Unexpected Snowfall

For a snow lover like me, it has been the winter of discontent. I grew up in western Oregon, where snow is rare and fleeting. In Oregon, winter is a 9 month mud-season, a long yawn of wet and grey. I delighted in moving to the land of snow. I bought mittens and snowshoes. I learned about roof rakes and ergonomic snow shovels. For my first five winters here, Vermont has delivered: Currier and Ives  Christmasses and a steady succession of light fluffy snowfalls through March, and sometimes beyond. Transformative magic to keep the winter drearies away. But not this winter.

Oh it’s been cold enough. Cold enough to flash-freeze coffee left in my cup after my morning commute. Cold enough to freeze and refreeze the line to our dishwasher for days at a time. Cold enough-until moisture arrives. Then weeks of unrelenting deep-freeze break just in time to ensure the precipitation falls as rain, or worse, ice.

This winter it’s like we planned the party, sent out invitations, set the table, even received confirmation of attendance, but snow has been like an unreliable guest, arriving late, leaving early, coming ill-dressed, or been a complete no-show. Lingering roadside drifts are as tired and unappealing as picked-over hors d’oeuvres left on the tray after guests have gone home.

Each morning, I scan the ten day forecast on my screen for the freshly added date.  Will it have a snowflake?  But amongst the occasional icons of clouds, rarely a snowflake appears. When one does it only teases,  revealing on arrival to be rain dressed in snow’s clothing.

Vermont weather is fickle. The turn and rise of a road, the breadth of a mountain, the proximity to a river, each and every hollow creates its own unique climate. To snow, or not to snow? My morning commute winds through several of these micro-climates. One village, one hill and valley to the next varies in snowfall by extraordinary degrees. My hollow has been the the itch that can’t get scratched. The snow falls south, or north, a bit east or west. The little we’ve had has snuck in by night, been washed by rain by day, or coated with ice.

A couple of days ago, another Judas snowflake appeared on my desktop. It showed early promise, but by last night, there were conflicting reports, diminishing chances. “An All-Day Event” the newscaster predicted….to the south. Fickle. I went to bed resigned.

This morning, I awoke to a snowy world. Fat, steady, luxurious flakes. The trees and roads are blanketed as far as the eye can see. Almost February, our first true snowfall of the season. Scarcity teaches you to savor things in a way you don’t when they are common. So I breathe in this snowfall: the hush, the graceful lines it forms on the branches, the way it has covered the gritty remains of this unreliable winter with a pristine blanket.

An unexpected gift.                                                                                        Screen Shot 2015-01-24 at 10.36.21 AM

Presence: My One Little Word for 2015

In the extraordinary turn my professional life has taken me this year, I have come across the writing blogs of some extraordinary people. They have been sources of inspiration to me. I am astounded at how these gifted people can find time to live so fully in their careers, their families, and still find time to write, reflect, and inspire others. One Little Word is a reflection technique they inspired me to try. I am grateful to Ruth Ann Ayers and the contributors of Two Writing Teachers blog for this idea, and so many others.  If you are not aware of their blogs, I invite you to take a look.

http://twowritingteachers.wordpress.com/2015/01/04/annas-one-little-word-for-2015/

http://www.ruthayreswrites.com/

One Little Word works like this: Instead of making a standard list of New Year’s resolutions, choose one word to use as a lens as you live out your new year. So here, on the eve of returning back to work after two weeks of vacation, the world outside my window a frozen landscape of snow and ice, I choose my own One Little Word for 2015: Presence.

This year, no matter where I am, what I am doing, or who I am with, I seek to be fully present in the moment, the place, or with the person I am with. The world is so full of distractions, change, and things that spin outside my control. But I can control the quality of my presence, especially in the midst of stress, and make the moments I inhabit richer and better for myself and those I am with.

Presence in my Workplace:

2014 was a year of extraordinary change for me. The environment of the position I had taken after first moving to Vermont had drastically evolved over a five-year revolving-door-of-leadership. Each revolution became more personally toxic: outside the parameters of what I believe and value, professionally and personally. I began to lose my footing. I did not like the person I was becoming.  But January of 2014 brought an amazing transformation. A year ago, I began my current position (a job I have reached and aspired to my entire career). I found work with like-minded, passionate, visionary, professional people. In 12 months my experience changed from one of micro-management to trust, marginalization to collaboration, from survival mode to growth and reflection. Instead of watching years of careful work get tossed aside, I am now an agent of change in an environment where there is long-term support for practices I know make a difference.

