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.

A gracious plenty

I heard a person repeat a phrase of his mother's - "a gracious plenty".

If you were reared in the South, the saying is probably old hat.

As a northerner, I had never heard it.

But it fell immediately upon fallow soil within me.

I looked it up and I think it most often meant to visitors - stay for a meal- we can easily share.

I think I have often heard - "Stay, there's plenty of food."

But what a difference to the ear and heart is "gracious plenty."

Not only do we have enough food and space, they are laced with grace.

Though our country is riddled with disease, dissention and random slaughter, it is soothing to imagine with a little more conscious effort to share our gracious plenty we might feed our mutually starving souls.

March 20

 First day of spring.

Did four little words ever bear such excitement? I know we are always glad, but this year the possibilities seem majestic.

Might we really be on the brink of new life after a year of tiptoeing around death?

I know we are far from free of the pandemic, but even the door to hope being ajar is almost overwhelming.

I don't know what the weeks will bring but for now I take enormous joy in ...

-the titmouse singing for a mate all day long

-white, yellow, purple, lavender, blue crocus shining up between the dead leaves

-forsythia beginning to golden

-flickers drumming on our chimney

-daylight lingering

-bluebirds cleaning house

-daffodils shooting up overnight and dancing in the sunlight

All these, I embrace with gratitude and hope with their coming, freer footsteps will follow.

Ah, Spring!

proverb

" two's company, three's a crowd"

It's an old saying that is often applied to courting, is it?

I have always pondered it.

And much as I don't mean to be anti-social, I think it's really true! When interaction consists of two people, usually they can discuss ideas, work out things - happily, sadly, quietly, boisterously.

But add a third person and everything changes.

Suddenly, way more than before, people begin to weigh their responses now that two people are listening. They become self-conscious - either in an introverted or extroverted way.

There is a margin of safety, comfort, sure-footedness if it's just a face-to-face conversation. But add another face and the dynamics change. Significantly.

I think the author of the proverb was wise in the concept and wiser still in the choice of "crowd" rather than "group." Crowd suggests potential trouble, excess, lack of control.

Amazing the gulf between two and three.

Clear the board!

 Clap the erasers.

I wonder if that sentence were posed to children these days, asking for an explanation, would they have any idea?

Blackboards are still sometimes spotted in restaurants or bars featuring the daily special, but it's a rare occurrence.

Schools haven't used blackboards for years.

As for clapping the erasers....

It was one of my favorite chores at school. We would gather up all the erasers, gray-black felt ones covered with white chalk dust, and take them out behind the red brick schoolhouse and, well, clap them! Clouds of dust arose, and we rubbed them up and down against each other to clear them. The urge hit all of us to clap them against the red building, but we only did that once!

The simple economy of it all. The teacher wrote on the board; we copied her words in our notebooks. And don't you think there's a chance we learned more from the effort of seeing and copying - eye/brain/hand - than merely glancing at a handout?

 End of lesson, erase.

 End of week, clap the erasers.

My elementary education in a nutshell!

leaving the nest

Yesterday, I stumbled on to a childhood friend's FB feed and discovered that he is an avid follower of our former president, an anti-vaccination supporter and an LGBT opponent - a three-fer!

I mused upon this for the rest of the day. From time to time, unbidden came the thought that a childhood playmate now in his 70's holds these beliefs. And then I got to wondering where the crossroads in our lives had come.

I have to think that education is a big turning point.

That is not to say that my friend could have a PhD and still believe the things he does today. But I do believe that when life pushes you out of the nest you discover there's a whole world beyond woven sticks and grasses. In the process of flapping those wings in order to avoid crashing into the ground you develop a whole new set of evaluative muscles! 

Though life isn't free of disaster outside the nest, I'm really grateful for that first nudge into teetering flight.

 Three years into retirement, I suddenly received a note from a member of my library book club that I led for 18 years. She thanked me for guiding her reading back to the classics which she had read early in her life - as seemingly we all do - and retained very little having no life experiences to hang the literary value upon. She laughingly said the group's experience has made her impatient with lesser writing!

It was good to hear.

Retirement is like a still, reflecting pool of your own thoughts. While working, one gets constant feedback - good and bad - that help shape your thoughts. Apart from the bustle, sometimes it's hard to remember the relevance of your life's work.

I love life's little rainbows.

And now have a few notes to write of my own.

let the breezes blow

I have an old childhood bench by my bedroom window. This March dip into Springtime allowed me to have an open window for much of the week.

Heaven.

There simply is nothing to compare to that first soft Spring breeze drifting through the winter-bound window!

The air is diffused with pastel light and there are no words for the warm, coolness of it.

