Tag Archives: Slice of Life

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Some Bedroom Humor

We keep our bedroom temperature on the chilly side in the winter. “How chilly?” you ask. Very-old-not-well-insulated-house-in-Maine-and-don’t-want-to-use-all-our-money-on-oil-bills chilly. Translation? Around 57-58˚ F. We actually like it that way. (Well, at least we do once we’ve warmed up under the covers.)

Both of us always read before going to sleep. We each have a book light so that whoever stays up later doesn’t keep the other one awake with a bedside lamp. At least theoretically. Most nights I tend to stay up a little later. Sometimes a lot later. Sometimes that doesn’t go over so well.

In mid-winter the temperature in our room inspires me to retreat to long-ago days and create a sort of reading tent under the covers. This works for me as it keeps me warm, and it also avoids most of the grumpy “Turn out your light and go to sleep” comments from the man trying to sleep beside me (aka Kurt).

One recent evening I came up to bed and saw that Kurt already had his light off. “You know,” I commented, as I settled in my little reading cave with my book and light in hand, “You’re lucky I like to read under the covers.”

There was a slight pause. Then he replied, “Well… you’re lucky I don’t have an intestinal disorder.”

He can still make me laugh after all these years.

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There’s a Vortex In My Bed

It’s only been two days so far, but it’s been really tough getting out of bed this week. Yesterday morning I woke through a haze to blindly smack at my blaring alarm clock. The words “there’s a vortex in my bed” popped into mind as I tried to force myself up and out of bed. Here’s the drafty poem that happened in my notebook a little bit later:

There’s a Vortex in My Bed

No matter how I struggle
to arise and start my day
I can’t escape the blankets
or their ally, the duvet

They act like mini-twisters
wrapping tightly ‘round my limbs
The mattress pad’s complicit,
working hard to suck me in

The pillows are colluding
as they mound around my head
I’ve clearly lost this battle!
I just can’t get out of bed!

©Molly Hogan

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Taking Stock of My Reading Life

As the new year has begun, many people have been sharing their reading lists from 2023. Even though I’m a lifelong avid reader, I’ve never kept track of my reading. There’s no particular reason why, I’ve just never really thought about doing so. All these lists nudged me to consider my own reading life. What did I read over the last year? When I stopped to think about it, I realized that I did not like what I saw.

I have to admit it: I’ve been stuck in a bit of a reading rut for quite a while now. Maybe more like a ditch, really. I read all the time, but I primarily read and reread lighter things. If I pick up a book and it starts to get stressful, I put it down. Emotional turmoil? No, thanks. If someone is going to die, forget about it. Due to this new habit of mine, I’ve sometimes found myself with 4-5 books partially read at one time. What I do finish is often not worth mentioning–or at least embarrassing to do so.

“I’ve been reading way too much crap lately,” I confided to a friend recently.

“There’s nothing wrong with reading crap,” she said.

“But,” I continued, “I’ve not just been reading crap, I’ve been rereading crap!”

“Oh,” she said. Then after a moment, she continued, “Well, you really should at least read fresh crap.”

Exactly!

So, it occurred to me that keeping a list of books I’ve read might be a good way to hold myself accountable for upping my reading game–for digging my way out of this trough. If I have to write down the title, and maybe share it sometime, it might spur me to be more selective about what I’m reading. I mean if it gets too stressful for me, I can always opt out, right?

Stay tuned!

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The Gifts of Christmas, Past and Present

After the gift opening and the Great Food Indulgence (aka brunch), we headed to the beach. On the way down we wondered how the beach would look after the recent storm. Would there be a lot of driftwood? How had the dunes fared? Erosion in past storms had actually revealed military rocket motors and casings from World War 2, when the beach was used for military target practice. We chatted about this and that, wondering aloud what we would find there today.

We arrived to find only a few cars in the parking lot. Nick and Lydia headed off to explore the fort, and Kurt and I wandered on the path toward the beach. Already we saw mounds of debris and driftwood along the path’s edges. We came upon a white-haired man sitting on a bench overlooking the water.

“What a beautiful day!” I said, as we approached him.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed. We exchanged holiday greetings and marveled over the layered debris from the storm. He mentioned how he remembered finding bullet casings on the beach as a kid, and we exclaimed how we’d just been talking about that.

