Palm Sunday begs to be distinguished from just any other first day of the week. It launches the period known by Christians the world over as Holy Week. Palm Sunday sets an expectant, celebratory tone, one that contrasts, shockingly and painfully, with the shattering disappointment of the terrible day we call Good Friday. In between falls the oddness of Maundy Thursday. So much is packed into the events of these seven days, which lead up to the triumphant culmination of Easter. Indeed, without Easter, the story of new life, hope and possibility would have been one of failure, death and despair. I’ve written about the days of Holy Week several times before. Below is my Palm Sunday post from April 1, 2012.
Palm Sunday: Everyone Loves a Winner
On the day that we’ve come to think of as Palm Sunday, Jesus was hailed as a celebrity, a military and political hero-to-be. As he and his disciples entered the city of Jerusalem, cheering crowds greeted him with cries of “Hosanna,” which means “Save us.” The news was out: at long last, the King of Israel was here. He was the chosen one sent by God to restore power to the Jewish nation. He rode on a donkey to fulfill the prophecy in Zechariah 9:9: See, your king comes to you, righteous and having salvation, gentle and riding on a donkey.
It was a brief time of great rejoicing for the people of Israel. A new day of freedom and empowerment was dawning, thanks to the advent of the conquering Messiah. The palm branches they waved were emblems of Israeli nationalism.
In just a few days, though, the tide would turn. Jesus’s being hailed as the much-awaited Messiah would set in motion the events that would lead to his death. The admiring throngs would scatter when it became clear that he was not the kind of king they had desired and expected. Even his dearest friends would desert him. He would be betrayed by one of his own, turned over to the Roman authorities and crucified. On Good Friday, it would appear that this man was no winner.
Good Friday, however, is not the end of the story.
I thought I knew all my mother’s stories about her childhood and youth. Most I’ve heard multiple times, which is to be expected. My daughter would likely say she’s all too familiar with anecdotes from my past. (Except for one, which she heard for the first time recently, and it truly surprised her. But that’s for another day.)
Mama at about ten, ca. 1945.
A while ago Mama’s memory was jolted by a segment in one of her frequently watched History Channel shows. The topic was Robert Wadlow, the world’s tallest man. At his death at the young age of twenty-two, his height was 8 feet 11.1 inches.
Did she ever tell me that she met him when she was a little girl?
What? You met the world’s tallest man? No! How could you have never told me that?
My mother’s first grade school picture, ca. 1941.
She wasn’t sure. It must have slipped her mind, until just then.
As she remembered, her father’s brother Ben had taken her to a favorite restaurant on Main Street in her home town of Lebanon, Kentucky. This popular meeting spot, memorably called Humpkey’s, featured in many of Mama’s recollections. Open from early till late, it had a soda fountain, candy and ice cream sales in the front, and café tables in the back. Everyone, young and old, socialized, snacked and lunched at Humpkey’s. I have a vague vision of going there with my grandfather when I was very young. Apparently Mama’s uncle had heard that the world’s tallest man would be stopping by, and he took little Betty Ann, then no more than four years old. She couldn’t recall her parents, or any of her four siblings, all much older, being there.
But now she was starting to wonder if any of that had actually happened. Had she just made it up?
Main Street Lebanon, 1983.
It was thanks to my late cousin Maryella, who lived her entire life in central Kentucky, that I was able to confirm my mother’s recollection. Until her untimely and unexpected death, Maryella maintained a Facebook archive of old newspaper clippings on Marion County events. Searching her site, I found an article from the local paper, dated May 8, 1939, on Wadlow’s visit to the town. He was twenty-one at the time. For the past year, he’d been traveling the country as a representative of the St. Louis-based International Shoe Company, which supplied his size 37 shoes free of charge. Lerman Brothers Department Store on Main Street had invited him to make an appearance in Lebanon.
Main Street Lebanon, December 1984.
