Disguised

Me at age 6

 Running down the back side of a hill was a small stream that filled the gully left by the work crew when they widened the road last summer. On either side where the water had receded there were mud flats and beyond them, on the far side, the earth was cracked and craggy, looming up like miniature mountains, their tops rock-studded and grass-anchored.

Something inside me shifted. I was suddenly six again and imagining I was three inches tall, a trick of the imagination I often employed when I was young. I squatted my small self down at the river’s edge and stared up at the immense mountains on the other side. Grass grew past my shoulders and the river, fleeing downhill, was swift and deep and sparkling in the late afternoon sunlight.

I walked out into the soft mud and glanced behind me. There were my footprints, small and perfect, dissolving slowly in the wet earth. I looked about and found a twig. I scratched my name in the mud and watched the letters fill with water and fade like invisible writing. I looked about for a sturdy leaf to make a boat, wondering how long it would take me to navigate the river to the bottom of the hill.

Though the sound of a car brought me back to my proper size, I kept the sense of being a kid. I picked up a stick and dragged it along the pavement, liking the buzzy sound it made as it bumped along behind me. I walked the length of the gully to the bottom of the hill and there I knelt at the roadside. I put the flat of my hand in the gooey mud and pressed down, pulling it back with a squelching sound. I heard birds calling. Jays screeched in the distance and two ducks, flying low, quacked to each other. I flopped down in the meadow grass and swatted at bugs and watched the clouds change shapes. Blown by an invisible wind, they drifted above the trees and I watched until it seemed the clouds were standing still and the trees were moving.

I watched the faces in the cars that passed, solemn and serious, and wondered how they came to be that way, going home at the end of the day. Where was the happiness that came from listening to the birds, from seeing the fluttering green leaves of late summer? Where was the contentment of work well done, of supper waiting, and a vibrant sunset painting the sky?

I smiled at them and waved, a six year old disguised as a grown up, mud-splattered and dragging a stick. Some of them smiled back.

Caught Between Sunrise and Moonset

Brian made a comment on my last sun/moon related post, saying one hardly gets to see the two in the sky together. What follows is an account of a time that happened.

moonset

I wakened in a moonbeam slanting through the still-dark sky though I could tell by the quality of gray that it must be after six a.m. The light came through the western window and lay in a contoured path over the quilt. I stretched my hand and let the moonbeam lay in my palm; to have closed my fingers over it would have extinguished its magic.

I reached instead for my robe and slipped down the stairs to light the kettle for tea. With mug in hand I went out into the early morning to watch the moon descend. Over my shoulder the eastern sky was just beginning to pale. I stood entranced, looking first in one direction and then the other, never able to see both the rising sun and the setting moon at once though I knew the waxing and waning lights were simultaneous and single-sourced.

It put me in mind of beginnings and endings, how one is always the source of the other. As I turned full circle in the chill dawn, watching the growing daylight dininish the moon's brialliance, I could see between surise and moonset the workings of the world; always, always the slow turn from beginning to end to beginning, on and on, the circle spiraling up and up without pause, always different, always the same.

My feet were touching ground they had danced on in childhood, but the grass I stood on then had died and renewed itself a thousand times over. The last of the pink phlox that bloomed bravely in the waning season of the border garden were descendants of those my mother planted, no longer connected to her hands save through my memory. Caught between daylight and darkness, I was made to understand the that the two exist simultaneously. It is only my limited vision that forces me to perceive one at a time.

The soft rush of traffic in the distance gradually became a muted thunder. Two cars passed me standing there, one headed toward the moon, the other into the sun. A few small birds twittered in the roadside hedge, crows called across the meadow and a small chill breeze brushed my cheek. I kept turning in awe, watching the light change the landscape into everyday ordinariness, realizing suddenly that it had been extraordinary all along.

Try as I might, I could only face one direction. The maples that fringed the feet of the western mountains glowed scarlet in the fading moonlight. The trees that protected the brook to the east lifted their spires into a rose-colored sky. For a moment, my entire world was awash in gold-tinged pink. The moon and sun faced one another, one haloed in mist, the other surrounded by pale light. Caught in the middle, I turned slowly, face lit first by moon glow and then by sunlight until at last I stood still, closed my eyes, and saw them both at once.

sunrise

Apple Time

Image from Magpie Tales #30

It’s apple time, and that makes me think of Mama and how the kitchen smelled of warm apples and cinnamon on late autumn afternoons. She was a wizard with pie crust and fruit, turning out luscious pies that never lasted past one dinnertime. My father would sing to her, "Can she bake a cherry pie, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?" only he'd substitute apple as that was his favorite.

