The ABCs of surviving a winter that won’t let go.

My life, it seems, until further notice.

Just this past Sunday, a minor miracle occurred: the deep freeze we New Englanders have been living in let loose its grip, just a tad. The temperature finally rose up into the forties, and the snow—all ninety inches plus that have fallen since the end of January—started melting.  And with that little wisp of a meltdown, the citizenry of my home town wandered out of doors, where we collectively took off our hats and gloves, tipped our faces up to the warm sun, and started feeling like human beings again. We were like the Munchkins, coming out, coming out, wherever we were.

That was then. This morning, two days later?  I woke up to Zero. Degrees. Fahrenheit.

Welcome to the Winter that Won’t Let Go.

I’m at a loss for words to describe this world. Let’s just say, we’ve been hemmed in and reduced to basics. It feels like I haven’t been out much, except to shovel. I’ve just been coming up for air, from the weather, from the snow, from a lousy chest cold. I’ve been feeling like an extra in a live/reality production of Dr. Zhivago. There’s been too much winter, too much chill in the air, and way too much snow for city living.

This was the day of the meltdown.  All those piles settled in on themselves, just a little.

But back in that brief Sunday dash of something leaning away from the arctic and ever so slightly towards the tropical, I had an idea for a way to post the gamut of what these frosty weeks have been about. Here’s a little alphabetical catch up—let’s see how this goes.

* * * * *

A is for alleluia. For weather that finally allowed me to peel off my good-to-twenty-below parka. And for the renewal of trust, that spring—glorious, magnificent, magical spring—might, in fact, be on its way.

B is for Broadway Market. I’ve pared down my grocery shopping these past few weeks to things that my little store around the corner sells. Decent produce, excellent cheese selection and meat options, everything hopelessly overpriced. But bless the Broadway Market for making it possible to not have to get in the car to answer the “What’s for dinner?” question.

C is for cars: for moving them, for digging them out, for finding somewhere to ditch them, for abandoning them whenever possible. These days I drive only when I’m absolutely sure there’s a place to park when I get where I’m going. Owning a car has become a burden this month.  Boston Coach is starting to seem like the way to go.

There’s no place left for the plow to push the snow. We’ve been reduced to protecting our little parking slots.  That pile at the bottom of the photo was five feet over my head, until my beloved snow-raked the summit off to our side yard. So we could continue with our digging out and tossing shovelfuls of snow up and over.

D is for digging. Digging out. Digging up and over. Endless digging.

 The view from our third floor.

E is for the evening skies. Despite the gray clouds that have been spitting flakes of white nearly constantly, there have been a few breathtaking sunsets, along with the loveliest of indigo skies, just before the dark takes over. A few days ago, there was a glorious day-is-done bonus: the sight of the waning moon, just a wisp of a fingernail hanging low in the sky, kept company by a bright Venus and a shy, faint Mars. It was bedazzling, the sort of thing made me stop people on the sidewalks, to make sure they didn’t miss it.

Oh, Jack Frost.  We’ve seen too much of you.

F is for frost. I can always tell how cold it is by the amount of frosting on my bedroom window when I wake up. There’s been a lot of frost. It would seem prettier if it weren’t indication of frostbite conditions outside.

G is for Gilead, by Marilynne Robinson. It’s a novel I’d started at least three times before it was selected by my book group, to whom I am beholden for foisting this quiet, epic tale on me, once more. I’m afraid I never would have made it to the end, if left to my own devices. Never would have appreciated this thoughtful, soulful, dying father’s sermon to his son.

H is for heat. And for how lovely it feels, to be in a warm spot on a cold day, particularly during an achingly long cold spell like the one we’ve been in. My new kitchen floor includes radiant heat, a home renovation luxury that I got talked into despite the fact that I didn’t entirely understand how it might work more efficiently than a decent pair of slippers. How do I feel about it now? Best home improvement ever, hands down. I’ve spent a lot of time on my yoga mat on the kitchen floor these past few weeks, doing my PT exercises, stretching my tight hamstrings, luxuriating in the warmth. I am a complete radiant heat addict. It is a gift from the renovation gods.

I is for icicles. Monstrous icicles. Impossible not to photograph. Beautiful and terrifying.

I is also for Instagram, where I’ve been posting lots of wintery photos, like the one above.  But that’s a story for another day, my odd and wonderful little toe into the social media realm with IG. If you want a preview, check out my IG feed @khmacomber. More on that subject later.

J is for my beloved John. He’s the man who’s put up with my manic worries about snow removal, our neighbors’ incapacity to dig themselves out, and our obligation to keep the sidewalk clear. He’s been up on the roof I don’t even know how many times. When everyone around us stopped yacking about the snow in the roads and started harping about ice dams and collapsing roofs, I didn’t get sucked in to worrying about that potential calamity. The man has us in good shape, Snowmageddon-aftermath-wise. Oh, my goodness, I am grateful for all he does.

My beloved, and his shoveling handiwork on display. Best Valentine Ever.

K is for kindred spirits. The people who check in, make me laugh, keep me sane. You know who you are. I am rich in kindred spirits.

L is for Lila, another book by Marilynne Robinson. My book group ambitiously agreed to read both Gilead and Lila for our next meeting. And while we knew Lila would be a bit of a prequel, focusing on one  character in Gilead, we decided to read them in the order they were written. Excellent choice. Such a treat, to be immersed in one view of the world, and then, by magic, to see that world from another perspective entirely! I loved reading these two books, back to back. And I’m looking forward to our discussion, which has been rescheduled for March due to–you guessed it–the snow.

M is for MGH, the Massachusetts General Hospital, where in April I will be getting a new hip. See A is for allelulia. This is good news. April seems like a good time to go out with the old and in with the new.

N is for the best of neighbors. I am lucky to have a couple of extraordinary ones. To our immediate east is my newest neighbor, with whom I share a common wall and a front walk. Jane moved here not too long ago, along with various of her twentysomething-aged kids who come and go between college and grad school and job searches. She is quick to shovel and happy to collect any deliveries left on my front steps when I’m out of town. We’ve fallen into a happy compatibility, easy chats on our shared front walkway over the recycling bins, both of us paying favors forward. I am glad to have her nearby. Meanwhile, at our back door is my favorite octogenarian, a man who bakes bread from his own sourdough starter, and who treats me to sweet little loaves, warm from the oven, in exchange for my making sure that his parking spot is dug out. He is a treasure, and I am glad to have him nearby.

Seriously: Am I lucky, or what?

O is for the Oscars. I can’t really explain why I care about who wins what, who wore whom, but I do. I am a complete sucker for the red carpet, for weepy acceptance speeches, for moments like Julie Andrews embracing Lady Gaga. I watched it all the way to the end.

