It’s about 90° here now, which is unusual for April and early May. Everything is hot, including humans, animals and tiny creatures. I was on my usual excursion to my neighbor’s mailbox to retrieve her mail, and when I opened the mailbox, a bumblebee was inside. It seemed disoriented and probably was quite warm having been in a hot metal box with no escape. I had just gotten my own mail, so I had torn up junk mail in my hands which came in handy – no pun intended.
My neighbor had a package in her mailbox, but nothing else, so I ignored that for a moment and used the scraps of paper that I had just torn up to escort the bumblebee out of the mailbox. It was essentially a real Lyft. The bee climbed on and I carried it in front of me like a golden child, which bumblebees truly are. I tried to find flowers, but much of them are gone, and the new batch haven’t bloomed yet. I tried a Dianthus, but as soon as I perched him or her on there, I could see there was no pollen. I apologized and eventually convinced the bee that I would find a more suitable flower. We traveled in the same way (golden child real Lyft transport system) toward the backyard where I put the bee on some wild violet flowers. It seemed there was some pollen in these, but the bee was so heavy, the flower took a slow drop to the ground. I frowned. The bee was determined and more lively at this point, so after two attempts at the wild violet flowers, I convinced he or she to get back on the paper and I would find a flower. I walked over to the azaleas, but immediately knew there was no pollen. I was out of ideas. In that moment, the bee buzzed away – took flight and was completely recovered. Buzzy was no more silent bee. Then the bee found an appropriate weed and proceeded to feed. If you’ve been here a while, you know that I chase bumblebees for photo ops. I thought maybe the bee would let me get a quick snap in, but no. But that is ok. Their lifespan is short, after all, and they have to capture the pollen. After the bee buzzed away, I went back to my neighbor’s house, got her mail out of her mailbox and put it on her stoop.
I’ve been on insect saving duty the past three days – one of the hazards/joys (however you want to look at it) of spring. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Although I do have many favorite quotes from Zora Neale Hurston, I’m going to try to follow the rules for this prompt. I know, you’re probably thinking, “Why start now?” It’s because I have a favorite quote that I really don’t think of that often but for this prompt, I thought of it.
Years ago, I bought this book:
Filled with requited and unrequited varieties
I don’t recall why I purchased the book, but if I had to venture a guess, it would be because the book is pink, has a heart on it (your girl is obsessed with hearts and collects them – not anatomical hearts, dear reader), and it also has a pink bookmark built right in.
The book contains different chapters, which delve into the many different types of love – requited, unrequited, grief, love for pets, etc. I’m not much of a romantic, but I am sentimental. So I tend towards more eccentric quotes about not just love, but everything.
I nudged this book off my shelf for this prompt and opened it up to the page with the pink bookmark. I never take this bookmark out of this page because this is my favorite quote in the whole book, and that’s not an easy feat to accomplish.
Without further adieu, Let me introduce you to my favorite quote:
When I read this the first time, I wasn’t quite sure how to interpret it. Then I realized there were many ways to interpret it. In fact, I have a new interpretation as I write this.
What is a superstition? (We all know, because we all remember the daily prompt from not that long ago.) Examples of superstitions include walking under a ladder is considered bad luck, opening an umbrella in the house is bad luck, breaking a mirror will give you seven years of bad luck, black cats are bad luck, knocking on wood so whatever you’ve just said comes true or stays safe (depends on the situation), and many more. Superstitions are misunderstood, mysterious, used as protection. In my mind, I always think about superstitions as hovering in the air in a cloud. Superstitions are not part of reality, but they are still given deference and respect. They are very real to the person who believes.
Having said that, I believe Monsieur Baudelaire is speaking here of unrequited love, a love that to him is so precious, he keeps it in the clouds just out of reach. The image of his love stays in his mind, and in his heart is where the cherishing blooms, but his love is so much more than that. He seems to be under a spell. To say you are more than an image I dream about and cherish, you are my superstition, means to me, that you are the very thing that I believe in, the idea of which makes no sense, but I love you more than I could ever love anyone else. And yet, there is a mystery about you. Are you bad for me? If my love were requited, would it be a mistake? Would it ruin everything? Superstition has to stay in the clouds, just out of reach, and so does the love. Dream of it, cherish it, hold it in the highest regard. Be also aware of its mystery and respect the unknowingness of it.
Monsieur Baudelaire was a controversial poet in Paris in the 19th century. He was part of the Decadent era. Knowing a bit about poets myself, I’ve been thinking: is the superstition the muse? Oui.
I got Chris, my first cactus, shortly after starting my job at my former employer – around 2011. My Facebook Memories yesterday showed me Chris from a 2015 photo that I snapped in my office at the time. He was still a wee one, and I put a little note on him, because the housekeeping staff would come in overnight, water all the plants in an effort to help, but eventually they would drown them and the plants would die. Everyone knew if you had a plant you’d better stick a post it on it and write, “Please don’t water, thank you!”
Chris, April 2015 – I’d had him since 2011 at this point in time.
Eventually – and most likely unbelievably by looking at the photo above – Chris outgrew his spot on the top of the bookshelf. I had to carefully carry him out to my car at the end of the workday, being careful not to tear any limbs off in the process. I put him on the floor of the passenger side of my car, where he proceeded to tip over three or four times on the thirty mile journey home.
Chris had a spot on my bookshelf at home for a while, then he outgrew that space as well as a few pots. I’ve read that cacti don’t like to be repotted. They like to be root bound, which I am all for, because trying to repot a cactus is not an easy task.
After Facebook showed me my memory yesterday, I decided to snap a photo of Chris present day. He ended up on a perch all by himself right next to a southwest facing window. You’ll understand why he’s by himself when I show you what he looks like now.
CHRIS (the caps are intentional, because this plant is now a Hulk.) This photo was taken yesterday. As you can see, there’s no real way to get into the closet on the right hand side, and he is pulled away from the wall/window because his arms are exceptionally long.
Chris has thrived at home, and he has cousins in another room who are not quite as large as he. They all usually start blooming in October, so I’ve taken to calling them Halloween cacti. Sometimes they bloom around Thanksgiving, so they become Thanksgiving cacti. They don’t really have a timeframe. They do what they want. That’s cool with me. I’m simply glad Chris likes his pot, because I am never going to be able to repot this lanky gentleman.
Here’s a picture of a squirrel I feed. She shows up every day on my porch, like my other outside children do, so I grab the jar of peanuts and instruct her to follow me to my mom’s cherry tree. She follows and I toss some peanuts under the canopy, where she dines with a meditating cat statue and a fake stone that reads, “Make Your Mama Proud.” The squirrel is going to have babies soon, and she will tell them to come here for food. She will drop them off one day and that will be it – I will be happily feeding all of them.
To go as the crow flies is to take the most direct route somewhere. Going as the crow flies is the shortest path between two points.
This expression has to do with traveling—in a very specific way. If you travel as the crow flies, you've gone somewhere as quickly and directly as possible. A shortcut is a good way to go as the crow flies. A direct airplane flight with no transfers is another way to go as the crow flies. When you think of this term, imagine a bird flying in a straight line from point A to point B.
I moved to the state I live in now when I was just turning seven. For reasons, Mom and I were graciously taken in by family members who lived one state away from our previous home. It wasn’t terribly far, but to a six-year-old, an hour-long car ride seems like a great distance to travel.
From there, Mom and I moved across a two-lane highway – which is now a four-lane highway – to an apartment complex. We lived there for seven years.
Mom found her final home in a neighborhood she admired for years and would drive through on her way to pick me up from my friend’s house.
I just realized the other day, that if you plot all three of these points of residence on a map, the triangle is very small. In fact, I determined that the distance from Point A to Point B to Point C forms a very small triangle, with each arm of the triangle being about 300m. 300m translates to 0.186 miles.
Some people may think this is incredibly isolating and not very worldly, but it was entirely coincidental and not planned, as far as I know. And since I didn’t even realize it until a few days ago, I guess it could be a statement about how much I like my neighborhood and my surroundings.
You guys know Jerome, right? He’s my crow. Well, it’s more true to form to say that he is my nemesis. He is the crow that’s mad at me for eternity because I wouldn’t let him put his dirty bagels and french fries in the birdbath. He and his friends and family caw at me as I’m walking in the neighborhood. If I’m at the local pharmacy and strip mall, they’ll do it there, too. They somehow know when to show up. If I walk out of my house and Jerome starts cawing from somewhere far enough away that I can’t see him, but close enough that I can hear him, I know I’m in for quite a mouthful. Other people have crows bring them money and shiny objects. Jerome has given me intergenerational hatred. I would prefer money or shiny objects, at the very least.
This is not Jerome. But Jerome would do this: join a gang of crows and become violent against ravens and also me, most likely
“I hear you, Jerome! Good morning to you, too!” I say loudly. I’m sure my neighbors think I’m crazy, but that crow and I have beef. I wonder how old Jerome is, and how long he’s been watching me. Maybe his great-grandfather, grandfather and father saw me at Points A and B. Point C is Jerome’s territory now, as the crows fly.
The physicality combined with the stress relieving exertion usually leads to a good night’s sleep. Whether I am up to my elbows in dirt sowing seeds, planting plants, putting cages around my perennials, or digging up old bricks from a long ago fire pit, working outside is not only beneficial exercise, but it is a sort of meditative state for me. I don’t have to think about what I’m doing, so my mind can wander. Using my strength and feeling the ground underneath helps to center me when I am feeling shaky. Sweating and feeling the ache in my muscles at the end of the day means that I got a lot done, even though sometimes it doesn’t look like it.