On this day I give thanks for the inventor of windows - that open.

And winter hearts that do as well.

working the line

I spent one summer on an assembly line in the egg department of a chicken processing plant.

One summer.

And during that summer I remember just scouring my mind for entertainment! I kept going through movies, books, vacations, whatever happy thing I could think of to ease the boredom of snatching small, medium, large cartons of eggs off the revolving table before me, putting them in the appropriate boxes, taping them shut when filled, and shoving them onto another conveyor belt.

That was it.

I remember too looking closely at the lady, Bertha, who worked beside me who had done this all her life. I simply couldn't conceive of it.

And while it shocked my young mind it also taught me a life-long lesson of empathy. I understand that Bertha didn't view the job through my lens. She may have also found it boring, but it may literally have meant medication for her aching back, food on the table, heat in the house, a house.

People have to do menial jobs to survive and we are the beneficiaries of their labors.

The pandemic took these people in processing plants out by the hundreds all over the county. At one plant they pray together before they hit the line, hoping to survive the day - not from boredom, but ravaging illness.

My heart aches for the Berthas.

toss it!

 Closets.

Oh, what a double-edged sword.

So convenient for shoving things into dark recesses.

But when the time of reckoning comes, ah, the sorrow!

Why did I ever buy, keep, continue to store? The  questions ricochet off my sensibilities!

It is so releasing when some greater force pushes through the nostalgia and what-if's of an item's worth and just grandly sweeps the useless items away!

De-cluttering.

Good for soul and closet.

country roads

 "We're going for a ride."

Those simple childhood words. Declarative. Purposeful. Open-ended.

We said them all the time and off we'd jump on our three-speed bikes, no helmets, busy highway until we would branch off to idyllic back roads.

Mother would say "Okay, be careful, be back by supper."

Did she worry about our safety? I really don't think so. We had good bikes; we usually had good judgment; there were always at least two of us together. She knew we wouldn't get lost.

She had faith in us and the world, in a word.

Was life so vastly different then? I think it was - at least our safe little slice of it.

The  world we pedaled by held tiny streams, creeks, covered bridges, fields smelling of new hay as well as manure, birds in flocks against wide blue skies, cows munching in wayside pastures, farmers on tractors working the soil, family laundry flapping against the sun and wind.

We had no idea.

It was truly a ride.

What a gift!. Soon enough, as roads led out of childhood, we would discover the underbelly of all that innocence.

Still, it is my staying point.

Passing

 In reflecting upon the pandemic there is so much immeasurable loss. But one that I have thought about in the last day is the loss of celebration - of birth, of marriage, of death, of graduation, of retirement.... the list goes on and on. All these events are shared - in the best of times.

I was just thinking about two lives lost in my family - a niece and a cousin. In their lives they absolutely sparkled, touching and igniting so many other lives. Their passing normally would have produced sizable gatherings of people who loved them.  And yes you can zoom, write in whatever form, call - all of which are useful. But the power that comes from touching - hand to hand, hug to hug, visible tears to hearty laughter in recollection - it's just not calculable how much of a difference that brings to the healing process. There is such a resounding stillness to loss in these days of isolation.

All the more reason to remember aloud with love and give new life to those who have passed in such unforgiving silence. 

keep on truckin'

 I was reading in my mother's 1957 diary and came upon the entry about our end-of-year school picnic. The two room school we attended consisted of Lower (Grades 1-4) and Uppers (Grades 5-8). The Uppers always ruled everything, of course. One's early goal was to reach the Uppers!

The school picnic usually consisted of everyone bringing food of some sort and the school providing hot dogs and ice cream.(Unbelievably, at a 40+yr reunion many people still remembered Anna Hoover's deviled eggs from those occasions! Talk about making a culinary name for oneself!)

But in 1957, the tides turned, and Sam Good, a local lumberman, brought his truck and loaded all the Uppers on the open back and hauled us off to Cloister Dairies for ice cream. Today's liability issues fairly scream at the notion, but as far as I know, nary a thought was given at the time. What could possibly go wrong with a load of boisterous farm boys and girls on the back of an open truck???

Perhaps evolution is a viable concept after all.

rhythm of today

 "No matter how much we may love the melody of a bygone day, or imagine the song of a future one, we must dance with the music of today - or we will always be out of step." (Lisa Wingate from the book Before We Were Yours)

As I age, I am remembering bygone melodies a lot! But I think however old or young, the wisdom of the above statement is enduring. There is so much to be said for dancing in the moment. 

With the specter of Covid looming for the past year, I think it's tempting to just mark time - always looking forward to when we can travel, go to public meetings, eat out, visit family, etc.. But meanwhile we have precious time to do something with!