 P is for purring. It’s what our cats are really good at. They are excellent accessories when the weather is cold and the thing that makes the most sense is to settle in with a good book.

Q is for whatever you can do with it, if you’re playing Scrabble. My beloved and I have had lots of weather-dictated weeknight date nights, with sangria and candles and one of us saying, “Let’s just play five moves each, and quit if we’re stuck with lousy letters.” It’s been a little bonus on the days when Harvard has shut itself down, due to the weather. Which it did exactly four times between 1636 and 1978, and which has happened at least three times this month.

A notable Scrabble victory, one that ended with me playing all seven letters to go out.

R is for relatives—checking in, sending funny emails and texts, forwarding each other news and weather updates. They are the inner circle of my kindred souls.

S is for skiing. Even though I haven’t been yet this winter. Just getting to watch fantastic ski racing makes me excited to get my hip fixed, so I can return to my most beloved outdoor activity. Watching great skiing has made me anxious to get back to swooping down my favorite trails on my favorite mountains. Meanwhile, thank you, NBCSN, for providing something close to live coverage of the World Championships from Beaver Creek. Watching good ski racing makes all this snow seem worthwhile.

T is for US Ski Team member Ted Ligety, and the most amazing clutch performance in the second run of the men’s giant slalom at those World Championships. He is The Man. He is amazing!

Not sure which I love more: those impervious to the weather boots, or that chartreuse parka I got from Lands End for $69 bucks a couple years back. Two staples of my winter uniform.

U is for my uniform these days. Fake fur hat, turtlenecks, Skida headbands repurposed as extra neckwarmers, a skinny lightweight jacket under my epic extra long down parka, my ski tights under my pants, and best of all, the tall snow boots that I ordered from LLBean just before the middle storm between the blizzards, and which miraculously showed up 24 hours later–and with free shipping! I have donned this outfit to shovel, to tromp all over town, to get to my appointments, even to be a lady who lunches at the MFA. Okay, that day I did bring another pair of shoes, but still, it’s been a consistent look that requires not much thought.  Staying warm and dry is the name of the game.

 V is for Valentines. Belated Valentines, actually. That’s what my Christmas cards turned into, sometime in the middle of February.  I’m a big believer in Better Late Than Never, when it comes to my annual effort at seasons greetings.

 W is for women playing hockey. In particular, my beloved Harvard Women’s Hockey team. They are joyful to watch, strong and fast and talented. And when they take their helmets off for the national anthem, they make me happy-weepy.

 

X is for x-rays. On a morning after one of those snowstorms, when the MBTA was shut down, I got up early and trekked to Mass General for one more set of x-rays, one more review of the options. Here’s to some forward progress on my orthopedic ailments.

Y is for yellow–I color I am looking forward to seeing more of.  Forsythia, anyone?

Z is for Zero. Degrees. Fahrenheit.  Which is where we began this post, and seems like a good place to end.  Here’s hoping there will be no more mornings with sub-zero windchills, not in my home town, not til next winter.

A gal can dream, right?

Hang on tight, little rhododendron buds.  Your day will come!

 

Snow snow and more snow

This is what it looked like.  Before the last snow storm.  Imagine another foot…

Do I even need to say that the last week and a half has been a blizzard of…blizzards?

Because that’s what I’ve been up to.  Every notion around where I might go and how I might get there has been completely overrun with considerations that have to do with the weather.   If we head north early up the coast of Maine, will we be ahead of the storm?  If we proceed to New Hampshire, will we miss the wrath of Juno?  If I drive to Vermont for a memorial event, will I be able to get back through Crawford Notch before the wind and snow make the drive impossible?  Meanwhile, back at home: has the plow guy shown up yet?  Should I stop in the hardware store in North Conway and pick up a new shovel?  Has the parking ban been lifted?  Is my elderly neighbor all set?  Does my sidewalk need to be salted and shoveled, yet again?

In other words, I am living in a decidedly grown-up world, where city forecasts that call for snow are cause for coordination, preparation, and action.  There’s no hopeful anticipation of a snow day, no joy at the prospect of building snow caves or snowmen or snow forts. Just logistics.  That, and a lot of shoveling.

One storm later…

I was not always so burdened.  Back before flash text messages and robocalls, I remember sitting by the radio in the kitchen, praying for my town to be on the school closings list–news that was greeted at my house with whoops of joy and the promise of maple syrup poured on fresh powder snow.   Even in my college days, I loved a good snowstorm–the bigger the better.  I didn’t need to concern myself with digging out cars or clearing sidewalks or anything other than having access to a dryer when the frolicking was done.

Ah, these were the days.  Lowell House, February 1978.

I was a college sophomore  when the great Blizzard of ’78 hit these parts.  I remember loving every minute of it–putting on all my foul-weather ski clothes, goggles and all, and leaning into the wind as my roommate and I tramped down the middle of a snowy, empty Mt. Auburn Street.  I remember taking part in a tunneling expedition, where some classmates had created a replica of Boston’s transit system through the mounds of snow in the courtyard of our dorm.  We all slid down the library steps, then trundled back to the dining hall and got extra marshmallows for my hot chocolate. I vaguely remember students serving meals, since the kitchen staff was short-handed.  Two days after the snow began swirling, I remember waking up before 5AM, packing  into a station wagon with my fellow ski team members, and sneaking out of town (through a driving ban–and after getting stopped in Somerville and told to turn around or face a $500 fine!) and making it to the Dartmouth Skiway in time to race.  I only vaguely remember the drive back, which ended with us  having to abandon our vehicle and subway back to school from the far end of the orange line.

Yes, 1978 was The Best Storm Ever, in my book.  Best in terms of the most snow, best in terms of the most fun.  And, as I didn’t realize at the time, best in terms of me being old enough to delight in it thoroughly, but not so old that I had any responsibilities attached to the accumulation of snow.

Two days ago.  Library steps beckon to be slid upon. Watch out for that rope!

* * * * *

Now, here I am.  I live in a building with parking, but to get to it, I have to drive into a curious little no-man’s land, between my back door neighbors’ house and their two parking spots, and a small apartment building that also rents out four more parking spots.  That’s eight vehicles in a tight formation that works just fine until we have a week like this one.   From an all but snowless winter two weeks ago, we find ourselves today with, quite literally, no place to put any more snow.  We get another dump, we’re going to have to start designating places to store white stuff instead of vehicles.  It’ll get a little like Survivor.  Someone’s gonna get kicked off the island.

Which, in truth, my beloved and I have already done to ourselves.  One of our cars is on the street, in a well-manicured spot.  We have some flexibility around beaching a vehicle across the river during snow emergencies.  Our son takes a car off our hands (it really does feel like a gift, until he needs to bring it back) on the weekends.  So our sketchy extra parking place at the end of our back porch?  That’s turned into a designated snow dump zone.

