For many years, we rarely glimpsed a raccoon in our immediate area. I wrote about young Kiko’s only encounter with a raccoon inside his fenced domain back in 2013. During our Covid home confinement in 2020, we began to notice them more often, and they provided much-needed entertainment. They were the ideal visitors for that era: always masked, always outside. Our family would gather eagerly at the windows to watch these unexpectedly agile athletes perform acrobatic feats. They persisted, and persisted, and managed, somehow, to feast on seed from the hanging feeders. These days, raccoons are ever-present.
This winter, a pair of small, absolutely adorable raccoons began appearing regularly as dusk approached. We’d see them working patiently, using their delicate, long-fingered hands to comb the ground for sunflower seeds beneath the feeders. I’d learned that it’s an easy task for a raccoon to remove a feeder from its hook, so I’d started securing them to the branches with carabiners. For a while they seemed to work. But raccoons clearly persevere. I’d awaken to find both feeders on the ground, their components scattered across a wide area, the seed long gone. Now I remove the feeders at night, after the last of the late-feeding cardinals has retired. A slight delay, though, and I’ll find a feeder already on the ground. These little guys work quickly now that they’ve mastered the carabiner.
Once they realized that the feeders disappear after dark, the raccoons are more likely to show up during the day. Early morning, mid-day, late afternoon, whenever. Hearing a louder than expected rustling in the weeds one recent day, I watched as a raccoon vigorously dragged a feeder toward a more private dining spot, behind the garage. And I know, from the gifts they leave, that they check for the feeders every night. I still think the raccoons are very cute. But I wouldn’t object strenuously to fewer visits from these furry friends.
My childhood neighborhood in urban Atlanta was full of large, mature trees and pockets of densely wooded areas. I grew up amidst plenty of small wildlife. Squirrels, chipmunks and birds were, and are, plentiful. For some reason, we often saw an opossum sitting placidly on the roof of our next-door neighbor’s home, easily visible from our kitchen window. Friends tell me that foxes, coyotes and deer all make the occasional appearance these days, but I never spotted any in all my years there. So I wasn’t prepared to be surrounded by the larger wild creatures we see every day here in Northern Virginia.
We had been in our present home just a few months when my husband and I awakened to a horrific screeching sound. My first thought was that our daughter, then about eighteen months old, was crying out, in a most terrible way.
“She’s OK! She’s OK! It’s not her!,” my husband assured me. “It’s coming from outside.” It was spring, and the windows were open.
The screeching continued. It still sounded like a child suffering a brutal attack.
It wasn’t until the next day that we determined the source of the noise: a fox. Just a little red fox.
Freddie at left, and Frankie, the senior female, at right
Over the last twenty years we’ve come to be aware of the many foxes around us. Now that we know where to look, we see them as they go about their typically quiet everyday lives. We consider it a privilege to share our space with them. Their middle-of-the-night screeches no longer frighten us. Sometimes I’ve looked out and watched with interest as a fox stands in the center of our yard and yells out, repeatedly. During daylight hours, our local foxes regularly follow certain routes, from one patch of wooded county land to another, crossing yards, or following paved paths like driveways and walkways. Occasionally we’ll spot them curled up and snoozing in a patch of sun.
Kiko in September 2009
When our dog Kiko was alive, his favorite look-out spot was by the fence in our side yard, where he could watch the foxes on their rounds. They frequently passed within a few yards of the boundary. But neither Kiko nor the foxes made a sound. They eyed one another with intense scrutiny, as if wondering if they might be related. The Shiba Inu is sometimes called the “little fox dog,” and the two are similar in size and appearance, with their thick red fur and pointed ears. The fox’s long bushy tail, though, contrasts with Kiko’s shorter, curly one. In a post from last winter, I remarked that a glimpse of a fox in the front yard sometimes prompts a moment of panic when I think it’s Kiko, still with us, but alarmingly beyond the safety of the fence. The foxes have become a sort of stand-in for our beloved dog, and I find their presence comforting. In their mannerisms, they also remind me of Kiko. They look at humans with a calm, steady gaze in their golden-amber eyes, then glance away coolly, as if to say, “I’m fine without you.” Their black-tipped ears twitch at the slightest sound. And like my dog in his agile prime, they can jump up, turn on a dime, and dash away speedily.
