Cell phone cameras come in handy.

Before triple-digit temperatures scorched our afternoons last week, my husband and I rode our bikes along the Delaware River.

We both had Monday off, and our game plan was breakfast in Lambertville, N.J., followed by a ride along the tow path that lies between the river and the canal.

The morning was lovely, though we could feel the heat rising. (Little did we know we would yearn for temperatures in the low 90s later that week.) As we pedaled out, we passed other humans lucky enough to have a Monday off: some on bikes, some on foot, some in strollers.

Almost an hour into our ride, we pulled off to explore a fork in the path, first stopping in the shade for water. That's when we heard it, an ominous hissing sound that is the bane of a bicyclist's existence: a flat tire.

My husband was a Boy Scout, and indeed, he came prepared. From the bag on my bike he pulled a new tube, tire tool and a mini pump. Better yet, he knew how to use them.

I confess I was not much help, aside from steadying the lame bike, holding miscellaneous pieces and offering moral support. I attempted to inflate the tire, to give him a break, but my less than manly upper arms proved less than helpful.

While he grappled with the tire in the shade of a linden* tree, I looked up. The view was beautiful: Sun-dappled leaves, light green and dark, with the near-noon sun flashing through the gaps. I pointed it out to him, though his appreciation may have been tempered by the sweaty job at hand.

Still, he kept his cool, admirably so. Repair complete, we decided to head back. Along the way we passed some of the same humans, but also a wonderful menagerie of wildlife: two turtles sunning themselves on opposite ends of a log in the canal; a mother duck and three fuzzy ducklings; a gathering of geese.

Whizzing along, I saw something tall and gray out of the corner of my eye. I stopped to get a better look. 'Twas a great blue heron*, standing statue-like on the canal bank about 10 feet away. I've never been so close to such a large bird in its natural habitat. As I took one slow step closer to try to take a picture, the great bird took off and glided over the canal, its 6-foot V of wingspan reflecting in the water below. 

I missed the picture, but I saved the memory.

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*Full disclosure: I didn't know then what tree to thank for the shade. I plucked a leaf, borrowed a book from the library and identified it. As for the bird, I knew it was either an egret or a heron. A variety of websites helped me narrow it to the great blue.

I work at a library around the corner from the local firehouse. Since we have all of two parking spaces in our driveway, the fire company kindly lets the library staff use its parking lot. 

As I opened my car doors today to let the heat out before I headed home, a young firefighter walked across the lot.

"It's like climbing into an oven," I remarked. 

"Try walking into a house fire," he replied with a smile.

That certainly put things into perspective.

Nothings zips me back to childhood quite like spotting the first lightning bug of the season. It happened tonight, as I was being an adult and gathering up some things I had left in the back yard during the heat of the day.

As my mental to-do list chattered away, I saw it: Bink! A tiny yellow light floating about knee-high.

I stopped, and my to-do list got quiet. For a few seconds I just watched the light blink on and off, and remembered the magic of catching fireflies: watching them glow in the cup of your hands, or tracking one in flight and feeling that feathery tickle when it lands on your arm. I did it as a child, and I did it as a mom. It's a tradition passed down to each generation, like jumping in the leaf pile or making snow angels.

  One summer, back in the '90s, we had family visiting from Washington state. We took a long walk around the neighborhood after dinner one night, and before long we were strolling in the dark. Suddenly one of our visitors stopped, perplexed. He asked what those lights were.

  As I realized he was talking about lightning bugs, it was my turn to be confused. How could he not know what lightning bugs were?  Simple. He said they don't have them in Washington state, and he and his mom, who were visiting the East for the first time, had never seen one before.  

I had no idea my favorite insect had such a limited territory.

  Once back home I did my research, and discovered that indeed, lightning bugs basically stay east of Kansas. Half the country is firefly-free.

I'm glad I live in the other half.

As I've mentioned before, I tend to procrastinate. The inspiration for this posting has come and gone for the season, but I'd still like to pay homage to its beauty.

