I’ve stopped watching and reading most of the news these days. Never one to hide my head in the sand, at this point I’m saturated and have had enough. All this angst in the media can’t be healthy. My gaze has turned to random details. November provided many.

Small observations, snippets of color, contrast, movement and taste have drawn attention over the last month. The full super moon of November – the Beaver Moon – lit up the eastern horizon, a beacon rising through the trees.

There is an image stuck in my head from an old black and white movie I saw as a young child one rainy Saturday at the house of some kids who lived down the street. “The Beast From 20,000 Fathoms” was the first of this genre, making its debut a year before Godzilla came out. A dinosaur they called the Rhedosaurus (there is actually no such thing as a Rhedosaurus), awakened by a nuclear blast, wreaks havoc as it makes its way from the Arctic to Manhattan. Sitting on Stephen and Betty-Anne’s living room floor, we ate pretzels and watched – enthralled and slightly terrified.

Was the scene showing the full moon hanging in the sky a portent of things to come, a visual metaphor for the eye of the monster? Or was it not the moon at all, but actually the dinosaur’s eye? Did I imagine that? Funny what can trigger a memory. As my family moved away, I don’t know what ever became of those neighborhood kids, but I still sometimes experience a quick flash of that cinematic image when the moon is full.

Most of the weather during this past November was warm, dry and sunny enough for some pleasant walks, or to sit outside and eat ice cream on those last days before the ice cream place closed for the winter.

The ice cream was actually a wee bit of consolation after tearing a tendon in my foot while going for a stroll through the woods and along the river. I wouldn’t even call it a hike, it was pretty much just an easy walk, so I don’t really understand how it happened. It seems everything is just a little bit more fragile and takes just a bit longer to heal lately. Senior-hood strikes again. So now I am supposed to be off my foot. This is easier said than done.

Right now I can’t get this foot into anything besides an old pair of rubber gardening clogs. This has prompted a reality check, which is driving the seriously practical consideration to downsize the significant collection of cowboy boots in my closet. I really love my cowboy boots, so this decision has encompassed both Maturity and Acceptance on my part. Before this happened, two pairs had already found new homes with a daughter and a neighbor anyway. Up next to go will be these beauties. Hopefully some cowboy boot lover will be interested in carrying the boot-a-holic torch forward.

This month I suddenly had the urge to make Shakshuka, a North African dish which is also popular in the Middle East. It is made of peppers and onions cooked into in a tomato sauce flavored with cumin, paprika, cayenne, or maybe some harissa, which then has eggs poached into it. I add feta cheese to my shakshuka and finish it off in the oven. The word shakshouka is a Maghrebi dialect Arabic word for “mixed up.” Just thinking about shakshuka has me considering the need to make it again this week.

Although I’m suppposed to be resting this foot, the dog still needs to be walked. A couple of days ago, Rudi suddenly stopped short and froze, glaring into the front yard next door, where a cat sat like a motionless apparition.

As we moved closer, it did not seem at all concerned that we were standing in front of it and staring at it. The cat was larger than Rudi, who insisted on pulling back to keep his distance. I haven’t seen this one around here before. Appearing fairly well-fed, most likely it is not feral. We continued to make our way (or limp, in my case) down the street slowly. By the time we headed back towards the house, Ghost Cat had vanished.

In these days of internet scrolling, emails and electronic advertisements, it was a rather lovely surprise to receive a seed catalog in the mail last week. So many long winters in the past had been enhanced by the pleasure of perusing Burpee, White Flower Farm, and other gorgeous seed catalogs; page upon page of fantastic fruit trees, bushels of vegetable goodness, a riot of floral jewels promising to burst forth with blooms to fill every nook, corner and border. A dream-book to carry you through until spring. This one is called Baker Creek Rare Seed Catalog. One can anticipate spending a cold, snowy afternoon curled up on the couch beneath a cozy throw, with a cup of hot tea, catalog in lap during the upcoming months.

A quick glance has revealed all sorts of great choices. And there are ten whole pages just of different tomato varieties!

Since the foot injury, I have accompanied other people on their errands and excursions. Whenever someone says “Want to take a ride? I need to do (whatever it is they have to do)”, I’ve said “Sure!” and gotten out of the house. I went with one friend who needed to get her shoes repaired and ended up having a delicious Indian lunch and scoring an almost new pair of muck boots exactly in my size from the shoe maker, for a fraction of the price (hopefully the foot will heal enough and fit in them come winter). Another friend needed to look at a piece of furniture for her bathroom that was in a building filled with gorgeous deities.

On the way home, it was pretty windy. A bank of lenticular clouds spread across the horizon above the mountains. I get very excited by clouds. These were so cool that I have to share a few shots here. Some looked like a pod of whales or dolphins.

This one in the center has a shark face.

As we headed further down the road, they became more like UFOs.

Since I was riding in a car, these photos were taken through a dirty windshield, so they are not as clear as they deserved to be. These gave an alien invasion kind of vibe.

This was the last glimpse of them before the direction we were headed veered away. What a treat!

The stuffed toy dinosaur has returned to its perch on the neighbor’s fence a few houses down. This year it looks like someone has knit a new hat for it, preparing for winter. In keeping with the theme, maybe I should start calling it The Rhedosaurus.

A sad situation mid-month occurred with the tragic and unexpected loss of a former coworker. She was only fifty-three. I had not seen her in ten years, but the news was upsetting and sobering. In attendance at the funeral, I could not hear much that was being said, so I tried to focus on the glow of the stained glass church windows and reflect on the fragility of life.

I recognized (and didn’t recognize) a few people in attendance who I used to work with. You don’t notice it happening during the day-to-day, but it is always a surprise to see what time passing looks like on any of us when apart for a period of time.

Almost anywhere and any time I have found myself in a place of worship – of any denomination – be it across the country or in other countries throughout the world, if the opportunity arises I have lit a candle or contributed a devotion in memory of my mother. Over the years as other family members have departed, I’ve added their names to my silent prayers. I wish there was a way to psychically send some kind of healing towards the family of my coworker as they approach these hard holidays.

On Thanksgiving Day, snow fell in large, lazy, mesmerizing flakes.

Rudi and I left a pattern of little paws and rubber clogs walking (and limping) across light snow.

I admired the shape and dusty lavender color of this left-handed guitar that was generously gifted to my son-in-law from his friends. So much surrounds us to catch the eye.

There is a settled type of comfort in having holiday meals on the same dinnerware that belonged to my mother.

The waning moon faded into the blue of an early morning sky before setting in the west. The dinosaur sleeps and the calendar turns to the next page, as we move on into December.

~*~