In the Same Vein

Home Before Dark

2009-05-22T10:59:00.003-04:00

Originally uploaded by oneeyeddogblues

It was late in the afternoon when the phone rang. I could hear the concern in my mother’s voice as she talked. Estelle, one of my second grade classmates, was missing. She was seven-years-old, leaner and more petite than I was. She left school that day as usual, but did not arrive home. Estelle’s mother began calling the neighbors as the evening shadows were darkening the city streets. No one had seen her. The police were called.

Much to everyone’s surprise, a confused Estelle returned home a short time later. A man who said he was a friend of her father’s had offered her a ride. When the man headed into unknown territory, Estelle became suspicious. She began a temper tantrum of admirable strength. Screaming, kicking, and biting the man, she ignored all of his protests. At last, the man wanted only to be rid of her. He let her out of his car and drove away. Estelle, then only a few blocks away from home, was totally lost. It took her hours to find her way back.

While her family, neighbors and friends sat awaiting news of her, Estelle was alone and disoriented. When she stepped inside her house at last, her father’s terror turned to rage. First, he spanked her for daring to trust a stranger. Then he took her to the Police Department to file a report. Back home again, she was sent to bed without her supper.

After that, the children of Mrs. Baxter’s second grade class were a little less naive. Our parents lectured about never accepting a ride from anyone: no matter what. We rehearsed marching directly from home to school and school to home. We became afraid of strangers.

Those of us who did not already know, learned that fear could turn to anger, blame and mistrust. We learned that victims could be punished. Life can turn quickly from fun to danger. None of us can prevent missteps. All we can do some times is to scream, kick or claw our way out.

All the News I Need

2009-04-04T09:43:00.001-04:00

After two hours in the Hospital's Emergency Room lobby, I was transported into a room on the 4th floor. I clicked through the stations on the television until the monitor displayed the one I wanted. On the screen was the repeated pattern spreading out in shades of green, pink and blue representing the local weather. The commentator chatted about the recent extreme drought. Today, however, the problem would be flood damage. I turned to the window and watched sheets of rain descending from the sky.

The map on the television switched to national weather patterns. A second talking head on the western side of the map explained, “This is just storm number two. The third storm will be here by this weekend.” The U.S. Doppler radar swirled images depicting the intensity of rain and snow. Like the bell-shaped curve on a cardiogram chart, the precipitation moved downward from Northwest to Southeast and then up again to the Northeast. One of the nurses entered the room with a flip chart in hand. I muted the television to answer her questions.

Tornadoes and flood warnings flashed on the television screen. Brilliant dots of yellow and red symbolized dangerous conditions as the nurse entered my medical data into the hospital system. Even in the shelter of the hospital room I could hear thunder booming and see the wind splashing rain and broken leaves onto the window. My mind went back to the cryoprecitate thawing in the Blood Bank.

Most days I consciously avoid weather reports. I find the forecasts less reliable than looking at the sky or sniffing the wind. The I.V. Therapist entered the room. The task now was to find a viable vein on my body, one without too many scars or connecting valves. I turned the drama of the Weather Channel off. It was in my best interest to actively participate. I offered suggestions. “Teamwork,” the nurse commented, “always helps.”

The first stick was successful. In an hour I was free to go home. The second storm was ending and the third… well, I would prefer not to speculate.

To everything there is a season

2009-04-02T11:16:00.002-04:00

Originally uploaded by oneeyeddogblues

My father waited impatiently each winter for spring to come. On the day of the Winter Solstice in December, Dad would announce, “The days are getting longer. Spring is on the way!” On that day, he would begin his ritual of helping the snow to melt. On sunny days, he would go out to scoop shovel’s full of snow and ice onto the asphalt driveway. Then contented he would watch as the sun transformed the crystals into liquid.

Like my father I enjoy the green and growing plants sprouting up from the earth when spring arrives. It is like a magic trick. Unobserved tree buds stretch out and spread into delicate leaves. “Nothing up my sleeve,” nature says. Each year I am a bit chagrined by how this season takes me by surprise again and again.

The tender blossoms uncurl, risking damage from frenzied winds, weighty downpours of rain and drastic changes in temperatures. I watch the naïve fledgling birds as they fend for themselves, pecking for juicy larvae. An alert kitten crouches watching these vulnerable chicks. The prey and predators are hard to separate one from the other.

The older ones are at risk during this season too. With each new generation, I know my days are shortened. The dampness from the earth below my feet awakens the pain in my arthritic ankles. I am reminded that I will return to that soil one day myself. I will dissolve as the melting snow.

Election Day

2008-11-04T21:47:00.004-05:00

"Swing That Vote"
Originally uploaded by NatalieMaynor

As long as I can remember, my father never missed casting his vote on Election Day. It was Dad’s habit to sit in his armchair reading the daily newspaper after he came home from work. On Election Day, however, my Dad would first walk to the elementary school that was the polling place, before he settled comfortably into his chair.

It was the same elementary school that I attended for six years as a child. For me, the school basement was the place where we went when the air raid siren blasted the warning signal during the Cold War years of the 1950’s. We didn’t have to practice for World War III on Election Day. The basement rooms were filled with voting machines.

My mother couldn’t vote. She wanted to vote, but she was a resident alien, a citizen of Canada. She had married my father just a few years before the United States entered World War II. When Mom applied for citizenship, she was told that she would have to swear allegiance to only the United States of America. She could not bring herself to sign the form. It seemed ridiculous. But, still she could not bring herself to sign the oath that she would take up arms against Canada.

Mom, however, felt as much of a personal obligation to be informed about politics and government as my father. She was a woman with strong opinions. While politics was a subject avoided by other mothers, my Mom would introduce the topic with gusto. Our kitchen table was frequently a place for lively debates. In hindsight, I wonder if she tried to counter her frustration at not being able to cast her own vote by persuading as many people as possible to vote the way that she would if only she could.

Each of my parents taught me about the responsibility that comes with a democracy. Voting was not some thing to be done without being informed and knowledgeable. It is something that requires time and commitment.

Silly Goose

2008-10-13T17:58:00.005-04:00

a gaggle and a goofus
Originally uploaded by palmea

Stopped at a traffic light, I watched two small clusters of geese meandering their way through the divided city street. They strolled leisurely, appearing to be completely unaware of the cars facing them in all directions. Taking a rather diagonal approach to their destination, they plodded step by web-footed step. The cars were streaming off the highway at the start of rush hour. The southbound vehicles were temporarily stopped, waiting at the light. With some concern for their safety and a bit of amusement at their single-minded determination I observed the progress of the gaggle.

Perhaps the construction that was widening the highway blocked them from a remembered watering hole. My human brain was struggling to find a rational reason for this late afternoon promenade that was compelling my attention. Why would they choose to walk rather than fly? Of course, they are hefty birds, bottom-heavy creatures. Still I knew they were capable of great flight in their magnificent V shape formations. Each autumn in New England I had heard these birds honking their way southward for the winter.

Now I have migrated south to Florida. It was a hot and humid July afternoon. The first cluster of geese reached the grassy median strip just as I realized the red traffic light in front of me was about to switch to green. I held my breath in anticipation, wondering what would happen if the geese made it to the asphalt street just at the moment the drivers stepped on the gas.

Each webbed foot continued t march forward. The geese clearly expected the right of way.

