Blight

A roadside rest area on Rt. 15 south is an oasis.

A monsignor from the nearby Mount St. Mary's created it. The traveler stretching his legs looks down on a little meadow with a pond that blooms with reeds, lilies, herons, red-winged blackbirds, life. In the distance the Catoctin Mountains frame a white steeple of a distant village church. And always silence. Only the birds converse.

I stop on my trips home from PA. It is a moment to reflect and let the stillness erase the clutter of my soul. This Friday morning was the same.

But moments later when I turned back to the center for the restrooms, there was the sign on the door, "Please report all suspicions of human trafficking....."

Ah, yes. That too.

November gray

When the north wind blows
'Tis time to seek
warm, soft, long undies
to hug the length of you
and comfort.

Like an old friend.

Respite

The night after
the sprawling bounty
of Thanksgiving,

We walked into our quiet
lakeside restaurant

to dip porcelain spoons
into the steaming fragrance
of pho.

Renewal

Early Sunday morning
Brahms violin concerto
saws softly through the week's clamor,
felling me with its
soaring
solitary
splendor.

Early Christmas shopping at World Market

Woman putting down
little chinese decorated box:
"I don't think I'll get this afterall,
because she has enough stuff,
you know what I mean?"

Companion:
"I hear you,
 I hear you."

Listen up,
Christmas-shopping
middle-class,
well-off people -

we
ALL
have
enough
stuff!

Talking Turkey

Don't you love that there is one holiday dedicated to the salivary glands?

Say the word Thanksgiving and I immediately taste/smell browning turkey skin, herbal bread mixtures, cranberries popping with orange, rutabaga's melting butter, mashed potatoes pooled with gravy, pumpkin pie - and infinite  pairings of lesser culinary cousins. One of my family's extras is dried soybeans, simmered for hours with butter, called "keckling" from our Pa Dutch heritage; another relative always had sauerkraut as an add-on. But whatever you add on, aromas rule! 

Whenever I go somewhere for Thanksgiving where I am not an intimate part of the cooking, I feel cheated because I can live for a long time on the sumptuous odors of roasting turkey and all the fixings - plus, Thanksgiving away means no leftovers to plunder for days.

 I guess my expectations for the food of other holidays vary all over the ballpark. But Thanksgiving is rock-solid unchanging goodness.

Like a mother at the end of the line.

Those Falling Leaves

Leaves.

First there are just a few red-gold ones lining the path I walk each morning.

Then more.

And more.

Then comes the really worthwhile pile to shuffle through. And wafting up from the disturbance is that wonderfully acrid smell of decaying foliage. Surely that sends many of us back to the first ten years of our lives when autumn meant rolling, hiding, frolicking through piles and piles of leaves. In my own neighborhood we played hunter, my brother being said predator and we girls the deer. He sought, we hid. For hours. Pulling more leaves over our heads, digging deeper to disappear.

At some point an adult pulled the plug on our games and the leaves were raked and carted off by wheelbarrow - even by pickup truck to the field behind our house There the enormous pile was set ablaze. With never a fear of spreading fire, we played at the edges of the smoldering leaves, pretending we were peasants and had to gather sticks to keep the fire going for the night.

Now with our increasingly fragile planet, those fires are long gone. As are many of the open fields and children playing such simple, imaginative games? In the place of that wonderfully aromatic scent of burning leaves, is the smell of gasoline from the increasingly large leaf blowers in our neighborhood as "lawn systems" sweep away summer.

Still I remember the watching the darkening skies over our leaf fires as the day slipped away and hearing the punctuation of geese flying south.

Winter approached for us - and the peasants.

Make a Note

The original nursery rhyme reads:

"Little Miss Muffet
Sat on her tuffet
Eating her curds and whey."

In 1976 our two-year-old son's version was:

"Little Miss Muffet
Sitted on she's tuffet
Eating her turds and way."  

