at least 15 things I love about July

...with a nod to Anne H.

1. homemade nectarine and corn salsa, especially when shared with friends

2. impromptu porch talks that shift between the silly and more serious

3. washing the dirt off of my feet with water from the hose after working in the garden

4. the garden, and especially this year, the balloon plants and purple phlox

5. the days, like today, when the temperature drops

6. having neighbor kids help wash the car

7. singing the summer songs of church accompanied by guitar

8. this year's favorite play-it-loudly song, which I think is still last year's, Fix You by Coldplay

9. non stop-and-go moped rides, long stretches of wind

10. fudgesicles

11. mowing the lawn, especially when I do 2 or 3 in a row as a treat for my neighbors

12. knowing that it is not August

13. this year, the birds, so many birds -- their idle gossip backdrop to every day

14. the parade of kids on bikes, on tractors, or tricycles, on scooters, in their barefeet

15. going into an air conditioning place to meet a friend -- the blast of cold air and warm smile at the same time

16. sitting on the porch as rain comes in from the west

17. Mrs. Sherwin, 88, who hangs up her American flag every morning

18. a loaded trunk and a full tank of gas

19. the porch at 2900 E. Overlook

20. laughing at a party, being at a party, being brave enough to go to a party

21.

okay...

So yesterday, Eddie the door man from Home Depot, came over and installed a replacement door for the deck entrance of my house. That completed the "Welcome to 3267" summer. New driveway apron, refurbished sidesteps, new front porch rug and cleaned siding and, at last, the replacement of the swollen and non-shutting backdoor.

Yes, I was taking it to a symbolic level. I even told Eddie that now every way into the house is as functional and beautiful as possible. "My house is ready for someone new, no matter how they want to enter." He just looked at me curiously and said, "Could you hand me that Allen wrench?"

Well, apparently, the first guest I had was a medium sized animal (skunk? raccoon? possum? loose dog?) who decided to take a watery poop on my front porch. I wonder what the metaphor is in that? That my next love will be someone with bowel problems? That my next love will be "an animal?" Or that this analogy is full of of shit?

Either way, this isn't quite working out the way I envisioned.

There is a place

or way of being, perhaps,

where we are separated from our stories.

There is, possibly, a way to see an event

through a thinner cornea of personalization.

Just as it is without the layer we stack upon it.

Let's just say, this, for example, is not the doorknob

my mother used to hang her purse on.

And that purse was not stuffed with Ricola cough drops,

crocheted glasses holders, Kent cigarettes,

and a wallet with the change section in the middle.

And, I did not, as a child and then a teen,

sneak into my mother's change to steal quarters

often dollars at a time, for Sixteen magazines

or cinnamon rolls in the junior high cafeteria.

And, without a doubt, I did not look at those magazines

wondering when my Dorothy Hamill haircut

would get the attention of Tom or Paul or, in my wildest dreams,

Mark Schoeppner, the captain of everything good and right.

No, this is just a doorknob in the bungalow at 8 Lebanon Hills,

and when I see it, I am not sad for a mother whose hand I held

as her skin, quickly and permanently, went from rosy to still.

And I do not remember the Christmases when Carrie were there,

somehow drawing together the family that hadn't quite

laughed enough together. And I do not think about

eggs benedict on the good china, nor do I

reach back to smell herb toast or see a puppy

licking ice cream from a bowl.

All I see is a doorknob. An old, glass doorknob

to a closet, in a house, on a street, 132.2 miles away.

Taking down the wall of family photos

That wall has been, honestly, something I walked past quickly the last 22 years to get to the guest room or the bathroom. Fifty maybe sixty images, some dating back four generations, mismatched frames. No really order. I knew I was going to be its guardian, so I did not antipate feeling anything when we were dismantling it. It was coming with me; what was there to cry about?

But today, I really looked at each image. My dad as a boy playing in a wide Wisconsin field. My grandparents milking their bourbons at a party. My cousins and me dressed up for a 4th of July parade down Queesnton Road. Then I saw the picture of my mom, her sister and their parents at a shingdig and I had to stop and stare. My mom was ravishingly beautiful. A knock out. Her cinched waist, the fine black cocktail dress, holding a cigarette and a drink in one hand. Laughing at her blonde sister. A head turner. A total babe.

