Author: Mary Ann Noe

I love shoes.  I used to love them more, but my feet offered their own opinion a few short years ago, and I was forced to listen.  Let me explain.

When I was young and…well, stupid…I wore high heels and pointy toes, because that was the fashion.  Oh, yes, they looked great.  Made my calves look defined and muscular.  Made me taller too.  I was 5’3” then, and I could add four inches to my height and still be the shortest one in the room.  But I felt taller, didn’t I?  Sure did!  The tradeoff was that my toes were squished down into those pointy-toes shoes.  But that meant that the pounds per square inch on those stilettos was equivalent to a 6,000 pound elephant! That was the first loud commentary to be heard from my feet.  “You’re killing me down here!  You know, of course, the Chinese outlawed foot binding in 1912.  1912!  You hear me up there?” Now, if you’ve ever Googled foot binding in Images, you know my feet were not that broken.  I mean, literally, broken.  It was a cruel custom.  But it had a long history.  Funny thing, the men never got to see the naked feet, only the lovingly embroidered silk slipper (too small to be called shoes, actually) that were supposed to make the woman’s foot look like a lotus blossom, to attract men.  Yikes!  Not even close.

But I diverge.  My toes weren’t punished that much.  But they did get a bit deformed, pushed out of being straight.  No toe agony though.  No elephant.  Whew!

Once I started jogging in college, I needed more support.  My feel congratulated me on my good decision on that one.  So, many years later, I still take a lot of time finding just the right shoes for walking.  (I no longer jog.)  It’s Skechers for my money.  Great arch support for my high-as-the-sky arches, comfy support, and good-looking styles besides.  I am far from being an athlete, but poor support when walking even a couple of miles every morning is a no-brainer.  If you’re gonna do anything faster than sitting in a recliner, you need good support for your feet.

Which brings up sandals.  Some folks swear by them.  As for me…well, as long as I’m away from sand or debris, and have good arch support, they’re great for the summer.  Some folks can hike in sandals.  Miles and miles.  Concrete or beach, it doesn’t matter to them.  Not me!  The minute I get a grain of sand under my foot, I’m a goner.  So irritating!  People get mad at me because I simply have to sit down and get that irritant out.  Slows everyone down.  And they’re not happy with me.  I’m very careful when I wear sandals.  And no high-heeled sandals for sure!

Boots are a whole ‘nother case.  I finally bought myself a pair of those big clunkers for winter walking.  Boy, are they ugly!  They make me look like a lumberjack.  But you know what?  I don’t care.  They encase my lower calves, lace up with those bright orange laces, and have a collar of fur around the top.  Can I walk in them?  Picture the Creature from Frankenstein.  I usually don’t do my morning constitutional in them, but I do break them out when I need to fire up the Big Growler (read: snowblower).  With the wind plastering me with snow, those boots are a Godsend.  I may look like I’m ready to fell some trees, and I know I won’t win any fashion points, but my machine and I are in harmony.  After all, no one would wear ballet slippers to snowblow now, would they?

Barefoot used to be de rigeur for summer wear when I was a kid.  No concern about what was lurking in the bare soil, just waiting to drill into the bottom of my foot.  Apparently, there was nothing, because I never had problems.  If I were traveling in the backcountry of some areas, foreign or domestic, I’d wear shoes, but not outside around my home.  Once I was married, and had my own garden, I often worked barefoot out there.  That was when my husband picked up the grass when he mowed.  I could mulch my garden paths a half-foot deep with grass clippings.  Oh, what a wonderful cushion!  The aroma of cut and drying grass was perfume.  Of course, once it started to ferment…  Well, that was another story.  I don’t go barefoot much anymore.  Too sensitive now.  I stick to summer bare feet in the house.

As we walked to my mother’s wake, my daughter and I passed a shoe store.  We stopped, exchanged a meaningful glance, and, without a single word, pivoted and pulled open the door.  It was as if my mom, who also loved shoes, leaned down from heaven and said, “Psst!  You need to go in there and buy some new shoes for my funeral.  You know how good they’ll make your feet feel.  And if your feet feel cherished with new shoes, you’ll feel cherished too.”  How could we ignore those direct instructions?  She was right.  We did feel better.

Support your feet!  After all, they’ve supported you for years!

When the afternoon weather changes, and the sky darkens when it normally wouldn’t, I check to see what time it is.  These crepuscular moments are so fascinating.  But wait!  What the heck is crepuscular??

I love that word, but it’s so obscure that I don’t use it much.  You know that time when it’s no longer day, but not quite evening?  Most folks call it twilight.  Which, by the way, refers to both the time just before dawn, as well as just before dark.  Anyway…  Those times of day, and that kind of light, is what’s called crepuscular.  Leave it to the ancient Romans to coin a term for that short-lived break between night and day, on both ends.