Robert Pershing Wadlow was born in 1918 in Alton, Illinois, a small town near St. Louis. His great height was caused by hyperplasia of the pituitary gland, resulting in excessive production of human growth hormone. At eight years old, he was already six feet two inches tall. At thirteen, he became the world’s tallest Boy Scout, at seven feet four inches. As the eldest of five children, Robert was a caring and considerate big brother. Growing up in Alton, he was a familiar figure in the community, accepted and well-liked. To his peers in school (where he was a good student), church and scouts, he’d always been just Robert, who happened to be very tall. But of course, he attracted attention everywhere he went. In 1936 he traveled with the Ringling Brothers Circus. He didn’t think of himself as a showman, certainly not a side show act. In his appearances in the center ring, he wore a suit and tie, not the flashy top hat and tails that circus bigwigs would have preferred. He saw his towering height not as a handicap, but as a feature that made him unique. Throughout his life, he was known for his kindness, humility, gentleness and quiet dignity.
Main Street Lebanon, November 1983.
According to The Lebanon Enterprise article, a sizable crowd had gathered that day in May to await the celebrity’s appearance. After arriving in the specially modified family car with his father, Robert climbed atop a flat-bed truck parked on the street as a viewing platform. His father addressed the group and spoke of his son’s rapid development from an eight-pound baby born to parents of typical height. Robert made a short endorsement for the International Shoe Company, but spent most of his time seated in a chair chatting amiably with curious townspeople. His demeanor was described as pleasant, humble and at ease. After a while, a few of the town’s tallest young men were invited to climb up and compare their stature with Robert’s.
Santa’s sleigh passes Lerman’s Store on Main Street in the Christmas Parade, 1983.
These details of Wadlow’s visit were news to my mother. But the final paragraph in the article noted that “following his engagement, the party had lunch at Humkey’s (sic) Confectionery and then left for Campbellsville.”
“You did see him, after all!,” I said to my mother. “And of course, it happened at Humpkey’s.”
Main Street Lebanon, December 1984.
Robert Wadlow died just a little over a year after his appearance in Lebanon. As he aged, his quickly growing body was under ever greater strain. He wore braces on his legs and used a cane to walk, but he never resorted to the use of a wheelchair. During a public appearance in Michigan, an ill-fitting brace rubbed a blister on his ankle. Because he had little sensation in his lower legs and feet, Robert didn’t notice the injury until it had become infected. Despite emergency surgery and a blood transfusion, the infection worsened, and Robert died in his sleep on July 15, 1940. Penicillin, which might have solved the problem, wasn’t in regular use until later that decade. His final words were “The doctor says I won’t get home for the celebration,” a reference to his grandparents’ upcoming fiftieth anniversary party.
The life of the world’s tallest man was unfortunately short, but his legacy is long. When I mentioned his name to my husband, he recognized it instantly. Not much of a reader growing up, he ordered a kids’ Guinness Book of World Records every year, if he could, through Scholastic Books at school. He remembered reading about Wadlow, and he knew his record had never been broken. “Wow! Nana met Robert Wadlow! Amazing!,” he exclaimed. My daughter’s fiancé, also a World Records enthusiast, was equally impressed.
Wadlow’s record will likely remain unsurpassed. His condition, known as pituitary gigantism, was accurately diagnosed during his childhood. It’s now typically treated successfully with surgery, but during his lifetime, that was deemed much too risky.
Robert Wadlow will be remembered as one who persisted through hardship, in ways that most of us can barely conceive. Daily, he navigated an environment built, from his point of view, on a cramped and unaccommodating scale. Think of an American Girl doll being trapped in a Barbie-sized world.
Because of his large size, Wadlow had no choice but to be visible. Far more visible, at all times, than most of us would choose. The typical celebrity has the option of dressing in forgettable attire and a baseball cap in order to slouch about unnoticed. Wadlow was never afforded that luxury. While his fellow citizens of Alton apparently took his outsized presence in stride, he could expect stares of amazement everywhere else. His attendance with his YMCA group at the Chicago World’s Fair in 1933 at age fifteen, for example, was caught on film. He must have tired of the never-ending stream of photo-seeking strangers. He must have groaned inwardly at hearing the same old jokes about his height. But those who knew him, as well as those who met him briefly, were impressed by his positive, matter-of-fact attitude, his patience with onlookers, and his complete absence of self-pity. He was not known to have complained about his condition or about being pestered by goggle-eyed crowds.
