Day 1: Spring 2013

March 20, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

Kiko refuses to acknowledge Daylight Savings Time; his alarm does not reset in the wee hours of March 9. He remains purposefully curled in his bed until actual daylight has worked its way into our house. Accordingly, we’ve been walking later. He has the right idea, I realize. March mornings this year have tended toward the cold and cloudy. A walk at 7 AM is likely to be an exercise in gray. An hour or two later, the world is a brighter, warmer, more welcoming place, and its beauty can be better appreciated.

Two days ago, the daffodils were bowed down by yet another late snow. As the sun warms their bobbing heads on this first day of spring, it’s good to see that they’re none the worse for bearing that chilly burden.

The maple trees are getting the message: it really is go time.

These cherry trees in our neighborhood, in the first stage of bloom, are right on schedule. The National Cherry Blossom Festival begins today in DC, with peak bloom expected April 3 – 6.

Kiko and I walk past these mahonia shrubs nearly every day. Mahonia is a vicious looking plant, especially during late summer and fall. Only Morticia Addams would include it in a bouquet. With its tough, spiky leaves, it resembles holly on steroids. In the very midst of winter, however, it begins to show a gentler side; it bears tiny, pale yellow, bell-like flowers that fill the frosty air with a fresh lemony fragrance. As spring arrives, the flowers give way to lush clusters of oval-shaped berries, much loved by the birds. This particular plant is leatherleaf mahonia, or mahonia bealei. Incredibly hearty, it’s invasive if left unchecked. What began as a single mahonia plant in my parents’ back yard forty years ago is now a tall, rather forbidding free-form hedge. I have a soft spot in my heart for mahonia; like nandina and wild trumpet vine, it reminds me of home. When I was growing up, mahonia berries featured prominently in playtime pretend recipes. Light green when they first appear, the berries darken to purple as they ripen. They have a delicate, powdery outer coating, which disappears as they’re handled, revealing the fruit’s true, more intense color. For this reason, mahonia berries often served as the primary ingredient in the “magic” potions my friends and I concocted. Sometimes, all that stood between life and death in our imagined storylines was a single, glowing mahonia berry.

Walking in the sun with my dog on this first morning of spring, I could feel the new season at hand. The birds were chirping, yelling, soaring, partying. Squirrels were jumping and scurrying with renewed vigor, much to Kiko’s delight. Plants were edging up out of brown, dead leaves, stretching new green shoots into the light. I’m in a mood to buy eggs, baby salad greens and asparagus. This afternoon, I might even get out the Easter decorations. Maybe it will be like the old days, when my daughter looked forward to getting home from school so she and I could dye eggs and gather branches for our Easter tree. Maybe. Spring makes all things new again. We’ll see.

May spring bring new warmth and joy to your life!

Friendship

Dark Secrets, Part II: Super-8 Movie-Making

March 15, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

Filming in Dr. Welby’s basement digs: Katie’s older sister acts as camerawoman,
while Rebecca’s younger sister aims the lights.

As is the case with most worthwhile projects, making our Super-8 movie had its moments of exhilaration, unforgettable fun, boredom and frustration. Naturally, the initial planning stage was the most gratifying. As I remember it, writing the movie with Katie was nothing less than a blast. I dislike this overused hyperbolic term; I cast a skeptical eye on those who repeatedly claim to have had a blast doing this or that. Really? A blast? I doubt it. But in this case, it was accurate. There was a heady sense of possibility in the air as Katie and I bounced ideas off one another. We’re gonna make a movie! Our movie! We’re in control! In our own minds, we were incredibly funny. We were good! We should have been destined for Saturday Night Live, as yet in its infancy.

As soon as we began filming, we realized we had no control. It was terrific to get the cast together for filming; it was like getting school credit for regularly attending a party with our best friends. But we encountered many difficulties. Filming began in February, and because we often worked on weekday afternoons, the light was erratic, and it disappeared far too quickly. Some of our pivotal outdoor scenes were indecipherably dark. Because we were working with actual film, the complete absence of light was not apparent until after developing. In March, with the start of Daylight Savings Time, suddenly all was intense brightness.

The drastic changes in light made for continuity issues, to say the least. We also found it difficult to maintain a convincing sense of flow when cast members’ appearances changed unexpectedly from day to day. Was Amanda wearing that scarf yesterday? Can anyone remember? Didn’t you have a different sweater? And then Dr. Welby got his hair cut from shoulder to chin length about half-way through filming.