Back to those wonderful times.  The light feels like it’s suspended, just hanging there waiting for the air to resolve itself one way or the other.  That happens also on those summer afternoons when a storm may be brewing.  The world holds its breath, waiting for the clouds to firm up into thunderheads and shoot out fragments of lightning.  It hasn’t happened yet…but any minute now…

I think that’s what gave Monet that luminous shade of lavender in his famous water lily paintings, or the ones of the river Seine.  In the real world, those moments usually don’t last long.  Either the clouds break up, or the sky starts rumbling, and the moment fades.  But for the time it is there, I love to go outside and feel the atmosphere.  (Unless there’s a tornado watch!)  It doesn’t last, which is what makes it so…crepuscular.

Those liminal times, the times between one thing and another, are not found just in times of day.  Border times are everywhere.  One of my favorites is not from the natural world at all.  It’s at the airport, of all places.  Everyone there is in a liminal moment.  We all wait for the adventure, the travel, to begin.  We’ve sloughed off the everyday world and are caught in that liminal moment when we are neither “here,” in our normal world, nor yet at the new “there.”  Caught between.

Times like that can become chunks of reality, of course, as we perhaps chat with a stranger, or take time to pick up some food.  Personally, I love to people-watch, which feeds into my habit of creating characters for future stories.  Sometimes it’s an unusual hairstyle or piece of clothing.  More often, it’s faces:  shapes, colors, cheeks, lips, eyebrows, facial expressions and gestures.  Such fun!  For me, that liminal moment, between being on the ground to boarding and flying away, is a rich border to mine for diamonds.

Waiting for something to happen can be either frustrating, or a chance to recognize a liminal moment.  Take a breath, hold it, and realize you’ve removed yourself for a moment from the hubbub around you.  A small personal liminal moment to rejuvenate and renew.  Exhale and step out to begin again.

Thomas Wolfe once said, in his novel of the same name, “You can’t go home again.”  But that’s not true.  You can always go home.  To paraphrase a Robert Frost poem, “Home is where they take you in.”

That was grandly illustrated a few weeks ago on our trip back to my dad’s home town in Germany.  It’s a tiny village, less that 1000 folks, and, for me, doesn’t hold but the son of one cousin, the last of the line.  He owns the house built by two sisters five or six generations back, but he works in a town an hour away.  So, he only gets back to the family homestead on weekends.  But he met us in the next town over, where all nine of us were staying, embracing me, my husband, and our daughter, all of whom met him on earlier trips.  That left six other folks, including the grandkids, so far removed in the genealogical line so as to know only my generation, and no farther back, or forward either.  It was fulfilling to see that the man who greeted us was delighted to see the connection across The Pond maintained.  Hugs all around.

You see, home is all about the people.  And the people in Germany are family, and that’s home.  I was lucky enough that I was able to strengthen the very tenuous thread that exists between relatives that are both old and physically remote.  My cousin Gerhard and I used to wander the hills above the town when I was nine and he was–What? Eleven?.  Now, I’m 78 and he is 80.  And we haven’t seen each other for 69 years.  That doesn’t seem possible.  And yet, I can look back at those photos from 1956 and be transported to that ruined tower on the top of the hill that looks like a beer stein.  Or see the string of relatives frozen in time, hiking along a forest edge, heading for some kind of treat–was it strawberries and cream?–at the restaurant in the hills.  On this trip, our daughter took a picture of Gerhard and me strolling in front of her, sharing an umbrella, in perfect step with each other, looking just like that famous Hummel of two children under a huge Regenschirm.  For us, we were still the two children who roamed the hills all those years ago.  A truly magical moment.

This was all made possible by a bevy of people:  our two children and our two bonus children (read: in-laws) deciding it was time to visit the past before it was too late.  (read: before we got too old to walk, or, heaven forbid, dead!)  A scant handful of Christmas letters was enough to establish contact with Gerhard’s son, Oliver, who plunged wholeheartedly into helping with arrangements to get us all together again.  What a delight!  With a generous heart (and I’m sure a good deal of curiosity), Oliver brought his father to us so we could have a full day together.  Gerhard and I could reminisce, gathering in the rest of the family to our embrace.  Time seemed to stand still.

So, see?  You can go home again.

What you can’t do is “go house” again.  Even on our trip to Germany, the old family house was no longer the same.  My cousin’s son works very hard to clean up the extensive area he has no time to garden.  I look back over the many, many years I have connected with that building, and know, it will never be the same as it was before.  In 1956, the house had a small attached barn with two cows, a pig, and a flock of chickens in the loft above, and a vibrant extended family living there.  In 1971, the animals were gone, that annex converted to a garage, and the hayloft turned into a bedroom.  Changes continued through the years as each generation passed away, making room for the younger.  It is a house.  Simply a house.

Several years ago, when I returned to my hometown, I drove around, revisiting old haunts.  The last house I lived in there was still in lovely shape, having been sold to another Mary Ann.  But the parents that made it home were no longer alive, so it was simply a house.  I was quite satisfied with that.  Then I drove a few blocks to see my maternal grandparents’ house.  The house was the only connection I had with them, as they were both deceased long before I was born.  To my acute dismay, nothing remained of the house.  It had burned to the ground since my last trip.  Even the nursing home housing my mother in her last year or two had been razed, leaving a stretch of only well-tended grass.  Nothing left.  Though a shock, what really brought me consolation was the realization that a building is not a home.  It’s only a house.  Very different from a home.

