Real Time

While we were at a local college to hear some fiddle music yesterday we came across this sundial.  It is situated front and center as you come to the front door of the main building on campus.  I paused to look at it.   I have seen sundials in the past.  Andy even told me that the upright piece that sheds the shadow on the numbers is called a gnomon.  We compared the time on the sundial and the time on our cell phone.  The cell showed 11:45...the sundial 10:45.  I know you can't see it, but the left edge of the sun's shadow in just a quarter increment before the line denoting 11.

I began to think about how we have adjusted the laws of the universe to our own convenience  here in this modern time.  Centuries ago when men came up with a way of marking years and seasons and days and hours, they depended on the sun and the moon and the position of stars in the sky.  The world they lived in made them aware of what was happening...or about to happen.  Harvest.  Winter.  Planting time.  Eat.  Sleep.  Work.  Play.  Simple yet effective.  The world got along very well with what to us, are crude measures of time.

I am not a farmer.  Never have been.  And I never will be.  But one thing I do know.  When the clocks are set ahead in the spring and back in the fall, it does not make any difference when you milk your cows or go out to plow your field or plant your crops.   Our universal life is still ruled by the sun rising in the morning and setting in the evening.  The stars show us season and the moon marks the months.  

Living where I do I am much more in tune with what is happening outside.  When the sun streams in my east window, it is time to get up.  When the warm rays beat down over my head it is time to eat my mid day meal.  And when that blazing orb sets over the western horizon and paints the trees with crimson...it is time to put away the tools and make ready for the night.  And when I search the heavens for the marked constellations ,which I am slowly learning...I look forward to the month ahead and what it will bring.

Yes, there are certain advantages to living in "real time". 

All things Easter...all things spring

Here is an ancient photo taken from my secret vault.  My brother Paul..he must have been around 3 plus...and I was nearly 9 months, sitting in the side yard of 711 North Center Ave. waiting for my mom to take our Easter picture. You can see the shadow of her in the foreground... I can imagine her aiming the old Kodak camera after capturing our faces in the top view finder.  

Looking out over my expanse of green and growing pasture today my mind wanders back to springtime and Easter in my Illinois hometown.  I see a box near me and Paul is holding his Easter basket in his lap.  He didn't quite know what to think of his baby sister by this time.  The new had worn off and he really didn't feel like being a big brother. The pink bonnet I am wearing went the way of many things..sold at our auction a few years ago.  It was pink corduroy and lined with pink silk...when I found it in my mother's things it was a little crumpled and creased..and the lining was ripped.  But still it was a keepsake...and one of Mom's sacred objects, or SO's as she fondly called them.

But back to Easter.  We always had a Easter basket, hidden in the yard, for us to find after church was over.  I look out over my fields and woods and can imagine where I might hide an egg or two for a child to find...hunting and happily finding one here and there.  My parents didn't really hide eggs...they went in for the  "Let's put all the candy and stuff together in a nest of green cellophane grass and put it outside...where the kids can tear into it and not get their good clothes dirty crawling around."

Spring and Easter.  New things growing.  Hope abundant.  No matter how old..or young you are, Easter and spring meld together, the perfect metaphor for that Eternal Promise we all have. A  Happy and Blessed Easter to you and yours.  Take lots of pictures.  Kids are only young once.

Spring is calling...

I know that it is still early in the year to be looking for spring.  But I hear it calling.  I see it coming.  Every day the sun rises earlier and sets later.  Mist hangs more gently in the valley.  The wind has a definite softness to it, the sharp bite of ice is gone.

Everywhere we look we see jonquils and daffodils, some lining the former paths of houses long gone, some planted only recently on new ground.  How forgiving and generous these yellow flowers are.  They pop up in ditches and fence rows where they have been pushed aside by huge machines that weren't able to crush their plucky spirit.  Hooray, they seem to say.  Here's the sun.  Here is our time to bloom and smile and lend some hope to a winter-weary world.

Don't you know that long ago, when farm wives and early settlers saw these signs of spring-to-come, they smiled and felt a lifting of their spirits.  The long and dark days of winter are almost over.  The rains will come and the land turn green.  The birds will build their nests in high and arching trees.  The redbud will brighten the hills and the dogwood will bless the valleys with sweet blossoms.

Spring is calling.  And soon it will be here.

Wash day....

Monday has always been wash day for me.  One of the perks of living up on the hill is hanging the clothes out on the line that I string between my south-facing porch posts.  Andy installed screw eyes  on each one and I can extend the line around to the west if need be.

On cool days I go out the south door and sniff.  Any smoke in the air means that I will need to wait awhile until it clears.  Fresh and smoke free wash is what I want.

What a joy it is to hang each sheet and towel up and see it flapping in the wind.  Sturdy clothespins hold them tight to the line until they dry.  My tea towels are old and ragged but I love them.  They still do their job and they enjoy getting bleached and snowy in that welcome sunlight.  

