Work As Fun

scienceprojectlab.com

The second graders I work with are studying insects. Jars containing monarch butterfly chrysalises line one counter. A large glass case filled with flowers and a small dish of sugar water sits on a table, waiting for the butterflies to emerge. Three monarchs already flutter there. By tomorrow two more should make an appearance, much to the delight of the students. They've been charting the progress from egg to caterpillar to chrysalis to butterfly for weeks now. Fred, Boo, Sun, Rocky, and Bob will be set free on Friday to make their way in the wilds of the school playground.

The class has also been studying grasshoppers and crickets. One of their assignments was to make a list of things that hop or jump. We'd just conducted a grasshopper jumping contest and set up a cricket colony. I expected those two bugs would be listed. What I didn't expect was the innovative spelling, though these tots are beginning second graders. In case you didn't know, the following not only exist, they can hop and jump with the best of them:

cirkits
chipmorks
flying squals
hoses
goots
some fishees

and, of course,

grashogers

easyvectors.com

Thanks Hilary!

Going, going...

It is the same every year and every year it surprises me. The signs of change are all around - leaves look like once bright curtains left too long in the sun. They droop, tired and faded and still in the windless afternoons. A few young maples and older, diseased trees flare bright red and orange amongst the green. My flower gardens, rife with bright blossoms just a few weeks ago, now sport more empty stems than blooms. The pink lilies, the papery hollyhocks, the bee balm’s riotous red flowers are all gone. A few brave fairy roses hold small pink and red faces up to be admired but for the most part the flowers’ season has passed. Next month I will plant a few iris corms, bank the beds with grass clippings from the last lawn mowing and hedge them with raked leaves. All that beauty and brightness will sleep through the cold, waking when the world turns warm again.

Rerun

Artist Frederic Church's rendition of a sunset in my home county, painted in 1847

Over the past few months the area I live in has experienced a tornado, a hurricane, two bouts of flooding, a triple murder, and now West Nile Virus. I know this earthly life's a battle, but great jeesum crow! We've also had some gorgeous summer days, saw neighbors helping neighbors during a crisis, and helped celebrate the 250th anniversary of the town next door. I wrote this poem a couple of years ago when opposing incidences seemed overwhelming. Seems like a good time to trot it back out.

HOW COME

the same day an airplane dashed itself

to bits on the side of a mountain, killing seven people

a gentle rain fell on the garden,

pattering on the broad leaves of the squash

and watering the thirsty beets;

and while an earthquake

shook a south sea island in its heavy fist

scattering lives like wooden blocks

the sun came out,

hanging rainbows in water droplets

that strung themselves along the fence

like Christmas lights?

Listening to the news

you couldn’t help but realize the world

was a frightening place to be

except right here where an ordinary lily

opened its vibrant yellow throat.

Pride goeth... etc.

I was feeling pretty smug.

I'd gotten up early. Well, okay I had to get up early because Friday is a work day and no pre-alarm clock call had come saying no school. I was showered and dressed and peering into the almost empty fridge looking for something besides a container of yogurt to take for lunch when the phone did ring. In sonorous tones the superintendent of schools announced that school was closed due to flooded roadways. I did a little happy dance and put the yogurt back in the fridge. Then I changed my work slacks and collared blouse for jeans and a tee, grabbed my camera, and headed for the river to see what I could see.

An hour later I was back home, having scared myself silly wading through what looked like a harmless overflow but was in reality a tiny but potent portion of the leaping, swirling, steroid-muscled river. Still, I emerged unscathed. I played out the rest of the day in my head as I made breakfast. Grocery shopping was at the top of the list along with getting my car inspected. There were two overdue library books on the table and a new one awaiting me at the library. I set off, knowing I would encounter detours but as there are a number of ways to get to the supermarket, I was confident I'd get there sooner or later. The first roadblock appeared before I'd gone two miles. Along both sides of the alternate route, water edged the road and in some spots meadows had turned into lakes. It was only a few miles out of the way however, and I was in and out of the store within the hour.

