All posts by Wildtrumpetvine

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Nature

Frozen: On Ice and ICE

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Eleven days ago, the first of this year’s much-anticipated winter storms reached Northern Virginia.  We were already in a deep freeze, with temperatures rarely rising to double digits for days in a row.  Snow began falling, as expected, in the pre-dawn hours that Sunday morning.  It turned to sleet around mid-day and continued until late evening.  It shouldn’t have been such a big deal; we measured about six inches of accumulation.  But due to the biting cold, the effects of the storm have only intensified with time.  

The sensation of walking through the white stuff that first day was decidedly odd.   It was a snow without unity:  its discrete frozen pellets seemed to be doing their best to remain separate from one another.   I was reminded of the dry and quickly shifting sands that border the dunes by the Atlantic at the Cape Cod National Seashore in Provincetown. My daughter enjoys the challenge of running that hilly path toward the ocean.  I do not.  

The following day, the top layer of snow had hardened into an icy crust.  Walking across the yard was especially awkward.  A first step might remain atop the layer, while the next would plunge suddenly into the depths.  

With consistently glacial temperatures for the past week, the icy top layer has hardened and thickened.  The current challenge is to remain upright while crossing the yard, especially on sloping areas.  On the bright side, neighborhood kids have enjoyed sliding speedily across the frozen expanses, no sled required.  

Architectural-looking snow blocks, still with us, eleven days after the snowfall.

When my husband cleared the steps that lead from our back patio to our basement door, the snow broke into boulders and sharp edged, ledge-like pieces.  Similar piles of snow rocks line the sides of local roads.  It’s a good time not to be a dog-walker.  

Our front yard looks beautiful, especially when the hard surface gleams in the sunlight with a polished, satiny sheen.  In appearance and consistency, it resembles the royal icing with which I coated the roofs of gingerbread houses I’ve made in the past.  

I find a year-round source of joy in observing our local wildlife.  This has been especially true during previous snowy seasons, when my feathered and furry friends look so charming against a snowy backdrop.  The sight of twelve brightly colored cardinals in a snow-frosted holly tree can hardly fail to lend the day some extra cheer.  

But this year’s extended period of extreme cold has brought worries about the outdoor critters.  Tiny bird bodies adapt to cold weather in remarkable ways: they fluff their feathers to create greater insulation, and their wiry, gnarled feet appear delicate, but they’re largely frost-resistant.  Even the smallest birds are surprisingly resilient.  But they have their limits, and this arctic chill was testing them.  The ice shield keeps insect-eating birds from their usual food sources.  That’s why we’re seeing bluebirds at our feeders for the first time ever.  I’ve tried to do what I can to help, including putting out more seed and suet, and getting a de-icer for the bird bath.   

Larger animals, as well, have been impacted.  We’ve spotted exceptionally few deer during this cold spell.  Nor have I observed many animal footprints of any kind in the snow.  No doubt the icy surfaces have proven treacherous for our four-legged neighbors.  Foxes have been largely absent.  My favorite regular, Freddie, whom I successfully treated for mange two years ago, has had an injured front paw.  He hasn’t visited since before the snow.  I expect I’ve seen his patient, wise face, sharply pointed ears, clear amber eyes, and fabulously fluffy (mange-free) tail, for the last time.   

Nature’s healing refuge is particularly potent when the  buzz of humanity takes on a menacing, anxiety-making tenor.  When the ravenous egos of the power-driven provoke victimization of the easiest prey: the most vulnerable and those labeled as other.  When truth and good will seem to be no match for the counterfeit currency of lies and dirty money.  

These days, though, I see in the frozen-over natural world a reflection of the barbarism of our human-made realm.   I understand that nature is not all greeting card sweetness.  I see the pair of enormous red-shouldered hawks monitoring my songbird sanctuary from afar.  I’ve witnessed their successful attacks.  I’ve seen a young fox prancing with jubilation, a squirrel in its jaws.  Predators, I know, must win some of the time. And I regularly see the painful effects of the manufactured world: deer, raccoons, squirrels, and even box turtles taken down by fast-moving vehicles.  The birds that meet with window glass.  All too memorably, I’ve witnessed the ferocity of a spike-topped iron fence.  The animals who live among us in our cities and suburbs were here first, and they’ve adapted to the perils we’ve brought.  In a sense, they signed up for these risks, and the benefits outweigh the negatives.

The animals in my neighborhood, though, didn’t sign up for weeks of intense cold and a blanket of brutal ice.  They aren’t arctic natives; they’re residents of the mid-Atlantic.  But now it’s as though the very atmosphere, the air they breathe, has turned vicious.  

In this respect, the frozen world of nature now mirrors American society.  ICE roams our city streets and intrudes with a vengeance into vehicles, homes, schools, work places and community centers.  Perhaps it’s only too fitting that a steely strait-jacket of ice currently threatens local wildlife.  It makes me want to hide away and try to ignore it all, both the chaotic world we humans have built, and the beautiful but sometimes cruel realm of nature.     

But I can’t hide.  And I urge you not to, too.  

What can we do? 

