It’s early December. Advent is upon us. The preoccupation with surface glitter, with the trappings of the season, threatens to overwhelm, as always. I suspect that this year, I might not find time for new Christmas posts on Wild Trumpet Vine. In case that happens, here are some of my favorites from years past.
Deck the Tree Stump (December 13, 2013)
Deck the Dog (December 15, 2013)
Christmas Spirit, or Holiday Excess? (December 21, 2014)
Oh. . .Eww. . .Christmas Tree! (December 18, 2013)
The Candles of Christmas Eve (December 24, 2011)
On today’s sunny afternoon walk, the colors were dazzling. Seemed like we could feel it in the air: fall’s final, fleeting burst of intensity. I thought of a light bulb that glows suddenly brighter before it sputters out. It won’t be long before icy winds whip these last flamboyantly hued leaves from the trees. As November yields to December, nature’s grays and browns are mustering forces.
We’ll counter by filling our homes with twinkling lights and sparkly stuff, with evergreens and berries. The Holiday Season will be upon us, ready or not.
Today a bizarre election season lurches toward its much-anticipated close. Seems like we’ve been cycling through a long series of unsavory thrill rides at a shoddily maintained, near-derelict amusement park. We wonder how we got here. Our mothers told us not to go. We’re ashamed to tell our children where we are. The rides are rickety and clearly dangerous. Why was the park ever allowed to open? Is anyone in charge? Seems like we’ve been stuck here forever.
Unsettling funhouse mirrors abound. Everything is weirdly distorted. Hard to tell what’s real, what’s an illusion.
Watch out!, I yell to a friend. There’s one of those evil clowns right behind you! He’s got a knife!
That’s no clown, silly!, he says. It’s Santa. He looks so jolly, and he has great gifts for us!
I feel sick. I’ve lost any sense of reality. I may be going blind. I don’t know what to believe, or whom to trust. How do we get out?
Finally, the exit is in sight. I see daylight and blue sky.
It’s a beautiful day. Go vote. Maybe we can leave the decaying funhouse behind, at least for a while.
For the second year in a row, the maple stump compost pile in our yard has become home to an unplanned pumpkin patch. (Regarding last year’s patch, see here.) In early summer, dark green leafy vines began to appear. Each day they covered more ground, sending out wiry, pale green tendrils that grabbed hold and anchored firmly to blades of grass. Bright yellow blossoms began to sprout from long, thin shoots on some of the vines.
Other vines near the ground began to form tiny green bulbs topped by buds that then developed into blossoms. As I discovered last year, these are the female blossoms that bear fruit if pollinated by bees. The blooms attached to thinner, longer shoots, like the one shown below, are male blossoms, and not destined for pumpkin-hood.
Like last year, two types of squash vines flourished in our patch. Those bearing larger, dark green sharply tri-lobed leaves produced pale yellow pumpkins. Those with somewhat smaller, lighter-colored leaves brought forth acorn squash, like the one shown above.
Deer and squirrels claimed some of the bounty, naturally. Our fall harvest yielded three pretty pumpkins in shades of pale yellow, and two acorn squash. One of these remained green. The other turned almost entirely orange after picking.
In recent weeks, as the vines became increasingly brown and dry, the deer seemed to find them more appetizing. In short order, long after the last blossoms had withered, they nearly decimated the patch. Every evening around dusk, they could be spotted gobbling determinedly at the bristly plants.
I thought our pumpkin patch was over and done for the season. But this morning, in the chilly gray light of November, I noticed that one short section of vine remains green and leafy. And one small proto-pumpkin was there, too, sprouting a bright, healthy flower. The days are short, the weather has turned cold, yet the vine still bears fruit. The perseverance of life, its push to endure despite the odds, never ceases to amaze me.
The daily busyness this fall has been more overwhelming than usual for our family. Were it not for our pal Slim, October might have come and gone with little Halloween prep. Luckily, he showed up just in time.
With him, of course, were his loyal canine companions Champ and Fluffy, as feisty as ever.