It doesn’t sound difficult to avoid routinely filming the movie lights. Evidently it was trickier than it seems. The lights, and often the gaffers who held them, appeared in the background, (or occasionally the foreground) time after time.

Our two gaffer-gophers on break, modeling costume accessories.
They got nearly as much screen time as the actual cast.

The complications of filming were nothing compared to those of the editing process that followed. We thought we were being professional by shooting all the scenes involving the same set at the same time. We didn’t know how much amateur splicing left to be desired. Again, for any younger readers, if they exist, we were dealing with real film that must be sent away for processing. It then required cutting apart and taping back together so the scenes would flow in correct order. Personal computers, digital video and talking camera phones were still the stuff of James Bond movies and the fever dreams of a few elite techie geniuses.

For one part of the final project, Katie included a section entitled “How to Splice.” I sat at her side, some of the time, for moral support, as she followed the tedious steps she would outline in her paper. We would look at the film through an editor, a machine that I have completely blocked from memory, but one that I described in my report as resembling a tiny television screen. When we decided where the scenes should be cut, pushing something called the condensor on the editor resulted in a knick in the film. This knick indicated where the film should be cut. With scissors. Actual, not virtual scissors. Then Katie would painstakingly reattach the frames in the new order with splicing tape.

This was old-school cutting and pasting, and our movie required extreme amounts of it. The film was so thick with tape that it couldn’t pass smoothly through the projector. I can still hear the painful sputtering, ticking sound the film made as the scenes bounced up and down, roller-coaster style. How we dealt with this problem is my haziest recollection, probably because it was distinctly unpleasant. I vaguely remember discussing the additional, not insignificant cost to make a jump-free copy of the film. We must have managed this, because the film is, largely, viewable. It is no masterpiece, but it can be seen.

Every silent film needs music, of course. Using my portable tape player, I recorded the score. The cassette, long lost, consisted of selections by Scott Joplin and Edvard Grieg, pieces I happened to be working on during piano lessons. The music didn’t always fit exactly with the action, but if we timed the start of the tape and the film carefully, it didn’t miss by much.

As I mentioned earlier, it’s been a while since I’ve seen our movie. Its form continues to lapse further into obsolescence. I still have the actual film, and H’s father, a camera buff, owns a working movie projector from the 70s. During a future visit to Rochester, maybe we’ll arrange a family viewing. Years ago, Rebecca’s husband had the film converted to video and VHS copies made. We still have a VCR, somewhere in our basement, if we wanted to go looking. No one has yet been moved to make a digital version of the film.

My daughter saw the movie years ago, when she was still young enough to be impressed.
She’s been involved in her middle school’s news team for the past two years. With access to sophisticated video technology, the kids regularly turn out high-quality videos. Out of school, they can use their phones to produce similarly remarkable results. D would be amused at the intricate physicality of the old editing process. And she might be interested to see her mother at her age.

When I do see Dark Secrets again, I expect to know how I’ll feel. I’ll have a better understanding of my parents’ and other adults’ bafflement over some of our dramatic and comedic choices. Why does the Creation have a lightning bolt across her face? Why is the butler gleefully counting his money as he opens the door? I’m not sure why that’s supposed to be funny. I will see their point. But I will know why.

Because in some part of my soul, I’ll be fourteen again. I’ll be there with my two best friends Katie and Rebecca, reveling in our shared appreciation of idiosyncracy and non sequitur. Life’s possibilities will once again open wide. The future will be a distant, glowing horizon, the one evoked mistily in high school graduation speeches. SNL may see us yet! Who would have guessed that after all these years, it would still be around? And like us, it’s not just surviving, but going strong.

Family, Friendship, Parenthood

Dark Secrets: Our 8th-Grade Movie, Part I

March 12, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

I find it a little alarming that my daughter is fourteen, and half-way through eighth grade. It’s alarming because my memory of being a fourteen-year-old eighth-grader is fairly clear. I remember many of my eighth-grade thoughts, and they weren’t so very different from my current middle-aged thoughts. This brings me face-to-face with the uncomfortable realization that my baby is no longer my baby. She’s my only child, so in a sense she’ll always be my baby. But from here on out she will be traversing the continuum from nearly grown-up to nearly completely grown-up. Can anyone ever claim to be truly grown-up? Maybe after the death of one or both of our parents? Or does this make us feel like old, lost children? More alarming thoughts, which I won’t dwell on now. Today I want to think about our movie.

