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.
Our daughter called on Monday evening to inform us of a quickly approaching astronomical event: the lunar occultation of Mars. As an aerospace engineer who minored in astronomy, she’s up on all that sort of stuff. I think she was somewhat surprised when I knew exactly what she was talking about. In preparation for my recent post on shadows cast by the nearly full February Wolf moon, I’d read that the moon would occult, or hide, Mars briefly on the night of January 13. To us Earthlings, Mars appears particularly big and bright now. It’s nearing the point in its orbit at which it’s closest to Earth. The side we’re seeing is fully lit by the sun, so the planet appears especially red. Those of us in the continental United States and parts of Africa had the chance Monday, under clear skies, to watch Mars, looking like a glowing red dot, move closer and closer to the moon until it disappeared behind it. After a while, it appeared again on the other side.
Thanks to our daughter’s reminder, around 8:45 I began stepping outside at regular intervals to observe the celestial show. Fortunately, it was another beautifully clear night. Through my bird-watching binoculars, I could distinctly see the tiny red jewel of Mars as it sidled up to the bright white globe of the moon. After a bit, it disappeared behind the moon. About a half hour afterwards, Mars emerged on the opposite side of the moon.
I would have missed the evening’s distant, silent spectacle, had my daughter not called. It made me consider, with wonder, what unseen curiosities and marvels, large and small, may be regularly unfolding around me. Often, they’re essentially invisible, as I’m lost in my head, preoccupied. Sometimes it’s with a cumbersome, amorphous anxiety. Or with small worries that tend to loom ever larger the more I dwell on them.
Every once in a while, I happen to glance outside at exactly the right moment to see a bird that’s not among the crowd of regulars around our feeders: a brown creeper hopping with zesty deliberateness up the pine, a golden-crowned kinglet flitting lightly among the leaves of the Japanese maple, a hermit thrush absolutely motionless on the bird bath. And the next moment, the bird is gone. What others come and go, without my ever knowing?
What mysteries are taking place in the skies above, and in the ground below? When this human-made world is too much with me, when people disappoint (just as I have been known to let down those who care about me), when institutions founder, when things prove faulty, when I’m close to feeling overwhelmed, I can remember to do this: Look out. Look up. Or down. Direct my attention to the everyday glories transpiring all around me. Change my perspective.
Right now, outside my window, the shadows are blue on the white snow. Two Carolina wrens are hanging upside down from the suet feeder, pecking mightily. A squirrel, the one with the fluffy ear tufts, perches atop a chair, looking thoughtful, its little hands clasped together. When evening comes, I can watch the now waning moon as it rises above the trees. I can remember to look for Mars, and for the bright stars of Orion. I likely won’t see another lunar occultation for a while. But I may witness something that will inspire awe and take me out of myself for a precious while.
On the first day of the recent snow, our feeder area was a lively spot.
Yesterday, deer searched for greenery in our front yard.
The Christmas season always speeds by, but with every year, it zips past at a faster pace. This year especially, it’s a blur. Is it the lack of that extra week, due to Thanksgiving’s later date? That our daughter wasn’t with us for quite as long? Is it my advancing age? It certainly does seem that time moves more and more quickly the older I get.
My husband, who is younger, agrees. We find ourselves looking at the Christmas tree after dinner and marveling at the fact that December 25 and its accompanying festivities are all in the rear view mirror. We did the usual decorative preparations–the indoor/outdoor lighting, the wreaths, a small forest of Christmas trees at our house and my mother’s. We shopped for our family and and others, we wrapped gifts. We enjoyed a celebratory pre-Christmas dinner out with our daughter and her fiance. Post-Christmas, our two families walked and talked through an extensive light show at a local garden park. Of course, there was the not-to-be missed Live Nativity and Christmas Eve worship service. We opened gifts and shared Christmas dinner with my mother. No crucial elements were missing. Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention? Not living in the moment? Looking back, it seems as though I was too busy to be mindful.
And then, yesterday, on the final day of Christmas, it snowed. A big, beautiful, drifting snow. Now it really looks like Christmas. And it just so happens that I have time to breathe in and out fully, and to enjoy that Christmas feeling. No appointments, no projects that must be tackled immediately. Now, I can be present.