Snowball, inside the fenced area
After our return from Cape Cod, I was glad that the fox I’ve come to see most often hadn’t moved on to new territory. I call him Freddie, and he’s evidently the senior male, the group patriarch, father to three cubs. Early on sunny mornings, he’s often curled up in front of his favorite tree in my mother’s yard. In the winter, he was frequently accompanied by his mate, a nursing female. I dubbed her Frankie, short for Francesca. She was dainty and skittish, slightly smaller than Freddie, and lighter in color, with a narrower face. I haven’t seen her for a couple of months. But their youngsters are everywhere: long, lanky adolescents, lean and big-eared. The sibling in charge is a spirited, fearless female. I dubbed her Snowball for the prominent bob of white at the end of her tail. She’s a skilled and patient hunter, often lying flat in the mulch, blending in, motionless, waiting to pounce. And sometimes she and the other young ones venture inside our fenced area. They’re small enough to pop easily in and out through the wrought-iron bars. Now that Kiko’s nearly fifteen-year tenure as guard is over, the area has become even more of a safe sanctuary for birds, squirrels and chipmunks. But with his absence, his foxy look-a-likes have become bolder. When I’m at my desk and spot Snowball inside the fence, I raise the window, and she flees immediately. Foxes are intelligent, and they seem to learn quickly the limits of human hospitality. But they’re also persistent and sneaky.
Freddie, on alert
Just the other day I happened to witness Snowball flying across the front yard with a bushy-tailed squirrel in her jaws. It’s a wild kingdom out there. I’d prefer that all our neighborhood critters were vegetarians, but it’s not up to me.
Frankie
I wonder about little Frankie. I’d like to think she’s moved on, by choice. It’ unlikely, I know, but I hope she’s living her best life in another welcoming enclave, relishing the absence of familial responsibilities. After all, she knows her teenagers can take care of themselves.
Our family recently returned from our summer vacation in Cape Cod. As we’d hoped, it was a lovely, fun-filled, restful get-away. We’re very grateful to escape from the ordinary in a beautiful, beloved spot, doing as much, or as little, as we please.
And what a delight it is, at the end of that time, to be home.
Compared with our little rental cottage, our house feels immense. There is no sparkling view of Cape Cod Bay, but I can gaze out from every window on scenes I find satisfying in a different way: the muted green and gold landscapes of home.
Since our dog departed this earthly life in July 2022, I’ve become more attuned to the other creatures that share our home turf. Now that Kiko no longer patrols the territory, they’re clearly more at ease. Upon returning after time away, I eagerly look for the non-human friends I’m getting to know.
Among the first sounds of my Northern Virginia morning are those of a couple of wrens. One typically calls out boldly from the railing above our front porch. As he tweet-tweets, he looks to be filled with gusto, bursting with boldness, jumping abruptly this was and that. From a nearby tree comes a buzzing, warbling response. In our side yard under the pines, the mourning doves are foraging quietly below the feeders. All pearl-gray patience and propriety, they glide along like demure, hoop-skirted ladies, unexpectedly clad in sassy, fuchsia-colored shoes. I hate to catch them by surprise, because they fly off with such a loud commotion of fluttering feathers. At the feeders, there’s a constant coming and going of house finches, sparrows, chickadees and titmice. The red-bellied woodpecker swoops in periodically with a flourish and a squawk. A congregation of cardinals is always present, from just before dawn to well past dusk. They cluster at the feeders, perch in the pine branches, and amble along the ground, like convivial regulars in their local pub. Touches of bright yellow flash in the sunlight, as goldfinches feast merrily on the heads of Black-Eyed Susans by the back porch. Crows survey their domain from atop the highest branches of our old maples.
The gray squirrels are the most numerous and omnipresent of the furry creatures. Rarely do I peer out any window and not see at least one or two. We have so many squirrels. I noticed a bunch of slightly smaller, younger ones, for the first time this spring. (Mama squirrels are doting mothers, and they keep their young well sheltered until they’ve grown nearly to adult size.) They clatter round and round the tree trunks in frenzied games of chase, they leap heroically from branch to branch. In a group of exuberant acrobats, one little guy stands out like an Olympic gymnast. We often see him twirling his little body around a branch as though mastering a routine on the parallel bars. He hangs by his toes like a trapeze artist. He back-flips off a tree trunk and sticks the landing.
