Last Fall

The great storyteller Rudyard Kipling, who lived in southern Vermont for a time, penned some lovely words about the transformation of a Vermont fall: 

"A little maple began it, flaming blood-red of a sudden where he stood against the dark green of a pine-belt. Next morning there was an answering signal from the swamp where the sumacs grow. Three days later, the hill-sides as fast as the eye could range were afire, and the roads paved, with crimson and gold. Then a wet wind blew, and ruined all the uniforms of that gorgeous army; and the oaks, who had held themselves in reserve, buckled on their dull and bronzed cuirasses and stood it out stiffly to the last blown leaf, till nothing remained but pencil-shadings of bare boughs, and one could see into the most private heart of the woods." Rudyard Kipling, Letters of Travel (1892–1920).

Whitingham, VT, birthplace of Brigham Young

This, and more, will be what I look back on about living here in the Upper Valley. Fall here is perfection. This final year in northern New England has brought us down to our lasts: our last beach trip to Maine, our last blueberry picking in Lyme, and now our last fall harvest season surrounded by high-definition warm-colored leaves shimmering across the mountainsides and trickling through the river valley.

Baker Library, Dartmouth campus

Billings Farm, Woodstock, VT

Fire Station in Grafton, VT

Killdeer Farm, Norwich, VT

view of Hartford, VT and into New Hampshire

But has this been our final Fall? Returning as a leaf peeper doesn't feel right. Not too long ago on a family drive through the back roads, Boy and I sat stunned at the charming and unpretentious scene in front of us. There were leaves that sparkled as they fluttered on the tops of trees. There were dairy cows roaming on pastures of grass that were at least seven different gradients of green. There were wise old barns that stood tall and strong despite worn doors and peeling paint. Covered bridges, meandering rivers, jaunty farm stands, and white steepled churches. We looked at each other and asked, "Why are we leaving?" It was then that we made a solemn pinky swear that we'd return in retirement or after our brood of kids leave the nest. So perhaps this won't be our last. Until the golden years are upon us, that question will linger around for now.

Colors are not around for very long. And it breaks my heart to leave this wonderful place filled with wonderful people. Farewell, Fall of my dreams. For now.

"Nature's first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay." Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay," New Hampshire, 1923. 

Living With Trains

Clickety click! as out of town
The engine picks her way;
Where barefoot children, sunburnt brown,
In dusty alleys play.
All the summer early and late,
And in the summer drear, 
A maiden stands at the orchard gate,
And waves at the engineer.

(excerpt from "Clickety Clack," Cy Warman)

I like to see it lap the miles, 

And lick the valleys up,

And stop to feed itself at tanks;

And then, prodigious, step

Around a pile of mountains,

And supercilious, peer

In shanties by the sides of roads;

And then a quarry pare

To fit its sides, and crawl between

Complaining all the while

In horrid, hooting stanza;

Then chase itself down hill

And neigh like Boanerges;

Then, punctual as a star,

Stop--docile and omnipotent--

At its own stable door.

("The Railway Train," Emily Dickinson)

Trains are a part of our daily routine. They greet us at the same hour in the morning and they remind us when its time for story books and bed. Not a day goes by that we don't hear those whistles coming from the train tracks near our home. For these two siblings, life couldn't get better.

New York a la Ephron

"Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim."
--Nora Ephron


My fingers have been too lazy to prop themselves onto the computer--and computer time is not conducive to precious husband time either. In fact, my blogging negligence is due to snuggling with my man on the couch and watching the first season of Prison Break. I say there's nothing better to end the day for a confined-at-home mother than by watching other people use desperate means to escape their prison. Wink, wink.

[source]

So, I am lagging behind to say a few words about the late Ms. Nora Ephron. I was going to sit down to collect my thoughts on Tuesday night when I first read about it, but my brain was too pooped. It's now Friday and I feel a bit reluctant having to say anything at all because a popular blogger, who I share similarities with, had beat me to the chase*. It left me feeling unauthentic, again. I may expound upon this another time, but to any of my friends who happen to read both blogs: my writing and ideas are not plagiarized--they are my own. Blogging is a work of my heart, and not a business-like or a notorious agenda. *If this doesn't make any sense, it's not a big deal. I say it for my own peace of mind.

I have a lot to owe to the reputable Ms. Ephron. After reading many news columns devoted to the memory of this celebrated author and screenwriter, I reflected on what influence her work had on me:

--It was her who instilled in me the lofty desire to run a little book shop of my own. Yes, I said lofty, but it's never too late.

--It was her who modified my perspective of New York City from a crime-infested metropolis to a charming big city filled with flower stands and nonthreatening Brownstones.

--It was her memorable one-liners and ideal scenes of life in the Upper West Side that had me watching You've Got Mail more times than she likely had.

--It was her romantic representation of NYC that had me striving for years to make it there.

After years of school, meticulous attention to my copy editing portfolio, and money being stowed away into my savings, there came a time that I started the so-called 'spreadin' the news.' The plan was finally in motion: airplane tickets, a publisher job agency meeting, a clean bill of health, and no emotional baggage keeping me in Utah. New York and I would be together at long last. But she and I were not meant to be together. I never imagined that my pair of vagabond shoes would decide to walk in any other direction, but it did. And the course of my life changed forever because of it. Yet, Nora's New York will always be an imprint on who I am. 

I have come to terms that my writing is a pile of sawdust, but if there's any hope for me, her work inspires me to dig deeper. And that's okay. There is always a story to tell about who we are and every thing we do. Write about what makes you happy. If it's not happy, write so you can laugh about it later. Never be the victim. In the next lifetime, I'll be taking a writing class from her and somehow figure out how to be half as clever and entertaining as she was...

Such as brightening someone's day with a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils. Ah, wouldn't that be nice.

Being Little

"today was good. today was fun. tomorrow is another one." 
--dr. seuss

Gratitude 
turns what we have 
into Enough. 
--author unknown

Summer decided to leap frog over Spring this year.

The first day of Spring brought us a balmy sizzling 80 degrees. Weird. This confusing heat wave continued all week long. My kids, running barefoot on our brown matted down grass, wore bathing suits instead of what normally should have been snowsuits. Yet, all I could think of were our poor maple syrup farmers. No sugar-on-snow this year. Bummer.

The freckles on my nose are beginning to appear again--hello, sunshine! Mud season? What mud season?

My Indy girl, like a true Midwesterner, ain't buying this nonsense. She knows fickle sunshine when she sees it. If there's one thing about Spring that I don't miss, it's tornado season--and this year, it wasn't at all kind to this little girl's home state. So far, New England hasn't produced the extreme weather that I've been warned about.

For now, we're counting our (limited?) days of sunshine as days of outdoor fun. Pretty soon, April will surely give us lots of rain, mud, and all sorts of bugs and baby ticks. Can't wait.

Us and the Ocean

Out of clutter

 find SIMPLICITY. 

From discord 

find HARMONY.

In the middle of difficulty 

finds OPPORTUNITY. 

Albert Einstein

Nobody ever said raising children was an easy vocation.

It's anything but simple. Or harmonious.

But, it's my opportunity to make a difference in the world.

They are my world.

So I will make a difference for them.

Delicious Autumn

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns. 
—George Eliot