Love

I might have titled this post Apprehension  or Anxiety, but then, I'm not in love with those things.  I have anticipated and dreaded this day for a long time.  And here it is  . . . the last post.  Really, what else could I title it but Love?  I am in love with love.

Now to be honest, I had two fantasies about this blog, neither of which became reality.  I imagined that maybe, just maybe, by the end of the year, I would actually be in love with a real, live man!  I mean, c'mon, wouldn't that have made a great ending?  Didn't happen.  I also fantasized that somewhere out in the blogosphere there would be a publisher who would stumble upon this and contact me about publication.  I always imagined it as a page-a-day calendar.  Well, that didn't happen either.  So what did happen?

For one thing, the blog forced me to be more observant.  Every day for the past year, I had to pay attention to what the Universe was offering to me.  There were times when those gifts were easy to find, like animal tracks in the snow, the Northern Lights, dragonflies, the Lost Coast Highway, or half a dead baby bunny.  And there were times when I had to look hard to find the gifts, like candlewax, windows, mirrors, or sitting still.  I hope that I continue to look for the gifts, even though I won't necessarily be writing about them.

The blog opened me up to finding beauty in the ordinary.  A simple walk in the woods became full of wonders, because I looked for them.  Food tasted better after I thought about its growth from tiny seeds.  The weather offered contemplation of the diversity of nature.  And daily chores took on a mindfulness that made them less tedious.  I have always been moved by the Louis Armstrong song What a Wonderful World (especially the Joey Ramone version!) and I don't ever want to lose that awareness.  I do believe that writing this blog has allowed me to focus more on the beauty than on the dysfunction in this often polarized world.

Let me take you back to the beginning.  This was how I began the blog:  It was a bitterly cold late-January morning.  I was teetering on the edge of Winter Depression, a place I am prone to visit when I cannot be outside in the garden.  Depression.  Because of this blog, I suffer less depression.  It's true.  As far as I'm concerned, this blog is better than Paxil.  I'm not saying that I don't sink from time to time.  But I recognize that fall into darkness as a temporary departure, and I seem to be able to climb back out fairly quickly.  I think, too, that I have become more open.  Life isn't going to be the dream I once had, but there are places to go, people to meet, new things to try, and I am a willing adventurer, more than I was one year ago.

The Beatles said it best:  All You Need Is Love.  It's not an abstraction for me anymore.  Writing this blog has taught me to find love everywhere I can.  It is with that spirit that I close this chapter, this year-long journey to fall in love again.  To those of you who have traveled with me, I hope that you, too, look at the world a little differently now.  Above all, I wish you love.

So long for now!

The Penultimate

We are all birds, hungry for something, but willing to surrender habit for change when it's time to do so. I wrote that yesterday, even surprising myself with the revelation.  On this, my penultimate post, I want to take advantage of an opportunity to offer a change to my loyal readers.  You may be few in number, but you have been 95% responsible for my having nearly completed this challenge to fall in love with something every day for a year.  Admittedly, there were times when I just wanted to bag the whole thing.  It was fear of disappointing you that kept me going.  I will be forever grateful for your presence in my life, your supportive comments, and your friendship.

So here's what I'm thinking.  I've kind of gotten into a habit of writing everyday, and after the blog ends tomorrow, there will be a void to fill.  Perhaps you will feel that void, too.  Some of you have asked that I continue, but after finding 364 things to fall in love with, I'm kind of running out of ideas.  I don't mean to suggest that there aren't a gazillion more things with which to fall in love, but rather, that I am weary of leafing through my previous posts every day to make sure that I haven't already written about a particular thing!  That actually happened a couple of times over the year, and I had to scramble to revise before anyone caught on!  So, no, I am not going to continue this blog.  I committed to a year, and after tomorrow's post, I will have met that commitment.  So that will be that.

I have never written fiction.  As a writer, I studied poetry.  This blog was neither, but I think there's a chance that it has prepared me to attempt fiction-writing.  With the encouragement of a few of you, I think I might be ready to give it a try.  (Note my language here:  think, might, try . . . clearly, I am not convinced of this idea!)  Anyway, I have enjoyed having an audience throughout this blog, and I have been thinking about how I could continue that.  So here is my germ of an idea:  I would like to attempt writing a novel, but I would like that attempt to be an interactive one.  In other words, I would like your input, your ideas, your critiques, your encouragement.  If you think you might be interested in this collaborative effort, keep reading.

I envision this:  I set up a restricted blog site.  You would need a code to have access.  As I develop various components (setting, characters, voice, etc.), I would post them and request your input.  Your ideas will help me hone these elements of the story.  And once I actually begin writing the chapters, I would look for your reactions and suggestions.  Together, we will write The Great American Novel!  Or, more realistically, we'll just have some fun.

So what do you think?  If you would like to join me in this effort, comment here or send me an email or a Facebook message.  (Please include your email address.)  If and when I am ready to begin, I will contact you with the particulars.  That will not be tomorrow; I am going to take a little break before I dive in again.

And please do not feel obligated!  Maybe you are ready to put this year of falling in love to rest, too.  I understand.  Take your time thinking it over.

Today I am in love with this penultimate post, because it postpones the end one more day.  See you tomorrow.

Surrender

I surrender.  The bears won.  I know those cubs were cute, and I know that Mama Bear was just doing what she had to do to care for her babies.  But they returned under cover of darkness to destroy, once and for all, my birdfeeder.

