Label making

I got a label maker at work. I can’t begin to explain how much I’ve wanted a label maker in my adult life. Never have gotten one, because even though the desire is there — my practical self can’t really find a use for one in the home. Labels in the home would seem too . . . well just too organized. And total organization isn’t what I want when I’m at home. There needs to be a corner or two (or table or two) that is wild and unkempt and totally mysterious. Will the bill go unpaid? How big can that dust ball get?

But work me is different. There are a million things I could label. I’m a librarian after all. Tagging and naming and organizing is part of the process. (Ignoring my desk, of course.)  So this month begins the new subscriptions that I’ve ordered. I do so love the beginning of a fiscal year. And with that, the chance to re-organize my magazines. Behind me now, the labels are all neatly lined on the shelves, identifying place, providing order. Well, it makes me happy. It’s like I can pretend to be this other person. Part of me wonders if that’s what work should be — our pretend grown up selves, making labels and writing reports and being serious about things that matter to others. All the while masking that little girl in adult clothes and makeup and schedules — but she’s still there, gleefully making labels, knowing this is all just make-believe.

Duck butt

Well, as promised, the NC State Fair was good stuff. I ate half of a meaty, cheesy sandwich, I introduced Shelby to Kettle Corn, there were ribbon fries that we paid another vendor to cover in cheese, lovely floral displays and gardens, farm animals, chicken rooster madness, it was a great fair. But there was something that I was not prepared for — duck butt.

Apparently North Carolinians are into racing, who knew? And they hold a pig race at the fair. This may be the cutest event in the history of fairdom. Little piglets run around a loop with the promise of Cheetos driving them into a frenzy. The curly little tails,  short legs, tiny squeals and cheering from children and adult onlookers. It was too much. And followed by billy goats and pot-bellied pigs. But then, the cream on top of it all, the duck race (or were they geese?). I don’t know if I’ve ever laughed as hard as I did at that moment (with an exception of one evening watching Twilight with Lori, Mendy and Heather). I think the neighboring children were concerned with my well-being. I can’t even describe what happened. Just know that duck butts waddling in slow pursuit of some cheesy crumbs put me over the edge. I’ve been pushed back into a childlike state and I really don’t want to recover from it.

I’ll get to the pictures from that visit and the farm soon enough.

a place in time

My parents are considering selling the farmhouse. They have been there for over a decade and that is a long time for them to stay still. I went down over the weekend to say hello to the Bobs (my former cats) and to visit. The angel trumpet had just bloomed, the confederate roses were changing from white to pink, it’s a lovely spot. I know for my dad, deciding to sell the place of his childhood is beyond a tough decision. That’s the kind of thing he can be good at though, deciding things. And my parents have a lot of flaws, like all of us, but fear of taking risks is not one of them.

But naturally it’s bittersweet. I know I’d never want to live there. I can’t imagine my brother ever would be happy there — but it is the one place that threads throughout my personal timeline. It comes close to being my constant—but that’s not the truth. Like everything, it has changed. Thinking about this on my drive to Atlanta, I realized the true constant lies in my parents — their ability to keep moving, keep changing, keep taking that leap in a moving van — pushing the horizon. The sound of wheels on asphalt driving down the road is the steady beat of my family. The only true constant is change.

Will post pictures later when time permits.

October — a.m

As I exit the bat cave in the morning, it is a bit darker now. Sunrise is in progress over Mary Mac’s parking lot and the sky gives me a rosy glow. I wish for a camera, but something about it is so personal, so perfect, I’d rather not share.

Everything is darker now (in part due to the re-paving of Myrtle). It’s my last few moments of quiet, that short stretch of pavement. As soon as I take a right on Piedmont, the rest of Atlanta begins catching up with me. It’s nice. It’s coffee weather. Sweaters are needed for more than just my climate controlled existence in a building. I know it’s time to add another blanket on the bed and set my alarm clock earlier because fall mornings take longer to start. These are the last shreds of summer, still slightly green in the trees.

I wish I could wrap it all up and keep it for the frenetic and frenzy. Just writing it down to savour later.