I dug up all these bricks from the other side of my yard and piled them up here. I’m considering rebuilding a fire pit, but for now the accomplishment of digging up and stacking the bricks is enough.Very close to where I found the old bricks I found this cement slab. I hope it was part of the former fire pit and not a pet cemetery situation. To be determined…
On March 4 of this year, my team got an email that we were to convene in less than 24 hours for a mandatory meeting. CCed on this meeting demand were HR and Administration. From experience, knowing others who have had similar type of meetings, we all knew this meant trouble on the job front, and likely we were all going to lose our jobs in less than 24 hours.
On March 5, we attended the mandatory meeting (I attended via Teams) and I watched as refreshments were offered to some of my teammates in person. I tried to hide my eye rolls as my camera was on. The vice president of our department asked us why we thought we were there in a very chipper tone, unfitting for the occasion. One member of my team spoke up and said she thought we were there because our jobs were being outsourced. The VP replied, “Yes, that’s it,” as if she had given the correct answer and was going to win a fabulous prize.
I sat there stunned. In the room with the VP was a representative from human resources, and people from the outsourcing company that were going to take over our department. They were there to give a talk about how great it would be to transition to working for their company. By offering us jobs of a comparable type, paying unemployment and severance could be avoided. Some of us chose not to take this road. I wasn’t one of those people. I needed to go from one job directly to another with no gaps in pay and no gaps in health insurance. Many of you here know that I have chronic migraine and have to take very expensive migraine medication. To go without insurance would bankrupt me.
The next few days I frantically contacted the talent recruiter at the agency that would be replacing us to arrange an interview, and within days I was hired at the company. I was going to start April 15. I was less than thrilled. In fact, I was cried every day. I felt like I was in a stranglehold, my self-esteem took a dip, and I felt a sense of betrayal from an employer I had been with for 13 1/2 years. We were thrown away like trash, and stepped on as we landed on the ground.
But time marches on no matter what we do or how much we cry. April 12 would be our last day at our former employer, a place where I was born, where my mother had several operations and where my father died in the operating room. But that tiny community hospital where all of these major life events occurred has been acquired by a conglomerate health system bent on saving money, and if you happen to have your life destroyed in the process? Oh, well.
Two of my colleagues and I went through the process of getting hired by the outsourcing company without any time to grieve our loss, which is much like a divorce if you think about it. Party A(sshole) decides they don’t want to be with you anymore, and you have no say in it. They’re not dead, they’re still there, so it’s not like experiencing a death. It’s a betrayal, It’s demeaning and demoralizing – professionally and personally. The notion of being jobless with only one way to acquire one quickly removes your autonomy and takes away your choices.
And so it went. My two colleagues and I started working for the outsourcing company April 15. That first week was a nightmare. I cried the entire day Monday and Tuesday. Meeting upon meeting, thrown into a new atmosphere, and a whole new way of doing a job that we all knew how to do for many years was yet another punch in the stomach. We all made it through the first week, but during that first week I hustled to find a new job, determined that I would not be there to start week three. The first two weeks were going to be onboarding, week three would start to get into the nitty-gritty about taking over the cases of our former employer. The cases we just worked on the week before would now become ours again at a different company. We would have to look at and work on those cases again. I would rather burn my hands off.
I made multiple contacts the first week. I stayed up late sending resumes, talking to talent acquisition specialists (recruiters), doing whatever I could to escape the circumstance I was in. Towards the end of the first week an opportunity opened up. I interviewed with them and took a skills assessment over the weekend. I performed very well on the assessment, which boosted my work self-esteem a bit. I asked if my coworkers who came with me from the healthcare system were interested in interviewing at this opportunity. One of my coworkers said that she was. She interviewed and was offered a position early this week. The other coworker received an offer from another company. I received a job offer early this week, and I accepted.
We worked as team for many years at the healthcare system, and we came in as our own little team to the outsourcing agency. The agency did nothing wrong, they are just collateral damage – as are we – in what has been the most heinous, egregious treatment I have ever experienced from an employer in my life. The three of us decided we would stick it out this week and then Friday – today – we would turn in our resignations to the outsourcing agency. We came in as part of our fractured, larger team, and we left as a team. 
In my resignation letter, I mentioned that everyone at the outsourcing agency was kind and gracious during this very difficult time in my life, personally and professionally. I thanked them for giving me the opportunity. The healthcare system that threw us away took away my autonomy and my ability to make choices for myself. But with just two weeks, I hustled my ass off to find a job that was by my choosing. By accepting another position outside of their agency, I regain my autonomy. I am nowhere near being healed from this – this will take months if not years to recover from, but I have made my own choice and I have taken a step towards reclaiming my self-esteem, because I know I can do the job and I’ve proven it time and time again for 13 1/2 years.
To the healthcare system that dumped me and my coworkers like trash, I say to you this: karma never forgets a name or an address.
Now meet ERJ. First I should tell you about ER. ER was my beloved first Eastern Redbud. Eastern Redbuds are my favorite tree because the flowers emerge from the bark. They come in shades of purple and pink, and also white. They bloom in mid April. They are a native species to the United States, and if you pay attention, you’ll see them everywhere. 
ER was just a wee babe in 2013-ish, when he arrived to my yard. I estimate he was about four years old, because he was flowering, and it takes about four years for the tree to become old enough to flower. ER was planted out front for all to see. Each spring I would wait for the buds to appear, then the flowers to emerge, followed shortly – or simultaneously if the weather is especially warm – by the heart-shaped leaves.
ER did well for a few years, but then he took a turn for the worse. He wasn’t very old, but he started to develop problems in his bark. His location in the yard was facing southeast, and he didn’t have much protection from southern storms and brutal Nor’easters. It turns out Eastern Redbuds are a little bit of a delicate tree and probably should have more shelter than was provided to ER. ER suffered mortal wounds shortly after his diagnosis and was cut down. I was devastated to lose this tree, but when I noticed the tree was sick, I gathered the pods that formed on the tree, which happens in autumn. Inside the pods are little seeds that disperse as the pods fall on the ground. These pods contain many seeds and there are many, many pods. When the pod breaks open, the seeds are naturally sown, and if the conditions are right, a new tree forms. This is why you’ll see groups of Eastern Redbuds growing in areas where there is not much development and trees can be left to be, well, trees.
Back to when I was gathering the pods. I read up on how to gather the pods, prepare the seeds and sow them. I had little pots with soil, and after I prepared the seeds by scraping off the outer hard layer and doing something with hot water (I can’t remember right now), I planted them. I covered them with plastic wrap and put them in a sunny window. I waited.
And waited.
I kept waiting.
And nothing happened.
It turns out it is difficult to cultivate Eastern Redbuds. I didn’t get any trees from my attempts. ER was cut down and I assumed that in a few years I would buy another tree and plant it elsewhere, where it was safer.
In late spring of 2020, there were some weeds growing in the front flower bed and grass was growing where ER used to be. One day, I happened to be looking around in the weeds and grass and noticed a tiny heart-shaped plant. I immediately pulled all the grass away from this little guy and studied it further. Sure enough, it was an Eastern Redbud baby. Excited, I went in the house to gather supplies so that I could MacGyver a little cage for the baby. While I was doing that, I noticed another one very close to the first baby. I prepared a little nursery for that one as well. And then I decided I’d better check the whole yard even though the pods don’t disperse that far. To my surprise, there was a larger baby very close to the porch, which is about 10 to 12 feet away from where the original tree had been. This was the largest tree out of the three I found. I prepared the nurseries for all of them and tried to mark them very well so the landscaper wouldn’t weed-whack them. Unfortunately, what I was trying to protect from happening did happen – the baby near the porch got weed-whacked. I was devastated. Did he not see the entire contraption around the tree? The pink tape? Nothing?! With hands on hips, I stomped immediately over to the departing landscaping guy and told him what he did to my tree. This was still Covid lockdown time, and one of the positive distractions I had during this time was this baby tree. He was apologetic, but I was still upset. My beloved ER had come back in the form of ER Junior, II and III. And now the largest of them gets weed-whacked. Fast-forward a couple months. I have finally calmed down, and they’re all still growing well – although one of them was missing a limb.
A few months later, the sewer line collapsed. None of the trees were affected, thank goodness, but the ground had to be dug up to replace the sewer line and once that happened, rain water did not drain properly and pooled in the front yard.
In the spring of 2021, I needed to have the front yard graded due to the water pooling issue. I had to move two of the babies in order to save their lives. My electrician was recruited for the job. He arrived in the pouring rain, and I stood beside him with an umbrella, as foreman of the project, showing him each tree and telling him where to plant them in the backyard. After much mud, II and III were successfully moved. ERJ was not in danger, so I left him where he was.
The yard was graded and landscaped. ERJ could be seen properly, and it was obvious that he had been naturally “planted” (I had nothing to do with it) in a perfect spot. Not too close to the house, but not so far away that he would be in danger from the elements.
In 2022, we had a bout of very hot weather with no rain and ERJ started to lose his leaves. I watered him every day, but still the leaves fell off. I thought the tree was dying, but I watched him when he went dormant in the winter. I pushed on his branches to see if they would snap and they didn’t. That means the tree is not dead. In the spring of 2023, he started to grow leaves and I knew that he was OK, though he didn’t have any buds formed on his bark. Recall from above it takes years for Redbuds to mature enough to form the buds. ERJ grew very tall last year. I encouraged him by talking to him and letting him know that he was a very tall young man and I appreciated his heart-shaped leaves that were very healthy. I pruned the tree and shooed away birds who were too fat to perch on his skinny branches. I wondered if ERJ would develop buds for the spring of 2024. I kept checking him all winter, and I couldn’t tell, but I thought maybe…
By March, I could see little nubs growing from the bark. I know what leaves look like when they are starting to form, and this wasn’t that. I think I did a dance on the front yard. No, I’m sure that I did. Certain that flower buds were forming on ERJ, my miracle Eastern Redbud that appeared years after the parent tree died, I began to document via photographs the bud formation. Without further ado, let me introduce you first to ER, then ER Junior.