Being a change agent, with adults in all phases of their careers, requires me to be mindful of my presence.  In usually brief windows of time,  I need to get to know my colleagues, to discover their strengths, their goals, and co-create with each a unique pathway to lift their practice. Presence demands my focus as a listener with an open heart and mind. My presence..is the pathway to trust.

Presence in my Home:

Five and a half years of living nestled in the Green Mountains of Vermont with its vibrant seasons and unique quality of life, has been a treat for the senses. But with my own retirement in sight, my already-retired husband and I, face the realization Vermont is a very expensive place to live. Coupled with distance from family and accessible coastline, and Herb’s developing condition that makes enduring long cold winters increasingly brutal..we anticipate returning west within five years. What does this have to do with presence?

Knowing my Vermont time is fleeting, being present in these remaining years is critical. I want to always remember the sparkle of snow crystals in temperature of spare degrees, the vibrancy of fire-colored leaves against intensely blue skies framed by white clapboard church steeples, the tantalizing hint of green that dresses mountains each long-awaited spring. I want to breathe Vermont in deep. Presence.

Presence in the My Life:

This year, I want to be aware of my presence in my life. Technology, though a critical part of my work, and long-distance connection to mentors and friends…can also be such an addictive time waster that pulls my presence into cyberlands of someone else’s purpose and intent. This year, I want to be more judicial and watchful of the time I spend online. I want to be present fully in my life and with those I love, creating meaning, and noticing beauty.

Note to self: Presence: To be unwrapped each and every day.

Photo credit: Flickr Commons/Tina M89

Mirror Mirror

In my bedroom, in an ancient farmhouse in eastern, central Vermont, I gaze into the beveled-glass mirror of an Eastlake dresser.  The slightly wavy reflection reveals the wrinkles and greying hair of a woman just over fifty. I think of the many times I have stood, just like this, in front of this beautiful, simply carved, handmade furniture. This mirror has reflected back all of my journeys for most of my life: moves to college, many apartments, across states and back, marriages, births, joy and sorrow, and finally this chapter in Vermont. This dresser was the first piece of furniture I ever owned, my first antique in a life-time of loving old things. But this dresser has a story is even richer than than mine, beginning long before it first reflected my pig-tailed, nine year old face for the first time.

When I was about nine,  a blue, three-speed bicycle from Sears, gave me freedom to pedal independently through the streets of my southeast Portland neighborhood to the Woodstock library. If I had a quarter, I could stop at Carl’s Texaco on the way, the one where my dad had worked as a teenager (for we then lived in the house where he had grown up), and get a stubby green-glass bottled coke from the machine. Some days, after the library, instead of going back home to 38th street,  I would keep going, my books clamped onto the rack above my rear tire. I would ride beyond Otto’s Delicattessen and McCreights Hardware, to 53rd off Woodstock, to a little dead-end street where my Grandmother occupied the downstairs of a rambling old house, renting-out the upstairs apartment to tenants.

I loved my grandmother’s house. It was like no other place in the world. Time stopped still inside her antique-filled, drape darkened rooms where dust motes lazily danced in the filtered light. Long dead relatives peered sternly from sepia toned-portraits on every wall. Soft, slightly-stale cookies always awaited in the chipped blue crock on the kitchen counter. Handmade lace, time-seasoned wood, ornate frames, high beds with carved headboards and matching dresser sets, partnered with hand-hooked flowered rugs to greet chilly feet in the morning, Grandma’s house was so different from the sibling-created chaos of my own. And always in the background was the sound of my grandmother humming in the kitchen or garden.

I was a snoopy child. Curious. Grandma’s closets and drawers and old albums never disappointed. They were treasure troves of things from another time, another place. My Grandmother, Olive Irene Brown Jost was an Easterner. Not just that, but a Canadian, whose Great Grandparents, still loyal to the British Monarch, had fled the fledgling independence of the young United States, north, to the tiny Quebec village of Ayer’s Cliff on the shores of Lake Massawippi. On the hills above, they established farms along a road still called Brown’s Hill, their names are now etched in marble on the stones in the tiny cemetery behind a creaky iron gate; Joshua, Lestina, Frederick, Caroline. I had grown up on stories of birch trees, and homemade maple syrup, sleigh rides, the work of feeding a noon table-full of hungry farm help, and snow deep enough to cover windows, things exotic and alien to my urban Oregon childhood.

