It's a bit after 9:30 and I'm drinking my evening mocha, fetched by Fuzzy, to help caffeinate me. Still more than 10 hours to go, and I'm fading, and not, all at once.

A picture of Starbucks might seem incongruous with the theme of home, but, this is the store in my neighborhood, where they compliment me on my clothes when I wear certain colors, and know if I've changed my hair, and what my drink is.

It's the place where I people-watch, a lot: teenagers, men in golf shirts reading the paper, women with laptops doing business over what passes for their lunch, soccer moms and church goers, all in pastels. It's a microcosm of our neighborhood, as any good cafe should be.

And hey, they serve COFFEE, too.

I'm feelin' mighty lonesome, haven't slept a wink;
I walk the floor from nine to four, in between I drink
Black coffee – love's a hand-me-down brew.
I'll never know a Sunday in this weekday room.*

*”Black Coffee,” Sarah Vaughan

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When shadows fall
And trees whisper, “Day is ending,”
My thoughts are ever wending home.

When crickets call
My heart is forever yearning
Once more to be returning home.*

As I've been listening to the song I've just quoted (and, I admit, gobbling the food I left in a rush to make a post on time, earlier), night has descended outside my window. I was caught for several moments looking at the twilight sky through my office window – the ebbing light making strange shadows of the trees in the yard, the pool of light from the neighbors' back yard pool, the birds alighting on the branches, for their nightly roost.

Twilight is one of my favorite times of day, even with the increased mosquito activity that inevitably goes with it. Somehow, it's hopeful, restful, romantic, and peaceful, all at once, and I generally prefer to experience it at home, with warm lamplight giving color to my immediate surroundings.

This is especially important to me on Sunday evenings, not because I have a burning need for a day-long sabbath, but because I think it's important to have some quiet time before a new, and busy, week begins.

*”Home,” Nat King Cole

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Feeling punchy a bit ago, and with my wrists really bothering me, I asked my friend Rebelbelle from Open Diary to consider doing a guest entry (I'd already used a picture of her front door).

She responded by emailing this, and even included a song suggestion.

*”Pocketful of Rainbows,” Elvis Presley

She wasn't certain whether or not it fit the parameters, but it does, in the loosest sense, and it made me smile, both because the moment between herself and her nephew was so tender, and because I, too, am an aunt, and know the joys of being able to borrow a child for a finite length of time.

Like grandparents, we are allowed to bend the rules, which behavior parents generally refer to as “spoiling” their children.

Me? I prefer to think of it as “sweetening” them.

Thanks to Rebelbelle for the contribution.

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We're at the half way point, and this is a few minutes late, because I wanted to share with you part of the email I received from Alison Amis, who works for the Dallas branch of Habitat for Humanity.

First, she writes this about the houses that have been built locally:
Dallas Habitat has built over 430 homes to date and close to 15 have been all “Women Built” through our Women Build program.

Then she adds this, about donations:
As far as the donations go, there are a couple of ways you can handle your gift –
1.) Donate to Habitat for Humanity International “Women Build”. You will receive a thank you and a receipt for tax purposes.
2.) Donate directly to Dallas Area Habitat for Humanity “Women Build.” You will receive a thank you and a receipt for tax purposes. These funds will be applied to our next Women Build house. We typically seek to build 4-6 Women Build homes in the spring time, leading up to Mothers Day — this has become our annual tradition.

As you know, I've chosen to have donations go to the national fund, because I feel it's more representative of my readership that way.

By the way, Women Build recently completed a project in Mexico – this program goes beyond borders.

I've got 12 more hours to go. My mother increased her pledge to help me reach my goal of $750. If you haven't pledged already, consider following the instructions on my information page and doing so now?

Thank you!

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Our mail delivery person can always tell when I'm feeling unwell or anti-social, because when I'm in my darkest moods, I curl up with dogs and books and tea, and ignore the existance of pretty much everything and everyone, except Fuzzy. Those of you who know me know how dire this is, because I love snailmail almost as much as I love coffee, or chocolate.

There's something amazing about a written letter, especially in our instant-gratification age of IM and Email and text messaging to cell phones. On one hand, I think most of us are too accessable, on the other, I like the immediacy, but…I'd still prefer a single written page to an entire hard drive of email.

When the weather is cool, and the light is just right, I like to sit out on the porch, and write to people. I especially like blank greeting cards, with quotations or fun images, but really, any stationery will do. I sip tea, and write more slowly than I do when I'm at the keyboard, more deliberately, and I try to make it seem as if I'm capturing not just the essence of a moment, as I do here, in this blog, but the moment entire.

When I walk the dogs, I can always tell which houses are empty, because there's mail stacked up, or newspapers, but sometimes I see movement, and wonder if, perhaps, there's another person who simply has a black mood going on.

