symphony

We once lived at the edge of a small ravine. Cedar and pine, vine-maple and thimble berry grew in a tangled green thicket just beyond the fence. Those woods were alive with small birds.

We hung feeders and our dining room window soon framed an ever changing flutter of wings and bright black eyes; sociable chickadees, acrobatic nuthatch, scarlet house finch and exotic grosbeak.

The air resonated with whistle, trill, chirp and buzz. Song bird symphony.

glitter bug

Making the dash from parked car to front door at work, my gaze was suddenly skyward. Bobbing along on the breeze was a small white plastic bag as full of wind as any sail. It puffed along like a wayward balloon until branches tree high snagged it. Deflated, it hung forlornly.
It was then that I noticed another white bag flapping in a nearby tree. Why had I never notices this phenomenon of air-borne trash before?
Moments later, the little bag was plucked from the tree by a gust and sailed over the fence and along the street, the path of the wind suddenly revealed like clothing on an invisible man.
Beautiful garbage.

"Look Grandma," my little grandson gasped. We had been out for a stroll in the neighborhood. "Someone was a glitter bug."
My gaze lifted from the litter strewn street and in my mind's eye I seemed to see sparkling insects with iridescent wings; glow in the dark garbage, twinkling trash.

warm

Doll quilts can become sacred relics. I suppose it is because they are often made by a grandma or mother or aunt and are infused with love.
They also become entwined in the earliest memories of play where reality and make believe blend. Shivering dolls have been snuggled toasty warm again, lonely teddies cheered and soothed.
This doll sized quilt was made in response to a Guild Challenge; a variation of a log cabin block. I hand quilted it because it is for my little granddaughter after all.
Because my great grandmother Minerva was known for her rainbow quilt design, I incorporated that design in the border. Log cabin is probably my mother's signature block. Some of the fabrics were from my mother's and possibly my grandmother's stash. These connections to all things grandmotherly seemed especially appropriate in my own tiny grandchild's gift.
May it warm and comfort.

fresh forever

This past Christmas, as I munched, snacked and nibbled on homemade cookies, I mused aloud that it seemed a pity to eat my truly favourite cookie only once every twelve months. Couldn't they be enjoyed on all of the special days of the year?
Valentines Day is imminent and so butter is now softening in a big cream bowl on the counter awaiting the guidance of the wooden spoon.
For many years, when my mother lived afar, she would move about her yellow kitchen stirring and rolling cookie dough. Striped and spiral and fruited cookies were then packaged and sent off in the mail to us; samples of Christmas.
One year, December blew in and out without their annual arrival. They had been wrapped and stamped and sent just like every other year. "It will just spread out the festal joy when they come for New Years," I assured my mother. But the New Year awakened cookieless. We went expectantly each day to the mail box, but in vain. As January ebbed away, so did our hope of ever tasting those cookies. Had they bounced off the back of the mail truck? Had a postal worker enjoyed them on a spectacular coffee break? So much for the reliability of a national institution.
In mid-February a package arrived from my mother.
The package.
Posted in mid-December, it had been two months in transit.
She could have walked to my house herself and hand delivered them quicker.
Sadly, we found that time had not been kind to those cookies. They were definitely beyond their best before date. My taste buds recall them as the gold standard of stale.
Love may remain fresh and sweet forever, but not home made cookies.

painted

Painted toenails are a guilty pleasure. I don't paint my fingernails, but as soon as the distant sun of spring weakly glows, I dig out my sandals and whip out the nail polish. Such colors; navy blue, chocolate brown, rhubarb pink, lipstick red, each more lovely and enticing than the last. But there is more to this ritual than self decoration. Painting my nails acts as a sort of feminine version of the Farmers Almanac. When the chill days of autumn force me into shoes and socks at last, I leave my toenail polish intact. And like crazed football fans that refuse to shave until their team wins, I refuse to remove the last coat of polish. Instead, as autumn gives way to winter and the days shorten and darken, my toenail polish is trimmed away a sliver at a time, like a seasonal measuring stick; only half an inch of winter left, now only a quarter inch til spring. It has never failed me yet. Punxsutawney Phil wishes he were as accurate. By my estimation, two more clippings and sandal weather will be here. Hurray, bring on the nail polish.

out and about

Coming home today I spotted a kestrel high in the branches of a tree, its shoulders hunched against the gray drizzle.
A neighboring tree held a crow, its wings pumping like fireplace bellows.
I actually drove around the block to take a second look at the birds.
It's such a gray gray day. Drizzle seems to be suspended like mist, but the birds are out and about.
Their eyes are bright, their voices clear.

the gravity of the situation

Riding hour after endless hour in a car can turn me into a desperate housewife. Desperate to breathe fresh air, desperate to stretch, desperate to stop the world from moving.
On a long trip a few years ago, my mind had turned into a straight line and I was beginning to feel ready to hurl myself from the moving vehicle. Suddenly, Three Valley Gap loomed directly ahead.
Into the parking lot we shot, like goats into a barn.
Out of the car we staggered.
Into the gardens we hobbled.
Ahhhhhh, the sun was warm on our back. A breeze lifted our hair and our spirits.
"Hope springs eternal in the human breast."
I soon felt a rising optimism about life in general and road trips specifically.
In the distance a swing beckoned.
A few light steps and we were there.
I found I hadn't forgotten how to pump.
Higher and higher.
I felt young and giddy.
I felt weightless and free.
I felt like sliding off the swing in mid air.
Oh, to land once more like thistle down.
Actually, I landed with a thunk like a sack of potatoes.
I'm sure all my vertebrae compressed and my teeth clenched.
What had happened to the spring in my step?
Where had my bounce gone?
I made a similar discovery last year while demonstrating hop scotch for my grandson. Gravity seems stronger than it used to be.
"You're as young as you think you are," is an amazingly misleading quote. "You're only as old as you feel," isn't much better.
I think I've had my head in the sand, and like the ostrich, a bit more running and a little less denial wouldn't hurt. It might even help.