December 19, 2010
Baking cookies and finishing some Christmas presents has kept me more house bound than I would have wanted today. Yesterday, my daughter, her partner and I brought in this year’s tree. I had spied one near my driveway that I thought would be in the way in about five years. The top was comparable to a tree-farm tree. Unlike most that I cut and my daughter complains I always pick “Charlie Brown” trees. This year I thought I had out-done myself. I couldn’t remember how big it was at the base, so had her partner bring the chain saw, we didn’t need it. My daughter took one look at the beautiful tree I intended to cut down and said, “That’s too nice to cut.” She looked around; there were many small firs in the vicinity. “How about this one, it’s too close to that pine anyway?” I replied, “So now you are getting Charlie Brown trees.” She cut it down, pulled it to the house, and we decorated one more Charlie Brown. In spite of its gaps and spindly branches it looks nice.
I did a quick walk of the loop, through the woods to the waterfall and up around. It is cold; there is ice on the rocks where the spray from the falls splashes out. The little eddy has chunks of ice floating in circles. Soon they will be worn down to round pads. We had quite a lot of rain last weekend, then the cold set back in. The vernal pools are clear, etched with air bubbles and a filigree of white crystals, while the leaves underneath are cast with extra clarity.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Monday, December 6, 2010
December 6, 2010
A gift of a snow day today. So with unfettered time, I went for another walk in the woods. Today, no dog accompanied me, so all was relatively quiet. I heard the skreak as the soles of my boots compressed the snow beneath my feet, my heart beating and the puff of my breath. Upon stopping in a stand of firs, I heard the quiet call of a chickaddee or a golden crewned kinglet. I suspected a kinglet because the call was so quiet, and I did not see the bird, another indication that it was the kinglet. The vernal pools that I routinely pass were a steely gray as the snow settled and sank into the warmer water. I wondered about the frogs, tadpoles and salamanders that have dug deep underneath the ground to survive this winter.
I am reading The Watchers at the Pond, by Franklin Russell. It is an older book, from the 60's, that I found at the Goodwill. I liked the picture on the cover. Russell follows the life in and around a northeastern pond for a year. He writes of the struggles with the cold, heat, predators and unseuccessful breeding. It is bleak, yet extraordinary. I tend to look at the beauty I see in nature, not the hardship. One winter, I found the frozen body of a Golden Crowned Kinglet. I picked it up and admired the shading and the delicacy of its feathers. I did not think of how it happened to be dead under this particular tree. Of how it settled against the trunk of the tree during a particularly cold night and its metabolism slowed and slowed until it stopped all together. Now, I may think differently as I walk my woods. I will wonder about the birds, turtle,and the beavers that I share this space with. Maybe i am lucky that i have come from a species that has developed a brain that can manipulate external forces to survive. At any rate, I sit here cozy in my home as the snow continues to fall.
I am reading The Watchers at the Pond, by Franklin Russell. It is an older book, from the 60's, that I found at the Goodwill. I liked the picture on the cover. Russell follows the life in and around a northeastern pond for a year. He writes of the struggles with the cold, heat, predators and unseuccessful breeding. It is bleak, yet extraordinary. I tend to look at the beauty I see in nature, not the hardship. One winter, I found the frozen body of a Golden Crowned Kinglet. I picked it up and admired the shading and the delicacy of its feathers. I did not think of how it happened to be dead under this particular tree. Of how it settled against the trunk of the tree during a particularly cold night and its metabolism slowed and slowed until it stopped all together. Now, I may think differently as I walk my woods. I will wonder about the birds, turtle,and the beavers that I share this space with. Maybe i am lucky that i have come from a species that has developed a brain that can manipulate external forces to survive. At any rate, I sit here cozy in my home as the snow continues to fall.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
December 5, 2010
The first post in a long time, it is accompanied by the first snow that I was able to witness. I had returned home from a Thanksgiving trip to see snow, but today I watched it fall and went out in it.
I have been neglecting this writing through the hectic time of summer and fall; gardening, harvesting, splitting and stacking wood. All those activities that the ant bustles to get done while the grasshopper plays his fiddle. Now I can return to the inner sphere and resume this passion that I have missed.
I went walking with my daughter's dog today. She has returned to her house next door, having been away for two years. Walking with a dog in the woods creates a different experience. The still contemplative musings of a solitary walker are abrubtly altered by an excited, quick footed puppy. He'd prefer that I threw a stick for him to retrieve every ten seconds. Sometimes I oblige, sometimes I don't. When I stop to take a photo of a lingering red partridge berry, he steps on it. But he carries an excitement that is contagious. I find myself smiling, laughing and walking more light-heartedly with him bounding around. As I walked today I realized that the next few trips out will require me to bring the pruners along. The trails are getting narrower as small saplings thicken and grow. I will certainly need to get out before I head out with the skis, I'm already a pretty clumsy skier, I don't need little trees tripping me up!
So here goes to my faithful reader of one! ie: jg. do you still check this now and then?
I have been neglecting this writing through the hectic time of summer and fall; gardening, harvesting, splitting and stacking wood. All those activities that the ant bustles to get done while the grasshopper plays his fiddle. Now I can return to the inner sphere and resume this passion that I have missed.
I went walking with my daughter's dog today. She has returned to her house next door, having been away for two years. Walking with a dog in the woods creates a different experience. The still contemplative musings of a solitary walker are abrubtly altered by an excited, quick footed puppy. He'd prefer that I threw a stick for him to retrieve every ten seconds. Sometimes I oblige, sometimes I don't. When I stop to take a photo of a lingering red partridge berry, he steps on it. But he carries an excitement that is contagious. I find myself smiling, laughing and walking more light-heartedly with him bounding around. As I walked today I realized that the next few trips out will require me to bring the pruners along. The trails are getting narrower as small saplings thicken and grow. I will certainly need to get out before I head out with the skis, I'm already a pretty clumsy skier, I don't need little trees tripping me up!
So here goes to my faithful reader of one! ie: jg. do you still check this now and then?
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
June 30, 2010
My literary moments are growing further and further apart. I thought this might happen. I use the computer less, and when I do use it, it is to check e-mail at a time when I usually don’t have extended time to begin writing.
Plus, I find that my moments in nature are less frequent, I am not taking long walks, and the moments seem more mundane or fleeting. I am in the garden or walking out to the mailbox at the end of a long day. Does anyone want to read about the mist rising up over the farmer’s field as I drove home from a meeting? Or my seconds long encounter with a doe last night. I met her on the road. She was beginning to walk into the road as I was driving down. I slowed; she turned and went to the edge of the trees. There she stopped, turned and looked at the big beast that slowed for her. Our eyes met: hers a beautiful deep-toned brown of earth, mine green and shielded by spectacles. Could she see into my soul? I did not tarry, I have not tarried watching wildlife on the road ever since I pointed to a partridge to my hunting ex-husband. He stopped the car and shot it. I will never be a point dog again! I find that now it is better to keep those moments brief and secret in my heart, as a treasure for me to carry within.
Parts of the garden are doing great, parts are not. I planted edemame (fresh soybean, as opposed to dry) this year and had four plants come up from a packet of about 30. I was just talking to a friend that planted some too; she had the same ratio of 4:30. Maybe it was a poor seed crop. The winter squashes never seemed to sprout either. The seed was a few years old, but…. There is a farm stand where I can supplement my failures. The rest of the garden is fairing quite well, and I have no complaints. I am battling slugs, as is everyone I know. At our last book discussion group, we talked about our various means of dealing with slugs. Some of the more gentle folks I know get pretty heartless when it comes to protecting their vegetables.
The birds continue to sing, the beavers are enjoying the swimming hole, and the plants are blooming all out of sequence this year.
My literary moments are growing further and further apart. I thought this might happen. I use the computer less, and when I do use it, it is to check e-mail at a time when I usually don’t have extended time to begin writing.
Plus, I find that my moments in nature are less frequent, I am not taking long walks, and the moments seem more mundane or fleeting. I am in the garden or walking out to the mailbox at the end of a long day. Does anyone want to read about the mist rising up over the farmer’s field as I drove home from a meeting? Or my seconds long encounter with a doe last night. I met her on the road. She was beginning to walk into the road as I was driving down. I slowed; she turned and went to the edge of the trees. There she stopped, turned and looked at the big beast that slowed for her. Our eyes met: hers a beautiful deep-toned brown of earth, mine green and shielded by spectacles. Could she see into my soul? I did not tarry, I have not tarried watching wildlife on the road ever since I pointed to a partridge to my hunting ex-husband. He stopped the car and shot it. I will never be a point dog again! I find that now it is better to keep those moments brief and secret in my heart, as a treasure for me to carry within.
Parts of the garden are doing great, parts are not. I planted edemame (fresh soybean, as opposed to dry) this year and had four plants come up from a packet of about 30. I was just talking to a friend that planted some too; she had the same ratio of 4:30. Maybe it was a poor seed crop. The winter squashes never seemed to sprout either. The seed was a few years old, but…. There is a farm stand where I can supplement my failures. The rest of the garden is fairing quite well, and I have no complaints. I am battling slugs, as is everyone I know. At our last book discussion group, we talked about our various means of dealing with slugs. Some of the more gentle folks I know get pretty heartless when it comes to protecting their vegetables.
The birds continue to sing, the beavers are enjoying the swimming hole, and the plants are blooming all out of sequence this year.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Today a group of the land trust people met for a hike on some property in the town of Newburg. I must admit, I have not felt at all attached to the property, in fact the other times I went there I decided I didn’t like it. The town owns the land and it appears to have been heavily logged so much of it is covered in young growth. Because of that, there are not many views and the trail is ATV and snowmobile-wide, which I don’t like. I went today with the idea to look for the little things that are beautiful, and I found them.
First, upon stepping out of the truck, I spotted a few ripe wild strawberries. The field abounded in strawberry and raspberry plants. It will be good raspberry picking in a few more weeks. There were many ferns and wildflowers. I spotted Indian Cucumber and we tasted a piece of the root, for those that had never tried it before. I also found some Chaga (sp?)--a fungus that grows on birch which you can boil to make a tea. My sister gave me some for Christmas, and I have been trying to find it in the wild since then. No one wanted to try some, even though I could attest to its goodness; it must be that word “fungus”. As I said earlier, I was looking for the little things; much of the moss had their sporophytes up, little capsules with which they will spread their spores to reproduce. The tops were still tightly on, but it was worth a few photos. We came upon the dry remains of what looked to be a great vernal pool, and a larger view of farm fields and the hills of Dixmont.
After the trek though the woods we drove back to the president’s (of the land trust) house and had splendid and hearty potluck. It was a nice end to the excursion, with business and laughter on a breezy deck.
I came home after that luncheon feeling a bit lazy. I puttered in the garden pulling weeds with not much vigor or purpose. I began to hear the rumblings of thunder coming closer until it was close overhead. At that I looked up to see ominously black clouds to the north-west. I meandered to the porch to await the storm and watch from the comfort of the chair. The wind did begin to howl and the rain poured down in a deluge, while the thunder continued to rumble. I’ve yet to get that new TV I thought about getting when the world went digital. Who needs it!
First, upon stepping out of the truck, I spotted a few ripe wild strawberries. The field abounded in strawberry and raspberry plants. It will be good raspberry picking in a few more weeks. There were many ferns and wildflowers. I spotted Indian Cucumber and we tasted a piece of the root, for those that had never tried it before. I also found some Chaga (sp?)--a fungus that grows on birch which you can boil to make a tea. My sister gave me some for Christmas, and I have been trying to find it in the wild since then. No one wanted to try some, even though I could attest to its goodness; it must be that word “fungus”. As I said earlier, I was looking for the little things; much of the moss had their sporophytes up, little capsules with which they will spread their spores to reproduce. The tops were still tightly on, but it was worth a few photos. We came upon the dry remains of what looked to be a great vernal pool, and a larger view of farm fields and the hills of Dixmont.
After the trek though the woods we drove back to the president’s (of the land trust) house and had splendid and hearty potluck. It was a nice end to the excursion, with business and laughter on a breezy deck.
I came home after that luncheon feeling a bit lazy. I puttered in the garden pulling weeds with not much vigor or purpose. I began to hear the rumblings of thunder coming closer until it was close overhead. At that I looked up to see ominously black clouds to the north-west. I meandered to the porch to await the storm and watch from the comfort of the chair. The wind did begin to howl and the rain poured down in a deluge, while the thunder continued to rumble. I’ve yet to get that new TV I thought about getting when the world went digital. Who needs it!
Monday, June 14, 2010
June 14, 2010
I have the afternoon off. I was puttering in the garden, planting some seeds and transplanting the too crowded beets in anticipation of some rain. I moved some black-eyed susans from the flower garden into the field to speed up the naturalization process. They are one of those favorite flowers of mine. They were my mother’s too. In her garden/yard in suburban Connecticut she let the back yard go wild and create a lively field of yellow. Some neighbors didn’t like that she didn’t mow her lawn, but passersby often stopped to ask what the yellow flower was in the yard; some people even came back for seeds.
The rain did begin and drove me in. I guess I wasn’t too driven to work in the yard.
So here I write. Last night, I went to take kitchen scraps to the compost and saw what I at first mistook for my cat. Then I realized it was my friend the skunk. I skirted the composter and put the scraps on the edge of the garden. He ambled away, but it looked like he came back as the new scraps were gone this afternoon. Seeing the skunk got me to thinking about skunk tails or is it tales. I am sure everyone has a skunk story or two in their lives. I have at least three very memorable ones. The wildest was probably about a year ago. I had gotten home from work, went to shut the chickens in and stuck my head in through their little door. I can see their heads hanging over their roosting box. They were there and I shut the door. The next morning I went to feed them and give them water. As I opened the two people doors I saw that my girls had had a nightly visitor, wearing black and white, and a very strong perfume. Inadvertently, I left the door between the front of the shed and the chicken’s space open as I quickly fled. I opened their door and ran inside. I figured the skunk would amble out and that would be that. Well….The next morning I noticed that the grain bag had been torn into and corn was everywhere. I did a quiet search and found the skunk sleeping soundly with what was probably a very full belly behind some scrap boards that I was always going to use for shelves. I could not imagine how I was going to evict my unwanted resident. I contemplated setting up a stereo on the further side of the shed and plugging it in at the house so that the noise would scare him out. I opted first for a gentler approach. Since it was sleeping, I very cautiously took the corn out of the shed and into the house. Without the food that night, he decided to go off and look for grubs or whatever. Luckily, when I could have come face to face with the skunk, it was not at the chicken door. Luckily too that I was later observant enough to realize it was still around and I did not bumble in too noisily and quickly. There are other skunk stories to tell, but I will let them wait.
I have the afternoon off. I was puttering in the garden, planting some seeds and transplanting the too crowded beets in anticipation of some rain. I moved some black-eyed susans from the flower garden into the field to speed up the naturalization process. They are one of those favorite flowers of mine. They were my mother’s too. In her garden/yard in suburban Connecticut she let the back yard go wild and create a lively field of yellow. Some neighbors didn’t like that she didn’t mow her lawn, but passersby often stopped to ask what the yellow flower was in the yard; some people even came back for seeds.
The rain did begin and drove me in. I guess I wasn’t too driven to work in the yard.