I loved 8th grade. The snags of our newly-formed middle school were working themselves out. (See Middle-School Memorabilia, February 2012.) Once again, we were in classes with many of our old elementary school buddies, and we had the added bonus of meeting new friends. Some of these friendships took root thanks to an experimental, unstructured class that replaced language arts and social studies. As our independent project, my friend Katie and I made a movie.

She and I loved the movies. We dreamed of writing, directing, and perhaps starring in our own films one day. The logical starting point was our own Super 8 short film. Of course it was Katie’s family that had the camera, not mine. They had real cameras, ones with complicated knobs for focusing, as well as movie cameras, film projecters, even special movie lights. The were high-tech. I was wowed. I come from an anti-camera, anti-tech family. On Christmas morning, we would look around for the Kodak Instamatic. If it could be located, it often lacked film, flash bulbs, or both. One Christmas, our only pictures were taken by our next-door neighbor. Old photos from the 1940s on were tossed at random in the drawer of the coffee table, undated and unlabeled, a practice that inspired me to take the opposite approach, to document, organize and archive.

Katie and I favored the genres of comedy and horror. (See Movies with Friends: From Frogs to Rocky Horror to Toco Hill, and other posts from March 2012.) Our movie, we quickly decided, would be a campy, silly horror film, set in the 50s. As kids growing up in the 70s, we were fascinated by that Happy Days era, which seemed so distant. Because Katie’s mother and mine had saved most of their clothes from that time period, our costumes were immediately at hand. We also had lots of comical wigs and odd accessories that begged to be modeled.

We spent Saturdays and school-day afternoons writing the script. To us, it was side-splittingly hilarious. I have several copies of the final four-page script, typed by Katie and mimeographed at school. It was a silent film, so the narration and dialogue were hand-written in a flowery cursive and filmed, panel by panel. Our working title was The Underground Horror, later finalized as Dark Secrets. It began promisely enough:

The date is 1957. Leonora Fieldcrest had just moved into old Ravencroft Cottage on Shepherd Lane. Knowing that the apartment in the basement was rented to a certain Dr. Marc Welby (whom she had never met), did not hinder her. Perhaps
she should have thought more carefully.

Our set was the home of our friend Rebecca, who would play Leonora’s “old school chum” and spunky gal reporter, Amanda Duff. Not surprisingly, Dr. Welby (we considered this name choice an example of our use of sophisticated irony) was up to no good. He was building a creature. His laboratory was a squalid subterranean room, the door of which had been painted, years before, by previous homeowners, with the ominous warning: Operations Shack! Scram! Rebecca’s basement (really a cellar, rudimentarily finished and typical of the 1930s-era homes in our neighborhood) simply cried out for us to film a horror movie in it.

Katie took the role of the creature, and I played Leonora. We recruited two boys from our class for the male roles: Dr. Welby and Leonora’s butler. Everyone in old 50s movies had a butler, it seemed, and we needed another guy. Katie filmed the scenes she wasn’t in. Her older sister took care of the others. Rebecca’s younger sister and her friend served as gaffers and gophers. We relished tossing around such film jargon. Because the next-door neighbors had a cute little dog named Buster who was always underfoot, he was granted a role as Leonora’s puppy.

The entire cast, pictured above, from left to right: Amanda, Leonora, the Creation, standing menacingly, Dr. Welby, and the butler. It’s unfortunate that not a single still photo related to our film was in focus. I haven’t seen the movie in years, but I’m sure it’s not this blurry. I’m uncertain of the source of these pictures. Evidently they were taken before Katie got her very own good camera; at which point she became the primary photographer of our collective youth, known for her creative (and clear) photos. She has enjoyed a successful career as a photo-journalist for the Indianapolis Star newspaper.

Dr. Welby, at work in his Operations Shack. He laughs in a villainous manner as he puts the finishing touches on his Creation, whose red plaid skirt is visible.

Me, as Leonora, with Buster the dog.

Amanda, just arrived from Kansas (on her bicycle),
hands her little suitcase to the butler.

One of our funniest jokes (we thought), was the awfulness of Dr. Welby’s basement “apartment.” Here, Amanda and Leonora snoop around while the doc is out, observing personal mementos on the table beside his bare foam-rubber mattress on the floor.

