We had a visitor.

Fall arrived at 8:43 this morning.

I missed marking the exact moment, but nature has been leaving regular reminders that summer is ready to go.

One sure sign of fall at our house? The barrage of black walnuts dropping onto our driveway from neighboring trees. A feast for the squirrels, a mess to clean up, and a menace to windshields. (We learned the hard way to park closer to the front sidewalk during bombardment time.)

They say squirrels, indeed, squirrel their nuts away. The ones we live with often opt to hide them in plain sight — on our back steps, in a bird feeder, on a hose holder.

On Monday, I carried my lunch to the front porch and found a walnut resting in my camping chair. As I sat quietly reading, I saw furry movement out of the corner of my eye: A squirrel slipped by just inches from my feet.  

A few minutes later, the squirrel (yes, I think it was the same one) reappeared at the other end of the porch, a bright green walnut stretching her mouth to the max. This time I must have spooked her, because she froze, turned, and leaped from the porch.

When I finished lunch, I put the walnut back on the chair. Later I came out to bring in the mail, and the nut was gone. I guess she thought of a better spot.

By the way, I used “she” for a reason. I went down a rabbit hole (ha!) of squirrel Googling, and found that squirrels mate in the winter, which means the female will be eating for two (or three, or four, or more). Once the babies are born, she has to bulk up her diet to produce the milk they need to grow. That’s a lot of nuts to hide!

Turns out that squirrel mates don’t nest together, so there’s no help from the dad. Or should I say … dads.

Just Google it.

 

It pays to look down.

 My husband and I recently visited Chanticleer Gardens in Wayne, home to 35 acres of glorious public gardens.

While I loved wandering through swaths of lavender, foxglove, hydrangea, hosta — you name it — I still smile when I remember a tiny, lone “volunteer” petunia sprouting from a small gap at the base of a wall near the entrance.

I have a soft spot for plants that manage to make their way even in difficult circumstances.

Oh, nature loves a metaphor. Hope can grow in the most unexpected places.

—

Chanticleer is more than worth the $15 admission fee for adults, but we visited for free, thanks to a museum pass we borrowed from our public library. Libraries offer so much more than books. Visit yours today!
(Full disclosure: I’m lucky to work in one.)

Perhaps science fiction writers were the first to warn us about artificial intelligence and the rise of robot overlords.

Last year, hundreds of AI experts joined in, putting out this dire warning in a single-sentence letter to the world:

“Mitigating the risk of extinction from AI should be a global priority alongside other societal-scale risks such as pandemics and nuclear war.” 

Succinct. And disturbing.

The extinction mentioned in that letter? I sometimes wonder if AI plans to get rid of us one human at a time.

Take our GPS. 

I have my favorite route to the shore, but I keep the GPS running in case of traffic jams or detours.

For years, the GPS has told me to make an awkward left turn down a narrow side street not far from the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. I always ignore the advice.

In May, I decided to give the GPS route a try. Maybe it knows something I don’t know?

Nope.

The artificially “intelligent” route eventually brought me to a T-intersection with Levick Street, one of the busiest roads in the neighborhood — with no traffic light.

“Turn left,” the robotic voice said.

“No way,” I replied.

AI tried again a few months later, on a trip home from Manayunk. We reached a T-intersection at four-lane Henry Avenue — again with no traffic light.

“Turn left,” the GPS said.

That’s a hard no, we decided.

If a left turn won’t get us, how about poison? AI has generated wrong — and dangerous — answers to such questions as: What kind of wild mushrooms are safe to eat? 

And last week, I flinched when Marty, that roving grocery store sentinel, took a quick, sharp turn toward me by the snack aisle. I laughed … sort of.

OK, so where’s the Momentary Joy in all of this?

I’ve seen a sign that maybe, just maybe, our potential overlords have a sense of humor.

I played a game of Scrabble against the computer a while back. It was my turn, and my letter choices less than inspiring. The best word I could come up with?

Dude

The computer’s instant reply?

Bro

Cowabunga! AI can be our friend! 

Or maybe it’s just lulling us into submission.

Stay tuned.

My favorite bloom of spring

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It’s porch season again.

I grew up spending many an hour on our front porch, reading mysteries and Archie comics on the long comfy glider; playing Michigan Rummy (or whatever became the game of summer each year); listening to a Phillies game in the quiet dark.

My brothers and sister and I made up porch games. One of my favorites? Counting cars. We’d settle on the winning number, say 10. Each player picked a color — white and black the most coveted — then counted cars of that color as they passed. If your color reached 10 first, you won! (Life is good when you’re easily amused.)

One summer in the ‘60s, our porch gave us a front-row seat when the township repaved the street. Trucks and noise and steam rollers and the smell of fresh asphalt! So cool for us kids, not so much for the grownups.

One memorable day we watched rain pour down across the street, while our side stayed dry. You figure there’s got to be a line somewhere …

When my husband I were looking to buy a house, a front porch topped my wish list — and my wish came true.

I sat on that porch Wednesday afternoon, feet up on a camping chair, working on my laptop. A breeze swept by, and brought with it the sweet scent of lilac.

I planted the lilac by our porch some 30 years ago, using shoots I dug up from the back yard of my childhood home. Our family no longer owns the house, but as far as I know that “mother tree” still stands. I hope so. It was already growing when our mom and dad moved there in the early 1950s, which would make it at least 75 years old.

Come spring, Dad would bring lilacs in for Mom, and she’d put them in a vase in the kitchen. When my lilac blooms each year, I think of them together in that kitchen, that house. The way they were together for more than 65 years. (They met in grade school, and Dad was smitten even back then.)

My path occasionally takes me by the old place. I noticed that the new owner has set out porch furniture. I hope he enjoys it as much as we did — and the lilac, too.

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I had fun reminiscing with my siblings as I wrote this. My sister reminded me of another --infamous -- family flower story.

A small patch of peonies grew by the back steps, and she decided to take some in for her second-grade teacher.

 

A neighbor offered her a ride to school that day, and she hopped into the back seat with her bouquet.

My sister loves peonies, but you know what else loves peonies? Ants.
Within a minute, the back seat of our neighbor’s car was full of them. (No good deed goes unpunished.)

My sister still gave the peonies to her teacher. And probably a few ants, too.

 

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.

 

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!

 

  

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.