If there was an abundance of apples, Mama sauced some of them. Then she would make a second batch of pastry, roll it thin, trace the shape of a saucer in the dough with a sharp knife, and fold it over a generous spoonful of applesauce. She would let me dip a fork in the flour and crimp the edges. I happily sprinkled cinnamon and sugar over each turnover and could hardly wait until they were baked. Cooled and in hand, they were my favorite snack.

It’s been years since my mother and I worked together in the kitchen but it’s apple time, and in memory of her I am baking a pie. I’ve fetched her old paring knife from the drawer, taken my bowl of apples outside and pared a dozen of them while sitting on the dreaming bench in the late afternoon sunshine.

I’ve taken her old china bowl from the cupboard, the largest yellow one, and tossed the apple slices with flour and sugar and cinnamon. I’ve rolled the crust with her old green-handled wooden rolling pin, remembering the shape of her hands as she worked, and the look of her face as she blew a stray hair from her eyes.

The pie sits on the counter, redolent and delicately browned, steam spiraling from the vents cut in the top crust. It looks just like the pie in the “Billy Boy” song illustration. It looks just like a pie my mother might have made… and I have just burned my tongue.

The dreaming bench

A V-8 Moment

The temperature has been hovering in the 90s these first couple of days back to school. Overheated classrooms with not a breath of air stirring does not offer the most conducive atmosphere for learning. Still, there are some funny little moments like this one.

As our class of 7 year olds was making its way to the buses a small boy suddenly remembered that he had horse back riding lessons that afternoon and thought his mom might be picking him up.

Me: Did you mother send a note?

Child: What for?

Me: Telling us that she was going to pick you up so we wouldn't put you on the bus.

Child: Nope, I don't think so. She just told me.

Me: What did she tell you?

Child: I don't know. I never pay attention to her when she talks at me in the morning.

Me: You don't? Why not?

Child: She never says anything interesting.

Me: Well, it might be interesting to know where you're going after school.

Child: I KNOW where I'm going after school. I'm going horseback riding. I just told you.

Me: But we don't know if you're going on the bus or being picked up.

Child: You don't?

Me: No - we don't have a note from your mom.

Child: I KNOW that. I already told you she told me.

Me: But you don't know what she told you because you didn't listen.

Child: Well, you wouldn't listen either because she's boring in the morning.

So, we went to the office, called Mom and ascertained that said child should go home on the bus.

Me: Please listen to your mom in the mornings from now on.

Child: Nah. I'll just tell her to write it all down for YOU.

Me: What if you forget the note?

Child: That's why they invented telephones!

Last Day Before Returning to Work

A day that begins like this

with the mist rising like ghosts

assembling along the treeline

and rising together to form a cloud

that turns gold in the morning sun...

 is filled with happy activities like decorating packages for a baby shower...

and ends like this...

is a good day!

Pacific Northwest Travels

Son B and I recently spent several days camping at the Hoh River Campgrounds in Olympic National Park in Washington State. We woke in the morning sheltered in the arms of mountains and listened to the sound of the rushing river while we breakfasted amid tall tree shadows and dappled sunlight. Waking up to this view was to wake happy. We often put our chairs in the grassy spot in the foreground and ate our meals surrounded by beauty. It was an unparalleled dining room.

The Pacific Northwest is unlike the East Coast in many ways. NW ocean beaches boast more fog and wind, the land leading to the beaches is steeper; often mountains have their toes in the water. These are headlands at Ruby Beach, WA.

We hiked for miles daily into the temperate rain forest. We were not eaten by cougars nor frightened by bears. The closest we got to an elk, angry or otherwise, was a fresh pile of trailside dung. We did encounter this little fellow...

 We followed the Moss Trail into Hobbit land. Most of the moss we saw was club moss that draped itself from the branches but one could see common witches hair and fairy barf if one looked closely!

To see the tops of the trees one has to lean back and look up, up, up. Most of the old growth canopy reaches 100-200 feet into the air and some of the trees have been standing 1,000 years. The silence below is punctuated with the cries of jays and crows. Deep in the forest the hush is palpable and in some places is so Hobbit-like you expect to see Frodo step out into the path.

Every day was an adventure from sunrise to sunset. To be out of doors for the better part of each day, to cook and eat in the sunshine and soft wind, to watch the sun sink slowly into the water, to count the stars and wish on the moon before bed is to be aware of one's self in the world.

