Lightning Bugs and Unripe Tomatoes

Seasonally, it's been a quirky few months in Iowa. It began well. We had several gorgeous nights sitting on the porch watching the fireflies light up the garden, but as the weeks advanced into July, I prepared Dave for a blistering August, but it was so cool at the state fair, I could have danced down the boulevard in a sweatshirt. "It'll get hot in September," I said.

"Don't expect a Michigan fall," I said.

"We can still get hot weather in October," I said.

Saturday morning we woke up to an inch of snow on the ground, and last night I gritted my teeth every time the sleet pinged and zlinked against the window screen.

Dave now thinks I'm full of crap.

Don't get me wrong. I am not a fan of humidity and 90-degree summer days. I can remember the torture and frustration of standing in front of a fan -- which was only blowing hot air around -- trying to pull on pantyhose over sweaty skin because we had to go to a wedding or church or something, only to be elbowed out of the way be a sister who was waiting to attempt the same feat. I'd be happy if the thermometer never rose above 75 -- if it weren't for the tomatoes that stayed green until last week. But this is just weird.

Yeah, yeah, I know -- global warming. I get it. I don't ignore evolution either. But what am I supposed to do for BLTs?

Coming Home

Joy has always been a scary condition. Growing up in the philosophy of God as a grouchy old man with his finger poised over the "Smite" button will do that to a person. But I'm learning to be brave and not duck every time I feel happy. Which is a good thing because I'm so happy since we came home to Iowa.

I certainly miss some things about Ann Arbor -- foreign films at the Michigan Theater, the Sweetwaters Cafe on Washington Street, the availability of goat cheese -- but I've gained so much more than I've lost. Nothing huge -- unless you count the square footage of mowable yard -- just lots of little things I'd forgotten I loved -- the color of ripe soy beans, working outside all day and getting really dirty, the calls of killdeer and bobwhites, battered farm cats who live a Darwinian existence but still like a cuddle if you'll only sit down on the front step.

So I will not dishonor joy by pushing it aside. I'll sit down on the back step with a little calico cat with a crumpled ear, watch the wind blow the pansies around, and wait for the cicadas to start warming up.

Texting Shakespeare

My niece just bought a book about how to successfully discuss books you've never read. Not a bad concept, albeit a little scary. However, since I made it through a Twain, Howells and James course in grad school while only reading Twain, I can't be too high and mighty.

She's reacting to a reading list forced on her this summer, and I have to agree with her on some of the choices. What kid wants to read Great Expectations? I really like Dickens and even I don't want to read Great Expectations. And really, what angst-ridden teenager should read Romeo and Juliet without proper supervision? Someone should be standing close by to say, "Look, Romeo is a real jerk."

I'm a huge fan of literature. I think kids should read literature and be exposed to many different kinds, but I'm against turning them off the classics because of some archaic list of "must reads". Just because high school freshmen have read Romeo and Juliet for a hundred thousand years doesn't make it a good choice.

I'd love to not sound like an old fart with this next point, but there's no way round it -- with the instant gratification of the internet and texting, kids have even less patience and attention span than before. My niece complained about The Odyssey, and on that I had to disagree because it's not only a great story, but the basis of so much that came after. "OK," she said, "but couldn't they summarize it?"

Yikes!

Scenes from Around the Playground

The fall weather in Iowa has been gorgeous -- especially if you love breezy, cloudy days, which I do! I took time yesterday just to explore my own yard.

Teddy finds his boundaries.

Point of view: Miss Kitty
The pumpkin patch -- point of view: Me
The pumpkin patch -- point of view: Pumpkin
My yarrow survived!!

A monk's eye view of the neighbors' house.

Doesn't Everyone's Teapot Have Parents?

I have always loved stories. I can't remember a time since I learned to read that I wasn't starting a book, in the middle of a book, or finishing a book. I used to carry stacks of little square books with me in the car, and I used to horrify my sisters because I read at basketball games. (I still think the best parts of basketball games are the highlights on ESPN.)

Somewhere along the way, I apparently started assigning stories to everything -- objects, situations -- even numbers. The numbers 1 to 10 weren't just lines on a page with values; mine had personal lives. Number 1 was the stalwart; 2 was the ingenue and 3 her childish sidekick. Number 4 was Gilligan to #5's Skipper. Six and Seven were in love, but Eight was jealous and did everything she could to break them up, but #9 kept 8 in check to protect the lovers. Nine was the swashbuckling hero -- and a bit arrogant. Number 10 was the wise figure who had made it to the top and just smiled at all the foolishness the others got up to.

I have always thought of them that way. Even now when I am memorizing Italian numbers, seis and siete cannot be split up.

I didn't realize it was anything special until a friend of mine turned to me after I'd been animating the pansies or the teapot or something and said, "You know, LeAnn, not everyone does that."

Really? I assumed it was inherent in all brains -- like Paul McCartney who said once he thought everyone heard songs in their heads.

And then I thought . . . Cool!

Dave and I vacationed at Traverse Bay, Michigan one summer. We were standing on the beach really early one morning when two middle-aged men put a remote-control boat into the water and starting zooming it around. It was fun to watch -- for awhile. It was kind of boring with no story. Then Dave and I both turned to each other and said, "Pirates!"

My Cat from the Universe

They say (whoever "they" are) that you are sent the cat you are meant to have. Teddy proves that rule. He found us -- climbing on the windowsill and meowing in the window at our old house in Ann Arbor. Happily I had a spare can of tuna and a cat owner relationship was born. And I mean "cat owner" as in he owns us. I don't know how we managed our household before Teddy arrived because he is clearly in charge.

He's the perfect cat for me because he loves quilts. If there's a quilt available, he's snuggling in. Sometimes this happens when I've got one bunched up on my sewing table trying to get the binding attached. Trust me, it is not easy to maneuver a quilt with a furry passenger.

I arranged my antique quilts on a shelf under a wooden serving piece in the dining room, and I wondered how long it would take him to play "Prince and the Pea". Not long. My very next trip through the dining room I spotted him curled up on top of the embroidered daffodils.

Happily, he's very respectful of quilts. If only the same were true of the upholstery.

Pushing Past the Demons

Since I've been determined to reach the top of the mountain, my personal demons have been especially grasping and needy, and they haven't made it easy this week to persevere. Why is it that the familiar ruts feel so safe even though in the long run they are the most unhealthy choices?

Some of the best advice I ever received was to walk headlong into any fear or strong emotion I was experiencing. It's the same concept as the "straight to the top of the mountain" analogy. So with that in mind, I plunge into my propensity for self-sabotage.

I eat more than I know I should or even want; I don't exercise even though I know I'll feel better; and I watch too much television because it's easier than facing the obstacles of writing or designing. But none of those behaviors feels good -- or represents the woman I'd really like to be.

The former is who I've always been. Am I afraid I'll lose something important if I let her go? Can't I keep the best parts of her and still become someone better? Someone I've learned to be after years of living and thinking and reading?

I know I began this rebellious behavior in response to my mother's shaming. I've always been an "Oh, yeah, I'll show you" person. But the rebellion doesn't serve me well either.

I wish I had a tangible step to take to get past all the demons, a sure-fire way to avoid their clammy green hands and emerge into the clear. But I don't. Yet.

Sometimes when my plot gets stuck, I'll write the question I most need an answer to and leave it to the Universe to respond. Perhaps that's my next best step to push past the demons.

So.

How do I achieve that "tweak" of perception that allows me to move beyond my old way of thinking and being? How do I get clear of the demons?