We all face challenges, but few of us are forced to deal with them in quite such a public manner. When I get the urge to whine about my problems, I’ll think of that tallest-ever man, a perpetually young man. Robert Wadlow persevered through unusual difficulties, all the while extending grace to those around him.
I have a friend whose vocation–one of her true callings–is searching out the best deals in thrift stores. She’s motivated not by monetary gain, but by the thrill of the hunt. Occasionally she’ll sell some of her finds on eBay. But more often, she makes gifts of them to those who will most appreciate them. She’s one of those people who can, and does, talk to anyone she meets. And she meets many people. She was in our dog-walking group for the ten years that her family lived in our area. As soon as a new family moved to the neighborhood, she could tell us their names, their background, and several interesting anecdotes about them. Wherever she is, whether on walks with sweet Cali, her big, shaggy golden doodle, or in her favorite thrift stores, she’s immersed in community. At a local church-run shop, she was one of the Tuesday regulars, those who line up early for first dibs at newly displayed merchandise that arrives over the weekend. There she met a diverse group of friends, and it became part of her mission to assist in their searches. Quality wool sweaters in fall colors for Esther’s twin grandsons in Roanoke? Office attire in Size 5 for Maria’s young adult daughter in the Philippines? Just-so serving pieces for Sofia’s niece’s at-home wedding reception in Manassas? Found, found, and found, in each case, with several options.
My friend was well aware of my dollhouse hobby. She had been on the lookout for a while, at my behest, for a miniature house that could benefit from a thorough renovation. The plainer, the better. When she spotted one on a Tuesday morning at her favorite thrift shop, she quickly texted a photo.
Yes! I’ll be right over! It was the ideal blank dollhouse canvas I’d been wanting. It’s hard to imagine a more basic structure. It was sizable, but it fit, just barely, in the front seat of my little car.
For the re-do, I envisioned a stately Greek revival house in gray and white. My husband measured and cut (two things I don’t do well) a triangular pediment for me from a thin sheet of plywood. I removed the few remaining shutters and painted smaller pediments over each window. I added a central Palladian window, and Corinthian columns on tall bases. I painted the steps, chimney, and foundation level to resemble stone. I added pots of flowers and topiaries, and a couple of flowering trees on each side. I kept the florals to a subdued palette of green, white and yellow. Only the front door remains unchanged.
Ever since deciding on the color scheme, I knew that the exterior would feature cats. Most of my houses are adorned with dogs and/or foxes, along with a few birds, squirrels and chipmunks. When my dog Kiko died, I added him to the Red Panda house I was finishing. This house, I’d decided, would be a sort of memorial for my favorite Atlanta feline. Streak, all fluffy gray and white elegance, was my idea of the absolutely perfect cat. I began seeing him when, living at home between undergrad and grad school in the mid-80s, I passed his house on daily neighborhood walks. With very un-catlike behavior, Streak would run out enthusiastically at my approach. If I didn’t see him immediately, I’d call for him, and he’d appear. He’d greet me with a loud, decidedly welcoming meow. I’d spend some time admiring him before resuming my walk. He’d purr and circle my legs. I’m allergic to cats, but a few moments outdoors with a cat don’t bother me. And a few moments with a living, breathing masterpiece like Streak–those to me were priceless.
Streak the cat, on the wall on Wildwood Rd near his house.
Just look at that lion-like ruff, those symmetrically striped, magnificently furry front legs and paws, those yellow eyes, pink nose, delicate ears, and intense, intelligent gaze. All these decades later, and I’ve never met a cat that was Streak’s equal in looks or personality.
I made the little wreaths for Christmas, but I like them so much that they stay on year round.