So that's the end of that.  I cannot continue feeding the birds as it would encourage the bears to return day after day for their free lunch.  The birds were noticeably distressed today, flying into the windows as if asking me for more birdseed.  I have to trust that they, both the bears and the birds (and the squirrels) will, in time, find other sources of food.

Surrender.  Is it giving up?  In a sense it is.  But "giving up" sounds so negative.  Maybe surrender is just another word for acceptance.  If I travel backwards on this journey of mine, I see that I have surrendered many times.  Certainly, I've surrendered to the wisdom of the Universe when people I loved were taken away.  But I have also surrendered to great love, most notably at the births of my children, when I learned at first sight that I would give my right arm and more to protect these persons that I presented to the world.

I have surrendered to aging, and I have tried to do it gracefully.  I have surrendered to free will, understanding that it is up to me to make wise decisions.  I have surrendered to heartache, knowing that it is the price of having loved.

I have surrendered to late blight and grubs and Japanese beetles.  I have surrendered to the changing seasons.  I have surrendered to ice storms and the blazing sun and evening breezes.

I have surrendered to wine and I have surrendered to gelato.  I have surrendered to dust and cobwebs.  I have surrendered to dreams.

In two days, I will surrender this blog.  But I will trust that I (and my readers) will find other sources of reflection and contemplation and maybe inspiration.  We are all birds, hungry for something, but willing to surrender habit for change when it's time to do so.

It's time.

Jeggings

With only four more posts to go, I don't really care anymore if you judge me.  Today I fell in love with jeggings.  Go ahead, judge away.

Do you remember Mom jeans?  According to Wikipedia, Mom jeans is "a humorously pejorative term for a specific type of fit of women's jeans, considered to be both unfashionable and unflattering to the wearer's figure."  Back in the day, Mom jeans had waistbands above the belly button, considered a mortal sin by fashionistas at the time.  It is interesting to note that today, high-waisted pants are back in fashion.  Some of us have lived long enough to see the same fashions recycle themselves once or twice, so this is no surprise to us.  Skinny, straight-leg, boot-leg, wide-bottom, flare, bell-bottom . . . how do you like your jeans?  Whatever the current style is, invest your money into purchasing several pair in that style, and I guarantee you, the style will change long before you have gotten your money's worth out of those jeans.  (I should note here that I still have my hip-hugger bell-bottom jeans from 1969, frayed and patched and ready to go.)

But I did not fall in love with the questionable fashion cred of jeggings.  I fell in love with the comfort! I was shopping with a friend yesterday, and she purchased a pair of Vera Wang Simply Vera Denim Jeggings.  She'd tried them on, she said, and they looked and felt great!

Well, I slept on it.  And I woke up this morning thinking what the hell, I want to look and feel great, too!  So back to the store I went.  What I don't think my friend realized was that there was a sale:  buy one, get one half off.  So I bought two pair of Vera Wang Simply Vera Denim Jeggings, one light, one dark. 

It's all about comfort.  I am far too old to give a flying fig whether or not I am fashionable.  I just want to breathe.  Jeggings let me do that.  Comfortably.

And just to be clear, those are not my long legs in that picture.  (I wish.)

The Wild Side

This is what I fell in love with this morning!  This is (was) the birdfeeder that sits about ten feet from my side door.  There's Mama Bear supervising the kids who are feasting on birdseed and a big fat suet cake.  I took the picture from inside the house, then opened the sliding door and stepped onto the porch.  Within seconds, the timid family took off for the trees.

That's Mama and one of the cubs.  The other cub was up another tree, further down the property.  I scolded them for eating the birdseed, and they trundled off behind the house, heads down and tails between their legs.  And this is what they left behind:

So I went outside, Philips head screwdriver in hand, and set about repairing the damage.  One of the suet cakes was gone, but also gone was the wire cage into which I put the suet cake!  I looked all over the ground for it with no success.  Did one of those cubs swallow the wire cage along with the suet cake?  Please say no!

I went back inside to upload my pictures.  Pflunk!  Perhaps confused by the ursine invaders, a little chickadee flew into the patio door.  There she sat next to the welcome mat, feeling anything but welcome.  Clearly, she was stunned, but she turned her head from side to side, so I knew she was conscious.

Isn't she sweet?  Another reason to fall in love!  She seemed stuck in her position, so I picked her up.  She let me hold her for a few minutes, and then she flapped her wings and took off.  She didn't go far.

There she is, on the top log of the porch, right below the ceiling.  She stayed there for several minutes, and then, I am happy to say, she flew away.

Two days ago, I watched two coyote pups wander through the woods on the other side of my property.  It was too icy out for me to get a picture, but trust me, they were pretty darn cute.

And this is where I live:  on the wild side.  Although I could do without the stinkbugs and the bats and the mice who want to share my home with me, I would not trade this wild life for anything.  I love it.

Winter Birthdays

Anyone born in a winter month who lives in the north country knows that celebrating a birthday is never a sure thing.  Last year, for instance, a nor'easter kept me housebound on my February birthday.  Tired of being unable to celebrate one another's birthdays, a group of my friends decided that we could certainly find one weather-friendly evening to toast all of us for turning another year older.  And that was the birth of Winter Birthdays, a tradition that we have upheld for several years now.

This evening, the six of us met at a casual restaurant for our celebration.  It happened to be Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, and the general mood of peace and tolerance and goodwill seemed to further enhance our appreciation for one another.  We had a wealth of catching up to do, as our busy lives do not offer many opportunities for a gathering such as this.

