Today feels like fall, all of a sudden the air is cold and crisp and the flannel robe hanging in the bathroom all summer is a long, lost friend. I had a memory of these kind of days, a memory of driving around the back roads of Tivoli, looking for wooley bear caterpillars. Sabra was probably three or four when she became obsessed with wooley bears. First, we found them on Clay Hill Road, taking a walk, and she picked one up and wanted to keep it. "We will need a jar or something to put him in", I told her and on our next walk we had a mason jar to hold the wooley bears. It was a good year for wooley bears, easy to find them on the road. She liked the jar, but found something even better as a home for the caterpillars - a good sized pocketbook, with a snap top.

For the next few days, we walked Clay Hill Road, up and down, looking for more wooley bears for her pocketbook. Oh, she made it nice for them, lots of grass, leaves to hide in. Wooley Bears are smart little things, when you catch them, they curl up and play dead. But in the pocketbook, they roamed up and down, looking for a way out. But still, the collection wasn't big enough.

"Get in the car", I told Sabra when she whined for more wooley bears, "We're going wooley bear hunting", and she climbed in the front seat with the yellow (I think it was yellow) purse on her lap. In those days, there were no car seats, I don't even think there were seat belts, so she had a good spot next to me to search the roads. We hit all the back roads, and when spotting a caterpillar crossing the road, I would pull over, throw the brake on, put the car in neutral and run out to catch the wooley bear before he crossed the road. Then I would bring it back to the car, Sabra would pop open her purse, and in he would go.

This would go on for hours, until we had to be home for the school bus bringing the older kids home. They would look in horror at the open purse, crawling with brown and orange caterpillars, grass all over, little caterpillar poops all over, and shake their heads in disbelief.
"Ma, how can you actually encourage this kind of behavior? This is cruel, let them all go," but Sabra would stubbornly hang onto her purse.

I can't remember how it all ended, what happened to all the caterpillars, and the crazy drives around town trying to spot a small bug crossing the road. But I am kind of glad we did it. You rarely see the wooley bears anymore, at least not in the numbers they used to be. Of course, Sabra and I might have done some damage to their numbers in our quest to get every wooley bear in the county into her yellow purse.

I've been missing Maria a lot lately, maybe because of the 9/11 ceremonies, all that grief, maybe because of fall coming, maybe because Maria the hurricane is drifting away. Anyway, after shopping at Hannaford today, I headed for the graveyard, but passed it on a whim, just wanting to see her house. As I drove up Starbarrack Road I thought of excuses I could use if anyone saw me, "checking on the apple tree in Kevin's yard" that's a good one, I concluded. Anyway, I pulled into her driveway, the house even bigger than I rememembered it. I stayed only a moment, it really didn't help and headed to her grave.

As usual, no one was around. I began deadheading the cosmos on her grave and a few tears were falling. Moving slightly, I looked up and there standing before me was the largest buck I have ever seen. Great big rack of horns, looked like something that had escaped from the Catskill Game Farm. I spoke to him, told him what a beauty he was and warned him about the upcoming hunting season. He stared at me, motionless for what seemed forever, but probably a minute of two and then slowly trotted back into the woods. "Did you see that?" I asked Ria, that probably was the sonofabitch that ate all your sunflowers. (Nothing but the stalks remain among the cosmos.)

The moment was gone, almost as if I had imagined it. But like in Harry Potter, the deer had changed the mood from sad to excited. Was it a sign, or was it just a curious giant buck that came out of the woods to see who was sniffling in his territory?

This morning, after bringing breakfast upstairs to our guests, I noticed hundreds of spider webs in the grass. Timmy hasn't cut the grass for over three weeks. His right leg hurts (actually makes a grinding noise) so he has avoided this task, though he can go to the gym twice a day, for over four hours. Go figure. Anyway, I pointed out the webs to him. They are funnel webs, made by the funnel spider, and in the center, hiding in a hole is the spider waiting for a bug. Timmy then told me that one of his earliest memories of my grandmother is her swiping away at the spider webs in her hedges. He thought that very brave as his whole family seems to be afraid of spiders. But that made me forget spiders and think of those hedges.

They were high and surrounded her house at 28 Washington Avenue. So high that Poppy would stand on a step ladder, waving hedge cutters that were attached to a long extension cord. As Poppy cut the hedges, Grandma would pick them up and cart them away. I grew up in that house with the hedges and can remember trying to peek through them to watch passers-by.
A perfect safe playground for kids.