Home is all about the people.  The distant cousins.  The grandchildren.  The parents, even if they’re no longer physically there.  The cherished neighbors and friends from our pasts.  Home is in the heart, not on a static street with a house.  Home travels with us.  There, we can always go.

A house changes, perhaps deteriorated, perhaps renovated, perhaps even disappearing entirely.  A home, however, is always with us, perhaps flickering, perhaps glowing, but always a place where you are taken in, even if just in your mind and memories..

Imagine a city of around 2 million people with no one on the silent streets.  No cars or buses, no flowers, no stores open (although there are enticing displays in the windows), no sidewalk cafes…  Well, all right, one cafe with three tables way-y-y-y down the street, populated with a handful of silent coffee drinkers.

Now, fast-forward to a city of close to 4 million people.  The streets are still uniquely quiet, with a background of murmured conversations and soft shared laughter.  However, there are people everywhere: lounging on the benches or on the grass in the parks, clustered at the cafes stretched along all the major streets and many of the minor ones, groups following like ducklings behind a well-versed guide.  In spite of the leisurely pace of most, the vibrancy of a living breathing city is palpable.  

Welcome to Berlin, Germany.

Those first images are from 1971.  The Berlin Wall, erected in 1961, was still “protecting” the Easterners from the vicissitudes of the West.  It totally surrounded the city of west Berlin.  All 96 miles of it.  That’s the distance from the Wisconsin state line south to Joliet, Illinois.  The view was pretty bleak.  We were traveling from East Germany into Berlin, and crossed into the West at Checkpoint Charlie.  Almost two hours on the Russian side, while they took our passports and luggage to examine in another room, culminated in the warning to stay on the sidewalk, as the areas on each side were mined and studded with barbwire, to say nothing of the watchtower, the dogs, and the Kalashnikovs.

But enough of that.

Now, Berlin is none of those things, Gott sei Dank’!, as the Germans say.  Now, when we pulled into the main train station, we were surrounded with the hustle and bustle of a city on the go.  We piled into taxis and were shepherded efficiently (Germans do everything efficiently!) to an apartment that would hold all of us in comfort.  A kitchen!  Four bedrooms!  Two bathrooms!  And a vast living space glassed in along one wall, with a substantial balcony for relaxing. And for doing Tai-Chi for me in the morning.

Many of Berlin’s sectors are designed with courtyards.  So, from the street, what looks like a gap between buildings to allow cars in, opens out into a deep courtyard, sometimes centered with grass, sometimes with cobblestones.  People living cheek-by-jowl don’t feel crowded or pressed too closely.  The outdoors, with sky, birds, bats at night, is right there off their balconies.  Lovely.  We were in the area known as Mitte (middle), which, as the name says, put us smack dab in the middle of the city.

I got chills when I walked through the Brandenburger Tor, which was in the Death Zone before the wall came down.  Nobody could get close.  Now, it’s a pedestrian area packed with a young man blowing gigantic bubbles here, and umbrella-wielding tour guides shepherding people hither and yon over there, bracketed by the US embassy on one side and the French embassy on the other.  Water bottles and sweaty tourists prevailed in the sprawling square in between.  A veritable United Nations of languages too.

We took a river tour on the Spree, and our guide was, I swear, at least 50% Muppet.  He walked and bobbed around, sprinkling jokes in between his explanations of what we were seeing.  The Cathedral was open, and someone was practicing the organ.  You’ve never experienced a church, especially some of those old European grand dames with domes spread like 19^th century skirts sheltering the incredible interiors, unless you’re there when someone is hidden way up there, doodling away on the keys.  Wow!  To walk in on Bach booming out into the nave is a visceral experience!

A two-hour tour on foot focused on the Third Reich, and the Cold War.  Walking history!  Monuments, memorials, the site of Hitler’s underground bunker (now a nondescript parking lot; a fitting end), parts of the 1961 wall, and, finally, Checkpoint Charlie.  If the replica of the kiosk from the border crossing were not there, the area would be perfectly ordinary.  For me, seeing that little hut positioned in the middle of the street had me superimposing the street as seen in 1971 over the street as it exists today.  Huge buildings with lots of glass and modern designs now take the place of the no man’s land that was the crossing earlier.  Totally unrecognizable.  And beautiful.  A tribute to the possibility of humanity to erase the ugly and resurrect the good.  The loud Palestinian organized protest, with the expected counter-group of Jewish supporters, with a heavy, but quiet, police presence, was a reminder that openness and tolerance were back in place.  As well they should be.

Speaking of openness, the new federal government building, the Bundestag, more commonly known as the Reichstag, has a beautiful glass dome.  We were able to climb up inside, which gave us breathtaking views of Berlin.  But the best part was the cone of glass mirrors that focus sunlight down, down, down into the room where parliament meets.  Visitors can see the politicians at work way down there.  See, but not get close to without a special permit.  Anyway, it’s designed specifically to highlight the transparency in the government, in contrast to the Hitler era.  Certainly a stunning symbol.