Off Again!

Son B and his Momma at Crater Lake two summers ago.

I am away tomorrow for Oregon and a week with my sisters, then to the Olympic Peninsula, where whales, dolphins, and sea lions feed in the Pacific Ocean while deer, elk, cougars, and bears roam the meadows and mountains. It will be a week of rumbling along west coast highways with my eldest son, a week of no phones, no computers, no civilization except for the kind folks at our nightly campsites. Back the 25th.

The Summer of Being Away

I feel as though I've hardly been home this summer. The moment school let out in June I was on the highway, speeding into summer activities. My oldest son came home for a visit from the West Coast. There were June birthdays, a weekend trip to Vermont, and days spent visiting relatives. I spent the first week of July taking care of a friend's house an hour from my own while they vacationed on the Cape. I spent the last week of July at my brother's house while they vacationed in Maine. It was not a hard job.

There was a pool...

A gazebo

and the little brook where I played as a child...

The old homestead where we both grew up was right next door.

There were black-eyed Susans in their yellow petticoats,

sweeps of delicate Queen Anne's lace,

and patches of sweet scented Joe Pye Weed.

In the mornings I walked a mile up the road and back before breakfast. My days were lazy, spent tending my brother's small vegetable patch, flipping through magazines, splashing about in the pool. Evenings I rode my bicycle up West's hill and on past neighbor's houses, past the old familiar meadows and woods that marked my childhood. It was both exhilarating and nostalgic. My dreams were restless and peopled with those now gone.

From this angle the hill looks mild, but my legs and lungs could tell you differently!

Every night the sun sank slowly behind the mountain. I watched it kiss the tops of the tall corn leaves and bless the trees as it departed, trailing banners of pink and mauve and gold-tinged purple as it set.

Sun saying goodnight to the trees.

Now I'm home again and catching up on my own garden. Many of the cucumbers found their way into jars of pickles that will taste of summer on a winter's day. There are beans in the freezer as well as Swiss chard and eggplant. 

I will be here until Thursday and then I'm off to Oregon to visit family there. When I return, summer will be over, my fridge will be full of tomatoes to jar, and school will be starting. My summer seems to have sped along as fast as the writing of this post!

Thank You!

Rising sun spreading its light across my lawn...

Not all gifts come wrapped in paper and ribbon. This morning, for instance, I caught a glimpse of the eastern sky at dawn. The rising sun painted the mist first pink, then orange, then gold as I stood, holding my breath. Not a leaf stirred, not a sound broke the stillness. It was a masterpiece being painted before my eyes. “Gee!” I breathed. What a gift of grandeur the world lays at my feet each morning.

I thought then of all the gifts I am apt to encounter on any given day, things I may pass off as ordinary and so neglect to be appreciative of. Just the other day I was riding my bicycle past a meadow bordered with crab apple trees. I was pedaling along slowly, wrapped in my thoughts, when a movement caught my eye. I stopped, turned, and looked directly into the curious eyes of a fawn. I was close enough to see its little black muzzle and the fading white spots on its back. We stared at each other for a long moment before the little creature gave a snort and bounded away. “Wow,” I sighed, knowing I might never again be so close to a wildling.

A day or so later along the same stretch of road I stood and watched a small, distant plane do lazy loop-the-loops in the pale blue haze of late afternoon. Suddenly the plane changed directions, flew directly over my head and performed some magnificent aerobatics. I realized I was being treated to my own personal air show. I waved my arms in wild appreciation, the plane waggled its wings in return and flew gallantly off into the sunset. “Thank you!” I shouted into the empty sky.

Occasionally the phone will ring and the voice at the other end will say, “Hi Mom, it’s me.” I will spend several happy minutes catching up on the news of whatever distant child is calling. The calls are not for any earth shattering reason – just base touching. There’s no box big enough to hold the happiness that comes from knowing my children are thinking of me. Those calls are gifts that warm my heart and feed my soul.

There are daily gifts – a hug, a glimpse of the sunrise, an unexpected compliment, something besides bills in the mailbox, a spectacular sunset. There are seasonal gifts – the first birdsong sung on a spring morning, the lovely wiggle-your-toes-in-the-sand feeling of the first day of summer vacation, the smell of wood smoke drifting on the haze of an Indian Summer afternoon, the perfection of a snowflake. There are unexpected surprise! I’m here! gifts, like an impromptu visit from an old friend or a brilliant rainbow arching through the still falling rain. Now that I think of it, I’m knee-deep in gifts I can unwrap with my senses and my attention. Gee! Wow! And thanks.

