Fog

When I read her blog this morning, she'd written of the fog that surrounded her home yesterday. It's my turn, as when the day turned light, I could see from my windows that the world was shrouded in a film of gray.

I've always loved the fog. There's an air of mystery about it. I may be perfectly clear in my mind about what it covers, knowing that behind the veil there stands a tree, or our neighbor's home, or some other object of familiarity. However, when I look out and there is a wall of fog between myself and the object, I feel isolated in some way.

I remember the walks I used to take beside the sea in East Hampton. Wrapped in the thick, wet, morning fog that rolled in off the ocean, I'd make my way to the jetty. The air was heavy with the smell of salt and the surf would pound against the sand. My footprints were erased with every wave, and it was almost as if no one would ever know I was there. I felt solitude in my silver, misty cloak. It was complete serenity.

In Maine some years ago, my husband and I sat on the craggy cliff in the early dawn hours. We could not see the ocean, but we could hear it slapping hard against the boulders below. We felt the spray as we sat in the cacoon of fog. The mournful sound of the foghorn warned the boats of the ragged walls at the edge of the sea. The beam from the towering lighthouse attempted to penetrate the air, another warning to those in boats somewhere.

The fog can be a dangerous thing. I don't care to drive in it and would love it far less if I was on the water, or in an airplane, when it chose to make its appearance. It's weather that comes when it will, when conditions are right. So long as I'm in a safe environment, I'll not worry of the danger, but will lose myself in the thoughts of its mysteries and romance. Let the curtains of gray fall and envelop me with its peace and solitude.

Do What You Love

There is currently a theory that if you do what you love, what you're good at, you will succeed in business. I'm not sure that would work for me....but it doesn't really matter, because I'm not looking for a business.

For years people have been telling me that I could make 'good money' if I would sell my crafts. They've said the same thing about my articles and poetry, encouraging me to put them together in a book and sell them or to write greeting card slogans. Do you know what? I don't want to do that!

I keep thinking that I'd begin to hate the crafting, the card making, the writing, and that the creative juices would stop, if I had to do it. I do what I do, when I do, for the pleasure of it. I do it for the presenting of some part of me as a gift. If someone else along the way appreciates it, that's all well and good, but to get so busy creating for profit doesn't give me a thrill. I don't care to think of the record keeping, bookwork and legalities that go with a having business of your own. I've spent too many years chained to a desk working for someone else and I don't care to put the shackles back on even if I'd be the boss. Perhaps I'm too independent. I like governing my own time and talents, without the discipline it would take to make money at all this.

Yes, maybe someone else could be a successful business person by doing what they love. As for me, I'll do what I love and enjoy the feeling of success I have when I see the delight in a child's face, or a new mother's glow when I've given her a handmade gift. I'll be happy enough knowing that one of my cards has encouraged someone or brightened their day just a little. I'll leave the money-making to someone who's not satisfied with his or her life as it is. Besides, I'm better at spending money than making it!

A Sad Life

He never owned a home of his own, but at one time he had a bed in a place he called home. He was a youngster then. As he grew up, I saw him, I attended classes with him, but I didn't know him. Perhaps I thought I was 'better' than he was. Perhaps because he didn't approach me, I didn't bother with him either in my youth and shy ways. I'm not sure he cared whether we spoke or not, and I didn't either, but, somehow, these days a thought of him arises now and then.

For years after he left school, he'd wander the streets, sometimes begging for a few bits of change. The only work I'd ever known him to do was the collecting of bottles that he'd turn in at the redemption center for the five cent deposit. Sadly, there were times when he'd be found by the police, sleeping or passed out, in the middle of the road. The officers would chase him off, or escort him to a safer place. There were a few occasions, when I worked in the village where he lived with others whose lifestyles were similar, I would see him sleeping in a doorway. My heart always sunk at such times. It seemed to me that he lived such a sad life.

Was this a way of life he followed because it was what he'd come from? Was it because, genetically, he was predisposed to a life of inebriation and poverty? Was it discouragement that put him there and kept him there? What was it that didn't allow him to rise above that way of living? I have no idea of his family life as a child. There's no knowledge in me to say why he lived the way he did. I want not to believe it was his choice. I don't want to think that he was a sluggard with no incentive to work or to try harder to escape the trap he seemed to be in.

There is no way for me to know how a little boy grew up to be such a man. It hurts me to think that the fact is, there are many in every city, who live much the same way. Does anyone see them? Do we walk by and carry on, as if these lost souls don't even exist? There they are, rummaging through garbage cans for something to eat. There they are, sleeping off a bottle, in the doorways or on the sidewalk grate. There they are, pushing their belongings along the street, on the way to their next temporary bed. Will they live this way until they leave this earth?

