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Forgetting

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I had a sign on my icebox for a long while a long while back. I still keep the saying close at hand, though for some reason other things crowded it from the icebox front. 

 It reads:

What really important thing are you forgetting to do?

I ask that question on many different levels.  Did I pay the fuel card bills?  Did I ask him to check the propane tank level?  Did I ask the Lord forgiveness for my recent failures of character?  Did I put water in the dog’s bowl? Am I sure I checked all the supply levels for baking Christmas cookies?

From trivial to profound and back to trivial.

One question that haunts me was asked me on the day we buried Mother.  What are you going to do with the rest of your life?  At the time, all I could think of was raising the children.  At ages 10 (nearly 11) and 12, things were just taking off.  And my father was still living and needed assistance.  The Butler sale launched that year as well.  The question didn’t mean much for a long time. 

A few years later, the children were grown and Daddy and his mother and his father, too.  From September 2003 through April 2007, there was a lot of leaving for us.  We also lost a dear friend during that time.  And Hurricane Rita blew through.  We got down to just having our jobs and the cows for the most part.

Eventually, the children married and finally a couple of duchesses came along to add glitter sparkle to our lives. Figuratively and literally! 

Still, there are some long days of not much going on.  I have been retired just past a year. He is still working.  The duchesses are too far to come and go on a regular basis.  I have some hobbies I have dabbled in through the years. I am so accustomed to not having time to really dig deep on them, I still just dabble. 

I am forgetting to dig deep.

I love to plan things.  Have my tidy little lists of things.  I passed that trait on to our son.  I have notebooks of lists.  I have spent my idle hours for thirty years making lists.  What do I list?  I have a list of plants I want for the jungle garden.  I have lists of household supplies I use so I can try to make a more efficient shopping list.  I have lists of my favorite foods.  I have a list of songs I like.  I have a list of books to read and authors whose works I want to read.  I have a list of topics for essays to write.  I spend more time and energy on my lists instead of attending the things on the lists. 

I love to sort things.  An offshoot of listing or the listing is an offshoot of sorting.  I will sort and reorganize my closets and pantries several times through the year.  I haul off stuff to the Salvation Army or bag it up for some of the teen girls at church or a friend I know would love it. I pass through the thrift store and get some more things and then go through the sifting process again.  I thought for a while I was off my rocker. 

When I look around my house, I see the results of the process.  I have several areas that show my love of tropical things.  I have book cases full of a full range of topics.  I have lovely dishes to use every day.  The walls have several original pieces of amateur art.  Some is my even my own work.  I have a modest collection of evening bags of which I plan to start using for everyday as soon as I can get my load of things I think I need to haul around with me pared down to fit.  I hear several of my besties reading this and cackling with laughter over that remark.  And he just rolled his eyes.  One of the things I get called is bag lady.  I still consider it a lofty goal to achieve.  Maybe beyond my scope. Nevertheless…….. 

I am getting better though.  I have been taking the time to read.  And yesterday, I took time to watch one of the movies on my movies to watch list.  I put in a new flower bed this summer.  I have the photos on the table and have begun the sorting process to make a photo album. (This is from the days of film style cameras.)  I have a number of digital photos I want to print and put in the album eventually.  I make time to spend with my friends and my family.  I am terrible at calling to check on folks.  I hate talking on the phone.  I would rather see someone face to face. I text painfully slow.  (I did learn how to talk to text and my phone seems to understand my accent.)  I go with him to check the cows most times. 

Nothing profound.  Just ordinary living. Working on not forgetting the really important things.  Time with him, time with the offspring, time with friends, time with my own creative muse.   Mundane things in a quiet house on a dusty dead end lane in the boondocks of Southeast Texas. 

Cabin Fever

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It occurred to me recently that here in this part of the world, it is more likely to have cabin fever in the summer time.  The summer’s deadly heat and humidity drives everyone in to the air-conditioned spaces the same way deadly cold and snow drives those in northern climes inside during winter.  If one is fortunate, there is a source for water play outdoors. A lake, creek, water park or in our case a little blow-up pool in the back yard makes it possible to actually enjoy being outside mid-day.  I always get the little pool ready when the duchesses are coming to see me.    

I terribly miss the warm lake waters we swam in growing up.  The place we once spent all summer is now off limits to those without camp houses on the road to it.  The other locations we swam at are overgrown and full of alligators these days.  We got rid of the boat sitting collecting dust.  We used to take it to a sandbar on the river.   The cold current of the river waters don’t compare to laying on a float drifting in a lake cove any way. 

Maybe that is what I need to work on.  Checking to see if the one possible swimming place is still viable on the lake.  I might not want to take the duchesses there just yet.  I have seen too many alligators out in the open lake this summer to allow me any consideration of that.  A couple of adults should be okay. Right? 

I have a friend who will surely be up for the adventure.  I doubt he will have time or inclination to try it. The friend I have in mind shares the same memories of that lake and that place.  She and I have spent many a summer day roasting in the sun and cooling off in the waters of the muddy lake. 

Our lake is shallow and sandy bottomed.  The water is light brown and opaque.  Warm and soothing.  I still remember finding “cold spots” when we would get out chest deep or so.  A current of deeper water would swirl up and there would be a fleeting pocket of cooler water.  We would get excited and try to stay in it while it lasted. 

No doubt my memories are gilded in the haze of distant memory and cloaked in remembrance of innocent youthful ideals.  I might be disappointed if I face the water again now.  That is true.  I may not like it now.  That will certainly not take away the glorious memories that play through my mind from days of old. We were young and full of ourselves. Anxious to escape this sand hill.  I never did really leave except a few years away at the beginning of adulthood. And now with the halfway mark of my life well past, I am unlikely to ever leave again. 

I am accustomed to weathering the summer heat and the winter rain right here on this sand hill.  I can tell if a storm might actually make it to here from which way it is coming.  The high bluff of the river valley has a definite power over the storms.  I know which windows to avoid the summer sun and which ones to seek for the winter sun.  I know where to go to see the diamonds glittering on the ripples of the lake or to see the herons stalking fish. I know how to overcome the summer doldrums and manage the barrage of mosquitos. 

What I don’t know is how I got so blessed?  When I was 16, had I been able to look forward to this very summer 50 years later, and seen myself living here in this very house on this very sand hill, I would have gone mad with distress.  Now I can’t see myself any where else.  Even were our parents still living, we would have been on this hill a half mile away as the crow flies.  Tied to place through love and memory. A shallow lake. Tall pines. White sand roads. Bicycles. Kids being kids.

I am blessed that he loves me enough to put up with being here.  I know it isn’t his ideal.  And certainly, if his perfect situation arose, I would go with him.  My home is here, though.  No matter where my future days take us, this will ever be home.