For a couple of months or so now, we have not seen Bobbie, the bob-tailed squirrel we began noticing in 2020. (I first dubbed her Bob, then noticed later that she was a nursing mother.) Where her tail should be, she had only a fuzzy stump; it appeared that it had been pulled off, either by a predator or in an accident. But Bobbie didn’t let it bother her. She made up for her lack of tail with an extra doze of chutzpa, and my goodness, could she jump. She became a local celebrity, a familiar sight to all our nearby neighbors. We’re sad to think she’s no longer with us. But the squirrel community may feel otherwise, as Bobbie was one fiery gal. Often, when we saw a squirrel making a fast exit from the feeding grounds, it was likely because Bobbie was in determined and aggressive pursuit. I expect she lives on through her progeny, as she apparently was a mother to several broods.
Bobbie will certainly live on, vividly, in our memories, as well as in neighborhood lore.
While spreading seed for the birds and squirrels during Saturday’s soothing morning rain, I spotted an unidentified object in the wet grass. It appeared to be made of black patent leather. What is that? I wondered. I bent down to look. I gasped. Wow! It was the biggest beetle I’ve ever seen.
It was easily the size of a small mouse. After observing the beetle for a while, and judging it to be deceased, I gingerly picked it up. When I showed the find to my husband, he suspected that I was trying to fool him. He recalled a similar episode from our past.
We hadn’t been seeing each other very long when my housemate at the time played an unforgettable prank on me. Inside the oatmeal carton that I opened every morning, she had placed a gargantuan black rubber cockroach. Upon discovering it, I was horrified. It sure looked like the real thing. If my memory surrounding the event is correct (and it may well not be), I ran into H soon afterward on the Princeton campus. The route to my carrel at Marquand Library intersected with his path to the Engineering Quad. I told him about the traumatic oatmeal event, and he came back with me to see for himself. “Is it real?” he asked. I replied that I thought so. I’d left the beast on the kitchen counter where it fell. I can still see its dark, looming form against the slightly glittery surface of turquoise Formica. It looked frightening, still. But maybe not quite as authentic as I’d previously thought. I took a knife from the drawer and pushed the side of the blade gently down on the back of the insect. It didn’t crunch, but smooshed down quietly, as if it were made of rubber. “Lauren!,” I exclaimed. My roommate had pulled a good one on me.
I appreciated her prank, as she expected I would. I kept the huge rubber roach. Occasionally, I’d wear it, for shock value, like a brooch on a fancy dress, or set like a barrette in my hair. I even wore it, briefly, during my wedding reception, as in the photo above. I still have the creature somewhere. When I find it again, I’ll probably scream, just as I did upon our first encounter.
The beetle is about 2.5 inches long. The AA battery is there for scale.
It took a while for H to be convinced that the beetle wasn’t a clever prop I’d surreptitiously obtained. When we first began trying to identify it, we kept coming up short. In size and color, it looked like a rhinoceros beetle, found in Australia and elsewhere, but not native to the U.S. Before long, we noticed that as the beetle’s shell dried in the sun, it was fading to pale gray-green, with a splattering of dark spots. This coloring identified it as an Eastern Hercules beetle, a type of rhinoceros beetle that’s native to our country. They’re fairly uncommon, which explains why I’ve lived my life to this point without ever meeting one. The two long, curved horns identify our critter as a male, and earn that rhino name. The horns are not used to injure humans or predators, but only in battle with other male competitors to win a mate. The spotted shell over the abdomen is actually a pair of hardened wings, known as the elytra. They protect another pair of wings beneath. These beetles do, indeed, fly occasionally, despite their large size. Yikes!