After a few minutes, I gave in to the lure of the beach, the shifting blues and silhouettes, and wandered ahead to take pictures. Kurt stayed to talk.

A while later, Kurt caught up with me.

“Were you talking all that time with that man?” I asked.

“We talked for a while. He sprinkled his mom’s ashes here a few years ago, so he comes here every Christmas day. He told me, ‘I don’t think she can hear me. Probably not. But still I like to come.'”

“Oh, I’m so glad you stayed and talked with him.”

“Yeah. He told me that he had diabetes and that he’d had a heart attack. He talked about not knowing what each day would bring and needing to enjoy the time you have.” 

Then Kurt said that as he left to join me, the man apologized, saying to him, “Hey, sorry to talk about such downer stuff.”

“It’s not downer stuff,” Kurt responded, “It’s just life, man.”

I think of that man now, sitting on that bench alone. Of how I wandered on without his story, content to investigate a different one. Of how Kurt stayed to talk, to ask questions, to connect.

I took lots of pictures yesterday. Mostly of sun and sand. Of storm-tossed trees and piles of debris. Even one or two of my family. But of all the images I saw yesterday, it’s the one I didn’t take that is strongest in my mind. That man sitting quietly on the bench, looking out at the water, thinking of life, his challenges, and mostly, remembering his mother.

Later on our walk, we came across another bench. Another story of love and loss. Of remembrance. This time I paused for a little longer, holding my own loved ones, near and far, close in my heart.

The holidays are wrapped in both past and present. Here’s hoping yours were filled with handfuls of love and laughter and seasoned with memories that brought more smiles than tears. Wishing you peace, joy and light as we head into the new year.

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Making a Fashion Statement…of a sort…

I picked up the pink, wool sweater and put it on top of my pile of clothes on the bathroom counter. There! Ready for tomorrow! I thought, satisfied to have that annoying nightly chore done.

I turned to head toward bed and my book, when something caught my eye.

Wait…what’s that? Is that a hole?

I turned back and picked up the sweater. Sure enough, there was a hole, front and center. A few forlorn threads lay broken and unraveled, circling a glaringly empty space. No chance of hiding this one. Or was there? I pulled two of the largest threads together, trying to knot them up and hide the damage, but there wasn’t quite enough slack. I tugged again, turning the fabric this way and that. Finally, after a few more attempts, I gave up. I looked down at the sweater and its now-a-bit-larger hole. Maybe…Could I just…? No, I told myself firmly, there is no way you can get away with that.

Sighing, I walked over to the closet and pulled an alternative sweater off the shelf. Hmmmm….it looked a bit…off. The sweater was supposed to be soft and slightly fuzzy, but this garment looked a bit more than that, not pilly, but maybe a bit too much like the llama or whatever creature had donated the original fibers. I took it back to the bathroom, grabbed a pair of scissors and snipped strategically, removing some longer bits and pieces. Then, I held it up before me and gave it a quick glance. That’s better, I thought. I put it down on the pile and headed off to bed, well satisfied, once again, to have that task done.

At the end of the next day, as I walked my class back from Library, the student next to me spoke up.

“Mrs. Hogan?”

“Yes?”

“Is your sweater made of ….” she hesitated, tentatively touched my arm, then continued, “…cat?”

“Cat?!” I exclaimed.

“Well,” she said, “it’s sort of all fuzzy and…” she gestured vaguely at it, waving her hands. “Well, I just thought maybe it was made of cat fur…” She trailed off, looking a bit uncertain.

“Um, no,” I responded, unsure whether to laugh or cringe, but certainly not wanting her to feel bad. “I’m not sure what it is, but it’s definitely not cat.” I looked down, seeing my sweater with new eyes. I lifted my arm to look closer at the fuzzy threads. Cat!?!

We walked the rest of the way back to class. Every so often the student gave my arm a sidelong glance and a discrete pat. I’m not sure she was buying my denial.

Tonight I’ll try to bring a more critical eye to the task of garment selection. And this sweater? Well, I definitely won’t be wearing it to school again!

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Radiator Adventures

“Well, one thing that could help is make sure that the radiators are dust free,” the man commented. “Just take a vacuum to them.” He was sitting on a chair in our living room, talking to us about our furnace, possible replacements and overall issues with heating our 200+ year old home.