But just before the first goose was about to step into the road, the light turned to green. There was a slight flutter of wings, but no injuries or fatalities. Like the other drivers, I accelerated and continued home.

Still I was curious to know the end of the story. What happened after the light turned to red again? Would the second cluster of geese make it to the grass strip before the traffic facing them moved forward? Did the geese find what they were looking for on that hot afternoon?

Watching the saga reminded me of how small and vulnerable I can feel against the larger world. Like the geese, I can slip into the assumption that nothing else around me is as important as where I am going. The questions that compel me are similar to the ones that come to my mind as I observed the geese crossing the road. How did something that seemed so simple turn out to be troublesome? Do the rewards still outnumber the risks?

On a larger scale, I wonder what might have happened if I had taken another path along my life journey? What would have been the consequences if I had made different choices? Where would that have led me? But when I stop brooding on my own silly goose questions, I simply pick up one foot and put it in front of the other.

Independence Day

2008-07-04T12:40:00.012-04:00

Day trip to Huntsville
Originally uploaded by mlsnp

Parades with banners, stars and stripes flags, and marching bands; barbeque grills, potato salad and watermelon; open air concerts and firework displays all send the messages of victory from oppression and the “unalienable Rights” that include “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.”

Liberty brings thoughts of a man I correspond with in Texas. He has been incarcerated now for about 15 years for a crime that he says he did not commit. Perhaps he is guilty. Maybe he is innocent.

I have never been incarcerated myself. For several years I worked as a consultant to librarians in State residential facilities. The libraries were for people with severe developmental disabilities, mental illness, and those awaiting trial in county jails or convicted felons in state prisons.

As part of my job preparation, I attended the Department of Correction Orientation program. The tour guide informed us that the people doing time are most likely to have had access only to a court appointed lawyer. The people I would see on the inside, he explained, are those without financial resources or the ability to read. I was amazed by the candor of the orientation. The purpose of the prison system is not to punish or reform, but to separate those who have been convicted from the general public.

I thought about how few “free” people have witnessed what I did when I walked through cellblocks where the decibel level of noise alone makes it difficult to control confusion and anger. The smell of human bodies not allowed to shower while confined in lock down for weeks at a time lingers in my memory even now. I recall the voices of many women and men explaining to me that when they were incarcerated they had not been taught to read. In prison they had the time to teach themselves. They were not stupid, just uneducated. I wondered if I could contain my resentment and rage if none of the rules that governed my day-to-day activities made any sense to me. Would I be able to stay calm if I were myself in this situation? Would my heart yearn for contact with friends or family separated by the walls?

I watched men released directly to the street from isolation in a space 12 feet 8 inches by 7 feet 6 inches stumble through the door because they no longer had any peripheral vision.

It is not the nature of the crime that determines where a convicted person will be housed. People who do not display anger at being incarcerated are placed in minimum security. Those who resist the confinement in an overcrowded environment, lack of privacy, limited time outside of a cramped cell; these people are placed in medium security. And those people who display aggressive behavior are confined to maximum security or solitary.

As I write to this man I have never met and probably never will, I remember what I saw and heard in person. It is not easy. I think about liberty and I suspend judgment to simply read his letters and respond.

Let There Be Life On Mars

2008-07-03T21:39:00.012-04:00

By the last day of General Assembly 2008, the annual conference for Unitarian Universalist congregations, my body was tired from lack of regular sleep, too many up and down climbs onto and off of the shuttle bus and the unhealthy food choices at the conference center. My mind was full of thoughts from the information received at workshops and in meetings. My emotions were jumbled by varied worship services, connecting with old friends, meeting new people and attending the Interfaith Community Witness Valuing All Families.

I slumped into a seat for one more ride on the shuttle bus that would return me to my hotel when behind me I heard a woman singing this song. It put things back into perspective for me, may it do the same for you.

When Kitty Eyes Are Smiling

2008-06-10T12:00:00.003-04:00

Calliope leans over and takes a l_a_z_y stretch, attempting to snatch my leg as I pass by the sofa where she has been napping. The gentle-clawed tug is meant to remind me that when she awakes from a snooze, she would like a snack. She has trained me well with her smiling kitty eyes.

The first kitten that entered my life’s path was a flea-bitten stray that a childhood friend gave to me. My mother took one glance at it and dunked it in the bathroom sink, trying to rid it of the parasites that had infested its fur. I watched with my 4-year-old eyes as the bugs hopped and skipped off the kitten, trying to escape the bath water. Most were flushed away down the drain. Sadly, that was when we discovered I was allergic to cats. I sneezed and sneezed. My eyes turned a scratchy red. “Ready to give up the cat?” my mother would say each day. At last I gave up and said, yes. The kitten was delivered it to the A.S.P.C.A.

After that, whenever I visited a home where cats lived my allergy overwhelmed me. In these houses, I would wheeze, gasp for air and then dash for the nearest tissue box. Antihistamine was no help.

Years passed before I would let another kitty’s eyes enter my heart. Then one morning after church, the minister asked me if I had seen the kittens. There, huddled in a corner of a closet, was a Tuxedo cat. The young cat stared out at me. Behind her was an even more skittish kitten. The four eyes were wide with fear. I was at a loss, having never been closely acquainted with cats. My spouse took charge of the rescue and we began depositing bowls of milk, water and cat food on a daily basis. Gradually they began to greet our arrival.

Another member of the congregation bonded with the kitten and took him home. We took the Mom cat, just long enough to be safely spayed by the vet, I thought. It seemed appropriate to give her a Unitarian Universalist name, since she had sought sanctuary in the church. I gave her the name of Dix, after Dorothea Dix. It wasn’t long. though, before we began calling her Dixie.

For some unidentified reason, my allergic reaction vanished. Inside a comfortable home, Dixie decided that she had never liked the out-of-doors anyway. She made the decision that four, sometimes five, square meals per day was more important than the roaming life. Her favorite snack was little bites from a freshly baked blueberry muffin. I told her all of my secrets and my fears. She comforted me in times of despair, taught me yoga and how to nap well. With time, she learned to curl up on a 2-legged lap, but only when invited. If I scratched her chin, she would close her smiling kitty eyes and grin from ear to ear.

Grandma's Hands

2008-05-11T20:03:00.007-04:00

By the time I was born, only my maternal grandmother, Ruby was still living. From children’s books and the experience of some of my friends, I had an idealistic picture of what a grandmother was like. Unlike my grandmother, she usually lived nearby and came to visit often.

My grandmother lived in a country farmhouse, far away from where I was raised as a child. She had given birth to one child every two years until she had five sons and five daughters. About seven years after the last of her ten babies was born, Ruby’s husband, my grandfather, died. The year was 1927. If the genealogy records are accurate, she was 52 years old by that time.

The household was already organized with economy, precision and determination. A few of the eldest sons had gone off to earn money that could then be sent back home. The eldest daughters had long been taking care of the very youngest children and the ones in-between were used to tending to the farm chores and household duties.

Ruby’s children reaped the health benefits of her ability to prevent the spread of disease by meticulous attention to hygiene. She learned her native nursing-care skills from her mother. Grandma’s attentive watchfulness and analytical problem solving enhanced her reputation as one who could cure the sick.

My grandmother was a strong and demanding woman. Observation of my aunts, her daughters, has given me a taste of what this must have been like. She may have felt that the family’s very survival depended upon her ability to make decisions quickly and enforce them with a critical tongue. The precision cutting of her words sometimes left jagged scars that required healing over time. Yet, there was enough comfort, compassion and caring for the mending of wounds within the family and beyond. Those who were ill, or in need, could count on my grandmother for comfort and aid.