First, we must stay informed; arm ourself with facts, and be a witness to the truth.  Second, but even more important, we mustn’t give in to the urge to isolate.  Like birds that survive the coldest winter nights by huddling together, never forget the power of community.  When I most want to give up on humanity, I soon discover that I’m surrounded by great numbers of  brothers and sisters actively working for good.  Together, we can stand for and with those most in need.  We can’t do it alone.  And I believe that we can only do it with God’s help.  We mustn’t take the bait thrown out by those whose goal is to incite violence and civil unrest.  Even when our worst impulse tells us that those with whom we disagree deserve nothing but contempt, we must try to treat them with dignity.  

We’re at a pivotal point in the history of our country.  The most defenseless among us are being maliciously targeted.  But as we’ve seen with the killings of Renée Good and Alex Pretti, it’s dangerous for everyone out there.  Time-honored marks of privilege, including pale skin, U.S. citizenship, education, a command of English and a home-grown accent no longer offer any guarantee of protection.  We face an administration that decrees and demonstrates, in words and actions, that disagreement with its ideology results in a total loss of Constitutional rights.  It’s a position that goes against everything America represents.  We’re past the time for keeping our heads down quietly on the sidelines and hoping for the best.  It’s time to engage, to show up, to make use of our unique gifts as we take up figurative arms in this just fight.  It’s time to follow the example of the brave and persistent John Lewis, who still urges us to make “good trouble.”

Snow mounds in the parking lot of our local shopping plaza.

When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them.The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt.  (Leviticus 19:33-34)

For I was a stranger, and you welcomed me. (Matthew 25: 35)

Community, Faith and Spirituality, Family

Angels Unaware

It was my privilege and pleasure last week to lead Chapel Time for our church’s preschoolers.  Our daughter is a graduate of the preschool, and the program is near and dear to my heart.  I can’t forget the date of her first day:  September 10, 2001.  Three years later, she was among the seven children who comprised the first Pre-K class.  It was the preschool, in fact, that led us to our church.  

During Chapel Time, teachers bring the children into the sanctuary to hear a Bible story, followed by a brief discussion.  The text for the day was from Genesis 18, which recounts a visit by three strangers to Abraham and his wife Sarah.  They bring the message that God will keep the promise he made to them years earlier:  the couple will have a child, despite their advanced age, and one day, their descendants will be more numerous than the stars in the sky.  

I doubted that the kids would find the story of much interest.  How could they relate to an elderly couple longing for a baby?   

Our daughter and some of her preschool buddies, March 19, 2003.

But the Spark Story Bible that we use begins by noting that Abraham was ninety-nine when the three visitors arrived.  This got the children’s attention.  Before I began reading, to assess my audience, I had asked the kids how old they were.  They were eager to respond.

 “I’m four!”  

“I’m five!”  “

I’m about to turn five.”  

“I’ll be four tomorrow.”  

“I’m three and three quarters!”

A few quiet ones held up the appropriate number of fingers.  I also learned random bits of information:  “When we move to our new house, we’re getting a trampoline!”  “I have a loose tooth!”  

A hot day on the preschool playground, June 5, 2002.

The children were amazed at someone being as old as ninety-nine.  They remained attentive as I continued with the narrative.  

I read that Abraham greets the three men and invites them to stay for a meal.  While they eat, they tell him that Sarah will give birth within a year.  The strangers are clearly intended to be messengers from God, or God himself.  Various Biblical versions state that “The Lord” or “God” appeared to Abraham, before referring to three unknown men.  The children’s Bible refers to God’s promise, but doesn’t identify the three strangers.  The title of the story, though, was “Abraham and Sarah’s Visitors.”  

When I looked for images of this subject, I found the famous early fifteenth century icon by the Russian artist Andrei Rublev.  I like to show the kids a picture relating to the story, so I printed out a copy.  

Icon of the Trinity, Andrei Rublev, c. 1410.

The painting shows three figures, winged and haloed, seated at a table, in the center of which is a gold cup.  Neither Abraham nor Sarah are depicted, but a small structure at the top left represents their home, and a stylized tree toward the center indicates the oak grove in the shade of which Abraham was sitting when he first spotted the three unknown men approaching.  The angels’  identical, mournful faces incline toward one another.  Together, the outline of their bodies forms a circle.  The  two figures at left and right enclose a central space in the shape of a chalice, which echoes that of the gilded cup.  

The icon is most often interpreted as the three persons of the Trinity: Father, Son and Holy Spirit.  The placement of the figures around the table calls to mind Christ’s Last Supper.  The graceful interaction among the three suggests spiritual communion.  

October 30, 2002 at the preschool.

I didn’t discuss these fine points  with the children.  The essential lesson, appropriate for all ages, and always timely, is twofold.  First,  God calls us to welcome the stranger.  Abraham met the three unknown men with hospitality.  And in so doing, he unknowingly met God Himself with honor and grace.  As God’s children, we’re expected to treat our brothers and sisters as we ourselves would like to be treated.  When we mistreat others, we mistreat God Himself.  And second, God invites each and every one of us to His table.  There a space for the viewer to join in the holy communion that is generated whenever and wherever we gather in loving kindness with our neighbors near and far.  It materializes, and transforms, when we reach out with thoughtful consideration, even to those with whom we disagree, rather than push away with bitterness, disdain and violence.  

