Daring Leap

Charise slipped from beneath the boughs of the pine tree that had served as shelter during the night. She had been fortunate to find a tree ancient enough to offer protection from the storms that had passed through in succession.  Stepping out to a rocky outcropping she sucked in the fresh morning air.  The pastel colored houses in the valley below were framed by the cobalt blue of a rain-cleansed sky.  At the far end of the valley towering cumulus clouds drifted lazily off into the distance.

Filled with a carefree happiness, Charise dared to break the cardinal rule. Carefully unfurling her wings, she leaped from the ridge into flight.

Summer Sunday

The summer Sunday was calm with a capital C.  Not even the ocean could summon the energy to send waves breaking onto the shore, choosing instead to kiss the sand with subtle ripples.

Gulls either stood with eyes narrowed to sleepy slits, or drifted lazily overhead on thermals. Their normally  raucous calls were absent.

Sun and clouds did half-hearted battle, neither caring which won the day, and in the end settling on an afternoon of diffused light.

As for me, with lethargy so predominant what was there to do but stare vacantly at the distant meeting of ocean and sky and give my thoughts free rein to travel where they would.

Thrill of the Storm

It was a night that had me wishing I my house had one of those deep, wrap-around porches.

Overhead, the sky turned progressively more ominous as layers of charcoal gray clouds converged from three different directions. Jagged lines of silver-white lightning jumped from cloud to cloud, first in the back of the house, then moving to the front. Soon blinding lances of lightning were striking the ground on all sides and thunder rolled continuously. 

 Oh, to have had a porch to provide shelter that I might follow the progression of the storm and catch evbery bit of the pyrotechnics.

The fury of the storm took me back to days of my youth when my mother would call my sister and I inside at the first rumble of thunder. My father would move through the house unplugging all things electric while my mother kept us kids quarantined on the couch with our feet tucked beneath out butts.

Sitting on the coarse cushions, watching lightning strobe through the windows I would hear the back door open and close... my father going out on the carport to watch nature's fury.

As I got older I dared to challenge being relegated to the couch and earned the right to join my father outdoors.  Oh, the adrenaline rush that came with the sizzle of a lightning bolt passing closely by; the momentary jolt of surprise tinged with fear when a deafening crack filled the air; the ecstasy of deep rumbles of thunder passing in waves. I took offense at the rain that kept me trapped in the carport. I wanted to run through neighboring yards, chasing the lightning bolts as they searched for ground, wanted to shout out challenges as I raced the wind.

Night Visit

It was the inner calm that surprised him.

By rights he should have been panicked. He had woken to the sound of a gravely, menacing voice in his bedroom. The voice had been coupled with the discovery that his left leg was thrashing beneath the covers in a movement that mirrored his dream effort to kick a door open.

He might have convinced himself the voice was a carryover from his dream - one of those tendrils that lingers in the gray world between sleep and waking - had it not been for a repeat of the rough whisper after he had pushed himself upright and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Intrigued rather than frightened, he got to his feet just in time to see a silhoutte break from the shadows and move out of the room.  He followed at a steady pace. In the hallway he heard footsteps advance to the front door. He was staring at the front door when he heard it open and close....yet the door never moved.

What the hell was going on?

Heat Struggle

At ten o'clock on a Sunday morning in July the day should have been filled with the sounds of shouting children, skateboard wheels on concrete, and basketballs bouncing on asphalt.

But the only sounds to be heard today were the chirping of birds and the humming of air conditioner compressors. The unrelenting heat had turned our entire subdivision into a community of recluses.

Tired of being inside, I led my granddaughter on a morning walk to playground. The subtle breeze was just enough to lift the heat from the street and swirl it around us.  Little Miss Grabby Fingers plodded on determinedly and, once the playground came in sight, actually broke into toddler's version of a jog.

But ultimately it was the heat that won out, turning energy into lethargy. Sweat poured from Little Miss Grabby Fingers' scalp despite the motion of the swing. Her head dropped forward and her eyes narrowed to exhausted slits.  She made the journey home in the crook of my arm.

As we approached the house, the heat made one last attempt to claim us for its own - whispering suggestions to simply sit down on the lawn and save the effort of climbing the five steps.  But the call of air conditioning won out over exhaustion and we won through to the cool embrace of home.

Dinner Preparations

The great thing about this weather is that the hot tea left in my travel mug when I get to work is just as hot when I head home. 

Of course I'm just as hot as tea by the time I have my seat belt fastened. 

Come to think of it, I could have my entire dinner waiting for me when I left work.  A chicken breast slathered with barbecue sauce and an ear of corn coated with butter - each wrapped in aluminum foil and left to sit on the dashboard of my car - would be fully cooked by the time the quitting bell rang.

Spirits and Feasts

There nothing like a winery tour an wine tasting to pick up your spirits. And that's exactly what we did this past weekend to alleviate the the hum-drums generated by too much humidity and too little sun.

Surprisingly the highlight of the tour proved to be the ginger crackers that were offered as accompaniment to one of the fruitier wines. The ginger flavor carried me right past the remainder of summer and into November. 

Ordinarily I would bemoan such a fast forwarding but in this case the mental images of candlelit tables heaped with food while pumpkin and mincemeat pies sat on an equally laden sideboard were welcome solace to the soul.

There is a difference between summer and post-summer feasts.  Summer feasts are designed so that extended families can pause in their outdoor activities, descend on the food like a flock of starved ravens, and then race off to tossing Frisbees and catching lightning bugs. Post-summer feasts, Thanksgiving and Christmas, are spreads that encourage families to linger at the table - to spend time sharing memories while testing the elasticity of clothing.

Swinging Into Living

He supposed he should be concerned that the windshield wipers were unable to keep up with the deluge, that the view ahead was nothing but a water-streaked gray mist. But he wasn't. He supposed he should  ease off on the gas.  But he didn't. Instead he pushed the gas pedal closer to the floor.

He savored the adrenaline rush that came with knowing his life might end at any moment. It was a welcome change to the blur that his daily life had become.

The windshield wipers thunked at every end of their racing swing like metronomes counting off a hundred beats per minute. The beat of his heart increased to match the thunk of the wipers, the blood pumping muscle borrowing life from the future.

One of the car tires hit a pothole and the car went into a fishtail. He took his hands from the wheel and laughed aloud as the car went into a full swing. This!  This was living!

Self-guided Tour

With the help of on-board navigation we finished our ten hour drive to Montreal without a hitch.  Only to find that the line of cars waiting to get to get to the front door wrapped half way around the block.  Pleased that we had booked such a popular hotel, we were none the less frustrated by what promised to be a delay in checking in.

Always one to get straight to the heart of the matter, Motivated Mom hopped out of the car an hoofed it up to the front door.... only to return with news that power had been out for two hours and there was no checking in going on.

So off we went to a public parking lot where, after several attempts to decipher the parking meter instructions written in French, we finally managed to get the kiosk to spit out a ticket.  From there we bravely set off on foot in hopes of finding a reasonably priced restaurant that would cater to a forlorn looking group of travelers.

We were lucky enough to find a diner that wouldn't tax our wallets... although we learned tax is a word that gets Canadians talking. The citizens of Montreal suffer under the weight of a fifteen percent sales tax that is applied to everything - including meals in a diner.  Our waitress regaled us with her opinions of corrupt politicians while she processed our check.

Less than three hours since crossing the border we found ourselves questioning the wisdom of the trip.

Happy 4th

Time to eat up some highway miles... so taking this opportunity to wish everyone a Happy 4th of July.