At Amanda’s insistence, the two friends sneak into Welby’s inner sanctum. Leonora brandishes an Indian juggling club. Ace Reporter Amanda wields her trusty, if anachronistic camera,
perhaps the source of some of these blurry photos.

Nature, Parenthood, Walking the Dog

At Long Last, A Snow Day in Northern Virginia

March 6, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

The snow that my daughter has yearned for all winter here in Virginia finally arrived early this morning. Understandably, this first significant, inordinately late snow of the season is a much-anticipated weather event. All week long every local TV station has had their Storm Watch coverage going full force. Giddy newscasters reported from points as yet untouched by snow, assuring us that the flakes were on their way. Usually, when this happens, it’s either a huge deal, like the blizzard of December 2009 that shut down the DC area for a week, or it’s a complete and utter bust. This was different; it fell somewhere in between.

Not a flake had descended at midnight last night. When we awoke this morning, it didn’t look like much, just a minimal coating on the ground and a fine snow floating down. But more was emphatically promised. Forecasts called for heavy snow all day and into the night. Schools, the Federal government, and many offices were closed. Even H’s office was closed, which is very rare indeed.

Once D and I went out to walk Kiko, enormous, sloppy flakes the size of mini-snowballs began pelting, and quickly drenching us. It was like walking in a heavy, thick, wet rain. It was not especially pleasant.

The snow continues to fall thickly now. D is at a friend’s house sledding, and H is out on the driveway with his never-before-used snow blower. He knew the snow was probably too wet, but he had to give the new toy a try. It’s kicking up an impressively wide spray of white slush. I hope both D and H are happy. Kiko and I are. We’re inside, warm and dry, and we plan to stay that way.

Kiko doesn’t seem to mind wearing his coat, which keeps him somewhat dry. He doesn’t like rain, and this snow bears a strong resemblance to rain.

Kiko has had enough of the fat white rain. Time to go in and dry off.

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Walking the Dog

Kiko’s Close Call

March 5, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

During our visit to Rochester, we left Kiko alone with H’s parents one afternoon while we went out. We felt no anxiety about leaving the dog with them. I don’t think I even gave a single thought to Kiko while we were gone. Grandma and Grandpa are worriers. They are careful. They visualize every possibility of disaster, no matter how remote. They looked after our two-year old daughter for ten days when H, my parents and I went to France. Everyone was fine. They should have no problem dealing with Kiko for an hour and a half.

When we returned, Grandpa came quickly to the door. He was clearly shaken. We knew something was up. Everything’s alright, he said, breathlessly. It’s all OK. . . . But Kiko got out.I was immediately beset by panic, even though Kiko was right there, looking up at me, perfectly fine, intact and unharmed, a bit sleepy.The story unfolded. Shortly after we left, Grandpa decided to get the car washed. With Rochester’s constant snow and never-ending salt and slush on the roads, car washes are a routine necessity. He looked into the living room and saw Kiko asleep on his bed. In the kitchen, he pressed the garage door opener, as he always does, before going out the side door. It was then that he was aware of a reddish flash behind him. Kiko was already in the garage and dashing out into the driveway. Grandpa lunged for the dog, managing to grab his tail, which looks very much like a curled handle, as on a teapot. But Kiko was moving too fast, and the tug on his tail merely caused him to yelp and move even faster.Our brilliant dog turned left at the end of the driveway and bounded down the very center of the street. H’s parents’ live on a busy road, where cars speed by with dependable frequency. This was no quiet neighborhood cul-de-sac. Oh no.

Fortunately Grandma heard Grandpa yell and was alerted to the situation. I had showed her Kiko’s bag of treats and left them out on the table. Thinking quickly, she got a treat and rushed out in pursuit. By this time Grandpa and the dog were well down the road. Kiko would stop occasionally and look back, then fly off again playfully. He was evidently thinking, This is a great game!. When he heard Grandma yell pleasantly, Kiko, treat!, he paused long enough to allow Grandpa to catch up and grab his collar. Luckily, I hadn’t removed the collar as I usually do at home; this dog is as slippery as an otter. Kiko was saddened and stunned to see the game ending so quickly, and he did all he could to resist returning home. He splayed his legs, put his head down resolutely, and managed to make his compact 26-pound bulk feel much heavier. But Grandpa was determined, and mustering his strength, he corraled our little runaway beast.

