nature

Magnolia Petals

Deb Zuroski, , , , , Leave a comment

There’s a weird muddle of things in my head. I may have expected the month change to clear that muddle. Alas, it remains in place. Happily, though, the rain that washed away the last of March brought April in a glorious fluster, pranking us with a day of wind storms. I fully expected that my beautiful magnolia, which blooms for less than a week every year, would be bloom-less by Saturday’s end. Surprisingly, those soft white blossoms have held on. 

I know my neighbor is watching out his window (there’s no curtain so I actually do know this) to see if he can get out his petal-removal tools. Every year, magnolia petals cover my yard (and part of my neighbor’s) in a whitish brown blanket which he then inevitably leaf-blows onto my yard before the day reaches noon. (He brought out the leaf-blower yesterday though there were not yet any petals for him to blow. It matters not to him; he finds many reasons to wield that leaf blower. How he loves that thing.)

Leaf-blower’s wife is also quite elderly and terribly lovely, both in her heart and in her face. Today, she told me that her son’s been coming over every weekend lately to help out around the house. Isn’t that lovely? Okay, now to Paul Harvey this story. Her son is nearly 70. I forget, sometimes, just how old she is – 93 next month, she proudly tells me. What a gift that is. I would offer up significant tribute to have my mom alive and as healthy as my next door neighbor. I would, in fact, be delighted to visit Mom every weekend and help out around the house.

Of course, about 15 minutes after her chat with me, Mrs. and Mr. Leaf-blower got into a robust bickering argument that caused me to slink gracelessly into the house to avoid making eye contact with either of them. (Close proximity is one of the many delights of city neighborhoods.) Usually, their arguments are funny but today’s involved some questions that are not safe (i.e., do you think I’m stupid?). I did not want to stick around in case he actually answered her.

I’m a week into car-lessness, resulting in some delightful snafus, for example, when I ordered Chinese food for pick-up from a restaurant two miles away. A roundtrip walk of four miles is not the problem. A backpack filled with chicken lo mein is. I borrowed a car for food pick-up. 

As I walked this morning, I met another neighbor whose dog is Max. I am sorry to report that I have no knowledge of the neighbor’s name. He claimed, during our Max adulation session, that he spotted a kestrel sitting on our street sign. I cannot confirm the sighting, sadly. I can report, however, that Max licked my palm. Achievement unlocked.

Many, many students have come into the coffee shop today, some of them debating the merits of wearing orange. I’m assuming that they’re talking about protesting but I can’t tell if there is a walk-out underway or not. Last week’s swattings here were devastating. There’s been a lot of chatter since about what it’s like to sit in lock down for five or more hours. Trauma does not require gunfire so much as the fear or anticipation that it is coming. 

The kids are leaving now. I’m seated at my favorite spot, inside the coffee shop but right by the door. The big garage door is open to today’s promise of later warmth. The sky is the color of my mom’s eyes, though it holds less sorrow and fewer clouds.

One of the fun things about my current seat is the bouquet of scents that I get to experience. Let’s start with the knowledge that the coffee shop shares this street with a Sephora, a L’Occitane, a hot yoga studio, AND a gym. In addition, lots of people “sneak” their pizzas, burgers, and cinnamon rolls in here … lol. As if we don’t all smell the food, the musky sweat, the overindulgent flowery perfume. It’s a delight for the … scentses (sorry, sorry. I tried to stop my fingers from typing that but they insisted).

I’m procrastinating right now because I’ve written myself into a doorless and windowless room. I am completely stuck. While my subconscious is working on unsticking myself, I’ve been paying attention to the stories around me. 

Across the street, a new business is going in where the Piatt/Sotheby’s used to be. Contractors painted over the street art on the side of the building. I couldn’t even tell you how long the art was there. It was lovely, a single scrollwork word painted in a multitude of colors that wept like tears. I know street artists accept that their work is temporary but I felt a little like weeping, too, when I saw what the contractors had done.

A young woman comes to the coffee shop pretty regularly, as I would know, of course. She reads whenever she’s here and sometimes makes careful margin notes in tidy, blue-inked writing. What does she think of the books she’s reading? Her expression, particularly her eyebrows, is very fluid. She has a fun face to watch, though I’ll bet she doesn’t know it.

It’s Tuesday, so the pizza shop across the street is closed. I wonder if the shop owner knows how many disappointed customers pull firmly at the door and then try again, as if the door will magically open on the second tug. It never does, you know? It’s a little like pushing the elevator button a second time, as though a second push will cause the elevator to arrive faster.

Many artists work at the tables here. One in particular likes to sketch in pencil. We’ll call him Andrew (because that’s his name). He usually comes into the shop in the evening so I only see him occasionally. If I’m lucky, he’s seated where I can watch him and try to guess which customer(s) he’s sketching. (Sorry, Andrew; I swear I’ll never tell your latest muse that you’re drawing them.)

There’s an older man at the coffee shop today who comes in frequently to talk to young women. I think you know what I mean but if you don’t, I will make it clearer. This older man likes to have the attention of younger women directly focused on him. He’s not harmless, though I know it is tempting to use that language. Men who make women uncomfortable have ALREADY done harm. Such men make women think carefully about where they will go, what they will wear, whether they should leave. Nothing about that suggests harmless. 

