My Back Yard

Hawk alights on fence

Squirrel looks up from feeder 

Such a narrow escape 

The woman’s hands snaked around my breasts, tape measure extended to figure my bra band size. Then again for my cup size. After years of bra straps sliding off my shoulders, I’d decided to get properly fitted bya saleswoman at an intimate apparel store.

Then she grabbed a black underwired bra with broad straps off a rack. "Go try it on, then I’ll come see how it fits."

Off I went into the only empty one of six saloon-doored fitting rooms. I stripped off my black ribbed knit top, then pulled down my straps, wiggled my bra around until the hooks fell under my breasts, and finally unhooked the dratted enclosure. Do you suppose that this unconventional method of unfastening has contributed to the rattiness of my well-worn undergarments?

I reversed the process to don my new Wacoal bra. The straps didn’t fall. But the bra didn’t look great. There was a big pucker in the silky fabric of one cup. I tugged at it, but couldn’t improve the fit. Apparently lots of women have unbalanced chests. But it didn’t make me happy to discover I was one of them. I paced the stall, sat down, got up, paced, peeked out the door to see if the saleswoman could consult with me. I’d been in the stall for five minutes. Then I began the process again, pondering my maladjustment.

It’s not enough that my tummy wants to flow over my waistband and my hips demand jeans fabric with lots of give. My boobs can’t even fall into place. 

I thought enviously of my friend Maggie with the itty bitty breasts. "I’m an A cup," she told me the other day. "Sometimes there are even little indentations in the cups that don’t clear after I put on my bra." Yeah, but she also has a sweet little figure.

I turned around and looked in the mirror. Somehow, the fabric over my cup had straightened itself. Something about my movement had done the trick. Maybe I could buy a bra after all. Then I looked at my watch. I’d been in the stall for 10 minutes. The saleswoman was never going to show. But I’d come back, perhaps on a weekday when business was slower. I’d join the ranks of adult women who wear bras that fit.

I don’t know who was more surprised—the nanny and her kid of the woman who nearly stumbled over these two mountain goats on the Hidden Lake Overlook Trail in Montana’s Glacier National Park. At least she said “Excuse me” to the startled animals as she continued downhill under the glare of the group of us who had stopped a respectful distance away.

The goats, meanwhile, rose slowly and ambled into the brush. Mother and child both boasted shaggy white coats and beards. Baby had two stubs where his mother’s horns arched toward her ears. They’d been lying in a relaxed pose, Mom’s legs underneath her to one side and her black lips open in a smile, Baby mimicking her.

Previous hikers had respected the park rule that you’re too close to an animal if it reacts to you in any way.

Iggy refilled the bird feeders and spilled seed on the patio yesterday. The sparrows discovered it the same day. The grackles didn’t find it until today.

About fifty grackles swarmed over the patio and nearby lawn when I looked out my bedroom window a few minutes ago. They seem to have driven out the sparrows by virtue of their larger size.

Despite their size, grackles are as people-shy as sparrows. They scatter when I merely glance through the window in my back door. 

A woodpecker eating the peanut butter off a dangling corn cob made me smile this morning. I enjoy watching the native birds partake of the offerings that Iggy and I place in our back yard.

Iggy heard that normally the woodpeckers would have migrated away by now. But they’ve stuck around because the weather has been warmer than usual.

While in Glacier National Park we learned about woodpeckers who feed only on the beetles that come after a swath of forest has burned. From destruction comes life.

That reminds me of the sad day a couple years ago when I saw a dying squirrel with an open wound limping around our backyard. I tried to give the animal some water or peanut butter. The poor thing was too sick to take sustenance, even though it got close enough to me. The same day I saw a parent sparrow feeding a chick. Life goes on.

Squirrel tail flashes

Car brakes squeal but stop too slow

Dinner in a pot

Dear squirrels, this is a cautionary tale. Please don’t let this happen to you.

I just ordered 1600 bulbs: 500 mixed narcissus, 500 muscari (blue), 500 scilla (blue), and 100 winter aconite (yellow). I’ll be doing a lot of digging this fall.

The narcissus are to replace the daffodils that have petered out under my orange daylilies. The remaining bulbs are early spring bloomers to scatter around my larger plants. I get a big kick out of the first blooms of spring.

All of the bulbs except the aconite are rodent-resistant. I’ll have to sprinkle squirrel repellant atop the aconite. 

There’s a new blog with writing prompts: http://writersisland.wordpress.com/.

You’re invited to prompt a link to whatever you write in response to the prompt. 

I’m intrigued by an article on "Defining Success: If you don’t know what you want, you won’t know when you’ve gotten it."

The author suggests, "Take out a blank sheet of paper. In 10 minutes, list as many things as possible that you have not done, that you would regret not doing if you died tonight."

I can’t think of many answers. I’d like to:

1. travel more
2. get published more broadly
3. have more friends
4. earn more money, so I can accomplish goal #1

Mission accomplished.

I went through all of the steps of re-seeding my back yard yesterday.

It does not look picture perfect. Seems that my compost failed to decompose completely. Rose buds, avocado pits, and eggshells are mixed into the rich soil spilled across the yard. They summon up memories for me. Squirrels licking every last bit of green gold off the patio after I’d cut the avocado into bitesize bits. The bracing taste of eggs over easy after a diet of Egg Beaters. The flowers that my honey still brings me — he’s a romantic.