We are mothers, gardeners, teachers, artists, judges, bakers, tax assessors, zumba dancers, travelers, decorators, historians, writers, runners, homemakers.  We are friends.

And we laugh a lot.  The company of women, a friend of mine used to say, is good for the soul.  Our souls were enriched beyond measure this evening.  At our age, life has thrown any number of challenges our way, but we are resilient.  We can still laugh.

Colleen, Margaret, Bonnie, Kathy, Allyn . . . I love you all.

Fireplace

It's a fireplace kind of day.  Nothing but rain and freezing rain outside.  If the reports on social media are to be believed, it is quite treacherous out there.  I am grateful that I have no place I need to go and hopeful that the ice doesn't knock out the power.  But if it does, I have a fireplace.

Okay, so it's a fake electric fireplace.  But before you think that it will do me no good in a power outage, let me assure you that the electric insert can be taken out, making room for a real wood fire.

For most of my life, I have lived in a house that had a fireplace.  In one of those houses, the fireplace was the only source of heat.  I stacked a lot of wood in those years.  When Pete and I built this house, we installed a woodstove, a more efficient way to heat the house.  For many years, I put up with the wood chips and debris, the sooty ash, the sometimes smoky atmosphere.  But I always missed being able to watch the wood burning, so we finally removed the old Grizzly woodstove and enjoyed real mood-enhancing fires on winter evenings and weekends.  By that time, we were able to afford the oil deliveries necessary to heat our home, and the fireplace became an occasional pleasure.  Until the power went out, and then we worked full time to keep our family warm.

A few years ago, I got weary of hauling in wood every time I craved the ambiance of a fire.  So I paid a lot of money for an electric fireplace insert.  At first, it was hard to adjust to something that was clearly less than a real fire, but I've gotten used to it.  With a handy remote control, I can have instant ambiance!  The heater isn't enough to allow me to turn down the thermostat, but it's nice when I sit in front of the fake fire to read.  And there's a stack of wood at the ready on the front porch in case I lose power.

I've poured a glass of red wine, the music is on, and a novel awaits.  Time for me to fall in love with fire.  And pretend that it's real.

Ice Skates

Although I stop short of saying that I grew up poor, it is true that my family did not have money.  We had the essentials, and we kids presented ourselves at school as clean and decently dressed.  As a kid, I never wanted for anything.  Except maybe a pony, of course.  I was thinking about this today as I recalled that everyone I knew, including me, had ice skates.  And a sled.  We baby boomers were geared for winter.

So, I'm guessing that I got my last pair of ice skates when my feet had grown as much as they were going to grow, most likely, when I was twelve.  That would have been 1962.  And here are the skates that I use today:

Yes.  They are the same skates.  Not only that, those are the same wool skating socks.  Do the math:  these items are over fifty years old!  Yes, the black pompoms with jingle bells are that old, too.

Several years ago, I treated myself to a new pair of skates from L.L. Bean.  But I just couldn't get used to them.  I kept going back to the old skates.  It was nice to have an extra pair of skates on hand for my kids' friends who had never found a pair of skates under their Christmas trees.  (And I still have those L.L. Bean skates, if you want to visit me in wintertime.)

This morning, I woke up in Saratoga Springs to a temperature of minus five degrees.  By the time my hosts and I had finished eating breakfast, it was a balmy seven degrees.  Time to ice skate!  The pond just beyond their back yard had been cleared by Ruth, chef and baker extraordinaire (along with her many other talents).  A casual walk on a snowy path dropped us off on the frozen pond.  I laced up my antique skates and took to the ice.

I've always known that the first ten minutes of skating are the worst.  My ankles want to collapse.  But I also know that if I hang in there, the pain will subside, and I will skate better and better each time around the pond.  Despite the cold, that is exactly what happened.  We skated until my toes began screaming Frostbite!  Frostbite! and we retreated to the house.  I was happy with the exercise, in love with my very old but reliable ice skates.

Another Brick in the Wall

Of course, you all recognize that title from Pink Floyd's The Wall.  As someone whose career involved the teaching of English, I never liked the double negative in the song's signature line, We don't need no education.  Nevertheless, as a protest song against rigid schooling, it had my attention.

The Wall was issued in 1979.  As I remember, the late 70s were a pretty good time for education, at least in these parts.  Where education is today?  Not so good.  (At least, in my opinion.)

Today, I drove my visiting son up to Burlington, Vermont, so that he could reunite with some college buddies and do some skiing.  On the drive back, I stopped in Saratoga Springs for a visit with some dear friends.  I met George forty years ago when we were teaching in the same school district.  Ruth joined us a couple of years later.  During and after an absolutely lovely dinner, we talked a lot about the good old days when we were all members of the English Department, with George at the helm as department chair.  At the risk of sounding cliche, those were the good old days.  We were the ones who decided what we were going to teach, unlike today, when curricula is dictated by companies who reap profit from telling public schools what to do.  We took care of one another, we supported and inspired one another, we learned from one another.  And our students benefited from that homespun connectivity.  I happen to be friends with many of those former students on social media, and they seem to have turned out quite well, despite the lack of interference from bureaucracy during their education.

So what happened?  Why did things change so drastically?  I could offer some hypotheses, but they would be political, and I don't want to go there in this blog.  Urban Dictionary defines another brick in the wall this way:  An event that has caused you to become more alienated and distant with something.  Well, that seems to describe education these days, I think.

But I'm looking at another definition, an opposite definition.  I'm thinking of bricks labeled poetry, art, music, philosophy, literature, humanism, compassion, kindness, peace.  I'm laying out those bricks to form a foundation.  From there, students are free to create a life, not a wall.  It worked at one time; why can't it work now?