Mrs. Chase, the next door neighbor, did not have hedges, but an iron fence, but her yard was so grown in you could barely see the house. Next to her house, the Lotsko's had the same high hedge that Grandma had. My most vivid memory of that hedge is when Tommy Lake's grandfather dropped dead in them. I remember it was a while before his body was removed, and for a long time, whenever I passed those hedges, I saw the indentation of where his body had fallen. Today I would say quite a nice way to go. I also bet Poppy and Grandma were happy that the old man made it past their hedges safely.

So, that's how spiders got me to Grandma's hedges. I think Timmy might be cutting the grass today and there will be a lot of spiders out of work for a while.

For some time now, I have been thinking about conscience. It started in July in the church in Wellfleet when the priest was giving his sermon. He was quite the character, taking the microphone off the dais and pacing back and forth, like on a stage, doing a monologue. Well, I guess he was doing just that. Anyway, he said when he was growing up his nun teacher said they should examine their conscience each night, searching and reviewing their day's actions, both good and bad and asking if they were mean or good to others. He made a joke that most people today examine all the bad things other people did to them that day, not the other way around.

Growing up, Bucky use to say that we had a devil on one shoulder telling us bad things to do, and an angel on the other, leading us in the right direction. I can remember her saying to one of the kids, "I see that devil on your shoulder", and they would twist their head and try to look at their shoulder to see him too. When I was working in IBM we each had a white board in our office, supposedly to figure out complicated formulas or jot down ideas. No one used it for that purpose. My girlfriend was religious and she would put Bible quotes. It drove our manager nuts because they are not suppose to criticize anyone's religion, but also not to promote religion. I found a quote I liked and wrote it on my board: There's no softer pillow than a clear conscience. My manager would frown when she read it, trying to figure out what it meant and how it applied to IBM. I looked that saying up recently and it is attributed to almost every country, so I guess it is not original. But I liked it then, and still do.

You must have to lose your conscience in war. I just finished reading "Unbroken" about an Olympic runner that is captured by the Japanese during the war. What they do to him and the other captives made for difficult reading. War IS hell and anyone with a conscience would have a hard time in it and for years and years after.

Maybe they should start teaching about conscience in the schools. Walt Disney did it with Jiminy Cricket and that old devil on one shoulder, angel on the other is also a good place to start.

The B&B season is in full swing, and it is taking me down. This morning the phone rang at 6:30am - I pick up, no answer. Again, at 6:45 it rings. I spring up, expecting to hear the worse, death, accident, people I love dying in pain. But it is a foreign voice asking if we have certain dates in September available. "Let me look", I say through clunched teeth, "yes, we do". And the rate is as your website says is $125 for two people? "Yes, that is right, plus tax"...and the foreign voice continued what does that come to? $140 a night. "Good, good" I hear...we are traveling around America with two big suitcases...will that be a problem? "Yes" I say quickly thinking maybe I can get rid of him, "Yes, the Bird's Nest is above the garage, you have to go up stairs." "How many stairs"? Now, I am starting to shake....this man is killing me. "A set of stairs". "Is there anyone to help us up the stairs?" "No", I almost scream, NO there isn't. Well, we still want it. I will check with my wife and call you back in a few minutes.

Now this is when I lost it. "It is not even 7am in the morning. I do not like early morning calls. They scare me. "Oh, I am sorry to wake you up". "No you didn't wake me up, you scared me. The phone ringing this early is not good. Don't call me for four or five more hours, I requested.
Now he is apologetic...."I am sorry, but keep the rooms for us."

The day before I had a call, "Do you have towels at your B&B" Yes, we do. And do you have soap? Now, what would compel a person to ask these questions.

Monday the phone rang at 7am and our guest who was to come that night was on the phone from a motel in Poughkeepsie. "How do I get to your place?" I said, Oh it is easy. Go up 9...and he stops me. I do not have a car. Then, I said, you will need a cab or take a bus.

Last weekend the Bard freshmen came to school. The parent drove up, the mother, got out of the car, but the daughter refused. The mother puzzled went back. Is the door locked? What's the problem? "Spider" the girl says, pointing at the outside mirror. "Spider". I looked and said I don't see a spider, and the mother came around and brushed an imaginary spider from the mirror. Ok, now, she said. You can come out.

Do you see how they drive me nuts?