I know there are those who are coming to believe, with much regret, that teaching compassion and humility has become a lost cause, a quaint relic of a naive and distant era. If we want our children to be successful in this cruel world, why bother encouraging them to act with goodness?  Why not teach instead the tools of the bully: arrogance, intimidation, brutality, callousness, and the reverence for self alone?  

Why not?

My own answer is simple:  it goes against everything I learned as a child at home and at church.  It goes against everything I’ve been taught from those who love me. 

As I sat in the midst of those smiling, happy preschoolers, a diverse group, representative of our community’s many ethnicities, I couldn’t imagine trying to foster meanness in them.  They were curious, eager to learn, and open-hearted.  They showed a genuine interest in me.  They were clearly inclined toward goodness.  

It gives me hope and buoys my faith to know that our preschool is only one among many in houses of worship all across our country that continue to do as they’ve always done: emphasize the blessings that come when we walk the path of mercy and kindness. They assure our little ones that God accompanies them, even when the way is uphill, rocky, and perilous.  Schools that affirm the importance of good citizenship are doing their part, as well.  

As the day on which we honor the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. rolls around again, I pray that we don’t give up on teaching our children that through their good works and acts of kindness, however small, they help bend the arc of the moral universe towards justice.

Our daughter on September 10, 2001, her first day of preschool.

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for some who have done this have entertained angels without realizing it!  (Hebrews 13: 2)

 I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me! (Matthew 25: 40)

 

Art and Architecture, Community, Faith and Spirituality

Sharing the Light (Frequent Recalculation Required)

The post that follows is based on an art talk I gave in our church  in December.  My theme was Advent-inspired: welcoming the light of Christ into the world, and into our hearts.  I chose to focus on three paintings from the Italian Renaissance.  While the subjects depicted were particularly appropriate for the Christmas season, the message they convey is relevant all year long.  The loving God they evoke is drawn directly from the first four books of the Christian New Testament.  As I wrote  about these paintings, I found them speaking to me in a way I hadn’t expected.  I saw in them a timely challenge to Christians today, a warning that when we allow ourselves to become the voice of empire rather than defenders of the marginalized, we stray from our course.  History has shown the very real dangers of this all too clearly.  If we pause to shut out the world’s loud cacophany and listen for God’s guidance,  much as we turn to a GPS device when lost on an unfamiliar road, might we not hear a quiet urging to “recalculate”? 

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When Pastor Chan asked me to speak about images of Advent and Christmas, he provided a great starting point. On the first Sunday of Advent, he spoke about the meaning of that word.  He noted that it’s derived from the Latin word adventus, which means an arrival or a coming. Before the Christian era, the word applied specifically to the Roman emperor.  An adventus was the formal ceremony to glorify the emperor, often after a military victory.  Preceding him was a massive entourage that included mounted soldiers, chariots, and the Praetorian guard.  The ruler’s approach was heralded with great fanfare.

The emperor was considered an iron-willed god who inspired awe and fear. Great triumphal arches to commemorate such rulers are still found throughout the former Roman empire. 

The God whom we Christians worship, though, chose to come to earth not as a fierce conquering hero, but as a vulnerable infant.  As a child born not to royalty, but to a humble young woman living in a backwater village.   

Thus, the images that pertain to the advent of Christ couldn’t be more different from those showing the adventus of the Emperor. There are no war horses. No chariots and soldiers. No earthly ruler boasting of his power.

Fra Angelico, Annunciation, Convent of San Marco, Florence, 1440-45

We’ll start with an annunciation by the painter known as Fra Angelico, which means “Angelic Friar. ” Born Guido di Pietro, he was known for his kindness and humility.  We see the angel Gabriel bringing to the Virgin Mary the news that she will bear a child conceived by the Holy Spirit.   

This is a large fresco, over ten feet wide, in a series of frescoes the artist painted around 1440 for his own friary, San Marco, which had been newly built in the city of Florence.

It’s set atop a flight of stairs to the corridor that leads to the monks’ cells. Each small cell has its own fresco, as well.  The artist created a more or less believable sense of space.  The perspective is slightly off when we look at the painting straight on.  But for monks walking up the stairs, the effect is striking: it gives the illusion that they’re moving into the space of Mary and the angel.

Fra Angelico made no attempt to mimic the early first-century home of Mary. Instead, the architecture in the painting, classical and austere, is a continuation of that of the actual monastery, where we see the same round arches, columns with Corinthian capitals, and even the iron tie rods.    

The bareness of the open loggia is notable. It’s spartan and basic, just like the cells for the individual monks. The scene is remarkable in its stillness, its sense of silent reverence.

The angel, adorned with glowing, multi-colored wings that sparkle in the light (through the incorporation of a mica-like substance into the paint), bows before the young Mary, acknowledging her role as the Holy Mother of God.  Mary sits on a plain wooden bench.  Her simple robe is nearly the same shade as the plastered walls around her.  She’s not adorned with rich fabrics or jewels.  Her response is muted, her expression serious, suggesting quiet awe.  She understands the gravity of her situation.  Gabriel, as well, seems to realize that the news he brings is hard to receive. 