Whatever your activities may entail this week I encourage you to take the time to give thanks for the freedoms we enjoy.

See you on the flip side

Taste Test

I saw her through an open kitchen door. An auburn haired woman wearing a full apron. She moved purposefully between sink and stove. The smells wafting across the yard told me that bacon was part of the breakfast menu.

It was the apron that triggered my internal way-back machine. You just don't see those aprons very much any more. I remember my mother had an assortment of them. One was red and white checked, another was off-beige decorated with pinstriped lines. There was a Christmas apron and an apron with stencils of barbecue utensils. Some aprons had two pockets near the bottom hem; a couple had a third pocket at chest height.

The aprons are a permanent part of my childhood memories. I was always underfoot in the kitchen, drawing in lungfuls of mouthwatering smells daydreaming to hypnotic clatter of wooden spoons in mixing bowls.

My mother donning an apron was a signal that there was going to be some serious baking going on. Baking meant samples to taste and tasting meant I was there!

Simple Greeter

He had really had no preconceived ideas of what death would be like, but he would never have imagined this.

Henry had lived his life as a simple farmer. The kind of farmer who worked the land with hand tools. He carried seeds in a canvas sack strung over his shoulder and spilled the seeds into the ground from the palm of his hand. He relied on mother nature to keep them watered.

There had been no pain the day his heart quit. He transitioned easily from living to dead in the space of a single step.  Now he passed his time in the cemetery watching for new arrivals. Gave him a might blessed feeling to be able to help those poor souls. Especially the ones who had lived their lives in front of computer screens and microwaves. He loved introducing them to the grass, trees, and moonlight.

It was always moonlight when he removed his tattered straw hat and waved it in welcoming. It was only at night that he could see the others. During the day he kept to himself, enjoying the flowers that arrived on a regular basis.

Lightning Guess

The day's heat carried well into the night and the air was heavy with moisture. Not a leaf rustled, not a cloud crept across the sky. It seemed all the world was exhausted save for the frogs croaking from the haven of the pond.

I thought back to nights such as this during my childhood when the neighborhood kids would gather on a porch drinking lemonade or licking freeze pops after the shadows had grown too thick for continued rounds of hide-and-seek.  Lightning would flicker in the distance and we would make guesses as to its nature. Heat lightning meant a long night of sleeping on top of the bedsheets. The real deal - storm lightning - meant visual excitement followed by cool breezes whistling through the house.

We always hoped for storms of course. There was nothing like the deafening thunder accompanied by the smell of charged ozone as a blinding streak connected heaven to earth. We had all heard our parents explain thunder as angels bowling in the heavens, but I always preferred the image of Thor striking an anvil with a god-sized mallet. 

Summer Bloom

Summer is in full bloom in our back yard.

A Snatched Carrot

Here we are again - on the cusp of the longest day of the year - an annual irony.

Just as summer arrives - just as we plan extended evenings outdoors watching the coals in the barbecue grow dim, daylight has peaked. The days now shorten as the temperature rises. It is the equivalent of snatching a carrot from in front of a horse.

Gray

Gray is the color of indecision - a fogging of the mind.
Gray is the color of confusion - a stolen expectation.
Gray is the color of apathy - a first step to anarchy.
Gray is the color of loss - a quicksand that threatens to consume.

Gray lurks between black and the white.
Gray mutes the vibrancy of opportunity.
Gray is a villan and a thief.
Gray is walking death.

Gray shrinks before determination.
Determination fuels light.
Light fuels hope.
Hope fuels love.
Love brings joy.

May gray be a stranger.

Watch Your Step

There was discussion on the radio today about the first parachute jump out of an airplane. I was intrigued so when I arrived home I sought more information from Dr. Google.

Apparently U.S. Army Captain Albert Berry was feeling quite the daring devil on March 1, 1912.

And I got to wondering just exactly what made the Captain think jumping from an airplane was a good idea... particularly in early March when the temperatures at ground level are enough to make the average person wish they had never left the house. And I emphasize jumping from the airplane because there was no in to jump out of. The plane in question very much resembled what the Wright brothers first used to hop through the air. There was a seat for a pilot and nothing more.

Think about it. Standing on the wing of a biplane and shouting Geronimo while pulling the rip cord of a device you hoped like hell was actually going to work.  Who does that?

I can only assume the good Captain had recently been diagnosed with some life threatening condition and decided sooner was as good as a little less sooner.

Stretching Silence

They spoke on cell phones - a universe apart from one another.

It was 7:30 in the morning. He sat in the airport waiting to board yet another business flight. He pictured her at the round oak table in their kitchen, dressed in a pale blue bathrobe, nurturing a cup of coffee. She  would be watching rays of sunlight angle through the trees in their backyard while he stared at travelers shifting uncomfortably in back to back rows of chrome and vinyl chairs.

"I love you ," he told her.

"I miss you," she answered.

"You say that every time I travel."

"I miss you every time you travel. I wish you were here," she said.

And then there was silence stretching for six hundred and thirty-seven miles.

They had been married for twenty-three years and still he felt he had somehow failed when he couldn't hold hold her in the morning.

All About Down

It's really all about going down.  But to go down you must first go up.

And so our granddaughter, Little Miss Grabby Fingers, has learned to crawl up steps. 

 While our home is on a single floor, that floor is five steps above ground level. Which means that when I'm outside with Miss Grabby Fingers relaxation is out of the question.  For there's nothing quite as heart stopping as seeing a toddler tottering at the top of five wooden steps leading down to a brick patio.

Heart stopping because Miss Grabby Fingers idea of going down is not to hold onto a railing. Rather, in full confidence that someone will be there, she extends her arms straight in front of her...and steps out into air.

It's kind of like watching a tight-rope walker. Only there's no tight rope and no net.  Only Little Miss Grabby Fingers testing to see how quickly I can make it from one side of the patio to the other.

Missing the Relax

It was back to the beach this weekend in more ways than one.

It was the first time Motivated Mom had set up chairs for a day-log stay since last year. And this time we found ourselves once again with a toddler in tow... something we thought we had forever graduated from some seventeen years ago.

Sitting on the beach I remembered with longing the inner peace I had found just last year in watching the ocean surge relentlessly to the shore.

Now I watched as little legs churned relentlessly through the sand.

I thought of how last year my drifting thoughts would come and go in synchronicity with the waves.

Now my attention was glued to the girl who considered every piece of sea shell to be a possible delicacy.

Yes it was back to the beach - and back to the realization there is something that can take the relax out of relaxation.

Checkered Thoughts

Nothing says summer like a red and white checkered vinyl table cloth spread over a picnic table.

I saw such an All-American picnic table this past weekend and was immediately transported to a time when grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered at my parent's house for barbecues.  Real barbecues where my father worried over whether there was enough lighter fluid on the charcoal briquettes and a hot dog could go from appetizingly brown to crusty black in less than a minute.

It was usually I who was in charge of shuttling hot dogs and hamburger patties from the kitchen to the grill (a heady responsibility for a nine-year-old) where a team of men would monitor my father's cooking while discussing the latest baseball statistics.

In the kitchen, my mother, grandmother, and aunts worked to put the finishing touches on fruit, chicken, and potato salads - placing each in a colored bowl covered with plastic wrap.  That was in the days when it took three tries to tear off a length of plastic wrap without having the piece wrinkle into an unusable stuck-to-itself mess.

Entertainment came courtesy of transistor radios. Games of whiffle ball and badminton generally ran until the object being batted or swatted could no longer be seen in the dusk.