So here I write. Last night, I went to take kitchen scraps to the compost and saw what I at first mistook for my cat. Then I realized it was my friend the skunk. I skirted the composter and put the scraps on the edge of the garden. He ambled away, but it looked like he came back as the new scraps were gone this afternoon. Seeing the skunk got me to thinking about skunk tails or is it tales. I am sure everyone has a skunk story or two in their lives. I have at least three very memorable ones. The wildest was probably about a year ago. I had gotten home from work, went to shut the chickens in and stuck my head in through their little door. I can see their heads hanging over their roosting box. They were there and I shut the door. The next morning I went to feed them and give them water. As I opened the two people doors I saw that my girls had had a nightly visitor, wearing black and white, and a very strong perfume. Inadvertently, I left the door between the front of the shed and the chicken’s space open as I quickly fled. I opened their door and ran inside. I figured the skunk would amble out and that would be that. Well….The next morning I noticed that the grain bag had been torn into and corn was everywhere. I did a quiet search and found the skunk sleeping soundly with what was probably a very full belly behind some scrap boards that I was always going to use for shelves. I could not imagine how I was going to evict my unwanted resident. I contemplated setting up a stereo on the further side of the shed and plugging it in at the house so that the noise would scare him out. I opted first for a gentler approach. Since it was sleeping, I very cautiously took the corn out of the shed and into the house. Without the food that night, he decided to go off and look for grubs or whatever. Luckily, when I could have come face to face with the skunk, it was not at the chicken door. Luckily too that I was later observant enough to realize it was still around and I did not bumble in too noisily and quickly. There are other skunk stories to tell, but I will let them wait.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
June 9, 2010
I was driving in to work today and came upon a road-kill. A turkey vulture was sitting atop it and tearing off pieces as I approached in my car. The vulture was not immediately intimidated by the size of my matrix and lifted its wings up and out to “scare" me off. It thought better of it a few seconds later and flew into a nearby tree, to watch me pass. Then as I turned onto route 141 where I can see the workings of a growing gravel pit, I noticed a flock of vultures circling over the torn and scarred earth. How symbolic to have vultures, harbingers of death and destruction hovering over the dying earth.
I remember my first experience with vultures. I was about 12 years old and we were visiting relatives in Pennsylvania. Our older cousin, Jonathan, took us for a hike, through farmers fields, past cow pastures and up onto a nearby mountain. In one of the fields there were a dead animal and a flock of vultures raucously feasting. At that point, they seemed as tall as me. Jonathan led us very close to the birds, which were not the least intimidated by us. They hissed and lifted their wings to increase their visual size. I was thoroughly frightened, but I was not about to show it to my cousin and my sister and brother. I skirted the scene as far from them as I dared without looking like a chicken; but I couldn’t help imagining the vultures plucking my eyes out.
On a more pleasant note: I checked out the swimming hole in the evening yesterday. The beaver was sitting on the sandbar near the opposite bank. I watched it for a few minutes as it ate, then moved to the bank and returned to the sandbar with a twig of alder. As I watched it was oblivious, then I heard a giant smack in the pool below me, the lookout beaver spotted me and let out a warning smack on the water before diving under. The other beaver quickly swam up stream and around the bend. My beaver now has a friend. I hung around for a while, but neither one returned.
I was driving in to work today and came upon a road-kill. A turkey vulture was sitting atop it and tearing off pieces as I approached in my car. The vulture was not immediately intimidated by the size of my matrix and lifted its wings up and out to “scare" me off. It thought better of it a few seconds later and flew into a nearby tree, to watch me pass. Then as I turned onto route 141 where I can see the workings of a growing gravel pit, I noticed a flock of vultures circling over the torn and scarred earth. How symbolic to have vultures, harbingers of death and destruction hovering over the dying earth.
I remember my first experience with vultures. I was about 12 years old and we were visiting relatives in Pennsylvania. Our older cousin, Jonathan, took us for a hike, through farmers fields, past cow pastures and up onto a nearby mountain. In one of the fields there were a dead animal and a flock of vultures raucously feasting. At that point, they seemed as tall as me. Jonathan led us very close to the birds, which were not the least intimidated by us. They hissed and lifted their wings to increase their visual size. I was thoroughly frightened, but I was not about to show it to my cousin and my sister and brother. I skirted the scene as far from them as I dared without looking like a chicken; but I couldn’t help imagining the vultures plucking my eyes out.
On a more pleasant note: I checked out the swimming hole in the evening yesterday. The beaver was sitting on the sandbar near the opposite bank. I watched it for a few minutes as it ate, then moved to the bank and returned to the sandbar with a twig of alder. As I watched it was oblivious, then I heard a giant smack in the pool below me, the lookout beaver spotted me and let out a warning smack on the water before diving under. The other beaver quickly swam up stream and around the bend. My beaver now has a friend. I hung around for a while, but neither one returned.
Monday, June 7, 2010
June 7, 2010
I just got back from a walk in the woods. It is nice to have the sun back, but I admit we were in dire need of rain. The river is back up to the level it should be at, and my sump pump is happily humming away. I’m not sure it liked the hiatus, even though I did, at least for it. The lady slippers are going by, there were far fewer blooming this year. In the field the milkweed is beginning to bud. I pick a few for tonight’s supper. They do have oxalic acid, but if you rinse them a few times and change the water while cooking, you should be ok. I like them, but I don’t know too many people that are willing to try them, and those that did, didn’t really like them (like my children).
I spent Saturday afternoon in the garden. I finally have the lettuce and other greens, the beans, corn and s1uash seeds planted. I took advantage of the rainy forecast and got in all the seedlings that I had bought. I then mulched and put up a fence for the stunted peas. I hope they aspire to some height now that they have something to cling to.
I have to say that I will probably be caught lying many times if I keep this blog up for long. Right now my favorite shrub is in bloom. It is sheep’s laurel; the northern stunted (Maine) version of the mountain laurel I grew up with in Connecticut. The lie will be the fact that I will often say my favorite flower is in bloom. Just wait until full summer! I guess I forget the beauty and the thrill of the flower until I see it again. I am like that with food too. I can never use my favorite food for password protection for pin numbers, because depending on what is in season my tastes change. I am a fickle person, I guess.
Ah well there are worse things to be in life.
I just got back from a walk in the woods. It is nice to have the sun back, but I admit we were in dire need of rain. The river is back up to the level it should be at, and my sump pump is happily humming away. I’m not sure it liked the hiatus, even though I did, at least for it. The lady slippers are going by, there were far fewer blooming this year. In the field the milkweed is beginning to bud. I pick a few for tonight’s supper. They do have oxalic acid, but if you rinse them a few times and change the water while cooking, you should be ok. I like them, but I don’t know too many people that are willing to try them, and those that did, didn’t really like them (like my children).
I spent Saturday afternoon in the garden. I finally have the lettuce and other greens, the beans, corn and s1uash seeds planted. I took advantage of the rainy forecast and got in all the seedlings that I had bought. I then mulched and put up a fence for the stunted peas. I hope they aspire to some height now that they have something to cling to.
I have to say that I will probably be caught lying many times if I keep this blog up for long. Right now my favorite shrub is in bloom. It is sheep’s laurel; the northern stunted (Maine) version of the mountain laurel I grew up with in Connecticut. The lie will be the fact that I will often say my favorite flower is in bloom. Just wait until full summer! I guess I forget the beauty and the thrill of the flower until I see it again. I am like that with food too. I can never use my favorite food for password protection for pin numbers, because depending on what is in season my tastes change. I am a fickle person, I guess.
Ah well there are worse things to be in life.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Thank goodness for the rain. What I had in the garden was looking quite parched when I returned home from a stint in Massachusetts and New Hampshire. I watered when I got home, but the rain was a blessing.
I took a trip to my sister’s for the long weekend. Last year at this time she took me to a Heron Rookery, where we saw probably twenty nests; there were at least twice that in actuality. This was the first time I saw a rookery. I did not realize that herons nest in the tops of the trees. They seem too big and ungainly to be able to land and rest on thin branches, but they do and with grace at that. This year we visited a sheep fair, and helped around the gardens. I got to see the robin’s nest that a robin built on their porch railing, unfortunately she came home from work one day last week to find the robin gone, one broken egg and two missing eggs. The robin has not returned.
I made a brief check on the swimming hole in the early evening. The beaver was taking a probably well deserved break. It was floating in the water with its forelegs outspread, and its tail and hind legs stretched out behind it. For the first time ever, I saw it just floating. When it heard me, it moved off upstream. I think I had found its den in the bank on one of my jaunts in the late spring.
Supper is beckoning…
I took a trip to my sister’s for the long weekend. Last year at this time she took me to a Heron Rookery, where we saw probably twenty nests; there were at least twice that in actuality. This was the first time I saw a rookery. I did not realize that herons nest in the tops of the trees. They seem too big and ungainly to be able to land and rest on thin branches, but they do and with grace at that. This year we visited a sheep fair, and helped around the gardens. I got to see the robin’s nest that a robin built on their porch railing, unfortunately she came home from work one day last week to find the robin gone, one broken egg and two missing eggs. The robin has not returned.
I made a brief check on the swimming hole in the early evening. The beaver was taking a probably well deserved break. It was floating in the water with its forelegs outspread, and its tail and hind legs stretched out behind it. For the first time ever, I saw it just floating. When it heard me, it moved off upstream. I think I had found its den in the bank on one of my jaunts in the late spring.
Supper is beckoning…
Thursday, May 27, 2010
I haven’t even had the computer on for days. It has been nice after needing to use it everyday for the last semester; I feel liberated.
The heat of a few days ago reminded most of us of August and seemed quite abnormal. One of those hot evenings, I decided I better water the garden, the peas are stunted and the seedlings were looking droopy. As I readjusted the sprinkler, a humming bird quickly took up pursuit of some fresh water. He stayed within the arch of the spray and appeared to be drinking the drops. Tonight, I again watered some seedlings, and the little hummer came by for another drink. I don’t put out a bird bath since I live next to the river, but I guess for the hummingbird fresh drops of cool water were a treat. I wonder if he goes out in the rain to catch drops?
With the garden needing planting and tending, my focus has been on the small circle of my yard. I tend to notice the bird songs, but my head is bent over the ground and my field of view has shrunk. I keep finding worms. Three years ago I had none here, so I am doing something right. I have added compost, wood chips and many bales of hay or straw, along with leaves each fall. The slug population has diminished. I think the chickens helped that while they foraged for two years; I wonder what will happen without them now.
There is a pair of chickadees nesting in a rotten birch stump (which is about four feet high) by the garden. They nested there last year too. Luckily for them it is near the asparagus patch and I have don’t go in that area very often. It is fun to watch then flit in and out. Right now they are in most of the time. The cardinal at the day care where I work abandoned her nest with one beautiful spotted egg. It is mottled grays and browns, and blends in almost perfectly with the grasses and leaves that the female built the nest with. We think they have made a new nest outside of the play yard, where the children don’t make so much noise.
The heat of a few days ago reminded most of us of August and seemed quite abnormal. One of those hot evenings, I decided I better water the garden, the peas are stunted and the seedlings were looking droopy. As I readjusted the sprinkler, a humming bird quickly took up pursuit of some fresh water. He stayed within the arch of the spray and appeared to be drinking the drops. Tonight, I again watered some seedlings, and the little hummer came by for another drink. I don’t put out a bird bath since I live next to the river, but I guess for the hummingbird fresh drops of cool water were a treat. I wonder if he goes out in the rain to catch drops?
With the garden needing planting and tending, my focus has been on the small circle of my yard. I tend to notice the bird songs, but my head is bent over the ground and my field of view has shrunk. I keep finding worms. Three years ago I had none here, so I am doing something right. I have added compost, wood chips and many bales of hay or straw, along with leaves each fall. The slug population has diminished. I think the chickens helped that while they foraged for two years; I wonder what will happen without them now.
There is a pair of chickadees nesting in a rotten birch stump (which is about four feet high) by the garden. They nested there last year too. Luckily for them it is near the asparagus patch and I have don’t go in that area very often. It is fun to watch then flit in and out. Right now they are in most of the time. The cardinal at the day care where I work abandoned her nest with one beautiful spotted egg. It is mottled grays and browns, and blends in almost perfectly with the grasses and leaves that the female built the nest with. We think they have made a new nest outside of the play yard, where the children don’t make so much noise.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monday, May 17, 2010
The first arrival to a party that I had on Saturday was a snapping turtle. I happened to look out into the driveway to see a small dark shape moving toward the house. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a turtle. I think it was moving from a drying up wet area, and looking for a new place to be. I went out and moved it into a vernal pool on the other side of the house. I begrudged the fact that the tadpoles would soon become the turtles lunch and dinner. By rescuing the turtle, I have caused the demise of many amphibians, but we are all part of a circle. In order for one creature to live another must die, and there is a balance of sorts in the chaos of the ecosystem. Will this one act cause a greater imbalance, probably not? But many of the other things I do may. If there were just my action s to consider, there may not be an imbalance, but compound my human actions by all the other humans doing the same things (consuming resources, creating waste, creating a monoculture in our lawns… and the list goes on and on.) Even this journal I keep…
Tonight, Monday, I hear the white throated sparrow and oven bird out the window. I have been preparing myself for a public meeting with a CMP representative and towns people. CMP is upgrading their power lines to meet the demands of the North Eastern Grid. I do not know that any of us have a real say in the matter at this point, but…we shall see.
As the sun descends toward the western horizon, the shade is getting deep. The oaks are still unfurling their leaves, but the poplar and maples are fully developed. The verdant color of spring is darkening. And I hear the new call of the Green Frog in the nearby pool.
The first arrival to a party that I had on Saturday was a snapping turtle. I happened to look out into the driveway to see a small dark shape moving toward the house. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was a turtle. I think it was moving from a drying up wet area, and looking for a new place to be. I went out and moved it into a vernal pool on the other side of the house. I begrudged the fact that the tadpoles would soon become the turtles lunch and dinner. By rescuing the turtle, I have caused the demise of many amphibians, but we are all part of a circle. In order for one creature to live another must die, and there is a balance of sorts in the chaos of the ecosystem. Will this one act cause a greater imbalance, probably not? But many of the other things I do may. If there were just my action s to consider, there may not be an imbalance, but compound my human actions by all the other humans doing the same things (consuming resources, creating waste, creating a monoculture in our lawns… and the list goes on and on.) Even this journal I keep…
Tonight, Monday, I hear the white throated sparrow and oven bird out the window. I have been preparing myself for a public meeting with a CMP representative and towns people. CMP is upgrading their power lines to meet the demands of the North Eastern Grid. I do not know that any of us have a real say in the matter at this point, but…we shall see.
As the sun descends toward the western horizon, the shade is getting deep. The oaks are still unfurling their leaves, but the poplar and maples are fully developed. The verdant color of spring is darkening. And I hear the new call of the Green Frog in the nearby pool.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010
An exhausting three days, but sometimes I wonder what else is new. Work can be draining no matter what. There are ten to twenty children always hovering and needing. I love it, but I do get tired.
Monday amidst the chaos and din of children’s voices, singing, fighting, yelling, laughing, we watched a female cardinal build a nest two feet from the window. She methodically brought twigs to a sheltered area in a bush by the window. Every time she arrived with a new twig, she nestled into the concave center of the twigs, placed the new twig and turned a full circle adjusting and rearranging. By the end of the day it looked like she had a completed nest. Many of the children sat and watched for brief periods of time. Then we of course created a teachable moment and brought out some books that we have on birds and their nests. I did not see the cardinal on Tuesday or today. I inspected the nest while outside. She has twigs, and some leaves and a bit of plastic; all rather solidly molded together. I do not know if she decided to abandon that nest, or if she is taking a few days reprieve before she is ready to lay her eggs. The male continues to sing in the trees nearby, though.
