The Magic of Christmas

When I was three, and my sister six, we asked my father how the angel got way up to the top of the tree each Christmas.
 This was back in the days when my parents brought the tree home Christmas eve. The branches were bare when we went to bed, but when we woke Christmas morning it was a delight of decorations, lights, and presents.
 My father, always one for a bit of whimsy, told us she flew up to the top at the stroke of midnight. Even at that tender age, my sister and I were skeptical, but my father insisted. 
“It’s the magic of Christmas!” he said. “Anything can happen.”
 That night, we hung up our stockings, put out the milk and cookies, and were tucked in our beds, where we quickly fell asleep.

 In my dreams I heard my father calling our names. I woke to find that it wasn’t a dream. My father was in our darkened bedroom calling us to get up quickly because it was almost midnight.
 He guided us to the kitchen door of our railroad apartment and pointed us towards the Livingroom.
“Watch” he whispered.
 We stood in the pitch dark in our pajamas and bare feet, straining our eyes, when all at once the Christmas tree lights came on in all their glory.
 And our beautiful angel flew through the air to the top of the tree!
 Pandemonium broke out as my father casually assured us that it happened that way every year.
  I don’t envy my parents trying to settle us back into bed that night. My sister and I were so caught up in the magic we witnessed, and were so full of questions, all of which my father answered patiently, that it was quite some time before calm was restored and we were settled back into bed.
 

  It wasn’t until years later that I truly appreciated the gift my father gave us that Christmas Eve.
 
  Even though he was exhausted from work, decorating the tree, and putting toys together, he took the time to rig up an elaborate pully system through the apartment to make our angel fly.
All for the simple reason of bringing joy to his two little girls.
 
  That angel has presided over every Christmas, either at my parent’s house or mine, for more than 60 years, and every time we set her in her place of honor, I am that little girl again, alive with the memory of that magical night, and love for a father who took the time to introduce his girls to the real magic of Christmas.
Thank you, Pop.

Must Be Billy

It wasn’t long after we bought our house in upstate NY that we met our new neighbor. He came down the driveway in a beat-up truck, screaming something unintelligible at the top of his lungs. Lou and I didn’t know what the hell was going on, so we left off stacking firewood to go see who was being murdered.

The blue truck stopped at our barn, and the man inside flailed his arms and yelled at us as we approached. After taking a moment to get my bearings, I realized the man was simply saying hello and introducing himself. With no change in volume, even though we were only several feet apart, he told us, in a heavy accent, that he was know as The Greek, and he owned the place next door. He apologized for not coming over sooner, and by way of explanation, opened the truck door and waved his prosthetic leg at us. He’d been in the hospital getting his lower leg amputated due to diabetes and had just come back home recently. Although there was a bit of a language barrier, I tried my best to decipher and translate this to Lou, who was completely lost and did quite a bit of smiling and nodding; it’s hard to know what to do when a stranger is waving their prosthesis at you and yelling.

The Greek told us about the elderly couple who used to own our house and what a “son of a bitch” their son was. We’d been having some trouble with the son, so he wasn’t telling us anything we didn’t already know. We talked about the trouble and The Greek told us to give the son a message if we saw him: “Tell him if he comes here, that I, The Greek, have him in my scope.” With emotions ranging from gratitude to anxiety, we thanked him, and hoped we wouldn’t do or say anything to get ourselves in his scope.

We talked and smiled and nodded for another twenty minutes or so, and then The Greek rumbled back up the driveway still yelling and waving his arms. Lou and I looked at each other, not really sure what just happened, and then compared notes as to whether or not we thought The Greek approved of us.

It turns out that he did approve of us, and as intimidating as our conversations could be at times, we always stopped to talk, or wave, or help him out if we could. He was a wealth of knowledge about our new home, and we enjoyed the gossip about past neighbors. The Greek’s volume knob was stuck on 10, but we got used to it after awhile, although the first time he had company, we thought he was being attacked and rushed up there to make sure he was okay. Come to find out his brother’s volume knob is also stuck. It was from this encounter that we found out The Greek’s real name was Billy, but he always referred to himself as The Greek. He called the other people in the neighborhood “The Russian” and “The Polish”, so I guess that’s just his thing. We often laughed and wondered what nationality he called us by, as the last name Alexander is somewhat ambiguous.

Billy’s house has no electricity and is heated with wood. Lou and I would hear his generator fire up and wonder how he survived our freezing winters, especially with his diminished health. We mentioned the electricity once and were treated to a fifteen minute tirade about the electric company. We never mentioned it again.

