All dressed up

We've been meaning to have the guys down the street over for dinner for a while now, so when Robert ran into them at Sunday bingo he asked them for Monday night.

Monday was busy: cleaning, groceries, cooking, getting the CDs ready, vacuuming the pool, filling the ice bucket, getting the lights right and making an arrangement for the outdoor table.

The clock hit the appointed time and kept on ticking. A half-hour later, I asked Robert to hike over and tell them that if they hadn't eaten, I had dinner ready.

He came back to let me know they'd forgotten all about it and had company of their own, so I wrapped up half the food, froze it, poured the wine and served dinner a deux on the deck.

I'm happy to report it was a marvelous party.

First thing

It's become my morning ritual: Scanning the papers, listening to NPR until there's enough light, then primping our little patch along the street.

The only drama in it is our battle with the dreaded pink hibiscus mealybug lately, and we seem to be winning through some chemical warfare.

Of course, I can't do my usual pruning, picking and weeding for a few days after an application of the stuff they sold us at MARC House (a nonprofit paradise for plantspeople), but I take the break as a blessing to catch up on books.

Since the last application was Saturday, there I was this morning, keeping the rosemary from invading the dwarf plumeria, pulling down a dead palm frond, cutting dead lantana shoots -- not a job for those with even borderline OCD -- finding a new bloom shoot on one of the little birds on the far side of the parking space. . . .

As morning exercises go, they don't get much better.

Nothin' but net

And no one to play across it: too early in the season for the usual cadre of bronzed bodies generating a good coat of sweat at Higgs Beach.

But everyone else is getting damp ramping up for Fantasy Fest.

I knew the king and queen competition was heating up when I looked up from my Margaret Atwood novel and saw a queen contender bicycling down our street (on the migratory flyway between the Monkey Bar and One Saloon) decked out in a black-feather bra with matching headdress.

He was singing loudly, I think getting ready for his act at the Coronation Ball on Friday.

Sunrise, sunset

. . . Early, from the guest-room window. Late, from the porch . . . .

Update on the bird

Butterflies in the belfry

The little light well in the stairway, with its dormer window to the street, shouldn't be there in the first place.

Our architect drew one of our air handlers there, behind shutters; but the handler had to move long ago, to join properly with some ductwork, and with it gone there was no reason not to open the space for some sunlight.

And with sunlight, and "useless" floored space, there was no reason not to add something interesting.

So we got this butterfly mobile from Kim, at Glass Reunions, home of the (now fatally rusting) ornamented car. It's the work of an 84-year-old artist from up Ft. Myers way, and he's been ill lately so it may be one of his last.

Twisting over the landing in the stairwell thermals, they flutter a bit sedately for Robert's taste, but I like their serene procession through the afternoon sun just fine.

Covered parking

There's a parking spot at the end of our block -- our street is only two blocks long -- that I've always thought was particularly lovely.

Practical, it ain't, aside from providing shade. Bracts from the bougainvillea can be a real mess, and when they fall they stick.

But it gets an A for aesthetics.

Happy birthday, Dad

It would have been his 97th.

High-wire act

The big frond fell off an even bigger palm (at the very top left) in front of one of the guest houses across the street almost a year ago, and it's been our weather vane ever since:

If it moved down to the junction at the splitter box, we'd had a good north wind; if it was next to the concrete pole (supposedly good for a Cat 5 storm), the breeze was from the south. It did a good bit of traveling over our stormy weekend.

On Tuesday, a crew from City Electric finally got around to removing it, starting with this guy with a pole, who gave it about a dozen valiant efforts in half an hour, and ending with a bucket truck, which took about 5 minutes.

Also in the valiant department: We hiked up to the Pier House Tuesday night to listen to our friend Jody, who waits tables at the Flamingo, as she belted out some standards and blues at Larry Smith's piano bar. Late in the evening, Jody called her daughter on her cell phone, put the phone on the piano and sang her a few tunes to send her off on her way to a second tour in Iraq.

I've always resented the "no atheists in foxholes" canard, but I can tell you everyone in the bar was singing a little prayer for Jody's girl.

Just a year

On Sunday, Robert went off to play bridge after spending hours writing down all the bidding conventions he uses.

The director of the local tournaments, who had found someone named Emilio as his partner for the afternoon, had warned him that they weren't quite on the same level; but Robert took it the wrong way.

