thewriterUPstairs

How am I to know when Super Bowl 2011 is?
It’s not like Christmas—every December 25. It’s not like my anniversary—October 25 (please send money). And it’s certainly NOT memorable for me.
I didn’t always feel this way about football. No, I take it back. I did. I was a teenager in a small Wyoming town. So small you wouldn’t have heard of it, unless you were from Kemmerer or Border or Sage. I grew up in the days that girls wore dresses to school and boys did ALL the sports. The girls’ options were cheerleading or the drill team—guess where that left me?
Football was the town’s entertainment in the fall. The only competition was three TV channels out of Salt Lake City which turned off at midnight with a flourish of patriotic music warning us to get to bed before Dad got up and found us lounging around, having been intellectually enlightened by Johnny Carson and his Tonight Show.
Every boy in the high school was on the football team. Well, I take that back, a couple of real scrawny brainy types served as water boys or kept stats or just went home and studied during the games.
We had a lush, green football field which took up more square feet than our downtown business district.
On snowy days, and there were plenty of ‘em in Wyoming, Gary Taylor cleaned off the football field with his tractor-mower-turned-plow, strategically placing the gigantic piles of snow at the ends of the field—there weren’t enough people in the hometown to warrant a good view from the end zones.
And I went to every game.
What on earth were those guys doing? Instead of bullying the scrawny brainy stat keepers this was their opportunity to bully each other. And the townsfolk cheered and the girls cheered and the Moms –always in dresses—cheered; and the Dad’s stuck out their chests; and Gary Taylor ran the chain thingy up and down the field with the assistance of some lucky devil, err—friend .
Where the ball was I do not know. I recognized it when it was on the ground before the ‘hut’ thing. Sometimes I saw it in the air and sometimes they caught it and sometimes they didn’t. But always there was a lot of smashing each other up, getting their white pants dirty, walking off the field looking like the Incredible Hulk (who must have been created by an inspired football player).
So why did I go? Maybe it was because my dad was the superintendent. Maybe it was because there was nothing else to do. Maybe it was because all the boys were there. That’s it.

This year, on that day when millions of people are gathered around the TV with their friends and favorite snacks, don’t pity me. I’m happy in my ignorance. And don’t worry, I have good memories from my youth, too, like when the Mets won the 1969 World Series. The universe does reward those who suffer.

I saw my first sea serpent today, as well as a disappearing island, surfers, a giant lobster, and a beautiful Miss Eastham (East-Ham) with white shell toenails. It was a brief two-hour appearance by each of them on First Encounter Beach. Now they are gone, but the making and inevitable destruction was glorious.

There is a children’s ditty about the wise man building his house upon a rock and foolish man building his on the sand. It’s a cute little song with lots of hand and arm motions. Hopefully, children get something from it besides exercise.

Sometimes a good visual aid like a Miss Eastham made of the tan sand of Cape Cod Bay, complete with seaweed hair, being dissolved away by the incoming tide brings the simple truth home. You can’t build a house or a life upon the sand. It will wash away and you can’t stop it.

The Sand Sculpture contest was part of the Eastham (remember East-Ham) Windmill Weekend. It was quite delightful to watch parents, children young and old, artists and helpers get down to the business of creating their creatures from sand. Only a few could have been considered “real artists,” but all of them were “really intent” on doing the best they could.

In the beginning we wandered across the beach fascinated by the creating; then later we equally fascinated by the gentle onslaught of waves which washed each sand canvas away: from serpent to squid to Snoopy. None were spared. But we all knew that would happen there on the beach.

What a great way to spend a Saturday morning: barefoot upon the sand among new friends whose names I don’t know and faces I might never see again.

So who won this delightful competition?

The Disappearing Island—which was a real place called Billingsgate (before it, too, washed away)—was named best of show. The two sea serpents were honored and Miss Eastham got a second place…she deserved it, her hair and toenails were to die for!

So I sit here by the window of a little gray cottage in what some literary types might say is outer earth and others would just call Cape Cod or The Cape.

And after a morning of walking the beach as the tide came in, doing a bit of wash in the kitchen sink and then snoozing in a hammock next to the cottage I ponder who I am writing to this time.

Am I writing to my children so they will know of my exploits on this rare vacation? Am I writing to other writers, editors and agents I want to impress? Am I writing to friends as yet unknown that stumble across my page in search of a knowledge or entertainment?

Ahhh, to be a writer and know for whom thou writest.

Once long ago a wise woman said–when asked about writing one’s journal or diary–write for your future self. And I know that my future self will want to know of this outer earth and how I experienced it. So I will proceed…

The beach. The ocean.

I was raised in Wyoming. The closest I ever got to the ocean was listening to the Beach Boys or watching “Gidget Goes Hawaiian,” (which I totally loved—actually it was Moondoggie I totally loved). And I didn’t know I was missing out on anything to do with large masses of water.