Lou and I were told we were welcome to walk on his property and we could tell from our walks that The Greek had led a very active life; outbuildings, hunting blinds, vehicles of every description, many unfinished projects, and an old apple orchard are scattered over his 17 acres. The Greek went from a life of hunting on his property to a life of admiring the wildlife from his window. I remember the smile on his face as he described a mother fox and her kits who had taken up residency in his yard, and the wistful look as he told me how he just enjoys watching them now.

I received a phone call from Billy’s brother today letting me know The Greek has passed away. Billy had been in the hospital for the last year with health problems and we’ve been watching his place and collecting the mail for him. We knew the odds were against his coming home again do to the severity of his illnesses, but I thought if anyone could beat the odds, it would be The Greek.

I’ll miss our neighbor and his rumbling truck and flailing arms, and I know our lives will be less colorful for our loss.

And for the record, I wouldn’t mind being in The Greek’s scope now if it meant he’s looking down on us and    nodding with approval. 

• 

  Our first meeting, caught on the trail cam in our driveway

  
  

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Boil That Water Down

  In a fit of delirium, after 12 hours in the sugaring shack, I wrote a poem set to music, or if you prefer the more popular term, a song.

  The tune is borrowed from the old Bluegrass song “Boil That Cabbage Down”, but the lyrics are 100% about my family and me .
The chords are G, D, C, G, D, A, C, G repeated through both chorus and verses, just in case you ever feel like immortalizing us in a poem set to music.

Chorus 
G               D
Boil that water down
C                 G
Cook it till it's brown
G                  D
The only song that I can sing 
   A         C     G
Is boil that water down


Louis was a city boy
Who longed for country life
Got himself a piece o' land 
and brought along his wife

They worked sunup to sundown
To try to make it fine
With deer and Bear and Fox
And an occasional 'qupine

Chorus

Their boy was big and strappin'
And helped them all he could
By puttin' in new windows
And stackin' fire wood

The Chickadog was happy
But sometimes tried to dine
On the deer and bear and fox
And that occasional 'qupine

Chorus

One day they got an idea
To make 'em something sweet
They tapped themselves some maples
To make a tasty treat

They started in with four taps
But how the story goes
They tapped into six more trees
And watched the water flow

Chorus

They boiled it in the pole barn
They boiled it in the yard
Boilin' sap's a good ol' time
The work ain't very hard

Now syrup's on their pancakes
And everything they eat
They looked for miles and miles around
Their syrup can't be beat 

Chorus

So if you get an inklin'
To do just what they done
Get yourself a piece o' land
And have yourself some fun!

Chorus

   

    


Boil Them Cabbage Down - The Dillards

SAP DAYS

Break out the buckets

Go find the taps

Pull on your Wellies

It’s time to tap sap!

Freezing at night-time

And warm in the day

Drill a hole in the tree

And you’re well on your way

To water that’s flowing

Though snow’s in the air

Soon in the shack

You’ll be boiling with care

You’ll sit in the shanty

While big kettles roil

With family and friends

So it wont feel like toil

You’ll laugh and tell jokes

And play some guitar

And talk of the sweetness 

You’ll put in a jar

  I would consider our foray into the world of sugaring at our new house on Three Bear’s Ridge to be a rousing success. We jarred about 4 gallons of delicious syrup, and had a great time doing it. If the weather holds, we may even be able to get a few more days in the shanty.

Dog Day Afternoon

Silent, 'cept for the birds

Quiet, though the wind's in the trees

Hushed, yet the frogs croak their songs

The buzz in the air, are the bees

The ringing, I see but don't hear

As the fish break the surface to feed

A day by the lake in Springtime

Is all the peace I need

Retreat to Move Forward

The Hilltop at Night

I walk through clover up the gentle slope amid twinkling, earthbound stars

The Summer breeze lifts the musky aroma of a well-watered Spring from beneath my feet as I walk

Courting crickets innumerable call to one another above the whispered secrets of the tall, bending grass

Silent explosions of clashing heat and cold silhouette distant treetops, mimicking the lesser flashes of light and life below

 I reach the summit and turn to look back on my ascent
My contented soul overflows, spilling down my cheeks to mingle with the tender drops of fresh rain.