I don't pick up the mail.
I don't pick up the phone.
I don't answer the door.
I'd just soon be alone.
I don't keep this place up.
I just keep the lights down.
I don't live in these rooms.
I just rattle around.*

*”Ghost In This House,” Alison Kraus

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I was on your porch,
the smoke sank into my skin
so i came inside to be with you
and we talked all night,
about everything
We could imagine
cause come the morning ill be gone
and as our eyes start to close
i turn to you and i let you know that
i Love you*

In Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, Rebecca Wells mentions porch time with special fondness. It doesn't matter, really, if your porch is a cement stoop, or a formal patio, the time there is special.

Porch time with my grandmother happened in front of her house, on the patio. She liked to watch the neighbors come and go – I didn't realize til very recently that she must have felt very lonely much of the time, and this was the only way she knew to reach out to other people, by sitting there, a fixture of the neighborhood, with her red-painted prehensile toes, crossword puzzles, and emerald green glasses of my grandfather's iced tea. (My grandfather made the BEST iced tea, and though I use a recipe he gave me, I'm certain he left a detail or two out on purpose, as it's always CLOSE but never quite right.)

My favorite part of porch time, when I was a child, was when dusk began to settle into night, and the fireflies came out. How innocent we were, running around the neighborhood carrying old mayonnaise jars or coffee cans with holes punched in the lids, capturing the nearest thing most people ever get to faeries.

And how indulgent were our parents and grandparents, back on the porch, who examined each and every bug as if it was somehow different from the last.

*”On Your Porch,” The Format

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A little bungalow, an hour or so from anywhere
A little cozy nest, the kind that's best for two
Among the shady trees with birds and bees and lots of air
And just enough o'ground to fool around with you*

It's such an exotic word, “bungalow,” and fun to say, and yet, according to Dictionary.com the primary definition is :
A small house or cottage usually having a single story and sometimes an additional attic story.

That may be techncially true but, in my personal lexicon, a bungalow only exists in places like India and the Florida Keyes, where tropical storms abound, and houses feel almost organic. I envision sailing home from a day of fishing, or driving home in a topless jeep, and shedding sandy shoes on the front porch. I picture ceiling fans with rattan blades, and lots of mosquito netting.

That, to me, is a bungalow.

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As much as I love my brick house, I've always wanted to live in a beach cottage, one with whitewashed or weathered grey exterior walls, and crisp blue trim around the door. Of course, my version of a cottage would be more like the house in Something's Gotta Give with an office wing, a gourmet kitchen, and lots of gorgeous views of the beach.

The beach. It's been part of my life since before I was born, and it shall continue to be, though not as often as I'd like, til I die. In my house there are shells in almost every room, lined up on windowsills, or preserved in glass bottles. There are several caches of beach glass, as well. As much as possible, with help from my grandmother, my mother, and my aunt, I carry pieces of the beach with me, every place I live.

Won't you come and see me
In my little bungalow
If the door is locked
Just give a little knock
So it's you I'll know

You're always more than welcome
And you'll never, never want to go
Give a rap and a tap
On the door of my little bungalow!*

*”Bungalow Song,” by Lewis Menechino
This song suggested by Kimberly

To my readers, Suki is my assigned monitor from Blogathon.org, who makes sure I'm posting on time, and I'm posting for real. She's left some really sweet comments, too, which makes this a lot more fun. Yay Suki.

Anyway, Suki:
Just a heads up that a storm is brewing. I already had a 30-second power failure a couple hours ago, and that was before the wind and thunder. If I disappear, I may miss a half hour window, but not by much. I have backup locations and stuff.

I just wanted to give you that info.

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It's just 5:30.
We've just finished dinner, and I'm listening to the song “Not Home Yet” by Steven Curtis Chapman, who, honestly, isn't generally my cup of tea, but I begged Fuzzy for songs, and this is what he came up with.

He came up with the Petra song in that last entry, so I guess there's some use for him other than fetching coffee. Like doing dishes. He's gonna do that.

I've been at the kitchen table all day, so if you've sent me pictures, and are wondering why I haven't acknowledged them, it's because my laptop is slow, and it fell off my nightstand rather loudly the other day, which hasn't helped.

NOW, I'm at my big, fast, pretty machine, which is at a better height for typing and such. And I've had baked Ziti.

So why is this a housekeeping post?

Because I'm compiling songs, editing pictures, and taking a long break between now and six to rest my wrists and brush my teeth. Life is always better with clean teeth. :)

Thank you to all of you who've pledged, and sent songs, and pictures. You're all fabulous people, and deserve much happiness. And chocolate, but only if you LIKE chocolate. If not, well, you get the idea, I hope?

And c'mon guys – $6 more dollars????

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