Considering that Grandpa and Grandma generally don’t move especially fast, it is a near-miracle that they managed to catch our speedy dog. Evidently the adrenaline rush fueled their unusual alacrity. The real miracle, according to Grandpa, was the absence of a single car passing by during the entire episode.

We all visualized various grim alternate endings: Grandpa collapses in the street with a heart attack, Grandma slips on the icy road and breaks a hip, and Kiko is still flattened by a Suburban.

We would all be awash in blame. The whys and the what-ifs would be dizzying and relentless. Why didn’t we ask Grandma and Grandpa if they planned to go out? Why didn’t we warn them about the garage door? What if we had taken Kiko with us? Grandpa would regret that car wash for the rest of his life, as H, D and I would regret that day’s outing.

Here, I am, close to tears, again, imagining the sad trip back to Virginia, without Kiko. Or with his inert little body packed in ice in the back of the car? I doubt we could have buried him in the frozen Rochester ground. We would have had to gather up all his stuff–his bed, blanket, food bowls, treats, Foxy, his little coat. Oh, his little plaid coat, the coat he wore only once! And now my heart is breaking for parents who have lost children (and I do mean human children) who must confront the tormenting evidence–the forlorn toys, the clothes, the snow boots–that screams: She’ll be back! She’s at a friend’s house. He’ll be home from school at 4:00! How do such parents answer, without going insane: No, pretty red dress, my baby won’t be home again. No, boots, he will not use you for this snow, or ever. Only with God’s help.

But our ending, this time, was a happy one. I don’t think God held back the cars that day. Nor do I think he assigns guardian angels to dogs. But maybe God did give Grandpa and Grandma the unaccustomed speed they needed to catch our escaped monster. And maybe he looked after them so they did not get hurt in the process. Maybe he helped Grandma remember that a treat might work magic. And maybe luck was simply on our side.

Today, safely at home, my Kiko is warm in the sun. I will cuddle him, and give thanks again. And I will say a prayer for those wrestling with an unhappy ending.

Kiko sleeps in the March sun.

Now Grandma and Grandpa have signs like this one on all their doors, just as we do in our house.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Travel

Historic Angelica, New York

February 27, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine 2 Comments

0241 — This Angelica house, built in 1884, is one of the town’s newer structures. It is now the Park Circle Bed & Breakfast.

If you ever find yourself in western New York, perhaps after fulfilling a quest for authentic maple syrup at Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn, I would recommend another stop in the nearby historic village of Angelica. (While Cartwright’s has an Angelica address, it is several miles outside the tiny town.)

Postcard-pretty Angelica was named for Angelica Shuyler Church (1756- 1814), scion of two eminent New York families, the Schuylers and the Rensselaers. Angelica’s father was a general in the Continental Army, later a member of the Continental Congress and a U.S. senator. Her brother-in-law was Alexander Hamilton. After eloping with the English-born merchant John Barker Church, Angelica lived most of her life in Europe. Intelligent, well-educated, charming and beautiful, she mixed in elite circles. During her years in Paris, her confidants included Benjamin Franklin, Thomas Jefferson (with whom she kept up a lifelong correspondence), and the Marquis de Lafayette. Her London acquaintances were equally renowned. Angelica and her family returned to America for a visit to attend the inauguration of George Washington.

When her family purchased a 100,000-acre tract of land in the wilds of western New York, Angelica’s son Philip scouted the area for a suitable location to build a town. He chose a site along the Genesee River. In 1802, he named the new settlement after his mother. Thanks to Philip and his surveyor, the town has a pleasing geometric plan, its main street radiating out from a central circular park.

Considering the name of the town and that of its founding family, it’s appropriate that Angelica is notable for the many lovely old churches that ring the green and dot Main Street. Nearly all the town’s buildings date from the 19th century and have been little changed. Modernism sidestepped Angelica. Large, still beautiful homes, plus a library, academy, court house and post office, are interspersed among the churches and shops. We typically visit in February, when the view from the snow-covered central park recalls a tabletop Christmas display of quaint ceramic buildings.

0212 — Angelica’s central green, showing two of the town’s churches.

0262 — St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, which dates from 1847 and includes several Tiffany windows.

033 — Yet another Angelica church, surrounded by homes.

0281 — This Gothic revival house was built in 1826 for the family of Aaron Burr.

0341 — The Lloyd House, built from 1834 with local stone quarried from nearby Joncy Gorge.

