Lately, well into the restoration of flood-ruined Bryn Garth Cottage, I'll jolt awake, startled to find I'm still in England. Climbing out of my warm nest, I begin the day with crisp bacon, strong black (canned) coffee, and a vague ache.
I miss the sniffs of home. There's a special scent -- OK, an odor -- associated with one's own nest; I miss that.
I long for my airy, CLEAN kitchen, the perky sound of boiling water added to freshly ground coffee beans that deliver enough "omph" to vanquish mental cobwebs; I miss CLEAN windows.
I miss cooking. Anything. I have bare walls here -- bare, stud-exposed walls.
I miss people. In Traverse City, I can pop outside to shovel and passers-by usually toss cheery greetings my way. I miss the mail carrier, who always delivers a smile, and the sound of my neighbor's children, laughing. I miss trotting down to Burritt's Market and chatting with Joel, who mans the meat counter, or hallooing the nice ladies at Potter's Bakery as I join other drooling sugar-junkies for our fixes.
There are foxes here, and voles, and an incredible variety of birds visiting my feeders in Helen's Wood, our forest, with its vast carpets of snowdrops, bluebells, daffodils, tulips, primroses and wild rhododendrons. Fresh lambs bounce about on the distant hillsides. The Welsh Black Mountains are lovely behind the little village of Wormelow Tump, where cottage chimneys emit thin plumes of straight-up smoke, far below. Rabbits box on the lawn, and nibble new blades of grass flavored by tiny English daisies. There is lots of life up here, but none of it speaks English.
I don't miss the TV's incessant silliness, the opinion-laden news, the ridiculous ads, the noise. I don't miss the thump-boom of unattached males' car radios as they drive the city's streets, announcing their availability. I don't miss the sound of ambulance sirens telegraphing someone's distress as they rush to Munson hospital.
Here it is silent, except for the world turning, and the animals responding to nature's rhythm. The stars are shockingly vivid.
Yesterday I found a tiny frog, who sat timidly in the palm of my hand, his back moist and twiggy. Flakes of rich, green moss decorated his delicate head.
A large, furtive rat scurried across the lawn into the thick laurel; at least he'd dashed AWAY from the cottage.
I rake; the sound mingles with the raucous screams of crows, and the forlorn sound of English mourning doves, whose coos are longer, and more complicated.
I was pulling on a sweater one morning last week in our large master bath, when suddenly my neck hairs twitched; I was being observed. Hmmm. You know the feeling.
Sure enough, when I slowly turned around, there sat a huge black spider watching me from the porcelain acreage of the tub's edge. She was utterly still, jet-black -- 3-plus inches of arachnid beauty -- and didn't mind being noticed. I pulled the stool closer, and we examined each other carefully. She showed no fear, only curiosity. Each slim -- er, foot -- grasped the sleek white rim confidently. Those enormous eyes looked: I looked. Aliens. Both of us. I'm horrid, misshapen, practically limb-less, and my rear end possesses no spinnerets. I am probably pitied.
I admire Miss Charlotte. She's leggy, agile, beautiful, well fed and perhaps a mite over-confident about showing herself, hmmm?
We've come to an agreement.
She'd stay out of my shoes and clothes, and I'd stay out of "her" tub. We've stuck to our bargains, content with idly speculating every morning about how the other half lives.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are at 325 Sixth St. in Traverse City. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information.
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