Frosty morning

Over the last few months I have neglected my daily exercise routine.  After stepping on the scales a few weeks ago, I was not surprised, nor delighted to see that the pounds I had so diligently shed in the last year are slowly creeping back.  The one thing I knew I had to do was...hit the trail again, and make it a priority.

I waited until gun season was over and started the next morning bright and early.

Some observations.  It takes quite a few layers of clothing when I start my routine as the sun is peeping over the southeast horizon.  But as the minutes up and down the hill pass by, the layers come off one by one until I am striding along in sweatshirt and gloves.  Quite a sizable pile has grown in that spot where I leave my water bottle and pause to take a deep breath or two before I resume my walk.

Frost is everywhere.  It covers the grass, the weeds, the road.  And the rising sun adds to the beauty of it all.  Nothing like a diamond strewn net of frost on the pasture grass to bring a smile to your heart.

Sometimes the wind is fierce.  It feels good on my face when I warm up climbing the steeper part of the hill.  My fingers, that were basically freezing, even begin to thaw as I walk a little faster.  I really relish moving against the wind.  When I move into the shelter of the tree-lined road the contrast is remarkable.

I am glad that I can take this time early in the day to walk.  I see so many things that are new to me.  What is the name of that plant?  What kind of hawk is that, soaring high and then dropping low just beyond the walnut tree?  Where does the squirrel that just hopped over that nearby branch have his nest?

I welcome each new day.   It is truly a gift to me.  Thankfully, I walk on. 

Frost Flowers

It came a few nights ago.  We had been expecting it for some time now.  The first hard frost of the season.  Putting on  long underwear and heavy coat, and pulling on thick woolen socks to wear under  heavy boots, I was prepared.

Bright morning sun glinted with a million diamonds shining in the grass as I went down to the southeast corner to see this wonderful sight.

Frost flowers, rabbit butter, various names for the same thing.  I had scouted out the area in the weeks before the hard frost.  I saw where the frost weed grew in abundance with thick stems and space around them.  It had rained a few days before and I knew what would happen when the temperature fell below freezing.

It is hard to capture such lovely, delicate works of nature.  The frozen sap curls out from the broken stems in fantastic shapes.  It is so very fragile that you are almost afraid to step near it lest you shatter it into a thousand pieces.

Early morning sees the best examples of this art by Nature.  The sun soon warms the ground and leaves around the frozen beauty and it doesn't last long.

I never tire of looking at frost flowers.  No two are alike.  Some are tall and thin.  Others squat and fat.  But all are a miracle. 

It is truly amazing what Nature can do with a little cold snap and weeds that burst to form an exquisite sculpture that no man could ever make.

  

November Thoughts

The colder temperatures that November brings send me to the closet to get my heavier coat.  I sit on the porch, first finding the place where the sun will warm me as I look out over the hill.

My constant companion, the oak tree, now wears little of its autumn finery.  A few bronze leaves hang on it lower branches.  But all below are piles of crumpled,crinkled leaves where birds hunt and find seeds and other things to eat.  A bluebird perches on a limb, high up and lofty.  I don't know what he is looking for, but soon he swoops and flies away seeking a more worthwhile place to hunt for food perhaps.

Silence.  Silence is what I hear.  Gone is the nesting chatter of the spring and early summer.  Even the hawks and buzzards have forsaken my hill for greener pastures and climes. 

The grass lies thick and verdant below me.  And under it I know the mice and little voles are scampering around finding places to hide from the sharp eyes of the hawks.  Pale remains of beautiful summer and fall flowers stand stark and ebon against the blue sky.  The frost of the past nights has put an end to their blooming beauty.  And all that remains are the memories of flaming color and scent.

Deer roam at will at dusk and early dawn.  They bed down in the far reaches, down where the pasture is remote from human eyes.  They venture forth, timidly at times, and sniff the air.  If we stand very still they do not know that we are looking at them.  And then they gracefully walk away, down to the timber where they find food in abundance.