The smell.  Yes, that fresh smell that they try to bottle up in laundry detergent these days.  I have never tried it, but I really don't think I want too.

I would not want to live anywhere that forbids me to string up my clothes line and hang clothes out to dry in the sun.  Sometimes when it rains or is too messy they do go into the dryer.  Not my choice, but a matter of necessity.

So if it is Monday, you know where I will be.  Hanging those sheets and towels and clothes out in the fresh air.  And then the pleasure of sleeping on sun-dried sheets...the best aid to a good night's rest I know.

Washing dishes...

I don't have a dishwasher.  When we planned our house we didn't even make a space for one.  The reason?  I like to wash dishes.

In my family the cooking gene and the dish washing gene skipped a generation.  My mom and Andy's mom were wonderful cooks.  My daughter takes after them.  I, on the other hand, raised Nina on Rice-A-Roni and Chef Boy-ar-dee.  She must have thought that all meals came in a box or a can for a long time.  But now she cooks up a storm and makes delicious meals for her own family.

I came by my love of dish washing honestly.  As a very small girl, probably four or five, my mother would put an apron on me and stand me in a chair at the sink.  And I would wash all the dishes.  I really enjoyed it.  Made me feel like a big girl.

When I played with my dolls I always washed the dishes that I used.  I dried them with a little towel and hung the towel out to dry on a miniature clothesline.  My grandmother was proud of me.  I told her that I could hardly wait to have my own house and children and then I could wash dishes all the time.

My mother disliked cleaning up the kitchen more than anyone I have every known.  She had good reason for this aversion.  Her older sister Rosa would come home from college with new recipes that she wanted to try.  According to my mom, Rosa would dirty every dish in the kitchen and then call my mom in from play to clean up the mess.  My mom was very creative.  She would go upstairs and hide in a closet and read magazines while Rosa called and called her to come and clean up the mess.

I guess early training helps to make household tasks easier.  If you are raised to clean and wash and make the beds, perhaps it will stick with you as you grow up.

So bring on the dishes.  No matter how many or how few, I'm the person to wash them.  

Most of the time...he is right...

Most of you reading this know about my husband Andy.  We have been married nearly 49 years.  And I have come to the conclusion that-yes-most of the time he is right.

The picture above was taken one morning in October at Head of the Meadow Beach on Cape Cod.  We had wanted to experience sunrise on the ocean beach at least once during our stay. We made our way through the darkness to await the first glimmer of daylight, trying to orient ourselves as to what direction we needed to face.  If you have ever tried to get your bearings on an ocean beach, you know that it is not easy.  Especially when you are standing on a beach that seems to be facing the wrong direction and the whole world seems to be backwards and sideways.  Andy, in his wisdom made the arrow you see above, well before the light of day broke on the eastern horizon.  As we waited and I grumbled that I didn't think we would even be able to see anything since we were looking the wrong way, he was confident and as usual, didn't say a thing. 

And then it happened.  Not all at once. But gradually the sky began to light up on the horizon.  And lo and behold...there came the sun!  Beautiful.  I took picture after picture....waves painted with unbelievable colors and clouds lined with gold and red.  On our way back we came to the arrow he had made in the sand.  Andy just stood there, grinning.  Yes, most of the time he is right.  And I'm glad that I have had him with me for almost 49 years to remind me of that fact.

Winter Blue

Down in my eastern field the other day I heard a familiar yet out of place birdcall from the top of a tree.  I stood there for a moment until I spied a shining yellow breast and then the same sweet trill....it was a meadowlark.  She called and called and suddenly from every direction came a few, then many more flashes of yellow and gray and brown as the flock came to light in the bare winter branches.  I was so entranced.  And then, as suddenly as they had come, they lifted their wings and flew away down the hill to the valley.  Only the one bird sang.  The rest were silent.  Usually meadowlarks answer each other.  And they sing and sing and sing.

But it is mid-winter.  It is not the time for nest building, or bird song, or twittering wings among the brown and crumpled leaves left over from fall.  The sky is blue.  Not the blue of fall where light lends it a golden hue and promises rich harvest and cool nights fragrant with smoke, dusted with stars glimmering in the velvet sky.  Not the blue of spring time when lazy puffs of white are blown here and there by winds that find their home in the south.  Not a balmy blue.  And certainly not the hazy blue mixed with heat of the summer sky when the sun blazes and you seek the shelter of the shady grass beneath the green-leafed tree.

This is the true blue of winter matter-of-factness.  It says, "Yes.  I may seem like a gentle sky.  But, take heed.  Bundle up in your coat and put your hat on.  Because I am serious about bringing you some icy winds and hustle-into-the-warmth-of-home days."

I am paying attention to this winter blue sky.  I know that even though spring is just around the corner, we still need to get through the rest of winter.  And then we can look for a different blue sky.