A typical nice summer evening usually finds us taking the dogs for a walk through the meadow to the pond, and yesterday evening was no different. As I slipped out the door, I commented to Eric that our cat Qwerty was outside somewhere- I thought he might be scared of the dogs so I wanted to keep an eye out for him. He must have been laying low for we saw no sign of him as we crossed the farm yard with Molly and Rudi. At the gate of the hay field we let the dogs off their leashes and away they went, Rudi raced to the woods, Molly into the tall grass. We strolled down to the pond and sat on the overturned boat near the water’s edge. Eventually the dogs showed up and did their usual poking around in the reeds, then disappeared into the woods near the creek. We sat and talked and watched the fish swimming around, watching us.
Wearing shorts and a t-shirt, I soon got tired of fending off the man-eating mosquitoes and little gnats whose only purpose in life was to fly into my eyes or up my nose. We called the dogs, but only Rudi showed. So we walked around the pond, thinking we’d spot Molly in the field. No Molly. We headed up the hill through the woods, thinking she’d hear us leaving and run to catch us. No Molly. At the gate, Rudi spied Qwerty (remember Qwerty?) and promptly chased him up the wild cherry tree near the old grey barn. Higher and higher the little cat scrambled, black and white fur bristling, eyes big and dark. Eric took Rudi back to the house, and I tried to coax Qwerty down. “Come on, Q, you can do it, come on.” Nothing doing, he was clinging to that tree like a sailor holding on to the mast in a storm. Eric came back to look for Molly. “Call me if she shows up.” He said and down the meadow path he went. The mosquitoes near the tree were just as vicious as the ones near the pond, so I went back to the house to change into long sleeves and jeans. Maybe Qwerty would come down while I was gone, I thought, but no such luck- he was still high in the tree when I came back.
I eyed the tree- there were some handy branches lower down, and it looked pretty sturdy. Next to the tree is a decrepit old wooden fence, with a row of barbed wire running along the top board. I really didn’t fancy falling out of the tree to start with, but falling into the barbed wire would have been much less fun. “I’m 45 years old, why the hell am I contemplating climbing a tree? I haven’t done that since I was ten, probably.” I wondered at the ability of bones to heal at my advanced age. Still, I’m usually up for a challenge, and I didn’t want to bother with going all the way back to the garage for the ladder. Did I mention sometimes I get hypoglycemic? No? So I’m scrambling up the first few branches and feel that familiar lightheadedness kick in and my hands start to shake a bit. Great. Then I hear a jingling and look down to see Molly arrive. Remember Molly? She’s very happy to see me, and Qwerty is not a bit happy to see her. I sigh, and climb back down the tree. It’s then that I see the egg in Molly’s mouth. Yes, an egg. The size of a chicken egg, only speckled. Molly is so proud of her find, and I’m amazed that it’s not cracked. It is, however, slippery and slimy from being carried in her mouth all the way from who knows where. I take her and the egg back to the house. I call Eric on his cell phone…. and only get his voice mail. So I walk back out to the field and yell again. This time he answers.
I go back to the tree with Qwerty (remember Qwerty?). I considered just leaving him there- perhaps he’d come down on his own when he calmed down enough? Visions of him clinging to the tree in the dark while coyotes circled below made me think better of that idea. Big deep breath, and back up I go, one branch at a time. I have a nice view of the sun sinking down and have hopes of getting back out of the tree before dark. Eric is watching from a distance- Qwerty is a little afraid of him and he doesn’t want to make the cat even more nervous. Later I asked if he was poised to call 911 if I fell out of the tree. “I’d probably call your brother first, then 911.” Hmmm, I wasn’t sure what t think of that.
I’m at a point where I can touch the cat, but not get ahold of him. He happily purrs and rubs his head against my fingertips, his paws kneading on the branches. I shift and squeeze and scooch and manage to get a little closer. One foot is on a sturdy branch, the other is on one I can can feel bending, my shoulders are wedged between two thick limbs taking most of my weight so I can thread my arms up to Qwerty and grab him by the scruff of his neck, just like his mom did when he was little. I pull him down and hold him tight against my chest, wondering how to get un-wedged from the branches supporting my shoulders, with no free hands. I shift Qwerty to one shoulder, turn sideways, and slide down to the next branch. At this point, Qwerty decides to leave the safety of my arm for a nearby branch. I have to grab him again, hold tight and scramble down a few more branches. Now we’re close enough to the ground, Qwerty makes a break for it and lands safely. I follow suit, a little more slowly and not so gracefully. I scoop him up, and carry him all the way back to the house, one hand firmly holding him by the scruff of his neck. He purrs all the way there. It’s now 9 o’clock. “Thanks for saving all the adventure till I got home.” Eric tells me. “No problem.” I settle down for a late dinner and a much needed glass of wine.
