Caterina is my Italian sister….!I performed this fun beauty for Caterina when our families celebrated and said, Ciao, for now. Sweet Sicily
Caterina was raised in Sicily. It was one of our first destinations when we moved to England. My soul melted into this relaxed Island life rich with Italian culture. We stayed in a hotel with a balcony view of homes and the ocean. I thought, wow! I could live here, sit here and encompass the writing process.
I am eager for a happy return to meet-up with our Italian family. Our families both met as expats living in England. Our Italian family returned to their home country a year ago. Sextonfive will return to our home country this summer.
We always met at British Pubs for our mom hashout time.
Skip the parking ticket for me. I’m walking on sunshine. It is a good day to have a good day.
Meter Man
By Sarah Sexton
21.04.21
I could not hear the voice. The meter man tried and stumbled and tried to get words out. I imagined the voice on the other end. I believe I have first-hand experience of being on the other end of the line.
It was dusk in England. Night was knocking. The sky read continue to play but the watch said, come on, it’s damn late. Meter man looked exhausted. I heard him say dog-tired, I heard him say, please understand me. His words spoke:
‘What I’m trying to say….is I am done with work. I am asking you if you want me to get something to bring home.’ I’m certain he was checking on if his lady needed food or drink.
I think his ass was getting chewed. God love the meter man because certainly not everyone does. It is not a glamorous line of duty.
If you see a double yellow line, there is no parking. A hot Mercedes sports car pulled up to that double yellow and to my surprise out popped the tallest man. I thought, what a circus trick to fit in that car. The tall man sprinted in his athletic gear. I knew he thought he could park there quickly and return before there was a ticket. He was sadly wrong. You will be wrong every time if you think you can outrun the meter man.
Before the tall man could sprint out of sight a meter man walked into my observational view. The meter man documented all violations on the Mercedes, and a ticket was issued. Next, the meter man met with another meter man at a bollard entry into city centre. They stood with the gate keeper of that bollard. The three rash men chatted.
It took that tall man longer than he thought to return (I believe, because he was gone for a good chunk of time). Tall man arrived back to his sports car, folded himself up and sped away. Tall man revved his car engine to bark as loud as possible while flying a bird to the meter men.
The meter man laughed. Oh, look at that tall baby child. I could see the rash men acting out their convo. They do not care that tall man now has to pay an earned parking ticket on his hot Mercedes with his hot attitude.
If I were to give advice to anyone parking in the city, it would be making sure you properly feed your meter. Park legally. The meter man likes to hand out tickets like perfume samples.
Ironically, I took the trash out yesterday morning, despite always doing curbside the night before. We have an early rubbish/recycling collection. Always by 7 am. The rubbish crew waits for no one and you can hear that garbage truck clanking down the street before your alarm strikes.
I never experienced a brighter sun at 6 am—-in England—-after a long, long night of no zzz’s. I have experienced the 6 am trash scene a handful. It was always a solo and stealth mission. My reaction yesterday was different. The sun pierced my tired eyes. My attention immediately popped when my neighbor was like, hello, in her fuzzy, purple bathrobe. Crap, crap, crap. Neighbor likes to talk. I am a trash whore right now.
No blames for that harsh label. I gave it to myself. I was taking out our trash and I looked particularly rough. Pandemic hangover, particularly rough! The only headache was from wide awake. Talking no sleep through the night. Brain swirling at midnight. Wide awake until 6 am, then dead tired again.
The day before my friend and her mom had tea with me in the Cathedral garden. This was one of my first social events outside of Sextonfive. I even put denim jeans on. Denim. Denim!! Decent enough weather to supply me with a ruby tank top and a sheer long sleeve blouse. I was happy and amused with my friends eating potato hash, shooting our lips and spilling (not much) tea.
Thereafter though, my battery percent depleted rapidly. Bed time-bra off, sweatpants on, hair up, messy bun! I exhaustingly uniformed the tank and sheer blouse for sleep. I don’t know why I swallowed that fly.
