All posts by Wildtrumpetvine

From the Archives: Favorite Christmas Posts

Back in the days when Wild Trumpet Vine was young, I managed to compose many Christmas-themed posts.  How did I find the time?  I have no idea, except that I was younger then, too.  And evidently I had more to say.  December has only just begun, but if the past few years have taught me anything, it is this:  the month will dash by as though in a sudden sprint.  December moves at warp speed.  Much like last year and the one before, there will be little time in these short, dark days for writing.  So, from the Archives, posts for the season, which I conveniently grouped together this time last year.  Some deal with surface treatments, the baubles and the glitz, and others dive deeper.

 Favorite Christmas Posts, December 1, 2017 

And Now, Winter in November

Winter, it seems, has lost patience with Fall’s indecisive performance.  Citing erratic attendance, lack of enthusiasm,  failure to fulfill responsibilities, and a prevailing aura of general ineptitude, Winter has pressed for, and now accepted, her predecessor’s letter of resignation. Fall admits that her heart just wasn’t in it this year.  

And so on this November 15, the Northern Virginia area is experiencing our first “Winter Weather Event.”  A mixture of frozen precipitation has been falling since the pre-dawn hours.  Schools were first delayed, then soon cancelled, as the snow-like substance continued to fall, and to accumulate.   

In this season of confusion, unexpected sights:  snow on roses and red maple leaves, and autumn leaves on snow. 

Several hours ago, the snow turned to rain.  The neighborhood streets are rivers of slush.  My boots, it turns out, are no longer waterproof.   

From an undisclosed, pleasant-all-year location, Fall looks up from her Guava Colada, lays aside her Kindle and remarks with a wide smile, My, my, could Winter be having second thoughts about starting work five weeks early?  Now who lacks enthusiasm?       

Fall, Offered Sparingly

The look and feel of fall has been slow to arrive in Northern Virginia this year.  The brilliant hues of autumn, in skies and foliage, have been largely absent.  Thanks to persistent and soaking rains, the landscape is washed in the dullest of grays and browns, like those of an old trench coat.  Like the one that hangs in my closet, ugly but utilitarian.  And during these frequent fall downpours, too often worn.  It’s only within the last week or so, now that many trees have lost their leaves, that others are finally beginning to show some color. 

When the sun does emerge from the clouds and lend its brightness for a while, we’re not accustomed.  Above, Kiko appears bewildered by the glowing golden vision ahead.  Below, a few images of fall’s all too rare and fleeting glory.

Yesterday Kiko enjoyed the unusual luxury of morning sunshine on my mother’s deck.  Today the rain is back, and a winter-worthy chill is headed our way for the weekend.  Gather ye sunbeams while ye may.  And hold on to that old coat, or pass it along to someone who needs it more than you.   

Vote 2018

For the first time, my mother and I went to the polls together.  She’s a new Virginia voter.  We spent three hours at the DMV in early October to trade her Georgia driver’s license for an official Virginia ID card, so a little rain on election day couldn’t stop us. 

Let your voice be heard.  Go vote! 

Halloween Update

Things have a way of working out swimmingly for our skeleton friend Slim, especially on Halloween.  Merrily and swiftly, he piloted his pack to Charlottesville without incident, arriving at UVA with plenty of time for trick-or-treating on the Lawn.  In a costume-wearing crowd, the unadorned authenticity of the group stood out.  Slim was greeted as a celebrity (as he typically is, wherever he goes).  Our daughter, who was there with friends, soon spotted her old buddy, the center of attention in a multitude of admirers. 

D was dressed as Barf the Dog from the movie Spaceballs.  She wore my 1980s Banana Republic khaki jumpsuit, furry ears and the appropriate make-up.  Slim approved, as he’s an avid Mel Brooks fan, and the pack welcomed her as one of their own.  

  

Kiko rapidly got his fill of the festivities and the press of the throng.  He retreated to the shelter of a stately column and resumed his nap.   And as for costumes, he says no.  Since submitting reluctantly to an ill-fitting red fleece vest (made by my mother without access to any actual measurements) for his first Christmas card photo, he wears only his own fur.  Should he encounter a costume-wearing canine, more than a trace of condescension is evident as he sniffs a greeting. 

Slim, ever the people person, could have mixed and mingled until the wee hours, but he honors his commitments.  Just as his faithful lead dog, Fluffy, was about to point out the time, Slim began to say his goodbyes.  The Crew was needed back in Northern Virginia.  They would not disappoint.  I’ve learned not to doubt my friend’s word.  His integrity is beyond reproach.  Plus, he seems to be able to bend time according to his whim.  Just as I was putting the tea lights in our jack-o-lantern votives, the car zipped up the driveway. 