One particular afternoon, while refreshing after my bike-ride, with milk and cookies in the kitchen, Grandma mentioned her tenants had recently moved out. The upstairs was empty! The apartment! A new territory  to explore! “Grandma, could I go and see the upstairs?” Permission granted, I set off up the usually prohibited staircase off the dark and chilly hallway to the rooms above. There was something exciting about seeing these rooms, furnished as they were with odd cast-offs, most many times coated with various layers of paint. The rooms beckoned of independence, of becoming a grown-up..playing house for real. I fantasized about living there, wandering through thScreen Shot 2014-09-02 at 7.09.08 AMe kitchen, the living room…into the bedroom…and there I saw it, the most beautiful dresser I had ever seen. It had three drawers with ornate brass pulls and a tall carved mirror atop. I couldn’t wait to ask grandma about it. She explained it had been in her family for as long as she could remember. It had come west from Canada after her parents, who by then had settled on the shores of Lake Massawippi, had both passed away. Then to my astonishment, she said, when I was twelve, it could be mine!

Three years later, it arrived into my upstairs bedroom now on NE Couch street, and was settled onto the baby blue carpet, surrounded by freshly painted purple walls adorned with horse posters. Over time my reflected pigtails gave way to a Dorothy Hamill wedge, pictures of horses were replaced by Argus posters with pithy quotes and photographs. Everyday since, the mirror has reflected my life. With our move to Vermont, this old dresser has come full circle almost, arriving within a few hundred miles of where its story began, where the timbers from which it was crafted, began as trees, weathering New England seasons. In these past few years I have driven a sleigh, eaten maple syrup homemade by a friend, passed several cycles of New England seasons including a winter with snow nearly up to the windows.

When I gaze into the mirror, I sometimes wish I could see the ghosts of reflections past, my grandmother’s steady brown eyes.  More than just a piece of furniture, this old dresser contains my past that connects me with my future. Full circle.

Note: This week, September 4th, celebrates the 114th anniversary of Olive Irene Brown Jost’s birth.

 

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Shopping Retail

Retail shopping is a little like ingesting large amounts of sugar. Meandering aisles stocked floor to ceiling with shiny new somethings of every color and purpose, all screaming “You need me! You want me! Take me home!” does something strange to the brains of persons who have been away from such experiences for so long, defenses have become a bit shaky, and you find yourself with the mad urge to throw a tantrum like the unseen toddler in the aisle just over. Yes, my cart overfloweth, but I want that too!

But here, in my neck of the Vermont woods, such shopping experiences are difficult to come by. Vermont is very beautiful. It’s villages tout main streets from Norman Rockwell posters. I shop local as much as I can. As our town  is larger than some, it sports a lovely local artist’s collective, a Rite Aid, an Ace Hardware store, a car dealership, a Shaw’s grocery store, and the ubiquitous Dollar Store (where one can find unnecessary plastic items of every purpose known to mankind)…but there are times, (and the beginnings of school years are such), that only a big, warehouse style, multi-department, retail establishment, aproned by acres of neat, white-painted stalls for parking your car, will do. For my Oregonian friends, I was in need of a Fred Meyer’s. The closest thing here is Target. The nearest Target is an hour across the Connecticut River. So with a rainy day in the forecast, Herb and I clambored into the CMax, and headed to Keene, a New Hampshire city, offering the closest experience in true retail saturation one can find in SE Vermont.