For now, there are still two parking spots out there.

Meanwhile, my spry octogenarian neighbor needs some looking out for, so that’s what we do.  He moves his car to one of our spaces, so the plow guy has somewhere to push the snow.  That done, I head over and tidy up his parking zone.  By which I mean I take my shovel and peel off layers and toss them up and over the ever-growing snowbanks, to give him another few feet to back his car into.

Clearly, without a coordinated effort, we’re all screwed.  Somewhere along the way, I became the designated grownup, the winter storm parking czarina. It’s a designation I’d give anything to offload.  I want wunderlust over snowstorms! I want to look out the window and be delighted, not dismayed.  I want to be a kid again.

Need I even note that all this snow makes a fiftysomething woman feel just a tad mortal?  With my shoulder in sub-prime shoveling fitness, I made a grand gesture to my current infirmity and bought myself a new shovel–a cute little 5/8ths scale thing.  It’s kept me from over-doing, but it makes the job take twice as long.  I know it was the right thing to do, but I am feeling diminished from my long-standing role as The Woman Who Is A Snow Shoveling Machine.  I’m pretty putt-putt these days, not much Vrooooom.

Proof I’ve still got it, sidewalk-maintenance-wise.

Some day my sweetie and I will push off from this place we’ve lived in for decades, to a home that’s easier to deal with.  Honestly, it’ll be winters like this one that’ll nudge us into action.  We’ve got a couple of soft landing spots marked out, places in town with underground parking, that sort of thing.  There are two nearby smallish houses I’d snap up in a trice if they ever came on the market, just for their easy parking scenarios.  But more than likely, we’ll stick it out here for awhile, and save our assisted living days (by which I mean, the days when we let someone else worry about snow removal while we sit at the bar and eat crabcakes and watch the Bruins and play cribbage) for somewhere off in the more distant future.

In the meantime, there’s another storm on the way. Might be time to rethink the snowblower option.

An early valentine to a good writer and a true friend

This is the typewriter that was used to write the best ending in all children’s literature:

“It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. 

Charlotte was both.”

E.B. White,  my creative hero, wrote those words in 1952.  His writing style is what I aspire to, every day: clear, concise, concrete.  I like him for his insistence on using the right word–which, often as not, isn’t the fanciest word. That works for me, since I come up a little short in the fancy words department.  I keep my copy of his classic text, Elements of Style, in the downstairs bathroom, for remembering bits of wisdom I may have forgotten.  I love that he concluded his classic children’s story, Charlotte’s Web, with those sentences, those words, simple and true.

True friends and good writers.  When you find them, you do your best to keep them.

I am lucky to tell you that, like Wilbur the pig of Charlotte’s Web fame, I have had a few people come along in my life who are true friends and good writers.  But the person most delightfully and unexpectedly in this collective category is my friend Julie Zickefoose.

Our friendship began, sort of, as we were just getting started in college, when she and my best first college friend and future roommate took a couple of courses together.  Truth be told, Julie and I remained in that “friends of friends” category until we each rediscovered one another decades later, through our 25th reunion class reports–those updates that can be anything from pure professional puffery to extended updates on the progeny, to, every now and then, little expository jewels.  Hers was the latter, a shining bit of prose.  I read it and was reminded of the country girl in Harvard Yard, the classmate with feathers in her cap, who camped out under the enormous yews by Memorial Church, just for the delight of sleeping under the stars.  I read her 25th report and I remembered my freshman year regret, that I hadn’t taken the courses she and my roomie-to-be took, during that formative first semester.

My friend JZ, circa 1977.

While I’ve been living down the street from my college haunts for nearly all my adult life, it turned out that Julie hadn’t been back since our graduation day, way back when.  After reading her heartfelt missive, I was hopeful that she might return for our reunion jubilee.  And when I spotted her at an opening event, up in the balcony as was her wont, with her tow-headed son and  red-headed daughter, I knew we needed to kindle our little connection, just then.

Which, lucky for me, we did.

Fast forward a decade (help!) and here we are, with our 35th reunion bearing down on us.  I know much more about this amazing woman now than I did back then–that her talents are so vast, her humor so infective, her way of making informed naturalists out of anyone she crosses paths with–she is, quite simply, one of the most gifted people I know.  Writer, artist, musician, wild animal rescuer, bluebird protector, NPR commentator, author of two glorious books of her perfect essays and her  extraordinary art (with another book being birthed as I type), blogger extraordinare, nature trip leader, old fashioned mile-high-pie aficionado–the list is seemingly endless.  She is a true renaissance woman.

The first of her amazing collections of essays and art. This book took my breath away.

That Julie finds me worth hearing from and paying attention to is beyond my ken, truth be told.  Most of what she’s amazing at, I weigh in at low-intermediate, at best.  But, lucky for me, she’s the kind of friend that  likes to nudge the people around her to expand their horizons, to redefine their realms.  I’ve been a lucky recipient of some JZ nudges.

I’m a decent noticer.  But Julie’s powers of observation make mine pale in comparison. Julie sees things like nobody’s business.  Then she puts pen and paintbrush to paper, and gives us things like this.  Just transcendent, what she can do.

This is what the home page of JZ’s blog looks like.  It’s a treasure, this blog.  You can find it at http://www.juliezickefoose.blogspot.com

Case in point: that I blog, at all.  I don’t think I would have embarked on this journey, had I not had JZ’s example of how it can be done. Somehow, I knew that once I’d decided to find a place in the cybersphere for my inner circle to check in and see how I was doing, back in the bad mammogram days, I knew this would be the format, and JZ’s example would provide me with my template.  Tell the story, add some visuals, share what needs sharing.

* * * * *

Two years later, it should not have surprised me that Julie had been reading my posts with an eye to snagging what might make good copy for her husband’s family’s collective labor of love: Bird Watcher’s Digest.  BWD truly is a home grown enterprise, filled with birding lore and birding tips and birding adoration.  You can’t pick up a copy and leaf through and not be mesmerized by the gifts of love that every page represents. That Julie’s art often graces the covers is a glorious bonus.

See those owls? They’re my Fresh Pond screech owls. Oh, and I own the original art.

Am I lucky, or what?

But really, who else would believe that a blog post of mine, titled “Note To Self: Be Less Snarky,” might make good BWD copy?  JZ was convinced it would, so that was that.  She not only nudged me to agree, but she got me to overcome my hatred of the sound of my own voice, as she walked me through some tricks that I never knew my phone had up its sleeve.  And with that, BWD offers up our little article in audio form, as well as in print.  She didn’t even mind that I talk too fast!  Well, that, or she and her clever tech elves at BWD know how to slow me down, if only digitally.