The best part?  We were with family.  Six adults and all three grandchildren.  So much to see!  So much to share!  Half the fun for my husband and me was watching everyone else absorb the city, the history, the shopping, the food, the sheer excitement of everyone around us, locals and visitors alike.  The Berliners were hospitable, tolerating my German and speaking English to those in our party who knew little German.

The cafes, especially the smaller ones off the beaten path, were never in a hurry to move us along.  We sat, we ate, we drank, we laughed, and then we settled back and started the cycle all over again.  All this along quiet, tree-lined streets with lots of bicycles, walkers, cars going to and fro.  For such a large city, Berlin is surprisingly quiet, even the tourist filled squares and buildings.  No driver lays on the horn, no cars spew roars like caged lions (except for one Maserati…), no one yells at someone in the way.  A busy place surely, but with a place with manners.

After sharing an apartment with the entire family, I hated to leave.  We moved smoothly around each other, with no complaints about bathroom use or food disappearing from the refrigerator.  Every morning, we seemed to come together in good time, after slow-motion dances of everyone making their own breakfasts, and shuttling in and out of bedrooms, bathrooms, and balcony.

Ten days together without a single important disagreement.  What more could I ask?

Consider getting out of your armchair and heading for Berlin.  It’s one of my favorite cities in the whole wide world.  It could be yours too!

The other day, when I reminded my daughter to tuck in the other front tail of her shirt, she informed me that, “Mom, that’s the fashion nowadays.”  Really?  Am I out of touch!  But that’s nothing new, I guess, considering fashions change as quickly as the weather.  When I was a girl…Oh, let’s not go there.  But it is rather fun to think about such things…and laugh, most of the time.

One of my complaints was always “Ship and Shore, you make me poor!”  Who remembers that brand of shirts?  They came in all sorts of shapes and styles, and were well within my price range…except I loved so many of them that I could easily spend a fortune anyway.  One shirt I found matched my current boyfriend’s orange, white and yellow striped shirt, so, naturally, I had to buy it.  But we never left the shirttails untucked.  And certainly not just one.  Times change…

No more housedresses either.  And that one I’m not sorry to see go.  I picture all of those yard decorations that show a “hefty” woman’s backside as she bends over to garden.  Always in a housedress too.  Yikes!  That and the ubiquitous apron.  No, not one of those frilly things, but a full-on, covers it all, apron.  Actually, I have one of those, and it’s much better than splattering cake batter all over my front.  Plus, I can just run my hands down the front instead of rinsing off the little glop of goop, and then having to hang up the towel again.  Maybe that fashion statement wasn’t so dumb after all.  I picture my husband’s grandmother coming in from the garden.  She discards her gloves, runs her hands down the apron and whips it off.  “Come on, let’s go…”

Along with that last picture, comes the sight of white ankle socks and white wedge sandals.  Not the best look, I’ll tell you!  But pinch your lips shut and keep quiet!  It’s just as bad, I think, when men wear black dress socks with white tennies.  Fashionista?…or Flub?  Although, socks with sandals have gone in an out of style since forever.  One type of “socks” I’ve been happy to see bite the dirt are the stockings that attach to garters.  Personally, even pantyhose can rot in my dresser.  But those girdles and garters!  Yikes!  I love writing about women back in the 1920s, sliding up their flapper dresses to reveal that little bit of skin above the band of silk stocking, and the precious little garter holding it all up.  Sounds so…No, it doesn’t.  Not to anyone who had to struggle with tugging up a girdle while being flogged by those flailing garters hanging down.  Burn our girdles, ladies, not your bras!

The other end of the anatomy was, and is, so much better:  the head.  I love hats.  I mourn the passing of the everyday hat.  Used to be that everyone wore a hat to church, to travel, to go to the theater.  Not so much anymore, unless we’re talking about winter in Wisconsin.  Then, anything goes.  Low-pile fleece that gracefully curves down over the ears, with long ties with tassels or pompoms on the end: toasty!  Cloches that look like upside down salad bowls: great for wind control.  Scarves wrapped like turbans for those foolish enough to go out without a hat and must improvise: if you do it right, it can be downright fashionable.  Fedora types look great…but they don’t do much when it’s sleeting, or when the winds come whistling down the plains.  The best are those big furry things with earflaps; you know the ones that deer hunters and snowmobilers don’t go without.  Bring ‘em on when the temps drop.  At that point, fashion goes out the window.  It’s survival of the fittest, and those of us living in the Snow Zone are some of the fittest…or some of the most foolish-looking.  Take your pick.

Some fashions never change, and some come around again.  I guess that means, never clean out your closet!

We’re well into the new month, and I just washed my winter jacket.  I live in Wisconsin, so I do not take chances with Mother Nature’s “bounty,” especially when it may entail freak snowstorms.  Granted, the latest one of those was on May 10^th  years ago, but it was a doozy!  First snow, then ice, which coated the trees.  Gorgeous, of course, but very, very dangerous.  Especially considering the ice covering was thick enough to bring down an elephant.  (No, no elephants in Wisconsin.  They’re smart enough to stay away from this weather…)

When I stepped out from the YWCA after my early morning swim before work, shotguns and rifles were going off all over the place.  Then, I realized it was tree branches succumbing to the weight and pull of the ice.  Time to stay home…except I wasn’t home.  I had to get there somehow.   Yes, school was called off, and I heard that on the radio, so, even though I was mere blocks from my classroom, I had to turn around and hightail it for home.  Speed was not a consideration, considering the icy roads.  Every block I drove had trees or debris down.  Often, I had to sidestep and choose an entirely different street.  I did make it, however, without damage to me or the car.