  I penned this while spending five work and play filled days on the inspirational grounds of the Helderberg Writer's Retreat in Voorheesville, NY.
  I was very excited and more than a little nervous when Nanette Blake of  Vagabondage Press first invited me to attend the annual event. Although I've always loved to write, I've only just recently begun to share my work and am still quite sensitive about it. The thought of a group of writers analyzing my writing was intimidating, to say the least.
  I swallowed my self-doubts and began to prepare for my new adventure.
   Upon arrival , I found my excitement was merited, my nerves were not. I couldn't have asked for a  more supportive, fun-loving group of women to indoctrinate me.
   We started the extended weekend with cocktails, laughter and lobsters; A sure-fire way to start any undertaking right. The following days were filled with: writing critiques, "book reports", writing games, walks in the woods, drinks under the stars, and some much appreciated solitary work time.
   Sitting alone on the edge of the woods in my little chair with my dog curled up under my feet and my pen scratching away in my old notebook was one of the most personal, inspirational times I've ever experienced.

 The work time was peaceful and fulfilling and the playtime was bawdy and laughter filled, but of all the work and fun, the thing which struck me the most was how nice it was to have my brain all to myself.
Those moments are rare in all our lives.

Harmony

   While preparing for a show, I always escape to the woods near my house with my trusty recorder and headphones and walk along the lake reciting lines and/or laboring over lyrics and harmony to a song.
Today's walk so beautifully paired my work with my surroundings I felt a need to capture and share it.

"We're All Here" (piano track) - From the play "The Events" - Composer:John Brown

The Lamb in Winter

Winter's cold touches not my heart

When, ahead of their time, the little lambs start

Tottering on legs, quite unstable

As each hour passes, becoming more able

 Standing with boots in two foot of snow

I chuckle and coo at the small lives below

I wish I could stand all day and stare

At the humbling antics of the little lambs there

                                          

Summer's End

Catch a firefly while you may

For the light diminishes every day

Jump in the water with a laugh or a cheer

Or float along quietly with someone who's dear

Count every star in the bright, moonlit sky

While listening to crickets trill their quaint lullaby

Kick off your shoes and walk on the beach

The castle you build will be well within reach

Bask in the glory and warmth of the sun

Or dance in the rain, just for the fun

Catch a firefly while you may

For the light diminishes every day

Fledglings

  My yard is alive with fledglings this morning. Baby Cardinals, Catbirds, Pine Siskins, and Tufted Titmouse are all having their say in the trees and around my bird feeders. Parents are busy flying back and forth in encouragement, and to drop off the occasional supplemental snack.
  I look forward to this noisy, happy day throughout the season and will spend the day sneaking outside with my binoculars and a smile to keep track of the newly-mobile families.
  There will also be a bit of melancholy in my watching, knowing that tomorrow or the next day my yard will quiet down again as the young leave the safety of their parent's watchful eyes and go off to fend for themselves.
 Last year, a brood of Chickadees, which had made a home in the birdhouse by our front door, fledged on the day my son was graduating high school. I sat on my front steps amid the congratulatory banners and watched as the three fledglings poked their heads out one by one and tested their new wings.
  One flew instantly to a nearby tree. Another fell on it's first try, it's mother frantically flying from ground to tree to show it the way. After many attempts and much encouragement,  the little one made it to the low branches of our azalea bush, where it hid for quite some time before flying high up into the high branches of the pine tree.
  My third little friend took one look outside and promptly went back in. No amount of parental encouragement would entice it to join it's siblings. The parents harangued it for a long time then left to see to the needs of their other young. When all was quiet, the little one popped it's head out to take another look. Having fully inspected its immediate surroundings, it hopped tentatively from one branch to the next of the flowering Clematis that shielded the nest. It then hopped to the ground to make sure all was safe. We exchanged a few words as it cautiously made it's way towards my new seat in the grass. Then, in a moment of uncharacteristic daring, the tiny being hopped onto my extended hand. We chatted awhile longer, then, with one great effort, it flew away from me.
  I sat in the grass for quite some time straining to see or hear my little friend before my husband gently called me in to get ready for the graduation ceremony.

Ode to a Chipmunk

ODE TO A CHIPMUNK

Chipmunk SCREAMING near my window at dawn,

I really wish that you were GONE.

You wake me up from my sweet, sweet sleep

With your incessant CHEEP! CHEEP!CHEEP!

There are HOURS to go 'fore I need rise,

I don't need your daily, alarming reprise.

You've stated your case quite LOUD and CLEAR;

Now go over next door, so the NEIGHBORS can hear.

Chippy The Alarm Clock

"The Beginning Of Wisdom is to Call Things By Their Right Names."

  Much like the Native Americans, I feel the giving of names is an ongoing process.

  Take my dog Jake, for example. After living with him for three years he's now known as The Chicka Dog. His  name slowly morphed due to his propensity for chasing any bird, bug, or small, furry mammal when I say the words chick-chick. I didn't teach him this handy skill, it's all him. And although he's still called Jake on formal occasions, in his heart, he is The Chicka Dog.

