Early this morning, just as it was starting to get light, an owl serenaded me from the pine tree across the street. It is the first full day of fall, and the owl's song was a sad and almost silly one:"Hoot de hoot hoot hoot" over and over. Made me smile but also reminded me of my mother's saying, "If you hear an owl hoot three nights in a row, someone will die." That was Bucky - she wasn't scaring us, she was just giving us her facts of life.

This summer was kind of like that, good and bad. Good in that no one I know, not Timmy, not me, not even the cat had one tick on them. The bad was there were herds of slugs, bad guys coming into town, eating everything, all the beans, all my marigolds, everywhere you looked gooey, disgusting slugs. The rain was good in that we never had to water the garden once. Bad in that all the rain killed most of the garden. Good in that even though there was a recession, business at the Bird's Nest has been busier than in past years. Bad, so busy my knees are killing me, no time to have fun and sheets to be hung up on the line everyday and bed making a back breaking chore. The woman who runs a B&B in Wellfleet said it best: "we are victims of our own success." Our guests this summer also have been the Good, the Bad and the Ugly with more cancellations and "no shows" than in all of the other years. The ones who make the biggest messes write the best things about us in the guest book. Good and Bad everywhere you look. Today we had a cancellation for this Saturday. Bad, because that is a loss of anywhere from $60 to over $100. Good in that now I can do a Street Painting this weekend because we have no guests coming. I guess it all equals out.

The other morning was a chilly fall-like one so I put on long pants and pulled a pair of my monkey socks out to wear. You can't wear monkey sock with short pants. Monkey socks, one pair of many that I have - black ones, blue ones, even Valentine monkey socks - all from Ria. And started by the Street Painting. Now that's a strange connection. But when I was running the Tivoli Street Painting I called upon Ria to do demos, to show people what street painting really is. She did street paintings at Red Hook School, Rhinebeck School, Bard College, Dutchess County Fair, Rhinebeck Farmer's Market, etc, etc. even one in Wellfleet for the Oyster Festival of Little Red Riding Hood and the wolf, with the variation that Little Red was holding oysters, not goodies in her basket. Anyway, about the third year of the Street Painting, Poughkeepsie Journal called me for an interview of how it started and what we were doing this year for entertainment. Then the reporter asked if she could talk with one of the street painters and I gave her Maria's phone number. That evening I called Ria and asked did the reporter get a hold of you? "Yes, she did, Ma. She asked me why I do street paintings." "What did you tell her?" I asked and she straight faced (for the phone) said, "I do street paintings because my mother asks me to. If she asked me to pull a monkey out of my ass, I would do that too." I gasped, then realized she was kidding me, but that became the monkey gift beginning. I kept thinking of her saying that, and I found a picture of Ria holding a zuccinni up in front of her. It was one of those gone wild in the garden ones, the size of a baseball bat, and she held it up suggestively, but with a big innocent grin on her face. I found a monkey picture in one of the kid's books, cut it out and glued it over the zuccinni. Then I glued the picture onto card paper and wrote "Hey, Ma, looked what I pulled out of my ass." Ria got a big kick out of it and from then on every holiday there was a pair of monkey socks for me. I returned the idea with monkey underwear for her. You would be surprised how many things have monkeys on them once you start looking. Anyway, it's almost street painting time and I will put on my monkey socks in memory of Maria and the girl who would do almost anything for her Mother.

The other day on TV a woman was interviewed that wrote a one act, one woman play about her hair. Now she did have an interesting hairdo, kind of an afro, but it made me wonder what could I write about my hair. I have very thin hair, the old lady type hair that you can see the scalp through. Not very interesting, and certainly not worth paying to hear anyone talk about. When I was a kid, I had thick hair that my mother would braid into two even braids that were quite long. In some of the pictures there would even be a ribbon braided into the strands, or the braids would be pinned to the top of my head. But that was when I was little, grade school age. When I was older I would go to the same hair dresser as my sister Barbara. Her name was Tillie and she always cut our hair with a razor...the whole thing. No scissors, just a razor. And short, both Barbara and I had it very short. I hoped I looked like Audrey Hepburn with that short hair and her beautiful profile, but I think I just looked like a kid with short hair. So then I had short hair for years, mostly cutting it myself. When I went to work at IBM I stopped cutting my own hair. One night my friend Kathy met me in the mall, after I had had my hair chopped in one of those walk-in places. She took a look at me, I think she even sobbed a bit, then vowed to introduce me to Joe, her hairdresser. Joe was a great addition to my life. He had a salon all to himself (not like the mall) had coffee and a little refrigerator filled with drinks. Soft music was playing and all his magazines were interesting and up-to-date. I loved Joe. I would tell him all about my family, just like he was my therapist. He would tell me about his life, his partner, his dog and we would laugh and laugh. Being cheap, I would let my hair grow quite long in between appointments, but Joe never forgot our last chat and would ask to get up to date on all the family news. He also cut my hair short, but with scissors, just a touch of razor on the back neck at the end. One time I went to work after getting my hair cut, and one of my managers looked at me interestingly and said, "Not many women would dare to cut their hair that short." I never knew if that was a compliment or a put down. About three years ago I decided not to get my hair cut anymore. It grew, little by little, until today when I can make these two braids, that are no thicker than a rat's tail. (Sabra just got a rat, so I know what I am comparing them too.) I guess I get my thin hair from my mother Bucky, who got it from her father Poppy. Poppy went bald at an early age, probably even in his 20's. My mother told a story once of how Grandma found a remedy for bald heads, smearing them nightly with the marrow from a cooked marrow bone. Now marrow, lightly salted and spread on a toasted piece of buttered rye bread is one of my all time favorite things to eat - but it is very greasy, nothing you would want to put on your head. But I guess they tried it and Bucky said even a little fuzz began to show up, when Poppy couldn't take it anymore, resigned himself to baldness and bought a hat. So that's my story about hair, my hair and my family's hair. Nothing worthy of a purchase of a theater ticket and it wouldn't surprise me if not too far off, I have to go hat shopping.

