There was a recent news report on a study regarding urban life and its effect on people’s health. One of the finds was the thought/idea/assumption (I didn’t listen that closely!) that we no longer are digging in the dirt and we are suffering for that.

It’s possible our bodies need to get dirty, like our rural ancestors. I’m guessing it’s more for the mental joy that comes from digging in the dirt, getting that soil under your nails and seeing your labor come to fruition, rather than obtaining new defenses against disease? (Once again, I should have paid a tad more attention to detail on this one.) However, I had a blast yesterday for about 20 minutes when my grand and I repotted a plant.

Gardening gloves don’t work for me. I do need to feel that earth. Well, guess what? Mini-me said “I love to get dirty. Can I help?” We both dug in and I even found holes in the parched backyard for her to dig in. She kept showing me how incredibly dirty her hands were. She even eschewed the spade for just playing in that dirt. It was a joy to behold.

It’s at this point I offer an apology to my brother for feeding him mud pies when he was a baby. Apparently I already knew dirt was good for you?

Peering through my rain splattered windows I am privy to many gossamer threads illuminated by Autumn’s play on light. I could see a spider’s work across the backyard between two trees, hanging and sparkling in the early morning. Beauty and strength in those fine threads.

Well, of course I thought back to college and my study of Mr. Whitman. I even did a project on him for an advanced degree years ago. However, I truly forgot why I loved this poem so much. But here I am, oh my soul, ceaselessly musing and spewing words, always seeking some anchor. A noiseless spider, not always patient.

A Noiseless Patient Spider

BY WALT WHITMAN

A noiseless patient spider, 

I mark’d where on a little promontory it stood isolated, 

Mark’d how to explore the vacant vast surrounding, 

It launch’d forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself, 

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them. 

And you O my soul where you stand, 

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space, 

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them, 

Till the bridge you will need be form’d, till the ductile anchor hold, 

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

My husband was so proud. He caught the trash guys and gave them $20 to take the old hail-ridden hot tub cover. I applauded him. It was not a problem for them, though probably not a legitimate pickup. We love to catch our guys when we have “beyond weekly” needs.

We do not have easy access to anything in our ‘hood. In the past I have put the trailer at the end of the drive loaded with tree branches and a white envelope with cash. Our disposers take care of it. I have placed a cash envelope for the newspaper delivery driver at the top of the driveway – an out of the ordinary place to deliver – just to show appreciation.

I know it’s not much, but cash speaks. It speaks to me even in my singing and accompanying for weddings and funerals. If I am paid in cash it makes accounting easier. Although cash may be losing some of its weight in this era, I always appreciate it. It’s been paid for.

After reviewing the ensemble I chose to wear for the day – to a well-attended class where many, many people saw me – I decided I should probably be an influencer. This cigar smoking habit which I contemplated perfecting in retirement is not really taking hold. I’m bad at it and practicing is pretty icky.

However, I am quite capable of putting together a clothing choice which some might consider repeatable. Every year I review the contents of my closet and every year I keep the boys’ prep school jacket from Enniskillen, Ireland. It was a thrift-store find years ago which I proudly wear, about once a year. It has a little logo patch with red in it, so I managed to accentuate that with a flaming red pair of “old lady” shoes. They are not attractive, but functional, and received a comment leading me to consider “influencing.” I’m pretty sure my audience would be extremely limited. (Like this blog.)

At least I was comfortable.

If I do not answer your phone call, text, or email, it’s because it’s difficult to do until approximately 4:00 pm on a Wednesday.

Today I was able to sneak in a text or two due to nap schedules, otherwise, all bets are off. However, the magical time of 4:00 pm is when the twins are sleeping and the eldest is at gymnastics. Then, I can speak, wash dishes, and perhaps finish the laundry I might have begun early morning. Or write. All of which can wait until another day, too! Chalk art and bubbles are way more fun.

It sure is entertaining around here and I wouldn’t change a thing. Now – to finish cleaning that kitchen. Or maybe put my feet up?

Options for seating just get less comfortable as I age.

The recliners we so loved when purchased – too big for me. They always were, I suppose, but I could wriggle around them more freely. The kitchen table chairs are too big, also, but it’s really difficult to find smaller seating when you are shopping these days. Everything seems over-sized, not the more petite form-fitting style of the 50’s and 60’s. And if you use those older chairs, of which we have six in our basement, they are too short for the modern dining table. Even the piano bench needs to be raised if I’m to sit properly.

Perhaps the common denominator is me. I’m too short and obviously crankier the more I sit. Ding, ding, ding! Tim to get off my duff and exercise more.

Home again savoring the Sunday puzzles and football games. What a wonderful weekend. I think the cigar taste is finally out of my mouth and my skinned knees and elbow less obvious. I’m guessing my guardian angel rolls her eyes quite frequently and definitely got her share of over-time the last few days!

Returning from a trip made in autumn is always a chance to scrub-a-dub-dub the bugs from your vehicle. It truly smelled like a fishing wharf as literally there was a blood and guts display on the truck. Although quite smelly, it was satisfying to reintroduce the shine to the transport. I’m ready for the next adventure.

Oh – that would be taking care of the grands tomorrow!

Even though I am publishing in a Saturday time zone, it’s still really Friday. And what a Friday it has been!

Thank you to all who sent me sympathies on the loss of my aunt – the reason for my return to “The Good Life,” this weekend. And, returning for a funeral is always an occasion to see my cousins and remaining aunts and uncles. Every time we get together we run through a veritable “who’s who” in regard to cousins. I have 52 first cousins. Knowing their children is beyond me, knowing their spouses is a guess! Now, granted they aren’t all here, it’s still a reintroduction most times, since apparently we don’t look like the people we remember from childhood and obviously can’t remember from the last funeral. Imagine that?

Other than that, I spent the day being chauffeured by my brother to lovely retail opportunities, including a pumpkin sales stand where I managed to trip over a wagon hitch and fall in the gravel, scraping myself nicely. It really was an opportunity to involve a lawyer, but hey, we take these episodes with a grain of salt in the heartland. (And I’m really okay. I didn’t break anything! And my dress for the funeral will cover my skinned knees. All is fine.)

We ended the evening with a lovely cigar by the fire and a bit of bourbon. My brother, sister and I enjoyed many a laugh at our own expense, reminisced and laughed at our parent’s expense, and extended the evening into the next day here. Tomorrow – today – we will continue finding the joy in being with family.

Eschewing the electric can opener, wine bottle opener, and salt and pepper grinders, I also use a hand mixer for my fantastic baked concoctions. (Ahem.)

”You use it or lose it,” has been my motto for the kitchen. And believe me, those cans are getting harder to open. Some of them arrive bent and that is a challenge. Then we have to involve a kitchen knife to pry up the last quarter inch of tin! Danger at every turn.

Other than that, we use all of the conveniences afforded us in this little world, and yes, we are grateful, sending our prayers to those in Helene’s wake who must start over.

We have a roof over our heads!

I’d forgotten how incredibly noisy this replacement process is. I’m in awe of the men who are up there on the slant scraping, and slightly concerned about nails that may be finding hiding spots. What a mess! And all of this goes into the landfill. It’s hard to believe we can’t find better material for hail resistance.

Which reminds me, I need to water my plants. They have finally recovered from June’s storm. It only took a few months, and just in time to start winterizing around here.

First world problems.