(And what about the other two trees, you ask? One of them was injured when a nearby tree branch fell on him, but he is slowly recovering and is growing tall. The other one is very small but still alive. They don’t like to be moved after one re-planting, so I’m going to leave him there and see if he might want to be an Eastern Redbud bush rather than a tree.)
ERERERJ, early MarchERJ late MarchERJ early AprilERJ last weekERJ a few days agoERJ yesterday. His blooms are fully out, and his leaves are coming in nicely. Do you see how they are heart-shaped? 🩷
Just kidding. Watching curling is like watching paint dry. I don’t watch the Olympics. But since they are being held in Paris this year, I just might start. I recall in years past I watched the Winter Olympics’ skiing and ice-skating competitions, but that was a long time ago, and I was a kid.
Anyone who’s been reading my blog since the beginning knows what I’m going to say I will most likely watch present day: tennis. The Summer Olympics are being held in Paris this year from July 27-August 4, Rafa Nadal is probably playing his last season of professional tennis, and Roland Garros (The French Open) is his jam (he’s not called the King of Clay for nothing), so I am deducing he’s going to aim for the double play: Roland Garros and the Olympics – which will be played on the red clay, the same courts as Roland Garros. There are current rules in place, however, that may be a bit of a hurdle for him to be able to do this. Without getting too complicated, he will have to appeal to the ITF (International Tennis Federation) to be able to be allowed to play in the Olympics. Fingers crossed.
Rafa Nadal hoists La Coupe des Mousquetaires, in his first of 14 French Open victories (to date), 2005Rafa Nadal won men’s singles gold at the Beijing Olympics, 2008
I suppose you know where I’ll be for Summer Olympics Paris 2024. I will not be in Paris. But I will be watching from my couch at home, wearing a beret, eating croissant and sipping un Café. 
I dropped off Koko at the body shop this morning. I waited for the Enterprise guy to come pick me up. He shows up in a long, black coat and ushers me out to a waiting Buick Enclave. He opens the rear passenger door and I very ungraciously get into the luxury vehicle. I feel like paparazzi are going to appear from behind the various cars in the lot waiting to be repaired. (I will not discuss how far away I had to park from the building, and I hope that Koko is safe out there.)
So I’m sitting like a child in a large chair in the back of the Buick, sliding around on the leather seats on the turns and the guy tells me that they have reserved an Audi Q3 for me.
If I hadn’t already been sitting down, I would have fallen down. I have a Honda. I’ve only had mid-range cars. Ever. Even rentals that I’ve had before have been Toyotas or something similar. My first thought was this rental is going to cost me a fortune. My second thought was this rental is going to cost me a fortune.
When we got back to Enterprise, and I saw the car, well…
I filled out the appropriate paperwork, etc. and we did the standard walk around the vehicle. Then the guy told me to get in the car – and that’s when technology hit me in the face. It took me 10 minutes to figure out how to adjust the side mirror. It took another five to figure out how to turn on the radio and adjust the volume. I realized I was driving one of “those cars” that the engine turns off when it is stopped. It is very annoying to hear on other cars, and it is still annoying when you’re driving one. It sounds like the transmission is about to fall out, which is never a good sound to me. I don’t know how it saves money on gas, either, but whatever.
As I neared home, I didn’t really want to stop driving the Audi. I was thinking of names for her while I have her for two weeks. I backed into my driveway per usual, and though it was not my best effort, it’s OK – there are six cameras on the thing to let you know where you’ve gone wrong. I got out, walked around her and decided what her name is.
I live in the Northern Hemisphere, so summer will be starting in June. I live on the East Coast of the US where it gets very hot and very humid in the summer. Not so long ago, the heat and the humidity didn’t bother me. Since I’ve had this migraine diagnosis, I’ve learned migraine brain does not like heat nor humidity.
But Amy‘s brain can do whatever it likes.
The rest of Amy likes walking in the cool, soft grass with bare feet, wearing sundresses, feeling the warmth of the air and the sun on her skin, seeing the trees, lush in all their summertime greenness, smelling the warm air and hints of a storm brewing. (Her birthday is also in the summer, so maybe she is biased towards the season.) Sitting under a canopy of leaves looking for four leaf clover while sipping an iced tea or eating an ice cream bar is considered the finer things in life. Peeking out the window as it gets closer to lightning bug season, waiting for the first bioluminescent buggy butt still brings her great joy after many years. She still squeals when she sees it. Watching the bunny rabbits play late into the night when it is still light out is one of her other favorite sights. Spotting hummingbirds is at the top of the list of Exciting Events. Chasing butterflies with a phone camera is a close second, although the butterflies do not feel the same, and she thinks they even give her the side eye as they fly away. No matter. She will chase rainbows after a heavy storm and wait for the butterflies to return.
Summer Bunny just outside my front door A Monarch who felt sorry for me and let me take a photo Black Tiger Swallowtail A bumblebee butt in the peony, with a large amount of pollen stuck to its leg. The wings are pixelated because they are moving too fast to be captured.
Yes, I took all of these photos. And yes, none of these creatures were happy about it. My neighbors likely believe me to be just a touch off…but it’s not my fault. They won’t stop for the camera and I have to chase them down, yelling for them to please stop and just let me take the photo.
Perhaps – no – most assuredly, it is I who placed myself in this position. I do not speak of ruling the queendom. No. That is my birthright. That you don’t see a throne next to mine is my doing.
When I was born a girl I was expected to marry. And marry well. From the age of four, suitors were brought to me. Old men! Can you imagine? Vows were to be exchanged for titles given. Oddly, every single one of these suitors was deemed not fit by my father, or fate took them another direction. Some in not so pleasant directions.
When I was twenty years old and started refusing suitors, my father would not speak to me for three months. It was quite possibly the downfall of his health. You can blame that on me too, if you wish.
When I was twenty years old, there was a new stable lad employed to work with our finest horses – mine included. The lad was my age, and while he showed proper deference to me, he also showed me friendship, which no other servant had the courage to do. He would prepare my horse and sometimes we would have long discussions about life. Ha! What do two twenty-year-old children know about life? He treated me as a person, not as a queen-in-waiting. He did not let me get away with much. My attitude is often times haughty. I make no apologies for it. I am Queen and at that time I was queen-in-training. I must be strong at all times. I must not and will not entertain fools.
But when I was around him, I did not feel like a queen-in-training, and it was rather difficult to act haughty. I felt like who I imagined I always should feel like as a child, when I dreamt of having another life. A simple life, a life raising chickens and cattle and having a husband, friend and lover in one person, someone who could understand me, and would want to try. And children. We would have three children. They would laugh and play in the grass, their cheeks rosy from exertion, their tiny legs traveling as fast as they could to catch the chickens, and we would delight in the sight. My husband and I.
I began having the same fantastical daydreams when I was around this lad, not just when I was alone. I watched when he would interact with others, and I had people observe him when I could not. He never raised his voice in anger to anyone. He was as calm as the river on a late summer evening. The aura around him was yellow, just like the sunset on that late summer eve. His hair was flaxen and soft, I just knew it. I wished to touch it, but I dared not. It would be most improper, and dangerous for him. His eyes were dark blue and smiling. Always smiling. They twinkled with mischief more than not. When we were near the horses and I could freely be myself, I never felt more alive.
Shortly after I turned twenty-one, for several days I did not see the stable lad. My concern was that he had become ill. I was mistaken and quite pleased to see him when he returned. My ladies-in-waiting helped me into my favorite dress: the light blue silk. It was far simpler than anything I would wear for official business, but it was perfect for talking with the stable lad. I made my way to the barn and saw him brushing the horses. I could feel my face light up as if the sun itself were grazing my skin. I greeted the lad and asked him if he was well. He said he was quite well. He had very recently exchanged wedding vows. That was why he was not at the stables.
This was the first time I had to use the Ice Queen façade. And I was yet to be Queen. I congratulated him and quickly made an excuse to part company. The façade wouldn’t hold much longer, and I could not bear to be seen as the soft creature underneath. As soon as I turned away, I could feel my countenance change into one of grief and broken-heartedness. My eyes shed tears even as I told them not to. He called out to me, but I wouldn’t turn around. I could not bear it.
I spent the rest of the day and night alone in my chambers. No one was permitted. Of course by now you must’ve guessed: I was in love with the lad. He had never once mentioned he was betrothed, and if he had, what could I have done with that information? I was meant to marry above him. Millions of my tears would not have changed anything. But knowing he was married made the realization that he could never be married to me more pronounced. I wished I were his wife. I wondered what she looked like. I never asked anything about her, even though I saw the lad often at the stables. We talked and joked after my initial heartbreak had healed a bit, but there was this thing in between us now, a barrier. I didn’t want it there, but a wife is hard to remove. A queen-in-waiting impossible to get out of. The situation was ill-fated.
I became Queen at twenty-five, just as the stable lad became a father for the first time. My father‘s efforts to find me a suitable match were unsuccessful. I decided no one was good enough and I held to that belief. I disappointed my father and I did it intentionally.