I'd noticed several cars heading south on the main road and thought if they were going that way, surely the main road must be passable, at least to the point where I'd had to detour so instead of returning the way I'd come, I headed home using the most direct route. It was the second poor decision of the day. When I got to it, the road I'd thought I could turn on was completely submerged. I had to take a different road altogether, this time going many miles out of my way.

By now it was lunchtime so when I finally got home I munched an apple and some cheese and a handful of nuts, grabbed my overdue library books and headed for the inspection station at a local garage. The bay was empty, an attendant was available and  I thought, well, things are looking up! And they were. The car passed inspection without a hitch, I had just enough money in the checkbook to pay for it, and there was an immediate break in the traffic as I was ready to pull out. There was even a parking place in the shade at the library. Before going in, I gathered together the inspection papers to put them in the glove box. The date at the top of the uppermost paper caught my eye. Good through  6/12 was written in the little gray expiration box. 6/12? But this was September. I looked hastily at the sticker in my windshield. Yes, there was a bright orange 9. So why did my inspection expire next June? Shouldn't the date read 9/12? Well, I'd just pop back to the garage and ask the nice fellow why he'd put the wrong date on my inspection papers.

He smiled in recognition when he saw me. "Forget something?" he asked.

I smiled too, and showed him the uppermost paper. I pointed to the little gray expiration box. "This says 6/12," I said. "Shouldn't it read 9/12?"

He looked at me for a moment. "Ma'am," he said. He cleared his throat. "Ma'am, this is your car registration." He lifted the first page and tapped the second. "This is your inspection data."

I felt my face get hot. I made a little moue with my mouth and shrugged. "You'll have to forgive me, " I said. "I used to be a blonde."

He looked nonplussed for a moment. Then he smiled, scratched his head and went back into the bay. I was so embarrassed I didn't notice the slight dip in the pavement. My foot caught and I did an exciting little shuffle before lurching into the side of my car. This time I had to sit for several minutes waiting for a break in traffic, my face burning as laughter burst from the depths of the garage bay. I am certain the words "women drivers!" were in that conversation somewhere.

September Flood Day

Rolling, leaping, muddy water races through woods and across meadows.

Every school year our calendar has built in snow days, usually five, and usually we need more. This year the calendar has ten built in snow days, a good thing as two of them have already been used for floods. With  record rainfall amounts from both hurricane Irene and tropical storm Lee, the Housatonic River, which runs through my small town, has climbed up over its banks and inundated roads, farm fields and yards for miles around. Damage here has been minimal compared to that wrought by floodwaters in neighboring NY, VT, and CT as well as states further south but that's not much consolation when it's your business standing in the new middle of a river as some local establishments are.

Water slapping at the bridge pilings.

I walked down to the covered bridge early this morning to see how high the water had risen. The dirt road was partially covered in running water but it didn't look too deep. I waded in cautiously and was nearly swept off my feet by the strength of the water as it surged into the flooded parking lot. I was surprised that a mere 8 inches or so of water could push that hard but then I remembered it had the full force of the raging river behind it. I jogged through it coming back but the water tugged harder still, forcing me from the middle of the road to the dangerous washed out verge. My rolled up jeans were wet to the knees and the knees inside them were shaking by the time I was back on dry land.

Looking deceptively shallow, the force of this swiftly running water nearly upended me.

A trip to the neighboring town for groceries took me miles out of the way as roadblocks, flood warnings, and waving policemen sent me detouring around the main route. There's a staggering amount of water out there, all of it muddy and rushing and threatening. I can only imagine the havoc it's wreaking to the north and south of us. 

This water was just shy of covering the bridge that crosses it.

Seasonal Attire Disorder

How is it that I am never prepared for the seasonal change? It isn’t that the weather hasn’t given due notice. For more than a week the evening air has had a slight chill to it. Mornings have been shrouded in fog if they’re not dripping with rain. The warmest part of the day is the middle, and even then, many evenings a sweater has not been amiss.

