My Auntie Babs, Barbara Fynbo, passed recently. She was 93. The youngest child of my great-grandfather Frank Marshall, she never seemed young to me — probably because I entered into her life rather late in the game. But she also never seemed old to me. Babs was not an old lady, even in her nineties. Auntie Babs was a doer — she was always doing something: sewing curtains, fixing a grass mat rug, making a jumpsuit for Uncle Bob, crafting a wooden sleigh. Doing. Something. She had a way of making me feel lazy just by being in proximity to me. There was no malice or judgement in her industrious, and never any indication that she felt that maybe I could be a bit more productive myself. No, it was just fact. Juxtaposed against Auntie Babs, I was lazy. But so were most people. Babs didn’t care. She was who she was. You were who you were. And she was a truly great lady. I miss her now, like I miss my favorite people. Yet she remains where she has always resided — in my memory. She has passed, but in her passing she left a wonderfully indelible and lovely mark.

There was a rain event this past week. The summer held its bladder all summer apparently. During these events, our roof acts like the overwhelmed mom of 12, throwing up its roof hands, and just letting what’s happening happen. So we get water running down our eves, where we collect it in pots strategically placed on floor. In one such cooking utensil, a lone spider spent the afternoon, floating idly on its rainwater pond. One persons calamity is another’s fall vacation.

The Great Grub Hunt has returned. The crows and skunks have resumed their sod decimation projects. A milky spore application years ago keeps my furry and feathered friends off some of more desirable grassy knolls, but everything is fair game. Each morning these days, I’ll awake to find another mini distortion in the sea of flat green. The skunks prefer a roto-tilling process, while the crows are more methodical and neat in their turning of the sod. No matter, they were here first.

I miss the turning maples of my youth this time of year, and their colorful detritus that I could shuffle noisily through. But the poison ivy is a brilliant red. So I’ve got that. And the beautiful noise of the wind and sea.

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