So, at a point at which most people are taking down their Christmas decorations, or have boxed them up days ago, I will be savoring them.
My husband is typically not one for issuing decrees. He’s never played the bossy guy with me, as he knows it would do him no good. But he has decreed that January 6th must be the final evening for the outdoor spotlights and interior window candles. This is a stretch for him. Growing up, his family took down the tree down sometimes even before they ushered in the new year. Although a church-goer all his life, he wasn’t aware, until I informed him, of the tradition of leaving the decorations up until Epiphany. We can’t turn the lights out until the Magi arrive! How will they find the baby Jesus without simulated stars to guide them?
My husband fears that without his guidance, I’d leave the decorations up until Easter. But I wouldn’t. They’d be out before Valentine’s Day. I may attempt to negotiate a few extra days with the exterior lights and the candles. Because with the snow, the illuminated house looks extra pretty. I could say that. Or because it’s the middle of the week, when his days are spent at the office. He’d probably rather not spend an evening packing up the candles, right? (He puts them up, and he takes them down.)
I’ll probably let him get his way with the lights that are in his charge. But all the other interior lights and decorations–those are in my purview. With those, I’ll take my time. I’ll relish this white Christmas in the post-Christmas season.
The Christmas Eve live nativity is one of our church’s most beloved traditions, very popular with the local community. For several hours on the afternoon of December 24, the painted nativity figures arranged in the creche are joined by a group of living, breathing beasties. My daughter and I haven’t missed the event yet.
The sweet, sturdy little burro was back. I love his floppy, velvety ears and thick, buff-colored coat. He’s the furry embodiment of patient, calm endurance. How appropriate that his long-ago forbear carried Mary and her unborn child across the rugged paths from Nazareth to Bethlehem.
The donkey’s partner was not the gray hump-backed ox of previous years, but a petite black cow. The two seemed perfectly content to munch hay and be admired by a continuing parade of humans.
A goat and a sheep hunkered down in the hay, apparently intent on sleep, but repeatedly awakened by small, curious, caressing hands.
The camel this year was Moses, a determined snuggler. As if on cue, he rested his heavy head on the shoulder of any person who stepped up next to him for a photo op.
These two kids were unsure about being in immediate proximity to Moses’s enormous face, so their dad held them at a slight distance. Moses, always easy-going, nestled his head on his trainer’s shoulder, instead.
During the hours that Moses the camel and his hirsute entourage are holding court, the inanimate nativity figures recede into the background. But once Moses and the other animals have been led back to their trailer (and are likely on on their way to their next gig in Northern Virginia), the painted figures remain in their places in the simple wooden creche. But on Christmas Eve there is an essential addition. The empty spot between Mary and Joseph is filled. A homemade manger holds a swaddled doll. The other figures have a focal point toward which to direct their reverent gazes.
When I first brought the fiberglass nativity forms up to the church, after finishing the work of repainting, I was struck by the bare starkness of the shelter that encloses them. Did it need some swags of greenery, perhaps? Certainly no red bows or shiny ornaments, but branches of fir, pine, or spruce? Sprigs of holly and berries?
But no. Even such natural decorations are part of the trappings of our commercial, cozy, secular “Merry Christmas.” The humbleness of the scene is the point. The nativity grouping speaks to a timeless, sacred truth. While that great truth inspires, to some degree, at least, the jolly festiveness of the season, it needs no dressing up. It’s fitting that hay is the only adornment. As the Grinch discovers, Christmas “came without ribbons, it came without tags, it came without packages, boxes or bags.”
The gift of God’s grace came on Christmas in the form of a baby, unfathomably both human and divine. That baby grew up and served as a role model for us, his fellow brothers and sisters. During his earthly life, Jesus personified kindness, compassion, mercy and forgiveness. In his words and in his actions, he taught that our life’s goal should be to follow his example.
The awesomeness of the gift of salvation offered to us through Christ’s sacrificial death can never be overstated. But Christmas reminds us to look to our brother Jesus to guide us in living every day, here in our present world. This world needs all the love we can give.
