MindSpinner

I really can’t stay. I really must go. The weeds are taking over. I’ve got to mow the grass before the yard becomes a jungle again (and it will because we’ve had rain). There’s an errand to run to the City by the River - my daughter needs a planner and a French-English dictionary for school; cat hair must be vacuumed off the laminate floors, and I have to figure out how a mouse got into the kitchen last night. The to-do list goes on for miles, but does not make for interesting reading, so we’ll stop with the mouse, because a mouse in the house is a small-scale epic battle and thus remotely blogworthy. Remotely.

I have perused the news, sent a few short emails, printed articles for Catapult Kid, who will want to know what’s going on in the UK, Israel and Lebanon, and talked to my mother while picking up around the house. Talking to my mother each week is an enterprise that can last for two hours. It’s not that I can talk that long; I might have fifteen minutes’ worth of news, but my mother is a repository for vast amounts of information about folks in her mountain community, people I know, people I once knew, people I’ve never met, and all their relations. I know not only the latest about our extended family, but about dozens of others. My mother never forgets any of this information; she does sometimes forget how much of it she may already have told me. Two things strike me about these conversations. I marvel at how interconnected her life is with the life of her community - that’s rare enough these days for most people. And I recognize that she continues to think of all she knows that might pass for news partly or even mainly because she does not want our conversations to end. We have two hours a week and a few days twice a year. I miss Catapult Kid; she misses me. So there’s no way that I begrudge her the telling of news about people I’ve never met, even though I eventually have to extricate myself from our conversation to get things done.

This morning just after we had hung up, the doorbell rang. I was halfway down the stairs before I saw the Watchtower magazine through the oval window in the front door. The problem with the oval window in the front door is that it’s a two-way window, and I was already too far down to go back upstairs unseen. I was also braless under the gray t-shirt I slept in, though I’d donned a pair of shorts earlier to take Catapult Kid’s packet of articles to the mailbox There was nothing to do but open the door.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses turned out to be an elderly couple, perhaps in their late seventies - the husband in a suit and tie, the wife in a lacy white blouse, a skirt, hose, and modest heels. He spoke; she did not, though she was an ornament of propriety. The division of roles was utterly predictable, yet still disappointing. It was a matter of five minutes to be polite, accept a copy of the Watchtower, affirm, conveniently, affiliation with another denomination, and suggest that I really wouldn’t have time for an extended conversation this morning.

And now, without further ado, I am off to whack weeds, conquer incipient jungles, and fend off small furry intruders, lest the cat have to take them on all by himself. (He doesn’t eat mice by the way, though he kills them. Apparently snakes are more palatable, having no fuzz.)

There are moments when you come to realize that you only thought you knew those you live with, and this is especially true when you live with a cat.

Our cat loves to spend time outdoors, and I like to oblige him whenever possible, after popping an allergy pill into the back of his mouth before breakfast.

Today I looked out the front door, and he was crouched on the grass, clearly fascinated by something.

“Have you found a cricket?” I crooned. (Yes, I talk to the cat.)

I walked over to give him a friendly pat and to see what he’d found. I could see, down in the grass, what looked like a worm thrashing, but rather vigorously for a worm. A white paw batted it, and it suddenly lay in clear view, white side up, a black stripe along its length, a darker back. It was not a worm. It was a tail, and just a tail - the last two inches of a small snake. One end narrowed to a tip; the other ended in a bit of meat. The head and all the rest were not to be seen. The cat commenced to munching, as if I’d slipped him a bit of chicken from the table.

I think I’ll leave him outside for a while. And he won’t be going out tomorrow. I don’t relish the thought of sticking that pill into his mouth tomorrow morning, but if I don’t, he might throw up.

I could write a post about the beginning of school and how busy this year is going to be - but I’m not in the mood.

I could write about the student who was head over heels in love with an older boy last year and who is now, at fifteen, soon to become a mother. It’s a new, old story, and never less disturbing than the time before. But I’m not in the mood.

I could write about how fast the weeds are growing this year in the garden or how Mirai corn turned out (mild in terms of its “corn” taste, quite sweet, delectably crisp tender), but I’m not in the mood for that either.

I could write about how Catapult Kid hasn’t written another letter but surely will soon because he’ll want a little cash or more toothpaste and deodorant. (I’m pretending that I can’t possibly divine such things and must wait for a letter to inform me.)

I could write about George Bush and how I wish he’d decide to captain a manned mission to Mars tomorrow morning at 9:00 a.m. because that’s the nicest, least violent way I can think of to get rid of him, about wars and how quintessentially stupid they are and how unfair to everybody except the idiots shooting at each other, about Plan B and how it ought to be approved, about how unfair it is that Beowulf and Grendel is not coming to a theater near me while The Ant Bully debuts instead.

But I’m not in the mood.

I could write about why I’m not in the mood, but I’m not in the mood for that either.

The very nice thing about blogging is that blog posts aren’t daily columns due to an employer or assignments I turn in for a grade. No. A blog is my place for writing when I’m in the mood. Or, for that matter, my place for writing about not being in the mood to write.

No doubt once school is in full swing, I’ll be writing to give my writer’s self a chance to breathe and be, but for now, I’m going to clean house, do a little shopping, unload lumber from the car, and prepare for school tomorrow. NPR and the cat are going to keep me company.

Best wishes to all for a pleasant Sunday.