Here’s the list that begat my snark, that turned into JZ’s delight, that made me see the error of my sarcastic ways and reminded me to be grateful for all the teachers in this world, Julie and Bob Stymiest in particular.  They make the world a better place. I have much to learn from them.

* * * * *

So, folks, I’m there, on the pages of the current issue (Jan/Feb 2015) of Bird Watcher’s Digest.  It’s a sweet little publication, which I seriously doubt you’ll be able to find at your local newsstand.  I suggest you hop on over to the BWD website, http://www.birdwatchersdigest.com/bwdsite/  From there you can get to a free issue preview.  Better yet, from there you can order yourself a subscription to this little homegrown oeuvre of the publishing world.  And after you’ve got one for yourself, order one for everyone you love, even if they may be only vaguely aware of the pigeons and sparrows that we share our world with.  It will be a gift that keeps on giving, I promise.

And to the woman I’m delighted to call my friend, thank you, dear Zick.  You are the very, very best.

 Every one of us has a “spark” bird, the one we saw that stopped us in our tracks, that made us seek out the beauty in the avian world.  This one, the scarlet tanager, was mine.

 

 

 

January perambulations. Or, how not to write a post.

Happy New Year, and goodbye to a blog draft whose time had come and gone, and whose subject matter was not worth resurrecting .

Spoiler alert for anyone who thinks I’m vaguely good at this writing/blogging thing.  What follows, I’m sad to say, is completely true.

Honest to goodness, I had a post ready to roll last week, and I was all ready to click on “Publish.” Then I decided to add a picture.  From there I ran into technical difficulties, and attempted to close everything down and start over (because, after all, that’s what works.) Then I saved my draft, or at least I thought I had.  Then my computer asked me, “Are you sure you want to do this?” (Note to self: check back to see what you’ve asked your computer to do next time this query pops up.)  Then I blithely clicked on “Yes,” and proceeded to power everything down.  Five minutes later,  fresh cup of coffee in hand, I turned my computer back on, and went to pop that photo into my post–argh!–only to discover that my draft had vanished.  Well, there was the sketch of an outline that I’d saved two days before, but the well crafted, honed, holding two thoughts in my head at the same time final draft?  Lost to the cybersphere.

Which I then tried to recreate.  The beginning was there, sort of.  I’d revised what followed enough times that I knew what went where, mostly.  I fumbled along, determined that I needed to breathe life into this ghost of a post.  Why?  Timing, and time was running out.  It was a Here We Are in January post, a Stopping and Taking Stock post, a Boy, Do I Ever Suck at New Year’s Resolutions post.  Then it veered into a Home Alone post, because that’s what I’ve been for the past two weeks.

Truth be told, I saved you all from an exercise in rationalization.  “No, really, these subjects belong together!” I was trying to convince myself.  Well, probably not.  So I did the really hard thing for writers to do: I killed my darling, that pretzel of a post.  It’s what I had to do, and I knew it.

Here’s one thing I know for sure: when I write, I tend to overload.  I often have multiple concepts that  seem to match up.  I always start out down the path of More is Better, and it always takes me awhile to get to More is Probably Just Unnecessarily Complicated.  Or, at the very least, More is really two subjects, and two posts.

So, I adjusted my hat and resumed my blog writing journey.  And  along the way, I’ve taken a whole bunch of walks around My Fair City.  Which is a good thing to do for many reasons, not the least of which is because my perambulations are often where I do my best editing.  It’s where I was when I knew I needed to head home, click on delete, and start over.

Here’s just a little bit of what else I saw and pondered, along the way:

Most of my walks begin by heading towards Harvard Square.  This past couple of weeks, I’ve been spending more time setting off towards Somerville.  First favorite graphic along the way is always this sign, just a few blocks from home.  I love the dress dancing with the tux. I love the body language in those two hangers.  Makes me smile every time I walk by.

How had I missed this season’s greetings ?  Fantastic!

Just beyond Kirkland Cleaners, Cambridge turns into Somerville, and Kirkland Street turns into Washington Street.  The Biscuit building has had many iterations in the three decades we’ve lived nearby. We still have two grad student-era wooden chairs that we bought there in about 1981.  Whatever goes on inside this storefront, the Italianate brackets keep lending their support.

And once you notice one…

They’re everywhere.

In all different shapes.

And all different colors.

Silly me.  I thought Cambridgeport, the section of My Fair City that lies between Central Square and the Charles River, was the capital of fantastic front porch brackets.  Since I’m far more often in my car than on foot, zipping along Somerville’s Beacon Street (which morphs into Hampshire Street), I’d been missing these beauties.  It’s amazing what you don’t see when you’re behind the wheel.

This I had noticed as I drove by.  It always made me think, “One of these days, I need to stop and take some pictures.”  It took a walk to a midday matinee of Into The Woods in Kendall Square to make this opportunity happen.  This is the sort of thing that I’m far more likely to do when I’m home alone, though I’m not sure why.

Once upon a time, this storefront offered great pottery and mosaics. Now it’s a yoga and art center.

It’s as if this little strip of front stoop mosaics jumped the sidewalk and crawled up that lightpost.

A gifted glass artist I follow on Instagram, @nutmegdesigns, commented to me that she likes to find “mosaics in the wild.”  Which is exactly what these are! Love that concept.

This is from the elegant Inman Square fire station.  You definitely have to be on foot to fully appreciate these bas-reliefs, as this is just one of three.  Together they provide a visual history of firefighting, and of the brave people who fight fires.  Along with their speedy horses.

Mayor Vellucci watches over the comings and goings of Inman Square.  He also has a spot at the table in the S&S Deli mural across the street.  He was famous, back in my college days, for wishing aloud that he could pave over Harvard Yard and use it for parking.  Or pahking, as the phrase goes.

Abandoned Christmas Trees were everywhere, during my post-holiday walks.  I couldn’t help but wonder what an individual dropped in from another culture might have thought these represented.  My college senior son says they’d probably have looked around to see where the stumps were, and wondered about that…

* * * * *

So, I’ve had time alone to wander the streets of my fair cities, and ponder what my 2015 plans might be.  I’ve delved into some of those moving boxes that I’d been putting off dealing with until later.  I’ve watched movies at odd times and woken up and read in bed in the middle of the night.  I’ve eaten Brussels sprouts and string beans for dinner, and I’ve made some sense of my grand Face the Music To-Do list.  After a year of things that I had to get through, as soon as, as soon as, as soon as, now I’m ready to forge ahead on my own agenda.  Until life interrupts, anyhow.  I’ll let you in on my objectives as they unfold.  If they unfold.  Stay tuned.

