A Back Porch Ritual

Rituals help us simplify the complexity of our lives. They give meaning to life's events.  Rituals are the default setting at the end of a stressful  day.

Husband-dear has a back porch ritual.

Early in the afternoon, he pours the charcoal briquettes from the blue and white bag. They tumble out in a small cloud of black into a tall rusty can with a wooden handle. Husband-dear calls it a "chimney." Kerosene and a match together flash into yellow flames. Then white, wispy, smoky curls dance past the metal porch roof. At just the perfect moment Husband-dear transfers the white hot briquettes into the smoker.

The smoker looks like two black metal trashcans lying on their side. Husband-dear  places the wood from the backyard woodpile into the smoker side and strategically arranges the meat on the cooking side. Ribs and sausage. Chicken. Brisket. All rubbed to perfection.

 

The afternoon summer sun bakes my metal back porch roof and the smoking smoker  contributes to the oven-like experience. The smoker makes the story of Shadrac, Meshac and Abednego's fiery furnace come alive in my mind. The heat consumed the king's soldier when he threw the three Hebrew men into the flames. I know this heat. It's on my west-facing back porch when the smoker gets going.

My back porch has metal chairs to sit in and enjoy. On cooler days, Husband-dear sits in these chairs and contemplates. On hot Texas summer days, he rushes quickly to safety, inside the cool and behind the sliding glass door.

In my back porch, when Husband-dear smokes, mosquitoes stop buzzing. Flies flee the heat. But not Husband-dear. He checks on his meat throughout the afternoon. Sometimes I stand guard inside the cool, at the sliding glass door and open it for him lest the heat overcome him. But I never can shut the door quickly enough. The flies, also fleeing the heat, zip into my cool den with every open and shut slide.

It is at this point that I enter into my husband-dear's back porch smoking ritual. I arm myself with two lime green fly swatters from Wal-mart.  My fly swatters hang on a nail in the laundry room. I keep one fly swatter in the bathroom. 

It usually takes me two days or so to hunt down all the flies who found refuge inside my house from  the fiery furnace on the back porch. By that time we have eaten all the left over ribs and sausage and Husband-dear fires up the rusty black smoker once again.

Memory

Memory. I use it. I need it. I look for it. I lose it. I have it. It's a verb. It's a noun. It's an adjective. Memorize. Memory. Memorable. It's a process. It's multi-modal. It's multi-sensory. It's a system. It has strength. It has speed.

 

 Rich. Textured. Shades. Sounds. Smells. Layered. Linked. Deep. Shallow. Shared. Pain. Joy. Aha's!

Can I choose to forget? Can I choose to remember?  Am I forced to recall?  Can I learn to remember?  Can I learn to forget? 

Memory occurs in the moment or after the passage of time. Learning and memory are sisters. Memory dresses in seconds, minutes and hours. She exists in the dimension of space, time and distance.   

Memory can trigger my heart rate and increase my breathing and make my palms sweat. Memory can gently caress my lips and leave a smile. Memory can moisten my cheeks with tears.

 

Lives are stored in my memory.

The Library

The library's tall round columns beckon me. The doors open wordlessly with my approach. The cool swoosh of solid AC assures me the weather inside is under control. I leave behind the baking sidewalks. 

 
 My toes cry to be let loose of my sandals and glide on the cool tile floors. The librarian behind the reference desk smiles her welcome. The murmur of scholars' voices, hum of the lights, whir of machines join in.  Window paned walls of sunlight surround my favorite table and I take my place. 






Shelves hold books. Books stand shoulder to shoulder waiting. Patience. Allure. Curiosity. . Books hold cities, nations, entire worlds. Like the horizon entices the traveler, books entice the discoverer. Words and ideas waiting to be seen, heard and known. TIme to explore. To discover. To grow.

Summer trips to the beach

My approach to the beach has changed since my threesome outgrew the back seat. Now, husband-dear and I go at sunrise and then again at sunset. In between we hibernate in the AC.
 
A canvas bag of oversized towels. Milk jugs of water. An ice chest of bottled water. All jewelry safe at home. No make-up. No hair mousse. The Texas Gulf awaits. Cities build high rises. The state builds more highways. But the beach never changes. And its appeal never lessens.