Robert has, after all, played against Bill Gates and his hired-gun partner in national tournaments and come out quite well, thanks very much.

They came in fourth out of seven, and I know Robert too well to think very highly of Emilio.

But while he was off bidding and such, I was going around the house. It was a year to the day that Ref had died, and I was finding him in every corner.

Possibly most here, in the guest room upstairs, where Ref fretted as much about ceiling angles as Robert frets about no-trump openers. He told me endless stories of builders who had invested in factory-made roof trusses, only to lose thousands of dollars when the built goods met the architect's specs, but didn't fit the house.

So Ref made our roofs by hand, and it was on this one that I last saw him swing a hammer with vigor as he laid in the last of the plywood. Within weeks, he was bedridden. Weeks later, he died.

His sister, Dollie; his brother Shawn; and his Uncle Arnold were here to comfort the heart and complete the house. But Reffard . . . This is his house and will always be.

I saw the gold glinting in his smile as I looked at his handiwork and gave thanks.

More ceilings

Once more, looking upward tonight, with a breeze.
For Lou, who sees with my eyes and my heart.

From our front porch

This is one of the things I see when I look up at our palms along the street.

Of course, I took the picture a little farther east -- at Vajdahunyad Castle, which now houses the Agriculture Museum in Budapest's City Park, in a former chapel at the rear of the grand building, which is only about a century old. We were there almost exactly three years ago, and the park, the Szchéchenyi Bath (with its floating chessboards), and the fairytale lake where all the newlyweds come to be photo- graphed were just a healthy hike from our room along the Danube.

When I looked up at those those arching, coffered capitals, with their Ottoman echoes, I couldn't help thinking of palms twinkling and glowing in the night, fronds arching to meet their neighbors.

And when I look up at our palms, I can't help thinking of that ceiling, either. The mind is such a small world.

Bird a-birthing

I haven't shown you much of the gardens since we got back, but I couldn't help sharing these bird-of- paradise blooms aborning just inside the front fence.

They're about a foot long, and they should be in full flower by the time Ben and Ken get here later in the month for Fantasy Fest.

This year's fest will be a first for me: no glasses, so I'll be able to wear a proper mask. I'm taking covetous looks at a great black coq-feather creation we brought down with about a billion beads in the costume trunk, but I may celebrate with a splurge from Maskerville's John McBride.

One thing for sure: This won't be the only bird in outrageous plumage later this month.

Here's your hat, Harry

Harry Bethel, at far left, finally got bumped from the public trough. Or drawn away from it.

As I mentioned, he and Charles Lee (at far right) were in a dead heat to face Ty Symroski, the highly regarded former city planner, in a runoff for a seat on the Utility Board. Each received 1,879 votes. (Ty got 2,390.)

Harry Sawyer, the supervisor of elections, broke the deadlock, in this picture from the Citizen: He held the hat while Cheryl Smith, the city clerk, drew a name -- Lee's -- from a campaign hat.

Couldn't happen to a nicer guy.

Some wins, some launches

Tuesday was election day, and this was the crowd across the street from our precinct -- at the Convent now; we used to vote at Old City Hall but that was our rental and this is our residence.

Teri Johnston, one of the founders of the wind-insurance activism group, won handily in the City Commission district just to our west (Clayton, our commissioner, runs next time), whupping two opponents: the dolt incumbent and a smarmy fellow who patronized us on windows when he was on the Historic Architecture Commission.

Needless to say, we were delighted.

Meanwhile, Jimmy Weekley, whose family runs Fausto's and whom we supported, beat the incumbent Morgan McPherson -- but by taking only 49.21 percent, fell a dozen or so votes short of a majority, forcing a runoff on Nov. 6. (As more than one observer pointed out, with Fantasy Fest coming just before, the campaigns may lack a certain focus).

Other margins were even tighter. In the district just south of us, the top two contenders received 626 votes to 625; there was even a dead heat for second place in a contest for the Utility Board. Runoffs there, too.

All in all, an exciting election day -- with better than 50 percent turnout -- but as usual a brief one: Our supervisor of elections has been doing the job so well for so long that the results were final about a half-hour after the polls closed. Which meant more time for victory parties -- or campaign launches for the runoffs.

Quietest rooster on the block

We got him in Memphis a dozen years ago, and it had to be fore- shadowing.

