On Saturday I mentioned to my 96-year-old mom that I have a new hobby: picking up trash. Usually I have no “news” for her since my life is pretty much the same day in, day out. The cats are getting older even though Junior still acts like a hellion. Nothing new with my husband’s back (it still plagues him although he manages to work around it). And, yes, he is still enjoying retirement. I don’t tell her any more about my aches and pains because why should I? She who never has such complaints takes it pretty hard when she sees or hears her children struggling. So I tell her about my new hobby instead, and she chuckles.
Picking up trash is becoming a bit of an obsession for me, although not quite in the league of David Sedaris who might spend 3 to 5 hours a day picking up trash. But I can no longer go on a walk without my grabber and a couple of bags (13-gallon kitchen trash bags which actually are not the best choice because they tear easily). The one time I tried, I wound up taking a dog poop bag from a dispenser in the park and used that to pick up bits and pieces of plastic.
I’ve added purple heavy-duty household cleaning gloves to my tools. They’re a bit awkward but, since so much trash I find is along ponds, they keep my hands protected as well as dry. Today, my husband gave me a small case that I can clip on to my belt and use as a kit to hold my gloves and trash bags.
He’s also had the patience to go with me and recline on the grass while I make my way around the perimeter of a stormwater pond … or two. I don’t ask him to help because of his back, but I like having his company.
Here’s two views of one particular pond called “Lake Le Marc.” Seriously. It’s a stormwater pond facility (my husband, the engineer, says) but if Tallahassee wants to call it a lake, who am I to argue? You’d have to zoom into the photos to see all the plastic bottles floating on the surface. If you can’t zoom, just trust me. They are there.
This was some of my haul from Saturday’s walk and pick-up.
I pretty much filled the 13-gallon bag, had it all nicely tied when I found a broken plastic hanger. Yes, I did, with some patience, untie the bag and fit it in. But then that was it, and, believe me, it was really hard to walk back home and not pick up any more trash.
Picking up trash is not just a new hobby. It’s a new obsession.
This photo is from last weekend. Me trying to stand like a hunter with my trusty rifle grabber, my buck bag at my feet.
Thanks for reading. As a reward for looking at photos of trash, here’s one of Wendy, or her bum anyway.
When temps get below 70 degrees, these Southern kitties seek out warmth. The fleecy blanket is the one I brought her home in, 6 and 1/2 years ago. It’s her “blankie.”
I have a favorite pond near where I work. It’s small, roughly a half mile in diameter and shaped like a stretched-out kidney. It often plays host to dozens of pond sliders (turtles), minnow-like fish, and large birds such as blue herons and egrets. The pond sits across the intersection, diagonal to my office building. When my knee was in better working condition and I could go for daily long walks, I’d always start off at the pond, taking the asphalt nature trail (there’s something oxymoronic about an asphalt nature trail, isn’t there?) past the overly expensive McMansions and along the larger pond which they call a lake and then back down to my office.
When my knee was better, I walked with a fairly fast stride. These days, not so much. As my stride slowed, my awareness of litter increased. That awareness was also peaked by two writers I follow, one through WordPress and one through Medium. Jan Priddy describes picking up trash amongst little pretty things like sea glass on the beach near her home: https://janpriddyoregon.wordpress.com/2020/01/03/gathering/ Tammy Hader muses about what she can and can’t control, noting “All I can do is pick up the trash and keep on walking”: https://medium.com/journal-of-journeys/one-person-at-a-time-starts-with-me-6058bece64b0
Inspired by these two writers, I set about to grab a grabber and a trash bag and see what kind of difference (if any) I can make to the pond. My first time out resulted in this interesting haul.
My first haul picking up trash around the pond.
It was a windy day so I had to use pine cones to keep the bag from flapping around while I took the photo. My hands were also bare and, since so much of the trash was mucky, I chose not to play around with the contents. But you can see the rather large lager can, prominent among the muck, my prize, if you will.
At the time, the water level in the pond was low, making it a perfect opportunity to get to trash that would otherwise be under water. While I was dismayed to see the beer can, my heart was truly broken by all the bits of plastic I found. I’m sure most of those bits were blown in by the dumpster from a large apartment complex that sits on the other side of the pond.
