Just a picture today, 

from one of our (many) recent rainy afternoons.

Not all sidewalk stars come from Hollywood. 

Lawn mowing has its rewards. 

After a hot morning’s mow, I pulled a lounge chair into the shade, stretched out and looked up.
White clouds wandered through a beautiful blue sky, all in a maple-leaf frame. 

A jet punched through the clouds into a patch of blue, and quickly disappeared into the white.
To the right, the jet’s long puffy contrail arced behind. I imagined the plane’s path, and watched the spot where I guessed it would reappear.

Seconds passed. I wondered, briefly, how fast the jet was going, how long it would take to reappear, or if it would stay hidden behind the clouds.
Seconds more later, there it was, darting through a new blue gap, safely traveling on.

It does pay to look up.

—

I haven’t written Momentary Joy in quite some time. As with most writerly gaps, there’s a reason for that.
My mom died back in February. Since then, I’ve been traveling, often wandering, through grief — a path both familiar and yet also new. Mom and Dad are now both gone, and the loss is immeasurable.

I’ve been working on a piece about Mom, and saying goodbye, and I got it stuck in my head that I wouldn’t — couldn’t — write anything else until that was finished. It felt almost disloyal to do it any other way.
I'm blessed with a therapist who helped me see the possibility of another way through, allowing me to let the writing go for awhile and trust what would come — whatever that might be.

Throughout Mom’s final illness, and in all the days that followed, momentary joys gracefully appeared. I noticed them, with gratitude, but I just couldn’t write about them.

Until today, when I looked up and saw that sky, and those clouds, and that jet, and it sent me to my journal, and to my laptop, and here I am, writing again.

I think Mom would be glad.

In these troubled times, I hold on to hope, and the truth behind these words from "The Liars' Club," a memoir by Mary Karr:

"Sure the world breeds monsters, 

but kindness grows just as wild."

Well, the creaking door of the crypt has closed on another Halloween.
But don’t get too comfortable. Other frights lie in wait around many a corner. Some are already here, trying to blend in with October’s ghouls.
I try to look away when I see them, but before long, they’ll be everywhere.

I’m talking about Christmas decorations.

I met a woman this week who said she was decking her halls tomorrow.
Yikes! The witches and vampires are barely cold in their storage boxes. (OK, maybe vampires are always cold.)

Come December, all the lights and wreaths and glowing trees will be lovely. I just flinch a bit when I see them before we even change the clocks.
I understand that decorating for the holidays can be quite a project, and malls, stores and busy people may need more time to tackle it. And for some people, Christmas is their favorite holiday.
But, October? Really?

I prefer to take my holidays one at a time, and give them a bit of breathing space on either side. My ghosts will wave in the breeze for another week or so. I’ll trot out the turkeys later in November. And down the line I'll think about Christmas.

Surely before Dec. 25.

---

The festive bones below hung out at the Franklin Institute gift shop in December. I guess blending holidays isn't all bad.

Happy ... Chrisween? 

Today I thought I’d let my pictures do the talking.

Using the traditional calculations, they’re worth about 5,000 words.

That makes my job easy.

Thank you, Strathmere, N.J., for countless momentary joys.

The view from my chair, September.

Storm brewing
(Seen from the shelter of an Ocean City boardwalk coffee shop.)

Sharing the last day of summer with the seagulls.

Brilliantly lit beach walk
And no, this was not taken in black and white.

Our last Strathmere sunset, at least for this year.

Pretty in pink

Summer has put the kettle on … high. 

Stay hydrated, my friends.

That won’t be hard if you follow a rule my husband and I instituted early on in our marriage.

Thou shalt stop at lemonade stands.

OK, maybe it’s not a commandment, but it is a guiding principle. I’d say we have a pretty good track record.

I’m not sure when we first started stopping. (Now, that’s a phrase my brain enjoyed … “started stopping.”) Back in the early ’90s, we pulled over somewhere in the middle of Wisconsin, en route to a family wedding in Fargo, N.D. Two little kids manned the stand — on a very unbusy side road — and they happily poured cups for my husband, me and our own two little kids. Score one for Midwest-East Coast relations.

In every type of business, there are lambs, and there are sharks. 

The lambs splash out a 16-ounce cup and shyly ask for a quarter. (I’ve done the math. Clearly these kids need a union.) 

But that’s where another rule kicks in: Leave a good tip.

Sadly, even in the lemonade business, the buyer must beware.

A few weeks ago I spotted the sure signs of a lemonade stand — lawn chairs and a small table at the end of a driveway.  Two kids were heading back to their posts as I pulled over.

I crossed the street, taking out a dollar bill. Seeing no sign, I asked how much for a cup.

The boy paused, glancing down at the bill in my hand. He looked up and said:

“A dollar.”

Hmm, I thought, as I handed it over. Sharks start young.

So, I bought this bed for our dog.
Enough said.