Despite the Great Depression and outward poverty of the little farmhouse, there was enough healthy food to eat and enough to generously share with others in my Grandma’s house. Guests were always welcome, whether they were friends or strangers. And, when the workday ended, there was music, books to read, lively conversation, jokes and laughter.

Even though I only got to see my Grandma in person once, each time we visited the old farmhouse its seemed that Ruby’s powerful spirit was still there. It was revealed in more than just the chipped Blue Willow dinner wear in the China cabinet, or the rocking chair by the kitchen window. It could be observed in the qualities of her children, my aunts and uncles. It emanated whenever a guest, whether child or adult, entered the back door. And, it is still reflected in the values and actions of her grandchildren.

When I curl a loop of yarn around my fingers to knit I think of my Grandma’s hands knitting warm socks and mittens. When I cook, I imagine Grandma’s hands kneading the many loaves of bread, baking the pies and churning the butter. When I help care for someone who is sick or in pain, I reflect on Grandma’s care that lives on long past her lifetime.

Perhaps the ideal Grandma that I imagined as a child visits me more now than she did when I was a child.

The Marathon

2008-04-21T17:08:00.007-04:00

long_distance_race
Originally uploaded by maxsmith

All human beings should try to learn before they die
what they are running from, and to, and why.
—James Thurber

It is Marathon Day in Boston. This year, I am not there to watch the crowds of people arrive from places around the planet. Even so, I know that there are people speaking many languages in the small town of Hopkinton, Massachusetts. They are filling up their bellies with high carbohydrate breakfasts, then getting in lines for their numbers. The media are taking up whatever space they can find with their cameras and video equipment. Enthusiastic fans are competing with the local residents for a space where they will be able to see the race begin.

For many years, I would position myself at the top of Heartbreak Hill, not far from where the runners would finally reach the city limits of Boston. As each runner came up that stretch of pavement, looking tired and defeated, I would clap and shout encouragement. It was Jeff who had taught me to show up at the most difficult stretch of the route to cheer.

Jeff moved into my parent's attic one spring. His father had beaten him up for the last time. When my mother opened the back door that afternoon, she saw Jeff standing there with a bloodied face and a satchel full of clothing slung over his shoulder. It was not the first time my mother had harbored one of the children from that family. A little first aid, a home cooked meal and Jeff recovered enough to explain that his Dad was drunk again. Jeff had come home for spring break in his freshman year of college. His father had announced that he would not pay for any more school. It was time, his father screamed, for his son to go off to the war that was in Vietnam. No more would he have a son who shirked his duty and hid behind books to evade the draft.

When I arrived home from college a few weeks later, I could hear John Lennon's music filling the space that previously had only held empty suitcases and dusty photographs. Jeff said very little to anyone. Some evenings, after we had dinner together, he would linger long enough for a game of cards after the kitchen table had been cleared of dishes. Most nights he would go directly to his private space with the unpainted plywood floor and bare rafters stuffed with insulation. He would read, play music and only occasionally go out to meet one of his friends.

In a few weeks, Jeff had a job as an orderly in the city hospital. He applied for nursing school and was accepted. Whether he was truly a pacifist or whether he did it to spite his father, he received an exemption from the draft. His war was a private one. His spirit seemed full of inward battles fought in solitude. He ran, it appeared, not just from his abusive father, not just from the war he opposed, but to save his own life.

Each morning, before he dressed in his scrubs and walked down the hill to the city hospital, he ran. He arose earlier than any of us and left the comfort of his loft to run. He ran in the heat and the cold, in the rain and even in the snow. His goal was to run the marathon; not to win the race, but to finish. The first few times that he entered a race, it took him so long to finish that the race officially ended before he triumphantly reached the point where the finish line had been.

During the next two years, while he lived with my parents, I drove him to and from the site of several marathons. Even though Jeff’s race for life was directly opposite to my own, I understood the importance of a cheering section and a friend to reach out with some fresh water along the way. So, at several points along the route, I would stand until I saw him come into view. Then, I would begin calling out his name and enthusiastic encouragement until I saw his dazed eyes acknowledge me.

The physical demands of long distance running were foreign to me. I could not quite understand why someone would voluntarily put himself through such an arduous and punishing experience. Having a bleeding disorder, I had chosen a life that was structured to minimize injuries. By that time, I had already spent years listening for the early warning signs in the twinge of a sore muscle. The smallest of body aches could indicate the need for medical intervention for me. To win my race for life, no pain was a gain. It horrified me to see him limp in at the end of the race, doubled over in agony and exhaustion. His muscles would be cramped and his body contorted. The heat and dehydration left him depleted that he collapsed into the car seat for the return ride. Even more baffling to me was the way in which he recovered within hours. He would be up the next morning running as usual before going to work. It was a lesson to me to observe how his body could endure this amount of pain without fear or mental suffering. How different from the sense of defeat, self-blame and guilt that I felt when my body was hurting. How unlike the days it would take me to heal an injured joint or muscle if there was internal bleeding.

In spite of our different strategies for survival, Jeff and I had each experienced our own wounds. And although our reactions were so dissimilar, I understood his resolve and resilience. It is a winning combination and it deserves applause.

Healing Stories

2008-02-19T10:29:00.011-05:00

Memories take up more bandwidth in my brain the older I get. Perhaps this is true because I am acutely aware of having passed mid-life. For me, there is now more to recall from the past than there is left to plan for in the future. It seems that memories drift into my consciousness at the slightest trigger: a landscape; an odor in the air; a remark made by an acquaintance; a photograph; a tune. Some recollections are activated without any apparent cause. Most come in small tidbit-sized pieces, rather than long detailed illustrated narratives. In addition, I have no doubt that all of my memories have been altered by the passing of time until they represent a symbol rather than a truth.

I have heard it said that our first memory reveals traits and values that we carry for the rest of our lives it echoed the concept of a personal mythology. I tried to sift through my earliest memories and determine which one was my first. My youngest childhood experiences had become so intertwined in the storytelling of my family that I had come to believe that I remembered them.

There was the story my father liked to repeat about my ability to outsmart his attempts to keep me from upsetting my dinner plate from the high chair onto the floor. One could think that would be a memory he would have preferred to forget. For me, the story seems a bit unsettling. I am sure I would not be nearly so cheerful with any child who exhibited this skill. However, when my Dad told the tale of purchasing one guaranteed-to-be-spill-proof baby dish after another, only to watch me overcome the newest foil within minutes, he seemed pleased by his daughter’s ability to solve problems. This was a part of my father’s personal mythology. I have no memory of ever sitting in a highchair spilling pureed vegetables onto the floor for entertainment.

My mother liked to tell the story of leaving me at school for the first day of Kindergarten. I entered the schoolyard and didn’t even glance back towards her to wave good-bye. When my Mom recounted this memory, it was usually with a tone of feigned disappointment that I had shed no tears when we parted. However, it was also evident that she was more than a little proud of raising an independent and confident daughter. This was a part of my mother’s personal mythology. I have recollection of this day, although it does seem like a story that is more in keeping with my true nature.

