Are We There Yet?

The acid tang of autumn leaves mingles with dry air - wet dog - we walk along the path to the ski jump. The rain has swept the leaves off and away leaving nothing. Crystalized mud crunches beneath my feet we move quickly up the trail. There is no moment wasted. Every day I see new signs. They are only new to me.  Each walk in the woods, thoughts drift through my mind, changing the focus of my vision. The stone lodged up high in the branches of a leggy hemlock. Another day silent mystery of a swooping owl. Slate quarry Brackish water has a skim of ice today. The wind breaks it up and there is a soft skree skree shushing  - the dog- tests the air with her muddy snout. Winter symphony take my heart to the certain knowledge that I belong.

 Had a fabulous evening in NYC with friends last weekend. An unexpected series of sights and sounds. We arrived in the city just a block from times Square. It took my breath away to see all the lights. And then we were entertained with an evening of Prairie Home Companion. Who could ask for more! Well- Elvis Costello made it so. This is a link to some photos from our adventure, capturing the memory for us. December Fun

It is December 1st and the ground is still soft, the grass still green. We live in Vermont, not Georgia. I am born in November. Having an anniversary in that dreary month has taught me to look for the small favors nature bestows during the change in seasons. Those gifts are subtle and noticing them has always felt special, like a secret shared with the few who pay attention. Soft mauve hues mix with chalky grays and amber grasses. Bright shots of color burst into view occasionally as I see the bright red winterberry or the orange of bittersweet hang in amongst fox grape and ivies. Squirrels and chipmunks chatter and chase in the dry leaves under foot. This is a time for smells of rot and wood. Lichen clinging to burls and boulders send out a metallic scent reserved for particularly dry cool days of November. We still have pachysandra in the woods, looking silky and thriving. The forest's leaves have all been cast down, yet the air is wet with warm breezes as the temperature stays...

Every Wednesday I get in the car and travel the short hop to rehearse with a group of other like minded women. There, we sing folk tunes, traditional melodies, camp songs, spirituals, and songs from other countries. Songs that seem to suit me. I have been doing this for over 10 years and still feel the thrill of the resonant sound thrumming in my bones. Our voices blend into something unique with every song we sing. Each phrase becomes a caress. The director is a teacher, a performer, a visionary. We put our trust in her completely. Her choices are ours. Her direction moves us forward to our final goal of communion with each melody. We learn without sheet music. We listen to her deconstruction of each song as she encourages us to commit each phrase to memory. Single notes turn into phrases, verses and then the songs take on a shape. She is the magician working her alchemy. Of course, there is that moment about 3/4 of the way through each semester when I rebel. All the songs are ...

The past week has been one spectacular day after another. the air is just so- all blue sky and gentle breezes. The weekend was that again and more, so a trip to Salisbury to attend Bill Binzen's funeral was a pleasure. It wasn't sad to know he is gone now. He had lived a long and full life and has a family full of loving memories of days spent together. It was a celebration of his life. Sun streamed into the windows of the Congregational church, the hymns were heartfelt and it was a peaceful blessed gathering. After the service, I went up the Mountain with Barbara and Curry, two of the best ladies I know. Mother and daughter, they have a sweet dance that they do to navigate their relationship. I sat in the back seat and listened to them. "Do you have the key?" -"Yes, the key is here," Curry patiently replied then turned her head a bit to fill me in with  the saga of the misplaced key. Barbara quiet, not interjecting with her usual impatience at this thing ...

There is a hereditary disorder in my family, passed down the generations from great Auntie to Daughter to Mother to Wife, traveling through the female line and hidden from view except from the family of those affected. The symptoms are tragic. Attraction to condiments is no laughing matter. Whole family financial systems have been threatened by this serious problem. It is known as Condimentia. There is no known cure. The afflicted are magnets for condiments. With every passing season, jars, tins and tubs of sweet and savory sauces, curds, pastes, spreads, confits, jams, jellies, preserves, conserves, dressings, marinades, rubs, syrups, blends, butters, sauces, dips, and extracts linger in the fridge.  We all have those condiments that are the go-to holy trinity. For some it's Hot Sauce, Mustard and Chutney and for others it's the trio Ketchup, Mustard and Relish. That would be no surprise in the trusty Fridgidaire, but my ice box is a masterpiece of food that is not quit...

Her name is Bear. She was given that name because she grunts like a Bear when she's happy. She sort of sings when she's eating a bone. Grunting and humming to herself in complete and utter contentment. And everyone thinks she's a male dog. She's a big, beautiful American Field Black Labrador Retriever. She's 2 and a few months. She's still got a load of puppy in her and she's the best fetcher I know. She runs faster, tries harder, jumps higher and wants that stick more. She's that dog Bear!

Just finished this month's book group selection, Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby. I think I'm getting too old for that kind of quick and witty fiction. We read Nemesis next...talk about two different books. Yikes. And the last book, Sweeping Up Glass. I think our book group might be a tad unfocused! Here are a couple of photos from the trip to Tuscany.

Labor Day Weekend We have 3 days of quiet here. There are no children to keep occupied. There is no rush to make the dinner. All of the dishes are done. There is, of course, the wickedly large pile of paper waiting to be dealt with...pay, file, toss. But I can ignore that for just one more day. Every single one of these moments is unique and that is the lesson over and over again. The wind has come up strong from the East as Hurricane Earl...gotta love a name like that... moves off to the North rushing to embrace the Cape breton shoreline and sink away at last into the frigid waters of the North. Because there has been so little rain this year, the trees seem to rattle their leaves with a worried fretful noise. Its a bit unnerving. How can this be September? But it is and I have made the annual red Roma sauce- rich and fortifying. I have made the annual apple pie. Perhaps there will be the apple pear crisp to really rally the troops as we move into crisp Autumn days. God knows I ha...

In certain lights, at certain times, my dog is green. She casts a glossy dark glow from spring buds and new grass as she saunters across the young forest floor. The four canadian geese up Highlawn each morning sun touched the eastern peaks. It goes so quickly. Life changes occur- we lose some to that cruel mocking question- Others are born. Hips, knees, shoulders are replaced after months of winter shoveling and recreation. Even so, young white scilla push up through gravel in the drive delicate as paper yet bursting with energy to travel through the toughest rock and stone and appear dancing in the soft spring breeze. Though, I know these things. I know the dog is sometimes green. I am amazed again. And want nothing more than her soft cool snout upon my palm as we rest once more by the curving wall on the hill.