And dancing seems just right.

Move into the rhythms of confinement, stretch mind, body and soul and do get those toes tapping! Life is now!

oh, the moon shines tonight

 Where did my mother's songs come from?

That is the mystery.

From what I know of either Grandma or Grandpa Weaver I never remember one bit of singing - and maybe my older siblings have different recollections. But from somewhere, a wealth of unusual songs broke from my mother's voice and heart. The lyrics delight and puzzle me.

From "A Capital Ship" - "the cook was Dutch and behaved as such/ for the diet he served the crew/ was a number of tons of hot cross buns served up with sugar and glue"

From "Red Wing" - "Far, far beneath the sky her Brave is sleeping/ while Red Wing's weeping her heart away"

From a lullaby "Mammy's going to take the toys of all the little girls and boys away to Sleepy Land/ time for Sandman now to come, 'cause night is here and day is done."

On and on.

A Dutch cook, an Indian Brave, Mammy? The words transported me into worlds of speculation and wonder, billowing me through the childhood years.

Maybe she had an imaginative, lyrical grade school teacher.

Whatever the source, the music of my early years lines my recollections years later with the velvet softness of drifting off to faraway places, anchored by her voice and love.

In the mix

 This morning when I was reading the paper I either read something or an illustration caught my eye and I thought - blog material!

 Simultaneously, an uneasy question flitted across my mind, should I write it down? 

And I laughed.

I was going to be writing about it in just a short time.

But I got distracted and much later I sat down to the computer.

Nada.

So, the moment of truth has arrived.

For years I have secretly scoffed at list-makers, note-takers. I felt the brain exercise of memory was better than a crutch.

Alas.

Has it really come to this? I must make notes to myself? 

I have been resisting, thinking that in doing so, I am not going gentle into that good night. But now that my original internal  GPS is letting me down, I guess I'll have to resort to old school measures.

Now, where's a pencil? Paper?

back on the trail

 I had heard there may be side effects to the second Covid inoculation, but since the first went without a hitch I didn't think too much about it.

But then, ten hours after the prick, it all descended - like guests to a party! Miss Low-grade Fever, Auntie Aches, Cousin Chills, Mr. Headache, and Father Fog!

To those who had/have the real Covid, my sincerest condolences. My malaise lasted about 48 hours all told. A mere sneeze, in the scheme of things.

But, still, to a person of gratefully good health, it was a reminder of what a supreme gift it is to awake in the morning, step out into a day of maximum ability to do exactly what you need to because that body that carries you around is functioning normally. Extraordinary design, really.

So back to walking my four miles. Wonder how the squirrels survived without me.

That needed shot in the arm

 Some shuffled in with walkers, others strode in briskly - but we all were quietly joyous to be getting our second Covid inoculation.

The icy, snowy roads didn't deter the determined! We were all on a path to freedom.

And just how free will we be with this serum tucked away in our bodies.

I truly think no one really knows.

But for we the vaccinated, it feels like we are a bit less naked, less vulnerable.

We have no plans for partying, traveling, sky diving, dining out, joining the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.

But if our steps can be just a teeny bit less measured, our breaths a little deeper, our doors and windows at least half-way open, life will be sunnier.

Little steps, but strong ones.

family

 The last cousin on my father's side passed away last week, leaving my sibs and I the sole survivors of that branch of the family tree. There are twigs above us, but our branches are getting bare. 

It's an eerie feeling.

It's like an entire cast of players has been eradicated. Because of time and distance we rarely saw each other, yet the warmth of those early years kept the hearth of family glowing all these years. 

And now we are the only ones left carrying the flame of that era forward.

Still, I cannot mourn those who have passed because I realize through my life travels, there are many people who never ever experienced that uniquely glorious extended family interaction - not the laughter, the delicious meals, the endless stories, the games, the trips, the sharing of joy and sorrow as an entity against the world.

So on this cold, sleety February day, I give thanks for family, in all degrees of closeness -in reality and memory.

 They are shoulders who have lifted and sheltered us.

Batter Up!

 February 17 - the day the major baseball leagues push through the winter's soil and emerge into the light!

Do we ever need baseball!

The thought of sounds of "Play Ball", the crack of the bat, the bursts of music, and the roar of fans is simply intoxicating!

After this long siege of illness, masks, cancellations, isolation, snow, ice - we long for those sunny sideline seats, basking in community.

It's just a sport.

But it's so much more. A signal that life as we once treated like negligible currency, is so utterly precious in its ordinary pleasures.

Fair's Store

 I had the word "fair" in my morning crossword puzzle.

