Sunday, March 17, 2024

 

Snow drops, an annual early bloomer.


I give thanks for the promise of spring.

This winter has been a season of too many goodbyes.
We learned the sad news by phone, by email, by a chance conversation at the diner.
We gathered in churches, in a living room filled with friends, on a shady hillside lined with tall, snow-laden trees.

Each loss brought a heaviness of heart, and a reminder of mortality (which feels a bit more urgent at the age of 66). As I write this, I can picture their faces, remember their presence, and my heart lifts. For those closest, though, the weight won’t shift easily.

Most of us have lived through a winter of loss. Each time, somehow, the great world continues to spin, offering the promise of spring. I’ve paid particular attention to the signs this year.

Those dependable snowdrops arrived in January.
One February morning, I raised a shade in our kitchen and spotted a robin framed by the window.
Early in March,  I walked with my coat unzipped. The breeze cooled, but did not bite.
A week or so later — and seemingly overnight — the brown buds on our maple had turned deep red.
I watched the treetops transform, a busy network of new twigs and buds filling the gaps between the once stark branches.
This week I sat on our porch for the first time since the fall. The buzzy cheep of a blue jay sounded nearby, and I spotted him perched in our lilac just a few feet away.
And today, walking through the woods, we heard wave after wave of the tiny peeper’s chorus.

Of course, last Sunday gave us wind, snow, and a burst of tiny hail. A reminder that sometimes we take two steps forward and one step back.

“For every thing there is a season.”
Some say King Solomon wrote those words back in a year we mark with only three digits. Others may only know them from the 1960s, thanks to Pete Seeger, and the Byrds.

“A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

Wise words to turn to, no matter what the season.


For those who like to mark the moment: Spring arrives on Tuesday, at 11:06 p.m.

Wednesday, December 20, 2023

 

Fallen leaf with water fountain, closed for the season


 Fall is packing up its leaf bags, getting ready to hand over the keys to winter.
(A note for those who like to mark to change of seasons: Winter arrives at 10:27 p.m. tomorrow.)

Late fall brings a beautiful, though sometimes blinding slant of sharp, clear light.

Driving home tonight along a woodsy road, I saw the light wash over the treetops. High branches glowed sunset orange. Below was all shadow.

Around a bend, a looming water tower became the backdrop for huge tree silhouettes.
I quickly parked the car and hurried over to get a closer look, knowing that in a few minutes the light would be gone.

My picture doesn’t do it justice.
Luckily, my mind’s eye captures it just right.

A moment of pure ... whoa!

 

Thursday, November 2, 2023

  

Heads in the hay

It’s just November 1, still time to give Halloween its due.
’Twas a lovely, though chilly night. My husband, our daughter and her dear old dog sat on our porch steps, candy at the ready.

Our house sits at the top of the block, and several neighbors on both sides of the street were not open for Halloween business this year. It seems many trick-or-treaters saw the darkened houses and decided not to venture our way.
Still, we had some memorable moments.
 
A little Buzz Lightyear stopped with his parents.
His dad spotted the two skeleton heads* sprouting from a pile of hay on our lawn.
“Hey, what are these?” he asked Buzz, pointing.
In the way of a barely 3-year-old confronted with strangers … in the dark … offering candy …. he looked a bit puzzled and stayed silent.
Eventually we heard him whisper, “kulls.”
His mom said he usually calls them X-rays.
He's not far off.

Later a fairy princess arrived and looked down at the two bowls of candy I held out.
“I want a lollipop like this one,” she said directly, holding one up so I would know exactly what she meant.
“Oh, I don’t think I have any of those,” I said, as she gently rummaged through our chocolate.
Her father leaned over and covertly dropped in a lollipop.
“Oh, look, here’s one!” he said.
Way to think on your feet, Dad!

It reminded me of the time I forgot to leave money from the tooth fairy under our daughter’s pillow.
The details are a bit foggy, but I know I did a mental head-slap in the morning and hurried to her room with a few coins.
(Not sure what the going rate for loose teeth is these days, but our fairy left coins, not bills.)
She had discovered the emptiness under her pillow, and I reassured her that the money must have fallen off the bed or gotten lost in the covers.
We searched. I reached over the head of her bed and brought up the coins. Voila! The tooth fairy’s treasure was found.

Last night I texted her to ask what she remembered. Seems the details are a bit foggy for her, too, but I love her reply:

“You must’ve been so smooth fixing it that it didn’t leave a lasting mark.”

Whew. And if I say so myself, “Good save!”

--

* The skull in back has a history going back at least 60 years. Every Halloween, our mom set it on the wooden spiral at the bottom of the banister.
(Word I just learned: Volute … the technical term for that spiral.)

I loved our house at Halloween. I can still see that smiling skull, the almost life-size witch decorating the front door, the dancing cardboard pumpkin on the living room mirror, the little ghost candles on the kitchen shelves, and, of course, the jagged-tooth jack-o’-lantern our dad carved every year, complete with a hole in back just large enough for the light bulb that made it glow.

One thing did spook me: those seedy, stringy pumpkin guts. 
Lucky for me, I had a brave dad.
 
