I lay in bed awake and think about this blog – so far behind in record – how could I possibly post? I remember, then, that I am not and have never been linear. I’m more like a pictographic heartbeat. Above all, I’m a poet. And, my poems have always been windows into my life. Maybe the windows aren’t on the same story. [this has been my disclaimer for non-chronological text]
Don’t blink, or we might miss everything. One puppy, two girls and three months of fine summer weather have blurred my sense of time.
Tilly seems stalled at 85 pounds of waggin’ puppy. She’s a solid fetcher, especially if a piece of turkey meat is waiting for her after retrieval. She’s hung out in the yard without being tied up for short bursts here and there, and has even settled things with ol’ Princess Slinky Chipawa Meow Meow Furber kitty (can you tell Betty named her) to chill in the living room together. Tiller loves our ladies with her whole body and I’m just glad she’s family, even after her mishap. We were YouTube-ing giggling babies and laughing hysterically when Betty yelled, “NOOO! Tilly’s Pooping!” Just then, I looked at the biggest jaw drop I’ve ever seen from Luke. Really, he was frozen speechless. I started running again with Tilly five minutes after that occurred. At least she likes to jog; she knows how to get me moving. Tiller is living up to her name and has become quite the sailor dog. We sailed to Bellingham (eight hours) a while back and she was a champ. She just curled up in a ball and slept, and even snuggled with Betty. On the way back, however, it was miserable weather. I’m not sure if it was the Coast Guard mayday calls, frigid totally freezing foggy rain or big seas that got to her; she shivered the whole way home.
Lucy May needs four teeth and she’ll have a full set. She’ll eat ANYTHING in front of her. Here’s a typical morning: gravel from the cactus plant, a discarded cat whisker, pennies, five pieces of homemade butternut squash muffins, seven strawberries, and two banana waffles. When Aunt Rose visited, she was stunned that L-May ate for a solid hour and a half. How, then, is she just in the 20% for weight?
With grace she climbs atop the antique child-sized rocker and scales the sides of my grandmother’s upright piano (Luke just adored moving it from back east to each house we’ve since lived). I’ve even found her bouncing on the couch’s end table with hands stretched to the ceiling. She’ll hold Betty’s hands and circular boogie to live bluegrass music, but she’s never taken more than three consecutive steps. I think someone told her she wouldn’t be a sling babe as much once she walks without holding onto furniture.
She is hilarious, loves the game of chase, snuggles with a few stuffed creatures, sticks her bum up high at night, gives the best kisses, and swims like a dolphin. Sailing just knocks her out, and she rarely stays awake for the voyage. Sometimes I wear her, sometimes she’s in her deck chair, and more recently she’s been able to nap down below in her bunk by herself.
Betty Rose needs an agent and we swear she’d have a career. She can really carry a tune; her lyrics are side-splitting funny. Her punk-based Alphabet Flip-Flop rant needs to be recorded with Garage Band. Her fake tears are really Oscar worthy, but it’s her inquisitive nature that keep us moving. “Why is bird poop white/Why do the words ‘oval’ and ‘love’ look alike/how does our skin stretch as we grow and why don’t we ever need more like pie crust dough?”
She is all about drawing people and has recently checked out a book on drawing dog bodies. Of course she is mastering the German Shepherd before any other breed. She’s in Club Mud, a ceramics camp and finds it funny that to ‘throw clay’ doesn’t mean across the room. So far, she’s made bookends and a few bowls. Gone are the days of kids making ashtrays (thank goodness). She loves gardening, bringing her toy shopping cart to the market, practicing her bike, catching shrimp with her bright pink shrimping dock net [“why do I have to go to sleep? I want to stay up and go shrimpin” just might be one of the funnier tantrums of late], and, above all, sailing.
Each day feels bendable and starts with a beach day, pool day or errand/library day weather check. I’m glad I’m not teaching summer school or teaching in the fall — flexibility works well for us, especially in part to global warming. The weather of the past thirty days reminds me of my New England summers with sticky heat and scorching sun. Hot grass covered in a blanket with library books. Flip flop feet forever covered in salty sand. Repeating these memories, only with a frothy mocha in hand this time.