If not for my friend, the thrift store guru, I might not have had the pleasure of creating a tribute to Streak. None of my painted cats does justice to the one that inspired them, but I enjoyed the attempt. Streak will forever feature in my favorite Atlanta memories. Now, in the child-like part of my brain that still imagines my painted houses as sanctuaries for cherished companions, I can envision him living here. He’s waiting by the front door to greet me. Content and cozy with his dear cat family, Streak is nearby in all his feline fabulousness.
In memory of my mother-in-law Doretta, who passed away at the beginning of March, I reprint this post from October 2012. See previous post for more about my husband’s lovely mother.
I have the perfect mother-in-law. The only down side to this is that I’m unable to participate in the swapping of mother-in-law horror stories. I’ve heard many such accounts, and other than gasps of incredulity, I have nothing to add. I’ve listened in amazement to tales of the mother-in-law who “helps” with the new baby by bellowing orders, complaints, and increasingly outlandish requests from a command center on the family room sofa. I’ve heard about the M.I.L. who, determined to ensure that her son’s house run on her rules or not at all, regards each visit as an opportunity for a hostile takeover. I’ve listened to anecdotes about the M.I.L. whose sensitive temperament is constantly wounded by imagined slights tossed off by a cruel daughter-in-law. And I’ve heard everything in between.
With my mother in law, there is no drama. She is sweet, good, and uncomplicated. She is kind, thoughtful and intelligent. During visits to our home, she asks how she may help. She is not overbearing. She does not insist, but she never offers out of empty politesse. It has taken me a while, but I’ve learned to accept her assistance. I come from what may be a predominately Southern tradition of automatically refusing the first few offers of guests’ help, thereby forcing them to insist or be considered rude. Now, when Grandma* asks if I need help with dinner, I tend to say Yes, please! She is a calm, easy presence, and it’s a pleasure to share the house, and the chores, with her.
Like everyone in H’s family, his mother welcomed me warmly at our first meeting, now over twenty years ago. She has never implied (as some mothers of sons are known to do), that no living woman could be a worthy companion of the god-like boy-child she birthed. She has a deservedly high opinion of H, and she has always treated me as his equal.
H’s mother is a loving grandmother to our daughter and to her other four grandchildren. Gentle and fun, she laughs easily, and she remembers what it was like to be a child. I’ve heard about grandparents who cannot be trusted with their own grandchildren. This was never an issue with either set of my daughter’s grandparents, thankfully. When D was nearly three, my husband and I, along with my parents, took a trip to France, leaving our daughter in the care of Grandma and Grandpa. We missed our baby girl, but we had no worries about her welfare, either emotional or physical, during those ten days. We knew she was in devoted and capable hands.
Grandma’s attitude is generally one of meekness, and some might take her for a pushover. This, however, is not the case. When she feels strongly that righteousness is on her side, she is tough, patient and determined to persevere. One year, when H’s windsurfing board went missing in Cape Cod, she summoned Grandpa to accompany her on a walk. With slow, thorough deliberation, she surveyed the property carefully, until she discovered H’s board leaning up against the wall of another cottage way across the green. Thanks to her gracious yet firm intervention, H’s board was soon being carried back to its rightful place by those who, no doubt, had removed it.
The photo above shows our daughter with Grandma at Cape Cod. In D’s younger years, she always urged H and me to go out for date night during our vacation, so she could enjoy a full evening of food and fun with Grandma and Grandpa.
Grandma is always ready for a game with a grandchild, whether it’s air hockey, Chinese Checkers, Candyland or Chutes & Ladders.
Grandpa is a lucky man, and he knows it. He has Grandma by his side, no matter what. During their long marriage they’ve had their share of hell and high water, in addition to many joys. They are a formidable team, and together, with their strong faith in God’s love and grace, they know they can weather any storm. Grandma has a gift for finding and sharing that kernel of sweetness within the tough husk of the bad.
Thank you, Grandma, for enriching the lives of all those you touch. Happy Birthday, and many more to follow!
