Now Playing: “I Can See Clearly Now,” Johnny Nash. (Too on the nose? 😂)

Ah, the yearly eye exam. Word Raccoon asked to come along. I knew she just wanted in on choosing frames, but figured she couldn’t do too much harm.

First of all, she had learned the day before at the gym that the gym owner’s wife worked at the eye center, so she was determined to make herself known.

She did.

The poor young woman seemed a bit overwhelmed at first. WR regaled her with stories about her gym antics. (We’ve known the gym owner for a few years now, but had been out of touch and didn’t realize he’d married until recently.)

Gradually she warmed up to WR, and soon we were talking about CrossFit and board games. (For the record, Word Raccoon does not enjoy board games but she can talk about them. Her brain and body won’t calm down long enough to play board games, but she is happy that others enjoy them.)

Then the doctor came in and mentioned my former optometrist who retired a couple of years ago.

We liked our former eye doctor. He told me he was retiring a couple of years ago. “We’ve been together a long time now, haven’t we?” he said. I first went to him when I was 19 or 20. He and his wife led a group at the university I was part of in the 90s, and the group even hosted a weekend camping trip. (Cabins, mercifully. WR and I do not camp in tents.)

He and I always talked about our travels. This new doctor (lovely man) told me my former doctor and his wife had just returned from Greece.

Word Raccoon looked pained at the sentimental turn, but even she nodded at the Greece detail.

But I’ve been to Greece! I want to know where they went! Athens, surely? Did they go to Crete, too? Fodele was gorgeous! I want to tell him about the lemon trees and the El Greco museum. 

Now we won’t know, unless I run into his wife at the café, which I do occasionally.

(Am I the only one who has a running mental list of all of the things you want to tell someone and all of the questions you’d like to ask, no matter how long it’s been?)

We also used to talk about running, back when I could run. (Guess who stressed her hip yesterday at the gym? Eh, ice and ibuprofen, and let’s hope I can jump back in the game. Too much too fast. My life’s story.)

He was a runner, too, and I think we were in a couple of the same races.

Often I was his first appointment of the day. (I like to get my appointments out of the way to free up bigger blocks of writing time.) I’d be waiting on the stoop at 7 a.m. for him to let me in.

The office doesn’t even open until 8 now.

My former doctor fitted me for my first contacts. He also told me, during the colored contact lens trend, that I didn’t need them. (Oh, the 90s.)

This new optometrist is a nice guy. We talked about music. Maybe that will be our thing.

Apparently my eyes have gotten better (it seems that happens sometimes?), so they’re actually struggling against my current prescription. Which might explain why I often don’t wear my glasses at home anymore.

Long story short, I need new glasses.

Here’s where WR comes in.

Even as we walked toward the frame display, she was muttering about what we’d consider:

This shape, color, no metal, stay within my insurance’s frame budget, fun…

The woman helping me told me to look around while she grabbed frames, too.

I paused to ask her what’s currently trending and made WR listen. She did, barely, then waved me away.

“I like what I like,” she said.

And then Word Raccoon said it:
“I want statement glasses.”

Oh. No.

This was why I didn’t want to bring her.

She tried on several pairs and couldn’t focus because she kept getting distracted by these pink wire-rimmed glasses.

“Try them on,” the clerk said.

They were adorable, so I did.

Nope.
They didn’t work at all.

Then WR picked up two pairs of Tommy Hilfiger frames (she wasn’t looking for any brand in particular) that were so fun.

One was a unique shape. One was a unique color. Both had wire frames.

“Can I get these frames in this color?” she asked.

I could!

I’m hoping they come in time for the author fair at my alma mater I was invited to attend. Fingers crossed!

After the appointment, I managed to get in some writing time before I needed to hop on a webinar. 

I wrote two poems, one based on a book I just finished reading, the second called “An Unfinished Job.” The first one I’m not sure is shareable. It questions everything. The way I do. Like, once things have changed in the world, why would you put them back the way they were if it doesn’t improve anything? (Neither is a political poem. I pinkie swear.)

I submitted a packet of poems yesterday too, but I didn’t follow directions because they didn’t have the portal set up properly so that I could. I guess I could’ve contacted them but I took a chance instead.

I probably take too many chances. But if you don’t take any, where does that leave you?  

My novel-in-progress also got a little love yesterday. 

I was awake and on the porch at 3 a.m. this morning writing. I was kinda glad it wasn’t light yet, because although I 100% support my neighbors’ right to erect their new fence, it cuts off part of my view and WR is pissed. 

Also, I can still see part of the window where their dog sits and watches me write, but now there’s a finial that reflects in the window and I keep thinking it’s my dog buddy, but no. 