I talked today to the mechanic who is repairing my car. He called me ‘honey.’ He doesn’t mean anything by it, does he? Except that he never calls his male customers ‘honey.’ I’d be completely fine with the mechanic, if he can’t simply call me by name, using the same pet name for me that he uses for his male customers. And vice versa. Of course, I didn’t correct him. The power dynamic isn’t equal because he’s got my car in his garage. That ‘harmless’ pet name is nothing and yet it’s also everything.

As I write these muddled thoughts, my big old pup is dreaming on her sofa (it’s really my sofa but … never mind). Sometimes, at night, she dreams so loudly in her kennel that I can hear her snuffling noises in my room on the next floor. She runs in her sleep, too, which, when she’s in her kennel, can be quite noisy, though it never seems to wake HER. This afternoon, she snored on my sunny deck, her belly pressed firmly against the warm wood. I believe there may have been rabbits or squirrels in her dream but who’s to say it wasn’t just a romp across the yard that got those feet moving.

Much love.

Magnolia Petals

A Small Amount of Minutiae

Deb Zuroski, , , 2 Comments
Small red leaf with yellow ribs down the center.
Fall leaves 2022

Recently, my son and I had breakfast at a neighborhood diner. We’re well-known there. When we walk in, one of the servers (all of whom we know by name) greets us and gestures us to a section. They call out “the usual?” The whole experience is a little like that old television show “Cheers” but without the laugh tracks and obnoxious jokes. 

One of the owners usually comes over to chat with us between cashing out customers. During one such transaction, we closed an embarrassing gap in our knowledge. The owner introduced himself to the people at the register. FINALLY, we know his name. Eavesdropping to the rescue!

Generally, I have no problem asking people their names but there is a point after which it is just weird to ask. For me, that point seems to be somewhere around the time we’ve begun conversing with people about their holiday traditions and the family they’re welcoming to the dinner table. 

BLOOLB street art spray-painted on a white wall
BLOOLB

I walk to the coffee shop as often as possible, as long as walking doesn’t subject my person to freezing cold. There is nothing – temperature-wise – worse than being cold and this is a hill I will die on, as long as the hill is approximately 74F and sunny. I’m not standing on any freezing cold damn hill to argue about whether being cold or hot is worse. 

Anyway, one of the many delights of the walk is the opportunity to discover wonderful minutiae. It’s my personal opinion that the world is full of tiny treasures. It’s also a hellscape of brutality, of misused power, of cruelty for cruelty’s sake, of money taking priority over humanity. For today, I’m going to focus entirely on tiny treasures, on the things we miss because we’re caught up in the minutiae inside our own heads. 

One of my favorite walking activities is spotting the overlooked: things that are out of place, sometimes because they’ve been dropped (the phone I found last week, for example, though that was more of a rescue than anything else). It’s far more fun to find things that someone else placed. By the way, we’re not talking geo-caching here. That’s too structured to appeal to the chaotic neutral such as myself. The objects to which I refer were put in places deliberately by people who hoped that like-minded individuals would happen upon them. And I’m ALL IN for that. 

A row of buckeyes on top of a traffic light control tower
Buckeyes before the fall

Last fall, I was walking to the coffee shop when I noticed a buckeye on top of a traffic light control unit. The next day, there was a second buckeye. The day after, there was a third. And so forth. Someone – in my internal story, it’s one person but it would be equally delightful if multiple people participated – was placing those buckeyes deliberately. Every morning, I checked to see if there was another – there was! – until the day they’d all been knocked onto the ground. Probably by a person who doesn’t like fun things.

While I treadmill (ugh), I listen to audiobooks – stay with me, here, it’s related. I particularly love the books “included in your membership” on Audible. I downloaded a new-to-me book recently whose author, I discovered in the course of my walk, clearly modeled their protagonist – Caspian Tiddleswitch – on Benedict Cumberbatch. It’s delightful. 

A coffee shop in my community – not “my” coffee shop – is completely invested in the very definition of minutiae. Against one wall is a toaster on top of a long metal pole. Pamphlets are inserted in the bread slots (this is one of those things you have to see because the description doesn’t really capture the artistic insanity of it). 

If you look up in this coffee shop (you should always look up, wherever you go), you’ll see, in addition to the paintings on the ceiling, a single black swim flipper – yes, on the ceiling. On the wall by the door hangs a crucifix with a doll’s head in place of the usual Jesus. The wood of the cross is decorated (rather gaudily in my opinion) with babbles and flowers and twining vines. 

Green eyeball sticker on a pole. The eyeball is rolled up in the socket. Panic is the mood.
Eye see you

Behind my seat – the day I was there – was a wooden shelf that lines up perfectly with the back of my head. I know this because I have, in fact, hit my head on it multiple times. The shelf holds books, a chess board, and several large wooden heads. Just heads. Nothing more to say about that.

It’s supposed to be quirky – it used to be more so but the architect of the experience is no longer associated with the coffee shop (he’s moved on to other projects) – but I find it frustrating. The objects aren’t interesting to me, though perhaps they are to others. My found minutiae preferences run more toward the unplanned than the intentional.

Wooden chair on a porch. Chair is painted in the blue, yellow, and orange colors and patterns of Van Gogh's Starry Night.
The Van Gogh Chair

The mechanic I use is, perhaps, a mile and a half from my home. Again, go with me, here; this is still thematically relevant. Usually, if I have to drop the car off, I’ll take it over early and walk to the coffee shop from there. This isn’t the suburbs, you know? It’s a city and each little community has a personality all its own. The mechanic is located in an older neighborhood, with big houses, some converted to apartments, some rather down on their luck. There are many delightful sights to see when walking by the old houses. The Van Gogh chair. The painted American flag that is fading on the brick porch. The doll heads stuck on posts in the front yard (though that one makes me think there might be something darker going on in that house). 

