My Back Yard

“A man really thrives with a woman who sets boundaries and pushes back when he crosses the line.” That’s according to “Why men can’t resist a woman who’s a bitch,” in the July issue of Cosmopolitan.

I’m not saying I’m a bitch. But I do set limits for Iggy. For example, I refused to continue as a passenger in any car he drove, if he kept driving like a nut. I also tell him when his quirky sense of humor goes too far in my opinion. Is this part of my appeal for him? This plus my father’s money? He always kids me that he married for my father’s money.

By the way, I’m not a regular reader of Cosmo. But when I signed up for a free sample of one magazine, the publisher kept showering me with more offers. I couldn’t say no. What if the magazine I turned down turned out to be the perfect home for one of my many unsold essays?

My walk to the Charles River paralleled a narrow stream with a moss-covered bottom.

I heard some quacking.

Then I saw a covey of brown ducks. Facing upstream, they pecked under the water at something. Could they have been eating the moss? Or was the stream driving some little critters into their mouths? My Critters of Massachusetts book says that wood ducks eat insects and seeds of aquatic plants.

The twelve ducks lined up in three, uneven, broken rows.

Only one duck wasn’t eating. It was grooming, or fussing with its feathers.

I had to see it twice before I could believe it.

A cardinal landing close to a peanut on my patio, then flying away with its prize.

Thinking of writing your memoir?

You can listen to a Wall Street Journal interview with Paula Stahel of Breath & Shadows Productions in Tampa, Fla. She researches and writes memoirs for people.

I disagree with some of Stahel’s advice. She’s an advocate of the nicey-nice school of memoir writing, where the writer leaves out anything that might make anyone uncomfortable. That may be fine for a memoir aimed only at family. But it’s likely to make for an incomplete picture of your life.

I enjoyed reading “Memoir vs. Memoir,” the accompanying article by Jeffrey Zaslow about his parents’ memoirs. As the overview states, “Married almost 60 years, Harry and Naomi Zaslow each put their life stories on paper. But revisiting the past, as families are discovering, can be a wrenching experience.” The article appeared on page R1 of the June 26, 2006 Wall Street Journal.

The article also mentioned these memoir-related groups and businesses:
* Association of Personal Historians Inc.
* Center for Autobiographical Studies
* Memoir Press
* Memoirs Inc.
* Memories & Memoirs (note: this URL didn’t work for me)
* Visiting with Words

This post is a challenge for my writing friends. Tell me what your jewelry box says about you.

If you don’t have a jewelry box, even if you’re a male, that says something, too.

The first thing I thought of was a bracelet I threw out when I cleaned out my jewelry box for donation to Goodwill. It was woven of beach grass from the sandy “lawn” in front of my grandparents’ beach house. If I were growing up today, I probably wouldn’t weave such a bracelet because beach grass is endangered. Anyway, it’s amazing that my bracelet survived for some 20 or 30 years.

I don’t have a jewelry box any more. As the Imelda Marcos of earrings, I have ten ice cube trays of earrings sorted by color. Maybe four of them are devoted to my un-pierced earrings, which I’m having difficulty giving away. I developed a good collection of them when I lived in Japan. Japanese women didn’t pierce their ears back then, so their stores sold a great array of unpierced earrings.

I’ve sorted my other jewelry into the kind of boxes you can buy at The Container Store. I wear that stuff much less frequently than earrings. Earrings seem to help my face. It’s odd that my mother rarely wore earrings, but had many, many necklaces.

“Attention!”

Today’s the first day that a Montreal cyclist passing in tight quarters said anything to me. In this context, “Attention!” means “Look out!”

Here’s a photo from the romantic after-dinner stroll Iggy and I took last night.

When Yves visited us early this morning, he emptied the shallow water container I’d put out, in addition to eating all of the peanuts. So I put out some extra water containers.

Do you remember that Yves is an early riser, while Sylvie sleeps late? I was concerned that she wasn’t getting her fair share of the nuts.

However, I spotted Sylvie around 2 p.m. today. As you can see, she’s not bothered by heights. Here she is on my second floor balcony, which is really more like a third floor balcony because of the way our building stands.

I wish I could say that Sylvie’s photo below is deliberately “artistic.” Instead, this is what happens when you don’t hold your digital camera steady because you’re too excited by spotting the elusive Sylvie.

“Take a bite of my cucumber sorbet, while you’re waiting for your pizza to arrive,” I told Iggy.

He scooped a generous portion into his spoon, dropped it in his mouth, then made a face as he spit it out.

What I’d thought was the cucumber sorbet that accompanied my Kumamoto oysters, was actually a bed of salt. Poor Iggy.

Apparently the green tinge to the oyster liquor came from melted cucumber sorbet, rather than simply the delicate radish sprouts that decorated the oysters.

Luckily, his pizza with spice-infused oil arrived soon, though probably not soon enough for Iggy’s mouth. The very thin crusted, wood-fired pizza was divine.

I enjoyed the dense, crusty bread almost as much as the pizza, now that I’m on an ostensibly gluten-free diet. The olive oil permeating each slice tasted like nectar to me.

My wood-grilled beef was good. But it wasn’t as distinctive as the rich, hand-cranked coconut ice cream accompanied by a delightfully gooey cookie.

After dinner, we walked until it was time to see Water Fire. Iggy caught a red carnation for his mom from the gentleman in the photo below.

Here’s a photo following the lighting of the pyres. Can you make out the gondola in the background?

There weren’t many cyclists on the bike paths when Iggy and I hit the road before 7:30 this morning.

We had an easy ride over to the Old Port district. There are several downhills on Rue Berri. After that we were along the Lachine Canal for much of our ride. Had to turn around and start back at Ile Notre-Dame. It was closed, I believe, because of this week’s fireworks.

On the way home, we passed many more commuter-cyclists. Less than half of them wearing helmets. Probably a greater percentage toted backpacks.

I saw one woman in a proper blue skirtsuit and sandals, but no stockings. Doesn’t she sweat or brush against grease on her bike?

Rue Berri was less relaxing in this direction. That last uphill requires perseverance.