And at the end of it all.... there was no escaping a bath.

Weather Song

It is as sure a weather predictor as the evening news or the weather channel.

The day had broken sunny and warm, greeted by the sporadic chirps and whistles of sparrows, robins, and mocking birds. The medley spoke of blue skies and white puffy clouds.

By mid afternoon the bird song had quieted, my feathered friends sheltering from the high sun and resting in preparation for evening feeding.

But by four o-clock I knew the evening meal would be thwarted. Bird calls now came in sharp rapid-fire. Warnings shouted from tree to tree.

Louder and louder the birds sang out, competing with the steady wind that now turned tree leaves so that the under sides showed. The wind, seemingly encouraged by the shouting birds blew stronger yet. The birds responded with near panicked squawks. The noise became such that I was tempted to cover my ears.

And then - complete aviary silence as the first drops of rain splattered heavily on the patio.

Sandpipers and Sun Worshipers

Intermittent rain showers had beach goers racing between wide expanses of sand and the shelter of awnings and overhangs.

Whenever a band of showers ended, ever-optimistic sun worshipers would scurry back to the beach. Guided by their own shadows men and women of all ages would carefully orient their pastel beach towels and striped beach chairs to the angle of the sun. With a sigh of relief they would settle themselves comfortably and, convinced the day had cleared once and for all, begin to doze.

Alas, the much anticipated sun-induced naps were thwarted time and again by a chilly drizzle that somehow reached the beach before the clouds could block the sun.

With cries of dismay, the beach folk would scoop up towels and blankets and fold them into bundles on the run.  These people who had so thoughtfully spaced themselves apart on the beach would pack shoulder to shoulder beneath storefront awnings and hotel overhangs saying they had had enough.  Yet when the sun next broke through they would again scatter on the sand.

I couldn't help but compare the perpetual migration to sandpipers skittering along the water's edge, racing to and fro in response to the ocean's surge and retreat.

Measured Step

The house groaned and creaked with unexplained noises. Aaron did his best to ignore them. The house was nearly a hundred years old. The timbers were entitled to groan.

But then something completely different caught his ear. A rythmic sound - like someone with a peg leg walking through the kitchen. It made Aaron think of Captain Ahab walking the decks of the Pequod.

From the dining room he listened to the step and slide, step and slide, step and slide as something approached the archway between the dining room and kitchen.   His pulse pounded in his ears. His lungs worked  in short panicked breaths. His instincts demanded he run but he refused. To leave the house now would mean never returning.

The vibration of his cell phone in his pocket made him leap from his chair.

"I'm running late," Cindy said. "Did you let yourself in?"

Aaron nodded even though he knew Cindy couldn't see the motion. "Who else lives here?'

"No one," Cindy said. "I inherited the house from my grandfather. It's all paid for. I don't need a room mate. Why?"

"Anything special about your grandfather?" Aaron asked.

After a long pause Cindy answered, "No. He was a simple blue collar guy. Worked for the railroad. At least until an accident took his leg."

Looking for Home

He had to accept he would never find his way home again. It wasn't that he couldn't find the physical place. He had done that, driven through the old neighborhood, parked in front of his old house, even gotten out  of the car and walked into the backyard where the oak tree still stood.

But the memories that had been here were gone. He had packed them up and taken them with him.

When he got to the new place he had forgotten there was more to unpack than boxes. He had been so busy building a new life he had erased the old. By the time he saw the coldness in his new life it was too late. The old life was gone.

He had returned to this place where he had once lived in the hopes of finding meaning. The visit had stirred no emotion.  Had his childhood been so unremarkable - so easily lost?   He really couldn't remember

Pulling the Weight

The sound might have been the giant from Jack in the Beanstalk trying to get rid of his five o'clock shadow with a dull razor.

But when I cam around the corner of the building my guess proved wildly wrong - though what my eyes beheld was nearly as surprising as a razor-challenged giant.

Under the supervision of her personal cross-fit trainer, a forty-something woman was attempting to drag a metal plate laden with a massive hundred pound weight across the asphalt parking lot. The woman was connected to the metal plate by two heavy leather straps crossed over her shoulders. She was leaning forward like a draft horse trying to pull a plow through a rocky patch of earth.

All I could think of was...why?  Why would anyone willing struggle to drag one hundred plus pounds of metal across a parking lot?  Why would anyone pay money to do so? 

I tried to put myself in the woman's position, to understand wanting toned thighs and buns so bad that I would subject myself to the most absurd exercise routine. The closest I could come was picturing myself handing the leather straps to the trainer and telling him to pull the damn weight himself!

Goose Bumps and Sweatshirts

It's that time of year when the serious sun worshipers are separated from the timid. Or perhaps its a case of separating the crazies from the sane.

While most beach visitors protected themselves from the brisk winds by donning sweatshirts and turning umbrellas into windbreaks by laying the umbrellas on their side, there were a few hardy soles who strolled the water's edge wearing nothing but a bathing suit.

It gives me cause to wonder if the goose bumps that must surely have covered those few barely clothed bodies formed some type of insulation. Perhaps there is a genetic strain that causes goose bumps to fill with a naturally produced antifreeze.  Or perhaps the antifreeze came from several adult libations before the sun worshipers set off to expose their barren skin to the fifty degree wind chills.

As for myself.  I'll take the warm of the sun on my face while the rest of me simmers beneath multiple layers of clothing.

Salvation?

Christopher clenched the crucifix that hung from the gold chain around his neck but failed to find the comfort he was looking for. It was as though the leaden sky had sealed heaven away from him, left him on his own to deal with this evil. Evil, the forest reeked of it, reeked of things risen from the grave and deeper.

A rumble that might have been thunder but wasn't told Christopher worse was yet to come. Worse. He felt it in his bones. Worse. He felt it on the back of his neck. Worse. He felt in the the cold of the metal within his fist.

Worse. He could not imagine it. Could not imagine worse than the funeral pyre he had left behind. The pyre that he himself had set alight. The blaze that he hoped had commended the souls of the twisted once-human things to the creator; saving them from an eternity of  slipping wraith-like through the shadows.

Gas Slide

It was like a trip in a time machine. I had earned sufficient gas points at the grocery store that I was able to fill the gas tank of my SUV for $2.28 a gallon.

Motivated Mom's calculations put me back at 2007 but I wasn't stopping there.  I slipped all the way back to 1976 when gas was fifty-cents a gallon and filling up my Volkswagen Beetle cost me a whopping four dollars and change.

My VW not withstanding, the roads were filled with vehicles propelled by eight cylinder engines that roared like wild animals when drivers tromped on the gas. People drove for the sheer pleasure of spending a Saturday afternoon checking out the local flora and fauna before pulling into the expanse of a drive-in movie lot.

No one talked about the miles per gallon rating of their car. It was all about horsepower and how fast you could get from zero to sixty.  Sure the gas needle moved like a radio in constant search of a station but there were gas stations aplenty.

Spare Reptile

At first I thought someone had left a spare tire behind after a roadside repair.  You know, one of those little doughnut spares that are good only for speeds up to 40 mph.

When I got closer I realized the spare was actually a generous sized turtle methodically making its way across the shoulder of the divided highway. Studying the turtle's ponderous movement, the slow and systematic placement of one leg after another, I wondered if the turtle understood the peril it would be in once breaching the solid white line that separated shoulder from travel lane.

The outcome of a car / turtle encounter would be good for neither party. Such a collision seemed likely in sixty mile per hour rush hour traffic.

