Cocktail Hour
It is 3:30pm and time for cocktails on the porch.
We bring out our dry martinis with olives and lovingly set them on the table amid appetizers.
Depending on the day: extra sharp cheddar cheese and crackers, chopped chicken livers, calamari, shrimp cocktail, Swedish meatballs or spring rolls.
We listen to Bach, Mozart, Chopin, Aaron Copland, Handel, Samuel Barber and sometimes Ravi Shankar.
As the martinis kick in, we are comfortably numb and muse about Pink Floyd.
We enjoy our natural habitat of cardinals, blue jays, sparrows, cat birds, chickadees, goldfinches, a rabbit (a taciturn creature who munches on grass and fallen bird seed, no Bugs Bunny here), deer, chipmunks (they chase each other around the yard and around our feet…images of Charlie Chaplin silent movies) and the occasional monarch butterfly and hummingbird.
We have a stick with a string tied to one end that we can throw at the dreaded bird-feeder terror, the squirrel (images of Moby Dick).
It never works because Einstein squirrel watches our every move and acts accordingly.
Next year we vow to get a squirrel-proof feeder, but we are pessimistic.
We have no idea what weapon would work on Oscar, the neighbor’s black and white cat (so aptly colored), whose caginess and stalking abilities make us believe he trained for the Green Berets.
We gaze out at our half-acre empire: holly tree, hawthorn bush, oak tree of some stature, mulberry trees, azaleas and ferns.
I especially meditate on my lawn. A long-standing project of seeding, weeding (never believe those weed-killing spray products that say they don’t kill grass) and fertilizing. In the end, after much curious investigation, I have determined that there is a violent lawn territoriality which rivals humanity’s eternal struggle on this planet.
No matter how much I ineptly interfere, clover gives way to dandelions give way to wild strawberries give way to plantains give way to moss. Not much room for grass to grow under these conditions.
As is usual, our reverie is interrupted by sounds of lawn mowers, construction equipment from the housing development that has been developing for the last five years behind our house, chain saws, barking dogs, cackling chickens and our neighbor revving his car’s engine.
It has no muffler. This ritual can take ten minutes before he’s off to work.
We suspect he doesn’t like his job.
We smile and revel in our retirement status.
Today a praying mantis landed on the porch floor next to our feet.
Mozart was playing.
In true transmigration of soul mode, the wondrous bug began to sway, cock its Alien head and hold its arms in the air.
When the music was over, it flew away.
Just saying…
My husband doesn’t believe me when I say that a fly swatter in my hand will always make all flying insects within a 400-yard radius disappear. But it’s true.
It is 4:30 now. (It seems like only ten minutes have passed. Martinis warp time.) We go inside, sit down and turn on the news.
Tales of coronavirus deaths, police brutality, world-wide protests.
Fears of civil unrest, the pandemic relentlessly assaulting the planet for the next two years and environmental catastrophes brought on by climate change.
After a brief respite, we are once again sober.
Connie Woodring is a 75-year-old retired psychotherapist who is getting back to her true love of writing after 45 years in her real job. She has had 34 poems published in various journals, including one nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize.