Play dates

C & I had homeowner business to attend to on Saturday, and we took it very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that we slept on it till noon.

However, having fully contemplated through morning drowsing what we were about to do, once up, we grabbed the weekend with a vengeance.

New refrigerator to buy? Check.

Really nice dinner at Eleven in The Strip? Check and check!

Cramming in to a small bar performance space in Lawrenceville to hear a co-worker's band? Check!

Oh, and the band? A bunch of dads (i.e. old guys) but awesome in their joy at rocking on a Saturday night.

I thought about play on Sunday, dumping off newspapers and catalogs at the local Abitibi drop boxes by the library. There was a group of kids in the parking lot, 3 or 4 tween boys, a couple tween girls, flipping a Frisbee among themselves, laughing and yelling.

The girls were so cute, headbands and ponytails; one wore shorts, socks and tennies, the other leggings and tennies. So cold outside, but they were oblivious, the skin they hadn't covered bright red.

A long time ago, in France when I was a little girl, I remember watching boys bicycling to school in the coldest of temps, wearing shorts. Their skins was the same bright red. And they seemed oblivious, too.

For older people, play is hard work. But when you watch kids at it, you recognize how worthwhile it is.

Best line from the band audience on Saturday? The 60-something bald bass player went to the bar to get water for the 50-something drummer with the cramping finger and here is what I heard:

"That is, like, the coolest old dude ever, man!"

Play on!

Hibernation

There is general agreement around these Pittsburgh parts that it is way too cold for this early in the winter, even if the frosty season has not officially arrived yet.

General agreement notwithstanding, the cold is here, oblivious. And while we are not as cold-bound as the upper Midwest and the upper Northeast, we are cold enough to be weary already of hunched shoulders and heavy coats.

So I am happy to report that I have some summer friends hanging around, in my garage, who are doing rather well in the cool and dim confines of their winter home. This fall I decided to skip the fussy gardening advice about lifting tubers, blah blah blahbeddy blah blah. I've been growing things long enough to know that there's a lot of advice out there designed only to make you work too hard.

My patio pals are hibernating quite nicely so far, still green and in the case of a canna, still flowering. If there is sun and it isn't too frosty, I open the garage door for a bit to give them a bit of weak winter light on the weekends.

Of course, there will be work to do in the spring, dividing and trimming, but I am happy to say I have $7 end-of-season ferns and hibiscus from Home Depot and black mondo grass from I can't remember where ready to set out on the warm asphalt driveway in March.

Just 3 months to go!

Reflections of a day

What do you call the moments of the day, remembered in a jumble, deep into evening when the daylight has long since passed?

This morning brought dry, bitter cold and the palest of January light.

In the park, the dogs and I had barely come down the steps and moved down the path when a crashing sound stopped us, at least two of us with ears up. We turned and on the slope above us, two deer, galloping full speed, flashed by, followed by a small, golden streak, barking.

I expected shortly to hear horns honking, as they were headed toward traffic, but as we continued on, the only sound was a whistle for a dog, and the next sigh the golden streak, in the form of a running boxer, rushing back past us into the park.

We were left with the hollow sound of a woodpecker drilling on a tree trunk and icy water rippling over stones in the creek. We finished our walk uneventfully, the memory of the chase immediately replaced in the dogs' minds by the next fascinating smell.

I went to the hospital in the early afternoon to visit Carl, who now has a very talkative roommate. On his cell phone. With the nurses. About things you just would rather not hear about, as they are unpleasant daily realities in the hospital. I won't say thanks for sharing.

After work, I drove back to visit again. Heading in to Oakland on the Boulevard of the Allies, I saw the moon, low and huge in the evening sky, veiled by cloud drift. At the hospital, I headed to the top floor of the garage, hoping to get a picture, but the skyline obscured it. By the time I left, the risen moon had lost its near-to-the-horizon majesty.

Now, at midnight, it lights the dark, turning the snow in the backyard to a pale silver gray, reflecting what's left of the day.

The painting is by artist Edward Bannister, a black American who was born in Boston and died in 1901.