As for that post that got cyber-deep-sixed, here’s all you need to know: I’m doing reasonably well on my Go To Bed By 10:30PM New Year’s resolution, and  I’ve got a perfect score on my  Eat An Apple a Day effort.  Keeping it real, taking baby steps, hoping for other good behaviors to fall into place.  We’ll see how it goes.

Crossroads, here we come.

And tomorrow?  Welcome home, my beloved.

Boyhood to manhood, on the screen and in real life.

The first sunset of 2015, as observed driving south on I-95 from Maine.

Okay, here we are, first week of 2015, and back to something approaching normalcy.  Which in my case means being back at home, while my sweetie and the young men in my life (two sons, one nephew) have all returned to their regularly scheduled programming.  Well, Mr. College Senior is still around, but since his dorm is a short walk from home, and since both his sleeping venues are pretty much equidistant from most of his January break activities, he comes and goes at will.  And that works out just fine.  So, yes, this first week of January finds us all back to something approaching our ordinary, everyday lives.

And now, a confession: Upon returning home, whether it be from a weekend up north or a fortnight of holiday traveling hither and yon, I always like to carve out time for some a little audio/visual catching up.  Whatever I might have missed from The Daily Show or The Good Wife or Downton Abbey, whatever movie I meant to get to that’s about to disappear from the OnDemand stream, that’s my dirty little Monday re-entry habit.

But yesterday, on the first Monday back of the new year, two items competed for my online attention.  The first was Boyhood, a film which has been getting lots of Oscar buzz, and which I missed out on, back when it was in theaters. The second was a string of tragic news updates, about two ski racers who died in an avalanche in Austria. Much as I wanted to look away from those reports, I simply couldn’t.

The young men were US Ski Team hopefuls.  They were at TeamUSA’s  training base in Soelden, and they were enjoying a free ski day.  I’m guessing that the definition of  “free skiing” might be lost on anyone outside the ski racing realm, so here’s a simple explanation: free skiing is what ski racers do for fun, when they’re not racing or training.  Free skiing is pure delight.  Often, the most memorable free skiing happens when there’s simply too much snow to train or race. Which is exactly what a bunch of joyful American ski racers were up to, on a snowy day in the alps.

I don’t know what happened, beyond the fact that a slide was triggered and two individuals were caught in it. I do know that they were world-class athletes–strong, gifted, and exceedingly talented.  I know for certain they were doing what they love to do. Beyond that, I cannot account for how or why such horrific bad luck visited upon these young men.

I first learned from an Instagram post that a 19-year-old  ski racer from Utah had lost his life, and that he was one of two who had died.  I did a quick Google news search to find out who the other might be. A name popped up. My heart stopped.

The second young man was a young classmate of my older son.  His father and mother ski raced with my beloved and me, back before we all became ski racing parents.  His dad and I served together on our kids’ ski academy board of trustees. His son was recent graduate, a bright and rising star, hard working and well liked.  He loved his sport, and he put his all into it.  He delighted the people around him with his infectious humor, and with his genuine appreciation for the life he led.  He was looking forward to forerunning the speed events at the World Championships in Colorado, next month.

It hit me hard, this tragic news.  You don’t want it to happen to anyone, ever, for starters. Then you don’t want it to happen to someone you know, or someone your kids might know.  When it does happen, and the name jumps off the screen at you, it knocks you for a loop.  Like an avalanche, I suspect.  It took my breath away.

* * * * *

I ended up watching Boyhood in fits and starts over the course of last evening, and finished it up before breakfast this morning.  For any of you who aren’t familiar with it, Boyhood is, to say the least, a work of extreme film making.  The movie’s epic tale takes place over twelve years, and the scenes were shot over the same decade-plus time frame.  Twelve years of scenes and dialogue, filmed in annual snatches.  Twelve years of growing up and growing older, for the characters and actors alike.  The movie is an homage to the inexorable passage of time, framed within a screenplay fiction.

While all the characters emerge older and wiser by the movie’s end, it was the young actor, Ellar Coltrane, who most mesmerizingly evolved before my eyes.  Watching him morph from a sweet, red-cheeked grade school boy to a lanky, soulful college man, without older actors standing in for him as the story’s fictional time passes, was a source of fascination, all on its own.  In truth, the act of observing Ellar, the actor, and Madison, his character, unfurling through their co-joined adolescence made me a little uncomfortable. It’s hard not to feel like a peeping Tom, hard to not be vividly reminded that the boy on the screen really is a year older now than he was, just one scene ago.

By Boyhood’s end, our hero has learned many lessons, recovered from aching losses and survived senseless trials.  Thankfully, he’s also made it to a place where he just might thrive, just might finally make his own breakthroughs.  Boyhood ends with this boy-turned-man at the brink of adulthood, with much to look forward to.  As the credits roll, I couldn’t help but wonder: What next?  Both for the character, and for the young man who so nobly played him?

And from there, I couldn’t help but wonder what happens next, for parents of the skiers who have vanished from this world, at such a similar juncture in their young lives.  They raised their boys and launched young men, imbued with talents and hopes and dreams. I’m guessing both moms and both dads thought they’d made it through what has to be the hardest part–the adolescent, bad-judgement, peer-pressure-laden scary parenting phase. I imagine them wondering what might happen next for their talented sons, just two days ago, confident that their young men had so much more living to do.  I suspect they must have been expecting that there would be much more to cheer for, in their sons’ lives.

It’s what we all do, after all.  We raise our children from diapers to sippy cups to college apps and beyond. Then we stand by as they go out on their own, knowing that even if we wanted, our hands-on nurturing days are over.  We presume their growing up was prologue, that what they will be, who they are turning into, is still very much to come.  It’s almost impossible to imagine that it could end, so abruptly, so much too soon.

I probably would have gotten teary, watching Boyhood, whether I’d watched it today, or yesterday, or the even day before.  But watching last night and early this morning, I couldn’t help but ache for the parents of those bright alpine stars, their lives ended just as they were so full of hope and expectations, so ready to discover the answer to the “What next?” question.  My heart will long ache for those parents, those families.