So my new writing buddy is a finial? 😂

Word Raccoon says that’s fine with her. I think she was jealous of the dog anyway. 

Or maybe she just prefers her birb sightings. 

Word Raccoon insists that if we aren’t going to the Father John Misty show tonight, then we are going to write something. (She still can’t believe we’re not going. I really ought to toast some marshmallows or something for her, shouldn’t I?)

She’s been busy. She met with the gym owner yesterday, and was told he had a feeling she’s rebellious. You think?

Today, he continued the intake. I’m afraid WR was not well-behaved. At all. Maybe she wanted to prove him right.

First, she had to give her age. IN FRONT OF OTHERS! She was not happy.

Then came her height. She began pacing across the gym owner’s desk. I was worried. I should’ve been.

“Not going to ask my weight next, are you?” she asked, nostrils flared.

“No, no,” he said quickly, glancing at his sidekick.

“At least I won’t have to ask for the manager,” WR hissed under her breath, since both the owner and the manager were in the office, along with Barry.

But then she stepped onto the weird machine that supposedly measures everything inside of a person, and immediately noticed that it was MEASURING HER WEIGHT.

Friend, avert your eyes. Skip the next sentence if you don’t want to know just how naughty that animal was…

The raccoon pointed a certain two fingers at the gadget.

Thankfully, the room erupted in laughter. But when the bio age results were read, WR used language that (she thought) shocked Barry. He tapped her shoulder. He claims he was commiserating; WR interpreted it as light censorship. Though she contained her displeasure, she briefly contemplated not cooking dinner.

She pretended to believe him when he explained himself, but she still gave him the stink eye along with the corn on the cob. And she didn’t give him any Tajin for it. 

The gym owner said he was only giving me stats compared to others of my age and height in a “don’t shoot the messenger” way.

“That’s where you went wrong,” WR said. “We cannot be compared to others.”

Everyone laughed again, but we were not kidding.

Anyway. My writing imp insisted on writing this morning. Finally. I was beginning to wonder if she was on strike.

She wrote four poems (please, please know that these titles are rough drafts):

• Shroud to Shawl (too bald, accurate but needs finessing)
  
• On a Burning Bridge (again, too much)
  
• Pillar of Aughts (unnecessarily complicated title, but the poem itself is a scorcher; this one may be too sharp for this world. At least for now.)
  
• The Gift (too nondescript)
  
• Animal, Vegetable, ? (you see the problem)
  
• His Arms Are Universes (based on a family joke from years ago)

For once, the poems are better than the titles, which is a relief. Still rough, but not terrible.

Last night I was preparing to submit one of my favorite poems, and the first stanza, which had been nagging at me, became intolerable.

Mercifully, the fix slid right into my mind.

Then another poem I wanted to pair with it had weak ankles. I fixed those, too.

I think I’ve begun to understand something I didn’t before about poetry.

I can’t explain it better than that just now. But I’d like to try, if you ever want to discuss.

Word Raccoon is all Song of Solomon over here, a book of the Bible I used to skip. Who wants to be complimented on her goat hair?

But WR gets it now. Still overwrought from writing poetry and too much of everything, she gets what it means to have a heart half-stuck open all the time. 

You’d think WR would be embarrassed to write so freely. Her throat is aching with all she’d like to say.

But she won’t because she only thinks she controls my keyboard.

She certainly doesn’t control others and wouldn’t presume to try. 

Listen more, write less, WR. Maybe you’ll hear something worth hearing. 

What she’s hearing right now is an audiobook (still not a fan of that medium) and she’s sniffing a piece of driftwood. It’s silly, but she almost thinks she smells maple syrup. Impossible, right?

Word Raccoon considers her favorite maple tree and inhales deeply, but she’s too far from it to detect any scent at all. Tomorrow, WR. After your eye appointment. Now go to sleep. 

Word Raccoon is fussy bunny today. Around here that means nothing pleases me, I don’t want to do anything, and there is absolutely nothing I want.

It’ll pass. It always does.

First of all, I said I didn’t want to write a post today, WR! How dare you!

And then you made me too much peanut butter toast and a banana? No thanks. More Coke Zero, please.

I couldn’t even find my favorite pillow for my porch chair. As I swung Pity the Fool (my robe, keep up) over my shoulders, my neighbor roared off on a before-school motorbike ride with his daughter. Sir, that is too much too early. Can I open my eyes first?

Meanwhile, a squirrel hopped into the brush pile. I hope she’s not planning to bury a nut in there, because when the town finally gets its act together and carts it away, poof, it’s gonna be gone. Words of wisdom from Drema Drudge, squirrel consultant.