I haven’t been around the river since the weekend. I had dinner with the neighbors and we talked about the fish they caught in the pool that adjoins our property, and I told them about the small patch of fiddleheads I found on their bank. (They bought the house last fall, and come up when they can while working another year or two before they retire).
An exhausting three days, but sometimes I wonder what else is new. Work can be draining no matter what. There are ten to twenty children always hovering and needing. I love it, but I do get tired.
Monday amidst the chaos and din of children’s voices, singing, fighting, yelling, laughing, we watched a female cardinal build a nest two feet from the window. She methodically brought twigs to a sheltered area in a bush by the window. Every time she arrived with a new twig, she nestled into the concave center of the twigs, placed the new twig and turned a full circle adjusting and rearranging. By the end of the day it looked like she had a completed nest. Many of the children sat and watched for brief periods of time. Then we of course created a teachable moment and brought out some books that we have on birds and their nests. I did not see the cardinal on Tuesday or today. I inspected the nest while outside. She has twigs, and some leaves and a bit of plastic; all rather solidly molded together. I do not know if she decided to abandon that nest, or if she is taking a few days reprieve before she is ready to lay her eggs. The male continues to sing in the trees nearby, though.
I haven’t been around the river since the weekend. I had dinner with the neighbors and we talked about the fish they caught in the pool that adjoins our property, and I told them about the small patch of fiddleheads I found on their bank. (They bought the house last fall, and come up when they can while working another year or two before they retire).
Sunday, May 9, 2010
From this day forward
Sunday, May 9, 2010
It appears that anything posted from now on is superfluous to my college career. However, I had enjoyed the nature writing, so will continue until life takes a turn and the urge to write dies out.
It’s Mother’s Day. I talked to both of my children earlier in the day. They’ll be up next weekend! As my gift to me, went for two walks. It is very chilly today. Three layers and gloves, and I still felt chilled. I took the loop along the river; I try to make it a daily ritual, or at least three times a week. The leaves have popped out quite a bit, since last time I went around. The fiddleheads that I picked last Sunday are now waist high, and I could not find any that were small enough to eat. It was windy which was nice; between the wind and the cold, the black flies were not around. I checked out the vernal pool on the property line. My neighbor and I share the pool and we both watch to see how life is progressing. I saw no egg masses, nor tadpoles, but I did scare a frog. Unfortunately, I didn’t see it. The Rhodora is beginning to bloom in the wet places. I spotted some Canadian Dogwood in bloom also.
After I got home, I hopped in the car and drove over to Northern Pond. It is some property that the town of Monroe put under an easement, and is open to the public. Being on the Conservation Commission and on the Board of the Land Trust that holds the easement, I am there for work quite a bit. I don’t get there enough for just the fun of it. I don’t think I have ever been there alone either. Well, I did have some purpose; I took the camera to take pictures for the land trust. Since it rained yesterday, the leaves were damp and my footsteps muted. If not for the wind I may have noticed more birds, I certainly would have been able to sneak up on them. I did see a warbler, and that is the closest I can get to naming it. I wish I knew birds better! The painted trillium was in bloom, and there were many scattered along the path. It felt like I was on a scavenger hunt, and just when I thought I wouldn’t see anymore another one was there in front of me. I wondered if the person before me happened to notice them, or were they too busy walking their dog. Up on top of the Hemlock ridge, I took a break and marveled at the stillness under the trees. The slope was too steep to log, so large hemlocks were left standing. It is a peaceful spot and a place where I am reminded that I am small. Then down the hill through the beeches. They are leaving out and an incredible emerald green right now. I think if the word verdant, when I see spring greens. To be green, to think, live and breath green. It is so alive and explosive, not like the lazy heavy greens of summer, when you want to sleep and dream green.
It appears that anything posted from now on is superfluous to my college career. However, I had enjoyed the nature writing, so will continue until life takes a turn and the urge to write dies out.
It’s Mother’s Day. I talked to both of my children earlier in the day. They’ll be up next weekend! As my gift to me, went for two walks. It is very chilly today. Three layers and gloves, and I still felt chilled. I took the loop along the river; I try to make it a daily ritual, or at least three times a week. The leaves have popped out quite a bit, since last time I went around. The fiddleheads that I picked last Sunday are now waist high, and I could not find any that were small enough to eat. It was windy which was nice; between the wind and the cold, the black flies were not around. I checked out the vernal pool on the property line. My neighbor and I share the pool and we both watch to see how life is progressing. I saw no egg masses, nor tadpoles, but I did scare a frog. Unfortunately, I didn’t see it. The Rhodora is beginning to bloom in the wet places. I spotted some Canadian Dogwood in bloom also.
After I got home, I hopped in the car and drove over to Northern Pond. It is some property that the town of Monroe put under an easement, and is open to the public. Being on the Conservation Commission and on the Board of the Land Trust that holds the easement, I am there for work quite a bit. I don’t get there enough for just the fun of it. I don’t think I have ever been there alone either. Well, I did have some purpose; I took the camera to take pictures for the land trust. Since it rained yesterday, the leaves were damp and my footsteps muted. If not for the wind I may have noticed more birds, I certainly would have been able to sneak up on them. I did see a warbler, and that is the closest I can get to naming it. I wish I knew birds better! The painted trillium was in bloom, and there were many scattered along the path. It felt like I was on a scavenger hunt, and just when I thought I wouldn’t see anymore another one was there in front of me. I wondered if the person before me happened to notice them, or were they too busy walking their dog. Up on top of the Hemlock ridge, I took a break and marveled at the stillness under the trees. The slope was too steep to log, so large hemlocks were left standing. It is a peaceful spot and a place where I am reminded that I am small. Then down the hill through the beeches. They are leaving out and an incredible emerald green right now. I think if the word verdant, when I see spring greens. To be green, to think, live and breath green. It is so alive and explosive, not like the lazy heavy greens of summer, when you want to sleep and dream green.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Week 15: A nature journal
May 8, 2010
A rainy day. I’ve actually stayed in a good part of the day; I am feeling tired and lazy. Yesterday, I had someone cutting down many of the dead standing oaks around my property. I strategically left some that could be used for woodpecker habitat, but I now have a good start on the winter’s supply of wood. When I got home yesterday, Dave, the wood cutter was still hauling the firewood that was felled along and across the driveway. I donned outdoor work clothes and helped to bring it in. While working, I could hear the oven bird, with its song of “teacher, teacher, teacher” and the hermit thrush off in the distance. Hauling wood wasn’t in my evening plan, but it was a good end to my day, but something that needed to be done.
This morning I was up very early. It was drizzling, but not enough to force me in. I split some of the wood, and moved compost, which also got delivered this week. I will have wood splitting on the chore agenda for quite a bit. I planted some raspberries that I ordered too.
The leaves on the trees have emerged and grown overnight. It always seems to happen like that. One day they are small, the next, especially after a rain, they are full grown. I guess when the seasons are short; nature has to work more quickly. Already it is harder to see the birds that are coming through. One evening during the week a white throated sparrow landed on the railing of my steps. From inside, I was able to get about three feet away. The reflection on the glass must have been just right, because he didn’t react to me. It was exciting to see the bird so close. There was a little patch of yellow just forward from its eye, and a little patch of white outlined in black on its throat. I even managed to get some good pictures of it.
A rainy day. I’ve actually stayed in a good part of the day; I am feeling tired and lazy. Yesterday, I had someone cutting down many of the dead standing oaks around my property. I strategically left some that could be used for woodpecker habitat, but I now have a good start on the winter’s supply of wood. When I got home yesterday, Dave, the wood cutter was still hauling the firewood that was felled along and across the driveway. I donned outdoor work clothes and helped to bring it in. While working, I could hear the oven bird, with its song of “teacher, teacher, teacher” and the hermit thrush off in the distance. Hauling wood wasn’t in my evening plan, but it was a good end to my day, but something that needed to be done.
This morning I was up very early. It was drizzling, but not enough to force me in. I split some of the wood, and moved compost, which also got delivered this week. I will have wood splitting on the chore agenda for quite a bit. I planted some raspberries that I ordered too.
The leaves on the trees have emerged and grown overnight. It always seems to happen like that. One day they are small, the next, especially after a rain, they are full grown. I guess when the seasons are short; nature has to work more quickly. Already it is harder to see the birds that are coming through. One evening during the week a white throated sparrow landed on the railing of my steps. From inside, I was able to get about three feet away. The reflection on the glass must have been just right, because he didn’t react to me. It was exciting to see the bird so close. There was a little patch of yellow just forward from its eye, and a little patch of white outlined in black on its throat. I even managed to get some good pictures of it.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Week 14 #2: Using yourself differently.
To read a book.
To teach a young child, three and four year olds, about books, they say you should remember to point out the title, the author, the illustrator, the publisher and the copyright date. As you read, explain the period, the comma, and the question mark. Point out the phonemes, the upper and lower case letters and why they are used. Dissect the book and leave the wonder out of the equation. Who cares if the story is understood, or the gift of words is actually realized? It’s all about getting ready to teach for that test.
To teach a love of reading, forget the lesson. Animate and sing the words, inflect them with feeling. Enjoy the words and let them run over your tongue in bits of rhyme and rhythm; let them feel that period. Let the images be born, let the child feel the possibility of escape, let them believe the rabbit can talk. Tell the story as the ancient traditions would, weave the words with body and soul. Imbue the child with excitement, and love and a yearning for more.
What is most important at four? To understand grammar and research or the excitement that the written word can contain?
To teach a young child, three and four year olds, about books, they say you should remember to point out the title, the author, the illustrator, the publisher and the copyright date. As you read, explain the period, the comma, and the question mark. Point out the phonemes, the upper and lower case letters and why they are used. Dissect the book and leave the wonder out of the equation. Who cares if the story is understood, or the gift of words is actually realized? It’s all about getting ready to teach for that test.
To teach a love of reading, forget the lesson. Animate and sing the words, inflect them with feeling. Enjoy the words and let them run over your tongue in bits of rhyme and rhythm; let them feel that period. Let the images be born, let the child feel the possibility of escape, let them believe the rabbit can talk. Tell the story as the ancient traditions would, weave the words with body and soul. Imbue the child with excitement, and love and a yearning for more.
What is most important at four? To understand grammar and research or the excitement that the written word can contain?
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Week 15: A nature journal
May 3, 2010
Home for the day by mid afternoon. I planted two blueberry bushes that I bought from Reny’s. I haven’t felt quite right today—a bit lightheaded so I lay down for a bit. An hour later I decided to go walking in spite of the heat, the wind and how I felt. I followed the loop by the river. I heard a group of crows raucously calling to each other. They must have been near the farmer’s field across the river. The wind brought me whiffs of manure and the throttle of a tractor. Under the oaks the wind threw some acorns at me, and I wondered about the wisdom of this walk in the woods. I decided not to dawdle too much today.
The water is already down to its summer level. No more opportunity to run the river. I have thought about it a number of years, but have yet to actually do it. During the heat of summer I will tube from the falls to my rock, the beaver’s rock, the turtle’s rock. You have to walk periodically, but it is still a fun way to get cool.
As I rounded the last bend in the river before heading east into the woods, I got a clear view of very dark and ominous clouds. I realized I better hustle even more. I did check to see if the lady slippers were beginning to show, they weren’t, and I checked a little boggy area. By the time I got to the field, drops of rain were sprinkling down. I made it to my yard just as the wind increased with a loud roar, and I heard a tree fall. Just as I ducked onto the porch the rain let go with a fury. Such incredible timing. I sat on the porch and watched the wind and rain. After the ten minute squall, the sun is now clearing and the temperature has dropped from 82 to 75.
I have to eat an early supper and head off to a Conservation Commission meeting. I spend time inside, talking with others about how to help conserve and maintain trails on some town properties. It is the least I can do for the privilege of having woods to roam.
Home for the day by mid afternoon. I planted two blueberry bushes that I bought from Reny’s. I haven’t felt quite right today—a bit lightheaded so I lay down for a bit. An hour later I decided to go walking in spite of the heat, the wind and how I felt. I followed the loop by the river. I heard a group of crows raucously calling to each other. They must have been near the farmer’s field across the river. The wind brought me whiffs of manure and the throttle of a tractor. Under the oaks the wind threw some acorns at me, and I wondered about the wisdom of this walk in the woods. I decided not to dawdle too much today.
The water is already down to its summer level. No more opportunity to run the river. I have thought about it a number of years, but have yet to actually do it. During the heat of summer I will tube from the falls to my rock, the beaver’s rock, the turtle’s rock. You have to walk periodically, but it is still a fun way to get cool.
As I rounded the last bend in the river before heading east into the woods, I got a clear view of very dark and ominous clouds. I realized I better hustle even more. I did check to see if the lady slippers were beginning to show, they weren’t, and I checked a little boggy area. By the time I got to the field, drops of rain were sprinkling down. I made it to my yard just as the wind increased with a loud roar, and I heard a tree fall. Just as I ducked onto the porch the rain let go with a fury. Such incredible timing. I sat on the porch and watched the wind and rain. After the ten minute squall, the sun is now clearing and the temperature has dropped from 82 to 75.
I have to eat an early supper and head off to a Conservation Commission meeting. I spend time inside, talking with others about how to help conserve and maintain trails on some town properties. It is the least I can do for the privilege of having woods to roam.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Week 15: A nature journal
May 2, 2010
Aaron and I went for a walk today. We went over to Sears Island to get away from the black flies. He’s still a newbie in Maine, and they terrorize those of us who haven’t built up or been born with the natural resistance. He can’t handle them at all. We walked along the shore towards Mack Point. I did my best to ignore the presence of the docks by keeping my eyes on the beach. Isn’t that what we do anyway when we walk along the shore? I remember those childhood years looking for beach glass, shells and treasures to put in my bucket and bring home. (Maybe this is a better bucket to fill than a list of potential regrets.) I rarely take stuff now. You can’t find beach glass like you used to, and I feel guilty taking shells and stones. Maybe I should start collecting beach plastic, although it doesn’t have the romantic feel that the beach glass does.
We both brought our binoculars and spotted gulls, eider ducks, buffleheads and mergansers. We watched three male mergansers display for a female. They bobbed their heads and fluffed open their wings. Then one swam off in front of the others, the others chasing after him, including the female who had to keep close tabs on whatever quality she was looking for. I would have opted for the third male in the row, but I’m no merganser.
Further along we spotted two ospreys overhead. They were soon out of sight behind the breakwater. Because I continued to walk with my head in the sand, Aaron was the one to spot their nest on the buoy marker. The two ospreys sat on their nest of sticks, overlooking the boat channel, maybe directing traffic, maybe just knowing that being on the buoy was safe because boats couldn’t come too near. The only other osprey nest that I have seen is high up on a power line near the Goose River. I guess they can take advantage of man’s constructions.
It is dark and I am just now coming in from outside. I heard the peepers so tried to find them. Tonight they were not afraid of my noise, and continued to call when I got very close. I got close enough to touch the sound but never saw its makers. They are great at camouflage, and very small for such a loud voice. I heard, too, the trill of the Grey Tree Frog for the first time this spring.
I then walked down to the bank overlooking the river. The water was rippling in an unusual way so with my binoculars I began searching for the disturbance. Soon I found the resident beaver doing laps around and around and around. He swam tirelessly for at least twenty minutes. I really do share “my” swimming hole. I’ve been a little angry with the beaver. He has been chewing on a huge oak tree that I cannot get my arms around. After watching its silent grace, I am ashamed to say I thought about having it trapped. I’ve cut down trees to provide warmth and indirectly for shelter. I am no different than the beaver who cuts down trees for food and shelter. Why he’s chewing on a huge oak? I don’t know, but he probably wonders why I cut down the dead pine by my house. I leave off tonight listening to the peepers and the frogs, with my cat curled up on my feet.