We looked at each other guiltily.

Oops!

I peeked over at the closest radiator. Even without removing the metal strips, I could see dust inside, and it may just have been a slight breeze moving through(remember…old house!), but I think one of the larger clusters waved at me tauntingly. I immediately added “Vacuum out the radiators” to my towering mental list of good intentions.

Fast forward a month or two and we’re in full home improvement mode. No, we haven’t vacuumed out the radiators yet, but we’re repainting the living room. We’ve removed the furniture from the room and Kurt has repaired various cracks and divots. The ceilings are done and it’s time to clean the walls and trim and get that started. This is all to explain how I came to be sitting on the floor, taking the long, external metal plates off the radiator, with the vaccuum sitting next to me, looking appropriately serious and intense. We both suspected this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

We had no idea.

I removed the splice plate and the two long metal strips came off easily. For your reference, below is a picture of what the inside of a clean baseboard radiator looks like. Add about an inch of accumulated dust and grit to this and you’ll have an idea what mine looked like.

“EW!” I exclaimed, calling out to my husband who was in another part of the house. “Kurt, I could make a small animal out of this!”

Dust lay like a thick Shetland sweater over the heater fins. (No wonder we’d had a hard time heating this room!) I reached over and peeled a thick layer up and off. I think I may have blushed. This was even outside of my normal low housekeeping standards! Thank heavens for a sturdy vacuum. I gave it an affectionate pat, turned it on and we got to work.

There’s a deep satisfaction to listening to grit and debris getting sucked into a vacuum. I watched the dust zip away, feeling ever more virtuous. Bit by bit the radiator fins came into sight, as did a few lost treasures–a marble, a random earring, some paperclips. I was going to have the cleanest baseboard radiators in town!

That’s when it happened. The vacuum came to an especially thick clump of dust and didn’t tidily suck it away. Oh, it tried valiantly, but the dust clump remained. I tried a few different angles. Nothing worked. Turning off the vacuum, I poked with my finger at the stubborn clump. Why wouldn’t it go up the vacuum hose? Was it another earring? A toy lost long ago? I leaned in to take a closer look.

Uh oh

“Kurt,” I wailed. “I’m pretty sure there are feet in this dust clump!”

Whatever it was, it had clearly been there a long time and had no intention of disappearing up a vacuum hose. I held my breath, took the vacuum attachment and carefully poked it under an edge of the clump, flipping it up and over. The soles of four little feet came into view, pointing stiffly upward. Beneath the shroud of thick dust were the desiccated remains of a small critter.

“It’s a mouse!” I shrieked.

“Well, get rid of it,” Kurt answered, still safely away in the other room.

“Do you realize that all the times we said, ‘Oh, something smells bad. I guess something must have died in the walls’ (which if you have ever lived in an old house is just a thing that gets said sometimes), there was actually some creature cooking on our radiator! In the same room with us! And we were breathing that air!?!”

I said this, in various iterations multiple times.

“The very air we were breathing!”

“It was just right there, cooking away!”

“It was like a mouse barbecue!”

Then finally, after disposing of the remains, I announced, “Kurt, this is so disgusting. If you ever tell anyone about this, I am going to deny it.”

Unless I write about it…

Note: This morning as I write this (and I kid you not!), my cat is poised in the corner where the radiator meets the wall. She hasn’t moved for food or affection, both an essential part of her morning routine. She’s gazing intensely at the radiator. Her tail is twitching. Every so often she madly scrabbles her paws underneath the metal plates. I know what this means!

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Early Bird Sale

I told myself earlier in the week that I wasn’t going to be able to go. I simply had too many things going on and couldn’t spare the time. I hadn’t really thought about it again. Or so I thought.

Then, early on Saturday morning, soon after I’d started writing, I glanced at my watch. 6:05 am.

Oh, the Early Bird Sale has started.

The thought instantly popped into my head. Clearly, I hadn’t fully submerged it.

What’s an Early Bird Sale you ask? Well, in a nutshell, it’s earlier opening hours at local stores with a generous discount and encouragement to wear your PJs as you shop. At my local bookstore it was 25% off all books from 6-9 am. Every year I choose a book for each family member for Christmas. The Early Bird Sale is the kickoff of my holiday shopping and one of my favorite parts of the holiday season. But this year I’d already decided not to go. I had a very busy weekend ahead with lots of plans and obligations.