On the left side of the painting is an enclosed garden and lush trees behind, reminding us not only of Mary’s virginity, but also of the Garden of Eden.  Christ comes as the new Adam to bring us salvation. 

There’s a notable absence of extraneous objects.  No prayer book for Mary, no lily, which has become her symbol.  Perhaps the artist didn’t include these, because the monks knew the story so well. 

And, perhaps, Fra Angelico wanted to pare the scene down to its essentials. All that is needed is that still, charged, sacred interchange between Gabriel and Mary, the ordinary young woman chosen by God to bear his son, our savior.

Absent here, also, are any overt rays of golden light, as we see in some annunciations.  Fra Angelico knew that wasn’t necessary.  God’s light, rendered naturally, is alive in this space.  His light, and his presence suffuse the bareness of this colonnaded terrace, just as God was present in every monk’s cell.  Just as he is present today in our surrounding spaces, if we declutter our lives enough to let him in.  

Domenico Ghirlandaio, Adoration of the Shepherds, 1485, Uffizi Gallery, Florence

Now we turn to a painting of the Adoration of the Shepherds, by Domenico Ghirlandaio, the most popular painter in Florence at the time.  It dates from 1485 and was commissioned by a wealthy Florentine banker, Francesco Sassetti, for a chapel in the Church of Santa Trinita.

The holy family, an ox, donkey, and three shepherds are in the foreground.  The heart of the composition is a pyramid of the kneeling Mary, Joseph, and infant Jesus.  The young Mary looks down tenderly on her new baby.  Joseph turns back to look up in sky to see an angel proclaiming the news to the shepherds on a darkened hillside, on which the first rays of dawn, and of Christ’s new light, are breaking. 

In the left background, we also see a large procession of grandly dressed people passing through a triumphal arch.  These are the approaching Magi and their retinue, who must wait their turn behind the lowly shepherds.

The adventus of the Roman emperor is here turned on its head. Those arriving are not fearsome conquerors.  They include the rich and powerful, but they’re here to bow down before a new-born baby.  This is wealth, not for its own sake, but in service to the true King of Kings. 

The three shepherds are individualized, not idealized. The nearest shepherd is a portrait of the artist, and the other two may be local townspeople.  They gaze down on the baby with reverence.  The one on the right has removed his sheepskin hat, and he holds his hands in prayer. They’ve brought their humble gifts: a basket of bread and a lamb. 

The shelter for the holy family has been built on the ruins of a Roman temple: Christ ushers in a new era as the old pagan times come to a close.

Jesus is a roly-poly baby, unclothed and vulnerable, his thumb by his lips.  He rests on the hem of Mary’s robe, with a sheaf of wheat as a pillow.  It’s significant that a Roman sarcophagus appears as a trough for the animals.  The trough serves double duty as Christ’s crib.  It’s another indication of the end of the pagan era, but more importantly, it tells us that Christ will conquer death to bring everlasting life.  He comes to nourish us with the Bread of Life. 

A bright light shines on Mary’s face and on the body of Christ.  The wheat beneath him glows like divine, golden rays.  And at the top of the painting, behind the shadowed thatched roof of the shelter, a brilliant burst of light shines out of a dramatically dark cloud.  The distant, sun-lit landscape is ordered and serene.  God’s light is here among us now. 

Who first receives the angels’ glorious news?  Not royalty and world leaders. No. Shepherds who were out in the fields with their flocks. Shepherds, who, according to Jewish purity laws, would have been considered unclean during their working lives.  We might remember that Jesus’s ancestor David was a young shepherd boy when he killed the giant Goliath.  Jesus is here to shake up the old order of rich and poor, strong and weak, and also, to be our Good Shepherd. And we, as his disciples, are to remember his call to shepherd and care for one another, especially those whom polite society prefers to ignore.  

Gentile da Fabriano, Adoration of the Magi, 1423, Uffizi Gallery, Florence

For our last painting, we turn to a work by another Florentine artist, Gentile da Fabriano.  This, the Adoration of the Magi, is the earliest of the paintings we’re seeing today.  Dating from 1423, it’s on the cusp between Gothic and Renaissance.  It was commissioned by the wealthiest man in Florence at the time, Palla Strozzi, another banker, for his family chapel, also in the Church of Santa Trinita. 

With its elaborate triple arched gilded frame, the painting is a study in opulence.  It’s a show of great wealth, but it’s wealth (and power) that yields to the infant Christ. The three Magi remove their crowns and lay them before the feet of Jesus to show that he is King of Kings.

Mary, in her robe of midnight blue, holds her baby gently, and Joseph looks on lovingly.  The ox behind him pays careful attention. The first of the Magi kneels low on the ground, about to kiss the feet of the baby Jesus, a robust little guy, who reaches out playfully to pat the elderly man’s bald head. The Magi are dressed in fabulous, ornately gilded, bejeweled and brocaded attire.  The costumes are meant to give a sense of the exotic: they come from far, far away, in the East.  They travel with an extensive group of attendants, as well as unexpected animals: monkeys and leopards, several falcons.  The horses’ bridles are gilded and highly ornamental.  Even the big white hunting dog in the foreground has a gold buckle on his collar.