Water access pipe in a stairwell. There's a wrapped piece of candy on top of the shut off valve.
Candy for the stair fairies

For reasons irrelevant to my story, I was recently walking up stairs in an older parking garage when I noticed that someone had placed a tiny gift to the stair-fairy. I hope it was accepted in the spirit intended. If the stair-fairy is feeling unappreciated, stair stumbles result. I speak from experience here: No one enjoys a stair stumble.

There’s an older man who walks the streets of our community after dark. He calls himself “The Watchman.” I’m not joking. He’s part of the joyful minutiae, an important part. He checks in on people who are alone late in the evening – filling a gas tank, walking home from class, waiting for a bus. I’ve met him. My eldest son has met him. The Watchman doesn’t want anything. He’s just there, making sure that people are safe.

Minutiae is really defined by the finder. People are included in my personal definition but I don’t share pictures because that’s such a violation of the human contract, isn’t it? Items, in all their various forms are fair game for picture-taking. So are animals.

Much love.

Sparrow on the back of a chair on a restaurant patio
What’s for lunch?
A Small Amount of Minutiae

Outgrown

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , Leave a comment

It was Christmas eve and slightly below zero. Add in the wind chill and it was about -25F. I was on my way to my son’s house to pick him up. I’d offered to drive him to and from work because of the temperature. He usually walks; but as any northerner knows, temps this low can injure or kill a person easily. 

There were people waiting at the traffic light beside the Aldi grocery store as I pulled up to the intersection. I watched, thinking how cold they must be. The wind gusts were so strong that the people swayed a bit as they waited for the light to change. 

One of the women took off her scarf. As I watched, she wrapped it around another woman, tucking, then unwrapping and re-wrapping until she was satisfied that the other woman would be warm as they waited. 

I couldn’t see much of them, bundled as they were against the cold. Were they friends, siblings, lovers, mother and daughter? It doesn’t matter. The love was clear in that woman’s behavior. It wasn’t her sacrifice. It was the careful way she wrapped, then re-wrapped the other woman in the scarf. 

Her actions reminded me in that deja vu way of a winter night many years ago. I was at a stupid party off-campus at the rugby player’s fraternity. The party was continuing but I had an early shift at the country club. As I got ready to leave, he took my scarf from my hands and wrapped it around me just like that woman on the sidewalk. 

He was, for sure, more than a little tipsy and I was as sober as ever. That’s the thing about non-drinkers – we’re always sober and thus often remember things that reside in a fog for others. How would 20-year-old me feel if she knew that thirty years later a woman on a street corner on a cold winter day would bring back that wisp of memory of a pretty boy from so long ago? 

The leaf-birds were all blown from the trees by last week’s heavy winds. Now the branches are empty of those last brown leaves that clustered like sparrows in small groupings on our neighborhood trees. It’s a stark, rather lonely reminder that we are still in the early days of winter. The dark of January and bitterness of February await. 

The coffee shop is warm, though, and bright. Pedestrians are back, striped Sephora bags swing from their forearms, coffee cups are clasped in their hands. Fred the dachshund hasn’t passed by yet. He usually walks his owner every day but the cold temps or perhaps a trip for the holidays have absented him from the sidewalk outside the shop. 

A man walks by holding three cups in his hands. He’s with three young women – his daughters? – who are weighed down with bags from Cheeks and Lululemon and Apricot Lane. He looks tired but I hope he’s also delighted to be included in this shopping trip. This snapshot of his life – as I’ve crafted it, of course – reminds me of this quote: 

We can drink hot tea and talk about
the future, how hard it is to be outgrown.

From Mother Talks Back to the Monster by Carrie Shipers

As I wait in line for my iced black tea (medium in a for-here cup), a woman rushes up to the lady in front of me and they hug. I don’t know what they say to each other. It’s mostly in Italian but the sentiment is clear through their smiles, if not their constant touches. They are glad to see each other. I wonder why we wait until the holidays to come together?

Along with all the holiday visitors in the coffee shop, there are many familiar faces. One that is missing today, we’ll call him Andrew (because that’s his name), comes in most days to draw. He sits in near stillness, often leaning back in his chair, his drawing hand holding a pencil, moving over a pad. Who has he sketched in his time here? Does he make up stories for his subjects like I do? 

Last time I saw him, I was here late and he had fallen asleep, his head tipped back against the brick wall. It was closing time and the manager asked me, as I was leaving, if Andrew had awakened yet. “No,” I said and we exchanged a smile. Sometimes the third place is better than home, even when your eyes are drooping. 

The coffee shop traffic has not stopped today. Right now, there’s a family ordering drinks and laughing with the barista. The man has an arm around the woman. Their child, a teenager, is smiling too as they search through the coffee cup beside the register. It’s always full of free stickers that vary by the season. My computer is currently festooned with small Dancer, Rudolph and Ho-Ho-Ho stickers, courtesy of that coffee cup. 

The floor is cold where I’m sitting. My table is near the person-door, where the floor is brick and there’s the barest hint of a breeze from under the big garage door that will remain closed until next spring. It’s always warmer in the back but also more isolating. I like the activity by the register. Usually, I pop my earbuds in and listen to music (right now it’s an oldie, Tears for Fears, “Everybody Wants to Rule the World”) while I write. If I get stuck I can look up and be entertained by the activity around me. 

