and reached for my can holder.

It wasn’t in the same spot.

I panicked.

Where could it have gone?

My ration asked it is not a big thing. A little green Coleman rubber sculptured cup that holds a can.

But this was MY can holder, part of my daily life. It is dirty and moldy, but like a glove on my hand, it fits. It sits on a green rubber coaster next to my computer and within a familiar reach.

I went back to last night and tried to remember where I would have put it. I remembered going to the front porch with it waiting for Maggie to transport me to B.A.R.F. I remembered putting in on the bottom of the table so passing neighbors would not see beer cans on the porch.

Then my thoughts shifted to the gathering attended by so many unfamiliar faces and fewer names. Doing the pleasantries of talking to the host and his wife and his children, I sat among strangers and joined conversations on government, high school friends, New Orleans, playing guitar (which I did not bring this time), and last years t-shirts. People came and went on the deck as I tapped the plastic cup to the hard rock played softly through the speakers.

And just before I left I thought what this conversation with a park ranger meant. Some nice girl decided to listen to an old geezer’s stories and seem genuinely interested. I’m sure I gave her enough to have a good laugh. Then I thought of what I had said to this perfect stranger. It is a stranger story every time I think about it.

But back to the little green can holder.

I retraced my steps back into the house and looked in every nook and cranny for this part of my being. It had disappeared.

That is impossible. A little green rubber can holder does not disappear. So I continued looking for anything on an uncluttered surface, but it did not jump up and say, “You looking for me?”

It was driving me crazy. The lost didn’t stop me from starting my ritual of drinking the Colorado water, but it didn’t feel right.

It was a similar feeling of losing your glasses. I have ritual of placing my keys, wallet, and glasses in the same spot every night. No matter what, they will be there in the morning. It is the start of the day to bring these things close to me so I am complete.

And this stupid little green can holder was very much the same. The feeling was missing a part of the daily routine.

THERE IT IS!

It had slipped off the shelf where it rests at night and fallen into the shadows.

Back into it treasured placed with evaporating water filling it’s base, the little green can holder sits proudly in the normal position within quick reach and filling the void that was shacking my Sunday.

All is right again.

Stamina

What is stamina?

The Webster’s dictionary defines it as endurance.

I’ve always thought stamina was the runner who hits the wall but pushes on.

Some morning rides are harder than others, so I push on with the goal to finish.

Stamina helps move through the daily simple, repetitive route of trees, autos, squirrels, chipmunks, and white trucks with ladders rattling on the roof.

But LIFE throws a lot of things at us and stamina helps us make it through.

Through compromises, changing directions, meeting challenges, or enduring pain we wake up the next morning and begin again.

Archaeological Dig

It's a continuous wonder of finds.

Some small things, some big things.

Papers, plastics, pictures, photos.

But I can see the floor.

And the Army got the first donation today.

Plenty of backpacks for back-to-school.

In a secret spot, found the video of the beginning to Puppywoods and is still amazed the amount of work.

Will probably have it copied to DVD after it's 15-year history.

On the second shirt of the day and the rain has returned.

Cleansing the air and watering the yard which I have abandoned.

It is an archaeological dig.

Finding ideas, goals, dreams, some lost, some realized.

The stuff we hold near.

And the digging goes on.

Sunday Morning

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A typical August summer day. Hot and humid. There was a haze in the sky this morning. Clouds like it was going to rain, but it didn't feel like rain. But there is plenty of moister in the air. So thick you can cut it. The haze was tough to breathe at first, but your body adjust to conditions.

The street is covered in sand. Someone must have spilled something and the work was done last night, but I didn't hear anything. Riding two wheels in sand is a challenge, particularly when you first wake up, but it keeps your mind alert. A group of crows follow me for a block until they gather in pairs on lawns and a light post. I realize I'm all in black, so they let me join their gang for awhile.

This Sunday path I take every week seems familiar yet strangely different every week. More brightly colored cyclist passing the other direction. "Am I going the wrong way?"

The usual water stops and deep breathes, then push on. It is almost automatic.

Turn at the triangle park and notice the children are out early. Probably a good idea since my shirt is already soaked and the sun is starting to burn off the haze.

Passing the museum which will be closed for construction for months and missing opportunity to walk silently through the cool marbled halls to see oil painting done before my time. I always thought a trip to the museum would be like going to church, but I never examined the brush strokes or gazed into the eyes of a forgotten prince.

As I paused for a turning auto waving appreciation for my stop at the top of the monster Malvern climb, my head was filled with the song "Alright"

The Geezer Jam was good last night and brought some fellowship that had not existed for many years. Very much the same, but older. Different drugs? Fun to watch Ron-Art get into his guitar, see Joel smile and wave at losing a word, and Jim playing with his tech toys. It will be interesting to hear what noise we made.

Back home to the newspaper, water and a third shirt. It feels like rain, but not yet.

Dig out three more garbage bags of "stuff" and feed the vampire bugs while shedding years of paper.

The wind is picking up. Maybe it will rain.

Did not see Sunday Morning today. The first time in a long, long while. I did it on purpose to break the routine. Missed the 1 minute of nature they end the show with, but looking out the window the cardinals are hopping in the cherry tree, the grey jays call from a far, and the peties are running amok like monkeys through the yard. Free continuous nature moment.