I will never be able to wrap my head around what has happened to education, but I will always be in love with the idea of educating:  laying a foundation of good things from which people can create and share and inspire.  If only it were still true.

Vision

Sam and I had eye exams today.  My eyes were dilated, and it's still hard to focus on this computer screen, so this post might be brief.  We both checked out well, which is always a relief.  I mean, who knows what could be found with all those optical machines and prisms and scalpels?  Okay, there weren't any scalpels, but a good vision exam can still be scary.

I got my first pair of glasses when I was in third grade.  It's no fun at all being a little kid and having to wear glasses.  Especially if you happen to be smart.  And to make matters worse, my glasses frames were a weird color pink.  I envied my best friend's glasses, which were blue.  (Those were pretty much the only choices then, blue or pink.)  By high school, I had brown frames, but having to wear glasses as a teenager proved to be even worse than wearing them as a child.  Making out with boys was beyond awkward.  Enough said.

I began an exercise in subterfuge, breaking my glasses in many different ways, thinking that eventually, my parents would tire of replacing them and allow me to get contact lenses.  That didn't happen until I was 17, and there was a caveat.  I could get contact lenses only if I agreed to enter the local beauty contest.  Trust me, I was no beauty queen, but I would do anything to be rid of the hated glasses.  My acquiescence proved to be too easy.  My parents also held the procurement of my driving permit over my head.  Again, I agreed to the humiliation of parading myself in front of the judges.  And I was wearing contact lenses when I did.  And the next day, I got my permit.

And then 35 years of the painful experience of getting dust or dirt or sand in my eyes ensued.  By the time I was 50, I would come home from work and tear the horrid lenses out of my eyes and rub them to death.  At 51, I gathered all my courage and got Lasik surgery.

Like a successful hemorrhoidectomy, Lasik surgery is nothing short of a miracle.  It's been 13 years of 20/20 vision.

I can see clearly now sang Johnny Nash, Jimmy Cliff and Bob Marley.  (Love that song.)  Vision is a wonderful thing.  I am in love with my 20/20 rating.  And I am hopeful that I have vision that pertains to something beyond the performance of my eyes.

Cash

How much cash do you have in your wallet?  If you're one of my kids, the answer is "None."  Increasingly, cash is becoming a relic of the past.  Debit and credit cards have replaced the greenbacks.  I don't know if this is a good thing or a bad thing.  I suppose it's a little of both.

I was 34 before I could get a credit card.  And that was only because I was added to my 27-year-old husband's credit card account.  I'd had a full-time job since I was 22, no debt, and no criminal history.  So why was I unable to get a credit card on my own?  Sexism, pure and simple.  Nonetheless, I have maintained that same credit card account since 1984, and it is the only one I own.  And then last week, someone used it to go on a few cab rides in NYC and eat a couple of Happy Meals at Ronnie D's.  Today is Day #6 of the 5 - 7 day window for my new card to arrive in the mail.  Netflix has already put a hold on my viewing until they receive payment.  That is just one of the many ways I have been inconvenienced by this little act of evil.  No West Wing for me tonight.

Without thinking, I stopped at the liquor store today to pick up a birthday present for a friend.  (And one for me, even though it's not my birthday.)  I was in line to check out when I realized that I do not have a credit card.  But I also realized that I had cash in my wallet.

Cash.  Real money.  And this is something else I realized:  when I handed the cashier my two $20 bills, I was acutely aware that I'd just spent some money.  When I hand a cashier my credit card, it doesn't register.  It never registers until I get the monthly bill.  And then it's How the hell did THAT happen?

I am expecting my new credit card tomorrow.  If I doesn't come, I will be off to Vermont the next morning minus the convenience of a credit card.  I'm not even sure how one pays for gas without one.  Will my EZ-Pass still work?  Or did they, like Netflix, put a hold on my account?  Will I have enough cash for gas, food, incidentals?

I do have a debit card.  I guess I need to remember how to use it.  But just to be safe, I will stuff my wallet with some good old cash.  Gotta love the dead presidents.  (That's slang for paper currency.  Yeah, I just learned that, too.)

Sewing

I forgot that I like to sew.  I'm not very good at it.  Like many of my pursuits, I'm half-assed about it, but it doesn't matter.  What's important is that I do these things.  Creative endeavors keep me sane.

My grandmother taught me how to sew when I was very young.  Nanny was an accomplished seamstress, and as the story goes, she was known as a fashion plate when she worked in New York City almost a century ago.  She was very proud of that label, and so was I.  Nanny lived in an apartment in the basement of our house, and I spent more time there with her than I did upstairs.  Until I outgrew dolls, we devoted a lot of time to sewing doll clothes, first for my Ginny doll, then my Bubble Cut Barbie.  Even Ken got some hand-sewn Hawaiian shirts before I put my dolls away and started pursuing real boys.  (I still have these dolls and their wardrobes.)

It was standard, back in my school days, for boys to take Shop in 7th and 8th grade while the girls took Home Ec.  Nobody questioned this obviously sexist mandate.  I have vivid memories of visiting the little department store on Main Street to purchase Simplicity patterns, yards of fabric, and notions, which was another word for thread, buttons, zippers and the like.  Once past the apron project, we were allowed to sew whatever we desired.  I tackled a fitted "jumper" in mint green.  It had darts, a zipper, and other complications, but I persevered.  Although I was only in 7th grade, I won the Home Ec. Award at that year's 8th grade graduation.  I was a protege!