Both of these memories do, however, qualify as healing stories for my parents and for me. Still, I had a desire to identify my own earliest memory. Quite accidentally one day, I happened to see old news footage of Queen Elizabeth II in her coronation ceremony on June 2, 1953. Suddenly, I remembered that day. I would have been four at that time and I can think of no personal memory that pre-dates it.

My mother had a friend, Ruth, who had been a schoolteacher. Ruth and my mother had grown up not far from each other in Nova Scotia, Canada. Yet, they had not become friends until they both married and moved to the U.S. Ruth seemed much older to me than my own mother and much more serious. When in Ruth’s presence, I was instructed to watch my manners carefully. It was Ruth who had suggested that I must witness the Queen’s coronation on television that day in early June.

Uncle Byron

2008-01-26T20:11:00.003-05:00

Uncle Byron sat in his rocking chair watching the sun set. The supper dishes were removed from the big dining table that in his childhood was used to spread out the meals for his nine siblings and whatever guests happened to come for a visit at mealtime. I piled the dishes in the sink and heated the water over the wood stove to wash and rinse them clean again, I watched as Byron gazed out over the front pasture that sloped down to the road. The road had not yet been paved and an occasional automobile passing by would raise a sandy dust as it rumbled over the gravel. The kitchen window faced the maple sugar camp that Byron had operated since he was a young man. But, Byron did not look in that direction; instead his eyes were fixed on the display of color in the sky from the setting sun.

Slowly, Byron pulled out a cigarette paper and his pouch of tobacco. With the mindfulness of a Buddhist monk, he curved the paper with his fingers and filled the ridge with a small portion of dried tobacco. Then with care and gracefulness, that revealed how often he had practiced this ritual in the past, Uncle Byron rolled the paper around, licking it on the edge to hold the two ends together. The match he struck against the wood stove and as he exhaled he filled the room with the aroma of smoke.

He sat and rocked and watched the setting sun, seemingly unaware of the clatter of pots and pans. The women who were washing, drying and putting away seemed equally absorbed in their task. Byron had spent all of his life in that house, with the exception of his tour of duty in WWII. He had cared for his mother until her death and tended to the farm chores by himself when his five sisters and four brothers moved away one at time. He seemed during these times very comfortable in his solitude.

However, on the evenings when family and friends were in the house, Byron’s face displayed contentment. When the day was coming to a close, after each platter and plate, cup and saucer was set back in it’s spot in the china cabinet, people drifted back to the dinning room table. The deck of cards was shuffled and dealt to each player. The stories of neighbors and family were told and re-told. There was usually at least one joke about Byron’s elder sister whose Baptist faith scorned card playing as much as alcohol consumption. What would she think if she could see them shuffling and dealing for hours on end, or if she new that her own husband made beer in the basement?

Even Byron’s humor was tempered with compassion. He was a quiet man and when he spoke his words often revealed his empathy for those who were small or weak or ill. The night his youngest sister was killed in an automobile accident, it was Byron who received the telephone call. He sat by himself until dawn, not conveying the news to other family members. When asked, he said he did not want to upset their sleep.

When we arrived at the farmhouse for a visit or left to return home, Uncle Byron gave a hug that was so tight it seemed he did not want to let go. Had he suffered enough loss in his life already that his heart could bear no more?

Green at Last

2007-11-03T15:12:00.004-04:00

Free at Last
Originally uploaded by Polyhymnia

Yesterday, we noticed a Green Anole trapped behind the glass door on our wood stove. We imagine that it climbed down the chimney, perhaps nibbling insects along the way, and then could not figure out how to climb back up.

When it was still there today, we became more concerned. We gathered the necessary critter rescue kit and freed the Anole to its outdoor habitat. After it was safely outside again, we watched as it gradually turned from the drab brownish color it had become inside the wood stove back to a brilliant green again.

In my childhood I gained a lot of experience capturing backyard critters of many sizes and shapes. Grasshoppers, toads, garter snakes, turtles and spiders were often placed in temporary habitats constructed in jars or terrariums with screened lids. One day, I entered the kitchen just in time to hear my mother calmly talking on the telephone. Her last sentence was, “I’m sorry, Jane, I have to hang up know. My daughter’s snake just crawled out from behind the stove.” As she lowered the phone, I could hear Jane screaming, “Did you say snake?” I learned by that experience that a snake could easily escape if an old hosiery stocking was used to cover a jar motel.

Eventually, my father created a special guest room for viewing spider webs. It had a wooden frame with twigs inserted along the inner side edges and moveable Plexiglas panels on the front and back. There was a corked hole at the top for dropping in a spider. Each spider created it’s own special web stretching the threads between the twigs. Hours of amusement were spent feeding the spiders before they were set free again. The web remained in the box. By removing the Plexiglas, it could then be spray-painted, placed on a piece of black construction paper, and labeled with the species of spider that had created it.

All the critter visitors were fed and given fresh water for a day or two, then released back to freedom where they had been found. My mother, who enjoyed it as much as the neighborhood children, usually taught the backyard nature study. The children arrived several times a day to assist and observe. Together we watched as toads shed their skins by sweating and larvae transformed into butterflies. We learned that a preying mantis would drink water from a spoon held in front of it, tilting its head in a horse-like pose. Mom would bring out the identification books that we owned or walk us to the local branch library to find information about our current guests.

However, I learned more than how to identify these backyard critters. I grew to respect each of them as individuals and to value their companionship. By caring for them, I came to care about their safety and the survival of the planet we share together. It seems natural to me to reduce, reuse and recycle; not to waste limited resources; to tread softly upon this earth.

As I watched the Anole transform from the dusty color it had taken on inside the wood stove back into a green, melded with the leaves, I reflected that it’s not easy to get green. But, when the survival of all our relations is at risk, it becomes urgent.

Open Window

2007-10-21T09:52:00.003-04:00

"You're taking ANOTHER picture???"
Originally uploaded by jimfrazier

It’s a rite of spring and fall for me to clean the windows. I can think of no other household task that I actually get pleasure from. Dusting out the cobwebs and soot that has accumulated between the screen and the glass during the previous season, I wipe clean the blinds, windowsill and wire mesh screening; then polish the windowpanes. Clarity is my reward. Autumn in New England was the time when I would also remove the screens and add storm windows to keep out the cold winds to come.

Now, as I experience autumn in the Southeast for the first time, I am not closing and securing the windows in anticipation of colder temperatures, but the reverse. The hot summer of the South is gently shifting to cooler weather bit by bit, but here it is time to open windows to circulate fresh breezes.

Open windows offer my senses with not just the visual awareness of the out of doors, but the smells and most particularly the sounds. Even indoors I can now hear the sounds of my new neighborhood alerting me to information and triggering emotional responses. The indoor cat is startled, yet fascinated. She looks at me quizzically. We both hear the scratching of squirrels as they scamper up tall trees and peek in the window. We listen for feeding birds landing with a swish on the shrubs. The acorns and pinecones drop from great heights and land with a plop, covering the ground below. The bird songs increase in the early morning hours and late afternoon. Mixed among these gentle sounds are the city noises of traffic, children in a schoolyard at recess, church bells, and an occasional dog bark or ambulance siren. I am aware for the first time of a neighbor who practices an electronic guitar before leaving home in the morning. I can hear another neighbor’s loud bass music booming a beat as he turns his car into his driveway after midnight. And often I can hear the pine needles swish in the wind.