We have laughed over that so many times and each time I once again marvel that for some whimsical reason, I kept a cheap little beige cardboard notebook in my kitchen drawer as the boys were growing up and recorded the cock-eyed sayings that tumbled out of  their mouths. Had I not done so, Miss Muffet's turds would be lost to the world! The perspective on life was dazzling then and even more so now. Fresh eyes.

Now, as the years pile up, I find I need to buy another such notebook to record my own thoughts, dazzling or not - or surely they will be gone by sundown.

And the winner is....

Around the turn of this century, my husband began a delightful tradition - taking me to some mystery location for my birthday. Not exotic, faraway places, but places nearby. And just for an afternoon, dinner, overnight and home. Each is etched clearly on my heart.

In the last several years, the tradition gave way to other events around my day and we sorta forgot. This year he suggested its revival. The result was a 24-hour period that sparkled with delight!

At 11:00 a.m. Saturday we left Reston. At 11:00 a.m. Sunday we pulled into our home parking spaces. Between.....ah. We headed toward Leesburg for lunch at a funky little place called The Wine Kitchen and were greeted at the door by one of his college colleagues who helps run the place. Lunch amid an ecclectic group of Leesburg residents included a fabulous glass of Domaine de l'Hermoniere sauvignon blanc paired with a savory citrus red beet/goat cheese/arugula salad. Heavenly pot de creme and espresso for dessert. Then a bit of antiquing and early Christmas stocking stuffer shopping and back in car.

With much circuitous driving around, pulling into various hotels, turning around, etc. etc., we finally pulled up to our Marriott destination in Herndon. A rosemary lamb dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant and the coup de grace, after-dinner drinks across the street at Russia House, a charming old-world restaurant that we had never visited before. The cinnamon liquer was the perfect.

Next morning, breakfast and 10 minutes to home. As we drove into our street Frank Sinatra crooned "Love Me Tender" - talk about finishing touches! It was all perfect down to the salmon rose and box of Chesapeake chocolates on my pillow.

Cheers to birthdays and husbands who know a thing or two about the way to a person's heart.

Over the River and Through the Woods

The other day in the library the cyber prompt came up to change my password. Sigh time. Not that it's a hard task, but to get a password that is keyboard easy and doesn't cause mental teeth-gnashing after the third use is tricky. So this time I thought, what word would bring me pleasure for the next three months and I settled on a scrambled form of "Frogtown".

So now, a dozen times a day, for a dozen weeks, I will type the word and see bunches of purple cloudy grapes hanging on Grandma's arbour where we sucked out the green center of childhood nectar. I hear the rush of the little stream that flowed through the meadow, where we raced sticks and built dams with our skirts tucked into our panties to avoid the indecent censure of proper shorts! I see the beautiful gray stones of the mill, and the beds of pansies, geraniums, marigolds edging the well-mowed lawns. I see the water barrel where we searched for minnows. I feel family because that's where we met for long tables of food and laughter with aunts, uncles and cousins.

Frogtown, that little road leading to simple meadows and farms and lives, sustains me.

Inside Out

Someone on Facebook wrote the verse," I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the house of the Lord."

Immediately, a Sunday School song with those words, clicked into my head and I sang the simple tune from beginning to end. I hadn't thought of the song for probably 50 years. The words conjured up a modest little church with mint green painted  walls with lots of windows and shining wooden benches (that we used to slide up and down to polish) and a painted Bible on the wall behind the pulpit which read "Thy word is a lamp unto my path." Come Sunday it was filled with a community of loving people - friends, neighbors, family who sang hymns, prayed, meditated, yes and prescribed behavior and mores.

Now my "house of the Lord" is wider. Physically, Sunday may find me walking around a lake which sparkles with sunshine, the quiet broken by the swish of a heron, or the dip of a canoe paddle. And the community of faith may happen at the Information Desk; with a colleague in the lunch room, my spouse, a neighbor; anywhere, really.