I decided that if, on my home from work tomorrow, there is not a dead reptile on the side of the road the question won't be why did the turtle cross the road, rather it will be how did the turtle make it to the other side.

WIndow Visitor

Sometimes when the lights in the room had just gone out he would catch a glimpse of it; a white face with gaping holes where the eyes and mouth should have been. Always it was in the center pane of the bedroom window, looking in.

He had never been able to determine whether it disappeared because it had been found out, or if the rational part of his brain erased the vision as equally unacceptable and improbable.

He had seen it first on the night of his aunt's passing. The night he had heard his aunt speak to him in his bedroom. The night he had smelled her perfume.

Rain Watch

The rain came in wind-driven sheets. Henry had his face pressed to the window glass. He had seen it again, a shadow slipping through the mist that was beginning to form as the temperatures dropped. There was no passing it off as imagination now.

Movement to the left caught his attention. Bananas, his tabby cat, was clawing at the screen on the front door. Henry hurried down the hall, placed his hand on the doorknob, and paused. He thought of how grotesque the shadow silhouette had been - like an alligator struggling to walk upright.

Did he really want to open the door?  He heard cat claws plucking frantically at the screen. He turned the knob. Bananas gave a warning growl.  Henry backed away. Bananas would still be waiting when the storm stopped, he was sure of it.

Simply Enough

Sometimes it's enough to simply walk at the water's edge and think of nothing.

Sometimes it's enough to simply sit under a starry sky and be amazed by twinkling lights beyond counting.

Sometimes it's enough to simply hold the hand of someone you love.

Sometimes it's enough to simply be warmed by the smile of a child.

Sometimes it's enough to simply breathe in the smell of lilacs.

This weekend was simply enough.

Second Sight

He hated being connected 24/7 and was glad for the opportunities to venture into a world where he caught the flickering of faces in unlikely places. There was the Green Man whose eyes tracked his progress from the gnarled knot of a tree branch along with the pixie face peeking out from under the folded leaf of a Johnny-JumpUp.

It was a world he traveled in often, his second sight made possible by a gift from the most unlikely of sources.

The gift had come on the day of his sister's death. He had fled to the woods behind his house, a place he often went for solace. He had gone with the intent of never coming out again. He had stayed the entire day, past sunset, ignoring the swarming gnats and mosquitoes. Then had come a nudge in his back followed by an equine sort. He had turned to find his own face reflected in the unicorn's eyes.

Haphazard Tombstones

It was like running an obstacle course. The tombstones were placed in haphazard fashion as though the architect of the cemetery had an aversion to symmetry and order. The hound on his heels was unaffected by the need to zig and zag. He could feel the dog's hot breath on the back of his exposed calves. What had he been thinking wearing shorts in a cemetery in the dead of night?

A stone mausoleum was just ahead. He leapt first to one of the stone urns on either side of the iron gate, then vaulted so that his toes fell in a shallow recess made to look like a window. From there he scrambled on to the roof.

Looking down, he saw the tombstones were not hodgepodge after all. They formed a swirling pattern that led to a single concrete slab placed alone in a corner that had not seen a gardener's hand in years.

He resolved to discover what lay beneath that slab.

Welcom Return

A weekend away on my own ended with Miss Grabby Fingers clapping her hands when I walked in the door.

That's the difference between fathers and grandfathers. A fathers return is viewed with cautious assessment. A grandfather is cause for celebration. 

Since Miss Grabby Fingers is a live-in grandchild I'm sure I'll get the father reception eventually. For now I'm enjoying the notoriety.

Lighting the Way

An eclipse of white light slid across the gray sky and I thought back to my childhood days when beams from searchlights would sweep the sky to announce a grand event.

Sometimes the event would turn out to be nothing more than the opening of a new store, but there was always the chance...and hope... that tracking the light to its source would bring us to the tent flaps of a circus.

I was never sure which took more time, convincing my father to get into the car in the first place or finally rolling up to where the metal shells of the search lights rocked and pivoted on their base.

A circus was the best possible outcome. The searchlights were but a gateway to strings of lights and rows of sideshow booths leading up to the big top itself. Puffs of cotton candy bobbed in time to the strides of children gripping the paper tubes the candy was spun onto. Hawkers shouted out challenges to try a hand a knocking down stacked bottles or tossing rings onto bottle necks.

By the time I finally took a seat on the wooden bleachers in the big top I was already prepped to forget the everyday world for the duration of the performance.

Night Sounds

"Is your house always so full of strange noises at night?" Mindy asked.

Aaron sucked in a breath, "What did you hear?"

"It sounded like someone with a peg leg. I kept thinking of Captain Ahab walking the deck of his ship."

So its not just me, Arron thought, but what he said was, "Well the house is over a hundred years old. It has more than its share of creaks and groans."

Mindy shook her head. "These were not house sounds."

Aaron wondered if he dared tell her his grandfather had worn a prosthesis. Was she ready for that? He wanted to believe she was.

First Birthday

It was a birthday dinner fit for a... well, a one year old. Pizza, chips, and cupcakes.  Gathered around the table were four adults and three toddlers. In other words, the adults were outnumbered.

Place settings shifted from one end of the table to the other as three sets of grabby fingers pulled at the tablecloth. Pizza sauce decorated tablecloth, fingers, and faces alike. Forks were used for the combing of hair and cups full of apple juice became hand wash stations.

The after dinner cupcakes provided the toddler sugar rush that kept the adults pirouetting like ballerinas vying for the lead role in the Nutcracker Suite.

Wrapping paper soon filled every square inch of open floor space - and proved more interesting than the actual presents. One of the presents was a pop up playhouse which did anything except pop up. The three page instruction sheet taxed the interpretation skills of all the adults, and as the adults struggled to make sense of the hieroglyphics the kids managed to open the patio door to the back yard.

Sifting Sands

Miss Grabby Fingers and I were pretty much on our own this weekend... so we headed to the beach. I had purchased a new stroller for the big weekend. The box it came in identified it as a jogging stroller. Folks who know me well, know the chances of me jogging are the same as the sun failing to rise in the morning.  I chose the stroller because if came with monster truck tires that I figured would be perfect for getting through sand.

And plow through sand it did. Saturday we made a four mile round trip along the Delaware coast. I use the term we loosely since I was propelling while Miss Grabby Fingers slept. It was as close to alone as I was going to get with a one-year-old in my charge and I relished every moment.

Sunday was not an instant replay. Miss Grabby Fingers decided she needed some hands on involvement. And she did just that. After being released from the seat belt, Miss Grabby Fingers got down on all fours and sunk her hands into the sand.

Who knew watching grains of sand sift through fingers would be good for thirty minutes of fascination. There was the tight-fingered sift that allowed the slightest trickle of sand to return to the ground. The open-fingered sift let loose a stream of sand.  Perhaps the highlight, for Miss Grabby Fingers anyway, was the roundhouse relocation. The roundhouse consisted of clenching a handful of sand, rotating the entire arm in a circular motion, and releasing the sand when the hand was at the zenith of its arch. And if the sand just happened to land on yours truly - well - so much the better.

Sounds of Our House

The sounds of our house:

Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap.
One-year-old Miss Grabby Finger's bare feet on the hardwood floor.

Plunk, kerthrump-kergurgle
A plastic sippy cup falling to the hardwood and releasing its contents

Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap.
Hands now free, Miss Grabby Fingers looks to put her ten digits to an new use

Snap
The sound of misplaced reading glasses being broken in two.

Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap
YEEOWWLLLL
Miss Grabby Fingers removes a clump of fur from the cat's tail

Slap, slap, slap, slap, slap
Silence

Thump, thump, thump, thump,
Adults run in sheer panic wondering what new  tragedy the silence holds

Of Buds, Blooms, and Cars

As sure a sign of pre-summer as buds and blooms are the automobiles with tops down and sunroofs open.

Mustangs, not the four legged kind, have been in abundance these past few days. Many gleaming with a blinding polish that suggest the cars have been hibernating beneath protective sheets in garages all around the area.

Apparently Corvette owners are not yet ready to roll their vehicles out. Perhaps these folks are a more finicky sort - like the mockingbirds that allow robins first dibs at thawed ground and then swoop in later to make themselves known.

Muscle cars are not a prerequisite for announcing pre-summer's arrival. Open sunroofs and windows rolled completely down are equally effective in creating interior turbulence that tosses the hair of drivers and passengers alike. An intrusion that would never be allowed if the air were not soothingly warm.

Sexual Options

Standing at the open door of the airplane he considered how it was sex that had led him to his new passion. Well, if he was going to be brutally honest with himself, it was the lack of sex that had sought him to seek release of another kind.

Now he wondered why he had every bothered with sex at all. A sensible person would have quit after the first post-coitus that's it?  He considered himself a sensible a sensible person, though admittedly slow on the uptake. So it had taken a second failure to satisfy, followed by a phone call demanding money for child support, to cause him to look at other options.

He had taken up sky diving. It had turned out the thrill was the same. A gradual build up of emotion released in a moment of ecstasy. But in sky diving, no obligation came with the ecstasy other than having to pull the cord. An if you couldn't commit to the pulling the cord... well there really wasn't much of anything to worry about afterward.

Waiting for a Move

You're a nice enough guy but a little boring, she told him.

Truth was, he wasn't sure if he was ready for her to understand him better. Thus far he had volunteered little about himself, opting to reveal relatively insignificant tidbits - just enough to prompt responses on her part. He studied those responses carefully, looking at them this way and that the way a jeweler analyzes a rough stone to see if it has potential to become a gem.

It had been sort of like a chess match so for, he moving only his pawns while he waited for her to commit a rook, knight, or maybe even her queen.

This was their third date and, he thought, destined to be their last, until she asked:

Tell me, how often do you see things others can't, things that keep to the shadows?

White Impatience

Over the past few months the white arms of leafless birch trees have been a welcome contrast to the dark shadows of barren oaks. But now, with buds of green beginning to form everywhere, those same white branches trigger impatience within me.

It seems an eternity since I last heard fully leaved trees amplifying the rushing wind of an approaching storm. Too long has it been since I sat beneath a tree and stared up into pinpoints of sunlight flickering between dancing leaves.

I long for those silver-white branches to again become lost amidst a sea of green.

First Hunt

It was our granddaughter's first Easter and her mother, Media Girl, had strategically placed plastic eggs about the house for her daughter to find.

It took a little coaxing but our granddaughter who,  for purposes of identity protection, is known in my blog posts as Miss Grabby Fingers, finally spotted a pink plastic egg hidden in plain sight at the base of a kitchen cabinet.  Shifting her wobbling walk into high gear, Miss Grabby Fingers snatched the egg from the floor with a squeal of accomplishment.

Clutching the egg protectively against her stomach, Miss Grabby Fingers looked generally surprised when not a single adult swooped down to say uh.uh, uh, don't touch that.  Surprise turned to delight when Media Girl clapped her hands in praise of Miss Grabby Fingers' discovery; and Miss Grabby Fingers was off like the proverbial Easter Bunny in search of the other obviously placed yellow, blue, and red prizes. Every find was rewarded with exclamations of praise which soon had Miss Grabby Fingers raising her hands over her head in gestures of victory.

Of course every good deed has its paybacks.  The payback for encouraging Miss Grabby Fingers to snatch those eggs from the floor was that for the rest of the day knick-knacks disappeared from bookcases and end tables at an alarming rate.

Reptilian Invitation

The tree had started life near a rock.  As the tree had grown, its roots had spread in teepee fashion so that solid trunk didn't start for several feet above the ground.  In the months leading up to the March equinox, fallen leaves had collected in the web of roots.

The boy lay face down on the rock, grateful for the solar energy it had absorbed, and extended one hand toward the mound of leaves.  Working carefully, starting at the front and gradually moving deeper, the boy pulled the leaves free.  He had no idea what he was digging for but was certain something waited to be discovered.

That something proved to be a salamander. The small reptile quivered in surprise and then inched toward the boy's face.

Are you ready for an adventure? the salamander asked. 

Never Say It

It was just me and two women in the office building elevator and I was doing my best not to eavesdrop on their conversation.  Short of putting my fingers in my ears and singing la-la-la-la, there was little I could do to keep from hearing. Still, I did my best to tune them out.

 Until I heard.  This is absolutely the worst day I have ever had. It doesn't get any worse than this.

It was at that moment that a loud buzzing filled the elevator. Our descent came to a halt, and after a tense couple of moments the doors opened on the 2nd floor.  Only there was no one waiting on the 2nd floor and the only button illuminated on the panel inside the elevator was "L".

We had just enough time to through each other questioning looks before a recorded voice came through speakers everywhere.   A fire has been reported in the building. Please go to the nearest exit. Do not use the elevators.

Forget what I said about the day couldn't get any worse, the one woman said.

New Promise

He sat on the concrete steps basking in the afternoon sun. It seemed forever since he had last felt warmth radiate up from the ground. His brown paper bag contained a roast beef sandwich, pickle, and a can of soda. Two weeks ago he would have frowned at the contents wishing instead for a bowl of hot soup. Today it seemed the perfect picnic lunch.

He peeled back the wax paper, the sound reminding him of the dry leaves that had rustled in the wind five months prior. Now some of the trees on the mall showed the first sign of green tips.

The hiss of carbonation escaping the soda can made him think of the decorative fountains that would soon be turned on again.

With a sigh of relief he felt he could finally turn his back on the months that had caused his joints to ache so badly.

The Return of Happy Days

Happy days are here again
We're gon'na move the clocks ahead again
Life will exist after work again
Happy days are here again.

Whew, we've survived the darkest, dreariest time of year. Soon our nostrils will be flaring to catch the scent of beef, chicken, and fish sizzling on backyard barbecue grills. We'll tune our ears to the sound of lawn mowers coughing to life and kids shouting at one another to play ball.

We'll go for walks and bike rides after dinner rather than flopping into overstuffed chairs and all of us will thrill to the jingle of the approaching ice cream truck.

Windows will be thrown open and fresh breezes will drive winter mustiness out of homes everywhere.

We'll be digging sun block out of medicine cabinets and driving pointed umbrella poles into the sand.

Yes indeed, happy days are back again. 

It's Tonight

If ever a night was made for witches and banshees it's tonight.

Beyond the safety of these four walls heavy clouds race across the sky - either driven by or fleeing from winds that roar of destruction.

Street lights are reflected a hundred times by puddles of water, puddles rippling with churning crests whipped by the same winds that chase the clouds.

Absent are the few creatures that venture forth in the night at this time of year. They have forsaken foraging and hunting in favor of the safe comfort of their dens. A wise move on their part for surely Death stalks in the shifting shadows of bending trees and flapping flags.

If ever there was a night to hang cloves of garlic in windows it's tonight.