Slim revels in the various lead-up events to the big day. His enthusiastic presence heightens the fun at our church’s annual Trunk or Treat. It’s a pleasure having him by my side, revving up the crowd from his usual perch at the back of my car.
It was Slim’s idea that the refurbished nativity animals accompany us to the event. By this time, he and the pups had gotten chummy with the foursome of ox, donkey, lamb and ram. He decided that their debut at Trunk or Treat should function as a preview in preparation for Advent. But they needed some Halloween flair, he insisted. He dug through boxes of fall decorations to find suitable ribbon for bows, which he carefully tied around each faux-furry neck.
We were all happy to see our daughter and her fiancé, who dropped by last weekend between Halloween parties. Slim heartily approved of their regal vampire costumes.
Slim loves a festive centerpiece, and he has an eye for detail. In our dining room, he toyed with the painted gourds, arranging them just so in the punch bowl.
The week before Halloween was warm and sunny here in Northern Virginia. Between decorating projects, Slim could often be found soaking up the October rays and basking in the balmy breezes. While sad to see that the impatiens had succumbed to a recent frost, he appreciated the persistence of our petunias.
He was surprised to discover some out-of-season blooms on our lilacs.
A birder from way back, Slim had for years been encouraging me to join the Feeder Watch program of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Now that I have, I understand. I’ve always appreciated the peace that comes from being immersed in nature, especially at times when the human world is a muddle of confounding conflict. And I’ve found that when I’m counting birds for Feeder Watch, I pay closer attention to each little creature that appears. I’m looking with greater concentration and intentionality, and the experience is more satisfying. Slim spent hours sitting motionless in a chair close to the feeders, gazing at the variety of birds that swooped around him, not troubled at all by his presence. I found some precious moments to settle myself in a chair just beyond, and savor the pleasant ambiance.
Before long, it was time for the annual pre-Halloween joyride. The dogs piled in, and Slim took the wheel. On an afternoon that epitomized convertible weather, they merrily cruised the neighborhood, looking for old friends and admiring the numerous ambitious Halloween displays.
Slim has claimed that he and his wide circle of influencers are largely responsible for the exponential growth of Halloween, from a quick one- day celebration, to a weekend, to its own extensive season. He’s been known to get a bit cocky, so I take his words with a grain of salt. Is it really a good thing, I wondered, for gargantuan blow-up spiders, demons and Disney villains to join us as early as August? I asked him why he and his colleagues, if they wielded such power, couldn’t turn their attention toward easing some of society’s ills. They were trying to do just that, he replied. The thinking was this: If we can unite for weeks over a love of candy, playing dress-up and poking fun at our fears, maybe we can realize that our points of commonality outnumber our differences.
Maybe there’s something to this. Even one day of Halloween is an amazing occasion. People across our country open their doors to hand out generous amounts of candy to children. Most of these are kids we hardly know, or have never met. We greet and give to strangers, simply because they show up, wear a costume, and say “Trick or Treat.” It seems that over the years on October 31, we’ve moved toward a greater emphasis on the treating than the tricking. That’s something to keep in mind and strive for, every day, whether it’s Halloween season, or not.
Slim and my husband worked together to light up our house in a Halloweeny palette of orange and green.
It’s that time again–time for our beloved family friend Slim and his pack of devoted pups to jump back wholeheartedly into the life of our household. For the past eleven months they’ve been keeping a low profile up in their attic hideaway. In years past, my mother’s basement has served as their quiet refuge during the non-October months. This changed last year when Slim made his acquaintance with the recently finished upper room at our house. He loved it so much he found no reason to leave, as long as I promised not to be overly intrusive. He has a good four weeks of chatty, jovial cordiality in him per year, but no more. I understand. I need my alone time, too.
Slim and the gang enjoyed tucking themselves into the attic’s odd and cozy spaces. When they were huddled silently behind the screen, as in the top photo, I sometimes forgot they were in the house. Other times they nestled into the dormers, where they could lounge with a pile of books and keep occasional watch on the neighborhood below.
As planned, Slim caught up on his reading, delving deep into some of his favorite periods in art history.
