This morning, I went looking for an old poem about winter dusk and didn’t find it. The collection I did find reads mostly like a testament to childhood trauma. But at that time, I didn’t really know. What did the professor think? And, was a decent typewriter so hard to come by?
Don’t know how this picture below could possibly be considered a self portrait, but it’s labeled as such.
And here is a tender shot of my sister and me which was inserted to illustrate a poem about my first recalled nightmare.
In the dream, a dragon chases my sister and me. Running on a stone floor. Hiding behind a giant urn after my sister peels away. It might’ve been dreamed in this very bed. Notice the curlers!
Finn and I made two neighborhood circuits today. After the stretch along Route 9, which inexplicably I like to walk now and then, a homeowner near the corner places his fourteenth full bag of leaves on the curb. Behind him, a child carries a still-folded bag. It is almost as big as he is.
On Lantern Lane, there was Jane, whom I haven’t seen in years, heading off for a run. It’s strange, the not seeing, because I walk this stretch of road many times a week. We are too far away to attempt a greeting. She looks back briefly. Does she even know we have a dog?
On Jackson, a slim young man wearing a yarmulke rattles by on a skateboard, reminding me of Danny — the lean frame, the love of motion.
It warmed up considerably today.
Near White Ave, Tony the dog-biscuit-dispensing mailman crosses the street — too far to force an encounter. Finn disagrees. The dog pauses to put both feet on the corner house’s rock wall three separate times. He stares with avid interest in Tony’s direction.
Just before home, a black dog we don’t recognize turns off of Cypress and slowly makes its way toward our street in front of us. I have to stay a certain distance behind. They are soooo slow! Then there is pooping. Will the bag ever come out, the walk resume? They come our way. I manage to still Finn’s reaction without a treat.
The dog looks as though she could be Finn’s sister. The woman with her (a dog sitter) and I talk about it while Finn assumes a sphinx-pose and looks on. I’ve never seen him do anything remotely like this in this situation.
The dishwasher runs.
K should land by 8:30 tonight. This was his 45th trip to China.
love seeing your old words and pictures, good to hear that Finn is being such a good dog & wondering what your good man does in China to visit so often or is that being too nosy?
He’s a chemical engineer
Executive and negotiates licensing agreements.
He gets take out! Think of the frequent flyer miles! And, by his reaction, that had to at least be Finn’s cousin.
A fellow dog from Tennessee for sure
Good boy Finney! Love to see you old pics, sisters and long ago words. Time passes…I’m sure you’ll be glad when he is home safe. 🙂
He’s home now. You’re the reason I call the dog Finney!
Once again a post that reads as if I’m looking over your shoulder and seeing with your eyes. Very enjoyable walk with you tonight.
A structure I learned from you!
I loved the poem and the old typewriter type, so moving now to see . The individual letters on typewriters have their own characteristics which you don’t get on computers. The picture with the curlers is so sweet. I remember how uncomfortable it is to sleep in them. I thoroughly enjoyed the walk and the people. A very lovely post.
Typewriters, you’re right, offered all kinds of quirks. This one seemed to have been missing a cap I tho, which gets distracting.
You make me want to dig out my old typewriter. This post is evocative- lovely and tinged with sadnesses.
Noticed the rollers right off, remembering the spiky blue ones with the plastic white pins through them. Having to sleep on them for picture day & pulling half out in an attempt to sleep & dealing with Mom’s frustration in the morning, year after year, until the pixie cut.
I wish I still had a typewriter! I think in this picture I had a pixie (ish?) cut, which is why I only had the pin curl clips and not the plastic curler rollers like my sister.