Watching Paint Dry

My recent weekend consisted of bringing home paint chips from the hardware store, putting them against the wall of my master bedroom and agaisnt the oriental rug on the floor, deciding on a hue, purchasing a gallon of the best quality paint they had and painting the bedroom.  (Cannot get in to see the ankle Doc for another week...so ankle be damned...and it was.)

My house is five years old.  It has settled somewhat on the bedroom side.  There is a slight chance it would settle further down into the ravine...but I am optimistic that won't happen while I live here.  But settling does create hair-line cracks around window frames and doors, and last year, my husband, who became frustrated with my putting off the painting project, proceeded to patch the cracks with Spackle.  Then he went to the basement to get the then 4-year-old paint that we had used when the bedroom was initially painted and covered all those nice white patches he had created.  The paint had changed, of course.  It looked like he had painted over with a color that resembled old poo instead of soft mushroom.   We lived with that ugliness for a year and finally this past week went through the process I described above.

We guessed that painting the bedroom would take about 4 hours.  Ha!  The bedroom has 6 windows, three doors, AND most significantly a tray ceiling.  The painting took almost seven hours and I am not counting the day before when we moved furniture, covered what we could not move, rallied the various painting tools that we had left from our prior life of painting various rooms in homes, removed electrical and phone plates, and taped every single piece of wood framing with that blue stuff.  That prep wore us out and we retreated to the living room for dinner and movie.

The next morning fresh and energetic we began what is referred to in painting circles as 'cutting in.'  It was a cloudy day making it very hard to tell what we painted and what we didn't since the old hue and the new hue were pretty close in color.  I am also old, and do not see as well as I used to.  But the most significant issue with this project is that this new paint would dry to touch within a minute making it so much harder so see where I painted and where I had left off in the gray shadows from the window.  The only clue was that I had purchased a slightly shinier finish of paint this time and if one stood at an angle to the wall, one could see the difference.  Thus we painted, and then re-painted, and ate dinner and then went back in and touched up a few more places as the lamp light revealed a few more areas of incomplete coverage.

Finally we felt we had finished, cleared the room, washed the brushes, put everything away and fell exhausted and with stiff joints into bed.  The next morning as I sat in bed greeting the new day (you KNOW what I am going to write here) I saw two more small areas at the base of the side wall that needed touch up!  Fast drying paint is not all it is cracked up to be.

So WHAT Is It, Really?

A photo of a nearby shoreline tweaked with filters and tone and lighting manipulation.

Yes, in answer to some questions, the photo in the prior post was my lovely granddaughter.  I captured her in the middle of a hide and seek game where she was hiding under a ladder in a playground and her innocent childhood personality was revealed like shining silver in such a photo.  I tweaked it somewhat...making it more of a "work of art" than a snapshot and putting more light on her face.

Friko, one of my favorite bloggers and a real artist in her own right with her writing, commented on Downton Abbey, which both she and I like to watch.  She felt it was not really art because it did not make you think.  I am so glad she stimulated some discussion with this comment because her comment "made me think!"  She felt that the TV series lulled the viewer into a false sense of security.  I disagree because the change that war brings and the events that happen in this next season take away the security of constancy for all of the characters.  I also think that writing about this time in England with rose colored glasses instead of raw reality glasses is more enjoyable for viewers and those poor souls who think this is an accurate representation of the time may also think Picasso's horses reflect a reality.

I then went on a hunt to find definitions for art, because there are almost as many definitions and quotes as there are works of art and this will fill up the rest of this post nicely!  And if you are good and read to the end...that is where I put the funny one.

Without art, the crudeness of reality would make the world unbearable.  ~George Bernard Shaw

Art is not, as the metaphysicians say, the manifestation of some mysterious idea of beauty or God; it is not, as the aesthetical physiologists say, a game in which man lets off his excess of stored-up energy; it is not the expression of man's emotions by external signs; it is not the production of pleasing objects; and, above all, it is not pleasure; but it is a means of union among men, joining them together in the same feelings, and indispensable for the life and progress toward well-being of individuals and of humanity.  Leo Tolstoy.