The scenic highway along the river gave way to two lane roads. Stop lights and arrowed direction signs, then (gasp)..MERGING lanes appeared. Finally, one trip around a roundabout and a few false turns later, it loomed before us, the iconic Target red dot!  After only circling the lot a few times, we selected our very own place to park. A short walk later, the big metal and glass doors yawned open to welcome us in. And just inside…. to my fancy-coffee-deprived-soul’s delight, was a Starbucks! With a caramel macchiato and my shopping list in hand, we wandered up each and every aisle in Target. Found the elusive cloth shower curtain we needed, but not the percale sheets. Found the on-sale markers, but not the hanger thingie that attaches to the metal braces of classroom dropped ceilings. We laughed out loud at silly office supplies and pondered the need for kitchen gadgetry of all sorts, settling on a splatter screen and a lidded-reheatable mug perfect for taking leftovers to school for lunch. One Target, one Michael’s, a Home Depot, and J&J’s Discount (for that impossible to find classroom plant hanger)…oh and the New Hampshire Liquor Commission…(they have the most West Coast wines)…we found my list exhausted, our brains on traffic and plastic object overload…and the CMax so bursting to the gills it had a momentary eco-challenged burp, and was not able to show us even a single growing leaf on its screen.

Late in the afternoon, we stopped at Five Guys for lunch (Great burgers, but next time we will share a small fry…the large is…well gargantuan). As we steered the car towards home another round of gentle rain began to fall. The wipers slapped a comforting rhythm that soothed our weary souls. What-a-day. There is a satisfaction like no other that comes with being in possession of a shopping list that is almost completely crossed off. But I have to say, after all the noise and color and people and traffic…those misty green mountains welcoming us at the end of the long bridge back into Vermont were very easy on our eyes.

Painting Shutters

Screen Shot 2014-07-08 at 10.22.40 AMMy husband and I are painting the exterior of our house in Vermont. It’s not a hard job, just tedious and slow. In the scope of things, painting isn’t a half-bad way to spend a late summer day, outdoors, with someone you love. And its a job that provides an immediate reward.

Herb is mostly doing the sides where long narrow planks run from trim board to trim board. I am painting the shutters. We will hire some younger person, with better balance, and less fear of falling, for the high gables on the steeply angled roof.

Our house is old. Its bones were first nailed in place in 1760. It has seen many additions along the way. Like these shutters. They do not appear in a picture we have from the turn of the century, when what is now our kitchen was still an attached barn, when the black iron crane inside the dining room fireplace had a purpose more than decorative. But they have been part of the house long enough to have experienced three changes in color.

First I have to scrape. I balance each shutter on the top of two red buckets and kneel in the grass, working with my tool to loosen flakes where the paint and the wood are parting company. In the process, the work of painters who have come before is revealed. Bare wood was followed by blue, covered over with green, then light gray, which we are painting over with black. When all is smooth, I can addshutters the first layer of new paint, that begins to transform what was, into new. It is mindless sort of work. It leaves me with time to wander in my thoughts.

I am thinking how this work, scraping and repainting shutters, is like revision in my writing. Rereading comes first, for an overall impression of how it’s weathering. I read to see what holds, and where intent and word choice are parting company. I scrape some parts completely away, discarding words like paint flakes that no longer fit. I carefully compose and repair, adding fresh color where it is needed. Where my writing once was rough, it now reads smooth, And when the revised section is restored where it belongs, just like newly painted shutters, it makes the whole construction better, beautiful, as if it was always meant to be that way.

Archives: The Colors of Manhattan

Photo Credit:  Bahman Farzad EXPLORED! NYC

Photo Credit: Bahman Farzad
EXPLORED! NYC

Note: In 2012 I left Vermont and spent an amazing week  in Manhattan attending TCWRP’s Writing Coaching Institute at Columbia University. My colleagues and I traveled daily to NYC schools to learn the ins and outs of coaching teachers in Calkins’ Writing Workshop methodology from mentor staff from TC. It was a life-changing experience for me in all sorts of ways. Twice before, I had visited Manhattan in the brief way one does as a tourist for a day or two, but I had never experienced the city in the day to day way as a worker and subway commuter.  The following essay came out of this experience.

 

Manhattan is like a Jackson Pollock painting.