The clue was "dry forecast". Other clues could have been "Feeling so-so"," light-complexioned", "equal division", "festival" etc., as is the case with so many clues depending on their usage.

But what sprang to my mind was Fair, as in Fair's Store.

 It was the neighborhood store of my childhood. Because it served many "horse and buggy" farm families in the outlying area around town, it carried a wide array of merchandise from straw hats to bulk foods. In the center of the narrow building was a pot-bellied stove that glowed hot through all the winter months with rounded stools nearby to pull up for a quick warm-up Oiled wooden floors kept down the dust. Fluorescent lights with pull strings buzzed overhead to light the shelves that climbed from floor to ceiling.

But best of all was the penny candy case - all the tantalizing goodies lay behind slanted glass and had to be retrieved by the slow, bent fingers of George Fair himself as we stood with pressed noses agonizing what our pennies would best buy. In truth I remember only a  few of the choices - Mary Jane's, licorice, Bazooka gum, candy cigarettes, Klein's Lunch Bar (which was always tempting as it wasn't as expensive as the Hershey Bar for a nickel but wasn't as good either!) Luden's cough drops as well as the more harsh Smith Brothers, And then there was always the tempting nickel bag of Good's potato chips that hung on clips nearby! The weekly allotment of a nickel and a penny just didn't stretch far enough! The irony was that we had tons of candy at home and a huge tin of potato chips that always residing in the back stairway to the upstairs! But nothing is more exciting than one's own currency and resultant choices!

Fair - also a beacon of childhood pleasure.

what shall we eat today

 This February cascade of snow, ice and freezing weather surely calls for soup! Why is it, when the skies darken and the precipitation begins to fall you never think of whipping up a nice salad! Where is the comfort?

I have a Honey-Baked hambone sitting in my frig with a lots of lovely juicy ham still attached that is just crying out for some accompanying navy beans, onions, carrots and a few hours to simmer and get acquainted.

Think about how much weather and the calendar determine our eating patterns. I would guess there are few months on the calendar that don't dictate at least one specific food item.

Off the top of my head -

January- pork and sauerkraut

February - some kind of Valentine dessert, Fastnacht day if you live in Lancaster County

March - corned beef and cabbage

April - Easter ham

May-  first strawberry shortcake, new asparagus, 

June - party foods of all kinds (weddings, graduations,)

July - Barbeques, fresh corn on the cob

August - the whole gamut of summer vegetables

September/October -baked squash, cider, Halloween goodies

November/December avalanche of holiday dishes.

But in between all the specifics, doesn't soup just fill a need on a cold wintery day?

icicles -good for the soul

 I loved icicles as a kid.

I loved to break them off - off anywhere and promptly suck on them. I can still feel the delicious cold melting and that feeling I was getting away with something,  that somehow this was equivalent OT freebee mana!

Now that was a couple centuries ago! And the amount of pollutants in the environment hopefully wasn't as high, but proportionally probably was!

But this morning when I saw a neighborhood kid, break an icicle off the fender of my car and immediately bring it to his mouth my entire being cringed in horror! Where was his mother??!

But, as my husband observed laconically, "it builds the immune system"!

all in the family

Amidst all this talk about birds, a friend asked me if it was a family or a community interest when I was growing up. While it was some of both, it was largely due to the influence of my older brother initially. I came fourth in the line children in our family and I soaked up all the news and experiences of my older brothers and sisters. From my earliest days I remember being aware of the bird population because of their interest. People talk of hand-me-down clothing in families. I think it's far more interesting to talk about the culture that is passed along.

In my case I realize I set my feet to very carefully fit into their tracks as I grew up. Their reputations preceded me in grade school, high school and college and I gratefully accepted every advantage given me. Taste in music, sense of humor, book selections, board games, sports teams, church groups, neighborhood gatherings. foods, friends - it was all laid out for me.

Now I am really pitying that first child!

On the other hand, pioneer I am not. 

But grateful, I most surely am.

birds of a feather

 My childhood home was located along a busy two-lane highway in a small country village. We had identity as a village with a few stores, school, church, blacksmith, gas station, etc. But behind the houses that lined that highway lay quiet fields. And three large fields away from our house, the Conestoga Creek wound it's way through Lancaster County.

 The creek was our playground. Not only was it a place to swim in summer, and, in a good winter, skate along its bends, but it also provided us with bird and plant life  the whole year round. All of my older siblings were birders. And while I never got anywhere as good as they were in identification of species, I was always aware that there was a whole world flying above and resting among us that most of the population knows zero about.