 


 


Saturday, September 30, 2023

 

September with seagull

 Fall fell quickly this year. Just a couple weeks ago we were sweltering; on Wednesday I regretted (a bit) venturing out in my flip-flops and no sweater.

I love the changing seasons, but as each one passes, I let go slowly, and there’s no better place to let go than the shore in September.

We got to soak in the end of summer at our favorite shore town, Ocean City, NJ, where momentary joys are endless. I'll share just a few from the September almost past.

* Walking along the beach, leaving footprints behind, seeing signs of those who had gone before: little human feet next to grownup feet, dog feet, tiny bird feet. We all share the sand.

* Passing a squadron of seagulls guarding the 15th Street beach, laying claim to their territory now that we humans are fewer in number.

* Thinking of my mom as I walk at the water’s edge, remembering holding tight to her hands when I had little feet, jumping with her in the waves.

 * Strolling through town at dusk, spotting an array of chalk-drawn squares up ahead, and a small girl sitting with her grownup on the sidewalk.
“Do you want to see me play hopscotch?” she asked.
“Absolutely!”
She happily hopped, and I couldn’t resist following in her footsteps.

Thank you, September.

Tuesday, May 2, 2023

 

Louie in his "Christmas sweater"*

The flash of white caught my eye.

I was walking with a friend through the neighborhood the other day when I spotted it: the bright bolt of a dog, no leash in sight, clearly a pooch on the loose.

The dog paused, looking back at his person, who had dropped to her knees, calling him to come back. In classic loose dog mode, he simply turned and trotted away from her, not a care in the world.

I cared about the busier road behind us, and I crossed the street to head him off before he reached the corner.

When he was a just a few yards away, I recognized him as a Westie. Trundling toward me was a twin of our dear, departed Louie, a Westie we were blessed to live with for almost 15 years. Same white coat, same barrel chest, same deep brown/black eyes, even the same beige discolored patch between the shoulder blades, a sign of recently applied flea medicine.

I bent down and put my hands out, calling to him. Westies are a friendly, confident bunch, and he came right to me, letting me give all the scritches and love I could. I looked into that fuzzy face and saw Louie. My heart filled, then broke a bit.

His person arrived, breathless, saying how she opened the door and he just … took off. I laughed and told her the two phrases that stayed with me after reading about Westies all those years ago: “little Napoleons” and “not to be trusted off leash.” I added a phrase of my own: “the best dogs in the world.”

She thanked me for helping, and I thanked her for giving me a Westie moment. She scooped him up and he snuggled into her like a toddler, back feet gripping her waist, head resting on her shoulder, looking back at the world.

How many times had I carried Louie like that?
Countless.

Lou and I had a routine. Every morning I’d take him to the front yard. He’d visit his usual patch of the lawn, I’d pick up the paper. We’d then walk up to the corner, turn around, and head in for breakfast.


On his last day with us, we did the routine one more time. He wasn’t walking well at that point, so I picked him up and carried him out to his spot, then up to the corner and back. He’s been gone for over three years, but I can still feel the weight, the comfort of him.

Ah, Louie. You were such a good boy.

--

*Photo credit goes to our daughter. It's one of my all-time favorites.

Sunday, January 1, 2023

Let there be lights.

Driving to the shore may not seem like the wisest use of your time in the busy run-up to Christmas, but five simple words sent me there:

Christmas trees on the beach


A week or so earlier, a friend had mentioned that you could find lit-up trees on some Ocean City beaches.

How could I resist?


So, on the Sunday before Christmas, a windy, 30-degree day, my husband and I drove to the Jersey shore in search of the beach trees. After checking into our hotel, we headed to Ocean City Coffee to warm up. A helpful worker said she’d heard about a tree behind a restaurant on the north end of the island.


Shortly before sunset we found it, planted in the beach path, a bucket of seashells and Sharpies nearby. We wrote our names on a shell and added it to the hundreds already surrounding the base.


After dinner we went back in the full dark, the moon a waning crescent, the tree nearly invisible. Brilliant, solar-powered dots of red, green, blue and yellow swayed with the branches in the wind. The ocean thrummed.


Next morning, my husband serendipitously woke up at sunrise, and roused me to look: The horizon glowed, a vibrant band of orange resting on the sea.


Fueled by our favorite diner* breakfast, we took a chilly walk along the beach and boardwalk, spotting another bedecked tree near the music pier. 


Our quest complete, we headed home, the list of our to-dos waiting right where we’d left it the day before.


Oh, Tannenbaums. You were so worth the trip.

 —

*That diner is Ready’s Coffee Shop, an Ocean City staple since 1962. 


Tree at sunset


Tuesday, November 1, 2022

Eeek!
Miscellaneous moments of joy ...

Walking through the neighborhood with my husband, checking out Halloween decorations. Skeletons everywhere, rising from the ground, frozen in mid-leap, in lawn chairs laughing with friends. Dog skeletons carrying — what else? — bones.
Good one.

Spotting one of my favorite trees, lit by the sun, flaming orange. How lucky we are to live in Pennsylvania. “Penn’s Woods,” indeed.
 

Seeing a bright crescent moon set against a twilight blue sky. 

How lucky we are, to live.