He sat guarding the garage at Holly Hill, but after we started on the house here I knew he had to move -- but I didn't want him to move too far, so I had Ray weld a base on him that we could attach to the wall at the steps.

Ray installed him when he was down here in August, and now he's guarding licuala palms, birds of paradise and hibiscus.

Getting my eye back

Don't ask me why these keys are called the Saddle Bunches. I like the name, and the fact that whenever I see them off to the right on the Overseas Highway we're coming home.

Speaking of which, I've set up a sort of zen office upstairs in the loft -- Robert's computer is ensconced in the office closet in the den, and he has no tolerance for the kind of peripherals it takes for me to transfer photos from memory card to computer to net -- so I have my new laptop on an old wine crate up here, and a great view of the street as I sit lotus-style on the carpet.

Just to my right is the loft railing, with one of Arnold's pineapple cutouts giving me a peek into the dining room below and reminding me of every bit of love that went into the house. Above are the house's original collar ties, hand-hewn in the 1880s or earlier, and adapted from heaven knows where, because they have odd notches and bevels. To the left there's storage -- our ladder, a big feather mask for Fantasy Fest, empty luggage: essential Key West.

Looks like home

Ah, we're back!

And boy, is the sun bright in my new eyes -- even with regular shades under those horrid wraparounds that are supposed to screen out everything but arc welders.

Even so, we're pruning some overgrowth, setting up the new computers on their wi-fi network, getting ready to have some friends over for drinks -- though you'll have to wait a while for pictures: I still haven't gotten the hang of farsighted photography.

What I have gotten the hang of is stars, really clear to me for the first time in a few decades. Orion was magnificent this morning, even with a three-quarters moon. How sweet to see it all again.

One-eyed Jack on the mend

Thanks to:

-- Robert, seen here at my bedside, I'm getting excellent nursing care. We went to a great little Greek restaurant in Tarpon Springs to celebrate Eye One with a bottle of the Pelopponese version of cabernet.

-- The terrific staff at the eye institute, I didn't require more than a quart of sedatives.

-- Our friend Gene's Ray-Bans, which he left behind at the farm July 4, I have a great pair of non-prescription dark glasses. They'll be waiting for him in Key West.

-- Modern plastics, I can see light and hue out my right eye I hadn't seen in years.

-- The operation on the left eye, coming this morning, I probably won't be able to type for a few days. But when I do . . . it will be in living color.

The vision thing

So here we are, back on line sooner than I expected, on the new computer -- still getting used to its maddening little idio- syncrasies, like the cursor unex- pectedly jumping to odd places and making fast typing hell. (How do I edit those keyboard shortcut preferences again? . . .)

We stayed at Sharon and Hoyle's neat new guest house Friday night, and made our way Saturday to Tampa, where I'll get my cataracts fixed Monday and Tuesday. We're camping out in a Ramada for the duration, and fortunately it has great wireless net access.

Between the keyboard and the eyes, heaven only knows when I'll be back on -- but I'll be seeing you soon, and lots better.

I'm speechless

A word for Microsoft

(_____). I can't print it here, so I'll let you fill in the blank.

Between migrating to a new laptop, Microsoft's various settings against digital piracy and our oh-so-slow dialup connection out here in the country, posting here has been impossible in the last few days.

Unfortunately, don't expect anything in the next few, either: We're heading to Florida -- first for a visit with Robert's brother, Hoyle; and then on to Tampa where I get my cataracts fixed, and a pair of implanted lenses. The doctor called to bump the surgeries up a day (they're Monday and Tuesday), after which we'll hang around a bit to make sure everything takes, and then I'll be off to audition for my new job in Key West (photo at right).

Assuming I'll feel like looking at a laptop, I'll post an update next week. Till then, stay safe and well.

Technical difficulties

Making transitions between computers -- plus problems uploading. Back when I can be.

Anseres ad custodiam præferendi sunt canibus

Sunday morning echoed Rome 2397 years or so ago. You don't know the story? From Aelian's On the Nature of Animals, XII, 33:

Geese are better at keeping watch than dogs, as the Romans discovered. At any rate the Celts were at war with them, and had thrust them back with overwhelming force and were in the city itself; indeed they had captured Rome, except for the hill of the Capitol, for that was not easy for them to scale. For all the spots which seemed open to assault by stratagem had been prepared for defense.

