by jphilo | Oct 11, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
For the past two weeks, we’ve been wallowing in a glorious Indian summer, the longest and warmest in years. Not only a prolonged warm stretch, but a dry stretch as well, the first since early June. We’ve been making up time lost to the summer’s rain and floods – grilling every chance we get, turning off the furnace, opening the windows, working in the yard.
And I’ve been walking a new route in the mornings, going farther than usual on these mild October mornings, exploring paths inaccessible much of the year because of heat, wind, rain or snow. In this brief window of perfect weather, with the horizon a golden halo of trees, I push past the comfort of normal routine. I push the limits of my body and the limits of time available to spend. I store up time outdoors on these last warm days before cold weather hits.
Most mornings deer greet me, where their path to water crosses the walking path. They eye me nervously. So I freeze, pull out my camera, snap away, then inch forward one slow step after another, snapping pictures until the deer turn tail and run. Down the steep bank they fly, to the water at the bottom of a steep ravine. I marvel at their sure-footedness, their grace and beauty, the brilliantly colored trees surrounding them, the music of the rushing water where they drink. I shiver in the chill air as dawn walks beside me.
If I could choose one moment for time to stand still, this would be the one.
An Indian summer morning. A blessing from God.
by jphilo | Sep 13, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Starting in March, the weather in these parts has been about two weeks ahead of schedule. Nobody minded the jump on spring or summer, but in August this eager beaver weather pattern became disconcerting. Whoever heard of the corn firing in August? For those of you unfamiliar with the term, rest assured that “fired corn” will not add to our nation’s unemployment rate. It means the corn is no longer green and growing, but starting to turn brown, from the bottom up. When the corn “fires,” harvest is not far behind.
And whoever heard of the soybean fields brown and dry before the middle of September? But that’s what greeted me on my morning walk today. An entire soybean field soft and tawny, the wind rustling the brown, dead leaves and rattling the beans inside their hard, fuzzy pods.
Though the weather was perfect – bright sunshine in a blue sky, the temperature cool but not chilly, the breeze soft, the air fresh – I grew increasingly uneasy as I passed by the rows of beans. Too early, I kept thinking. Too early. And if fall is early, what about winter? Will it be early, too? Are we in for a bad winter again? I don’t like winter. I hate winter. Please not another long winter. Please.
I was almost past the field when a splash of purple caught my eye. At the edge of the field, a green vine resplendent with purple blossoms, twined its way up a beanstalk. The purple blossoms fluttered in the breeze. Their faces raised toward the sun, white centers glowing in the light, they clung tenaciously to life.
I stopped and looked at them, then walked on until the wind rustled and whispered. They won’t be here long. So I pulled out my camera, retraced my steps and went back to capture their sweet, smiling faces.
Winter is coming, it’s true. It could be early. It could be hard. It could be ugly. But today, the wind reminds me, there is beauty to enjoy.
by jphilo | Aug 17, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
I am so jealous of our new swarm of neighbors. The Ants began digging their new digs over the weekend, and in a few short days their house was finished. Never mind that they tacky-fied the neighborhood, plopping their house a mere three feet from our kitchen door. Never mind that their six inch wide dirt hut is nothing to write home about.
The salient point is this: they finished their entire to do list in one measly weekend. They have check marks beside every single item in their teeny, tiny day planners. Mine, though I’ve been diligently digging through messes for more than a week, has almost none. No wonder I am green with envy. Making check marks in my planner is one of life’s greatest pleasures, and so far the new neighbors are having all the fun.
To be honest, I’m also in a mild state of panic since coming home from the MOPS Convention. Call me delusional, but I thought there would be time in August to research my new book, what with the weddings over, speaking engagements tapering off, and the nest empty.
What a wacky notion!
Between post-wedding piles, after-travel follow up, basement flood control, visiting Mom, and helping at the new church building, book research is moving at a snail’s pace. As a result, my panic meter is reading higher every day.
If this book is ever to get written, I’ll have to act like the Ants. I’ll need to ignore everything except the task at hand. I’ll have to be single-minded, highly focused, perhaps even slightly rude when people presume upon my time. If I don’t, my panic meter will blow a gasket. So the new me begins right now.
Well, maybe this afternoon. Definitely by evening. Right after I make cookies for the new neighbors, the Ants. Can’t have them thinking I’m struggling with Ant Envy.
by jphilo | Aug 3, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Having reached the ripe, old age of fifty-four, I like to think age and experience have given me a wealth of common sense. Having learned a goodly number of life lessons the hard way, there are certain things I just don’t do anymore because I know better.
