My Back Yard

The squirrels were squawking up a storm when I walked outside to replace their daily corn cob in the Squirrel Cafe.

“Why are you so scared of me? Aren’t you used to me yet?” I’ve been feeding the little tree rats for years.

I looked up into the maple tree on which the cafe sits. I saw a raucous squirrel screaming from his branch close to the trunk, which overlooks the front of my garage. Then I swung my head toward the evergreen at the far end of the garage. Another squirrel screamed from a tree branch. And just two branches higher sat a hawk.

What was the hawk doing there? I could only imagine that the hawk thought that our Squirrel Cafe was for him to feed on squirrels instead of for squirrels to feed on corn. My heart beat faster as I realized that one squirrel sat inches away from the hawk.

I tightened my grasp on the corn cob that the squirrels had stripped of kernels the day before. I’d removed it from the cafe, so that I could load a fully kerneled cob onto the screw that holds a cob for the squirrel’s eating pleasure. I wound up my arm in what my husband calls the “candy arm” style favored by women. Then I flung the cob at the hawk.

My cob fell short of the hawk, but the motion scared him away. My squirrels were safe. At least for the moment.

I later learned that the squirrels had protected themselves by sitting next to the tree trunk. Apparently a hawk must swoop down to nab its prey. If it tried to swoop on my smart squirrels, my momentum would have driven it into the trunk. That hawk would have been toast.

Since that scary day, I’ve learned that the hawk frequents our neighborhood. Good thing my backyard offers plenty of shelter to squirrels. They’re never more than a couple yards away from a tree trunk or bush.

I’m making some progress is cleaning up our house.

Two dresser tops cleared. Plus some floor space. Two boxes filled with donations for GotBooks.com. Three bags with donations for the Japan Society’s jumble sale. Bags of papers, recyclables, and trash.

“Can you use better language when you talk about your work?” asked a friend when I told her I was having trouble settling down to work.

I’d told her I need to glue myself to my chair, so I can force myself to write. I agree that language doesn’t sound very appealing.

I’ve been resisting writing that article because I was afraid I didn’t collect enough good info in my two interviews. However, when I settled down to re-read my interview, I realized the info was better than I thought. I should remind myself that I’m often pleasantly surprised. Plus, I enjoy teasing the message out of the raw material.

Let’s accentuate the positive!

“If the problem with presents is that they reveal too much, that is also their value,” writes Guy Trebay in “What Do You Mean, Giving Me That?” in The New York Times (Dec. 23, 2007).

For the 24th anniversary of my first meeting Iggy, I gave him:
* Three colored undershirts
* A New England Patriots cap
* A collared, soft, blue shirt
* Two postcards with inspirational sayings from Nelson Mandela
* A handwritten coupon good for my fixing three items by sewing them

I felt proud of my ingenuity in thinking of the undershirts. Iggy wears an undershirt just about every day because his body likes to sweat. A white undershirt looks nerdy peeking out from his ethnic shirts with slits down from the neckline. A colored undershirt might blend in. At any rate, Iggy’s undershirts are generally hole-y, so he can use this gift.

I gave Iggy his Patriots cap before our anniversary in the hope that he might wear it to the Patriots-Steelers game earlier this month. I wanted Iggy to hide his Steeler fan-ship. My honey has been known to make provocative comments at sports events. I feared he’d get roughed up. Anyway, he didn’t wear the cap because it was so cold he needed a winter hat. But apparently he behaved.

I like Iggy in blue, but I hesitated before buying him the blue shirt. He prefers button-downs and he’s not shy about expressing disapproval of presents he doesn’t like. But it was too good a deal to pass up–only $10 at Marshall’s. That’s the cheap side of me talking. I’ve inherited my parents’ bias from their upbringing during the Great Depression.

I bought the inspirational cards at the Johannesburg airport at the end of our last trip. This present says more about me than Iggy. I vainly hope that Iggy will mellow out if he starts to think the best of humankind. Fat chance!

Iggy is a liberated man. He pulls his weight around the house. And I’m a lazy bum. So I usually refuse to do his mending. He complains even though I don’t mend my own clothes. Iggy smiled when he read my coupon. I’ve sewed on one button for him since then. But I’m threatening to invalidate the coupon because he violated its fine print when he didn’t get it punched for that one item. We laughed about this. Iggy and I like to laugh together.

I’m approaching Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love with scepticism because of all the hype.

But I love the first line: “I wish Giovanni would kiss me.” Such a plain sentence, but so full of longing.

Later she says, “It was my most sincere belief that when I left my husband we could settle our practical affairs in a few hours with a calculator, some common sense and a lot of goodwill toward the person we’d once loved.” I would never expect this of Iggy. His motto: “Don’t get mad, get even.” And when he starts a campaign to accomplish something, there’s no stopping him.

On p. 95, she writes, “The Bhagavad Gita. . . says that it is better to live your own destiny imperfectly than to live an imitation of somebody else’s life with perfection.” Right now I’m doing the former rather than the latter. That’s good. I just wish I could focus better on my work. I could accomplish so much more. Plus, I wouldn’t feel so guilty when I don’t work. I just can’t concentrate. Could I have an adult version of ADD? Luckily I am fairly productive during the moments when I do work.

I turned the heat on under the kettle, so I could make a cup of Swiss Miss instant cocoa.

Then I walked to the far side of the kitchen island to grab a handful of in-shell roasted peanuts. Every night Iggy and I leave some nuts on our back porch for the squirrels.

The early riser gets the nuts.

I just ate the world’s best lamb sandwich at Kouzina in Waban, Mass.

The tender, pink-tinged grilled lamb mixes with tzatziki and marinated inside a wrap of grilled pita that’s thinner than commercial pita. It also comes with short, skinny fries sprinkled with feta.

Heavenly.

I’ve eaten at Kouzina before. I love their fig tart, which isn’t currently on the menu, fried calamari salad, and bread basket with olive oil-tomato.

It was just a year ago that I said “Congratulations, Iggy!” to my beloved. He’d aced his health IT class.

Iggy recently landed a job in health IT. He starts in January. Congratulations, again!

Tonight it’s 24 years since I first met Iggy at a singles dance.

We celebrated with an outstanding meal at La Campania. I especially enjoyed the roasted figs stuffed with Gorgonzola, drizzled with balsamic vinaigrette on prosciutto.

Diving Bell and the Butterfly
Juno
Margot at the Wedding
Michael Clayton
Savages