When I was thirty, his second child was born. I saw him still, at the stables, and we spoke as we always had. We never spoke of his wife or of his children. It is not that I didn’t care, it is because I cared too much. To know about his life would reopen wounds that were almost – but not quite – scars.
I have recently learned that his wife has run off with a wealthy man. The children are grown, the lad now a man of my own age. You may be asking yourself, Dear Reader, “What now will the Ice Queen do? She never married. She rules the queendom fairly, but suffers no fools. She surrounds herself with birds and other creatures, including her beloved horses, and she is old enough to make her own decisions regarding her own queendom and her own person.”
Let me tell you then. I am sure you want to know. And even if you don’t, I am going to tell you, because I am Queen.
One crisp morning, I walked alone to the stables. I found my lad filing the horses’ hooves. His expression was forlorn, as one would expect. He looked up at me with teary eyes that made the blue stand out even more. He was much older, we both were now. I could not stop myself from crying with him. He hunched over, embarrassed by his tears and apologized. He did not curtsy, and I was glad for it. I took his hand and held it between my own two hands. We had never touched in this way before. Yes, Reader, it was still not appropriate. But I am Queen, and I rule the queendom.
What do you think happened next, Dear Reader?
I will tell you. Not because I am Queen, but because I am a woman. And I know you want to know. But let’s keep it between us.
In the next moment, I saw yellow, like the sunset on a summer eve, I felt soft hair under my hands, and a gentle touch on my cheek. Right before I closed my eyes, I saw dark blue, like the blue of gently rolling river waves with a strong current underneath that cannot be seen, only felt.
Confidence is a state of mind, and we can’t always see it. I don’t know how to answer this prompt, and I don’t particularly want to. So I’m going to go with Wonder Woman. But it has to be Lynda Carter. I will not be convinced that any other person is WW besides my girl Lynda. My mind is made up.
Lynda Carter as Wonder Woman
She has a lasso, she’s a bad ass with a bad ass costume. I had the WW Underoos when I was little. Anyone remember those? I dressed up like WW for Halloween – you know, the one with the scary plastic mask and flimsy plastic costume? Yeah that was me. I also had a Batgirl bathing suit, but I digress.
This is the same capture as the previous post, entitled leaving, except for this is the video that I recorded. I realized later that the video is cooler than the photo. But may have been distracting with a little bit of poetry at the bottom.
Sound up for engine noise and also Jerome, who is the crow that does not like me. Now it’s his season and he’s going to follow and laugh at me when I walk, and basically make my life miserable because I told him he could not put his dried bagels in the birdbath two years ago. Crows have a long memory and hold grudges. Jerome has told his whole family to caw at me. I’m at the local pharmacy, he will show up over there and harass me in the parking lot. His name is Jerome, and you must say it in the way that Elaine said it on Seinfeld.
Outlander is a romance/fantasy series on the Starz cable network and app with a huge dose of history, war, nursing, medicine, herbology, intense relationships, family drama – the list goes on. It’s not strictly fantasy, and it’s not strictly chick flick material – it’s packed with substance, great acting, intricately woven storylines, and an overall captivating experience.
I read the novels in college and waited 142 years for the rights to be optioned. Starz began production in 2013. I was elated. But I was also a little apprehensive, because I had read all of the books to date, and I was worried that the actors chosen for the roles would not match up with the characters I had envisioned in my mind. Turns out, I had nothing to worry about, as the casting has been superb in the series.
Claire, our heroine, portrayed by the super-talented Catriona Balfe, an Irish actress.
If you haven’t read the novels, I would recommend doing the hard work first: read the books before watching the TV series. Everything is more in the novels. Each book is close to 1,000 pages long. There’s much more substance in the books and a great deal more character development. The reason for that is the material has to be truncated to fit into an approximately 47 minute episode each week. And the seasons are short – it varies, but right now we’re in Droughtlander, waiting for the second half of Season Seven to resume. And when I say waiting, I mean waiting for up to a year and a half. But enough about Droughtlander. It’s a sore subject.
I feel sorry for people who only know that the TV series exists and who don’t – or won’t – read the books.
Jamie, our leading male, portrayed by the wonderful Scottish actor, Sam Heughan. He’s either just said, or is about to say, “Je Suis Prest” – Clan Fraser’s motto. I know this because this is one of my favorite scenes.
Sidebar: for anyone who adores costume history as much as I do (and believe me, I do, it was my minor in college), the costumes in this are exquisite. The costumes in Season Two are especially jaw-droppingly beautiful, as the show takes place mostly in France. Please don’t get me started on French fashion. I will blabber on for hours.
My rec: start with the novels, then watch the series. I’ve watched (and read) Outlander *way* more than five times. And they’re worth it.
I heard you turned 100. Happy Birthday! I hope there wasn’t a fire when they lit the candles on the cake. Couldn’t resist sarcasm, but you know that about us. Anyway, I just want to say thanks for everything. I’m sorry about the neck. I tried to tell teenage Amy about this, but she didn’t really listen. She carried that heavy bookbag on her right shoulder for 12 years… I was trying to make her see reason, but she wouldn’t have any of that. You know teenagers. I should apologize for the neck as well. I spent hours with my head down, looking at my phone, using poor posture in front of the laptop, and generally not taking the advice that I gave to teenage Amy. I guess I never learned. I hope that you are a “good” 100. By that I mean I hope you’re still active and enjoying things. I hope you are of sound mind. It would dishearten me to learn otherwise. Please tell me you’re still wearing fedoras and dressing like you want. I hope you have a really cool scooter and that it goes 60 mph. I hope you start foodfights in the cafeteria of the assisted living home. I hope they have really good chocolate milk there. I hope there are no weird men. Ha, who am I kidding?
Thank you for all the years, and I hope that all of the versions of us have made you proud. We’ve done the best we could, haven’t we? We protected little girl Amy with all that we had. We did some bad, we did some good, we loved hard, we laughed hard, we worked hard, sometimes we cried hard, and most of all we lived. We really lived.
I see that lady from Room 3A eyeing the pink wheels on your scooter. You’d better get over there. It looks like she’s messing with your music selection. You let her know that no one changes the song but you.
Love,
Amy
100-year-old Amy gets on her scooter and turns up the volume. She tells the lady from 3A to move, she’s got stuff to do. She peels out, heading off to parts unknown, her speakers blaring “I’m Bad” by LL Cool J.
US Open, 2005. I was on a mission to deliver a US Open Bear to Rafa Nadal. Just a small token of appreciation for hours of tennis entertainment. Though I had followed Rafa’s career up to this point, I had never met him. Read on for my observations and probably some hijinks, because…me.
Tuesday, August 29:
Hmm…today feels different. It’s a curly hair day. I’m gonna wear my pink cowgirl hat today with my multicolored belt, Hello Kitty hot pink flip flops and my new hot pink tank top. I load up my Hello Kitty tote bag: sunblock, water, food, bear.
We board the bus and head off. Feli* is first on Court 16 or something, and luckily traffic out of the city is better this morning. We arrive and the line to get on the grounds is short. The girl inspecting my bag is nice – “Oh, cute bear!” she coos, as if she hasn’t seen them all over the grounds before.
“Yeah,” I say, “I hope today is the day I send him on his way.” She laughs and I laugh. As soon as I say that, I know today is the day.
We check the practice courts: nobody good. Wait. That sounds really bad. What I mean is nobody that we are interested in watching. We wait for Feli outside of the side entrance. He will come through these doors with his opponent and a couple of security guards. My friend L. is chain-smoking. I’m lounging on a bench, relaxing. She is pacing. I am looking around at all the people who are here at 10:30. A little after 11, I announce I am going “over here” to another spot on the grounds, and I hear, “OhmyGodAmythereheis!” I turn, and yeah, it’s Feli. He’s cute, sure, but I’m still calm. L. is in a full run, following Feli to court. We get there and sit down in the first row, behind the player chairs. He glances at my fabulous hat a few times, and L. is smiling like a loon, clicking photo after photo, and the match hasn’t begun yet.
Did I mention she washed her shirt that reads, “Where’s Feli?” last night so today is also “Where’s Feli?” day? Yes. So the match has begun and she, L., is planted there like a tree. (Fyi, she eventually had that shirt signed by the man himself.)
At 12 o’clock, I feel the need to get up and check the practice courts again. I wander over through the maze of tall bushes and finally come out to the screened off practice courts by Ashe**. There are a lot of people there, so I take a peek all the way down. No, no, no…Wait. Who is that on the last court. Ah, ha.
It was Rafa, wearing tan shorts and a backwards white hat. I walk the blacktop sidewalk down to the very end. There are bushes and privacy screening up so the public can’t watch. At the end, though, there is a gate with some gaps, and that allows a view to where Rafa is practicing.
Rafa Nadal, US Open practice courts, 2005
There are ten people there, and nowhere for me to stand and watch. I see that there is a kid in the bushes, leaning against the fence. I don’t think twice. “Hi,” I say to the kid as I enter the bush space next to him and kneel in the very dry dirt, taking off my hat and putting it over my bag that now lies on the ground. I know the pink of the hat is very visible from court. Feña***is two feet from us at times, and so is Almagro****. Rafa is on the far side, but I can still see through the grommet holes, and Rafa is instantly recognizable.
“You like Nadal?” he asks me sincerely.
“Yeah,” I say pleasantly.
“See, I have this poster of him.”
“That’s a good poster,” I say. A few seconds pass and Feña is in front of us picking up balls. The kid speaks Spanish to him, but Feña ignores the talking bushes.