Today, that activity includes a child squealing two tables away. He’s thrilled with something, though I can’t see what it is. There’s another group blocking my view of the table, though I can see the little boy’s blond head and a bit of his smile. 

A woman stands beside him. She’s thrown her arms out in a theatrical jazz hands gesture, making everyone at the table laugh. That’s what she intended so she smiles, delighted with her success. It’s a heady thing, making people laugh. 

As I walk back to my seat from the bathrooms, I notice a man playing chess on his computer. The man at the next table has a background picture of a stunningly beautiful woman. He has a window open. It’s positioned on the screen so it doesn’t block her face. I hope, and in the story I tell myself, it isn’t a coincidence. 

Don McLean’s “Vincent” is playing now. That seems a suitable song for ending the day, don’t you think? 

Much love.

Outgrown

Train

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The color lightens for some of us on the silent smoothness of this train. There are occasional interruptions, the lonesome call from the train, hushed snores from a passenger sleeping upright, a rustling as someone digs through their bag. 

There are houses visible out the windows on the left. The view on the right is better, a mix of brush and small trees taking over ground once occupied by humans. The buildings are broken, the windows dark without glass to reflect the snow and early morning light. The yellow bricks are covered now with creeping vines and the painted initials of street art. 

The tracks flow beside the river, metal and wood paralleling water, movement of the train making the water seem still in the early sun. Seven geese swim sleekly through the green gray water. The lines of their bodies make a different kind of V, a rippled reflection of the sky. 

As the river slows, small patches fuzz like a window with a layer of frost, not frozen exactly but ready to be so. Watching the river this way, on this moving train, offers up little gifts: two dogs, one brown, one black and white, standing together at the river’s edge; a small herd of deer in an open field across the water, a painting in the early morning art museum of my life here on this train. 

The ground opens as our speed increases. Our movement makes the sun seem to flicker as we pass by the filter of trees and brush. If I lean down a bit, it shines directly into my eyes, brilliant yellow white against a watercolor sky. There’s no snow here, the ground red brown with fallen leaves. 

I look over at my companion. He too looks out the window, a silent watcher of a silent scenery. There’s something peaceful about the gentle rocking of the train, the curve that causes all the passengers to lean slightly right or left. 

This journey is toward something. It adds a promise, a hopefulness unlikely to be fulfilled but right now no one questions it. Instead, we all face forward…looking toward that promise, that possibility without the cynicism of reality to dim the morning light.

Happy Thanksgiving to those who celebrate.

Much love.

Train

Socks and Soothes

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 2 Comments

I’m procrastinating this morning. I *should* be perfecting chapter one, now that the novel is done. Instead, I am doing anything that will enable me to avoid working on that damn chapter. And by anything, I really do mean ANYTHING, including writing the book review that I have tried to write three times previously. I hated the ARC so much that I’ve been writing my feelings. That’s a bit like eating my feelings but fewer calories, more mean words. 

It’s been weirdly beautiful in Pittsburgh which doesn’t seem fair since the AQI was 223 on Friday and above 150 yesterday. Shouldn’t Mother Nature send us apocalyptic imagery to warn us of danger? Instead, she’s been giving us glorious clear days with warm temperatures to entice us outside to be poison  …. Hold up. Nice play, Mother Nature. Well done, you.

I’m working on a craft article – also a procrastination strategy except for the money aspect, of course. Writing about writing is difficult because the advice will always be the same. If you want to be good at anything, including writing, you need to dream about it, think about it constantly, and hope. No, no. Sorry. I was thinking about something else. If you want to be good at something, you have to do it over and over and over again. That’s it. 

You won’t necessarily become good by practicing a lot but you’ll definitely get better. I, for example, will never be an opera singer but I can get better at singing by singing. My youngest son knows this because I do it all the bloody time and he is … unsympathetic to my goals. Also, I haven’t improved much, to be fair. That won’t stop me, though, because you should not ever let external voices stop you from trying to reach your goals. 

Socks, the puppy who lives a few doors down from us, likes to hold his own leash when he walks every morning at about the same time that we leave the house. Yes, that’s right. A golden retriever puppy – maybe three months old? – goes for a walk on my street every morning and holds his own leash. I don’t know why but that feels like the external realization of my life goals – doing what I want and holding my own leash while I do it.

My therapist retired. She told me that I’m the client she has known the longest, which should be awesome but feels like it is probably depressing. I don’t feel depressed about it but I suspect that if I were to talk about it, other people would give me that look, the one that says “god damn, you’re actually crazy.” Shouldn’t we spend our lives working to be better, healthier versions of ourselves? God knows that I’ve had the kind of life where that sort of work should be a constant. 

Thanks to the toxicity of our healthcare payment system and our social rhetoric, mental health is viewed as something taboo or dangerous. By having a therapist, I’m telling the world that there is something wrong with me. Well, there is something wrong with me and you should all thank me for trying to reduce its impact on you. HA

Many, many college students frequent the coffee shop where I am now. Coffee shops didn’t really exist when I was a student (before the time of the dinosaurs). My college had a very smoky, basement dive where I could get a crappy sandwich except that I was dead broke 100% of the time, so, instead, I brought PB&J to eat while I sat there and did homework. It was my favorite hangout but before I discovered that place, I was close with another student. We went to high school together and had the same major for a bit. I had four different majors in college so it wasn’t an extended closeness but memorable. We used to study in the library together, near a table of engineering students. I didn’t realize until much later in life (yesterday) that engineers in the 1980s rarely saw women in their classes. It explains a lot. 