*When I speak to my mother-in-law, I call her by her first name, which is an unusual, pretty name. But here, I will refer to her as Grandma. When I wrote about H’s father, her husband, I referred to him as Grandpa (June 2012), so I’ll be consistent.
At one of her favorite spots, with a book at the picnic table outside her family’s Cape Cod rental cottage
My dear mother-in-law Doretta passed away in the early hours of March 4th. Since her beloved husband Jim left this world in October of 2022, she’d been lonely. She didn’t complain. But when asked, or when his name was mentioned, she’d always say, “I just miss him so much.” She carried on, despite her sadness and the growing physical challenges of Parkinsons’ and Addison’s Disease.
I had the pleasure of seeing her most Wednesday nights for the past several years. During the height of the pandemic, she joined my mother and me and other friends for an online Bible study through our church here in Virginia. As her mobility decreased, attending her local Rochester church, and getting out at all, became increasingly difficult. Our mid-week virtual gathering had become one of her few fellowship opportunities, and she appreciated the warm welcome our group extended to her. With my husband’s and his sister’s help, she learned to use Zoom on her iPad in order to join us. This was quite the feat, considering Jim had always been the one to deal with any and all tech matters. During the sessions we’d often hear Barney the cockatiel chirping away happily in the background. Barney, like Doretta, had been bereft after Jim’s passing. An odd, cantankerous bird, he was prone to hissing with apparent vehemence at everyone who was not his best pal Jim. Over the past two years, he warmed up to Doretta, and the two became good company. It was her nightly ritual to sit with him in the family room, watching TV or reading. She found that he got particularly chirpy during the musical performances on old Lawrence Welk re-runs.
At about age three, in her hometown of Jamestown, NY
Doretta was determined not to relocate from her house, which she and Jim had built as newlyweds in 1965. Thanks to the help of my sister-in-law Julie, who lives locally, several regular care-givers, many walkers and two stair lifts, one to the basement and another to the second floor, she had been able to remain in the home she loved so much. When my husband returned there the morning after his mom’s passing, on the table beside her favorite chair, he found her Bible, some recent books from our Zoom studies, and a manual on coping with Parkinsons’. He saw them as a testament to her quiet, patient perseverance. Throughout adversity, her faith was strong. Life tossed many hardships her way, but she pushed through, with a kind, encouraging word for others. She was a light bearer in our often dark world. It feels odd not seeing Doretta’s Zoom square on Wednesday nights, not to see her sweet smiling face, not to hear Barney’s tweets. I like to think of her in that heavenly cloud of witnesses, reunited joyfully with her darling Jim.
As my husband made plans for maple sugaring, he learned to keep a close eye on the weather, and to be prepared to act. We’d always thought of February as the prime maple sugar month. But H learned last year that it’s the temperature, not the specific time of year, that determines the best sugaring conditions. The perfect fluctuation of temperatures, in fact, is necessary. Cold nights, when the thermometer dips below freezing, and warming, sunny days, are what gets the sap really flowing. During the second week of January, when temperatures ranged from the twenties to the forties, H tapped several sugar maples in my mother’s yard. Soon, the white pails were filling with sap. He checked them each night, emptying the liquid into a larger bucket for storage in our basement fridge.
He began the long boiling process on a weekend when he had few other projects. Every gallon of sap requires about an hour of boiling time. He’d collected about twelve gallons, and he boiled six gallons at a time. To avoid turning our kitchen into an ultra-high-humidity zone during six hours of boiling, H began the process outside on the grill. Once the amount of liquid had been reduced by about 80%, he finished the process inside. The longer the liquid is boiled, the more viscous it becomes. During this final phase, our house was filled with the heavenly scent of sugar-rich steam.
The reason that most maple sugar comes from northern locales is that the sugar content of maples is higher there. Sugar maples in northern states and Canada typically have a sap to syrup ratio of about 40-1, so that forty gallons of sap yields one gallon of syrup. Farther south, as here in Virginia, that ratio is about 70 – 1.
After the boiling process is finished, the syrup is filtered to remove any impurities.