Within this elaborate frame, a comprehensive narrative unfolds: the story of these rich wise men who made a long journey to seek out a child born to parents living in a small shelter adjoining a cave for animals. 

Within the frame itself at the top, in the central roundel, we see Christ, making a blessing gesture, flanked by two prophets.  In the left and right roundels, we see an annunciation.  The angel appears in the left circle, and Mary in the right.

Directly under the three arches of the central panel, we see the Magi’s back story.  At the left, the three men, all in gold, stand atop a rocky hill looking for the star.  Under the central arch, they and their retinue approach Jerusalem.  On the right, they enter Bethlehem, where the scene in the foreground takes place.

The Magi’s appearance before the infant Christ reminds us that Jesus brings salvation not only to the Jews, but to all the nations of the world, to every single person who believes. 

Scenes from the early life of Christ appear in the predella panels below: a nativity, the flight into Egypt, and the presentation of Jesus in the temple. 

I’ll end with the rare night nativity in the lower left panel. It contains none of the opulence of the main panel.  A blue sky is dotted with stars, but the hilly, barren landscape is mostly in darkness.  Divine light though, is dramatically present.  At the top right, an angel in a glowing cloud announces the news to two shepherds.

In the central foreground, the infant Christ lies on the bare ground, and rays of light emanate from his little body.  The light from the baby illuminates the face of Mary, the donkey and ox, the entrance to the cave, the façade of the shelter, and the exhausted and sleeping Joseph, who rests his head against a little tree.  

The message is clear: the light of Christ breaks decisively into the darkness of our world.  His transforming light institutes a new covenant that emphasizes grace over judgment.  We’re freed from the exacting letter of Mosaic law, but called toward a greater goal; to love our neighbors, even our enemies. 

Our duty as disciples, during every season of the year, is to let that light work in our hearts, so we may carry it out into the world, offering mercy, kindness and grace to all our brothers and sisters.  Jesus, through his actions and words, urges us toward humility, patience and generosity, rather than the self-serving grandeur of a Roman emperor.  Christ conquers through love, not force.  He calls us to share God’s light  so His Kingdom will come, on earth, as it is in heaven.  We’re human, and easily led astray.  The right path forward requires near-constant recalculating.  

We can find assurance and comfort in this:  the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not, and will not, overcome it.  

Faith and Spirituality, Family, Holiday

Christmas Miscellany 2025

With Christmas ending tomorrow, there’s still time for me to post a few more photos from the season, including our church’s live nativity on the afternoon of December 24.  It’s a blessing and a pleasure to reconnect annually with this sweet group of friendly beasts.  The burrow and small black ox were laser-focused this year on eating as much hay has possible.  

Moses the camel, though, was as outgoing, patient and good-tempered as ever.  He nuzzled in for selfies and welcomed the hugs and caresses of curious children of all ages.  If you’ve heard that camels are known to spit, that’s correct.  But they spit when annoyed or threatened, and Moses is apparently always in a good mood, at least at our event.  

Another two friendly, very quiet beasts : papier-mâché reindeer keep watch out a front window at my mother’s house.  

Also at my mother’s, miniature decorations for one of my miniature houses. 

Again at my mother’s house, caroler candles surround a loving polar bear family and a Santa on skis.  The candles more faded in color date from around 1940.  They were a Christmas gift from a beloved family friend to Mama as a child.  

She remembers excitedly opening the small red box, which she still has.  The candles were a product of the Socony-Vacuum Oil Company, which through various mergers, currently exists as Exxon-Mobil. The label reads “4 Small Choirboys,”  but Mama’s set seems to contain three boys and a girl.  My mother insisted on lighting the girl candle, which quickly melted and shrunk, much to her childhood regret.  

I inherited the task of making gingerbread cookies for a dear friend of my mother’s.  He ships his highly anticipated peanut brittle up from Atlanta in exchange.  

A well-bundled and bushy-bearded Father Christmas, a years-ago gift from a friend, stands sentry on the walnut dresser in our front hall.  

Also at our house, the holy family camps out for the season atop a bookcase in the family room.  

The Magi with their richly adorned camel approach from atop the armoire on a neighboring wall.  Their arrival to worship the baby Jesus is commemorated in the Christian calendar as Epiphany, on January 6, the final day of Christmas.   

As is our custom, tomorrow will be the last night of our exterior holiday illumination.  The little lights throughout the house, though, remain until I remove them.  Every year, I seem to need the comfort of their warm glow a bit longer.  

For now, though, and through tomorrow, it’s still Christmas.  

May the light and love of Christmas continue to touch our hearts and move us to kindness and mercy, long after the festive bulbs shut off.  