From a distance, vibrant, outrageous, larger than life, straining to escape its frame with sheer pulsing energy. Yet, when one gets up close, eye to eye, each splash of color has its own voice, a story, unique in texture, timbre, and defining edges.
There is the bright orange of connection. A reliably emphatic. “Good Morning, Happy Day to you!”, rising song-like without fail, from a smiling-eyed Korean woman tucked behind the counter of a tiny grocery on 7th, where I purchased a bottled Starbucks and a yogurt on my way to PS41 each morning this week.
Right alongside is a rich brown of quiet. Impossible- yet real, on a Brownstone-lined street, iron railings shiny with a century’s layers of black paint, tiny gardens of restful green belying the cacophony of traffic just a block away, the only sound my own footsteps, and the droning wheels of my rolling suitcase as it tagged along.
There is the sooty grey of weariness. Heavy, defining the droop and sag of woman whose tiredness has seeped into her bones, spilling over into the heavy bags at her feet, as the subway car jerked and lurched and screeched past stop after stop.
There is the regal purple of academia. It hangs in clouds around the parapets and giant gothic lamps adorning the brick houses of learning at Columbia. It swirls with the promise of youthful voices, of futures, and tradition. Its steps have purpose and vigor, and carry one toward hope. Like magic dust, its power lingered on my coat even after I left.
There is the screaming yellow of noise. Cars honking, brakes screeching, voices of every language punctuating and pulsing with joy and anger, and energy. Sirens and helicopters, jet planes and construction. The rhythmic beat of feet. Noise that jolts and boils, and grinds, funnels down into the subways, even into the night, and yet, above it danced the reedy notes of a saxophone, soulful a moment, then gone.
There is the crippling, paralyzing, harsh red of fear. Panic! Arising alone from the subway, (Why, the same one as yesterday!) yet nothing is familiar, not a building, not one sign. The clock ticks. I walk two blocks one way, then another….heart pounds…deep breath. Lost? But then realization (I am after all, still in Manhattan). A cooler head prevails. (Just walk a little farther) There. There is the Shoe repair! And there, the tiny grocery! (The woman behind the counter has no idea how healing was her hello, this red, fear-filled morning) my heart finally quiet as I slip past the security guard, into school, on time.
There is the blue of leaving. Seas of people, oceans of sound, muted by a rolled up window. The car inches forward, anonymous in a pulsing wave of traffic, flowing finally across the bridge. The city lies once more contained, the river, like a frame, bright splotches of color in our rear-view mirror.
Manhattan is like a Pollock painting.

Safe Harbor: Reflections from Portland, OR

Screen Shot 2014-07-08 at 10.22.40 AMI have been “home” this past 10 days in Portland, Oregon (as much as a person can be home in a place they have not lived in for a long, long time). The quietude of my years in Vermont have erased much of my city savvy. Portland’s noise seems more jarring, the concrete harder.  Brand new construction, all angles and glass, replace the familiar craftsman lines of vanished homes in the neighborhoods where I grew up. I feel a bit adrift, like my compass does not read true.

Was this a bit what Leon felt, his first day in my first grade so many years ago? Leon, a child of artists, raised in moss-hung forests along the creek,  his life rich in creativity, poor in ammenities (no phone, no TV).  We had earlier toured the cafeteria, our kindly cook aquainting my new students about lunchtime procedures. I checked in to see how they were doing. In a room swimming with children, amidst flowing channels of purposeful chaos, only Leon stood still. Wide-eyed,  brown hair tumbling past his shoulders, arms clutching his lunchbox from home he exclaimed, “I am lost in a sea of color!” I took his small hand. We walked to the table where his classmates had settled, and soon through the doors that spilled out into the play fields, to the shade of ancient trees. Safe Harbor.

Today, I made my way across the city to connect with my youngest son. Isaac works downtown. I navigated traffic and pedestrians, bridges, bicycles, and one-way streets finally finding a berth for my borrowed car in the shady recesses of a multi-level garage. Once parked, I continued on foot. Across the street I watched a flotilla of preschoolers, their tiny hands mooring them to a central line, like so many small skiffs towed through the crowded river of sidewalk. Teachers like pilot boats, gently guiding all to their destination. Safe Harbor. I remember Isaac’s hands once also so tiny. My ability to steer him away from danger once seemed so sure.

Our journey has contained twists and unexpected turns. Lately, there has been much distance and time between common ports. Calm seas too eerily quiet, and communication too often down. Parenting this bearded son has me feeling more like a lighthouse. Watchful, yet distant. Hoping he will see the shine of my light, the constancy of my caring. “Beware of the rocks, Isaac. Beware of the rocks.” Find. Safe. Harbor.