I’m reminded of the time I first saw one of our Southern “palmetto bugs” take flight, and I shudder. As I remember the incident (and again, some details may be incorrect) my mother, my high school boyfriend and I were watching the opening sketch of Saturday Night Live in our Atlanta family room when we noticed an enormous roach inching its way high up along the wall. My boyfriend sprang into action. He grabbed a yardstick and stood on a chair, poised to swat the giant insect. Mama commented, “I’ve heard that some of these can fly.” “I don’t believe that,” he replied. As he prepared to strike, the huge bug flew directly at his head. And with great speed, the three of us fled the room.
The beetle has two smaller horn-like protrusions on each side of the central horns.
But back to our Eastern Hercules beetle. His appearance is fierce, but he was not a threat to most living creatures. In his larval stage, he lived underground as a greenish white grub, chewing away on rotting wood, turning decaying tree material into soil. As an adult, he was active primarily at night, where he kept close to the ground, foraging among the leaves for fallen fruits and berries. Given the opportunity, he may have dined on ash tree sap, but he was not a pest. Despite his commanding presence, bulky armor and body ammo, he was a quiet, solitary vegetarian, doing admirable environmental work. He rarely used his well-protected wings to fly. His adult life may have lasted two to three years. I’m glad his final steps led him to a spot in our yard where I could discover him.
The beetle’s large compound eyes are visible in this photo.
Thank you, Big Beetle. You’re a remarkable character. You’ve broadened my perspective, and reminded me of the richness and diversity of creation that surrounds us, often unnoticed and unseen, every day. You will be remembered!
When I awoke yesterday and looked out my bedroom window, as I do most mornings, I was, very briefly, confused. The front walkway appeared to be wet. But that couldn’t be. Here in Northern Virginia, our version of extreme weather this summer has been fixed and unchanging: exceedingly hot, and absolutely dry. By mid-morning, the sunshine is so relentlessly intense, so adamantly bright, that it takes on a sort of menacing quality. Plants are shriveling and lawns are browning. Squirrels splay their little gray bodies out flat on tree branches, attempting to cool off. They resemble the stuffing-free toys we used to buy our dog. The neighborhood fox family trudges by slowly, mouths agape, panting. Even the birds look miserable, as if their feathers were burdened by the heat. After about three weeks without a drop of rain, we were at last gifted with a pounding evening storm three nights ago. But rain in the morning? That just doesn’t happen.
Water droplets, though, were visible on the hydrangeas.
And on the leaves of the red maples and climbing roses. The impatiens were bowing their heads, as in grateful prayer for the healing moisture.
The temperature dropped from the high 90s to the 70s. Furry and feathery friends appeared newly invigorated. The rain continued, off and on, all day long.
It continues today, as well. Normally, I’d be disappointed to wake up to another rainy day.
But these are not normal times.
The sky is crying, the streets are full of tears Rain come down, wash away my fears And all this writing on the wall Oh, I can read between the lines
Rain come down, forgive this dirty town Rain come down, and give this dirty town A drink of water, a drink of wine
About a twenty minute drive from Spencerport is the village of Scottsville, NY. On its outskirts is the ice arena where our nephews played their Memorial Day weekend hockey games. Each boy’s team played a game, with an hour in between. The rink was, as I’ve mentioned, quite frosty. Despite the blanket I shared with my sister-in-law, a couple of my fingers were going numb well before the halfway point. To warm up and take a break, and because my husband knew I’d appreciate a look at the old buildings, we went on a drive through the main streets of Scottsville.
The area in and around the town contains a number of houses that stand out for their unusual textured appearance. What looks from afar like an odd sort of brick turns out to be small, rounded stones, neatly set in straight rows of mortar. The rocks were tumbled smooth during the long process of glacial shifting and melting that occurred thousands of years ago at the end of the last ice age. As the prehistoric glacial Lake Iroquois gradually gave way to Lake Ontario, the easternmost of the Great Lakes, many stones were deposited in what is now the greater Rochester area. Early nineteenth-century settlers, clearing the land for farming, uncovered and collected the numerous small stones. They were conveniently at hand, and they gave rise to the cobblestone houses of upper New York state.