Inspired by our intention that the attic serve as a studio for my painting and craft projects, Slim had rekindled his interest in a variety of artistic pursuits. His building of a miniature medieval manor house turned out to be no more than a passing fancy, rather as I had expected. He offered advice as I fiddled with the restoration of an old family mantel clock. When I encouraged him to take on the task of gold-leafing the column bases and capitals, he claimed to be overtired. What can I say, he was off duty.
As fall approached, Slim’s energy increased. He painted a couple of dried gourds, delighting in their arresting shapes and textures.
And in early October, he offered encouragement, if not actual assistance, when I began repainting our church’s battered old nativity figures, those that spend Advent and Christmas in the outdoor manger.
There was considerable room for improvement, as these “before” photos of the lamb and donkey show. Slim was by my side as I worked on the animals. The human figures–the holy family, shepherd, angel and three kings–will be more challenging. I wish I could entrust their makeovers to Slim. But Halloween is upon us, and I know he will certainly be “overtired” in the days ahead.
I can hear Slim now, starting to make ready for the big day. He’s dragging out the orange and green lights. Onward, to Halloween!
My childhood neighborhood in urban Atlanta was full of large, mature trees and pockets of densely wooded areas. I grew up amidst plenty of small wildlife. Squirrels, chipmunks and birds were, and are, plentiful. For some reason, we often saw an opossum sitting placidly on the roof of our next-door neighbor’s home, easily visible from our kitchen window. Friends tell me that foxes, coyotes and deer all make the occasional appearance these days, but I never spotted any in all my years there. So I wasn’t prepared to be surrounded by the larger wild creatures we see every day here in Northern Virginia.
We had been in our present home just a few months when my husband and I awakened to a horrific screeching sound. My first thought was that our daughter, then about eighteen months old, was crying out, in a most terrible way.
“She’s OK! She’s OK! It’s not her!,” my husband assured me. “It’s coming from outside.” It was spring, and the windows were open.
The screeching continued. It still sounded like a child suffering a brutal attack.
It wasn’t until the next day that we determined the source of the noise: a fox. Just a little red fox.
Freddie at left, and Frankie, the senior female, at right
Over the last twenty years we’ve come to be aware of the many foxes around us. Now that we know where to look, we see them as they go about their typically quiet everyday lives. We consider it a privilege to share our space with them. Their middle-of-the-night screeches no longer frighten us. Sometimes I’ve looked out and watched with interest as a fox stands in the center of our yard and yells out, repeatedly. During daylight hours, our local foxes regularly follow certain routes, from one patch of wooded county land to another, crossing yards, or following paved paths like driveways and walkways. Occasionally we’ll spot them curled up and snoozing in a patch of sun.
Kiko in September 2009
When our dog Kiko was alive, his favorite look-out spot was by the fence in our side yard, where he could watch the foxes on their rounds. They frequently passed within a few yards of the boundary. But neither Kiko nor the foxes made a sound. They eyed one another with intense scrutiny, as if wondering if they might be related. The Shiba Inu is sometimes called the “little fox dog,” and the two are similar in size and appearance, with their thick red fur and pointed ears. The fox’s long bushy tail, though, contrasts with Kiko’s shorter, curly one. In a post from last winter, I remarked that a glimpse of a fox in the front yard sometimes prompts a moment of panic when I think it’s Kiko, still with us, but alarmingly beyond the safety of the fence. The foxes have become a sort of stand-in for our beloved dog, and I find their presence comforting. In their mannerisms, they also remind me of Kiko. They look at humans with a calm, steady gaze in their golden-amber eyes, then glance away coolly, as if to say, “I’m fine without you.” Their black-tipped ears twitch at the slightest sound. And like my dog in his agile prime, they can jump up, turn on a dime, and dash away speedily.
