To all those serving our country now and in the past, at home and far away, during peacetime and war, we thank you. As for those of us who haven’t walked in your boots, may we never take your bravery, your selflessness and your sacrifice for granted. Let’s honor our veterans this day and every day.
Make the time. Don’t forget.
Today, we’re back to sunshine. Yesterday’s continuous rain failed to wash away fall’s colors; it simply spread them around with an artistic flair. The weather is mild. It’s a perfect day to be outside, enjoying October.
It’s a day that makes me a bit nostalgic for my daughter’s younger years. If she were seven or eight, we might be heading to Cox Farms after school. This family-owned farm puts on a fall festival that really is fun for most ages. It’s one of our favorite local traditions. We discovered it with a group of friends we met through D’s preschool.
If you live in a suburban or semi-rural area, you probably have a place like this nearby. In Princeton, there was Terhune Orchards, which my husband and I enjoyed. If something similar existed in Atlanta when I was growing up in the 70s, we didn’t know about it. Lucky for me, I didn’t know what I was missing. Lucky for my daughter, she didn’t have to miss it.
Cox Farms is a low-tech, homespun, rough-around-the-edges place, just as a farm should be. As a preschooler, one of my daughter’s favorite “rides” involved rolling down a hill inside a big pipe. There are mischievous goats to feed, various baby farm animals to admire, a cow to milk, and lots of hand-painted folk-artsy plywood signs. Naturally, there are pumpkins, apples, cider and kettle corn. On weekends there might be a bluegrass band.
There’s lots of hay: hay mountains to climb, hay bale forts to explore and tunnel through. Of course there’s a hayride, during which aliens and assorted odd but non-threatening creatures appear. There are many slides, some of which are quite steep. When we first started going to Cox Farms, D was afraid to attempt any of the slides on her own, so we went down them together. That’s when I found out how much fun a fun slide can be. Apparently, I was slide-deprived (as well as fall-festival deprived) as a child.
Our daughter’s first-choice activity was the rope swing with a drop into a foam pit. One doesn’t often get a chance to brag on a child’s rope swing skills, but I must say she had excellent form and always managed to sail to a far corner of the pit. The two photos above are from consecutive years, the first in 2006, the second in 2007. Evidently D’s fall festival uniform consisted of a pink shirt and blue jeans.
For several years when our daughter was in elementary school, we had an annual fall festival meet-up with former preschool friends, a brother and sister, and their dad. It was one of the highlights of the season.
Our every visit to Cox Farms ended with the careful picking of a “free” patch pumpkin. D has always delighted in the perfect pumpkin.
It’s been several years since we’ve done the fall festival. But our daughter is now a regular attendee at “Fields of Fear,” held at Cox Farms on weekend nights for older kids and adults. It includes the Cornightmare, the Dark Side Hayride and the Forest: Back 40. As of this year, she and her friends can even drive themselves.
But at the end of the night, D still picks out a little patch pumpkin.
Early last week it appeared likely that the great beauty of the season had passed. I hadn’t been looking, and I’d missed it.
But my pessimism was unwarranted. Just look!
I understand how Ebenezer Scrooge must have felt, awakening after his ghostly visitations, to realize with elation that he hadn’t slept through Christmas. Scrooge hadn’t missed that momentous, holy day, and I haven’t missed this spectacular season. The sudden, gloomy cold snap didn’t last. Fall is still here, at least for a few more days. And recently, it’s been as brilliant and colorful as it should be.
I don’t have to drive to the mountains or down to the Valley to appreciate the show. Fall is playing just outside my windows. The view down the street, with the trees arching overhead, can hold its own next to any grand sight.
You probably have equally glorious views close to home, too.
Don’t forget to look.
The show is on now, but it’s a limited engagement!
Four years ago, I wrote my first Wild Trumpet Vine post. Like the plant for which it’s named, Wild Trumpet Vine perseveres. There are dry spells, but it hangs on. It’s grown deep roots, and it keeps me rooted to the real, keeps me on track in a world of smoke, dead ends, and mirrors. Life is fragile. Let’s look, live, and love while we can.
Thanks for reading! For more on why I write, see here.
It’s a cloudy, drizzly July 4th here in Northern Virginia, making brightly hued photos of waving flags impossible. Here, then, are a few images taken under blue skies from past Cape Cod vacations.
On this day, and all days, come rain or shine, may we salute and value our common ties as Americans.
May we work toward liberty and justice for all!
I’d thought I was done with the Key West posts. But then I remembered the manatee mailboxes, and the little blue truck that appears to have spent time on the ocean floor, the toothy back yard sculpture, and a few more oddities. I saw these as I wandered the city’s quiet neighborhoods during our winter visit. They’re among the many sights that evoke the quirky spirit and laid-back humor of this unique place.
On our walk home from Duval Street on New Year’s Eve, we passed this cast concrete postal manatee dressed to party.
