Dear Maria,
While walking the dog this morning—and in especially good spirits despite the chill—I thought I ought to catch up with you and a few other friends when I am not so inclined to trot out some recent burrs under my saddle. With a heartfelt mea culpa, I must own up to so often pushing friendships to the point of rode hard and put away wet as the expression goes.
Not so much that I have some spectacularly great news, but being in a more positive frame of mind ought to be a worthy share, message-wise—tis the season, after all. Not that so much in the world is much changed from the daily barrage and counter-barrage of despair and hope.
Ah, my anti-virus just blocked a potentially malicious website.
Messages of academic success are trickling in from students now off at college. Former colleagues are reaching out to a fellow teacher whose new son, come prematurely into this world, weighs but 25 ounces. My mother’s health seems not only to have steadied but is improving.
Hardly headlines in the making, of course. But surely closer to the ebb and flow of daily lives as we live them. Smallish victories, pulses beating with some hopefulness, the rallying cries of neighbors.
While eating lunch—inside today—I began making some changes to the backyard in my mind. Moving some plants, expanding the reach of the garden, and maybe adding a structure of some sort for sitting under that takes advantage of the winter’s afternoon sun but would provide shade in the summer.
Out front, the Easter elm, as I have named it, remains green now mid-way through December.
I am of a mind to make a resolution. So, my December 13th resolution, to be a little easier in the saddle with my family and friends. And myself.
Back into the 70s here tomorrow, and then we will be bundling up against the cold early next week. So it goes.
Be well.
Still, srk
Friday, December 13, 2013
Sunday, December 8, 2013
May Not Be So, For All My Saying
Dear Maria,
And so it has come to this, that out front the larger elm has lost every single leaf and the pear has turned itself mostly into oranges and reds, but the young elm just seven months in the ground has lost hardly a leaf and is still summery green. I do not know what to make of it other than perhaps it is some sort of a snapshot of a man’s life arboreally rendered.
In every life some leaves must fall?
While walking Max this morning, I did meet a younger man, with his Cosmo at his side, who could easily identify my front yard as the one where some work has been done. I will allow that I did take some satisfaction in that recognition, and you know my fondness for by-my-hands work that produces good results—definitive, can’t-miss-it results.
I guess my scribbles in red ink over the years were by my hand—manual labor? But, how often the results, if there were any at all, did not necessarily bear fruit during the school season.
At lunch the other day, a good friend dutifully reminded me that I was not yet a full semester into retirement. See, we still talk the talk of school calendars. Yes, yes, I am nearly wholly new to my status as a retiree and not nearly re-created yet.
My father advises that whatever I may choose to do next should be meaningful. Suddenly I hear Old Dylan Thomas: “Bless, curse me now…”, with the out-of-context tag duly applied.
Meaningful. Perhaps that is a notion best left up to others to weigh in on.
After grinding espresso beans to make a couple of mugs of coffee, I waited at my old lectern now in the breakfast nook so that I may look out at the garden. A wind came up. Huge leaves unloosed fell like giant brown snowflakes. Even the dog took notice as he stood at the patio door. Down they came, not pouring, not floating, but streaming in a remarkably steady fashion. Like they had been waiting for today’s prompting.
And so every season will have its day.
Except, the loropetalums with so many leaves turning yellow are decided now to flower as well. Lovely that they should do so, when you think about it.
Be well, and hug the children.
As always, srk
And so it has come to this, that out front the larger elm has lost every single leaf and the pear has turned itself mostly into oranges and reds, but the young elm just seven months in the ground has lost hardly a leaf and is still summery green. I do not know what to make of it other than perhaps it is some sort of a snapshot of a man’s life arboreally rendered.
In every life some leaves must fall?
While walking Max this morning, I did meet a younger man, with his Cosmo at his side, who could easily identify my front yard as the one where some work has been done. I will allow that I did take some satisfaction in that recognition, and you know my fondness for by-my-hands work that produces good results—definitive, can’t-miss-it results.
I guess my scribbles in red ink over the years were by my hand—manual labor? But, how often the results, if there were any at all, did not necessarily bear fruit during the school season.
At lunch the other day, a good friend dutifully reminded me that I was not yet a full semester into retirement. See, we still talk the talk of school calendars. Yes, yes, I am nearly wholly new to my status as a retiree and not nearly re-created yet.
My father advises that whatever I may choose to do next should be meaningful. Suddenly I hear Old Dylan Thomas: “Bless, curse me now…”, with the out-of-context tag duly applied.