Family, Holiday, Memorials

A Christmas Tree, Decked in Memories

Early in December, my husband asked if he should bring up my mother’s Christmas tree. And, he suggested, why not put it in the corner of her family room, where she could see it all day long from her favorite TV-watching chair? Sounds good, I agreed. But I wasn’t expecting this full-sized tree. Since the move from Atlanta eight years ago, it had been lying forlornly in pieces in a back corner of her basement. With Mama’s approval, in years past I’d decorated a smaller table-top tree in her dining room. She had to make a special circuit around the house to see it, but she said it gave her a reason to take a walk. I thought the bigger tree’s days as a host for decoration were well in the past. But with a few adjustments and several new strings of lights, it was rejuvenated. When my mother came downstairs to find the tree opposite her cozy day-time spot, she was as happy as a well-loved child on Christmas morning. It was the prettiest tree ever, she declared.

The last time I’d decorated this particular tree was in December 2015, in my childhood home, for what was to be my father’s final Christmas.  After decades of good health and keeping fit, the years had finally begun to catch up with him.  The previous few months had been rough, with an illness and a hospitalization.  Neither he nor Mama felt up to the task of what had in the past been a beloved activity, so I flew to Atlanta for a short tree-decorating trip.  Daddy attempted no hanging of ornaments, but he sat near me as I worked.  He radiated a sense of relaxed contentment during those few days.  He watched with interest as I unpacked all the many old ornaments, each one familiar, most of them prompting an origin story.

There were the music-making pinecone elves on skis, purchased in the early 60s on a rare day-after Thanksgiving shopping trip with Mama’s sister and her family in St. Matthews, KY, near Louisville.  

There was the was last remaining unsilvered ornament from the war years, when metal was reserved for military use: a red blown-glass ball with a cardboard cap and paper string hanger.  

And there was Mama’s favorite decoration of all, the cardboard stocking covered in silver foil.  It had been bought by her dear brother when he was a boy, around 1940.  During my mother’s childhood, she had regarded Edwin, six years her senior, with absolute and wholehearted devotion.  His premature death at age forty-four, from complications of alcoholism, has been one of the great sadnesses of her life.  

There were the many homemade ornaments we created for our tree and as gifts: the clothespin toy soldiers, assorted animals sewn out of felt, and the pasta angels that Daddy himself made in the 1980s.  Shortly after his retirement, he embarked on an exuberant crafting phase.  Most years I get at least one texted photo from a friend showing one of our family-made treasures on their tree, with a note remarking on how it never fails to spark warm thoughts of both my parents.     

I don’t think there was a single Christmas ornament that Daddy didn’t appreciate.  I smile to think how he basked so cheerfully that day  in the glow of the lights, how he commented with such enthusiasm.   “This  little bear in a vest is the cutest thing! Here’s your Kindergarten bell!  I love this jack-in-the-box mouse you made!” He never lost his characteristic childlike delight in the beauty and charm of small things, nor his willingness to express it.  

Back home in Virginia, during every call home that Christmas season and well into January, both my parents thanked me for my decorating efforts.  “Your father has a favorite Christmas activity now, ” Mama told me.  “He sits by the tree, looking peaceful and happy.”  

 

*Did I return to take down the tree?  I can’t recall, but I fear that I did not.  

Family, Holiday, Nature

Winter Solstice 2025

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Darkness descends early on  this winter solstice day.  But we’ve filled our home with our customary little white lights for the season, and so the early nightfall brings  with it a welcome coziness.  It’s the perfect atmosphere for my favorite holiday activity, staying in with those I love!

Happy Winter Solstice, friends! 

Holiday, Nature

December Scenes

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Yet again, I find it hard to believe that the end of the year is fast approaching.  Clearly time is moving faster than it did in my youth.  But most of our holiday decorating is done, at our house and next door at my mother’s, and we’re on our second light December snow.  It’s been looking like Christmas, I realize, for a couple of weeks.  And with temperatures well below freezing, treacherous icy surfaces and biting winds, it certainly feels like winter.  So, here are a few pre-Christmas scenes from our little bit of the arctic known as Northern Virginia.  

Christmas is nine days away!

Nature, Walking the Dog

Another Farewell to Fall Color

Every year around this time, as fall cedes the ground to winter, it’s my habit, and wistful delight, to look back and celebrate yet another spectacular season.  

Brilliant autumn colors were a bit late in arriving this year in Northern Virginia.  Thankfully, they’ve also been reluctant to depart.  The trees were gracious in shedding their leaves little by little, allowing time for us to reckon with their approaching absence.  On this mid-November day, most of the hardwoods are now bare.  The Japanese maples by our screened porch, though, have saved their intensest, rubiest reds for right now. 

The pin oak at the center edge of our front yard is also stubbornly tenacious, still holding fast to most of its gilded leaves.  This is a gift tree, courtesy of a squirrel that buried an acorn some fifteen years ago.  It’s perfectly positioned and now sizable.  It glimmers in the early-morning sunshine.  

A few flowers of this twice-blooming azalea still linger in our yard.  In the spring, the blooms are uniformly a dark pink.  They save their more dramatic, variegated palette for the fall.   

The photos that follow attest to fall’s beauty now past.  

Our small sassafras tree is now devoid of foliage, but in late October, it provided pops of orange that stood out distinctly against the gray-brown bark of our lone surviving silver maple.  The tree is unusual for its leaves of three shapes: single-lobed, mitten-like, and tri-lobed.   

The  black gum tree behind our church put on the glorious scarlet show that the local community has  come to anticipate.  