And then, of course, my attention was diverted from sewing to boys.  (I must have thought that you can't have both.)

But I was always grateful that I had a basic understanding of how to sew.  I wonder if it is a lost art these days?  My kids, both girls and boy, were introduced to sewing in middle school, but I think those programs are gone now, as technology has taken over the non-academic time.

Sam, visiting here for a brief time, asked me to sew some patches on a backpack and repair a rip in his ski jacket, so I got out my needle and thread.  And then I remembered about sewing.  I'm on my third project now, a desk chair cushion in recycled plum fabric.  I feel like a caricature of myself, sitting in front of the fire, sewing.  I am somewhat redeemed by the fact that I am listening to Spoon and Cracker and Modest Mouse while sewing.

It's nice to fall in love with simple things.

Snow Day

For most of my life, I looked forward to snow days.  No, that's not true.  I prayed for snow days, I begged for snow days, I tried to will snow days to happen through mental telepathy.  I stopped short of wearing my pajamas inside out, though I'm not sure why.  I no longer have any reason to wish for snow days, but old habits die hard.

When I awoke this morning and did not hear Kathy (who is living here temporarily) in the kitchen packing her lunch, I figured it must be a snow day.  Or more accurately, an ice day.  (Just to be clear, Kathy, a special education teacher, does not wish for snow days.  She would prefer to have the school year end as early in the summer as possible.)  As I soon discovered, navigating outside was purely treacherous, and there was no way to avoid closing the schools.

My venture down to the road to retrieve the morning newspapers was quite a trip.  I recognized immediately that there was no way I could use the paved walk or even set foot in the driveway, so I trudged down the hilly front lawn, jumped over the ditch to the sanded road, and pulled the one paper out of the box.  The other paper resided where it is always tossed, in the middle of the driveway.  I tried several times to place a steady foot on the black ice, only to withdraw it immediately, knowing that another step would put me on my butt.  What to do?  I jumped the ditch again and took a few steps up the snowy grass alongside the driveway, then reached my open umbrella out to the paper and pulled it in.  Another two leaps over the ditch and I was on my way back up the front lawn to the house.

Thus began the snow day.  Turn the heat up, turn the music on, put the chowder in the crockpot, pour a cup of coffee.  It was nice to eat breakfast with Kathy, and extra nice later on in the day when my son (who is still on West Coast time) ventured into the kitchen for his breakfast/lunch.  We are warm, we are nourished, we are busy with our different busyness.  In a couple of hours, we will sit in front of the fire with bowls of corn chowder, tortilla chips, and dark beers.  It's a snow day.

I think of those who live in warmer climates, those who have no idea what a snow day is all about.  I suppose they have hurricane days or tsunami days or tornado days which may or may not be comparable.  As much as I have always loved the unique composition of a snow day, I might be ready to leave them behind, all the more reason to enjoy them while I can.  And to fall in love with one or two more.

Coconut

My father served in the Philippines during World War II.  He didn't talk much about it.  My sister and I knew there was a photo album of pictures from his time there, but we were forbidden to look at it.  So of course we did.  I remember bare-breasted women and some dead bodies.  I cannot verify if my recollection of the dead bodies is real or imaginary, because some years after my father's death, my mother destroyed the photo album.

I don't think the naked women and cadavers bothered me as much as the fact that coconut was not allowed in our house.  Whether it was an exaggeration or not, I don't know, but my father said he had to live on coconut while in the Philippines, and he never wanted to look at it, let alone eat it, again.  So he forbid my mother to buy it.

Meanwhile, everyone else was baking cakes in the shapes of bunnies and Christmas trees and jack-o-lanterns and decorating them with frosting and Baker's Coconut.  I helped bake and ate a lot of cake at my best friend's house next door.  And is it any surprise that my favorite candy bar was Peter Paul Almond Joy or Mounds?

I was never much for sweet drinks, but Pina Coladas spoke to me.  I loved the smell of suntan lotion.  Cadbury Creme Eggs could melt me.  Coconut Shrimp was a meal, not an appetizer.  Shampoos, soaps, and body washes that had the word coconut on the label ended up in my shopping cart.  In my cart today is unsweetened almond-coconut milk.  And there's a reason I always want to travel to the Caribbean.  Okay, the reason is reggae music, but they have coconuts there, too.

You remember Margaret of the Christmas cookie fame?  This morning, she asked if she could stop by to drop something off.  Of course.  She arrived with a small foil-wrapped plate and said, "Open it!  Open it!"  Her excitement tipped me off, and I knew before I lifted that foil what was waiting for me.

Coconut cake!  Margaret, baker extraordinaire, makes the best coconut cake ever!  Today is her husband's birthday.  She had some leftover batter and made a little cake . . . for ME!

Eat your coconut heart out while I fall in love:

Birdwatching

I know that I have written about the birds in previous posts, and I do try not to repeat myself in this blog (which gets harder and harder to do), but I am so crazily in love with watching the birds at my feeders that I just need to give them yet another post.

It's a simple feeder.  Room for birdseed and suet.  Squirrel baffle in place.  No technology involved.  Smaller than a TV screen.  But I watch it like an addict.  Even in this quotidian shot, you can see one of my woodpeckers, a show-off male cardinal, and a few of the usual suspects.

And who are the usual suspects?  Finch, junko, tufted titmouse, black-capped chickadee, cardinal, bluejay, and dove.  And they are legion.  It's a veritable party out there every day.  There is another feeder hanging off the porch railing to the right of this one, but it is not as popular as this main restaurant.