Aaron and I went for a walk today. We went over to Sears Island to get away from the black flies. He’s still a newbie in Maine, and they terrorize those of us who haven’t built up or been born with the natural resistance. He can’t handle them at all. We walked along the shore towards Mack Point. I did my best to ignore the presence of the docks by keeping my eyes on the beach. Isn’t that what we do anyway when we walk along the shore? I remember those childhood years looking for beach glass, shells and treasures to put in my bucket and bring home. (Maybe this is a better bucket to fill than a list of potential regrets.) I rarely take stuff now. You can’t find beach glass like you used to, and I feel guilty taking shells and stones. Maybe I should start collecting beach plastic, although it doesn’t have the romantic feel that the beach glass does.
We both brought our binoculars and spotted gulls, eider ducks, buffleheads and mergansers. We watched three male mergansers display for a female. They bobbed their heads and fluffed open their wings. Then one swam off in front of the others, the others chasing after him, including the female who had to keep close tabs on whatever quality she was looking for. I would have opted for the third male in the row, but I’m no merganser.
Further along we spotted two ospreys overhead. They were soon out of sight behind the breakwater. Because I continued to walk with my head in the sand, Aaron was the one to spot their nest on the buoy marker. The two ospreys sat on their nest of sticks, overlooking the boat channel, maybe directing traffic, maybe just knowing that being on the buoy was safe because boats couldn’t come too near. The only other osprey nest that I have seen is high up on a power line near the Goose River. I guess they can take advantage of man’s constructions.
It is dark and I am just now coming in from outside. I heard the peepers so tried to find them. Tonight they were not afraid of my noise, and continued to call when I got very close. I got close enough to touch the sound but never saw its makers. They are great at camouflage, and very small for such a loud voice. I heard, too, the trill of the Grey Tree Frog for the first time this spring.
I then walked down to the bank overlooking the river. The water was rippling in an unusual way so with my binoculars I began searching for the disturbance. Soon I found the resident beaver doing laps around and around and around. He swam tirelessly for at least twenty minutes. I really do share “my” swimming hole. I’ve been a little angry with the beaver. He has been chewing on a huge oak tree that I cannot get my arms around. After watching its silent grace, I am ashamed to say I thought about having it trapped. I’ve cut down trees to provide warmth and indirectly for shelter. I am no different than the beaver who cuts down trees for food and shelter. Why he’s chewing on a huge oak? I don’t know, but he probably wonders why I cut down the dead pine by my house. I leave off tonight listening to the peepers and the frogs, with my cat curled up on my feet.
Week 15: A nature journal
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Today, I worked in the garden. I transferred composted leaves and dug them into the soil. I saw so many worms and remember the first garden here and the absence of worms. I am getting organic matter built in. The worms enjoyed the moist pile of leaves, with a fresh and ready stash of food for them.
The hermit thrush continued to sing as I worked in the garden. It is somewhere off in the woods and I have yet to see it, even though I stop my work and go looking. I didn’t have the binoculars, which might have helped. It is easier to look for the birds while the leaves are still small. In a few more weeks it will be much harder. It has such a vivid song. It trills upward and then descends like a waterfall or a chime that hangs under a rain gutter. Every time I hear it, I feel a quickening in my heart, and a surety of peace beyond this tormented human existence.
After turning the soil, I was hot and since it is May first, I decided to do my semi- traditional May Day dip in the river. Today, I went to the swimming hole by the house. I haven’t yet put the steps down the slope, so I slid down the bank. I hope that I didn’t disturb too much soil, or the moss that is growing there. I took off my clothes and sat on the edge of the rock where the water is about two feet deep. The water was frigid, but the sun was warm. I lay on the rock and closed my eyes. The chill from the water lowered my temperature enough so the black flies were fooled, and I rested undisturbed. I heard an unusual sound and looked up. There about five feet from me was a turtle, it had decided to take advantage of the warm sun on the rock, too. We stared at each other, the turtle and I. We were both motionless, he (or she) trying to blend into the rock, I trying to pretend I was a beached log. Unfortunately, my temperature had risen and the flies discovered some warm human blood. They got the best of me, I swatted and the turtle took flight through the water. The underside of its neck and legs was a vivid orange red, but the top of its shell was a drab and muddy gray. It was a good thing that I watched its descent into the water. It nestled into some rocks and soon could not be distinguished from its hiding place. I possessively think of this as my swimming hole, but it isn’t mine at all. I decided it was time for me to leave and let the turtle have its turn on the rock.
Today, I worked in the garden. I transferred composted leaves and dug them into the soil. I saw so many worms and remember the first garden here and the absence of worms. I am getting organic matter built in. The worms enjoyed the moist pile of leaves, with a fresh and ready stash of food for them.
The hermit thrush continued to sing as I worked in the garden. It is somewhere off in the woods and I have yet to see it, even though I stop my work and go looking. I didn’t have the binoculars, which might have helped. It is easier to look for the birds while the leaves are still small. In a few more weeks it will be much harder. It has such a vivid song. It trills upward and then descends like a waterfall or a chime that hangs under a rain gutter. Every time I hear it, I feel a quickening in my heart, and a surety of peace beyond this tormented human existence.
After turning the soil, I was hot and since it is May first, I decided to do my semi- traditional May Day dip in the river. Today, I went to the swimming hole by the house. I haven’t yet put the steps down the slope, so I slid down the bank. I hope that I didn’t disturb too much soil, or the moss that is growing there. I took off my clothes and sat on the edge of the rock where the water is about two feet deep. The water was frigid, but the sun was warm. I lay on the rock and closed my eyes. The chill from the water lowered my temperature enough so the black flies were fooled, and I rested undisturbed. I heard an unusual sound and looked up. There about five feet from me was a turtle, it had decided to take advantage of the warm sun on the rock, too. We stared at each other, the turtle and I. We were both motionless, he (or she) trying to blend into the rock, I trying to pretend I was a beached log. Unfortunately, my temperature had risen and the flies discovered some warm human blood. They got the best of me, I swatted and the turtle took flight through the water. The underside of its neck and legs was a vivid orange red, but the top of its shell was a drab and muddy gray. It was a good thing that I watched its descent into the water. It nestled into some rocks and soon could not be distinguished from its hiding place. I possessively think of this as my swimming hole, but it isn’t mine at all. I decided it was time for me to leave and let the turtle have its turn on the rock.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Week # 14: Using yourself differently
Bucket List: A list off all the things we want to do before we die, so we leave this world without regrets.
1. Witness a tropical rainforest.
2. Go above the Arctic Circle.
3. Let loved ones know they are loved.
4. Visit Greece and meet the Olympian Gods.
5. See a Native American Shaman.
6. Visit a Buddhist Monastery.
7. Intimately know one square mile.
8. Eat only homegrown food for a year.
9. Help 5 people less fortunate.
10. Visit the outback.
11. Ride a whale, or at least a dolphin.
12. Read and reread all of Shakespeare.
Hell, a bucket list is bunk. How can there not be regrets when a person sets such goals?
New list:
1. Let loved ones know they are loved.
2. Be honest.
3. Accept where you are in life.
1. Witness a tropical rainforest.
2. Go above the Arctic Circle.
3. Let loved ones know they are loved.
4. Visit Greece and meet the Olympian Gods.
5. See a Native American Shaman.
6. Visit a Buddhist Monastery.
7. Intimately know one square mile.
8. Eat only homegrown food for a year.
9. Help 5 people less fortunate.
10. Visit the outback.
11. Ride a whale, or at least a dolphin.
12. Read and reread all of Shakespeare.
Hell, a bucket list is bunk. How can there not be regrets when a person sets such goals?
New list:
1. Let loved ones know they are loved.
2. Be honest.
3. Accept where you are in life.
Week 13: Water
I hear a drop of water as the rain hits the window pane. I watch it descend in its irregular path until it hits the windowsill. There, it converges with all the other drops of water to hang on the edge until the weight of many causes a drop of water to fall to the ground. I imagine as it descends in its irregular path through the soil until it reaches the edge of the foundation. There, it converges with all the other drops of water until the weight of many pushes it through a crack in the wall.
Barbara Kingsolver wrote that “Water is life. It’s the briny origins, the pounding circulation system of the world, a precarious molecular edge on which we survive. It makes up two thirds of our bodies, just like the map of the world…Even while we take Mother Water for granted; humans understand in our bones that she is the boss. We stake our civilizations on the coasts and mighty rivers. Our deepest dread is the threat of having too little moisture—or too much…”
I think of water often. It surrounds me every day. I drink it every day, use it for cooking and I grow my food using water. I shower in water, I clean my dishes in water, and I flush my waste using water. I would not be here if it were not for water. I would dry up, a desiccated shell to wither and blow away in the wind. But there can be too much water.
Water overwhelms me much of the time. It seeps through the walls of my cellar and pools on the floor. The sump-pump kicks in every thirty seconds using energy derived from water. It pumps it out about 20 feet from the house. There, the water descends back down into the soil. Soon it hits the impermeable layer of clay and races back toward the foundation, to be pumped out again. The cycle never ends.
Barbara Kingsolver wrote that “Water is life. It’s the briny origins, the pounding circulation system of the world, a precarious molecular edge on which we survive. It makes up two thirds of our bodies, just like the map of the world…Even while we take Mother Water for granted; humans understand in our bones that she is the boss. We stake our civilizations on the coasts and mighty rivers. Our deepest dread is the threat of having too little moisture—or too much…”
I think of water often. It surrounds me every day. I drink it every day, use it for cooking and I grow my food using water. I shower in water, I clean my dishes in water, and I flush my waste using water. I would not be here if it were not for water. I would dry up, a desiccated shell to wither and blow away in the wind. But there can be too much water.
Water overwhelms me much of the time. It seeps through the walls of my cellar and pools on the floor. The sump-pump kicks in every thirty seconds using energy derived from water. It pumps it out about 20 feet from the house. There, the water descends back down into the soil. Soon it hits the impermeable layer of clay and races back toward the foundation, to be pumped out again. The cycle never ends.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Week 12: Taking risks
I loved my father once.
My father was an alcoholic, through and through. He’d call himself a “social drinker” and he’d head off to an executive luncheon and never make it home. Well, He did when the police brought him in their private blue and white cab. They never did fine him, prosecute him or jail him. I guess the business suit distinguished him from the real alchies puking their guts out in the gutter. My father got to puke in the privacy on his home, in the porcelain throne, or maybe the closet when he forgot where he was.
My father was a womanizer through and through. He called it harmless. I guess it was harmless, if you think no-one is looking. Ask my mother, she thought it hurt. Especially when he spent the month with his “sexretary” (yep, he gave her a desk plaque that said that), while my mother was in Philadelphia with me having open heart surgery. You could even ask us kids when he’d use us as toy props to lure in an overworked waitress.
My father was a cheat through and through. He called it harmless, if he got away with it. Ask his business partner who left the company just before it floundered from my fathers extravagant personal expenses. Ask the IRS who attached his debts to my mother’s paycheck. Ask us kids who never got the child support he should have provided.
I loved my father once, children do that.
My father was an alcoholic, through and through. He’d call himself a “social drinker” and he’d head off to an executive luncheon and never make it home. Well, He did when the police brought him in their private blue and white cab. They never did fine him, prosecute him or jail him. I guess the business suit distinguished him from the real alchies puking their guts out in the gutter. My father got to puke in the privacy on his home, in the porcelain throne, or maybe the closet when he forgot where he was.
My father was a womanizer through and through. He called it harmless. I guess it was harmless, if you think no-one is looking. Ask my mother, she thought it hurt. Especially when he spent the month with his “sexretary” (yep, he gave her a desk plaque that said that), while my mother was in Philadelphia with me having open heart surgery. You could even ask us kids when he’d use us as toy props to lure in an overworked waitress.
My father was a cheat through and through. He called it harmless, if he got away with it. Ask his business partner who left the company just before it floundered from my fathers extravagant personal expenses. Ask the IRS who attached his debts to my mother’s paycheck. Ask us kids who never got the child support he should have provided.
I loved my father once, children do that.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Week #11: When words mean something beyond themselves
He arrived while she was tearing down walls. The fake brick in that house just had to come down. She chiseled away at it, breaking off pieces; small chinks fell, scattering onto the floor. She forced herself to keep at it no matter how hard it was or how fearful she was becoming.
He noticed the opening left as the bricks fell. He reached trough and found a lead to her heart. She moved over to a new section and tore down more. Fear kept her from opening that spot anymore than she already had. He tried to help, but she wouldn’t let him, not yet, anyway. Everything was too new; she needed to do this by herself. She needed to feel herself building up her own strength, and doing it her own way. He stayed with her, not able to let go, and she did not insist by then.
One day she looked up, there he was in front of her. She looked more closely and saw the same patterns, brick upon brick with mortar so firmly attached. There she was facing the same wall she thought she tore down.
He noticed the opening left as the bricks fell. He reached trough and found a lead to her heart. She moved over to a new section and tore down more. Fear kept her from opening that spot anymore than she already had. He tried to help, but she wouldn’t let him, not yet, anyway. Everything was too new; she needed to do this by herself. She needed to feel herself building up her own strength, and doing it her own way. He stayed with her, not able to let go, and she did not insist by then.
One day she looked up, there he was in front of her. She looked more closely and saw the same patterns, brick upon brick with mortar so firmly attached. There she was facing the same wall she thought she tore down.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Week10: Alienation
The girls brought me a gift the next day; a pudgy penguin candle that looked up at me with a beseeching smile. They forgave me, but I couldn’t forgive myself. I know it was one of those moments where nothing but a twist of fate could have changed it, but still…
Speeding home the evening before, I was beguiled by the first beautiful day of spring. I wanted to get home and enjoy the evening. I swerved to miss a cat and took my foot off the gas. “THWACK” “What was that?” I pulled over into their drive, and as I got out of the car I heard their mother, screaming, “Oh My God, Bill!” She was running toward the road, then she saw me and stopped. We looked behind the car. There lay the family dog, who had taken that same spring moment to chase their cat in the wrong direction. Its death was imminent. The girls often fought over who would sleep with it each night, and now I intervened in an all too drastic way.
My whole body sunk in a quagmire of guilt. I lit the candle just one time that night. It shed a flicker of forgiveness.
Speeding home the evening before, I was beguiled by the first beautiful day of spring. I wanted to get home and enjoy the evening. I swerved to miss a cat and took my foot off the gas. “THWACK” “What was that?” I pulled over into their drive, and as I got out of the car I heard their mother, screaming, “Oh My God, Bill!” She was running toward the road, then she saw me and stopped. We looked behind the car. There lay the family dog, who had taken that same spring moment to chase their cat in the wrong direction. Its death was imminent. The girls often fought over who would sleep with it each night, and now I intervened in an all too drastic way.
My whole body sunk in a quagmire of guilt. I lit the candle just one time that night. It shed a flicker of forgiveness.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Week 9: linked vignettes
The late September sun beat down on my aching back. Betty, the team forman, yelled break time. I reached for one last apple to fill my bag and stepped backward down the ladder. I hung my bag over the bin and gently let the apples cascade to the bottom. Sandy, my friend and fellow adventurer, and I sat down. We searched the ground for a decent windfall and crunched into the overripe sweetness of a fallen apple. Michael sat down next to me. Instantly, the pheromones flew between us as giddy as the bees drinking the sweetness of those fallen apples. I was speechless, Sandy talked to him.