 Art is the product or process of deliberately arranging items (often with symbolic significance) in a way that influences and affects one or more of the senses, emotions, and intellect. It encompasses a diverse range of human activities, creations, and modes of expression, including music, literature, film, photography, sculpture, and paintings. The meaning of art is explored in a branch of philosophy known as aesthetics, whereas disciplines such as anthropology, sociology and psychology analyze its relationship with humans and generations.  Wikipedia

Painting is just another way of keeping a diary.  ~Pablo Picasso 

Science is out of the reach of morals, for her eyes are fixed upon eternal truths.  Art is out of the reach of morals, for her eyes are fixed upon things beautiful and immortal and ever-changing.  To morals belong the lower and less intellectual spheres.  ~Oscar Wilde, The Critic as Artist, 1891

The aim of every artist is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again since it is life.  ~William Faulkner  (I particularly like this definition.)

We all know that Art is not truth.  Art is a lie that makes us realize truth, at least the truth that is given us to understand.  The artist must know the manner whereby to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies.  ~Pablo Picasso

And, of course, from my favorite cynic...I so glad she does not live next door as I would almost immediately quit blogging and taking photos:   

Very few people possess true artistic ability.  It is therefore both unseemly and unproductive to irritate the situation by making an effort.  If you have a burning, restless urge to write or paint, simply eat something sweet and the feeling will pass.  ~Fran Lebowitz

Art Is a Three Letter Word

Photography, painting, music, and writing all fall under the domain of creative art, and therefore, are covered by the term "artistic license."  According to Wikipedia (not exactly recognized as the final or most accurate word on such discussions) artistic license is:

• Entirely at the artist's discretion
• Intended to be tolerated by the viewer (cf. "willing suspension of disbelief)
• Useful for filling in gaps, whether they be factual, compositional, historical or other gaps
• Used consciously or unconsciously, intentionally or unintentionally or in tandem

I have been thinking of this as I take more photographs and tweak them away from accuracy in what I actually saw and as I continue to struggle at writing my tome about an archeologist in Australia.  (I have made it to Chapter 4, but since I am just now writing a chapter outline...who know what number this chapter is?)

This question also came to my mind when I read a scathing review in one of the national news sources about how pathetic the currently popular British television series Downton Abbey was as a fictional series.  The reviewer felt it was not historically accurate enough to portray the time period and the dangers of such a class system.  I view it as a wonderful soap opera and do not need all the realism of that time to enjoy the series.  Yes, there was more disease, dying, poverty and cruelty during that era,  but I just want a good story with interesting and stable characters.  Let the writers take their artistic license.

After all, art is in the eyes and ears of the beholder.  The result being that I am amazed at what passes for art these days and how people compete to spend money on it.  But as was discussed in a New York Times article, the satisfaction of being the highest bidder gives more credence to the artwork than the actual enjoyment of the artwork.

Is Damien Hurst really an artist?
Or is this collaborative project actually a form of art at this museum ?
What about Isaac Layman and his photography?
Or  this, the worlds most expensive photograph?

All of the above brings me to the big sigh about those artists who were never recognized by any marketing machine and are lost in time.  Street artists whose art appears and disappears daily, women artists who worked as nannies and died in poverty with their photographic art destroyed, soldiers whose writing was lost in the dust of battle.  Does it have to have an appreciative eye or ear to be art?  I do not believe that it does.  It just has to have the passion and soul of the artist.

Good News but Mostly Bad

Well, I have gotten the results of my X-ray and MRI.  My ankle was healing as I was taking long walks, but there were days when it felt stiff or a sudden movement would create deep pain.  I wanted to have the option to get back into yoga, aerobics and other exercise.  I am not a lean mean exercise machine, but I go through phases of loving or needing it before I become a slug at intervals.  This interval has been WAY to long.

The results are that there is a small piece of bone that has broken from some part of my ankle, one of my ligaments is torn and I have some bone edema (swelling...maybe due to another tiny microscopic fracture.)  After hearing the report (via the phone and read in total technical terms by my idiot doctor with little sympathy in his voice).  He seemed relieved to have to make a referral.  I have been referred to a podiatrist who will look at the X-ray and MRI results and tell me what has to be done.  I currently have no idea what he will say and I am sure that it will take more than a week to get an answer.