 
The road that leads to the beach is at first a freeway. Without notice the car lots, grocery stores and malls end and water stretches on either side of a long causeway. The cause way is close to the water and I see men standing chest deep in the Madre Laguna holding a fishing pole. The road beneath us becomes a big bridge and the Intercoastal Canal below stretches to the left and to the right. Soon we are on the island driving toward the little roads that access the beach. The land is flat and businesses pop up left and right. The familiar sign "Bob Hall Pier" welcomes me like an old family friend and husband-dear turns left. Drifting sand covers the road. There is no sign of the ocean. No waves. No beach until the last bend. Then there it is.

 
The Gulf appears between the dunes. That is when all life stands still. For one moment I cannot breathe. The past doesn't matter and the future has no relevance. I am slow to get out of the car. I just stare. Stare at the waves, the white caps, the expanse. My flip flops stay on the floor board and my feet embrace the sand. I sit on the funny little wood picnic table made of sturdy two-by-fours firmly grounded in the sand until the next storm. Sitting on a throw away bench I face Eternity and our eyes meet.

The kitchen sink and the empty-nester.

Being an empty-nester, I can wash the dishes by hand in five minutes. I can let the dishes pile up for three days before I wash them. The kitchen sink used to be permanently attached to my tummy. I always had a wet circle about waist-high no matter how careful I was. The kitchen sink had a system. A clean side and a dirty side except for when the dirty side invaded the clean side. There was one dishrag for dishes and another for floor spills except for when the floor spill was bigger and required lots of dishrags. One cutting board for fruits and veggies, one for raw meats and one for slicing bread except for when we couldn't find one then it was a free for all. Usually that was when I would find all three cutting boards in the back next to the grill. 

Being an empty-nester, my kitchen sink has two plates in the morning. One or two at lunch and two more in the evening. Just two. One for me and one for husband-dear.  No more baseball teams,  or my son's girlfriend and all her friends. No more gaggle of girls dropping in for an impromptu tea-party on great-grandmother's fine china. No more falling asleep a mother of three and waking up to a den full of teenagers asleep on every surface.  No more Saturday morning and the bottomless pancake griddle. No more Sunday afternoon and the all you can eat smoked chicken thighs.

 Being an empty-nester, I hardly even visit the kitchen sink any more. 

My daughter-in-love.

Once a year my daughter in love shows off her more-than-fabulous artwork at the Rockport Art Festival.

 More than 100 artists answer the call every year. They come from all over. It's like the king sent out his heralds, "Calling all artists!" The artists leave their homes and travel for miles to show us their art. Artists are commissioned to see beauty, capture beauty (if it can be captured) then show it to the rest of us.

http://www.amybomarart.com/

Everyone who sees her art loves her work.
I love her art.

 

Husband-dear shows up at each show with a lot of stuff for daughter-n-love's booth. He rests and bakes after the set up.

I'm impressed with her art and I'm impressed that she is married to my son.

The Barbershop

Husband-dear took me to the barbershop. Outside, a pole rotated  like a vertical merry-go-round. Red, white, blue.  Inside, I waited on a long, padded church-pew and witnessed a strictly man ritual.

A row of barber chairs face a wall of mirrors and the barber  motions to an empty chair.  A few grunts, hand gestures and  two nods and the barber knows that husband-dear wants a nice short haircut.  The barber is an energetic man, his own happy curls escape from beneath his Nike cap. He focuses on the head of hair beneath his dexterous fingers. Catching the hair with a fine comb and buzzing the tips, the barber has no need for conversation. And neither does husband-dear. Bending the ear with one hand his electric shears follow the ear's contour. A simple turn on his heels on the black padded rubber mats and Mr. Barber, moving like a dancer, reaches  to a hot shaving foam dispenser . With hot foam and a straight razor, the artisan barber shaves clean the neck and side burns. Another grunt and nod give Mr. Barber the OK to trim husband-dear's red brows. Snip, snip. A discrete glance at the mirror  and Mr. Barber receives the subtle nod from his client.