The first floor walls of the home above were made from cobblestones. The house has a plaque bearing the date of 1838. Many cobblestone dwellings date from around this time. Only one such home remains in the city of Rochester itself (at 1090 Culver Street). It’s been vacant for a while and has fallen into disrepair, but an effort toward its preservation is under way. About seven hundred cobblestone buildings are thought to survive in the area around Rochester. There’s a Cobblestone Society and Museum near the town of Albion, about thirty-five miles northwest of Scottsville.
Scottsville’s Rochester Street Historic District encompasses forty-one homes, many, like the one above, dating from the 1830s – 50s. Most were built in the simplified Greek revival style popular throughout the U.S. during these decades.
Running through the center of Scottsville is tranquil Browns Avenue, where a couple of historic churches are set among the homes. Located at #1 on the street is Union Presbyterian Church. While the congregation was organized in 1822, the present white frame building dates from c. 1850. The spare, gabled facade is a simpler, flatter version of a Greek or Roman temple, the flat pilasters recalling Doric columns. The four arched, stained glass windows, single round rose window and two tall doors are placed with perfect symmetry. The central block is topped by a short bell tower, in which round-headed arches are supported by a sturdy Doric colonnade. The railing around the tower suggests its use as a lookout post for scenic views of the surrounding town.
The central portion of Grace Church dates from 1885. The projecting wing behind was added in 1956. A bell tower, barely visible at far right, was built in 1976.
Just a bit further down Browns Avenue, at #9, is Grace Episcopal Church, which dates from 1885. It was designed by Harvey Ellis, a local architect known for several buildings in the area, including Rochester City Hall. Ellis was influenced by the medieval revival style known as Richardsonian Romanesque, after the architect Henry Hobson Richardson. Richardson’s buildings are characterized by a sense of ground-hugging weightiness, even when topped by soaring towers. They typically feature an interplay of earth tones and heavy textures in their use of rough-hewn stone and contrasting colors, as in Boston’s Trinity Church* from the 1870s. The Richardsonian influence is evident in Scottsville’s Grace Church in its low-slung, Latin cross plan, wide, heavy porch, and its use of mixed materials. The rough lower level is composed of local fieldstone, arranged randomly, not in neat rows as in the cobblestone homes. It contrasts with the upper frame section, faced with wooden shingles and painted rusty red. The side walls contain windows of stained glass. I love the bold Trinitarian design of the scrollwork of interlocking circles within the central arched window above the porch. The cross-topped conical form at the peak of the gable rather resembles a floating, festive hat.
About a half mile away, at 99 Main Street, is the Roman Catholic Church of St. Mary of the Assumption. Dating from 1855, it owes its existence to Irish immigrants of the area. In its emphatic verticality, the church offers a striking contrast with the low, horizontal form of Grace Episcopal. With the tall, spire-topped central tower and elongated, arched windows, it reaches confidently for the sky. The brick corner piers atop the tower, each with its own mini-spire, further accentuate the sense of upward motion. The central block resembles an imposing Romanesque fortress. The heaviness of the dark brown brick is offset by touches of snowy white. The delicate arcade below the entablature and the gable reminds me of daintily applied royal icing on a chocolate cake.
The architectural gems of little Scottsville, like those of Spencerport, offer proof of the unexpected and often overlooked beauty of many an American small town. There’s no need to cross an ocean, or board a plane, to take in sights well worth seeing. Remarkable monuments that testify to the diversity and ingenuity of our predecessors may be right under our noses!
*Another important example of Richardsonian Romanesque in the area is the central building of the Richardson Olmsted Campus in Buffalo. It was designed by Henry Hobson Richardson in the 1870s as the Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane. Now it’s being restored as the Richardson Hotel.
A particular image of my father has taken up residence in my mind recently. I see him sitting at our kitchen table in our house in Atlanta. He has a map open–a fold-up highway map, the kind we used to buy at gas stations and welcome centers–those old ones that today’s young adults have rarely seen. He has a pen in hand, and he’s cheerfully planning the route for an upcoming trip. The destination is likely to be one with which he’s very familiar. Probably it’s a town in central or eastern Kentucky, to visit family. Even near home, Daddy didn’t like to follow the same path twice. Mama said that was one reason she never learned her way around Atlanta. Daddy enjoyed driving, and he was good at it. He’d had considerable practice, as he’d been driving since he was twelve or so. He was born in 1929, and he learned on a Model T. I always knew that if I needed a ride somewhere–anywhere accessible by car–Daddy could, and would, gladly oblige.