A few days after the traditional late August storm on whose heels trod the first breath of fall, I rounded up all my summer clothes and put them in a box. I hauled out all my winter clothes and put them in the closet. Two days later, the sun made a summer comeback and the humidity that I welcomed in July made me sweat in my turtleneck. I opened up the summer box, pulled shorts and tees back out, and stuffed them in amongst the woolies. The next day, the wind blew cold, the rains poured down, and I sat huddled in a tee shirt and two sweaters.

I’ve never perfected the art of layering, a dressing skill that would no doubt stand me in good stead in the changeable New England weather. The catalogs that come at this time of year (if they aren’t already shouting about what fun 20º below zero will be) mention pieces that “layer well,” but I get tired just thinking about all those clothes. If I put on an undershirt and a long sleeved tee shirt and a button down flannel shirt, (not to mention a sweater and a jacket), I’d look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. It’s not a fashion statement I want to make. It amazes me that after spending most of my life in New England (where the old adage, “if you don’t like the weather, wait a minute,” is learned at your mother’s knee), I still can’t manage to dress appropriately for the season.

Tracking the Transition

Late summer days - 

Poetry flies on the wings 

Of small yellow birds.

The song birds are bunching, gathering in tree tops, their chatter filling the air like hundreds of small chimes clanging in the wind. All along the roadsides the tall grasses are turning brown. Goldenrod is blooming, and the last of the Queen Anne's lace. Bright yellow and orange jewelweed pods are plump with seeds that scatter with a pop when you brush against them, earning them the nickname "touch-me-not." It's fun to pop them with your fingers, something I delighted in doing as a small child and taught my grandchildren to do. Small J wanted to take the "popper path" rather than the Secret one to the farm whenever we went to feed the pigs or talk to the chickens and cows.

The mornings are cooler now and at dawn the grass is cold and wet with dew. Mild days full of sunshine follow only to fade into chilly darkness, thick with stars and stinging mosquitoes. Buzzy biting bugs will disappear with the first frost but until then they prosper, making both Parker the cat and me swat and slap and scratch. The cherry tomato plant on the patio is still bearing fruit though the large garden at the farm has been picked almost clean. Only the winter squash remain, their vines spreading out unchecked, the greening acorn globes and ripening butternut clubs peeking shyly from beneath the trailing leaves.

The great earth wheel turns, the seasons wax and wane, and despite the havoc raised by humans, things are as they should be.

Shucking Corn

The phone rings. "Corn's in," says the farmer's wife

so I take my biggest boiling pots and cut over to the farm

where, on the terrace, wait four large bags stuffed

with cobs, their green bodies firm, their hair like silk.

The sun is tipping into the pond. Clouds catch fire

and glow like lanterns. In the pale, warm light we

husk the corn, pulling the long green leaves from 

yellow kernels, each one as plump as a baby's cheek

and sweet, so sweet we can't help but nibble.

Shucking corn is like good conversation. You start

with generalities, husks, and tear them away

to get to the kernel of what you're thinking. In the end, 

you have something different than what you started with;

no longer useful coverings, heaps of silken threads, and in your hand

an ear, in your mind a pearl. All of life is a metaphor for something

else. Corn can stand in for communion if you want it to.

Late Summer

I sit outside in the evening

watching the sun slide down the

side of the sky like melting butter.

Overhead the leaves of the towering ash

are stenciled against the pale blue sky,

as unmoving as daubs of green paint.

A cluster of small clouds spreads out

like small children playing a last game

before dark. They gather together as

they float toward the horizon,

knitting themselves into a soft white blanket,

tucking themselves in for the night.

Two tired robins, their hatchlings gone,

wing across the open sky and bats

swoop like acrobats between trees.

A plane, so high it is silent,

shimmers pink in the sunset glow

blinking its lights like a beacon

showing the birds, the winging bats,

the cloud children, and me

how to navigate the dark.

Diary of a Stormy Day

Gray, windy, and wet!