Another neighbor from down the block just picked a stick off the sidewalk on her walk, put it behind my tree, came back, picked it up again, and deposited it in the brush pile. WR rolled her eyes and muttered “of course.” I tried to shush her and tell her we do not call people prissy pants, even in our minds. 

WR insisted on getting a hairbrush and working the tangles out of my hair. Too bad it doesn’t work for my brain, LOL. 

So here I am, writing from home because why not? My only out-of-the-house appointment for the day is with the local gym owner. Odds are, I’m going to cancel. 

I’ve been half-listening to Middling, the podcast. I was going to tell you about another one on Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White on the Secret Life of Books podcast, but again, fussy bunny rules the day and she’s not even gonna finish listening today. Maybe I’ll get to that another day. Maybe. (Oh, bite me, you know you will listen, WR!)

And if I don’t time this porch sit just right, the neighborhood walking crew will march by soon. Lovely people, truly, but God help me, I don’t want to wave today. Would it be cowardly to rush inside when I see them coming? WR says no, cowards we are not.

The sun is shrugging, hiding under the clouds. If it doesn’t have to do its job, maybe I don’t either.

Back to the squirrel: I meant to submit my poem “Squirreling” to a journal. Which one? WR doesn’t remember. Typical.

She does remember that in it someone saves half a sandwich for someone else and tosses her chips to the squirrels. Which, do squirrels even eat chips? 

And we’re not saving sandwiches for no damn body. 

She also reminded me that cortisone shots apparently can make you weepy. That tracks. Because now I want to cry, and also, I want to be alone. 

(Don’t go down the rabbit hole that I just did to see if Garbo said I want to be alone or I want to be left alone. Apparently it’s the latter, and the interwebs make a big deal about the distinction, but hey, they both get you what you want so say whichever the hell you prefer.) 

Even the neighbor’s dog with its regal white ruff, my usual window pal, has disappeared. I suspect WR warned him off. 

I’m staring at my task list. Vitamin D day. Riveting. 

Probably going to totally ignore my to-do list beyond that. 

I downloaded a book a few days ago that I really want to read, but I’ve managed about two pages.

Someone strolled by in the most beautiful buttercup-colored sweater. I can’t wear that color, but oh, it looked so rich and satisfying, and I kept looking from it to my arms to see if I could convince that color to work for me. Maybe? I mean, wait, I don’t usually like looking at colors I can’t wear, so that probably means I could. I think so. (Ha, didn’t know I was giving out fashion tips over here, but that seems to be a rule that works for me.)

A neighbor’s normally verdant garden is, naturally, dying. It’s officially fall.The tomato vines are all brown underneath, though there are still green and red tomatoes the size of marbles and ping pong balls on some of the vines. 

The sunflowers are drooping and browning, too, though of course they remain upright better. A pity plants don’t die as beautifully as tree leaves.

The basil still looks lush. I want to say I can smell it from here, but at least I can imagine it. 

Their banana pepper plants wear peppers in every stage of ripeness: green, yellow, red. 

Also: there are still blossoms on the squash plant, though the rest of the plant has gone fatal yellow. One of the blooms looks like a hue a shade or two warmer than the buttercup sweater. (I can practically taste that color. So pretty!)

They’re creating so much visible, practical life. They’re growing soil miracles.

Maybe I’m selfish, just writing. I mean, does art feed anyone? 

I know, I know. Of course it does, in its way. In very important ways. 

When my father was ill, he still loved vegetable gardening. I want to tell you something so tender about it, but I can’t even get it out. 

My mother adored growing flowers. 

I do neither.

Aw, one of the squirrels is back, but he’s nosing around the neighbor’s driveway. What, do I have to put out more birdseed? You are welcome, but I refuse to lure you. 

I know this post is ungenerous, ridiculous, unnecessary. Funny and mean in equal measures, maybe, just like me, some days. 

My poetry has been called “a slap in a velvet glove.” Sorry/not sorry. Some days it is. Some days it’s a big ol’ hug. 

My page. My rules.

Someone cued the sun. Thank you. My mood immediately brightens with it. 

Nope, it’s gone again. 

Okay, now I think I might be able to write, regardless. 

Eh, we’ll see. 

Now Playing: Don’t Fade Out by Cut Worms

It is an odd feeling to go from TV-cannot-hold-my-attention all summer to watching all the things. I figured today would be like that, as a recovery day, and that’s exactly what it was. 

Though recover from what, I’d like to know. WR says telling us to take it easy today is asinine, and yet I noticed she didn’t complain about watching the rest of SEASON TWO!! of The Chicken Sisters!