 Thank you, Hilary!

Dawn To Dusk

Here, in the midst of summer, the landscape where I live is painted in shades of green and gold. In the mornings the light spills over the treetops and spreads itself in broad ribbons across the grass, touching a rose petal here, highlighting a daisy there, throwing jade-hued shadows deep under the trees that crowd the lawn. The peonies have bloomed and faded, the tulips and daffodils that filled the garden beds earlier have given way to bright pink phlox and vibrant orange lilies. The yard is dotted with specks of color – crown vetch holds up its mauve colored flower heads, scarlet geraniums spill out of their containers, yellow blanket flowers glow like little suns from their rock-edged beds.

As July slowly melts into August, the early mornings will take on a different tenor. Birds still pipe up the sun but there is less cacophony to the sound, fewer strident announcements about arrivals and territorial claims and more music for the pure joy of it. The air is heavier and calm, laden with a moisture that swirls and eddies into dawn-born ghosts. They diffuse the emerging light, turn luminous, and rise into the bluing sky until dusk calls them back to earth to spend another night among the trees.

Animals are abroad early in the morning when it is cool and the grass is still wet with dew. I hear a doe cough before I see her. Standing still, she can be mistaken for a shadow among the shadowy trees. Beside her are two spindly fawns, their coats stippled with bits of light and dark. Their eyes are huge and wondering, their ears pricked forward, their whole beings focused on signals from their mother. Beyond them, in the meadow, a lithe red fox plays jump and run with a field mouse intent on escaping. Swallows swoop and dive from the telephone lines, their feathers catching and reflecting sunbeams as they cavort. A rust-striped chipmunk, its tiny cheeks bulging, scampers across the drive in front of me and clatters away through the underbrush.

Mid-day brings an intense and humid heat that settles down heavily, making somnolence the hallmark of the afternoon. Bird chatter stills, no breeze stirs the air and the only sound is the drowsy humming of bumblebees as they butt and buzz in the lily cups. It is now that a hammock or the swimming pool look equally inviting, now when I want to spread a blanket in the shade and snooze, or find a quiet spot deep in the forest where tumbled rocks in a sun-dappled stream turn the water to woodland music.

Evening brings a welcome coolness that coaxes the mist from its sleeping places beneath the trees and along the riverbanks. It rises and weaves itself among the tall meadow grasses and settles pillow-like along the still-warm roadbeds. The setting sun pulls banners of scarlet and gold behind it and the evening sky deepens and darkens until a zillion stars light it up again.

Here, in the midst of summer, in the place where I live, everything is as it should be.

A King's Repast

The vegetable garden is a veritable kingdom of yellow squashes and green peppers, red tomatoes and rainbow Swiss chard. Green and yellow beans dangle from their vines and cucumbers hide behind their dark green leaves. Sauteed all together (well, not the cukes) with onion and garlic in oil and topping a small pile of pasta, they make a repast fit for a king (or queen)!

Four-inch long hornworms have invaded the garden, declaring all-out war on the tomato plants, the eggplant, the peppers and potatoes.

They are the stuff of nightmares, both the sleeping and waking kind. Yesterday we picked a dozen off the farmer's tomatoes and another four from mine. Today we will search out any others. They are voracious, decimating entire plants in a day or two. I am counting on these vegetables to help see me through the winter so the hornworms must go. My organic gardening book tells me to leave the ones hosting scores of white egg sacs bristling from their backs as the egg sacs are those of a parasitic wasp called the Braconid wasp. "Let the eggs hatch, and you'll have an army of wasps ready to defend your garden against all types of pests," gloats the author, but if I do that, there will be no tomatoes to harvest.

What Would Summer Be Without...

...sundresses like bright bouquets; strappy sandals; better yet, bare feet that leave dark prints in the morning dew; straw hats with streamers; afternoons of croquet on the lawn, or bocce, or badminton; a hammock strung between two shade trees; a stack of books and a rainy day.

Crickets fiddling away the sunny hours, bullfrogs giving concerts in the pond, birds piping up the dawn, wind whispering secrets to the leaves, the hum and zum of bees, the lazy drone of a plane on a quiet afternoon.

Corn on the cob; berries – blue ones, red ones, black ones; ice cream floats and lemonade; the first zucchini; green and yellow string beans straight from the garden; bread and butter and radish sandwiches; tomatoes on the vine; shrimp on the BBQ – anything on the BBQ, for that matter; picnic food heaped on plastic divided plates and iced tea in tall, brightly colored metal tumblers.

