Thursday, July 23, 2020

Covid Tales For July

See all my historical novels @


#1 The Rite A**** Husband 

Her husband has to go to Rite A****.  He needs to drive his car more than he actually needs get something. There is a (bitchy?) micro- manager voice in her head wondering why he didn’t use that trip he undertook earlier today into the feral space (anywhere beyond this house) to get the whatever X or Y he believes he needs now. She feels as if every jaunt into the world of shopping—out there in those wide macadam spaces—will bring home Armageddon, which would certainly be more than he bargained for.

And her auto-immune system was an on-again, off-again proposition these days, so she’s got a reason to be a bit on edge, doesn’t she?  And of course, after he comes in, she has to say "Please remember to wash your hands," even though it's going to annoy him.

#2 Pet Conversation 
  With Anthony

"Tony stop!"
"Stop! Tony!"
"Ow! Tony! Stop!"
(Inside my p.j.'s again)

"Quit that, Tony! It hurts."
"Tony, get down from there."

"No mice in the refrigerator! I told you before."

"Out! Out of the refrigerator!"
"Tony! Off the table.

"Get your tail out of the butter."
"Tony! Those are my toes you're biting..."

Pet Conversation 
With ~Willeford

Willeford obsessively scratches an ear. He looks like a cat in a George Booth cartoon, a non-descript tiger with outsize paws.

“Stop that! Hey!”

With some justification, my rude approach is ignored, but slowly he does stop scratching.

“C’mere you.” I pick him up carefully. The windowsill is a good place to get natural daylight. 
Our 1940’s owner-built house has little windows. It’s a local habit. These days I’d hesitate to call them, as my mother did, “German windows,” but if you don’t think that’s fair, take a look at pictures of the local Ephrata cloisters. They sure as heck didn't want any cold air to get in.

Willy’s fluff and bone body was stepped on before we rescued him. His back end has a permanent sag. He wants to escape because he knows what’s next—me grabbing him—no, no that’s not right—I’m taking a firm hold because I need to take a look inside that ear.

“Hold still; lemme look.”

Fold the ear back and sure enough, it needs cleaning.

“Wait a minute, Willyum. Gotta get a tissue.”

And strangely, he does,
Hunkered down on the sill,
Big feet forward in a full Sphinx, patiently waiting for me to take care of him.

And a poem -- Instead of a blog, these keep coming out of my head today.

Regain your faith, sky watcher
The rain must come today--
I hope so, anyway.

I’ve been watering, watering, gardens &
Husband’s new little patch of grass where
The hedge has been uprooted.
I’m usually careful with water, but now, this year,
I’ll take what comes bountifully from the hose,
It's the last dance for Nature
in this
Gasoline alley.

To neighbors I am “the weed lady”
Who allows the chicory, Queen’s Anne’s Lace, milkweed,
Echinacea, Fleabane, grow, who cultivates purslane,
Miner’s lettuce, iron weed, wild anemone and Lamb’s quarters.  
I fertilize them too.

And this year my garden is wilder than ever,
Oregano turning into bushes frequented by bees and
One small rabbit--the culprit who ate the beans.
Sage a flowering shrub in spring,
Nasturtiums, lettuce and off-beat kale
Tomatoes, horseradish, random potato plants
Burrow in the compost heap.
I'll get to them later.

Conversation with P.J. 

One of my grandgirls is autistic. Although she is twenty now, we cannot really talk to her, as in holding a conversation. It's a bridge too far to connect with P.J. face to face, much less on the phone where we cannot see one another. While on the telephone with her Dad yesterday, I overheard her singing. I often hear her talking and singing during our conversations. I have a feeling this is a way she has of participating in the world around her.

This time she sang "The Sound of Silence." She knew all the words. It felt profound, that she should like this song and know it so well, shining a little light into her submerged mind. I am always grateful to learn more about her, and perhaps to know her just a little better, our family's Trans Neptunian object.


Stay safe, everyone.

~~Juliet Waldron
See all my historical novels @



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