Lovely lily

As I write this I am within "nose shot" of two of my favorite scents: lilac and lily.

I inhale, remember, and smile.

Many a scientist has explored why scent and memory are so intertwined. A brief internet search reveals articles about the "olfactory bulb," and its connections to the brain's amygdala and hippocampus.

My brain, briefly fascinated, started to fade as the forest of technical terms thickened. The poet in my brain brightened when I came across this quote on the Pacifica Perfume website. It's from Diane Ackerman, and her book "A Natural History of the Senses":

“Smells detonate softly in our memory like poignant land mines hidden under the weedy mass of years. Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once."

Poignant land mines indeed.

One whiff of lilac and I'm transported to my childhood back yard, where a grand old lilac still blooms. That tree gave us blossoms for the grade school flower show; a perch for a birdhouse built by one of my brothers; a hiding place for Easter eggs. When we played wiffle ball, the lilac roughly marked third base.

That tree is the mother of the lilac I transplanted some 20 years ago to a corner by our front porch. Each year I eagerly await the blooming season, and keep my kitchen vase filled.

The lily I mentioned, whose flowers have mostly faded, was an Easter gift from our church in memory of my dad, who passed away in January. Whenever I see it, I'm reminded of him, and also the wonderful, caring community of St. Peter's.

This was a happy/sad Easter, one of the many "firsts" families have to mark as they move through their loss. 

Aside from one nephew now in California, our family was all together for the traditional feast at my Mom and Dad's house. I find such comfort in their company.

I'm reminded of a phrase I often use. When there's a party or event that I can't attend for some reason, I'll say, "I'll be there in spirit."

That's how Dad was with us at Easter, and will be all the days to come.

Good to remember.

With graduation season almost upon us, a big question for students is: Where do I go from here?

Many parents will ask themselves the same question, along with another: 

"Where did the years go?"

From the perspective of those moms and dads in the bleachers, childhood traveled at warp speed. (Parents in the diaper years may beg to differ, but they'll learn soon enough.)

For our family, the college years are just about a memory. Our nest still sways between empty and full, and happily so. 

I've come to learn though, that when you have pets, your nest is never really empty. (I think that was part of my heart's buffer plan.)

Our "first-born" was a black and white kitten we named Opus (after the penguin from the "Bloom County" comic strip). He stayed with us for 20 years, a furry older sibling for our son and daughter.

Opus left a large hole in our hearts when he left, making room for two more cats and a dog, who joined us during the high school years.

When our last-born went off to college, I was so grateful to have the three of them for company.

I think of Louie, our dog, as an eternal toddler. A Westie mix, he's about the height of a 3-year-old when he stands on his hind legs, paws on windowsill, looking out at the world. There's nothing so heartwarming as coming home and seeing just his eyes and two party-hat ears poking up from the back window. He's always happy to see us.

The cats, being cats, speak a different language of affection -- and disaffection. (Louie, the eternally optimistic dog, still seems to think a swishing cat tail is the same as a wagging dog tail. "She wants to play, right? Right?" Wrong.)

Our cats do like to play. Hunters that they are, their games usually involve stalking, chasing and pouncing. (Louie and April, our tortoise shell cat, face off daily, each taking turns as the chaser and the "chase-ee.")

This morning I found more evidence of their games.

A small collection of plastic Easter eggs had been nestled on a shelf in the living room. (I like to let holidays linger.) This morning the shelf was empty. I found eggs "hiding" all over: under a bookshelf, next to an old corner cabinet, wedged in the sofa.

It's become an annual event, this post-Easter egg hunt.

A bit of childhood preserved, courtesy of our cats.

April with her seasonal "prey."

It does pay to look down.

The day was blustery, but my car kept out the cold.

Stopped at a corner, I peered through the windshield, watching swirls of white flurry across the road.

Drifts gathered and grew by the curb.

Not snow. Cherry blossoms.

After seeing those petals fly this morning, I drove home, grabbed my camera, and went in search of more pink and white beauty.

At one point I stood (carefully) in the middle of a quiet street. The wind gusted, and I found myself in a cherry blossom snow globe. Fallen petals whirled into the air, then fell back to the street, some of them rolling -- yes, rolling -- on their edges before plopping flat against the dark asphalt.

  Every breeze brings a new constellation.

You can connect the dots.

Spring pink on blue sky.

I love the spiky shadows on the sidewalk.

I didn't make it to the Philadelphia Flower Show. 

Fortunately there are blooms abundant free for the viewing on my daily walk.

Daffodils, crocuses, miniature irises … all those planned and planted beauties decorate gardens all through the neighborhood.

I'm particularly fond of the unplanned blossoms, the ones I call "voluntary plants."

Each year, it seems, a new volunteer appears in our yard. One year it was a tiny blue flower shaped like the most miniature of orchids. This year, a delicate white bloom has popped atop tall, green stems.