Sand between your toes, so hot that you have to hop and skip to the water’s edge; children's shouts barely heard above the pounding surf; sunsets in shades of crimson and rose; twilight; stars that light up the night sky, and a big yellow moon as round as a dinner plate; skinny dipping after dark.

Storms that come on the heels of a hot spell, all thundery and full of zigzaggy lightning, and the cool spells that follow them; the fresh smell of wet earth and the drip, drip of rain drops on leaves; the fun of puddle jumping; the sweeping splendor of a rainbow.

Summer cottages all musty and damp until you open the doors and windows and let the sea breeze blow through; week-long games of monopoly and a rowdy, loud card game called Spoons that wrecks your fingernails and the silverware in one swift movement; the feel of salt drying on your face after a day at the ocean; the smell of tanning oil and seaweed as the sun and the breaking waves lull you to sleep; the call of gulls high over the water; the jingle jangle of coins in your pocket as you run after the ice cream truck.

Watermelon and honeydew melon and cool orange slices of musk melon; popsicles that drip down your arm, and scoops of ice cream that wilt and melt and puddle in the cone before you can lick them up; jars of soap bubbles; cotton candy; fairs and circuses, and carnivals full of screaming kids; amusement park rides that whirl you up and out and around; old drive-in theaters where everyone flocks to watch scratchy-screened movies and wallow in nostalgia; fireflies at dusk.

Outdoor concerts where the music seems to gather up the sky and the grass and the listeners into an exultation of sound; flea markets full of unexpected treasures; plane rides and train rides and car trips that deposit us in places we’ve never been or return us to places we’ve always loved.

What would we be without summer?

Thanks Hilary!

While I'm Away

I've been house sitting for friends since Thursday while they vacation at the Cape. Staying at their place in a rural town an hour away from home is like a vacation for me, too - new surroundings, the benefit of pets (a friendly dog, a dignified cat, and a noisy bird), and a house with two stories! I never thought I'd miss stairs and walls (and until I'm in a house that has a proliferation of both, I don't).

KK on the pond trail

This place has an enormous back yard that consists of a manicured meadow with mowed paths that meander past patches of raspberries and blueberries and arrive at a small pond covered in lily pads.

 I've seen turtles sunning themselves on a log and a great blue heron who is camera shy.

Closer to the house are several manicured gardens with a maze of bright flowers. Pots of pansy faces smile at me from either side of the gate, hummingbirds buzz over the bee balm, sunny yellow black-eyed susans and clumps of shasta daisies nod in the wind. 

KK the dog and Cooper the cat follow me everywhere (in KK's case, she leads and I follow once she knows where I'm headed). The bird chirps merrily whenever I come back into the house.

Cooper and KK waiting for me to catch up

I always spend some time trying to figure out how I relate to the surroundings I find myself in. The trees here are friendly, the house kept its opinion to itself until I'd been in it a couple of days (it seems to like me well enough now) and the flowers so love to bloom here that they smile constantly.

Yesterday a storm put an end to the oppressive heat; the sky this morning looked like it had had its face washed. Now, at eventide, a golden mist is hovering over the meadow, a train is rumbling past on tracks that border the meadow, and all is well in my little world.

I'll be home in a week. I feel as though I've been gone from home more than I've been there. My gardens will require hours of weeding. The beans should be ready to pick. Perhaps there will be squash ready and a cuke or two. Summer sun, summer bounty, and home. Perfect!

In Praise of a Summer Day

 These are the days I wait for all winter—the days of shimmery heat and goldy light, a light that dawns as pale as the inside of a lemon, bleaches to a white heat at noon, then sifts down as gold in the late afternoon. In the evening when the sun has set, the horizon is again pale yellow dissolving in indigo, a perfect backdrop for the mauve and purple clouds that settle behind inked in trees or tiptoe along the mountain ridges.

Today was such a day. The heat settled in before mid-morning, the sun spread its hot hand over the lawns and gardens and picnics and pools, leaving me panting and glad for cool water to sink beneath.

Before a late supper and a shower and a few pages of reading, before sleep, I took a walk to the pond to say goodnight to the frogs and the trees and the pink clouds. Swallows swooped and dove over the water, eating iridescent insects on the wing. A bullfrog harrumphed from the far shore and I harrumphed back. I drank in the sunset like a fruited drink, letting the warmth and the loveliness wash through me. Tomorrow is tomorrow. I will take today, all shimmery and goldy and full of light.