Mama remembers how Daddy poured over such a map while my husband and I were on our way to New Jersey after our marriage in the fall of 1995. I was moving away, and this time, it seemed likely to be for good. Before, I’d always returned after a few years. H and I were in a packed U-Haul, with my little Rabbit convertible behind on a trailer. Because we left later in the day, we spent a night on the road in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. When I called home to report our safe arrival, Daddy quickly picked up the phone. He’d been worried about us. (He didn’t yet know that I’d perhaps married as capable and confident a driver as he.)
My husband and I with the moving van in Atlanta, November 1995.
“I’m so relieved to hear your voice!,” he exclaimed. “I think I drove every mile with you!”
Daddy was not a man who cried easily or often. But Mama said she remembers him shedding some tears that evening, as he worried over the map.
H with the van in Carlisle. The trailer for my small car was huge, and could easily have held a Cadillac. As H said, “We were long.”
On this Father’s Day, and every day, I’m grateful to be my father’s daughter. I know that wherever life takes me, no matter how treacherous the road, Daddy is there beside me, every mile.
My husband and my father in Atlanta, December 1996.
Somehow now the years have spun by like the numbers on the oven timer, and H and I are a married couple past middle age, with a daughter of our own. She’s twenty-five, a young career woman, living in another state. But it’s Maryland, and she’s still nearby. So far, we’re lucky that way. I know that she, too, counts herself fortunate to be her father’s daughter. She can be sure that her Dada, like her dear Papa, will be forever at her side, driving with her every mile.
Just about every time we cross the New York state line on our way to my husband’s boyhood home in Rochester, he starts singing some mishmash of the chorus of the old Eerie Canal song.
Loooooowwww bridge, everybody down. . .Low bridge. . .15 miles on the Eerie Canal!
I guess every fourth grader in New York learns about the Eerie Canal as they study state history. As well they should. It was a truly big deal. I was introduced to its significance on my first trip to the Albany area. I went home with my friend Mike to Clifton Park during winter break in grad school. It was mid-January in 1987, and the northeast was still a bit stunned after a blizzard that had dumped three feet of snow. The two things I remember most vividly about that long-ago excursion were these: the snow (so much snow), and the Eerie Canal.
Mike had been a fan of the canal since his elementary school days, and he wanted to make sure I grasped its importance. It was a marvel of engineering, he stressed, created under extremely demanding circumstances. Irish immigrants provided the bulk of the back-breakingly difficult, poorly paid labor. They toiled with little more than pick axes, shovels, plows and wheelbarrows, using the occasional ox or mule. A stump puller was designed to assist in tree clearing. The original Canal, forty feet wide and four feet deep, took eight years to build. It was completed in 1825, two years before the country’s first railroad was begun. The Canal links Lake Eerie with the Hudson River, and from there, in New York Harbor, meets the Atlantic Ocean. Flat-bottomed packet boats heavily laden with products like wheat, flour or lumber were pulled by mules along the towpath that bordered the waterway. (Their descendants are today’s gargantuan ocean-going container ships, like the one that recently destroyed the Key Bridge in Baltimore.) The Eerie Canal spurred the development of the Great Lakes region, as well as further westward expansion. It was an early driving force that turned New York into an economic superpower and helped earn it the nickname “Empire State.” It brought wealth to the towns it bordered, from Albany to Buffalo.
Railroads and highways gradually replaced the Canal as a trade route. These days it’s a busy recreational waterway. The mules are gone, but brightly painted packet boats, similar to the old canal boats, are often moored along the banks. These wide, low boats, which may be rented, are popular for touring. And on the Eerie Canalway Trail that runs along the water, it’s possible to cycle the entire three hundred sixty mile-length of the Canal.