The gang hopped out and assumed their places.  They’re good at freezing in position, so as not to frighten the unsuspecting.  Kiko looked out the storm door to assess the situation, sighed and retired to the sofa.  The night was only just beginning for Slim and the Crew.  But Kiko can only take so much Halloween. 

Until next year, folks!  Goodnight! 

Skeleton Crew 2018

 

Halloween season is in full swing, as is our Skeleton Crew of merry mirth-makers.  In early October, Slim and the pups emerged from eleven months of quiet repose and restorative rumination in the shadowy comfort of my mother’s basement. 

For the past few weeks, they’ve enjoyed roaming from our house to hers, snacking, lounging, soaking up sunshine as well as rain.  They savor weather in all its forms.  Slim, widely renowned as a scintillating conversationalist and acute observer of the human condition, has considerable wisdom to impart. 

With the tiniest bit of coaxing (or sometimes none at all), he delves into his endless cache of beguiling tales and truly ripping yarns.  As my father would say, that skinny guy “really can talk.” 

When the month is winding down, the gang is gearing up.  They’re  more than ready to let loose their insouciant charm and plunge full-throttle into fall festivity.  High-jinks ensue. 

While Kiko enjoys smallish doses of the company of his furless friends, their boundless enthusiasm tends to grate on his nerves.  In the very top photo, he has sought out an isolated patch of sun by the garage.  Before long, though, the pack is upon him again.   

These puppies will never grow up, he sighs.  How tedious it is to be the object of so much unbridled adoration.  What’s a senior dog to do?  

Perhaps with an absence of encouragement, they’ll lose interest.   

And then Slim suggests a spin in his favorite vehicle.  Top down, of course.  Gotta feel the cool autumn breeze in one’s silky locks.  With a knowing look he turns to Kiko and asks: Why not head down to Charlottesville and check in with your sister, old man?  We’ll be back before the trick-or-treaters arrive.  

The college kids love Slim.  Plus, he’s an architecture buff.  And a tad vain.  The Lawn and Rotunda, dressed in fall foliage, will serve as a striking backdrop for photographing his good looks.  Also, he and Mr. Jefferson were kids together, back in the day.   

Kiko needs no further nudging.  He’s stirring and stretching, preparing for a full-body shake.  He remembers why he loves this garrulous guy after all, and why it bodes well to tolerate his pack of yippy beasts.  Halloween joyride!

At last, the top dog can finally get some serious shuteye. 

Happy Halloween, everyone!

 

For previous Skeleton Crew posts from years past, see here

That Satisfying Sameness on Shore Road

Shore Road, Route 6A, is our Main Street while we’re in Cape Cod, and I walk it nearly every morning.  As in our little cottage complex, major changes along the road are refreshingly few and far between.  Its scenery is almost as familiar to me as my childhood back yard.  My Shore Road walks serve to further sustain the illusion of timelessness in Truro. 

Fence-hugging hydrangeas, for example, which thrive in the moist salty air, are always bountiful and glorious.  

Typically, any changes along this thin ribbon of land by the bay are so subtle that they serve to reinforce the unchanging nature of the place.  Most of the homes and cottage groupings appear largely the same, year after year after year.  Routine maintenance, not extreme renovation, is the guiding principle.  The small structures of this condominium complex, above, continue to be nestled snugly amid the roses, much as they have been for nearly two decades.  Hours of diligent pruning, no doubt, keep the surrounding plantings looking luxuriantly abundant but not overpowering.

Nature can easily get the upper hand, if left unchecked, as it has above.  Each year, untamed, weedy foliage encroaches a bit more around this small, sagging, cupola-topped cabin.  Considering the high value of real estate along the bay, there are a surprising number of small Shore Road structures, some barely bigger than sheds, that exist in a state of ongoing gradual decay.  They appear to lack all creature comforts, but some show signs of sporadic human occupation.  This gives them an air of mystery that adds to their appeal. 

