Where the Sidewalk Ends....

Early this morning, Lucy and I took off to walk to the other side of the Hidden Hill, and once again I caught myself, eyes glued to the sidewalks, wishing I could see the horizon; wishing there not endless hot steamy streets, sidewalks, and concrete curbs wherever my eyes searched.

I passed a favorite yard that always seems to have something in bloom. I stopped and collected my thoughts. 

Noticing the trees bending and swaying; birds fluttering and chirping; flowers blooming is one reason I walk, so why, I asked myself, am I so miserable and disgruntled with my concrete surroundings? 

The lanky daisies brushed my leg like a gentle fairy's touch, and my mood improved immediately. I smiled and decided to walk a new path to the other side of the hill where I could view the horizon.  The weight of wishes that bore me down lifted the faster I walked toward the horizon. 

When I came to the place where the sidewalk ended, I laughed. I stopped to give Lucy a drink of water. My eyes scanned the surroundings and I wondered how Shel Silverstein could possibly have written such delightful poems while surrounded by a concrete city (poem). The more I mused on the subject, the more I realized that it's not the concrete that binds me, but my own selfish wishes.  



Suddenly, I relished in relief...a new perspective opened my mind's eyes. 

The nearly hidden window on a home built on a busy
corner intrigued me. As if the home wished to be elsewhere in time and place, I felt myself drawn to whisperings of the ivy covered lot. I listened.



Lucy had no patience for the secrets of the home. With some effort she led me away down a hill, on a sidewalk where I could cast my eyes out across the horizon. 

Slowing my breath, and with the help of my imagination I could see past the homes, visualize the horse farms in the distance, and feel the freedom of space.  At last I understood: ignoring the rooftops, the streets, the pavement allowed me to relax.  

Thanks to Lucy and Shel Silverstein, I found the place "Where the Sidewalk Ends," and my
imagination begins.

She Flies Alone

I'd previously discovered it, tucked away off the hidden hill. 

I walked to the cemetery to cry, to cry until my eyes were dry.  Sitting alone on the bowed bench I read the names and dates of lives long ago spent, but no tears fell.  I wanted to cry, so I waited.  Sitting alone in the shade waiting allowed my eyes to wonder and my babbling brain to relax.  

There out of the corner of my eye I noticed large flapping wings swish down from a tree behind me, then land on top of a nearby fence facing away from me.  I couldn't help but follow it's path and gaze with my eyes.  Neither of us moved at that point.

I could tell from its head and sharp beak that it must have been some type of hawk.  Not a Red Tail Hawk from my prairie lands of Kansas, not a Swainson's Hawk that I'd identified at Prairie Dunes; to thin for a Barred Owl; but no name for that silent bird that perched so close.  I could see it's black or brown bands across the tail and hoped that with that much information I could later put a name to the bird.

Then a stark cry came from a limb overhead, over and over the bird above screamed, and I thought that there must be babies nearby or dinner for the hawk.  Still neither of us moved.  Suddenly, the crow above shot down over the trees in a right flank attack and dared the hawkish bird to fly.  At the same instance it seemed, another crow launched a frontal attacked, while I remained glued to the scene.  The hawk ruffled its feathers, as if annoyed.  

One more attack launched and still no movement from the perched bird except to turn it's head in an almost owl-like movement. More curious than ever I silently stood up to walk closer to this creature.  No more than two steps had I taken when the bird flapped its wings and leaped to a nearby tree. Backtracking to the bench I remembered I wanted to cry, but curiosity about the bird kept me occupied.  It must have known I needed a distraction today because it flew from the far tree on my right to a empty space only two rows from me in the cemetery.  I froze.  Right there in front of me and on no ones grave this bird looked me square in the face, ignored me, and began to preen itself while dancing a little two step to the right and then to the left. Laughter blurted from my chest causing the bird to stop its dance and honestly look at me with a scowling glare. The giggles continued quietly.  At last the bird flew away, circled once like a vulture and disappeared.

Delphiniums nibbled by bunnies. 

On the way home my eyes began to fill with tears, tears of frustrations. Turning the corner to home I noticed that Jack's pickup was gone. In a panic, the number to open the garage door left my worried mine (I carried no keys nor cell phone on the walk.).  Before the tears could really flow I noticed my newest plants, Delphiniums, (planted just last night!) were being eaten by a creature.  I sat down on the garden wall with a  sigh.  This time out of the corner of my left eye I saw ground movement--two tiny bunnies were living in our small raised garden in the front yard.  Oh, dear. Quietly, I walked around the raised brick wall to where the bunnies sat frozen in space, camouflaged beautifully.  Then I remembered the bunny hair and entrails I saw on my walk the other morning.   "I'm sorry," I whispered.

