While you were sleeping

Pinetree at nightRemember the dancing baby in Ally McBeal? The same thing is happening to me, but it’s an incredibly gifted circus animal. Twice now, right at bed time, I have caught sight of an animal that defies gravity. It appears to be a 26 pound Rat-Terrier. It walks along the top of my privacy fence.

I know. I should’ve given up wine for Lent again this year. Instead, I gave up, “staying up past 11 p.m.” Hey, it’s not as easy as it sounds. In fact, this very night I was staring into the darkness of my side yard, imagining the glory that Dewayne, my genius landscape designer, would bring forth, when I heard a bunch of rustling around. Naturally, I thought it was a burglar. I waited and listened, careful to scan all dark shapes for movement. It came from behind the privacy fence.

Maybe it’s somebody looking for a place to sleep for the night, I thought. I do live in the Historic District.

I waited, almost holding my breath. Everybody in my house was asleep. It was so quiet, I could even make out the sounds of Garry’s level 1 snoring.

I considered the family of ducks that moved in last spring. Either, the person passed out or the ducks are asleep, I thought.

And just as I was about to  go to bed, I heard, “Hiss! Hiss! Hisssssss! Hisssss!” The homeless person had stepped on four cats.

Got to be cats. A bunch of mean, fighting cats. But then, silence. My eyes watched the tree trunk and the yard and the blackness. Nothing.

Almost a whole minute later, there was a tiny scratching on the fence, followed by a pointy nose. It poked up and over. An over-fed roundness balanced itself and waddled away, an ottoman off to find it’s sofa. The delicate silhouette appeared and disappeared as it left, never wavering. Graceful and moonlit, it was fatter than my seven year old Sheep Dog/ Basset mix. And it was trotting on a one-by-two. Nose down, tail out.

He turned the corner toward the back wall and I went to bed.

Last night I saw him again. This time he was on my other neighbor’s roof, two stories up.  It was already midnight. I woke up my 13 year old.

“Come look, a magic dog is on Sonny’s roof!” I said.

We watched as the wire hair caught the light from the Georgia Power pole. It tiptoed across the very top of the roof like a witch wearing it’s hat for a nose, crawling on it’s belly and scaling the thirty-degree slope. More deft than the Great Wallenda. Up and back again. Head down, tail out.

“Dang,that thing can get in our house!” I looked at Theo.

“Mom, it’s way past eleven.” he said.

 

Going to Mexico in my mind

sma_sunsetI am searching Amtrak routes. Why? I hate flying. I actually don’t hate to fly. It’s just the thought of flying in a mile high Pringles can. With the right amount of Margaritas I could maybe look forward to it. Unfortunately, Margaritas don’t last for months and it’s the time leading up to the flight that freaks me out.  I have single handedly talked Delta into and out of non-cancellable tickets, four times, for the same trip. Once, we flew from Atlanta to Acapulco and drove home. It took six rental cars, one way each. You see, I am persuasive and imaginative. You’d think I could think myself safe. But, then I would be able to think myself thin….Anyway, as I pilfer the railroad routes, I find myself longing for the warm Carribean breeze of the Yucatan, where hotels are old monasteries, dressed in fuschia Bouganvilla. Or, I am sitting in waist high water in Playa Maya. Under the leaning palm tree, sits only a taco stand and a plastic table with four chairs. The water is aquamarine and it’s so clear, you can watch the fish swim past your knees.  It’s completely Gilligan’s Island. Or sometimes, my view is a sunset from  a tiled patio in San Miguel de Allende, overlooking the cactus and scrubbrush and faraway mountains on one side. Terra cotta rooftops and patios overhang scarred pastel walls of the city, in the other direction. Cobbled streets snake between  sidewalks,  half a person wide. Church bells ring in the zocolo. A tall stray dog passes me on the street. He seems to be in a hurry to get somewhere.

Big Hair Days

win-pictures-aquanetOne of my earliest memory is sitting in the hallway leading to the bathroom, saying, “Mooooooommmm, come on”. At least that’s how I remember it. My mom’s particular about her hair and in 1971, she had a lot of it and it took a lot of fixin’. She didn’t have long hair back then. It was short, black and big. Yes, she’s a white woman and we were in Cullman County Alabama, freshly divorced from my dad, with a red pontiac and big sunglasses, bigger than 80’s sunglasses. I think they had to tone them down for the 80’s. People started to take stuff a little more seriously 10 years down the road. But there I sprawled, across the hardwood floor in white tights and white patent leather shoes and a red and white polka dotted bow, tied to the top of my big red hair. But my mom and that can of Aquanet were one wih the mirror. And I remember, it involved a bunch of teasing and maybe a pick, but I’m not exactly sure about the pick part. The rest of my life, say, after age 10, it was more of hot rollers and a big brush kind of hairdo. Anyway, I waited. And waited and waited and waited and waited… And finally, it was deemed acceptable enough to sit on top of her head at the Cullman County Courthouse, until, sometime midday, she’s push open the enormous wooden door, marked, “ladies”, set the enormous black purse on the counter by the sink and pulling her pocket mirror out, check it from all points, refreshing where neccessary with adequate amounts of Aquanet, in the red bottle.