A few streets away, on the first morning of 2015, another manatee mailbox balanced a Happy New Year beer can on its head.
In this shady front yard, a creature left over from Halloween, or a year-round ghost?
Gracing a white-columned porch, a Christmas wreath adorned with starfish, crabs and lobster.
No guard dogs needed for this gated compound.
The “Don’t Dredge on Me!” truck, ornamented with all manner of sea creatures, some painted, some three-dimensional, for a diverting, barnacle-encrusted appearance. It protests the proposed and hotly debated dredging of the Key West Harbor Channel for the purpose of allowing even larger cruise ships to dock.
In a classic Key West contrast, the truck, a sort of rolling folk art diorama, is parked in front of this neat white Gothic revival church. The historic Cornish Memorial AME Zion Church, built in 1903, is named for the freed slave who started the church in 1864.
Something that does not belong in a post on the whimsical eccentricities of Key West is the Celebrity Constellation, pictured above, in port during our visit. I include it here only in reference to the little truck that speaks out against harbor dredging. Could there be a need for bigger cruise ships in Key West? Isn’t this ship too big already? Most locals dread the sight of thousands of cruise ship passengers descending regularly upon their island city. But here’s what you’d think would make the proposal a certain no-go: the Channel is located in the protected area of the Florida Keys National Marine Sanctuary. It appears ludicrous to argue that dredging could be anything but harmful to marine life and water quality, although proponents jump through hoops in attempts to minimize the impact. While the city voted “No” last year to a feasibility study on dredging, the question is not yet completely settled. May the message of the “Don’t Dredge on Me” truck be heard, loud and clear. And heeded.
Perhaps as well-known as the Hemingway House cats, freely roaming roosters and chickens, and the art they inspire, are a common sight in Key West.
I’m not sure what the artist of this back yard assemblage intended, but I see a pitcher plant monster on legs of tree branches. As Audrey II demanded in Little Shop of Horrors: “Feed me, Seymour!”
The Key West Airport is tiny and charming. On our next visit, we’ll be flying (not driving) in as well as out.
We don’t have to drive to DC to see cherry blossoms. We simply look out our windows. Or go out on the screened porch. Or walk down the street.
The views are not quite as grand and sweeping as in DC. We have no national monuments in our neighborhood. Only ordinary houses and cars. We don’t have thousands of cherry trees. But we do have quite a few, and they are, thankfully, easily accessible and simply waiting to be appreciated.
The short-lived blooming season is nearly over for trees of the pale pink Yoshino variety. Clouds of delicate petals swirl in the air with every breeze and float down to dot the greening grass like snow. As my neighbor drives past my window, her car appears to be covered in confetti.
But cherry blossom time continues, as the darker pink Kwanzan variety trees are now beginning to bloom. To follow in the lineup are the other faithful superstars of spring: the dogwoods, lilacs, azaleas, peonies and roses. They’re patiently waiting in the wings, rehearsing their parts, listening for cues. They’ll play their roles with charisma, dignity and flair. And when their brief sensational season ends, they’ll be quietly, diligently preparing for next year’s show. How reassuring.
I know I’m a day late with a Dr. Seuss post. But with our snow day yesterday, I assume that local schools will be honoring the author’s birthday today. During my daughter’s elementary school years, it was a big deal, indeed. Everyone brought in their favorite Dr. Seuss books. Children, teachers and staff dressed up. There would be an army of Things 1 and 2, and Cats-in-Hats by the dozens roaming the halls. My daughter and I tried to find a character for her that wouldn’t be over-represented.
For the 100th Birthday celebration in 2004, we succeeded.
Can you guess?
Does this help?
Probably not. My daughter returned home somewhat downcast because no one recognized her character. When she was in Kindergarten, she was neither skilled at winking nor bold enough to tell people who she meant to be.
We thought it was so clear. Obviously, she’s a Yink. The Yink from One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish. Maybe you don’t have a lot of ink. Because if you do, you should get a Yink. Dr. Seuss, of course, says it best:
This one, I think, is called a Yink.
He likes to wink.
He likes to drink.
He likes to drink, and drink, and drink.
The thing he likes to drink is ink.
The ink he likes to drink is pink.
He likes to wink and drink pink ink.
SO. . .
If you have a lot of ink,
then you should get
a Yink, I think.
The Yink pages from One Fish Two Fish, as colored by my daughter at age five.
A couple of years later, we opted for a more mainstream character.
This time, we took no chances. In case the reindeer horn, the floppy dog ears and the furry shirt rang no bells, my daughter wrote “Max” in big letters on the red collar.
Today, with a vague pang of regret, I notice that my daughter left for school dressed in the typical clothes of a sixteen-year old urban American girl. My Yink has grown up (thanks to all that healthy pink ink). My little dog Max is no longer so little.