Our heavily wooded neighborhood never fails to offer a beautiful autumnal display. Mornings with the dog-walking crew are feasts for all the senses, for humans and canines alike. The field below was one of Kiko’s favorite spots for a wild romp when he was in his prime. I can see him running there now, his dark red coat another dash of welcome color in the fall landscape.

I had the pleasure of accompanying a friend to the Hillwood Estate and Museum in DC earlier this month.  A furloughed federal worker, she wanted to take advantage of the Museum’s offer of free entry for out-of work government workers during the shut-down.  I’d never been to this remarkable place, the carefully curated former home of Marjorie Meriweather Post.  The grounds were gorgeous on a sparkling November day.  Several towering ginkgos were resplendent in the sunshine, their fan-shaped leaves at their yellow-gold peak.  

Two more fall panoramas at Hillwood: the Japanese Garden and the Lunar Lawn.   Incidentally, my skeleton friend Slim asked me to mention that the Museum is offering guiding forest bathing walks on the grounds next week, on November 21 and 22.  

And back on our little acre, the black walnut trees were heavy-laden, until recently, with golden-green orbs.  The telltale thuds of the falling fruit have become for us a signature sound of autumn.  Our fortunate squirrels will enjoy the bounty all winter.  

And as the season’s bold reds, golds and greens continue to disperse and take flight in November’s chilly winds, I find comfort in knowing that the reduced palette of the months to come will be, in its way, equally enchanting.   

Art and Architecture, Family, Travel

To New York City in a Nor’easter? What Could Go Wrong? (Follow-up to Vagabond Shoes)

View of the Courtyard of the Palace from the Villard rooms, October 2015

The New York hotel that I zeroed in on,  three decades ago, when we were poor grad students, was the Helmsley Palace.  It’s attached to the historic Villard Houses, which I’d read about in Paul Goldberger’s book on New York architecture.  Dating from 1884, the houses were modeled on a Renaissance palazzo in Rome.  Six adjoining brownstone townhouses surround a central courtyard, giving the effect of one large, grand mansion.  The first project of the architectural firm McKim, Mead & White, the compound was built for Henry Villard, a former journalist and president of the Northern Pacific Railway.  The location is Madison Avenue, directly across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral.   

The New York Palace, October 2010
View of the east side of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, from the courtyard of the Palace, 2025.

During the 1970s, the developer Harry Helmsley acquired the air rights to the Villard Houses and made plans for a fifty-story hotel atop the compound. Preservationists raised the alarm after hearing that Helmsley intended to demolish large portions of the historic buildings. Plans were modified, and the developer agreed to preserve most of the townhouses, including their interiors.

Inside the Villard Houses, October 2015

I saw glimpses of these lavish interiors in commercials for the hotel during the 1980s.  The ads showed Harry’s second wife Leona Helmsley posed imperiously atop the central stairway, flanked by subservient staff.  The tagline was “The Helmsley Palace, Where the Queen Stands Guard.” Leona may have considered herself  the  Grande Dame of her husband’s hotel empire, but thanks to her bullying, demanding behavior, her employees dubbed her the Queen of Mean.  Having remarked that “only the little people pay taxes,” Leona later went to prison for tax evasion.  

My interest in the Palace Hotel had nothing to do with Leona Helmsley, and everything do with the beautifully preserved, gilded-age interiors of the Villard Houses.

One of the Villard Rooms, with chairs set up for a wedding, 2015.

I can’t recall the details that went into my booking what I thought was a night at the Helmsley Palace.  I must have caught wind of some pre-Christmas discount, because money was short in those days.  

The same room, from a different angle, 2015.

What I can’t forget, though, was that we arrived in New York from Princeton in the midst of a significant nor’easter.  I hadn’t  heard that weather term before, and I’d certainly not experienced it.  My husband and I quickly learned that a nor’easter, especially in December, is not a pleasant time for leisurely, big-city sight-seeing.  The winds howled without cease, exacerbated by the tunnels created by the tall buildings. A frigid mix of sleet, snow and rain swirled around us, pelting our faces. The streets of Manhattan appeared to be littered with hulking black birds in their death throes, as useless, abandoned umbrellas flapped in the breeze.  I can’t remember what we wore, but I know we were not appropriately dressed for such dire weather.  My husband didn’t have a hat.  I had a scarf, but it was quickly soaked, giving the effect of wearing an ice pack outdoors in winter.    

A hallway inside the Villard rooms, October 2025

Why did we not cancel?  Most such details, fortunately, are hazy. Probably because I’d already paid.  Probably because we thought, “Oh, how bad can it be?”  

It might have been worth braving the terrible weather if we had only been able to find shelter at last in that sought-after destination, the Helmsley Palace.

But no.  Somehow, I’d booked our stay not at the Helmsley Palace, but at the New York Helmsley.  I can’t remember when or how we discovered the mistake.  Did I realize the error before our departure?  Or did we go to the Palace at Madison and 51st, only to be turned away?  To be sent back out into the icy winds and make our sad way over to 3rd Avenue and 42nd?  

Another room in the Villard Houses, 2015. Now it’s used by the hotel as a breakfast space.