So much for washing my winter jacket early.  Never did that again.

That, coupled with the necessity of pulling out the spring stuff, means the closet by the back door is stuffed with a variety of apparel, tuned to a variety of weather.

When it hits the 60s, I still want some protection, so my spring jacket, maroon with a lightweight lining, is prepped and ready.  It will suffice in a mist, though it’s not exactly waterproof.  I learned that the hard way.  Cloudy in the morning, with a threat of meatballs…no, wait, that’s a children’s book.  Anyway, the threat is there, but far, far above me.  The spring jacket will work just fine.  Then, just about the time I’m a block or two from my parked car, the sky opens up.  The jacket starts with pockmarks of rain, just a warning.  Then the drips become a torrent.  Now the jacket is a deep purple, no longer maroon.  Sigh.  The only thing worse is being out without any jacket whatsoever and getting caught in a downpour.  Happened just the other day…at my first stop of running many errands.  No, I did not give in.  I persevered and did the other three stops, getting nicely wet along the way.  And then, just about the time I turned into the driveway at home…  You guessed it.  It stopped raining.  Of course.

I do have a raincoat, two of them actually.  One is raspberry-colored and lined in a sort of very light weight rubber. Waterproof?  Absolutely!  Nice hood, long sleeves to tuck up my hands, deep pockets.  I can venture out in anything.  So, I do.  When I’m far from home, with no chance of changing jackets…  Yup.  It stops raining.  I could actually, and sometimes do, wear the really light FrogTog jacket that makes me look like a spotted frog.  It is waterproof also, but looking like a frog does not especially fit into some occasions, especially if I have to keep a jacket on indoors.  That one I mainly save for travel, because is scrunches up into a nice small packet that fits in a pocket.  I don’t care if I look like a frog in Paris or Prague.  Nobody knows me there anyway.  Although, that is about the time I run into a former student, or someone else we know.  Well, I guess that’s the way it goes when you hit a certain age.  Nobody else cares either!

Do I have more jackets stuffed in that closet by the back door.  Bien sur! as the French say.  “You bet!” loosely translated.  A friend worked for Lands’ End and gifted me with a number of coats when she moved from Wisconsin to Texas.  Where they might have spring, but temperatures don’t generally zip up and down like a crazed squirrel.  So, I do have a lightweight hot pink fleece with a hood, and thumbholes in the sleeves in case my hands get cold.  Also, a navy quilted vest which is perfect for those days when a long-sleeved top is fine for arms, but the torso needs a little more.

A multicolored windbreaker stays in the closet from the last snowstorm in the spring to the first snowstorm in the fall.  Yes, snow falls in the autumn around her, although not every year.  Mother Nature is a capricious lady, teasing with a few flakes here and there in, say, September, before the wholesale dumping to follow around Thanksgiving.  Of course, with climate change over the years, things don’t always happen in that order any more.

One of my favorite jackets is a screaming lime-green job, suitable for walking in decently cold weather.  Considering I walk two and a half miles every morning, this one is a no-brainer.  I already wave at every car that comes and goes, just so they know I’m out there and won’t hit me.  With the jacket, there’s no way they can come close to running me down.  I’m visible for half a mile!  And it’s toasty warm besides.  So, thanks to my friend, who’s now living in Texas, I’m safe and happy as a clam.  Besides, every time I put one of her jackets on, it feels like she’s got her arms around me.  Yes, I miss her.

In another month…or so…I’ll launder and retire the cold weather gear, and save it for months down the line.

Of course, that will be when we’ll get a midsummer cold snap.  Sigh.

That title doesn’t just refer to what we are thinking about animals, but what are those animals thinking about us?  This window sticker resides on our patio door, just at the bottom, where it can catch folks by surprise.  When our daughter came around the corner into the kitchen, it stopped her cold.  She thought they were real wildlife actually clamoring to get in.  Good for a laugh, for sure!

That was the beginning of my asking, “What are they thinking?”  Because animals out there in the great outdoors, or even those curled up on our couches, must be considering how those crazy two-legged critters function.

Take the deer.  When I’m out there, crashing my way through the buckthorn and bushes in our woods, I’m sure there are two of them just shaking their heads.  Doe #1: “Look at that crazy lady!  Doesn’t she know to put her feet down gently so she doesn’t squash those yummy grasses and the tasty maple saplings?  Look at the tracks she leaves!  Her feet must be at least a size 25.”  Doe #2:  “I may have four feet, but they’re nothing like those clodhoppers she has to deal with.  Why, I could track her like nothing, she leaves such huge footprints.”  Doe #1: “To say nothing of all the branches she breaks off as she goes.  Shameful.  I thought those humans were more careful than that.”  What I want to know is how do those 120-pound critters with bodies the width of a tugboat manage to walk–no, gallop–through the woods without leaving much more than a few dainty footprints, if even that much?