Truly listening is a rare experience. Homes, restaurants, businesses, automobiles, doctor’s offices and libraries are not quiet zones in this time. They are filled with the background noise of televisions, ringing telephones, electronic equipment beeping, radios playing and talk, talk, talk. It seems to me that there is very little space left for listening. My senses are impaired when the rhythm of living energy turns to a cacophony of noise. I feel as if my awareness has become diminished. I am no longer able to fully hear my own energy and my own internal music.

If I listen carefully enough I can hear this music clearly when I awake each morning. It will whisper to me from my body and my mind and integrate the two as one. It will chant that we are all dying while asserting that we are all living. It is not one or the other, but both, that create the harmony.

Bidens

2007-09-23T18:47:00.002-04:00

Bidens
Originally uploaded by Polyhymnia

Outside my bedroom window, some of the weeds around the side of our house are now tall enough to bob and tilt in the wind. The flower that looks like a white daisy is Bidens. Its common names are Beggar Tick or Stickseed because it has sharp seeds that cling to clothing, fur, or feathers. From my window I can see the flowers dance and swing, teasing the butterflies to catch them. I risk passing through the clump of Poison Ivy to view the daisies closer.

What makes a plant a weed? I wonder as I admire this thriving plant that has a system for transporting its offspring to faraway lands. Some would call it invasive for these very qualities of adaptability and endurance. Thorns are considered a nuisance by humans, not a survival technique. Perhaps I take the criticisms about weeds a bit too personally. I have a rather prickly disposition at times myself, or at least so I am told. My imagination tells me that our new neighbors are less than pleased by the weeds allowed to grow wild in our yard. I simply admire the way in which they invite butterflies to my window.

What makes a weed a weed is, in my view, not the audacity it displays by growing wherever. It is not even the persistence that it displays in returning again and again after it has been pulled out by its roots. It is the value it is given by humans. A weed is simply a plant that is not wanted.

What puzzles me the most is the great lengths that humans will go to in order to control and organize the natural world. Weeding, mowing and watering grassy lawns seems a waste of energy and resources to me. Some landscape designers plan gardens so they will mimic the natural forests. It seems presumptuous to me that the natural beauty of a forest could be improved by human intervention. I have a similar reaction to the planned burning in the National Forests. If there are not enough wildfires from lightening strikes, controlled fires are set to clean out the dead wood, unhealthy trees and help other plants to germinate. In my view, this reveals a lack of faith in nature.

It reminds me of the way in which religious beliefs are ranked by some as either true or false. Recently, I have started attending a Zen Buddhist group to practice meditation and chanting. A friend of mine told me that she would be afraid to practice meditation. She had been told in church that people who meditate are members of a cult. It seems extreme to define this religious practice, which has been in existence since at least the 7th Century CE, a cult. But, by calling any religion a cult, it labels it as negative and even dangerous. Like the weeds in my yard, it is considered undesirable. Some certainly believe that cults need to be weeded out, to protect the "true believers" and save all of our souls. I wonder, is it simply a belief that is not our own?

When I take a good look at the world around me, it gives me more faith in diversity, not less.

Slow Food

2007-09-12T16:31:00.002-04:00

Muscatine Grapes
Originally uploaded by Polyhymnia

Because I moved to the Southeastern part of the U.S. this summer, I am often asked, “How y’all doin’ with the hot weather?” When people learn I am a new comer to this part of the country, many try to assure me with, “It’ll get cooler in October.” In truth, I expected the hot climate and the intense humidity. This was no surprise and I take heed to follow the natural inclination and slow down.

There have been many pleasant surprises about living in the South. I am eager to learn the names for the native plants, insects, birds, reptiles and amphibians in this environment; the Carolina Wren, the Green Anole, the Zebra Butterflies and the Crape Myrtle that all reside around my new home.

The biggest challenge of this transition has been adapting my inner clock to the differences in the harvest season. In the first few weeks after our arrival, we found turnip greens, okra and black-eyed peas at the growers’ market. Friends dropped off gifts of Tupelo honey, local sausage and goat cheese. I found some herb plants for the patio and watched in amazement at how quickly the bay laurel grew. As the weeks went by, however, there was less and less produce to be found that had not been trucked or shipped from other parts of the country. I sampled the thick-skinned Muscatine grapes and hard pears. But, “Where are the tomatoes?” I kept thinking. Remembering the overflowing baskets full of tomatoes, corn, squash and early apples that are available at this time in the Northeast. I felt oddly out of sync with my new surroundings.

Food tastes better to me when it is grown locally, picked fresh and prepared at home. No carrots have ever tasted as sweet to me as the ones I picked as a child from the backyard garden patch. I washed these slender carrots under the outdoor spigot and ate them unpeeled. My Uncle Bill would do the same with a tomato from his garden; eating it like one might eat an apple or pear. The only asparagus that I have ever truly enjoyed eating came from the little row that was planted along the back fence of my childhood home. The asparagus that was not picked early enough turned to fern, leaving a feathery background for the beans and yellow squash that would spring from the earth later in the summer. When we visited the farm where my mother grew up in Nova Scotia, there was a hearty supply of food from the garden. The fisherman’s truck pulled up the driveway once a week with that morning’s catch of the day. My motivation for helping my Uncle Byron milk the cows was getting a taste of warm whole milk, still laced with cream before it was put through the separator and stored in the refrigerator. Most of the food that was not produced by the farm was purchased from the Coop.

In the early 1970’s, I was fortunate enough to discover a local dairy that would deliver the milk to our door in reusable glass bottles. A few years after that, I started purchasing eggs from a farmer whose wife worked with me. Each Tuesday, she would carry home the egg order from all the staff members and, on Wednesday, her husband would deliver the cardboard cartons of eggs to all of us. I liked knowing the people who provided the ingredients for my food by name. It was fun to watch the cows in the pasture and chickens wandering freely around the barnyard. Most of all, I liked the way the fresh milk and eggs tasted.

Is it any wonder then, that we have joined the local food coop? We also started shopping regularly at the growers markets. And, now we are participating in Community Supported Agriculture. We joined by paying a fee to the farm to guarantee us a share of the produce harvested each week. In a few weeks, we will start picking up our share of the freshly picked vegetables. When my subliminal clock says that it is almost time for this year’s crop to end, it will just be beginning.

Cooking with Dad

2007-09-08T15:16:00.005-04:00

As my father-in-law and I prepare supper together, I joke that we should have our own television cooking program. He is an avid fan of Rachel Ray, the speed queen of cooking, and Paula Dean, the maven of butter and sugar. As he chops the celery, he asks, "What should we call our show?" I say, "Cooking with Dad." He smiles. I can tell that he gets satisfaction from helping to cook. Even more than that, he likes to being called "Dad."

After he was 70 years old and had retired as a mechanical engineer, my father-in-law worked at a fast food restaurant. For more than 10 years, he would get up each morning at 4:00 a.m. to open the restaurant and prepare the grills for the breakfast crowd. The franchised restaurant chain hired all part-time employees, with the exception of the store manager. Most of these employees were teenagers struggling with the adjustment of becoming adults. They relied on this grandfatherly person for his advice and his good humor. And, they called him "Dad."

It has been difficult for me to call my father-in-law "Dad." It somehow does not feel fair to my biological father. My Dad established a relationship with me even before I was born, and continues that bond even after his death.