My heart was broken but my spirit was strong in its resolve to continue the practice, especially since I filled almost two-thirds of the 13-gallon trash bag. I brought that bag home and put it in our own bin, not trusting the bins around my workplace to be secure enough.
I imagine I was an odd sight, shuffling along the water’s edge, grabbing bits and pieces of trash. A coworker on a walk stopped to see what I was up to. I mentioned the turtles and fish and my fear that all this trash was harmful. He smiled and said it was a nice thing I was doing. I think he was sincere as one time, when he and I were literally crossing paths, we stood together for a few moments to admire a hawk in a tree.
An elderly man also stopped. I recognized him from previous encounters when he’d be walking one of his dogs and he would talk to me about looking out for poisonous snakes. He’d make a point of killing a snake if it were poisonous because people, especially children, might get hurt. He came over to tell me to watch out for snakes. I assured him that I was and he moved on and let me get back to sweeping the tall grass with my grabber.
I suppose the best part of this experience was finding and removing all the junk I found. There was something else, though, something deeply felt but not seen. Walking the edge of the pond, carefully placing one foot in front of the other as my eyes focused on the water and the muck and the grasses, looking for anything that might bounce light from the sun, I lost sense of time. I felt myself recede from the world I have to inhabit most of my waking hours and emerge into another one, a world of tiny objects like cigarette butts but also of insects, of algae, of water that’s green and brown. My world slowed down along with my breath. I only knew the time, and the fact of when I needed to return to the other world, because I wore a watch. Without the watch, I wouldn’t have known if I had been out there for ten minutes or a full hour.
I’ve become somewhat addictive to this process now. A few days later I went out to the pond again, this time with smaller, grocery store bags. I went around the pond’s perimeter and was disappointed to find myself filling those bags. I did scan some bushes on the other side of the trail and found a couple of beer bottles, but most of what I found was along the pond’s edge. Including a rubber ducky.
My second haul from the pond. Yes, that is a rubber ducky in the middle.
I don’t know if the turtles appreciate my efforts, but it does my heart good to see them around the pond with a little less danger of getting trapped in a plastic bag.
So it seems I have a new mission in life. The third time I went out, my knee was feeling better so I took a regular walk, picking up trash as I went. Most of it was paper but it still filled my grocery bag. It was still worth picking up and hauling away.
I’ve since treated myself to a new grabber, this one with a longer reach.
My new weapon for my #makeAmericabeautifulagain campaign.
It’s 40 inches, six more than my original grabber which I’ve gifted to my husband. Given that I’ve risked falling into the pond twice, a longer grabber is necessary.
I know I can’t control what other people do, but I can control what I do. If I can’t stop people from littering, I can pick up the litter and dispose of it properly. What do you do to give yourself a sense of control over a problem when you know you can’t control the problem itself?
Wendy wishes she could control my camera and shut it off.
Some time ago I finished reading Pam Houston’s Deep Creek, a collection of essays about her ranch among other things. A review will be forthcoming, but for now I’m thinking about how Houston “retethered” herself to the earth when she bought a 120-acre ranch in the early 1990s. She describes the ranch as opening her heart “like a tin can.” She is surrounded by wild things there as well as some domesticated. It is her home, the place she returns to after every cross-country or worldwide trip.
I feel like I’m still looking for a place to tether myself. Perhaps it would be a retethering in that I once I had a place that tugged at my heart. It was my neighbor’s house in my hometown, a place I spent the better part of my childhood. The house had been built around 1905 by my neighbor’s father. Ted was born in the house I was told; at least, it had always been his home until he moved in with a friend and signed the deed over to my mom who eventually signed it over to my brother who quickly “renovated” the old house until it was unrecognizable. Then there was a flood and both my childhood home (which my mother also had renovated so only the upstairs rooms could spark memories) and Ted’s home were destroyed, condemned, and then razed.
I had left home years before, lived in San Francisco and other cities in the Bay Area, then Tallahassee, Florida, where I still reside. I had untethered myself when I left but, deep down, I always wanted to believe I had something to go back to. I’m still struggling with that even after living nearly 30 years in one city, 29 years in one house. I don’t feel tethered to the city I live in.
I like our house. It has a very nice floor plan, and my husband has turned our backyard into an oasis. The walls don’t hold echoes of children, but they retain the plaintive cries of hungry or bored cats, or the human lamentations after one cat is stilled. It’s a comfortable home with furniture mistaken for scratching posts and litter scattered everything.