(BTW, I didn’t time it right. Had I waited a few more days before beginning the trial, I could’ve finished the season. There’s only one to go, but my free trial ends Friday, just before they are due to put out the last one…)

The cortisone shot stung a little this morning, hurt a little, but now I’m fine. Almost fine. I will be fine. It takes a couple of days, apparently, for it to take full effect. Let’s go!

Anyway, WR began writing a poem this morning, “Strawberry Jam,” inspired by Chicken Sisters. It’s skeletal at the moment, but what of it exists makes my heart happy…it makes me want to handpick the fruit, heat it with lemon and sugar, and put it in those gorgeous quilted jars with the shiny bands for someone who would enjoy it. It wouldn’t be an effort. It would be a pleasure. 

(I made a strawberry drizzle for my mom’s angel food cake last year, and it was so easy. That’s next door to jam, isn’t it?)

As Word Raccoon was mulling strawberry jam and whether or not making it would suit her temperament, she said, “Funny, isn’t it, how some people seem to know who we are before we do? And how we start to see ourselves more clearly when they name something we didn’t think was worth noticing. And when they do, we say, ‘Oh, that old thing?’ But then we hold it up to the light after they leave and pay attention to the design we hadn’t seen before.” 

Sometimes it’s things we’ve buried because we weren’t “supposed” to enjoy those simple delights.

Asking a seeing heart to unsee is cruelty, I’ve come to believe, but only because I’ve also seen that sight treated as a gift.

Write on, WR! I want to know more, but please tell me you’re making biscuits, too, love. 

I’m back on my porch, writing, because the doctor didn’t say I couldn’t write. 

A writer friend sent me a card today. He couldn’t have known the timing would be perfect, but it was. His note? Precious. I love getting physical cards; almost no one sends snail mail anymore, and I truly appreciate it.

Okay, I did not give in and buy FJM tickets, but I did sign up to get a day-before notice IF there are any tickets left…

Now hear this! I just discovered that an artist named Cut Worms is opening for Our Father…laugh if you want, but I was not familiar with CW, and after listening to him, I’m sold! (King Tuff opened for Father John Misty when we heard him in Indy in 2018, and that was definitely a two-fer well worth it! I was already a fan of King Tuff.) 

Cut Worms kinda sounds like Brian Wilson/earnest 60’s songs the radio forgot. It’s like songs you almost know the lyrics too. I find it charming, and I always admire lyric-forward tunes. 

I think I’ve just made it more difficult to resist this show. 

A journal’s submission window was a few days from closing, I noticed last night, so I gathered a packet and was pleased with it, because these are not easy-to-place little oddballs. Alas, when I clicked to send I received notice that their cap had been met! 

Instead, I gathered another, different band of rascals and sent them out. 

Do most poets write all over the map? From lyrical to narrative to philosophical rants to spicy little ditties…I don’t force form. I don’t restrict my mind or hand. I am not trying to bend the muse. I am trying to appreciate it for what it is, to enjoy the presence. 

Now I’m stuck on this: finish “Strawberry Jam” or…

Oh no. I feel that kinda almost weepy feeling that says I need to write poetry. I knew better than to write about the muse. I alternate between missing it when it’s not here to writing as if I am possessed when I think of it….

WR says that’s ok…she can work with that. 

She also whispered something about how the right kind of gaze can make even an ordinary picture look book-jacket ready. But muses don’t have book jackets. Probably. Right?

In any case, it is not considered best practices to kiss the screen.

I’ve done it now. She’s tossing my AirPods case and anything else she can grab off my writing table, daring me to tell her what to and not to kiss.

Fine, WR, you take the wheel. You’re going to anyway.

P.S. She did and has now written “Second Drawer, Lefthand Side” and I can see a suite of themed poems coming up and honestly, I don’t think I’m up to it tonight. (Monday.) We’ll see. 

Now Playing: She Loves Me (by Stephen Duffy); Some Kind of Wonderful Soundtrack 

Are social outings as draining as I think they are? Word Raccoon woke early this morning, eager to go downstairs and…she didn’t know what. Write? Read? Plot the day? 

She read for a few minutes, fell asleep again, considered chores and writing, and I think she maybe wrote a draft of a poem. Let me check.

Wait, wait, she wrote two poems. One of them will likely never see the light of day, it’s that…bad not’s the word, it’s embarrassing. 

The second is called “Sea Glass,” and I could see it getting a fair shake once I take the time to smooth its edges. 

BTW, I don’t often mention the canned poetry rejections I get. I get those, too, but I ignore those. Some are funny, some are needlessly dry. Some are borderline insulting, even when you can tell they’re a form rejection, which I really don’t get. Why wouldn’t you be kind and supportive even if you were rejecting someone’s writing? 

Not that I care. I don’t want my poetry in the wrong home, so them saying no is a favor to us both. But y’all. Be kind because some younger writers don’t have the elephant hide I do when it comes to my writing. 