Nature lives its cycles, even in the confines of suburbia.  I walked away and clicked the front door.  Jack hadn't locked it.  I was home, then I remembered my bird and found it's description in Birds of Kansas Field Guide by Stan Tekiela.  The female Northern Harrier flew alone that day, and she gave me solace and the distraction that I needed.

PS.  A friend suggested I look up Cooper's Hawk.  That may be correct, but no matter which bird it was it made me smile and forget the day.  Just now noticed a male Goldfinch at the feeder, and I smiled again.  I think the creek or green belt near our house is allowing us to have such colorful and plentiful birds in our backyard, and that's a very good thing.  

Painting a Canvas of New Memories

I wonder why we become so attached to our old homes?  We are leaving a 1962 ranch style home with a most unique layout.  It flows from room to room with open doors and halls connecting like a figure eight.  The double sided large red burned brick fireplace with the dining room on one side and living room on the other stole my heart when we first saw the home.  The cream colored mantle
lines both sides and is deep enough for

Christmas decor or seasonal vases filled with fresh flowers.  That was all I liked about the house when our choices came down to only three houses in town.  I looked at the lacy window trimmings and the blue flowered wall paper and felt old and sad.  Jack couldn't see past those old faded colors, so we walked on through the house, stepped down to the sun room, then our eyes were captured by the deep green yard, and it was October.  How could there be a green yard?  Fescue, a grass new to us, added beauty to our lives for eighteen years.  A fireplace and a yard gave the house the character we needed.

Slowly, over the years the home became ours.  Long gone are the lace trimmings and baby blue wallpaper in the kitchen, dining room, and living room;  long gone are the poodles dressed in bright yellow green and pink circus tutus riding unicycles that adorned the bathroom walls.  So many more walls changed to create our home.  I loved my blogger room in muted pink with one last remaining window trimming of lace, faded lace, that pleased my soul to know that I kept someone's memory alive.  Last month a professional painter came in to repair two walls in my blogger room, making it ready "For Sale".  My muted faded pink walls that made me feel happy and vibrant dissolved and were covered by a neutral beige.  Suddenly, my creative mind felt betrayed, where had our space gone?  I began that day to separate myself from my home.

Tonight as we experimented with a new paint color on the entry hallway of our Norman home, I felt like I was still intruding on someone else's home.  I could see and feel in the burnt yellow tones of the walls how  much the previous owners loved this spacious open aired home with tall wide windows facing East and West.  We were captivated with this home because our eyes saw right through the open spaces and large windows to the backyard.  We both saw the familiar brown toned yard of an Oklahoma winter that wouldn't turn green till the heat of late spring and summer. Ha, I thought, good old bermuda.  It doesn't waste energy or water trying to stay green. Then we saw the fireplace, not our beloved red brick but a new look of fresh sand colors--yellow, brown, and rosy pink.  Our eyes followed the fireplace up to the small mantle that

seemed to support a massive wall hanging of golden oak. Then we noticed the wood trim and crown molding in every room of the home.  We were beginning to feel comfortable and knew we could make the change. When we turned to leave we realized that the home was filled with sunlight and that anytime during the day we would have abundant light keeping us warm and smiling.  Sold.

We're merely camping out this week making a few changes and looking for colors, for furniture, for counter tops that define us.  The furniture comes on a heavy truck in a few weeks.  I've found space to write in a blue room.  The twin bed coverlet of faded pinks, blues, and greens turned pale and lifeless against the bold ocean blue room, so I covered my bed with one quilt after another looking for something to fit.  Nothing yet, but months and years from now this room will change as I change.  My old desk now sits in front of a large window facing the rising sun and a large two story house.  When the barren tree in the front yard opens it's new leaves, my eyes will once again feast on green.

 As we change the appearance of our new home I wonder what changes our old home will see when a new family buys it and calls it home.  Will they appreciate that basement as much as I have during the season of sirens?  When I moved to Hutchinson I cried all the way, and now as I move back to Norman I sense I will cry all the way.  Someone once told me that your house is where your furniture is, but I believe your home is where you frame your memories.  A toast to our new canvas....