On a peg above the mirror hangs a leather gun holster like a gunslinger would wear in the days when men took the law into their own hands.  In the corner sits an old fashion cash register with numbers that pop up when you punch in the amount. The ubiquitous TV drowns out other conversations. The magazine rack holds TV Guide, Texas Monthly, Bowhunting and Sports Illustrated. Today's newspaper is stacked untidily in the corner of the bench I sit on. The buzz of the snippers, and the murmur of other conversations are occasionally interrupted with the soft blast of the air compressor  clearing  the clients' necks and shoulders of hair bits.  The barber whistles softly and examines his client's hair. He hands him a hand mirror and a comb.  Husband-dear combs his hair like usual and the barber knows where to clip the last bit.

With a soft brush Mr. Barber swishes and  swooshes husband-dear's red neck and then adjusts his shirt collar.

 "OK?"

Nod.

"OK!"

With respectful deference, Mr. Barber hands husband-dear his cap . A pause ensues, husband-dear keeps the cap in his hand and instead, he lifts his hazel green eyes to meet mine in a look I recognize. I, a guest in this land of nods, grunts, straight razors, and revolvers, smile my approval.

Roadtrip

Today I took a road trip. I look forward to the eight hours in the car.  It's calming. No one needs me. No time deadlines.  No pressure to make decisions. What I like most about being in the car for eight hours is the stuff I don't have to do. I don't have to clean the kitchen or do the laundry. I can't clean the bathroom or sweep the floors. The shoes on the floor and the junk mail on the table are out of sight and out of mind. In the passenger seat, with the AC chilling my skin, my feet propped up on the dash, my arms cuddling my pillows I just sit. If I doze off, I doze off. If I am awake, I am awake. If  I want to stop, I give husband -dear a certain look and he finds a fun gas station.

With the carefree-ness that once belonged only to childhood, I sing along with the 80's station or get lost in a kindle audio book. The van, a vestige of prior family ways, is devoid of other passengers so I get to choose the contents of the ice chest in the back and eat all the snacks myself.  I am the only person husband-dear is concerned about keeping happy and I love it.

Cat

Cat, why are you bothering me? Why do you recline on the keyboard? Why do you lean your furry body against my arms? Why do you think my typing fingers are for playing keep away?

Cat, don't you know you have hair on every surface of your body? You have hair coming out of your ears and in between your toes. You even have hair on your upper lip and you're a girl! You obviously don't believe in shaving your legs or your under arms. 

Cat, you think I love you and I want you close to me. That is an assumption on your part. We don't see each other very often. I only visit you when I'm in town. You don't belong to me. Have you heard of safe people and healthy boundaries?

Cat, why can't I resist you? Why do I lean over and place my forehead against yours in a feline-mind-meld? Why do I tickle behind your ears and giggle at your antics? Why do I admire your flexible agility? Your balance and mighty jumping prowess? Why am I smitten by your graceful movements?

Cat, why am I  enamored when you snuggle next to me? Why am I contented and at peace with the world when you rumble and purr? Cat, do you know the power you have over me?

Summer Water

Water sprinklers. A summer mainstay in the city parks of my childhood. My favorite sprinkler is the long continuous  arch of water interrupted by a little metal arm  that forces the water arch to travel across the yard. This creates an instant game of London Bridges. Running under the arch and squealing, wearing a t-shirt, shorts and barefooted. Everything that is good and perfect about childhood.

My father would water the corners of the lawn with a round sprinkler that shoots tiny sprays of water  like a fountain just for me. The water spray was soft and tickly.  Leaping over this gentle spray like a frog,  giggling for no other reason than just being wet.

Husband-dear introduced me to seeper hoses. These black snake-like sprinklers by-pass the air all together and are no fun at all. They saturate the ground efficiently with little loss to evaporation. Last night husband-dear forgot to turn the backyard faucet off. This morning my flower beds were extraordinarily perky. 

When my children could still fit around my kitchen table to drink their milk, I always watered the lawn with a long, wide yellow sprinkler called a slip-n-slide. It was way more efficient than husband-dear's black and boring seeper hose. With this sprinkling system, I tackled two tasks at the same time. My hot and thirsty lawn was happy and so were my raucously hilarious three-some. In their swimsuits, goggles and sun screen, my fun and funny three hooted and hollered under the front yard oaks.

But my favorite way to water the grass is to park the car on the lawn and wash it.  Husband-dear waters the lawn at night because we're always on a water shortage alert.

Texas heated summers enrich my relationship with water. I  yearn for water during our long Texas summer droughts. And I  rejoice when a thunderstorm darkens our brazen sunny skies.