I have not seen my beloved pileated woodpecker yet this season, and I am starting to get worried about him.  He's been around for a couple of years.  It wouldn't surprise me if his fickle nature took him to seedier pastures for his dining pleasure.  But I still miss him.  I look for him every day.


I don't know what it is about watching birds at a feeder that is so compelling.  I would say that this obsession is new to me, but I would be lying.  In the back of my Green Book of Birds of America, I recorded the birdwatching I did when I was nine and ten years old.

And then there were a few decades when I didn't pay attention.

But here I am again, idly standing at the window, watching.  I have all the time in the world, or so it seems.  Watching birds can fool you into thinking that.

Which is why I am in love with them.

Comfort Zone, Take Two

I will be stepping out of my comfort zone again tonight.  After nearly eight months on the West Coast, my son is flying home tonight for a month-long visit on the East Coast.  He will spend time in Vermont, New Jersey and Florida before returning to California.  And how does that affect my comfort zone?  I am the one who will be making the late night drive to the airport to pick him up.  Pick-up was supposed to be around 9:40 p.m., but a nearly three-hour delay in Reno means that he will arrive in Newark at 12:39 a.m.  IF he makes his connecting flight in San Francisco, that is.  (This Reno-to-San Francisco flight is the same one that was delayed when I took it in the fall, causing this old lady to literally run for the gate.)  Well, at least there shouldn't be much traffic on the road tonight.  Just the drunks on their way home from the bar.  I'm getting kind of used to these airport trips.

I have been expanding my comfort zone for many years now.  When I became widowed, I had a choice:  cower in the safety of my home seeking comfort in food and drink . . . or get the hell out there and experience the world.  I think you know which one I chose.  And don't think for one minute that it has been easy.  I still remember the first trip that I took with my kids the summer after Pete died.  I drove us to Maryland to look at a college.  I settled the kids at the motel and ventured back out to buy a six-pack of beer, as this was what Pete and I always did when we arrived at our travel destination.  Having made my purchase, I got back in my Jeep and cried like a baby . . . no, I cried like a widow.  The following year, Katrina chose Alaska as her graduation present travel destination.  I booked us on an Alaskan cruise, thinking that being on a boat was easier and safer than driving.  And it was, and it was a great trip. It gave me some confidence.

Since then, I've taken my kids to Germany, Jamaica, Vieques, Costa Rica, Ireland, and Australia.  Without them, I've traveled to Iceland.  I've done three extensive road trips out West.  I've ziplined in Costa Rica, snorkled on the Great Barrier Reef, seen the Northern Lights near the Arctic Circle, and moved my kids in and out of colleges from Vermont to Florida.

Comfort zone?  Home is always the true definition of comfort.  But my zone has expanded over the years and I hope it continues to do so.  Yes, I would much rather be expanding it with a trip somewhere I've never been, but a late-night drive to the airport is something that I would have been unable to do many years ago.  Now, it's just slightly inconvenient.

And once I get there, I will park in short-term-parking, head for the terminal, walk into Baggage Claim . . . and give my son a big hug!  In the zone!

Perspective

Pretty hard to find something to fall in love with on a frigid day that begins with an email from my bank informing me that there is suspicious activity on my credit card.  Right, I did not take long rides in three different cabs in NYC, stopping at a couple of McDonald's restaurants (and I use that term loosely) to pig out.  Maybe I can fall in love with whatever bank computer system took note of the uncharacteristic activity and put a hold on my card.

"Evil is very creative," said the poet Rita Dove in a memorable interview.  That statement has never left me.  I had always viewed creativity as a positive asset, an admirable quality, a rewarding occupation or pastime.  The idea that creativity could be a tool of bad people had never occurred to me.  Until that interview.  And today, in wracking my brain to try to figure out how some evil person got access to my credit card account, I was reminded of the quote.  What a waste, on so many levels.  And I almost want to pity the person who would use that stolen card on Big Macs and fries.  Seriously, how stupid can anyone be?  Talk about adding insult to injury.

So I am trying to put this in perspective.  I suffer the inconvenience of having to wait for a new credit card and having to inform any number of businesses of a new card number.  Pain in the butt, for sure.  But I am not held responsible for the cab rides and junk food pig-outs.  I can deal with it and be grateful that my bank caught it quickly.

But Evil?  In Paris yesterday, twelve people in the offices of Charlie Hebdo, a satirical newspaper, were gunned down by three men.  It is reported that one of the gunmen yelled "Allahu Akbar"  ("God is great"), supporting the assertion that this was an attack based on religious beliefs.  Just try to wrap your head around that one.  Religious fanatics who claim to love God can brutally murder peaceful people in His name?  Not only is Evil creative, it is delusional, too.

So.  Perspective.  My encounter with the forces of evil is small change compared to the evil extremes played out in Paris yesterday.

And that's the best I can do today.

Inside

I still have a strong sense of how I felt, as a child, about being safe and warm inside my house when the weather was unforgiving.  If I left a bike or a toy outside before a storm, I would stare out the window in regret and worry until the storm passed.  It got to the point where, if I knew a storm was coming, I would haul every object I could find into the safety of the house, much to my mother's annoyance.  I just wanted everyone and everything to be sheltered and cozy.