Anywho, yesterday WR added onto her full calendar an unexpected dinner with my brother, making for a fun but overly full day. (When my brother texts and tells you he’s cooking at yet another fundraiser for the day and he forgot to tell you, you go. Boy can cook! WR swooned over the rhubarb and cherry pie. And where else are you getting Southern-style green beans in Indiana? C’mon…I know it sounds silly, but I really do like green beans that much.) 

As a result of yesterday’s busyness, I haven’t been able to get WR to do anything all day.

Sure, she made breakfast and went to the gym. Good for her. But from there it was:

• Planning her own info empire, stay tuned. (IDK what she thinks she’s up to…)
• She bought a digital tool and has yet to see it delivered. She’s hoping the weekend is keeping it away and will write and demand it if she hasn’t seen it within 24 hours. (She’s ordered from this company before, and she has no clue why this wasn’t automagically delivered. Hmmm…)
• She made tomato sandwiches with the last of the summer tomatoes and ate the remainder by themselves, trying not to weep. 
• She watched a long TV show and tried not to fall asleep. 
• Oh yes, she also watched an episode of Chicken Sisters. She has a (very) loose tie to the show: it’s a series that is based on the book of the same name. A woman who taught me book marketing had worked with the author on marketing another book, I believe. And I think the author’s podcast is where I first heard of that same woman in book marketing. Very loose tie, but of course I was interested. I started watching it on Prime (it’s a cute Southern soap opera-type show involving women with competing restaurants with famous fried chicken), and then Prime yanked it away and made me sign up for a trial week of Hallmark to see it. 

If you know me you know I am kinda allergic to the Hallmark channel except I did watch Angela Kinsey’s Christmas movie because she’s a sweetheart and I love The Office. Go ahead, dare call me basic. I will give you twenty-five reasons I’m not. Or I’ll write you into a poem. 

No shade to the Hallmark fans, either. It’s just usually a little too sweet-tea-for-breakfast for me. But Angela Kinsey? I’d watch her narrate a tax seminar.

(Ask me how I ended up asking to go hear/see Kendra Adachi for my birthday last year because of The Office Ladies podcast…and sweet Kendra caught us slipping out without doing the meet and greet and insisted on thanking us for coming.

I admire that woman and her podcast, but because I had only known of her for a few months I didn’t feel I should stand in the line and get my picture taken with her when we went to hear her speak. I felt like a fraud-fan. Which is silly, I know, but she was a dear heart anyways when she said goodbye.)

Oh, the connection to The Office Ladies? Jenna Fischer loves Kendra’s The Lazy Genius podcast and it is now under TOL’s umbrella. Kendra is the bestest. She’s perfect for Word Raccoons who have high aspirations but struggle to stick to a plan when the creativity says “I do not for one minute believe anyone will say, Oh, I remember how crisply folded her towels were, and we do not care for the high regard of someone who would only remember that anyway.” 

Don’t tell Kendra, though, but her Change Your Life Chicken recipe did not. I followed her directions (almost) completely. I couldn’t bear to keep the temp that high, and I think that’s why my version was only meh. Did I do something wrong? Probably. I’m sure it’s operator error. I might need a do-over.

Also: Jenna Fischer is currently in a play in Chicago. And there’s that art exhibit that closes the same day as her play closes. You can see where this is going…or, that is, where Word Raccoon and I want to go. 

No, no, WR. You must save your pennies! You didn’t even buy tickets to see FJM this coming week, you good gorl. (Oh, but I am so tempted to buy them last minute!! How can I pass up the Father! Do they discount last minute ticket purchases?) 

This post was written on Sunday, will show up for you on Monday, when I’m getting my nice long cortisone shot and dozing the rest of the day, supposedly. 

They say it takes a couple of days to feel the full effect? Please, please let this be a magic shot. 

If not, we’ll go from there. But I am so ready to live my best life. 

WR says I really ought to go wash my hair, that starting a best life means best hair. 

Gorl, would’ve made sense to have washed it earlier and dried it on the porch, but no, you couldn’t get yourself together.

You know when young women used to use “I have to wash my hair” as an excuse for not going on a date? Now that my hair’s this long again, I get it. (And I just had it trimmed!) 

If WR is saying I should, I suppose I should. 

Maybe I can convince the raccoon to write tomorrow or even this evening rather than watch more Chicken Sisters. But it’s got Lea Thompson in it, y’all, and Wendie Malick. You know how I feel about the movie Some Kind of Wonderful. That kissing scene!! That song!! 

Would it be self-indulgent if I post a link to that scene? No? Great! Let’s do!

