The Observer

A tiny, delicate crab skitters about, popping in and out of its hole-home doing crab work. In and down, sand fluffs up a bit; out and up he (she?) pops again then down he goes. With a flick of his legs more sand is excavated for this all consuming construction job. Making a home to start a family?  Feeding? Seeking shelter from the glaring heat? The life's work of a crab.

A young brother and sister play at the water's edge. They dare the waves to come get them, like little crabs running toward and away from their life source. But for this boy and girl it is delightful fun, not a serious task at all. They squeal with delight as they avoid the lapping monsters with victorious hops. Childhood's job...to play and learn and grow and absorb the world that supports them. They are as unaware of their appointed vocation as the crab is his. They are being children.   

Looking out from under a sheltering umbrella is a woman with paper and pen. Layers of lotion and just enough shade guard her Northern skin from frying in the brutal Southern sun; a sun with rays that garner enough power to inflict serious damage on her sensitive outer layer. She watches from behind dark glasses designed to protect and aid her vision, with the added benefit of keeping the direction of her gaze a mystery to passers-by.

Her life's work is unknowable to anyone who might notice her. But to a stranger secretly wondering, the possibilities are endless. Is she... a retired school teacher? a magazine editor working on next month's edition? a famous but anonymous novelist?... maybe a widow writing to her favorite grandchild? Nothing is obvious but that she sits with pen in hand, busily writing. In truth, her options seem much less infinite; a life's purpose is not clear even to herself. Unclear except that at this moment she is an observer.  With words on a page, she reflects upon the business of a sand crab and the beauty of a carefree childhood moment shared between (and perhaps soon forgotten by) two young siblings.

-----Written May 10, 2011 while on my Mother's Day trip to New Smyrna Beach. My new favorite beach is the National Seashore just south of there.-----

Not exactly a rainy day.

Oh, what the hell, I'll write something here. I just hope Adie's the only one who ever reads it and I'm not sure how to officially do that. But whatever. At this point, there will be nothing about my sister who has disowned me so for now, if she somehow wanders in, I won't offend her.

It's not raining any more, but we have our commercial-grade dewatering pump going non-stop, a Ready8 and a Ready4 pump dumping water from inside our 'moat' out to our pond that is now a lake. So it feels like a rainy day. I'm grateful my husband is not the best lumber salesman today and his expertise is in something that saves our house from flooding at least once a year. I have much to say but I notice people seem to apologize for long, rambling posts and I don't want to bore anyone. Which is hilarious because no one knows this blog exists. But for Adie...I love you...I won't bore you.

More later...maybe.