036 — When Kiko spotted these two dog figures on a side porch of the Lloyd house, he confronted them with extreme wariness. They remained silent, and he moved on, disappointed.

In 1797, Angelica and her husband returned to live permanently in the U.S. Their grand home, known as Villa Belvidere, is located on the outskirts of town. Begun in 1806, its design is attributed to Benjamin Latrobe, architect of the U.S. capitol. The house remains in private hands.

Family, Nature, Parenthood, Travel, Walking the Dog

North to the Sugar Shack: Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn

February 22, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

Last weekend, we drove to upstate New York for pancakes. Not just for pancakes. Pancakes and maple syrup. We met H’s family at Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn, a glorified sugar shack located, really, in the middle of nowhere. Its actual address is County Road 15A, Angelica, NY (2 miles from Short Tract), which, in the language of our GPS system, is “not on any digitized road.” Despite its truly out-of-the-way location in the midst of snow-covered fields, it’s a popular spot, with big crowds on weekends. It’s only open during the maple sugar season, which typically runs from mid-February through March or mid-April, depending on the weather. H’s family has been trekking out to Cartwright’s for decades, and now it’s among our winter traditions, even though our drive is far longer. Of course, we don’t return directly to Virginia, but spend the weekend visiting H’s family in Rochester.

The Cartwrights began producing maple syrup on their farm in the 1850s. The Maple Tree Inn dates from 1963, when the family decided to build a restaurant specializing in Grandma’s buckwheat pancakes served with their own maple syrup. In the adjacent shop, the syrup, maple butter and maple sugar cakes became available directly to the public. The somewhat ramshackle building has been expanded over the years and is now fairly large. It will win no awards for architectural style, but that’s not the point. In the chain-store sameness that dominates so much of our country today, the Maple Tree Inn offers a unique, quirky, authentic experience. It’s living history, and it’s worth a visit.

Before I met my husband, I had never tasted true maple syrup. The first time we ate together at PJ’s Pancake House in Princeton, I was surprised to see him pull a small container of pure maple syrup from his pocket. At the time, PJ’s didn’t serve the real stuff, although that has since changed. I didn’t understand what the big deal was. Growing up, when Daddy made pancakes on Saturday mornings, we used the typical supermarket syrup–Log Cabin, Aunt Jemima–whatever. H was no food snob, so I found his insistence on unadulterated maple syrup mystifying. That is, until that day at PJ’s, when I tasted the liquid from that little jar. H was right. There is no topping the perfection of the stuff that comes straight from the tree.

Visitors to the Maple Tree Inn are welcome to descend into the building’s lower level to learn how the sap is boiled down, in huge wood-fired evaporators, to its golden maple essence. Several years ago, a Cartwright grandson, no more than twelve or so, gave us a comprehensive tour that began in the frozen fields where we could examine the taps on the trees and see the liquid running into the buckets. As far as I know, this is not an option at IHOP.

These days, the rarified nuances of maple syrup, like those of chocolate, coffee and small-batch whiskies, are earnestly discussed at considerable length, using wine-lingo terms such as terroir. H doesn’t do this, although he can and does enjoy discerning, in blind taste tests, the variations between light, medium, and dark amber syrups. My palette will never attain such a degree of sophistication, but I can say this: a little true maple syrup makes life sweeter.

Rochester 010 — The snowy landscape behind the Maple Tree Inn.

Rochester 014 — Kiko and I walk through the surrounding fields before I join the others for lunch.

Kiko keeps vigil in the car during our meal. Animal advocates need not be alarmed–he has his sheepskin bed and blanket if he needs to hunker down for warmth. Before this trip, in case it was particularly cold, we bought him a red plaid fleece coat. The temperature wasn’t low enough to warrant it, and he appeared perfectly comfortable, peering out from the front seat, when we returned. For his wait, he was rewarded with an extra sausage patty H’s grandmother had carefully saved for him.

Kiko and D atop a tall snowpile on an earlier visit to Cartwright’s, in 2009. Kiko looks almost exactly the same as he did four years ago, when he was two. D, on the other hand, has changed.

006 — We stocked up at the Maple Tree Inn.

Holiday

Happy Valentine’s Day!