I wonder what kind of egg that is, the one Molly found. I try to “candle” it with the flashlight, but the shell is too thick. Should I crack it open, or slide it under our broody hen and see if it hatches? Maybe tomorrow…
May 25th, 2011
I have my share of grumpy days. Days when I really don’t want to get out of bed. Days when everything seems to go wrong- and they’re just little things in the grand scheme of things, but they add up and soon the day feels black and gloomy. The very air is thick and heavy. My shoulders get tense and tight. I have a tendency to drop things, and my patience wears thinner than a cowboy’s handkerchief.
And then I just walk outside. I attach mental balloons to all my troubles and they float away into the sky where they dissolve. I know that sounds trite, and a little too easy, but just walking out the door and into all that green does wonders. The other evening I saw a single barn swallow skim across the surface of the pond, dipping just low enough for a drink then back up again, her perfect reflection skimming along with her. And that moment was so simple, so beautiful, I wanted to hold it forever. Oh for a camera with the right lens, the right timing. But even that wouldn’t catch the warmth of the evening sun, the smell of summer in the air and the call of the blackbird. Thank goodness for memories, hold on to them as long as you can.
Today I took the slow road home, forsaking the paved highway for the dusty country road. I stopped three times to help box turtles across the road- safely deposited them in the direction they were headed. One had a dry dusty shell and cast a wary eye my way before withdrawing into her shell. The last one was small, no bigger than a tea cup and his shell was bright and damp, a fragment of leaf and a smear of mud letting on that he had just emerged from his hiding spot. And I felt happy to have seen them, to hopefully have saved them from being smashed. I continued on my way, Randy Travis crooning that he’d love me forever, a soft gritty trail of dust in my wake. As I paused at a field yellow with wild mustard, I reflected how lucky I am to be here, now, at this moment. I should pinch myself just to see if it’s real. A few stirrings of guilt came to the surface- memories of great sadnesses- and I questioned how I could call myself lucky in light of those memories. I thought of others whose lives are difficult and that tempered my gleefulness a bit. But still I soaked up the pure peacefulness of the moment, and the joy that a field full of yellow flowers yields. All the things that have happened in my life came together to lead to this moment, the sad and the happy. Sometimes one just outweighs the others.
May 12th, 2011
It’s been a very wet spring, to put it mildly. There’s a small creek near our house that floods over its banks, and over the road usually a few times a year. So far this spring it’s flooded at least five times, and now the areas downstream from us are so backed up with water, new rain has no where to go. Happily our house is high on a hill, so we’re in no danger, other than the occasional case of cabin fever when we can’t get to town. All along the highways, fields are under water and canoes are parked near flooded roads so residents can ferry back and forth.
The trees and plants seem to be loving the rain, thought they can’t soak it up fast enough. The hills and fields are such shades of bright green, it almost overloads my senses. We had a few days of glorious sunshine, and are now back to rain- everything is dripping and there’s mist in the hills. The rain makes things seem close and quiet, intimate. The trees press in close and the sky is lowered. In the gloom each color stands out strongly- the red cardinal nearly glows against the green.
The rain puts so many things on hold- the farmers can’t get in their fields, my own garden is in a state of limbo with some things planted and thriving and some are just waiting. Outside projects are delayed- though it’s a good time to pull weeds since the soaked earth gives them up easily. So it seems like a good time for all those rainy day projects- things that need to be done inside. Fix things, wash things, organize things- right? Tackle that big painting, sort through my yarn, clean out the closet. But I keep finding myself at the window, cup of tea in hand, longing to be outside. Spring is my favorite season, and it slips by so quickly I’m afraid I’ll miss something. Every day things change outside- some wildflowers only last a day or two, then they’re gone. The hillsides leaf out so fast, soon my views change and I can’t see into the woods any more.
