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An Unexpected Gift

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I had about 45 minutes to kill between meetings and found myself at one of my favorite stores. You know – that fashionista, get-it-all-here place where you can score your bargain of the day. It was lunchtime and crowded, so the checkout line stretched well beyond the last-chance impulse purchase aisle just before the registers. Along with other shoppers, I was trying to establish my place. As I scanned those around me, I spotted an Air Force ball cap and the pleasant seventy-something face below it. He looked slightly lost and bemused, just as my Air Force veteran dad had in his last years. I found myself drawn to him.  “Were you in the Air Force?” I asked. He nodded. I thanked him for his service and said, “I served in the Air Force, in Strategic Air Command.” He grabbed my hand and said, “God bless you.” His wife was right there, and we exchanged pleasantries, comparing our military lives. He had been in EEE (Electrical, Electronics, and Electromechanical). We both came from military families. Just as she had, I had married an Air Force guy.

As the line moved, I was aware he was right behind me. At some point, I turned back and said something to him. He smiled. His wife mouthed the words, “He has Alzheimer’s.” “I know,” I said. I was well familiar with the symptoms. I turned and looked directly at him, our eyes meeting. “You remind me of my father.” (He had been an electrical engineer.) The man reached for my hand and held it warmly. “You remind me of someone beautiful.” The same soft smile I had first noticed never left his face. Again, he said, “God bless you.” I could feel the tears start to form. Fortunately, it was my turn to check out, and I hurried to my register, but I still can’t shake the memory and rare gift of our few moments together. I’m not sure I want to.

One Hot Mama

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img-Busy-day-at-Hampton-Beach

Just another day in paradise.

Summer in New Hampshire — beautiful land of trees, mountains, lakes, and — the beach. In fact, there is so much nature here, the human population almost seems an afterthought. Small wonder that creature comforts often fall into that same category. Our modest cape home doesn’t have air conditioning, but I, heat intolerant as I am, inexplicably like it that way. There is a certain virtue in throwing the windows open late at night, fighting with errant insects, and flipping the switch on the noisy sucking contraption that is our attic fan. The house is much stingier about releasing amassed degrees than it is about hoarding them, but I celebrate the loss of each thermal unit. It also helps that we are near a beautiful, and cool, lake under the canopy of tall trees. In fact, I love everything about New Hampshire summers except the handful of triple-digit days, and…the beach.

I know for some this is heresy, but for a state that is second only to Maine for tree cover, the wide expanse of unprotected ocean front seems oddly out of place.  Just last weekend we ventured to the shore for a birthday celebration, the lure of loved ones trumping sand. Our traffic app showed lines of red snaking to the shore; we resisted, hugging the back treed roads as long as we could. Parking was like an advanced game of Tetris. We kissed one car’s rear bumper, leaving enough room for someone to block us from behind, considering ourselves lucky as cars crept by in search of precious parking real estate. We had pulled up next to Dave, father to a one-year-old, and watched as he pulled a storage locker’s worth of paraphernalia out of his truck to maximize fun in the sun. The birthday girl greeted us. “Did you bring chairs?” Why, no; the only things we thought to bring were sunblock and a small cooler – no chairs, no towels, no umbrella, no snacks, no bug spray, no sunglasses, no hats, no thick-soled shoes. We were woefully unprepared.

Undaunted, we set off across the sand. I slipped off my flip flops, only to be rewarded by Venusian surface temperatures, the sand surrounding my feet in flesh-searing heat. I limped as fast as I could to the bone-chilling water. I could no longer feel my feet. The sun was unrelenting, complemented by the salty, sticky residue of ocean which gave my erupting sunburn a nice “bite.” As I chased shifting umbrella shade to preserve my pristine porcelain hue, others happily lounged in full sun, the better to build their burnished bronze surfaces.  Nearly 120 minutes later, we retreated to cool air-conditioned shelter for lunch.  All too soon, the sun worshippers were again lured by the siren call of steaming sand and frigid surf. I longed for cover. We went in the opposite direction, navigating the beach crowds to again seek the relative solitude of our tree canopy.  I threw open the windows to the cooling air. It was good to be home.

No one in sight.

No one in sight.