My neighbor spouted and muddled words. They could have been sentences, ballads or revelation. Not quite sure. I had difficulty processing. There she stood unbothered though. Here I stood frazzled. Fatigued in grey sweatpants, boot slippers, jacked up blousing and tank, true tales of a slept-in messy bun. I proceeded with my trash mission. From the back on our home to the front, I kept hauling out trash/recycling loads and neighbor politely chatted the time away.
‘And they won’t do a damn thing about the squirrels running on our roof. And now they have babies. They wake us up every morning.’
‘I feel ya. Our home in MI had squirrels on the roof (you really can hear them, like they have iron hoofs). The Cathedral won’t do anything? Huh?’
Come to think they’ve never done anything about those damn pigeons either!
We shot some more talk about our crappy dial-up internet. Neighbor rattled off some more complaint items. We complained how the Bishops, deans and cannons who live there (rent free) treat us rent paying civilians like trash, all while we looked like trash, next to trash piles, speaking utter trash. I asked her:
‘So, you think you’ll look for another place?’
‘NO! I’m staying right here and complaining to the cows come home.’
The fact that she could talk and talk and talk to me when I was under such horrible visual circumstances, lets me know, you know what? You are cool AF, dear neighbor.
Abbey Street has been a real joy. Each neighbor walks out like a character in a story book. I sit at my front window watching them all, writing it all. I find life in small acts.
If patience is a virtue, airports are virtuous sacraments. When traveling by air you can expect, and you will receive long lines, lost luggage and unnecessary hangry episodes.
I always get anxious before international flights, especially our travels from the UK to USA. We take the earliest flight to see friends and family at the earliest EST hour. And we see many. And we have fun.
Our first summer traveling back to the USA to visit friends and family, the girls and I traveled the first lag alone. Steve did some golf thing, sleeping thing in his car in Scotland, some outdoor adventure. Steve could not get the time off work for a three-week holiday. The days when office hours were clocked f2f.
As expected, the girls and I experienced long lines and tedious waits. We were hungry yet sick to our stomachs. We were unable to eat. My anxiety always acts up through security. I immediately think I am carrying a weapon, gun included. Then I start to think that maybe I have some drugs in my pockets, or cavities of my body. I breathe the biggest sigh of relief when I cross through barriers with out setting off a series of beeps.
Our first flight from Manchester to Amsterdam is routine and short. One hour of airtime. While inching towards the front of the long line to board our flight from Amsterdam to Detroit, I was flagged as a refugee. Security took my passport, and they ran it through the computer system. According to the system I was flagged in Manchester as a refugee.
Airline crew came to watch my daughters as I was pulled aside with my USA passport and expired MI driver’s license. I must be fleeing the UK to shelter in place with my daughters at my sister’s house in Michigan.
The airline worker with me said she knew it was a mistake, but they still had to check me out, regulations. I experienced the refugee shake down and search. I am happy to report I passed! My girls and I arrived in the USA greeted happily by my sister and niece. After happy hugs and luggage collection, it was a 45-minute drive to Susan’s house where I sprinted to her lawn to vomit. I tend to get travel sick.
The next morning it was time to take care of my expired driver’s license. I would be driving three weeks in Michigan and Ohio for a family/friend tour. For license renewal I would use our MI address. We rented the house we own and we will be move there again.
I took my three daughters, my niece and nephew with me to the Secretary of State for a long list of reasons, but mostly because I did not want them home alone. We arrived early. I know the Secretary of State is purgatory or virtuous. It is as timely as airports. I drilled my daughters, my niece and my nephew not to mention that we lived in England. I reminded them we lived in Michigan.
The wait was decent since I was fourth in line with five children. My turn to speak to the clerk at the counter. She was so nice. It is usually such a grumpy atmosphere. For some odd reason that I have yet to question to this day, Kate started speaking and telling stories in a heavy British accent. I was not expecting this scene. I forgot to tell the little one, no British accents either. The nice lady looked at me and said, she has a British accent.
Honestly! You never know how you will act in most unpredictable circumstances. I thought more likely, Kate would rat me out by talking about our home in England, but no she had this beautiful, LOUD British accent.