We live on a side street (30 mph) at the bottom of a hill that drivers like to race down. We have friendly neighbors. We used to be involved with the neighborhood association but stopped going to meetings a long time ago. We keep to ourselves which is our preference.
And maybe that’s why I don’t feel tethered to this place. Except for those moments when we’re out at St. Marks Refuge or exploring a nature trail, there seems to be no “there there.” I don’t know what I want. I can’t return to the past, even if Ted’s house was still standing, its original architecture intact. This city–Tallahassee–nor the state itself has opened my heart like a tin can.
So I’m searching … mostly through Zillow and off-hand comments from my husband about what might make sense for an aging couple on a (soon to be) fixed income.
But I’m listening too. In his preamble to the Winter 2019 issue of Orion magazine, H. Emerson Blake wrote about a birding trip he took to Florida a couple of years ago. He and his friend found what they think is the spot where the now-extinct Carolina parakeet was last seen in the wild. He wrote:
Standing there, I found myself listening hard for what the land had to say and for any suggestion the land itself grieved for the parakeets. […] Many people today, if they were told that they should try to listen to land, would find that idea odd, if not flat-out weird.
I like to think I listen. Even when I walk with my earbuds tuned to music or an audio book, another part of me is listening and looking. And so one day, while taking my usual constitutional on a nature trail near my work place, I saw this …
I stopped dead in my tracks, really expecting the hawk to fly off. After a few seconds, I decided to risk a few photos, as long as I took time in between to enjoy the sight with my own eyes.
Seriously, he’s not moving. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m getting closer to him.
Well, now he can’t say he didn’t see me. We look into each other’s eyes. I can tell he’s not impressed.
Now I’m worried that he’s sick or injured. Why else would he let me get this close? Except I can see his talons quite clearly now. They look very pointy.
I had to stop at this point. Seriously, another few steps and I would have been standing directly underneath him.
I worry when wild things get too used to humans and don’t run or fly off when they’re approached. I think this handsome guy knew what he was doing, though. His talons and beak could have done serious damage to me if I had threatened him and he probably knew that.
I backed away after a few more seconds of drinking in his beauty and watched him from the other side of the trail until he decided to decamp.
It’s moments like these when I feel tethered to something.
And I definitely feel tethered to the very domesticated creatures below.
Sleeping in on New Year’s Day.
What gives you a sense of place, or a sense of being tethered, like you belong where you are? Asking for a friend :)
This Thanksgiving my husband and I went on a walk at the St. Marks Headwaters Greenway which opened in late January 2018. It was our first visit, but it won’t be our last. [Note: elsewhere I’ve referred to this area as the St. Marks River Preserve State Park. Eh, technically the Greenway is separate from the state park. My bad.]
We were on our own for the day of feasting since we don’t have family nearby, which–to be honest–is okay with us. We’re happy to just take a long walk, me snapping pictures with my iPhone, my husband waving around his butterfly net, hoping to find some interesting insects.
[Aside: I called my mom later that evening and we both noted how people probably think we’re boring but at least we’re not bored.]
At an absolute minimum, the sky never fails to surprise me.
Thanks to friend, poet, and historian Merril D. Smith, I often have my eyes on clouds. This configuration is new to me!
This post is all about the “real Florida,” not that paved ugliness often mistaken for progress. We were out in the mid- to late afternoon on a sunny day. Light and shadow were playful.
I do miss the true explosion of color that is fall in the northeast, but …
In Florida, this is what we call a “riot of color.”
… we’ll take what we can get here. Fall colors in Florida are nothing like the fall colors I grew up with in New York, but after 30 years living here, I have to say this is pretty colorful.
I hope you enjoyed these photos. For those of you who celebrate Thanksgiving, I hope you had a wonderful holiday. For those of you who don’t, I hope you still had a wonderful day.
Yesterday was the first day in awhile that I was able to go for a long walk during my lunch break and come back from that walk without looking and feeling like I’d just spent an hour in the sauna fully clothed. I had my cane with me, more out of habit than necessity now. Physical therapy is helping with my knees and hips, although I’m not as diligent at doing my exercises as I should be.
