Afternoon With Ardyth

I took a much needed mental health day off from work today. It was good—at least the sleeping in part was great, and I immensely enjoyed the open possibilities that a full eight or nine hours to myself offered. Then I realized how bombarded I was by those possibilities.

Sunday afternoon, I had come home from the library with three new books added to the one I had still out and had renewed. There were two DVD’s and three CD’s to listen to. I knew I wouldn’t put on the DVD’s—my attention span just isn’t long enough to sit through a whole movie, but I could listen to the CD’s while I did whatever else I decided to do. The books and the movies alone would fill an entire weekend retreat. But like the script of a Saturday evening infomercial, I heard a little voice inside my head shout, “But wait, there’s more…”

I had dreamed about a new jewelry design, a Celtic knot bracelet with tiny freshwater pearls that I wanted to try twisting and I was drawn to my new self directed study of Sufism, particularly turning my attention to the soul-enrapting poetry of Rumi. There is always so much to write and I am currently overwhelmed by ideas that vie for my attention like reporters at a press conference. Maybe I could settle down with something to write after I had read a bit and spent some time with Rumi and rubies. I could alternate my activity between the jewelry at a makeshift bench by the computer and Rumi while I took a look at my ever growing email inbox.

I sat down at the computer and answered most of my email and checked the blogs here which have piqued my particular interest. That propelled me into a conversation with a friend via email, the subject of the conversation being one that should and probably will be blogged at some point, but not now. Still the thought and writing process was cathartic and I’m “counting” the correspondence as meeting my “writing something every day” requirement that I have recently imposed on myself.

I had read a chapter in my renewed library book earlier and had taken notes that I thought would make great material for a couple of poems. I put the notes aside intending to return to them and produce two wonderful poems after I had spent some time with Rumi. Sadly, after that encounter with the great mystic poet, everything I tried to write appeared to be pathetic sentimentality and worthless drivel. Note to self: NO Rumi before writing—but oh, what a Lovefest!

By noon, I had written my last non-blog worthy email to my friend who had wisely returned to his work, I was Rumi-saturated, disillusioned by failed attempts at two absolutely awful poems, and had completed one bracelet, not to mention the chapter I had finished.

The down comforter I had thrown on my green velvet futon was looking fairly inviting, but I had already taken advantage of the eastern sun shining through my huge living room window and I NEVER (well, hardly ever) nap, even when I’m sick.

So I sat in the quiet of the afternoon in my little house until Ardyth appeared. Ardyth is the “other resident of our circa 1946 tract home that was built to accommodate WWII vets on the then-new GI bill.

The U.S. Census Bureau would count two people living in our 840 sq. ft. abode—me, one female aged 43 11/12ths yrs. old and Dee, one male, aged 51 9/12ths yrs. old. They would not count the cat—full named Isadora Duncan, and they would not count Ardyth, deceased.

Ardyth is a war bride and original owner of this little white house and although she passed just last July and Dee and I pay the mortgage, Ardyth calls the shots around here. She carries her esoteric barely five feet high, semi-corporeal framework around here like a queen. She is soft spoken, but don’t you dare pass through the front door without wiping your feet and you’d better watch your language. Even Carl (also deceased), her rough-edged gentile (translated Utah non-Mormon) husband left his boots at the back door and “that kind of talk” at the rail yard where he rotated his shifts.

I have a list of instructions from Ardyth regarding this house—some I’ve accomplished, some waiting for the cash and time:

-the bathroom floor needs tiling

-replacing the shower-only set up with a bathtub is my option—eventually one I’ll take. I can’t imagine how I’ve got along without one this far, except to say that I take advantage of hotel tubs when we travel anywhere.

-the electrical absolutely has to be re-done even though Carl was an electrician and should have done it years ago.

-it was perfectly ok to take down the crumbling moonscape mural that covered one whole wall of our bedroom, since Ardyth's little Danny grew up to become a sub-contractor instead of an astronaut.

-but leave the railroad tie lawn border. Carl brought those valuable ties home one at a time as an act of protest and rebellion—his solution to sweetening a raise that simply did not meet his standards.

-and don’t touch the 30 ft. pine tree that shades the add-on room. That item has been emphatically set in stone since we looked at the house.

“Ok, Ardyth, ok,” I quickly respond. “I promised you, as I was signing to close on this house that I would never cut down that tree. It will have to topple onto the roof of the garage room first.” “But, I never promised anything about the overbearing English Ivy,” I add with just a hint of rebellion in my voice.

“Don’t forget to lower the kitchen cabinets,” Ardyth commands. She sighs. “Why Carl set them over five feet from the floor, I’ll never guess. I can see you’re making good use of that stool I left.” She nods her head in the direction of the footstool I keep handily under the cabinets.

Ardyth smiles quaintly at me as she drifts gently through the ceiling into the attic. I can hear the faint hint of her parting whisper, “Rip out all the goddamn ivy you care to.”

“Ta ta, Ardyth!” I giggle after her. “Come visit me again, especially when my mental health needs tweaking.”