Here we are in August - after the fourth of July the summer is over...where is it going? Well, in July we had the wedding - and it was all we expected and more. The girls all looked beautiful, the location was perfect, right on the river, the tent, the food, everything wonderful, but what stands out in my mind is the PHOTOBOOTH. Yes, the photobooth was the hit of the party, in constant use, and the pictures getting better and better as things loosened up. I love the pictures of Timmy and me, the second shooting that is.

Then there was Cape Cod, another fun filled week, a new house right in town to explore and the same cast of characters. Our neighbor had puppies to exclaim over, a chipmunk filled himself and his nest with the bag of seeds I brought, and two visiting cats ate our leftovers. The ocean was warm and the bay was great for swimming. Kevin and I went to Provincetown to a psychic who specialized in readings and aura camera pictures until her dog ate the aura camera wires. Kevin tried to fix the wires while I had my reading. Then it was his turn. The readings were good and Kevin and I both kept saying, "boy, was she right on" for the drive back to Wellfleet.
Laura and I met Caleb, the boy who lived and entered our lives for ever, and he was sweet, saying "I love you" to both of us over and over. Another scene that stays in my mind is an old man going for a swim in the ocean. His daughter on one side, his wife on the other, a cane in his hand, he made it through the waves, the strong undertow and into the water. We all shared glances with each other, the sight was a warm touching tribute to both him and the ocean. Water is a great bonder of all - connecting the young and the old, each laughing as the waves try to overpower them.

Then it was home to hot, hot weather and get ready for Yard Sale Day in Tivoli, which was this past Saturday. We used Sabra's yard, Sabra, her friends, Laura all putting everything out and boy it was busy. The neighbors all had sales so the street was hopping. The best part of that day was when a boy of about 8 or 9 picked out one of Tim's combination locks for himself. "He loves to figure out locks," his father explained. Sabra and I regret that we didn't give him the whole box.

Now we are in August. Lots of bookings at the B&B as the Bard students come back, and the music festival is taking place. Already, the stores are full with back to school items so it does seem like the summer is dashing away. We only have picked one red tomato, so we have that to look forward to and whatever else this summer will bring in the next month.

Sad, sad day. I wondered why the cat Gray Boy was not waiting on the deck for his normal routine, Friskies Mixed Grill on top of dry cat food, that he would leave for the blue jays to fight over. Then taking out the garbage, I saw two cats in the road, one down and one right next to it crying. It was Irene's big cat Franco crying , and I knew it was Gray Boy down. Irene was coming from the house, attracted by the cry of her cat, and I just kept saying poor Gray Boy, poor Gray Boy. Irene bent down to look at him, "he's still breathing, but he took a terrible blow on his head - not going to make it." I got Timmy who put him in a basket and brought him to our yard. Irene had watched over him until then, keeping traffic clear. An hour later he was still breathing, so Tony took him to the vet and that was it. I couldn't look at him, but Sabra said he didn't look like he was suffering, so that's something.

Gray Boy came to us in July 2007. We were coming back from Cape Cod, Ria driving, when Sabra who had arrived home earlier, said, "Ma your cat died today." That was Ellie, old, old cat so it was no surprise. What was a surprise, was later that day, a gray cat appeared in the yard, a gray cat wearing a pink flea collar. And that is how we got Gray Boy. Oh, we tried to find his owner, Sabra took a cute picture of him and we posted them throughout town. The phone rang, and a woman said she saw the poster and thought it was Smokey. She came to the house, with two kids, a girl and a boy, and the kids both yelled Smokey, It's Smokey, and I smiled. But the mother looking closely, said No, it's not Smokey, Smokey held his head differently. So close. Then a man called and said his cat was missing, looked like the picture, but did this cat have only three legs? Sadly, I had to admit there were four. No one else called, and he became our "outdoor cat". He slept under the living room window, and since he was a Russian Blue Cat with heavy, heavy fur, he didn't seem to mind the winter. Recently, in the heat he had been tearing his fur out, pieces all over the deck.

Maria loved Gray Boy. "He was a prince in another life, Ma." Sabra loved him too, would pick ticks off of him, which he patiently let her do. Timmy would chase him if he came in the house, but he would prefer Timmy instead of me for his nightly belly rubs.

Poor Gray Boy....rest in peace. We are going to bury him with Sabra's cats, Horchow, Toad and Aunt Eddy. Rest in peace.