Even the air has the feeling of expectation in it.  The wind blows fitfully at times.  It tears at the scarf around my neck and then moves on  to eddy the leaves that pile around the hickory tree.  Squirrels seem to have found their nests now.  They venture forth every now and then and pick a walnut up, peel it with their teeth, and rush to bury it under the soft and yielding ground.  Will they find it this winter, under snow and rime of frost?  Sometimes they do and then they run back to the cover of the trees to feast on their buried treasure. 

Melancholy seems to tint my horizon at this time of year.  Winter is coming.  Am I ready?  Am I ready to give up the warm comfort of glowing fall days when a sweatshirt was all I needed to keep away the chill of the wind?  Am I ready to see the last glimmer of daylight flee from the slope of the hill, bringing night so soon?  I am such a creature of habit.  I love the longer twilights.  I miss the sweet scent of ripe grass and flowering trees.

November is here.  I mourn the passing of summer and fall.  And still in me there is the sense that winter will bring its own rewards.  Hopefully I look to the tree and know that it will be there in spring, ready to put on  fresh greenery again.  Always there is the promise of better days ahead.  And I am content with that thought. 

Contemplation

This is my spot.  I sit here in the sunny corner of my porch and look out over the nearby hills and let my mind wander.  Sometimes I pray.  Sometimes I sing.  Sometimes I just sit.

I remember a story that was in one of the reading books that I taught from long ago.  The story was about a little boy who lived in an apartment with his parents and several brothers and sisters.  He didn't have any place to go where he could be alone.  His mother wisely showed him a corner of one of the rooms that had a window in it.  She invited him to make that corner his own.  And he did.  He sat there at his little table and drew pictures, wrote stories, read books.  But sometimes he just sat there.  His brothers and sisters knew to leave him alone when he was there in his own corner.  

I guess this little story reminds me of my situation.  I am not a solitary person.  I love being around people.  But sometimes I enjoy a little solitude.  So I have my very own little corner.

It is amazing the things that I can accomplish just sitting there in my chair for a half hour or so.  I usually don't bring my computer or book or sewing with me.  It is a time when I can reflect and plan and dream of what I want to do in the next hour, day, or year.  But mainly I try to switch off my brain and just soak up the beauty I see right there before me.  It is hard to put into words.  Mainly because there are no words that fit this kind of reverie.

When we planned our house we didn't know we were going to have a porch that went all the way around four sides.  Something in my being spoke to me and told me that I would need that space to really enjoy life up here on the hill.

And so I made my very own little corner, where I can be alone.  With the world stretched out before me.  Wouldn't trade it for anything.

 

 

Log House

This picture was taken a long, long time ago.  Andy and I made the six-hour trip from Rushville Illinois to the Irish Wilderness several times a year.  We were building a house to live in.  The wonderful part was that it was already there when we bought the property.  We just didn't know it.  The logs for our house were enclosed in the old barn on the place.  And when we asked Clyde Simpson, who sold us the place, where they came from he told us they were from a house that was down by Brawley Spring near the Eleven Point River.  How excited we were to have some history to go with them.  We spent most of one summer taking down the old barn and carefully hauling the logs, mostly balanced on a wheelbarrow, up the hill to the house site.  We made poles to slide the logs up into position.  It took a lot of work but by November of that year we were able to pose in front of the shell of our new home.

We camped in an old Army tent during the summer.  But when November came we put a very small shelter made with barn wood together, moved a small wood stove in there and were toasty and warm. 

By the next summer we were ready to put on the roof and neighbors came for the day to help us.  Don't know what we would have done without them. Windows and a door came next.  And before long, we had a house.

We moved to the Wilderness in early summer the next year.  With a six-month old baby.  And all of our possessions in the back of a blue and white GMC truck.

Even though my new house is not logs and doesn't have the history that the log house did, I have that same happy feeling when I drive up the lane.  It looks familiar to me.  Home is home.  Wherever it may be.