As for my own twentysomething sons, I realize that I have been restricted to cheering from the sidelines for a number of years, and that I have to trust that my sons will blaze their own routes to meaningful lives.  But after yesterday, I find myself carrying a little extra bit of extra hopefulness, something approaching prayerfulness, on my sons’ behalf.  My fervent wish, to whoever or whatever might be running the show, is, simply, this:  Please keep my sons safe from circumstances beyond anyone’s control, from perfect storms that veer to the tragic, and from rotten bad luck.  Keep them safe, and let them live long enough to find out who they are meant to become.  And please, never let me forget to savor the joy in the ordinary, everyday gift of the time I get to spend with them, with its promise, if not its guarantee, of more to come.

these are a few of my favorite things

My gifts, some in brown paper bags, with a bit of string. The rest in zip lock bags…long story…

Somewhere in the whirl that kicked in around Thanksgiving and hasn’t let up since, I came upon an honest to goodness brown-paper package tied up with string.  It seemed like a time-traveler from another era–if you’ve ever been there, think Yum Yum Shop in Wolfeboro NH, back before they switched over to the stretchy plastic thingies to secure their boxed cookies.  The memories provoked by this classic Sound of Music lyrical prop have stuck with me, lo these many busy weeks.  And more than once, it has reminded me of the magic of simple things– the joy that comes with giving, and the happy anticipation of  a loved one’s  delight, which all by itself is a gift  given in return.

This being the season of gifts wrapped, one way or another, and favorite things all around, now seems like the perfect moment to devote a post to the verse I might someday add to Rogers and Hammerstein’s classic song.

First off, Harvard Square, this time of year. Magic writ in twinkly lights. Never gets old.

Next up, Christmas traditions at home, like paperwhites and advent calendars. And Santa.

A whole new source of seasonal joy, and a complete throwback to my youth: stamps from the grocery store checkout, gathered and pasted into little booklets, just like the S&H green stamps we hoarded when I was growing up. They earned me some nice new kitchenware.

Aha!  Look what I found! Those missing pages from my wedding gift Joy of Cooking!  They were keeping my sweetie’s grandma’s first edition of Peg Bracken’s I Hate to Cook Book company!

I’m loving the floors in my house these days, big time.  These rugs are the result of a bold and lucky guess, that the colors in the tiny Crate and Barrel website photo were accurate. I’m also exceedingly happy that my contractor talked us into refinishing all the wood floors, and adding radiant heat beneath the kitchen and master bath floors.  Whole new world of cozy and warm around here.

The annual carol service at Memorial Church, in Harvard Yard.  A complete gift of joyful sounds. Including the moment when Linus reminds Charlie Brown what Christmas is all about.

Love this, so much.  Always have, always will.

Pomegranate seeds.  Where were these when I was growing up?

Teeny tiny micro-sundaes from Toscanini’s.  Three bites of salted caramel ice cream, topped with homemade whipped cream and chocolate sauce.  Perfection.

The fake boxwood wreath I bought ages ago, that keeps being a willing recipient of my seasonal gee-gaws. And yeah, that Santa gets around.

I’ve always loved the old-fashioned doorbell we installed two renovations ago.  People kept pressing the lit-up electric doorbell because, well, that’s what they knew to do. But the electric doorbell finally went kaput.  So I’ve added some explanatory signage, and am now enjoying the trill of a real bell whenever our mailman needs my signature.

Greetings in the Christmas card bowl, from near and far.  Lots of wedding photos amongst the group shots.  I know it’s horribly old school, but I do love this season of envelopes dropping through the mail slot, filled with news from friends and family, across the miles and the years. A variation on brown paper packages tied up with string.

 Happy Holidays, one and all.

a holiday tradition, almost run amuck

Tis the season…

I can’t remember exactly when baking gingerbread cookies became a December ritual for me. It didn’t start in my youth, since none of the cookies that came out of our family kitchen involved rolling pins or icing, that I recall. Honestly, now that I think about it, while we kids liked to make the standard Nestles tollhouse cookies from the recipe on the chocolate chip bag, my mother preferred cookies that came from the bakery in Camden: walnut shortbread with a dollop of chocolate, date-filled sandwiches, butterscotch treats. She bought those by the boxful, then hid them in the freezer on the front porch.   During my high school years, when fundraisers called for edible wares, I favored no-bake chocolate concoctions over actual baked goods. They were fudge for the faint of heart, with lots of peanut butter and oatmeal thrown in to hold the messy lumps together until they cooled off on sheets of wax paper. They sold like hotcakes at bake sales, despite not actually being baked.

 Why two copies you ask? Read on…

Like everyone I knew back then, I grew up in a kitchen that had a copy of Irma Rombauer’s The Joy of Cooking on the cookbook shelf. My mother’s copy was just like her mother’s, including instructions on best practices for skinning rabbits and squirrels. That 25^th anniversary edition was kept close at hand for the calorie lists as much as for cooking instruction, I suspect. Probably more, since my mom’s culinary repertoire consisted nearly exclusively of meals she already knew how to make.

 Honestly, this has nothing to do with my cookie story.  Except to point out that the Lorna Doone was born and raised in My Fair City.

* * * * *

Fast forward to sometime after my beloved and I had moved out of our little condo to a home with more counter space, and that’s approximately when my gingerbread tradition began. I have a vague memory of testing various recipes during my most adventurous cooking era, post-college and pre-kids. Martha Stewart was just getting a foothold in our creative conscience, which likely amped up my desire to produce something a little more lovely than those no-bake fudgy oatmeal drops. Again, the vague memories…somehow it seems like it might have been a less-than-stellar Martha Stewart gingerbread recipe (not the first substandard recipe of hers I encountered, just saying) that propelled me to look elsewhere for more trustworthy instructions. So I delved into my own copy of The Joy of Cooking (a wedding gift from a college friend whose mother also had a copy, I’m guessing) and found Irma Rombauer’s classic gingerbread recipe. Once found, I never looked back.

Perfection.  Thank you, Irma Rombauer.

Never looked back, until yesterday, that is.

 This is where six pages have gone missing…

Alas and alack. Because right about here is where I should be posting a photo of my well-worn gingerbread recipe page, complete with my handwritten marginalia about using white sugar, not brown, and using Grandma’s (the brand, not my mother’s mother’s) molasses, the “robust” variety with the green label, not the regular yellow label version. But somewhere over the past summer of packing and moving and construction and relocation—yep, you guessed it, that critical recipe disappeared. Not the entire of my Joy of Cooking cookbook, curiously; just the chunk of pages from the “Cookies and Bars” section that had worked itself loose from the binding. That little packet of cookery info had come to a semi-permanent resting spot in my Plexiglas cookbook holder on the kitchen counter. Now, after turning all my cookbooks and folders of clipped recipes upside down and inside out, all I can find is the gap between pages 705 to 712, and no recollection around where I might have stashed pages 706 to 711. Which is to say, I couldn’t put my hands on my go-to, tried and true, best in all categories gingerbread recipe. Help!

Egads!  What will I fill those tins with, if I don’t have the recipe?