 

 

 

 

Faux Fur

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This is New Hampshire country, far from the ordered world of suburban subdivision living I know. Secure in the (somewhat) familiar and predictable existence contained within the walls of our home, I never know what awaits me outside. One thing is for sure — nature comes to you. Last week it was a large snapping turtle, lured by our vernal pool and sandy backyard soil. After several test excavations, she found the perfect spot for her eggs and left us to watch her underground incubator for the next 12 weeks or so.

Some of our tenants are less welcome. A large groundhog moved in under our attached shed and proceeded to dig cavernous holes in our yard. We decided to relocate it and set a large crate trap with the lure of enticing melon. The melon disappeared, but the groundhog was large enough to defeat the trap door, no doubt amused at our feeble and transparent efforts.

Yesterday, though, I saw the door had been tripped again. This time, a soft set of eyes quietly regarded me from behind the metal bars. This creature was not a groundhog, but somehow looked familiar — the small size, the gamine face with a touch of white; the spiked and rounded appearance of its coat. Could it be?  Of course —  it must be a hedgehog! A woman of action, I sprang into motion, emailing my husband and calling a friend to share the surprising news. Oh, and I looked up “hedgehog” online. Undaunted by the inconvenient datum that hedgehogs aren’t native to North America, I also found a NH hedgehog breeder and rescue organization. Convinced I had an escaped pet, I called them and left a message. Always thorough,  I also called our local university’s extension service. My mind was racing. What did it eat? When would I have the time to drive it to the hedgehog breeder?

I received a prompt email from the hedgehog people, who gently told me the odds this was an errant hedgehog were unlikely, but possible. If so, they were standing at the ready to assist. I decided to take a picture of my little charge and took the time to take a good look. On closer inspection, the features I had been so sure pointed to a quintessential Wind in the Willows character now looked markedly different. The nose wasn’t so pointed, the fur not so spiked. Still cute and endearing, I now realized this was no hedgehog but a groundhog of the child variety. More than a little embarrassed, I emailed the hedgehog people apologizing for my hasty taxonomic classification. Afterwards, picturing a distressed groundhog mother nearby,  I relented and let the little one go so he could reunite with his doting parent. He scampered off, no doubt eager to set up permanent digs chez nous.

The next day, I received a return message from the extension service. Jay couldn’t suppress the chuckles as he replied to my message but duly gave me information for the right people to call in the case of errant (as in the wrong continent) wildlife. I called him back, and we shared a good laugh. I may live in the country, but it is clear to everyone I am no country girl.

Hedgehog2

(Not a) Hedgehog

Spring(board)

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There are all types of beauty in the seasons — the lushness of early summer where color and vegetation abound; the sepia hues of late fall as once-resplendent leaves finally drift to the ground; the hush of a new snow that lavishly etches dark tree branches. Right now, in our little corner of the world, it is still early spring. Daffodils are appearing along with a few wildflowers, but tree leaves are tightly furled against the still-cool nights. This is not the season of panoramic views, but one that invites you to look closely to see the beginnings of what is to come.

Our lives go through seasons, too. After the winter comes the spring. If you look closely, you’ll see the  clear promise of the beautiful flowering to come.

You Say “Tomato”, I say “Tomato”

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We recently had professional painters in our home to finally transform our previously wallpapered music and dining rooms (a real treat as I look at the DIY free-form version of interior wall coating that is predominant in our home). They left the rooms pristine — perfectly painted, every trim gap and misalignment now invisible, not a stray brush mark in sight. After, I rushed to put the rooms back together, the better to enjoy the results. My husband called later. “What are you doing?” “Filling holes in the painted rooms,” I replied without thinking. There was silence on the other end. “I’m hanging pictures,” I helpfully added. He sighed. I get it –the way I hang pictures makes absolutely no sense, but I persist. I wondered what my methods might look like if I wrote my steps and equipment down as a “how to”. Check out “How to Hang Pictures” under “Miscellaneous Musings”.  Can you relate?

https://gracetolaugh.com/recent-musings/how-to-hang-pictures/

hammering with a shoe

 