Slim’s entourage has expanded. Joining the pack this year are the tiny but tough-as-nails twins Rocky and Ruth. . .
as well as the wise and witty Elfrida.
They’re small, but their personalities are most definitely not.
It’s hard not to get into the Halloween spirit when this festive bunch starts to throw their weight around.
Slim loaded the pack into his favorite vehicle (how he loves the wind in his hair) and supervised the purchase of pumpkins, ornamental gourds, mums and candy. Lots of candy, he insisted.
Kiko, as always, was up for the ride.
As evening approached, Slim was handsome and debonaire in his fuchia vest and tailcoat, black tulle scarf and Ray-Bans. Kiko sat sentinel just inside the door. Our guest’s only regret was that there was no time for pumpkin carving.
Still, he and his formerly furry gang were ready to treat.
Happy Halloween everyone!
Five years have passed since I began writing Wild Trumpet Vine. In the space of that half decade, there have been many changes, naturally. We passed some major milestones, we faced some challenges, and of course we grew older. Looking back on the last five years, it gives me comfort to see that our family coped. Maybe we even grew a little wiser. I hope so. We’ll need wisdom. More daunting challenges lie ahead.
In the fall of 2011, our daughter was starting middle school. Seven years of elementary school were behind her, and soon she would be a teenager. Since then, she made the leap into high school. She became a licensed driver. Now, our daughter is a senior, and on the verge of an even bigger leap. We’ve done our family college visits. The ongoing process is in her hands now. Our daughter’s future stretches before her.
As for H and me, we’re all too conscious of seeming more elderly with every successive stage in our daughter’s life. We could consider ourselves young when she was small and looked like a child. Now that she will soon be out of high school, now that she looks like a young woman, our own youth, we realize, is largely an illusion.
But we needn’t act old. About a year ago, H began playing ice hockey once or twice a week, something he’s been wanting to do since he captained a rag-tag grad school intramural team at Princeton. When windsurfing was his only hobby, his free time was spent mostly feeling sad because there was no wind. Few opportunities for windsurfing arise in northern Virginia; it’s a sport that requires long stretches of time in an appropriately windy locale, such as Cape Cod or Aruba. Hockey rinks are more conveniently located. He’s a happier guy these days.
And I’m happier, too. I see good friends on a more regular basis now, and that can’t help but brighten the days. Five years ago, Kiko and I usually began our early morning walks alone. We typically chatted with many acquaintances along the way; sometimes we met neighbors and walked a while together. About two years ago we began walking most weekdays with another neighbor and her dog. Before long, another friend had joined us with her dog. We were having fun, and evidently it showed. A third friend soon joined in. Now there are at least five of us plus our dogs. Because we often run into other neighbors, the dog parade may swell to eight or so. It’s become our morning social hour, one we all hate to miss.
Five years ago, Kiko was four, probably in his prime. Although no doubt it was already far too late, our family continued to argue about training approaches. Overcoming his headstrong nature was still put forth as a real possibility by my husband and daughter. His stubbornness was an ongoing source of family friction. (See An Evening of Discontent and The Joys and Travails of Walking our Strange Little Dog).
In the language of dog food commercials, Kiko is now a senior dog. He’s as determined as always in his absolute, driving need to go this way or that. He has no idea that he’s by far the smallest member of our dog walking pack (which includes a Rhodesian Ridgeback, a Doberman, a Labradoodle and a Golden Doodle). But Kiko is the unquestioned leader; he chooses the path according to the smells that beckon most keenly. Yielding to his iron will is more pleasant that battling it. He’s still fast, although his bursts of speed are shorter-lived. He continues to enjoy wowing the lady dogs with his fleetness of foot and incredible turning radius. But now he’s very likely to plop down immediately afterwards, preferably for a lengthy rest, in the middle of the street, if possible. He’s trim and svelte. His appearance has changed very little. Except for one detail: on top of his head, above the center patch of dark sesame coloring, he has a blurred triangle of lighter fur, as though someone had smudged him with bleach.