“You speak Spanish?” the kid asks me.
“A little,” I whisper.
“You know Nicolás Lapentti?” he asks me in his cute accent.
“Yes,” I reply, trying to watch Rafa and listen to this kid at the same time.
“I am the best friend of his brother,” he says proudly. I smile and nod. What can I say? I don’t really want to talk too much, especially with Feña and Almagro right there. And my knees are hurting from kneeling and my jeans are getting dirty and damn, it is hot. Toni*****is there, I see, but sitting in a chair. There is some guy patrolling the court perimeter, but he hasn’t spotted us yet, or maybe he doesn’t care that we are in the bushes. Suddenly, from nowhere, the kid whistles a catcall, making it seem as if I, the girl in the bushes, whistled at them!
“Hey! They think I did that!” I chide. He laughs, thinking that is pretty funny. Soon after, an errant ball directly off of Rafa’s racquet rolls and stops in front of me. I dangle my finger through the bottom of the fence and give it a little nudge so that it goes a foot or so. Kid next to me thinks that is worth a chuckle. I laugh too, wondering if anyone else caught it. Shortly after, kid leaves the bushes in a mad dash. I stay for a while until my knees hurt so badly I must get up. By now, Rafa is tidying up the court. Practice is over. I press the side of my face against the open portion and watch Rafa tidy. He is sweating profusely and he looks as he always does in photos.
Agassi******comes in and they shake hands. I don my sunglasses, my cowgirl hat, and calmly walk the tree-lined path to the front where I know he will soon sign autographs.
I check on the bear. He’s on top, easy access and today is the day – I just know it.
I reach the front and see swarms of kids with big tennis balls waiting for Rafa to sign. I’m calm, the swarms are not. “Back it up, people!” I hear a woman say as I continue to press forward to where he will come out. It’s not that I don’t hear her, it’s that I am ignoring her. There are a few kids in front of me, but no adults anywhere. I am the tallest one, and I’m wearing a pink cowgirl hat. He walks over to where I am and is maybe three feet from me — it would have been closer if not for the kids in between. I study his face, taking in as much detail as I can in such a short amount of time. It’s not every day that a person can get this close to a professional athlete, so taking mental notes is important for memory reflection later. He’s dripping wet with sweat (NYC in the summer – oof!), he is not as darkly tanned as he looks on TV or in photos, his nose is a bit wider than on TV and in photos, and his lips are large (not that there is anything wrong with that – I’m taking mental notes). His face is large, too, but he is not overly tall. He seems much taller on television. I would study his hands but I can’t see them. He looks down immediately and signs one, then two items, because he is, of course, well-rehearsed in the task of signing his name. It is when I say “Rafa” over the noise of the kids that he looks up and then at me, mildly surprised. I reach in to get the bear and I lift it above the kids’ heads. I hear a man’s voice behind me repeating, “I’ll take it. Give it to me. I’ll take it for him.” I ignore the man’s voice behind me because I want to. I will be delivering this bear. Rafa looks at me. “For you,” I say quietly as I hand the bear to him. And his eyes have already begun smiling. “Thank you,” he says sweetly and takes the bear from me gently. I nod and give him a small smile, but my attention is entirely on his eyes. His mouth is not smiling, his eyes are, and they are so kind. I hope my eyes smiled back, and didn’t do any weird twitching, blinking, winking thing.
And then the moment was over. Bear was delivered. He looked down to sign more and I turned, held my head high and walked back to Feli’s match where L. was still was seated. I had a content smile on my face the whole walk over. Mission: Accomplished.
I found out later, quite by accident, that only kids 12 and under are allowed to stand where I was standing. Sometimes lady luck is on your side, but it doesn’t hurt to be a bit of a rebel.
*Feliciano López, Spanish tennis player
**Arthur Ashe Stadium, USTA Billie Jean King National Tennis Center
***Fernando González, Chilean male tennis player
****Nicolás Almagro, Spanish male tennis player
*****Uncle Toni – Rafa’s uncle and coach (at the time – I mean, he is still his uncle, he’s just not his coach anymore)
******IF YOU DON’T KNOW WHO ANDRE AGASSI IS, I CAN’T HELP YOU
I’ve been up and down these streets, The fine leather of my boots ruined.
For what? For whom?
Who is this brash American with her strange clothing and even stranger claims that she knows me?
I left her with Mrs. Grant right after we dined. It was no more than half past six. She was going on about frogs in her shoes, but I saw neither frogs nor shoes. What That Woman calls shoes, I have never seen in my life. She’s strange, almost barbaric. The aggravating American accent, the bombastic strength of mind and loose of lip! And her frustrating beguiling face. Pleasant and full of freedom. With a little fear. She frustrates me so!
Enough of that. The storm began at 6:45, as I had just left the drive of Mrs. Grant’s establishment. There was a loud clap of thunder. And then I heard Mrs. Grant screaming, “She is gone, Nicky, she is gone!”
Alarmed, I ran back to the establishment and met Mrs. Grant as she was running toward me. The raindrops began and quickly became torrential. We made our way inside, where Mrs. Grant could hardly get out her words. “She is gone Nicky, she simply…disappeared!” It pained me to see Mrs. Grant in such a state. I rested a hand on her shoulder and asked her to explain. But I already knew who she meant. She said Miss Reynolds went up to lie down, and that was the last she had seen of her.
Lightning struck. Maybe once, maybe twice. Mrs. Grant heard a scream from Miss Reynolds’ room. She ran up as quickly as she could, only to find the room vacated. Miss Reynolds was nowhere to be found. Milton checked the entire property, as did I, several times. I assured Mrs. Grant that I would find Miss Reynolds, that perhaps she had gone down to the place where she had fallen in the road. Perhaps she thought she left something behind there. And as the doctor assessed, Miss Reynolds had suffered a concussion, and may be confused. Perhaps she was not thinking coherently, and would try to go back to that place in the middle of the night. In a severe thunderstorm. This American unnerves me so! Alas, I must find her.
I walked the streets again and again. Searching. She is not here. My whole self is drenched and the storm continues. My stomach in knots. My countenance forlorn. As I continue walking, I start to wonder, Was she just a wish? The storm lights up the night, and there is a figure up ahead. Is it her? Is it my gypsy?
💫
This piece is a blend of three things: Nicholas from my Traveler series; Gypsy, the song by Fleetwood Mac; and a smidge of American Woman, the Lenny Kravitz version. (Yes, I know American Woman is an anti-war song, but I like to use it in this context sometimes. Ok, all of the time.)
Gypsy
Song by Fleetwood Mac
So I’m back to the velvet underground Back to the floor that I love To a room with some lace and paper flowers Back to the gypsy that I was To the gypsy that I was
And it all comes down to you Well, you know that it does and Lightning strikes maybe once, maybe twice Oh and it lights up the night And you see your gypsy You see your gypsy
To the gypsy That remains Her face says freedom With a little fear I have no fear Have only love And if I was a child And the child was enough Enough for me to love Enough to love
She is dancing away from you now She was just a wish She was just a wish And her memory is all that is left for you now You see your gypsy, oh You see your gypsy
Ooh ooh, ohh, ohh-oh
Lightning strikes Maybe once, maybe twice And it all comes down to you Ooh oh, and it all comes down to you Lightning strikes Maybe once, maybe twice And (oh) it all comes down to you I still see your (your) bright eyes, bright eyes (And it all comes down to you)
American woman Stay away from me American woman Mama, let me be
Don’t come hangin’ ’round my door I don’t wanna see your face no more I got more important things to do Than spend my time growin’ old with you
Now woman, stay away American woman, listen what I say
American woman Get away from me American woman Mama, let me be
Don’t come knockin’ ’round my door I don’t wanna see your shadow no more Colored lights can hypnotize Sparkle someone else’s eyes
Now woman, get away American woman, listen what I say
American woman I said, get away American woman Listen what I say
Don’t come hangin’ ’round my door Don’t want to see your face no more I don’t need your war machines I don’t need your ghetto scenes Colored lights can hypnotize Sparkle someone else’s eyes
Now woman, get away American woman, listen what I say
American woman Stay away from me American woman Mama, let me be
I gotta go, I gotta get away Babe, I gotta go, I wanna fly away I’m gonna leave you, woman I’m gonna leave you, woman I’m gonna leave you, woman I’m gonna leave you, woman
Bye-bye, bye-bye Bye-bye, bye-bye (American woman) You’re no good for me and I’m no good for you (American woman) I look you right straight in the eye I tell you what I’m gonna do (American woman) I’m gonna leave you woman, you know I gotta go (American woman) I’m gonna leave you woman, I gotta go (American woman) I gotta go I gotta go, American woman Yeah
I got the sandals circa 2005. The featured image is a close representation of them but not exactly. I couldn’t find the exact model. I should have bought two pair, but I never do that. I never think of it until I no longer have the item.
Above is a photo of me opening birthday presents wearing The Sandals. Two months later I would be at the U.S. Open enjoying a night tennis match wearing these same shoes. If you’ve ever been to New York City in late August, you know it’s hot and it’s humid. And when you’re watching Rafa Nadal in a night match at the same time a baseball game and a concert are going on in the same complex, and there’s exactly one late bus to take you back to the hotel in Manhattan, you know what is about to happen.
We were watching the match in Arthur Ashe stadium. At the time, there was no roof. Arthur Ashe Stadium is the largest tennis stadium in the world. Just some random trivia for you there. I’m putting off telling you what happened to my shoes.
