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Keep Writing

Leaving the warmth of the barn last night, with its sweet aromas of leather, hay, and horse, I clicked off the lights and slid the heavy barn door shut. The snowy field looked as if all the stars had fallen from the sky and lay, glittering on the white ground, like diamonds in the moonlight. My boots made that indescribable sound that boots make when they sink into a foot of marshmallow-soft snow, a sound halfway between a muffled creak and a crunch so satisfying you want to lie down in it and make snow angels in the darkness.

Oh, this beautiful night, the sanctuary of the barn! Where lives the horse I wished for every birthday and Christmas of my childhood. The barn with the scent of horse, leather and sweet hay, has always smelled like home to me. We would not wash our riding jeans for weeks, my teenage best friend and I, so we could just close our eyes, inhale the fabric and ride our memories over and over again in the green, summertime fields of our minds. Long into the barren winters, roaming high school hallways, forever the misfits in a sea of invisible rules we could not navigate, our imaginations took us galloping far away. Until the summer when we could visit the barn of her sister and live the dream again. In high school, I wrote an essay about placing 3rd in a barrel race on a borrowed horse at a local horse show. My English teacher, Mr. Merrigan gave it an A+ and wrote in my yearbook: “Keep writing!”

Last year at this time, we were planning a family Christmas at my parents’ home way up in Maine. For the first time, our entire 15-person family would fill that little house in the woods with food, games, laughter and love, instead of them coming to New Hampshire to visit us. At the end of the weekend, my father said, “I can’t wait to see what you write about this!” I have yet to do so. The words to accurately describe such a wonderful event in the wake of Covid-19 have eluded me. Maybe the time was not right then. We were all so joyful and innocent, with no idea what was waiting for us around the corner. The pandemic has cut us off from my parents in their remote home. They are safe, but we all are starving for the warm embrace of family.

Thankfully, animals are safe to hug. If you ever have the chance to hug a horse in winter, I highly recommend it. Their winter coats make them as soft and warm as a living, breathing plush toy. Also, if you can, stare into the dark eyes of a donkey. Donkeys are the most honest creatures on Earth, and if they look you in the eye, you have truly been seen, down to your soul. Animals make me want to be a better person. This year more than ever they have been my saving grace.

Here we are on the brink of a new year. I think about last year, how innocent we all were, how unsuspecting of how much life was about to change. There is not much new to say about it all, so much has been written, philosophized, and discussed. Besides, I still have a different story to write and I am way over deadline to one of my biggest fans. Mr. Merrigan’s words still resonate: “Keep writing!”

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Keeping The Faith

Here we are in November. Can you believe it? Who of us ever, back in March, expected the pandemic would still be here? Not only still here but getting worse! We are two days away from the election and I am beyond the feelings of scared, worried, stress. It’s like the old test your strength ring the bell carnival game where you strike as hard as you can with a mallet to ring the bell at the top. I have hit the bell so to speak, and I don’t have the mental strength to lift the mallet anymore. My feelings peaked at a form of grief beyond description. I will have to just leave it at that. Now, a low-level malaise is the best I can muster.

We live on a farm, and we have plenty to keep us busy. Every evening while the weather was still good, we sat on our back deck, watching the sunset over Pack Monadnock Mountain in the distance, enjoying a cocktail and talking, talking, far into the night. We still perform this ritual, migrating to the tiny, screened in porch off our bedroom. We can see the barn and the back pasture from there. We sit, in our winter coats, huddled up in front of a small propane heater, and talk, talk, talk into the night.  Sometimes, my wine glass gets refilled a couple more times than it should, if I am being honest.  It helps to buffer the tumultuous feelings I am wrestling with. I think at times, I am hanging on by a thread. All I can do is hold on to that thread, with both hands. Because, what other choice do we have?

Here in New England, we were gifted with wonderful weather this year. I remember in Spring, standing in the green fields, feeling kissed by the sunshine and gentle breezes. The sky was a brilliant blue and there was something brighter, clearer than I could ever remember. Even the birdsong sounded brighter, cheerier than usual. Was it because I appreciated it more, or was Mother Nature patting us gently on our shoulders to tell us everything would be okay? “Just look up,” she seemed to whisper. The glorious summer bloomed into a spectacular Fall, in which the maples, oaks and sumac burst into shades of orange, lemon-yellows, and crimson reds bordering on, I swear – hot pinks. The Fall seemed to last longer, too. And then, it all culminated with an early Halloween snowstorm. Overnight, a brilliant white backdrop made for a beautiful study of the blazing trees. It was like a painting, a sumptuous feast for our weary eyes.

In our little town, there was trick or treating this year. Every year Jonny and I love walking the streets in town, looking at the spooky displays, and we enjoy watching the children in their various costumes skipping from house to house collecting their loot. This year, we were out running errands, and happened to come home just when trick or treat started, at 5PM. It was still light out and we could see a few costumed figures walking on Main Street. “Want to take a spin to see who’s out this year?” I nodded. We passed by the Legion where masked adults were standing at the top of the steps, by the festooned door with buckets of treats offered for self serve.  Even behind the masks, I could recognize a couple of townspeople. We drove slowly through the streets by the elementary school, where I once read to my boys under a giant oak tree, over thirty years ago. Costumed children ping-ponged back and forth in the ball field, including two who were dressed in those funny dinosaur costumes with bobbing tyrannosaurus heads and tiny arm waving, and dragging cartoonlike tails behind them. Across the street in front of a heavily decorated house, was a little booth, made up to look like one of those Zoltar fortune teller booths at amusement parks. Inside was a man was dressed up to look exactly like Zoltar himself. From behind the plexiglass, he could drop baggies of treats to the waiting little ghosts and goblins hands.  The children lined up, six feet apart, to the sidewalk. We drove by twice; it was so entertaining!