And Wendy is fabulous in everything, even if she wasn’t in SKOW. She’s spunk personified.

Shush, WR, I’ll go wash the hair. But if I do, I’m not making supper. You can eat cereal for all I care, WR. 

So I did a thing: I recorded one of my poems.

You may have read “Fight Me in the Waffle House Parking Lot” before, but now you can hear it, quirks and all. I’m experimenting with sharing audio versions of my work, because sometimes the voice adds a little something the page can’t carry alone.

(Also, do I pronounce “roof” weirdly? I think maybe?)

Thank you to the Daily Drunk for first publishing this.

This was recorded in a single take, imperfections included, with a loud truck and Word Raccoon peeking around the corner and making dramatic gestures. (She wants a recording booth. I told her we’ll see.) 

Imperfection is better than not doing the thing.

If you’d like to give it a listen, it’s now live.

I am happy to say I edited this to include some fabulous publication news!! My poem “Mutual Mass” has been chosen for publication by The Dewdrop, a journal that is the perfect home for this little spiritual verse.

I was stunned by the gorgeous things the editor had to say about it, and I hope when it comes out on October 26 you will like it, too.

It was written when I was exhausted and in the poetry cave, one late night or early morning or who knows which and it was me thinking about how tired a god we could imagine must be and what she might want.

Well, let’s save the rest for publication, shall we? Let’s just say this is one of my Look, I Built a Cathedral Poems and I’m thrilled it’s found a home. I can only hope it also finds its perfect reader. Asked/answered. That’s the cycle, don’t they say?

The picture is a little sweet photo holder found yesterday at our local cafe. They had a booth featuring the artwork of artists with IDD, and I was so happy to support them.

Also: WR saw a classic Mustang at the car show and cheered. I told her to get her sticky paws away from it, but she slid inside before I could stop her. Okay, not really, but she would’ve liked to have. She had her eye on one that needed fixing up when she was first in college, but…

It’s almost 6:45 a.m., and the street is still dark. The sweet lanterns on my porch glow like little moons. From the sound of a familiar engine and the quick sweep of headlights, I can tell the café owner has headed out. I resisted the urge to call after him, “Time to make the donuts.”

Today is a showing up day. Word Raccoon is tucked under a quilt on the porch swing with strict instructions to stay put. Too many events, too little time for wrangling my writing gremlin, though I am taking notes.

Yesterday was a whirl. A customer appreciation day first, where a gentleman asked, “Shouldn’t you be at the café writing?” Oh, kind sir. I wanted to be.

Then a Twain readers’ theater at a retirement community. WR stowed away and beamed at their choice of Mark Twain’s more subversive pieces. She even reconnected with a few people, one of whom asked if her second book had ever come out. (Yes, indeed it has.) We sat with a woman about to head to the Grand Canyon, if things don’t close down before then, bless her heart.

As we left, WR gave the room one last scan, making sure she’d seen and interacted with everyone she knew there. Only a sigh and, moments later, the comic thunk of a traffic cone under the car. No harm done, unless you count driverly pride.

Later came the homecoming parade. WR was determined to spot my football-playing nephew. Eyes wide, camera ready. But the players weren’t in the parade after all. It makes sense because they had a game to play and the heat was high, but WR was deflated. A little Laffy Taffy cheered her. For a while.

Today is already mapped. Soon we’ll head to the fire department’s annual pancake breakfast. (I like pancakes. I don’t like early mornings.) Next, music at the café I love to haunt, my small vote for more live performers. Then on to the music department’s car-show fundraiser, a plan long in the making with a friend.

The gym might fit in, though my hip disagrees. Cortisone shot on Monday: excited and anxious. Not for the needle, if others can do it, so can I, but for whether relief will last.

We may end the day with my husband’s friend’s band gig. That one’s a maybe. WR might slip away to write instead; she only managed two poems yesterday, “In My Kitchen” and “On Simmer,” before the day caught up with her. Over dinner she recited an older piece, “Renewal,” from the heart. I’d bet my hat it finds a home.

Even as I write this, I feel that tug, homesick for my desk. The early light seems to rise from the ground itself, gilding streets and rooftops. Birds call to each other; do they have plans? Maybe they’re headed to the pancake breakfast too.

Here are a few lines from “Renewal,” which owes a nod to Logan’s Run:

There is no sanctuary.
Only the work.
Only the remaining…

Not exactly the glitter and purple you’d expect from Word Raccoon. She’s deeper than she lets on.

For now, she’s settling for strong coffee, a shower, and maybe, just maybe, a late-afternoon pocket for writing. I’d have the pancakes delivered if I could. This flowered robe is so cozy.

