Home Alone

I alluded yesterday to having a challenge with my routine around the house. This morning, I stayed home from DH's PT to finish a story for the paper. I am all alone in the house. At last.

The silence has many sounds. There is a train in the distance. I can hear the rush of the movement and the horn wailing in the distance. There was a great noise of birds singing a few moments ago, but now the sun is well up and their praise is diminished -- only the spontaneous burst of joy from a random bird every now and again.

The interstate highway is a mile away and in the morning there is a loud hum of cars rushing to work. At times like this I really thank God I am out of that race.

We have a few antique clocks in the house and, although you don't notice it when there are people in the house, they tick quite loudly. Then on the hour they all compete for accuracy with their striking.

The dog is on my lap, her favorite place to be. When I type, she keeps her chin on my left arm so that her nose is pointed upward. Seems to me to be quite uncomfortable, but she chooses her position. Her head bobbles up and down as my arm moves. I whisper her name, and she raises her eyebrows -- very humanlike.

One mockingbird is singing all his calls now. They are so boastful. I have to wonder if there are other, more humble, birds who can mimick, but keep their talents to themselves. Our mockingbird likes to perch on the highest point he can find to show off his reportoire. Sometimes he will stop singing and perform a little back flip in midair, just out of sheer joy at his brilliance, then resume singing again.

We will take a short trip to the mountains this weekend. I would love to blog from there but I do not believe the retreat facility has any internet connection. They don't have TV, either, except in the lobby. I guess the whole point is to get away from all technology -- but my blog has become my journal. Guess I'll have to find a leatherbound replacement for the weekend. There are enough of them around the house.
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Little One is discovering Robert Frost. She asks me often to recite what I know of him -- which isn't much -- only The Road Less Traveled and Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening. This leads me to remember Thanatopsis, and The Daffodils, and Annabel Lee, oh, and The Raven!!, and the Mercy Sililoquoy (sp??) from Merchant of Venice. O Captain! My Captain!; the prologue to Canterbury Tales, in Old English; snippets of Tennyson, Mallory, Keats, more Shakespeare, Kipling, and of course, James Thurber. Most of these other recitations leave her bored and cold, but she loves to hear Frost over and over. Soon, I'm sure, she'll want to memorize him herself, and will begin to love Poe, too.