One day, I was walking to our usual table and the guys stopped me. They wanted to know where my friend was. Now, you know, I’m a fairly mouthy person. It might even be safe to say that my personality is BIG MOUTH. This is an important point because, as a 20 year old, I catered to these cute boys for months, flirting and the whole deal, and what did they say when I showed up on the second floor of the library without my bestie? “Where is SHE?” 

If life were a movie, my rage would have caused them to disintegrate. Instead, because they were 20-something boys, they were just confused by my frustrated response, my ‘80s version of “seriously?”. It’s worth noting that those are the men who post on Reddit now talking about how completely clueless they were in college. Yes, yes, you were. Stupid men. 

As far as I know, my friend from those days had zero interest in those boys. She was brilliant, had a full ride and is massively successful these days. I, on the other hand, had a partial scholarship and no idea what I wanted out of life. Still don’t honestly. I did know, however, that I was very interested in one particular boy at that table. I don’t even remember his name, have no idea where life took him, but I do remember that feeling, most particularly that feeling of not being the one he wanted. 

After I told them all to go to H-E-double hockey sticks (I didn’t swear back then), I moved on. There was a super-cute rugby player. Need I say more? He was also a genuinely nice person and I hope that he too is massively successful at whatever he ended up doing.

What did I learn in college? I learned that rugby > engineering. 

Much love. And sorry for the title. I couldn’t help myself.

Socks and Soothes

School(ing)

Deb Zuroski, , , , 2 Comments

It’s a strange day at the coffee shop. Saturdays are always busy in a walking community but today is a mean day, a liar, promising summer’s warmth through its brilliant blue sky but delivering a chill breeze that has many people shivering. 

A husband scolded his sundress-wearing wife for not bringing a jacket. She laughed, soothing a baby in a stroller, and told him that she’d forgotten it. (Yeah, man, she’s already got a lot going on; don’t be mean.) A young man took his sweatshirt off and gave it to a girl, helping her adjust the collar so she looked just SO in it. Then, he walked with her, a little smile on his face. It was surprisingly sweet on this mean day.

A woman approached an older, graying man and asked him if he was who she thought. He bowed. It was rather charming. He was, in fact, who she thought. I didn’t recognize him but I probably wouldn’t recognize Chris Hemsworth if he sat down across from me. This gentleman was not, by the way, tall enough to be a Hemsworth, in case you think I’m hinting something. He seems Pittsburgh-famous, which would still be meaningless to me. I once attended a dinner party with a famous retired Steeler (it was Franco Harris) and had no idea. 

An absolutely beautiful, tall (6’4″ maybe) Asian man walked by a bit ago wearing a full-length black trench coat. He returned a little later and hovered outside the coffee shop, looking like a member of a boy band. It made me laugh. I just finished reading an ARC about a pop star who goes incognito, as if that’s actually a thing. It seemed like our mysterious trench coat man was waiting for someone because he stood, phone in hand, watching the pedestrian traffic. I have no idea what happened to him because I was working and stopped watching him. Perhaps his security team showed up and whisked him away. 

The leaves are swirling on the sidewalk, occasionally taking flight or falling from the trees that line this street. I will have to shake the small yellow leaves from my jacket when I eventually stand. They linger, sticking to the soft, dark blue cotton, a rather lovely contrast, a temporary fall brooch.

There’s a melancholy isolation to sitting here. Occasionally, I see someone I know. We nod, say a few words of greeting before I return to my computer and they go about their journey. I am, though, also invisible. Groups of people meet like the tide rolling in to meet the sandy beach and break apart again just like the tide drawing back. There’s a rhythm to all things, isn’t there? I suspect that the ocean does not see the individual fish, either. 

If we are each, truly, invisible, what is the lesson? To be less invisible? I don’t think so. I think the lesson may be that we need not worry over — or more importantly be changed by — the thoughts and opinions of others. If, after all, we are invisible, then our actions matter to no one but our individual selves. Perhaps, on the next mean day, I’ll give that a try.

Much love.

School(ing)

Autumnal Breeze

Deb Zuroski, , , , , 1 Comment

Is it the shock of the first actually chilly day that has people looking a little disheveled this morning? There’s a young man (he’s my age – that’s still young, right?) walking down the sidewalk away from the diner that’s across the street. He’s in a suit but his shirt tail is peeking out under the back of his jacket. He’s lumbering rather than looping, a tired walk, heavy and a little sad. A very light drizzle, barely a mizzle, has started. It makes him clutch his take-out boxes closer, even though they’re tied into the plastic bag he carries in one hand. 

In contrast, a young woman walks by the coffee shop – the big garage door is open to the fall breeze – but she does not seem to notice her coffee-shop audience. She’s delighting in today’s temperature. How can I tell? It’s a combination of things, I think. She’s wearing a textured brown sweater striped with rusty orange and a deep fall-leaf red. It looks new and I’d bet she’s been watching the weather forecast, awaiting the day she gets to make the big reveal. Honestly, who wouldn’t? That sweater is FIRE. Her lipstick matches the red stripe and it looks goooood. She knows it, too. She’s walking tall – a wide-open stride, her doc martens hitting the pavement with that sound that doc martens make. 