I do know that my GP said to hold off on any exercise until I talk to the podiatrist.  Egaw!

It amazes me how in this time of my life I am thinking impatiently of all the time I will lose if they have to operate or do something invasive.  I do not fear the pain, but I hate the thought of mobility loss during what time I have in this life.  I hate thinking of having to wait for a healing process as I sit in a chair or on a bed.  Clearly I have no patience for this and that is why I tried to avoid the situation in the beginning by avoiding the doctor.  Please don't lecture me.  I know that I am stupid and stubborn, but for many people (like some of our GOP candidates) these are good traits.

Well, got that off my chest.  I feel guilty in saying this to anyone close to me, and my blog readers are a great sump for stuff like this. 

Please note that I get around very easily and can do most things I have done in the past before the injury.  This could be much worse, and I am fully aware that I have so much to be thankful for.

Taking the Plunge

As some of you geek types may know I have been having some difficulty with the dwindling storage space in my free account on Pica$a (adding characters rather than real letters to the words in this post following another bloggers wisdom to avoid search engines) that G00gle has allowed for my blog.  I blog anonymously and therefore do not really care if these blog photos are preserved in large format or various formats or able to be batch downloaded later.  That type of storage requires more research.  I do currently back up photos on a separate hard drive and on DVDs before deleting them from my current PC.  But maybe I should think about storing them somewhere on the "cloud" as the third location.  I just want to keep on blogging and sharing for now.  Therefore I am paying Pica$a $5 annually for up to 20 GB storage.  This should hold me for quite a while and continue my ability to link to photos without having to start some new process that my aging brain will find difficult to grasp.  (I many times feel like Tom Cruise clinging to the front of a rapidly speeding freight train in that movie of his with the technology changes that happen even as I post!)

I have to consider, as Butler and Bagman did, whether printing out various posts on good old archiving paper is worth it.  That is a lot of ink and paper and a lot more money than $5.  But there are also posts that perhaps should make it into a paper archive journal in the event that those who follow in my blood line wonder how and why they got so strange!  Also, my grandchildren may be amused by events that we shared that they had long forgotten.

At any rate, $5 annually seems a small price to pay to continue to share my "marvelous photography."

Heading out for my ankle MRI late this afternoon.  Please wish that they find very little scar tissue or current tears in my ligaments so that I have no more excuse to just sit and not exercise.  I need very little reason to keep my on my bum these days, and we gave ourselves an X-box for Christmas to be a better motivator to go downstairs to the basement.

By the way, my new passion is the British TV series Downton Abbey.  Just re-watched the entire first season and going to watch the new episode this evening if I get back early enough.  It is a bodice ripper for the thinking generation and actually has a cast with some older than 35.

My List

I am one of those obnoxious people that makes one or two major New Year's resolutions and usually keeps them...at least for the year.  Thus I will list some big and small plans I have finally gotten around to formalizing this year.

1. Get a pass on my ankle so that I can start exercising again.  (Already started this with an x-ray this past week and and getting MRI next.  My ankle really is mostly healed, but I still get stiffness and pain so want an okay to push it.)
2. Continue to work on my Australia writing project...even when I think it is going nowhere.  Just look at it as an exercise for something better in the future!
3. Learn how to process RAW files and use them!
4. Re-learn all the features of my camera.
5. Increase my efforts at volunteer work on a more regular basis instead of just when I want.
6. Clean out at least one set of shelves in the basement while hubby is on a trip in February.
7. Make those d*** drapes for the kitchen window before the fabric rots!
8. Get everybody's birthdays written down in my calendar...I havestarted on this...I have a big family.
9. Find money to finish the decorating in the master bedroom.
10. PAINT the master bedroom.

OK.  Ten challenges are enough.  They are probably subconsciously in the order in which I will probably succeed or fail.  They are all fairly practical.  Nothing here on trying to be more patient, a better person, doing something nice anonymously for someone each day.  That sort of goes without saying...doesn't it?  As for losing weight, my goal is just to get more exercise and feel more energetic.  If the pounds decide to leave, that is OK, but I am not counting on it and it won't stop me from beginning an exercise routine if my ankle allows.