  In front of a friend's house down the street, minute clover-like flowers festoon the crack between two sidewalk blocks. A corner house is awash in yellow cousins of the daisy.

The yard maintenance industry may not agree with me, but I'd say even dandelions have their beauty, in their sunny yellow and even puff-ball stages.

One woman's weed is another woman's wildflower.

Look out below.

"It's chippy," I said with a shiver.

(I get a kick out of accidental words that fall out of my mouth, in this case a combination of "chilly" and "nippy.")

On that chippy day not long ago, my husband and I were walking along Forbidden Drive. The late afternoon sun didn't offer much warmth, and our lunch had leaned toward the indulgent, so we kept the pace quick.

The views were lovely, starting with a rushing waterfall. On the calmer creek side, the mirror surface reflected blue sky and twiggy treetops.

Found:
Between a rock and a high place.

To make things interesting, my husband suggested we try to find the statue of a Lenape chief that looms high above the Wissahickon. We had looked for it on previous visits, but the thick forest of summer had kept it hidden. 

After about 20 minutes of hiking and seeking, the statue still eluded us, but as we neared a bridge my husband spotted something: a flash of white high on the rocks, lit by the sinking sun. 
A closer look confirmed: The chief, 15 feet tall and carved from marble, was found! 

Not content just to find the statue, my husband wanted to see it up close. 

Crossing the creek, we found an archway marking a set of stone stairs, and up we went.

One hundred feet up.

Not the biggest fan of open heights, I stayed a bit below the ridge top. My husband, more adventurous, clambered to the top and stood next to the chief, sharing his lofty view.

You're never too old to play outside.

--------

A plaque along the creek offers a bit of history: 

Carved in 1902, the statue sits on "Council Rock," where the Lenape once gathered.

The plaque includes this sad note about the chief: "Legend has it he's watching his people leave in the late 1750s, headed west for someplace less crowded."

For more about the statue and other outdoor treasures, visit the Friends of the Wissahickon website:

http://www.fow.org.

Crocuses made an early entrance this year.

It seems Punxsutawney Phil was right after all.

Back on Feb. 2, the famous Pennsylvania groundhog reportedly saw his shadow, signifying six more weeks of winter. That prediction coming after a pair of lovely 60-degree days, it's easy to see why some us may have doubted him.

After Phil made his shadowy forecast, I saw crocuses dotting a neighbor's lawn. A friend reported she had snapdragons in bloom, and picked rosemary fresh from her garden. My daffodils and other bulbs had already sent up tender shoots.

Call it a case of premature, cautious joy. Those blooms were beautiful to see, yet I feared for their well-being. It was only February, after all. Could we get off that easy? Could winter really be on its way out?

The answer to those questions became clear amid Saturday's snow and Sunday's icy winds. Winter is with us still.

But that's all right with me. 

I suspect my pleasure in spring comes in direct proportion to the harshness of winter. I like to earn my balmy temperatures. (You can't melt if you haven't frozen.)

Winter has been rather gentle with us this year. We can handle whatever it has left in its pockets.

And come March 20, we can celebrate spring for real.

My dad has died.

Hard words to write. Hard words to live.

As a good friend of mine says, "One foot, other foot."

I write "Momentary Joy" in part because I know just how connected joy and sorrow can be. They're partners, flip sides of the cosmic coin. We grieve because we love. 

My dad died at home on Jan. 4. During his illness, we all spent many hours with him and our mom, in the house where they raised the four of us. Looking around those familiar rooms, I thought, there's not a square inch of this house that Dad hasn't touched. 

When it came to making a home, my dad was a master: carpenter, plumber, electrician, tiler, painter. 

He was also a master dad (and later a master pop-pop). We knew we were loved.

  He showed his love through actions -- setting up the train platform every Christmas when we were kids (and resurrecting it for the grandkids); letting us keep our dog for 17 years, despite his allergies; chauffeuring us to countless events, and later patiently teaching all of us to drive; revealing the mysteries of his tool bench to curious grandchildren.

When we moved out on our own, Mom and Dad always welcomed us back home. They loved nothing better than family dinners, whether it was one of my mom's feasts (she is a master cook) or steak sandwiches and pizza from Pizza Box. Come time to leave, we would trade hugs and say, "Love you." In recent years, Dad would add, "a whole big bunch."

My mom and dad were married for 63 years. They met in grade school, and I think he was smitten from the start. 

Years ago I came across a memo pad in their house. For some reason I glanced at the backing, and found a love note there from Dad to Mom. While visiting a few months back, I picked up a notepad to jot something down. On a hunch, I looked underneath the pages to the backing, and found another note: 

"o x Joey loves Cassie."

Still smitten.

Thanks for that, Dad, and for so much more my words can't say.

Love you. A whole big bunch.