I braved the cold and wind today to meet an old friend for lunch in a nearby town.  Did some errands coming and going.  As the afternoon progressed, the wind got stronger and the air got colder.  By the time I got home, I was feeling like that child again.  I was so grateful to be settled into my home, with no reason to go out again until Friday, when it might get up to 30 degrees.  I looked sadly out at the birdfeeder, wanting to invite its patrons into the house.  Fortunately, it quickly got dark, and they went to wherever they go when darkness falls.  Out of sight, out of mind.

Does everyone feel this need to be sheltered and warm?  Obviously, we all would rather be comfortable than cold and wet.  But does everyone else feel the need as strongly as I do?  Again, my childhood memories remind me that I could not go to sleep until I had covered every doll and stuffed animal I owned with a blanket that was folded lovingly just beneath their chins.

Inside.  Warm and cozy.  The winds tonight will gust up to 25 mph, creating a wind chill factor of -15 degrees.

I'll ply the fire with kindling,
pull the blankets to my chin
I'll lock the vagrant winter out
and bolt my wanderings in

Joni Mitchell penned those words in her song Urge for Going, an old favorite of mine.  While I will admit to an urge for going, I am also content . . . and in love with . . . being inside.

Heated Seats

The high temperature today was 22 degrees F. and it is only going to get worse.  By tomorrow night, it is expected to drop to two degrees with a windchill of -20 degrees.  And it snowed today.  This is winter in New Jersey and why am I here?

I braved the cold this morning and drove to the A&P.  On the verge of running out of coffee, one must do things that are unpleasant, and such was the case with me.  (Never mind that the coffee and a few other items would end up costing $144.)  But the drive to and from the store was not that unpleasant, thanks to the heated seats in my Subaru.

Bells and whistles in a car are a relatively new thing for me.  When one gets to my age, buying a car begs the thought:  Will this be the last car I ever buy?  And so it is easy to talk oneself into the bells and whistles.  And I did.  And I am glad I did.

Who knew that a warm tush could distract one from the frigid air trapped in an ungaraged car?  It takes mere seconds for the seat to heat up, whereas I was already at the A&P before the car's interior temperature was tolerable.  And it was the same on the drive home.

Ah, luxury!

And I will get to use my heated seats again tomorrow when I return to the A&P for a refund.  When I got home and went over my receipt (which you should always do, you know) I found that I paid $6.61 for three nectarines.  The receipt told me that they weighed 3. 32 pounds.  It warranted a phone call.  Lucille immediately asked, "Did you check out at register #9?"  I guess I did.  Apparently, the scale was already set at 2.5 pounds.  Ah, technology!

But heated seats technology?  I love it!

The Camera in My Pocket

I may be the last person you know who finally made the switch from a flip phone to a smart phone.  I've had my used iPhone for a few months, but I have only taken one picture with it.  I still prefer my little Canon PowerShot SD600 Digital ELPH.  I'm not sure how long I've had it, but long enough that they don't even make the memory cards for it anymore.  I found some for sale on Amazon and ordered several, because I don't want to part with my little camera.

Five days into the new year, I am still taking a walk every day.  I've been able to walk in a different location each time.  I think there's less chance I will get lazy about this if I mix it up a bit.  When I walk, I put my phone in one coat pocket and my camera in the other.  Because you never know what you might see.  (Or if you'll need to call 911 because you fell into a ditch.)

The temperature dropped today, and the wind was  gusting at 25 mph.  I dressed in many layers and even wore a hat, something I usually avoid doing.  With a scarf wrapped around my face, sunglasses on, and my hood up, I'm confident that I was unrecognizable to anyone I might run into.  If they wondered who the crazy-looking lady was, they would never guess her to be me.  I drove over to the township park not far from my home and walked the loops that circle the park's perimeter.

It was a good walk, and I stopped a couple of times to take a picture.  I like to look at a landscape and frame it in my mind before I aim my camera.  And I usually like the result.  The truth is, I am not a photographer.  I wouldn't know what to do with a sophisticated camera.  But with the little Canon in my pocket, I can capture scenes that strike me as evocative.  And then, when I upload the images to my computer, I can fall in love with the moment all over again.

Mousetraps

Those of you who have been with me since the beginning know that I am capable of murder.  (Remember last January's Stinkbug?)  Today, I am not in love with killing mice.  But I am in love with the mousetraps that do the killing for me.  Be grateful that I spared you pictures.

Yesterday, I finally got around to setting three traps to catch those little devils who've been stealing my pistachio nuts.  Two traps were placed in the kitchen pantry and the third in Jenna's bathroom, which is right behind the pantry.  My home is a log home.  Log home construction is not as tight as stick-frame.  In other words, the resident mice don't have to be rocket scientists to be able to find ways to get to the food they want.  The trap in Jenna's bathroom faced the "hole" next to the heat register where we suspected the mice were entering.

Last evening, I heard a SNAP! inside the pantry and knew immediately that a mouse had been caught.  But the ruckus behind the pantry doors continued, and I knew that the little bugger wasn't dead.  Yuck.  What now?  I decided to wait . . . keeping the pantry doors closed, of course.

This morning, I carefully opened the pantry doors, expecting to be greeted by a dead (or dying) mouse.  Alas, one of the traps was sprung with no mouse in its jaws.  And the other trap was nowhere to be found.  I began moving things around, and found the missing trap behind the recycling bin.  It, too, was mouseless!  That clever mouse had freed himself from the jaws of death, rendering said jaws inoperable in the process.