But then I discovered Cape Cod Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, thanks to my husband’s insistence that we take a real vacation some years ago. When 2010 came around it was time, no overtime, to return to the water.

We stepped in the Bay this morning. That moving, breathing mass of water which constantly reaches out toward one’s feet then pulls back slightly, luring you to come closer until you find yourself with water to your ankles and laughter in your throat.

The tides are incredible. The water flows in and the water flows out.

Seagulls alight near the water watching for their dinner or entertainment. Watching also for curious humans who are not welcome in their sandy circles.

A young boy and his father chase through the small tide pools gathering tiny fish to hold in a plastic bucket for a time. Once again laughter and many smiles

Dead and empty horseshoe crabs are common debris on the shoreline, as well as seaweed, broken shells and today a plastic army man—left behind by a careless child.

It’s a magical place.

I can see how the ancients created their King Poseidon. There had to be a human or godly force lending life to the ocean: A force which liked beauty and humor and sharing it with us humans.

It was a dark and stormy night and I sat typing. Alone in my dark basement. My husband and protector was out of town slaying dragons and making an income to support my addictions: eating, sleeping in a bed and using inside bathroom facilities.
There was a rustling outside. Something was alive out there just feet from the door near my kitchen-table-turned-desk.
I’m a brave sort, some of the time; but I still haven’t gotten over my dread of the night after watching, “I Am Legend.”
(You want to be entertained: watch it. You want to be freaked out: watch it. You want never to be left in a parking garage by yourself again: watch it.)
But, back to my story, I rose from my chair and went to the door. Fortunately there is a window on the door which would enable me to see if the noise was caused by a Darkseeker, the neighbor’s Shih Tzu or something more horrifying.
It was a raccoon. I would recognize him anywhere. Grayish, a black mask around his eyes and a look of innocence (or was it guilt) as he gazed at me from his perch next to the almost-empty bird feeder. And then he was gone, back to the slip of woods behind the house. Back to alert the other nocturnal animals that the Kings had bird seed for the taking.
I’ve seen him several times since then; and I’ve seen his handiwork. As the growing season progressed his menu expanded. He loved the peaches and would take a bit of this one and a bite of that one and leave the rest for us. We foiled his plans and stripped the tree bare.
Now the plums must be ripe because he picks them and spitefully brings them up to the deck where he eats them: spits out the skin and leaves the pits behind. Must I strip the plum tree too?
Why doesn’t he eat the pears? Please.
My only recourse is to name him. I sent out a plea to the world’s etymologians who suggested the following names: Rocky, Bandit, Rumbleroar, Reliv, Rikki, Roger, Broc (after the vegetable, I think).
Then I took a poll of which was the best and Bandit came in first with Rumbleroar a close second.
Thank you friends for helping me out of this dilemma. Bandit it is, or as they say in Mexico: Ratero.

Addendum: I got this late vote and wise counsel from Brenda:
“I like Rumbleroar but vote for Roger. It sounds it could be one of your kids. You could stand outside your door and yell for Roger and the neighbors will think you are calling one of the boys.”

Ray Bradbury wrote a great book, “Fahrenheit 451.” If you’ve read it, or seen the movie, you know it’s a futuristic tale about a society that has made reading or owning books a criminal action. The protagonist is a Fireman–whose job is to burn books.

I’ve been fascinated by this story since I was a young teenager. First, I’m fascinated that Bradbury came up with such an idea and wrote such a good book. Second, I’m fascinated at the parallel it makes to our lives today.

To me, reading is like eating and drinking. It must be done. It may not be a novel every day, but it’s a regular part of my life.  I can’t understand those people who say they never read. What? Not Read? It’s not that they are illiterate or dyslexic, they just don’t read.

Actually, I think of few of those grew up in my house. I have no idea how that happened or I’d write a book (why not) and make some bucks (I hope) teaching how to foster a love of reading.

This is the part where I now recognize some great authors in my past and present:

Mary Stewart. She was my first favorite as a teenager. Her book, “Walk in Wolf Wood,” is an incredible juvenile read.

Harper Lee. Author of “To Kill A Mockingbird.” It’s an amazing story.

Mark Twain. Incredible writer. What? You’ve only seen the movies? You’ve got to read “Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn.”

J.K. Rowling. Love her. Wish I’d had the vision about Harry Potter first. Many a child, youth and adult owes her for making reading become delicious.

Suzanne Collins. One of the best. Just when you think all the good ideas have been thought (see above) along comes Hunger Games.  And finally the clock has ticked to Mockingjay’s (Hunger Games III)release. 

Gotta go…before they (those rabid Katniss fans) empty the store shelves. Oh the luscious reading ahead!