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. 

Gratitude, Dude

 It doesn't take long for a garden to change. I was away three days and on my return the flowers bordering the patio and the front of the house had blossomed like fireworks.

The day lilies splashed orange against their green foliage, the hollyhocks bloomed both pink and rose red.

The geraniums sported huge scarlet flowers...

and the phlox, with their musky scent, were spots of hot pink against the lush green of the giant Rudbeckia Nitida 'Herbstsonne' whose absurdly small yellow flowers are just forming.

The front garden is a watercolor wash of pinks. The fairy roses are the soft pink of a new baby's skin, the bee balm is closer to magenta. The weeds grew as as fast as the flowers, making hours on my knees a necessity.

The vegetable garden has been tidied as well. There are some stray pole beans amid the bush variety so I've constructed tepees of tree branches to give them a place to climb. The cucumbers are reaching for the fence with which I've surrounded them. The tomato plants are reaching for the sky. I noticed dozens of fruit hiding amongst the leaves.

It is good to be home again, to wake in the morning to a wash of warm gold over my feet as I sit on the patio sipping my first cup of tea. I like to watch the day hatch itself from the egg-blue sky, to hear the bird chorus sing up the sun, to smell the fresh watermelon scent of newly mowed grass and the rich brown smell of tilled earth.

In the afternoon, when the work is done and the sun slants through the screened tent, I stretch out on the outdoor swing and marvel at the beauty all around me. A nap is as restorative as the Yoga I've now undertaken. So is the thankfulness I feel for the riches I enjoy every day.