It does help that temperatures down here in north Florida have lowered a bit. Maybe it’s my age, but I don’t tolerate relentless 100 degree heat with humidity like I used to. And yet …
I go to a hot yoga class every Tuesday. Yup, I don’t mind sweating under controlled conditions, and the heat and movement are good for my joints. With a hot yoga class, the emphasis is more on how well you control your poses, not how quickly you do them.
I sweat heavily in this class. Not as much as some (seriously, some yogis leave lakes of sweat next to their mats) but plenty of sweat for me. When I sweat in this class, I sweat not just for my physical health, but also my mental health. I have to focus on my breathing, on my heart rate, on controlling my movements. I have to concentrate on what I’m doing at that moment and release the memory of my work day through my pores.
So many times I don’t feel like going to hot yoga, especially when it is already 100 degrees outside. I never regret it, though. I never regret the hour and fifteen minutes of total concentration that always leaves me feeling more connected with myself and less anxious about the world in which I work.
Usually I don’t write about my work in a public venue. I write in my journals and for the most part that helps. Today, however, I feel like I have to write publicly and hope that what I write doesn’t find its way to the wrong people. That worries me not because I’m going to share some scandals or shady business dealings. No, I’m more worried about the pettiness of some people, their inability to listen to criticism, their inclination to set new rules and expectations just because they can, not because it’s necessary.
My complaints will seem minor. Please don’t doubt that I know I’m lucky to have a full-time job with benefits. Still, my fuse is short and my sensitivity to principle is deep. Speaking of sensitivity …
I’ve often written about how I am a shy, highly sensitive introvert. It takes a lot of effort for me to give the pretense that I’m comfortable in a group setting, to speak with confidence, to make little jokes so the atmosphere stays warm and friendly. It about kills me, and I can’t always pull it off.
Friday was such a day. I had three back-to-back meetings in the morning. The first one was fine, very collegial with a group from a different division in the agency. The next two … not so good. At best, they were boring. Like watching grass grow during a drought–that kind of boring. The worst came with the last meeting, when I and a coworker were expected to talk about a project we are working on. I’m new to the project so I fumbled and stumbled, losing my confidence quickly and feeling like the worst imposter. My coworker was more articulate since she had been working on the project for a couple of years. The problem was that I am her supervisor, and I had recently assumed a “leadership” role on the project to help her out.
I wasn’t helping her out much in the meeting, and it embarrassed me. I was desperate to get out of there and when the meeting finally broke up, I made a beeline for my office. Only I wasn’t supposed to stay there. I was supposed to drop off my stuff and then go to another conference room for a big luncheon with people that I see more often than I see my own husband. After spending three hours with people, talking and listening, feeling my energy fade, my concentration wane, my anxiety grow, I was supposed to go and experience more of the same for another hour.
Instead, I sat at my desk, shaking. I wanted to cry. I was overwhelmed with feelings of inadequacy. The thought of going to the luncheon and having to continue the pretense of conviviality was unbearable. What I wanted was to go for a walk, a long walk, by myself. I had, in fact, already determined that I would do just that. I just needed to wait until everyone was gone from the suite and then I would make my escape.
It was a wonderful walk. I was rewarded with an ibis flying by me so slow and low that I could see the black tips of his wings. A short while later, I watched a Pileated woodpecker hop from one tree to another, apparently looking for but not finding some good grub. The sun felt hot on my arms but an occasional breeze kept me cool enough to make my usual loop.
Wildflowers from one of my walks, taken on a different day.
Back in the office, I felt better and proceeded to finish some up tasks. Of course, no good news gets dropped in your inbox late on a Friday afternoon. I opened an email from the coworker who had coordinated the as-boring-as-watching-grass-grow-during-a-drought meeting and learned that I and the three other people in my little section had tasks to complete within a few days. We are each to write a report on a report.
To wit, we are each to document a document that has been documented.
Late on a Friday, no one I know will have the energy to argue about whether such an assignment can advance our agency’s mission even in the most indirect way.
I’ve given you little context. Many of my colleagues believe in the mission of their work, believe that they can and should do whatever is possible to improve the quality of life and health for their state’s residents. Even if that work is indirect and behind the scenes, they still believe in it.