Still…

My pen hovered.

I wavered.

Usually I spend time in advance of the sale reading reviews, pondering my options and enjoying creating a list. This year I cobbled together some ideas from a few trusted sources and was out the door half an hour after deciding to go. Actually, I’m not sure I ever fully decided. I just suddenly found myself still in my PJs, list in hand, getting out of my car in the parking lot, and feeling vaguely guilty and very excited.

I wandered into the store out of the chilly, dark morning and was greeted with light, warmth and the hubbub of bright voices and happy conversation. I immediately relaxed. This was where I wanted to be.

I started with new releases. The newest Stephen King was out, but I knew at least two of my family had already bought and read it. I kept an eye out for the titles I’d scribbled down. I looked at Staff Picks, picked up books, read blurbs, considered my options. As I wandered, I listened in to others’ conversations, chimed in a few times, touched the covers of “old friends” affectionately, and breathed in the intoxicating aroma of new books.

After I’d been there a little while, the owner approached me, “Can I help you find something? Oh! I see you have a list! What are you looking for?”

I then spent a delightful 20-30 minutes with her. I’d ask if she had a certain book and she’d say “Yes” or “No”. If they had it, she’d show me where to find it. But, really the fun started with the “No’s”, and especially the “No, but’s…”

“No, but have you read this one?”
or
“No, but I do have one that sounds similar…”
or
“No, but have you read that author’s last book?”

Or she’d tell me she hadn’t heard of a book I was looking for and ask me to tell her about it. I would and then my description would connect to other books, other authors, other sections of the store.

Last Friday I posted a prose and poem combo describing kids at a recent recess delighting in the flurry of autumn leaves falling in the breeze. They had whirled and twirled, stretching their hands out over their heads, trying to catch the leaves as they fell. They had been completely lost in the wonder of it all.

I felt a lot like that in the bookstore on Saturday morning. Immersed in book talk. Giddy with books and the potential of them all. Loving thinking about my family and the interests and nuances of each of them. Busy stretching out, trying to “catch” the perfect book choice and lost in the wonder of all those words. All those books.

When I left the store an hour or so later, I had a large bag brimming with books. I know I was smiling, and I’m pretty sure my face was glowing just like the kids’ faces at recess that day.

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Times Change!

They’re everywhere this year — decimating rose petals, digging deep in the comfrey blossoms, skeletonizing leaves across the garden.

Invasive. Ravenous. Destructive.

Japanese beetles.

Their iridescent shells are unmistakeable, and to an uninitiated eye, might even appear beautiful. Exotic. But the sight of them evokes horror in the hearts of farmers and gardeners. In my own garden, I’ve declared war. If the scenes of carnage aren’t enough to convince you of the righteousness of my cause, perhaps a quick detour to a technicolor childhood memory might shed some light on my deep-rooted aversion.

When I was young, summer inevitably meant seemingly unending sun-filled days at the pool. Ah, vacation! We’d spend many long hours swimming, playing Marco Polo, practicing underwater bubble talk conversations, jumping and diving off the diving boards. We were innocent and carefree, until…when upon surfacing from a mermaid glide or an underwater quest, a sibling or friend would point at our head with a shaking finger and emit the dreaded cry, “Japanese beetle!”

Or, even worse, I would reach up to smooth my hair back, and find a beetle, fully entrenched. That horrible, sickening feeling as my fingers contacted that tell-tale squirmy-legged hard carapace–and then instantly recoiled—is etched in my memory. The beetles were determined, clinging to each strand of hair with their segmented legs, fighting to maintain their hold while I battled with two strong emotions– desperation to remove them and a deep-seated aversion to touching them. I’d dive under water again and again, shaking my head vigorously. Each time I resurfaced, I’d reach up a hand to check with hesitant, trembling fingers…

Was it still there?

It always was.

Inevitably, I’d have to pull the beetle all the way down the tangled strands of my long, wet hair to GET. IT. OFF! It would cling. I’d tug and pull for as long as I could stand it. Over and over again. Ugh! The memory still makes me shudder.