Word Raccoon is feeling quiet.
She is contemplating the novel, since I told her this is the fall of the novel.
(Season, not demise. She narrowed her eyes.)

She’s not thrilled. But she’s considering complying. She wants only poetry. She has had summer nights of nothing but keyboard and lava. She does not want to give that up. We are negotiating. 

For now, she pads around the house with an air of uneasy grace, pawing at half-filled notebooks and letting her tail trail across unopened chapters.

She is thinking of the grab bag of compliments she keeps at hand for her favorite wildlife, but how she sometimes keeps her hand in her pocket because she does not want to scare off the squirrels.

She wants to acknowledge the admirable, restrained modesty in the well-connected squirrels.
The fierce, nuanced takes.
There are so many things she wants to say, but I put my hand on her sleeve.

“You can be a bit much, my friend,” I tell her.

She showed me a photo of a sign we saw today at a secondhand shop out of town, though we did not buy it. It read:

“I Was Not Made to Be Subtle.”

She tapped it with a claw and grinned.

“See?” she said. “Proof.”

She’s not wrong. (And I found it ironic that the letters were set in such subtle colors. Perhaps that’s another layer of irony.) 

My son might be one of her people.

He met Word Raccoon today over pancakes and bacon, maybe for the first time.

In the short amount of time it took his father to leave the room and return, WR had taken a line my son said and spun it into a song with three metaphors and a punk melody, though we spared him that.

“That should be a song,” I told him when he initially said that inspirational line.

He blinked and said, “I don’t know how it could be.”

We hashed it out for a minute or two, then I made a little motion with my arms, something that opened up the idea as we built on it.

“Oh,” he said. “You were already ten steps ahead of me, with metaphors and everything.”

Not me, exactly.
Word Raccoon had already heard the full chorus ten seconds after he said the line.

We’re not sorry our son met WR.
But we do know not everyone can handle her intensity.
Which is why she remained under wraps for so long.

WR is the kind of creature who thrifted metaphor before it was cool.
She wants to play in lyric. To bite the edges of simile.

She loves poetry but she’s not sure how to live in the shape of a novel again after all of this time.

Still, we’re trying.

We’re trying to give her space without flooding the room.
She doesn’t mean to overwhelm people, but she doesn’t sip. She pours.
She doesn’t whisper. She sings with her throat exposed.
And sometimes, people only bring thimbles. (Which is fine.)

So we measure.
We pause.
We try to decant a downpour into teaspoons.

We try not to waterboard anyone with our love and attention, while standing still long enough to see if they do want that, because maybe they do. (Obv. no one wants to be literally waterboarded, but some ppl like attention.)

We wonder if using a sprinkling can is nuanced or underdeveloped. (God, I guess I am a writer to the bone.) 

“Squirrels just want birdseed and nuts. You put it out and bada boom, bada bing, baby. Whatever,” says WR.  She’s a little cruel, a little crass, but her heart is right and strong. 

“I am too much i’ the sun,” Hamlet quipped. 

But today, my son didn’t flinch.
He didn’t turn away.
He caught the song mid-spin and grinned.

“You were already ten steps ahead.” I don’t think that’s quite true, but sweet of him. 

He’s a pretty great songwriter, too. 

He doesn’t know that’s a high compliment to WR.
And that she is trying to hold that truth gently in her paws.

Well, my son is covered in tattoos and wears a nose ring. Stands to reason he would appreciate someone a little unconventional. 

After all that, we didn’t talk more about it. My husband and I dropped Zack off at home and went to see Downton Abbey: The Grand Finale. (Zack was invited, but let’s face it, it’s not his thing.) 

In all, WR really enjoyed the movie. It was well done. Lady Mary is her favorite character, naturally. Or one of them.

WR likes the historical drama, the sweeping gowns, the clever lines. The end of an era. 

She snorted at a few of the sentimental parts and a few moments she thought were setups that must’ve had sections left on the cutting room floor because they did not develop, but she was otherwise well-behaved.

Shockingly, she didn’t ask for Twizzlers. 

Sometimes, even Word Raccoon knows when to hush.

Now if only I could teach her the right time to speak. 

Now Playing: “Unforgettable,” Natalie Cole and Nat “King” Cole

Word Raccoon had a hunch today. She suspected there might be something new waiting in a recently updated space she hadn’t thoroughly plumbed. (You know, the artsy places.)

She was not wrong. There, a Fabergé-caliber Easter egg of sorts awaited her. 

We gasped. We gawked. WR tried to taste the screen.

Approved! 

If WR wanted to paint before, she really, really wants to now. As if she could capture his image.

(Stop trying to nibble at my phone, WR!)

(I’ve offered to take her to the Caillebotte exhibit soon at the Art Institute, if it pleases her majesty. The book for the show is aptly subtitled, “Painting Men.” Maybe that will calm her?)

