Last week this little bit of magic happened at the edge of my driveway on a cold, blustery November day.
The out-of-season quince bloom was enough in itself, but not to be outdone by Mother Nature, the Wind added this element.
Today, on this Thanksgiving weekend, I’m thankful for my friends in the blogger world. May all of you find delight in the simple and unexpected gifts in your life.
Sometimes something small can change the course of lives.
In this case, a handful of tiny seeds.
Last week I visited Meadowbrooke Gourds Farm in Carlisle, PA and learned the story of those seeds.
Today is Veterans Day and so it’s most appropriate that this evening a group of ten woman will gather on a gorgeous autumn weekend in Pennsylvania for some much-needed fellowship and frivolity. You see, we come from all walks of life and we live in cities scattered across this country, but our link to each other is that we were all military spouses.
Our common link is that our husbands were B-1 crew members at some point in their military careers.
Our enduring link is our love for each other.
Think what you may about social media but Facebook is what brought us all back in touch on a regular basis. Emails and then smartphones gave us instant access to each other. Long ago friendships forged through toddler rearing, military exercises and Bunco nights were rekindled and then one day the Sisterhood of the Traveling Tiaras was born.
We’ve been an “item” ever since.
Transformation.
It’s edges are a little ragged, this leaf that was so recently young and startlingly green. For a long time it graced a branch, with many like it, absorbing the sun, sheltering birds, shading those below it.
It’s days are shorter now and it’s nights, longer. As the chlorophyll wanes it’s veins begin to stand out and for a few short weeks, or perhaps just days, it transforms into the brilliant color it was always meant to be.
October makes me happy. It’s the time of year when my soul seems to rest and soar at the same time. As the days gradually get shorter I look forward to winter’s interlude and longer nights in front of a fire, even as I revel in the bright colors and brilliance of autumn. Knowing this season is a swan song does nothing to damper my spirit in October.
When the sun shines and the wind blows on autumn days, I’m delighted because the leaves dance.
Several years ago I wrote in more detail about dancing leaves. Little did I know that one day, after my husband retired from the Air Force, I’d be returning to live in the state that post was written about, where fall arrives quietly.
I didn’t expect to be here as October turns to November but today I’m still in the state of Virginia, where autumn arrives in a blaze of color and sensations. Although I’d like to sell my home and get this move underway, I can’t help but feel that God’s timing is allowing me to experience this shining season once more.
This is where I started, this house on Clifford Road in a suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio. My bedroom was right above the bay window on the driveway and I used to sit out on that roof at night. Very quietly, I might add, so as not to wake my parents, who would not have approved.
All of my childhood memories are centered here. It was the house my father grew up in and where he later raised his family. The house number, 4273, is forever etched in my memory, as well as the phone number, 791-3542.
It’s where I’m from.
I’ve not been local since 1980 and this house, as well as the city of Cincinnati, looks very different from the days of my youth. Yet I find that matters little. When I’m there my heart delights and rests.
When I’m there I am home.
This is going to be short and quick ’cause “hey, hey, it’s my birthday” and I have places to be!
One of my favorite childhood memories is the days when we would have big family picnics at French Park in Cincinnati, Ohio and our parents would turn all the cousins loose in the woods to hike the trails and explore the creek.
It was a simpler time, they weren’t worried about us nor about clowns lurking in the woods. And there was strength in numbers as the family was large and the pack of cousins around me was constant.
Hours were spent digging for fossils in the mud and overturning rocks, looking for the crawdads that hid beneath them. Cincinnati heat can be oppressive in the summer so the cool water running over our feet was glorious.
Every single time I see a creek it evokes a feeling of carefree happiness.
And nothing compares to the melodious sound of water gurgling over rocks.
And look who I have as my buddy when I’m walking the woods alone!
I went home for my 40th high school reunion this past week but it wasn’t that gathering that brought me face to face with my past self.
The building I went to high school in is long gone so there were no “in person” trips down that particular memory lane. However, the university I attended is thriving so one day I spent a few hours wandering around the campus. The memories came fast and furious and nostalgia abounded.
Songs often bring back strong memories but in this room, the printmaking room, it was the smell that instantly made me feel like I was 18 years old again. The minute I walked through the doors I remembered the exact feeling I had when I first entered it for a woodcut class in 1977. The exact same smells are still there. The ghost of my former self lingers there, big time. I’m positive my 18-year-old butt sat on those very same stools.
I’ve been thinking about the word “quest” this week.
Epic quests were the first thing that came to mind. Homer’s ten year quest to return home to Penelope after the Trojan War in The Odyssey in particular.
My own quests seem so small in comparison, they seem more like searches than quests.
Then I came across this story on Facebook and it turned my thoughts to much gentler quests we might embark on in our lives. I didn’t fact check this or look it up on Snoops. A true account or not, it’s something I want to believe really happened.
“A NYC Taxi driver wrote:
I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again. Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked.. ‘Just a minute’, answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90’s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940’s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard
box filled with photos and glassware.
‘Would you carry my bag out to the car?’ she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness. ‘It’s nothing’, I told her.. ‘I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.’
‘Oh, you’re such a good boy, she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, ‘Could you drive
through downtown?’
‘It’s not the shortest way,’ I answered quickly..
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I’m in no hurry. I’m on my way to a hospice.
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. ‘I don’t have any family left,’ she continued in a soft voice..’The doctor says I don’t have very long.’ I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
‘What route would you like me to take?’ I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she’d ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, ‘I’m tired. Let’s go now’.
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.
They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
‘How much do I owe you?’ She asked, reaching into her purse.
‘Nothing,’ I said
‘You have to make a living,’ she answered.
‘There are other passengers,’ I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug.She held onto me tightly.
‘You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life..
I didn’t pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk.What if that woman had gotten an angry driver,or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don’t think that I have done anything more important in my life.
We’re conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.”
In my own life, I think I’ll make it a quest to be the kind of person this taxi driver was to this woman.
Even one such encounter would make the quest worthy. I don’t have to be Homer, I can be the anonymous cab driver, delivering a kind soul to her last home…..the long way.
This sign went up in our yard last week and a few days ago the “coming soon” designation was changed to “for sale.”
It’s not a particularly scary edge to be standing on unless you take into mind the financial aspect of it, or the feeling of “being on edge” because the house has to remain ready for potential buyers to view at all times, but it’s definitely an emotional edge.
This house in Berryland Farms, in Northern Virginia, is the first house we’ve ever owned. I spent an entire year stripping wallpaper and painting every inch of every room, including doors, closets and ceilings. My husband did much of the work in finishing the basement. In the twelve years we’ve owned it, we’ve moved into it three times, for a total of four years.
Two of our sons graduated from high school while living in this house. Our oldest son met his future wife while living under this roof. Our first grandchild came home to this address when he was born and he and his parents spent the first year of his life living with us. We had parties in this house when Jim pinned on his first and second stars, in addition to all the typical family events celebrated during the course of a year.
In the life of a military family, that’s a lot of history.
My husband’s post-retirement job is requiring us to move to Louisiana so right now, this is our edge…this process of selling our first home.
And here comes a shameless plug….know of anyone who wants a beautiful home surrounded by serene woods in a really great school district? If so, please pass this on!
http://www.zillow.com/homedetails/2723-Valestra-Cir-Oakton-VA-22124/51767373_zpid/
Now that I’ve gotten past the emotional and business aspect of that particular edge….I’ll share one more. THIS is one edge you’ll never find me on:
There isn’t enough money in the world to make this particular job appealing.
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