Eventually I know I’ll give in and put on my boots and go for at least a short walk in the woods. The trees will brush their damp green fingers against me, and the birds will sing for mates and stake out their territories. I’ll poke around the little creek, looking under leaves for flowers, peering at funny shaped rocks, and touching the velvet moss. I’ll find a dry twig of sassafras and break off a bit, inhale that sharp sweet fragrance and slip the bit into my pocket to turn over and over in my fingers as I walk along. In the other pocket will be a small rock I picked up, perhaps a piece of lichen or a bird feather. I must remember to clean out my pockets before I do laundry- I try to make a mental note. Soon I’ll be wet and muddy, perhaps a little chilled and I’ll head back to that cup of tea that waits, and all those rainy day projects. Maybe the sun will come out tomorrow?
May 6th, 2011
Spring has stopped being a tease, has given up all pretext of being coy, and has succumbed wholeheartedly to her love affair with the earth. Each petal that falls is soft as a kiss, each green-tipped branch reaches out for an embrace. Early on, there were a few glorious warm sunny days full of impossible promises. I took advantage of those days to work on the veggie garden- planted peas, beans, cucumbers, squash, carrots, radishes, broccoli, potatoes, tomatoes, and sunflowers. Yes, I know it’s early, but I don’t mind taking a bit of a chance here and there. Part of a good relationship is trust, and I trusted those first warm days of spring. The sun spread across my shoulders, leaving a warm glow, and the cool damp earth felt good against my hands. Each little seed held so much potential and in my mind’s eye I already saw the garden lush and green- full, ripe fruits of my labor everywhere. Beyond the garden, the hayfield is so thick and soft-looking, it nearly purrs with self-satisfaction. The grass is interlaced with violets the color of Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes, and four-leafed clovers.
But like so many strong new love affairs, things have gotten a little stormy. Tempers flair, winds blow fiercely, and those soft petal kisses are scattered. Rain, seemingly unending rain keeps coming; the nearby creek floods its banks restlessly and spreads out over the fields in an effort to find release. The garden too is soaked, and what seeds didn’t sprout are gone- lost or rotted. Then one day the sun comes back, and all is forgiven. Clouds of white butterfly blossoms drift in the woods as the dogwoods open, ferns unfurl, and the apple tree blushes at the suggestions whispered into her petals by the bees. The hillsides have dressed themselves in diaphanous shades of green with May apples, morels, and yellow mustard laced around their feet. Everything is growing, stretching, drinking up the rain that still keeps coming. The moments of sun have lately been few and far between. Even in the rain, I can’t stay out of the woods. Mama Cat and I go exploring, seeking out the oddly shaped trees, the new flowers, the green mossy rocks. Soon the woods will be so overgrown with brambles, so full of chiggers and spiders. But just for now, it’s fresh and new, with green whispers of surprises and promises, all the delicious anticipation of a new romance.
April 26th, 2011
The other day I slipped on my Levis, stepped into my cowgirl boots, put on my favorite green hoodie, applied a dab of lip gloss and brushed my hair. I was headed to town to pick up chicks. A few hills and curves behind me, I reached my destination, eased my little Honda in between two big pickup trucks and stepped out into the chilly wind. The wide expanse of the farm store stood before me, full of all kinds of possibilities. Inside it was warm and smelled of popcorn, leather, oil and galvanized metal.
On a mission, I was not distracted by bird feeders, western shirts or seed potatoes- any of which may have caught my eye on a normal day. My boots led me all the way to the back of the store, where I heard the peeping before I could see the stock tanks and the glowing heat lamps shining down on all those tiny fluffy chicks. My pulse quickened and my head grew light with a surge of excitement- just look at them all! Barred rocks, Rhode Island reds, buff Orpingtons, even little Peking ducks. One little chick had managed to hop up on the rim of one of the tanks and was looking around with a calculating eye. “Oh no, you’d better not.” I said and despite all the strict signs ordering customers not to handle the chicks, I scooped this one up and put it back in the tank with the others.
I took a deep breath, steeled my nerves and calmly walked around all the tanks and considered my options. I only wanted a handful of chicks, to up the egg production of our little flock at home. I really wanted a few araucanas, the bearded chickens that lay blue and green eggs- but to my frustration the store only had that breed offered as straight run- this means the chicks haven’t been sexed, or separated into groups of males and females. I couldn’t risk ending up with more roosters since we have four at home already. I turned my attention to the pullets that were available and discovered two breeds we didn’t have; ISA browns and California grey leghorns; so a helpful employee went to get me a little box. Into the box those two chicks went and were joined by a buff Orpington, a barred rock, and a light brahma. As she closed the box up and wrote out my slip, the helpful lady told me that the araucana pullets would be in the next day. Cheerfully on my way to check out, I stopped in my tracks remembering that the store sold chicks in minimums of five- if I came back for the araucanas later, I’d have to buy five more chicks. This would put me a bit above the handful of chicks I had intended to take home. But how could I put these little gals back? Ok, I thought, I’ll skip the araucanas this time, they can wait till next year.
