The View from the Porch

It was such a beautiful morning, albeit a little muggy, that I decided to blog on the porch.

The thought of sitting in the office with an artificial light on and the fan blowing on me did not appeal. From here I can hear the birds -- as well as an airplane, the Rapid, an ambulance and a whole host of traffic. The only sound I miss is my wind chimes (there's not a breeze to be had).

My decision to move my gig outdoors came about when I looked out the window and saw a bunny -- a big, chubby, bunny. I guess I wouldn't be so admiring if he/she was chomping on my garden. Fortunately, I don't have a garden. But I did have a few carrots, so I tossed them into the yard. Even bunnies need a treat, right?

When the day gets wound up, I'm guessing it will be a scorcher. For now, it's just good to be hanging on the porch.

It's amazing how a simple change of venue can change your perspective. You get used to looking at things a certain way, and then the view changes. Or you change.

I had a dentist appointment this week, so I took the opportunity to drive by the house I grew up in. I shouldn't have. My street used to have tens of towering maple trees, their leaves forming a lovely canopy in the summer, cooling us as we played or rode our bikes down the street. Most of the trees are gone now. Left are the rows of little box houses, looking a little forlorn. My parents' house looked tad shabby. I heard from a neighbor that they tore out all of my mom's flowers. The lawn looks like the Serengeti. The only good thing is that the magnolia tree still stands.

Maybe you can't go home again.

Or maybe it's best to just visit in your mind. There I can run and play tag and kick the can and zoom along on my bike with the baseball card stuck in the spokes to make that clickety-clack noise. On rainy days, we could play board games in the garage and roller skate on its slate surface. And sometimes, when I got a little older. we would walk up to the school, my brother to play baseball with his friends and me to read under a tree.

Someday I know my perception of this house will change. Maybe I will ride by in the car and wonder what it looks like inside, how they've made it their own.

And just maybe I'll remember the warm summer morning when I sat on the porch with my coffee and my computer and marked this moment in time.

A Sporting Chance

Those who have known me since way-back-when will not be surprised when I say I haven't always been a sports fan.

In fact, truth be told, I'm only a fan today because I live with two sports-crazed men, one husband, the other son. When other topics were touchy for them, sports has always come to the rescue. They can kibbutz for hours about players, coaches, teams, referees, the draft, and pretty much any topic that is news on ESPN.

During my son's growing-up years, and to this day, the two of them sit at opposite ends of the couch, groaning, shouting and, on those rare days when God smiles on Cleveland, fist-pumping and woo-hooing.

Over the years, I have learned to appreciate many sports. I can follow football, baseball and hockey. Not so much basketball or soccer. And, while I don't get nearly as wound up as my two cabin mates, even I wept in frustration at the conclusion of Game 7 of the 1997 World Series. (I still want to curl into the fetal position when I think about it.)

While I mark milestones with things like, "Oh, that was the year we bought those ceramic mugs from that artist in Occoquan," Mr. G. can pinpoint any occurrence in our lives based on the sporting event that took place at the time. This includes, but is by no means limited to, the day we got married (Stanley Cup, Game 3, Campbell Conference Finals: Detroit 5, Edmonton 2) and our first trip together to Niagara on the Lake in 1986 (Ohio State Lost to Washington, 40-7).

The past few years, Mr. has had his friend, John, over to witness the carnage every Sunday afternoon during Browns season. By the end of last year, neither one had the stomach for it. We would find other things to do, occasionally turning on the radio, grimacing, and turning it off again.

To my guys, sports is more than, well, sport. There's a passion that, although I don't always share it, I do understand.

Mr. always says, "A bad day at the ballpark is better than a good day almost anywhere else."

And I have to admit there is nothing quite like sitting in the sunshine on a summer afternoon, munching a hot dog slathered with stadium mustard, watching a baseball game unfold lazily before me.

A Good Stretch of the Legs

I love taking walks. You see all kinds of things you wouldn't normally see if you were speeding along in your car.

A view from the MetroParks

And, unlike driving, I prefer to do my walking sans audio accompaniment. Unless you count the birds, lawn mowers and passing traffic. I like to get the full experience of all of the senses.

With my workplace a 40 minute drive away, I spend enough time in the car. I like to get out in the open air and get a snootful of (hopefully) some quality atmosphere. Plus, I notice little details like the design in the bridge I'm crossing. Or a wooly bear caterpillar crossing the sidewalk. (How's it going, Dick Goddard?) Faded chalk hopscotch lines. An abandoned tricycle. And, as a bonus, I occasionally stumble upon a yard sale. (Which is cool, as long as I don't fall in love with a table or lamp or something BIG.)

Walking does more than stretch my legs. It stretches my mind. Calms me. Helps me to feel one with the universe. Connected.

It looks like a beautiful day out there. I hope you don't mind if I cut this short.

There's a bird out there calling my name!

Dancing Fool

It was a little green tutu, made of a scratchy fabric, but I loved it. In my imagination, I would grow up to be a ballerina, pirouetting with a grace that was breathtaking. Oh, the applause, the adulation.

In those days, dance lessons were not an option. With five other kids to worry about, a limited budget and the fact that I was short, stubby, and not particularly graceful, my lofty ambition never made it out of the gate.

But I could still dream. And I did.

I remember watching Shirley Temple movies. Sometimes I'd tippety tap with my patent leather dress shoes, pretending I was on the Good Ship Lollipop. Later, I developed a little crush on Fred Astaire. He was so smooooth. And Ginger Rogers, with that dress made of feathers. They floated. They dipped. They soared. Wow.

Then there was the couple who lived on our street...they had square dances in their basement. I think I could handle square dancing. Or maybe line dancing. I like the idea of kicking up my heels in cowboy boots.

My parents danced together beautifully. Like they were one person gliding around the dance floor. I don't know how they got that way. To my knowledge, neither one of them had lessons. Maybe it's a generational thing. I'm lousy at slow dancing. I always try to lead.

Fast dancing I can manage, but any idiot can, really, especially if you don't care how you look. I can do the Twist, Swim and Jerk. And the Freddie. But no, I never got into the whole disco thing. As for belly dancing, that's one activity my husband has encouraged me to undertake. But I'm no Naemah. (With a nod here to Vicki.)

I wonder if, given dance lessons, I'd ever improve. I could take ballroom, but I know Mr. would not be interested. And I don't want to hit the floor with a stranger.

So, back to square one. I'll just dance in the privacy of my own home.

And I'll take a twirl at weddings.

I can do the Chicken Dance. Just watch me.