Critters

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August. Comfortably cool mornings yield to languid heavy afternoons. It’s the month of running the basement dehumidifier non-stop, the month of rampant crabgrass, and the month that marks peak critter season. Unlike our subdivision property in Illinois that served as a backdrop for the occasional, adorable, brown bunny, New Hampshire is an ever-changing landscape of abundant wildlife. We’ve learned to live with our crew-cut hostas, thoughtfully cropped by invisible deer, not to mention the elusive creatures who are eating through the tender leaves of our birch tree and carefully dropping pruned branches for their little ones. We don’t mind the birds nests that appear everywhere, including the palatial avian abode erected on the inverted seat of our stored canoe. Chipmunks, raccoons, even the occasional skunk drop by or decide we are prime real estate for a permanent residence. (Nothing like opening your windows for fresh night air and waking up to Eau d’Horrible in the morning.) We’ve even heard of bear sightings in the area. Live and let live. Then there was the July day I looked up and saw those perfectly circular holes around our attic vent. What could those be? I wondered as I made a mental note to fix the structural damage, adding it to our always robust “to do” list, then forgot about it. No matter — the answer presented itself last Wednesday. With my husband in the hospital recuperating from orthopedic surgery, I was on my own with the morning routine. Coming back into the house with our two dogs, a flash of movement caught my eye in our parlor. It was a critter, and it flew- fast. It’s hard to describe the feeling of panic that overtakes you when self-propelled wildlife is actually within the protective walls of your house. I immediately called David — hospital or not, I needed him.  On his instructions, I opened the front door, held up a broom, and watched this dark creature with a wingspan of at least a foot faultlessly perform low level maneuvers around our first floor furniture before swooping outside. I thought it was a bird who had gotten in by some fluke. Then, the next day, there was another “bird” in the kitchen, then tonight, with my husband home, a third and fourth appeared. “That is a bat,” he said matter-of-factly, on seeing the first. Bats? What? Evidently our attic is housing a bat colony. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Maybe they’ll keep the bears out.

August. The month of calling the local wildlife control company to evict unwanted tenants. In the meantime, I’ll keep the broom handy.flying black bat silhouetted in the twilight sky

Slip Sliding Away

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Oh, winter in New Hampshire!  I know now why New England has spawned so many writers — what else is there to do on long winter days when it’s below zero outside?  After subzero temperatures that yielded to rain and glazed all horizontal surfaces,  I stepped out this morning onto our glassy driveway, mincing my way like some old woman, and only because I had somewhere to be.   In Illinois, I may have owned three pairs of socks.  Now, these miraculous items of clothing must comprise at least 30% of our laundry.  Today, I wore tights covered by wool knee-highs, that were themselves covered by warm anklets, all under zip up leather boots.  The art of layering is a needed skill as frigid mornings yield to more temperate middays that are only false hope as sundown brings the deep chill back.  I used to take the Christmas decorations down by mid January; no more.  I can’t bear the thought of cold snow without the warmth of little white lights on the tree and gazebo outside.

With all that said, I don’t want to be anywhere else.  I love building fires in the woodstove, soot and all, and the beauty and stillness of the woods under a blanket of white.  There is nothing like the slow warming glow of a winter sunrise that serves as a rosy backdrop to the stark silhouette of tree limbs or the incomparable feeling of being nestled under a lofty down comforter.   I think winter must be my favorite time of year, that is,  until spring comes.

The woods are lovely…

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The Pond

The Pond

I have written before on the vagaries of our country property; it is far from the manicured perfection of our suburban subdivision lot outside St. Louis. Here, green is the new grass. If it’s green it counts as an acceptable ground cover. No more will I try to dictate what or where things grow. What are dandelions except charming seasonal flowers?

What I do love are the spaces around our home that beckon. In our previous life, the lawn was to be observed and admired. In New Hampshire, we have naturescapes that seduce and lure you outside. At the front of our property, undulating below a stately band of trees, is a beautiful moss carpeted area next to a winding brook. Two of those trees have hooks just waiting for the hammock that will stretch between them and offer shaded respite from the summer heat. Just beyond, on the other side of our white picket fence is what I call our “fairy garden”, beautiful perennials and dwarf plants and a bench to sit on and take it in.

It is our pond, though, that I love the most. It is little more than a seasonal drainage receptacle, but now, when it is full and dark, it promises mystery and a watery passage to the woods beyond. The rain dances across its surface, fragmenting the reflection of the tall trees above. There is a large flat topped boulder set on the sandy shore dotted with wild flowers perfect for sitting and contemplating nature and life’s mysteries. If I were a child, it would transport me completely to other worlds and tell me stories only I could hear. Maybe if I sit and look into its depths long enough, I may yet hear them.