Outside the cold wind still blew and hard little snowflakes swirled around. I wrapped my jacket around the box of chicks and hurried to the car. Soon the heater was going full blast- I was roasting, but the chicks still peeped in distress. As I eased on to the highway home I popped in a tape and the soothing sounds of the Forester Sisters filled the car. “Come hold me…” they crooned and the chicks settled right down. We glided along, around curves, up and down hills, and at last turned into our little farm yard. Rudi and Molly bounced up and down behind their dog gate for a greeting, but I needed to get our newest additions under the heat lamp waiting in the shed. I scooped each chick out of the box, dipped her beak in the water and showed her the food. They seemed a little shell-shocked by their journey and I watched them anxiously for a bit. But soon they began to explore their new home, and then began to doze, basking in the warmth. I sat and watched over them like, well, like a mother hen. Only a few days ago they had still been inside their shells, then hatched out, were dropped in a box and sent through the mail to the feed store. And now they were here. They have no idea what is ahead- the green grass, sunshine, tomatoes from the garden and all the bugs they can eat. For now all they need to do is eat and sleep under the heat lamp.
Two days later my resolve about the araucanas wavered and I decided I’d just go see if they had come in. I’ll just look, I told myself, doesn’t mean I have to have them. Five new chicks joined the others under the heat lamp in the shed. My nerves of steel had melted away at the sight of their fuzzy faces. I made a new resolution to stay out of the farm store still chick season is over. At least the roosters will be happy to have more girlfriends, I thought.
March 14th, 2011
I know it’s still February, and by rights I shouldn’t even be thinking spring till the end of March or the beginning of April. But we’ve had a long, cold, grey winter and I know I’m not alone in my desire for sunshine and green grass. Flocks of robins have arrived, and the sandhill cranes have been flying north. Spring is flirting with us like a burlesque stripper, giving us a glimpse and a coy smile, before hiding beneath the snow again. A tiny bit of satin blue sky is seen, a little bit of sunshine, then back to schoolmarm grey, all buttoned up. Bright green daffodil fingers have threaded their way up through the brown leaves, the still-tiny buds crooked in a come hither promise of something sweet to come. Down in the woods, the honeysuckle vine is leafing out and the dogwood buds are getting plump. The birdsong has changed too, less strident and more chipper, anticipating courting to come and an ample supply of fresh bugs on the menu.
My need for spring is as deep-rooted as any basic need. I can’t wait for the first blackbird song, for the sound of peepers in the rain, or crickets at night outside my bedroom window. I’m ready to get in the garden and get my hands dirty. I love the smell of earth and its cool dampness on my fingers. But it’s still February. We’ve had so much rain that the garden is pure mud. So I have to be patient. The seed catalogs are both a comfort and a torture- all those impossibly bright colors, the air-brushed into perfection fruits. What I wouldn’t give to have peaches like that. I’m getting tired of dreaming and am ready to start doing. I want to paint my toenails pink and wear my flip-flops, I need to feel sunshine on bare skin again, feel the heat from that first sunburn. I want to put my hair up and sip tea on the front porch with the cats. Out in the flower beds, the perennials are still sleeping, but it won’t be long before they appear, like long lost friends now happily remembered and embraced. I think what I need the most is simply color. Green, blue, yellow, purple. Red.
But it’s still February. The sky is an unyielding grey, the air is damp and chilly. The horses down the road still wear their thick shaggy coats. The buds on the lilac bush are still locked up tight. So I’ll wait, itchy and restless as I am to shed my layers and get outside. My grumpiness and vague dissatisfaction will evaporate in the first sunny day that comes along. Good things come to those who wait, right? Patience is a virtue, isn’t that what they say? It’s just so hard to be virtuous when spring is such a tease.
February 26th, 2011
Last week I took a hike with a friend to see a big hollow tree. It was the day after the power outage, and the trees were still hung with ice. The sun came out and set everything shimmering and shining and dripping. My friend is a professional photographer and seasoned hiker who prefers to go out in the woods with just his dogs for company, so I was somewhat flattered to be invited to tag along. I resolved to be as unobtrusive as possible and did my best to keep up as we trudged up hills and down into valleys.
