Collecting Pictures

Lately, my elderly has been sleeping when I stop to visit. Today, one of her caretakers invited me in because she wanted to chat with me about what might come next.

Suddenly, we heard her name.

"There she goes!" the caretaker said and headed down the hall.

In a minute, she came back in and said, "Chocolate ice cream! Go on in."

So I did.

"Whatcha got?" my friend asked.

I showed her irises, a wildflower close-up, Gracie, and another friend's cute dog.

Taking a long time to study each picture, she finished her ice cream and ordered more.

Then she asked, "Are you still walking the dog?" as she always does.

And after I answered, she asked, "How's J?" as she always does.

And after I answered, she asked, "What does she do?" as she always does.

And after I answered, she asked, "Does she still have a loom?" as she always does

And after I answered, she asked, "Why did she move here?" as she always does.

And after I answered, the caretaker returned with more ice cream.

Seeing my camera, my friend said, "Go on wherever you're going!"

"I'll see you some more," I said, but as I stepped out of her bedroom, she called "Robley!"

I turned back and in. "Yes?"

And suddenly she was laughing and stared out at the window and then at me and said, "I forget!"

Tomorrow I am going to show her more irises and this, and we'll have the same conversation all over again.

On Torture

This morning, when coming up and out from Guerry Garth Gracie and turning into the covered walkway along the Quad, I saw a slug making its way toward grass and shrub. I paused, let Gracie slip out toward the student guide leaving her tour group and heading toward us. I cautioned her about the slug while she chatted and watched her step over the creature before continuing on ahead of us.

Then I came home and read this,

Slugs

by Brian Swann

Who could have dreamed them up? At least snails

have shells, but all these have is—nothing.

Small black antennae like fat pins wave

as if they could take in enough to get them through.

Turn them over, they’re the soles of new shoes,

pale and unmarked as babies. They flow,

the soil itself learning how to move and, moving,

almost staying still, their silver monorail

the only evidence of where they’d been.

And they die quiet, or at least (thankfully)

out of the human ear’s range, between two stones,

under heels, shriveling in salt or piss, at the tips

of sharp sticks. Fight back, I hear myself say,

do something. Don’t just take it. But they die

as they had lived, exuding slime, like

the smaller boys, who’d just

stand there, miserable in short pants,

school socks down to their ankles,

school tie unknotted and askew, and flowing

from noses slow cauls of snot that

from time to time they’d lick or sniff back up

part way, until it flowed again, coating

the upper lip, falling into the mouth, mixing

with tears before anything had been done,

the fear itself enough, so even if we wanted

we couldn’t let them off. Sometimes it was

the knee “where you daren’t show your mother,”

other times the kick in the shins, the stick over

the head, the punch in the mouth, while they

just stood there, or double up, gasping

for breath, and we did it again.

Suddenly, I remembered that as a child I learned to pour salt on slugs. I watched them, delighted to see them shrivel, dying before me, without ever, even once, considering what I was doing. I want to think I fel pleasure because I was a child and because I believed that whatever a parent taught me to do was the right thing.

Since walking and looking and noticing, I am not so sure that I didn't enjoy the killing and dying for their own sake.

And I feel ashamed for years of mindless squashing.

Ironies Abound

According to the University of the South: Sewanee's Guide for Living in Community: Statement of Rights and Responsibilities, "Ecce Quam Bonum (EQB) is the University motto and describes our highest aspiration for community, lived out in expectations for our students. 'Behold how good and pleasant it is when brothers and sisters live in unity!' -- Psalm 133:1.' "

Note the operative words community and aspiration.

There's a reason why campus tours do not venture out to the on-campus lakes: garbage (i.e., liquor bottles, beer and soda cans, abandoned bicycles, take-out cartons, books and paper, used condoms and wrappers, underwear, . . .). 

Dragonflies don't care, even if I do.

A Lucky Turn

into my driveway resulted in this

My love/hate relationship with my macro lens continues.

Coincidental Meeting

I snapped, cursed, and apologized. Another bad photo

She said, "Oh, that's OK."

Once I got the photograph, I walked past her and noticed the lovely outdoor stool. "Wow, that's a nice stool!" I said, turning to the land spit by the beach.

"Thanks!" she called.

"I could use one of those," and I really could. Sometimes it's a pain just waiting and waiting and waiting for the right shot.

I gave up, and turned back to the bridge where she sat, cross-wise, legs out, for a bit of rest.

"I apologize again," I said, and she stood.

I noticed her painting and asked about it.

"It's for a class."

"Art major?"

"No. Environmental Arts and Humanities."

Then I saw the Alabama Outdoors water bottle.

"Are you from Birmingham!"

"Yes," she answered.

"Me too!"

And we were off -- similar pleasures in our home town, similar complaints, similar interests, similar insights. Chat about schools, and majors, and plans for the future, and art, and photography.

When I got home, I suddenly realized I had spoken to the writer of this superior essay -- "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" by Jessie Hook.

I hope you enjoy it too.

The Regulars

"That a new hat? It's beautiful!" he commented as they approached me on the dam, the dogs trotting ahead.

"Yep. A wider brim. A fisherman's hat."

"It's beautiful," he said, and they headed for bridge. 

We're regulars -- the walkers/swimmers and I.

Like the pink lady's slippers and slant line moths who rest on them and the dragonflies and damselflies I photograph, we too know the place and enjoy its intimate pleasures.

Rainy Day Musing on a Number

Fifty-Fifty
by Patricia Clark

You can have the grackle whistling blackly 

        from the feeder as it tosses seed,

if I can have the red-tailed hawk perched 

        imperious as an eagle on the high branch.

You can have the brown shed, the field mice

        hiding under the mower, the wasp’s nest on the door,

if I can have the house of the dead oak,

        its hollowed center and feather-lined cave.

You can have the deck at midnight, the possum 

        vacuuming the yard in its white prowl,

if I can have the yard of wild dreaming, pesky 

        raccoons, and the roaming, occasional bear.

You can have the whole house, window to window, 

        roof to soffits to hardwood floors,

if I can have the screened porch at dawn, 

        the Milky Way, any comets in our yard.