The Canal still serves as a central focus of many villages in upstate New York. The colorful Union Street bridge in Spencerport, above, is just steps away from the center of town. A horn sounds when the bridge is about to be raised to allow a taller boat to pass under it. The Spencerport Depot and Canal Museum hosts displays about the Canal and its history, and serves as a welcome facility for boaters. Our nephews are often among those fishing from the banks of the Canal. It’s common to see kids bicycling along, carrying their lunches and fishing poles, as if they were emerging from a Norman Rockwell painting. Another unexpected sight to my citified eyes is that of vending machines selling live bait.
Old and new come together seamlessly and captivatingly in Eerie Canal towns.
Over the Memorial Day weekend, my husband and I drove up to New York state to visit his family in the Rochester area.
We watched our young nephews play hockey, of course, in a very cold, very old-school ice arena.
But there was time for me to indulge in a favorite activity, walking interesting historic neighborhoods. H’s sister and her family live in Spencerport, that picturesque Eerie Canal village bedecked with Hometown Heroes banners. A charming, pedestrian-friendly town, it’s filled with comfortable old homes and well-tended gardens. Spring had truly sprung, at last, in the Rochester area. Lawns were lush, trees were leafy, and flowers were flourishing in the bright sunshine. After a brisk morning walk with my sister-in-law, I retraced our footsteps so I could linger and take many photos.
Spencerport may win the prize for the greatest number of Little Free Libraries per square mile. Their repeated presence is one expression of the town’s gracious, welcoming attitude.
Another is the multitude of cute rock critters peeking out from their dwelling places, to be discovered if one pays attention.
We missed the lilacs, for which the area is famous, but rhododendron, irises and peonies were near their peak.
It’s a town of lovely old churches. Above, from top to bottom, are the First Congregational Church of the United Church of Christ, the United Methodist Church, and St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church.
Above, just a few of the village’s cheery old homes.
The stately edifice above, on South Union Street in the heart of town, next to the old Masonic Temple, now houses professional offices. Because of its Neo-Classical appearance, typical of bank buildings on the main streets of American small towns, I had assumed it was built as a bank. But its facade originally belonged to a grand home at 25 State Street, in what is now downtown Rochester. The house was demolished in 1923, and the bank, fronted by the saved facade, was erected two years later. Spencerport’s central district retains a variety of businesses that serve practical needs. In addition to a grocery store (with a handy parking lot), it has quite a few thriving restaurants, as well as a dog-friendly brewery which we’ve enjoyed, in the past, with our family and Kiko.
The town is dotted with verdant pockets of greenery, and two swift-running creeks wind through yards and between homes.
And then, further enhancing the town’s quaint aspect and running through its midst, there’s the Eerie Canal itself, to be discussed in an upcoming post.
Of all the warm-weather months, May is to me the most beautiful here in our little pocket of Northern Virginia. For our family, it’s the month of roses. All around our back courtyard, they burst into glorious bloom.
The profusion of flowers and foliage appears all the more fabulous to us, because we remember too well the area when it looked strikingly different.
Our “back yard,” before, c. 2005.
Twenty-four years ago, when we bought our house, there was no real back yard, only an expanse of concrete leading to an ugly garage. In the spring of 2009, after years of idle talk and months of actual planning, we embarked on a major renovation, which included landscaping, a flagstone patio, a wrought iron fence, and a screened porch. (See Up from the Concrete, Roses, May 2021.) With every year that passes, we enjoy our back yard refuge even more.
May is the most fragrant month here, as well. Throughout our neighborhood, there are patches of undeveloped land, property of Fairfax County, which remain pleasantly unkempt. In May, these spots teem with wild roses and honeysuckle. All year long, they offer sanctuary and shelter to wildlife. I’m grateful to live in a place where every last bit of acreage is not overly manicured.
Peonies add their perfume to the rose-scented atmosphere of May.
A new addition to my mother’s back yard is a Teddy Bear Southern Magnolia, which we planted in November. As its cuddly name suggests, it’s a smaller variety. Its creamy white blossoms should be sending forth their luxuriant fragrance well into June.
This May has been marked by dramatic, sudden shifts from clear blue skies to fierce storms, and right back again, just as quickly. On Mother’s Day, after a heavy downpour, we were gifted with a lovely double rainbow.
As spring turns to summer, as May cedes the ground to June, may you push through all your cloudbursts to find the rainbows!
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.