 

There are certain areas where the tug-of-war between nature and the attempt to subjugate it is particularly evident.  For as long as I’ve walked Shore Road, the large lot above has been occupied by a small semi-dilapidated cottage, whimsical bird houses on tall posts, and the occasional boat.  Some years, the foliage reigns victorious, as in the top photo, dating from 2013, where the cottage appears to float in a sea of tall grass and grapevines.  The following year, the weeds were mown and vines cut back substantially.  Flower boxes adorned the cottage’s front windows.  Near the road, a patriotic tableau had been assembled: a wooden bench painted like the flag, Adirondack chairs and a pot of geraniums

Since 2014, nature has been allowed its riotous advance.  Once again, the cottage is enveloped by high grass and unruly foliage.  The flag bench, its paint faded, appears to be sighing toward collapse, and the split-rail fence groans under a heavy tangle of grapevines.  The chairs have disappeared, and even the bird houses are in advanced decline.  The lighthouse is unrecognizable, and the caboose is little more than a façade.  (See Shore Road Scenes in Cape Cod, August 24, 2012.)  Next year, will the progression toward wildness and ruin continue?  Or will there be another effort toward taming nature and renovating the manmade?  I hope it’s one or the other, and not a dreaded third option:  a gleaming new structure that stands out starkly from the pleasantly worn and familiar Shore Road sights I cherish.      

I’m not averse to some instances of refurbishment.  Two years ago, for example, this rusty roadside owl received a coat of white paint and amber-colored eyes.  Such measured, unobtrusive alteration I can wholeheartedly support.  I appreciate it all the more knowing that it’s likely to be overlooked.  I enjoy thinking I know Shore Road the way I know an old companion.    

I can also welcome a unique addition that fits in well with that which already exists.  The gray shingled house above, with its American flag and rainbow banner bearing the word PEACE, looks essentially the same every year.  Several years ago I noticed an interesting vehicle parked in front, a small car colorfully painted with a variety of sea creatures in a folk art style.  This year the little car gained a sibling, a minivan painted with similar colors and designs: sharks, lobsters, fish and  sailing scenes.  A white plastic egret keeps watch from the roof.  The light-hearted, slightly eccentric spirit of these vehicles is in perfect sync with the PEACE house and with the Outer Cape.  (They remind me of the Key West Don’t Dredge on Me truck encrusted with sea creatures.  See Uniquely Key West, April 24, 2015.) 

It’s been five years since I last wrote about the Shore Road sights I hold dear.  As I began looking back and comparing this summer’s photos to those from earlier years, I was afraid that the idea of sameness might prove to be primarily in my mind.  Maybe my old friend has changed more than I’d like to admit?  

Generally, I don’t think so.  This narrow strip of land still seems to be largely immune to the accelerated pace of change that characterizes my former Atlanta neighborhood or the DC suburbs where I now live.  Every return visit brings this reassurance: the familiar sights of Shore Road, and its inimitable essence, they endure.  Perhaps I hope that through proximity, this immutability is contagious.  By spending time each summer in a timeless place, can I slow my own aging process?  Or at least feed the fantasy?  These days, it couldn’t hurt. 

******************************************************************

For more on this topic, see Back Again, on Shore Road in Truro, September 13, 2013. 

In Cape Cod, the Illusion of Timelessness

At the end of July, our family made our annual drive from northern Virginia up the east coast, almost to the very tip of Cape Cod.  Our happy summer place is an unassuming cottage complex in North Truro.  It looks out on the curve of the bay toward the Pilgrim Monument in Provincetown.  For two weeks every summer, a little gray shingled rental cottage is our home.  Why return to the same place year after year?  Once I didn’t understand.  When I was growing up, my family considered real vacations as rare indulgences.  With the exception of a few special trips when I was older, we made do with a few days accompanying my father to a public health convention in Jekyll Island, or a visit to help out extended family in Kentucky.  Had H’s family been in thrall to the same sort of thrifty practicality, they never would have packed up their young kids in a cramped VW camper and driven from Rochester to the Outer Cape in the summer of 1974.  They certainly wouldn’t have returned every year since.  And that would have been a shame.

Cape Cod seems an odd fit for a couple that doesn’t swim, sail, or even eat seafood.  But the unique beauty of the place casts its spell.  It gets under your skin and beckons you back.  My husband and I began joining his family there with our daughter when she wasn’t quite three.  Seventeen years later, it’s hard to imagine a summer that doesn’t include our little piece of the Cape. 

View from our picnic table:  across the sand and the bay, the Provincetown skyline.

During my husband’s family’s first visit to the Cape, they crowded into a one-room efficiency in a Truro motel, all five of them.  (The next year there would be six, after H’s sister was born.)  Quarters were tight, to say the least.  The proprietor could have been friendlier, but they chose to overlook his surliness.  When, while checking on a malfunctioning stove burner, he spoke with biting harshness to H, a meek seven year-old at the time, that was simply too much.  The Cape was wonderful, and they would return, but they would find another place to stay. 