The House of the Lord has relocated.

when giraffes fly

When our sons were 5 and 2 they were engaged in an earnest imaginary safari on the living room floor of our grad student housing, Fisher-Price characters all spread out complete with animals, tents and jeeps. Suddenly the older child noticed that a giraffe was perched way high up on the green vinyl couch. "How did that giraffe get up there," he asked in complete dismay and bafflement. Two-year old son said, brown eyes serene, "I put him there."


As a listening adult I giggled to myself. Five year old knew giraffes can't magically fly up to the couch. Two year old saw no problem whatever, as the laws of logic, physics, gravity, the universe hadn't set in yet.


Endless possibilities.

Sometimes I want that giraffe on the couch again.

Paying the bill

The book I'm listening to in the car right now is "The Crazyladies of Pearl Street" by Trevanian, is absolutely laden with nostalgic details of life in the 1940's in a poor Irish section of Albany, told from the perspective of a young boy. I'm loving every detail, but often find my mind winging away to my childhood and missing whole sections of the chapter! Yesterday he was talking about department store money exchanges being sent on cables overhead and instantly I was back in Rubenson's in New Holland!

I remember the oiled floor smell and the sharp smell of cut fabrics. We watched in fascination as the clerk flopped side over side the long bolts of "material" as we called it for some odd reason. Then with the fixed yardstick in place she would cut carefully along the prescribed line, folding the cut section carefully for packaging. But then! Unscrewing the metal cage above her head she would tuck the written fabric ticket and Mother's dollars into it, screw it back and pull the magic cord. Zing! We would watch the little cage go flying to a high wooden structure in the center of the store where presumably people sat and did financial things! But all we cared about was waiting for the return zing of the cage, rocking slightly as it hit the docking station! At home, we tried to valiantly recreate some interpolation of the process, but alas gravity has little zing in this case!

Now I ponder that contrivance. Was it because the peon clerks couldn't be trusted to handle the money? Was it to save the cost of many cash registers?

I think it was purely for the entertainment of wide-eyed children from Hinkletown!

O what is so rare....

 The crossword clue was "aromatic flower" and I had a beginning "l". The letters i-l-a-c just slid down the column and I actually inhaled, hoping there would magically be an accompanying perfume! The mere word invokes deepening shades of purple, mauve, plum, violet and of course, virgin white.

We had a lilac bush on the edge of our property and the neighbors'. It was the meeting place of little girls, sharing confidences, building dreams. It was also the source of a matchless May scent, a spring elixir . On Mother's Day Sunday morning, I would always pick a bouquet to put at my mother's place at breakfast, sometimes with a gawky poem of appreciation.

Now when I smell that elusive subtile lilac aroma I wish I could capture it in a perfume, soap, lotion. But would that be like capturing and pinning a butterfly?

Enough, to inhale briefly each year, marvel with a smile and tear.

There's always next springtime.

Radio Days

Radio was the train that bore me away from my small Pennsylvania village.

Our lives were braided with radio stars and characters: Big John and Sparky, Don McNeil, The Great Guildersleeve, Fibber McGee and Molly, Beulah, Jack Benny, Ozzie and Harriet, Lowell Thomas, Arthur Godfrey and Art Linkletter, to name just a few. They were our friends.

And radio brought us quiz shows, sports, the hit parade, mysteries, soap operas and symphonies.

It was always on in the background, feeding us the larger world, teaspoon by teaspoon, whether we were fully cognizant of it or not.

And all the while our imaginations painted vivid pictures of the places, people and events. They were our intimate properties.

Today's technology strips us of that magical universe where only you hold the key.

Childhood Julep

We called it meadow tea.

We walked down to the creek and in the wild meadows on its banks, along with bluebells and buttercups, spearmint grew in abundance. We'd gather skirtfuls and take home to Mother to steep. Soon the lovely scent of mint would creep through the warm afternoons and in a bit we were sipping iced glasses of the lovely liquid on the front porch.