Finally, I want to thank each and every one of you who commented on my blog this past year.  If you are a lurker, please add your two cents, I will not bite.  All the rest of you have become special friends, and are closer to my heart than many people I actually know.  You are funnier, wiser and more honest and I will continue to read your posts.  I know this might say more about me and my ability to relate to real people than you...but!  (Special kudos to Hilary who is the blog hostess with the mostess as she sends readers here, there, and everywhere and added some readers to my blog this year.)  

Cannot Keep Up

This is crazy.  No wonder everyone is sick, at least almost everyone I know including my doctor.  I have had a nice fire going most evenings and afternoons as temperatures outside hovered just over 30F.  The birds are loving the heated water and eating all the fattest seeds first.  I have gone through a pound of peanuts, not for me for them!  I also put on my nice warm fleece tops as I bring wood inside from the porch.

I only ventured out once for a Doctor's appointment and hurried inside office and home with the speed of a much younger woman. 

Then suddenly this afternoon the weather turns again breaking 45C F!  I am roasting in my fleece and the birds are singing as if spring were just around the corner.  Clouds are warm and golden in the late afternoon.  I can't keep up!

( And to make the month weirder my daughter has already emailed me with the tentative summer schedule for her children wondering if we can work in some childsitting time.)

A Post Script

I blogged rather disparately about my birthday a few days ago which did eventually go off without a hitch.  As proof, below are a series of photos on the cake making and eating.  The mix and candles had been found and the little girl learned to bake a cake.

She had to taste the batter (health officials please look the other way) and give it her blessing before it went into the oven.

And dressed for the party she gets to taste the fruits of her labors after frosting and writing have been added.  Yummm!

And since you are all so terribly curious and I just love the shocked look on your face when you see THIS photo of me in my birthday gift.  Yes, it was a request!  How in the heck can you get close to wildlife to photograph when you are in a white bathrobe or red winter jacket?  Now at last I am one with mother nature.  Needless to add, granddaughter and I are on very different wave lengths at this time in our lives.

The Next Journey

We are on our way to a new year.  A year that we fill with hopes, dreams, passions and successful ideas.  We tuck it tightly under our arm and head out, chin high, eyes clear, looking only forward with no backward regrets or reviews of past failures.  It is a clean slate we have before us with no marks or smears or scratches, yet.  We only see the clear blue of potential and the electricity of energy to meet that potential.  We get another chance.  We forget those embarrassments of ourselves and of others.  We will ignore the obstructions that were placed in our path by others and find a new way around them.  Our shoulders are square and our focus is determined.  This year WILL be better than last year.

The Rains

What a bitter afternoon this has been.  After a fall of calm and moderate weather the winds have decided to howl and throw biting rain at my windows.  The young oak trees that have held on to the copper leaves now flutter them like mad brown butterflies revving jet engines before taking flight.  If I must be sick, there is nothing more comforting than lying in a cozy bed and watching the cold gray battle from inside.  The wind roars now and again with angry energy to remind me of its power.  The river and sky are both the same angry gray color.

The whole day has been dark gray with copper browns of attached and fallen leaves, and now it is blanketed in wetness adding charcoal shadows.  I think about those who had to go to work, as I once did.  Having to hurry down sidewalks and clutch at coats and scarves as if in some Sherlockian story hoping to make it safely home by the fire by days end.

I almost feel good enough to start a fire in the fireplace this evening.  I want to bide more idle time as I heal.  At least when one is retired, one does not worry about all that is left undone at the office.  I get to worry about several piles of laundry...big deal!

I will have to plan meals tomorrow.  I have had no appetite to speak of for days, just soup and cereal were all that I made, but the bear I am married to is getting better and seems to want real food.  He was going to venture out to shop, but I am sure when he wakes from his nap, the weather will put a figurative and literal damper on that plan.

In actuality the weather is somewhat exciting and I feel no guilt in staying prone to mark its course.

Can You Hear Me Now?