My schoolmate did. He will never have a chance to make another choice or work toward a better life. His circumstances were the same for him, day in and day out, until the hit and run driver ended his life. What he might have been will never be known. Such a sad life....such a sad ending.

Tra La, It's May! The Merry Month of May...

I found myself humming that song from Camelot last night. It was an incredibly lovely evening. The air was a bit cooler and heavier than usual, with the promise of rain. The fragrance of the honeysuckle was heavy and heavenly! Mom and I had a short visit while I waited for our dinner to finish cooking, and we remarked again and again about the aroma of the sweet vine. I could have stayed on the porch all night to breathe it in.

There's no telling what the month of May will bring to us in the upstate of SC. Last year the weather was down-right hot, much more so than that of the following month. It was also dangerously dry at that time. This year it's been very pleasant temperatures with a lot of rain.

The grass is green again. The flowers in the garden are loving all the water. The Asian Lilies are popping open to join the yellow, white and blue Siberian Irises, the Mexican Sage, the Roses, and a bouquet of other blooms. It's quite colorful, and very rewarding, to see our work come together in such a spectacular array. It's also a great blessing not to have to use our street water and run up the water bill in order to keep things alive!

May is most definitely alive. The ladybugs are in abundance, the butterflies are back, the birds are enjoying the birdbaths and houses, even the humming birds have been visiting! The air is full of fragrance and song. Very soon the sound of happy children being released from school for the summer will join the sounds of nature. The vegetable gardens are planted and thriving, and oh! the strawberries are ripe for the picking!

What a wonderful month is May! It is the time of transition...from cool to warm, from bare to blossom. Tra la, it's May...the merry month of May!

Old Hometown

She often writes of the days of yore, when our hometown was a different place. It was a slower, simpler day, and her writing sparks memories and tugs at my heartstrings.

She wrote this morning of the farm fields which were in and around our town. There were expansive acres of potatoes, dotted with bent over migrants who worked the farms. These people would make a trek each season, from the southern states, to work until after the harvesting. I would often see these strangers, their black skin and clothing covered with rich, brown soil. They would pass my grandmother's house, wearing stocking caps or ragged turban-type coverings to protect their hair from the dirt. They frightened me, but never so much as spoke to me. I guess it was the fact that they were not familiar to me, like most everyone else in town was.

While on the job, they would live together in group housing, places that were usually not much more than shanties or shacks located somewhere near the farms. I would imagine that living conditions in such places were not very good. Too many people in too small an area can cause difficulties and frayed nerves. At times we'd hear or read of some disturbance at one of the 'migrant camps' and police would be called to settle the matter in a lawful way.

Old tractors were seen putting along the Montauk Highway, slowing the cars traveling east to west. Somehow, it never seemed to bother the drivers of the automobiles behind the farm equipment. It was a way of life and people were tolerant of those who were making a living by working the land. We learned quickly, as young girls helping with household chores, that 'potato dust' made its way to window sills inside house and it had to be removed nearly day during the farming season.

These days, the farms are all but gone. Most have been sold to developers and the fields have grown up with large, unbelievably expensive, houses. There is no need for migrant camps as the migrant workers no longer make their way north for potato planting and harvesting. Tractors on the highway are rare. Patience of drivers on the road is also rare, and slow-moving equipment would not be looked upon kindly. Everyone is in such a hurry to get wherever they are going.

I am sorry to say that things are not the same in the old hometown. The landscape has changed, the people have changed, the attitudes have been altered. It is all too obvious. I'd rather slip back in time and remember how things used to be, when life was as simple, when traffic was slower, and when the potato dust rode a Spring breeze.

For Mom on Mother's Day

I know I wasn't an easy child,

I had a stubborn streak, that's true.

I must have been quite a challenge

But it was a job you were called to do.

He could have put me anywhere.

He could have given me another.

But thankfully, God knows all things

And knew I needed you for my Mother.

A loving woman with a gentle hand

And all the right words to say,

The one who'd teach me right from wrong

As I traveled along life's way.

When God puts things together

He knows just what to do.

He never makes a single mistake

And He knew....I needed you!

Happy Mother's Day, Mom!

I love you!

KBW 5-10-2009

In the Garden

Someone once wrote, 'One is nearer to God in a garden than anywhere else on Earth.' I agree, as do most other gardeners.

I took a walk among the blossoms

In this morning's early light.

I marveled at the sweetness

Of every thing within my sight.

I wandered o'er the muddy path

Examining each bloom.

And I thought how bright the colors were

In every garden room.

I heard each special birdsong

As the winged creatures took to air.

I felt the blessings fall on me

As I whispered praise while walking there.

I bent to catch the fragrance

Of the rose, still damp with dew

And I thought I heard God whisper

"I made this all for you."

(copyright) KBW

May 9, 2009