At the top of the hill, three very scary looking clowns sat in web-backed lawn chairs next to a pumpkin head full of treats.  Across the street from that, tiny ghost-shaped napkins full of treats were tied to the branches of hedges, for the children to grab as they went by. We marveled at the creativity.

Finally, we turned the corner, and drove past the library, on our way up the hill to home. We stopped the truck at the crosswalk to allow a cluster of costumed children and parents walk past. A little further up the street we stopped again to allow a mom and dad to walk across the street. Between them, each held the hand of a tiny girl in a pink tutu. Her legs beneath the tutu skipped joyfully, but her little face was all business, her large brown eyes seriously watching us as she went by.

Maybe it was just me, but like the brilliant spring skies, and glorious autumn leaves, the faces of the children seemed extra joyful this year. Absolutely everyone, adults, children and even the occasional teen were smiling. Many of them waved to us as we drove by. There was hope in the streets of my beloved town, and a sense of community that seems rare these days, as we isolate at home.  We face a bleak winter season of limited or no family gatherings, or, so I thought.  But do we have to look at it that way? Maybe with some hometown ingenuity, no matter how far apart we all are this year, we can find a way back to joy, which taken in small doses will help us to lift our chins and our eyes and continue to look up. Yes, here is where I once again arrive, to a place of hope.  We can do this.

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Why I Write

I love how, for the writer, writing can bring the past back to life. Today I rewrote the summer of 1971. Once again, I walked through dark green cornfields in Upstate New York, climbed the twisted boughs of apple trees, watched puffy white clouds lumber across a turgid sky, nudged by the heavy breath of mid summer. Fistfuls of juicy blackberries stained my fingers, dripped down my chin as I crammed the sweet, warm gems of the season into my mouth. Oh, to once again roam the sweet spot of childhood when summers stretch endlessly before you, ripe for adventure and offering a treasure trove of sensations: icy cold creeks to plunge dusty, bare feet into, where shiny darting minnows dare you to catch them in eager, cupped hands, the taste of ice-cold sweet watermelon slices and hot, buttery corn on the cob. Saturday morning cartoons shared with your little brother, the two of you tangled on the couch in a twist of spindly arms and legs, as you fought for your own space and argued half heartedly over Flipper or the Flintstones. Your Mom half listening and refereeing from her seat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and working a crossword. Ah, close your eyes and come with me, we will escape the icy grip of winter and leave this middle age behind! Just take my hand, and hear the sound of the screen door as it slams behind us. Feel the grass as we kick off our Keds and run heedlessly through the back yard, into the fields and the thickets beyond. The sun is warm, the wind is light and the corn fields are whispering our names!

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Donkey Spirit Part 1

Six years ago I rescued a mini donkey named Angel. Which, by the way, is a misnomer if I ever knew one. (More on that later). My husband and I wanted a companion for my horse, Shiloh. Shiloh had been living with us for a year as an only horse, and he seemed just fine. But so many people had told us it was mean to keep Shiloh all alone and the guilt was too much and we succumbed to the pressure. (And besides, what animal lover doesn’t love a good reason to bring a new fur baby to the family?) Soon I found myself standing in a tiny grass paddock at a local rescue farm with a pissy little mini stallion named Jack, a goat, and a mini donkey named Angel. She stood apart, her back to everyone, under a scrubby tree, staring into space, looking slightly grumpy. I slowly approached her, and quietly stood next to her as she stared out into the distance, thinking her remote donkey thoughts. After a few minutes she gave me a side eye, as if grudgingly acknowledging my presence. I reached out and touched her neck and then reached up to scratch her giant ears.

The rescue lady spoke up quickly, “She doesn’t like her ears….” her voice stopped, as I scratched the inside of Angels beautiful ears, and she stood perfectly still, and even leaned on me a little to enjoy the feeling. “Wow,” said the lady.” She does not let any one touch her ears. Ever.”

Deep from the abyss of those liquid, black eyes I had fallen into, a soft voice, my voice, spoke. “When can I take her home?”

The adventure was just beginning.

Fall, poetry, Summer, Uncategorized, Writing

Fallen Apples

Trees sigh and shed tears of yellow leaves onto the breeze. 

Sad, for the passing of summer.

The leaves having soaked the lemony summer sunshine up

Into their veins, yet in vain

For the sun is not eternal, and none of us are immune from dying. 

Except, perhaps, the thousands year old boulder excavated a hundred years ago, where I sit, holding an apple up to my nose, eyes closed. (You can’t really smell an apple unless your eyes are closed) Cinnamon, clove, citrus and the earthy scent of raw honey. 

Red jewels with shiny skins the apples lie in the golden and green grass like treasures. Prepared for sweetness, I bite the smooth hard skin and it bursts beneath my teeth with a snap and a flood of tartness breaks the spell the scents have put me under. 

Autumn has crept up as usual, to spring in front of us and wave her red-gold-orange-flag to dazzle by day and enchant by night with a crisp diamond studded sky, as if winter is not far behind. 

I can’t stop the seasons.

But I can still take the broken apple to the barn and share it with my friends, the horse, and the donkey, and we can still bathe in the warm honey sunshine. 

See the dust rise up from the hay bales and dance in that last fools gold light of summer.