Then there are the squirrels.  The bane of my father’s life, the squirrels spent much of their time teasing my dad.  They’re like kids with video games.  “Hey, Petey!  Bet you can walk this wire and get over to the birdfeeder.  That old guy thinks he can beat us.  Fat chance!  I’ll bet you two peanuts and a cob of corn that you can’t do it in, say, under 30 seconds.”  And off Petey goes, proving yet again that, when it comes to acrobatics and food, they can best my dad every time.  I personally think that some circus entrepreneur in the squirrel world has conjured up an entire business to drive humans to distraction with squirrel abilities to balance, fly, creep, crawl, and spin their way through to any kind of feeder.  Just look around the next time a squirrel comes to challenge the obstacle course you’ve set up to keep them away from the bird food.  Check the trees.  There may be an audience of squirrels gathered for the entertainment.  They’re paying peanuts to some squirrel ringmaster for the privilege of seeing humans being humiliated yet again.

Anyone that calls a human a birdbrain and thinks it’s an insult, has another think coming.  Take woodpeckers.  I’m not sure they even have a brain.  Who bashes their head against a tree trunk–or against aluminum siding, for Pete’s sake!  (I realize that some days, we might wish we could bang out heads against a wall without damage, but don’t try it.)  In this case, birdbrain is really an advantage.  The smaller brain of a woodpecker allows a quicker return.  So, no whiplash, so to speak.  As for other birds, the time spent on birdfeeders shows that birds are pretty smart.  Why go off foraging in the woods, along ditches, out in the fields, when all you have to do on a wintery day is sit on the picnic table, fluff up your feathers, and look forlorn.  Few humans can resist the look of a hungry chickadee.  Meanwhile, clustered out in a nearby evergreen tree, the entire flock is practically falling off their branches, laughing at how easy it is to get humans to feed them.  Once human babies graduate from crying for their food, parents will say, “No, no snacks now.  Dinner is in five minutes.”  Thus putting off their own offspring, even while birds flutter around the feeder outside, chuckling over the foibles of the humans indoors.

Don’t even get me started on chipmunks.  For some of you, it might translate to similar species, such as groundhogs or moles.  Yes, those crafty diggers that seem to think they’re doing you a favor by aerating your lawn.  Fill up one hole, and they pop up at the other entrance, dug as a backdoor, just in case.  Fill up the backdoor, and, lo and behold, while you’ve been working at that, they’ve cleared out the main entrance.  Some folks bury drain tile to carry water away from the house.  Take caution there.  Chipmunks see that as a readymade condo complex.  They can fill it in with debris (they call it nesting material) faster than you can say, “Curse those chipmunks!”  They get away with it too…until you realize that water is backing up and cascading over the eaves, or spouting up in miniature fountains because the usual routes are dammed up.  All that chattering you hear?  Laughter, chipmunk style.

Are there looks of pity out there in the animal world?  How can there not be?  The horses at the end of the street automatically grow lush winter coats when the weather turns cold.  I’m sure they look at us poor, hairless humans and cluck, “What a pity.  They have to go out and buy outdoor gear.  Even then, all they do is complain about the weather.  I feel sorry for them.”  Or our dogs.  “Look at those poor souls.  Working for a living.  They need to find someone that will feed them, take them for a walk, and, best of all, encourage them to sleep 15 hours a day.”  Well, the first two may be doable, but that last one?  Nope.  We’re lucky we can get in 7 hours of sleep.  Poor puppies, my foot.  They’ve got it made!

The next occasion that you cuddle with your pet, or pull out binoculars to check out the birds at the feeder, or catch sight of a coyote traipsing through the yard, take the time to look closely.  Are they looking back at you?  Ask yourself, “I wonder what they are thinking about me?”

The annual search has begun.  Spring is out there.  Sometimes it only peeks around a corner, but more and more often, it springs out with more regularity.  (Pardon the pun, if you’re not a pun lover…)  Lots of signs out there…

I heard them laughing, the sandhill cranes.  More than anything else in the spring, I wait to hear that sound over the nearby marsh.  They trill to each other as they wing their way north.  Once I’ve heard them, I try and pinpoint where they actually are.  Out in the cornfield covered with stubble from last season’s cut?  Still overhead somewhere?  Over there, maybe, coming in low to settle in the lake out of sight behind the trees?  Most of the time, I can’t find them.  But day by day, more cranes call and I know it’s only a matter of time before I spot them.  Most often I spot them overhead, necks straining, legs stretched out in their own personal jetstream.  Herons fold up their necks when they fly, looking like English lords headed for tea with the queen.  Regal, a bit egotistical.  Cranes, on the other hand, are determined to get where they’re going, wherever that may be.  They stretch out in the sky like streamlined airplanes searching for a destination.  It’s spring, so maybe they’re desperate to find a mate.  Looking for love in the marshes, in the fields.  Who knows?  But where the herons sail on with little on their minds, the cranes are focused forward, ever forward.