Embarrassing fact: I can’t remember the recipe, even though I’ve made at least 100 batches of Joy of Cooking gingerbread cookies. By which I mean I’ve made at least 200 batches, because I always double the recipe. Always a whole stick of butter, always 7 cups of flour. That much I know by heart. But standing in my kitchen, without a reliable notion around the exact quantities required for the remaining ingredients, left me with nothing but a big blank thought bubble hanging over my head. How much molasses and sugar? How many teaspoons of baking soda? Cloves? Cinnamon, ginger, salt? I could guess, but I wouldn’t be sure.

I was lost. And in no adventurous mood to try a couple iterations and see how they might turn out. I needed my stalwart recipe, and I needed it pronto.

So I started with Google, searching on Joy of Cooking, gingerbread men. Simple enough. But I kept not quite landing on the recipe I knew by heart, if only I had it in front of me. Little quirks abounded—wrong amount of butter, calls for brown sugar, not white, and eggs, at all—my gingerbread dough requires no eggs.   Curiously, for all that the world wide web offers, I couldn’t for the life of me turn up the page I needed.

So what next? Well, I did what you do if you live where I live. I walked into Harvard Square. Surely, surely, either the venerable Harvard Book Store (a delightful independent book seller not affiliated with the university) or the Harvard Coop (an ancient cooperative turned department store with a particularly excellent book section) would have a copy of Irma’s Joy. How could they not?

A bookstore that doubles as a speaker venue. What’s not to love?

First stop, since it’s a tad closer to home, was the cookbook section at Harvard Book Store. I figured the Rombauer classic would be in their category of texts to always have at least one copy of in stock, and I was not disappointed. Amused, a bit, that the latest printing is the 75^th anniversary iteration, fifty years beyond my mother’s edition, and confident that my search had ended successfully. But just to be sure, I sat in my favorite little HBS reading nook to peruse Joy’s Cookies and Bars section.

Sorry, lousy photo taken on the sly.  Trust me, there’s no good news here.

Ahem. What’s this? The diamond jubilee Joy of Cooking edition gingerbread recipe starts out thusly: “In a medium (2-quart) saucepan, melt 1 cup (two sticks! Plus my exclamation point) butter or margarine.”

Oh, hell. They’d changed the recipe! Rombauer et al. had deep-sixed their original and gone with a new version, apparently the brainchild of a cookbook author and baking teacher whose name I shall not mention. She lost me at “melt.” Then she lost me again at “or margarine.”

Seriously. What serious baker thinks butter and margarine are interchangeable?

I would have gone into a serious funk right about then, had I not remembered that the Harvard Book Store has a robust used book section in its cavernous basement. This would surely be a place where I could put my hands on the version I needed, no melting or butter substitutes allowed. So down to the lower level I headed, fingers crossed.

Oh happy day!  The recipe I needed, in paperback, no less, further reducing my financial outlay.  A second-hand steal in my book.  So to speak.

And so, here I am, back in business. And inclined to commit those quantities of dry goods to memory, just in case. That, and perhaps copy them down and paste them into one of my new kitchen cabinets.

Who knows? Maybe after I’m done making gingerbread cookies,  I’ll skin a squirrel.

So much to be thankful for

Beauty everywhere.  Look up, look down, look all around.

Days like today remind me how lucky I am, and how much I have to be thankful for.

Here’s just a few visuals for this Thanksgiving Day, of the things in my life that bring me joy:

Lamp lights, clock lights, and holiday lights, in this darkest time of year.

Old favorite books, like friends lined up on their shelves.

Oak trees that hold fast to their foliage, all winter long.

Concerts by well-dressed performers, right down the street.

Lovely neighbors of all architectural styles.

A glorious museum nearby, free to all with a library card from Our Fair City.

Owls in the art (this by Jamie Wyeth, at the MFA) and owls on my walks.

Sunsets that demand I dash up to the roof to fully take them in.

A local Donut Emergency Squad at the ready.

A nice warm home, well renovated and well lit, ready to enfold my loved ones and their friends.

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all.

Horrible photo, but I can’t resist.  That’s the view out my bedroom window, from last night. Memorial Church in the background, behind the lights of the design school closer by.  Oh, and that lump in the tree,  tail feathers sticking down, just above and to the right of the Mem Church steeple? A wild urban turkey, hunkered down on a snowy Thanksgiving Eve. Stay safe, bud.

The light this time of year, yet again

The light this time of year.  Golden and lovely and gone too soon.

My first job, post-college, began in the autumn, the year I turned 22.  Needless to say, I was new to the whole workday commuter routine when that first Monday after the end of Daylight Saving’s Time arrived.  And every autumn since that year, when the reminders pop up about setting the clocks back, I think of that long ago late afternoon–sitting at my desk and watching the sun set and the street lights flicker on, hours before quitting time. And me, blinking back unbidden tears.

Because here’s what I also distinctly remember realizing, on that first dark workday Monday–I’d spent nearly every moment of the available daylight indoors, at my desk, on the phone, in a meeting.  It was a first brush with the reality of working life that I didn’t much care for.  I was an outdoor girl, after all, small town and sporty. I hadn’t expected to end up in a city, riding subways, living in a dingy apartment on the back side of Beacon Hill.  Until that particular “Fall Back” Monday, I’d never faced the notion of an entire day without a moment to at least feel the sun on my face. I remember wondering if I’d ever be old enough to not be taken by surprise by the Monday in November when the the sun started setting around tea time.

Sometimes, when I’m not expecting it, I catch that last light, shining in, upstairs.

Well, here I am, lo these many years later.  And I have to say, it still shocks me, that first post-daylight-savings Monday evening.  The Sunday sunset, the night before, slips by unnoticed somehow, but when the sky goes gray around 4:30 on Monday–ouch. It’s just so abrupt, so definitive.  A week ago, you could see where you were going, you could go for a bike ride, you could make dinner without turning the lights on.  This week–boom.

Yes, the shock remains.  But what I’ve gotten better at, over the years, is coping with the dark. I’ve learned, for instance, that it pays to make excuses to be outside while the sun is setting.  If I’m fully aware of the sun slipping away, I can make peace with its early exit.   It’s a whole world better than just glancing up from a phone call or an email, and realizing that the light left while I was otherwise engaged.

Between the sun low in the sky and our new greenhouse kitchen window, I’m getting new shadows in the oddest places.  Odd and delightful.  Those are silhouettes of my $5.00 orchids.

Anyhow, that’s my plan, these days.  Get out while the getting is good.  Be one with the sun.

Here’s just a little of what I’ve seen, this first fortnight back on Eastern Standard Time:

This shot was dumb luck.  I walked to Porter Square and missed the bus heading back to Harvard Square.  It was one of those sunsets that didn’t hold much promise at first, lots of low clouds, probably wouldn’t amount to anything…and then, wow.

