didaink

Here comes the sun... and I say, it's all right.

 

 

10:30am

 

The song and dance of the morning shuffle has ended. All the humans I live with have gone off to work or school in concrete buildings. I don't like concrete buildings. I like windows. I find myself pacing around the second floor of the house looking out every one. All I can see is snow white and brittle brown for miles. It is cozy up here, though, and I can write just fine on my laptop, but that mid-morning nap urge is tempting, the sun room sofa so, so buttery around my back. Dida.. it calls, just 30 minutes.. that's all, I promise. You can even set your alarm, if you want. Sir Tumbleweed, however, is still not ready to descend the stairs with me, and I am determined not to leave him for too long in his room. He does have plenty of space, but it's just his fourth day with us, and I want to observe his behavior and how he reacts to the other pets after four days of seeing two out of the three of them in small increments.

 

The sky is clever today, wearing that deceiving California blue, yet it is well below freezing outside. The kind of East Coast day that tempts you outside with its postcard views only to whomp you in the jaw with a blow of Artic wind. 8°F and the blinding white rooftops are glistening sugary sweet but too painful to gaze at in the bright, bright light. I don't want to draw the shades, that would be cruel, so I reach for my sunglasses. Much better. Here comes the sun, I tell Sir Tumbleweed.

 

I go to sit on the edge of my bed and face the bedroom double-doors, so I can facilitate the regular lineup of visitors. I have left one door open a bit, enough for someone to come in if they like. My laptop is on my knees and my feet are planted firmly on the floor in house slippers that double as snowboots. As I type, Sir Tumbleweed, an East Coaster, naps in his new favorite spot near the corner windows of the master bath. He has just let the other tuxedo, Gatsby, enter the room. Gatsby comes closer and closer and is now standing just below the ledge of the soaking tub. However, Sir Tumble’s front paws are still folded neatly underneath his chest. Not a peep or rumble from either one. Streaks of gold criss-cross the cold tiles in a warm glaze, and the white of Tumbleweed’s neck is soaking up the delicious taste of honeycomb sunshine. His yellow bowl with the Mr. Potato Head black feet is full of fresh water and, although his new red and white bowl is empty after a hearty breakfast, he is willing to wait patiently for lunch to arrive. Gatsby is sitting close to him but below the ledge, and Sir Tumble’s aqua-blue eyes are closing. He will allow it, and I say to Gatsby, it's all right.

 

After a few minutes, Ms. Noodle Monster sticks her head in and out of the door a few times and I welcome the meet-and-greet with Sir Tumbleweed. Each time after she pops her head in, I get up to comfort Tumbleweed as he stays on his spot. I give him kisses on his forehead and rub his neck and chin, letting him know how proud I am of him for sharing his space with Gatsby and the always animated, Ms. Noodle, who can be exhausting to watch. "Big Lini" (her given name: Lovalini) has yet to attempt any ascent to see where everyone went. She must be sunbathing on her mat down in the sun room. As long as the sun is warming her pink belly, she really isn’t interested in anyone else’s whereabouts.

 

I eventually get up, give Sir Tumbleweed more love before I admit that I would really like to join Lovalini in the sun room -- that is, if it's all right with him, and I ask Gatsby and Ms. Noodle to give Sir Tumbleweed some privacy now. They agree and Tumble stays where he is. He says it's all right, I can go, he is content to stay right where he is. He seems to like his new spot, his new window nook for one. I respect his choice and close the door knowing he is safe  and warm in the sun.

 

 

If Big Lini would just scootch over a bit, I might be able to fit down there beside her, but she lifts her head and whispers that she's holding the spot for a special gentleman she's been day dreaming about. Maybe you know him, she says, he just moved in on the second floor.

 

 

Christophe Bill Henry, RIP (January 5, 2014 - January 6, 2014)

Christophe "Bill" Henry, our snowman with the red Captain Marvel cape, melted last night, pounded by rain and wind in the wee hours. We found his carrot nose floating this morning in a muddy puddle that used to be his life.

Like Christophe William Henry’s nose, I too have floated in puddles like that, face down in muddy transformations, having moved too many times in the last four years ~ the first of which I found myself loading and unloading boxes in three different houses, in three different neighborhoods, in two different states. When you start over that many times, in that many places, there is bound to be a cesspool that forms around you, each place still clinging to you like algae, muddying-up the next “new beginning” that would much prefer to swim in fresh, clean, purified water.

So as I passed Christophe this morning after driving the kids to school, I slowed down and took a picture of him for posterity. I didn’t want to forget him, move on so quickly to the next place I had to be. I wanted to remember how handsome and strong he looked last night, even though the new morning had erased most of him. After all the time we'd spent building him in the late afternoon, we ran back to the warmth of the house in haste, forgetting to take a picture with him. Instead, we patted him on the back, kissed his soft white cheeks and wished him a peaceful night, leaving him all alone near the road. But he was a renegade snowman.. a pioneer, really. He insisted on going without a traditional scarf or a wool hat, preferring instead to brave his new, uncertain conditions on the East Coast with some of the favorite things he’d acquired along the way. I knew exactly how he felt. I just wish I had the guts to do it in a cowboy hat and a cape that said, "Shazam!"