Will this day never end?

It's almost June 21st, the longest day of the year. One of my favorite days. My friend Mary Frances Cooper, who worked with me in Providence 30 years ago and has a great wit, always said she wanted to take the 21st off so she could say when it finally got dark "I thought this day would never end!"

I like the 21st, I really--no, REALLY like daylight. I like getting up early as soon as it gets light. I have a real problem during winter months because it's hard for me to drag myself out of bed when it's dark. Then I stare longingly at my bed from the bathroom and want so much to put myself back under the covers until it's light. My colleagues must know how strange I am because I'm 20 minutes early to work during these months and 10 minutes late to work during the winter months. I wonder if they remember, or if they even pay attention. I love the way we always assume people notice our shortcomings. My Rockford friends and I get together every couple of years or so--these are friends I knew in grade school, junior high school and high school, and it's so funny to me the different things we all remember. I distinctly remember the girls who carpooled with me, but one of the women, who is a very good friend, doesn't remember some of the people at all. "How can you not remember Debbie Feruggia?" Of course, then Priscilla, my friend, got a 1954 Plymouth, a wonderful car, and she and I drove to school together every day, releasing my father from the obligation of driving 4 giggly high school girls the 4 or so miles to school. He probably liked it, he was an incredibly sociable person.

I slept in the boat house last night. We had a very dramatic thunderstorm, which I drove through just before I got home. I wanted more rain--my rain barrels are now half full, far from satisfactory for watering my plants for any period of time. I like the secure feeling of seeing them full to overflowing. There are so many things we can't control, so relax, Girl. I wonder if I'll ever stop obsessing about water.

Anyway, when I got to the b.h. the loons were wailing away and there was a duck hanging around the camp dock. I didn't have my glasses on so I couldn't tell what kind of duck--it looked like a mallard. Apparently I have convinced Tess she really is a bird dog because she ran through the woods to get to the dock so she could flush the bird from it's spot. It flew, indignant and quacking. Tess really is interested in flushing birds now. When we take our walks she plows into the woods to get to a grouse and flushes it. I've been congratulating and praising her, calling her a BIRD DOG, and she's a quick study so I think she may know it's good to chase birds. The other day there was a male grouse standing in the road by my driveway as we were driving out. Tess was at full alert, watching as intently as I watch TV. The grouse got all puffed up (ruffed, as they're aptly named) and finally disappeared into the brush. Even Chances noticed it, with her vision issues. Next we saw a hare, not quite a fascinating to Tess, which Chances missed altogether.

One of the blogs I read had the following chapter in a story about the homeless:

... a woman who was homeless because when she got leukemia she lost her job because she couldn't work, which meant she lost her insurance, and within months, after selling her possessions piecemeal to pay for rent was evicted and moved into the Salvation Army shelter. [whew--Can you say vicious circle?] She was--at the time of her diagnosis--a practicing pharmacist and just about to go to Julliard on a full scholarship.

This is one of my great fears, especially since I am dependent on no one but myself. If I come down with a catastrophic illness and use up my sick leave I'll lose my job, then my health insurance, my house, my land--everything. I'm lucky, though, I can live with my mother--she lives in a wonderful house with enough room, in a wonderful place. But what would come after that? I wouldn't be self-sufficient. There are no jobs available in RI that pay what I'm making now, and I wouldn't have my house, nor would I live here, which is where I've always wanted to be. My mother thinks she wants me to live with her, she's always suggesting it, but truly this is not something that would work well for any period of time.

So that's what I think of when I want to be dark, bleak and think about the slender thread that holds my life together.

My sister writes of the alternating states of wanting to get out of her house and wanting to stay, stay, stay inside of it. I have similar feelings. Sometimes I suffer from great anxiety about being in social situations. I know I have a great capacity for being charming and witty, but sometimes I am so anxious about being with other people--it's very embarrassing to myself. I just want to stay home, but I know I don't want to be the sort of person who does that. Besides, I socialize with the greatest people, truly wonderful friends I feel lucky to have. I like the Hawkeye people tremendously, and I realize these will be my friends for a long, long time (unless, of course I end up living with my mother--joke).

So I know I must leave my house, and of course there are times when I do want to leave my house--get out of it because I want to be somewhere else, I'm looking forward to enjoying the company of my friends. I don't have complicated transportation to deal with, the way my sister does, it's always a simple matter to get from my house to another place. When I go to my mother's I hate to leave my home, but I look forward to being with her and being in her house. It seems I don't go anywhere else: is that healthy? I have a friend who lives near the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame--one of my goals in life is to see that, so I want to visit her. She begs me to visit her in every communique, but I always have a reason for not going. Bad girl. I have a friend who lives nearby who invites me to his house every couple of months. In winter he phones me at 7 on Saturday night and wants me to come over because he and his wife have a few friends there and he wants me to be part of that group. I almost always say no. I'm usually nestled in by then, or I just don't feel like being there. I should go, these are my neighbors.

Geez, don't I make myself sound popular? I'm always amazed when people know who I am. I figure I have a reputation for being that odd woman who lives alone in the woods with her dogs. Everyone knows I have dogs, and everyone knows I live alone. Most people think Jamie was the Rogers, but more are learning that I was a Rogers before I married him. This is important to me, but of course it's pretty embarrassing to admit you married your cousin. How Kentucky of me!

ramblerambleramble.

Today it's Lake Placid's CD collection. From Lang Lang live at Carnegie Hall (that's his name: Lang Lang) to The Demonic Liszt (oh that pesky Liszt). How can I keep myself from listening to them as I catalog?