 In the same vein, my chickens have had the working titles of Rosie and Babbette for the last two years. I picked the names when I was driving home from the farm with my adorable little pullets perched in a cage next to me.

 Well, a lot has happened in those two years, and after much reflection on the spirit of the beneficiaries, their true spirits have spoken to me and whispered their new names in a dream -

 "Nutsie The Chicken"  &  "Little Bitie".

  There will be no ceremony.

Native American Naming Ceremony

Wake Up And Smell The Flowers

     Between the Dogwood, Magnolia, and Cherry trees blooming; the Rhododendron, Forsythia and Azalea bushes a blaze of color in every yard; not to mention the Tulips, Daffodils, Phlox, Bleeding Hearts, Hyacinths, Crocus and Dandelions adding their colors to the pallet after their long winter's nap, I find myself going about town with an interminable, delighted smile on my face.

  I also find myself, more often than not, stopped in my tracks, staring.
  Like the other day, when a trip out of town and then confinement to a sick-bed had me and my little dog Jake, who had stayed by my side to help nurse me back to health, itching get out of the house and stretch our legs on a sunset walk by the lake.

  We walked through the woods, enjoying the warm spring sun shining through newly budded branches on our favorite summertime-shade path. The ducks on the lake were in full voice and the Cardinals and Robins flew above our heads calling out to loved ones. We turned up the hill to follow the wooded path that opens to a  meadow then continues on to a grove of pine trees (the grove where I search in vain for the Barred Owl that usually scolds us as we walk).
  As soon as I entered the meadow I stopped.
 And stared.
  I was in no way prepared for the changes my week away had brought.
 The immense Apple tree, which dominates the clearing, and her little sister were in full magnificence, every inch covered in soft, pinkish-white blossoms. In her branches I spied two pair of Baltimore Orioles having a grand ol' time jumping from limb to limb. Above their heads, swallows darted and dipped, working hard to catch their dinner.  Numerous Goldfinches and Warblers captivated me with their intertwining songs while hustling from Apple to newly-blossomed Dogwood tree then setting off to visit my elusive friend in the pines. Meanwhile, the Robins hopped through the newly sprouted grass and the Cardinals whistled a happy tune from the thicket. The Red-Winged Blackbirds were certainly not going to be outdone and sent their songs floating up the hill from the lake on the breeze. Our constant friend the Sparrow rounded out the chorus.
 Occasionally a fellow walker would pass by and our dogs would play for a minute and we'd comment on the beauty of the day, then owner and dog would go on their way.
Not me. I stayed.
And stared.



 Bird songs, flowers in bloom, and a bit of sun warming my skin and my soul; all the ingredients needed to wake me up from long winter's nap.

Apple Trees & Bird Songs

Jake doing what he does best

A Walk In The Woods

A Walk In The Woods

In a clearing in the woods

 I saw some colors bright.

Petals blowing in the wind, 

Catching day's last light.

Cut flowers in a field of brown, I know not how nor why.

Perhaps a small remembrance offered God's all seeing sky.

In a clearing in the woods

I saw some colors bright.

Petals blowing in the wind,

Catching day's last light.

Sing a Song of Spring

 Cardinal singing in the tree
I like to hear your song's new key

All winter through you sat and chirped
And told me of your warmth usurped

Through wind and ice and flakes of snow
You warbled "Where'd my sunshine go?"

But now the bright beams warm your verse
No longer do you winter curse

Your notes have changed from ire to glee
And I you answer joyfully

sing a song of spring

United We Stand

  Other kid's parents.

  They are the bane of my existence and have been ever since I became a mother 19 years ago. They are the ones who said nothing to their child about pushing mine out of the way while he was waiting for his turn on the slide at the playground. They are the ones who let my 8 year old son play Grand Theft Auto. They are the ones who let their high schoolers stay out till four in the morning.
 And now they are the ones who don't care if my 19 year old sits at their house and drinks half the night then drives home.
 Now, I understand that it's my son doing the drinking. We have very strict rules about underage drinking in this house and he knows it. He is at fault for breaking our rules and has been punished accordingly. But perhaps if half of his friend's parents didn't facilitate the drinking by allowing it when they hang out at their house, and even occasionally BUYING it for them, my arguments to my son against it might seem more valid to him. As any parent who's heard the phrase "Well, so-and-so's parents don't care" uttered to them can attest, it can be the most frustrating thing when another parent undermines a value you are trying to instill or disregards a rule made for your childs well being.
 In this case, these parents are actually breaking the law.

  We must be a united front in raising our children. Not all of our values will always be the same, but there are core rights and wrongs on which we must stand together. There are rules of law and rules of society on which we all must be firm and help each other guide our children down the right path.