A Hug Today

There comes a time in life when you realize the memories you've made outnumber the new memories you'll have the opportunity to make.

It's at this point that I suspect a lot of people begin asking the question: What have I done with my life?

I know.  I'm there.

And while there is no single momentous event I can point to and say I changed the world, I have come to a realization.

Few of us have the opportunity to make earth-shattering headlines, but many of us change the world none-the-less.

Any person who can dwell in memories of holding  a new-born infant, embracing a loving spouse, attending a child's graduation, welcoming a child's spouse, and kissing a grandchild has made a lasting impression on the world.

Regardless of where you might be in the timeline of life, take the time to hug someone. Make the world a better place.

Spring Reveal

Jays in their uniforms of multi-hued blue stood like sentinels at the garden gate.

Behind the fence platoons of red breasted robins strutted amidst green fingers of rejuvenated daffodils and hyacinths.

Periodically a robin paused to snatch a morsel from the thawed earth.

Periodically a jay called out to flocks migrating northward overhead.


Nature's advance forces busily preparing for the Spring reveal.

Copper Bottomed Memory

The department store's display of copper bottomed pans triggered memories of his childhood.

The paneled wall above the stove in his grandparents' kitchen had been covered with similar pots hanging from S shaped hooks.  The kitchen had been barely large enough to accomodate the basic appliances, but somehow room had been found for a small kitchen table. 

At holidays when the kitchen was a hubbub of people coming and going, the kitchen table had been an oasis. Set off to one side, pressed up against a window looking into a brick alley. the table was lit by a single light fixture dangling from the ceiling on a cord the color of cork.

He had sat at this table while stuffed turkeys were pulled from ovens, gravy was heated on the stove, and cranberry was pulled from the freezer. He watched his grandmother and grandfather execute an intricate waltz - each trying to be in two places at the same time while managing to avoid tangling their feet as they slid past one another in the limited space.

His job had been to make sure the hobgobblins didn't run off with the food as it was plated and staged on the table before being moved to the dining room. At least that what his grandmother had told him. And while he didn't really believe that was his job at all, he did wonder about what might be lurking in the back stairs that had at one time run into the kitchen before being walled off.

Argo

And the Oscar goes to.....

If you haven't seen the movie Argo, I suggest you do.  As long as your into edge-of-your-seat, nail-biting, anxiety-driving, movies.

Many is the time I have been glad I rented a movie rather than going to a theater because I would have been bummed to have spent movie theater prices.

But this past Saturday, when I watched Argo from the comfort of my living room, I was glad I had rented the movie because... in a theater I wouldn't have been able to pace nervously back and forth for the last twenty minutes of the movie.  Had I been confined to a seat I would almost certainly have popped a blood vessel.

So, oh yeah... if you have high blood pressure be sure to take your meds before the movie begins.

Beginning a Day

There is a certain purity that comes with morning along the ocean. The air is crisp and the breeze races freely.
The newly risen sun casts a golden glow, turning grains of sand into twinkling jewels and windows of houses into yellow mirrors. 

Hope comes with such a morning. Belief that mistakes and misgivings are washed away. Belief that just as the sun has arisen anew so does life begin on a new slate.

There is the recognition that  despite decisions made and roads traveled one day will follow the next as surely as one breath follows another. There will be new opportunities, new friendships, and new accomplishments. And if that day does not offer what was hoped for, there is need only to wait for the next sunrise.

Annual Appearance

It had taken over a year of research to understand the pattern.

His interest had been piqued when he first saw mist rise from a rectangular patch of earth and coalesce into the image of man wearing battle fatigues.A week later it had been a child in baseball uniform and nearly a month after that a woman wearing a flowing gown. Each rose from a different grave.

He became obsessed... needing to understand the pattern that was tied to neither birth date nor date of death. He researched the lives of the people buried in the cemetery, looking for some common thread. He looked for factors such as diagnosis of terminal illness, death of a relative, even loss of a pet; some crisis event the anniversary of which would bring a spirit back.

The second appearance of the wounded soldier  exactly one year to the day after the first ghostly appearance took the search back to date of death. Still no match.  And then he found it. The missing common denominator.  Each spirit rose on the date of burial.

He wondered what they hoped to find.

Ceiling Count

And just what is a man supposed to do while waiting for his wife and daughter to purchase undergarments?

What started as a simple trip to the grocery store had morphed into a day of running errands. One of those errands being to make purchases to restock the smaller drawers in the bureaus throughout the house. 

For a man this involves grabbing a pack each of socks, briefs, and shirts. The mens stuff fits into forty square feet of a six hundred square foot Hanes store.  The rest of the store is given over to more variations of smallish..and not so smallish.. undergarments than I had ever imagined possible.

With my shopping completed in just under three minutes, I had twenty more minutes to kill until the women were done.  What to do?  The weather outside was frightful, but inside was not particularly delightful. There was no place to look that didn't leave me feeling like a voyuer. And no matter how slowly I shuffled around the store it seemed I kept bumping into the same women. Surely they would soon be calling 911.

Ultimately I settled for counting the tiles in the drop ceiling. Two hundred and twenty one, two hundred and twenty two...

Life's Walls

Be careful what you wish for.

We wished for new carpet in the family room and new vinyl in the laundry room.  Our wishes came true.  Now we have to clear those rooms so the installers can come do their thing.

So while Motivated Mom and I tackle that clearing and cleaning project over the next few days I offer the following for your consideration.

The walls in life are only as high as you allow then to be.

On His Way

The travellin' man set down his scuffed and scraped leather suitcase.

Taking off his tan derby, he mopped at this shaven head with the stained handkerchief he kept in the back pocket of his suit pants.

A buzzing overhead caught his attention. He lifted his gaze from the dusty street to find he was standing directly beneath the telephone lines that stretched from one wooden pole to another.

A quarter mile back he had seen Ethel Rosenberg watching his progress from the shadows of her porch. By now Ethel had called each and every one of her friends who in turn were calling all of theirs.

He grinned, watching the weight of the racing gossip cause the phone lines to sag nearly low enough for him to reach up and touch.

Oh yes, the town knew of his coming.

Parenting Test

How well I remember those days.

As I watch our daughter deal with a seemingly never ending series of trips to doctors offices and hospitals in search of an answer to her daughter's illness, I remember the stresses of early parenthood.

I remember the endless hours of rocking and soothing, and the nights spent with one ear ever alert to plaintive cries.

I remember the gurgle and hiss of vaporizers fighting congestion and the rushing of water into tubs in combat with fevers.

I remember the weak whimpers carrying pleas for comfort and the piercing cries of outright pain.

Parenting will either give you the stamina of a Corinthian column or spin you around like a pebble in a raging river.

It is a lifelong test, parenting. A test shelled out in parcels, some easily accomplished and some requiring Herculean endurance. It's a must, this gradual building of success upon success, for if you were permitted a glimpse of the entire course from the outset you would surely find yourself beaten before you started.

The Way of Dreams

He recognized this place. It was the house he had grown up in. Though how he had come to be here now he had no idea.

But that was the way of dreams wasn't it? You found yourself in the middle of things as though you were an actor who had walked into the middle of a play.

Only there was no scene unfolding, no occupants to interact with. He stood alone in the middle of an empty living room, understanding the place was his now.

The walls were the color of coffee with too much cream. A color that did not match him memories. Which caused him to realize there were other things slightly amiss. Such as the sound coming from above. Footsteps lacking a cadence. Step,step,step.  Step.....step.  Step. Step,step.  Step....step.