Meaningful. Perhaps that is a notion best left up to others to weigh in on.
After grinding espresso beans to make a couple of mugs of coffee, I waited at my old lectern now in the breakfast nook so that I may look out at the garden. A wind came up. Huge leaves unloosed fell like giant brown snowflakes. Even the dog took notice as he stood at the patio door. Down they came, not pouring, not floating, but streaming in a remarkably steady fashion. Like they had been waiting for today’s prompting.
And so every season will have its day.
Except, the loropetalums with so many leaves turning yellow are decided now to flower as well. Lovely that they should do so, when you think about it.
Be well, and hug the children.
As always, srk
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Odds & Ends, Seasonally Adjusted
Dear Maria,
Well at least two weeks just up and disappeared and then with Thanksgiving week, and oh that seems to be how it goes these days. At some point I ought to apologize for the lags and as an excuse have some tale from Madagascar or Bolivia to tell. But no, just hunkered down here in South Carolina.
Spent several hours raking this year’s crop of leaves and some pine straw into piles that were bundled in an old sheet and dumped on the front beds. That I was in short sleeves makes the things-I’m-thankful-for list as some of my friends way up towards Canada will not be so fortunate this week. Lunched today with the roses still making flowers, and even a few late blooms on the plumbago, and the sun warm and my foster dog rooting about out back. Another few ticks on that list.
Thanksgiving went well—a gathering of the clan—and to be among the 32 for a four-generation sit-down dinner was to be in a whirlpool of energy and to bathe in a sublime embrace of love. And a very particular kind of camaraderie that exists between family members. The tally was not the total that might have been—3 nieces and a nephew were elsewhere.
Of the many sweet moments, perhaps my favorite was holding the newest little addition to the family—a delicate and pretty little girl—while I was in a rocking chair, and one of her older brothers—older, two maybe—dragged his rocking chair next to mine, and we settled into an easy rhythm while taking a good long look out the window at the autumn scenery. Like I said, sweet.
Now that my desk is at the front window, the front beds daily remind me how I managed to take a simple concept and turn it into some kind of personal war of the weeds. Of course, this time of year I also am able to watch a sunset nearly every late afternoon. Tick.
The desk where I am writing this letter has been with me since I was 12. So many high school writing assignments, college essays, love letters, I’m-sorry letters, attempts at fiction, scads of poetry—should that be or is it already a literary term, scads.
But, the world is at gallop, Christmas and New Year’s Eve are nigh. I will try not lollygag so much through this season to be busy. Tra-la-la-la.
Hope the family is well and the holidays are warm and kind.
Yours, srk
Well at least two weeks just up and disappeared and then with Thanksgiving week, and oh that seems to be how it goes these days. At some point I ought to apologize for the lags and as an excuse have some tale from Madagascar or Bolivia to tell. But no, just hunkered down here in South Carolina.
Spent several hours raking this year’s crop of leaves and some pine straw into piles that were bundled in an old sheet and dumped on the front beds. That I was in short sleeves makes the things-I’m-thankful-for list as some of my friends way up towards Canada will not be so fortunate this week. Lunched today with the roses still making flowers, and even a few late blooms on the plumbago, and the sun warm and my foster dog rooting about out back. Another few ticks on that list.
Thanksgiving went well—a gathering of the clan—and to be among the 32 for a four-generation sit-down dinner was to be in a whirlpool of energy and to bathe in a sublime embrace of love. And a very particular kind of camaraderie that exists between family members. The tally was not the total that might have been—3 nieces and a nephew were elsewhere.
Of the many sweet moments, perhaps my favorite was holding the newest little addition to the family—a delicate and pretty little girl—while I was in a rocking chair, and one of her older brothers—older, two maybe—dragged his rocking chair next to mine, and we settled into an easy rhythm while taking a good long look out the window at the autumn scenery. Like I said, sweet.
Now that my desk is at the front window, the front beds daily remind me how I managed to take a simple concept and turn it into some kind of personal war of the weeds. Of course, this time of year I also am able to watch a sunset nearly every late afternoon. Tick.
The desk where I am writing this letter has been with me since I was 12. So many high school writing assignments, college essays, love letters, I’m-sorry letters, attempts at fiction, scads of poetry—should that be or is it already a literary term, scads.
But, the world is at gallop, Christmas and New Year’s Eve are nigh. I will try not lollygag so much through this season to be busy. Tra-la-la-la.
Hope the family is well and the holidays are warm and kind.
Yours, srk
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