It was the time at which Marcus Manilius, the consul, was guarding the aforesaid height as entrusted to him. (It was he, you remember, who garlanded his son for his gallant conduct, but put him to death for deserting his post.) But when the Celts observed that the place was inaccessible to them on every side, they decided to wait for the dead of night and then fall upon the Romans when fast asleep; and they hoped to scale the rock where it was unguarded and unprotected, since the Romans were confident that the Gauls would not attack from that quarter. And as a result Manlius himself and the Citadel of Jupiter would have been captured with the utmost ignominy, had not some geese chanced to be there.

For dogs fall silent when food is thrown to them, but it is a peculiarity of geese to cackle and make a din when things are thrown to them to eat. And so with their cries they roused Manlius and the guards sleeping around him. This is the reason why up to the present day [2nd CCE] dogs at Rome annually pay the penalty of death in memory of their ancient treachery, but on stated days a goose is honored by being borne along on a litter in great state.

Thus was Rome saved. Our geese left a different sort of litter.

Great balls of holly

Part of the prep for things like Monday bridge is getting the grounds in order.

Mind ya, most of the ladies don't venture out -- maybe Anne, who's such a gardener that I get a massive inferiority complex every time she cocks an eyebrow at a yellowed leaf, though I've largely gotten over that. Live and let die, I say.

Still, Ray and the crew make sure everything's shipshape, and Joey has proven quite the shaper of boxwoods and hollies.

Some are showing their age, but others, like these off the pool terrace, are pretty as a picture.

New leaf

. . . in a not-so-plain pink wrapper.

Lucky night

Back when I was doing "social work" for the newspaper, I got a delicious invitation from Danny Newman, the old-time press agent for Lyric Opera of Chicago.

(Danny is worth a book, not a brief mention. He was present at Lyric's creation, built its subscription-based marketing system -- a first in major nonprofits, and still going strong -- and flourished his borsalino to flog every opera season, diva, divo and maestro for almost 50 years. But I digress.)

Would I like to have dinner with Pavarotti, Danny asked?

Um, yes, thanks!

So there I was on a sleety weeknight, in a new marble-and-glass lobby in the Loop with a few other press people, some Lyric angels, Ardis Krainik and Danny -- and Pavarotti. The developer had opened his first floor to the black-tie group for the evening as yet another bit of marketing, and had arranged a wonderful little supper under the high ceiling. Pavarotti was charming, and got extra helpings of charm in return (this was long before his feud with Lyric over no-shows).

After supper, Danny rose, cleared his throat and launched into a voluble introduction of the man who didn't need one.

Polite applause from the little group, and the great Luciano rose, spoke for a moment about singing for his supper, paused, vocalized a bit to test the acoustics --incredibly bright, lots of reverberation -- and then launched into "Nessun Dorma" a capella.

In an opera house, that voice is strong. In the glass and marble lobby, it bounced back in waves. Covered in gooseflesh, I listened
. . . then rose quietly to steal into other angles, my heart shimmering in the reflected sound. Back into a corner -- astounding! I couldn't hold back tears. Around a little wall -- amazing. Into the even tighter elevator lobby. . . .

Where a street person sat, disheveled, slumped in an elevator-door recess. Our eyes met. He crooked his finger: come closer.

I bent down.

"Am I in heaven?," he said, his eyes bleary -- and also pouring tears as the voice soared on. "I have to be. I hear an angel."

Dawn's early light

. . . is fading.

Better than any calendar, or first red leaf or first fat berry or first riot of southbound geese, the day's first light tells me the season. Thready, weaker, more a dying fire than a blaze.

And what I see in my eyes, I hear in my bones:

September's song: Summer's gone.

Yes, deer

Over the weekend, we were getting ready to go out when Robert rushed into my bathroom, toothbrush in mouth, to tell me, "Quihh, loo ow eh winow."

And there, on the far side of the lake, framed in the last of the crepe myrtles, were two does and a fawn, part of the deer herd that calls our home theirs.

"Mmh," Robert said, gesturing wildly.

At the south end of the lawn was the buck who runs the group, a six-pointer who gave a blast of his air horns and bolted when I tried to take his picture.

The next morning, as I was watering next to the shop, one of the does came within 30 feet, looked inquiringly at me and then into a wild cherry tree over her head, and got on her hind legs to graze.

Country life.

My favorite delft pot