A bit of early-season syrup, light in color.
My husband found that the sap from the earliest part of the season produced syrup that was light in color. Longer boiling does not affect the color, (unless reduced to the point of burning, of course). In taste, this early harvest was subtle. It was sugary, with only slight hints of maple flavor.
The late-season sap resulted in syrup that was a dark mahogany color. The flavor was bright and robust. It was pure maple essence. It takes more sap, and more boiling time for maple sugaring here in Virginia than in western New York, but the end result, we know now, is equally tasty. Mid-Atlantic maples can produce a liquid gold as fine as their Yankee cousins.
Hours spent around the big pot of bubbling sap, inhaling the sweetness of the steam, are apt to inspire contemplation. “Amazing, isn’t it, that we can extract this liquid from trees in our own yard and turn it into this great-tasting stuff,” my husband remarked. “And it’s even more amazing that the sap is there in the first place. There’s enough to nourish the tree, and plenty left over for us. If God were to boast about his wonders, this should be included.”
I agreed, and the biblical conversation between God and Job immediately came to mind:
Who created a channel for the torrents of rain? Who laid out the path for the lightning?
Who makes the rain fall on barren land, in a desert where no one lives?
Who sends rain to satisfy the parched ground and make the tender grass spring up?
Does the rain have a father? Who gives birth to the dew?
Who is the mother of the ice? Who gives birth to the frost from the heavens? (Job 38: 25- 29, New Living Translation)
God directs Job’s attention to his supreme authority over the skies, the seas, over light and darkness, and to the unique characteristics of his many, fantastically varied creatures, including lions and goats, the wild donkey, the ox, the horse and the eagle. The miracle of maple syrup could well be included among these marvels, it seems to me. Perhaps in words like these:
Who commands and compels the life-blood of the trees of the forest? Who sets the sweet sap rising and flowing in the maples? Who sends it forth to nurture and bless the woodpecker and the shepherd?
So yes, every taste of our homemade maple syrup is yet another reminder of the bounty of God’s gifts. It’s best enjoyed, in our opinion, over buckwheat pancakes made from the Cartwright family recipe. Our syrup may be from Southern trees, but my husband’s sugar-making experience is rooted in the wilds of upstate New York. The seeds were planted long ago during his first family visit to the remote Maple Tree Inn. One of life’s sweet pleasures still flourishes, across the miles and years. Grandpa Stan would be proud.
My husband taps a maple tree in my mother’s front yard here in Virginia.
Among my husband’s most cherished childhood memories are family outings to a remote location in western New York to feast on pancakes and locally made maple syrup. His grandfather Stan was a man of big, enthusiastic appetites, and he was a huge fan of maple syrup. He began the tradition of a mid-winter journey from Rochester, sixty-five miles south to Cartwright’s Maple Tree Inn. Stan’s appreciation for maple syrup lives on in my husband. Last year, he decided to tap some of our Virginia maples and see what might result. His efforts were rewarded, and he repeated the process again this year, with certain modifications. His local syrup making will be the subject of my next post. But first, back to the sugar shack that started it all.
North to the Sugar Shack (first posted February 22, 2013)
The snowy landscape behind Cartwright’s, February 2013.
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.
Our daughter in front of the Maple Tree Inn, 2013.
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. This is not an option at IHOP.
These days, the rarified nuances of maple syrup, like those of chocolate, coffee and small-batch bourbons, 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.
After a walk to explore the area around Cartwright’s, Kiko kept vigil in the car during our meal. Animal advocates need not be alarmed–he had his sheepskin bed and blanket if he needed 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 that H’s grandmother had carefully saved for him.
Kiko and I explored the area around Cartwright’s.
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.
Tuesday’s snow arrived, just as predicted. The small flakes gradually grew larger, and they fell steadily, hour after hour. The present, middle-aged me would likely have said Enough! Unlike the past two years, we’ve had our share of the white stuff this winter. It seemed that the deep snow of January 6 might just be with us forever, thanks to regularly frigid temperatures. We bid goodbye to its last persistent dregs only about a week ago, and it was strange to see actual lawn again. But, as I wrote in my last post, I had recently been in conversation with my much younger, severely snow-deprived self. She advised me to relax and enjoy. It was another lovely snowfall, after all.