Maybe you look back with fondness on a time when you outfitted a small Fox-in-Sox, a Horton, a Lorax, or a Sam-I-Am. Perhaps you kissed your Sneetch or Little Cindy Lou Who goodbye this very morning. Maybe you worked for weeks crafting an amazing Green Eggs and Ham Costume. Whatever the case, may your day be enlivened by the light-hearted, fresh-faced wisdom of Dr. Seuss.
So. . .
be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,
you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So. . .get on your way!
–Dr. Seuss, Oh, The Places You’ll Go!
This month is notorious. Fortunately it’s the shortest. Here in Northern Virginia, as in much of the country, February is all about the snow, or all about the cold, or the wind. Or some uncomfortable combination of the three. I’m trying not to complain. I know it could be worse. I could live in Boston, Buffalo or Sioux Falls. But the frigid whiteness of this mid-Atlantic winter has lost its luster. It has become tiresome.
Here in our area, the last half of the month is the worst. The week before and after Presidents’ Day tends to usher in our deepest snows and fiercest cold snaps. The best-laid plans crumble. Why do we continue to make plans in February?
This year a mini-blizzard roared in on the evening of Saturday the 14th at 6:30, a dirty little trick on diligent Valentine date-nighters. Within minutes, all was white, the air and ground alike. Snow piled up and swirled wildly as the wind howled and the temperature dropped to zero. Typically, in the face of such weather, I would happily retreat to the warmth of the sofa with a movie. But my husband was out of town (that’s another story), my daughter had two parties to attend, and I had said yes to a neighborhood gathering. All activities, unfortunately, required driving. My focus for the evening shifted from enjoyment to getting out and back without injury or incident. When I picked up my daughter and a friend from their final party, the snow-coated roads glittered with chunks of ice resembling broken glass. When the tires lost traction at an especially slick intersection and the anti-lock brakes kicked in to no avail, luckily we were the only car around.
The following icy, windy Sunday morning, Kiko and I suffered through possibly the most miserable dog walk ever. (No matter how inhospitable the weather, my fastidious little dog requires three walks a day for his mental and physical health. See here.) I wondered if we should brave the roads for church. A blinking light on the answer machine put that worry to rest: church was canceled, despite special preparations for a one-of-a-kind community children’s service.
Monday, Presidents’ Day, was a holiday and day off school. We managed to get in a dentist appointment for my daughter before more snow began falling steadily that afternoon. Storm Watch Accu-Weather-on-Your Side teams were breathless: this storm would be the Big One. No doubt there was not a gallon of milk or a loaf of bread to be had on any grocery shelf in the DC metro area.
We got snow, perhaps six inches or so. It was too bad that H wouldn’t be around to clear our long driveway with the powerful snow blower he bought after the blizzards of 2009 and ’10. As a boy growing up in Rochester, New York, he made money shoveling driveways and the occasional roof. He dreamed of one day owning a truly prodigious snow blower. That dream had come true, but once the big red contraption took its place in our garage (alongside a variety of mowers and other items for suburban lawn and garden maintenance), the snows stopped. Last year they resumed, in a big way. On most powdery white mornings H is out with his monster of a machine. He clears our driveway; he clears neighbors’ driveways. He’s a local Snow Day hero.
But this time he wasn’t here. I have to say it: he was in Aruba, perfecting a windsurfing move, the elusive jibe, a complicated change of direction done while continuing to skim the water. It was something he’d been wanting to do for years. It required perfect conditions, namely strong, steady wind, which can’t be found just anywhere. We’d agreed that he should take the long Presidents’ Day weekend and just do it. But I hadn’t considered that he was leaving D and me here to face the dastardly February weather on our own.
H suggested we FaceTime him so he could coach D on using the snow blower. He’d shown her how to work it last winter, but the details were hazy. Numerous attempts to start it up failed. We were about to give up when H realized that one little knob wasn’t turned in the right direction. That done, the machine roared to life and D set off down the driveway. Thank goodness she’s her father’s daughter.
And while the accumulation wasn’t as dramatic as expected, it was more than enough to shut us down. Further cancellations rolled in. No school on Tuesday. No Fat Tuesday Pancake Supper at our church. No school Wednesday, and no Ash Wednesday service at our church and many others.
That was just the first series of February snow cancellations. Since then, they’ve continued, requiring the ongoing reshuffling of plans. Today, for example, with snow beginning early this morning, school was first delayed, then canceled an hour later. With so many days off school, extra-curricular activities are postponed repeatedly. Rescheduling is tricky, as events pile atop one another. During my daughter’s elementary school years, snow days for her were exactly that: unstructured free days to play in the snow. Now they involve the stress of wondering if and when the student-directed One-Acts will take place. How will they impact previously scheduled activities? And then there’s the thorny problem of when to do AP World reading and pre-calculus problems when there’s a beautiful snow on the ground and friends who want to take the day off to meet for lunch in town.
Oh, February, aren’t you over yet?