I just started weeping, knowing that my grandfather once told my mother that he loved her sister better. And then, my whole mom's life -- the part I witnessed -- made sense. Her desire to be loved by everyone she met, her need to be the center of attention. Seeking what she was not given as a given.

And, it's a crime really. Because my mom was the stunner in that photo, just as beautiful as her very beautiful sister. How did she not know? That she had "it," no matter what he did or did not say?

And then, to the left a bit, was a picture of me and my brother and our three blonde cousins on the steps in our pajamas. I always thought that Jill, Lisa and Robin were the cutest people in the photos -- certainly eldest Jill. But then I looked, really looked -- not through the lens of my life and my current linebacker body -- and I saw five children. All sweet and clean, still green and wondrous. And one of the kids was an old soul. Deep knowing eyes pulling upon a reserve, her hair pixie cute. Her face angelic, really. A stunner.

And she was me.

My mom and I have something else in common. We never knew that we were ones that radiated, and so we worked so hard to shine. We worked so goddamn hard just to be seen, when all we had to do was relax, and let our lives speak for themselves.

fireworks

Tonight, the crowd was silent during the fireworks.

No hooting, no cheering, not even an occasional "Ahhhhh."

Solemn, like a funeral. Tonight is the last time I will walk

forty yards from my father's front door to the neighbor's house,

where we have the prime view of the colors rising and falling

over the high school. I was quiet too. And surprised that

I noticed the trails of the fireworks the most.

The long arms tendrils of smoke drifting towards downtown.

Like that octopus image after the Challenger explosion,

when we knew that something horrible was happening,

we just did not know what it was or what we should do.

Contrast

I went to the art museum on Thursday with my friend Karen. The new East Wing has been open for months and I just had not made it down to University Circle to see it. This room, the Rodin Sculpture Room, just blew me away. It feels like you are inside, but outside, in the future with an eye on the past. The floors are a perfect smooth wood. The walls are a perfect smooth glass. And, each piece is a solid, heavy hunk of confidence. Angels wrestling demons. Men who sacrificed their lives. Warriors. Thinkers. Holy priests.

I am having a hard time putting words to the power of this, but I need to say I went back Friday to take these pictures. I like the way I feel in this enclave. It seems just right right now. I want to be one of these men who were worthy of their bronze commemoration. I want to be out, and safely in. I want to remember where I have been, but clearly have faith in the clean glassed future. That's what I want.

Planting a garden

I don't know when I got the attitude that I should just fall into love, or that love should come to me easily. I have no idea how I gained the belief that I deserved it, or that beauty comes without effort. Yeah, there is all of that "lilies of the valley" shit that Jesus said. But Jesus was not talking about the lilies getting esoteric happiness -- he promised that they would be fed and kept alive. That's a nice promise, but I seem to have been counting on God for more.

The side garden, this year, looked like hard packed Texan soil. After a spring of rain following rain, some of the normally finicky perennials thrived. My hydrangea have never been more lush or confident. But the side garden seemed to vomit back every seed. None of the 50 sunflower seeds took root, only three of the zinnias. Basically, we had a snazzy edge of bricks around nothing.

Yesterday I bought thirteen quart plants. This morning, I dug and dug and broke up the dirt. My back ached and I had to take breaks, sitting on the stoop, even though the day was mild and breezy. This morning, I bought plant food and sweet peat to spread as mulch among the phlox and coreopsis. And tonight, it looks beautiful. Or certainly is leaning more towards beauty than it was twenty-four hours ago.

It took effort. It took planning. It took time. I had to get a little dirty. I had to be willing to create holes -- spaces --then fill them up. I had to feed the plants, water the plants, be gentle and tender with the transplants. My toenails are black with mulch. I did not deserve this beauty. I did not wait for this beauty to come to me. I did not get angry when nothing bloomed out of nothingness. Nor wait for something to sprout out of a void.

How interesting it is that our hands teach us what our minds forget. How our aching backs remind us of the goodness that springs from good work. Today I planted a garden. Tomorrow, maybe, I will be more open to digging up my dry thoughts about how love comes, stays and takes root.