My father-in-law is now in his late 80's and I feel the increasing weight of becoming responsible for his well-being. He can walk only a few yards before he becomes short of breath. He insists this is from allergy, not the heart disease the doctor mentioned. As he pitches his body forward in an unbalanced stride, I find myself playing a more "Mother Hen" role than acting like a daughter to him. "Don't forget your cane!" I say as we leave the house together. "Watch out for that bump on the sidewalk." He makes a sour face because he does not want to admit he is vulnerable to broken bones. He is struggling with the adjustment to old age. He still wants to be the protective one, not the protected.

But when we cook together at the end of each day, the relationship is transformed. Mimicking my own mother's voice, I lay out the jobs that need to be accomplished and divide the tasks between the two of us. "You chop the celery and I'll peel the potatoes," I say. He can enjoy re-experiencing the roll of protector. "Don't forget to put on the oven mitts. The pan is hot, you know," he warns. Together we work to prepare the family meal. It is not just the food that will sustain us and comfort us; it is the sharing of the care giving.

Return

2007-07-24T11:27:00.002-04:00

Christmas in Waveland, 2005
Originally uploaded by NatalieMaynor

The sound of thunder alerts us to a sudden change in the weather. Soon the hail mixed with rain, falling tree twigs and pinecones create a percussion band. The rooftop becomes a drum. It’s a sound that sends the cat into hiding under the bed and brings me to the glass sliding doors to watch.

The squirrels that were jumping between tree limbs only minutes ago have all disappeared now. The hummingbirds and butterflies have all gone for shelter as well. The herbs and flowers, newly purchased at a local nursery, are tested for their durability and stamina by the wind and falling debris.

Only a short distance down the street, large tree trunks crack. It is humbling to watch as the micro burst prunes the wooded neighborhood.

By morning, television cameras are documenting the damage to homes. Landscaping crews are cleaning up the yards and lawns. The fallen branches are picked up and piled for removal later; like picking up a child’s toys after playtime. The human inhabitants desire that a sense of order be restored from the chaos.

The rain soaked earth rejuvenates the plants and the squirrels, butterflies, birds and humans seem refreshed as well. The air is cooler and dryer after the storm. The storm was brief, the damage will all be repaired quickly; not like the devastation of a major hurricane, forest fire, earthquake or Tsunami. Even so, I am reminded that ultimately the cycle of chaos and creation repeats and repeats and repeats; perhaps, as the myths tell us, from the beginning of time.

In spite of our human efforts to control or avoid the chaos and destruction, the wind and rain will return. The seas will rise, sinking boats and sucking in those on the shore. The earth will quake, volcanoes will send fire from deep below our planet and lightening will ignite wildfires. And, when the chaos has abated, those that remain will build again.

Change of Place

2007-07-11T22:44:00.003-04:00

Green Anole
Originally uploaded by Polyhymnia

The move has been completed. We are settling ourselves into a new place called “home.”

I prefer to think of myself as a person who enjoys change, not one that resists it. Flexible people bend and do not break, I remind myself. But, as I awoke this morning in a place 1,300 miles away from where I was born, grew up, went to school and lived for more than 50 years of my life, I had to admit how difficult change can be.

It took months to prepare for this particular change; our family’s move to a new home. The transition prompted a volatile mixture of emotions in me. The process often felt as if I was unraveling the threads that had held my former life together in order to reweave a new fabric and texture for the remainder of my life. It was understood that when we left the place we had called “home,” we would not return even for a visit. We would take ourselves to another place and we would call that place “home.”

Early in the process, as part of planning for the move, I pulled the shoeboxes stuffed with letters out from the back of my closet shelves. I began opening correspondence that I had saved and reading it piece by piece. Mementoes of my past, carefully sorted and filed by date, stuffed each box. Preserved and saved for another time. Now the time had come.

Sifting through years of personal correspondence, I rediscovered letters written to me by friends and family members. There were also journals, which I had kept as a child. For years, my Aunt Ola had sent me a diary as a Christmas gift. I had faithfully filled the blank pages starting on January 1 of each year, recording my passage from childhood through adolescence.

Mixed among the diaries and personal letters were report cards from schoolteachers, many noting the excessive absent days due to illness and my eagerness to catch up with the rest of my grade once I returned to the classroom.

In addition to the correspondence, which I had saved, I came across the letters my parents had kept during their lifetimes. I had saved their keepsakes without reading them since their deaths a few years ago. Now it seemed like it was time to read these too. Here I found journals that my father had written almost 100 years earlier when he was a young man; letters my parents wrote to each other; and also letters written by me to my parents after I had moved away.

Classification tables copied in my father’s hand writing for identifying minerals, mingled oddly with his genealogical research. My mother, who kept so little, had managed to preserve lists of bird names, wildflowers and mushrooms that she had identified on her regular walks in the woods. My mother had also saved correspondence from the physician who had diagnosed my bleeding disorder. These letters from the doctor included advice and reassurance in response to her anxious questions.

Why had I and others in my family been driven to write so much? And, why did we keep so much of what was written to us? I wonder. What were we trying to document? What had we intended with these archives from our lives? Had we hoped to pass our experiences on to others? Or was the purpose simply to aid our own memories at a later time? For myself, I wondered if my intention was some attempt at immortality.

As I sifted through and reviewed the pages of writing it seemed almost as if it was new information. Time had changed my attitudes and my perceptions of what was true. My memories had been altered and were different than what my journals had documented in a previous time.

For whatever reason, I made the decision to let the past go. One piece at a time, the destination for these written words was the paper shredder. Grinding out thin strips of paper to be recycled and reused, I watched in amazement at the impermanence of life.

Mountains from Molehills

2007-04-07T17:11:00.001-04:00

Coffee
Originally uploaded by lewis foad.

For the past few weeks, I have been sorting through my belongings in preparation for moving later this year. Among the papers, I found a piece that my father wrote. I could not bring myself to shred the pages without first sharing it with others. Thanks to Lewis Foad for permission to use his photo.

Note from the author: All characters in this article are imaginary. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is strictly accidental.

It has been reported in a magazine advertisement that the battle of Waterloo was lost to Napoleon because he had eaten a green peach and suffered from a stomachache at the time. Possibly, it was a plum, but it doesn’t matter too much. Fruit was cheap in those days, and the point is, it just wasn’t worth it. If this proves anything at all, it is that Napoleon was as easily influenced by trivia as the rest of us.

Back in the sixteenth century, the English used to send ships to North America to bring back sassafras bark. The survival ration of the sailors was considerably less than that for a modern astronaut, but England was short of sassafras bark so there were always plenty of volunteers. Of course, the voyage of Christopher Columbus was just as urgent. He was looking for spice. A more cautious man might have spent the money on research to develop a tin can. Columbus liked excitement. Even though he missed his goal by a hundred and eighty degrees of longitude, we must admire his spirit. He tried.

Most of us are broad minded about the right of others to have little idiosyncrasies. If someone wants to spoil a good cup of tea by adding milk to it, let them do it, as long as they drink it. We don’t mind at all, if someone insists on having sugar in their coffee. We realize that everyone can’t be a connoisseur. We value our right to disagree on matters of importance. We inherit this trait from our nation's forefathers. Taxation without representation was discussed calmly enough. The first open act of violence in the American Revolution, quite naturally was prompted by the tax on tea.

One of our most important assets is coffee. The history of the coffee house is long and honorable. Without the aid of a single folk singer, they were doing a good business in the days of Shakespeare and [Ben] Jonson. That highly respected institution Lloyd’s of London, as anyone knows, started as a coffee house. Here, the men who underwrote marine insurance gathered to transact their business. It solved the problem of their overhead cost. It also solved the problem of the coffee break.

