2014 passed incredibly fast- ahh, the physics of age… April brought us Bryn-dog (who turned one year old this New Year’s morning). Summer shone with lovely flowers and interesting garden visitors, and subsequent months offered the usual good and bad events that can shift lives a little, or a lot. But, if I had to select one vivid memory this minute, it would surely be of a single five-inch-wide daisy flower atop a long, graceful stem that popped up in the secret garden in late October, after every other sensible flower had vanished. I was gobsmacked! The huge, blemish-free beauty bloomed for over a month. Finally, on December first, it folded in on itself and quietly finished. The audacity! The daily delight! Every morning I’d step outside to acknowledge its perfection with a grin and a salute.
I’ve made a few resolutions for 2015. The first: research the history of hot water bottles. This wonderful invention has brought me innumerable, deep-sleep nights coddled in delicious warmth. Its inventor deserves recognition and kudus. Electric blankets can’t hold a candle to its comfort-power.
Back in the day, when I’d overnight at Gran’s house, she’d slide a Mason jar full of really hot water between my bed sheets and shift it around; three minutes later I’d climb into a warm nest blanketed with her handmade goose down quilt brought to America from the Old Country. I was six years old. That memory is still bright. But still, quart jars can’t compete with the enduring comfort of my proper British Warm hot water bottle. Best of all, its flannel-covered warmth endures all night!
Second, I want to gaze deeply into the eyes of an alpaca. (I just happen to know someone who has recently acquired a few.) What fascinating, durable creatures! (I do know that alpacas pre-date the Inca Empire.) Specifically, I want to see what sort of eyelashes they possess. The most beautiful, of course, belong to cows. I know this because I’ve gazed at many a cow in England, and appreciate why there are so many of the beasts: bulls find gorgeously lashed heifers irresistible.
My prediction: alpaca eyelashes won’t be quite as alluring. (There aren’t nearly as many of these animals, are there?)
Third, I’ve lived in Michigan most of my life, and have often driven past Hartwick Pines State Park, but have never once stopped to explore. Shocking!
Joe, Bryn and I plan to rent a cabin nearby and hike around the interior for a day or two, trying to imagine much of Michigan blanketed by these immense trees! Someone, over a century ago, experienced a moment of farsighted clarity: men with axes weren’t allowed to decimate this one lone fifty-acre stand of virgin pine forest.
Photos don’t do it justice, say friends.
‘Go!’ they urge.
So we will. Soon. Maybe packing snowshoes!
Right now it’s snowing like stink, so Bryn and I go outside to walk silently down the street in the very wee hours, needing to experience it thickly blanketed. It’s dark, very still and quiet, and always full of mystery. Right now we own it all; nobody is up. We’re completely alone, yet surrounded by a hundred sleeping neighbors. Century-old leaf-bare trees show jet-black as the snow pelts down. Even swathed in three thick sweaters and a heavy coat I feel the biting cold, but that soon vanishes as Bryn and I pace the length of four blocks admiring the Christmas lights.
She blends perfectly with the monochromatic scenery: only her black nose and one dark ear are clearly defined. We eventually stop in the middle of the street to sit and stare pensively at each other, and at the blurred beauty beyond.
When I was fifteen, while visiting my Uncle Irvin’s Illinois farm, I came upon a moon-white horse standing in the middle of a pasture a little distance away, on an intensely cold, snowy night much like this one. Only the huge beast’s brown eyes and nostrils were clearly visible. He looked at me for a time, blowing out steamy breaths before soundlessly moving much closer on snow-muffled hooves. My palm and his nose connected, sealing the enchantment. We stood face-to-face for a few minutes, our exhalations mingling. Then he breathed into my hair, shook himself and turned away. Swirling white snowflakes pixelated his dark-flecked white tail as my visitor gradually faded into gone. I smiled; cold, happy tears crept down my cheeks to freeze into frosted diamonds…
What is it about deep night shrouded in thickly falling snow, when one is lucky enough to exchange a few moments of silent communication, in perfect peace, with nonhuman beings? It’s the essence of magic.
I’ve made a few resolutions for 2015. The first: research the history of hot water bottles. This wonderful invention has brought me innumerable, deep-sleep nights coddled in delicious warmth. Its inventor deserves recognition and kudus. Electric blankets can’t hold a candle to its comfort-power.
Back in the day, when I’d overnight at Gran’s house, she’d slide a Mason jar full of really hot water between my bed sheets and shift it around; three minutes later I’d climb into a warm nest blanketed with her handmade goose down quilt brought to America from the Old Country. I was six years old. That memory is still bright. But still, quart jars can’t compete with the enduring comfort of my proper British Warm hot water bottle. Best of all, its flannel-covered warmth endures all night!
Second, I want to gaze deeply into the eyes of an alpaca. (I just happen to know someone who has recently acquired a few.) What fascinating, durable creatures! (I do know that alpacas pre-date the Inca Empire.) Specifically, I want to see what sort of eyelashes they possess. The most beautiful, of course, belong to cows. I know this because I’ve gazed at many a cow in England, and appreciate why there are so many of the beasts: bulls find gorgeously lashed heifers irresistible.
My prediction: alpaca eyelashes won’t be quite as alluring. (There aren’t nearly as many of these animals, are there?)
Third, I’ve lived in Michigan most of my life, and have often driven past Hartwick Pines State Park, but have never once stopped to explore. Shocking!
Joe, Bryn and I plan to rent a cabin nearby and hike around the interior for a day or two, trying to imagine much of Michigan blanketed by these immense trees! Someone, over a century ago, experienced a moment of farsighted clarity: men with axes weren’t allowed to decimate this one lone fifty-acre stand of virgin pine forest.
Photos don’t do it justice, say friends.
‘Go!’ they urge.
So we will. Soon. Maybe packing snowshoes!
Right now it’s snowing like stink, so Bryn and I go outside to walk silently down the street in the very wee hours, needing to experience it thickly blanketed. It’s dark, very still and quiet, and always full of mystery. Right now we own it all; nobody is up. We’re completely alone, yet surrounded by a hundred sleeping neighbors. Century-old leaf-bare trees show jet-black as the snow pelts down. Even swathed in three thick sweaters and a heavy coat I feel the biting cold, but that soon vanishes as Bryn and I pace the length of four blocks admiring the Christmas lights.
She blends perfectly with the monochromatic scenery: only her black nose and one dark ear are clearly defined. We eventually stop in the middle of the street to sit and stare pensively at each other, and at the blurred beauty beyond.
When I was fifteen, while visiting my Uncle Irvin’s Illinois farm, I came upon a moon-white horse standing in the middle of a pasture a little distance away, on an intensely cold, snowy night much like this one. Only the huge beast’s brown eyes and nostrils were clearly visible. He looked at me for a time, blowing out steamy breaths before soundlessly moving much closer on snow-muffled hooves. My palm and his nose connected, sealing the enchantment. We stood face-to-face for a few minutes, our exhalations mingling. Then he breathed into my hair, shook himself and turned away. Swirling white snowflakes pixelated his dark-flecked white tail as my visitor gradually faded into gone. I smiled; cold, happy tears crept down my cheeks to freeze into frosted diamonds…
What is it about deep night shrouded in thickly falling snow, when one is lucky enough to exchange a few moments of silent communication, in perfect peace, with nonhuman beings? It’s the essence of magic.