It came to him it was the sound of someone searching. Searching perhaps for him.

The house no longer felt warm. His pulse boomed in his ears. He wanted to flee.

But as it often was in dreams his feet would not move. This was a dream wasn't it? He prayed it was.

Deer Prep

The sign on the side of the pickup read: Custom Deer Preparation

Causing we to wonder just what a deer would need to prepare for.

Is there a deer equivalent of our SAT tests?  Does a buck need to score at least a 945 before being allowed to wear antlers?

Perhaps deer need to be coached in techniques for evading hunters, or in avoiding cars operated by intoxicated drivers.

And then I saw the rest of the sign:  Bill's Butcher Shop.

Oh, I said.  OH!

Magnified View

The mist moved with purpose across the fields, but curled back on itself at the treeline surrounding the small cottage.

Years ago, as a child, he had shared stories with his friends about the old woman who lived in that cottage. It was said that at night she transformed herself into a a stunning beauty who seduced young men, lured them to her simple home, and boiled them alive in an immense cauldron. The bones were then scattered around her house to fuel the wards that kept her safe.

He set down his binoculars for a moment. He had dismissed those stories long ago. But now, seeing the mist turned back, he couldn't help but wonder...

Bright movement in the trees caught his attention. Perhaps it was the warbler he had been searching for. Bringing his binoculars back to his eyes he gave a surprised shriek. Filling the magnified circle was the very woman he had just been thinking of.

Fuel Slots

Gas prices have jumped 30 cents a gallon in two weeks. So when I saw the pumps at a local gas station were being replaced I figured the owner of the place was probably distressed to be missing out on the price run.

Then I thought that perhaps the business owner just might be installing the latest generation of gas pumps.

Put the nozzle of the gas hose in your car, pull the lever, and watch the numbers spin just like they do on a slot machine.  Get three cherries and your fill up is free, but get any combination of hard numbers and that's what you're paying for a gallon of gas.

How does $9.99 strike you?

Snow on the Wing

It was as though I had driven into a freshly shaken snow globe. The air was filled with swirling white. Not snow, but snow geese.

They descended by the hundreds, wings flapping and fanning as the geese came in for a landing. It seemed impossible their wings were not becoming entangled.

And then it was over. The sky was clear. But the fallow field was hidden beneath a fluttering blanket of white that stretched from one tree line to another.

I cracked the window of the car. The squawking... or whatever geese do... was deafening, shattering the impression of white peacefulness.

And then they were on the move, on the ground this time, forming up into individual colonies of white bordered by the brown of the sleeping land.

Prognosticating Sunshine

This is one year when I can actually believe that Punxsutawney Phil  actually saw his shadow without the influence of a score of lights set up by the new media for it really was a sunny morning.

And while tradition suggests that Phil's seeing of his shadow means we'll have to wait six more weeks before we can shove our heavy coats into the back of the closets, I prefer to focus on the belief that a clear, sunny morning on February 2nd portends many more sunny mornings.

There is of course the cold to be taken into consideration. The clear skies of February 2nd had allowed temperatures to drop into the low teens. Prognosticator Phil no doubt lost a significant portion of his bodyweight shivering in that cold. Perhaps I will have to suffer a few more mornings of frostbite temperatures- but as long as the sun rises into a gloriously blue sky to warm the rest of the day I believe I can muster the necessary energy to endure.

Here's to a sunny six weeks!  

Morning Premonition

It was not the end of the world; but when that time finally comes it will no doubt look much like this morning.

On the western horizon a boiling, churning wall of purple-black filled the space between earth and sky. The towering wall of darkness drove before it waves of destruction.

Winds peppered the sides of buildings with trash cans, benches, and garden gnomes. Trees bent double in submission, many leaving branches scattered across the ground. Birds flapped their wings frantically in a bid to escape the rushing currents threatening to drive them to the ground.

In mere moments the ordinary was forgotten - just as, when the time comes, the world will fade to black.

Little Interruptions

It was while Motivated Mom and I were cleaning up from dinner that our granddaughter, Little Miss Grabby Fingers, decided to rearrange the placement of the dishes in the dishwasher.

So I paused in the cleaning of the kitchen to wipe the tomato sauce from Little Miss Grabby Fingers' fingers and then moved our granddaughter to the family room where she could play with her toys.

It was while I continued to clean up from dinner that Little Miss Grabby Fingers decided to remove the soil from the potted palm tree.

So I paused in the cleaning of the kitchen to wipe the black smudges from tiny fingers, sweep up the potting soil that had been cast across the floor, and move Little Miss Grabby Fingers back to the family room where she could play with her toys.

It was while I worked to wrap up the cleaning in the kitchen that Motivated Mom started folding laundry... until Little Miss Grabby Fingers decided to unfold the clothes and build a pile that she could fall into.

So I paused in the cleaning of the kitchen to carry Little Miss Grabby Fingers back to the family room and sat down on the floor so we could play with her toys together.

Sometimes the important things are not what you think they are.

The Non-Stick Dilemma

Helpful hint #1,377

Our kitchen had been hit with an epidemic of Teflon pans losing their ability to prevent foods from sticking. Pans that had been our favorites for years were suddenly being shoved aside in favor of those that had been our second choice not so long ago.

We were always careful to use plastic spatulas and wooden spoons so as not to damage the Teflon coating and were stymied by non-stick failure.

Having given up entirely on our best and second best omelet pans, Motivated Mom headed off to the kitchen store... where she learned that the aerosol propellant in cooking sprays actually damages the non-stick coating when the pan heats up. 

Teflon or no, there are always times when we're looking for that little extra oily coating on the pan. Unfortunately those quick sprays were leading to routine sprays... and now we know why.

From now on we'll use the sales clerk's suggestion of keeping some light oil in a pump bottle and adding it to the pan that way.

Childhood Universe

Stuck inside during the cold snap I have found myself contemplating the simplicity of childhood in summer.

With no school to attend, the known universe... what was important anyway... fell within a two mile radius of my home. And the kids who lived in that universe had assigned a simple name to everything of importance.

If we agreed to meet at the Big Rock, there was no question as to the meeting place.  There were fields and farms all around, but if someone declared a game of touch football would be played in The Farmer's Field everybody knew where to go.Games of hide and seek started at The Bridge and toy boats were tested for integrity at The Waterfall.

An underground fort was constructed at the foot of the Big Hill. During the dog days of summer we would crawl down the sloping entrance and sip water from canteens while breathing in the cool air that smelled of damp earth

Looking back, I wonder if our parents envied the confines of our world.

Relay or Triangle

I have come to believe the Delaware Bay is the avian equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle.

During the past weeks the morning sky has been heavily peppered with flocks of birds; birds in such numbers that the individual flocks could be mistaken for thunderheads at the crest of a weather front.

Originating from every compass point, the birds seem to lose their way above the waters off of central Delaware. The flocks meet, cross either under or over one another, and suddenly become an aimless swirling mass.

It's as though their internal GPS' have gone whacky and they are no longer sure whether to maintain their original direction or head off for some other destination.

....Unless of course what I'm witnessing is a series of avian relay races and each bird is busily looking for another to pass the baton to.

Frozen Words

There have been more than a few short stories written in which the words spoken by characters in the story freeze in the air.

My first reading of such a story was in fourth grade. The temperatures dipped so low one winter that two neighbors living in cabins in the woods were forced to wait until the spring thaw to hear what the other had spoken while out of doors.