Well, it has been a while...4th of July in fact. Bucky always said "After the Fourth of July the summer is over" and she was right. Here we are past the middle of August. First there was vacation...staying in the cottage Ria and I shared two years ago. The weather could have been better, but all in all, it was good. Then we got back and had to get ready for the Wacky Raft Race, which we did last Sunday. Sunday was hot, and we got there about 8:00 - the earliest time they suggested. There were some concerns with one of the volunteers (not a good start) but then things came together as strangers volunteered to help us. One man who was waiting for a friend helped Tony get the raft out of the truck and helped him assemble it. Then another man who had a trailer helped us get it in the water - a distance of several yards that would have been a hard carry. Then we got in the water and the tide was going the wrong way...north, not south. Almost immediately, we were being carried to Albany. That's when another stranger offered to tow us to the starting line...almost a mile away. Good thing, because the tide didn't turn even after the race started. People were walking faster than four of us could paddle. After 3 hours we arrived at the finish line, coming in 10th. 2 more finished after us, and 6 dropped out and had to be towed. So, I'd say we did pretty good. No permanent injuries from rowing. I was complaining the next day that my left arm hurt "from holding the umbrella all that time" - pretty selfish, huh? Anyway, there were a lot of mistakes in the running of the affair, mostly the timing because once the tide changed, things were 100%, no 200% better. Apparently, Laura was not happy with the way things went. The next day she called the Green County Tourism and gave them her opinion and what it was like -"worse than labor." Sabra called up the Tourism people to get our time, and the woman said to her, "What team were you with?" and when Sabra said TeamRia, the woman declared that she would not talk to anyone from TeamRia that she just had got off the phone with Laura after 45 minutes. Well, this made me laugh and laugh and laugh some more. TeamRia will probably not be allowed on the west side of the River for some time. But that was that. Now I have to finish my embroidery of an apron for the Dutchess County Fair that has to be handed in on Saturday. Dear God, please let this summer end.

The Fourth of July, and many other fourths flood my memory, Maria as a small child burning her fingers on a sparkler, all of us driving with my brother in law to Carmel to see fireworks. In more recent years when Maria lived in Germantown, she would have a barbeque, invite the whole family and afterwards we would go to the nearby cemetery to view the local fireworks. One time Timmy was a little snuckered and was pointing out in the darkness of the cemetery to the children the planets, Your Anus was one, Penis was another. The kids all laughed and the Kelly's still talk about that night. Four years ago on the Fourth of July we were in Wellfleet and all went to see the parade. There we met Yellowbeard, Caleb, a young pirate marching with mermaids and other pirates. We did not know then that he would have an effect on all of us. Then the last summer of Maria's life, on the fourth of July 2007, a few days before we ventured to Wellfleet for our summer vacation, Caleb was hurt, badly hurt after appearing in the Wellfleet Fourth of July parade. When we entered Wellfleet, a large banner on the overpass, advised "Pray for Caleb" and twice daily the town gathered in the center to have a circle of hope and prayer for him. Maria, I and the whole family were touched. I remember Laura saying she eagerly emptied her whole purse in a jar for Caleb at the local grocery. Pirate flags flew everywhere, he was a shell fisherman and his company flew the pirate flag. The next month for my birthday Maria organized a pirate party - and instead of gifts, donations could be made to Caleb's fund..the party was the best. I have the picture of all us all on my living room wall, Maria and I making the arrrgggg pirate faces. Then in October for the Oysterfest, Maria made 100 pirate cookies for Caleb's friends to sell - wonderful cookies of a pirate with a patch on his eye and a big smile. "Cookies for Caleb" his friend yelled when she delivered them to their booth. When Maria died his mother wrote a wonder piece on Maria in her blog. To this day, I am grateful for the kind words from a stranger, who is not really a stranger, we are connected in our grief and hope and joy. This Fourth of July Caleb's Mom, who keeps a blog, wrote that he again would be in the parade. I smiled at the thought of him once again parading down the streets of Wellfleet and I pictured Maria watching him again, waving and yelling "Go Caleb, Go Yellowbeard".