How do the flowers know when to struggle out of the ground?  To me, the ground is cold, and there are patches of ice still here and there in the woods.  Yet, the tulip leaves, folded around themselves like a tongue rolled, stick up out of that cold ground.  Daffodil spears are more like a finger testing the air, lean from fasting all winter.  The big hyacinths show flower buds hugging the ground almost as soon as the leaves emerge.  But I watch the grape hyacinths most carefully, as their green fronds never disappeared over the cold weather, sticking around to tease.  Eventually, I see the cluster of beads that herald the flower heads popping higher.  Come to think of it, several of my plants never lose their form and color when the temperatures plunge.  The coral bells no longer send up delicate stems, of course, but their fluted leaves stay grouped like heavy green lace through the worst of the storms.  A big stand of sedum, which explodes into fat green leaf clusters and cloudy purple flower bunches in the summer, dies back into little nubs of green clinging to the soil, but never give up their color.

The birds are building too.  I learned to put out one birdhouse in early March to entice the chickadees to nest.  It’s in the garden, and I delight in watching those cute little flyers pop in and out.  They have to be quick about raising a brood before the wrens get back, or those feisty wrens–who build a nest in every single birdhouse–will take over and build a nest right on top of the chickadee’s nest, even if there are eggs already.  Chickadee eggs look like tiny tan peas, but the wrens don’t care.  Don’t get me wrong, I love the wrens and their warbling that sounds like water burbling over stones in a brook.  But they are aggressive.  Robins take their time in choosing just the right evergreen for nesting.  Most often, they are right outside the garage, where I can spy on the ongoing miracle.  Sometimes they’ll build in a tree, where the nest is invisible until all the leaves come off in the fall.  I have no idea where the woodpeckers nest, but there are plenty of old ash and other trees with holes ready for occupancy.

The squirrels are active, as are the chipmunks, those pesky little cuties who challenge my husband’s sanity with their invisible tunnels.  The patio furniture is already out, having weathered the winter out there in all its recycled milk jug glory.  I hear the telephone-ringing call of the redwing blackbirds, and the geese continue to sail overhead, their raucous calls bouncing off the clouds.  And…  You know what?  You’ll have to excuse me now, because the sun is warming the patio and I need to get out there.  I hope Spring puts spring in your life, as it does mine.

When folks ask where I was the first couple weeks of February, the short answer I give is, “We were cruising the Caribbean.”  But it was really much more than that.  I was collecting.

Do you collect souvenirs from your travels?  We rarely do that anymore, having accumulated a passel of wonderful things from all over Hades and half of Georgia.  (That’s not literally true, although we did go to Hell and back on Grand Cayman.  Don’t worry; it’s just a town called Hell.)  Now, we’ve purged a lot of stuff that either isn’t useful anymore or has lost its glamour over the years.  The best stuff we bring home is, of course, the memories.  Well, okay, lots of photos too, although those have been winnowed down to a reasonable number too.  I joke that my box of photos (I prefer that over albums) is my Nursing Home Collection.  Although, in a few years, that may no longer be a joke, but a reality!  I truly have no problem with that, as we’ve been some grand places that provided even grander memories of the place, but even more so, of the people.

But I digress.  (What else is new, you ask?)

This trip, as always since I started writing seriously, I collected faces.  Among other things.  Things like hairstyles and styles of walking.  Overhearing conversations, I capture laughs and snatches and phrases of language types.

Is this beginning to sound a bit like stalking?  I hope not!  I did wear what I called a Caveat Tee that said “I’m not quiet, I’m just plotting.”  A Christmas gift from the daughter and bonus son.  It got a lot of attention, to say the least.  People asked if I was an author, what did I write, all that sort of thing.  I handed out my business cards like candy, and noticed when I got home, that visits to my website zoomed up while we were gone.  (I hope book sales will too!)  Clearly, people had access to the internet on the ship.  Wonderful.

Anyway, I usually didn’t accost anyone, but just collected.  I have two characters that now have a face and body type, and more, based on people we met onboard the ship.  Some will never know I watched carefully and collected face, hair, body type, personality…  But one, a lovely woman who looked like a model, I met when just the two of us were on an elevator.  She provided me with an opportunity to chat about her background and culture.  One of the characters I’m working on now is based on her.  And with her permission, to boot.

I’m writing about a group of women friends, one of whom is a Black woman who becomes a lawyer and then a judge.  I’m not about to appropriate that life without taking care!  But to make my character authentic, I needed to talk with someone willing to share.  Hence, the elevator conversation, which went on into the area outside the elevator, actually.  I complimented her on her hair, which was shaved, but sported patterns swirling and flowing across her scalp.  Dramatic and truly beautiful.  I explained about my new manuscript in progress and asked if I could tap into her personal culture.  From there, she graciously agreed to allow me to ask her a multitude of questions.  We ran into each other quite often, always with cordial greetings.  I will be forever indebted to this lovely woman from Canada.