***
All six of us sat at the table eating spaghetti, Michael, his brothers, Sandy and I. Michael sat across from me, I admired his coal black curls and his brown eyes lured me into the earth and to new beginnings. A drop of sauce hung on his goatee and I yearned to lick it off.
***
He sat next to me on the sofa. I loved the closeness of this family; all the brothers squeezed into this tiny space. The blue light of the TV illuminated their cheerful faces. Full from dinner and wine, I drifted. My body jolted, and he reached for my hand. The wicked witch and I quivered. “I’m melting.”
***
360 miles away, by candlelight, I read his letters. Joni Mitchell sang “Michael from mountains, Go where you will go to, Know that I will know you, Someday I will know you very well.” "I’m melting."
***
He met me at the bus stop. We ran through the icy February streets to his State Street apartment. As we entered the lobby he said, “Check this out.” We rode the rickety elevator to the second floor. It clanged and reverberated, or was it my heart. We opened the door and fell onto the only furniture that could hold two. “I’m melting.”
***
His hand became butterflies as they traversed the country from my ankles to my neck. “I’m melting.”
***
The August heat enveloped me, as the bus opened its doors. Once again, he was waiting for me. This time we walked through the summer heat and downtown to his apartment on Munjoy Hill. The promenade was litter infested and the lighthouse was closed. He had the perfect view of the Portland Harbor. With the help of a bookshelf, we climbed through the bathroom skylight onto the roof. I nestled into his arms as the stars came out. “I’m melting.”
***
He went to Haystack and I moved to Baltimore.
***
All six of us sat at the table eating spaghetti, Michael, his brothers, Sandy and I. Michael sat across from me, I admired his coal black curls and his brown eyes lured me into the earth and to new beginnings. A drop of sauce hung on his goatee and I yearned to lick it off.
***
He sat next to me on the sofa. I loved the closeness of this family; all the brothers squeezed into this tiny space. The blue light of the TV illuminated their cheerful faces. Full from dinner and wine, I drifted. My body jolted, and he reached for my hand. The wicked witch and I quivered. “I’m melting.”
***
360 miles away, by candlelight, I read his letters. Joni Mitchell sang “Michael from mountains, Go where you will go to, Know that I will know you, Someday I will know you very well.” "I’m melting."
***
He met me at the bus stop. We ran through the icy February streets to his State Street apartment. As we entered the lobby he said, “Check this out.” We rode the rickety elevator to the second floor. It clanged and reverberated, or was it my heart. We opened the door and fell onto the only furniture that could hold two. “I’m melting.”
***
His hand became butterflies as they traversed the country from my ankles to my neck. “I’m melting.”
***
The August heat enveloped me, as the bus opened its doors. Once again, he was waiting for me. This time we walked through the summer heat and downtown to his apartment on Munjoy Hill. The promenade was litter infested and the lighthouse was closed. He had the perfect view of the Portland Harbor. With the help of a bookshelf, we climbed through the bathroom skylight onto the roof. I nestled into his arms as the stars came out. “I’m melting.”
***
He went to Haystack and I moved to Baltimore.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Week #8 Vignettes:
I came home from work around six in the evening. It was the last week of standard time, so the light was just at that point when you could no longer see well. I walked to the chicken coop to lock the two girls in for the night. I stuck my head in the door to say good night. I didn’t hear any of their normal evening clucks as I disturb their slumber and they stir ever so briefly. I looked more closely, and thought “They’re not in there. Shit, why did I let them stay out today?” I went back to the house for a flashlight, and checked again. They weren’t in there. “Shit.” I moaned, again. Last spring I had pushed their luck and let them run and lost one, I hoped that didn’t happen again. Sometimes they like to hide out in the little shed, more like a dog house, that I had built when they were small.
I wandered over, peered in and saw no birds. By now my flashlight was loosing its brightness, so with less and less visibility I searched the yard hoping to find them. By the woodshed, I found a chunk of breast with brown feathers attached, that would have been Winnie. I looked under the canoe, hoping to find Penny, my favorite, but there was no black chicken clucking in fear or pleasure to see me. I continued looking around until the flashlight gave me no light, which actually wasn’t all that long. I decided if Penny had made it she would be up in a tree, if not, there wasn’t much I could do anyway. I went in dismayed and mad at myself for letting them run free that day.
In the morning, with the light of the day, I looked for more clues. The pen, with gate open, was littered with feathers and the carnage of two birds struggling against their predator. I never saw footprints. As I returned to the house, I saw a part of Penny half buried next to the porch. “Damn,” I had hoped she had made it. I got my shovel and gave her a deeper burial by the blueberries.
I wandered over, peered in and saw no birds. By now my flashlight was loosing its brightness, so with less and less visibility I searched the yard hoping to find them. By the woodshed, I found a chunk of breast with brown feathers attached, that would have been Winnie. I looked under the canoe, hoping to find Penny, my favorite, but there was no black chicken clucking in fear or pleasure to see me. I continued looking around until the flashlight gave me no light, which actually wasn’t all that long. I decided if Penny had made it she would be up in a tree, if not, there wasn’t much I could do anyway. I went in dismayed and mad at myself for letting them run free that day.
In the morning, with the light of the day, I looked for more clues. The pen, with gate open, was littered with feathers and the carnage of two birds struggling against their predator. I never saw footprints. As I returned to the house, I saw a part of Penny half buried next to the porch. “Damn,” I had hoped she had made it. I got my shovel and gave her a deeper burial by the blueberries.
Friday, March 12, 2010
Week #7: Character
There’s a photo of my daughter, Rachel, and her friend, Sadie, receiving an award from Governor Baldacci. They are both freshman in college, but the award goes for something they did two years earlier while juniors in high school.
They were both “Peer leaders” in their school. As such, they often counseled young girls who thought they were pregnant, were worried and didn’t’ know what to do. Since their school was rural, Rachel and Sadie realized that few of the students had access to condoms, or family planning. They knew it would not be an easy venture, but they decided to get condoms available in their school. They spent months doing research and visiting with family planning representatives. They brought their request with all their findings to the superintendent. He said they would need to give a presentation to the school board and the public.
On the evening of the hearing, the two girls stood behind the podium. The high school gymnasium was packed full. The last row of bleachers held an intimidating crowd of people from the church down the road. They had many banners and were quite vocal. To the right of the girls sat the 12 members of the school board, the principal and the superintendent.
Rachel began to talk. She was nervous, she mispronounced a few words, her cheeks were flushed, her voice quivered ever so slightly; but she continued. Her job tonight was to convince the public and the school board to allow the distribution of condoms. She told the audience that when she became a peer leader, the most discussed issue was sex and pregnancy. The teen pregnancy rate was high for such a small school. She told how she and her friend Sadie realized that having access to condoms was important. They certainly weren’t condoning having sex, but it was happening already and they wanted to alleviate the problems of teen pregnancies, and sexually transmitted diseases. As she spoke, the catcalls and harassment from the church crowd in the back row got louder. Rachel continued, finding her strength and sounding self-assured. Finally, she was finished with her part of the presentation and Sadie did hers. Next, Rachel invited the public to come forward and speak. She moderated as members of the audience came down and talked for five minute each. The meeting went on for hours, and she stood her ground.
In the end, the school board voted to allow having condoms available, but stipulated that they be dispensed once a week by a representative of Family Planning came who was also available to counsel students.
They were both “Peer leaders” in their school. As such, they often counseled young girls who thought they were pregnant, were worried and didn’t’ know what to do. Since their school was rural, Rachel and Sadie realized that few of the students had access to condoms, or family planning. They knew it would not be an easy venture, but they decided to get condoms available in their school. They spent months doing research and visiting with family planning representatives. They brought their request with all their findings to the superintendent. He said they would need to give a presentation to the school board and the public.
On the evening of the hearing, the two girls stood behind the podium. The high school gymnasium was packed full. The last row of bleachers held an intimidating crowd of people from the church down the road. They had many banners and were quite vocal. To the right of the girls sat the 12 members of the school board, the principal and the superintendent.
Rachel began to talk. She was nervous, she mispronounced a few words, her cheeks were flushed, her voice quivered ever so slightly; but she continued. Her job tonight was to convince the public and the school board to allow the distribution of condoms. She told the audience that when she became a peer leader, the most discussed issue was sex and pregnancy. The teen pregnancy rate was high for such a small school. She told how she and her friend Sadie realized that having access to condoms was important. They certainly weren’t condoning having sex, but it was happening already and they wanted to alleviate the problems of teen pregnancies, and sexually transmitted diseases. As she spoke, the catcalls and harassment from the church crowd in the back row got louder. Rachel continued, finding her strength and sounding self-assured. Finally, she was finished with her part of the presentation and Sadie did hers. Next, Rachel invited the public to come forward and speak. She moderated as members of the audience came down and talked for five minute each. The meeting went on for hours, and she stood her ground.
In the end, the school board voted to allow having condoms available, but stipulated that they be dispensed once a week by a representative of Family Planning came who was also available to counsel students.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Week Six: Theme, Place
Week Six: Theme, Place:
I am remodeling a kitchen and bathroom. Money is tight so I opt for a trip to the BIG BOX and the potential savings. My son and I park the car and head under the monolithic orange sign that spells H-O-M-E-D-E-P-O-T. I’ve never been in there before. The door closes behind us and I am immediately bombarded, I’m on overload already. People scurry about directed by the lure of a bargain just as ants are directed by the lure of a pheromone. Neither activity makes sense to me. To my left are stacks and stacks of flowerpots, reaching ten, fifteen feet high, then mops and mops and mops. To my right are enough light bulbs to brighten every home in Haiti, that is if they had electricity. I look at Ben, “This might be too much for me, I hate to shop.”
I check the list; item #1, lights for the bath and kitchen. We walk past the bulbs and enter the aisle of lights. In the center, ceiling lights crowd against each other in a cacophony of crystal, tiffany, brass and steel, although none of it real. All hang fifteen feet over my head; the only thing at eye level is the price tag in bold black print. $3.98, $13.98, $63.98. Neither Ben nor I can figure out which light the price goes to. Ben starts looking at the boxes and figures the system; you have to match the item numbers. I go for a simple light, but it seem to be chintzy, although it is hard to tell from 15 feet away. I give up on lights, and consult my list.
Item #2, toilet. We start down the central aisle of the store. The signs designating merchandise are up over our heads. I feel like we are asking the Gods of Commerce for directions to the toilet row. The thrones so to speak, rise above us; displayed above our heads. Again, I can’t make a decision. We move on to the kitchen sinks. Guess what, they are over my head, I need to take measurements and I can’t reach. Then it dawns on me: the object is “Don’t let the customer inspect the merchandise. Keep it out of reach and dangle that low price before their eyes and they will buy, buy, buy.”
I need to retreat, but as we wander down the bath tub aisle, I look at Ben, “Let’s climb in and scare somebody.” Ben looks at me, and I can see he is thinking “My mother is crazy” as he watches me step into a shower stall. I hear him laugh and I jump out. Luckily for him, there was no-one to witness his mother’s embarrassing foolishness.
We continue wandering around amidst the towering stacks of stuff. We end up near the contractor’s check out. Somewhere above the sounds of people consuming, I hear a sparrow. I look up and point to Ben, “Look, there’s a bird nest.” We watch the scene in the metal rafters above the stacks, above the signs, and I sense the wonders of nature again. Even here where man flagrantly rules, nature has slipped in. As we watch, the bird flies out and drops a little white splatter of shit on the floor. We leave empty-handed, but with our sanity returned.
I am remodeling a kitchen and bathroom. Money is tight so I opt for a trip to the BIG BOX and the potential savings. My son and I park the car and head under the monolithic orange sign that spells H-O-M-E-D-E-P-O-T. I’ve never been in there before. The door closes behind us and I am immediately bombarded, I’m on overload already. People scurry about directed by the lure of a bargain just as ants are directed by the lure of a pheromone. Neither activity makes sense to me. To my left are stacks and stacks of flowerpots, reaching ten, fifteen feet high, then mops and mops and mops. To my right are enough light bulbs to brighten every home in Haiti, that is if they had electricity. I look at Ben, “This might be too much for me, I hate to shop.”
I check the list; item #1, lights for the bath and kitchen. We walk past the bulbs and enter the aisle of lights. In the center, ceiling lights crowd against each other in a cacophony of crystal, tiffany, brass and steel, although none of it real. All hang fifteen feet over my head; the only thing at eye level is the price tag in bold black print. $3.98, $13.98, $63.98. Neither Ben nor I can figure out which light the price goes to. Ben starts looking at the boxes and figures the system; you have to match the item numbers. I go for a simple light, but it seem to be chintzy, although it is hard to tell from 15 feet away. I give up on lights, and consult my list.
Item #2, toilet. We start down the central aisle of the store. The signs designating merchandise are up over our heads. I feel like we are asking the Gods of Commerce for directions to the toilet row. The thrones so to speak, rise above us; displayed above our heads. Again, I can’t make a decision. We move on to the kitchen sinks. Guess what, they are over my head, I need to take measurements and I can’t reach. Then it dawns on me: the object is “Don’t let the customer inspect the merchandise. Keep it out of reach and dangle that low price before their eyes and they will buy, buy, buy.”
I need to retreat, but as we wander down the bath tub aisle, I look at Ben, “Let’s climb in and scare somebody.” Ben looks at me, and I can see he is thinking “My mother is crazy” as he watches me step into a shower stall. I hear him laugh and I jump out. Luckily for him, there was no-one to witness his mother’s embarrassing foolishness.
We continue wandering around amidst the towering stacks of stuff. We end up near the contractor’s check out. Somewhere above the sounds of people consuming, I hear a sparrow. I look up and point to Ben, “Look, there’s a bird nest.” We watch the scene in the metal rafters above the stacks, above the signs, and I sense the wonders of nature again. Even here where man flagrantly rules, nature has slipped in. As we watch, the bird flies out and drops a little white splatter of shit on the floor. We leave empty-handed, but with our sanity returned.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Theme week 5: narrative, story
My Father's Fall
My stepmother was dead for only three months, before we all heard about the new woman in my father's life. We had gathered for a family Easter dinner; my father sat at the head of the table, the grand patriarch, with his children, step-children and grand-children gathered around. As the meal came to a close and the grandchildren went off to lay, he reached for a cigarette. " So, let me tell you about Susan. I met her while in line at the Super G. I noticed her melons (not the fruit we all decided) and commented on her groceries. We got to talking, and then I invited her to go for a cup of coffee. She said yes, and we went. She told me all about her life; she's divorced and is trying to raise two kids all by herself" Not at all unlike his daughter, me, I noticed, but he didn't. He looked over at me, "her son is about Ben's age, but he gets in trouble all the time, maybe you could talk to her." I didn't think I wanted to. Her story was a hard luck-let me cry on your shoulder mister sugar daddy-story. She'd been abused, her ex-husband beat her, and she was working real hard at beating a cocaine habit. She went daily to the methadone clinic in Willimantic. Oh boy, we all thought, she sure had our father raked in. How could we get him to realize that she was not the kind of woman that had love on her mind, but rather, "what can I get out of this man?"
It was another three months before any of us met her. I had brought my children down fro a long weekend. On Sunday morning my father said "Let's have breakfast with Susan and her kids." I tried backing out, but he said he had already told her we were coming. I should have known he would choose me as the envoy into the family. After all, I was the youngest, had been the one to do the token Father weekends after my parents divorced and the first to meet his ex-secretary in her new role as wide, and stepmother to us.
