Live from home
December 29, 2003 ~ 12:09 p.m.
BOSTON, U.S.A.�I take it that people are either recuperating from Christmas or still enjoying the holiday festivities, because it seems like no-one is around. Seriously. All is quiet here on Diaryland. Or at least it is among my favorites. You see, I don�t so much measure who�s around by who updates; I measure it in terms of who drops by with a note or a guestbook entry. I know, I�m greedy.
Speaking of guestbook entries, don�t it just rub you the wrong way when you leave someone you�ve just discovered, whose diary you really liked and could possibly list as a favorite, a generoulsy fawning note, yet they do not get back to you? Not even a lousy �thanks for reading.� We�re talking jack-shit. I�ve congratulated at least five people over the past month on their diaries and have heard diddly-squat in return. I mean, for fuck�s sake, people, is it so hard to take the time to, at the very least, drop someone a line to say you appreciate them stopping by? Fucking prima donnas!
Ah, that felt good ... rant over.
I arrived back on the evening of the 26th (�Boxing Day,� to you limeys, Aussies, and Canucks), cleared customs and walked out into the arrivals lounge of Logan Airport�s Terminal E � to see my folks were conspicuous in their absence. Turns out they had thought my flight would arrive at 5:50 p.m., instead of 4:50. So when they came down the escalator into the concourse at 5:37, they figured they were in plenty of time to meet me. Weren�t they surprised to see me waiting at the foot of the escalator (I knew that�s from where they�d come) staring up at them, informing them that I�d been there twenty minutes!
I watched the Patriots game on Saturday, my subsequent report on which conveys my faith in this team; and that is, after yet another bad karma season for an otherwise tremendous Red Sox team, the Patriots are the antidote to sports-related depression this fair city of mine needs.
Thus far, I�ve seen family and friends, gone for a few runs and taken it easy. Nothing much to report there. I�ve only been home three days, with another seven to go.
When my mom came over to London in November, she brought some pictures of home along with her, including a picture of the squirrel that frequents the back yard. (Actually, there are two of them and I believe they are related, because they don�t scrap when it comes to food; one or the other with the food just scampers away.) Now the ironic thing was that I was sipping my coffee from a mug with a silhouette of a squirrel on it with text that announces: �WANTED for the misappropriation of bird seed.� This had me wondering if I�d see the squirrel. I did. I noticed a squirrel on top of the fence eating an arrowroot cookie. But the star of Mom�s photo didn�t appear until later. He jumped out from behind the fence, crouched into a sort of half-squat, looked up and held his right paw (hand?) curled up�just as in the photo. Now I knew it was him. I threw both squirrels a bit of granola bar.
One of our cats, Jess, had gotten mauled by another animal, we�re not sure what, a few weeks before I came home. The stitches come out tomorrow, and the cone collar that she�s wearing can also come off. She has been pleading to go outdoors, whining in that petulant crying of hers. It�s horrible. Do you know what it�s like to explain to a cat that�s used to spending more than half the day outside that it cannot go out? Jess is a tough cat and she�s always held her own�she even fearlessly swatted a big neighbor�s dog across the nose�but this time she met her match and good. So naturally, my parents want to turn her into an indoor cat if at all possible. Then there�s Clair who is the complete opposite of Jess: skinny (�the bag of bones,� my father calls her), happy to stay indoors, and quiet. I don�t think I have ever heard even a peep from that animal. I don�t know what it would take to get a sound from her. For instance, this morning I woke up to find her at the door to the hallway. How long had she been waiting to be let out, five minutes or an hour? Most other cats would have meowed in my ear to be let out. Not Clair. That cat is reluctant to speak. It�s not that she�s a mute, because she howled at Jess when those two first crossed paths. But since she settled in, she has been the most silent cat I�ve ever witnessed. She just sits in my window looking out upon the backyard and falls asleep on the radiator.
And so that�s the story so far. Today�s supposed to be quite a warm one (low 60s possible), so I think I should step out for a while. Go into Boston or Harvard Square. Or perhaps just walk ... the ... tracks!
� M.E.M.
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Copyright � 2001-2007 by M.E. Manning. All material is written by me, unless explicitly stated otherwise by use of footnotes or bylines. Do not copy or redistribute without my permission.
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