It was a breath-takingly beautiful day. The sun had melted the snow and ice from some hillsides but those that were still in shadow remained a glittering frozen wonderland. Standing high on a hill looking down through the valley was like standing at the edge of one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Like any dutiful tourist, I took out my little point and shoot camera and snapped a few pictures, knowing in my heart nothing could match this sight. No big name National Geographic photographer with a $3000 lens, not even Ansel Adams himself, and certainly not me or my friend could collect and distill this day into a single image that would convey what I saw. Layer upon layer of dark trees marching down the hill and up the other side, their laced branches sheathed in ice that caught the sun and sent the light shimmering back. All around the air was filled with light and water and bits of ice that let loose with the warmth of the sun. One cold sliver found its way under my collar and down my back.
We followed a clear trail for a bit, my heart now beating hard but steady and my lungs enjoying the crisp air. My sturdy leg muscles were holding up pretty well, but my creaky old knees were complaining a bit. We left the trail and headed downhill through the woods and part of me wondered if I should have copied Hansel and left a trail of pebbles to follow on the return. And then there it was. The big hollow tree. A huge sycamore, larger than any I’ve seen, reaching up above the other trees like the arm of Lady Liberty herself. She leaned out slightly over the little creek nearby, and stretched up high on the other side. It was completely hollow, though my friend told me it still lived and would leaf out in the spring. I stood easily inside the trunk and felt like I was in some strange natural time machine- all the years that had made up the heart of the tree had vanished somehow up through the trunk and into the great beyond. A teardrop shaped porthole gave a jewel-like view of the woods, a window in my space ship. I took more hopeless pictures, and began to form an idea for a painting in my head.
We turned and followed the creek for a bit, through a grove of pine trees and up another hill. My guide helpfully pointed out other trails and landmarks, but my sensory-flooded brain only picked out a few words- trail, ridge, panther creek. I was too dazzled with the smell of pine, of fresh wood from fallen branches, and ice cold water. I was captivated by a tiny bowl-shaped bit of ice, fallen from a knob on the pines. It looked like a glass egg shell and I smiled to think what sort of bird would have come from such a shell. A snow bird, perhaps? I think what made the whole place so magical, was knowing that it was changing and fading as we walked through it. The ice was quickly falling and melting and the sun was starting to go down. A bank of clouds came sidling in to return us to long grey days that lay thick and heavy. It seemed pure serendipity had brought us there, just a spur of the moment decision and we walked into this place under a fleeting spell impulsively laid by some winter witch. It lasted a few hours and was gone, never to be the same again.
Back home I eased off my wet boots, my heels just a bit tender. I looked through the photos I had taken, almost a hundred in all. And I was right, not one had grasped what I saw. I realized somethings just aren’t meant to be captured-to use a cliche, but they’re better just experienced, remembered and left free. I filled the old claw-foot tub with water as hot as I could bear and soaked till my fingertips wrinkled like raisins and my skin glowed rosy as a Rubens. My achy knees slowly forgave me. As hot as that water was, in my mind I still held that perfect little half-round ice shell, cool and smooth. Out of all the ice, trees, and water, that little shell was the one thing I hadn’t taken a picture of and the one thing I can remember crystal clear.
To see photos by Jeff Danielson, my guide for the day, visit
February 10th, 2011
Some of my favorite stories are those of the Moomintroll family, by Tove Jansson. While most of the characters are funny, kind and relatively harmless, there is one creature that is decidedly dangerous. The Groke. She appears in winter, a big four-legged shapeless hairy thing. She is drawn to light and should she find you with a lantern out for a evening stroll in the garden, you’d best drop that lantern and run for the house. The lantern will be broken and extinguished, but you might make it to safety. Anything the Groke touches freezes, and she leaves a dark frozen spot on the ground everywhere she sits. It is speculated that she is lonely, the only one of her kind, and sometimes she howls in a heartbreaking, bone-chilling way.
The Groke came to visit here Tuesday evening, beginning with a freezing rain. Heavy drops quickly coated every surface, trees creaked and bent and cracked. Our power flickered a few times and went off at 6:20p.m. We slid down the hill to my brother’s house, to gather around his wood stove in the candle light. With his friend Robert, we made four, and we traded stories, bad jokes and shared moments of companionable silence. The guys sipped their beers or scotch. I had spent hours by this same wood stove, in this house I grew up in. Curled up in an old wing chair, reading my way through paperbacks of fantasy, science fiction, romance and mystery, sometimes propping my shoes up on the edge of the stove till the soles bore melted scars.