And as an adult, I have discovered that a  bird feeder brings them right to your window. So while the world is currently brown and grey, our birdfeeder world flashes with scarlet from the  woodpeckers - pileated to downy, goldfinches whose feathers are changing from olive green to yellow, bluebirds, cardinals, the gray/black combos of nuthatches, juncos and chickadees - the colors and shades of all of them light up the February landscape. And they vie, cajole, boss, relinquish, retreat, attack, and chatter saucily most of the time!

Really, maybe as a species they aren't so removed!

the good old days?

 I was just reading in my mother's diaries about her memories of her mother's "summer kitchen" - a large room off the regular kitchen that they essentially moved to in the warm weather. It had no running water - dishes were washed in a dishpan of soapy water, then dunked in a dishpan of rinse water and then placed on a drainer on a nearby stand. All this was done in a dry sink - a beautifully carved wooden cabinet lined with zinc. Just stop and think of that in light of all the cooking that was done in those days - roasted beef, pork, turkey, sausage, chicken. Those roasting pots and pans had baked-on grease-  to say nothing of all the side dishes. However could one get things clean without a flowing stream of hot water?? And Grandma cooked for a family of seven! One year in Newfoundland I cooked on an oil stove and didn't have running hot water and I thought those days were spartan - paradise compared to my grandparents! It took an amazing amount of work  just to assemble and clean up a simple meal. Multiply by 3, by seven, by 365 and you've got yourself a full year just with the meals! Then add making your own clothes, canning, gardening, cleaning, baking, ironing, etc., and you've got yourself a worn-out body not too far along life's pathway!

The way life has softened in just a generation is startling. I think it's worth reflecting what on earth we are doing with all our leisure!

Constitutional

 With all the current discussion about what is Constitutional my mind wandered back to the forefathers. We are talking about a document ratified in 1787! Think of the world surrounding those men.

Candlelight and horseback.

And yet, what wisdom! They devised a plan that has somehow still  resonates in this world dazzling with technology.

The question is - do we still have men/women of their intellectual stature? Are they entirely outside of the world of politics?

In a day where you have to search far and wide, high and low for a standard of any kind, to me it is gratifying that we're even talking, however esoterically, about one that was set 233 years ago!

no milk today

 My childhood home had a wrap-around porch and right by the side door was a lidded tin box, lined with some kind of padded material, where, early each day, the milkman would deliver our milk. Simple. Milk in glass bottles delivered to your doorstep. In the earliest days, the bottles had a little bubble at the top for pure cream. I don't have any idea how often milk was delivered, but I do remember some Sunday mornings there would be a treat of chocolate milk -  rich, thick, dark brown goodness. The mere memory makes me salivate! I couldn't guess at the caloric content, but it was far beyond the amount of Hershey's syrup that we were allowed to spike our milk with afternoons after school. Ludicrously excessive - and  so delicious!

But beyond the concept of culinary convenience and delight, imagine a time when it was safe to have milk delivered regularly outside on your porch and not have it stolen!! Such a lovely little memory about how life worked once upon a time!

I love you on paper

 Red construction paper

and the nostalgic smell of white glue-

Valentine's day at school, of course.

The week of -

a cardboard box 

covered with white paper

and hearts

with a slit in the top

sat poised to gobble up our 

love offerings.

I guess from our youngest years

we were conditioned to

put it in writing.

Still, come recess,

it was everyman for himself

and everyone fought for

the front of the line.

icy patches

The sun is shining!

How momentous those words in this pandemic winter!

 Somehow that glowing orb overhead is salvation.

Right now, it's salvation from icy paths! Yesterday I crept along in the deepest snow I could manage because the tramped paths were sheets of hazard.

I thought back, as I was carefully mincing along, about childhood days when we actually sought out icy patches to slide on! It's truly hard to conjure up that kind of rosy cheeked freedom. And in the snow we jumped, we tumbled, we rolled. Oh the grace and durability of young bones - and spirits! I truly don't want to be a timid soul and I have walked every day to some degree or the other for the three years of my retirement, but it is all under such an umbrella of care! 

I guess the abandon of body now belongs to dreams.

two sticks rubbing together

 One COVID injection in my arm. Another in two weeks and two days - but who's counting!!

A spark!

Everyone is anxiously scrambling for a vaccination that will unlock our doors and enable our feet to wander beyond our leashes.

Nothing like putting a load of expectation on one small bit of serum.

Somehow, it feels like if I get those two little shots, the door to the world will open a crack! I will be able in time to visit my family, go to restaurants, travel, meet for friends for lunch or breakfast, do my own grocery shopping, visit nearby cities for weekend getaways ----breathe!

I will look back at this post in the months ahead and smile or shake my head.

I'm banking on that smile.