Five years ago, my parents were still frequently driving back and forth from Atlanta to our home in Virginia. They were here watching D and her friends head out trick-or-treating, and to open gifts with us on Christmas morning, to celebrate Easter. In attitude, demeanor and appearance, they seemed far younger than their actual age.
Time started to catch up with my father about two years ago. He had two major surgeries in as many years. He’d always been fit and active. He woke up feeling good; he rarely had an ache or pain. But his last surgery left him weakened, almost frail. He was becoming more and more sedentary. When he stood up, he was dangerously wobbly. And it was becoming clear that he was suffering from some form of dementia. We tried to see it as no big deal. It was his short-term memory that was primarily affected. Did it really matter that he complimented me on my sweater every five minutes? Or offered to get me a glass of orange juice even more repeatedly than usual? The disease compounded Daddy’s graciousness. He’d always made kind, sweet comments. We simply heard the same ones more often. But in recent months, the changes were increasingly profound. During one visit he remarked that he couldn’t remember my birthday. Another time he asked if I had any sisters. And was I dating anyone interesting? I told H it was time he got to Atlanta, before Daddy started actively matchmaking. He had never been an overly protective father; he’d always wanted me to go out and have fun. Throughout it all, he kept his sense of humor.
For most of his life, my father had taken care of my mother, and the shift was very difficult for her. He had done the driving, the grocery shopping, the bill paying, the handling of most paperwork, all the car stuff. He had been there with his reassuring presence. Suddenly Daddy depended on Mama to take care of him. But he forgot that he needed her help, and that made it even more difficult. It continually slipped his mind that there were many things he could no longer do. Understandably, he didn’t want to remember. He’d been used to doing so much. Mama worried that he’d go outside without her knowing, that he’d fall on the steps or the steep front bank. When she told him he couldn’t go outside on his own, he pleaded earnestly and poignantly, like a little boy: Why? Why can’t I go outside? The thought of that exchange still brings tears to her eyes. During our final visit in July, H, D and I were doing yard work. Daddy appeared, as if from nowhere; he could still move surprisingly fast when no one was looking. He was poised to climb the ladder, an old, rickety thing propped against the house. We got to him just in time.
It took Mama a while to adjust to shouldering the burden of being in charge. I think she was only just coming to terms with it when Daddy died. My parents would have been married sixty-one years this month. For her, his absence is a deep and yawning void.
So, what will the next five years bring? I don’t like to speculate on the future. Even when I was young, I hated that question: Where do you see yourself in five years? In ten? But looking back on the last five gives me strength to know that we’ll continue to deal with life’s changes as they come. Like the wild trumpet vine inching along the fencerows, we’ll persevere, through grief, through joy. My hope is that we will find the assurance that my father experienced. We’ll see his smile and hear him say: Hey, no need to worry. It’s all going to be OK.
It’s here. My daughter’s last-ever first day of school. That thirteenth, and final first day. Her senior year has begun. She looks the part. She appears confident, fit, athletic, in control. A beautiful young woman.
It was twelve years ago that my husband and I worried over our little girl (and she was so little) as she boarded the bus (and the bus was so big) for Kindergarten. Thank goodness our area didn’t have all-day Kindergarten then. I wouldn’t have been ready. (See Moving up to Middle School, October 18, 2011.) Eleven more first days followed, and eleven more years. We checked off the major first-year milestones: elementary school, middle school, high school. But I don’t remember growing older.
My husband has been whistling “Sunrise, Sunset” from Fiddler on the Roof even more frequently than usual these days. I understand, and those unsettling lyrics rattle around in my head:
Sunrise sunset, sunrise, sunset!
Swiftly fly the years,
One season following another,
Laden with happiness and tears…
No school bus for our daughter, not since sophomore year. This tall young woman got in the car, waved happily, and drove away.
Is this the little girl I carried?
Wasn’t it yesterday when she was small?
Wonder where she’ll be this time next year?