In-between Tours

I sleep until my eyes open. Our French bulldogs Bentley and Dozer snuggle in tight to my body. I stay in bed and savor this time with them—the day can wait.

I sit outside on the deck at the morning table with coffee. The autumnal sun touches down gently on the treetops and river. Fallen leaves decorate the yard. I open my workbook and pick up my pen—I concentrate on the page and write.

I walk the dogs via rucksack. I carry 45lbs on my back and a reusable mesh trash bag in my hand. The dogs drag me around the neighborhood, leaves crunching under our feet. I pick up any trash and litter as we go. Dozer lurches at all the busy squirrels, Bentley’s hair rises as we approach every known canine residence. A neighbor asks, “Who’s walking who?” I just smile.

I run along the river. I see wild turkey moving through the quiet woods. This is my daydream time. The first line of a poem comes to me. I take my memo book out of my belt bag and jot it down. The eyrie of our resident bald eagles is visible again through the thinning trees. Cardinals and bluejays flitter across the paved path. Legs and lungs and poetry.

I ride my bike out to Saylorville Lake to observe the migrating Franklin’s gull. I loop back through Johnston to see the Frank Lloyd Wright house on Beaver Avenue.

My big-brother Joe visits. He drives a long way out of his way on a business trip and makes the time to have brunch with Annie and me. We go to St. Kilda downtown and catch up over Big Aussie Breakfasts and coffee.

Annie and I travel to Maine. We drive up the coast from Portland. We stand on the top of Mt. Battie overlooking Penobscot Bay in Camden. We stroll under the elms and through history in Castine. We hike the Ocean Path from Sand Beach to Otter Cliffs, then summit Gorham Mountain in Acadia National Park. We drink in the fall foliage, eat lobster rolls and ice cream, read our books, and miss our dogs.

I talk to my mom on the phone. Hurricanes skirt around them in North Carolina. My dad is in the backyard working in the garden—of course. We will see them soon for Thanksgiving in Des Moines.

I ramble around Skillet Creek in Webster County, Iowa. I breathe in the musky earth and hike up to prehistoric Woodland Indian ceremonial and burial mounds on a hill above the Des Moines River.

I refill the bird feeders in the back yard and scatter feed on the ground for the chipmunks, squirrels, and cottontails. I sit on the deck with my binoculars and record in my notebook the comings and goings of the birds—the European starlings are back. I note sightings of white-tailed deer, woodchuck, wild turkey, and red fox.

I drive out to the Missouri River with Andrew and Bruce. We follow Lewis and Clark’s path along Iowa’s western border. We stop at Council Bluffs, overlooking the river and the city of Omaha, Nebraska. The Lewis and Clark State Park in Onawa is closed but the ranger lets us tour the visitor center anyway—a full-size replica of the Corp of Discovery Keel Boat is the main attraction. In Sioux City we visit the Sergeant Floyd Monument and eat Mexican food.

I play with Dozer in the downstairs family room—we call it the Romper Room. This is Dozer’s favorite room, his favorite time. We play fetch and keep away—mixing in plenty of wrestling and kisses. When we’re done playing, we just lie on the carpeted floor together.

I take a trip to Bentonville, Arkansas to ride mountain bikes with Wade and Rob. We meet up with Bill, Skinner, Jeff, Nate, and Jim. We spend three days riding through the golden woods. At night we sit around a fire pit under a star-filled sky talking and laughing.

I sit down at my desk to work on hand-written letters to Emily in California and Lucy in New York. I am in regular communication with them but there’s more I want to tell them—more I need to say. I pick up the pen and write it down.

I sing into the microphone. My voice is embraced by the friendship of Eli’s guitar, Paul’s drums, and Wade’s bass. My words become our songs. We drive down to Kansas City for a show. In Des Moines we share the stage at xBk with Iowa artists Abbie Sawyer, Matt Woods, and Dave Zollo for a night of songs and stories.

I pick up burr oak leaves from the yard and press them between the pages of my journal.

I meet Wade, Rob, and Kyle at North Sycamore. The trees are amber in every direction. We pedal south—leaves stream down onto the trail. We ride out onto the levees, downtown to the confluence, along and over train tracks, up equestrian runs, down spillways, and bushwhack our way out of overgrowth along the river. We see three bald eagles—one perched on a branch in the river, another in a tall dead tree, the third circling high overhead.

Annie makes ramen for dinner. We sit at the dining room table with our chop sticks while the dogs lie at our feet. Outside the wind disrobes the trees.

At dusk I sit out on the deck under a blue and pink watercolor sky—the river a cool sheet of glass. Dozer sits in my lap as the night falls. We listen for the call of the barred owl and scan the yard for opossum and raccoon.

Thunderstorms roll in. Annie and I drop the needle on a record and sit at the dining room table with our sketch books. Bob Dylan brings it all back home while we draw. The rain falls and lightning flashes across the sky.

Annie and I curl up on the couch in front of the TV with the dogs. We eat popcorn and watch The Waltons.

Bedtime comes early. Annie and I sip chamomile tea while the dogs settle in. Bentley takes bedtime very seriously and starts snoring within seconds while Dozer busies himself with a nylon bone. I contemplate the day’s events in my journal as coyotes yip in the distance. We read our books until our eyes grow heavy. I roll over, kiss Annie goodnight, and we turn off the lights. I pull the dogs into my arms—listening to the rain on the roof. I close my eyes and slip into the world of my dreams.