Sometime in the seventeenth century, we find a Londoner complaining to his diary about the difficulty of getting a good cup of coffee. He charges the coffee merchant with diluting his product with chicory. Now there is nothing wrong with chicory as a drink of course but a basic must for mixed drinks is that they be alcoholic. We all know that coffee is to be real coffee, must be pure coffee. We can expect the worst of a man who would mix chicory and coffee. It will then come as no surprise to you to hear that the chicory he bought was colored with Venetian red to make it nearer the color of coffee. The man who sold him the Venetian red was also dishonest. He was adding brick dust to his product.

One chilly fall evening in the colonial days of our country, a weary traveler stopped at a wayside inn for a night’s rest. When he was seated comfortably in front of the fireplace, his host came in to see if anything further could be done for his comfort. The traveler said, "Yes, do you have any chicory?" the landlord admitted he had. "Good," said his guest, "would you bring it here please?" His host dutifully went to the kitchen and returned with the box in which he kept his chicory supply. "Set it there please," said the traveler, nodding toward the table. When the landlord had done as he asked, he continued, "Now, go brew me a cup of coffee."

It was not everyone who had the wit to get a good cup of coffee in this manner. There were those people who felt the best method was to carry a portable coffee grinder about with them and demand coffee beans. They could then grind and brew their own the more imaginative, however, felt that the legal approach was the only civilized way to handle the problem.

"No vendor of coffee may adulterate his product with any substance whatsoever unless he declare to the purchaser of said coffee the nature of the adulterating substance and the percentage of such adulteration."

There were, of course, suitably severe penalties for any infractions. Only a person who lives close to the land of the wooden nutmeg would be cynical of the results. Sad to relate the sneer was justified. The coffee merchant kept up his trade with the seller of chicory who continued to color it with Venetian red diluted with brick dust. This mixture was then ground very fine, moistened slightly, and pressed into a mold just the shape of a coffee bean. This took care of the character who was lugging around a coffee mill. As for the legal angle he could feel quite righteous. He was not selling adulterated coffee. Coffee was the one thing he had left out.

Soaring

2007-03-19T20:07:00.001-04:00

Soaring
Originally uploaded by limekilnwhalewat cher.

In the past month, I have flown several times. This is quite unusual for me, unlike those who travel by air for business or pleasure on a frequent basis. I am usually quite earth bound.

When I find myself in the seat of an airplane, my first reaction is to wonder why no one else looks as happy to be there as I feel. Sometimes, I struggle to hold back my enthusiasm for finding a window seat. It helps me to feel less foolish if there is at least one child on board who is experiencing a similar excitement to my own.

As the plane begins to taxi on the runway, I look out the nearest window with wonder. How can this be? Here we sit, luggage stored, tons of cargo packed below us. We are about to lift off the ground to fly! Why does no one else look as amazed as I do? Aerodynamics has been explained to me; still I find it difficult to comprehend.

The engines begin to whine and the flight attendants give the standard instructions and make their routine safety inspections. Often they seem bored. I watch as the airline terminal gates whiz by the window more rapidly. Sometimes, I close my eyes just to feel more strongly the sensations of the gravity pulling, the power of the plane and the energy that comes as we lift off the ground. If we are rising through a thick bank of clouds, all that is outside the window is the uncertainty of white fluff. Suddenly, we are traveling above the clouds. The world opens up again. The experience prompts me to appreciate the belief, held by many, that when we die we ascend to a heaven above.

An Ojibwe Elder once explained that the eagle feather has two sides. If the feather had only one side then the eagle could not fly, this wise elder stated. Once these sides are balanced, all is balanced. When the two sides of the feather are balanced then we have proper behavior. This said, the Ojibwe Elder added, "Funny thing is...Eagle doesn't care if its feathers have two sides...It just opens its wings and flies up to Creator."

One of the meditations that I have found most healing is a visualization based on the book by Eligio Stephen Gallegos, Animals of the Four Windows: Integrating Thinking, Sensing, Feeling and Imagery. Each one of the four animals in the meditation is asked to sit in a council circle and all work together on a question or a problem. One animal guides thinking or the intellect; one assists with feeling or emotions; one is called upon for sensing such as taste, touch, or hearing; and one brings the influence of imagery. When these ways of knowing are in balance, so is my spirit. My faith, like the soaring eagle, lifts up and flies.

Thanks to Paul who posted the question on his blog Original Faith, "How does evidence apply to holding religious beliefs?"

Sugar on Snow

2007-03-14T10:55:00.001-04:00

This morning at breakfast, I drizzled some maple syrup on my porridge. This time of year, as the frost begins to loosen in the ground and the ice on the pond is covered with a thin film of pooled water, I can feel the sap running in the woodlands of North America. So too, in my soul.

When the sap runs, the earth is approaching the vernal equinox. Daylight is becoming longer, yet the nights are still below freezing temperatures. The earth is softening and it becomes mud season.

Drip, drip, drip, the sweet water flows down through the trees. I sense it within me too. Somewhere, maple trees have been tapped with sap spouts. The tin buckets used for centuries to carry the sweet water to the tanks may have been replaced with plastic tubing; the wood stoves used to heat the evaporators may have been modernized as well; I do not know. Nevertheless, I have no doubt that the steam rising from boiling sap will infuse the winter breeze with the aroma of maple syrup. The tree sap is best when the hillsides are still covered in a thick blanket of wet snow. The bird songs have changed to establish territory for new homes. I listen for the chickadee outside my window, as it now sings the tune of "Sweet spring."

One of my favorite possessions is a slice of a maple tree, cut from my uncle’s sugar orchard in Nova Scotia. It was a horizontal cut. One side is still rough from the saw that was used to sever the tree. The other side, my father sanded and then shellacked to enhance the rings within the outer bark. As a child, I often sat and counted each concentric circle that recorded the number of years of life for this particular tree. The innermost rings are smaller and difficult to count. Then as the rings expand out, the first scar marks show where the holes were drilled to extract the sap. The scars reach deep inward through several years of growth in my slice of maple tree, but they never enter the core.

My uncle felled many trees to light the fires in his sugar camp. He began setting aside wood in the summertime so that it would dry and be right for keeping the fires burning long and hot.

It takes a lot of tree sap to make syrup, about four times the amount of sap for each bottle of syrup. The trees will have held onto more sap following a winter that has been consistently cold. And the sap will be sweeter in the years when there has been a hard winter.

Like the sweetness in life, the sap supply is dependent on several factors. The age of the trees; the hardship of a cold weather; a thick blanket of snow covering on the ground; nights below freezing with warm sunny days; and, hard labor all produce more sweetness to be collected.

As I ate my breakfast cereal this morning, I mused about all of this. And, I remembered the taste of sugar on snow. Spring is on the way.

Thank you to Allie in Wonderland and Scott Simpson for permission to use their photos.

It’s Never Too Late for Love

2007-03-11T19:22:00.001-04:00

My Uncle Guy was my mother’s youngest brother. Guy had charm and good looks and a devilish twinkle in his eyes. His sisters and brothers all seemed to understand that Guy was their mother’s favorite. Amazingly, no one seemed to resent that. He was also able to sweet-talk all five of his sisters. As a young man, he developed a reputation for being able to attract any woman he wanted. His family speculated that because it came so easily, he chose to marry the woman who was the least smitten by his allure.