The hour grew late and we made our way home in the dark. All around us, we could hear the breaking and cracking of branches as they gave way beneath the weight of the ice. In the light of the flashlight, the world gleamed and shimmered. Inside, the thermostat read 61 degrees. Not so bad. We slipped into bed under the down comforter that was a wedding present from my sister all those years ago, and the cats piled on top. The power outage continued, for 41 hours in all. There was a brief moment where it came on for seven minutes, then agonizingly went off again. I was so cold and frustrated I literally sat down and cried. When it finally kicked in Thursday around 2:15p.m., the house was 37 degrees inside. Yes, we could have just gone to a hotel, or to a friend’s house, but I kept thinking the power would come on any minute- after all we could look out the window and see lights on across the valley. And I have a bit of an independent streak that doesn’t lean towards accepting help when maybe I should.
With the house being so cold, it felt like an alien place. Rooms that had been filled with light, warmth and color, now were shadowy and secretive. Edges were hard and sharp. I spent so much time in bed it became like a sick bed- mounded with covers, books, and chocolate wrappers and cats. My hands were so cold they hurt- painting or crocheting were out of the question. With no internet, and the phone only working intermittently I felt isolated from the rest of the world. I had to get out of the house and took the dogs out for a walk. Thursday the sun came out and set everything on fire, or so it seemed, it was so bright. The whole world had been dipped in glass- even the grass was slippery. The path down to the pond was layered in ice crystals and it was a marvel to me that each was supposedly unique. While I stood on top of the hill, I saw the electric company truck come winding down the road and I nearly cheered.
In a few hours, the power came back on and I sent up a thank you to the crews who had worked this miracle. The rooms were once again bathed in warm light, the furnace started chugging away and the water pump kicked on. Our little house was humming back to life. I got the cats fresh water, flushed the toilet, made not one, but two cups of tea. I reveled in this restoration of power and felt like turning things on just because I could. On came the radio, the space heater. I made toast, put clothes in the washer, did the dishes, and filled the bathtub with steamy hot water. In my joy and excitement, I even eyed the vacuum cleaner, but mindful of my carbon footprint, thought better and went to soak in the tub. Ah, so nice to have things back to normal. And we’re looking into getting a wood stove put in.
February 4th, 2011
I have a confession to make, at the risk of revealing just what a crazy cat lady I am. Sometimes I dance in the kitchen with Smokey. Smokey is our big grey tuxedo cat with green eyes. He’s just as shy as I am and neither of us would be caught dead dancing in public. Me with my two left feet and no sense of rhythm, him with his fear of strangers. But together in the privacy of our kitchen, we do alright. Today the sunshine on the clay tile floor made us both happy, and Mary Chapin Carpenter was singing a waltz for us. Smokey likes to dance if we go slow, not too many dips or twirls. He’s heavy and warm in my arms and I lay my cheek against his fur to feel him purring. If I put him down, he paws at my leg- again, he’s saying, again. So we dance some more, Noir staring at us like we’re crazy, Milo wants to cut in. You can have the next dance, Milo.
January 25th, 2011
We’ve had an usually snowy, chilly winter. And like some small creature from “Wind in the Willows” I’ve burrowed deep, nesting in layers of down and wool to keep warm. My cabinets are stocked with tea and chocolate and treasure of all treasures, raspberry jam. The ice may be thick on the pond, with the snapping turtles sleeping below, but I have summer in a jar. Gleaming jars of jam, garnet red, lined up on the shelf.
I spent hot summer days in June combating thorns and mosquitos, chiggers and snakes for this bounty. Sweat in my eyes, burrs in my hair, bright scratches on hands and arms, horse flies buzzing around my head. Stained fingertips, tart sweet flavor on my lips, not all the berries made it into the bucket. Images of “Blueberries For Sal” in my mind, relieved that we don’t have bears around here. Picking berries that summer became a bit of a compulsion for me, like Brer Rabbit, I was happy to be in the briar patch. Bag after bag went into the freezer, into pies, and into jam. I always left some berries behind for the critters.
And now we come to the end of January. We gave jars of jam away to friends at Christmas, and ate plenty ourselves on toast, bagels, and crepes. Now just three jars remain. Precious memory of summer, sweet with a slight tang, full of the flavor that was there that hot day in June. I had a visit to a friend planned and my hand hovered over a jar, thinking to take one as a gift. Hmmmm. Perhaps a dozen eggs from our hens would be just as nice, I decided, and shut the cabinet door. Three jars left. And June is five months away.
January 25th, 2011
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