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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

One of my six year old students asks me everyday…I mean everyday…’Today is Friday?’

The thrilled look on his face today when I was finally able to confirm…’Yes! Today is Friday!’…was priceless.

He needs to stop asking me this question on Mondays, however…

Presenting the non-edible shopping list…mouthwash, toilet paper, laundry detergent, fabric softener, dish soap, windshield washer fluid…

Profoundly boring…

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.