While driving into Red Hook today, I passed a sign for a new daycare. It was called Wee People. I had to smile because I remembered years back when my sister Maureen and I had a great idea. We were sitting on the beach at Wellfleet, wondering how we could someday afford to spend our whole summer there, just laying in the sun, eating Wellfleet oysters and enjoying the good life. We came up with an idea that we could rent a big house right on the beach for the summer. Now, to pay for this lease, we would run a daycare. People could leave their kid or kids there for an hour, two hours, or even days at a time. We got this idea because all around us on the beach were kids freaking out, screaming for forgotten toys, needing a drink, having to go the bathroom, etc. Hassled parents looked like that wanted to kill themselves, wringing their hands and wondering why this was their vacation, or worse, their life. We figured they would pay big bucks to have an hour or two alone on the beach or go out to eat alone. The kids were really bad in the restaurants. After a day at the beach, they were either overtired and whining, or zapped up from too much candy at the Chocolate Sparrow. And they never liked the food offered on the menu. I remember one boy, about 10, standing up and announcing to his family and the whole restaurant that he couldn't eat Pasta Primivera one more time without throwing up. We knew we had hit about the right idea when we came up with the name: "Dump a Kid". That said it all. Not Funshine Time or Little Darling Place not even Little Rascals...just Dump a Kid, exactly what the parents were thinking. Now, we didn't want to watch these little b*$^%$^% ourselves, so we figured we could hire high school kids, even college kids that would be willing to spend their days at the beach and making some money at the same time. We played around with this idea for hours, it seemed like we had the right idea. But then we saw one kid throwing rocks at his sister in the water (insurance?), another one torturing a turtle he had found on the beach (deranged children?), kids with red faces just screaming for no reason, and we decided to give this daycare thing some more thought. But the Dump a Kid still seems to me to be the best ever name for a daycare.

I was just ironing the cloth napkins for the Bird's Nest, when I realized the B&B napkins and tablecloths are probably the only ironing I do today. Not so in the 60's when there was actually a day set aside for ironing. I ironed the babys' clothes, my clothes, shirts for my IBM husband, a white shirt fresh for each day. There was no spray starch, so you "sprinkled" the clothes with water first, keeping them in the refrigerator to stay damp in the summer heat. Ironing was a part of life. I learned how to iron by ironing my father's handkerchiefs, first flat, then doubling over, and over until a small white square was done. My father took a clean hankie every day. I remember my sister Maureen telling me that her boyfriend was taught to always carry two handerchiefs (he learned this at dance class) in case a girl ever needed to use one. I guess it was manners to hand her a fresh one! Any way, ironing was, as I said a part of life. My Aunt Muriel knew how to iron. She would set up the ironing board, this was not easy in the old days. They were a wooden contraption, that you had to get just right or it would collapse in the middle of a delicate job. So, she would set up the board, heat up the iron and pour herself a glass of wine. In the 60's drinking was also a part of life. No one thought anything of drinking in the afternoon, or even pouring a little glass while you stuffed the turkey in the early morning hours. My Aunt was from Montreal, spoke French, was very sophisticated, so I too would sometimes pour a glass of wine while I ironed. You be surprised how it helped. Grandma Burky did laundry for people to bring in some money during the Depression. She taught my sister Barbara and me how to iron a man's shirt. Her ironing board was just the board, no legs. She would balance it on the dining room table and a corner shelf. Anyway, she showed us how you do the collar and the cuffs first. Then the arms, then the left side, right side and last the back. She would fold the whole thing up and I swear it looked like it came out of the dry cleaners. My mother did not have my Grandma's skill or the desire. Her way of ironing was unique. She would start by laying a sheet over the board. On top of this she would put other flat items, a tablecloth, pillow cases, a skirt, kitchen towels, etc. She would keep piling on the items and then finally, on the top do a kid's shirt, or a pair of kids' pants. I guess she thought this was efficiency. My father did his own ironing (do you wonder why?) Every night he would iron his pants for the next day's work. He did it completely different than Bucky. He would lay just the pants on the board. Then he would test the iron, over and over again, until it was just the right temperature. Carefully arranging the pants legs to get the seam exactly in the center, he would iron them using a damp cloth and sometimes I remember him laying a newspaper over the seam first. You know, writing this I almost miss ironing. It was a meditation, taking items from the laundry basket, ironing them, folding them, putting them in neat piles to later go in the proper drawers, until the basket was empty, ready for next week. A lost task. A lost art. Like the dinosaur, someday, there won't even be irons.