I drove back from daughter's house with a sick husband who toughed it out because he did not want to miss their Christmas.  All three grandchildren were sick with coughs and runny noses, but that did not stop them from enjoying a present-filled Christmas  My granddaughter opened the large box she had seen at my house when she was staying with me last week thinking it was a large fan.  It was fun to see her face when she recognized that it was the Barbie Dream Townhouse.  This thing is perfect example of materialism with food, a light when you open the refrigerator, a noisy shower, and a laptop among 50 other things.   Barbie does live the good life!

When I got back home late on Christmas day, the cold grabbed me by the throat and chest, shook me hard and threw me on to my bed.  I can't even remember if Hubby and I ate anything for dinner!

Last night was a disaster of coughing and this morning I have lost my voice completely.  Oddly enough it bothers Hubby that I can't talk to him and respond to his comments.   I always thought he felt I talked too much.  He tries to cheer me up by spotting a waxwing and a piliated woodpecker in the back yard. When I do not make an attempt to leave my bed he realizes I am really sick.  He is getting better, so now he can wait on me this day.

My chest congestion sometimes sounds like a cat purring and at other times a wheezy bellow.  I hate, hate being sick and am drinking lots and lots of tea, chicken soup, and coffee.  So much for starting on the New Year's list.

Greetings to You and Your Kin

May you have the gladness of Christmas which is hope;
The spirit of Christmas which is peace;
The heart of Christmas which is love.
~Ada V. Hendricks

The Fly--not at all in a Holiday Mode

Just like that aberration in the same-named movie, the fly started annoying with a soft buzz on her right side.  She had just settled down to read before bed.  Cushions had been propped carefully, the comforter tucked across her legs and lap and the book in the perfect halo of the lamp.  The room was cozy and quiet...except for that damned fly.  He was closer now.  She heard the buzz just behind and above her head.  How on earth could one have a fly in the bedroom in the middle of December?  Was this some Superfly that had hung out in the garage in semi-dormant sleep these past weeks just waiting for the door to be held open for the perfect moment so that he could enter this castle of warmth?  This was more than annoying and oddly a little scary.  She felt somewhat powerless.

She turned her head and saw it was a small common house fly as it darted beneath the brass lamp cover and sat so close to the bulb he would certainly fry.  She batted lightly at the lamp with her book and he flew out and away to another part of the room.  She could still hear the annoying buzz and soon it got closer once again, ever annoying and even more scary this time.  Was it going to fly in her hair, her ear, down her pajama top and buzz her to death?

She swung crazily behind her head with the open book and she could hear it once again dancing above her head toward the ceiling.  Maybe it was a little angrier,or was that just her imagination?

Sighing in frustration she knew that turning off her light and turning on the hall light and sitting in the dark would cause him to leave the room in pursuit of a new artificial sun and she could close the door behind him after turning off the hall light.  But her husband would be coming to bed shortly and opening the door and starting this whole war all over again.  She threw off the covers and headed for the laundry room to retrieve that high technology tool, a fly swatter.

When she returned there he sat on the wall as if it was summer sunbathing, just above the glow of the lamp.  She gave him her best shot, which was not good enough, since he darted once again under the brass cover of the lamp.  She prodded somewhat carelessly with the edge of the swatter beside the bulb and then was rewarded with a thwup as something small hit either the back of the mattress, or the pillow, or the floor.  She looked everywhere carefully.  She listened for many minutes for the awakening buzz.  Nothing revealed a fly.  Finally in resignation she carefully crawled back into her bed and renewed her nighttime rituals.  The evening passed without further incident.

In the morning she had forgotten the intruder as she headed to the kitchen for her wake-up coffee.
When she crossed the kitchen floor she noticed a small dot on the warm wood which upon closer inspection was the fly bathing in the light of the kitchen on his back feet up in the air with no modesty at all.  She didn't know whether to be relieved that he met his death or mystified at how and why he died here.

Happy Birthday to Me

Thus far today my birthday has proceeded according to a typical plan.