On their last day, they took a closer look at a nearby establishment set back from the bay on a particularly wide stretch of beach.  It featured white dollhouse-like cottages grouped around two neatly manicured greens.  Each house had its own picnic table outside.  The interiors were basic, no frills.  Each had two bedrooms, a living room with a fireplace, kitchen and bathroom.  Some had covered front porches.  There was a big, new, sparkling pool.  Kids were playing on the greens and digging in the sand.  Families were cooking burgers and hot dogs on the little grills in front of their cottages.  It was a relaxed, friendly place.  H’s family determined to try to stay there the next year. 

Luckily, they succeeded.  H’s parents return to the very same white cottage still.  We have a cottage for the three of us, and H’s sister is there with her husband and two boys in their own place.  The wide, uncrowded beach has become even wider and therefore even less crowded.  All the sand eroding from everywhere else along the bay seems to be deposited there.  Otherwise, the appearance of the family-owned complex, in the same hands since 1967, has changed little since then, or even since the 40s, when most of the white cottages were built.  The atmosphere is still that of a big-hearted summer village.  The well-maintained greens are still perfect for ball games and water fights.  Several somewhat larger cottages, with more expansive views and open floor plans, were constructed in the 80s.   These are covered in weathered cedar shakes.  Accommodations throughout are still basic.  While microwaves and WIFI were added in recent years, there is no AC.  This is not the destination for those who require high-end resort living in a space worthy of Architectural Digest.  Head to the Outer Banks or the Charleston area for that.  But for those who yearn for reassurance that the Old Cape Cod of the Patti Page song still flourishes, this is the place. 

Ripley the Golden Retriever rests in his customary spot outside the office door.  He may appear to sleep, but his tail starts wagging when he senses the approach of a friend.  As long as I can remember, there has been a resident retriever keeping watch by those steps.  Before Ripley, it was Logan.

The “new” cottages, seen from the bay side.

The view from our kitchen, as sunset approaches and the shadows on the sand turn blue. 

The summer village we return to every year is humble, but it offers a priceless luxury in this world of ever-accelerating change:  the illusion of timelessness.   As I’ve written before, the pace of change is exceedingly slow along this part of the Cape.  (See Back Again, on Shore Road in Truro, Sept. 13, 2013.)  While the light and the sands are constantly shifting, the narrow strip of land, its scrubby vegetation and unimposing, weathered buildings, like those in our  cottage complex, appear much the same, year after year.  Here, it’s easy to pretend, for a week or two at least, that time stands still. 

A temporary time-out. 

Time out of time. 

Or the illusion of it.

It’s almost worth the drive.  

Those Rosy Roses

It’s been nine years since we transformed our concrete dessert of a back yard into a place where roses grow.  Every May, the vines burst forth in riotous profusion.  This spring’s long cold spell delayed peak bloom for about two weeks, but once the buds began opening, the flowers were as spectacular as ever.  The pale pink climbing roses on our garage trellis are subtle in color but especially flamboyant in abundance.  After their fabulous spring fiesta, they continue to bloom, but only sparingly, throughout the summer and into the chilly days of fall.  Even early December sees  a few persistent blossoms. 

 

The red double knock-outs along the fence stage their main event in May, as well.  They bloom throughout the summer and fall, with greater frequency than the climbers. 

Kiko’s good looks merit a handsome backdrop, but he cares little about the appearance of his surroundings.  This is, of course, one reason dogs are so well-loved by their people.  A dog is happy to be his human’s sweet prince, whether in a shack or a mansion.   

The battered appearance of our old garage doors didn’t hurt Kiko’s self-image. 

He could sit, proud and regal, on our old porch, even during the squalor of demolition.

But he hated the constant presence of a tether.  No matter how long, it typically stopped short of where he wanted to be. We revamped our porch and back yard not only to add some beauty to our little corner of the world, but also to give our beloved animal a space in which he could roam freely.  Our bounty of roses means even more to me because it represents the process that brought Kiko a greater measure of liberty.  My pursuit of happiness is tethered to his.  Everyone who shares a life and home with a dog recognizes this truth. 

May the roses keep blooming.  May my little dog continue to ramble from sun to shade, from squirrel to fox watching, in his pleasant domain. 

 

For earlier posts on our back yard transformation, see Up From the Concrete, Roses, May 12, 2012; and This is the Way the Roses Grew (And a Daughter, Too) Parts I, II and III, June 2015