I know better than to don my swim suit and go boating in the heat of a bright, August day without slathering on the sunscreen. So could someone explain why I merely applied (as opposed to slathered) sunscreen Sunday afternoon? And could someone explain why I am now sporting the mother of all sunburns on parts of my anatomy which shall remain nameless?
I also know better than to keep walking in the rain after the first flash of lightning, no matter how far away the lightning is. So could someone explain why, armed with my metal umbrella, I kept walking yesterday morning, even as the lightning flashed, albeit weakly? And could someone explain why I was three miles from home when the lightning picked up strength and I found myself uttering my most ridiculous prayer ever? Yes God, I’ve always wanted curly hair, but not today. Not like this.
Finally, after twenty-five years as an elementary teacher, I know better than to say any of the following to ten-year-olds in a recess line:
- Stop bouncing your balls.
- Hang onto your balls.
- Quit playing with your balls.
So could somebody tell me why I snapped this photo in the park (during yesterday’s lightning storm) and felt compelled to title today’s post Soggy Balls Litter High School Tennis Court?
Unless and until one of you comes up with a more sensible explanation, I’m blaming my lapse of common sense on post-wedding let down. And until my common sense returns, I’ll render myself harmless by bathing in sunscreen on sunny days, wearing a rubber wet suit during thunderstorms, and duct taping my mouth shut and my typing fingers together in the presence of spherical objects.
Sounds like a common sense solution to me.
by jphilo | Jun 25, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
With the daughter’s wedding only 22 days away (she announces the count daily after the young lovers tear another link off their respective paper chains during phone calls), life is a tidal wave of urgent tasks to be completed. Yesterday I crested one of the biggest waves of remaining tasks and gratefully floated down the far side, thinking to myself, “Maybe I can take more than a metaphorical dip in the water tomorrow. Maybe I can go to the pool.”
But no.
A second tyrant, which has been taunting me every morning for the past week, reared it’s ugly head. Just across the fence, the cherries on our neighbor’s tree ripened to a juicy pickable red. My inner voice shouted the truth. There is no time for picking cherries. Day after day I listened to the voice, and day after day I ignored the tempting little red devils.
Until the robins started picking the tiny gems and throwing them on our driveway. That was too much. I marched into the house, called the neighbor, and left a message requesting permission to pick the cherries before the birds got them all. Last night, he stopped by and said, “Go ahead.”
Once again, the tyranny of the urgent swept me away. No way were the birds going to get all the cherries! I marched to the tree, picked a bucketful, pitted the suckers and froze two quarts of cherries before bedtime. This morning, I repeated the whole schpeel and froze five more quarts, cresting the wave at about noon. Which means the rest of my work probably won’t get done in time for a trip to the pool.
The worst thing is, the tree’s still full of cherries, too far up for this chicken to reach with a stepladder. So for the next few mornings, the birds will still bomb our driveway, the sparkling red devils will continue to their merciless taunt, and my inner voice will continue to shout the truth. There is no time to pick more cherries. The mother of the bride doesn’t need a broken leg. Go to the swimming pool instead.
Tomorrow, I’ll close my eyes when I walk by the cherry tree. And if it doesn’t rain, I’m listening to my inner voice. See you at the pool.
by jphilo | May 31, 2010 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
It rained last night, after a week of unseasonably hot and windy weather. Though the flower beds looked good – the peonies heavy with blooms, the iris all sweet perfume and color, the daisies cheerful and crowded along the west fence – the ground was rock hard beneath them. I gave in to gardener worry. Am I going to have to water every day between now and Anne’s wedding on July 11. Will the flowers be past their prime by then? Will the lawn be brown and crunchy?
Yesterday, as my worries escalated, storm clouds gathered in the west and north. The sky grew dark, the temperature dropped, lightning flashed, thunder boomed, and the rain came. Not in sheets, but in showers, all through the night. Enough to wash away the dust on every leaf and blossom, enough to put the hose to rest at least for Memorial Day.
The air was fresh and cool along the gravel road while I walked, everything the bright green that comes after rain and lightning. The birds sang as my spirit drank in the beauty, and I wondered why God has allowed us to live in such loveliness when so many go without it.
I walked up the driveway, and the sweetness of the daisies welcoming the sun as it peeked over the treetops made my heart swell with gladness. Are the raindrops still clinging to them? Could I find one and take a picture?
I approached them hopefully, and immediately saw one droplet tenaciously clinging to a flower. Then I checked the fence to see if there were more, but no. Just one, out of hundreds of blossoms. Just one.
God, you have heard my prayer and answered with undeserved grace yet again. You have made me brave to presume upon your kindness once again. We need just one bright day in July, not too hot and not too humid. When I called, You provided one raindrop on one daisy out of hundreds. Could you give my sweet daughter and her husband one day? Just one?
