Life

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

All that Glitters…

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Last week, an old (and precious) friend treated me to an incredible trip to Las Vegas to celebrate a milestone birthday. Why Las Vegas? I’m not really sure — it was more impulse than anything added to a curious fascination with slot machines that dates back to 1988 when our young family was in the Vegas airport for half an hour between planes.  Lulled by those shiny spinning sirens, I abandoned my husband with an infant in a dirty diaper so I could make an offering of my spare change. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven me.

Even the airport has changed dramatically since that time — its sprawling concourses lined with an incredible array of enticements to lose your money, the new strip so full of opulence and attractions, it was hard to know where to look first. Where else can you see the Statue of Liberty silhouetted against the Eiffel Tower ringed by a roller coaster? Laura and I set out to explore these monuments to entertainment and excess, and I couldn’t help but try to capture the cacaphonic sights  with my camera. Laura, in contrast, insisted on taking  pictures of us telling me how she focuses on people when she travels rather than the scenery.

It wasn’t until I was traveling home that it hit me. Laura was right. I had focused on the glitter and missed what had really stood out to me — the people. We made connections almost everywhere starting that first morning with the transplanted artist and part-time tour guide from Portland, Maine who had been lulled by Las Vegas’ 24-hour wake cycle. He offered us a quick and helpful orientation, and I could hear his affection for his adopted city as he spoke to us. Looking for inexpensive jewelry in a store that was being ousted for something more upscale, I found the owner was from Jordan, and we talked about the turmoil in that area and the heartache that comes with having to leave a homeland you love. In Tiffany’s we met Peter, a passionate young man from Puerto Rico, and we learned more about the lack of opportunity and financial woes of this beleaguered U.S. territory.  We gained fascinating insight on art and the creative process with Susan in the Chihuly Store at the Bellagio. She had known Dale Chihuly for over twenty years, and her excitement in showing us the remarkable translation of his initial sketches to stunning three-dimensional  artworks was truly inspiring. We connected with Miyuki on our spa day at the Mandarin Oriental and she shared the sweet story of how she met her American husband in Japan while working at a theme park (he was a Viking). Then there was the amazing Vearn (his real name), a tour guide atop Paris’ Eiffel Tower. A celebrity in his own right, autistic,  and graced with an amazing photographic memory, he knew everything about the city (including the fact that we were in Paradise and not Las Vegas), down to detailed statistics and the notorious history of each and every hotel. His personal story, both heartbreaking and uplifting, compelled me to have our picture taken together.

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Laura, me, and Vearn

On the way home, I sat next to Isolde, a remarkably beautiful educator who was contemplating her next chapter. Her heart for encouraging youth to embrace self-worth and find their own path was inspiring and compelling.

Next time I go somewhere, I will look for the human stories beneath the landscape. These are the memories I want to capture.  There will be more photos of faces, and less of glitter.

Oh, by the way, I did scratch my itch to play the slots. Although I was up by twenty cents, I got greedy and lost it. That’s Vegas;-)

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.

Now Accepting Manure

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Accepting_Manure_4

The Sign

I was driving to an appointment the other day using my favorite routing system – the languid back roads that gracefully traverse our beautiful corner of New Hampshire. I rounded a corner, and a sign posted in front of a neat white farm home assaulted my senses. “Accepting Manure” it proclaimed. My nose wrinkled as I thought, “I would never want a load of excrement, let alone pay for it!”

It made me think, though. Manure is very useful if you know what to do with it. No one ever grew champion crops using sanitized soil. This farmer knew if he wanted the best results, he needed lots of smelly organic material. I thought of recent events in my own life—apparent reversals and challenges. Normally, I think of obstacles as undesirable and long for a life of absolute calm and predictability. Now, I thought of how much I had been growing in this nutrient-rich environment.

Just that quickly, my perspective shifted. Maybe I should stop wishing for  different circumstances and welcome the growth medium I was being offered. It’s good stuff if you know how to use it.

 

Our eyes met in the cereal aisle

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imageI admit it; I am one of those “friendly” people who will strike up a conversation with a total stranger, much to the chagrin of my family. For me, though, the opportunity to connect with another makes an ordinary day enjoyable. One day, though, I learned the real value simple human contact could have.

I was at the grocery store, armed with my list (which I seem to treat as just a starting point) and an empty shopping cart. Parked by the bananas, I reached over a hand to snag my perfect bunch (not too ripe, no bruises, about the shade of a honeydew) and reflexively smiled at its owner. I noticed he was considerably shorter than I and wore a fraying greek fishing hat. We met again in pasta; he was staring intently at the interminable array of boxes and varieties. “Can I help you find something?” I asked. “Linguine,” he mumbled, not looking at me. I thought I detected an accent of some sort. I found the linguine in short order and pointed it out, smiling again. He picked up a box and placed it carefully in his cart, walking away without a word. I saw that his pants were quite baggy, the seat almost worn through, his legs slightly bowed. The soles of his shoes were worn at an angle.
He was there again by the meat section; I almost ran into him as I pushed my cart while reading the meat labels. I smiled apologetically. He seemed unaware.

Our eyes met in the cereal aisle. I was reaching for a box of Cheerios and glanced up to find myself gazing straight into dark brown eyes framed in a deeply creased but handsome face. For a moment, we both paused. I smiled; the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly.

Standing in line at the checkout I turned to find him standing behind me. “Well, I guess we just can’t avoid each other, ” I said in a light tone noting the few neatly arranged items in his cart. He smiled; a real smile this time, unguarded; then it was gone. “I lost my wife six months ago,” he said quietly. “We were married for 48 years. I miss her.” I reached out and placed my hand on his arm. “I am so sorry.” “Thank you,” he replied,  and our eyes met once more. For a moment I saw him as the young man he had been on his wedding day, standing tall and proud, beaming next to his fresh faced bride.

I watched as he slowly walked through the parking lot, a single brown bag tucked neatly under one arm; I would not forget him.