As part of
Kate DiCamillo's writing challenge during this quarantine season, she encouraged writing one page a day.
As with all good habits, it can be easy to let daily writing fall by the wayside, but this season has found creative types spurring each other on in continued creativity. I had already purposed to use this season for "getting back on the writing wagon" but the videos and encouragement of fellow creatives have helped me maintain that intent through the doldrums of days that bleed into one another for lack of enough structure.
So- I probably won't share every day I write down, who wants to decipher my sloppy handwriting? Definitely not me. But I will transcribe at least the first day where I finally made good on my promise to myself to 'get back to it' - editing all the way.
One Page of Writing:
The Old Neighborhood
It's a nice old neighborhood, lined with trees older than any of the people living there. Every once in awhile, one of those tall, tall trees may lose its footing and tumble into one of the homes of the humans below, causing families to relocate for a season or forever- while men with chainsaws dismembered the old saint for cremation.
Tumbling trees can't help it of course. They mean no harm at all. Becoming wobbly is a part of the aging process; the elderly growing especially tipsy when the wind blows through with a summer squall.
Still, it's a nice old neighborhood, lined with tall old trees that barely fall.
It's a nice old neighborhood, lined with little cottage homes. Every once in a while, one of those small cottage homes burst into flames. The fire department can be there in four minutes flat. They poke and prod and sift through ash, proclaiming the wires as old as the trees, and twice as shaky.
The incontinence of stretched-thin wires is no fault of their own, just another part of accumulating years. So insurance repairs the charred out parts - but only the charred parts- leaving the wiring of other wings to bide their combustible time.
Still, it's a nice old neighborhood, lined with friendly cottage homes, hardly ever on fire.
It's a nice old neighborhood, quiet without much noise at all. The tall trees buffering the little cottage homes, muffling sounds from the busy roads adjacent. Station 12's race with Station 4 to be the first to respond or the occasional peal from a too- sensitive and wind-tickled warehouse alarm, alerting that a mischievous breeze has been spotted. The pizza joint's dumpster is changed out twice monthly, the clanging metal and beeping trucks always before the sun but never - hardly ever - before five.
Spring and Summer bring mowers and blowers, but most lawns allow complete dandelion takeover, the symphony of their fluff scattering orchestration made complete by wind through the pine curtain and birds belting out complex tunes.
Grandfathered-in yard fowl, predating the city's expanding limits, have crowned a lone crooner the neighborhood watch. He crows his alarm when daylight sneaks in, repeating his broadcast at dusk.
It's a nice old neighborhood with no crime to speak of, unless you count herbal use without prescription. Neighbors who've in the past brushed up against the law now mulch their gardens with wild oat remains, smiling and waving as they walk their Maggie dog, a good girl who only looks ferocious.
Every once in a while, a neighbor may lose their footing and stumble against hard times through no fault of their own, or very much their own fault. It doesn't matter either way. Neighbors rebuild neighbors and bide their time together.
Misboxed mail will be returned and treats are baked to share. Basketball goals are communal and front porch lights fend off the night for kids on bikes; someone is always home.
Still, it is a nice old neighborhood, filled with neighbors that never make the six o'clock news, repeated again at eleven; where the door is always open, the coffee always on. Of course you can borrow this or that, what's mine is yours to have.
It is a nice old neighborhood, and now my own. Prodigal lot, wild oats full grown. I mulch my garden and sweep the steps, there is a welcome mat at both doors. A roof, three bedrooms and running water, I have shelter in this transitional storm.
Cousins, siblings, uncles and aunts, many have rested their wings here before me. I knew these walls I now call home before as just a guest. My Granny bought this family nest with accumulated savings, knowing many of us would eventually need saving.
From the same big window, we've all watched for trees that may drop in for a visit, and wondered if the flickering lights were warning us of danger. We share a familial sneezing, pollen showers unrelenting. Year after year, we've battled genealogical poison ivy vines and the encroaching encampments of dragon ants, tiny bites of fire. We've fought the drains and fixed the screens, the porch, the tub and pipes, we've all been startled from our sleep by homeless cats in choirs. Someday the trees will reclaim it all, their roots winning ground as their limbs canvas the air.
It's a nice old neighborhood, quiet and lined with tall pine trees and small friendly cottages. The cul-de-sac overflows with captured memories and the highway's on-ramp nearby invites us to spread our wings and fly. I live here now, I may not always. But for this time and this family home, I am deeply grateful.
* This entry was post-dated