Now, I have to buy bunches of mint at the ultra-sleek grocery store - a tight little bunch for 99 cents - or more! I do have a mint plant out by my front stoop but it wouldn't survive the harvest needed to slake my thirst. It gets clipped to flavor salads and pasta and fish and nearly every food in the world that runs through my cooking hands.

But still, when I take that first sip of mint tea, I am back in the meadows, feeling the hot sun and welcome shades of creekside trees. And watching the butterflies and bees. And stepping carefully around cowpies. And dangling hot feet in the rushing waters. And smelling summer.

Which came first....

My mother and I have a love affair with eggs. Though she is no longer here with me to share the passion, every morning when I dip into a perfect cooked yolk and have it spill onto a bite of toast, browned potatoes or ham, I touch her spirit I remember in the latter years of her life, I would sit down to breakfast in her sunny apartment and we would savor our eggs together, sighing in contentment.

Although, I must admit the release of golden yolk is matchless, the eggs can be fried, poached, scrambled, or soft-boiled - I love them all!  Each time I go out for breakfast, I see all the fancy items on the menu and feel a tug toward, crepes, blintzes, french toast, etc., but almost always settle for 2 eggs and whatever sides. I know there are eggs in all the other items, but they are hidden, and I like my white/brown ovals of pleasure straight up!

And then there are all the auxillary perks that go with eggs.

- My son gave me an German soft-cooked egg cracker with a cool name like     eineeisengebrucker (kidding), called egg clacker here (how prosaic) which is a totally fun way to start the morning!

- Also for soft-cooked eggs I have a prized Homer Laughlin small dish with a Mississippi steamboat picture. Or a petite green-sprigged antique dish from my mother-in-law.

-Or a bone china egg cup from a neighbor's great aunt's collection.

Taste, presentation, personality - a toast to the incredible, edible egg!

Thursday Night Concert

Last night as we sat outside, on the edge of Lake Anne at our favorite Greek restaurant, the heat of the day retreated into manageable breezes. Professional clothes morphed into sandals and filmy fabrics. Cold sauvignon blanc went down smooth. Lamb chops and mashed potatoes followed. But, best of all, we finished it all with strawberry gelatto and bluegrass. And two spoons.

Limitations

This morning as I was struggling through the already 83- degree, toxic air at 7:30 am, a squirrel hopped on the stone wall of the steps I was descending, sampered along the top, then hopped up on a low limb and lithely jumped from branch to branch.

I stared in envy and continued on my heavy path.  Higher form of life indeed!

Heavenly Breezes

The morning of my bookclub, the library was without a/c. Temps were to rise into the mid 90's. I set up two large fans and slanted the window blinds up. We were a bit moist but comfortable. Later, one lady commented, with surprise, how much the fan helped. I laughed, "We didn't always have a/c, you know!"

And suddenly, my thoughts flashed back to my mother with the wavy black hair, who sweated through Pennsylvania summers, washing, ironing, canning and freezing vegetables, cleaning, waxing floors, sweeping, cooking, baking, raising five children,  all to the music of humming slowly oscillating fans.

We were proud to handle a ninety minute discussions, fan-wise.

She managed a life that way.

All That Glitters

I learned today the Korean jewelery shop has been operating in the K-Mart shopping plaza for 35 years. I've been taking watches for new batteries, bracelets for new clasps, necklaces to be shortened for 32 of those years. I've never made a valuable purchase of anything. But the service I receive always is solid gold. With a smile.

As I waited for my watch battery today, a lady came in, pulled out two string of pearls and said, " you will think this is something I bought at a dime store but it isn't. It's old and I may have worn it on my wedding day and want to keep it. But its too small. I must have been awfully skinny.Can we extend them somehow....?"

I was struck by two things.
 She knew exactly if she wore it on her wedding day or not.
 And we are all so shamed by our grubby little possessions when placed on a black velvet pad.

Dandelion wine

On lazy summer childhood days my friend and I would loll on the grass, dreaming of what we would be, how many children we would have, who (giggle) would we marry. And we would pluck nearby dandelions and hold them under our chins to check whether or not we "liked butter"!