February 14, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family, Friendship

Ashes to Ashes

February 13, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

On Ash Wednesday, we are urged to face a stark truth: we will not live forever. The certainty of our mortality should be evident as we daily confront our society’s latest egregious incidents of violent fatality. Where was today’s shooting? At a mall, an office, a restaurant, a church, or, most horrifically, at a school? Who were the heroes and innocents who died senselessly this week? Firefighters, doctors, nurses, teachers, small children, infants? Depending upon where you live, you may be mourning a different tragedy than the one that preys on my mind. There are so many tragedies in our world. Every day it becomes more difficult to say It can’t happen in my neighborhood.

Yet despite the ongoing exposure to such dire events, our culture is constantly blaring the message that if we spend enough on miraculous health and beauty products, if we make the right lifestyle choices, we can prolong our lives indefinitely. It promises us, repeatedly, that it’s in our best interests to extend the look of youth far beyond our youthful years. One of the worst things we can say about a celebrity is this: She’s looking her age. How shocking! How pitiful! Not enough botox, or botox gone bad. Excessive collagen, or inadequate collogen. A facelift that failed. A fanatical exercise regime that no longer does the trick. Her arms were once buff; now they’re stringy. The more beautiful one is in youth, the sadder seems the diminishing of that beauty with age.

Yesterday I caught a brief snippet of a TV soap opera that I admit I used to watch, on occasion. Well, not really watch. It happened to come on at a time when I needed a rest. It offered a distraction as I sat down to fold laundry, leaf through piles of papers and magazines for recycling, make get-well cards. Sometimes it lulled me to sleep, I have to say. This particular soap opera, even sillier than most, if possible, requires minimal attention, because it’s always the same. During my most recent viewing, it was immediately apparent that the same small group of characters was still soldiering on in scandalous banality, divorcing, remarrying, swapping spouses and children, re-betraying one another in bizarre ways. At a glance, the old gang looked very much the same. There was not a wrinkle, not a gray hair to be seen. Bodies were svelte, as always. But the faces were altered in odd ways: eyes slanted at more extreme angles, lips overly puffy, cheekbones higher, chins more pronounced, foreheads immovable as those of marble statues. The characters continue to behave in sophomoric, stupid ways, so it is fitting, perhaps, that they appear young.
In real life, though, is maturity so terrible? If we learn from our mistakes, we are not cursed to repeat them endlessly, like soap opera characters. As we mature mentally and spiritually, we will age, and our age will show.

I’m not saying I’m immune to the horror of growing old. I’ve begun to avoid harsh lighting, I’ve noted, with acute dismay, what an awkward turn of my head can do for the skin on my neck. The magnifying mirror is my frenemy. I silently bewail the effects of gravity. Just as the classic birthday card line attests: Old age is not for sissies. It’s for the the wise, the well-adjusted, the truly mature.
On Ash Wednesday, we are called to confront the fact that no magic potion or surgery will keep old age forever at bay. And while death claims the young, as we see all too often, most of us are granted the bittersweet privilege of aging in this lifetime. This is, indeed, a gift; it allows us the opportunity to grow toward wisdom, toward maturity. It means the chance to come to terms with the hollowness of our culture of vanity, and to learn to live accordingly. The visible effects of age are reminders that death awaits us, unavoidably. The physical body decays even as we live, earthly beauty is fleeting, and material possessions are transitory. Once we acknowledge these truths, we are free to recognize the real value of what will not pass away:

And now, these three abide: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. –1 Corinthians 13: 13

On Ash Wednesday, we thank God for not leaving us to eternal decay. Through the love of Jesus Christ we are rescued from the dust, from perpetual darkness. Our future, as God’s beloved children, is one of light and glory, of joyful wisdom that, in its zeal, perfection, and yes, its maturity, will remain forever young, forever beautiful.

Lenten roses 005 — I noticed today that some Lenten roses (Helleborus Orientalis) are already in bloom , although barely visible among winter’s dead leaves.

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For further discussion of the meaning of Ash Wednesday, see last year’s post: What’s with the Ashes?, February 22, 2012.

Community, Nature, Walking the Dog

Fat Tuesday Sunshine

February 12, 2013 Wildtrumpetvine

On this Fat Tuesday afternoon here in northern Virginia, the sun is emphatic in its brightness and temperatures are well into the mid-50s. Kiko again sought out his customary spring spot on the terrace. He reminds me of a northern tourist revelling in the winter Caribbean sunshine.

The sunshine was so abundant, so luxurious, and so relaxing,
that Kiko had no choice but to sleep.

Before long he woke up, overheated. It’s February 12, and he had to find some shade.

A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.