It's a big world out there

 Have you ever wondered how the newest crop of kids - say the ones born from 2010 - will turn out?

 Probably just fine!

 But the point I have been pondering lately is, what does all this publicized visibility on Facebook, Instagram and however many platforms, do for a child's self-image?

 I think most of us born back in the 40's are lucky if a few black and white photos have survived through the decades. I have acquaintances on Facebook who post pictures almost daily of their children. I guess the balance-tipper was a photo-shoot of a 6 yr-old yesterday, posing coquettishly! She's beautiful no question, but how does that feed into the development of her inner self? What does that amount of adulation do to the formation of the child? I really don't know and maybe there are enough other forces to balance it all, but I have real fears as to how it can be sustained, topped.

I'm re-reading Beverly Cleary's Ramona series since the author's death and I see her insights into the workings of a child's mind in the 1950's. Her growing up dilemmas bounce off a small family, small town, small exposure. Today's mirror for those same hurdles is the universe. How does one find his/her way to personal stability?

 I don't envy the process.

the shy side of spring

 Violets.

Yes, one has their splashy magnolia, forsythia, dogwood, cherry blossoms, tulips, daffodils - the whole springtime parade of lavish color - and they are glorious! But what can top the beauty of the lowly violet clambering through the woodland paths, backing up against stone wall, nestling at the foot of trees?

These demure offerings that hold dark depths of blue-purple-lavender in four small petals elicit my fondest memories

Every Spring, as children, we picked a small bouquet of them, placed them in a cracked but lovely old cream pitcher and took them to an elderly friend who lived in - what is now a socially incorrect term - old people's home.(But really they were old and it was a home, so?)

Ellie, our ancient friend, was small and bent, walked down the steps backward so as not to be frightened by the descent, and lived for years in the tiniest of rooms that belched heat from the steaming radiators, causing my perpetually hot-flashed mother to fan and fan with whatever magazine or paper was at hand. We children sat on her bed, feet dangling quietly, and waited for the time we would be release and could rove about the shining waxed halls observing discreetly residential life.

The violets shone on her dresser.

We who embraced springtime. romping through the greening fields, hedgerows and meadows, gulping it down with abandon after the long winter, brought a token of rebirth to this place of diminishing light.

I never see a violet all these years later without thinking of Ellie, of youth and age, of the magic elixir of childhood, of majesty in miniature.

sound of the turtledove

 I was talking to a friend the other day about entitlement.

In this whole COVID nightmare, think how different the outlook would be if everyone said," I will vaccinate, wash my hands, keep my distance as long as it takes to lick this national problem."

In this whole gun violence nightmare, think how differently events would turn out if people would have be willing to, as a nation, get some viable laws on the books even though it may cause them to vary their ways of doing business a bit.

And on and on it goes with poverty, immigration, climate change, etc., etc.

We have inverted our wonderful gift of individual freedoms to enslave the masses.

Thank God, for the awakening earth with it's glorious scents, sounds and colors to remind us that rebirth is possible.

When lilacs bloomed

 I plucked one tiny sprig of lilac yesterday on my walk through the neighborhood paths and placed it in a small vial on my desk when I returned home. One sensual whiff transports me to Mother.

She loved lilacs and perhaps passed the love on to me umbilically! I remember a lovely old vase -with mottled creams, pinks and blue - where the lilacs resided when brought inside from the garden bush. Seemingly she could take any flower or greens, place them effortlessly in a container and have instant beauty. I used to ask her how she did it and she said something like -"you just feel it." And she added - "you will be able to with practice." And unbelievably, I was. As was my sister. The blood in our veins is attuned to flowers and their lines of beauty.

But the lilac, is there ever an equal to it's elusive fragrance? Lavender scents pillow the air. My small sprig has softly claimed my room.

Is there a lesson that it is so fleeting?

Whatever.

I will inhale most gratefully a few days a year

Shine on

 My mother often used to sing us out of bed with a little song from her childhood "Open all the windows, open all the doors, and let the merry sunshine in!" I remember it distinctly as if it hadn't happened some 70 years ago! I loved thinking of the sunshine as merry!

More was merry than the sunshine. My mother -and father- had hearts that were merry, not the joking, overt humor, but deep down happiness. And truly that opened all the windows and doors of my life. I hear of depression, anxiety, harshness of parents during childhood, let alone abuse and addiction, with such awe and sadness.

 I realize with each deepening year how fortunate I was to have grown up in a household where daily the merry sunshine was allowed to shine and the windows were wide open.

just a job

 Everyone has a job. 

It may be simply to get up in the morning or all the way to brain surgery.

Jobs get rewarded so differently - both monetarily and acclaim.

I for one, give fervent thanks to the unknown cleaner each time I enter a public restroom that sparkles. I consider that job almost sacred.

I think we all long to think that we make a difference with our life labors.

Decades ago a  head-on collision, among other things, jammed my wrist against the steering wheel left me with months of discomfort despite one round of surgery. The second was the charm. My surgeon said after the procedure," you may never do another push-up." In the many years since then not only are push-ups a regular part of my exercise, but I have not one twinge of pain in that wrist. 

To my surgeon, Dr. Kaplan, 

I am worlds beyond grateful for your brilliant hands.

chicken corn soup

Chicken corn soup.

Say those three words and I sail back on the magic carpet of childhood to Lancaster County and land in my mother's kitchen. It is one of aromatic scents that trigger home.

I don't know why the world hasn't caught on to this yet.

If one is being authentic, one simmers a chicken slowly to coax out that wonderful rich broth as the bedrock of this culinary pleasure.

Now, life and distance have produced many shortcuts, but I wouldn't dream of making this if I didn't have fresh corn in some form. The ingredients are few, but they have to be stellar-  chicken, corn, onions, celery, and noodles. 

That's it, no pretensions or fancy add-ons

Sipping that lovely brew evokes countless celebrations with family, friends, and neighbors.

But most of all one's tongue and spirit celebrate the delight of basic country goodness.

And it's simply the best.