Saturday, October 19, 2013

Swearing Inwardly

Day 45: Oct 19, 2013

I love Indian summers in Oregon. Today, its warm, the sun is shining through the trees in visible rays, and the leaves are red and gold. We rode bikes to our neighbors, rode horses, played with a baby kitty, had a nap, struggled with the goat fence and built walls and doors for the car port.

I remember days like this as a kid. Weekends in October when the air finally felt crisp after months of stifling heat and humidity. Packs of kids roaming the neighborhood on bikes, skateboards, swimming in the back yard pools. Well, and of course I am remembering the distinct smell of New Orleans. It's a combination of what I imagine the jungle to smell like, rich scents from tropical plants, and the garbage dump. And if you're visiting from a far away place, this combination might be offensive, but if its part of you because you live there, or grew up there, you revel in it.

What is more distinct than the aroma is the sound of the city. When the light starts to dim, the cicadas begin their roaring. Their song is like a drum beat: strong-weak, strong-weak, for hours into the night. The timbre is whiny, but rich with rattles, like a sustained chorus of samba shakers. Like most of my child hood memories, this sound is burned into my brain. Listening to it in my mind brings up feelings and images in my head of living there, and all the things I did there.

Its amazing how the senses can play tricks on your mind. Like last night having a dream about going into labor when really I was having gas cramps. Probably, if my husband had played some cicada sounds on the stereo while I slept, I would have believed I was back at home, walking under the big oaks to my favorite sea food restaurant. And now, its funny living in Oregon because the smell here is what I remember as a kid when we'd go on vacation in the summer, to North Carolina or Colorado. The smell of mountains and freshness. When I was a kid, this smell was so rare, but so loved. Its almost as if I didn't believe it was real, it being reserved for a few weeks a year, after which we'd return so quickly to the hot pungency of birds of paradise and sludge.

Coffee: One homemade au lait enjoyed on the back deck looking at the dysfunctional goat fence swearing inwardly that maybe in fact I don't love the goats, but actually hate them.

Cups and Bags Challenge: We're in a litte bit of a lull. We remain at $47. No problem. I'm going to give my awesome Dutch Bros. server a flyer so soon. If you use a reusable cup, email me here: cupsandbags@yahoo.com and I'll donate a dollar to Bring Recycling.

Watercolor:





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