Although my Uncle Guy lived closer geographically to my family, we saw less of him and his family than any of my mother’s other siblings. His wife made it know that we were not welcome in her home. Several of Guy’s brothers chose to ignore the lack of an invitation, but most of his sisters chose to stay away. His three children were ones I did not meet until they we were all young adults. Nonetheless, my uncle could always be counted on when anyone in his family needed him.

When I moved away from my parent’s home and into a college dormitory, my uncle took it upon himself to routinely arrange special dinner "dates" that included his daughter and me. Most of the time, two of our friends who were also living in college dormitories away from home, were invited along as his guests. Those evenings were a night on the town. My uncle would treat us all to dinner in a restaurant that we could not have otherwise afforded. Guy‘s attentiveness and generosity left a deep impression upon me.

Although it was no secret in our family that Uncle Guy was in an unhappy marriage, as far as I know, he never talked openly about it to his own siblings. As the years wore on in his life, my Uncle seemed to grow sadder and more resigned each time I saw him.

There was a hint of sorrow behind his eyes that was deeper than the Funeral Home business he had managed for decades. The grief was also more profound than the role he assumed making telephone calls to notify family members each time one of our kin died. It seemed to me that death had come and taken up residence in his heart.

A year after his wife died, my Uncle Guy surprised me with a phone call just before Christmas. I had not seen him or heard from him in several months. Much to my surprise and delight, I thought I could hear a bit of excitement in his voice. He said he wanted to see me and could be at my house in an hour. I hurried to clean up the clutter in my kitchen, set the table and prepare a fish chowder to serve him for lunch.

When he arrived, he had not chatted long when he announced that he had made a trip to his birthplace in Nova Scotia the summer before. He had just received a videotape of a party he attended there and he wanted to show it to me. I popped it in and as the tape rolled, my 71 year-old uncle exclaimed, "My heart just skipped a beat! That's her!" I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. But, it was clear that the twinkle in his eye was back. He was in love. She was a woman, he explained, that he had romanced when he was young. She had never married in the intervening years.

Life had returned to his heart and he was not about to let this love get away. Within a year, he was happily married to a woman he loved and who loved him.

Lightning

2007-02-17T22:28:00.002-05:00

Thank you to Prescott Pym for permission to use this photo.

When my father would hear the first rumble of thunder, he would often gather us all into the car and drive to the highest point of land where we could get the best view. If it weren’t possible to chase the storm, Dad would position himself on the covered patio on the side of our garage. He would stand there, smoking his pipe, watching and listening attentively. The display of electricity as the sparks shot down from the sky and met the ground below never disappointed him.

It was with the deepest reverence and respect that I learned to watch the bursts of light cutting through the clouds. Even today, I find myself counted the seconds off between the audible jolts of sound that precede and follow the long, jagged, tentacles of sparks. It is hot meeting cold, positive crashing against negative. It is energy and brilliance being discharged so that it can be seen and heard. All the elements of wind, rain, sky and earth are present. Atmospheric scientists explain that the push of two sea breezes, one from the east and one from the west, force air upward. This is a common cause of lightning. The pressures of wind and gravity produce an enormous electrical potential.

It feels so much safer to surround myself with other people who share my values. I search for news reports that reflect opinions I already hold. I protect myself from the explosive power of opposites.

Not too long ago, I looked out the window to see two women walking towards the front door of my house. It was a cold, rainy morning. The two women were carrying a pamphlets and I had a moment of panic as the doorbell rang. Should I just pretend that there is no one home and let them leave their religious tracts by my door? They looked almost as surprised as I did when instead I opened the door wide and invited them to step inside. For a moment, I felt their surprise and indecision, as I had when I saw them come walking down my path. When I risk conflict, I can feel the pressure rise. Often, I can see it rising from the other side too.

The two women chose not to be tempted by the warmth of my home. Returning to their preset agenda, they stood outside in the drizzle and offered me a pamphlet. I declined to accept their gift. We all missed the energy of the opposite forces pushing against each other. We all missed the possibility of conflict and the potential of transformation.

Red Robin

2007-01-21T22:20:00.000-05:00

Thanks to AJ Franklin for permission to use his photograph

My childhood home had a backyard surrounded by a wire link fence. It wasn’t a fence intended to keep things out, but rather a safety parameter for children and small animals. Many a neighborhood child entered the gate of that fence to a zone where they could depend upon attentive listening, honest answers and respect that was extended to people, animals, plants and rocks.

Behind our house, there was a family with four children. The youngest child was born prematurely. The infant weighed two pounds at birth. After spending the first few months of her fragile life in an incubator, she emerged to meet the world totally and permanently blinded by the oxygen. Her name was Robin and it was a fitting name for her since as a child she greeted life with all the enthusiasm a bird displays bobbing for worms on a lawn.

When Robin was still an infant, her mother left. Shortly after that, Robin’s father began dropping her off at our house each morning before he went to work. Robin's three older siblings would go to school. During school vacations, our house was normally filled with children anyway, but Robin spent most of her week days with us until her father remarried several years later. It was the late 1950’s. No thought was given to paying for childcare. My parents both took on the challenge willingly and embraced the lessons that Robin taught us about the world as she experienced it.

Robin was a child not like any we had known before. Children learn many things by watching others. Until we knew Robin, we were unaware that children who cannot see need special training to learn to eat their food. Sucking is instinctual and when left untrained, blind children may never learn to bite or chew their food. When my mother first said, "Chew your food," we watched in utter surprise as she slapped one of her tiny hands on the top of her head and the other under her chin and squeezed as hard as she could while trying to push her own jaw.

Over the first several years of her life, my parents made sure she had many opportunities to explore the world around her. They took her to local farms where she could pet sheep, goats and calves. They included time on their walks in a forest for her to touch the textures of moss, pine needles and sand. She went with our family on picnics where she would revel in the smell of wood smoke and the taste of a dinner cooked in tinfoil. As soon as she entered our house, she would dash through the kitchen and throw open the door to our basement, practically running down the narrow wooden steps to the old upright piano that had once belonged to my grandmother. She had more than a little musical talent. She would sit for long spells playing loudly and then softly. Quite consistently, she would strike perfect chords and invariably play tunes she had only heard on the radio.

The more time we spent with her, the more we came to respect her self-taught survival techniques. When Robin went somewhere new or met people for the first time, her conversation often seemed very repetitive and monotonous. She would ask questions constantly trying to discern, by the answers, who was nearby. She probably also learned a lot just by noticing the different perceptions of the each individual. Interspersed with her words were numerous sharp clicks made with her tongue.

We once took her on a trip to a bird sanctuary to listen to the sounds of the woods and fields. We left the car by the side of a dirt road and went off to explore. On our way back, Robin stopped about thirty feet away from the car and announced with confidence, "There’s the car over there." We puzzled over this statement for some time until she had repeatedly demonstrated her ability to tell when she was close to a car or house. We finally connected the habit of her tongue clicking and the echo that helped Robin to locate large objects in her path.

Few things frustrated Robin. As a child, she never learned the gambits of feeling sorry for herself or being grumpy or petulant. Yet, one day as she was in our back yard, playing a game of toss with other neighborhood children, she came running to my father with a quizzical look and a troubling question. "Which one," she demanded to know, "is the red ball?"