But there’s been a change in the culture of my workplace, a shift from looking outward and seeing how we can best help those who are helping others to looking inward and seeing how we can best count widgets.
I’ll survive one way or another because I’m at the end of my career anyway.
I just keep reminding myself that there’s a huge world outside my workplace, a world where I can see ibises and woodpeckers, where I read books and poems and stories written by friends, where I visit with friends and my husband and play with my cats, where I can enjoy the simple task of pruning a small rosebush or watch a chickadee drink water from a hummingbird feeder, where I can sit quietly and appreciate the moment.
***
Thank you for reading. If you’ve gotten this far, please enjoy this gratuitous cat photo!
Although I perceive myself to be in good health, the number of chronic and acute aches and pains I’ve been experiencing lately really challenge that perception.
Recently I learned I have mild to moderate arthritis in both knees. Because of pain in my left knee, I’ve taken to using a cane. Fortunately, I was able to find a cane that matches the blue and black paint on my road bike … I have my priorities and preferences. But these aches and pains are nothing compared to what I know (and I literally mean know) other people suffer.
I can be philosophical about pain until it becomes so overbearing that nothing else seems to exist except for It. That is kind of where I am today. I’m having muscle spasms below my right shoulder that only be alleviated (slowly) with drugs. I took one about 3 AM and am overdue for a second dose.
Once I take that second dose, I’ll drift off into La-La Land, if I’m lucky.
I am lucky that I had some of my prescription left over from the last time this particular muscle got woke.
I’m also lucky that the muscle spasms didn’t start yesterday, otherwise I would have missed a trip to the St. Marks National Wildlife Refuge and the acutely special pleasure of seeing Roseate Spoonbills feeding in the marsh.
Roseate Spoonbills – Numero Uno
Roseate Spoonbills – Numero Dos
Roseate Spoonbills – Numero Tres
Roseate Spoonbills – Numero Cuatro
My iPhone fails to do justice to the beauty of this scene but you get the idea (I hope).
Now I’m off to La-La Land. I thought I’d just drop in to see what condition my condition was in. Hasta luego, mis amigos!
One of the few things I like about my work place is my immediate access to nature. Why, just the other day a moth tried to hitch a ride on my leg. When I tried to transfer it to a tree, it went trekking up my arm like nobody’s business. I did manage to change its direction (God help the poor thing if it had gotten into my hair) and set it on the closest tree. It then traveled straight up, its orange wings fluttering to keep balance.
The next day I found one of these moths inside my building. Assuming it wasn’t there applying for a security guard position, I decided to usher it outside.
A moth in the hand tickles.
I set it on a tree and then went back in to work.
Later that day I found a number of these moths in a seemingly comatose state on the three oaks that line the sidewalk outside my building.
I was enchanted.
I’ve learned that these are Orange-tipped Oakworm Moths. Such lovely creatures. I also learned they can be pests. They can and have defoliated oak trees. Yet, these trees seem as yet unharmed.
These oaks give us very necessary shade during the hot days of summer (and fall) in Florida. I’m hoping the Orange-tipped Oakworm Moth doesn’t find their leaves too tasty.
Raised Voices Press also has a nice little write-up about Cinthia. In case you don’t already know how awesome she is, click here. You can also learn more about Cinthia on her blog at https://cinthiaritchie.com/
. . .
How are you about picking up insects? Or am I the only weird one in the room?
Lest you think all we did for our thirtieth wedding anniversary was go for a fourteen-mile bike ride, here’s a continuation of the happy day. We went bug hunting. Well, actually, my husband was the bug hunter. I took pictures.
Bug hunting is so easy in Florida.
While the bike ride was refreshing, standing around in the hot, humid air of a Florida afternoon in August was the antithesis of refreshing.
Before I could experience any symptoms of heat stroke or heat exhaustion, I got some nice pictures of the longleaf pines that grace this forest tract.
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Due to logging, longleaf pines now only cover about three percent of their original range of 90 million acres (https://www.nwf.org/Educational-Resources/Wildlife-Guide/Plants-and-Fungi/Longleaf-Pine). Fortunately, private citizens, nonprofits, and government agencies are working together to restore longleaf pine forests. They can withstand many natural disasters such as tropical storms and hurricanes. Florida in particular shouldn’t take these trees for granted.