Twice last week I dropped everything to get to Mount Auburn Cemetery for a quick walk before the sun set.  That, and to get in and out before the gates close, at 5PM.  I took this photo at about 4:45, and all but needed a headlamp to make my way out before the sky had gone from pink to black.

Here’s  an image from a bonus visit to Mt. Auburn, courtesy of an errand in nearby Watertown (Bon Ton Rug Cleansers, remember them?) and a chance encounter with an open gate on the far side of the cemetery.  The long shadows, the carpet of Japanese maple leaves–achingly beautiful in that light. A lovely calm carmine puddle of autumn foliage, before the wind and the maintenance guys intruded.

Aha!  The silver lining to these dark late afternoons.  If you get up early enough, the light paints wonderful morning landscapes and cityscapes.  Worth peeling out ahead of the rest of the world, to see the day dawn. Which happens an hour later than it did in October!

* * * * *

Bottom line: there may be less of it, but the light this time of year–the gold light through yellow leaves, the sun low in the sky and brilliant early and late–is its own gift.  You’ve just got to make sure to get out in it, and soak it up.

things I notice along the way

Everybody sees foliage.  Am I the only one who notices foliage prints on my windshield and hood?

I don’t know why, but things tend to present themselves to me in recurring bunches: from finding people’s wallets on my Sunday morning walks, to seeing silhouette after silhouette of roadside foliage that happened to be in the way when the line painters came through, to discovering headstones with a long-ago birth date and a dash, but no death date—that sort of thing. I can’t account for how these random items repeatedly end up on my radar, but it’s always amusing to see what comes after my awareness has been heightened with a first observation, the one that opens the floodgates.

This sort of thing.  Who else does that lack of an end date jump out at, besides me?

Seriously.  You see the first leaf silhouette, then dozens more pop up. This was a particularly artistic pine cone shadow.

I remember watching a documentary (the one on HBO a few years back, about birding in Central Park, if you happened to see it) where a late-to-the-game birdwatcher described the difference from his life before, when he’d cross the park only vaguely aware of pigeons and sparrows, and his life after, once his sister had introduced him to the creatures he’d been missing. “It was as if the trees had been decorated with bird ornaments, but they’d been invisible to me, because I’d never known to look for them them before.” There’s a special bonus when you discover the little wonders that are hiding in plain sight.

See that shadow of the out-of-the-frame skyscraper?  Well, I do…

Noticing: being aware, searching for details, paying attention–these are skills and gifts, simultaneously. They require some slowing down, plus a willingness to not be so ambitious about multi-tasking. I used to plug in and listen to music or NPR on my weekend morning perambulations; I wouldn’t think of it now, for fear of missing the cry of a kingfisher or fledgling red tail hawk. There’s a delight in the possibility of encountering the unexpected that trumps the value of doing two things at once. That, plus I’ve pretty much convinced myself that I really do have time to do one thing at a time. Or maybe, as my mental wiring frays,  I function usefully only when I’m not trying to two things simultaneously. Whatever the cause, I feel like I’ve returned to a place that I occupied when I was very young, back when I lived for this time of year. Because autumn was when drives up north provided long stretches where I could stare out the  window of our station wagon, peering through the naked woods, sure that if I paid attention and was very lucky, I might see something magical.

* * * * *

Here’s the thing about things you didn’t used to notice that start popping up all over: you can’t un-see them. Which sometimes leads to a heightened awareness of things that make it hard not to worry about the state of the world. There’s the panhandlers in Harvard Square, the acid rain damage on those headstones, the missing immature night herons from this summers’ Black Nook offerings. What happened? What changed, to make an environment uninhabitable, unwelcoming, disintegrating? You can’t not wonder, once you’ve start noticing.

So tiny, I thought it was a baby something or other.  Such pretty tail feathers. Sigh.

And now, this. An outgrowth of my ramped up attention to the birds is the fact that I have started noticing particularly beautiful ones lying on the ground. The first was on my back porch, a victim, I’m sad to report, of our professionally squeaky cleaned windows. My poor friend JZ got my inevitable cell phone photo with the message, “What was this?” She knows birds like nobody’s business, and she always shoots messages right back. “Ruby Crowned Kinglet,” she replied in a trice, “Fluff up the feathers on the top of his head.” She admitted she likes to investigate such things; I’m a little more squeamish. But boy, it was a beauty, that little kinglet.

The Chrysler Building was mesmerizing.  How did I even notice what was right by my feet?

A week later, sigh once more. I surely wasn’t expecting to encounter any fauna while I was walking in the concrete canyons of midtown Manhattan. I was looking skyward, enjoying the view of  my all-time favorite skyscraper, lit up in autumn’s late afternoon glory.  How I managed to take that view in and this sad sidewalk vignette, I’m not sure.  But I did.

I mean, honestly.  What were the chances that the first woodcock I ever saw would be on a sidewalk in NYC?

As usual, I took a photo and shot it off to JZ.  As usual, she reported back posthaste. Poor little creature, a victim of those shiny windows, just trying to get from summer home to winter home.  On the train ride back to Boston, I did a little google research.  “Woodcock displays are given at dawn, dusk, and all night when the moon is full. Male rises in the air in wide circles.  After he reaches about 50 ft., his wings start to make a twittering sound as he flies higher.  At 200-300 ft. the twittering stops and he gives a canary-like flight song while starting a zigzag descent.”  Somehow, knowing that that creature was capable of such dramatic displays  both amazed and saddened me.  I found myself hoping that this remarkable woodcock had at least gotten a pleasant stopover in Central Park, on his great migratory trek. I suspected that such displays don’t take place en route from here to there, but still, I fervently hoped that this bird had had his moment to shine.

Okay, true fact: I’d prefer to be oblivious to dead birds in my daily life.  But that’s the thing–once you start noticing, these things stick.  And beyond thinking that it’d be okay if a decade or so went by before we get around to having professionals come around to our house to clean up our windowpanes, I don’t know what to do with this phenomenon that I’ve become altogether too aware of.

It turns out that being observant is both a gift and a burden.  The little things can make my day, and can also make me weep.  Being aware can cause sleepless nights.  But somehow, being aware makes me feel more alive, and more actively human.  And lord knows it can be both a gift and a burden, to live life keenly, to pay attention, to not turn away or mute the realities before us.  Which, I suspect, is a small price to pay for the moments that make our hearts soar.

Some people say the devil’s in the details.  Some say God.  I suspect it’s a bit of both. Either way, I’m planning to keep paying attention.

A little bit of quartz that repeats in the new granite curb in front of the Fogg Art Museum.  I’d like to think someone hand picked that slab of stone for the beauty of this vein, echoing down the sidewalk. Probably not…