We drove to Susan's trailer park home. She had us wait on the deck; when they came out, I was taken aback. Her children were the same age as mine, but they were city tough. The boy had dark hair, a pierced ear and wore those baggy pants that had just become the rage; the ones where you could hide a shotgun if you needed to. The girl had lusterless black hair, and wore gothic attire with some chains for added effect. I don't think either one spoke the entire time. My blond country bumpkin children were no match for those two, and I certainly wasn't going to encourage any conversation. Susan had hair the texture of an unkempt horse mane, stiff and bristly from too many dyings and permings. Though my father said she was ten years younger than me she looked older and hard. I immediately saw my father's attraction; her bust was at least a quadruple D. I wished I had brought my own car, I would not have continued with the charade if I had been able to run. Off to the restaurant, in silence. Well, my father did try to keep a conversation going.
We arrived just as the after church rush was on, and there were no tables available for seven, so we waited. Susan grew impatient, thrust her chest out and demanded that the hostess push tow tables together. The hostess did, begrudgingly. I flashed a humble apology and the hostess registered a smile. While we were eating, my father elaborated on all the wonderful plans he had for his "new family". "I bought a house on Coventry Lake, that I am fixing up for Susan and the kids. I'm going to get another sailboat too and teach Brian to sail. Every boy should learn how to sail." At that I ranted, "Oh really Dad. When are you going to teach your grandson how to sail? You could come up and teach him anytime." He didn't notice the incongruity, was I totally off the mark?
During the conversation, I couldn't help noticing Brian bending the silverware in two. He eventually made a holder out of the spoon, poured packets of sugar into it and began to stick his finger into the sugar to eat it. I wondered if he had watched some drug use at home. The girl just sulked. My children talked between themselves and snuck some apprehensive glances at the scene ate the table. Breakfast wasn't over fast enough for me.
That night, after my children went to bed, I attempted to talk to my father. "Dad, that woman is using you. She probably has a boyfriend somewhere that you don't know about. She's getting whatever she wants from you." Since when did a daughter have to tell her father who to date?
During the course of the summer, she crashed and wrecked two cars. He bought her new ones. Her children were always needing to go to the doctor or needing prescriptions filled an midnight, and she always got money out of him. We kept trying to tell him he was being used, but he was too bewitched.
Less than a year later, my sister got a call from our father. He was crying; Susan had left him. My sister and I arranged to go see him that weekend. We found him in that beautiful home he bought all alone. Somehow, Susan had gotten an antique dealer to come buy some of his antiques. All he had left was one broken dresser, a few paintings, and the broken rocker that he was sitting in. The worst of it was he was so immobilized: while she had sun off with his savings, he was unable to look beyond the humiliation of losing his girlfriend.
My stepmother was dead for only three months, before we all heard about the new woman in my father's life. We had gathered for a family Easter dinner; my father sat at the head of the table, the grand patriarch, with his children, step-children and grand-children gathered around. As the meal came to a close and the grandchildren went off to lay, he reached for a cigarette. " So, let me tell you about Susan. I met her while in line at the Super G. I noticed her melons (not the fruit we all decided) and commented on her groceries. We got to talking, and then I invited her to go for a cup of coffee. She said yes, and we went. She told me all about her life; she's divorced and is trying to raise two kids all by herself" Not at all unlike his daughter, me, I noticed, but he didn't. He looked over at me, "her son is about Ben's age, but he gets in trouble all the time, maybe you could talk to her." I didn't think I wanted to. Her story was a hard luck-let me cry on your shoulder mister sugar daddy-story. She'd been abused, her ex-husband beat her, and she was working real hard at beating a cocaine habit. She went daily to the methadone clinic in Willimantic. Oh boy, we all thought, she sure had our father raked in. How could we get him to realize that she was not the kind of woman that had love on her mind, but rather, "what can I get out of this man?"
It was another three months before any of us met her. I had brought my children down fro a long weekend. On Sunday morning my father said "Let's have breakfast with Susan and her kids." I tried backing out, but he said he had already told her we were coming. I should have known he would choose me as the envoy into the family. After all, I was the youngest, had been the one to do the token Father weekends after my parents divorced and the first to meet his ex-secretary in her new role as wide, and stepmother to us.
We drove to Susan's trailer park home. She had us wait on the deck; when they came out, I was taken aback. Her children were the same age as mine, but they were city tough. The boy had dark hair, a pierced ear and wore those baggy pants that had just become the rage; the ones where you could hide a shotgun if you needed to. The girl had lusterless black hair, and wore gothic attire with some chains for added effect. I don't think either one spoke the entire time. My blond country bumpkin children were no match for those two, and I certainly wasn't going to encourage any conversation. Susan had hair the texture of an unkempt horse mane, stiff and bristly from too many dyings and permings. Though my father said she was ten years younger than me she looked older and hard. I immediately saw my father's attraction; her bust was at least a quadruple D. I wished I had brought my own car, I would not have continued with the charade if I had been able to run. Off to the restaurant, in silence. Well, my father did try to keep a conversation going.
We arrived just as the after church rush was on, and there were no tables available for seven, so we waited. Susan grew impatient, thrust her chest out and demanded that the hostess push tow tables together. The hostess did, begrudgingly. I flashed a humble apology and the hostess registered a smile. While we were eating, my father elaborated on all the wonderful plans he had for his "new family". "I bought a house on Coventry Lake, that I am fixing up for Susan and the kids. I'm going to get another sailboat too and teach Brian to sail. Every boy should learn how to sail." At that I ranted, "Oh really Dad. When are you going to teach your grandson how to sail? You could come up and teach him anytime." He didn't notice the incongruity, was I totally off the mark?
During the conversation, I couldn't help noticing Brian bending the silverware in two. He eventually made a holder out of the spoon, poured packets of sugar into it and began to stick his finger into the sugar to eat it. I wondered if he had watched some drug use at home. The girl just sulked. My children talked between themselves and snuck some apprehensive glances at the scene ate the table. Breakfast wasn't over fast enough for me.
That night, after my children went to bed, I attempted to talk to my father. "Dad, that woman is using you. She probably has a boyfriend somewhere that you don't know about. She's getting whatever she wants from you." Since when did a daughter have to tell her father who to date?
During the course of the summer, she crashed and wrecked two cars. He bought her new ones. Her children were always needing to go to the doctor or needing prescriptions filled an midnight, and she always got money out of him. We kept trying to tell him he was being used, but he was too bewitched.
Less than a year later, my sister got a call from our father. He was crying; Susan had left him. My sister and I arranged to go see him that weekend. We found him in that beautiful home he bought all alone. Somehow, Susan had gotten an antique dealer to come buy some of his antiques. All he had left was one broken dresser, a few paintings, and the broken rocker that he was sitting in. The worst of it was he was so immobilized: while she had sun off with his savings, he was unable to look beyond the humiliation of losing his girlfriend.
Monday, February 15, 2010
journal entry #7
I said I might do some more journal entries along the line, and here one is.
This is an update on my owl story, from prompt #15. The owl hung around for about a week and then was gone. I continue to wake up every morning and look out my bedroom window to see if he has returned. This morning he was out there again, I was excited to see him. Yesterday, my partner finally put out the rat traps in the chicken coop. I did not relish that idea, but knew I needed to get rid of the rat (or 2). Upon feeding the chickens and checking the traps I saw that one held a dead rat. Argh, ugh, gross! Sooooo...I gathered what guts I had, poked it four or five times to be sure it was dead, then found a garden tool to open the trap up. I was not about to put my fingers anywhere near that rat head, who knows it still could have tried to bite me--one last impulse from the dead! I lifted the spring off the rat and grabbed it by the tail, with a paper towel, and tossed it out to the garden saying "here, take that please." The owl swooped down onto my offering and carried it away. So, I am relieved that a rat is gone, and the owl is pleased to have some food. Let's hope that I don't have to add another update like this one. I so hope there was only one rat.
This is an update on my owl story, from prompt #15. The owl hung around for about a week and then was gone. I continue to wake up every morning and look out my bedroom window to see if he has returned. This morning he was out there again, I was excited to see him. Yesterday, my partner finally put out the rat traps in the chicken coop. I did not relish that idea, but knew I needed to get rid of the rat (or 2). Upon feeding the chickens and checking the traps I saw that one held a dead rat. Argh, ugh, gross! Sooooo...I gathered what guts I had, poked it four or five times to be sure it was dead, then found a garden tool to open the trap up. I was not about to put my fingers anywhere near that rat head, who knows it still could have tried to bite me--one last impulse from the dead! I lifted the spring off the rat and grabbed it by the tail, with a paper towel, and tossed it out to the garden saying "here, take that please." The owl swooped down onto my offering and carried it away. So, I am relieved that a rat is gone, and the owl is pleased to have some food. Let's hope that I don't have to add another update like this one. I so hope there was only one rat.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Theme week #4: Truth…or not.
1. Truth
We were salvaging old boards from a chicken barn to use them to build a shed. The boards had old chicken poop on them and were full of rusty nails. I was scraping them clean with a wire brush, and then I leaned them against the floor joists of the shed, with the nail side down.
My four year old daughter was playing in the yard nearby. She came over toward me. I told her to be careful. She sat on the end of one of the boards, as if it was a see-saw. The weight of her body took her down and drove one of the nails into the back of her ankle. She screamed. Ed, my husband, came running and got the nail out. I took Rachel inside to clean up the wound. It looked bad to me, so we drove to the ER.
There wasn’t a long wait, and soon the Doctor on duty was taking care of us. She looked at us and at Rachel’s ankle and asked us what happened.
I explained that we were taking the nails out of old lumber. I’d been careful to keep all the nails pointing down, but Rachel sat on the boards and drove the nail in through the top of her ankle.
The Doctor furrowed her eyebrows and looked at us for a second. She cleaned and bandaged the wound and sent us home.
2. Gussied up
It was a hot summer day. We were cleaning up some salvaged lumber from an old chicken barn. The boards were covered with chicken poop and were full of rusty nails. It was my job to clean them. After scraped them off, I leaned them against the floor joists to the shed with the nail side down. The stench was bad and the dust was clinging to my sweaty body “Why did we want to use these boards, anyway?” I thought, “Oh yeah, we needed a shed, and we had no extra money and they were free. It was just our time that we were wasting.”
My four year old daughter was playing in the grass nearby. She was getting hot and bored and came over to me. “Mommy, can I have a drink?”
“In a minute honey, let me finish this. Be careful there are nails in these boards.”
Rachel watched for awhile, and then she climbed up onto the floor joist of the shed and sat on the top end of one of the boards. Suddenly she was screaming. I looked up, when she sat down the board fell to her leg just like a seesaw and pushed one of those dirty rusty nails into the back of her heel. Ed came running and got her off the board and the nail out. I took Rachel inside to clean the wound and all I could think of was that chicken poop inside her body. The wound looked gross, and I decided I wanted to take her to the ER. We piled into the car and drove as fast as we could.
There was no wait and soon the Doctor on duty was taking care of us. She looked at Rachel’s foot and at us “What happened here?”
“I was trying to make sure that the kids didn’t step on the nails, so I set them against the floor with the nail side down. She sat on the board and the nail went through the back of her foot.” I said in a rather hysterical voice. I did not like seeing my daughter hurt, and I had tried so hard to make sure she wouldn’t be.
The Doctor asked again, not quite believing the story. “Tell me how that happened again.” This time I think she decided it was too strange not to be the truth. She cleaned the wound and wrapped it up. She told Rachel she was a brave little girl and gave her a sticker.
3. Fiction
It was a hot summer day. We were cleaning up old boards from a chicken barn to build a shed. I was so hot that I had had a beer. I was cleaning old chicken shit off the boards and pulling nails. As I finished a board, I put it against the shed floor with the nail side down.
My four year old daughter was playing near by, she was bored and she wandered over. “Mommy, can I have a drink, when will you play with me, I’m hungry.”
“Not now honey, let me finish this last board.” My husband Ed went in for another beer. “I’ll get her a drink.” He offered.
Rachel sat down on the top of one of the boards. Like a see-saw it came down on the back of her foot. A nail went right into her ankle, and she screamed.
Quickly I pulled her up off the board, as I did the nail tore her flesh even more. It looked awful. Ed came out when he heard the scream. We carried her inside and tried to clean the wound. We decided that we should go to the ER. When we got there the Doctor on duty saw us immediately. “Tell me what how this happened!” She looked at us and noted that we had been drinking.
I was so worried and nervous about Rachel that it took me a few tries to get the story out, and even then it didn’t seem to make much sense. I said “we were pulling nails out of boards, and Rachel sat on one. The nail went through her foot.” The Doctor looked at both my husband and I and at Rachel, she wasn’t buying the story. She went to the nurse’s desk and talked to the nurse. The nurse started looking through old ER records. Of course, it was the same Doctor who took care of my son when he was jumping on the couch and fell of breaking his collar-bone. She came back cleaned up the wound and said we would need to wait here for a case-worker from DHHS to come question us. “What!” my husband yelled. He almost went nuts. I wasn’t much better, I was pretty hysterical myself. We were not neglectful of our children, nor were we abusing them. Accidents happen, even ones that seem really far-fetched. By that time a policeman had arrived and escorted us into a small room to wait for the case-worker.
We were salvaging old boards from a chicken barn to use them to build a shed. The boards had old chicken poop on them and were full of rusty nails. I was scraping them clean with a wire brush, and then I leaned them against the floor joists of the shed, with the nail side down.
My four year old daughter was playing in the yard nearby. She came over toward me. I told her to be careful. She sat on the end of one of the boards, as if it was a see-saw. The weight of her body took her down and drove one of the nails into the back of her ankle. She screamed. Ed, my husband, came running and got the nail out. I took Rachel inside to clean up the wound. It looked bad to me, so we drove to the ER.
There wasn’t a long wait, and soon the Doctor on duty was taking care of us. She looked at us and at Rachel’s ankle and asked us what happened.
I explained that we were taking the nails out of old lumber. I’d been careful to keep all the nails pointing down, but Rachel sat on the boards and drove the nail in through the top of her ankle.
The Doctor furrowed her eyebrows and looked at us for a second. She cleaned and bandaged the wound and sent us home.
2. Gussied up
It was a hot summer day. We were cleaning up some salvaged lumber from an old chicken barn. The boards were covered with chicken poop and were full of rusty nails. It was my job to clean them. After scraped them off, I leaned them against the floor joists to the shed with the nail side down. The stench was bad and the dust was clinging to my sweaty body “Why did we want to use these boards, anyway?” I thought, “Oh yeah, we needed a shed, and we had no extra money and they were free. It was just our time that we were wasting.”
My four year old daughter was playing in the grass nearby. She was getting hot and bored and came over to me. “Mommy, can I have a drink?”
“In a minute honey, let me finish this. Be careful there are nails in these boards.”
Rachel watched for awhile, and then she climbed up onto the floor joist of the shed and sat on the top end of one of the boards. Suddenly she was screaming. I looked up, when she sat down the board fell to her leg just like a seesaw and pushed one of those dirty rusty nails into the back of her heel. Ed came running and got her off the board and the nail out. I took Rachel inside to clean the wound and all I could think of was that chicken poop inside her body. The wound looked gross, and I decided I wanted to take her to the ER. We piled into the car and drove as fast as we could.
There was no wait and soon the Doctor on duty was taking care of us. She looked at Rachel’s foot and at us “What happened here?”