6: a.m. The sky is solid, wooly gray and the early morning light is so dim I need lamps on inside. Rain is falling; it splashes against the window panes and beats a syncopated rhythm on the outdoor cover for the stove exhaust. The tops of the trees outside my window look like giant green scrubbing cloths rubbing the sky as the winds dance around and through them. I inhale the spicy scent of phlox blossoms as I pass the vase on the table. Already the remaining plants in the patio garden have been beaten to the ground. Parker the cat is outside somewhere, probably in the barn with the sheep, nestled happily in a hay pile, his favorite place to sleep. I keep checking at the door to see if he's braved the rain. His breakfast is waiting.

The weathermen say to expect sustained winds of 35-50 mph with gusts of 65-70 mph but not until mid-day. We're currently under a flash flood warning and will be for the duration of the day. Ten inches of rain are possible - 2 inches have fallen since midnight.  Even if the Housatonic River floods, I am safe from its waters but I hadn't thought about the pond across the road - I may be stranded for a while in my little cottage. New York is posting large areas of power outages.

7:12 a.m. 200,000 lost power on Long Island overnight; almost 25,000 customers are out of power in parts of upstate New York across the border from my area of Massachusetts. Bridges in the area are closing because of high wind gusts and people are being advised to stay home and stay inside. The light has not changed color at all. Parker came screaming to the door during a slight letup in the rain. He is fed and curled up under the bed - wonder if I should join him!

8:35 a.m. The lights are flickering. If we lose power, I will take notes on paper. Wind is picking up, the sky has suddenly darkened and the rain is pelting the windows.

10:00 a.m. The power is still on. The storm is leaving NYC and is headed north. We have had steady though not hard wind and rain but both are supposed to increase by noon. The leaves are spinning in circles as the wind blows through them. Parker insists on going outside. It is still summer to him and he doesn't plan to spend any day fully indoors until the first snow falls. There are a number of safe, dry places for him to hide when the rain starts to come down hard so I will not worry about him.

1:30 p.m. Unbelievably, the rain seems to be stopping and the wind is barely disturbing the leaves. To the east of us there are reports of high winds and torrents of rain. To the west of us the wind gusts reached 54 mph and there is lots of flooding. Our top winds were clocked at a mere 14 mph and we got no more than two inches of rain. How lucky we are!

3:00 p.m. The sun is shining from a high patch of light blue. Tattered clouds scud across the sky and tiny rainbows glance from grass blades. I have walked to the river to look at the water. Muddy brown and roiling, it surges over the first two steps of the boat launch and lashes at the long grasses that lean over the bank. It looks close to flooding and may well be as tomorrow dawns since the northern NY rivers that feed into it are flooding now. One creek that flows from the pond across the road from the cottage and empties into the Housatonic has topped its banks, already becoming its own mini version of a surging river.

4:00 p.m. The backside of Irene is wrapping its tail around the Berkshires, dousing the sun with more rain clouds and making the trees tops dance once again. I was on my way to the river again, this time with my camera, but had to turn back before the rain soaked me thoroughly. My umbrella was useless in the sudden wind. I will have to content myself with photos of the mill dam and stream and hope that the worst Irene can do to us does not still lie ahead!

River wannabe after the rains

Random Thoughts Before the Storm

news.nationalgeographic.com

Hurricane Irene is downgrading herself as she makes her way north along the Atlantic coast. Still, her winds and rain threaten my small town in rural western Massachusetts. I have plenty of food and water but no flashlight, no battery-powered radio so if the power goes out I will be in the dark, literally. I do have candles and my brother (3 miles away) has a generator. By the time the storm gets here, the winds may still be in excess of 70 mph! I've been watching the news, listening to the warnings about storm surges, rainfall amounts, and wind gusts. The worst that can happen would be days of power outages. The weather is going to stay warm and the food in my freezer is meant to help me through the winter. My sister wrote to ask if I am afraid to face the storm alone. I am not but I've been catching myself musing about some things between newscasts.

*Do I have enough water to see me through a couple of days with no electricity? We had a high-wind storm in the spring that blew down so many trees that all 4 major roads leading into our town were closed for a day and a half. They brought down numerous power lines when they fell. I ran out of water just before the power came back on. Every time I think this, I fill up another container.