Snowball, inside the fenced area
After our return from Cape Cod, I was glad that the fox I’ve come to see most often hadn’t moved on to new territory. I call him Freddie, and he’s evidently the senior male, the group patriarch, father to three cubs. Early on sunny mornings, he’s often curled up in front of his favorite tree in my mother’s yard. In the winter, he was frequently accompanied by his mate, a nursing female. I dubbed her Frankie, short for Francesca. She was dainty and skittish, slightly smaller than Freddie, and lighter in color, with a narrower face. I haven’t seen her for a couple of months. But their youngsters are everywhere: long, lanky adolescents, lean and big-eared. The sibling in charge is a spirited, fearless female. I dubbed her Snowball for the prominent bob of white at the end of her tail. She’s a skilled and patient hunter, often lying flat in the mulch, blending in, motionless, waiting to pounce. And sometimes she and the other young ones venture inside our fenced area. They’re small enough to pop easily in and out through the wrought-iron bars. Now that Kiko’s nearly fifteen-year tenure as guard is over, the area has become even more of a safe sanctuary for birds, squirrels and chipmunks. But with his absence, his foxy look-a-likes have become bolder. When I’m at my desk and spot Snowball inside the fence, I raise the window, and she flees immediately. Foxes are intelligent, and they seem to learn quickly the limits of human hospitality. But they’re also persistent and sneaky.
Freddie, on alert
Just the other day I happened to witness Snowball flying across the front yard with a bushy-tailed squirrel in her jaws. It’s a wild kingdom out there. I’d prefer that all our neighborhood critters were vegetarians, but it’s not up to me.
Frankie
I wonder about little Frankie. I’d like to think she’s moved on, by choice. It’ unlikely, I know, but I hope she’s living her best life in another welcoming enclave, relishing the absence of familial responsibilities. After all, she knows her teenagers can take care of themselves.
While spreading seed for the birds and squirrels during Saturday’s soothing morning rain, I spotted an unidentified object in the wet grass. It appeared to be made of black patent leather. What is that? I wondered. I bent down to look. I gasped. Wow! It was the biggest beetle I’ve ever seen.
It was easily the size of a small mouse. After observing the beetle for a while, and judging it to be deceased, I gingerly picked it up. When I showed the find to my husband, he suspected that I was trying to fool him. He recalled a similar episode from our past.
We hadn’t been seeing each other very long when my housemate at the time played an unforgettable prank on me. Inside the oatmeal carton that I opened every morning, she had placed a gargantuan black rubber cockroach. Upon discovering it, I was horrified. It sure looked like the real thing. If my memory surrounding the event is correct (and it may well not be), I ran into H soon afterward on the Princeton campus. The route to my carrel at Marquand Library intersected with his path to the Engineering Quad. I told him about the traumatic oatmeal event, and he came back with me to see for himself. “Is it real?” he asked. I replied that I thought so. I’d left the beast on the kitchen counter where it fell. I can still see its dark, looming form against the slightly glittery surface of turquoise Formica. It looked frightening, still. But maybe not quite as authentic as I’d previously thought. I took a knife from the drawer and pushed the side of the blade gently down on the back of the insect. It didn’t crunch, but smooshed down quietly, as if it were made of rubber. “Lauren!,” I exclaimed. My roommate had pulled a good one on me.
I appreciated her prank, as she expected I would. I kept the huge rubber roach. Occasionally, I’d wear it, for shock value, like a brooch on a fancy dress, or set like a barrette in my hair. I even wore it, briefly, during my wedding reception, as in the photo above. I still have the creature somewhere. When I find it again, I’ll probably scream, just as I did upon our first encounter.
The beetle is about 2.5 inches long. The AA battery is there for scale.
It took a while for H to be convinced that the beetle wasn’t a clever prop I’d surreptitiously obtained. When we first began trying to identify it, we kept coming up short. In size and color, it looked like a rhinoceros beetle, found in Australia and elsewhere, but not native to the U.S. Before long, we noticed that as the beetle’s shell dried in the sun, it was fading to pale gray-green, with a splattering of dark spots. This coloring identified it as an Eastern Hercules beetle, a type of rhinoceros beetle that’s native to our country. They’re fairly uncommon, which explains why I’ve lived my life to this point without ever meeting one. The two long, curved horns identify our critter as a male, and earn that rhino name. The horns are not used to injure humans or predators, but only in battle with other male competitors to win a mate. The spotted shell over the abdomen is actually a pair of hardened wings, known as the elytra. They protect another pair of wings beneath. These beetles do, indeed, fly occasionally, despite their large size. Yikes!