It’s amazing what a vibrant collection of people I brought back from a simple cruise.  Yes, I’ve always been an airport crowd watcher, and such.  But being confined, if you want to call it that, on a cruise ship for two weeks with the ebb and flow of many recurring faces and situations gave me the opportunity to get a bigger picture.  Was one person exactly the same every time I saw them?  Did another change tones in conversations with different people?  How about when the weather changed and the ship rocked a bit more?  Could I use the confident walk of the young people across the pool deck, contrasted with the hesitancy of that older couple with canes or walkers?  Watching people leap out of deck chairs and frantically grab everything they could as a rain squall rolled over us gave me some pretty humorous glances at human nature in a hurry.

This trip filled me with the joy of humanity’s variety in all its forms.  My bank of “people facts” is filled to overflowing.  One thing I learned is that I truly love to observe people.  That, and I must be attentive.  I never know what will pop up right in front of me.  In the grocery store, at the library, sitting at a red light, and who knows where else?  Most of the folks I meet and collect will never make it into one of my manuscripts.  There are simply too many.

But being forewarned is being forearmed.  The next time you meet me, be on your best behavior!

I’ll be watching…

Remember when you were a kid and hung up a Christmas stocking?  Maybe your family still does this.  Anyway, sitting down to write this January post, I had lots of little stuff rattling around in my head, kind of like the mini-Snickers bars, the Hot Wheels, the orange found in your stocking when you dumped it out.  So, I decided to just rattle around on paper…or on computer, in this case.  Here’s a hodge-podge of little things accumulated before 2025 decided to make an appearance… (Lots of little pieces, so make sure to read all the way to the bottom.

One of my fun things is unusual or seasonal socks.  I own socks with cardinals, otters, ducks, and chipmunks (can’t wear those around my husband, who has an ongoing battle with chipmunks).  Stripes, autumn leaves, edelweiss, lavender sprigs, Shakespeare’s face, and, of course, Green Bay Packer socks.  Luckily, I have a bonus daughter and, I suspect, a granddaughter who indulge my craziness.  A couple of years ago, I was gifted with socks with the sentiment “I’m Complicated. Thank you.”  A second pair, “My Filter Needs to be Replaced,” is hopefully not a critique of something in my psyche that needs to be corrected!  But this year, it was Elf socks: 

            Check ’em out in the Photos tab… Aren’t they cute?  And now I’ll match the craziness of our bonus son, who wears unmatched socks and quips, “I have another pair at home just like these.”

* * * * *  

We dog-sat for a few days over the holidays and that made my morning walks…interesting.  Watson doesn’t trust cars, so, though he doesn’t lunge at them, he does let me know they should not be sharing the road with him.  He doesn’t bark much, but when his patience wears thin, he will tell them, in no uncertain terms, to remove themselves.  Which they do, posthaste, being on the move already.  I’ve walked him so many times, he now knows the routine:  keep the barking to a minimum if you must bark at all and, most important, sit until the car is past.  This year, for the first time, I felt a slight tug on the leash and turned to find him sitting already.  Sure enough, I peered down the road, and there was a car coming.  That kind of response, no command necessary, earned him a well-deserved treat.  The funny thing was when he dropped down completely when approached by an Army green jeep.  He must be a Navy man…uh, dog.

* * * * * 

Here’s a poem I wrote decades ago about the antics of Congress.  It’s not a political poem per se, because it fits family gatherings, book clubs, friends’ groups, anywhere there is a group of people trying to agree on something.  Hope you enjoy it.

A Migration of Congress

I swear, Congress in session flew over yesterday,

Honking and carousing and carrying on,

A true Washington conglomeration.

They might have been discussing

The most efficient route to Florida.

I watched them wheel and shift,

Changing leaders to break trail,

Providing moments of recovery for the others.

Much like Congress, they wrangled,

Confabbed, changed direction.

First south, then west, then,

With a complete turnaround, north again.

Yet, generally, the members found the path,

Gradually set the sun in their western quadrant,

And moved with noisy discussion toward their common destination.

* * * * *  

Standing in the kitchen and baking for the holidays insulates one to the wonderful fragrances of those activities.  However, going out in the snow to get the mail means a tramp up the driveway, and a rather slow slog back down.  The advantage being that, when I enter the kitchen, I am enveloped in aromas of cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, all woven among the tendrils of hot apple cider.  Oh ecstasy!  Which sent me remembering what else I can be surrounded by, but the awareness has been dampened.  Candles smelling of pumpkin or butter cookies.  Warm apple pie already consumed, but the aroma lingering.  Fresh sheets pulled off the line and then snapped out over the bed, releasing miniscule droplets of pure sun.  A campfire approached from a distance, the scent reaching out like fingers, conjuring up the taste of s’mores.  Can you smell it?

* * * * *   

As I look back over 2024, some of the small things weren’t so small.  An old friend moved far away.  (Thank God for telephones.  And Facetime.)  The precarious health of others, who are so gracious and strong in dealing with challenges. Two young men beginning college careers away from home.  (Challenges of varying shapes and sizes.)  A grandson winning a speed skating competition.  A freshman granddaughter with her viola welcomed into the huge high school orchestra.  (And how sweet they sound.)  These seemingly small things can carry us along on a wave of pride, strength, pure happiness.  So, whatever happens in 2025, take time to store away the stocking stuffers of life.  Pull them out and rejoice.  Another fruitful year.