“I was trying to make sure that the kids didn’t step on the nails, so I set them against the floor with the nail side down. She sat on the board and the nail went through the back of her foot.” I said in a rather hysterical voice. I did not like seeing my daughter hurt, and I had tried so hard to make sure she wouldn’t be.
The Doctor asked again, not quite believing the story. “Tell me how that happened again.” This time I think she decided it was too strange not to be the truth. She cleaned the wound and wrapped it up. She told Rachel she was a brave little girl and gave her a sticker.
3. Fiction
It was a hot summer day. We were cleaning up old boards from a chicken barn to build a shed. I was so hot that I had had a beer. I was cleaning old chicken shit off the boards and pulling nails. As I finished a board, I put it against the shed floor with the nail side down.
My four year old daughter was playing near by, she was bored and she wandered over. “Mommy, can I have a drink, when will you play with me, I’m hungry.”
“Not now honey, let me finish this last board.” My husband Ed went in for another beer. “I’ll get her a drink.” He offered.
Rachel sat down on the top of one of the boards. Like a see-saw it came down on the back of her foot. A nail went right into her ankle, and she screamed.
Quickly I pulled her up off the board, as I did the nail tore her flesh even more. It looked awful. Ed came out when he heard the scream. We carried her inside and tried to clean the wound. We decided that we should go to the ER. When we got there the Doctor on duty saw us immediately. “Tell me what how this happened!” She looked at us and noted that we had been drinking.
I was so worried and nervous about Rachel that it took me a few tries to get the story out, and even then it didn’t seem to make much sense. I said “we were pulling nails out of boards, and Rachel sat on one. The nail went through her foot.” The Doctor looked at both my husband and I and at Rachel, she wasn’t buying the story. She went to the nurse’s desk and talked to the nurse. The nurse started looking through old ER records. Of course, it was the same Doctor who took care of my son when he was jumping on the couch and fell of breaking his collar-bone. She came back cleaned up the wound and said we would need to wait here for a case-worker from DHHS to come question us. “What!” my husband yelled. He almost went nuts. I wasn’t much better, I was pretty hysterical myself. We were not neglectful of our children, nor were we abusing them. Accidents happen, even ones that seem really far-fetched. By that time a policeman had arrived and escorted us into a small room to wait for the case-worker.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Theme week #3
Theme Week #3: Set the scene, create dialogue
She climbed aboard the Amtrak train heading north out of Baltimore. It was four in the afternoon, and she wouldn’t be in Hartford until close to midnight. She was burdened with too much luggage, because she was trying to save shipping costs by carrying most of her dorm room belongings home with her. The conductor looked at her with a disgusted look, “You really shouldn’t be trying to bring this much stuff with you.”
“I know,” she said “I’m heading home from college.”
She found a seat, and began to put the bag, box guitar and back-pack in the overhead compartments. She was having trouble with the back-pack; it was just a little too heavy. The man behind her said, “Here let me help.” He gave it a little shove and up it went. “Thank you.” She said as she sat down. She slid into the seat by the window and watched as people wandered around the boarding platform. She saw some lovers hug and kiss. The young man pulled away, picked up his luggage and headed into the train. The man that had helped her with her pack sat across the aisle form her. She looked at him too. He was about her father’s age, and wore a business suit with a red tie. “Ugh, I have Mr. Corporation sitting next to me.” She thought.
The man looked at her and asked. “So where are you going?”
“I’m going to Hartford. I just finished spring semester.” The last thing she wanted to do was have a conversation with this man. She tried to cut the conversation short and looked out the window again. Finally everyone is on board. Neither of their two seats was taken. She pulled out a book and the man across the aisle took out a magazine.
The rails managed to lull everyone into a quiet frame of mind. Wilmington and Philadelphia went by. It was dark, and the little light overhead was making her eyes tired. She put down her book. The man across from her closed his magazine and asked her “What are you studying in school?”
“Anthropology.” She replied, thinking that if she kept her answers short he would give up. But he didn’t.
“Anthropology! What will you do with that?”
“I don’t know; that’s actually why I decided to take some time off. I think I will work for a year or two and maybe then I will know what I want.”
“That sounds like a good idea, but make sure you still finish school. I have a daughter almost your age; she doesn’t know what she wants to do yet either, but she still has time.”
As the train was pulling out of Newark and picking up speed, there was a violent lurch. The train came to an abrupt stop. She was a bit frightened, and a child a few seats in front began to cry. She could hear his mom saying “Sshh, its ok.”
The man across the aisle said “It feels like a wheel derailed, I’ve had that happen before. Good thing we were still going slowly, it was probably just one car. Now we will have to wait until they can get the car back on the track.”
Sure enough, soon a conductor came through to explain just that. “We expect about a two hour delay. We are calling the stations ahead to let them know. We will still have a half hour hold-over in New York when we get there, you can get off the train and make any phone calls if you want."
“Is anyone waiting for you in Hartford?” the man asked me.
“Yes, my mom.”
“Well, when we get to New York, I am going to call my wife, and you can use my credit card to call your mother. If you were my daughter I would want to know that you were alright. I doubt the station master will quell her worries.”
“Thanks.”
Finally, the train was repaired, they arrived in New York. The man made his call and she made hers. Her mom didn’t answer though, and she figured she was already at the station waiting. While she had been listening to the phone ring, the man bought them some sandwiches and drinks. It was then that she decided Mr. Corporation wasn’t such a bad guy after all. He was a parent and knew what it was like to worry about family.
She climbed aboard the Amtrak train heading north out of Baltimore. It was four in the afternoon, and she wouldn’t be in Hartford until close to midnight. She was burdened with too much luggage, because she was trying to save shipping costs by carrying most of her dorm room belongings home with her. The conductor looked at her with a disgusted look, “You really shouldn’t be trying to bring this much stuff with you.”
“I know,” she said “I’m heading home from college.”
She found a seat, and began to put the bag, box guitar and back-pack in the overhead compartments. She was having trouble with the back-pack; it was just a little too heavy. The man behind her said, “Here let me help.” He gave it a little shove and up it went. “Thank you.” She said as she sat down. She slid into the seat by the window and watched as people wandered around the boarding platform. She saw some lovers hug and kiss. The young man pulled away, picked up his luggage and headed into the train. The man that had helped her with her pack sat across the aisle form her. She looked at him too. He was about her father’s age, and wore a business suit with a red tie. “Ugh, I have Mr. Corporation sitting next to me.” She thought.
The man looked at her and asked. “So where are you going?”
“I’m going to Hartford. I just finished spring semester.” The last thing she wanted to do was have a conversation with this man. She tried to cut the conversation short and looked out the window again. Finally everyone is on board. Neither of their two seats was taken. She pulled out a book and the man across the aisle took out a magazine.
The rails managed to lull everyone into a quiet frame of mind. Wilmington and Philadelphia went by. It was dark, and the little light overhead was making her eyes tired. She put down her book. The man across from her closed his magazine and asked her “What are you studying in school?”
“Anthropology.” She replied, thinking that if she kept her answers short he would give up. But he didn’t.
“Anthropology! What will you do with that?”
“I don’t know; that’s actually why I decided to take some time off. I think I will work for a year or two and maybe then I will know what I want.”
“That sounds like a good idea, but make sure you still finish school. I have a daughter almost your age; she doesn’t know what she wants to do yet either, but she still has time.”
As the train was pulling out of Newark and picking up speed, there was a violent lurch. The train came to an abrupt stop. She was a bit frightened, and a child a few seats in front began to cry. She could hear his mom saying “Sshh, its ok.”
The man across the aisle said “It feels like a wheel derailed, I’ve had that happen before. Good thing we were still going slowly, it was probably just one car. Now we will have to wait until they can get the car back on the track.”
Sure enough, soon a conductor came through to explain just that. “We expect about a two hour delay. We are calling the stations ahead to let them know. We will still have a half hour hold-over in New York when we get there, you can get off the train and make any phone calls if you want."
“Is anyone waiting for you in Hartford?” the man asked me.
“Yes, my mom.”
“Well, when we get to New York, I am going to call my wife, and you can use my credit card to call your mother. If you were my daughter I would want to know that you were alright. I doubt the station master will quell her worries.”
“Thanks.”
Finally, the train was repaired, they arrived in New York. The man made his call and she made hers. Her mom didn’t answer though, and she figured she was already at the station waiting. While she had been listening to the phone ring, the man bought them some sandwiches and drinks. It was then that she decided Mr. Corporation wasn’t such a bad guy after all. He was a parent and knew what it was like to worry about family.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Theme, week #2: write about yourself in history
She lived in a blue house. The house had two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen and a bathroom. The house leaned toward the ground and where the floorboards touched the earth they rotted. She was Sherrie, and my best friend.
I lived across the street in the yellow house up high on the knoll. It was a Gothic antique. It had five bedrooms, a living room, a family room, a dining room a kitchen and two bathrooms.l The house stood there a long time,it had secrets. Behind a panel under the stairs; runaway slaves hid for the day on their way up north along the Mississippi. My parents belonged in that house.
They lived next door and along the cul-de-sac in single story bungalows. Their houses had enough bedrooms, big televisions and kitchens filled with gadgets, cigarette smoke and empty coke bottles. They were the neighbors.
It was the mid 1960's, and the civil rights movement was going strong. Tensions and hatred between blacks and whites were fierce. I was unaware, I was seven and the outside world was not in. I had my friend, she was Sherrie and we played whenever we could, mostly at my house because her mom's boyfriend worked nights and slept all day. Sometimes I would play with them, the neighbor kids, but they were tough and yelled and sometimes swore.
My mom took my brother, sister and I to see a movie at a church. We sat on folding chairs, uncomfortable and tired. I jumped when Boo Radley saved Scout. The movie was To Kill a Mockingbird, and I didn't get it.
One summer day, Sherrie was in the city at her grandma's and I played with them. The sun had come out after a rain shower, or maybe we had used the sprinkler. The mud on my feet turned my flip-flops brown. They pointed and yelled, "Nigger lover, even your skin is turning black". I yelled back, "I am NOT" and ran inside. The outside world was creeping in.
Sometimes, Sherrie's mom would call us up, "Can one of you walk Sherrie to the store?" I'd put on my cowboy boots before I left the house. On those hot sultry days of summer, when everyone is bored and cranky, they would taunt us and throw rocks. My boots gave me courage and were weapon material. They had power, and I could yell "Go away or I'll kick you!" We'd reach the store, buy the milk or bread or can of beans, and walk the long way home. The outside world crept in.
I'd do anything for Sherrie, even though I was scared. She was my friend, and she was black.
I lived across the street in the yellow house up high on the knoll. It was a Gothic antique. It had five bedrooms, a living room, a family room, a dining room a kitchen and two bathrooms.l The house stood there a long time,it had secrets. Behind a panel under the stairs; runaway slaves hid for the day on their way up north along the Mississippi. My parents belonged in that house.
They lived next door and along the cul-de-sac in single story bungalows. Their houses had enough bedrooms, big televisions and kitchens filled with gadgets, cigarette smoke and empty coke bottles. They were the neighbors.
It was the mid 1960's, and the civil rights movement was going strong. Tensions and hatred between blacks and whites were fierce. I was unaware, I was seven and the outside world was not in. I had my friend, she was Sherrie and we played whenever we could, mostly at my house because her mom's boyfriend worked nights and slept all day. Sometimes I would play with them, the neighbor kids, but they were tough and yelled and sometimes swore.
My mom took my brother, sister and I to see a movie at a church. We sat on folding chairs, uncomfortable and tired. I jumped when Boo Radley saved Scout. The movie was To Kill a Mockingbird, and I didn't get it.
One summer day, Sherrie was in the city at her grandma's and I played with them. The sun had come out after a rain shower, or maybe we had used the sprinkler. The mud on my feet turned my flip-flops brown. They pointed and yelled, "Nigger lover, even your skin is turning black". I yelled back, "I am NOT" and ran inside. The outside world was creeping in.
Sometimes, Sherrie's mom would call us up, "Can one of you walk Sherrie to the store?" I'd put on my cowboy boots before I left the house. On those hot sultry days of summer, when everyone is bored and cranky, they would taunt us and throw rocks. My boots gave me courage and were weapon material. They had power, and I could yell "Go away or I'll kick you!" We'd reach the store, buy the milk or bread or can of beans, and walk the long way home. The outside world crept in.
I'd do anything for Sherrie, even though I was scared. She was my friend, and she was black.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Journal Entry #6
Monday,
A very long day at work. I was there from 6am to 6pm. My boss was out for a workshop and I filled in extra hours for her. Then the other staff person's daughter got sick and she had to leave. We did manage to find someone to come in and cover for her. The kids --oops, I am always told to say children-- were great today. At one point the entire group was sitting contentedly at the table using that play-dough we used last week. Then they wanted to hear a coffee-can story (instead of reading from a book, we tell the story using little props). So I did two of them. By then the day was half over. Lunch and naps followed, then the after-school children showed up and played board games. It was pretty quiet considering the teacher's weren't the usual ones.
The rain is really pelting against the windows, here. Some branches were down in my driveway and I had to get out and move one of them. It's a miserable night.
I hear my sump-pump running pretty steadily . I should go look and see how much water is in the cellar, but i can almost guess how much by the frequency of cycles of the pump turning on. I would rather be in denial, I think. I will look if it stops!
A call from my son yesterday. Sometimes he barely talks, but he was in a very talkative mood yesterday and we spent about 45 minutes on the phone, until his room-mate yelled that the game was on.
My daughter called today. While I plug away at an associate's degree, she is working on her master's in education. She needed some lesson ideas and some songs for preschoolers so asked me . We sang together and then wrote new words with the information she wanted to teach, which was winter animals.
A very long day at work. I was there from 6am to 6pm. My boss was out for a workshop and I filled in extra hours for her. Then the other staff person's daughter got sick and she had to leave. We did manage to find someone to come in and cover for her. The kids --oops, I am always told to say children-- were great today. At one point the entire group was sitting contentedly at the table using that play-dough we used last week. Then they wanted to hear a coffee-can story (instead of reading from a book, we tell the story using little props). So I did two of them. By then the day was half over. Lunch and naps followed, then the after-school children showed up and played board games. It was pretty quiet considering the teacher's weren't the usual ones.
The rain is really pelting against the windows, here. Some branches were down in my driveway and I had to get out and move one of them. It's a miserable night.
I hear my sump-pump running pretty steadily . I should go look and see how much water is in the cellar, but i can almost guess how much by the frequency of cycles of the pump turning on. I would rather be in denial, I think. I will look if it stops!
A call from my son yesterday. Sometimes he barely talks, but he was in a very talkative mood yesterday and we spent about 45 minutes on the phone, until his room-mate yelled that the game was on.
My daughter called today. While I plug away at an associate's degree, she is working on her master's in education. She needed some lesson ideas and some songs for preschoolers so asked me . We sang together and then wrote new words with the information she wanted to teach, which was winter animals.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Journal entry #5
Sunday afternoon,
This morning, I swapped the snow shoes for the X-country skis and took the loop to the waterfall. I discovered a set of coyote tracks--at least I think they were because of the determination of their course (dogs tend to meander). It followed my old trail and then went lopping off toward a marshy area near the stream. I did not follow, but kept to my already beaten trail. Somewhere I lost a mitten! I may decide to go back out and look for it in a bit. When I got home the laundry was ready to hang, I fixed the broken toilet seat, and cleaned the house. Really, I just thought about cleaning the house. Then I decided to work on assignments. Got some of them done. I have to figure what kind of BS will work for my other class. (Please don't anyone tell! It feels like another creative writing course, with a different agenda--how to dazzle the instructor!)