  I will help your child in any way I can. Please help me to help mine.

  

  

  

  

  

  

Happy Thanksgiving

The turkey is cooked

The stuffing is made

The smell of fresh pies

For days, will not fade

The silver is polished

The table is set

As I look around

I'm not finished yet

I have to give thanks

To my Lord up above

For all of my blessings:

Friends, Family and love

As we all gather round 

On this festive day

No matter how many

No matter which way

Let's us all give thanks

As well as we're able

For all we enjoy

as we dine at life's table

A Rose By Any Other Name

  Today I attended a lovely alumni reception at St. Patrick's Church, which is celebrating its centennial. Although the reception was light on actual former St. Patrick's School students, the hall was filled with the bustling, devoted women who have lovingly kept the parish running for more than half of the celebrated centennial.  As I bent over the dessert table to get a homemade piece of chocolate cake to go with my coffee, one of these devotees called out, "Karen!". I instantly raised my head and responded, "No. My name is Kathy". She gave me a perplexed look and then started talking to the woman behind me, whose name actually is Karen.
 I laughed to myself as I walked back to my table, the calling of that name bringing back a flood of memories; Memories of 8 years spent  following my well behaved, studious older sister, Karen, though school.
  Not once, during any of those 8 years, by any teacher, was I ever called by my rightful name, Kathy. In every class, the teacher's eyes would come to rest on me and, with the certainty of the sunrise, that teacher would: 1) call me Karen; 2) be offended when I corrected her; 3) 15 minutes later, call me Karen again.
  One elderly teacher not only couldn't get my name right, she couldn't even get my sisters name right, so I went through 4th grade as Karen Louise. Now, it's bad enough being called the wrong name, but tacking a Louise onto it just added insult to injury.
 To compound this confusion, all through school there was a girl in my class whose actual name was Karen. Karen's older sister was in my older sister Karen's class. Guess what Karen's older sister's name was? You got it- Kathy.
 Let the hilarity ensue.
 Poor Little Sister Karen and I never knew which one of us was being spoken to. The teacher would ask, "Karen, would you please spell PREPOSTEROUS" and when Karen opened her mouth to respond,  she would  invariably be beaten back with whatever weapon the teacher held at the time and told "I was speaking to Karen!"
  If Kathy was asked to come to the board to diagram a sentence, I was meet with equal fury upon rising.
 Throughout the years LSK and I endured endless blows raining down on our heads from countless yardsticks and pointers for the imagined disrespect of not answering to the wrong name.
 I can still hear my comrade's plaintive voice pleading, "But my name is Karen, Sister." in her never ending attempt to rectify the injustice.

 I gave up around 7th grade when I realized it was probably better if they didn't know my actual name.

Karen Louise- identity crisis over and no worse for the wear 

Thoughts on an Autumn Evening

as I settle
by the fire
on a cold
Autumn night,
the leaves
through my window
catch the sun's
final
light

all day it's been raining-
orange
red
gold
and green

colors
cover
the Earth
like the crown
of a queen

some still cling to branches
reluctant
to go

their vibrance
a memory
of Summer's
warm glow

I tend to the fire
then take
one
     last
          look

turn up the lights
and open
a book

A Light in the Darkness

  The city of Bridgeport often gets a bad rap for a variety of things: corrupt politics, unplowed streets, being crime ridden and dangerous, just to name a few.
While much of this disfavor is well earned,  I'd like to offer up a little bit of the good side. Specifically, Ruben Gonzalez, supervisor of The Bridgeport Department of Public Works, who went above and beyond the call of duty to help a little old lady find her purse; That little old lady was my mother and that purse was one which accidentally got taken out with the recycling bin.  
 Labor Day Monday, after fielding a tearful call from my mom, Ruben went to her house, took all her information and a description of the purse and the circumstances, then started making phone calls to see which truck picked up her bin. All the trucks had already unloaded for the day, so he learned the purse was somewhere buried within the city's tons of recycling. The fact the purse was inside a brown paper bag when it was put out with the bin only added to the hopelessness of the situation.
 Undaunted, Ruben reassured my sobbing mother they would find it and asked her to give him 24 hours.

 Mom didn't sleep a wink that night; she cried, she worried, she berated herself for putting her purse in a brown paper bag.

 Well, her sleepless night was in vain. Ruben called first thing in the morning and told her the good news; He and 4 workers sifted through countless pounds of debris and recovered her purse with her wallet and belongings still intact. He even made a special trip to her house to drop it off to her personally. She was ecstatic, to say the least.

 Thank you, Mr Gonzalez. That's what I call Public Works.