I know this sound well. I’m not wearing my docs today but only because I refuse to give in to the siren call of autumn days. It’s too gray today to celebrate the crisp air and decaying-leaf smell that signals the end of another season. The fall decorations are up across the street at the bakery, big colorful leaves and pumpkins but I remain committed to summer, my only concession to the weather is my jeans.

Musical interlude: Van Morrison, “Someone Like You”

The clouds have broken, encouraging more pedestrian traffic. It’s causing a hypothesis to spring to mind on this autumn day, as another woman strides past. She is wearing a pretty long-sleeved peasant blouse and tossing her shampoo-commercial hair. I want to walk with that amount of confidence on a gray September day. 

The danger of testing a hypothesis is the data cherry-picking that occurs. Case in point, the man walking by in a nice flannel. He’s dressed perfectly fine, not remarkably but hardly disheveled. Instead, I focus on the man walking across the street. He’s wearing vibrant blue knee-high soccer socks, matching soccer shorts, shower shoes – the slip-on kind that guys seem to favor – and a long-sleeved blue shirt that, tonally, is drastically different from the socks and shorts. 

Musical interlude:  Joy Division, “Love Will Tear Us Apart”

We could – if we were objectifying people, which we are NOT doing because it’s wrong – discuss the very affectionate fit of the jeans on the man who just entered the diner. Those are some nice jeans. They’re doing a great job. I’d like to give those jeans a gold star. 

I regularly see a big, bearded man who rides a rental scooter on one of the busiest roads in our community. He fully rides down the middle of the street gesturing angrily at the cars, actively daring drivers to cross him, test him. He wants trouble but he’s angry, not enjoying the challenge that he throws out.

Musical interlude: Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds, “Red Right Hand”

Here, though, the scooter riders are almost joyful. The sun is out at the moment and shining brightly on the opposite side of the street. They fly past, those scooter-riders, their hair streaming behind them, their clothes brilliant in the light, their smiles big, wide. The last time I had a smile like that I was riding a bike downhill, my speedometer approaching 40mph. I still think about how that felt, the tingle of terror at the speed, the weightless, effortlessness of it. They’re probably cold but nobody thinks of that when they’re flying and the sun is shining and just for a moment they’re powerful and free from responsibility.

Musical interlude: Yard Act w/Elton John, “100% Endurance”

Perhaps there is something in the air today. A man far too old for me (lol) called me beautiful when he tried to hold the door for me this afternoon. I laughed which probably wasn’t the proper response but I did thank him so there’s that at least. Then, as I was walking home from a diner in Bloomfield where I met my eldest for lunch, a man in a dump truck was … um, politely admiring, which was nice, I guess. I did check when I got home and yes, I am fully dressed and not flashing anything. Must, indeed, be something in the air today or maybe my jeans should also get a gold star? 

Musical interlude: Daniel Nunnelee, “Pick and Choose” 

Go outside, even if just for a minute today, and breathe it in. There’s something in the air.

Much love.

Autumnal Breeze

The Bennet Daughters

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , , 2 Comments

I rehomed a wolf spider yesterday but I missed her this morning. She’s been getting herself trapped in the bathtub every day for almost a week. 

Every morning, before my shower, I rescued her and put her on the bathroom floor so she could find a good spot to build her web, safe while the bathroom door is closed. My house is a dangerous place for spiders. I have two cats and three dogs, and four of those five creatures like to eat spiders. 

My kitchen already supports two wolf spiders – Jane and Elizabeth. They catch the flies that occasionally get in when the dogs leave the screen ‘door’ open. It’s a hanging screen, split down the middle, that closes with magnets. Sometimes the dogs push through the screen too enthusiastically and the magnets attach themselves to the door latch. It’s like a big, flashing WELCOME sign to all the neighborhood flies. 

Jane and Elizabeth are very efficient and enthusiastic housekeepers. Sometimes I have to explain them. People think cobwebs mean I don’t clean my house (it’s definitely not my strongest skill but I do clean … occasionally). I like to think that the cobwebs are a sign that I support the broader community of beings who live in my house – except flies and mosquitoes. I am an unwilling fly and mosquito landlord. 

When I first discovered Lydia in the tub, I had already turned on the shower. She was clinging to the no-slip mat, already soaked and terrified. (Do spiders get terrified? I can’t think about that. I’ll start having nightmares about frightened spiders running away from my murderous cats.) 

I didn’t name her that first day. I put a towel down in the tub so she could climb up and out, onto the floor. Usually after that initial rescue, they don’t return. The basement, where this bathroom is located, is a spider wonderland. They’re great residents, controlling the inevitable population of pill bugs and other damp-loving bugs. It’s a Pittsburgh basement, what can I say?

On day two, being a thoughtful landlord, I checked the tub first. With no wolf spider in residence, I turned on the water. It wasn’t until the rinse cycle of my shower that I realized there was a wolf spider very reluctantly taking a shower with me. She was on the wet lid of the facewash, getting splashed every time I turned to rinse some other part of my soapy self. Poor baby.

I turned off the water, put her on the bathroom floor, and named her Lydia. Technically, her name should be Kitty but this spider is clearly a Lydia – always acting without thinking, getting herself into situations, and charming people into doing things for her. 

