Yesterday I had the perfect book for Poetry Friday, but it was an incredible seventy-three degrees outside and I didn’t feel like sitting down by the computer to write an entry. Journey Woman did a wonderful round-up of the bloggers who probably didn’t have perfect weather (or who may have written in advance like organized people). But back to me.
It was warm and sunny on my front porch, or concrete stoop if you want to be more accurate. I went outside with some Poetry Friday possibilities, one of which I ended up liking. I was so taken by the look of the fantastic yellows and oranges of the leaves against the blue sky, that I took a couple of pictures. Today the top of the same tree is already faded and brown, which just goes to show how ephermal those moments of beautiful clarity really are.
After my short photo session, I delved into a teen book that looked promising, Fringe Girl. I planned to set aside the afternoon outside to finish it.
(Now, in case you are thinking with a snarky tone, “I wish I had that kind of time to sit outside and read,” let me explain something. I took off a few days of work this week since I had a lot of leave and needed a breather. I had planned to use the time to tackle some house projects, but how could I have predicted two freaky warm days at the end of the week? I’d be crazy to work inside on those days. And I didn’t really have that kind of time to sit outside and read. The mess inside my house puts me one notch away from a visit from Social Services or Mental Health Services. I certainly can’t have anyone over anytime soon. But just like the top of the tree turned brown in one day, these perfect days are also fleeting and you can’t take the chance on missing them.)
Anyway, I was reading Fringe Girl sitting on the concrete porch/stoop, and it was pretty warm outside. Wearing a T-shirt and capris, I also took off my shoes. As I sat there with the sun beating down on my back, I started actually getting hot. And while it was lovely to be in the sun, the front-yard view of my lawn and another house had nothing on my backyard view of trees and more trees. Plus the concrete was not being kind to my butt.
I decided to retire to the backyard, which doesn’t get the full sun and has actual chairs. I walked through the house to the back porch, which was already covered with brown oak leaves. In my bare feet, I stepped outside.
There was a lump under my feet that signaled to me that I had not stepped on just a layer of leaves on the mat. With instincts sharp from years of stepping on things in my daughters’ clothes-covered floors, I wondered what toy I had crunched with my feet this time.
It was a dead chipmunk. A. Dead. Chipmunk.
A gift, presumably, from my lovely white cat. Also, presumably, not the same one that she brought into my house months ago. And one of the worst things I have ever stepped on with my bare feet, presumably.
After an extreme attack of the willies, and a run for shoes any shoes I threw the poor dead thing into the woods behind my house. I left my shoes on for the rest of my reading afternoon and only occasionally had shivers with the force of an electrical shock go through my whole body.
Is it irony that I took my shoes off to enjoy the beautiful day and then stepped on a dead chipmunk in my bare feet? Probably not in the most pure definition of the term. But I do believe that it’s a result of my irony-prone nature. In fact, Irony Prone would be a great band name.... or book title. Oh, DIBS!!!