Homage…#8

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August 2022

Our blue moon is exhausted from exertion; shining brilliantly last night over darkened trees, sleeping houses and cooling land. She settles slowly way off somewhere behind the forest on a quiet Saturday dawn as she winks and nods a greeting to the new month. Morning yawns cautiously in reply. They find themselves together on the down side of nothing.

A time where the mind’s eye, rested and cleansed looks outward; far, far ahead to see the horizon uncluttered with tightly drawn squares, check marks, detailed lines of faces all demanding that something happen. On August the first, the day after the Blue Moon, nothing must happen. There is brewing coffee and porch lingering while listening to energized neighbors discuss methods of pulling rocks out of the front and side yard; a few vicious sneezes, and then silence.

Wherever those people linger who demand that we get busy with ‘doing’, may they linger elsewhere for just a little bit longer because our summer is not yet spent. The season turns just a touch more with that inevitable twisting down toward cooling ground, longer evenings and lengthening shadows.

In June we tossed aside notebooks, envisioning endless sand, puffy clouds, watermelon ice and corn dogs; this time it would last forever. But July always comes to an end. So soon, too soon Earth’s yellow orb cowers under the Blue Moon’s gaze and she blinks first and so soon must we. But not today. Not yet.

August’s first early dawn settles, just a touch reserved; waiting as the white curtains in the reading room billow and flap wildly, and over this rocky terrain we call home, wind chimes blow continually at the edge of this house on the hill. He labors with the land by 6:30; weeding and seeding and by mid morning I shall take him cold, iced lemon water because all seasons require kindness.

La Luna, you August moon. She drapes a creamed canopy over the small of one’s back. Tan lines shiver as heated aloed hands soften seared skin, cool sun’s promise and warm moonbeam’s silver lance. Sanded afternoons…yellow, grainy with lemony kisses…melt away emotion’s last defense…drops in a sloshing tide, dissolves amidst a swirl of crushed shells, stone and yesterday’s bruised memories. Benvenuti La Luna Bella.

January 1, 2026

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Driving the edge of the white flattened field; the tires hug the fine line between road and sloping dirt, tar and frozen earth.

The wide stretch of empty land is dotted with sharp beige stubs of cut corn stalks and vegetation, remnants of the past growing season, silent and dead as they lie stiff under the birthing sky of the new year.

A brutal burst of frigid air rises up rapidly from the ground and disperses frantically, widely…churning up mini whirly waughs of swirling snow, spinning like miniature tornadoes over patches of earth. To observe, to peer even for a moment inside the power of the icy gyrating air is to be witness to one of the mysteries of winter.

The road widens ahead of the car, leading toward the dark and jagged line of black and bare trees; the icy steam of frozen ozone rises into the sky; the tree line celebrates the beginning of the new year, clad in a smoking jacket, the upper growth puffing amiably above the earth’s flooring.

Sentinels rising up against the line of the field; the blackened trees put a stop, present an obstacle to the eternal spread of abandoned white fields and flatness.

They are our friends, these trees standing firm on this first day of the new year; planted decades ago by good souls; those determined individuals nurturing woodlands under whose shade they knew they would never take repose. These trees and those far away people; excellent beginnings today when the morning temperature rests at a chilly negative one; as the wind chill snarls around seeking whom it may devour.

Heading for the blackened tree line where our kindred spirits await…as the road widens ahead, leaving behind that which we know.

Homage…#1

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Autumn in New York…clouds of olive and silver, miles of fields filled with blackened crackly sunflowers, their sun centers traded for black coal circles; burnt cookies on straw sticks, waving and bent in the chilly breeze. Wild pumpkin patches lie fallow under blue grey sky expanse. ‘Why does anyone buy pumpkins?’ he asks. ‘They’re all here, just sleeping in open fields…orange pumpkins, white pumpkins, yellow gourds…just waiting to be harvested’.

In the darkening heavens, angles of black birds wing their way south; honking and cawing; a large black arrow pointing away from the vagaries of the lake. At the road’s edge, in the soft green center of a sunken drainage gully…an onyx black cat is perfectly seated and calm; oblivious to traffic, watching oncoming headlights, attuned to the birds overhead…thinking about rodents, shadows…the warmth of his distant home.

The sweep of color wanes gently, slowly. What was in days past a brilliant carpeting of copper and scarlet, a bright leafy yellow ribbon encircling the neighborhood…shines now, briefly…only when strands of tired Autumn sunshine break through the clouds and drift downward.

Late afternoon, the rows of trees fold in on themselves and bow down under the darkening gloam.

They wait quietly for the promised wild winds which will shred their final hold on the branches, plummeting them to the damp soil where they eagerly await the opportunity to sleep forever…

Homage #2…

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The summer was quiet, a necessary healing place safe from the rancor, discord and upset of the recently concluded school year. Nothing, and no teacher or student remained unscathed. The annual educational cycle could be described in simple terms; toxic and anxious. It was manifold, exhausting and downright ugly.

Our building played the role of a decrepit theater; a place where there were so many stories told, untold, imagined, regretted…endured. We waged a bitter war against the obvious and we all lost. When all the final test scores were collected, tallied and announced, our district was found wanting and crawled around miserably, apologetically at the bottom of the swamp.

It was that kind of school year.

Summer. At first it needed to go, that loud creaking noise in the upstairs bathroom, that hidden joist where saddened wood met human weight and slightly mal-aligned boards and screws complained bitterly. It was the perfect summer project.

But then, I was told it could not be fixed. That was that. I sat quietly on the porch and chose to look out at Heaven in the afternoon and watched a soaring, silent bird gliding over the shadow of the creatures which pass unnoticed through our yard at twilight and I finally thought better of the creaking noise upstairs.