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Lovely lilac

Almost 20 years ago, I transplanted a piece of my childhood into our front yard.

It's a lilac tree, and it comes from the lilac that still blooms in the back yard of my parents' house. That grand lilac is at least 60 years old, a silent but fragrant witness to countless games of running bases, badminton, croquet, tag, or just quiet times of drawing in the patch of dust at the top of the yard, where the combination of shade and the feet of four little kids and their friends made grass harder to come by.

When I grew up and had children of my own, they played in that same back yard with their cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparents. (The lilac was always a prime spot to hide Easter eggs.) 

The lilac transplant happened one gray day, when our son and daughter were still small enough to travel by red wagon. I trundled them over to my folks' house with the goal of bringing some lilac shoots home. (It's just a 20-minute trundle to their side of town.)

While the kids played with Pop-Pop and Grandmom, I headed out to the back yard to dig. The week had been wet, and the gray day turned into light rain, all of which made the job easier, though muddier.

I pulled the wagon back home with our kids and a half-dozen shoots from the lilac, immediately planting them in the spot I had picked out and prepped. I pictured myself sitting on the front porch each spring, breathing in that heavenly fragrance.

I checked on the shoots daily. Sadly, after a few days, they had begun to shrivel. Before long, all that remained was a cluster of brown, dried sticks. I was disappointed, but determined to try again.

Then one day I spotted something green in that cluster of brown. It was tiny, and looked just like a lilac leaf. I was amazed. What had looked quite dead was anything but. 

That little sprout grew -- and kept growing and multiplying. Just as my gardening books predicted, it took a couple years before the first lilac blossoms appeared, but they've come back every spring since. Today the lilac commands that corner, standing 11 feet tall. I look forward to seeing -- and inhaling -- those blossoms every spring, and get a little wistful every year when they fade.

Planting something is such an act of faith. Sometimes what you plant takes off right away and blooms beautifully. Sometimes it shrivels up and dies. And sometimes, it surprises you, and grows when you least expect it.

Keep your eyes open.

It does pay to look up.

It helps when you can make yourself laugh, part 3:
Our daughter is home from college for the summer, and today was her first day back at the office she worked at during high school.
When she came home, I asked her how the day went. She mentioned some of the projects she'd be working on, ranging from writing to painting a file cabinet.
"You're a jack-ess of all trades!" I said, aiming at gender correctness.
A beat of total silence followed, and we both burst out laughing at what that really sounded like.
"Thanks, Mom!" she said.
You can always count on your mom for encouraging words. 

Speaking of anniversaries (see below) ...  "Momentary Joy" first appeared one year ago today. (If you'd like to see how it started, click here.)

It's been a wonderful project, and I look forward to Year 2.

Writers love readers. It absolutely makes my day when you take the time to leave a comment, send an email, or tell me when you've enjoyed a posting.
I love knowing that during the course of a busy day, someone out there could be taking a moment with "Momentary Joy."
Thanks for reading.

A wedding, like the one much of the world witnessed last weekend, is a joyous affair, an extraordinary day.

A marriage, as anyone who's been married longer than William and Catherine can tell you, is ever a work in progress, full of ordinary days. 

That's not to say it's all work and no joy. Quite the contrary. Those ordinary days hold some of the sweetest moments.

Our daughter gave me this happy mug.

A couple Fridays ago my husband had the day off, though I still had to work my shift at the library. He needed the car to run errands, so he gave me a ride in. It was an ordinary day, which in my case means leaving for work with only minutes to spare. One of the last things I crammed into those final minutes was brewing a mug of tea to go. Then off we went.

As I put my lunch in the refrigerator at work, it hit me. I had left my mug of tea in the car's cup holder. Dang. Then I thought, wouldn't it be lovely if he notices and brings it back?

Less than five minutes later, the library door opened. It was my husband, smiling and handing me my missed mug.

"You are the best!" I said, and kissed him. 

I knew there was a reason I married him -- 26 years ago today.

Happy anniversary.