We had no thought of deadlines, agendas, spreadsheets, pensions, bank accounts.

Just whether or not a soft yellow glow would appear on our skin.

Heady.

The Reston Farm Market opened for the season today. It is two steps and a dandelion from my front door. Its stalls bulge with strawberries, croissants, basil, goat cheese, kosher meats, flowers, lettuces, pickles, Blue Grass pickers, political booths -  a swirl of sophistication, cultures, languages, Gucci bags, tropical tans, toned bodies and fat wallets.

While in PA two weeks ago, I stopped at a little roadside stand by an Old Order Mennonite farm and bought rhubarb, raw honey, sugar peas, and asparagus that oozed fresh cuts and crumbles of soil. The lady smiling at me wore a simple long dress, sleeves rolled up, large apron and head covering. We spoke of the spring morning , the birds singing around us and the smell of the fresh manure from the Amish fields.

I'm part of both worlds and grateful for each.

But by contrast, one was bare-bones real. And as pure as the iris unfolding by her gate.

I thought it was a consultation about crown lengthening.

It turned out to be surgery.

I turned out to spend the day in bed with my new best friend vicodin.

I had just set my bowl of soup in the microwave when a colleague said " a lady is here, asking for you - shall I tell her you're at lunch?" With a sigh, I followed her knowing I couldn't do otherwise.

An Iranian lady who I had loaned a nickel so that she could finish her copying last week was waiting. Last Thursday she had a $5 bill but no more change and I told her she'd get a bucket of change in return if she used that large bill. So she most gratefully took my nickel, promising to pay me back. I waved her off, of course.

So here she was, nickel in hand, pressing it into my hand and covering mine with both of hers. "You are so kind to me always," she said, " but you really saved my day last week."

A nickel.

A bond.

Swirls Cafe was a one-man band Saturday morn. The owner/chef/server/cashier whipped up a fine mess of eggs, fried potatoes, cheese grits and sausage gravy biscuits all the while chatting with  counter customers on whether Civil War bullets were lead or cast iron, the merits of commuting, wine-tasting and of course the weather. True, his server hadn't shown up that morning, yet I had the feeling that whenever life tried to slam a door shut, his foot would always be stuck in the crack.

In the cemetery, I leaned back against the Abram and Mabel headstone, and drank in the blue sky, listening to the song sparrows converse, watching the violets gleam against the new grass. These two people loved and laughed as they built a solid place  for five children to stand. They would have loved this spring day. Dad would have said, "Come on, Mama, we're going for a drive." Work abandoned, they would have driven back-roads splendid with newly plowed fields and yellow willow trees dancing. When their eyes were full, they would return home, braidng the ordinary day with gold.

the beggars are coming to town

Mother Goose sang into our ears and set our heels tapping when we were children.

"Hark, hark the dogs do bark
The beggars are coming to town,
Some in rags, some in tags,
Some in silver gowns"

Delicious nonsense? Yes, but more. In medieval days, minstrels travelled from town to town, dressed in various costumes, but often bearing covert messages of dissent. So the singsong fun for me and my friends in a small Lancaster County hamlet may have one day carried seeds of a revolution!

Last night I read through the whole Classic Mother Goose and was astonished to discover how many literary titles or concepts have sprung from this beloved book. I was also amazed that I could quote approximately 50 % of them word for word after a half-century absence. How can that be? And God bless the soul of Blanche Fisher Wright who so lovingly etched the MG characters, billowing curtains and skirts with 1916 breezes.

the cabin by the creek

My dad bought a cabin by the Conestoga Creek for $300 in 1944. I was six months old. In the years to follow I remember languid days of splashing up the dam, slick with moss, and feeling the rush of water through my toes. And picnics with creamy potato salad and chocolate cake with caramel icing. And sailing down a sliding board, hot to bare legs. And swinging on a long frayed rope. And laughing with aunts, uncles, cousins. And picking bluebells and buttercups. And innocence.