 

 

 

Woodpile (A Tuesday “Slice Of Life” story)

Photo Credit:  world4photos Flickr Commons

Photo Credit: world4photos @ Flickr Commons

 

 

 

 

 

Introduction

Growing up in Portland, Oregon,  I experienced a relatively limited palette of seasons. Basically, there were three.  There was the season of wet and cold, followed by wet and warmer, with a brief interlude of hot and dry. You knew that summer had arrived when the sun so baked the concrete, you danced your bare feet across the gritty pavement as fast as you could to the respite cool of the nearest lawn strip, and when sweat from the tanned length of legs unprotected by your shorts made you stick, instantly, to the vinyl backseat of the car. Winter announced its arrival when the chill of the same blue vinyl seats would take your breath away even through the thickness of your coat. You could hear the change of seasons in the sound of the traffic : a hushed hiss and splash or thrumming, spiced occasionally by the fleeting sounds of radios through open windows, and the thwack of rubber tires hitting the cracks.

In contrast, rural Vermont boasts a traditional, calendar-worthy full quartet of seasons, with a bonus fifth thrown in. Mud season: The brief weeks between the end of full-on winter, and budding spring, when the knee-deep, sloppy slurry of unpaved back roads can swallow small cars. Too early for leaves, and dressed in a grey weariness left behind by melted snow, mud season is the only Vermont season without much to love.  And yet, it is during mud-season is when maple sap runs and drips, and is boiled down for its own sweet reward.

The Slice

Vermont winter is LONG. It pummels, powders, and freezes until even snow lovers like me despair of the cold and shoveling the drive one. more. time. But relent it does, giving way to mud season, followed by chartreuse springs,  firefly summers, and crisp, sweater day falls,  times that make it hard to conjure up the slightest memory of winter’s bite…until the wood arrives, like today.

Dan dumped the load in the middle of the drive on the hottest day of the year so far. A day smelling of just- baled hay and the last of the peonies. Herb and I had awoken this morning thinking this was the day we had been waiting for. “We’ll tackle the big yard project”. You see, we inhabit an ancient house. Upkeep of the grounds, until our arrival has been an affair never high on previous absentee owner’s agendas. Each year we spend several days reclaiming the bank and forested hillside from the tangle of wild roses, escaped barberry, impossible vines, and too crowded saplings. But the early morning email announced our change of plans. Wood.

Dan arrived on schedule, and after the obligatory Vermont chat in the road about our kids, the neighbor’s kids, the weather, town doings (or not doings), waving the few cars to come on and drive around, Dan dropped the first load. Two cords. Split. Mixed hardwoods.

A freshly dumped wood pile is overwhelming. It looms nearly shoulder-high and its jumbled outline covers significant real estate.  “Gloves?”, Herb asked. “Yep”, I replied. I learned the hard way our first stacking season.  Even garden calloused hands are no match for wood stacking without some sort of protection.

It’s hard getting started. My older muscles complain. My older hands tattle my age. It’s more difficult to palm the ends of pieces of a certain size. But soon we find our rhythm. Herb and I pass companionably with each armful, lift, tote, stack. Each piece settled down into a just right spot.  The biggest pieces build the end  tower. We toss the smallest with the kindling. Smooth birch, rough barked maple.  Lift, tote, stack. Early laughter settles into comfortable silence, broken only when one of us pinches a finger, drops a log on our toe.  We break for a drink, then soldier on. The sun moves, but it seems the wood pile barely shrinks.

Wiping more sweat off my brow, I think,  “A fire? Are you kidding? Who was the idiot who said Wood heats twice. Like it needs to be hotter today!” Lift, tote, stack.

In the rhythm of this work my mind begins to wander. Twenty -two times we have completed this task.  I smile at the thought. Herb’s eyes  smile back. Memories settle into their just right place, each season, our life…. until our task is finished. Lift, tote, stack….rest.

We eat supper late. I take one last look at the tidy rows of wood lining the breezeway. The thermometer reads 80 degrees,   I watch a firefly carry its tiny lantern across the night, and head inside. Herb and I share a bottle of wine and watch a movie, before turning in, to the whir and tick of the fan, a failed attempt to find cool. The house settles and slumbers too, tucked into its hillside of ledge. Winter’s chill will come, but for now remains a distant dream.