1. Last night my granddaughter, who is staying at my house this week, had a horrendous nightmare and then proceeded to come down with a nasty cough the rest of the night...no sleep for me.
2. This is birthday breakfast at my house in the photo above.  E-Z prep.
3. Last night hubby asked if by any chance I had purchased the cake candles when I went grocery shopping!
4. This morning, on my birthday, hubby asked if I had come across the cake mix and candles that he hid!  He can't find  the bag anywhere!  (Don't ask, because I cannot answer your many questions on this.)  I have spent 15 minutes helping him look without luck.
5. He finally found the bag under his jeans on his bedroom chair.
6. The first, and thus far only, birthday call I have received by 10:00 A.M. was on my cell and it was from my stockbroker!  
7. We are eating dinner out (the 3 of us) and I am hoping that the restaurant doesn't burn down today.
8. My last gift today will probably be a cold from that precious little girl in the photo.

J'accuse the Jacuzzi

It is like my private pool,

All white and big enough

for two to meet.

It lies alone most days

Waiting for my attention.

I fill it with water that is hotter

than a Japanese geothermal spa.

I enter naked and carefully

To sit not on river rocks

but a textured plastic bed.

The ointments dance with

the watered bubbles of air and

soon I am sitting in

a field of rain-bowed orbs

with burbled sounds

drowning my thoughts.

I am up to my ears in

pinks, yellows, greens and blues.

It is a glittering luxury.

Enough water to quench

the thirst of an Egyptian family

for months.

Enough perfumed balms

to satisfy any Cleopatra.

But I am no beauty.

I study my shell and

find I no longer recognize it.

It is covered in smudges

brown, pink, red and black.

Some smooth and some

like rough sand.

When did I lose my skin?

Did I shed it like some snake

and then step aside or 

did it flake away slowly

like cream-colored wallpaper

disappearing in the air

as I walked?

These days I must contort

like some gymnast

to enter and exit.

Some day I will not

be able to enter my private bath.

My limbs will petrify

ever so slightly but harshly.

I slip beneath the

white foam

and ask for forgiveness

and another day.

(Some may find it interesting that the photo above was originally a lovely sundog I had captured one fall afternoon.)

Angry Birds

Fix your face she said.

He wiped the smile away.
She sat on the couch and focused her attention on the re-run.

It was just a squirrel
to run around and around
in her easily distracted mind - he understood.

He sat in the faded chair
by the window and picked
with one arthritic hand at the broken seam in his pants.

Fix your mind he thought.
Her eyes got that far away look.
Today was just like that long ago yesterday.

And it now appears
It will be a repeat of tomorrow.

(Something that came to my mind as I watched an elderly couple in the restaurant.  This is the life we all may dread, but some of us cannot avoid it.)

A Few Last Words

This will be the last post on my project for a while.   I will try to provide more interesting fodder for my readers on other subjects in future posts.   But I have continued to write on this story...there seems to be endless research that interrupts my every sentence.  Thus far I have researched flora in Australia, bakery goods in Australia, aboriginal names, and more on geology, mining, and mineral values than I will ever put into any book.  But it seems one must be able to swim in the deep waters before heading out to the cleaner parts of the pool.  (Geesh...what a weird analogy.)  Granny was correct in commenting that many have files of well-intentioned stories that seem to be still born.  But I am enjoying this project thus far and setting aside some time each morning to work on it.  It even is competing with my morning light photography of birds!  By the way, I actually sold a photo as a greeting card this week.  It is not about the money CLEARLY...just such a reward that someone wanted to buy a work that I created!  Well, I have to head out as hubby is banging dishes about in the kitchen and the day is well underway.

The Project

Is it a good (?) thing that this motivation has continue to stay with me over the days? (If you are in a fog...see two prior posts.)  I am already thinking of how I could keep this story moving forward and more self-motivating...making it into short chapter stories before I weave it into the big picture.  Do I dare make it a New Year's Resolution?  I actually keep most of my resolutions so I do not make them lightly.  Well, time well tell as I usually have a lot of that after the holidays.  Thanks for the motivational comments, and those who did not comment I am taking as a polite but important pass which I must consider.  Enjoy you all.

The Beginning

Writing the beginning story post below is like casting a net.  It keeps getting caught on so many rocks and shells and such. I have to research a zillion questions for these two people.  I have to research archaeology, opal mining, visas, Australia, and who knows what else!  So much for following the rule that you should write what you know.  I have the vague outline of a story that came in my sleep, and so, I had to capture it with this start.  The writing is OK, but not as image filled as I would like.  But, you either start writing while the idea is fresh or your wordsmith it into constipation while in gestation. I will work on this and see if it goes anywhere and be sure to let you know...if you want.

