That's My Story, Morning Glory

Tuesday, 10/1/2024

From any window in my home, I can watch the leaves let go: abscission. The resourceful trees let go of their broad, colorful organs. Those papery organs weave through the air to the ground in various tempos. Almost any piano piece by Yann Tiersen can be set to leaves falling. Those leaves, finally their true colors after the chlorophyll has depleted and the sap has spirited away to the roots of the tree, become our becoming: the soil. But first, they are homes. Leave the leaves, a phrase pounded into every armchair naturalist’s brain every Autumn, serves a purpose for the hummingbird moth, snakes, slugs, and the lightning bugs. These days, with our mild winters, instead of a snowscape, outside my window is a leafscape, the winter winds blowing the leaves into fenced corners of the yard. Rain waterlogs them, pasting them together into a cool, moist den. My dogs curiously sniff at them and move on. Dogs don’t smell an amalgamation of smells like we do. They smell one thing at a time. They smell the slug’s meandering trail until it settles into a curled leaf’s nook. They smell the luna moth’s pupation. They smell the spider’s dinner. They smell the rummescent of decaying leaves.

Wednesday, 10/2/2024

Witnessing makes the world. Standing on my patio, silhouettes of birds fly high above, heading south. In that brief moment, I am likely the only human witness. The birds, they witness one another, creating that umwelt. Soon, those birds will fly over other roads and yards and will be witnessed by witnesses on their way to pick up their children, go to the store, get gas, or heading home after work. Soon, I am on the road to my second job. I drive on an interstate at the base of a ridge. I look up at a particular part of the ridge and witness its height and the way the sun is still hitting it as I weave through traffic down in the valley’s shadows. Sure, hundreds or thousands of others may have glanced up at the ridge during their commute, but how many actually looked at that particular talus? Soon it is out of sight and there, there is the exit.

Thursday, 10/3/24

We go to trivia with a friend. Trivia is a matter of recall and knowing. I possess terrible recall. Oh, it’s that actor that’s in that one movie. You know, they’re in that other movie with Tom Hanks. I drive myself insane not knowing the nickname for followers of the band Insane Clown Posse. It’s a dumb, silly-sounding name. I think it begins with an L. Meanwhile, my husband knows what the first live-streamed video in England is (a coffee pot). He knows what BTU stands for. He knows that the Delorean from “Back to the Future” runs on 1.21 jigawatts.

On our last roadtrip, we discussed superpowers we’d love to have. I stated that I would love to have total recall, aware that such a power might be devastating.

I do no recall what his preferred superpower would be.

Friday, 10/4/24

Finally reuniting with my yard after a month, I greeted the mammoth sunflowers, heads nodding at the ground. I perused the garden where tomatoes lived out their lives until their skin cracked open. I picked chipotle peppers aging into their stretch marks. I picked handfuls of cucamelons. The sun had already disappeared behind the Allegheny Front, so I greeted the yard in the day’s shadow of itself. Humans possess color constancy, meaning that we understand that a familiar thing stays the same color despite changes in lighting. I looked at the shadowy faces of my sunflowers with the same exuberance as if they were bright-lit in shadow-shortening sunshine. I gazed at the rivulets of green in the cucamelons as if they were rivers on a strange planet. I plucked pale green tomatoes from the stem as if unearthing emeralds.

Saturday, 10/5/24

The coexisting times are upon us. The stink bugs linger on the ceilings and in the folds of the curtains. I watched one squeeze itself into the tight fold of a lamp shade. One has positioned itself on the ceiling above where I sleep at night. Most of the time when they’re within reach, I pluck them up and talk to them about how they need to find another place outside. Since living in this house, there have been a handful of times where I felt one crawling on me in bed. Without opening my eyes, I cup their bodies in my hand and throw them across the room. Armored with shields, they are quite resilient to any flick or swipe. Like turtles, they right themselves when stuck on their backs. Oftentimes when thrown out the door, they don’t fall to the ground but take magical flight that leaves me in awe. I bring my palm to my face and smell it: cilantro. Their stink share the same chemical element found in cilantro.

One time, I went heavy on the cilantro when cooking a meal. Usually this is okay because I do love cilantro. But there we sat on the patio, Brian enjoying his dinner. I looked up at him, disgusted with my meal. I’m not going to finish this. It tastes too much like sting bugs.

Sunday, 10/6/2024

Even though there is a new one somewhere (I can’t find it!), I pulled out the shredded, ratty blue tarp and took it to the garden. The garden: six galvanized metal beds overgrown and wild, plants held up with twine, tomato cages, a makeshift green bean trellis made by yours truly, and a wooden something-or-other made by Brian. The eight-foot volunteer sunflower sulking in the far back bed once served as a trellis for cucumbers and cucamelons. What a sight it was to see cucumbers hanging from its bristly leaves. The spoonful tomato garden looked like a many-tentacled sea monster rising from the depths. I marveled at how after a couple shakes, the bright white roots completely rid themselves of dirt. Onto the tarp they went. After each bed, I pulled the dead bodies to the compost pile where they will become something else. I threw wretched-looking tomatoes into the adjacent woods. I threw too-ripe tomatoes to the area of our yard where the deer and resident groundhog will enjoy them. Some burst on the ground like how they do when thrown at the faces of comedians in the movies. My best friend Silas (my golden retriever) helped by lounging in the grass. Eventually, I lowered my body next to his and leaned into him. Sometimes he likes his personal space but it was as if he knew I needed him to complete this seemingly perfect day. Because he leaned into me too.

Monday, 10/7/24

Up a mile-long hollow in the outskirts of Tyrone lives a poet named Dave Bonta. I have admired him and his naturalist mother for years. Over the past few years we have made acquaintance, often seeing each other at the local Audubon meetings. I call him The Poet on the Mountain when talking about him to others. I have his permission to walk and linger on the mountain’s acreage. In my mind he is somewhat reclusive but I do not know him well enough to make that call. He spends his days walking his family’s property and seeking out other places to walk in the woods. He is a consistent, intriguing presence online, continuing and sharing years-long poetry projects on a daily and weekly basis. And reader, what a wonderful day today was because not only did I walk up the hollow to briefly explore a trail on the mountain, but I also got to explore his library.

I love seeing the insides of interesting peoples’ homes. Heck, they don’t even have to be interesting people. What they prioritize and cherish are on display. Books, boots, bug spray. His old TV was hollowed out and rendered into art. He told me to have a seat in a chair situated amongst shelves of books. It was the most comfortable reading chair I had ever sat in. I realized I was sweating, not due to the walk up to his house but because I was vulnerable in my admiration. Rarely do I feel equipped or calm when people I admire willingly spend time with me. I rarely feel equal. Being an admirer makes it difficult for me to coexist with the admired. I am a wallflower, my petals folding inward and hiding my face like a morning glory.

We talked about poetry and the all-too-common overwhelm of the internet’s many interesting wormholes into new territory. He gave me free reign to look through his books. I was overwhelmed, the many spines were simply images to me. I wasn’t processing much in my brain. I pulled two books from a shelf as he readied himself for his daily walk. After saying goodbye and talking about next time, I walked up a hill that went straight up to the top of a high ridge. Because that is exactly how I felt: elevated.