The present me is grateful for today’s warming trend, accompanied by rain. Goodbye snow! No need to hurry back. Why not wait a year or so before visiting again?
Last week’s winter storm brought ice to our part of Northern Virginia. We awoke to a translucent landscape. It took me back to a time in my Atlanta childhood when I had little first-hand experience with snow, at least any that I could remember. My parents would wax nostalgic about family fun in the snow when I was a baby in Lexington, Kentucky. They seemed surprised that I carried no tender memories of making a snowman with Daddy when I was a year old. I grew up feeling sorely snow-deprived. Every once in a while, snow might be predicted, but typically, what we got instead, in Atlanta, was ice.
“First snow, Atlanta, 1971.” I’m standing between two friends in my childhood back yard.
The current Virginia weather prompted me to rummage through a shoe box of 1970s photos at my mother’s house. I was searching for a particular picture of me and two friends. It had been taken in our back yard on a day when school had been canceled due to a winter weather event, whether snow or ice, I couldn’t recall. But I remembered that the three of us had that characteristically awkward, disheveled, waif-like look of most ten to twelve year olds from that era.
I found the photo quickly. It was a rare snow picture. On the back I’d printed: First snow, Atlanta, 1971. While it obviously wasn’t the city’s first-ever snow, it apparently was mine, in that location. We’d moved to the neighborhood only three years before. My old green and red swing set is visible at back left, long before it became an arbor for wisteria vines. I’d forgotten that that our yard had been such a wide open expanse in those early years. By the time we sold the house, in 2017, trees, shrubs and foliage had grown up dramatically, creating the look of a sheltered, enclosed garden. The corner of the garage, at back right, hadn’t been visible like that for many years, nor had the homes on the street behind.
The details of that winter day in 1971 are hazy. Seems like we wandered around and gaped, in awe, at the alien snow-covered landscape. We weren’t well-equipped for actual snow play. Cold, wet feet and hands prevented us from staying out very long. My husband is amused at how ill-dressed we were for the circumstances, in corduroys or jeans, and sneakers. This was Atlanta,not Rochester, I remind him. Few, if any of my friends had snow boots or ski wear; we would have outgrown them before they were ever needed. Winter in Atlanta was less a season than an exotic, fleetingly ephemeral sensation.
My memories of Atlanta ice storms are more distinctly fixed in my memory than the snow days. Growing up, I considered any form of frozen precipitation a welcome break from the usual. Ice, snow’s cousin, was our more frequent visitor, and I found its effects fascinating. As I roamed the icy yard last week, I saw it again with the eyes of a much younger me.
I loved how frozen droplets, their motion captured mid-air, dangled from dogwood branches. I saw, with wonder, that every individual privet leaf had been perfectly encased in ice. Each leaf was twinned with its own ice copy that could be carefully removed. Amazing!
I enjoyed hearing and feeling the ice-clad blades of grass crunch beneath my feet as I walked.
I liked how the light filtering through ice-covered branches gave the sky a lavender tinge.
Suddenly, I was brought back to the present by a sharp sound resembling a gunshot. The birds at the feeder vanished in a whoosh, and pine boughs came crashing down. The temperature was rising, and the sleet had turned to rain, but the pines all around our house were bending lower and lower with the extra water weight. The power went out. There were more gunshot-like sounds. I could see cars slowing down out front, avoiding a couple of newly downed limbs.
We were fortunate in having only minimal damage to trees from last week’s ice. This week’s winter storm is just now beginning. Small snowflakes are starting to fall. Accumulation of three to six inches is predicted for the metro DC area. The ten-year old me from 1971 would be ecstatic (and far better prepared, in terms of apparel.)
Wherever you are, may winter wow you with its beauty, rather than its destructive power.
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.