I’m reminded of the time I first saw one of our Southern “palmetto bugs” take flight, and I shudder. As I remember the incident (and again, some details may be incorrect) my mother, my high school boyfriend and I were watching the opening sketch of Saturday Night Live in our Atlanta family room when we noticed an enormous roach inching its way high up along the wall. My boyfriend sprang into action. He grabbed a yardstick and stood on a chair, poised to swat the giant insect. Mama commented, “I’ve heard that some of these can fly.” “I don’t believe that,” he replied. As he prepared to strike, the huge bug flew directly at his head. And with great speed, the three of us fled the room.
The beetle has two smaller horn-like protrusions on each side of the central horns.
But back to our Eastern Hercules beetle. His appearance is fierce, but he was not a threat to most living creatures. In his larval stage, he lived underground as a greenish white grub, chewing away on rotting wood, turning decaying tree material into soil. As an adult, he was active primarily at night, where he kept close to the ground, foraging among the leaves for fallen fruits and berries. Given the opportunity, he may have dined on ash tree sap, but he was not a pest. Despite his commanding presence, bulky armor and body ammo, he was a quiet, solitary vegetarian, doing admirable environmental work. He rarely used his well-protected wings to fly. His adult life may have lasted two to three years. I’m glad his final steps led him to a spot in our yard where I could discover him.
The beetle’s large compound eyes are visible in this photo.
Thank you, Big Beetle. You’re a remarkable character. You’ve broadened my perspective, and reminded me of the richness and diversity of creation that surrounds us, often unnoticed and unseen, every day. You will be remembered!
A particular image of my father has taken up residence in my mind recently. I see him sitting at our kitchen table in our house in Atlanta. He has a map open–a fold-up highway map, the kind we used to buy at gas stations and welcome centers–those old ones that today’s young adults have rarely seen. He has a pen in hand, and he’s cheerfully planning the route for an upcoming trip. The destination is likely to be one with which he’s very familiar. Probably it’s a town in central or eastern Kentucky, to visit family. Even near home, Daddy didn’t like to follow the same path twice. Mama said that was one reason she never learned her way around Atlanta. Daddy enjoyed driving, and he was good at it. He’d had considerable practice, as he’d been driving since he was twelve or so. He was born in 1929, and he learned on a Model T. I always knew that if I needed a ride somewhere–anywhere accessible by car–Daddy could, and would, gladly oblige.
Mama remembers how Daddy poured over such a map while my husband and I were on our way to New Jersey after our marriage in the fall of 1995. I was moving away, and this time, it seemed likely to be for good. Before, I’d always returned after a few years. H and I were in a packed U-Haul, with my little Rabbit convertible behind on a trailer. Because we left later in the day, we spent a night on the road in Carlisle, Pennsylvania. When I called home to report our safe arrival, Daddy quickly picked up the phone. He’d been worried about us. (He didn’t yet know that I’d perhaps married as capable and confident a driver as he.)
My husband and I with the moving van in Atlanta, November 1995.
“I’m so relieved to hear your voice!,” he exclaimed. “I think I drove every mile with you!”
Daddy was not a man who cried easily or often. But Mama said she remembers him shedding some tears that evening, as he worried over the map.
H with the van in Carlisle. The trailer for my small car was huge, and could easily have held a Cadillac. As H said, “We were long.”
On this Father’s Day, and every day, I’m grateful to be my father’s daughter. I know that wherever life takes me, no matter how treacherous the road, Daddy is there beside me, every mile.
My husband and my father in Atlanta, December 1996.
Somehow now the years have spun by like the numbers on the oven timer, and H and I are a married couple past middle age, with a daughter of our own. She’s twenty-five, a young career woman, living in another state. But it’s Maryland, and she’s still nearby. So far, we’re lucky that way. I know that she, too, counts herself fortunate to be her father’s daughter. She can be sure that her Dada, like her dear Papa, will be forever at her side, driving with her every mile.
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.