Mary is a house spider. She lives next to the bathroom door hinge and manages the tiny bug population for me. She’s kind of a loner. We don’t really interact. In fact, she hides whenever I clean the bathroom. I know she’s there because of the little carcases she leaves for me to sweep up.

Finally, when I found Lydia in the tub again yesterday, for the fifth time, I picked her up and took her into the unfinished portion of the basement. She’ll be fine there, well-fed and productive. 

Like I said, though, I looked for her this morning, knowing she wouldn’t be there. She put a smile on my face every morning for five days, a gift really. Thank you, Lydia; take care of yourself. Stay away from the cats. 

The Bennet Daughters

Saturday Market

Deb Zuroski, , , , 1 Comment

Farmers markets are bountiful in Pittsburgh. There’s at least one every day, except Friday. My favorite is the Saturday Market in the Bloomfield neighborhood. If you aren’t very familiar with Pittsburgh’s many neighborhoods, Bloomfield is one that you might overlook for its wealthier and more popular nearby neighbors, Lawrenceville and Shadyside. 

Bloomfield is a little rough around the edges, a beloved out-of-print book with a cracked spine and creased pages, oh and a coffee cup stain on the cover. A true city neighborhood, most of the houses sit shoulder to shoulder with occasional, narrow, shared-access walkways between. Tiny backyards are the only lawns for many residents since the houses abut the extensive, also rough-around-the-edges, sidewalks.  

Like most city neighborhoods, treasures abound in Bloomfield. There are houses with beautiful front flower gardens using upcycled objects like old wicker chairs, shelving, tomato sauce cans as the pots. You can spot delightful artwork on some old storefronts but you have to be paying attention, which really requires a slow walking tour rather than a drive. I highly recommend the paintings of the boxers but I won’t be telling you where to find them. The fun is in the exploration, the treasure hunt.

So, you want ice cream and Millie’s is too far away? Scoops doesn’t make their own but they have probably 35 different flavors of popular brands and they make MALTS. Gryphon Teas has a store front and they attend the Saturday Market with coffee and a different shrub – here a nonalcoholic sugar, fruit and vinegar drink – every day (today’s was citrus rose). My favorite shrub is their strawberry lavender. It might sound weird but it’s delicious and refreshing.

White Whale Books does local author talks. If you’re looking to mix it up with some brilliant and eclectic people, the Big Idea Cooperative Bookstore is run by a bunch of liberal hippies – my people – who have weekend events and a wonderful food pantry outside that’s always accessible. Some of the folks there are anarchists and they’re great for a chat, if you’re looking for something to do on a weeknight. Even if they’re not open, reading the handwritten signs in the window is an experience.

If you’re a meat lover, Tessaro’s, in lower Bloomfield, grinds their own beef to make the most ridiculously good burgers you’ll ever have. It’s an old family restaurant whose matriarch, when she’s feeling up to it, works as the hostess. She’s terrifying, like you’d expect an elderly Italian restaurateur to be, plus she can’t possibly be more than 4’10”. 

The weekend dinner wait at Tessaro’s is an absolute nightmare so you should visit on a weekday or have an early dinner. Trust me. We’ve waited on the curb for over an hour to get in. It’s worth the wait but if you plan well, you won’t have to. 

In upper Bloomfield, there’s a business owner, Rocky, who runs at least two storefronts. Three or four days a week, he runs Rocky’s Cafe. If you’ve ever seen My Cousin Vinny, it’s a little like the diner in that movie with a slightly wider selection of breakfast items but no other options because it closes at noon. Those hours might be to allow him to hustle over to Rocky’s Tailor and Cleaners to open the doors. 

Rocky is kind of famous in the neighborhood for being … abrasive is the most tactful label I can offer. The food’s pretty good. It’s cheap. And the chatter is quite an experience, especially if you sit at the counter.

There are several great boutiques, the kind with windows you stop to look at. My mom would have called it window dressing unironically. An early evening walk through Bloomfield is the best people watching if you want a weird mix of young and old – rich and poor. It’s humming with activity and all the grumpy old guys are out, sitting on their front stoeps to watch the world go by – and sometimes bitch at it.

Anyway, back to the Saturday Market. Tangy cherry season is over – and you have to be willing to throw hands if you want to get them while they’re in season. The crops are always small but worth selling at least a smidge of your soul to get a taste. I confessed my undying love to the Sturgis vendor when I got a quart but he’s in a relationship so I’ll have to stick to the cherries.

Today there was a barrio pop-up with a huge line so I didn’t eat but the smell was incredible. It was slightly down the way from today’s busker, a banjo player. He writes his own songs, which are much less stereotypical banjo than you’d expect, softer, gentler, a little melancholy. 

The gyro vendor was throwing lamb scraps to the gazillion puppers. Like many of the vendors, he also keeps a bowl of water in the shade for his furry guests. One time, a huge mutt curled up under the table at his stand, probably because it was shady and smelled good. I’d have joined him there but I don’t actually like lamb. 

There’s an Amish vendor, too, but the young women there can’t do simple math to make change. I refuse to spend my money there, in protest to their inadequate education. They have a right to their beliefs and I have a right to refuse to fund them. 

Right across the way is a locally famous family business, Freedom Farms. They had a reality show in the 2010-ish timeframe. The nine sons are pretty well known but you shouldn’t google their show, Farm Kings, or their website – because objectifying people is wrong. I’ve provided the URLs informationally only. They, uh, put on a great corn festival in the fall. And the men work it. Just sayin’.

Much love. 