Though WR says no brush could ever quite capture the particular heartbreak of a man who doesn’t bother to shave and still looks that damn good.

Zip it, WR! 

Whew.

Moving on. 

This morning, Word Raccoon and I went shopping for a family gathering and she decided at the last minute with less than two hours to get ready and travel (which, to be fair, was nearby) that she wanted to make an edible wreath honoring my mother and sister.

One made up of fall-themed tea cakes.

I mean…cute idea, yes, they both would have liked it. No chocolate, though, because Tammy did not like chocolate. (I used to tease that we couldn’t possibly really be related because of that.) 

But I told WR that we hadn’t even chosen our clothes. 

She stamped her foot in the aisle, teared up, and insisted. “This is our first family gathering since the funeral. We will do this.”

So I made the wreath. Using pre-made tea cakes, but I made it, and I topped it with my mom’s favorite, snowball cakes. She also really liked her snowball bushes. I forgot to ask anyone if they bloomed this year, and if they did so before…

But while WR and I were checking out at the first store (we do not have many options in our town), I made small talk with the cashier and learned some scandalous Hatfields-and-McCoys- light stuff regarding the local dollar stores. 

I had no idea. 

Apparently, she whispered conspiratorially as she pushed my items over the scanner, it even involves a local church whose pastor allegedly supported bringing in a dollar store in a nearby town and his people are leaving his church because he didn’t support the dollar store that was already there.

I’d watch that reality show: Dollar Store Wars, Church Edition. Anyone else in?

Once WR and I had visited the next store, I kept telling WR there was no way we were going to be on time if she didn’t hurry up. She told us we are always early, and if we ended up being late who cared? 

“Do you think the world is going to end if you’re not there at noon on the dot?” WR asked.

That stopped me. 

“But WR, my father prided himself on being early everywhere. We can’t be late. It’s rude.” 

“Then text ahead and tell them you’re running late, if you are.” 

I ran through the shower and after, she pointed at her purple dress.

“There might be yard games,” I said. “A dress is not practical.”

She pointed at the dress again. She didn’t have to remind me that purple was Tammy’s favorite color. 

“Fine, but shorts under it,” I insisted.

She was in rare form today, I swear. I didn’t resist when she insisted on wearing the earrings with all the words on them, because what was the point?  

Reader, we were right on time. 

Once home after the fun time, I was shortly greeted with an armload of deliveries to review from the sweetest delivery driver who circled the house looking for the correct door. That’s above and beyond and I told her so! 

In the stack, both the blue silk pleated dress and the silver teardrop earrings I’m wearing to an event in late October. I can’t wait to wear my newest dress. WR promises to be her own work of art that night.

Though that masterpiece she stumbled upon today? Unrepeatable. And impossible to forget. (Looks like I’ve been watching too much of that brand of reality TV. Or maybe not enough?)

WR, I said to put that paint brush down! 

I finished reading a novel today and found myself with thoughts I wanted to share.

Reader, I also found myself with a bottle of wine and a desire to create an autumn Sangria recipe, Midwest meets Barcelona with white wine and apple cider. 

Guess which I went for? (Shared, I promise. And there are leftovers.)

Autumn Nights Sangria (Drema style)

Add to a pitcher:

• A bottle of your favorite white wine, best a little on the sweet side

• Two cups of fresh apple cider (plenty of orchards around, no excuses)

• A cup of fresh or frozen peaches (they double as ice cubes without watering things down) in large pieces (This is not baking — eyeball however damn many you want; I am not your mamma!)

• Half a cup of chopped apple, any variety that is not too tart

• Sparkling water to top until it fizzes like a good mood

Pour into pretty glasses. Sip. Beware: it’s sweet.

Singing may follow.

Then step onto the porch and let Barcelona memories float back.

Years ago I went with my grad school group to an energetic, colorful Flamenco show in Barcelona where potent ruby red sangria made the rounds from hand to hand.

While I could not immediately find a photo from that night, I uncovered this unfortunately shadowed picture of me in front of Gaudí’s Casa Milà, also called La Pedrera, a wavy stone dream on Barcelona’s Passeig de Gràcia.

The building looks alive, balconies curling like sea foam. Word Raccoon is still miffed she did not tag along to prowl those rooftop chimneys and eavesdrop on the ironwork. I can almost hear her squeaky protest: How dare you go without me. But that day it was just me, a bright Catalan sky, and Gaudí’s living sculpture.

Word Raccoon, you would have loved Park Güell, another Gaudí creation.

Now are we going to write, WR, or refill our glasses?

I vote for writing. I’ve had enough to drink for now.