So, as I was saying, we were watching the match on a humid night in a stadium with no roof. We were staying in Manhattan, not Queens, where the stadium is, so I didn’t pay much attention to the weather forecast for Queens.
When it rained the first time, I wasn’t too nervous. It rained off and on throughout the match. My shoes were OK. Rafa won the match. We (herd of cattle) were all moving out of the stadium. At the same time, the baseball game and the concert were moving out of their respective building and stadium. Then it started to thunderstorm.
By the time my friend and I reached the parking lot, it was pouring. Remember I said there was one late bus to get us back to Manhattan? We couldn’t find it right away and it was about 2 AM. I believe the depart time for the bus was 2:15 AM, We were running toward the location where we thought it would be. Yes, I was running in my sandals. My beloved sandals.
We finally saw the bus. We reached it and we were drenched. I thought of my shoes, but I thought I could dry them out and everything would be fine.
And for the most part, they were. But over a few years, they started to dry rot. One summer day, I reached for them, took them out of their shiny box. It was white with black lettering. The sandal straps were stretched out. And rotted.
I said goodbye to my strappy sandals that day. I never tried to replace them, but there are a few out there that look similar. But they will never be my Nine West strappy wedge heeled sandals that sat through a night match at the U.S. Open and ran through a thunderstorm to a bus waiting to take me back to Manhattan.
I went to pick up my completed taxes this morning. I’ve been going to this place for a long time, and when this receptionist first started, I recognized her. I went to grade school with her for many years, through several different schools. Today was the day I decided to mention that I think I knew her.
No one from grade school or high school would recognize me now. I can pretty much fly under the radar. That’s how I got away with so many years of this woman not knowing who I was. Well, that, and we were not in the same friend group. She was very popular. While I had friends, I was not in the popular group.
She also happened to be the girlfriend of my eighth grade crush. Without exaggeration, this boy was the biggest crush I’ve ever had in my life. It extended into ninth grade, the strength of this crush. I was quite shy, and I never really had the nerve to speak to him. I freaked out anytime he was nearby. Paralyzed like Samantha in Sixteen Candles, every time she saw Jake (and, can you really blame her when he shows up in that red Porsche, girlllllll…).
I sat at the same lunch table as my crush and his girlfriend. We sat a few feet away from each other, yet I had to pretend like I was totally fine on the inside. I specifically remember one day, eating a dessert, and he was staring at me. I looked at him, then looked back at my dessert and continued eating. I am not sure what my face revealed or how many shades of red it was.
My crush was athletic. He was tall and muscular for eighth grade. He wore a San Francisco 49ers starter jacket. And when he and his girlfriend started dating, she began to wear the jacket. Can you feel my teenage angst?
After eighth grade, we went to separate schools. My crush went to a different school and his girlfriend and I went to another. I wasn’t friends with her there either, but I knew of her. In the fall of ninth grade, his JV football team was playing our JV football team and I had to go to the game. I saw him in his uniform and he was oblivious – per usual – as we walked by – me and my friend group.
Something of the allure of eighth grade had gone. The shine of the gold starter jacket had worn off. Separated by schools, and having new experiences in ninth grade, my crush faded. Don’t worry, I got a new one. There was a boy in my English class who was a skater boy, and he was adorable. Unfortunately, he moved away to Georgia in the middle of the year. I really liked him. And he was cool. (Hey, Matt, still wonder from time to time what happened to you, bro.)
Back to 2024 and taxes. I mentioned to the receptionist that I think I knew her in school. She asked me where I went to high school. Same school. I asked her where she went to middle school. Same school. I asked her where she went to grade school. Same school. I asked her where she went to third grade. Same school. I went all the way back to second grade. Same school. She said she was going to look me up in the yearbooks. She has saved them. I have, too. A guy friend of mine wrote in my eighth grade yearbook, “You should’ve asked K. to Homecoming. He probably would’ve said yes.” He didn’t know that did ask him via a friend, because I was too shy to ask directly. And he said no. He said he wasn’t going to the dance. I don’t know if he went or not, because I never did go.
I wonder when she checks her yearbooks if she will realize that I was the girl who had the biggest crush on her boyfriend in eighth grade. I guess I’ll find out next tax season.
I heard my crush didn’t turn out so well. I have not seen him since ninth grade at that football game. Or if I have, I haven’t recognized him. It’s just as well, I like to keep my memories untarnished. Just like that shiny, satin San Francisco 49ers starter jacket.
Are there any activities or hobbies you’ve outgrown or lost interest in over time?
Am I being serious? Yes and no.
I’m at a point in my life where I wear my bathrobe to get the mail. I answer to no one but myself. I’m sorry, that’s incorrect: I answer to the cat.
After a lifetime of not making the best decisions, I’ve backed off. What I learned in childhood taught me how to choose the absolute worst partners. Thanks, dad!
After a recent relationship ended, I decided that I would no longer be actively taking applications. It’s not that the job was filled, it’s that we’ve pulled the job off the market due to a poor candidate pool. Time to go within and heal what is wrong so I stop making bad choices.
Besides all that, casual dating is not fun for me. I don’t like it. I would rather get to know one person very well, not know a bunch of people not so well.
I’m thinking of a phrase here. I think it’s a meme. There are several iterations of it. It goes something like, “I like to be alone, but I want someone that I can be alone with who also likes to be alone.”
Yeah, that. And they have to be OK with me wearing my bathrobe to the mailbox. Because I’m not going to stop doing that.
I’ve asked the universe/God to stop sending me the wrong things. I am done with the tests. I get it. I know where I went wrong. Or if I don’t know, I’m working on it. Stop sending me somebody’s dusty ass son, universe. Please and thank you.
Oh, one last thing: I will never give up my writing again for anyone or anything.
The two songs I thought of when I was answering this prompt are: Jar of Hearts by Christina Perri, and The Chain by Fleetwood Mac. Both of these songs are my jams.
Jar of Hearts
I know I can’t take one more step towards you ‘Cause all that’s waiting is regret Don’t you know I’m not your ghost anymore You lost the love I loved the most
I learned to live half alive Now you want me one more time
Who do you think you are? Runnin’ ’round leaving scars Collecting your jar of hearts Tearing love apart
You’re gonna catch a cold From the ice inside your soul So don’t come back for me Who do you think you are?
I hear you’re asking all around If I am anywhere to be found But I have grown too strong To ever fall back in your arms
I’ve learned to live half alive Now you want me one more time
Who do you think you are? Runnin’ ’round leaving scars Collecting your jar of hearts Tearing love apart
You’re gonna catch a cold From the ice inside your soul So don’t come back for me Who do you think you are?
It took so long just to feel alright Remember how to put back the light in my eyes I wish I had missed the first time that we kissed ‘Cause you broke all your promises And now you’re back You don’t get to get me back
Who do you think you are? Runnin’ ’round leaving scars Collecting your jar of hearts Tearing love apart
You’re gonna catch a cold From the ice inside your soul So don’t come back for me Don’t come back at all
Who do you think you are? Runnin’ ’round leaving scars Collecting your jar of hearts Tearing love apart
You’re gonna catch a cold From the ice inside your soul Don’t come back for me Don’t come back at all
Who do you think you are? Who do you think you are? Who do you think you are?
Listen to the wind blow, watch the sun rise Running in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies
And if you don’t love me now You will never love me again I can still hear you saying You would never break the chain (never break the chain)
And if you don’t love me now (you don’t love me now) You will never love me again I can still hear you saying (still hear you saying) You would never break the chain (never break the chain)
Listen to the wind blow, down comes the night Running in the shadows, damn your love, damn your lies Break the silence, damn the dark, damn the light
And if you don’t love me now You will never love me again I can still hear you saying You would never break the chain (never break the chain)
And if you don’t love me now (you don’t love me now) You will never love me again I can still hear you saying (still hear you saying) You would never break the chain (never break the chain)
And if you don’t love me now (you don’t love me now) You will never love me again I can still hear you saying (still hear you saying) You would never break the chain (never break the chain)
Chain keep us together (running in the shadow) Chain keep us together (running in the shadow) Chain keep us together (running in the shadow) Chain keep us together (running in the shadow) Chain keep us together (running in the shadow) Chain
* in the film Chocolat, Johnny Depp’s character’s favorite chocolate is hot chocolate. But that is a film, and although hot chocolate is delicious, it is not my favorite, and it is not candy. Give me a high-quality 70% or higher dark chocolate, and I am a happy girl. Nothing against Hershey’s, but Special Dark is not special. There’s too much sugar, and it is not smooth. Belgian chocolate is the absolute best.
And as a reminder, cacao pods grow from the trunk of the Theobroma cacao tree, and cocoa comes from the seed inside the pod. Seems that no one can agree if it’s a fruit, vegetable or a nut. Just remember this: it is health food.
Two songs came to mind while I was thinking of a response to this prompt. One was Candy Girl by New Edition – a the happy little bop that I know by heart.
The second song was Under the Milky Way by The Church. This is one of my favorite songs, and it has been since it was released. I am not sure why, but I can get lost in the smoothness of that song. See what I did there? Smoothness? Milky Way?
Have a sweet day, everyone.
Sometimes when this place gets kind of empty, Sound of their breath fades with the light. I think about the loveless fascination, Under the milky way tonight.
Lower the curtain down in Memphis, Lower the curtain down all right. I got no time for private consultation, Under the milky way tonight.
Wish I knew what you were looking for. Might’ve known what you would find. Wish I knew what you were looking for. Might’ve known what you would find.
And it’s something quite peculiar, Something shimmering and white. It leads you here despite your destination, Under the Milky Way tonight.
