<bgsound src="midis/summerblues.mid" loop=infinite> ORANGE POPSICLE ©By Russ







Tipper lies like a blond, brown-eyed lump, on the sofa, tongue lolling out of his mouth, eyes half closed. I can’t tell if the heat gotten to him or just another of his many lazy days. He has two modes these days...standing up and lying down. And lately we’ve become a lot alike in this way. Dishes are done on one leg while propped up on crutches. I’m uncomfortable and wobbly, but happy to have something I can do. Sweeping the floor from the wheelchair, while propelling myself backward with one foot is a combination of frustration and fun. The cockatiel and the love bird drop down to inspect the growing pile of dust, and it scatters all across the floor. The fun is not as much fun the second time around. Rooting in the freezer for something cool produces a package of last summer’s popsicles.... orange, grape, and lime. The steady buzz of flies and a mewing cat are the only sounds that greet me as I hobble out onto the porch. It’s hot outside, and not a breeze stirs. I sit on the porch feeding cold hot dogs to the cat, and an orange popsicle to me. The speckled robin sits in its basket panting heavily, an old burgundy wash cloth serves as its nest. I sprinkle a little water over her basket to help cool her down. Misty, in her senile state, wanders back and forth in the heat. I‘m unable get to her on crutches, to bring her in to the cabin where it is a bit cooler. I feel badly for her and then just let it go. A huge ripe strawberry hangs invitingly over the edge of a pot, but it too is just out of my reach. I do what I can, and content myself with what is within my reach. And pause to ponder this bit of hot weather philosophy as orange ice drops down into my lap.
Russ





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