Looking Glass

Somewhere between husbands and houses, I lost it. I'm not really sure the last time I glimpsed the pages, neatly folded and containing younger script. It may have dated from about eighth grade, but I'm not sure anymore. What I do know is that there was an assignment. Perhaps loosely described, the subject was left to the writer. I was in my pensive stage which lasted, at times, for months. Couple this frame of mind with my potent craving for another address, and the essay practically composed itself.

My unsophisticated self titled the effort "Life Through Windows." The paragraphs related what I saw as I rode the bus each day from our farmhouse to school in town. What I actually recorded has been subsumed by decades of memories since the words' conception. I doubt if I viewed anything profound. Most likely I speculated about what I glimpsed, thus creating stories tinged with fantasy.

Recently I thought about this early writing effort as I sat at my home office desk. It's in a room whose window affords me a magnificent mountain view of the 10,000 foot grey mountain which rims our desert city. I look at the house across the street whose colors seem more beachy than sand. With stark white as the base and pale blue trim, I wonder if the owner were hoping to match his equally white car.

Remarkably tall slender palm trees are scattered about the neighborhood. They seem a bit incongruous so close to an imposing mountain. Rocks populate yards and silently speak of environmentally aware homeowners. Sizes and colors proliferate and here and there, a cactus protrudes, needing little liquid for its life.

My eyes fall upon our front yard kelly-green grass swatch. I know it is a luxury in winter and that its thirst is no longer defensible in this conservation conscious society. Still, the richness of this ground cover assures me that not everything in the desert appears in shades of brown.

People parade nearly endlessly up and down our street. It is aptly named Sunset and most days I marvel as the sun disappears behind our mountain and offers yet another magnificent sight. Curiously, this street is east of one named 'Sunrise.' I've always wondered how this naming anomaly happened. True, Sunrise is a major thoroughfare, stocked with both retail and residential buildings. Our own 'Way' is much more modest, a neighborhood place.

Often, as I type, I glance through the open shutter and catch the mail carrier delivering his temporary wares. There's a white truck that belongs to Thalia, the delightful lady who cleans our pool. As one of the only houses on the street with a sidewalk, I've noticed that it is utilized by walkers, bike riders, and the occasional skateboarder. With a rather large mailbox planted in one of the sidewalk squares, maneuvering around this impediment can be a bit tricky. Little kids especially enjoy the challenge.

There are days when I am bemused by the apparel that passes by my looking glass. I wonder if there are people who do not possess mirrors or who ignore their reflections prior to leaving their homes. Perhaps there are those who ponder the same about me.

This time of year, the number of visitors to our town increases dramatically. While most of the nation struggles with repeated winter storms, our mild temperature is extremely enticing. As someone who has not ever embraced excessive warmth (anything beyond 90 degrees qualifies), I'm happily clad in jeans and long-sleeved shirts during our brief hiatus from sizzling days and nights. Thus when I witness people strolling by my window clad in tank tops, shorts and sandals, I have to shake my head. Few of them will still be here when triple digits assault us and wearing such garb actually is a necessity.

As an almost obsessively inquisitive (read 'snoopy') person, I imagine incredible stories that I link to those who languorsly stroll past my observation post. Many of these individuals are accompanied by a dog, or two or three. I often wonder if these animals arrived by car or airplane and if they're able to appreciate their temporary homes. Naturally I muse about their owners as well.

A few years ago, I heard a terrible crash and, along with my husband, rushed to the front door. A mangled car sat entangled with a stop sign. No occupants were nearby. Soon the police arrived and a helicopter soared above us. Officers on foot spread into neighboring yards, guns drawn. The fleeing suspects had burgled a nearby house, fled that scene and soon lost control of the car while attempting to turn down our street. A bit of excitement on an otherwise quiet afternoon.

Since we painted our house late last year, I've noticed that more than a few people actually pause to look at the refreshed color scheme. I'm beaming inside.

Lately I've become curious as to whether those who amble past our address ever notice the open shutter. If so, do they look beyond the glass?