Wish I knew what you were looking for. Might’ve known what you would find. Wish I knew what you were looking for. Might’ve known what you would find.
And it’s something quite peculiar, Something shimmering and white. Leads you here despite your destination, Under the Milky Way tonight.
Wish I knew what you were looking for. Might’ve known what you would find. Wish I knew what you were looking for. Might’ve known what you would find.
As I’m reading through everyone’s responses today, I can’t get over the similarities. Many people need a break from work, their own thoughts, life, winter, health issues, and several other valid, important reasons.
Some people don’t need a break from anything, and that’s wonderful. I’m glad you are in that elevated state of mind.
But I have to tell you. This morning, I was needing a break from every single thing that I could imagine. I had vertigo all night. I have an ear infection, which is getting worse, not better, after taking medication. I have an earlobe infection from an earring, (Ridiculous, since I’ve had this piercing for a long time…) spread to my lymph node. It is excruciatingly painful. My migraine is flared up and angry. I was in tears this morning, not knowing who to ask for help, feeling pretty desolate. I wasn’t sure how to shake it.
But I have work to do. An entire day of work. I had two sick days in the past two weeks, so no more sick days. I sat crying on my floor, thinking this is no way to live. Feeling sorry for myself. It takes a lot of strength to get up off the floor and dry your own tears. Some of the reason I did that was because my cat doesn’t like to see me sad. It upsets her, and she’s almost 16 and doesn’t need to be worried about a human. Another reason I got up was because it’s sunny today. And I remembered that the trees have buds on them. And it’s a clear blue sky and even though I feel alone, I’m not alone. As I read all of your words, I see I am not alone.
When Elmo asked how everybody was doing, and millions of people responded that they weren’t doing very well, I felt that. We all feel that. Millions of us.
Somehow, knowing you’re not alone in what you feel, is comforting.
I also fed the birds and the squirrels. The squirrels try to open the peanut jar if you leave it unattended, which is comical, but naughty.
I tried to find joy in the small things while feeling overwhelmed by the large things.
My doctor is going to give me a new prescription for my infection in my ear and my earlobe. I’ve gotten a little bit of work done. And I hope to go for a walk in the sun.
If you are hurting today, and you need a break, just remember you’re not alone – we’re feeling it too.
How do significant life events or the passage of time influence your perspective on life?
Every single thing that happens to us influences our perspective on life. Some large events affect us more. With the passage of time, we are granted the gift of wisdom. Hopefully we use what we’ve learned. People sometimes lament about getting older. The truth is, getting older is a privilege denied to many.
I have no deep philosophizing for this prompt. Instead, I thought of song lyrics to a accompany my response.
This song has always had a very mellow feel to me. It reminds me of another time. Maybe sitting on a school bus listening to the radio, heading to or from school. The other kids laughing and talking, throwing stuff over my head. The gym-like smell of the seats. Did other people have bus drivers who let them listen to the radio? Please let me know in the comments, because my bus was jamming.
Time (Clock of the Heart) – Culture Club
Don’t put your head on my shoulder Sink me in a river of tears This could be the best place yet But you must overcome your fears
Oh, in time It could have been so much more The time is precious I know In time It could have been so much more The time has nothing to show
Because Time won’t give me time And time makes lovers feel Like they’ve got something real But you and me We know we’ve got Nothin’ but time And time won’t give me time Won’t give me time (Time, time, time)
Don’t make me feel any colder Time is like a clock in my heart Touch we, touch was the Heat too much I felt I Lost you from the start
Oh, in time It could have been so much more The time is precious I know In time It could have been so much more The time has nothing to show
Oh, in time It could have been so much more The time is precious I know In time It could have been so much more The time has nothing to show
What do you enjoy doing most in your leisure time?
A tongue in cheek title, but it’s a serious post today, folks. I received a spam comment from a “life-of-the-party” type telling me that WordPress can easily access all of my information and surely I could make up some stories. Well, clearly this person doesn’t read my blog at all, which means I take little value from the statement. But they do have a point. Much to the spammer’s chagrin, today I won’t be making up a story or writing a poem. nor will I be performing interpretive dance.
In my leisure time I enjoy battling migraine. In my workday, I battle migraine. When I’m writing a story, I battle migraine. It’s a war, made up of many battles. Some battles migraine wins, and some I do.
I wear purple battle armor
I’ve suffered from migraine since I was 12 years old. I’m going to scream this from the rooftops: migraine is not a headache, although that is the most commonly known symptom of migraine. Many symptoms accompany migraine. And there are many types of migraine. I started out with the headache type when I was 12. And then progressed to the aura which is followed by headache as a young adult. Then I got slammed with the shadiest, dirtiest, low down piece of crap migraine I’ve ever had: vestibular migraine. Vestibular migraine is characterized by vertigo, which is the sensation of spinning. It is also characterized by a rocking boat sensation, where you don’t have balance and you walk funny. A headache, sweating, stomach upset, vomiting, tinnitus, and a host of other unusual symptoms are also seen with this type of migraine. This migraine seems to be chronic for me. I live with it every day, all day. Migraines are often genetic. They can also be traumatic brain injury induced. Migraine is a neurological condition, not a headache. There are several types of migraine, and some of them are quite shocking. They are all beasts.
Types of migraine
I consider myself a bad ass for dealing with this shit every single day of my life, continuing to work and trying to live a somewhat normal life. Having vertigo for over 24 hours and throwing up nonstop, ending with a trip to the ER, where they can’t help, is not something I would wish on any enemy that I would ever have – infinitum. Many of my family members have migraine of varying types, severity and chronic states. If you line up my family members next to each other, put on a blindfold, move to the side, wave your arms around in front of your face, you will poke every single one of my family members in the nose and yes, you will have poked a migraineur.
What causes or exacerbates it? Having a brain. Also, the barometer rising, the barometer falling, the barometer being too high, being dehydrated, not getting enough sleep, getting too much sleep, too much stress, not enough exercise, turning your head wrong, these are all things I can bring on a vestibular migraine for me which, as I explained is chronic. It’s running in the background in my code. It comes to the forefront when it wants.
I have medication, but they don’t work quite as well as they should, and it’s always about tweaking the medications for us chronic migraineurs. You cannot cure migraine. Migraine is a neurological condition. It is controllable. For me, medication is essential. CBT and other types of behavioral therapies help. Vestibular rehabilitation exercises help. Getting up out of bed when you feel like you’re going throw up yet again and you can’t stop spinning helps. But imagine having to do that every day.
This is key to understanding
I don’t expect to ever be cured of this, and I don’t expect anyone to understand how you can be completely disabled at times by something you can’t see. But people who have an invisible condition or disability will understand what I’m talking about. What I do in my leisure time is I fight migraine. It is a war. I will fight to the death.
In my other free time I poke fun at Blahganuary, because I can create. I write stories and poems because I am a creative. There’s a section of my brain that isn’t filled with misfiring neurotransmitters and conductivity overstimulation or hypersensitivity. The calm area is where I get into the writing zone and chill.. I just also happen to have a chronic neurological condition that at times is disabling. I never let it win, and I never will.
While I was writing this piece using dictation, WordPress heard me say vestibular wrong. It typed out “Mr. Buler.“
(“Buehler? Beuhler? Buehler?” anyone?)
So to WordPress, thank you. I now have a nickname for my condition. When it acts up, as it is known to do, I will tell Mr. Buler he can kick rocks. I may even say it out loud in public, just for fun. “Mr. Buler, could you not have stayed home today? I mean, you didn’t even bring your battle gear. I have mine. And I’m going to use it.”
If I started a sports team, it would be racing pigeons, and their mascot would be Bert Pinkfoot.
Bert Pinkfoot was a racing pigeon who absconded a race and somehow ended up in my backyard. I knew he was a racing pigeon because he had green bands on both ankles. He was also rather tame. He arrived several Septembers ago, and I knew he wasn’t from around here, because we don’t have many pigeons where I live. That and the bands, as I mentioned. There are plenty of mourning doves, but no pigeons.
I immediately called the local bird sanctuary, and asked about this racing pigeon in my backyard, who had attracted a local flock of doves. As a matter of fact, all the female doves were quite impressed with Bert and tried to get his attention. Bert was a working man, he was a racing bird, and he was not interested in any female attention (this is when some doves cried).
The woman at the bird sanctuary told me that Bert likely left a race. My understanding is these birds race from point A to point B and back to point A, as pigeons are trained to do. She told me it was likely if I tried to return the bird to its owner, the owner would likely kill the bird because he absconded the race and lost the owner money. She also said that there had been a race about 300 miles north, and that he probably was from that race.
I wasn’t sure what to do with Bert. I had already been feeding and giving water to the “normal” birds, so he had a bit of an all-you- can eat buffet and sanctuary in my backyard. The woman also told me that he’d be likely to be eaten by hawks because he was raised to be a racing pigeon, and had no true exposure to the outside, natural world. At least not while he was trying to sleep.
Bert hung around for several weeks, though he never joined in with the doves. He tolerated his distant cousins, and maybe he found solace with them. We’ll never know why he left the race – whether he was seeking freedom or he got lost – but after about two weeks, Bert was no longer in my backyard. I didn’t see him again. I like to think he found his freedom and flew to a nearby city to be with his brethren city pigeons. I don’t think of the alternative.
As tennis fans celebrate the return of Rafael Nadal to the game in 2024, for what is expected to be his final season, we look back to the year 2006. Rafael Nadal was ranked Number 2 in the world, and had just turned 20 years old two months’ prior. Rafael joined me for an informal interview over breakfast in the restaurant of a hotel in Mason, Ohio, home of the Cincinnati Masters (as it was known at that time).
