The Office
The urgent, repeated call of a Pileated Woodpecker makes me turn my head and look. The maple tree in the yard is bared to the bone, exposing our neighbor’s red garage in the distance. Joe’s soaking his foot that he injured in a soccer game. Notebooks and catalog pages full of possible Christmas presents flap in the breeze. “I thought Indian Summer was for October,” I say to Joe, peeling off my jacket. Scanning the sea of leaves in our yard, our eyes simultaneously land on the bird feeder, dangling empty. Each of us hopes that the other will get up and fill it. The phone rings and Joe takes the call.
Just another day at the office, I suppose.
Post notes: That's Joe and I working on the talk we were set to give at the local library on grief and loss. More on that in a future post. Now, it's off to the polls.
Mud on potatoes dries to dirt in the sun, spilling from a bucket like a cornucopia overflowed. In the garden, a few tomatoes struggle to turn red but only make it to bright orange – the same color as the potted mums on the porch table, a $3 grocery store purchase for October’s yearly anniversary. 
No one comes. No one calls. The constant motion of September wind sounds like ocean surf. It flattens the tops of trees like women’s hair blown back from driving in a car with the top down. It pushes the clouds across the sky. They rush like a river intent on downstream. The sun blinks as they pass like a light bulb switching on and off, threatening darkness. Notebook pages flutter up at the corners. Poplar, oak, and fir swish like skirts, making me think of fabric: taffeta, crepe, and silk. With one gust, wind chimes fly into a panic, complaining about the end of summer, I suppose. 
It involved sun and birdsong, lilacs and a single purple iris. Joe was gone before I woke up, to a meditation retreat in town. When I saw the card and presents he left for me on the table, I thought, ‘I just might like presents wrapped more than I like them open.’ The mystery and shining possibility were qualities I wanted to savor, just like the quiet of the morning. After Mother’s Day, followed by first 
The porch vacation season began on March 1st and involved the sound of construction from our neighbor’s yard; the beeping signal of heavy machinery backing up and fooling me into thinking I had clothes in the washer ready for hanging; our tail wagging dog, anxious to be petted; and the book “A New Earth.”
On the same day I received three Christmas cards in the mail, I also sat in a lounge chair on my porch, sunbathing with barely a stitch on. The feeling was spring but the sun hung too low. The sound of my neighbor’s lawnmower had been replaced with the sound of a distant chainsaw. Last week we were bringing in firewood with gloves on and keeping the stove going day and night. Today it was chickadees happily eating sunflower seeds, Joe doing martial arts in the yard, and confused oak buds green and plump looking ready to pop. Lunch and laptops were spread out on the picnic table. A walk to the mailbox turned into a hike, bringing us to the creek where our dog Jazzy likes to drink and where the boys used to play. In a morning out of time, in between worlds or seasons, I peered down into the creek water as if it was an oracle and said to Joe, “Wait. Don’t move.” 
With a blanket spread out on May’s green grass, my 
The weekend porch vacation was moved to the yard. It involved sunbathing and flowers and bees buzzing on the bright heads of dandelions. There was the scent of wild onions in the air. A woodpecker tapped, a phoebe protected her nest, and two yellow finches politely waited for their turn at the birdfeeder. A green and white striped umbrella was used to keep those who attended from burning. Someone was wearing something pink. Someone else dozed off. To be continued ...
The menu consisted of basmati rice, steamed greens, and venison sautéed with onions. The conversation mostly revolved around garden plans. “We’ll have to risk being woken up by Jasmine’s barking,” Joe was saying, “because she needs to stay outside and chase away the deer that have been coming around.” An image of a family of deer devouring our garden popped into my mind as he spoke. 
Sunday’s extended porch vacation included two meals, a break for raking leaves and clipping rose bushes, some reading and paperwork to catch up on, a flood of sun, a red-breasted woodpecker at the bird feeder, and some lively conversation. 
The wind is like a bold sprawling signature signing its name across the cloudless sky. It rustles and scatters the curled-up brown oak leaves in my yard and makes the chimes on my porch loudly sing. There’s an engine running in my neighbor’s garage, making me the feel restless, as though I should be in my kitchen cleaning. Every now and then a bird chirps loudly, complaining about the empty feeders, I suppose. Our dog Jasmine is stretched out next to me, lazily sunning herself. She, afraid of gunshot and thunder, is oblivious to the wind whipping past our cozy porch scene, even as the sound of its unleashed force causes me to shrink. 
The February Porch Vacation is cancelled until further notice or until we can reschedule it to a warmer climate. 
The bird feeder Joe got for Christmas is three times the size of our old one. We like to feed our bird neighborhood of mostly chickadees and sparrows in the winter when the frozen ground makes it hard for them to forage. But this year we haven’t had a hard frost yet. It’s warm enough to wear T-shirts on the porch. We shift in our chairs to follow the sun that shines brightly and then hides behind clouds. 
A good book. A lounge chair. The sun makes freckles on my bared skin. A single fat fly buzzes by like a fighter pilot that doesn’t know the war is over. This one doesn’t know it isn’t summer. A clumsy yellow hornet goes down, crashes into my arm. I flick it off while sipping every color of the rainbow reflected off my cobalt blue mug. 
Teacups and pens … are the clutter of quiet … in the green café … of my own yard …