‘Oh. She does that sometimes. She is a little actress. Runs in the family.’ The clerk noted how cute it was then I quickly failed my eye test. I could not receive my new driver’s license without an eye test from an optometrist. Really….?!! Dog nuggets!!!
Before calling a dozen optical locations, I cried. I have always been so proud of my 20/20 vision. Every location was booked and for days. I found success at the mall. Five kids, two hours later, two new pairs of glasses and I had a doctor’s note to receive my driver’s license.
Hindsight was 20/20 and now the future looks clear and hopeful.
I think I drove over 700 miles that holiday. My glasses are for distant vision. Essential for driving.
Clear vision made better
Recap! I cleared airport security without drugs or firearms. I am not a refugee (yet…..never say never). I failed an eye test. However…..according to many tests, I am a ROBOT!
I have failed many ‘I am not a robot,’ tests and consequentally miss reading many quartly newsletters….
Dirty Dancing scene of 2021…..’I can peel a potato.’ You might not be able to see it, but I can. Kate took a picture of me peeling a potato. Potato soup!
Soup and Smoothies
By Sarah Sexton
08.02.21
Picture this: Sarah holds up an egg. “This is your brain,” she says. Then she cracks it into a frying pan. “And this is your brain during a pandemic!” Sizzle! Fried egg, fried brain. That’s how I feel this month, this year, deep into the pandemic.
Days blur into each other. When I say “the other day,” I could be referring to a few hours ago, a few days ago, or even a few months ago. It’s no joke. I can’t differentiate between units of time anymore. The pendulum of time swings fast and slow, all within 24 hours. My brain feels like it’s pedalling through pudding trying to recall information.
I can almost feel my brain cells dissolving as new problems arise in our old home. Everything seems to be breaking down here – blow dryers, headphones, chargers, appliances, plumbing, sanity.
Starting in lockdown #3, our master bedroom door refuses to shut. Ironically, my brain can’t sleep until the door is shut. Our room is small enough that I sit on my bed and try to shut the door. It pops open. Shut the door. Pops open. Shut the door. Pops open. Shut the door. Pops open. Shut the door… 15 minutes later… pops open. Shut the door.
Another recurring annoyance is our IKEA bed. It hasn’t acted up since we first assembled it, but it’s acting out again now. Every time I sit on the edge of the mattress or go to lay down, the wooden bed slats collapse, and so does the mattress.
You get what I mean? I’ve gained some lockdown weight. Many times, I fix the warped slats and rebalance them on the inner bed frame.
Laundry is a never-ending cycle. Despite my feelings towards laundry, I always strive to do a good job and have systems in place.
Probably the most frustrating thing is when I’m trying to use the bathroom. Without fail, one of my daughters or Steve calls my name.
Boom! Bedroom door pops open.
Breakfast smoothies and soup suppers.
Tears often ensue.
I made a vow to try to keep things simple. Create a simple meal menu for the girls of smoothies and soup. I am doing okay. In fact, I am doing my best and that is good enough.
The cost to spread love does not need to be a steep price tag!
The idea to write a word or draw a picture for each of my daughters for the month of February is not an original idea by me. I am certain I saw it on Pinterest years ago, but here the custom continues to grow.
My ideas, creativity and writing can feel dormant for long stretches. Today, I wrote a quick poem-more a stream of conscience. I will likely work on this poem 10 years down the road. The original is really brainstorming. I will try to write the poem different ways and in different styles. I might write a list of what love looks like. I might write a love sonnet and incorporate a door metaphor.
The important objective with my blog is that it scratches me to write. It is not polished. An editor did not read this. I never catch all my mistakes, but it is a place to settle some down drafts.
We are doing a lot to keep our spirits alive during lockdown and that means tapping into our creativity. The girls want to make Valentine boxes and have a party. It sounds like love fun and I am in!
This image is a three minute write:
Love is not a new emotion. Writers, poets and mothers have been expressing love since the beginning of humankind. The creative and fun challenge is to write or express love using words (or ideas) that no one has used before.
Abbey Row 