These days the beetles are on my patch again, but I’m far less worried about touching them. They may have invaded in force, but I’m the Grim Reaper. With my bottle of soapy water in hand, I walk through my gardens, ruthlessly plucking them from their perches. I delight as each one softly splashes into my deathly concoction. Often they’re entangled in stacks of two or three, engaged in God-knows-what sort of beetle perversions. I push the clustered creatures into my Dawn-scented pool of death and delight in the added efficiency. One. Two. Three. I feel a bit like the brave little tailer of fairy tale lore as I crow, “Three with one blow!”

Note the unearthly glow of my deadly beetle brew

Things have changed a lot since I was seven.

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As August Arrives…

I’ve started writing multiple times. False start after false start. So much is bubbling in my brain recently, but not much that feels ready for public consumption and a lot that remains amorphous, still circling above word level, riding currents of thoughts and emotions, not yet ready to perch, much less to land.

Today is August 1st. I’m about 1300 miles from home. We’ve been on the road a fair bit this summer and right now are visiting family in Tennessee. It’s been wonderful to see them, and I’ll be so sad to leave. I hate how far apart we are. 

Still, I yearn for home. For Maine. For my gardens, my space, my routines. For cooler temperatures and non-conservative values.

For the most part, I’m a rule follower. A non-confrontational being. Anyone who knows me well will attest to that. It’s not necessarily a good thing, but it’s a deeply rooted facet of my personality. Yet I walked out of a church service during the sermon on Sunday. I could not, would not, sit there surrounded by all the smiling faces cloaking judgment and hate in words of love. Judgment and hate that targets those I love.

At almost 80 years old, my mother-in-law is new to this church and to religion. It comforts her. It dismays me. Horrifies me? Like I said, I’m still trying to find the words. I can’t stretch that moment out yet. I don’t want to dip into it and write about it with details. I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. There’s no denying that she’s found peace and serenity. But who is paying the price? 

And August has begun. When August arrives, I already start to feel behind. All the undone things on my summer “to do” list, line up and clamor for attention. It’s like a flash mob of rebuke. I feel the coming school year getting closer. I feel its hot, moist breath on my neck. While there’s much I look forward to about school, I dread the freight-train-impact of its unrelenting pace. I know how it feels to be flattened by too much to do, too little time. 

So, I guess I’m in a bit of a muddle. Traveling and being out of my own territory is something I value–shaking things up is important! But I feel unsettled, pulled by too many opposing feelings in different directions. My last few weeks of summer are rapidly filling up with “must do’s” and with each appointment I write on my calendar, I feel a bit of summer freedom fade away. I am thankful for the time I’ve had with family and friends and keep reminding myself that I still have two weeks of break once I return. Still.

I’m not sure that writing has helped me find any clarity. But I’m pretty sure it didn’t hurt.

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Rain. Rain. More Rain.

I’m trying to love the rainy weather. Or at least to appreciate it. Continuous swaths of grey. Mist. Moist. Unrelenting cloud cover. Day. After day. After day.

I’m failing.

Miserably.

This morning I looked through our front door out into the ever-present grey and misty air. Looking down I saw several bruised and battered phlox blossoms and a smashed slug on the granite step. It occurred to me that I could take a picture of that and entitle it “Summer 2023.” That felt a bit dark. But oh so accurate.

Yesterday, I drove to the grocery store. When I emerged into the misting rain, I found not one, but two snails crawling along the sides of my car. I’m pretty sure I brought them along with me from home for the ride. I didn’t appreciate the stowaways, and flicked them to the paved ground with grim satisfaction.

“Take that!” I muttered gleefully, fully embracing my newly arisen homicidal snail urges.

I keep telling myself that we’ve been spared the risk of wildfires, the smoke from Canadian wildfires, and the slow relentless burn of drought. Despite limited sun, my gardens are in full bloom…at least those plants that haven’t been eaten by the snails and slugs. Weeds are running rampant since I haven’t gotten outside to pull them, but, on the other hand, I haven’t had to lug water to the hanging and potted plants. Also, rainy days offer some motivation and opportunity to tackle long-deferred household projects. I should appreciate all these things. Right?

That’s great in theory, but it just isn’t happening in reality.

I cannot bring myself to appreciate this.

Recently, having given up hope for a break in the pattern, people have begun to say, “Maybe this is going to be the new normal.”

I can barely rouse myself from the fog of rainy weather torpor long enough to protest.

Ugh.