Obviously the story itself made an impression on me.  I called on Dr. Google to assist me in identifying the author and story title but to no avail.  Too many stories of a similar vein have been written since I carried textbooks bound together by a monster elastic band.

Walking outside this morning I was prepared to believe that remembered story wasn't a complete work of fiction after all.  Had I dared to open my mouth against the bitter cold and utter a single phrase I would not have been surprised had the air held my words captive until warmth returned to the world.

False Sunlight

It's a false promise...January sunlight.

Shining through the window of a building or automobile January sun promises nurturing warmth.  But dare to open a door and all that remains of sunlight is...light.

So it was interesting to note the faces of those who ventured outdoors on Sunday. Looks of startled relief and whispers of do you feel that came from all directions.  For, if you stood in a place sheltered from wind, there was the suggestion of spring warmth.

It was enough to draw people out of doors again on Monday wearing only lightweight coats or sweaters. Hats and gloves were left behind. But oh those poor souls shivered and shook when greeted by the breeze that carried nothing of warmth.

And now the forecast is peppered with temperatures nearing single digits. Temperatures that will feel all the colder for that one-day promise of warmth.

But what else could we expect from such an unfriendly month?

Baby Proofing

I never appreciated just how many cabinet doors and drawers there are in our kitchen until I had to baby-proof them.

It seemed I would never finish drilling tiny holes so that I could use tiny screws to affix tiny clips in order to keep tiny hands out of places they shouldn't be.

This undertaking was prompted by Little Miss Grabby Fingers' discovery that if she pulled plates out of the cabinets and dropped them on the floor the plates made the most marvelous shattering sound.

Thrown into sheer terror by the sight of a bare footed baby standing in the midst of a ceramic shards, I moved baby-proofing to the top of the to-do list.

It seems there ought to be an easier way to address the problem of babies getting into things they shouldn't. I'm thinking of developing baby-sized oven mitts that can only be removed by releasing a combination lock. While wearing the mitts, the baby would be limited to clapping hands in imitation of a Sea World sea lion clapping its flippers.

Acceptance Questioned

He had grown up during a dying time.

He had been only thirteen when first called upon to be a pall bearer. It had been his grandmother's funeral. He had been spared having to attend the viewing the night before but spent the entire funeral service wondering what the body within the casket looked like. Snippets of horror movies ran through his head as he studied the metal latches that held the casket lid shut. When it came time to lift the casket he made sure to take a position on the side opposite those latches.

Nearly every six months for the next six years he had been called upon. Had there been such a job as professional pall bearer he would have been eminently qualified. He carried grandparents, uncles, aunts, great-grandparents, friends, and parents to their final rest. For a short time he had taken to attending the preceding viewings, then stopped. He did not care to have memories stolen by reality. He accepted that each casket contained the body it was supposed to.

But now he found himself questioning the wisdom of that acceptance... found himself questioning many things. The grandfather he had carried across the cemetery just four months ago now sat at the opposite side of his kitchen table...offering to refill his cup with hot tea.

Cry of a Swing

He left her sitting on the porch swing and descended the springy wooden steps into the evening's swirling mist. Behind him, the metronome motion of the swing caused the chain to squeal on the eye-bolts screwed into the ceiling beams. He turned up his coat collar against the sound. If he hadn't just left the porch he would have sworn a wounded animal was stalking him.

The mist separated him from the house long before he reached the end of the winding walk. Ordinarily the house would still be visible from where he stood; even at night, for with all of the lamp posts placed around the manicured lawn there was no such thing as darkness here.

This night was no different. Darkness was held at bay but the mist had clamped a damp hand over those two-dozen lights so that he saw only a wall of steel gray illuminated from within.

The cycle of the metallic squeal slowed until stopped as a single last cry. The following silence lasted only seconds before it was broken by the thud of booted feet on nearly rotted steps. The very same steps he had descended moments earlier. He quickened his pace. His follower would know the woman's death had been by his hand.

Baby Strategy

With enough babies, we could win any war. The enemy would never have the opportunity to get organized. They would be too busy chasing diaper clad infants in order to rescue shoes, ammunition, and keys.

In command centers, maps would lie on the floor in jumbled heaps. Cell phones and radios would have disappeared down toilets and into trashcans. Desk chairs would clip generals in the backs of their knees as the chairs rolled around the bunker like bumper cars in an amusement park.

The doors to storage cabinets would stand open, the contents of those cabinets strewn across the floor. Without shoes, which the babies would have already made off with, soldiers would be forced to navigated the cluttered floors on hands and knees. Grown men, trained soldiers, would raise their hands in surrender and plead to be rescued from the perpetual tide of stubby legged toddlers surging around them.

Heebie Creepies

She had been looking forward to spending the weekend at her grandparent's house; but now, lying in bed with the covers pulled over her head she only wanted to be back home.

Everything had been fine during the day. In the morning she had helped Mama pick ripe, juicy fruit from the strawberry patch in the back yard. Later in the day she had sat on a wooden crate in the corner of Papa's basement workshop while her grandfather applied a coat of lacquer to the rocking chair that would soon sit on the front porch.

Even bath time had been fun with bubbles rising past the top of her head.

But when it had come time to climb into bed in the room that served as a library, she had gotten the heebie creepies.  It felt like she was being watched. The walls and bookcases were covered with pictures of family members who had died long before she had been born.

She told herself it was her imagination... until Great Uncle Alfred turned his head within the dark brown frame and glared down at her.

Year in a Leaf

The dried and withered tree leaf was coaxed across the back deck by a wind that dropped the temperature by an additional seven degrees.

And in that leaf I saw an entire year of seasons. I saw the oak tree with a web of fresh, spindly branches tipped by green buds. The vision morphed into a towering tree laden with hundreds of leaves casting shifting shadows on the ground below.  Those leaves changed from deep green to a blend of yellow, orange, and red. Then I saw the tree shaken bare by November winds - stripped of colored splendor the tree was little more than a skeleton with bony arms reaching upward.

Turning my back to the howling wind and studying the single leaf that had come to rest at my foot, I took comfort in the knowledge that the growing season moved closer with every passing day.

Who's Watching?

Toys, toys, everywhere and yet... nothing is so much fun as the wine glass grandma left on the end table while she went for a snack or the camera grandpa rested momentarily on the arm of the recliner.

So the question I can't help asking is... why purchase toys when the house comes ready made with all kinds of entertainment?

Entertainment that goes far beyond dabbling with plastic toys.  The simple picking up of a wine glass brings adults from all directions - racing through doorways, leaping over coffee tables, and sliding across the floor like a baseball player heading for home plate.

And in the middle of the converging adults, Miss Grabby-Fingers stands with a look of innocent amazement...which has me wondering just who is watching who?

Hopscotch Relearned

Christmas has come and gone and though the holidaydecorations are put away, our house is definitely not back to normal. A fully mobile baby has seen to that.

While Christmas decorations have been returned to boxes, the normal table-top doo-dad's have not been returned to their rightful places. To put anything within reach of Miss Grabby-Fingers would be to invite disaster.

Yet our house does not seem barren and empty - quite the opposite. The inventory of Santa's Workshop seems to have found  its way to our family room.

There are things that squeak, things that rattle, things that roll, and things that bounce - and some that squeak rattle and roll all at the same time. Any one of these items is capable of holding Miss Grabby-Fingers' attention for about...ohhh...fifteen seconds.

Which means that by the end of any given day getting from one side of the family room to the other requires feats of dexterity first learned in my own childhood games of hopscotch.