I know less about flowers than I know about trees. After searching around a bit on the internet, I believe these pretty yellow flowers are Partridge Pea. This link will take you to some more detailed pictures: http://myfloridabackyard.blogspot.com/2010/07/yellow-days.html
Partridge Pea (Chamaecrista fasciculata)
After a short and slow walk (you know, when you’re bug hunting, you really do have to watch where you step), we found that we aren’t the only ones who enjoy being out in nature.
Almost makes me want to rest my feet for a spell.
But I’m not sure we’d care for the company of these strangers.
Spent ammunition because nothing says Florida more than a recliner and guns in the forest.
If you have a fancy for insects or macro photography or magnified insects, take a walk over to my husband’s Flickr account and have a look-see: https://www.flickr.com/photos/calopteron/
You know, I would never go bug hunting if it weren’t my husband’s interest. It just wouldn’t occur to me. Thanks his interest, though, I now know about the Elephant Mosquito.
Male Elephant Mosquito
Do you engage in activities because of a spouse or friend or family member that you otherwise wouldn’t even think about? How has that expanded your world?
I have it: America’s Emerging Literary Fiction Writers! It is beyond my vocabulary to describe how I feel at seeing my name in a list of published writers. (And how grateful I am that my last name begins with “B.”) By the way, if you use the link above to purchase or any other volume by Z Publishing, I get a small commission.
The short story in in this volume is “Love Me Tender.” It’s the story of one morning in the life of Irene Newkirk, a middle-aged woman coming to grips with her husband’s mental illness and the weight of caring for her teen-aged daughter as well as keeping up appearances.
No excuses. Life is busy, and if some of my absence from social media is because I’m living in the moment, well, won’t you join me? In spite of the news (which I only see when I dare to look, which is less often these days), there’s joy to be found.
First up: orchids. About a week ago my husband and I went to Gainesville, Florida, to visit a couple of friends. One of the many fun things we did was go to the Florida Museum of Natural History (https://www.floridamuseum.ufl.edu/). The best part of the museum is the Butterfly Rainforest, a live exhibit of free-flying butterflies and birds, non-flying turtles and fish. And orchids … oh, the orchids.
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The butterflies were very active. One became rather attached to the back of my hand. I was able to transfer him to my husband’s hand. Later we learned that he was likely “drinking” up the minerals in our sweat.
Or you can view my modest attempt at filming the very active butterflies here on YouTube: Butterfly Rainforest
Well, I hope you all enjoy the photos … what, wait! Oh, I almost forgot … heh, heh.
Z Publishing House has accepted TWO of my short stories for their 2019 Emerging Writers Series. Each story will be published in a different anthology in the series. You might recall that I had a short short story published in their 2018 Florida’s Emerging Writers Series (that post is here). I know, when do I stop emerging? A friend suggested I should adopt a pen name like Chris Alys (as in Chrysalis). All I can say is, I’m happy to keep emerging as long as Z Publishing House is happy to publish my stories.
I guess I should tell you a bit about the stories.
“Love Me Tender” is literary fiction, a story of one morning in the life of Irene Newkirk, a middle-aged woman coming to grips with her husband’s mental illness and the weight of caring for her teen-aged daughter as well as keeping up appearances. Stay tuned for the link to the anthology in which this story will be included.
“Together Forever,” is a horror story, one involving a different middle-aged woman. Vicky Brooks is a real estate agent in an economically depressed part of New York. She yearns to escape the cold dreariness of her hometown and her husband. She hopes to get that chance with Miss Smith, a potential buyer for a broken-down mansion, except there is something rather odd about Miss Smith. If you use this link — America’s Emerging Suspense Writers — to purchase this anthology, I’ll get a small commission. If you prefer to use Amazon, you can pick up a copy here: Amazon link
I should also mention that the first draft of “Love Me Tender” was written in 1992 for a fiction workshop. The first draft of “Together Forever” was written in 2006 for an online writing course.
Never let go of your stories, and never ever give up.
Many heartfelt thanks to all of you have supported me over the years. And a big THANK YOU to Kevin Brennan, author and editor at Indie-Scribable Editorial Services for editing my stories and giving me the bump I needed to get published. MWAH!
The museum has its own live web cam giving you a bird’s eye view of the rainforest canopy: 
Marie at 1 Write Way 