The creaking meant someone other than myself and the variety of woodland creatures was home.

It was that sort of summer.

Heat. In the warmth of the buttery sunshine, I watched the neighbor teach his small son to ride a bike while I observed out of the corner of my eye the enormously obese bumble bee tilting wobbly around my porch. The fat insect was harmless, drunk with sun and pollen and summer air. He wove heavily and flitted around the flowers, buzzing half-heartedly.

I heard, ‘Drift and hit the peddles, drift and hit the peddles! No! That’s the wrong driveway!’ I watched the duo, the exasperated father and struggling son disappear at the sidewalk’s edge.

Who was wobbling? The bee? The child? Me?

Summer was like that.

Was there anything more glorious than sitting on the porch in the warm air with a bowl of cold, fresh chicken Caesar salad topped richly with heaps of pickled red onions? I didn’t think so.

From deep within the house drifted the faint strains of Bach’s double concerto, talented hands drove their rosined bows over the strings, coaxing life’s beauty and essence out of cat gut and wood. Marvelous.

I tried envisioning J. S. Bach eating salad topped with pickled red onions. I could not knit that image together in my mind. I placed my bowl carefully on the table next to my chair. The porch was so cool and the neighborhood so very, very quiet.

It was that kind of summer.

Homage #3…

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August settles and fades on this final day. The porch rests in dappled sunlight, light no longer committed to heating but only to illuminating. There was a full rain this past week. The grass ceased crunching like faded cinnamon and straw, donning instead a fresh superficial green. There’s enough moisture to endure until it snows.

The neighbor’s cat begins his daily search in the yard for the adventurous vole; a creature determined to bother. He’s on his own, that one. There is no sympathy here for any uninvited porch rodent.

Beloved Tio Victor Gonzalez; we buried him yesterday, lowered quietly into a grave under a brilliant blue early Autumn sky. Short in stature, he was grand in personality; playful, jolly, celebrating life daily with songs and happiness, with babies and puppies. This side of Heaven, he mastered 91 years in joy.

He rests peacefully and no one is worried. He knew his God and spoke freely of Him.

The ancients creep slowly down the stairs this morning; fragile and careful as gossamer and silk. They are well dressed and determined to drink their scalding black coffee. They wait for oatmeal while younger family members grab pastries. Every window in the house is open, gathering in fresh air and cool temperatures. The oven bears the weight of a heavy pork roast, and as time passes the smells drift out to the yard edges and lap over the sidewalk. Someone may inquire, ‘What are you cooking in your house?’ But for now, the street remains silent.

Potatoes and apples for potato salad, wind chimes and garlic, the advancing school year…and the Ancient of Days…the creation is magnificent and here we sit in the middle of it all…there are no ordinary people.

Imago Dei…there are no ordinary people.

Homage #4…

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Up and up and up…straight into the sky. He guns the straining engine as we ride the edge of the precipice; empty air filled to bursting with thick, dripping foliage…the mangoes, avocados and coconuts hang heavily…weighting down the branches and I can almost touch them as we sail by on this green, damp laden stretch of black tar called ‘Road 53’.

‘It’s mountainous here’ he explains. ‘I’m not exactly sure where we are; it’s changed so much since then’. A band of warm fog shudders slightly, revealing a tribe of ruffled roosters crossing the road ahead. They are not concerned with us. They are peckish with the dirt by the side of the ruined roads and they’ve seen us before; these humans climbing to the top of the world with an engine.

He stops to ask directions of a lone man standing outside a house which clings to air and thickly poured cement. ‘Where is the house of Daniel?’ Apparently we have missed the crucial neck wrenching turn midway down the hill. We reverse and retrace. And then suddenly…a driveway widens at the edge of the air and earth, shooting straight up into the rainforest foothills and there are two people watching us ascend from their perch on an enormous porch. He exits the vehicle and yells, ‘I’m here! It’s me!’ We climb a number of steep stairs which rest in the clouds above dozens of potted pepper plants with shiny leaves and the avocado tree with a ladder perched at a perilous angle dropping off into nothing. ‘He tells me he’s careful’ when I inquire about picking avocados at that angled height. ‘Oh well then…’ I respond and clutch the porch railing a bit more tightly.

After decades, the conversation begins again where it once left off. Who has died, who still resides nearby, whose children now live on the mainland braving cold winters…which business has gone under. The rainforest watches us silently. It is busy with plans for another thousand years of growth and water and it does not care much for our presence; letting out a steady roll of rumbling thunder. Then the rains fall again and far, far in the distance, I see a man running down the road with a multi colored blanket over his head. He is trying to beat the rain.

If wishes were horses and beggars could ride…upon my word I would never leave this porch. There is cold water in crackly bottles, old powerful friendships, bright red peppers and we are hanging in the sky where nothing bothers…except for the rain, and thunder and the avocado tree where life and death hang on the ladder’s edge and the eye of the rainforest…

June 11, 2025 ‘A Day in the Life’

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Household tips for dummies…also known as tips for ‘adults who know things at a cognitive level and yet refuse to respond appropriately’…also known as tips for ‘adults who still want to believe that leprechauns will clean the house at night’.

Follow the text to discover the household management clue.

Changing the vacuum cleaner bag makes all the difference in the world…

All the difference.

June 8, 2025 ‘A Day in the Life’

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An early morning…the weekend is stuffed with good things, friends and plans…the first thoughts upon waking are lightness and joy, hope and companionship…a small respite from the restrictions of the work week.

I’m forever a five year old in my heart…headed off to school with a painted metal lunchbox. ‘The wheels of the bus go round and round’.

How old would you be if you did not know how old you actually are? My compliments to the wise Satchel Paige.