*Which way will the big tree on the southeastern edge of my yard fall if it succumbs to the storm?

*Today is the 35th anniversary of my father's death. If he'd lived, he'd have turned 100 years old this past April! He was a strong, steady man; I wish he was here to see me through the storm.

*How quiet the cottage is now that the grands have gone home!

*Things to do before the storm: bring in the potted plants that have spent the summer out of doors; take down the screen tent and store it away, put the lawn chairs and patio umbrella in the garage; fill pans with water for washing up if the power goes out; replace the screen in my front door with the glass panel so the rain isn't driven in under the door; pick the last of the summer blooms before the rains pound them into the ground.

*Should I risk going to the scheduled poetry read-aloud at the library late this afternoon? Fierce thunderstorms are expected to precede the arrival of Irene.

*Had I stayed married, I'd be celebrating my 45th wedding anniversary today! That realization made me consider that I've not done anything for 45 consecutive years except stay alive. The longest I've stayed at any one job is 10 years. Does that make me a Jill of all trades and master of none? It's true that I've spent a total of more than 45 years living in my hometown, but I've also spent 20 plus years in other places so those 45 have not been consecutive.

*Will my daughter, her husband and their daughter weather this storm safely? If communication systems are disrupted, will my heart know if anything happens to them?

*Monday is supposed to dawn sunny and warm - what will I see when the sun rises?

The Grands Are Coming! The Grands Are Coming!

S, J and Memere, cooking

"What a bargain grandchildren are! I give them my loose change and they give me a million dollar's worth of pleasure!"      Gene Perret

Tomorrow I will disappear amid a tangle of small arms and legs and grinning faces and won't reappear until Saturday the 27th. All three of my grandchildren will be here though the smallest, my little Bean, will go back home Monday. The older two, S who is 10 and J who is 8, will spend the rest of the week with me.

The days take on a new order when they are here. The moment all our eyes open we spring from bed, hustle into our clothes and take the Secret Path to the farm next door. We'll bring our table scraps and vegetable peelings to the pigs, stop at the chicken house door so J can practice his cocka-doodle-do, pull several handsful of succulent grasses for the cows, and pat the wooly sheep. When our tummies start to growl we'll head back to the cottage for cow pancakes and chocolate syrup. (One of the farm cows is a Belted Galloway, an Oreo cookie of a cow, black on either end with a white stripe around its middle. I have a cow pancake mold and the kids like making their own Belted Galloways with the chocolate.)

Once the breakfast dishes are washed and the beds are neatly made, we settle in for some serious play. If the day is hot, we'll don bathing suits and head for my brother's backyard pool. If the morning is cool, we might take our bicycles to the town park and zip around the trails there, taking time to swing on the swings and climb on the jungle gym. If it's a rainy day, the closet is crammed with paper and pencils, pens and crayons, paints and brushes, scissors and glue just waiting to make imaginative crafts. In a large basket are stuffed animals, toy cars, a Slinky or two, some small puzzles, and several balls. In another box, dolls sleep in their best dresses, their eyes closed until some small tot wakes them. The town library beckons, the pond across the street hosts bullfrogs and turtles and ducks and a couple of muskrat families. There's always something to discover there.When evening brings a weariness to our limbs and darkness to the skies, we will make some popcorn and curl up on the big bed, pillows stuffed behind us, and watch a movie. 

There won't be time to read (or write) blog posts, so once the week has passed and the cottage empties out, once the noise and the flurry have subsided, when the silence and the missing grow too much for me, I will return to my regular life, and here.

And it's only 7:15 AM

A day that starts out with a vivid wee-hours-of-the-morning nightmare, the cat throwing up on the sofa (and the floor and the doormat on his way out the door), and an invitation from Facebook to befriend someone I hope never to see again is a day to reckon with.