Many thanks to Rafael Nadal for this interview, and I wish him well in the next phase of his life.
Thursday, August 17, 2006, 9:20AM
This morning I had breakfast with Rafa. Well, he had breakfast, I had water. Originally, we had planned to do a brief question and answer session last night in the atrium of the hotel where we are both staying here in Mason, Ohio, but plans got a bit muddled and a new time of 9:20 a.m. was established.
I arrive at the atrium at the designated time, with my pink notebook, digital camera and Micro RC Racer pen in tote (I demonstrated my mini race car pen for Rafa later. “Yes, I see your car pen,” he humored me.) Minutes later, Rafa ambles down the hall, lugging with him a large cardboard box and chatting on the phone. He points in the general direction of the restaurant, indicating I should follow.
My short legs struggle to keep up with his long strides, but we make it. We are seated at a table near the front and Rafa takes off for the buffet. I sip my water the waitress brings and wait patiently, a bit nervous because I’ve never interviewed anyone before. Rafa arrives with a box of Frosted Flakes and is no longer on the phone. The waitress returns to take Rafa’s beverage order and he surprises me with his answer: hot chocolate. “Funny!” I tell him.
“Read my shirt!” (The print of my shirt reads Yeah, yeah…just give me the chocolate!) “I saw that,” he smiled and laughed. The waitress returns with the hot chocolate and there is no whipped cream. I frown. “You can’t have hot chocolate without whipped cream…” Rafa agrees and asks nicely for some whipped cream. Following Rafa’s consumption of the now melted whipped cream, he then proceeds to pour the entire contents of his Frosted Flakes box into his hot chocolate.
I do a mild shift in my chair. “That’s interesting…” I say. Rafa assures me it is done like this in Spain all the time. The only difference, he says, is that the hot chocolate is made with milk, not with water. We both agree that would taste much better. I’ll have to try the Frosted Flakes/hot chocolate combination when I really need a sugar rush. As Rafa eats his breakfast, the “real” questions begin.
“Do you like this tournament? Do you feel this tournament is helpful to your preparation for the US Open?” Rafa nods, “Yes, I am happy here. I did not play that well in Toronto. My goal is to play well in the US Open.” He mentions to me later on that he has been practicing three and a half hours each day since before this Cincinnati tournament began. I then ask him what his favorite tournament is. He tells me he likes many of them and can’t choose just one. Just about that time, the first fan comes up for an autograph and Rafa diligently signs. “Does it bother you when people ask you for your autograph when you are eating?” I ask. He shakes off my question. “No, it does not. It does not bother me.” Next question: “What’s the weirdest thing a fan has ever given you?” He does not understand me, so he enlists the table of Spanish-speaking men next to ours for help.
The answer: “A rock.” I stare at him. “A rock. Somebody gave you a rock.” One of the men at the table piped up to Rafa, “A rock, just like you.” They all laughed. Rafa let out a small chuckle. He didn’t understand my next question either, and I felt badly that I didn’t know enough Spanish to help him. (My goal: learn Spanish for next time.) But it was an important one, I thought, so again, our friendly neighbors assist. “I want to know what makes him laugh. What kinds of things does he find funny?” Rafa responds, “A lot of different things.” I think he said he likes to laugh and I gave him the universal thumbs-up sign for that response.
“So, when you win a tournament, is it the same feeling each time, or is it just a bit different?” Still munching on his Frosted Flakes concoction, he says, “No, no, it is not always the same feeling each time.” And that was that. “Rafa, this is my first visit to this tournament and I notice sometimes it can be…well…a bit boring when there is no tennis to watch. What do you do for fun during tournaments?” Rafa replies, “I have my computer, I play golf…” I ask if he will go to King’s Island Amusement Park.
He scoffs a bit. “Oh, well, maybe if I lose I will go there.” Cleary his mind is on work, not play. My last question before the interview ended was a bit odd, apparently. “Rafa, can you wiggle your ears?” He stared at me blankly. I lifted my hair to demonstrate. Wiggle, wiggle.
He looked down to his cereal, almost disturbed, and clearly flustered. “No, no, I cannot do that.” Oops. I hope I haven’t violated some kind of ear conduct code. Sorry, Rafa! Then the interviewee asks the interviewer some questions. “Where do you live?” he asks. “About nine hours from here, in a place that looks very much like this place – boring! And here I travel all this way to end up in a place that looks like my home.”
He seemed sympathetic. He lives in Mallorca – he should be sympathetic. He is also sympathetic of my severe sunburn, telling me, “Well, it’s hot…” It’s getting close to the time when Rafa needs to leave for practice. One more fan walks up to the table and Rafa grapples with spelling out personalized autographs using English names for the letters.
He perseveres and gets it right. Rafa asks for the check, signs for it and we’re off. A hotel staff member takes a photo of Rafa and me (I poke him in the back and whisper for him to smile – he does), and he says, “Okay, Amy, see you soon,” or something to that effect. He was already on the move, eager to work off those Frosted Flakes on court, I’ll bet.
Susie is a brown tabby with a big belly. She’s sassy, demanding, affectionate, and she loves yogurt. She’s got short little legs, but she’s super fast. She is fifteen and a half. She looks and acts about eight. Her favorite toys are pieces of scrap paper, despite the hundreds of cat toys collected over the years for her, her two brothers and her mother, who have all passed on. Only Susie remains. She is attentive and loving. She is my best girl and my favorite boss. I am fairly certain I am her favorite employee.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to tend to Her Majesty’s litter box.
“Why do you keep looking at the time?” my colleague asked with squinted, suspicious eyes.
I thought about it for a minute before I answered, knowing how bizarre my answer might seem. I continued typing as I pondered my response. “I’m supposed to meet a guy at the park today,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible.
“Oh, really,” she replied, suddenly interested and rolled her chair up to mine. “Do tell.”
“There’s not much to tell. I received a text about ten years ago and it’s stuck with me. The guy thought he was texting someone else. Once he realized I wasn’t the intended recipient, we continued texting with playful banter. It was fun. He was fun, and smart. Also really quick-witted. You know how that hooks me every time. He said we should meet at the park on September 27, 2033. As a joke, of course. But then I started to think about it – and I’ve had ten years to think about it. What if it’s like, some kind of serendipitous experience or cinematic romcom situation?”
She sat there, staring at me blankly. “You’re saying you received a text ten years ago from a guy you don’t know, and you are going to meet him at a park today? Because he said to show up at the park on September 27, 2033? I have questions. What if he’s a stalker? Or a creep? Or 78 years old? Or 17 years old? What if it’s a catfish? And let’s say it’s not: it’s been ten years. Don’t you think he’ll have forgotten your text exchange by now? And since it was said in jest, he’s not going to show up, even if he recalls. Finally, how will you know who this guy is when you see him at the park?”
I shrugged off the first thousand questions. “I won’t,” was my response to the final one.
Her face scrunched. “This is clearly a joke. If you didn’t exchange photos, and haven’t texted since that one mistaken identity thing in 2023, then no, this is not happening. Like, at all.”
I turned back to my screen and continued typing. “I’m going to the park at lunch, sitting on the bench, and I will see if there are any guys loitering around looking at me.”
She ran her hand down her face in a sweeping motion of clearing out the annoyance that was me. I was not dissuaded. “What you are describing is a normal occurrence at the park. Do you know how many random guys loiter around and look at us every day as we walk through?”
I kept typing, keeping my eyes on the screen. ‘Yes, I know, but those are weird guys.”
“What separates this guy from those guys?”
“This guy told me to meet him at the park today.”
She sighed heavily. “I sure hope you have your Suspicious Persons binder up to date before you head out on this bad chick flick adventure of yours, because there are so many ways this can go south. You don’t know who you’re looking for, you don’t know what his intentions are, AND it’s been ten years since this occurred. He may not even show up, and I hope for your sake he doesn’t.”
The sky started taking on a strange darkness as we sat there, our cubicles next to the large window. She kept talking, mostly telling me not to do it, with me mostly thinking about what I could grab for lunch to take to the park. When I defiantly told her I was going, regardless of her lecturing, she waved me off dramatically. “Do what you want, but I’m going to send the police in an hour, and you know I mean it.”
I headed out at around 11:45. I stopped by the sandwich shop at the corner, ordered a croissant – because Paris is always a good idea. I could pretend that this was a Parisian park, and the guy would show up in a raspberry beret, the kind you buy from a secondhand store.
I took off my shoes and walked my way through the soft grass to the bench where I could see everyone in the park. There were kids playing nearby, giggling. There was an older woman sitting on the nearby bench. She smiled and nodded, and I returned her kind acknowledgment. So far, no weird guys had appeared, and no normal guys, either. The sky continued to darken, and I recalled the text exchange from ten years prior. “That’s right, there is a solar eclipse today,” I whispered to myself as a squirrel stared at my croissant, tiny arms pulled up to its chest.
I’d been at the park about fifteen minutes when my phone rang. It was my coworker. “What is happening? Are you insane? Are you safe?” She was bordering on hysteria.
“I’m fine. I’m sitting here talking to a squirrel actually. I’m eating my lunch, and if he doesn’t show up, I’ll just—”
It was at that moment I felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Gotta go,” I said slowly, and ended the call. With a deep breath, I turned slowly toward the direction of the tap. I looked up and I felt a wry smile form. My smile was returned to me tenfold. The sun was blocked out, but not by the eclipse.
“It's Amy,” I said. 