 

 

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A Three Corgi Walk

For some people, putting on socks is just something you do. It is a mindless task that usually occurs sometime after brushing your teeth, and just before tugging on your footwear du jour. Socks are simply a mundane part of the ritual of getting dressed with no hidden agenda. But when you live in a house with three corgis, the act of pulling on socks is code. Code for W-A-L-K.

My toe is barely tucked into the first sock when Peach, the lone girl of the Corgi trio, suddenly arouses from a flounce of pillows and locks me into her gaze. AJ’s eyes flicker open, mid-under-the-coffee-table-slumber. Andy’s ear cocks toward me, honing in on the sound like a radar.

Soon all three are a knot of movement and whine at my feet, a triple question mark of anticipation. Walk?

I pull on my shoes  and work my way through their excitement. The wide plank floors click with a crescendo of dancing doggy toenails. Long bodies bend like commas, as they dash around the edge of the old pine table, the sound now hushed by carpet. Their  treasured “cookie” jar forgotten as we pass through the kitchen. Corgi feet scuttle across the slate of the mud-room and the screen door makes its usual screeching complaint and slam as we go through. I snap each bouncing dog onto the end of a leash. And so it begins.

Down the hill we go past our ancient grey house on the tangled bank.

Past the murky pond where sometimes we startle turtles mid lazy-amble across the road.

Into the leafy tunnel, where giant trees overhang,  creating a respite of cool, and night haven for fireflies.

Andy lopes.

IMG_0938Apple Jacks trots.

Peach paces like a Standardbred off to the finish.

Until… Squirrel!

As one they charge. GO!

The squirrel dashes but leash ends check Corgi enthusiasm with a jolt. It’s a familiar game again replayed, doggy optimism barely dimmed.

“Next time!” they always say.

I gather leashes woven together like a maypole. Corgis look up at me. WALK!

We march up the hill.

Past the little log house where chickens bob and scratch,  and we sometimes stop to purchase eggs with yolks as orange as summer sun.

Past the farm stand with doors open wide to a bounty of tomatoes, zucchini, and honey, and jam to be bought on your honor, by putting coins into a jar.

We smell the sharp scent of silage, summer grass becoming winter fodder, and black and white cows flicking flies with ropy tails as we go by.

Past the house with a swinging sign, “Breeding Pygmy Goats of structure and style”  (But we never see them).

Past Old Allyn’s neglected garden drooping peonies into the road.

Past the quartet of tiny yappers who vent their jealousy about our freedom.

Past the tiny brook, sparkling star-like in the sun.

Past the stone wall, the old brick schoolhouse, and the stump at the end of a drive where sometimes there are things you can take under a sign that reads. “Free.”

Finally, we reach the end. Our street opens to a vista overlooking a field and a barn, and the road to wider ambitions.

We stop and look, then turn around.

Homeward bound.

Andy’s lope has a bit less swing, AJ’s trot a bit less bounce, Peach’s pace is a bit less determined.

The Corgis pant and their tongues begin to loll.

We detour to the creek.

We pass the sights in reverse.

No cows in the field as we pass this time. Where did they go?

Too early for fireflies, but we are thankful for the cool of verdant tree tunnel.

We pass the pond, no turtles in the road.

Grey Gables is just ahead.  The hill feels so much taller going up.

The graveled driveway crunches under our feet.

Once again, HOME.

Leashes are unsnapped and rehung.

The Corgis snake around the screen door, pad across the mudroom.

I hear the slosh and splash of water, and dog tags clanging against the bowl as they all drink their fill.

Then it is silent.

Where have they gone?

Peach is draped across the couch, Andy has collapsed under the table, and AJ slumps against the woodbox.

I take off my shoes and not one dog stirs.

N-A-P.

Sometimes Sleep (quickwrite #2

Sometimes sleep

is hard

to surrender.

Though birds twitter

Lingering night chill

Makes covers

still welcome

I pull them closer.

Sometimes sleep is hard

to surrender.

At the break of a day

when silken

cobwebs of dreams yet entwine

around my head

Lighter than air.

Sometimes sleep is hard to surrender.

Earth-bound day feet

a weighty trade

for night ‘s wings,

But gossamer visions soon fog

Sweat beads at my neck

At the drum of Herb’s shower

I arise.