The nightmare was actually an eye opener (pardon the pun). I've had a number of frightening, anxiety-laden dreams over the past few weeks. I've been chased by shadowy figures, taken escape routes that were dead ends or blocked or more dangerous than where I was, climbed rickety ladders, faced angry people, drove cars with faulty brakes and planes that took nose-dives or tried to run through thick mist, thick mud, or deep water. I'm exhausted from going to sleep! Last night I survived a flood that swept my entire family from sight. The roiling waters deposited me on a foreign shore where no one spoke my language. I made my way to a building that became a school, and lost in the unfamiliar corridors, I missed what was to have been my first class. When I finally found what I knew to be the right door, I was greeted by an irate instructor who shouted at me and threw paper and pencil into the air like missiles.

However, once I understood the assignment (by surreptitiously looking at the work of other students) I produced a masterpiece that the instructor praised in broken English. I woke thinking, "OH! I just have to write it all down!"

Huh.

The cat, having deposited a half-digested mouse on my kitchen floor, is pacing outside the door hoping to come back in for a more suitable breakfast. Nope, nada, yuk. I am happy to put a dish of kibble on the doorstep and let him heave anything else gross and disgusting on the lawn where I can put a long shovel handle between me and it. I may not be able to eat until lunch time.

As for Facebook, a pox on social networking. There are some people who should remain firmly in one's past.

Acceptance

beautiful predator

There are those who believe that nature is benignly beautiful. If one is merely looking at it from a window, it appears that way. But there are days when one simply cannot ignore the brutality that lies just under the surface. Yesterday was one of those days. 

Before the sun even rose fully, I was awakened by a frantic piping. I recognized it as the "Danger! Watch out! Fly now!" cry of some frightened bird parent. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and looked out the kitchen window. Hopping along the crossbar of my clothesline was a beautiful brown thrush, its spotted breast glinting gold in the growing light. It flew suddenly to the patio fence, joining its mate who was making sorties over the head of the neighbor's cat lying in the grass. There in the cat's paws was a baby thrush. I grabbed the broom and made a beeline for the cat. Startled, it leapt up and I thrust the broom between it and the gasping baby bird.

Hearing the commotion, my neighbor B came out, scooped up his cat, deposited it on the porch, and in a matter of seconds had the baby bird in his cupped palms. The parents flew madly from one end of the yard to the other, screeching and scolding. B Carried the little bird to a tree at the edge of the woods and settled it on a branch. The parents flew into the same tree, keeping up their shrill warnings. As B and I stepped away, they grew silent.

We kept our respective cats indoors for most of the day despite their protests. No more sounds came from the tree, either encouraging or frightened, so B and I assumed the birds had made their way deeper into the woods and safety. That is not the way a cat's mind works. The moment B's cat was released it headed with unerring certainty to the woods and came back minutes later with the baby in its mouth. This time there would be no rescue. The small head lolled, the wings were still. The parents were silent.

Last night at dusk there was no evening song from the thrushes. The part of the woods from which they usually sang was silent, an empty space amid other bird voices calling good-bye to the day. I was made to understand once again that the hunt and the kill are as much a part of nature as the beauty and the song. If one keeps cats (and what farm doesn't?), one has to accept the cat-catches-bird relationship as readily as the cat-eats-mice relationship. The reminder did nothing to keep my heart from aching.

Photo from naturesound.com

Over the past two weeks, I've been designing wedding and celebratory cards, and hand addressing wedding invitations (100 of them!) for a friend. It's a nice little side business and something I can do in my spare time once I retire.

I've also been spending time with the Bean, my 10 month old granddaughter who is now crawling like a little monkey everywhere and standing up as long as there's something to hold onto. She recognizes me, grins hugely and holds her little arms out to me whenever she sees me, and does her best with sounds, gestures, and an intense stare to communicate with me.

She can pull herself into a standing position without help!

In a couple of weeks my other grandkids, S who is 10 and J who is 8, will come to spend a week with their Memere. We'll ride our bikes at the town park, make crafty things if rain should keep us indoors, and spend lots of time at the farm next door. We'll swim on hot days at my brother's pool and maybe even have a lemonade stand. Life is good!

This was taken at S & J's house when I last visited.