I called my sister again. This time I wanted to ask her some questions about our childhood, for the assignment. She helped to clarify a few of my thoughts and get things in chronological order, and get name places correct. I suppose I could have used those little white lies, and may still, to get the emphasis just right.
I feel the sun dipping closer to the horizon and the house is cooling. If I want to look for mitten now is the time.
Goodbye for now.
This morning, I swapped the snow shoes for the X-country skis and took the loop to the waterfall. I discovered a set of coyote tracks--at least I think they were because of the determination of their course (dogs tend to meander). It followed my old trail and then went lopping off toward a marshy area near the stream. I did not follow, but kept to my already beaten trail. Somewhere I lost a mitten! I may decide to go back out and look for it in a bit. When I got home the laundry was ready to hang, I fixed the broken toilet seat, and cleaned the house. Really, I just thought about cleaning the house. Then I decided to work on assignments. Got some of them done. I have to figure what kind of BS will work for my other class. (Please don't anyone tell! It feels like another creative writing course, with a different agenda--how to dazzle the instructor!)
I called my sister again. This time I wanted to ask her some questions about our childhood, for the assignment. She helped to clarify a few of my thoughts and get things in chronological order, and get name places correct. I suppose I could have used those little white lies, and may still, to get the emphasis just right.
I feel the sun dipping closer to the horizon and the house is cooling. If I want to look for mitten now is the time.
Goodbye for now.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
journal entry #4
I missed yesterday due to computer disfunction, and the disfunction of the operator. I turned on my computer yesterday morning to hear its motor rev up and then stop. I tried again, same thing. At that moment my significant other, who is a jack of all trades, (for this blog I will call him JAT) called. I told him what was going on. He said "put it somewhere really cold and I will bring my tools over tonight". I put it on the porch for the day. He spent the evening doing computer voodoo, and also backed up all my files. This morning we realized that the switch was sticking, so a little vaseline and I am all set again! When it comes to computers I am like a deer caught in the headlights, I stop moving, I stop thinking and I stop breathing. I might have been able to figure that out, but I panic and think the solution is way above me.
Yesterday was "one of those days". At work, I had to deal with fighting and arguments, and children biting and parents thinking they needed to continue the "punishment" at home. It doesn't matter how often we say, we have dealt with the issue, you don't need to again. We do appreciate support and consistency, but to be yipped at again for something that happened 5 hours ago doesn't do all that much good, especially for a three year old, who lives in the moment anyway.
At least Friday night is sauna night and my boss and i let off a lot of steam while we are steaming! Then I came home to my JAT and supper waiting, and a hero fixing my computer. It was a perfect ending for the day.
Beautiful morning this morning. I don't know where you all are, but here there was a glistening hoarfrost on the trees, vapor from the river. And on my drive into Belfast the west branch of the Marsh River wore a ribbon of hoarfrost along its edges. The bay also was shrouded. I am reminded of scenes from Dr Zhivago and other Russian literature, when I see that. I am often overwhelmed by the colors and textures of the natural world.
I did my usual Saturday morning routine, well....what I am trying as a new year's resolution. I go into work, and do the paper work that I haven't been able to do during the week when children are pulling on my sleeve, sneezing on my sleeve, or biting their peers. Or I am just having fun with them. I can't multi-task when people are around. So I got most of that done, I still have a bit to do, but I forgot those papers at the house, ugh.
I guess that is it for now, I would like to get outside to enjoy a little of the day before the sun goes down.
Yesterday was "one of those days". At work, I had to deal with fighting and arguments, and children biting and parents thinking they needed to continue the "punishment" at home. It doesn't matter how often we say, we have dealt with the issue, you don't need to again. We do appreciate support and consistency, but to be yipped at again for something that happened 5 hours ago doesn't do all that much good, especially for a three year old, who lives in the moment anyway.
At least Friday night is sauna night and my boss and i let off a lot of steam while we are steaming! Then I came home to my JAT and supper waiting, and a hero fixing my computer. It was a perfect ending for the day.
Beautiful morning this morning. I don't know where you all are, but here there was a glistening hoarfrost on the trees, vapor from the river. And on my drive into Belfast the west branch of the Marsh River wore a ribbon of hoarfrost along its edges. The bay also was shrouded. I am reminded of scenes from Dr Zhivago and other Russian literature, when I see that. I am often overwhelmed by the colors and textures of the natural world.
I did my usual Saturday morning routine, well....what I am trying as a new year's resolution. I go into work, and do the paper work that I haven't been able to do during the week when children are pulling on my sleeve, sneezing on my sleeve, or biting their peers. Or I am just having fun with them. I can't multi-task when people are around. So I got most of that done, I still have a bit to do, but I forgot those papers at the house, ugh.
I guess that is it for now, I would like to get outside to enjoy a little of the day before the sun goes down.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
journal entry #3
Thursday: It actually was rather busy, but pleasant at work today. As I mentioned before, I work in child care. Every day is a new adventure, and you never know what is in store for you, even if you plan something. I got a group of children to help make play-dough, we got covered in flour, which was fun. For a while I tried to keep them from playing with it, but then thought, this is what they need, so.... Later, I got on all fours for a game of crab-soccer. We play two on two in one of the rooms. I have to say, I got a bit competitive.
Then home to feed the cat,fill the wood stove, eat supper, answer the phone and get assignments done. The moon was gorgeous when I pulled in my drive and stopped to get the mail. I contemplated turning the car lights off for the ride down the driveway, but then decided not to. But I did stand outside and lean against the car to look at it and the stars. I feel so small when I am looking at the stars. I find it a great way to slap the ego in the face when it gets too full of itself.
I have a funny incident to relate that happened yesterday afternoon. I was raking snow off the roof, when a small chunk of ice came flying toward my face. It hit me on the cheek, knocked one of the lenses out of my glasses that went sailing into the air (or so I imagined since by then I couldn't see), and landed in the snow! There I was, with only one good eye. I closed the lense-less eye and looked around. There in the new-fallen snow was a cut in the shape and curvature of an eyeglass lens. I took off my gloves and managed to find it, thank goodness. Guess that's it for today.
Then home to feed the cat,fill the wood stove, eat supper, answer the phone and get assignments done. The moon was gorgeous when I pulled in my drive and stopped to get the mail. I contemplated turning the car lights off for the ride down the driveway, but then decided not to. But I did stand outside and lean against the car to look at it and the stars. I feel so small when I am looking at the stars. I find it a great way to slap the ego in the face when it gets too full of itself.
I have a funny incident to relate that happened yesterday afternoon. I was raking snow off the roof, when a small chunk of ice came flying toward my face. It hit me on the cheek, knocked one of the lenses out of my glasses that went sailing into the air (or so I imagined since by then I couldn't see), and landed in the snow! There I was, with only one good eye. I closed the lense-less eye and looked around. There in the new-fallen snow was a cut in the shape and curvature of an eyeglass lens. I took off my gloves and managed to find it, thank goodness. Guess that's it for today.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
journal entry #2
First thought of the moment, DON'T PUSH ENTER WHEN YOU MEAN TO PUSH TAB! Luckily I could correct that mistake. I read a few of the classmate's journals this morning and can truely relate to the person who remarked about entering the computer age. I feel at a loss most of the time. Not only do I have this course and a blog, I have my first Blackboard class. Last night a classmate and I went to EMCC for our first ECE233 class and I had my first introduction to blackboard. Luckily M. was sitting next to me and helped me navigate the field. I was more confused navigating that then I was navigating the roads during the snow storm. She said I can e-mail her anytime that I need help.
As for last night in the storm. I found out this morning that the car accident that I grumbled about because it created a huge detour to get to Bangor caused the death of one of the people involved. What a selfish bitch I was. Somebody died, two people are in the hospital and who knows about the family and friends that are affected.
I did get that snow day that I wished for, I work at a child-care center and we close when public school closes. So this morning after breakfast and feeding my two remaining chickens,I read, did some writing and went for a snowshoe. It's a beautiful day out there. I worked up a sweat breaking a trail.
I have a constant battle with my 19 year old cat. He doesn't hear anymore, but he always knows when my lap gets horizontal and tries to climb up. I don't mind most of the time, but when the keyboard sits in my lap there isn't enough room. Someday my journal will say: "hfkjwqpofjvb,nvuihf", if it does you'll know it was my cat.
rc
As for last night in the storm. I found out this morning that the car accident that I grumbled about because it created a huge detour to get to Bangor caused the death of one of the people involved. What a selfish bitch I was. Somebody died, two people are in the hospital and who knows about the family and friends that are affected.
I did get that snow day that I wished for, I work at a child-care center and we close when public school closes. So this morning after breakfast and feeding my two remaining chickens,I read, did some writing and went for a snowshoe. It's a beautiful day out there. I worked up a sweat breaking a trail.
I have a constant battle with my 19 year old cat. He doesn't hear anymore, but he always knows when my lap gets horizontal and tries to climb up. I don't mind most of the time, but when the keyboard sits in my lap there isn't enough room. Someday my journal will say: "hfkjwqpofjvb,nvuihf", if it does you'll know it was my cat.
rc
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Journal Entry #1
Tuesday: I just got home from a long drive from Belfast to Bangor and back again and then to my own home in Monroe. The roads were a mess and there were three accidents that we were aware of, or saw. My head aches from following the flashing orange lights of a plow for half an hour, and I want some supper. So why did I go? To class, what else. Thank gawd it is the only time I HAVE to go up this semester.
Work today was pretty quiet. Many of the children were not in, I think because of transportation and the snow. In the yoga class we paired the children up and did partner poses. It was fun, and it was so neat to see some of the less willing participants actually participate with a peer.
The other day I found a copy of one of my favorite books from my childhood at the local Goodwill. I finished reading it this morning before I went to work. It is the story of Miss Bianca, a mouse, that rescues people. Reading it will the eyes of an adult was rather interesting. There seemed to be a bit of hidden sexual innuendo, and unrequited love. I am not sure that I would choose to read it aloud to a child now, but maybe they wouldn't get it, like I hadn't when I was 10.
I'm tired and I think the supper I have warming up is ready. Hoping for a snow day tomorrow!
Tuesday: I just got home from a long drive from Belfast to Bangor and back again and then to my own home in Monroe. The roads were a mess and there were three accidents that we were aware of, or saw. My head aches from following the flashing orange lights of a plow for half an hour, and I want some supper. So why did I go? To class, what else. Thank gawd it is the only time I HAVE to go up this semester.
Work today was pretty quiet. Many of the children were not in, I think because of transportation and the snow. In the yoga class we paired the children up and did partner poses. It was fun, and it was so neat to see some of the less willing participants actually participate with a peer.
The other day I found a copy of one of my favorite books from my childhood at the local Goodwill. I finished reading it this morning before I went to work. It is the story of Miss Bianca, a mouse, that rescues people. Reading it will the eyes of an adult was rather interesting. There seemed to be a bit of hidden sexual innuendo, and unrequited love. I am not sure that I would choose to read it aloud to a child now, but maybe they wouldn't get it, like I hadn't when I was 10.
I'm tired and I think the supper I have warming up is ready. Hoping for a snow day tomorrow!
Monday, January 18, 2010
writer's autobigraphy, in 3 voices
#1.
Over the years, I have kept journals and written some poetry, and even a few articles for newsletters. Mainly though, I use writing as a means to process the events in my life, especially the turmoils. Writing helped me through the angst of teenage confusion and hormones. It helped me keep moving during an unsuccessful marriage, and other relationships. I admit, at one point after rereading my journals, I realized I was stuck in a never-ending spiral. I stopped writing except for a garden journal, where I kept track of seeds planted, the weather and the harvest (if I kept it going that long into the season), and I keep a journal when I go on an annual canoe trip with friends.
This course is the first course in my return to school that I actually look forward to. I am a returning student who is fulfilling the requirement to get a degree in ECE , as if my 28 years of experience has no meaning.
#2
You pull out a spiral-bound notebook and you write. You're hormones are raging and you know you love that boy down the street. He doesn't see you, you write of the agony, and sadness of the unrequitted love. Years later you buy another notebook and begin the story of the birth of your first child. You record a few months worth of motherhood and baby mlestones, then you go back to work and time and energy are lost. Your second child doesn't get a baby journal. The children grow, your marriage falls apart. You begin to write again, process your sorrows and questions. Your book shares your loneliness and gets you through the next year, the divorce and the next relationship. You feel insurmountably stuck and you stop writing, you do slowly move forward. You miss writing and you try a new tactic, a new book records only your vacations, an annual canoe trip with friends, you write about the challenges of weather and paddling. You also begin a garden journal to expand upon the little plot plan that you have always used. You write about the seeds planted, the weather, the harvest. It's a circle of events, a cycle. Do you ever move frorward?
#3
She felt lonely and misunderstood. She had noone to share the angst of adolescence. She bought a small spiral notebook and began to write, disjointed poems of love and hurt and pain. Writing became her solace and her friend. She grew older and away from that confusion. She got married, had children. As the children grew and needed her less and less, she discovered an empty place in her being. She bagan to write again to fill that space, to feel complete and whole, and to process the marriage that no longer filled her up. The words helped her move from that life to a new one where she began to feel strong and was able to move forward. When she no longer needed the words she stopped. Life moved on.
Over the years, I have kept journals and written some poetry, and even a few articles for newsletters. Mainly though, I use writing as a means to process the events in my life, especially the turmoils. Writing helped me through the angst of teenage confusion and hormones. It helped me keep moving during an unsuccessful marriage, and other relationships. I admit, at one point after rereading my journals, I realized I was stuck in a never-ending spiral. I stopped writing except for a garden journal, where I kept track of seeds planted, the weather and the harvest (if I kept it going that long into the season), and I keep a journal when I go on an annual canoe trip with friends.
This course is the first course in my return to school that I actually look forward to. I am a returning student who is fulfilling the requirement to get a degree in ECE , as if my 28 years of experience has no meaning.
#2
You pull out a spiral-bound notebook and you write. You're hormones are raging and you know you love that boy down the street. He doesn't see you, you write of the agony, and sadness of the unrequitted love. Years later you buy another notebook and begin the story of the birth of your first child. You record a few months worth of motherhood and baby mlestones, then you go back to work and time and energy are lost. Your second child doesn't get a baby journal. The children grow, your marriage falls apart. You begin to write again, process your sorrows and questions. Your book shares your loneliness and gets you through the next year, the divorce and the next relationship. You feel insurmountably stuck and you stop writing, you do slowly move forward. You miss writing and you try a new tactic, a new book records only your vacations, an annual canoe trip with friends, you write about the challenges of weather and paddling. You also begin a garden journal to expand upon the little plot plan that you have always used. You write about the seeds planted, the weather, the harvest. It's a circle of events, a cycle. Do you ever move frorward?
#3
She felt lonely and misunderstood. She had noone to share the angst of adolescence. She bought a small spiral notebook and began to write, disjointed poems of love and hurt and pain. Writing became her solace and her friend. She grew older and away from that confusion. She got married, had children. As the children grew and needed her less and less, she discovered an empty place in her being. She bagan to write again to fill that space, to feel complete and whole, and to process the marriage that no longer filled her up. The words helped her move from that life to a new one where she began to feel strong and was able to move forward. When she no longer needed the words she stopped. Life moved on.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Did this really work?
I've read through the directions and done things twice, back-tracked and jumped forward. I hope I am on board here. The next post should be our first assignment.
RC
RC
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