A Self-imposed Exercise

Amelia had finally made the break.  She was at long last able to set her course for freedom and independence, far from the confines of her parochial small town at the foothills of the Colorado Rocky Mountains.  This new job was in a remote corner of Australia.  She had scored a job with a mining company whose retrieval of opals had brought it too close to a possible human migration site.  She was going to be one of their required archeologists.  It paid very well, but her real pull was that it was far away from her family in Denver and the work she had been doing there.  It was far away from anything and anyone familiar.  It was a fresh start.  She would be on her own at last.  She needed the independence and the freedom like she needed fresh air and water to keep her spirit from dying of suffocation.


At least, that is what she thought.  As is so often true when we are young, what we want is what we want only until we get it day after day.  The dusty little wooden house that she rented near the town was barren and empty of personality.  She was far from any neighbor, and her late afternoons were filled with too much quiet.  She would take long walks with the strange mangy dog, who somehow captured the name "Mangy", and who had adopted her.  They would wander around the dry fields and down the dusty roads after an early dinner.  And as the days and weeks became months of this pattern, she began to second guess her decision to erase her former life.  For the first time in her life she began to feel a need for company.


She had recently noticed that the seasons were changing and the dry weather was moving on.  The rare passing truck did not stir up its usual tornado of dust as it roared by.  The air on that particular afternoon seemed cleaner due to last night's rain and many of the blossoms of the bumble tree on the hill she was passing had opened spilling their perfume down the field to caress her face.  She looked up and decided to sit in its shade.  Mangy ran on ahead as if anticipating her decision.  As she found a clear place to rest, she noticed a different smell, fragrant like roses.  She had not smelled roses in months and recognized the sweetness immediately.  She turned to her right and just on the other side of the hill in the flat grasses was a small cottage with an arbor covered in pink and white roses.  They were covering the roof tangling carelessly and almost blocked the shadowed doorway.  Behind the house the yard was in the deep shade of several large apple trees.


There were also small beds of other flowers, most still in bud at either side of the front of the small tidy blue house.  What was this place...so out of place in this arid land?  Who spent the time watering and watering to keep this garden alive?  It seemed as if no one was home.  There was no car and no sound.  Mangy had gotten bored resting at her feet and turned to head down the hill toward the house having seen some rodent movement in the shrubs, perhaps.  She sighed as she knew she would have to follow him to keep him from destroying the flower beds in his quest for fun.


He was a smart dog and did not bark but approached his prey quietly like a cat.  He stopped first with his nose at the base of an exotic Sturt pea plant.  It had several of the well recognized and dramatic red blossoms with dark black centers.  Amelia was never unsurprised by the exotic and striking plant life that she encountered on this harsh continent.


She was just about to call Mangy back to her side when a figure appeared beneath the arbor deep in the shadows with only scuffed brown boots showing in the light of the sun.  As the figure moved more into the daylight she saw it was a man in his late 40's or early 50's with a graying beard and sun wrinkled eyes.  He stood in a plain tan shirt and worn denim jeans with his hands in his pockets.  She couldn't help being startled, embarrassed, and somewhat threatened by his sudden presence.  But the flood of emotions did not stop her from quickly and too harshly calling back Mangy.


Mangy paused and then returned to her side as he glanced at the silent man.


"I..I'm so sorry.  My dog and I were attracted to your lovely garden."


The man paused and looked somewhere over her head before saying, "It is not my garden."  His eyes returned to her face with what seemed hesitation.  He remained silent.


"Well, it is lovely.  Not a common sight out here."


He brought his lips together as if to speak and then just seemed to sigh silently as he studied her.


"Well, we enjoyed the view.  Bye."  Amelia clapped her thigh to indicate to Mangy that they were moving on.  They climbed the hill and she only turned back when she had reached the shade of the Bumble tree and the sun was no longer in her eyes.  The quiet man was not standing in the arch of the roses anymore.  He had silently disappeared back into the little blue house.


She kept the strange meeting in her thoughts all the way home.