The New York Helmsley (now the Westin New York Grand Central) was, and is, no dive.  Its 40-story tower was constructed in 1981, a bland rectangular block similar to that at the Palace.  But its lobby was, to me, a dull, forgettable, contemporary space, and a huge disappointment when I was expecting the time-tested opulence of the Villard rooms at the Palace.  

Our room was perfectly fine, definitely the nicest I’d ever entered in New York at that point.  It was a vast improvement over the youth hostels and threadbare accommodations I’d been used to in my low-budget student travel in Europe.  There were two windows, and an actual view.  Not an especially good view, out onto a gloomy, windswept 42nd Street, but also not onto an air shaft.

My mother likes to tell the story of a Manhattan hotel room she and my father stayed in when they were young and newly married.  In the adjoining bathroom, the tub appeared to have been cut in half by a wall.  That was one surprise, at least, that we did not encounter during our trip.  

Clock in a Villard Room hallway, October 2025.

We stayed only one night, which was a blessing.  A two-night visit was beyond our means.  The next day, a Saturday, the bad weather persisted. I had hoped we’d enjoy cheery lights and shop windows adorned for Christmas, but I recall no such festive sights.  I assume we took refuge in a museum or two.  But we walked the icy streets long enough to be very uncomfortable.  We went into one of the hundreds of Sbarros in Manhattan to try to warm up.  The door, oddly, had been open, and we closed it when we entered.  One of the employees rushed out immediately from the kitchen to close it again.  Really?  I rarely cry, but that day I put my head down on the cheap laminate table and sobbed.   My husband, shocked at my unseemly display, appealed to the employees, who were overheated because of their work near the pizza oven.  H promised the young men that we wouldn’t be long.  We’d  eat our slices, thaw out a little, and be on our way.  They allowed him to close the door.

We probably headed back to Penn Station shortly after we emerged from the Sbarro.  After two days of enduring New York in a nor’easter, it felt like luxury, for once, to settle ourselves onto those ugly orange seats in a shabby New Jersey Transit train.  

In the courtyard of the Helmsley Palace, October 2010, during a nicer visit.

We finally managed a weekend stay act the actual Palace Hotel in 2010.  We’ve returned there a few times since.  This past October, we had planned a weekend get-away at what is now known as the Lotte New York Palace.  A nor’easter was predicted to coincide with our visit.  This time, with the wisdom that comes with age and experience, we postponed for a week.   

Family, Friendship, Holiday, Nature

Forest Bathing with the Skeleton Crew

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Since the beginning of October, our family has been enjoying the active company, once again, of our old family friend Slim and his loyal pack of pups. They spent the past eleven months mostly in quiet contemplation and sound sleep in their comfortable new domain, my attic art studio.  Sometimes as I went upstairs to paint, I’d find them peering out from their favorite lookout perch in one of the dormers. Slim kept a pair of binoculars close at hand, along with his birding journal.

One morning in August, when our family was in Cape Cod, they were roused from napping by the sound of heavy machinery.  From the attic window, they witnessed the removal of our old silver maple.  It was with great sadness that they watched as the remainder of the tree was cut down, chipped up and hauled away.  Slim and I are kindred spirits in our love of trees.  He brushed a tear from his eye as he told me that he wept most of that summer morning.  

Once the pack was feeling lively enough to venture outside to roam the grounds, they headed directly to the site of the old tree.  “Hello, dear pal,”  Slim said, as he settled himself in the center of the mulch pile.  “I can still breathe in your essence, your goodness!”   

Somehow it was news to me that Slim was an early adopter of the practice of “forest bathing.” He was introduced to the therapeutic relaxation technique during the months he spent backpacking through Japan in the early 80s. It’s one of several lifestyle choices that he holds responsible for his health, vigor, trim frame, and longevity. As we walked over to the remaining silver maple in our yard, he became my forest bathing instructor. “Get up close to this old friend,” he advised me. “Snuggle in, nice and cozy. Lean your back against the bark. Feel that solid, reassuring presence. Imagine that your feet are roots. Take deep breaths. Be aware of all your senses. Listen to the birds, watch the beetle crawling among the fallen leaves, feel the breeze on your face, and smell all those fantastic fragrances of nature. Keep breathing, slowly, deeply. ”

The practice is a great stress reducer, but it’s more than that, Slim told me.  “It’s those phytoncides, you know.”  I didn’t know.  “They’re tree oils, great immune boosters.  We breathe them in, and they have amazing healing properties.  The more trees around, the better.  That’s why they call it forest bathing.  But we can get big benefits right here, in the company of our silver maple sister, and even from the mulch chips of her much reduced sibling.”  I’ve known Slim long enough to reach eagerly for the pearls of wisdom he offers.  I’ve always enjoyed being around trees, but now I know to seek them out more intentionally when life’s annoyances, large and small, start to wear on me.  I expect there will be many of those times.     

Slim delighted in the last of the squirrel-planted sunflowers that bloom along the fencerow.  

He exulted in the clump of late-blooming Montauk daisies by my mother’s driveway.  “These smell almost as good as a maple tree!,” Slim exclaimed. “Flower bathing has its benefits, too!”