Planning Ahead

I've been practicing for my retirement. This coming school year will be my last. This summer, I've only done what there's time for in a day and let the rest go. I rise early, greet the sun (or the rain or the mist or the heat), do a little yoga, a little house work. I take an afternoon nap, rummage in the garden for fresh vegetables for supper (always pulling a couple of weeds here and there to keep ahead), ride my bicycle for a few miles, and take a book to bed. Each day I try to add in one of the million other things I want to do (draw, paint, write, go to the library, watch old movies, visit the grandchildren, etc.). I’m sure if I had a plan book I would pen in such activities, but I like the freeform-ness of my days. I wouldn’t remember to look at the plan book anyhow.

Come fall and winter I will once again be at work, thereby severely limiting my private time. I will have to fill out the date book in my purse, stuff more things into the weekend hours, push against that heavy Monday-morning feeling that settles on my shoulders at bedtime Sunday night. But I am building memories for my retirement-in-the-offing, memories of hummingbirds deep in the hollyhock blossoms, of cardinals singing me awake and crickets singing me to sleep, of time just to sit and think. I will fetch a packet of green beans from the freezer in the dead of winter and remember the heat on my shoulders as I picked them from their leafy rows. I will open a jar of pasta sauce and recall this summer's tree-high tomato plants, or make a pie with the berries I’ve picked and put by. I will remember the quiet time, the rush-less days, the easy waking, and the restful nights. And I will look forward to the coming summer, knowing all these will be mine in full again.

From here, retirement looks mighty good. My friends wonder if I might get bored with such easy living. I tell them the only time I can remember being bored was when I was stuck in some building, working at some job that didn’t keep me busy enough. Once I no longer have to work, I imagine boredom will just disappear along with that plan book.




photo credit: www.artexpertswebsite.com/ pages/artists/

Living Rural

One of the great advantages of living rural is the scenery just outside my door. I don't have to drive miles to see mountains (though to get to the seashore I have to fight hours of traffic), I am surrounded by meadows filled with flowers, and the pond across the road offers constantly changing views of flora and fauna. The air is always clean and refreshing in the morning even when the day before was stifling. Birds perform daily concerts, dining is often alfresco with ingredients fresh from my own garden, and every evening, except for the occasional rainy one, ends in a spectacular light show put on by the setting sun and whatever clouds happen to be in the vicinity. I get to see...

little mist ghosts heading for the sky...

dew drops on milkweed leaves...

masses of Queen Anne's Lace leaning toward the mid-day sun...

and trumpet flowers catching the last of the light...

before the day ends.

Trying out rhyme schemes...

Chance Music

the wind is sighing, sighing through the trees

and sets to trembling leaves along the way

listen! a concert rises out of these

it isn’t just an errant little breeze

that makes the boughs and branches dip and sway

come watch the wind conduct with expertise!

basso profundo rolls from pines with ease

the hemlock’s baritone comes into play

listen! a concert rises out of these

can you not hear the maple’s tenor tease

or catch the alto of the elm at play?

come watch the wind conduct with expertise!

the volume dips and rises by degrees

depending on which way the breezes stray

listen! a concert rises out of these

if only nature granted a reprise

I’m sure I miss a concert every day

not giving any heed to trembling leaves

come watch! the wind conducts with expertise!

When Flowers Speak

I was crying

and I blamed it on the sad story

I was reading

about a dog that died

but whose spirit filled the room

and maybe the whole house,

maybe the whole country!

and suddenly

I was crying not because of the story

but because it occurred to me that I was alone

and no one might love me quite like that dog

loved its human

and I swear the geranium on the windowsill,

all Valentine-heart red and mid-summer green

said, Oh for crying out loud

(which I was)

don’t be silly.

You’re hardly alone

or unloved.

And I realized that was true,

that I was surrounded on all sides by life

and that some of its forms 

(family, friends, cat, the chicken next door -

even, possibly, the geranium)

loved me,

maybe more than I loved myself. 

I felt better after that

and was able to get back to the rest of the book

and the rest of my life.

the day was as long as it ever was

the sun slipping through the mist

the way it did, trailing wakes of silver laughter