Saturday Market

Spring Speculation and Other Musings

Deb Zuroski, , , , , , 2 Comments
Queen Poppy with her dandelion crown

It’s been an interesting week and it’s only Tuesday. I don’t know if that means things will be calmer or more chaotic as the week progresses. Like all those Kentucky Derby gamblers who didn’t bet on Rich Strike, I’m not holding onto my ticket. 

Last Friday, it rained inside the car while I was bringing my deeply disappointed (and suddenly angry/wet) cat home from his vet check-up. (Just wait until he realizes he’s on a diet and has a bald spot on his butt.) Fortunately, he has a cat carrier and a deep loathing for activity so he complained loudly but sat quietly throughout our wet ride home. 

Sunday was a lovely, warm day. I sat outside and finished one of 6 books I read this week for research.. Reading other people’s work is fun sometimes but also stressful and occasionally hard on the ego. This reading is specifically to see how other authors are working with a specific trope. When writing fiction, there’s a line between pedantic truths and entertainment. Where and when is it okay to write something that doesn’t fit the historical truth but fits the fictional narrative? 

It depends on the story and genre, right? Can the author legitimately include cell phones in a story set in the 1800s? (I just read one and I’d say NO definitively but the cell-phone inclusive story is about to be published.) What about a story where a character from the early 1800s travels to the 21st century? 

Can you imagine popping into a world as loud as ours is, after growing up in a world with no electricity, no helicopters or airplanes, no cars, no leaf blowers, no air conditioners kicking on in the middle of the night? People leaving jail after decades-long sentences have difficulty adapting, why do we act like a 200 year difference would be so easy to manage? 

ANYWAY, moving on – The walk from the mechanic to the coffee shop goes by a school and this morning there were three separate spots of vomit on the sidewalk. I know it’s really weird to notice but I can’t help wondering if that was one sick kid or multiple. Did the vomiting occur on the way into school or during an emergency kid-pickup like many of us parents have experienced? These are the extra things that float around in my brain on the daily. It’s a wonder I get anything done.

Phew. I have to put my airpods in. The lady who just sat down with her friend is FIRED UP and it’s too distracting. Usually it’s fun to have lots of noise but she’s so loud I keep typing what she’s saying, like some weird 1950s dictation. Only there are a lot more F-bombs than I would have expected. 

Right now on the playlist: “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” This is a cover by Punch Brothers. I lived on the edge of Lake Erie when this song came out and heard it a lot growing up, especially around the anniversary of the wreck. Is this the experience of non-Great Lakes residents? 

And now, it’s “May I Have This Dance” by Francis and the Lights. It features Chance the Rapper who is occasionally brilliant. I love his line “your daddy’s discernment.” Such flow.

I’m having serious technology problems so today I’m using my son’s laptop. (Thanks, my dear!) This is an excellent illustration of how hard it is to change. I have experienced a lot of change in my decades on this planet. You’d think I wouldn’t mind doing something as minor as downloading Scrivener to another laptop but here I am, acting like a cat who just got shaved and coned. Pretty soon, I’ll tip over and lay motionless on the ground. 

The good news is that my laptop is under warranty. The bad news is that I have to PUT IT IN A BOX and send it away. What did you say? You want me to cut off my hands and send them where? I know it will be fine and everything is backed up and safe but … NO. I need the repair team to Geek-Squad it over to my house and fix it in front of my watchful, untrusting eyes. Unfortunately, that’s not going to happen. Maybe I can fix this myself … also NO.

“The Times They Are A-Changin’” by Keb’ Mo’ is playing now. Talk about a fitting song for life right now. My daughter, who is in her early 20s, asked me over the weekend how many more interesting times I thought her generation would have to experience. What possible answer could I give her? 

Uh oh. Who curated this playlist? (That would be me.) Woe, Is Me is now banging away in my ears. I really should create a writing playlist separate from my angry treadmill music, though angry treadmill music is great for writing the fight scenes. 

“Sober” by Lucy Spraggan is not on the angy treadmill list. It’s sad; and if you know (or are) a heavy drinker, there’s a lot in it to identify with. But that isn’t angy. Trust me. It’s just deeply grief-triggering.

I’m too far away from the entrance today to enjoy the beautiful weather. It’s annoying. There are a lot of dogs desperately in need of a petting. Last week, I met Frankie, a pitbull puppy rescue whose coloring is so similar to my dog’s that they could be from the same litter (9 years apart though). He’s so bad right now but super cute. Fun fact for those of you who don’t know pitties: They are extremely good at jumping straight up in the air, Tigger-like but without the tail-bouncing bits. 

Frankie greeted me like we were good friends – best friends, related, possibly long-lost siblings – and leaped straight up into my arms, where he proceeded to lick my face from forehead to chin. I was laughing, which is difficult to do while holding an underweight but still 25 pound dog and keeping your mouth shut so the dog you just met doesn’t lick ALLLLLL the way inside, if you know what I mean.

His poor owner was completely panicked but we got Frankie all sorted, until he grabbed the leash in his mouth and started playing tug with his owner – fully against the owner’s wishes.

Our sweet Poppy was completely out of control when she moved in. She didn’t know how to walk on a leash. She was terrified of buses, cardboard boxes, men in hats, and loud noises. She was so underfed the vet told us to feed her as much as she wanted. She’s without reservation the best dog I’ve ever had. And that includes the five doxies I’ve been blessed to know.

Spring Speculation and Other Musings