The thing about trying to catch mice is that you have to keep up with it.  No slacking or they will just multiply and make your life even more miserable.  So I decided to reset the two remaining traps immediately.  Now Jenna had told me that the mice had "moved" the trap in her bathroom, but what she didn't know before she left to return to Vermont today was that the "mover" was the mouse inside the trap.  Thank god he was now dead.  I tossed him outside and reset the trap in the same place.

And now I wait.  I've been contemplating life before mousetraps.  What did the early settlers do?  Blast them with their muskets?  Aim at them with their bows and arrows?  Although we all await the possibility that someone might invent a better mousetrap, for now, I am in love with the ones I have.

Terry:  1
Mice:  2

Snowfields

This is the third day that I have treated myself to a walk, this time across the road to the cornfields.  I waited until the snow started to fall and thus, was rewarded with incredible beauty.  I feel like my eyes have been closed for a long time and I am just learning how to open them again.

Today is Kathie's birthday.  We met in 4th grade when the preacher's daughter moved to town.  In my memory, we became good friends very quickly, budding authors with big dreams.  That was 55 years ago.  Sometimes I think we are still budding authors with big dreams, which is better than thinking that we are has-beens with no dreams.

Kathie lives far south of here.  Instead of snow, her birthday weather was wet and dreary, and she rejected my suggestion that she treat herself to a walk.  So I took my walk for her.

And then this happened:

Snowfields (A Birthday Poem)

~ for Kathie

You told me your birth day was unattractive, grey

with sleet and ice. I am so far north of you, I dressed

for snow and crossed my road into fields spent and fallow.

Autumn's harvest ground, stubbled and rutted, a memory.

I gathered pictures for you until my camera battery, unlike

my legs, refused to continue. You will have to imagine

the geese overhead that crackled you a birthday song as well as

the tripod of cornstalks that remained standing in ovation for you.

Oh, and there was the Papakating Creek, sheltering wood turtles

in muck and darkness like promises. On the trek home I focused

on you. Snapshots of the two of us: nine-and-ten-year-old writers,

lovesick teenage poets, bewildered mothers, aging psychotherapists.

I thought about your new floral Doc Martins. I thought about love

and survival. I thought about cornstalks and turtles. I thought

about batteries and muscles and snowfall. I thought about god.

It is fraught, this learning how to live. It is all we do.

I took the walk for you. Home again, I welcomed the fire, steady

and burning only for me. There are cardinals and downy woodpeckers

at the feeder outside my window. Watching them, I wrote this poem,

my birthday gift to you. Here. Open it.

 Happy Birthday, Kathie.  I love you!

Wildlife

Wallkill River National Wildlife Refuge was established to conserve and enhance populations of wildlife and their habitats, to protect and enhance water quality, and to provide opportunities for wildlife-dependent recreation and research. The refuge conserves the biological diversity of the Wallkill Valley by protecting and managing land, with a special emphasis on forest-dwelling and grassland birds, migrating waterfowl, wintering raptors, and endangered species. The North American Waterfowl Management Plan identifies the Wallkill River bottomlands as a priority focus area for waterfowl management within New Jersey.

Jenna and I took a walk on the Wood Duck Nature Trail in the Wallkill River National Wildlife refuge this afternoon.  I told her that I wanted to walk for at least 40 minutes.  The next thing I knew, we were at the end of the trail, 40 minutes had passed, and we still had to walk back.  I commented on the difference between walking by oneself and with another person, how when I am by myself, I am aware of the time, but when I am with someone else, it passes by without my even being aware of it.  She responded with a reprimand by Henry David Thoreau, who felt that he was not one with nature unless he was alone within it.

And that's true.  I might have been more observant if I'd been by myself.  But I relished the company of this daughter who will be returning to her home in Vermont in two days.

As for wildlife, other than a few birds, we didn't see too much wildlife.  But we knew it was there, as we passed a beaver dam, several nests in the scrub bushes, a duck blind, and all the posted signs informing us of whose habitat this actually was.  We were winter intruders in a world that did not belong to us.

The stark beauty of this wildlife refuge, the lowering winter sun, the gradual insistence of ice . . . it was peaceful and deliberate.  This is a place to which I will return.  By myself, but with the companionship of the hidden wildlife that calls it home.  And with the memory of an afternoon stroll with someone I love.

A Walk in the Woods

I live on a dead end street.  A few hundred yards from my house, there is a path through the woods.  It connects to another dead end street, one with the same name as mine.  Looking at a map, you would think (as do so many delivery trucks) that the two parts of the road connect in a passable way, but as you can see, they don't.  But try telling that to a GPS.

Being a sucker for the headiness of a brand new year, I decided that it would be a good idea to take a walk.  And it was a good idea! For forty minutes, it was just me and a few birds on a walk in the woods.  I know for a fact that this is black bear territory, but I'm fairly sure that they have gone into hibernation.  The scariest thing I saw on my walk was an old blue desk chair propped up against a tree a few feet off the path.  I am happy to report that it was unoccupied.

I walked until I could see the other dead end, and then I ventured back the way I'd come.  I finished off my walk with a stroll down my road, a cold and stinging wind challenging my resolve.  The wind was at my back on the return.

I did not make a conscious decision to take a walk every day in 2015 . . . or for a few days, the length of time most resolutions last.  It just seemed like a good idea.  If I decide tomorrow that it would be a good idea to take a walk, I will repeat this one.  I refuse to even think about how wonderful it would be if I made the same decision every day.

But things like this along the way might compel me to make this a habit:

Not only am I in love with the gorgeous patterns in the ice, but look how long and thin the shadows of my legs are!  Ah, yes . . . the woods are lovely, dark and deep . . .